OUR CHILDREN.

By GENEVIEVE IRONS.

A Hymn for Teachers.

O Lord our God we thank theeFor little children dear,Gleams of thy mercy’s rainbowWhich thou dost send us here;O! teach us how to make themWhat thou wouldst have them be,Teach us to train our childrenFor heaven and for thee.The souls of little childrenAre vessels for thy grace,Thy spirit makes their bodiesHis chosen dwelling-place.The minds of little childrenYearn for immortal truth,And thou hast deigned to make usThe guardians of their youth.Oh, fill our hearts with wisdom,With love and tenderness,And in all Christ-like patienceLet us our souls possess;So shall the overflowingOf hearts that own thy grace,Reflect to little childrenTheir heavenly Father’s face.And they shall learn the wisdomThat cometh from above,Our tenderness shall make themObedient to thy love;Our patience shall encourageThe hope that never faints,And give them perseverance,The triumph of the saints.The simple love of goodness,The fear to do a sin,The life that through temptationKeeps innocence within,The strength to win the battle,The knowledge that is might,Is all we need to teach themThat they may learn aright.Their souls and minds and bodiesThus trained and fit for thee,Shall rise to endless service,Throughout eternity;For they will know the FatherThrough Jesus Christ his Son,By God the Holy Spirit,Eternal Three in One!

O Lord our God we thank thee

For little children dear,

Gleams of thy mercy’s rainbow

Which thou dost send us here;

O! teach us how to make them

What thou wouldst have them be,

Teach us to train our children

For heaven and for thee.

The souls of little childrenAre vessels for thy grace,Thy spirit makes their bodiesHis chosen dwelling-place.The minds of little childrenYearn for immortal truth,And thou hast deigned to make usThe guardians of their youth.

The souls of little children

Are vessels for thy grace,

Thy spirit makes their bodies

His chosen dwelling-place.

The minds of little children

Yearn for immortal truth,

And thou hast deigned to make us

The guardians of their youth.

Oh, fill our hearts with wisdom,With love and tenderness,And in all Christ-like patienceLet us our souls possess;So shall the overflowingOf hearts that own thy grace,Reflect to little childrenTheir heavenly Father’s face.

Oh, fill our hearts with wisdom,

With love and tenderness,

And in all Christ-like patience

Let us our souls possess;

So shall the overflowing

Of hearts that own thy grace,

Reflect to little children

Their heavenly Father’s face.

And they shall learn the wisdomThat cometh from above,Our tenderness shall make themObedient to thy love;Our patience shall encourageThe hope that never faints,And give them perseverance,The triumph of the saints.

And they shall learn the wisdom

That cometh from above,

Our tenderness shall make them

Obedient to thy love;

Our patience shall encourage

The hope that never faints,

And give them perseverance,

The triumph of the saints.

The simple love of goodness,The fear to do a sin,The life that through temptationKeeps innocence within,The strength to win the battle,The knowledge that is might,Is all we need to teach themThat they may learn aright.

The simple love of goodness,

The fear to do a sin,

The life that through temptation

Keeps innocence within,

The strength to win the battle,

The knowledge that is might,

Is all we need to teach them

That they may learn aright.

Their souls and minds and bodiesThus trained and fit for thee,Shall rise to endless service,Throughout eternity;For they will know the FatherThrough Jesus Christ his Son,By God the Holy Spirit,Eternal Three in One!

Their souls and minds and bodies

Thus trained and fit for thee,

Shall rise to endless service,

Throughout eternity;

For they will know the Father

Through Jesus Christ his Son,

By God the Holy Spirit,

Eternal Three in One!

By A. DENBAR.

Not the borrowing and lending of money, be it understood, but only such trifling things as books, umbrellas, and little personal belongings essential to ease. It is questionable whether the loan of these things does not involve more discomfort than the more costly loan of money. If you lend money, it is to be assumed that you can afford the loss of it, or that you see a strong probability of receiving it again. But your favorite umbrella! What other can possibly accommodate itself so comfortably to your carrying? Is not its familiar hook exactly the shape you like? Or perchance you prefer a smoothly rounded knob, and have made a careful choice, so that any other handle feels strange and foreign. To some persons these little matters make all the difference between ease and discomfort. Yet good-nature will not permit you to see a careless caller start out into the rain umbrellaless, although the clouds have threatened all the morning, and the least weather-wise might have foreseen the need of an umbrella. So you say hospitably, “Oh! you must have one; take mine!” and then, with a prophetic failure of courage, add entreatingly, “You will be sure to return it, will you not?” You close the door, after watching your umbrella down the street—yours no longer, alas! for it never returns.

And what about the borrower? Well, firstly, he carries off your loan in a fine glow of gratitude for your kindness, and fully intending to send it back speedily. He even goes so far as to hand it, all dripping with rain, into the servant’s hand with an injunction, “Take care of this umbrella, for it is borrowed.” To-morrow he will call and leave it with graceful thanks. But to-morrow is fine, and an umbrella is a nuisance on a bright day; it really shall be sent soon. And how can he carry two umbrellas on a rainy day? So the tiny germ of honest intention withers under delay, till in the end the borroweralmostforgets that he is not owner. There is pointed satire to many jarred sensibilities in the hyphenless advertisement so frequently seen, “Umbrellas Recovered in Twenty Minutes!”

