I would say, however, in the beginning, that I am out of patience with all such twaddle as having pride enough to keep one's self decent! I should say a person ought to have good sense enough (not pride) to keep him decent; and I have known of some of the proudest people who were very indecent. And another thing I will say; I never saw a person, ever so gay a highflyer, that had any idea that he was proud. People must be decent, you know; that is ever the apology for all the superfluities of time, from ostrich feathers down to bespangled grass! Yet I like that saying of a friend who wrote the introduction to my book: Fine dress does not make the man, but when he is made he looks a great deal better dressed up.'

"But now to your question. All persons have some particular idol-some favorite idea of the soul, to which they give adherence. People are apt to be proud of whatever their hearts delight in most. The poet would die were the critics to berate his poetry and to praise his eyes, and would live if they called him hunchback and yet set him beside the Miltons; but a woman would be carried away in ecstasies could she read a dissertation on the beauty of her eyes!

"The fact lies here. Man looks out for honors, for office, and for wealth. Upon these he sets his heart's affections. A man's beautiful hair will never bring him a fortune, (unless it may be in shape of a woman who has the dimes,) but a woman's beautiful hair and eyes will!

"Whether the state of society be correct, or not we find in this world wealth makes the man and beauty the woman; and woman, knowing this, makes beauty her sole concern, and in consequence bedecks, and bejewels, and bedizens her mortal frame, that this her chief power may be omnipotent. And her joy being accumulated by outside show, this last appears more in view than is fitting for her reputation for humility. But man wraps himself in his consequential cloak, and dreams of wealth and sighs for fame, while we, the passers by, know nothing of the inward emotions. The passion for power is no doubt as strong in man, but more concealed; in woman it is seen and read of all men.

"And, by the way, Mrs. Bantam, beauty is nothing that a person should wish to be

rid of. It is, in a worldly point of view, a misfortune to be homely, and one's influence is doubled by a handsome form and address; and because we are wont to be proud of whatever of beauty we possess is no more reason that we should disfigure ourselves than that we should remain in ignorance lest a little learning should exalt us too highly. I sometimes think He that made us intended the beauty, the wealth, the comforts of this life for us; and while none others suffer because of our plenty, we have a right to the flowers, beauties, paintings, poetries, and musics of this world of ours."

Mrs. Bantam and the other ladies left the table in fine humor, and each one took the very first opportunity of viewing herself in the glass, and all projected new means for accumulating graces, gave a few extra turns to the waving hair, and new ties to the ribbons that coquetted gently with the summer breezes. And if Sartor does speak forth pungent truths sometimes none need fear his influence, for he has a kind heart within him that will yet utter wholesome truths for readers of the inestimable NATIONAL.

way;

The shatter'd sunbeams, angels one by one

Are stealing; leaves are blushing o'er decay; And Ocean moans his broken-hearted lay In Nature's ear; and Nature worn, oppres'd,

With hearing all her wayward children pray To her, but syllables that high behest"Arise ye, and depart; for this is not your rest."

Arise ye, and depart; all steep'd in light, That heaven-promised land lies far before; The cloud by day, the pillar'd fire by night,

Shall beacon onward to that distant shore: There every hope lost from the earthly store, And wildly mourn'd, is garner'd to the breast,

And from the Tree of Life can fall no more A wither'd leaf. Wayworn and care-oppres'd, "Arise ye, and depart; for this is not your rest.”

When first thought of it seems hard that women have so much necessary suffering; that it is part of their daily life; not, as with men, an accidental circumstance. But, in reality, how wonderfully wise and beautiful a dispensation it is! Pure and youthful feeling is indispensable to a woman. Yet, with her many wearing cares-small, it may be, but constant, and most difficult to remain noble under, because there is little that is great or glorious in the trials themselves, but only in the bearing them-how shall we keep this woman true to her own higher nature? Could we devise a better discipline than every fresh child brings to the busy mother? Death, awful, mysterious death, seems to stand waiting for her for many days before the child is born. She sees all things through his shadow. "It may be there is no to-morrow for me," is an ever-recurring thought. "On whom can I lean for comfort? To whom can I leave all these dear ones?"

