THE NAME OF WIFE.

———

BY MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN.

———

O name most blesséd, or most sorrowful, thou,As from the Urim of Experience fallThe lights or shadows on thee; seeming nowRadiant as bliss upon an angel’s brow,Then ghastly dim as Hope’s funereal pall!Up to my vision thou dost ever callTwin pictures—women—one with calm, meek eyes,And soft form gently bent, and folded hands,Brooding in dove-like peace o’er her sweet tiesRequited truthfully; the other standsWith sunken cheek by tears unheeded glazed,Her wan feet bleeding, and her thin arms raised,Knowing no help but from above the skies.

O name most blesséd, or most sorrowful, thou,

As from the Urim of Experience fall

The lights or shadows on thee; seeming now

Radiant as bliss upon an angel’s brow,

Then ghastly dim as Hope’s funereal pall!

Up to my vision thou dost ever call

Twin pictures—women—one with calm, meek eyes,

And soft form gently bent, and folded hands,

Brooding in dove-like peace o’er her sweet ties

Requited truthfully; the other stands

With sunken cheek by tears unheeded glazed,

Her wan feet bleeding, and her thin arms raised,

Knowing no help but from above the skies.

SONNET.—THE OLIVE.

———

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

———

What sacred reminiscences dost thouAwake within the breast, O olive-tree!First did the silver-pinioned dove from theePluck the sweet “Peace-branch”—it an olive-bough.Fair evergreen! thoughts pure, devout, sublime,Thou callest up, reminding us of Him,The Man of Sorrows—Lord of Cherubim—Who, erewhile, did, in distant Orient clime,’Neath thy dark, solemn shade, once weep and prayIn woful agony; though now, above,Seated on sapphire throne—the God of Love—While round his head the covenant sign alwayUnfolds its rich and ever-living green,Memento of Gethsemane’s affecting scene.

What sacred reminiscences dost thou

Awake within the breast, O olive-tree!

First did the silver-pinioned dove from thee

Pluck the sweet “Peace-branch”—it an olive-bough.

Fair evergreen! thoughts pure, devout, sublime,

Thou callest up, reminding us of Him,

The Man of Sorrows—Lord of Cherubim—

Who, erewhile, did, in distant Orient clime,

’Neath thy dark, solemn shade, once weep and pray

In woful agony; though now, above,

Seated on sapphire throne—the God of Love—

While round his head the covenant sign alway

Unfolds its rich and ever-living green,

Memento of Gethsemane’s affecting scene.

THE WAY TO CHURCH.Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by T. McGoffin

SIN NO MORE.

———

BY R. T. CONRAD.

———

“Sin no more, lest a worse thing come upon thee.”

Art thou young, yet hast not givenDewy bud and bloom to Heaven?Tarryest till life’s morn be o’er!Pause, or ere the bolt be driven!Sin no more!Art thou aged? Seek’st thou power?Rank or gold—of dust the dower!Fame to wreathe thy wrinkles hoar?Dotard! death hangs o’er thy hour!Sin no more!Art thou blest? False joys caress thee:And the world’s embraces press theeTo its hot heart’s cankered core:Waken! Heaven alone can bless thee.Sin no more!Art thou wretched? Hath each morrowSown its sin to reap its sorrow!Turn to Heaven—repent—adore:Hope new light from Faith can borrow;Sin no more!May a meek and rapt devotionFill thy heart, as waves the ocean,Glassing Heaven from shore to shore!Then wilt thou—calmed each emotion—Sin no more.

Art thou young, yet hast not given

Dewy bud and bloom to Heaven?

Tarryest till life’s morn be o’er!

Pause, or ere the bolt be driven!

Sin no more!

Art thou aged? Seek’st thou power?

Rank or gold—of dust the dower!

Fame to wreathe thy wrinkles hoar?

Dotard! death hangs o’er thy hour!

Sin no more!

Art thou blest? False joys caress thee:

And the world’s embraces press thee

To its hot heart’s cankered core:

Waken! Heaven alone can bless thee.

Sin no more!

Art thou wretched? Hath each morrow

Sown its sin to reap its sorrow!

Turn to Heaven—repent—adore:

Hope new light from Faith can borrow;

Sin no more!

May a meek and rapt devotion

Fill thy heart, as waves the ocean,

Glassing Heaven from shore to shore!

Then wilt thou—calmed each emotion—

Sin no more.

WORDSWORTH.

———

BY JAMES T. FIELDS.