Vain are all inquiries. You call at his house; it has gone out on service or has got “mislaid.” And, finally, you abandon the quest and purchase another. One melancholy fact you realize: any five-pound note is equal to any other five-pound note, but no other umbrella suits you so well as the old favorite.

Everybody knows the comfort of finding a pen that suits the busy writer. Even the elaborate gold nib may be a failure; and as to quills, every mending is one in ten on the chance of being too hard or too soft for a fastidious taste. Yet the virtue of generosity often requires self-abnegation to the extent of lending the treasure which lightens labor with ease of tool. You know perfectly well that the pen will be ruined for your use by being lent to the friend who borrows it, “only for a moment,” while he scribbles a hasty note, or signs his name to the carrier. But just that moment does the mischief, and you, patiently or impatiently, as the case may be, resign yourself to a damaged pen, or waste time in seeking another.

And of books! What about lending books?

Only those wholovebooks can understand the pang of losing them. A man who handles his book with firm yet tender touch, who delights to take down his pet volumes and smooth out the pages for sheer pleasure of the handling, is the genuine book-lover, and by force of his love he will surely be the man who will lend, and as surely lose. For it is the nature of this special attachment that the book-lover must share his enjoyment with others. Dearly as he loves the choice volumes ranged in neat order on his bookshelves, they are but half-used while they are not shared. The bookish manmaybe selfish, but it is the exception only; the rule is that the true lover of books is “ready to lend.” And so it comes to pass that, at the close of a long, eager conversation on Robert Browning’s poems, or Froude’s “History,” or some quaint old treasure long “out of print,” the generous impulse prompts an offer of the volume discussed. It may be that the listener suggests that he would like to know more on the subject. “You ought to read such passages,” says the happy owner, and the borrower carries the book home, and forthwith it is mingled with his own and is merged and lost. Such a thing even as theloanof a borrowed book is not unusual, though it ought to be regarded as a social crime. Who that prides himself on his books has not painful vacancies among them? Here it is the second volume of an otherwise complete edition of Tennyson—missing! And there a “horrible blank” tells of some unvirtuous borrower who has decapitated a valuable set by carrying off volume number one. These gaps in the bookcase are a standing grievance, and happy is he who can preserve his books intact.

Of course a methodical person would keep a list of books lent, with the borrower’s name in line. But, alas! what generous soul is methodical—the ready tendency to lend a book is proof that a man is ready for all risks. Nor will a well-kept list make our borrowers honest. If a man steal your book, youmayrecover it if you prove the theft; but what is to be done with him who always—yes, always—isintendingto return your precious volume? Your inquiries are met with ready promises of restoration; he will bring it back, but his wife is reading it, or he can not just lay his hand upon it, or some one has borrowed it without leave, and it will be sure to come back, and then you shall have it all right. All which things are tests of patience and good humor.

Mrs. Stowe tells of an orderly Christian man who, recognizing the Scriptural injunction to “do good and lend,” was dismayed by the frequent application for loans of tools from his less thrifty neighbors. Gravely reflecting on the subject, he finally reconciled order and liberality by buying a complete duplicate set of tools, which he kept for the purpose of lending, and when any of these were lent he quietly told the next applicant that the ax or hoe was already out.

This plan is not possible with books. But, logically considered, is it not a singular fact that a man who will hasten to clear himself of monetary debt, if it be but a shilling, will deprive, shall we not say practically rob, his friend of an umbrella worth perhaps a guinea, or a book, which no money can replace, if it happen to have associations for the owner or be out of print? And this, too, in a fashion peculiarly treacherous, since he knows the object of loan would never be lent except on tacit promise of return. The old adage, so familiar to our childhood,

“’Tis a sin to steal a pin,Much more to take a greater thing,”

“’Tis a sin to steal a pin,

Much more to take a greater thing,”

notwithstanding its defective orthodoxy and rhyme, still requires enforcement on our languid and ill-trained consciences. Possibly the causes of this lax morality in minor matters lie deeper than any merely playful suggestion can reach.

A wise man once stated plainly what we scarcely like to hint, in these words: “Thewickedborroweth and payeth not again.” And yet we fear things will go on much as before, in spite of this paper, and men and women will continue to miss their umbrellas at the very time they need them, and sigh in vain over an unreturned book, through a generous disposition “to do good and lend.”—London Sunday Magazine.

By CHARLES LAMB.

