It is to her that they naturally look for the tender affections which will soothe them in their declining years. It is for her to temper the rough winds of adversity, and render brighter the sunshine of prosperity. She is their comforter, physician, and nurse. When their voice has become tremulous, and their eye dim with age, and the stores of memory have been closed, it is for her to bring forth the pleasures of consolation, to make the sound of gladness still be heard in their dwelling, and to fill it with a cheerful, and—if she have been rightly educated—a holy light. I need not speak particularly of the relation of the sister; not that I undervalue the importance of her duties; but because I believe that the woman who is well educated for the more important ones of daughter and wife cannot fail to be a faithful sister and friend. We have merely time to glance at the numerous duties of the mistress of a family. Enter the humblest dwelling under the prudent management of a discreet and well-educated female, and observe the simplicity and good taste which pervade it. The wise mistress has nothing gaudy in her dress or furniture; for she is above the silly ambition of surpassing her neighbours in show. Her own best ornaments are cheerfulness and contentment; and those of her house are neatness, good order and cleanliness, which make a plain house and modest apartments seem better than they are. She has not the selfish vanity which would make her strive to appear above her circumstances. She knows what are, and what ought to be, the expenses of her family; and she is not ashamed of her economy. It gives her the means of being liberal in her charity; and hers is a charity which reaches round the earth, and embraces the poor and unfortunate everywhere. Her domestics, if she have any, look to her for advice in doubt, and counsel in difficulties; they respect her judgment, for she has shown herself wise and disinterested; they see that she cares for them, and they have felt her sympathy in their sorrows: in return, they make her interest their own, anticipate her wishes, and show the willingness of their service by their cheerful alacrity. She knows the virtue of pure air, and the excellence of scrupulous cleanliness; she can judge of the qualities of wholesome food, and knows how easily it may be poisoned by careless or unskilful cooking. Her knowledge and care shine in the happy and healthful faces of her children. No harsh sounds are heard in her dwelling; for her gentleness communicates itself to all around her. Her husband hastens home; and whatever may have been his fortune abroad, enters his house with a cheerful step. He has experienced the pleasure of seeing kind faces brightening at his approach; and, contented with what he finds at home, has no inducement to seek for happiness abroad. Nor is she satisfied with consulting the present gratification of those around her. By her example and gentle influence, she leads them onward to what is better and more enduring hereafter. Few know the noiseless and real happiness which such a woman sheds around her, as if she were the sun of a little world.-George B. Emerson. (276.) LAST MOMENTS OF MOZART. A few months before the death of the celebrated Mozart, a mysterious stranger brought him an anonymous letter, in which his terms for a requiem were required. Mozart gave them. Soon after the messenger returned, and paid a portion of the price in advance. To the composition of this requiem he gave the full strength of his powers. Failing to learn the name of him who had ordered it, his fancy soon began to connect something supernatural with the affair. The conviction seized him that he was composing a requiem for his own obsequies. While engaged in this work, and under this strange inspiration, he threw himself back, says his biographer, on his couch, faint and exhausted. His countenance was pale and emaciated; yet there was a strange fire in his eye, and the light of gratified joy on his brow that told of success. His task was finished, and the melody, even to his exquisite sensibility, was perfect. It had occupied him for weeks; and, though his form was wasted by disease, yet the spirit seemed to acquire more vigour, and already claim kindred to immortality; for oft, as the sound of his own composition stole on his ear, it bore an unearthly sweetness that was to him too truly a warning of his future and fast coming doom. Now it was finished, and, for the first time for many weeks, he sank into a quiet and refreshing slumber. A slight noise in the apartment awoke him, when, turning towards a fair young girl who entered,-"Emilie, my daughter," said he, "come near to me-my task is over-the requiem is finished. My requiem,” he added, and a sigh escaped him. "Oh! say not so, my father," said the girl, interrupting him, as tears stood in her eyes, "you must be better, you look better, for even now your cheek has a glow upon it; do let me bring you something refreshing, and I am sure we will nurse you well again." "Do not deceive yourself, my love," said he; "this wasted form can never be restored by human aid. From Heaven's mercy alone can I hope for succour; and it