———

The grass hung wet on Rydal banks,The golden day with pearls adorning,When side by side with him we walkedTo meet midway the summer morning.The west wind took a softer breath,The sun himself seemed brighter shining,As through the porch the minstrel slept—His eye sweet Nature’s look enshrining.He passed along the dewy sward,The blue-bird sang aloft “good-morrow!”He plucked a bud, the flower awokeAnd smiled without one pang of sorrow.He spoke of all that graced the sceneIn tones that fell like music round us,We felt the charm descend, nor stroveTo break the rapturous spell that bound us.We listened with mysterious awe,Strange feelings mingling with our pleasure;We heard that day prophetic words,High thoughts the heart must always treasure.Great Nature’s Priest! thy calm career,With that sweet morn, on earth has ended—But who shall say thy mission diedWhen, winged for Heaven, thy soul ascended!

The grass hung wet on Rydal banks,

The golden day with pearls adorning,

When side by side with him we walked

To meet midway the summer morning.

The west wind took a softer breath,

The sun himself seemed brighter shining,

As through the porch the minstrel slept—

His eye sweet Nature’s look enshrining.

He passed along the dewy sward,

The blue-bird sang aloft “good-morrow!”

He plucked a bud, the flower awoke

And smiled without one pang of sorrow.

He spoke of all that graced the scene

In tones that fell like music round us,

We felt the charm descend, nor strove

To break the rapturous spell that bound us.

We listened with mysterious awe,

Strange feelings mingling with our pleasure;

We heard that day prophetic words,

High thoughts the heart must always treasure.

Great Nature’s Priest! thy calm career,

With that sweet morn, on earth has ended—

But who shall say thy mission died

When, winged for Heaven, thy soul ascended!

INSPIRATION. TO SHIRLEY.

———

BY WM. P. BRANNAN.

———

What shall yield me inspiration,What sweet spell entrance my thought,Whilst I sing the adorationBy thy matchless beauty wrought?Overcome with exultationWhich thy charming presence brought.Incense-bearing breezes hoverRound my flushed and throbbing brow,Minstrels in their shady coverChant divinest music now;Nature, yield to nature’s loverLanguage worthy of his vow!Where she walks a richer splendorHallows all the earth and sky,Unseen angels there attend her;Heaven and love sleep in her eye—Graces have no grace to lend her,Zephyr breathes an envious sigh.Thou thyself art inspiration!Moving, breathing, blessing, blest;The lily and the rose-carnationLive upon thy cheek and breast,Daring time and desolation,Thrilling hearts with wild unrest!

What shall yield me inspiration,

What sweet spell entrance my thought,

Whilst I sing the adoration

By thy matchless beauty wrought?

Overcome with exultation

Which thy charming presence brought.

Incense-bearing breezes hover

Round my flushed and throbbing brow,

Minstrels in their shady cover

Chant divinest music now;

Nature, yield to nature’s lover

Language worthy of his vow!

Where she walks a richer splendor

Hallows all the earth and sky,

Unseen angels there attend her;

Heaven and love sleep in her eye—

Graces have no grace to lend her,

Zephyr breathes an envious sigh.

Thou thyself art inspiration!

Moving, breathing, blessing, blest;

The lily and the rose-carnation

Live upon thy cheek and breast,

Daring time and desolation,

Thrilling hearts with wild unrest!

EDDA MURRAY.

———

BY ENNA DUVAL.

———

Learn to win a lady’s faithNobly, as the thing is high;Bravely, as for life and death—With a loyal gravity.Lead her from the festive boards,Point her to the starry skies,Guard her by your truthful words,Pure from courtship’s flatteries.By your truth she shall be true—Ever true as wives of yore—And herYes, once said to you,Shallbe Yes for evermore.Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Learn to win a lady’s faith

Nobly, as the thing is high;

Bravely, as for life and death—

With a loyal gravity.

Lead her from the festive boards,

Point her to the starry skies,

Guard her by your truthful words,

Pure from courtship’s flatteries.

By your truth she shall be true—

Ever true as wives of yore—

And herYes, once said to you,

Shallbe Yes for evermore.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

It was a hot, sultry afternoon at —— ——, a fashionable summer resort at the sea side. The three great events of the day were accomplished—namely, the bath, dinner, and the arrival of the boat bringing the mail; the visiters, therefore, had nothing to do but to get rid of the afternoon in as noisy a manner as possible, keeping themselves as warm and uncomfortable as they could, in order to prove that they were enjoying themselves after the most approved fashion. Ladies could be seen in every direction, passing from one hotel to another, flitting in and out of cottages, dressed in the most incongruous style—in silks, mulls, and gauzes, fitted for a full-dress dinner or evening party; and surmounting this dressy costume was—the only really sensible article to be seen in this dominion of Folly—the prim, plain country sun-bonnet. Fashion had established that hats at the sea-side were vulgar, and accordingly, every belle mounted one of these useful, but exceedingly ugly head-dresses. Carriages and wagons of every description darted to and fro, from the funny little Jersey sand wagon, with horses of a Jersey match, gray and brown, or black and white, up to the well matched, well ordered establishment of thenouveau riche, who was willing to sacrifice his delicate town-bred horses, in order to exhibit his magnificence to theplebs. A fine establishment drew up in front of the entrance of one of the principal hotels, and the owner of it, Mr. Martin, a prosperous merchant, with his fussy, dressy, good-natured, fat little wife, entered it. As Mr. Martin handed his wife in, he asked,

“Where’s Edda?”