Sebastian and his sister Viola, a young gentleman and lady of Messaline, were twins, and (which was accounted a great wonder) from their birth they so much resembled each other, that, but for the difference in their dress, they could not be known apart. They were both born in one hour, and in one hour they were both in danger of perishing, for they were shipwrecked on the coast of Illyria, as they were making a sea voyage together. The ship, on board of which they were, split on a rock in a violent storm, and a very small number of the ship’s company escaped with their lives. The captain of the vessel, with a few of the sailors that were saved, got to land in a small boat, and with them they brought Viola safe on shore, where she, poor lady, instead of rejoicing at her own deliverance, began to lament her brother’s loss; but the captain comforted her with the assurance, that he had seen her brother when the ship split, fasten himself to a strong mast, on which, as long as he could see anything of him for the distance, he perceived him borne up above the waves. Viola was much consoled by the hope this account gave her, and now considered how she was to dispose of herself in a strange country, so far from home; and she asked the captain if he knew anything of Illyria. “Ay, very well, madam,” replied the captain, “for I was born not three hours’ travel from this place.” “Who governs here?” said Viola. The captain told her, Illyria was governed by Orsino, a duke noble in nature as well as dignity. Viola said, she had heard her father speak of Orsino, and that he was unmarried then. “And he is so now,” said the captain; “or was so very lately, for but a month ago I went from here, and then it was the general talk (as you know what great ones do the people will prattle of) that Orsino sought the love of fair Olivia, a virtuous maid, the daughter of a count who died twelve months ago, leaving Olivia to the protection of her brother, who shortly after died also; and for the love of this dear brother, they say, she has abjured the sight and company of men.” Viola, who was herself in such a sad affliction for her brother’s loss, wished she could live with this lady, who so tenderly mourned a brother’s death. She asked the captain if he could introduce her to Olivia, saying she would willingly serve this lady. But he replied, this would be a hard thing to accomplish, because the lady Olivia would admit no person into her house since her brother’s death, not even the duke himself. Then Viola formed another project in her mind, which was, in a man’s habit to serve the Duke Orsino as a page. It was a strange fancy in a young lady to put on male attire, and pass for a boy; but the forlorn and unprotected state of Viola, who was young and of uncommon beauty, alone, and in a foreign land, must plead her excuse.

She having observed a fair behavior in the captain, and that he showed a friendly concern for her welfare, intrusted him with her design, and he readily engaged to assist her. Viola gave him money, and directed him to furnish her with suitable apparel, ordering her clothes to be made of the same color and in the same fashion her brother Sebastian used to wear, and when she was dressed in her manly garb, she looked so exactly like her brother, that some strange errors happened by means of their being mistaken for each other; for, as will afterwards appear, Sebastian was also saved.

Viola’s good friend, the captain, when he had transformed this pretty lady into a gentleman, having some interest at court, got her presented to Orsino, under the feigned name of Cesario. The duke was wonderfully pleased with the address and graceful deportment of this handsome youth, and made Cesario one of his pages, that being the office Viola wished to obtain: and she so well fulfilled the duties of her new station, and showed such a ready observance and faithful attachment to her lord, that she soon became his most favored attendant. To Cesario Orsino confided the whole history of his love for the lady Olivia. To Cesario he told the long and unsuccessful suit he had made to one, who, rejecting his long services, and despising his person, refused to admit him to her presence; and for the love of this lady who had so unkindly treated him, the noble Orsino, forsaking the sports of the field, and all manly exercises in which he used to delight, passed his hours in ignoble sloth, listening to the effeminate sounds of soft music, gentle airs, and passionate love songs; and neglecting the company of the wise and learned lords with whom he used to associate, he was now all day long conversing with young Cesario. Unmeet companion no doubt his grave courtiers thought Cesario was, for their once noble master, the great Duke Orsino.

It is a dangerous matter for young maidens to be the confidants of handsome young dukes; which Viola too soon found to her sorrow, for all that Orsino told her he endured for Olivia, she presently perceived she suffered for the love of him: and much it moved her wonder, that Olivia could be so regardless of this her peerless lord and master, whom she thought no one should behold without the deepest admiration, and she ventured gently to hint to Orsino that it was pity he should affect a lady who was so blind to his worthy qualities; and she said, “If a lady was to love you, my lord, as you love Olivia (and perhaps there may be one who does), if you could not love her in return, would you not tell her that you could not love, and must not she be content with that answer?” But Orsino would not admit of this reasoning, for he denied that it was possible for any woman to love as he did. He said that no woman’s heart was big enough to hold so much love, and therefore it was unfair to compare any lady’s love for him to his love for Olivia. Now, though Viola had the utmost deference for the duke’s opinions, she could not help thinking this was not quite true, for she thought her heart had full as much love in it as Orsino’s had; and she said, “Ah, but I know, my lord,”——“What do you know, Cesario?” said Orsino. “Too well I know,” replied Viola, “what love women may owe to men. They are as true of heart as we are. My father had a daughter that loved a man, as I perhaps, were I a woman, should love your lordship.” “And what is her history?” said Orsino. “A blank, my lord,” replied Viola; “she never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm in the bud, feed on her damask cheek. She pined in thought, and with a green and yellow melancholy, she sat like patience on a monument, smiling at grief.” The duke inquired if this lady died of her love, but to this question Viola returned an evasive answer; as probably she had feigned the story, to speak words expressive of the secret love and silent grief she suffered for Orsino.

While they were talking, a gentleman entered whom the duke had sent to Olivia, and he said, “So please you, my lord, I might not be admitted to the lady, but by her handmaid she returned you this answer: until seven years hence, the element itself shall not behold her face; but like a cloistress she will walk veiled, watering her chamber with her tears for the sad remembrance of her dead brother.” On hearing this, the duke exclaimed, “O she that has a heart of this fine frame, to pay this debt of love to a dead brother, how will she love, when the rich golden shaft has touched her heart!” And then he said to Viola, “You know, Cesario, I have told you all the secrets of my heart; therefore, good youth, go to Olivia’s house. Be not denied access; stand at her doors, and tell her, there your fixed foot shallgrow till you have audience.” “And if I do speak to her, my lord, what then?” said Viola. “O then,” replied Orsino, “unfold to her the passion of my love. Make a long discourse to her of my dear faith. It may well become you to act my woes, for she will attend more to you than one of graver aspect.”

