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THE LADIES' GAKLAND.
As several of our obliging correspondents have furnished us with articles illustrating the beautiful engraving that embellishes our present number, we have been obliged to make a selection from them. They are all well written; and those that are not given at this time, shall appear hereafter. It will he observed that we give two articles on the same subject, but as they differ in form, they also differ somewhat in sentiment, and are both pretty, pleasing, and interesting in themselves, without reference to the subject illustrated.
BY SUSAN WILSON.
"That little corner in the human heart, which has not yet fallen \"—Beriah Oreen.
The human heart!—alas, that there, Where flowers so fragrant and so fair Spontaneous bloom in Heaven's own light, Making the path o'er earth so bright,— Alas, that there ?re often found
Rank weeds and pois'nous blossoms growAnd deadly n;ght-shade, far around [ing,
Its deleterious influence throwing?
But is thfre not a little part,
To deep, and pure, and holy feeling, .
Rich depths of tenderness revealing.
And if a talisman there be,
And cheek, and lip, in freshness glowing,— The brow's unsullied purity,
No shade of sin or sorrow showing.
Is there a heart that does not feel
That, thro' life's gloom and sunshine blendThe spirit may be undefiled, [ed,
Until life's pilgrimage be ended?
Vol. VI.—No. 9.—Mabch, 1843.
BY THOMAS MCKELLAK.
• How beautiful is childhood! It is the period when the heart has no suspicion ; when artless sincerity prompts every action; when love like a seraph abides in the bosom. I love a child! Its eye is so bright; its step is so light; and its voice, like a running rill in spring-time, is so sweet and musical. A little child seems as if it lately came from heaven, and it bears an imprint too pure and innocent for earth. Care and sorrow and the consciousness of sin have not yet made one furrow on its brow. Peace and beauty sit there. Health runs through every vein, and her crimson seal is stamped upon its cheek. Its lip is the portal of truth; and its tongue is untainted with slander. Truly, the seed of sin is sown within; but its germination and development are as yet imperceptible.
The child knows nothing comparatively of the world, and it cares as little. It finds its happiness in trifles, and it looks no further. It loves, indeed; and this would seem to be its sole employment now. It unconsciously calls forth love, and as unconsciously returns it. Even tha babe looks up to its mother's face, and rejoices in her love. Love strengthens with its years, until the blighting selfishness of sin endeavors to wither it. How merciful in its Creator, that a child's life begins in love—that its earliest days are days of affection.
Whose heart is not gladdened at beholding the tottering steps of early childhood? Whose ear rejoices not to drink in the liquid notes
that trickle like heavenly music from the lips of infancy!
Oh! infancy is very, very beautiful; and childhood is but infancy matured. The step has become firm and elastic; the voice, which before trickled in disconnected drops, now flows in a full stream; and it now intelligibly utters notes of affection, which looks only could previously express.
The friendships formed in childhood are never forgotten. Their very remembrance is delightful; and throughout life they exercise a hallowed influence that blesses many an hour, even though the friends be separated , by deep waters and broad lands,—though one, of them has gone to the silent and sulitary grave.
Childhood has its love-scenes. Well do 1 remember one Christmas night, some twenty years ago, when, sitting beside a sweet girl, (who with her mother was on a visit to my parent?,) a little boy's heart beat with delightful emotion. The interchange of offices of kindness served to deepen the impression made on him. He often thought of Angeline, and connected with her his future plans. She was bright and graceful, kind-hearted and confiding. Her hair was like the silken web that floats in the sunbeam; and her eyes were blue and full of tenderness. Her sister was also pretty; but her beauty was of a bolder kind; her hair was dark, and her eyes were dark and frolicksome. Our hero loved the gentle girl; but her mother arranged the matter differently, and playfully promised him Mary Jane. When the years of manhood had sobered his thoughts, he was far from the scenes of his childhood; and the love of his childhood was like a dimly-remembered dream. Angeline and Mary Jane found other loves, and became happy wives; but the memory of early affection was never obliterated.
Childhood is the blossoming time of life. How sad when the cold and blasting winds of penury and neglect nip the flowers in the bud, and impoverish or destroy the fruit! How blest when wise and kindly culture, and judicious education, and a careful training in the nurture and admonition of the Lord, prepare to bring forth fruits of usefulness and beauty in the maturity of life.
