1961

Truth has such a face and such a mien,As to be loved needs only to be seen.Vice is a monster of such hideous mien,As to be hated needs but to be seen.

—Pope.

The dignity of truth is lostWith much protesting.

—Ben Jonson.

Not to believe the truth, is of all ills the worst.

A woman stopped a divine in the streets of the metropolis with this salutation: "There is no truth in the land, sir! There is no truth in the land." "Then you do not speak the truth, good woman," replied the clergyman. "Oh, yes, I do," returned she, hastily. "Then there is truth in the land," rejoined he, as quickly.

I cannot tell how the truth may be;I say the tale as 'twas said to me.

—Sir Walter Scott.

Truth, like the sun, submits to be obscured; but, like the sun, only for a time.

To love truth for truth's sake, is the principal part of human perfection in this world, and the seed-plot of all other virtues.

—Locke.

Truth, when not sought after, sometimes comes to light.

—Menander.

A thousand probabilities don't make one truth.

In an Eastern land a boy once set out from his mother's home for a distant city, where he was to begin life and earn his livelihood. Before parting with him, his mother gave him forty gold dinars, which, for safety, she sewed inside his waistcoat. Her last counsel to him was, to seek and to follow always the truth. On his way he had to cross part of a desert, infested by robbers. One of these saw him and came galloping up "Boy, what money have you got?" he sternly demanded. The boy looked up at him, and said, "I have forty gold dinars sewed up in my waistcoat." The robber burst into a fit of laughter; he thought the boy was joking. And, turning his horse, he galloped back to his troop. By-and-by, another horseman rode up to the boy as he trudged on, and made the same demand: "Boy, what have you got?" "Forty gold dinars, sewed up in my waistcoat," said the boy again. This robber, too, burst out laughing, and turned away, thinking the boy was making fun of him. They had some talk in their band about the boy's strange reply. Their leader turning it over in his mind, said he would like to see him, and, leaving the troop, soon overtook the young traveler. He put the same questionas the others, and again the boy gave the same answer. The captain leapt off his horse, and began to feel the boy's clothes, till he counted—one, two, three—the forty gold dinars just as he had been told. "What made you tell the truth, my boy?" he asked. "My God and my mother, sir," was the reply. "Wait for me here a little," said the captain, and galloped back to his troop. In a few minutes he returned, but so changed that the boy hardly knew him. By removing a false beard and other disguises, his appearance was quite altered. "Come with me, my lad," he said; and he pointed to the spires of a distant city. "I cannot go with you," said the boy; "you are a robber!" "I was," the man said, "but all that is over now! I have given it up forever. I have a large business in yonder city, and I wish you to come with me and share it." And so they went on together; and when they arrived at the city the boy entered his employment, and ultimately became very wealthy and influential.

My aim is not so much to say things that are new, as things that are true.

Seize upon the truth, where'er 'tis found,Among your friends, among your foes,On Christian or on heathen ground,The flower's divine, where'er it grows.

Better suffer for truth, than profit by falsehood.

—From the Danish.

Two weeks ago on board an English steamer, a little ragged boy, aged nine years, was discovered on the fourth day of the voyage out from Liverpool to New York, and carried before the first mate, whose duty it was to deal with such cases. When questioned as to his object of being stowed away, and who brought him on board, the boy, who had a beautiful sunny face, and eyes that looked like the very mirrors of truth, replied that his step-father did it, because he could not afford to keep him, nor pay his passage out to Halifax, where he had an aunt who was well off, and to whose house he was going. The mate did not believe the story, in spite of the winning face and truthful accents of the boy. He had seen too much of stow-aways to be easily deceived by them, he said; and it was his firm conviction that the boy had been brought on board and provided with food by the sailors. The little fellow was very roughly handled in consequence. Day by day he was questioned and re-questioned, but always with the same result. He did not know a sailor on board, and his father alone had secreted him and given him the food which he ate. At last the mate, wearied by the boy's persistence in the same story, and perhaps a little anxious to inculpate the sailors, seized him one day by the collar, and, dragging him to the fore, told him that unless he would tell the truth in ten minutes from that time, he would hang him from the yard-arm. He then made him sit down under it on the deck. All around him were the passengers and sailors of the midway watch, and in front of him stood the inexorable mate, with his chronometer in his hand, and the other officers of the ship by his side. It was the finest sight, said our informant, that he ever beheld—to see the pale, proud, sorrowful face of that noble boy, his head erect, his beautiful blue eyes bright throughthe tears that suffused them. When eight minutes had fled, the mate told him he had but two minutes to live, and advised him to speak the truth and save his life; but he replied with the utmost simplicity and sincerity by asking the mate if he might pray. The mate said nothing, but nodded his head and turned deadly pale, and shook with trembling like a reed with the wind, and there, all eyes turned on him, the brave and noble little fellow, this poor waif, whom society owned not, and whose own step-father could not care for him—there he knelt, with clasped hands, and eyes turned to heaven, while he repeated audibly the Lord's prayer, and prayed the Lord Jesus to take him to heaven. Sobs broke from strong, hard hearts, as the mate sprang forward to the boy, and clasped him to his bosom, and kissed him and blessed him, and told him how sincerely he believed his story, and how glad he was that he had been brave enough to face death and be willing to sacrifice his life for the truth of his word.