Away then went Viola; but not willingly did she undertake this courtship, for she was to woo a lady to become a wife to him she wished to marry; but having undertaken the affair, she performed it with fidelity; and Olivia soon heard that a youth was at her door who insisted upon being admitted to her presence. “I told him,” said the servant, “that you were sick: he said he knew you were, and therefore he came to speak with you. I told him that you were asleep: he seemed to have a foreknowledge of that too, and said, that therefore he must speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? for he seems fortified against all denial, and will speak with you, whether you will or no.” Olivia, curious to see who this peremptory messenger might be, desired he might be admitted; and throwing her veil over her face, she said she would once more hear Orsino’s embassy, not doubting but that he came from the duke, by his importunity. Viola entering, put on the most manly air she could assume, and affecting the fine courtier’s language of great men’s pages, she said to the veiled lady, “Most radiant, exquisite and matchless beauty, I pray you tell me if you are the lady of the house; for I should be sorry to cast away my speech upon another, for besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to learn it.” “Whence come you, sir?” said Olivia. “I can say little more than I have studied,” replied Viola; “and that question is out of my part.” “Are you a comedian?” said Olivia. “No,” replied Viola; “and yet I am not that which I play;” meaning that she being a woman, feigned herself to be a man. And again she asked Olivia if she were the lady of the house. Olivia said she was; and then Viola, having more curiosity to see her rival’s features than haste to deliver her master’s message, said, “Good madam, let me see your face.” With this bold request Olivia was not averse to comply; for this haughty beauty, whom the Duke Orsino had loved so long in vain, at first sight conceived a passion for the supposed page, the humble Cesario.

When Viola asked to see her face, Olivia said, “Have you any commission from your lord and master to negotiate with my face?” And then, forgetting her determination to go veiled for seven long years, she drew aside her veil, saying, “But I will draw the curtain and show the picture. Is it not well done?” Viola replied, “It is beauty truly mixed; the red and white upon your cheeks are by Nature’s own cunning hand laid on. You are the most cruel lady living, if you will lead these graces to the grave, and leave the world no copy.” “O sir,” replied Olivia, “I will not be so cruel. The world may have an inventory of my beauty. As,item, two lips, indifferent red;item, two grey eyes, with lids to them; one neck; one chin, and so forth. Were you sent here to praise me?” Viola replied, “I see you what you are: you are too proud, but you are fair. My lord and master loves you. O such a love could but be recompensed, though you were crowned the queen of beauty: for Orsino loves you with adoration and with tears, with groans that thunder love, and sighs of fire.” “Your lord,” said Olivia, “knows well my mind. I can not love him; yet I doubt not he is virtuous; I know him to be noble and of high estate, of fresh and spotless youth. All voices proclaim him learned, courteous, and valiant; yet I can not love him, he might have taken his answer long ago.” “If I did love you as my master does,” said Viola, “I would make me a willow cabin at your gates, and call upon your name. I would write complaining sonnets on Olivia, and sing them in the dead of the night; your name should sound among the hills, and I would make Echo, the babbling gossip of the air, cry outOlivia. O you should not rest between the elements of earth and air, but you should pity me.” “You might do much,” said Olivia; “what is your parentage?” Viola replied, “Above my fortunes, yet my state is well. I am a gentleman.” Olivia now reluctantly dismissed Viola, saying, “Go to your master, and tell him, I can not love him. Let him send no more, unless perchance you come again to tell me how he takes it.” And Viola departed, bidding the lady farewell by the name of Fair Cruelty. When she was gone, Olivia repeated the words,Above my fortune, yet my state is well, I am a gentleman. And she said aloud, “I will be sworn he is; his tongue, his face, his limbs, action, and spirit, plainly show he is a gentleman.” And then she wished Cesario was the duke; and perceiving the fast hold he had taken on her affections, she blamed herself for her sudden love; but the gentle blame which people lay upon their own faults has no deep root; and presently the noble lady Olivia so far forgot the inequality between her fortunes and those of this seeming page, as well as the maidenly reserve which is the chief ornament of a lady’s character, that she resolved to court the love of young Cesario, and sent a servant after him with a diamond ring, under the pretence that he had left it with her as a present from Orsino. She hoped by thus artfully making Cesario a present of the ring, she should give him some intimation of her design; and truly it did make Viola suspect; for knowing that Orsino had sent no ring by her, she began to recollect that Olivia’s looks and manner were expressive of admiration, and she presently guessed her master’s mistress had fallen in love with her. “Alas,” said she, “the poor lady might as well love a dream. Disguise I see is wicked, for it has caused Olivia to breathe as fruitless sighs for me, as I do for Orsino.”