will be granted, Emilie, in the time of my utmost need; yes, in the hour of death, I will claim His help who is always ready to aid those who trust in Him; and soon, very soon, must this mortal frame be laid in its quiet sleeping place, and this restless soul return to Him who gave it." The dying father then raised himself on his couch ;—“You spoke of refreshment, my daughter; it can still be afforded my fainting soul. Take these notes, the last I shall ever pen, and sit down to the instrument. Sing with them the hymn so beloved by your mother, and let me once more hear those tones which have been my delight since my earliest remembrance." Emilie did as she was desired; and it seemed as if she sought a relief from her own thoughts; for, after running over a few chords of the piano, she commenced, in the sweetest voice, the following lines: Spirit! thy labour is o'er, Thy term of probation is run, Thy steps are now bound for the untrodden shore, And the race of immortals begun. Spirit! look not on the strife Or the pleasures of earth with regret— Pause not on the threshold of limitless life, To mourn for the day that is set. Spirit! no fetters can bind, No wicked have power to molest; There the weary, like thee-the wretched shall find, A Heaven-a mansion of rest. Spirit! how bright is the road, For which thou art now on the wing! Thy home it will be with thy Saviour and God, Their loud halleluiahs to sing! As she concluded the last stanza, she dwelt for a few moments on the low, melancholy notes of the piece, and then waited in silence for the mild voice of her father's praise. He spoke not-and, with something like surprise, she turned towards him. He was laid back on the sofa, his face shaded in part by his hand, and his form reposing as if in slumber. Starting with fear, Emilie sprang towards him and seized his hand; but the touch paralysed her, for she sank senseless by his side. He was gone! With the sound of the sweetest melody ever composed by human thought, his soul had winged its flight to regions of eternal bliss.-Anon. (277.) THE WITCHES' PROPHECY. [Macbeth, prompted by the prophecy of the witches that he shall become King of Scotland, slays his cousin King Duncan, who is his guest, at the instigation of his ambitious wife. Macbeth is an instance of the miserable consequences resulting from a weak will as to either good or evil. Lady Macbeth is an impersonation of evil passions and powers, never so far removed as to be beyond the pale of our sympathy, retaining as she does to the last a womanly love for her husband and father. The name of Lady Macbeth was Graoch. She was the danghter of King Kenneth IV.] Enter LADY MACBETH. Lady M. That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold; What hath quench'd them hath given me fire.—Hark! Peace! It was the owl that shriek'd; the fatal bellman Which gives the stern'st good night. He is about it: The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms Do mock their charge with snores: I have drugg'd their possets, That death and nature do contend about them, Whether they live or die. Macb. [Within.] Who's there?-what, ho1 Lady M. Alack! I am afraid they have awaked, And 'tis not done: the attempt, and not the deed, Confounds us. Hark! I laid their daggers ready, He could not miss them.-Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I had done't.-My husband! Enter MACBETH. Macb. I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise? Lady M. I heard the owls scream and the crickets cry. Did not you speak? Macb. When? Lady M. Now. Macb. As I descended? Lady M. Ay. Macb. Hark! Who lies i' the second chamber? Lady M. Donalbain. Macb. This is a sorry sight. [Looking on his hands. Lady M. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. Macb. There's one did laugh in his sleep, and one cried Murder! That they did wake each other; I stood and heard them : But they did say their prayers, and address'd them Again to sleep. Lady M. There are two lodged together. Macb. One cried, God bless us! and Amen the other; As they had seen me with these hangman's hands. Lady M. Consider it not so deeply. Macb. But wherefore could I not pronounce Amen? I had most need of blessing, and Amen Stuck in my throat. Lady M. These deeds must not be thought After these ways; so, it will make us mad. Macb. Methought I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more! Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care, Lady M. What do you mean? Macb. Still it cried, "Sleep no more," to all the house: “Glamis hath murder'd sleep; and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more!" Lady M. Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane, Why did you bring these daggers from the place? Macb. I'll go no more; I am afraid to think what I have done; Look on't again I dare not. Lady M. Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers; the sleeping and the dead For it must seem their guilt. Macb. Whence is that knocking? [Exit. Knocking within. How is't with me when every noise appals me? What hands are here? Ha! they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand? No! this my hand will rather Making the green-one red. |