—E. Davies.

He who does not fully speak the truth is a traitor to it.

—From the Latin.

When Aristotle, the Grecian philosopher, who was tutor to Alexander the Great, was asked what a man could gain by uttering falsehoods, he replied, "Not to be credited when he shall tell the truth." On the other hand, it is related that when Petrarch, the Italian poet, a man of strict integrity, was summoned as a witness, and offered in the usual manner to take an oath before a court of justice, the judge closed the book, saying, "As to you, Petrarch, yourwordis sufficient."

Nature hath appointed the twilight as a bridge to pass us out of night into day.

—Fuller.

The unexpected often happens.

The unfinished is nothing.

—Amiel.

There is a chill air surrounding those who are down in the world, and people are glad to get away from them, as from a cold room.

"Please buy my penny songs!" cried a feeble voice in one of the streets of a great city. The day was very cold, and little Katie had left her cheerless home to earn, if possible, a few pennies. Poor Katie! Her little voice was feeble because her heart was sad, for so many passed her by unnoticed; and she felt almost discouraged.

Soon she found herself in a music store, standing near a beautiful lady, who was sitting there selecting music. She again uttered her little cry, "Please buy a penny song!" but the lady, not hearing what she said, turned towards her, and, with the kindest, sweetest smile, said gently, "What is it, darling?" at the same time putting a piece of moneyin her hand. Katie, not thinking what she did, laid her head in the lady's lap, and cried as though her heart would break. The lady tried to soothe her; and soon Katie said, "O lady! I cry, not because you gave money, but because you spoke so kindly to me."

—Anonymous.

He who serves the unfortunate, serves God.

Everybody and everything unknown are often magnified.

—Tacitus.

Things unreasonable are never durable.

—Italian.

Whatever hath been written shall remain,Nor be erased nor written o'er again;The unwritten only still belongs to thee:Take heed, and ponder well what that shall be.

—Longfellow.

But yesterday the word of Caesar mightHave stood against the world; now lies he there,And none so poor to do him reverence.

—Shakespeare.

I had rather be the first man in the village than the second man in Rome.

—Caesar.

If you have performed an act of great and disinterested virtue, conceal it; if you publish it, you will neither be believed here nor rewarded hereafter.

If there's a virtue in the world at which we should always aim, it is cheerfulness.

—Sir Edward B. Lytton.

Our virtues disappear, said Rochefoucauld, when put in competition with our interests, as rivers lose themselves in the ocean.

Virtue, not pedigree, should characterize nobility.

—From the Latin.

The tones of human voices are mightier than strings or brass to move the soul.

—Krummacher.

It is not so much what you say,As the manner in which you say it;It is not so much the language you use,As the tones in which you convey it.

