ffilja family ®ircU.
A HYMN OF TRUST.
Leave God to order all thy ways,.
And hope in Him whate’er betide ;
Thou’lt find him in the evil days-
An all-sufiicient Strength and Guide.
Who trusts in love,
Builds on the rock that nought can move.
What can these anxious cares avail,
These never ceasing moans and sighs?
What can it help us to bewail
Each painful moment as it flies ?
Onr cross and trials do but press
The heavier for our bitterness.
Only your restless heart keep still,
And wait in cheerful hope, content
To take whate’er His gracious will,
His all-discerning love has sent;
Nor doubt our inmost wants are known
To Him who chose us for his own. ,
He knows when joyful hours are best,
He sends them as He sees it meet;
When thou hast borne its fiery test,
And now art freed from all deceit,
He comes to thee all unaware,
And makes thee own his loving care.
Nor in the heat of pain and strife,
Think God hath cast thee off unheard;
Nor that the man whose prosperous life
Thou enviest, is of him preferred;
Time passes, and much change doth bring,
And sets a bound to everything.
All are alike before his face;
’Tis easy to our God Most High
To make the rich man poor and base,
To give the poor man wealth and joy,
True wonders still of him are wrought,
Who setteth up and briggs to naught.
Sing, pray, and swerve not from his ways,
But do thine own part faithfully;
Trust His rich promises of grace,
So shall it be fulfilled in thee ;
God never yet forsook at need
The soul that trusted Him indeed.
—From the German.
NATHIE’S KNITTING-NEEDLE—A
STORY FOR CHILDREN.
BY SOPHIE MAY.
Mr. Spencer thought his little hoy
Nathie was always under his feet;
going out or coming in, he was in
danger of stepping upon the child.
Priscilla, the kitchen girl, thought he
was always out of doors, for his little
shoes were usually thick with mud,
and his frocks and pinafores were
nightly candidates for the wash-tub.
His mother, oh the other hand, de
dared that he spent his time chiefly
in the house; for nothing went on
from parlor to kitchen, from attic to
cellar, without his knowledge and
consent. There was not a pie—par
ticularly a mince-pie—into which he
did not try to have a finger.
He was seldom quiet for two min
utes in succession; but perhaps his
little brain moved as fast as his feet,
for he often exclaimed, “O, mamma,
I’ve been a-thinking!”
Then followed a torrent of droll
questions: “Who made the spiders?
Why ?’’ " Which did God love best,
ugly spiders, or sweet little cunning
caterpillars ? Why ?” " Were angels
spirits ? Then how did they get into
the bottle?” (Spirits of turpentine.)
“What made folks say Holy Bible?
0, yes, iie knew what holy meant, of
course he did—it meant the whole of
it—the whole of the Bible. Then
wasn’t the big dictionary the Wholly
Dictionary ? Why not ?”
Nathie’s babyhood had been very
delicate; and for this reason his pa
rents rejoiced greatly over his present
'fine health and sprightliness. They
gladly suffered the consequences of all
his innocent mischief, and allowed him
to bake sand pies, explore potato hills,
and tear his frocks into ribbons.
When he was at his wits’ end for
something to do, he would rush into
the house, and sigh out, “ 0 what shall
I do to make me happy ?”
Such an appeal was irresistible.
His indulgent mother was sure to
leave her mending or pickling, and
proceed at once to the business of
making her little boy happy.
One day—and now we come to our
story, which is a true one—he was
much attracted by four bright knit
ting-kneedles dancing in his mother’s
fingers.
“Couldn’t he have one of those
long, shiny things his own self? Not
to play with, but to keep for always?”
Perhaps there was floating in his
mind some bright vision of a very pe
culiar fish-hook, which he meant to
make for the purpose of prying little
frogs out of the brook. Or it may be
he intended to use the knitting-needle
as a kind of pick-axe, with which to
dig Ms way through to China.
At any rate, he was eager for a
“stocking-needle,” and his mother
found an old one and gave it to him,
with the caution not to put out Ms
eyes with it, and by no means to stick
it into his ears. Nathie promised care,
received Ms present with a shout, and
was perfectly happy for at least five
minutes.
Presently his father proposed to
take him out for a walk, and Nathie
started off in high spirits.
“Is that knitting-needle in your
pocket ?” said his careful mamma.
" My little boy must not take it out of
the house.”
Nathie protested; that “It wasn’t
in Ms pocket, it wasn’t anywhere, it
was all gone.”
Mrs. Spencer wondered how the
little one could bear such a serious
loss so cheerfully,-but supposed he
was consoled by the prospect of a
walk, for he had a great partiality for
“ breathing the fleshly air,” —meaning
fresh air.
When Nat hie returned, he had
wonders to relate. “He and Papa
Jiad been to the jail-house, where they
THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN. THURSDAY. SEPTEMBER "1, 1865.
locked folks up; saw mens in there,
saw womens, heard somebody sing,
saw a man make shoes.”