What woman is a skeptic then? The darker and nearer comes the shadow of death, the brighter shines the Light of lights, till the darkness becomes glorified, and death is swallowed up in victory. None know the true rest in God so well as those who have spent days and nights in searching after what is best for the future happiness of the beloved, and have sought in vain. Plan after plan is laid aside, because it has some flaw in it; and then comes the thought, what chance is there that anything will happen as I have imagined? Look back, foolish soul, and see how different was the actual from the

imagined or wished for! So struggles the spirit, and beats itself against the bars of fate, till, torn and weary, it drags itself to the feet of the All-wise, and there finds rest and peace.

VOL. XII.-18

My little baby sleeps softly in her cradle by my side. How seems the world to thee, my babe ? One little fat fist is doubled, as though she already heard the fight of life; but did ever soldier wear so sweet a smile, or breathe so calmly!

Here come my two merry boys. I know it by the banging of doors and the shouting; it is like a rush of sea-breeze. Now they are "hushing" one another. "Dear little sister is asleep." Such loud hushing! And each rosy face comes for a peep at baby.

July 1.-Robert and I had a long, delightful walk last evening up our "glen." I found it rather steep; but then I had his arm to help me, and the breeze on that sweet green hill at the end of the glen was so refreshing.

We had a long talk about our children, and tried to settle how we were to educate them. When I see so many fail in that most difficult of all the tasks that God has set us, the making good men and women, I feel, O, so fearful for our dear ones, so pure, and sweet, and guileless now! I have one great comfort; I have noticed that want of unity between the parents is the greatest cause of want of success in training up children.

Children are very close observers, (I have seen that in mine,) and are more influenced by example than precept. Besides, when the heads of a household are at variance there can be no consistent plan pursued.

How thankful I am that we have not that misery to contend with! I could scarcely keep back the tears of joy and gratitude, when I thought of all that, last evening. Robert was busy groping among the soft moss and wild thyme for little shells for the children. I wonder what were his thoughts! and I wonder, too, why I did not ask him! and why, when he said I had been silent so long, he feared I was tired. I let him think that, and not great love and joy, made me silent and pale. That is the way I always do when I feel deeply. I wish I could show him my whole heart more easily; but he does not mind my not doing so, and it therefore does not matter.

July 29.-Annie Malitus is coming to spend a few weeks with us. I wonder if she is like her mother, sweet, unselfish, gentle Mary Malitus. I well remember her visits to our home. How happy she

made us all, with her cheery ways. "She is so thoughtful of others' feelings," my mother used to say.

August 14.-Annie Malitus and Robert have gone for a long walk, so I have time to write a little in my diary. She is not at all like her mother; but is a lively, pleasant girl. She is very pretty; I cannot keep from looking at her. It is a pleasure to watch her slight, graceful figure moving about the room, or to see the sun shine on her bright brown hair.

Baby has been ailing lately, and kept me more than ever at home. Do I sacrifice too much to my children? He said so yesterday. O, children, children; there is the crack in too many households that lets discord in! Yet, if husband and wife are one, that can never be. But is it possible for a man to fully sympathize with an anxious mother's feelings? Or can a woman, daily tried by small cares as she is, ever learn of him not to feel or fret about little troubles? O, what constant seeking to enter into the heart's bitterness, on each side; what tenderness for each other's special frailties it must need. God give us such abundant love and compassion toward each other. Often my husband is grieved or anxious about things that seem to me of no importance; and I often feel inclined to smile at his anxiety, (have done so, I fear;) but often the thought comes and stops me that he feels it a trial; he is troubled by it; my not feeling it does not make him feel it less, but adds vexation to vexation, or may make him hide his feelings from me next time, and so lay the first brick in that wall of partition which so many I now pity have built in that same heedless way. Often and often I think this; but, I fear, not often enough.

August 21.-My dear friend Mrs. Elliot was here this morning. It is always a pleasure to see her bright face. I never feel afraid of her; never am uncomfortable if the room is ever so untidy, or the children ever so noisy, which is fortunate; for our boys are so fond of her, I cannot keep them away.

"There, my dear," she said to Herbert this morning, "is my best gold pencilcase; and here," feeling in her pocket, "is such a clean piece of paper. Pray, draw me a picture." And so he was quietly set to work. "And what have I got here for my little pet? A biscuit, I

declare! I wonder if little Robby could sit on that stool and eat it, and look at this funny pocket-book of mine. And now for baby!"

And so she managed to amuse them all, her tongue going fast to me between her chatter to them.

"I have not seen you these many days, my dear," she said; and I feel as though all were not right if I have not had a peep at you. I don't know what I should do without you, Gertrude."

