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Every married man who does not know that his wife's whole soul is in her house, ought to learn it. If such be not her disposition, he will stand a fair chance to be unhappy, unless, indeed, he can find some means to alter her tastes, or to conform his household and his pursuits to her peculiar mental conformation. Waiving such, as extraordinary cases, and taking women as we usually find them, the married man should consider his house as his wife's empire; and if he would obtain and keep a hold upon her sincere affections, he must learn to feel an interest in all she does within her proper sphere. The veriest trifle that takes place at home by her direction, is conducted with a view to his comfort and wishes. Men do not think of this sufficiently. Their cares and intercourse are divided on so many different points, and among so many different people, that they cannot, without schooling their minds to the subject, comprehend a woman's single attachment for one person, and care for him. He cannot realize that it is his duty to meet this by a corresponding feeling to be shown always at home. Engrossed in the weighty cares of business, he forgets that what appear but trifles to him, employ as much the attention of his wife, as his negotiations upon 'change; or his business transactions or affairs occupy him. He would feel sadly annoyed, if what he chooses to tell his wife of his business, did not interest her, or if she made no inquiries relative to his business and prospects.
On the same ground he should reflect, that his wife has a right to be nettled and vexed, and may naturally become habitually despondent, if he passes the budget of domestic news without the expression of any interest. He ought to see the whole advantages of any removal of the furniture, any change of the carpet, or indeed any movement within doors, which she may have resolved upon in her cabinet councils. He may even assume a right to a voice in these discussions, and she will like it all 'the better, if he do not attempt too often the exercise of the veto power. She is queen of the realm; he should be, in a manner, a Prince Albert—a sort of a subject consort; never disputing her authority, but making suggestions, as Prince Albert most certainly will. He may be sure that if he attempts dictation, and merely expresses wishes, and acknowledges gratification, that the bare expression of interest in household matters, will put him in the attitude of a "power behind the throne, greater that the throne itself."
This participation of the husband in affairs at home, will necessarily keep him more in the house. He will never find a chance to complain of his wife's gadding, be
cause, having no inducement to seek sympathy and society abroad, she will become domestic from choice and habit. The participant in all her plans and pursuits, he will know better than to be in a pet at her trips abroad, because he will understand her motive and her reason for all such excursions. In a word, being a reasonable husband, he can but have a reasonable wife, for there are few, if any faults of husbands and wives, that are not mutual.—N. Y. Dispatch.
THE BROKEN PROMISE.
BY MISS BOOART, OF NEW YORK.
I knew men kept no promises—or none
At least with woman—and yet, knowing this,
With credulous folly, still I trusted one,
Whose word seem'd so like truth, that I forgot
The lessons I had learn'd full oft hefore;
And I believed because he said he'd come.
That he would come—and then, night after night,
I watch'd the clouds, and saw them pass away
From the bright moon—and leave the clear, blue sky
As spotless, and serene, and beautiful,
As if no promises were broken e'er
Beneath it. Man forgets, in busy hours,
What in his idle moments he has said,
Nor thinks how often woman's happiness
Hangs on his lightest words. It is not things
Of great importance which affect the heart
Most deeply—trifles often weave the net
Of misery or bliss of human life.
There's many a deep and hidden grief, that comes
From sources which admit of no complaint—
From things of which we dare not, cannot speak;
And yet they seem but trifles, till a chain,
Link after link, is fastened on each thought.
And wound around the heart—they do their work
In secrecy and silence—but their power
Is far more fatal than the open shafts
Of envy and misfortune; for they prey
Upon the hfalth and spirits, 'till the bloom
Of hope is changed to fever's hectic flush;
They break the charm of youth's first, brightest dream,
And thus wear out the pleasures of the world,
And sap, at length, the very springs of Hfe;
But this is woman's fate. It is not thus
With proud, aspiring man—his mind is filled
With high and lofty thoughts—and love, and hope,
And all the warmer feelings of his heart
Are sacrificed at cold ambition's shrine;
He feels that the whole world was made for him;
And if some painful disappointments cross
His path of life, he does but change his course;
Nor broken promises, nor hopes destroyed,
Are e'er allowed a place on memory's page.
