her child. She only said-laying her hand an involuntary impulse to speak out her deupon her head 66 Try and not think about it, my dear; it only troubles you, and your troubles cannot make it any better." But Jane could not help thinking about it, try as hard as she would. She went to a Sabbath school, in which a Temperance Society had been formed, and every Sabbath she heard the subject of intemperance discussed, and its dreadful consequences detailed. But more than all this, she had the daily experience of a drunkard's child. In this experience, how much of heart-touching misery was involved!-how much of privation-how much of the anguish of a bruised spirit. Who can know the weight that lies, like a heavy burden, upon the heart of a drunkard's child! None but that child-for language is powerless to convey it. sire. There was not a single cent in the house, for the father rarely trusted his wife with money-he could not confide in her judicious expenditure of it! "Let me go and buy you an orange, mother," Jane said; "they have oranges at the shop.", "I have no change, my dear; and if I had, I should not think it right to spend four or five cents for an orange, when we have so little. Get me a drink of cool water; that will do now." Jane brought the poor sufferer a glass of cool water, and she drank it off eagerly. Then she lay back upon her pillow with a sigh, and her little girl went out to attend to the household duties that devolved upon her. But all the while Jane thought of the orange, and of how she should get it for her mother. When her father came home to dinner, he looked crosser than he did in the morn dinner in moody silence, and then rose up to depart, without so much as asking after his sick wife, or going into her chamber. As he moved towards the door, his hat aland looking timidly in his face, said, with a ready on his head, Jane went up to him, hesitating voice On the next morning the father of little Jane went away to his work, and she was left alone with her mother and her younger sister. They were very poor, and could not afford to employ any one to do the house-ing. He sat down to the table and ate his work, and so, young as she was, while her mother was sick, little Jane had every thing to do; the cooking and cleaning, and even the washing and ironing-a hard task, indeed, for her little hands. But she never murmured-never seemed to think that she was overburdened. How cheerfully would all have been done, if her father's smiles had only fallen like sunshine upon her heart! But that face, into which her No, I will not! Your mother had beteyes looked so often and so anxiously, was ever hid in clouds clouds arising from the ter be thinking about something else than consciousness that he was abusing his fam-wasting money for oranges!" was the anily while seeking his own base gratifica-ry reply, as the father passed out, and shut tion, and from perceiving the evidences of his evil works stamped on all things around him. - "Mother wants an orange so bad.Won't you give me some money to buy her one ?" 66 the door hard after him. Jane stood for a moment, frightened at the angry vehemence of her father, and then burst into tears. She said nothing to her mother of what had passed, but after the agitation of her mind had somewhat subsided, began to cast about in her thoughts for some plan by which she might obtain an orange. At last it occurred to her, that at the shop where she got liquor for her father, they bought rags and old iron. "How much do you give a pound for rags?" she asked in a minute or two after the idea had occurred to her, standing at the counter of the shop. "Three cents a pound," was the reply. "What's the price of them oranges?" With this information Jane hurried back. After she had cleared away the dinner table, she went down into the cellar and looked up all the old bits of iron that she could find. Then she searched the yard, and found some eight or ten rusty nails, an old bolt, and a broken hinge. These she laid away in a little nook in the cellar. Afterwards she gathered together all the old rags that she could find about the house, and in the cellar, and laid them with her old iron. But she saw plainly enough that her iron would not weigh over two pounds, nor her rags over a quarter of a pound. If time would have permitted, she would have gone into the street to look for old iron, but this she could not do; and, disappointed at not being able to get the orange for her mother, she went about her work during the afternoon with sad and desponding thoughts and feelings. It was summer time, and her father came home from his work before it was dark. "Go and get me a pint of brandy," he said to Jane, in a tone that sounded harsh and angry to the child, handing her at the same time a quarter of a dollar. Since the day before he had taken a pint of brandy, and none but the best would suit him. She took the money and the bottle, and went over to the shop. Wistfully she looked at the tempting oranges in the window, as she gave the money for the liquor, and thought how glad her poor mother would be to have one. As she was hurrying back, she saw a thick rusty iron ring lying in the street; she picked it up, and kept on her way. It felt heavy, and her heart