“Oh, let her alone, my dear,” replied his wife, “she will get over her moping after awhile. She’s fretted herself into a sick headache, and is lying down.”

“Confound the fellow,” muttered Mr. Martin, “I wish she had never seen him. If I had my way she should be divorced from him. What right has a man to a wife when he cannot support her? Now, as long as he lives, I suppose, our poor little darling will be down-hearted.”

“Oh,” said the wife, settling herself back comfortably in the luxurious carriage, after having carefully disposed the folds of her rich, silk gown and heavily embroidered mantle in a manner to crush them the least, “wait until he gets fairly settled out at the West, and the winter parties, and concerts, and operas commence, then Edda will cheer up.”

“I hope so, with all my heart,” ejaculated Mr. Martin, “and if money, amusements, and fine clothes can make her what she was two years ago, I shall be glad enough, for I hate a sad, gloomy face.”

While they were thus talking, their niece, the subject of their conversation, was lying in her bed-room, burying her throbbing, aching head in the pillows of the couch, wishing that an endless sleep would come to her, and deaden the painful sense of grief.

Poor Edda Murray! Two short years before, a happier, more free-from-care girl could not have been found. Then, she had never known a trouble. Her aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Martin, who were childless, and possessed ample means, had taken her at the time of her parents’ death, which had occurred during her infancy, and from that moment up to the present, she had been their spoiled pet and darling. They were good-natured, indolent people, caring for but little else than the amusements of the out-of-doors world. As Edda grew old enough to enter society, they took great pleasure in dressing her extravagantly, and accompanying her to every gay place of resort of the fashionable world. According to Mrs. Martin’s ideas, every girl should be married early; and when Edda was addressed by Mr. Murray, near the close of her first winter, and seemed pleased with his attentions, her aunt’s rapture knew no bounds. Mr. Martin was pleased also, for Murray, though a young man, was a rising merchant, and was steady and industrious.

How Ralph Murray ever happened to fancy Edda Martin, was a mystery to all those of his and her friends, who had observed but little of this marriage business of life. As a general rule, both men and women, especially when young, select the very companions that are the most unlike their ideals, and what is still stranger, the most unsuitable for them.

Ralph Murray was a reserved, dignified young man, rather stern for his years, with the most rigidideas of justice and propriety, even in trifles; exact in every thing, and making but little allowance for others less exact than himself. He did not require more than he was willing to give in return, but he had no consideration, no patience, and when disappointed, was apt to become cold, moody, and uncompromising. In woman he had always required, “that monster perfection.” His mother had been a model of feminine propriety. He had no sisters, but a whole troop of cousins, who happened to be laughing, hoydenish, good-natured creatures; but they were his utter abomination, he never countenanced them, pronouncing them silly, frivolous, and senseless; but how they laughed andteased him, when his engagement with Edda Martin was announced—verily they had their revenge.

Edda was, indeed, a spoiled pet, full of caprice and whim, beautiful and graceful as a fairy, and as untamed and uncontrollable as an unwedded Undine. But, poor child, marriage brought no happy spirit to dwell in her household. How could it? For they had married under the influence of the maddest, wildest infatuation. Their love was beautiful while it lasted; but soon the husband grew exacting, the angel became a mere woman, and the darling, who had never obeyed any will but her own, discovered she had a lord and master, whose will was stronger and more unbending than even her own had ever been. Then Edda was extravagant and thriftless, and thoughtless, a real child-wife, like poor Dora, that English Undine creation of Dickens’s fancy, but with more spirit and temper than “Little Blossom.” Edda’s character had in it qualities which would have made her a fine woman, properly and gradually developed; but her husband placed her on the scale of his own model of perfection, and endeavored to drag her up to this idea of wifehood, without waiting for Nature to assist him. It was the old, sad story told over again—incompatibility of tempers, unreasonableness on his part, petulance, waywardness and temper on hers.