'Tis only woman, in her loneliness,
And in her silent, melancholy hours,
Who treasures in her heart the idle words
That have no meaning; and who lives on hope,
'Till it has stolen the color from her cheeks,
The brightness from her eyes; who trusts her peace
On the vast ocean of uncertainty;
And if 'tis wreck'd, she learns her lot to bear,
Or she may learn to die, but not forget.
It is for her to hoard her secret thoughts,
To brood o'er broken promises, and sigh
O'er disappointed hopes—till she believes
There's less of wretchedness in the wide world
Than in her single heart.
Five Facts.—A firm feitn is the best divinity; a good life is the best philosophy; a clear conscience the best law; honesty the best policy; and temperance the best physic. Written for the Ladies' Garland.
BY JOHN MOFFATT.
Keen blaws the blast, the sky's o'ercast;
Pale orphan, I'll befriend thee;
Frae harm God will defend thee.
She nurs'd an' smil'd on that lone child;
He felt the glow o' pleasure;
Thou art man's brightest treasure.
"Na, dinna greet,* young lambie sweet,"
An' kaim'd his hair, an' wash'd his feet,
An' weel she taught each rising thought,
Till bound up in each ither,
An' he ador'd his mither.
Hale be thy heart, who with fond art
An' bring forth joy, without alloy,
Penn's Grove, Del. Co., Pa.
Written for the Ladies' Garland.
THE STRANGER'S GRAVE.
BY PROFESSOR J. R. INGRAHAM.
The traveller to the eastward of Boston need not be reminded of the beauty of the site of the city of Portland, lying in the head of Casco bay. It is built, like Boston, upon a peninsula with a southern approach, terminating in a fine, bold headland, covered with verdure and crowned with a lofty observatory in which is one of the finest telescopes in the United States. To the eye, approaching from the sea, the city presents a long picturesque grouping of while villas, intermingled here and there with a spire, a square tower, &c, among which latterly soars the huge dome of its lately erected Exchange. Beyond the city and over it can be discovered the green country stretching for leagues inland, till, ninety miles distant,appear, towering in the back ground, the gigantic White Hills, covered with eternal snow. From the observatory of which we have made mention, the vision commands an extensive view of inland country, dotted with villages of the beautiful bay of hundred islands, and the distant headlands and light-houses of several river-mouths eastward. From the base of the monument stretches the fair city with its neat wide streets, its borders of elms, its numerous elegant mansions—in which few cities surpass her—its graceful spires, and
* Greet—To elied tears, to weep.
handsome public buildings. The crescent harbor with its shipping, its snow-white fort, and romantic promontories, with the far oft; illimitable ocean beyond, add new matures to the scene, and completely fill theeyiof taste. If the traveller sojourn here awhiL, he will find that intercourse with its refined and intellectual inhabitants fully compensate him for delay; for this city has long been famed for its cultivated society, the beauty of its females and its literary taste. Among others who are natives, though now claimed by sister cities, we can name John Neal (who now resides here;) the late Grenville Mellon; William Cutter, the poet, now a resident of New York; Professor Longfellow; N. P. Willis, more lately of Boston, and now of Glenmary; Isaac McLellan, the poet, now of Boston; Mrs. Ann S. Stephens; Mrs. Seba Smith, the authoress of the " Sinless Child;" Mrs. Wood, the authoress of the novel "Northwood;" Mr. Parker, the author of "Home as 1 Found It," a "Week in Wall Street," &c, and others not now recollected, comprising a large portion of American writers.
Portland, too, has its historic fame, having been bombarded and destroyed in 1775, when it was called Falmouth, by a British fleet, commanded by the notorious Mowatt, thus having been among the first sufferers for national liberties. In the last war it was distinguished for successful privateering, and the desperate action between the Enterprize and Boxer, which took place within its own waters in sight of the town.
We have paid this brief tribute to Portland at the commencement of a brief tale, the scenes of which in part are laid there, because we feel an attachment to it as our native place; and we must therefore be indulged in a little gossip in its praise. Now to our story.