A KEMEDY FOR EARTH'S TROUBLE&
"For these disorders would'st thou find a cure,
Woutd'st thou their sweetness taste? Look up to heaveru
It is known that two negatives in English are equivalent to one affirmative. They destroy each other. But it is not so in Greek. They strengthen the negation, and a third negative makes it stronger still, and so a fourth, and a fifth. How strong Jive negatives must make a negation. But do five ever occur? Whether they ever occur in the Greek classics I do not know; but in the G »'ek of the New Testament there is an insu oe of the kind. And what is that? Are tht: five negatives used to strengthen any thriatcnings? No. They are connected w\l'r.zpromise, one of the "exceedingly great and precious promises," which are given unto us. The .ase occurs in Heb. xiii. 5, "For He said, 1 - JI never leave thee nor forsake thee." There Ave negatives are employed. We translate b«t two of them, but there they all are, as any one may see who looks into his Greek Testament. Now they need not all have been theie. They are not all necessary to express t«e simple idea that God will never forsake '.us people. There must have been desigr in multiplying negatives so. I do not jelieve the phraseology was accidental,' u I think it not difficult to guess the design. God meant o be believed in that thing. He would 6ecur.; the confidence of his children in that particular. He knew how prone they were to doutt his constancy—how strongly inclined to I. at form of unbelief—and how liable to be hwassed by the dread of being forsaken by htm; and he would therefore mak*' assurance dmbly sure.. So, instead of saying simply, "I will not leave thee," which alone would have been enough, he adds, "nor forsake the*,'' and instead of leaving it thus, "I will ,%ot leive thee, 1 will not forsake thee," he ns:* language equivalent to the following. .' 1 wiJ not, I will not leave thee; I will never, never, never forsake thee." There is a stanza. which very faithfully as well as beautifully explains it. The Saviour is represented as saymg—
"The soul that'on me hath leaned for repose,
How earnest God appears in this matter. How unworthy it is in his children, after such an assurance as this, to suspect that he will forsake them. He cannot. It is impossible for God to lie. Here one who was never known to break his word, assures his people, each of them individually, and five times in a single sentence, of his continued presence with them. Under these circumstances, what mare of reputed veracity would be discredited? and shall not the God of truth be believed in a like manner.
For the Ladies' Garland.
OR, ELEONORA AND ALONZO.
The village of R , is located about five
miles from one of those beautiful lakes in central New York. When I first became a resident of it, my travels had been very limited. I had read, with glowing admiration, descriptions of beautiful prospects on the banks of the Hudson,—in the environs of Paris,—and the vales of Italy; and had longed to visit those enchanted spots. Little did I suppose that after the lapse of years had shown me considerable of the world, my thoughts would recur to those early scences, as some of the most lovely which my eyes ever beheld. Doubtless, interesting associations contribute much to heighten their charms. But had I the power of graphic description, 1 hesitate not to say that I could vindicate the claim of the scenery about these lakes to a very high degree of beauty. Imagine to yourselves, kind readers, "a stroll out of town," somewhat late in the afternoon of a July day. Recollect that you are on the east side of the lake, which is nearly forty miles long, by three broad, calm and quiet— yes, as its own bosom; for comparison is beggared. The silvery sheen of its waters assumes, as they recede from a direction between yourselves and the sun, a darker and darker hue. The land for ten miles on either Bide is descending gradually, and away to the northwest, the gentle hills lose themselves in the dusky distance. The landscape is very moderately undulating, and from a luxuriant soil, is clothed with the richest vegetation. Deep green orchards and woodlands exhibit the utmost chastness and delicacy. But I pause. I am doing nature injustice.
Yet there are recollections connected with this place, to me far more interesting than its natural beauties. Here was spent—what is ordinarily the happiest period in one's existence—the time devoted to studies preparatory to entering college. This is the time for phantom hopes and ideal visions, which are dissipated as one awakes to "the rude realities of life." It is the time when the heart is open to ingenuous friendships. And now that I have witnessed—ah! shall I say it?—have experienced so much of the coldness of the world, I know how to prize the warm sympathies I then enjoyed. Let the students of an Academy esteem their privileges. We do not live enough in the present. Our enjoyments are mainly drawn from anticipations of the future, and reminiscences of the past. When, with happy associates, I was attending recitations in that beautiful edifice, modestly screening itself
behind a delightful grove of trees, with which a taste and forethought, too seldom exercised, had adorned the academy grounds —then, I say, my thoughts would stray forward to College days and College honors, and advantageous situations in the business world. Now that I feel the emptiness of all these, I retire often from the bustle and excitement, to think of those calm moments:
"Remembering with an envious sigh,
Be assured, you who, in sequestered life, are looking to fame and notoriety as the desideratum of your existence, there is more solace to the agitated human bosom in one word of heart-felt sympathy, than in all the empty voice of praise. Stations of note are desirable only as they give us greater influence among our fellows, and greater opportunity to benefit them.
But pardon the digression. Six years have elapsed, since I was associated, in the village academy, with about one hundred and fifty young persons of both sexes. It is interesting to watch the progress of so many persons on the threshhold of life, during such a period. It is a time sufficiently long, generally, to manifest character. Fortune will have had opportunity to dispense her favors and her frowns.
Last June I spent, in the village, an agreeable day, with one of my former school-mates. We had abundant subjects of conversation, in recurring to " old times." Thinking it would be a pleasant exercise, we took up the old catalogue, and read over, together, the names of those associated with us in school. Of most, one or the other could give some account.