God sent them a little babe, but the child brought no tenderness to the heart of either parent for each other. Then trouble came upon Ralph Murray in his business—unfortunate speculations, bad failures in others he had trusted; but instead of going to his wife, and talking affectionately, but candidly, remembering all the while what a spoiled darling she had been, he considered himself aggrieved by her lavish expenditure, and told her haughtily that she was now the wife of a young merchant, and not the niece of a rich man, and ought to have sense enough to observe economy. Poor Edda was offended, bitter words passed between them, and they parted in anger. Her aunt found her in tears—happening to come in just as the irritated husband had left her. Edda turned to her thoughtless, childish aunt, for comfort, telling her the whole story of her wrongs; and Mrs. Martin pronounced Mr. Murray a brute, to treat her poor child so unkindly. Mr. Martin thought always as his wife did, and in the first flush of temper, they carried the weeping, angry wife, with her young babe, away from her husband’s roof; the exasperated uncle leaving for Mr. Murray an angrily worded note, in which he said that Edda had never ceased to be his niece, even if she had been so unfortunate as to become the wife of a parsimonious merchant, and an unkind husband. The following day Ralph Murray was a bankrupt.

The news of other heavy failures of houses indebted to him, brought his affairs to a crisis, and all his troubles seemed piled mountain high upon him at once. Poor Edda would have gone instantly to her husband when she heard of his trouble—for she had immediately repented of her hasty step—but she did not dare; she remembered his sternness, and dreaded a repulse which she felt she deserved. Then a new cause of anxiety displayed itself, her boy sickened, and, after a few hours’ illness, he died in her arms. Her husband was sent for, but he did not notice her; he stood beside the coffin of his child, pale, tearless, and with a countenance as unchanging as a statue of marble; he never looked at his sobbing wife, who, softened by her grief, would have willingly thrown herself into his arms, and asked pardon for the past, and forbearance for the future; but he coldly turned from her after the funeral, without speaking a word.

Two months passed by, and still Ralph Murray treated his wife with the same silent indifference. He never sought an interview nor an explanation; it seemed as if the death of their child, instead of softening him, had, to his mind, broken off all connection between them. Edda grieved incessantly, until at last her health became seriously affected. When the traveling season came, the physicians who had been called in to heal the poor breaking heart, recommended an instant departure for the sea-side. Fine apartments were procured, every elegance, every luxury surrounded her; but she looked more wretched, more unhappy every day.

She knew that their beautiful house belonged to another—every thing had been sold; that she no longer had a home with her husband; and the consciousness that she was a childless, lonely wife, became daily more insupportable. Poor girl! life seemed very dark and hopeless to her. Her trouble had lifted her spirit on almost a life time; all the childish, capricious waywardness of girlhood had disappeared; sorrow had done the work of years; and she was now a woman—but a suffering, loving woman, ready to make any sacrifice, perform any duty, to atone for the past. Her uncle and aunt caressed her, and sympathized with her, while they incessantly spoke of her husband with words of reproach and blame; and when she would check them, saying the greater part of the blame rested on herself, they would think her still more lovely and amiable, and lift their hands in surprise. How reproaching to her conscience was their sympathy! and she grew more and more despairing and hopeless.

At midnight she would pace her room, wringing her little hands with remorse for the past. Her husband’s stern face would rise before her, blended with the beautiful, loving expression his countenancehad worn during the delicious season of courtship. Then she would recall every noble, honorable trait in his character, and remember her own willful conduct. All, all was over, and henceforth she would have to live without him. This seemed impossible; and the poor girl would call on Heaven, agonizingly, to take her away from life or give her back her husband.

All her friends upheld her and blamed Mr. Murray. They called him stern, cold and heartless. The fashionable world thought her a lucky woman in possessing a rich old uncle to take care of her. Her quarrel with her cross husband had taken place in the very nick of time, they said; now she need not suffer from his mischances; when she would so willingly have borne the very heaviest burden poverty could impose. But what could she do but suffer idly?

Day after day passed by, still no message came from her husband. Her uncle had told her that the principal creditors had willingly and generously arranged matters; for, as every one said, the failure had resulted from misfortune, not from mismanagement, and that he had heard that a friend had offered Mr. Murray a situation in a commercial house out in the very farthest west, with a chance of becoming a partner in time. Then the next news that reached her was, that he was actually leaving for his new home. And would Ralph leave her without a word—a line? she asked herself over and again.

At last a letter came—a cold, stern, haughty letter, bidding her farewell, as if for ever. There were one or two tender passages in it; but the tone of the whole letter was so cold and unforgiving, that it crushed her to the earth. She had received it the day before our little sketch opens; and when her aunt urged her to drive out and shake off her trouble, she only buried her little head still deeper in the pillows and prayed still more agonizingly for death. The afternoon passed slowly enough to the poor sufferer. Then came the evening—the noisy, gay evening. As there was a ball in the saloon of the hotel, her thoughtless, butterfly aunt and uncle joined the merry crowd of triflers, after an earnest but unsuccessful persuasion of Edda to follow their example.