It is very sweet to be over-appreciated; makes me feel very amiable, and very humble. I told her so, and how she seemed to fill the place of a mother-inlaw to me.

"Do I indeed, my dear?" she said; "and yet I over-appreciate you, you say; and I'm sure you do the same to me. That is strange. Well! it only shows my theory is right. And now I remember what I came for.

I bring an invitation to your visitor (I hear she is so charming) from your father-in-law and his daughters, to spend a week with them."

I thanked her for Annie, and then asked what she meant by her theory.

"Why, my dear, I've come to the conclusion-now don't be shocked; looking round among my friends, and seeing that if you want a favorable idea of a woman, don't go to her mother-in-law, and vice versa, well, my dear, I've come to the conclusion that it can't be either mother or daughter-in-law's fault."

"Indeed!" I said. "What is the cause,

then?"

“It is, my dear, the putting mothers and daughters-in-law down one another's throats; that's it!" she said, laughing merrily at her idea, and giving baby a toss so high she looked almost frightened.

"Let a child see some jam, you know, my dear, and want it, and ask for it, perhaps steal it, and he thinks it very good. But cram that same sweet down his throat, and tell him he must eat it, it is his duty to like it, and how the child hates that same jam all his life! Don't you see the sense of it, my dear?"

I was laughing too much to answer; partly at my boys' looks of astonishment.

"So you see, my dear," she continued, without waiting for my reply, "my first way of reforming the world in that matter would be, to make every one understand that mothers and daughters-in-law

need not love one another unless they like. Shouldn't I raise a storm! Why, all the novels ever written would be thrown at me. But what a reformed world I should have! for you see, my dear, it is much pleasanter and happier for all concerned to love one another; and feeling this, each party would set about trying to be lovable to one another, just as they would to any one else they wished to please. And so, if they suited one another, and could love one another, (for you can't love some people, except as your neighbor, you know, my dear,) why, they would be very happy and grateful to one another; and if they couldn't, then neither party would feel it a grievance. While now, you know, or rather I do," she continued, not leaving me a moment's time to speak in, "you are too young to have seen so much; each party, or at least one side or the other, makes herself as disagreeable as she can, and says, 'Why don't you love me? How wicked you are and unnatural! It is your duty to love me; and you must."

I was going to try and get in a word of objection to her odd theory, which I put down here because, like most of her ideas, it has some truth in it, and I may be a mother-in-law some day; but, just as I began to speak, came a ring at the bell, and in came Miss Annie, laughing, and in high glee, from a ride with Robert, her face glowing with the fresh wind, her bright brown hair parted so smoothly on her pretty white forehead, her eyes dancing with delight, she was a bit of beaming youthfulness, pleasant to look upon; and so more eyes than mine seemed to think.

Robert said he could not stay; he had no more time to spare, and was gone almost without a word, only running back to tell me that Annie was tired and hungry, and I had better send the children away; and, throwing a pair of gloves into Annie's lap, with "Please mend these before this evening, and be sure and be in time," was gone. Well, when I write it down there seems nothing to be vexed about; I must have been in a cross humor, for 1 even sent my little darlings away angrily.

Annie soon told me what they had been planning for this evening. She thought I should go, too; but he will enjoy himself quite as well without me. And it was not convenient to me to go.

August 27.-Annie has gone to spend a week at Robert's old home; the dear girls want a little change. How cross and unreasonable I have been lately; but Robert has not noticed it. I will turn over a new leaf.

I must make everything very bright and comfortable this evening that he may not feel it dull. I think I shall put on my new dress; he said it became me. How foolish I am! I never felt afraid his home was dull before. There, I will put away those fancies, for fancies they are. What would Robert say if he knew? I seem to have hardly seen him lately. There again! I won't write any more, but fetch baby; all bad thoughts fly away when 1 look into her innocent eyes, or feel her soft face pressed to mine, in her pretty, loving way.

August 28.-Last night I waited and waited, but no Robert came. The boys went to bed crying, for I had promised them a game with "papa." It grew dark, and I sat waiting, imagining all kinds of accidents. I saw him lying, thrown from his horse, on the ground. "This moment," I thought," he may be dying for want of help, and I sit quietly here!" I went out, and listened, but could hear nothing but my heart going thump, thump. I was just thinking I could bear it no longer, but must start off in search of him, when a messenger came to say he had gone to his father's on business, and I was not to wait up. And this morning, when I asked him what urgent business it was, he said, hurriedly, "O, only something he wanted to see his father and Tom about; and I must not be surprised if he were late to-night, as he might have to see his father again."

