LETTER FROM AN OLD MARRIED WOMAN

TO A SENSITIVE YOUNG LADY.

love

A love which seeks to conquer, and which has conquered, are two totally different passions; the one puts on the stretch all the virtues of the hero; it excites in him fear, hope, desire; it leads him from triumph to triumph, and makes him think every foot of ground that he gains, a kingdom. Hence it keeps alive and fosters all the active powers of the man who abandons himself to it. The happy husband cannot appear like the lover; he has not like him to fear, to hope, and to desire; he has no longer that charming to it, with all its triumphs, which he had before, nor can that which he has already won, be again a conquest.

You have only, my dear child, to attend to this most natural and inexertable difference, and you will see in the whole conduct of your husband, who now finds more pleasure in business than in your smiles, nothing to offend you. You wish,-do you not,-that he would sit still with you alone on the mossy bank in front of the grotto, as he used to do, look in your blue eyes, and kneel to kiss your pretty hand. You wish that he would paint to you in lovelier colors than ever, those delights of love which lovers know how to describe with so much art and passion; that he would lead your imagination from one rapture to another. My wishes at least for the first year after I married my husband went to nothing short of this. But it will not do;-the best husband is also the most active and useful member of society; and when love no longer demands toil and trouble,-when every triumph is a mere repetition of the last,-when success has lost something of its value along with its novelty, the taste for activity no longer finds its appropriate food, and turns to fresh objects of pursuit. The necessity for occupation and for progress is of the very essence of our souls; and if our husbands are guided by reason in the choice of occupations, we ought not to pout because they do not sit with us so often as formerly by the silver brook, or under the beech trees. At first I too found it hard to endure the change, but my husband talked to me about it with perfect frankness and sincerity. "The joy with which you receive me," said he, "does not conceal your vexation, and your saddened eye tries in vain to

if I could obtain you in no other way; but now as I have you fast in my arms-as all dangers are past and all obstacles overcome, my passion can no longer find satisfaction in that way, and what has once been sacrificed to my self-love ceases to be a sacrifice. The spirit of invention, discovery, and conquest, inherent in man, demands a new career. Before I obtained you I used all the virtues I possessed as steps by which to reach you;but now as I have you, I place you at the top of them, and you are the highest step from which I now hope to ascend higher."

Little as I relished the notion of the church tower, or the honor of serving as the highest step under my husband's feet, time and reflection on the course of human affairs convinced me that the thing could not be otherwise. I therefore turned my active mind, which would perhaps in time have been tired of the mossy bank, to the domestic business which came within my department; and when we had both been busy and bustling in our several ways, and could tell each other in the evening what we had been doing, he in the fields and I in the house or the garden, we were often more happy and contented than the most loving couple in the world.

And, what is best of all, this pleasure has not left us after thirty years of marriage.We talk with as much animation as ever of our domestic affairs; I have learned to know all my husband's tastes, and I relate to him whatever I think likely to please him out of journals-whether political or literary; I recommend books to him, and lay them before him; I carry on the correspondence with our married children, and often delight him with good news of them and our little grand-children. As to his accounts I understand them as well as he, and make them casier to him by having mind of all the yearly outlay which passes through my hands, ready and in order; if necessary I can send in a statement to the treasury chamber, and my hand makes as good a figure in our cash-book as his. We are accustomed to the same order, we know the spirit of all our affairs and duties, and we have one aim and one rule in all of our un dertakings.

This would never have been the case if we had played the part of tender lovers after marriage as well as before, and had exhausted our energies in asseverations of mutual love. We should perhaps have regarded each other with ennui, and have soon found the grotto too damp, the evening air too cool,

the noontide too hot, the morning too fatiguing. We should have longed for visitors, who when they came would not have been amused, and would have impatiently awaited the hour of departure, or if we went to them would have wished us away. Spoiled by effeminate trifling, we should have wanted to continue to trifle, and to share in pleasures we could not enjoy; or have been compelled to find refuge at the card table,-the last place at which the old often figure with the young.

Do you wish not to fall into this state, my dear child. Follow my example and do not torment yourself and your excellent husband with unreasonable exactions. Do not think, however, that I have entirely renounced the pleasure of seeing mine at my feet. Opportunities for this present themselves far more frequently to those who do not seek, but seem to avoid them, than to those who allow themselves to be found on the mossy banks at all times, and as often as it pleases their lord and master. I still sometimes sing to my little grand-children, when they come to see me, a song which in the days when his love had still to contend with all sorts of obstacles, used to throw him into raptures; and when the little ones cry "Ancora! ancora! grandmama," his eyes fill with tears of joy. I asked him once whether he would not now think it too dangerous to bring me down a rope ladder from the top of the church steeple, upon which he called out as vehemently as the children, "O, ancora! grandinama, ancora!"