bounded with the thought that now she could buy the orange for her mother. The piece of old iron was dropped in the yard, as she passed through. After her father had taken a dram, he sat down to his supper. While he was eating it, Jane went into the cellar and brought out into the yard her little treasure of scrap iron. As she passed backwards and forwards before the door, facing which her father sat, he observed her, and felt a sudden curiosity to know what she was doing. He went softly to the window, and as he did so he saw her gathering the iron, which she had placed in a little pile, into her apron. Then she rose up quickly, and passed out of the yard gate into the street. The father went back to his supper, but his appetite was gone. There was that in the act of his child, simple as it was, that moved his feelings, in spite of himself. All at once he thought of the orange she had asked for her mother; and he felt a conviction that it was to buy an orange that Jane was now going to sell the iron she had evidently been collecting since dinner-time. "How selfish and wicked I am!" he said to himself almost involuntarily. the room where he sat, into her mother's chamber. An impulse, almost irresistible, caused him to follow her in a few moments after. "It is so grateful!" he heard his wife say, as he opened the door. On entering her chamber, he found her sitting up in bed eating the orange, while little Jane stood by her, looking into her face with an air of subdued, yet heartfelt gratification. All this he saw at a glance, yet did not seem to see; for he pretended to be searching for something, which, apparently obtained, he left the room and the house, with feelings of acute pain and self-upbraidings. "Come, let us go and see these cold-water men," said a companion, whom he met a few steps from his own door. They are carrying all the world before them." 66 66 Very well, come along." And the two men bent their steps towards Temperance Hall. When little Jane's father turned from the door of that place, his name was signed to the pledge, and his heart fixed to abide by it. On his way home he saw some grapes in a window. He bought some of them, and a couple of oranges and lemons. When he came home he went into his wife's chamber, and opening the paper that contained the first fruits of his sincere repentance, laid them before her, and said with tenderness, while the moisture dimmed his eyes 66 I thought these would taste good to you, Mary, and so I bought them." “O William!" and the poor wife started, and looked up into her husband's face with an expression of surprise and trembling hope. "Mary," and he took her hand tenderly I have signed the pledge to-night, and I will keep it by the help of Heaven!" The sick wife raised herself up quickly, and bent over towards her husband, eagerly extending her hands. Then, as he drew his arm around her, she let her head fall upon his bosom, with an emotion of delight, such as had not moved over the surface of her stricken heart for years. The pledge taken was the total abstinence pledge, and it has never been violated by him, and what is better, we are confident never will. How much of human hope and happiness is involved in that simple pledge! -Temperance Advocate. There are those who are rich in their poverty, because they are content, and use generously what they have: there are others who In a few minutes Jane returned, and with in the midst of their riches, are really poor, her hand under her apron, passed through" from their insatiable covetousness or profusion. Written for the Ladies' Garland. LINES Suggested while seeing a Sabbath School Teacher earnestly engaged, with tearful eyes, giving religious instruction to her little charge. Lady! continue faithful in thy labors, kind, God. Be zealous with your class, His counsels to declare, away God will take thee to bloom in everlasting day; was beneath a ray of hope, that seemed to create a rainbow beauty on the sorrow-token above. We could not understand the expression. The solitude of the visit seemed to forbid the thought that a widow, a mother, or sister was mourning there; and the tranquillity of the features was against the supposition that blighted love had come to offer itself at the grave of the fallen one; that which would, under such circumstances, have promoted overpowering grief. Busy as we were with suppositions to solve the mystery, we scarcely entertained a hope that we should arrive at any just conclusions. Shortly after one of the recent violent rains, we turned again into the burying place, and our attention was arrested by the effects of the storm upon a grave, the very one over which we had seen the young woman leaning. The neat sodding had been torn away, Then wipe away thy tears, thou shepherdess most fair. and the injury was so recent, that the requisite J. F. THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND AND OF AFFECTION. BY JOS. R. CHANDLER. repairs could not have been applied. We paused then to read the record upon the head stone. It was a simple statement, that William had died at the age of twentythree; and the esteem of a few associatesfor he was without relatives-had made his burial honorable, and added to the statement of his name and age a