At the foot of the monument, or "observatory," is a large cemetery, lying on the hill side towards the harbor, and presenting from the water a neat, quiet, and picturesque appearance. It is adorned with numerous handsome tombs of white and colored marble, with cenotaphs, mausoleums, and countless purely white grave stones thickly sown over many a rood of the dead. Unlike most grave yards in this country, it is neatly and sacredly kept, and invites the citizens on Sabbath afternoons and other still evenings of the week, to walk in its avenues, and from the hill of the dead look outward and beyond the present time into eternity.
There are many tombs herein that attract the step of the visiter, from the reputation once enjoyed by the dead, or some interesting association still clinging around their memories. Here, side by side, are the tombs of the two hostile captains of the vessels above mentioned, who were both slain in the terrific contest. Both were young men. The monument to the American officer was erected, as says the marble, by the young men of Portland; that to the stranger and toe, lying here buried in a foreign land, by a "passing traveller." And this is the end of human ambition—the reward of bravery unto death! These monuments have the grass hard trodden about them, from the pilgrimage of many feet.
Here, too, is the "minister's tomb;" in which moulder the remains of the late Dr. Payson, whose apostolic life has left behind him a memory that will never perish. There are fewer marks of footsteps, for the fame of a soldier of the cross is not so attractive to the multitude as that of the soldier of ambition.
But among all these graves and tombs, there is one that most touchingly impressed me, as I chanced to stumble upon it and read its simple inscription:
The Stranger's Grave.
AMEDEE ALEXANDRE M AITRE.
How impressive the eloquence of that simple line, "The Stranger's Grave!" It was a foreign name, too, and that awakened my interest. The two figures so silently speaking there, the youth and hope, that had been blighted in the germ. The grave was retired a little to the right of the main path, and stood secluded by itself as became the lonely grave of a foreigner, buried from all his friends. I stood long over that simple white stone, which had for me more interest than the proudest mausoleum in that thickly peopled city of the dead. I looked for some kindred stone near with the same name— but there was none but of those who had died among their kindred. This name was alone of its family in that place of gathered names from every household of the city, that rose so proudly nearby, with the evening sun gilding its numerous spires. I turned to ask a passer by, the history of the grave, but no one knew. I leaned till twilight upon the stone, thinking of the probable destmy of one so young— a destiny so speedily woven. "Poor Amedee," I said, as I quit the spot, "there is one at least who feels an interest in thy fate."
The ensuing morning, as was my custom, I rambled to the monument hill, and my steps were thence insensibly bent toward the ceme
tery. The sexton was in the act of unlocking the hearse-house to take his spade for digging a grave. I approached him—
"Who is dead?" I asked.
"No one," he answered, laconically; and shouldering his spade and pic-axe, he proceeded to "the stranger's grave" and began to break the ground beside it.
"No one dead! yet you are preparing to dig a grave," I replied.
"Yes," was his brief rejoinder as he shovelled the earth aside.
"You trifle with me! Your profession and the place should have given you more gravity of character, methinks," I answered, annoyed by his short replies. >
"Death, sir, is death only when the evil go out of this life into one more evil; when the rich leave their goods ere they have enjoyed them; when the bride is torn from the bride-groom, and the ambitious man from his idol! but death to the christian is sleep j—to the wretched and broken-hearted it is j not death but life. Therefore said I to you, ] no one is dead."
j "Who hath fallen asleep, then," I asked, at once appreciating his eccentric mood, and i humoring it.
"One for whom life had no more hope. She is at rest."
Observing that he did not seem inclined to converse further, and my curiosity about the youthful stranger who slept in the adjacent grave, reviving, I resolved to leave him after making the inquiry 1 sought.
"Can you tell me who lays in this grave, sexton V I asked, laying my hand upon the white stone at the head of Amedee Alexandre Maitre's grave.
The sexton paused in his toil, and first looking fixedly upon the little mound and then upon me, replied, with emotion strangely awakened by my question,
"Yes, a poor foreign lad—it is a sad tale, and this day is the end of it."
"Did you know him?"
"I dug his grave and buried him, but I never saw his face till the third day after I had buried him."
"Did you re-open the grave, then V I asked, in surprise.
"Nay—nay, sir; it is all a sad story, all—I cannot tell it now—I came to the knowledge of it strangely."
"How ?" I asked, deeply interested. "Pray narrate it."