A lady sits in her boudoirLanguid with leisure's disease,World-weary and worn with ennui—Society fails to please;She craves fresh scenes more alluringBut where is anything new?She's tired of luxury's gilding,Weary of nothing to do.Her life seems empty and useless,A played out, frivolous game,Where fawning counterfeits friendshipAnd love is only a name;Heart-sick she sulks in seclusionAnd scans in mental review,Her social realm and the folliesShe knows are weak and untrue.Thus over her life she ponders,Scorning, rebellious in vain,Till impelled by social customShe resumes her mask again;Her world must not find her sighing—She brilliantly plays her part,And bravely the queen of pleasureSmiles still with an aching heart.Nearby, but a few blocks distantFrom plenty's palatial homes,There is a contrasting pictureOf strenuous life in the slums;A pale girl toils in a garret,From dawn till the sunset's glow,And the sweat-shop wolf is prowlingFor aye in the street below.Stitch, stitch all day without ceasing,Knowing no rest or delay.Humanity pleads for mercy—* * * * *

Her life seems empty and useless,A played out, frivolous game,Where fawning counterfeits friendshipAnd love is only a name;Heart-sick she sulks in seclusionAnd scans in mental review,Her social realm and the folliesShe knows are weak and untrue.

Thus over her life she ponders,Scorning, rebellious in vain,Till impelled by social customShe resumes her mask again;Her world must not find her sighing—She brilliantly plays her part,And bravely the queen of pleasureSmiles still with an aching heart.

Nearby, but a few blocks distantFrom plenty's palatial homes,There is a contrasting pictureOf strenuous life in the slums;A pale girl toils in a garret,From dawn till the sunset's glow,And the sweat-shop wolf is prowlingFor aye in the street below.

Stitch, stitch all day without ceasing,Knowing no rest or delay.Humanity pleads for mercy—* * * * *

—Margaret Scott Hall.

We are ruined, not by what we really wantBut by what we think we want;Therefore never go abroad in search of your wants;If they be real wants,They will come home in search of you;For he that buys what he does not want,Will often want what he cannot buy.

—Colton.

The Source of Wants.—It is not from nature, but from education and habits, that our wants are chiefly derived.

—Fielding.

He cannot provide for the wants of others, whose own are numerous and craving.

—Plutarch.

When George Washington was a boy, a beautiful cherry tree was killed in his father's garden, by some violent hand stripping its bark. Mr. Washington said he would not have taken five guineas for the tree, and he would like to knowthe offender. Shortly after, seeing George with an axe in his hand, he asked him if he knew who had killed the cherry tree. George hesitated for a moment, then said, "I cannot tell a lie, father, I cannot tell a lie. I cut it with the hatchet." "Come to my arms," said his father; "you have paid for it a thousand times." Such an act of heroism in telling the truth he valued more than a thousand cherry trees.

Hundreds would never have knownwantif they had not first knownwaste.

—Spurgeon.

He who plays with dollars in his youth, will be apt to have to beg for farthings in his age.

—Hone.

When you take out, and do not put in, expect to reach the bottom.

—Modern Greek.

About three-fourths of the weight of the human body consists of water; and as it is constantly being thrown off by the skin, lungs, etc., it requires to be continually renewed, and water is therefore an essential alimentary principle, and more necessary to our existence than even solid food.

—Dr. Turnbull.

I am glad to find your great wealth has not changed you. "Well," responded Mr. Preston, "it has changed me a trifle. I'm eccentric where I used to be impolite, and delightfully sarcastic where I used to be rude—so they tell me."

—Detroit Tribune.

Extreme wealth brings excessive care; for the average man a moderate competence is best.

Golden roofs break men's rest.

—Seneca.

Much on earth, little in heaven.

—Spanish.

Ability is the poor man's wealth.

—Matthew Wren.

Many a lout is wealthy, and a clever man, hard put to.

—Spanish.

It is some relief to weep; grief is satisfied and carried off by tears.

—Ovid.

To say you are welcome, would be superfluous.

—Shakespeare.

A warm welcome after all, is the best cheer.

Who comes seldom is welcome.

—Italian.

You're as welcome as the flowers in May.

Dig a well before you are thirsty. (Be prepared against contingencies.)

—Chinese.