record of their esteem for his social virtues, and their hopes of his future happiness. A small piece of paper was protruding from the earth. We drew it Our horse Rolla, whose long silky tail just escapes the ground, and whose finely arched neck, and sleek, plump sides, are the envy of horse lovers, and the pride of his owner-our horse Rolla, who has grown old, but not gray, in our service, shares with us, also, the plea-out. It was a roll, containing a lock of hair, sures and the pride of an airing in the country, as often as it is convenient for both, or suitable for one to ride alone. In one of these jaunts a few months since, passing along Turner's lane, we saw the northern gate of the Monument Cemetery open, and as we (both Rolla and ourself) were in a contemplative mood, (horses never ruminate,) we turned into the city of the dead, to see what there was for reflection in all that wide abode where, within a few years, marble columns, broken shafts, simple enclosures, and modest headstones, have sprung up, as if one half of the world living, was expressing its gratitude to the other half, dead. Passing leisurely along one of the smooth avenues of the place, gazing at this inscription, and admiring that sculpture, and looking for the nook that might contain us and ours, we saw leaning over a newly sodded grave a female form. It was impossible, we thought, to pass without disturbing, or to pause, without an appearance of improper curiosity. We, therefore, turned back, and urged Rolla (we never spur nor strike the beast) towards another place of egress; and as we passed out of the gate, we saw the face of the young woman moistened with tears, but not disturbed with extreme grief. A mournful reminiscence appeared to hang upon her brow, but there and one or two ornaments. The paper bore also the name of both the giver and receiver of these articles. We noticed the latter, and made a minute of it in our pocket book.Then deepening the hole in the grave to a considerable extent, we re-deposited the paper, the hair, and the jewelry, and then filled in the earth, so that the new sodding should safely cover all beneath. It was not until within a few days that we obtained a solution of the mystery of the female's visit, and then it was through a marriage notice in our own columns, containing the young woman's name. We instituted inquiries, and learned enough to satisfy us that when we saw her at the grave, she was taking her farewell, not of her lover, but her love. A new light had arisen upon her heart; and as the sources of the former illumination had ceased, she had come to dismiss from her bosom every lingering beam. To no other could she entrust the tokens of affection she had received; and so she deposited them all with the remains of him with whom they were connected; and while she did that, she deposited, also, from its seat in her bosom, the image which had no longer an object to be represented. Beautiful was the sense of propriety which animated her heart. All that the dead might have asked in reason, had thus been paid-all Retired to her chamber she commenced that the living desired in the new covenant embroidering a scarf, and worked thus part which they had formed, was now secured.of the night, for she desired to be able to preNo shadow of a former idol lay across her sent it to her mother when she rose in the heart. Scarcely lingered there a remnant of morning. The clock struck twelve. She the odors from the incense which had been had just finished, and putting it by, the little offered. She had come to make clean a bo- girl calmly resigned herself to rest. Her som, upon which new affections were to rest repose was undisturbed. -upon which new confidence was to lean.And she arose, and went forth from that g grave, with tears that the living would have pardoned, had he known the origin-with a smile that the dead would have blessed, had he looked down upon the scene. And henceforth her leanings are to life. And should the current of affection be checked a moment by memory, it will be but to gather new force for its progress, new powers to bless and fer tilize. ROSANNA, THE UGLY ONE. FROM THE FRENCH. "But look, then," said Mrs. Moore, to her husband, "how ugly that little one is; is she not, William ?" And Mr. Moore, who was sitting in a rocking chair, amusing himself with poking the fire, laid down the tongs he held, and gravely answered his wife: 66 On the morrow Rose presented the scarf to her mother. What was the pain the little one experienced, when her mother received it coldly, and expressed none of those tender sentiments which were to have been the sweet little one's reward. Her eyes, by chance, glanced over a neighboring mirror. "Yes," she said, internally, "I am uglythey are right," and she sought in her young head to find a remedy for ugliness. And then in the world-new pangs wounded the little one's heart. A first impression alienated all the young girls of her own age -but then she was so good, so amiable, so amusing, that they approached, then listened, then loved her. Now, indeed, our little one was happy. One day Mr. Moore went home in a violent passion, and became, in consequence of some trifling prevarication, highly incensed against his wife. Their domestic