"Perhaps there could not be a fitter time, considering whose grave I am digging and where I am now. Well, sir, there was a jmerchant of this city who had dealings with I Malaga, in Spain. There was a merchant j of Malaga that sent, consigned to him, a ship in which came passenger a handsome boy about sixteen years of age, about whom it was whispered from the sailors on board to people on shore, that there was great mystery. The merchant took him to his house and kept him very close for several months, when the poor boy, who was in ill health when he landed, died. He is buried here. He was often questioned about the lad, but always avoided a direct reply, and so the matter stood. He was never suspected of any wrong to the boy, for his character was far above it. Yet there was a mystery about it all. Well, as I said, I dug his grave and buried him, and he sleeps well.
"He had been buried but two days when this merchant received the same brig a second time, consigned to him from Malaga. After he had gone on board and talked on business with the captain in his cabin, he spoke of the youth who had just died, when a young sailor who was in attendance, uttered a piercing shriek and fell insensible to the floor. When their surprise enabled them to lift him up, they discovered that it was a female. She soon came to, and called in Spanish wildly on her boy, "her Amedee— her heart's idol! Oh!" she implored, "is my only beloved child dead.'"
"The merchant, as well as the captain, both saw that she was the mother of the boy so mysteriously sent to the former's care, though they did not recognize him by the name she called him by, and he was filled with pity for her grief. He had her conveyed ashore to his house, and with proper attention she was restored to consciousness. Garments suitable to her sex were provided for her by the merchant's family, who then called his friend the captain to consult with him respecting this strange adventure.
"I shipped her at Malaga as steward's boy," said the captain, "without any other recommendation than her fine face, and until to-day, I never suspected her sex. She is a fine looking woman! Poor creature, she has endured all this to see her son, who, I begin to suspect, has had foul treatment."
"There has always been a mystery about that boy to me. I have had my doubts also from expressions dropped from him in broken English. If I had understood his language I might have known more. How did you first receive him, captain?"
"He was brought onboard the night before I sailed on the last voyage home, by Don Carlos Valez, the wine merchant's nephew, to whom I was consigned, who instructed me to deliver him with the letters safely into your hands, and that I by no means suffer him to have intercourse with any one. 'He has unfortunately killed a brother in a fit of passion,' added Don Carlos, 'and as he is my
relative, I wish to get him beyond the reach of the laws. He is young and may live to good purpose.' So I took charge of him and delivered him as consigned."
"This is the substance of the letters of Don Juan Barradas, his uncle, to me, and the accounts tally. But I was instructed to teach him English and to induce him to forget Spanish, and to train him as a merchant. Funds were amply supplied me for all his expenses."
"What was his name? It seems to me I heard the mother call him by a name different from that given to him in the manifest."
"His name was represented to me as Alexander de Vente. I addressed him always as Alexander. There must be something more than we are informed of to account tor this disguise and visit of his mother. How much she resembles him?"
"Blast my mizzen," said the captain roundly, "I do believe all has not been fair and above board. I have my suspicions of these Spaniards always. They are full of their tricks, and I believe this is one of them with no good to the bottom, either to the poor lad that's laid in dock, or to the mother. I'll find it out, if I have to sail to Malaga again for it."
"Do you speak Spanish, captain?"
"Yes, well enough to talk the abominable lingo to the Malaga merchants; I don't know how I could make it work with a lady."
"Efct us question the boy's mother."
"That's the way to come to the truth. She'll have no fear of speaking out here," said the captain, warmly.
The interview with the Spanish lady, who gave herself up to tears, was fruitless for her incessant weeping. She could only implore to be taken to the grave of her son.