-'s,

P. S.-One thing, my dear child, I forgot. It seems to me that you trust too entirely to your good cause and your good heart, (perhaps too a little to your blue eyes,) and do not deign to try to attract your husband anew. I fancy you are at home just as you were a week ago in society at our excellent Gwhere I found you all as stiff and silent as if you had met only to tire each other to death. Did you not observe how soon I set the whole in motion? This was merely by a company few words addressed to each, on the subject I thought most agreeable or most flattering to him. After a time the others began to feel more happy and at their ease, and we parted in high spirits and good humor. What I did there, I do daily at home. I try to make myself and all around me agreeable. It will not do to leave a man to himself till he comes to you, to take no pains to attract him, or to appear before him with a long face; but it is not so difficult as you think, dear child, to behave to a husband so that he shall remain forever in some measure a lover. I am an old woman, but you can still do what you like; a word from you at the right time, will not fail of its effect. What need have you

to play the suffering virtue? "The tear of a loving girl," says an old book, "is like a dew-drop on the rose; but that on the cheek of a wife is a drop of poison to her husband." Try to appear cheerful and contented, and your husband will be so; and when you have made him happy, you will become so, not in appearance but in reality.

The skill required is not so great. Nothing flatters a man so much as the happiness of his wife; he is always proud of himself as the source of it. As soon as you are cheerful, you will be lively and alert, and every moment will afford you an opportunity of letting fall an agreeable word. Your education, which gives you an immense advantage, will greatly assist you; and your sensibility will become the noblest gift that nature has bestowed on you, when it shows itself in affectionate assiduity, and stamps on every action a soft, kind, and tender character, instead of wasting itself in secret repinings.

Written for the Ladies' Garland. ONWARD AND UPWARD.

BY THOMAS L. HARRIS.

I.

Onward and upward, an earnest cry

Rings loud and clear through the midnight sky;
'Midst the heart's chambers its accents swell,
Like the solemn tones of a muffled bell;
It speaks with a thrilling voice and deep,
Waking the soul from its careless sleep,-
Bidding the spirit to glow and aspire,

And flash through Earth's gloom like midnight fire!

II.

Not to bright birds with their golden wings,
Not to Earth's lovely, but fading things,
Not where the winds and the waves rejoice,
Speaketh that earnest and solemn voice!
To the heart it speaks-to the deep, deep heart,
Solemn the truths that its tones impart;
Treasure its words in thy spirit's shrine,
Like precious gems in a sunless mine!

III.

From earth with its hollow, unreal show,
From earthly fame with its fading glow,
From earthly love with its radiant gleam-
That glittering bubble on life's dark stream→→→
From the gold that will bind thee to earth's cold sod,
And exile thy spirit away from God,
From passion's fever and earth's wild strife-
Arise and soar to the upper life!

IV.

Onward and upward, ye holy band,
Surrounded by friends on every hand;
Though they strew with flowers thy joyous way,
And like sunbeams fill with light the day,
Earth's brightest blossoms all soon will fade,
And sunshine fly from the night's dim shade.
No shadows fall-no flowerets die-
Death never enters the world on high!

V.

Onward and upward, that thrilling chime Was heard by the martyrs of olden time; They heard, and arose, and now they rest, Their sorrows o'er, on a Savior's breast! Onward and upward! it speaks to theeOr bright or sad, though thy lot may be,Bidding thee tread in the path they trod,Hear and obey-'tis the voice of GOD! Utica, N. Y.

Prepared for the Ladies' Garland.

BETHANY.