felicity was troubled for eight long days-for eight long days Mrs. Moore was continually crying. Rosanna But, my dear, you have already said so one hundred times, and were you to say it one hundred times more, Rose would not be-in vain racked her young brains to discover come less ugly for your saying so." Rosanna was a little girl of about fourteen. She was their child, and to do her mother justice, was really very ugly-nay, almost revolting, with her little gray eyes, flat nose, large mouth, thick protruding lips, red hair, and, above all, a form remarkably awry. why, but her father still continued angry, and her mother still continued weeping. At last she reflected in her mind how to reconcile the parties. They were all three seated in the parlorMr. Moore was arranging the fire-when this was concluded, he threw the tongs from him, Rose was, then, very ugly-but she was a snatched a book from the mantel, and opened sweet girl, nevertheless. Kind and intelli-it abruptly; but after a moment's perusal, he gent, she possessed a mind of the highest order. Nature seemed to have compensated her with every good quality of the heart for the want of every beauty of person. closed it again, in a violent humor, cast a fierce glance at his trembling wife, and hurriedly rose from his chair. Rosanna, deeply moved, clasped her arms about his neck, as he was about to rise, and affectionately caressed him. He could not reject her innocent coaxing, and the little girl thinking she had succeeded in touching his heart, took in her hands the moistened handkerchief wherewith her mother had been drying her weeping eyes, and dried them a second time therewith; she then tenderly embraced her mother, who returned her affectionate caress with all a mother's fondness. The parties being now favorably disposed, naught remained but to establish the peace. This was no easy matter-neither would make the first overture-and without the penetration of little Rose, the reconciliation would not then have taken place. She took her father's hand between her own little hands, and pressed it to her bosom; and found her less ugly; and Rose was indeed she then took her mother's hand, and joined || less ugly. The beauties of her mind seemed it into her father's as it lay near her heart.-transferred to her person, and her gray eyes, Human pride could resist no longer-the ali- small as they were, expressed wonderfully enated parents rose at the same moment and well, her internal sensations. cordially embraced each other. Lord Underwood wedded Rosanna, and be From that hour Rose was the idol of them came the happiest of men in the possession of both. the kindest and most loving of women. Beauty deserts us, but virtue and talents, the faithful companions of our lives, accom Six years after this, Rosanna, the ugly Rosanna, was the ornament of every society to which her mother presented her. Amia-pany us to the grave. ble, witty and observing, her conversation was universally courted. One summer evening, the sun, which, during the day, had shed over nature an intense heat, had just disappeared, leaving the horizon covered with long, white bands of redclouds more and more dark were heaping themselves on the eastern sky—the atmosphere was suffocating, and one would deem the earth was returning to the sun the heat she had been receiving from the latter during the day. All was heavy and weary-the air inhaled seemed rather to suffocate than to nourish. A drowsy languor overcame every one. In a saloon whose every window was thrown open, might be seen gliding here and there, in the darkened light, groups of young females, whose white dresses, slightly agitated by the rising breeze of the evening, offered something mysterious and poetical whereon the imagination loved to dwell. A low languishing whisper was then heard, like the soothing murmur of some distant rivulet. A young woman, seated before a piano, was expressing her heart's sentiments by an extemporary melody, now smooth and tender, now deep and trembling. No more whispering, but a general silence took place; for here was an enchanting symphony, a beautiful song. Lord Underwood, a fine blue-eyed young nobleman, was deeply touched by the melody. He listened to the rich voice, so softly harmonizing with the sweet tones of the instrument, and felt an indescribable sensation thrill through his frame. The music ceased, but the sweet voice still vibrated on Underwood's ear, and there was a charm in the witty and original trifle to which he listened, that transfixed him where he stood. Written for the Ladies' Garland. TRUST IN GOD. Wake! Wake! my soul, shake off these fears, Rebuke thy folly and alarm! O cease to mourn; dry all thy tears And trust thee to a Saviour's arm! Think'st thou, that God will cast thee off? Did God's dear Son not drink the cup Nor prayer, nor praise, can reach his ear? Whose power and means to save now fail? Ah! who bade darkness flee-and light Exist? Who makes the wicked quail? Who made the earth, the air we breathe, And spoke a universe to life? Oh why my soul? Why not believe Have faith in God, and cease this strife? His wisdom planned a world to save, That had rebelled against its Lord: His love a rescue from the grave Of endless death does still afford. |