The merry music of the band sounded loudly in Edda’s lonely bed-room; but the lively dancing melodies seemed to her ears like the voices of taunting demons. She restlessly rose from her bed and walked into her little parlor, which opened on a balcony that swept around the house. She stepped out on this balcony, and listened to the pealing thunder of the ocean, which rolled unceasingly before her. Her agony increased, and a demon seemed to whisper in her ears:

“What is life but a torment? Death is an endless, dreamless sleep. Why suffer when you can so easily find relief?”

Shudderingly she put her little hands to her ears, and, closing her eyes, hastened into the room, fearing that in another instant she might be induced, by despair, to plunge headlong over the railings on the cliff beneath. For a while she laid on the lounge, as if stunned; but at last tears came to her relief, and she felt calmer. To avoid danger she closed the Venetian shutters of the door and window, but drew up under them the lounge, and threw herself on it, that the damp night air might cool her fevered, burning head. She had not been long there when she heard the sound of voices and laughter, but she was too weak to arise, and remained quiet—remembering that she could not be seen from the outside.

It was a little group of young girls, who were promenading after the dance, and who had concluded that the upper balcony commanded a finer view of the ocean. As chance would have it they selected that part of the balcony just under Edda’s window for their gossiping lounge. One, more sentimental than the others, pointed out the effect of the moon-beams which made the edges of the rolling, dashing waves shine like molten silver. But the beauty of the scene was quickly lost, even on this moon-struck damsel, for she, as well as the rest, were soon deeply interested in discussing a wedding that had lately taken place in thebeau-monde.

“Oh, dear, there’s Mrs. Jones,” exclaimed one, “she just came from town yesterday, and can tell us all about it.”

The lady mentioned joined the group, and threw them into a state of perfect felicity by telling them she had actually been present at the wedding. Immediately she was called upon by a dozen eager voices to tell them “all about it.” Poor Edda, she was doomed to listen to the whole senseless detail, commencing at the bride’s India mull robe, and its heavy, elaborate embroidery, her “exquisite and graceful head-dress,” with the costly Honiton veil, the “rich splendid gifts” of the relatives, and ending with the list of bridemaids and their costume. How the whole description brought her own gorgeous wedding back to her thoughts! and she felt heart-sick.

“Poor things!” she murmured to herself with a sigh, “I hope they will be happier than Ralph and I have been.”

The conversation grew more bustling and detached; the lady who was the reporter-general was giving, for the fifth time, to some new comer, a description of the bride’s costume, which she did with a volubility so eloquent and untiring as to have reflected credit on a Frenchmodiste—expatiating largely on the beauty and costliness of the materials of which it was composed, and united to her minute details of the tucks, headed by rich rows of lace and embroidery, could be heard exclamations of the others, who had already listened to the description.

“Oh,” said one, in a tone of voice that told what delicious satisfaction costly articles of dress gave her, “it is too lovely to be married in an India robe, with heavy embroidery and rich Valenciennesberthéand trimming. If ever I’m married, I intend to make ma order one of Levy’s for me; it shall be imported especially for me.”

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Jones, stopping in the midst of her harangue,à laparenthesis, “Mr. Grugan receivedthe order for Blanche’s wedding robe last year, the very day Mr. Holmes offered. No one knew it but her family, except me—I knew it, of course.”

“I don’t believe she knew a word about it. Mrs. Jones is always pretending she’s so intimate with every body,” said a young lady,sotto voce; but Mrs. Jones was too deeply engaged in the tucks, and lace trimming, and Honiton veil, to hear the doubt and charge. The conversation increased in animation, and Mrs. Jones’s clear, high voice was almost drowned.

“Ah,” exclaimed one, “it’s splendid to be married in such style.”

“Yes,” rejoined another, “and how delightful to go right off on a journey, and to Europe, too.”

“Oh, girls,” exclaimed one, “only think—Blanche Forrester went to school with me, and, here, she’s married!”

“Well,” said another, “her first bridemaid, Helen Howell, and Aubrey Hilton, are engaged, and Helen was in the same class with me. We all came out last fall together—you’re no worse off than I am.”

Some gentlemen joining the group, the conversation became too detached and confused to be heard, and there were so many little bursts of laughter as to make the whole affair quite a medley. Presently the scraping of the violins, preceded by a loud crash of the whole united band, announced that a waltz was about to be danced.