What hallowed associations arise in the mind when contemplating the scenes and circumstances that took place in this town, in connection with the history of the blessed Saviour! It was here that Mary and Martha resided, whom it is said Jesus loved, as also their brother Lazarus. It was here, also, that Jesus manifested his divine power by raising Lazarus from the dead. The history of that incident is so affecting that we are constrained to give a synopsis of it. It seems that the two sisters and Lazarus their brother were on intimate terms with the Saviour, and that they were in the habit of conversing with, and asking favors of him. When Lazarus was taken sick, therefore, they sent word to him, saying, "Behold, he whom thou lovest is sick," thinking no doubt that he would come and heal him. Jesus, however, had occasion at that time to go into another part of the country, and in his absence Lazarus died; "and many Jews came to Martha and Mary, to comfort them concerning their brother." On the return of Jesus, both Martha and Mary seem to have had the utmost confidence in his kindness, wisdom, and power, and they both say unto him, "Lord, if thou had'st been here, my brother had not died." And when Jesus saw Mary "weeping, and the Jews also weeping which came with her, he groaned in the spirit, and was troubled, and said, Where have ye laid him?' They said unto him, 'Lord, come and see.' Jesus wept. Then said the Jews, 'Behold how he loved him!'"* Yes! truly, he did love him, and in the exercise of this love, he showed the humanity of his nature; and unadulterated humanity is generous and sympathetic; therefore Jesus, notwithstanding his amazing dignity and excellence, did not feel it beneath him to sympathize with the distressed, and to weep with those who wept. After this example, who shall say that it is weakness, folly and sin to weep for the loss of relatives? In the deep, heart-felt trouble, and the flowing tears of Jesus, behold the man! but when he saysLazarus, come forth," and is obeyed, behold the GOD! *

*

*

*

Bethany was "nigh unto Jerusalem, about fifteen furlongs off," (about two miles.) The place is not mentioned, at least under this name, in the Old Testament; but it occurs several times in the Talmudical writings. It is situated to the east of the Mount of Olives, on the road to Jericho. Its situation is pleasant and somewhat romantic, being sheltered by the Mount of Olives on the north, and abounding with trees and long grass. It is now a very poor village, inhab

* See the 11th chapter of St. John. VOL. 6.--NO. 11.

ited by Arabs; and the cultivation of the adjacent soil is much neglected. It seems, however, about our Saviour's time, to have enjoyed some kind of trade, (perhaps in olives, figs, and dates, which abounded in this neighborhood,) as the Jewish writers mention "the shops of Bethany," which were, as they inform us, destroyed three years before Jerusalem. Bethany is at present chiefly noticed on account of its mention in the Gospels; and in consequence of which, it contains a full proportion of the sort of objects to which the attention of pilgrims is usually directed: these are the tomb of Lazarus, with the ruins of the house he is supposed to have occupied, and also the houses of his sisters, and of Simon the leper. That which is shown as the house of Lazarus is a ruin, the stones of which are very large, and of a solid and sombre cast of architecture; and which the Rev. V. Munro ("Summer's Rambles in Syria," vol. i. p. 189,) conjectures to have formed part of the convent built by Fulco, king of Jerusalem. Near these ruins is the alleged tomb of Lazarus, thus noticed by the same writer:"The exterior doorway of the tomb of Lazarus is formed artificially of stone-work; but the steep, narrow, and winding staircase which leads below, is cut in the living rock, as well as the grave itself."

THUS WOULD I DIE.

BY LEWIS J. CIST

"I would give out my being among flowers, and in the sight of meadowy fields, and the chant of birds. Death, at such a time, and in such a place, would be almost a reward for life."-COLERIDGE.

I would not die 'mid the bustle and din

of the noisy and haunted retreats of sin;
I would not die 'mongst the heartless crowd
Oh! not where the outcasts of earth resort,-
Of the worldly and cold-of the rich and proud;
Where vice and misery hold their court,
Where the sun dimly shines, and the murky air
Is tainted with sorrow, and sin and care,-
Not there would I die!

I

i

would not die 'mid the revel and song of the city, where pleasure's gay votaries throng; would not die where so many have died! Not there!-not there, where the thousands resideAnd I would not-I would not be buried there, Where the sun cannot shine upon nature fair; And where-at bright morn, and sweet eve, is not heard For Matin and Vesper, the carol of birdNot there would I die! But oh! might I choose, my being I'd yield would die in the bloom of the beautiful spring, In sight of the waving meadowy field; When the earth is just clad in her blossoming; Oh, then I would leave this cold world of ours, Calmly to rest 'neath the wild-wood flowers; And where-on each tree-top's leafy limbSweet birds might carol my requiem,

I

Oh! THERE would I die!
I would die in the free and open air,
With nature around me, all fresh and fair;
I would die where the song of heav'n's minstrelsy clear
Might sweetly fall on my closing ear;
And oh! I would utter my latest hours

Mid the sweet perfume of the fragrant flowers;
The earth for my pillow-the clear blue sky
The last object to meet my closing eye,-

Thus-THUS would I die!