The following verses were sent to a graduate of Wheaton Seminary of the class of 1866 by John G. Whittier, on the receipt of two pairs of long stockings, which the young woman had knit. She was a frequent visitor in the Whittier home, and often assisted in the entertainment of guests of honor. Mr. Whittier regarded the verses as doggerel, and expressed his intention of writing something worth while for his youthful admirer. But the poem reveals a humorous side of his character, differing from what one finds in his published poetry, and it is probable that neither Mr. Whittier nor his young friend, who died in her early womanhood, would have objected to the publication of the verses.

—Editors of Youth's Companion.

My neighbor Acres said to me,"I lead a lonesome life.There's something lacking all the time,I think I need a wife."I'm weary of my empty roomsAnd stockings never mended.If you could think of some nice girlI'd feel myself befriended."I sat and pondered for a space,And then I spake up gaily:"You just go down the Ferry roadAnd ask for Mary Bailey."She's bright as is a new-made centAnd smart as any steel trap;I tell you grass will never growBeneath her restless heel-tap."A wiser little head than hersWas never found a hat in;She reads a thousand books a year,And talks in Dutch and Latin."She always has a stylish dress,And dainty slippered feet,She's money in the savings-bankHer every want to meet."He sadly mused, "That sort of thingWill never do, you see.A wife that's all accomplishmentsIs not the wife for me."A lucky thought was mine. I kickedRight off my old brogan,And pulled my trousers to the knee."Look here, you foolish man!"These stockings by her hands were knit.""Why, sakes alive," cried he."The modern girl who knits like thatIs just the girl for me."

My neighbor Acres said to me,"I lead a lonesome life.There's something lacking all the time,I think I need a wife.

"I'm weary of my empty roomsAnd stockings never mended.If you could think of some nice girlI'd feel myself befriended."

I sat and pondered for a space,And then I spake up gaily:"You just go down the Ferry roadAnd ask for Mary Bailey.

"She's bright as is a new-made centAnd smart as any steel trap;I tell you grass will never growBeneath her restless heel-tap.

"A wiser little head than hersWas never found a hat in;She reads a thousand books a year,And talks in Dutch and Latin.

"She always has a stylish dress,And dainty slippered feet,She's money in the savings-bankHer every want to meet."

He sadly mused, "That sort of thingWill never do, you see.A wife that's all accomplishmentsIs not the wife for me."

A lucky thought was mine. I kickedRight off my old brogan,And pulled my trousers to the knee."Look here, you foolish man!

"These stockings by her hands were knit.""Why, sakes alive," cried he."The modern girl who knits like thatIs just the girl for me."

—By John Greenleaf Whittier.

Who sows thorns should not go barefoot.

—French.

Advice to a Wife.—O woman! thou knowest the hour when the goodman of the house will return, when the heat and burden of the day are past; do not let him at such time, find upon his coming to his habitation, that the foot which should hasten to meet him is wandering at a distance, that when he is weary with toil and jaded with discouragement, the soft hand which should wipe the sweat from his brow, is knocking at the door of other houses.

—W. Irving.

A stubborn wife is a mat rolled up—i. e., useless.

—Chinese.

Fie! fie! unknit that threat'ning, unkind brow,And dart not scornful glances from those eyes,To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor;It blots thy beauty, as frost bite the meads;Confounds thy fame, as whirlwinds shake fair buds;And in no sense is meet or amiable.A woman mov'd is like a fountain troubled,Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty;And while it is so, none so dry or thirstyWill deign to sip, or touch one drop of it.Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee,And for thy maintenance commits his bodyTo painful labour both by sea and land;To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,While thou liest warm at home, secure and safe,And craves no other tribute at thy hands,But love, fair looks, and true obedience:Too little payment for so great a debt.Such duty as one owes a prince,Even such, a woman oweth to her husband:And when she's froward, peevish, sullen, sour,And not obedient to his honest will,What is she but a foul contending rebelAnd graceless traitor to her loving lord?I am asham'd that women are so simpleTo offer war, where they should kneel for peace;Or seek for rule, supremacy and sway,When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.

—Shakespeare.

Oh, let me lay my head to-night upon your breast,And close my eyes against the light, I fain would rest,I'm weary, and the world looks sad; this worldly strifeTurns me to you; and, oh I'm glad to be your wife!Though friends may fail or turn aside, yet I have youAnd in your love I may abide, for you are true—My only solace in each grief and in despair,Your tenderness is my relief; it soothes each care.If joys of life could alienate this poor weak heartFrom yours, then may no pleasure great enough to partOur sympathies fall to my lot. I'd e'er remainBereft of friends, though true or not, just to retainYour true regard, your presence bright, thro' care and strifeAnd, oh! I thank my God to-night, I am your wife!