“Oh!” they exclaimed, simultaneously, “that deliciousSchottische,” and soon the balcony was empty—or at least so thought Edda; but she was mistaken, for she heard other voices. A lady and gentleman had seated themselves under her window, and were enjoying the sight of the waves and moonlight. She knew their voices well. One was a Mrs. Howard, a gentle, lady-like woman, for whom her husband entertained the highest respect. Edda knew but little of her; she had met her in society after her marriage, but had always drawn back a little in awe when she had met with her, because she constantly heard Ralph holding her up as such a model of wifely dignity and propriety. The other was a Mr. Morrison—a cynical, fault-finding old bachelor—or, at least, Edda had always regarded him as such. No wonder the poor girl shrank still closer to the lounge—she seemed doomed to be persecuted.

Mrs. Howard and Mr. Morrison had heard part of the conversation about the wedding, and the first that reached Edda’s ears were Mr. Morrison’s severe, caustic remarks.

“Silly, senseless fools!” he exclaimed. “They talk as if life had but two points to attain; to get married in an India robe, in such a style as to produce a fine theatrical effect, and to go to Europe. What right have such idiots to get married at all? What do they know of the realities of married life—the holy, sacred obligations of marriage?”

“Very little, it is true,” answered his companion; “and this ignorance is wisely ordered! for I am afraid, Mr. Morrison, if these young, thoughtless creatures knew the one half of life’s stern realities, whether married or unmarried, they would sooner lie down and die than encounter them. Youth is as hopeless in trouble as it is thoughtless in prosperity.”

“Very true, madam, very true,” said the old gentleman; “but it seems to me that these frivolous creatures might be taught a little—enough to give them some ballast. What sort of wives will they make? Why, I declare it makes me shudder when I see these silly, thoughtless wretches entering into marriage as they would into a dance—not displaying half the anxiety that a man would on entering into a commercial engagement that can be dissolved at will after a certain season.”

“Well,” said the lady, with a sweet, low laugh, “from what we see on all sides, my dear sir, a great many of those who marry at the present day seem to regard marriage only as a mere partnership, to be dissolved at will.”

“I would pretty soon put an end to that divorce business, madam,” said Mr. Morrison, “if I had the power. Every couple that could not live happily together, and wished to be separated, should have their request granted, but on one condition—that both, particularly the woman, should go into some religious asylum, and spend the rest of their days in entire seclusion, employed constantly in the performance of strict religious duties and works of charity.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the lady, laughing outright, “I am very sure any husband and wife would prefer the most inharmonious intercourse to such an alternative.”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Morrison, “they could have their choice, and it would teach others to be more careful how they ‘married in haste to repent at leisure.’ This is becoming a curse to society; on all sides we see husbands and wives disagreeing. Now-a-days a wife must spend as much money as she pleases, lead a dissipated life—for going to parties and balls, and every other gay place, constantly is dissipation—entertain admirers, and her husband must not complain. He, poor devil—beg pardon, madam—must not express a wish for a quiet home and a companion, after the toil of the day and the wear and tear of exciting, perilous business. Oh, no! If he does madam will leave him in a huff, and he may whistle for a wife, and life is a wreck to him ever afterward.”

“Do these unhappy marriages always result from the thoughtlessness and selfishness of the wives, my dear sir?” asked Mrs. Howard. “I think there are as many wives with domestic tastes, who have the same complaint to make against their husbands.”

“Yes, yes,” answered Mr. Morrison, a little hesitatingly; “I suppose there is blame to be found on both sides; but generally speaking, with the married people of what is called ‘society,’ especially the young, the fault lies with the wife. Yesterday I bade good-bye to as fine a fellow as God ever created, whose whole happiness for life has been wrecked by one of these silly, heartless fools. You know him, my dear madam, and are, I believe, one of his few friends; for the whole world unite in condemninghim and upholding his doll-baby wife in her sinful disobedience.”

“You are speaking of Ralph Murray, I am sure,” said Mrs. Howard, in a sad tone.

Poor Edda writhed, but she had not power to move; she felt spell-bound, and every word of the conversation fell on her ear with painful clearness.

“Yes, I mean Murray,” replied Mr. Morrison. “God help him, poor fellow! His haggard face haunts me like a ghost.”

“But,” said Mrs. Howard, “much as I love Ralph, much as I respect his high, honorable character, I cannot hold him blameless.”

“What!” exclaimed Mr. Morrison, in a tone of surprise, “you cannot hold him blameless? Why, what can you see wrong in any thing he has done?”

“He should not have married as he did,” replied Mrs. Howard; “or if determined to gratify his fancy at the expense of his judgment, by yielding to an infatuation, he should have had more patience with his wife. If he felt willing to trust his happiness in the hands of a petted, spoiled child, he should have remembered what she was, in the hour of trial, and not exacted of her the ability and judgment which are possessed only by a sensible, well-trained woman.”