"I was here when the merchant and captain came with her in a carriage and pointed out the spot. Poor lady! she was in deep mourning, with a veil that fell from her head to her feet. I never shall forget her beautiful face, notwithstanding her grief, as she put aside her veil and thanked me—I could not understand her words, but I could her eyes—for showing it to her. She then waved her hand—it was as white as a lily—for the gentlemen and I to leave her alone. As I walked away I saw her kneel upon the grave and we could hear her weep as far as we stood. The merchant then told me the story of the boy and about herself as much as he knew. Well, she remained there an hour and then rose up and came forward calm and quiet, and smiling sadly to me, she went away with them. The next morning I came here at sunrise to dig a grave as you see me j now, and I saw the mother kneeling over her 'boy's grave. I could have cried, sir, like a child. When she saw me she came to me, and spoke in a language I could not understand; but I knew she desired me to follow her to the grave. I obeyed. When I arrived here I saw upon it fresh flowers which she had strewn there as emblems of her affection. She again spoke, and seeing I did not understand her, put gold into my hand. I would not take it. She then knelt down by the grave, and looking up to me began to remove the sods from the head with her delicate fingers. I now understood her, and remembering he had lain there but three days, and how it would delight her desolate heart to gaze on the dead face of her long lost boy, I complied, and while she knelt by upon the damp ground, I re-opened the grave. When my spade struck the coffin, she seemed ready to suffocate with feeling. I cleared off the dirt from the lid and loosed it with my screw-driver. I then got out of the grave and motioned her to enter it and lift the lid. She pressed both my hands to her heart and I gently raised her and placed her upon the coffin. She knelt upon it and slowly with her face turned away, as if fearing to trust her heart, she raised the lid. The youth lay like one asleep, with a calm heavenly smile upon his mouth. It was the poetry of death. I never saw any thing so beautiful. The mother slowly and fearfully turned her eyes towards the face of her child, and instead of beholding decay and horror, she beheld the image which God and affection had impressed indelibly upon her maternal heart.
"But I weary you, sir. Every day for weeks she visited the grave, and had this stone placed at its head, with the true name of her son. Gradually grief has broken her heart, and her spirit which has so long lived in Heaven with his, the last night departed to join it to be no more severed."
"This, then, is the mother's grave you are now making V I asked, deeply impressed with his narrative.
"And has no one solved the mystery that hangs around them V
"No. She never would answer any question, but from the first gave herself to silence and to melancholy till she died. It is a sad story, sir," added the sexton, resuming his toil at the mother's grave.
"It is," I sighed. "Alas, how much human woe is in this world known only to God. There is rest in Heaven, but it is the lot of man that it is attained only through much suffering."
Since the above was written, we have obtained a solution to the mystery in which the foregoing narrative is involved, and promise to give it to those readers interested in the
destinies of the Spanish mother and her son, in the next number of the Garland.
It was night. Jerusalem slept quietly amid her hills, as a child upon the breast of its mother. The noiseless sentinel stood like a statue at his post, and the philosopher's light burned dimly in the recesses of his chamber.
But a darker night was abroad upon the earth. A moral darkness involved the nations in its unlightened shadows. Reason shed a fr.int glimmering over the minds of men, like the cold and efficient shining of a distant star. The immortality of man's spiritual nature was unknown, his relations to Heaven undiscovered, and his future destiny obscured in a cloud of mystery.
It was at this period that two forms of etherial mould hovered above the land of God's chosen people. They seemed sister angels sent to earth on some embassy of love.
The one was of majestic stature, and in the well formed limbs which her snowy drapery scarcely concealed, in her erect bearing and steady eye, were exhibited the highest degree of strength and confidence. Her right arm was extended in an impressive gesture upward, where night appeared to have placed her darkest pavillion, while on her left reclined her delicate companion, in form and countenance the contrast of the other, for she was drooping like the flower when unmoistened by refreshing dews, and her bright but troubled eye scanned the air with ardent but varying glances.
Suddenly a light like the sun flashed out from the heavens, and Faith and Hope hailed with exulting songs the ascending Star of Bethlehem.
Years rolled away, and a stranger was seen in Jerusalem. He was a meek and unassuming man, whose' happiness seemed to consist in acts of benevolence to the human race. There were deep traces of sorrow in his countenance, though none knew why he grieved, for he lived in practice of every virtue, and was loved by all the wise and good.
By and by it was rumored that the stranger worked miracles, that the blind saw, the dumb spoke, and the dead leaped to life at his touch; that, when he commanded, the ocean moderated its chafing tide, and the very thunders articulated, "He is the Son of God."
Envy assailed him with the charge of sorcery, and the voice of impious judges condemned him unto death. Slowly, and thick guarded, he ascended the hill of Calvary. A heavy cross bent him to the earth ; but Faith leaned upon his arm, and Hope, dipping her pinions in his blood, mounted to the skies.