—Old Clipping.

I have often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses offortune. Those disasters which break down the spirit of a man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their character, that at times it approaches to sublimity. Nothing can be more touching, than to behold a soft and tender female, who had been all weakness and dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while threading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and supporter of her husband under misfortune and abiding with unshrinking firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity.

As the vine which has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunder-bolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs; so it is beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman who is the mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with calamity; winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart.

I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. "I can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, "than to have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, there they are to share your prosperity; if otherwise, there they are to comfort you." And, indeed, I have observed that a married man, falling into misfortune, is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world than a single one; partly because he is more stimulated to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and beloved beings who depend upon him for subsistence; but chiefly because his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic endearments, and his self-respect kept alive by finding, that though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at home,of which he is the monarch. Whereas, a single man is apt to run to waste and self-neglect; to fancy himself lonely and abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin, like some deserted mansion, for want of an inhabitant.

These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is true, no fortune, but that of my friend was ample; and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging her in elegant pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes and fancies that spread a kind of witchery about the sex.—"Her life," said he, "shall be like a fairy tale."

The very difference in their characters produced a harmonious combination; he was of a romantic and somewhat serious cast; she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the mute rapture with which he would gaze upon her in company, of which her sprightly powers made her the delight; and how, in the midst of applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor and acceptance. When leaning on his arm, her slender form contrasted finely with his tall, manly person. The fond confiding air with which she looked up to him seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and cherishing tenderness, as if he doted on his lovely burden for its very helplessness. Never did a couple set forward on a flowery path of early and well-suited marriage with a fairer prospect of felicity.

It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have embarked his property in large speculations; and he had not been married many months when, by a succession of sudden disasters, it was swept from him, and he found himself reduced to almost penury. For a time he kept his situation to himself, and went about with a haggard countenance and a breaking heart. His life was but a protracted agony; and what rendered it more insupportable was the necessity ofkeeping up a smile in the presence of his wife; for he could not bring himself to overwhelm her with the news. She saw, however, with the quick eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. She marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender blandishments to win him back to happiness; but she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The more he saw cause to love her, the more torturing was the thought that he was soon to make her wretched. A little while, thought he, and the smile will banish from that cheek—the song will die away from those lips—the lustre of those eyes will be quenched with sorrow—and the happy heart which now beats lightly in that bosom will be weighed down, like mine, by the cares and miseries of the world.

At length he came to me one day, and related his whole situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I had heard him through, I inquired, "Does your wife know all this?" At the question he burst into an agony of tears. "For God's sake!" cried he, "if you have any pity on me, don't mention my wife; it is the thought of her that drives me almost to distraction!"

"And why not?" said I:—"She must know it sooner or later: you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence may break upon her in a more startling manner than if imparted by yourself; for the accents of those we love soften the harshest tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself of the comforts of her sympathy; and not merely that, but also endangering the only bond that can keep hearts together—an unreserved community of thought and feeling. She will soon perceive that something is secretly preying upon your mind; and true love will not brook reserve: it feels undervalued and outraged, when even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed from it."

"Oh, but my friend! to think what a blow I am to give to all her future prospects—how I am to strike her very soul to the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beggar!—that she is to forego all the elegancies of life—all the pleasures of society—to shrink with me into indigence and obscurity! To tell her that I have dragged her down from the sphere in which she might have continued to move in constant brightness—the light of every eye—the admiration of every heart!—How can she bear poverty? She has been brought up in all the refinements of opulence * * *"

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow; for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had subsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the subject gently, and urged him to break his situation at once to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but positively.