Viola returned to Orsino’s palace, and related to her lord the ill success of her negotiation, repeating the command of Olivia, that the duke should trouble her no more. Yet still the duke persisted in hoping that the gentle Cesario would in time be able to persuade her to show some pity, and therefore he bade him to go to her again the next day. In the mean time, to pass away the tedious interval, he commanded a song which he loved to be sung; and he said, “My good Cesario, when I heard that song last night, methought it did relieve my passion much. Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain. The spinsters and the knitters when they sit in the sun, and the young maids that weave their thread with bone, chant this song. It is silly, yet I love it, for it tells of the innocence of love in the old times.”

SONG.Come away, come away, death,And in sad cypress let me be laid;Fly away, fly away breath,I am slain by a fair cruel maid.My shroud of white stuck all with yew,O prepare it;My part of death no one so trueDid share it.Not a flower, not a flower sweetOn my black coffin let there be strown;Not a friend, not a friend greetMy poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:A thousand thousand sighs to save,Lay me oh whereSad true lover never find my graveTo weep there.

SONG.

Come away, come away, death,

And in sad cypress let me be laid;

Fly away, fly away breath,

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white stuck all with yew,

O prepare it;

My part of death no one so true

Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweetOn my black coffin let there be strown;Not a friend, not a friend greetMy poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:A thousand thousand sighs to save,Lay me oh whereSad true lover never find my graveTo weep there.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet

On my black coffin let there be strown;

Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:

A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me oh where

Sad true lover never find my grave

To weep there.

Viola did not fail to mark the words of the old song, which in such true simplicity described the pangs of unrequited love, and she bore testimony in her countenance of feeling what the song expressed. Her sad looks were observed by Orsino, who said to her, “My life upon it, Cesario, though you are so young, your eye has looked uponsome face that it loves; has it not, boy?” “A little, with your leave,” replied Viola. “And what kind of woman, and of what age is she?” said Orsino. “Of your age, and of your complexion, my lord,” said Viola: which made the duke smile to hear this fair young boy loved a woman so much older than himself, and of a man’s dark complexion; but Viola secretly meant Orsino, and not a woman like him.

When Viola made her second visit to Olivia, she found no difficulty in gaining access to her. Servants soon discover when their ladies delight to converse with handsome young messengers; and the instant Viola arrived, the gates were thrown wide open, and the duke’s page was shown into Olivia’s apartment with great respect; and when Viola told Olivia that she was come once more to plead in her lord’s behalf, this lady said, “I desired you never to speak of him again; but if you would undertake another suit, I had rather hear you solicit than music from the spheres.” This was pretty plain speaking, but Olivia soon explained herself still more plainly, and openly confessed her love: and when she saw displeasure with perplexity expressed in Viola’s face, she said, “O what a deal of scorn looks beautiful in the contempt and anger of his lip! Cesario, by the roses of the spring, by maidhood, honor, and by truth, I love you so, that, in spite of your pride, I have neither wit nor reason to conceal my passion.” But in vain the lady wooed; Viola hastened from her presence, threatening never more to come to plead Orsino’s love: and all the reply she made to Olivia’s fond solicitations was a declaration of a resolution,Never to love any woman.

No sooner had Viola left the lady than a claim was made upon her valor. A gentleman, a rejected suitor of Olivia, who had learned how that lady had favored the duke’s messenger, challenged him to fight a duel. What should poor Viola do, who, though she carried a man-like outside, had a true woman’s heart, and feared to look on her own sword?

When she saw her formidable rival advancing toward her with his sword drawn, she began to think of confessing that she was a woman; but she was relieved at once from her terror, and the shame of such a discovery, by a stranger that was passing by, who made up to them, and as if he had been long known to her, and were her dearest friend, said to her opponent, “If this young gentleman has done offense, I will take the fault on me, and if you offend him, I will for his sake defy you.” Before Viola had time to thank him for his protection, or to inquire the reason of his kind interference, her new friend met with an enemy where his bravery was of no use to him; for the officers of justice coming up at that instant, apprehended the stranger in the duke’s name to answer for an offence he had committed some years before; and he said to Viola, “This comes with seeking you;” and then he asked her for a purse, saying, “Now my necessity makes me ask for my purse, and it grieves me much more for what I can not do for you, than for what befalls myself. You stand amazed, but be of comfort.” His words did indeed amaze Viola, and she protested she knew him not, nor had ever received a purse from him; but for the kindness he had just shown her, she offered him a small sum of money, being nearly all she possessed. And now the stranger spoke severe things, charging her with ingratitude and unkindness. He said, “This youth, whom you see here, I snatched from the jaws of death, and for his sake alone I came to Illyria, and have fallen into this danger.” But the officers cared little for hearkening to the complaints of their prisoner, and they hurried him off, saying, “What is that to us?” And as he was carried away, he called Viola by the name of Sebastian, reproaching the supposed Sebastian for disowning his friend, as long as he was within hearing. When Viola heard herself called Sebastian, though the stranger was taken away too hastily for her to ask an explanation, she conjectured that this seeming mystery might arise from her being mistaken for her brother; and she began to cherish hopes that it was her brother whose life this man said he had preserved. And so indeed it was. The stranger, whose name was Antonio, was a sea-captain. He had taken Sebastian up into his ship, when, almost exhausted with fatigue, he was floating on the mast to which he had fastened himself in the storm. Antonio conceived such a friendship for Sebastian, that he resolved to accompany him whithersoever he went; and when the youth expressed a curiosity to visit Orsino’s court, Antonio, rather than part from him, came to Illyria, though he knew if his person should be known there, his life would be in danger, because in a sea-fight he had once dangerously wounded the Duke Orsino’s nephew. This was the offence for which he was now made a prisoner.