His mother interrupted him at full
tide: “ Where had he found his knit
ting-needle?” For he held it firmly
clutched in bis chubby fingers.
“Didn’t find it,” replied the child;
“ it’s all in the ground.”
“ Why, no, dear, you are holding it
in your hand.”
"0, no, mamma,” said Nathie, hesi
tating; “if you could look in the
ground, you’d see my needle. This
isn’t that one.”
“Why, Nathie!” replied his mo
ther, quite shocked; “how can you
tell me such a wrong, wrong story?”
“I.didn’t, mamma.”
"Yes, you carried this needle off in
your pocket, just as I told you not to
do, and so you disobeyed me. You
said it was all gone, Nathie, and it
wasn’t, and that was one wrong story;
and now you say this is not the needle
I gave you, so that makes two wrong
stories. 0, Nathie, Nathie!”
The child has never before attempt
ed to deceive.
‘ 0, mamma,” said he, winking very
fast, “I never! I never! I tell you,
mamma, I never! The needle’s in the
ground.”
“Well, then, where did you find
this one ?”
“ I don’t' know. I didn’t find it.
Woman gave it to me.”
"A woman? Where?”
“Down to jail-house, I guess,” re
plied Nathan, apparently making up
a third story, with which to cover the
other two.
Mr. Spencer now left the room,
thinking the child might “come to
himself” sooner if left alone with his
mother.
“ Nathie, come sit in my lap. Now
don’t be afraid, but tell mother the
whole truth. God is looking right at
you, my son, the good God who loves
little children. If you tell a black
lie, 0, how displeased he will be.”
“I never,” persisted the child, fix
ing his brown eyes on the carpet.
“Woman down to jail-house gave me
stocking-needle, now she did.”
For nearly an hour the mother rea
soned and pleaded with the little piece
of obstinacy, who still declared, with
not a whit the less vehemence, “Wo
man down to jail-house gave it to me,
now she did.”
All the while the father, heavy
hearted, was walking the floor of Ms
study.
“ What shall I do ?” said the poor
mother, entering the room pale with
anxiety, and gazing wistfully into her
husband’s face. “If you will tell me
what course to pursue next, I will be
thankful. I have appealed to his con
science, Ms affections, and his fears,
but the boy stahds Ms ground like a
rock.”
“It is not likely I shall succeed
where his-mother fails,” said Mr.
Spencer; “but I will make the effort.”
He did,. and with no better result.
For a boy who had never told a false
hood before, Nathie was wonderfully
persistent. The truth seemed to be
locked up in that tender little breast
as in an iron safe. If there was really
a key which could open the lock,
that key had not yet been found.
Mr. Spencer, who was a lawyer of
remarkable judgment and knowledge
of human nature, racked his shrewd
b'rain to imagine what motive the
child could have for persisting in his
absurd story. It must be because he
is too proud to recant.
■ fobbing, ’ panting for breath, and
painfully excited, the little boy still
poured with tears the same eager words
of denial.
“No; he never did put the needle in
his pocket; it was all gone in the
ground,” etc.
It was thought best to drop the
matter for the present, and to allow
Nathie to recover Ms composure.
“ Elizabeth;” said Mr. Spencer sud
denly, as the wretched child was led
down stairs by Priscilla, “do you
know it is barely possible that the boy
may be telling the truth?”
Mrs. Spencer shook her head in
credulously. “It was so very impro
bable that any woman should have
given him a knitting-needle; one, too,
of precisely the same size as the first
one.”
“It is indeed improbable, replied
her husband, “but in court, if but a
faint doubt is raised, we give the
criminal the benefit of that doubt. I
believe we will treat our little boy as
generously as we treat prisoners at the
bar. I will go down to the jail and
inquire into the matter; that is easily
done.”
What was Mrs. Spencer’s surprise,,
upon her husband’s return, to hear
him say, with much emotion, "Well
it is even so! Mrs. Jenkins, the
jailor’s mother, says she did give Na
thie a knitting-needle! It was prob
ably while I was talking with Mr.
Baker about the drain.”
“How thankful I am!” cried Mrs.
Spencer, with a joy she had no words
to express.
“ And I can assure you that I am
too. I only wish I had gone there in
season to spare all this distress. Mrs.
Jenkins says the little fellow told such
a pitiful story about losing a needle,
that she gave him a stray one, and
that was the last she thought about it.
Indeed, by to-morrow she might have
been unable to recall the circumstance
at all; for her. memory, you know, is
failing her. 11
“Why didn’t I give Nathie the be
nefit ol the doubt in the first place ?”
exclaimed Mrs. Spencer. “I must go
now and dry his tears. Poor little
martyr!’’— Congregationalist.