“Yes, you are right,” answered Mr. Morrison, after a short pause; “he was wrong in the first place—he never should have married such an idiot. But, my God, madam,” he exclaimed, impatiently, “any woman who was lucky enough to get such a noble husband as Ralph Murray, should have been so proud of him as to have been willing to have made every sacrifice of whim and caprice for his comfort.”

“That’s true man’s reasoning,” said Mrs. Howard, good-naturedly. “But, Mr. Morrison, I think I am not mistaken when I say that if Ralph had managed his pretty, petted, capricious fairy of a wife patiently and properly, their happiness would not have been wrecked as it is.”

“Theirhappiness!” repeated Mr. Morrison, sneeringly. “Little she cares, while she has aunt to caress her and uncle’s money to spend.”

“Indeed you do her great injustice,” said Mrs. Howard. “To be sure, I do not know Mrs. Murray intimately, but I am certain if you were to see her pale, wretched face and frail figure, as I do daily in the corridor, when they bring her in, half fainting, from the bath, you would think as I do—that, let her husband’s sufferings be ever so great, the wife suffers quite as much. Oh, my dear Mr. Morrison, how I wish I were Edda Murray’s friend.”

“What would you do, my dear madam? Add another to her host of sympathizers?” said the old gentleman.

“No,” replied Mrs. Howard, mildly; “I would tell her to send for Ralph, to ask pardon for the past and patience for the future, and beg him to take me once more to his heart, and help me to be a good, faithful wife. This she must do, or never know peace in this life.”

“Ha, ha,” laughed Mr. Morrison; “why, my dear Mrs. Howard, if she had sense and feeling enough to act thus, she would never have behaved as she has done.”

“Edda Murray has acted willfully and selfishly, I admit,” said Mrs. Howard; “but we do not know what provocations she may have had. Ralph is a fine, noble fellow, but arbitrary and impatient—the very kind of man that I should fancy it would not be easy to make happy in domestic life, even if a judicious woman were to undertake the task. Think, then, how many excuses should be made for his impulsive, wayward little wife, who never in her life was subjected to control. I am certain this trouble has done her good, however, for a woman’s character is seldom properly developed in prosperity; like precious metals, it must pass through the fiery furnace of affliction—it must be purified in the crucible of sorrow, until it loses all recollection of self. There is a beautiful simile in the Bible, which compares the purification of the soul to the smelting of silver. Silver must be purged from all dross, until it is so clear and mirror-like that it will reflect the countenance of the refiner; thus the soul must be so pure, in so high a state of godliness, as to reflect only the will of the Creator. I cannot recall the passage exactly, but I often apply it to my own sex, whose characters, to be properly developed, must be purged from all selfish dross, in order to make them think only of the happiness of others—forgetful always of self; then, like silver seven times refined and purified, their spirits reflect only the countenance of the purifier, which is the will or command of God.”

Just then Mr. Howard and some others joined them, and after a little playful bantering about the flirtation of two such steady old persons, a remark or two on the fine night and the beauty of the ocean scene, the party moved off and Edda at last was alone.

That night, when Mr. and Mrs. Martin stopped at Edda’s room door, on their way to bed, they found her sitting at her desk writing. She kissed them, bade them good night, and thanked them for their affectionate inquiries, in a more cheerful manner than she had shown for months, which gladdened their silly, warm old hearts, and they went off comforting themselves with the hope that all now would be well.

“Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Martin, as he composed himself to sleep, “you were right—Edda is getting over it. She looked and talked more brightly than she has since poor little Martin’s death.”

And Edda really felt so, but for a reason her uncle little suspected. Mrs. Howard’s words had given form and impulse to her thoughts; she no longer wasted time in mere actionless grief; she saw her duty before her, and, hard as it was to perform, she nobly resolved to do it. A day or so afterward, as Ralph Murray was leaving town for his new western home—sad, lonely, and for the first time feeling that maybe in the past he had not been entirely free from blame, he received a letter, directed in the delicate, lady-like, hand-writing of his wife. With trembling hands he opened it, and thick, short sobs swelled upin his throat and hot tears sprang to his eyes, as he read her childish, frank, penitent appeal.

“I am your wife, Ralph,” she wrote; “you must not leave me—you must take me with you. God joined us, and trouble—death has bound us still closer. Pardon my past waywardness, and take your penitent, suffering Edda back to your heart. Think what a reckless, thoughtless, uncontrolled child I was when you married me, and have patience with me. I cannot live without you, Ralph. I shall die broken-hearted if you treat my selfish, wayward conduct as it merits. God forgives the penitent—will you be more just than He is, my beloved? Come to me, and let me hear from your lips once more, ‘dear Edda.’ Do not tell me you are poor; I can live on any thing, submit to any privation, if blessed with your presence, your forgiveness, your love. You shall not find me in the future a thoughtless, extravagant child, but, with God’s help, a faithful good wife. Oh, Ralph, receive me once more, I pray you, and let me be again your own darling little wife Edda.”