Antonio and Sebastian had landed together but a few hours before Antonio met Viola. He had given his purse to Sebastian, desiring him to use it freely if he saw anything he wished to purchase, telling him he would wait at the inn, while Sebastian went to view the town: but Sebastian not returning at the time appointed, Antonio had ventured out to look for him; and Viola being dressed the same, and in face so exactly resembling her brother, Antonio drew his sword (as he thought) in defence of the youth he had saved; and when Sebastian (as he supposed) disowned him, and denied him his own purse, no wonder he accused him of ingratitude.

Viola, when Antonio was gone, fearing a second invitation to fight, slunk home as fast as she could. She had not been long gone when her adversary thought he saw her return; but it was her brother Sebastian who happened to arrive at this place, and he said, “Now, sir, I have met with you again? There’s for you;” and struck him a blow. Sebastian was no coward; he returned the blow with interest, and drew his sword.

A lady now put a stop to this duel, for Olivia came out of the house, and she too mistaking Sebastian for Cesario, invited him to come into her house, expressing much sorrow at the rude attack he had met with. Though Sebastian was as much surprised at the courtesy of this lady as at the rudeness of his unknown foe, yet he went very willingly into the house, and Olivia was delighted to find Cesario (as she thought him) become more sensible of her attentions; for though their features were exactly the same, there was none of the contempt and anger to be seen in his face, which she had complained of when she told her love to Cesario.

Sebastian did not at all object to the fondness the lady lavished on him. He seemed to take it in very good part, yet he wondered how it had come to pass, and he was rather inclined to think Olivia was not in her right senses; but perceiving she was mistress of a fine house, and that she ordered her affairs and seemed to govern her family discreetly, and that in all but her sudden love for him she appeared in the full possession of her reason, he well approved of the courtship; and Olivia finding Cesario in this good humor, and fearing he might change his mind, proposed that, as she had a priest in the house, they should be instantly married. Sebastian assented to this proposal; and when the marriage ceremony was over, he left his lady for a short time, intending to go and tell his friend Antonio the good fortune that he had met with. In the meantime Orsino came to visit Olivia; and at the moment he arrived before Olivia’s house, the officers of justice brought their prisoner, Antonio, before the duke. Viola was with Orsino, her master, and when Antonio saw Viola, whom he still imagined to be Sebastian, he told the duke in what manner he had rescued the youth from the perils of the sea; and afterfully relating all the kindness he had really shown to Sebastian, he ended his complaint with saying, that for three months, both day and night, this ungrateful youth had been with him. But now the lady Olivia coming forth from her house, the duke could no longer attend to Antonio’s story; and he said, “Here comes the countess: now heaven walks on earth! but for thee, fellow, thy words are madness. Three months has this youth attended on me;” and then he ordered Antonio to be taken aside. But Orsino’s heavenly countess soon gave the duke cause to accuse Cesario as much of ingratitude as Antonio had done, for all the words he could hear Olivia speak were words of kindness to Cesario; and when he found his page had obtained this high place in Olivia’s favor, he threatened him with all the terrors of his just revenge: and as he was going to depart, he called Viola to follow him, saying, “Come boy, with me. My thoughts are ripe for mischief.” Though it seemed in his jealous rage he was going to doom Viola to instant death, yet her love made her no longer a coward, and she said she would most joyfully suffer death to give her master ease. But Olivia would not so lose her husband, and she cried, “Where goes my Cesario?” Viola replied, “After him I love more than my life.” Olivia, however, prevented their departure by loudly proclaiming that Cesario was her husband, and sent for the priest, who declared that not two hours had passed since he had married the lady Olivia to this young man. In vain Viola protested she was not married to Olivia; the evidence of that lady and the priest made Orsino believe that his page had robbed him of the treasure he prized above his life. But thinking that it was past recall, he was bidding farewell to his faithless mistress, and theyoung dissembler, her husband, as he called Viola, warning her never to come in his sight again, when (as it seemed to them) a miracle appeared! for another Cesario entered, and addressed Olivia as his wife. This new Cesario was Sebastian, the real husband of Olivia: and when their wonder had a little ceased at seeing two persons with the same face, the same voice, and the same habit, the brother and sister began to question each other, for Viola could scarce be persuaded that her brother was living, and Sebastian knew not how to account for the sister he supposed drowned, being found in the habit of a young man. But Viola presently acknowledged that she was indeed Viola, and his sister under that disguise.

When all the errors were cleared up which the extreme likeness between this twin brother and sister had occasioned, they laughed at the lady Olivia for the pleasant mistake she had made in falling in love with a woman; and Olivia showed no dislike whatever to her exchange, when she found she had wedded the brother instead of the sister.