I need not remark that some were in their graves—some had made shipwreck of all the fond hopes of parents and friends, while others, whom they regarded their inferiors, had arisen, by dint of personal exertions, to respectability and promise. All sueh things are ordinary phenomena. There are two individuals whose history is so interesting, that I have determined to complete my paper with its narration. They are Eleonora Brentwood, and Alonzo Williams.
Just down, say half a mile south-west of the village, stands the rather elegant residence of Eleonora's father. It is off from the public highway—indeed, frontiqg a private road, running parallel with the public one, made purposely for its accommodation. The situation is, in all respects, such as a poet would love. Her father, though not wealthy, is in perfectly easy circumstances. Of this house Eleonora is still pethaps not the most happy occupant. I was well acquainted with
the circumstances destined to give a coloring, doubtless, to all her after life.
It will not be supposed that such a dull, prosing moralizer as the writer has already shown himself to be, is any great adept in love matters. Reader, you have guessed rightly. But 1 am going to relate an affair of love; for, notwithstanding all the sycophancy of love-lorn stories, there is reality in the business. Ever since it was asserted by the Creator that " it is not good for man. to be alone," the sexes have been inclined to union. One of the most worthy dispositions which a man can exercise, is to "seek the sympathy of a female heart." I would not give countenance to the popular notion that the whole business of a young lady is "to get married;" but so essentially does her fortune and happiness depend upon this act, that there seems indeed much reason for the opinion. It is the sickly sentimentalities— lachrimoneous lamentations and moanings, and unreasonably blind attachments of braincracked swains, and soft headed maidens— which are ridiculous. The superstitious notion that fate has destined a particular one to be a companion, and if that one is not secured, a person must go crazy, or commit suicide, ought to have no place in a sensible mind. Yet it is the principle on which too many of our love tales are constructed. Almost invariably, "disappointment of the heart," resolves itself into error of the head.
Eleonora, I forewarn the reader, was no "coquette." Without being a beauty, she was rather handsome. Her form was somewhat tall and graceful; her complexion light, though slightly freckled. She had dark, glossy hair, deep blue eyes, remarkably expressive. Her mind was of a superior order, and she had a warm, sensible heart.
"What a worthy young gentleman is Mr. Williams," said Emergene Ross, to her intimate friend, Eleonora, as they were walking across the academy green, on a beautiful May morning. "What an excellent lecture before the lyceum last evening! so much good sense and original thought. So free from bombastic display, which 1 do say often appears disgusting in our academic lecturers. He has a noble mind, and is destined, doubtless, to very high attainments in the profession of his choice."
"Yes, Mr. Williams is a worthy, noble young gentleman. But then—"
"But then what?" Emergene earnestly inquired, after waiting some time. "What exceptions will you make? Has he not a commanding address—affable, pleasing manners—a heart susceptible of the warmest and most faithful friendship? Who then can doubt his sincerity of character? You,
Eleonora, are the last one who should depreciate him."
This last expression was a severe rebuke to the poor girl: for Alonzo Williams had been guilty of the great crime of showing her some partialities! Nothing else possibly could have made her disesteem him. She could not but acknowledge his superiority. No one do I feel prouder to call my friend, than Alonzo Williams. Emergene, though scarce eighteen, appreciated his character in a manner which would have done honor to age and experience. In ability to read character, she was the superior of Eleonora Brentwood, while she was wanting in none of her qualities. She was also her superior in a noble liberality of mind, and in disposition to do justice to real merit. Alonzo, three years older than herself, knew her well. He knew, too, that he had only to ask her love. And the only faults which I can attribute to him. after a long acquaintance, is that of slighting the tendered affection of Emergene, and paying his devotions to the disinterested Eleonora Brentwood.
Thus it is; we prize not what costs us no labor. It was the coyishness of Eleonora which bewitched my amiable friend. I will not say she was unworthy of him, for he was hardly capable of placing his affections on an unworthy object. Had she reciprocated his affection, I should have been more reconciled to his neglecting one so admirably adapted to be his counterpart as Emergene. I never could accuse Eleonora of a disposition to trifle with the feelings of Alonzo. She was actuated by the same principle which was even then influencing him. Before receiving his attentions, she regarded.him with the highest respect; and had the idea of his becoming her suitor, occurred to her mind, she would have thought it a most desirable event. But now she thought little of what seemed so easy a conquest—the heart of Alonzo Williams!
But hp could not complain. He had done injustice to Emergene, and might exppct that Eleonora would do him injustice. He had misplaced his affection—she afterwards did the same.
George Dowling, the son of a wealthy and respectable gentleman, in a neighboring village, was of about the same age of the young ladies. He was what some might call handsome; but to me, there was a want of original force and determination manifest in his countenance, so essential to masculine beauty. He was at school because his father had sent him; where he performed his duties as regularly and faithfully—and I might add—as thoughtlessly as clock-work. He i seldom failed of a good lesson, but it was