The fashionable world at —— was thrown into a state of astonishment a few weeks afterward, by hearing that Mrs. Murray had actually gone out west with her cruel, good-for-nothing husband, and a thousand different stories were told about the matter, each one as far from the truth as the other.

Poor Mr. and Mrs. Martin made loud opposition when Edda told them her resolve, but she looked so bright and happy, and throwing her arms around her aunt and uncle, made them read the lover-like letter of her husband, in which he not only freely forgave the past, but took on himself all the blame.

“She’s right, my dear,” said Mr. Martin, to his wife; “but we must not let them go—we must make them as comfortable as we can with us. Thank Providence, I have enough for us all.”

But Ralph Murray steadily refused all offers of assistance from Mr. Martin. He knew it would be better for them, for a little while at least, to be away from all Edda’s old connections. Several years they spent “out west,” and not until they had nearly reached mid-life, did they return to their old home in ——; then, at the urgent request of Mr. and Mrs. Martin, who had grown old, infirm, and tired of society, and really needed Edda, they moved back. Edda was a lovely looking matron at the time of her return—she seemed so happy and contented. I well remember the pleasant effect it produced upon me when I saw her surrounded by her troop of noble boys, and leaning on her husband, who still retained his dignity, but blent with it was an air of loving softness that he had gained by intercourse with his gentle, “darling little wife.”

Her married life, even after their reconciliation, however, was not exempt from trials. There were times when her husband’s old moods of exaction and impatience would come over him, and her own willful, rebellious spirit would stand in the way, and torment her with demands, such as “what right has he more than I?” and the like—as if the gratification of rights, merely for justice sake, made up the happiness of home life, a happiness that is only gained, only insured, by love’s sweet yieldings. They both tried to struggle against these dark influences; but at such times life would be very dreary to her, and it needed all the strict discipline of her faith—all her hope and trust in Heaven, to make her victorious over self.

Their children, however, proved angel-blessings to them. They softened and humanized Ralph, and soothed and occupied Edda. Dear Edda! her spring season had been a wild, frolicksome one, bringing a stormy, cloudy summer; but her autumn yielded a rich harvest of happiness, and her little, throbbing heart thanked God hourly for his kindness and love to her in sustaining her through all her dark hours.

“Seven great boys, and not one daughter!” exclaimed our old friend, Mrs. Howard, to Edda, after her return to her old home—“what a pity!”

“Oh, no,” replied Edda, quickly; “I am always so thankful my children are all boys. I would not have the charge of a daughter’s happiness on me for a world.”

“Why!” asked Mrs. Howard with surprise.

“Because,” replied Edda, in a low tone, looking significantly at the good old lady, “a woman’s character seldom develops in prosperity—it requires, like precious metals, the fiery furnace of affliction—the crucible of sorrow.”

Mrs. Howard’s surprise was increased, for Edda’s blushing face and lips, trembling with emotion, told that she had a deeper meaning than the mere expression of an opinion; but Edda soon removed her wonder. She told her the whole history of the past—her struggle on that eventful night at the sea-side watering place years before, when the fearful temptation to self-destruction had assailed her; she caused the kind old lady’s eyes to grow dim with tears, when she described the beneficial effect produced by the overheard conversation between her and Mr. Morrison; and added, with tears and smiles of joy—

“Yes, dear Mrs. Howard, your blessed words taught me my duty. If I have any happiness in life, I owe it, through God, to you. But, happy wife and blessed mother, as I am, I thank God I have no daughter’s future resting on my heart. A woman’s lot in life is a dangerous one, either in prosperity or adversity, and to tread her life-path well she seems to require almost a special helping from God; to but few is this granted, and many there are who wrestle darkly and blindly with sorrow through life’s perilous journey unaided.”

“But,” replied Mrs. Howard, “does it not strike you that you are taking but a one-sided, narrow view of life, my dear? When you speak so sadly of woman’s lot, it seems as if you thought this life was all we had to expect, when I am sure you do not think so. The perils of life belong to both man and woman. But what matters all that we suffer in this state of existence, when compared with the glory of the sun-light of eternity—that sun whichhas no setting, and of the rising of which this dark, perilous life-hour is but the precursor—the hour before the dawn.”

“You are right, my dear madam,” said Edda, with a sweet look of meek thoughtfulness, “and I, of all other women, should not speak so hopelessly, for, after all my dark hours, light came at last; and so beautiful is life to me now, that I sometimes fancy to me is given a glimpse of Heaven’s dawning.”

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