The hopes of Orsino were forever at an end by this marriage of Olivia, and with his hopes, all his fruitless love seemed to vanish away, and all his thoughts were fixed on the event of his favorite, young Cesario, being changed into a fair lady. He viewed Viola with great attention, and he remembered how very handsome he had always thought Cesario was, and he concluded she would look very beautiful in a woman’s attire; and then he remembered how often she had saidshe loved him, which at the time seemed only the dutiful expressions of a faithful page, but now he guessed that something more was meant, for many of her pretty sayings which were like riddles to him, came now into his mind, and he no sooner remembered all these things than he resolved to make Viola his wife; and he said to her (he still could not help calling herCesarioandboy), “Boy, you have said to me a thousand times that you should never love a woman like to me, and for the faithful service you have done for me so much beneath your soft and tender breeding, and since you have called me master so long, you shall now be your master’s mistress, and Orsino’s true duchess.”

Olivia, perceiving Orsino was making over that heart, which she had so ungraciously rejected, to Viola, invited them to enter her house, and offered the assistance of the good priest, who had married her to Sebastian in the morning, to perform the same ceremony in the remaining part of the day for Orsino and Viola. Thus the twin brother and sister were both wedded on the same day: the storm and shipwreck, which had separated them, being the means of bringing to pass their high and mighty fortunes. Viola was the wife of Orsino the Duke of Illyria, and Sebastian the husband of the rich and noble countess, the Lady Olivia.

CLARA THWAITES.

Quaint old garden of our childhood,Where we played from chime to chime,Haunted by the mournful musicOf the belfry’s broken rhyme!Hither came the swell of anthems,Floating through our leafy glades,Here the “Amen” from the cloistersDied among our mulberry shades.Hither came the joy of bridals,Clash and laughter of the bells;Hither came the muffled sorrow,And the sob, of last farewells.Sombre chestnuts held their torchesWhite, in deep funereal gloom,O’er the sunken, mould’ring headstones,O’er the latest daisied tomb.Solemn curfew of our childhood,Closing each day with a sigh,Ringing through our peaceful slumbersLike a tender lullaby!Daisied meadows of our childhood,Once a battle-field of pain!Ah, we never dreamed of dolorAs we weaved our daisy-chain!Shining river of our childhood,As I watched thee ripple by,Still I deemed thy joy and glitterSweetest of life’s prophecy.See, it widens to the ocean!See, the river overflows!Shining river of my childhood,Life is fullest at its close!

Quaint old garden of our childhood,Where we played from chime to chime,Haunted by the mournful musicOf the belfry’s broken rhyme!

Quaint old garden of our childhood,

Where we played from chime to chime,

Haunted by the mournful music

Of the belfry’s broken rhyme!

Hither came the swell of anthems,Floating through our leafy glades,Here the “Amen” from the cloistersDied among our mulberry shades.

Hither came the swell of anthems,

Floating through our leafy glades,

Here the “Amen” from the cloisters

Died among our mulberry shades.

Hither came the joy of bridals,Clash and laughter of the bells;Hither came the muffled sorrow,And the sob, of last farewells.

Hither came the joy of bridals,

Clash and laughter of the bells;

Hither came the muffled sorrow,

And the sob, of last farewells.

Sombre chestnuts held their torchesWhite, in deep funereal gloom,O’er the sunken, mould’ring headstones,O’er the latest daisied tomb.

Sombre chestnuts held their torches

White, in deep funereal gloom,

O’er the sunken, mould’ring headstones,

O’er the latest daisied tomb.

Solemn curfew of our childhood,Closing each day with a sigh,Ringing through our peaceful slumbersLike a tender lullaby!

Solemn curfew of our childhood,

Closing each day with a sigh,

Ringing through our peaceful slumbers

Like a tender lullaby!

Daisied meadows of our childhood,Once a battle-field of pain!Ah, we never dreamed of dolorAs we weaved our daisy-chain!

Daisied meadows of our childhood,

Once a battle-field of pain!

Ah, we never dreamed of dolor

As we weaved our daisy-chain!

Shining river of our childhood,As I watched thee ripple by,Still I deemed thy joy and glitterSweetest of life’s prophecy.

Shining river of our childhood,

As I watched thee ripple by,

Still I deemed thy joy and glitter

Sweetest of life’s prophecy.

See, it widens to the ocean!See, the river overflows!Shining river of my childhood,Life is fullest at its close!

See, it widens to the ocean!

See, the river overflows!

Shining river of my childhood,

Life is fullest at its close!

“To find fault, some one may say, is easy, and in every man’s power; but to point out the proper course to be pursued in the present circumstances, that is the proof of a wise counselor.”—Demosthenes.

The origin of the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union was prepared, and read by Mrs. W. A. Ingham, of Cleveland, Ohio, before the national convention of the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union, held last month at Louisville, Ky.

The handful of corn upon the tops of the mountains grew apace after its wonderful planting in Ohio during the winter and spring of 1873-4.

The fruit thereof shook like Lebanon throughout the Middle and Western States, and in August of that year, many of the seed-sowers had gathered upon the shore of Lake Chautauqua for a fortnight in the woods.

In the primitive fashion we dwelt in tents, or sat in the open air about the watchfires kindled at the first National Sunday School Assembly.

Women who had drawn near to God in saloon prayer meetings felt their hearts aflame again as they recounted the wonders of the great uprising.

It was at Chautauqua, the birth-place of grand ideas, that our Union originated.