"But how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary she should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the alteration of your circumstances. You must change your style of living—nay," observing a pang to pass across his countenance, "don't let that afflict you. I am sure you never placed your happiness in outward show—you have yet friends, warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for being less splendidly lodged; and surely it does not require a palace to be happy with Mary—" "I could be happy with her," cried he convulsively, "in a hovel! *"

"Believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and grasping him warmly by the hand, "she can be the same with you. Ay, more: it will be a source of pride and triumph to her—it will call forth all the latent energies and fervent sympathies of her nature; for she will rejoice to prove that she loves you for yourself. There is in every true woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity." I finishedby persuading him to go home and unburden his sad heart to his wife.

I must confess, notwithstanding all I have said, I felt some little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the fortitude of one whose whole life has been a round of pleasures? Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark downward path of low humility, suddenly pointed out before her, and might cling to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto reveled.

In short, I could not meet Leslie next morning without trepidation. He had made the disclosure.

"And how did she bear it?"

"Like an Angel! It seemed rather to be a relief to her mind, for she threw her arms around my neck, and asked if this was all that had lately made me unhappy."

Some days afterwards, he called upon me in the evening. He had disposed of his dwelling-house, and taken a small cottage in the country, a few miles from town. He had been busy all day in sending out furniture. The new establishment required few articles, and those of the simplest kind. All the splendid furniture of his late residence had been sold, excepting his wife's harp. That, he said was too closely associated with the idea of herself; it belonged to the little story of their loves; for some of the sweetest moments of their courtship were those when he had leaned over that instrument, and listened to the melting tones of her voice. I could not but smile at this instance of romantic gallantry in a doting husband.

He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had been all day superintending its arrangement. My feelings had become strongly interested in the progress of this family story, and as it was a fine evening, I offered to accompany him.

He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and as we walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing.

"Poor Mary!" at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his lips.

"And what of her," asked I, "has anything happened to her?"

"What," said he, darting an impatient glance, "is it nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation—to be caged in a miserable cottage—to be obliged to toil almost in the menial concerns of her wretched habitation?"

"Has she then repined at the change?"

"Repined! she has been nothing but sweetness and good humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever known her; she has been to me all love and tenderness and comfort!"

"Admirable girl!" exclaimed I, "You call yourself poor, my friend; you never were so rich—you never knew the boundless treasures of excellence you possessed in that woman."

"Oh! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her first day of real experience: she has been introduced into an humble dwelling—she has been employed all day, in arranging its miserable equipments—she has for the first time known the fatigues of domestic employment—she has for the first time looked around her on a home destitute of everything elegant—almost of everything convenient; and may now be sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future poverty."

There was a degree of probability in this picture that I could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence.

After turning from the main road, up a narrow lane, so thickly shaded by forest trees as to give it a complete air of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough in its appearance for the most pastoral poet; and yet it had a most pleasing rural look. * * * * * Just as we approached we heard the sound of music—Lesliegrasped my arm; we paused and listened. It was Mary's voice singing, in a style of the most touching simplicity, a little Scotch air of which her husband was peculiarly fond.

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the gravel walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out at the window and vanished—a light footstep was heard—and Mary came tripping forth to meet us. She was in a pretty rural dress of white; a few wild flowers were twisted in her fine hair; a fresh bloom was on her cheek; her whole countenance beamed with smiles—I had never seen her look so lovely.

"My dear George," cried she, "I am so glad you are come; I have been watching and watching for you; and running down the lane and looking out for you. I've set out a table under a beautiful tree behind the cottage; and I've been gathering some of the most delicious strawberries, for I know you are so fond of them—and we have such excellent cream—and everything is so sweet and still here.—Oh!" said she, putting her arm within his, and looking up brightly in his face, "Oh, we shall be so happy!"

Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom—he folded his arms around her—he kissed her again and again—he could not speak for the tears gushed into his eyes.

He has often assured me that though the world has since gone prosperously with him, and his life has indeed been a happy one, yet never has he experienced a moment of more exquisite felicity than the time when I accompanied him to the little cottage in the country.

—Washington Irving.

Better a fortune in a wife, than with a wife.

The good wife is none of our dainty dames, who love to appear in a variety of suits every day, new; as if a gown like a stratagem in war, were to be used but once. But our good wife sets up a sail according to the keel of her husband's estate; and if of high parentage, she doth not so remember what she was by birth, that she forgets what she is by—match.

Fuller.

Back to Index Next