I am writing, for I cannot settle to anything else. I have worked till the tears dimmed my eyes too much; needlework is bad for a troubled mind; allows it to dwell on sorrows it had better forget; over and over again the same song goes in time to the needle. I have read, but I read my own thoughts instead of the book O, it is bitter, bitter! but it is a lesson that must come, sooner or later. It is sweet, it is the greatest joy this world can give, to know that one human being cares for you above all others; that there is one whose happiness is not complete unless you share it; but it is so great a joy, this world never gives it long. I see

that now. We should become too satisfied with earthly love; it is taken from us in its perfection to lead us to the only One who loveth ever. I say this to myself; but at present it does not comfort me. September 4.-Soon after Annie returned yesterday, my friend Mrs. Elliot came to see me, dear warm-hearted woman. She has the usual fault of those generous natures; rather too plain a way of speaking her mind, and sometimes, when angry, of saying more than she means. She frightens poor me. She says at once, plainly, and, I believe, without premeditation, what would cost me hours of consideration to put into fit words, and weeks of cowardice and battling with myself to say them. It may lose her some friends, but it is more truthful, and therefore, I suppose, more right. After this preface, (it is well no one but myself has to read my long sermons,) I must put down what suggested it. I thought, by my friend's trembling lip, and her restless ways, she had something on her mind.

Annie was busy reading, but Mrs. Elliot kept looking at her every moment while we were talking about the children. I went out of the room to fetch my work, and when I came back the storm had burst.

"It is well," Mrs. Elliot was saying, "for young ladies to be friendly and at ease with gentlemen, instead of so foolishly shy that they are uninteresting and silly. No one dislikes such senseless nonsense more than I do. But really that is better, at least does less mischief than the contrary, when women forget their own proper retiring, modest behavior, and devote themselves, regardless of every one else, to any gentleman who may happen to please them."

Annie opened her eyes in astonishment. I could scarcely keep from laughing, though rather frightened, it was so like what I had been thinking.

66

No one ever spoke to me in that way before," Annie said, flushing up.

"No, my dear," Mrs. Elliot replied; "but many have thought as I do, depend upon it, and therefore you may thank me for being honest enough to tell you. Woman, my dear, was sent into the world to heal broken hearts, not to make them. It is one of her especial duties to see that her own enjoyment is not built on another's unhappiness; not to be content that she does not mean any harm, but to look care

fully, and see whether, meaning or not meaning, she is doing it. If any one entering a household leaves that household less happy by her means, that woman, I say, has done a great wrong, and, unless she makes up her mind to do differently in the future, had much better stay at home. There is plenty of sorrow in the world without giddy young girls adding to it, my dear."

"My dear Mrs. Elliot, what is the matter?" I got time at last to exclaim. "O, don't you know? Has she not

told you?"

"I don't boast of my sins, at least," said Annie, forcing a smile.

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Very right, my dear; but better than that would be, not to have them. My dear Gertrude, she has refused your brother, my friend Tom Somner, and when I ask her how it is she has done so, she says, simply because she does not care for him. She thinks him very amiable, and agreeable, and all that; but marry him! Think of it, my dear, after the way she has treated him; such walking together, such moon-gazing, such sweet private talks, such looking into one another's eyes! My dear, I saw a great deal, and heard more; so don't defend her."

"Mrs. Elliot, what else could I do? He was the only person there. I could not sit and mope all day, or refuse to go anywhere, for fear he should like me. How ridiculous! I liked him, and found him pleasant company. It is not my fault if he admired me; is it, Gertrude?"

"No one else there, Miss Malitus!" exclaimed my warm friend, before I could speak; "no young gentleman, you mean. Were there not his father and his four sisters? How many moonlight walks did you take with them, my dear? and how much of their company did you seek, nice girls as they are? Ah, Miss Malitus, there is the fault. If you had taken equal pains to please father, sisters, and brother, had thought of their pleasure as much as Tom's and your own, he would have made no such foolish and sad mistake. I am angry for his sake, my dear; he is too good to have his happiness destroyed by a silly girl's thoughtlessness."

And, bidding us a hasty "good - by," my dear, hot-tempered friend hurried

away.

I must say I was glad; for, though