It is time the story of its beginnings was written, and there is no more fitting place for its rehearsal than in this goodly presence—the city of Louisville, where South and North meet beneath the palm to rejoice over its achievements and consecrate anew its altars.

One bright day a very few ladies were in conversation upon the subject that filled their hearts, inspiring the thought that the temperance cause needed the united effort of all the women of the country.

The suggestion came from Mrs. Mattie McClellan Brown, of Alliance, Ohio. Mrs. G. W. Manly, leader of the praying band of Akron, accepted the idea, and it was said: “Why not take steps here toward its formation?”

Upon further consultation it was decided to call a meeting, notice of which was read from the platform of the Auditorium by Rev. Dr. Vincent.

Mrs. Jennie F. Willing, of Illinois, a guest of the Assembly, maintained that so important a movement should be controlled by women engaged in active Christian work.

In order to arrange the preliminaries of the announced meeting, Mrs. Willing invited Mrs. Brown, Mrs. Manly, Miss Emma Janes, of Oakland, California, and Mrs. Ingham, of Cleveland, to meet her in a new board shanty on Asbury Avenue.

The Woman’s National Christian Temperance Union was born, not in a manger, but on a floor of straw in an apartment into which daylight shone through holes and crevices.

In a half hour’s space every detail was prepared, including a proposed formation of a Committee of Organization, to take place that very afternoon succeeding the regular three o’clock session of the Assembly.

At the temperance prayer-meeting at 4 o’clock, p. m., under the canvas Tabernacle, were, perhaps, fifty earnest Christian women; of them were several from Ohio, Mrs. H. H. Otis, of Buffalo, Mrs. Niles, of Hornellsville, and Mrs. W. E. Knox, of Elmira, N. Y.

Mrs. Willing was leader of the prayer service, and acted as presiding officer of the business session, convened afterward. At this conference women were chosen to represent various States; an adjournment being had to the following day.

At the hour appointed, August 15, 1874, a large audience had gathered, Mrs. Jennie F. Willing in the chair, and Mrs. Emily Huntington Miller secretary.

As results of the deliberation, the committee of organization was formed, and the chairman and secretary of the Chautauqua meeting were authorized to issue a circular letter, asking the woman’s temperance leagues of the North to hold conventions for the purpose of electing one woman from each Congressional district as delegate to an organizing convention, to be held in Cleveland, Ohio, November 18, 19 and 20, 1874.

The call duly appeared, to which the following names were appended, preceded by those of the chairman and secretary: Mrs. Dr. Gause, Philadelphia; Mrs. E. J. Knowles, Newark, N. J.; Mrs. M. M. Brown, Alliance, O.; Mrs. W. D. Barnett, Hiawatha, Kas.; Miss Auretta Hoyt, Indianapolis, Ind.; Mrs. Ingham Stanton, LeRoy, N. Y.; Mrs. Frances Crook, Baltimore, Md.; Miss Emma Janes, Oakland, Cal.

The writer of this paper was nominated from Ohio, but withdrew her own name, substituting that of Mrs. Brown, who was known to have made the original suggestion.

The convention assembled November 18. Mrs. Willing was chosen president. Sixteen States were represented by grand women. Lovely crusaders of the city secured entertainment for three hundred persons; one of them, Sarah Knowles Bolton, looked after the baggage of delegates and visitors. The Second Presbyterian Church, Superior street, held the gathering. An address of welcome was delivered by Mrs. L. D. McCabe, of Delaware, O., President of the Ohio State Union, which had been organized at Springfield, September 27, 1874.

The daily press pronounced the executive ability of the women to be of high order, all unused as we were to deliberative assemblies. Universal comment was excited by the remarkably thorough and able administration of the presiding officer through three difficult days. The following ladies were chosen to serve during the year:

President—Mrs. Annie F. Wittenmeyer, of Pennsylvania.

Vice-Presidents—One from each State represented.

Recording Secretary—Mrs. Mary C. Johnson, New York.

Corresponding Secretary—Frances E. Willard, of Illinois.

Treasurer—Mrs. W. A. Ingham, of Ohio.

As a reward of merit our four faces appeared not long after, engraved on wood, in theMorning, an enterprising herald of reform.

Vicissitudes have occurred during the eight years passed, but all tend, in our onward march to the fore-front of battle, to bring nearer that which overcoming faith and labor are sure to win—victory!

An agency thereto which should here be recognized is the election, in 1879, at Indianapolis, of Frances E. Willard as President of the Woman’s National Christian Temperance Union. She leads to glorious struggle the hosts of Miriam and of Deborah in a new crusade for God and home and native land.

Our present officers are capable and faithful. Our borders are extended until now forty-four States and Territories are each represented by a Vice-President. We have within this area three thousand auxiliaries. The work is divided into thirty-three departments superintended by practical women.

The novices in parliamentary usage of the Cleveland Convention are now experienced and intelligent leaders in the grand reform.

Independent, organizations, with large membership, have multiplied on both sides of the ocean until a score are in active operation as the outgrowth of the great awakening.

More than all, better than all, the “Rock of Ages” women are proving themselves worthy of the title, and are praying to-day even more earnestly than when with sublime faith they went out into the streets and saloons of Ohio, believing that ere long our Lord will say to us, “O, woman, great is thy faith; be it unto thee even as thou wilt.”

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