WONDERS IN FAMILIAR THINGS.
“ How clever you are, uncle!” said
Harry, gravely. “You know every
thing, almost; don’t you ?”
"No indeed, Harry,’ exclaimed
Mr. Forrester, laughing. “Ifyou knew
as much as I do, and a little more, you
would be surprised to find that you
really knew hardly anything at all.”
“Should I?” asked Harry, incred
ulously.
"Yes, we are surrounded with won
ders which' we cannot explain or
understand. The commonest every
day matters are far beyond our com
prehension. We wfll take something
very simple; something which I dare
say you have fancied you understood
yourself. Come here. Now, how did
you come?”
"I walked,” said Harry, laughing.
“What walked?” asked his uncle.
“My legs and my feet; they carried'
me.”
“How did they know that you
wanted to be carried here ?”
“I told them?”
“ How did you tell them?”
Harry stared at Mr. Forrester, then
at his feet, and looked puzzled.
“You did not speak to them, and
they have no ears to hear you if you
did. Now bend your little finger.
How did you do that?”
“Oh, do tell me how it is, uncle! I
don’t know a bit.”
“The wisest man in England can
not tell you, my boy,” replied Ms
uncle. “We have good reason to be
lieve that the part of you wMch thinks,
your mind, and your will, are in
your head, and that you send mes
sages from your head to your legs, if
you want to waik or sit down; to your
lands, if ydu wish to take hold of
something; to your tongue if you wish
to speak; but how the message is sent,
no one knows. It is believed to be
done by a sort of telegraph, lightning
being the messenger; and some doctors
think they have found out the tele
graph .wires—nerves which extend
from the head all over the body; but
how the lightning is sent, how it finds
its way, and how it gives orders and
makes them understood, will probably
never be discovered in tMs world.”
“Shall we know it all in heaven?”
asked Harry.
“ Perhaps we may,” replied Mr. For
rester. "I think we shall know a
great deal there wMch is quite beyond
our powers of comprehension on
earth. -But we are not told in the
'Bible Wh&t Weshall do in fjeaven,
cept loving and pr aising God- for
goodness to us.”
Harry stood for some time in silence
bending his little finger now and then,
and winking his eyes and looking
very solemn.
“Uncle,” said he at length, “when
I bend my finger, I know it before; I
mean, uncle, that I make it bend on
purpose ; but when I wink my eyes,
I do not know it before, unless I try
to think about it. Do my eyes wink
of themselves ?”
“They do, my boy. Your eyelids
wink "to spread a little moisture over
your eyes, that they may not get too
dry. How troublesome it would be to
you, if you had to remember to wink
every time you needed it, or if you
had to learn how to do it! A poor
baby would become blind before it
could learn to wink.”
“Yes, I know babies can wink,”
said Harry. "My baby sister winked
famously when she was only a week
old. Is there anything else we can do
without thinking, uncle?”
“Indeed there is, Harry. In that
small body of yours, a great deal goes
on, of which you tMnk little and
know less. If God had only made
you and done no more, you must have
died directly. The wisest man could
not hive told you how to make your
heart beat, or how to breathe, or how
to grow into a man.” .
“How wonderful!” exclaimed Har
ry. “ And every dog and cat, I sup
pose, and mouse, and fly can breathe,
and move its heart, and wink without
any trouble!”
“Flies cannot wink,” said Mr. For
rester, smiling. “They have no, eye
lids; but they are nevertheless as
wonderfully made as we are. You
shall look through my microscope
some day, and you will see that there
is nothing too small to-be beautifully
and perfectly formed, and suited to its
place in the world. Some of the most
exquisite little animals I ever saw, are
■ smaller than a grain of fine dust.”
“How could you see them, uncle?”
said Harry.
“ I saw a little round glass, smaller
than a sixpence, with a morsel of dust
on a tiny spot in the middle; and,
when it was put under the microscope,
I could see a number of forms, —some
like exquisite little silver breakfast
plates, some sauce-boats with a spout
but no handle, and many others wMch
I do not now remember. The most
exquisite patterns were engraved upon
them all.”
“Oh, when may I see them ?” asked
Harry eagerly.
“When the long winter nights come,
we will think about it,” replied his
uncle.
To ejaculate “God help the poor,”
is one of the cheapest of charities.
THE OLD OAKEN CRADLE.
Sweet scenes of my boyhood! I love to recall
them,
Electric they shimmer on mem’ry’s warm
sky,—
The maple-fringed river, the hills grand and
solemn,
And all the dear haunts in the forest near by;
I deem these fresh views on the Past’s pano
rama
As sweetest of all the enchantments of
earth, —
The ancient red house, in which Life’s devious
drama
Commenced in the cradle which stood by the
hearth;
The old oaken cradle, the rocker-worn
cradle,
The high-posted cradle which stood by the
hearth.
Near two generations from earth have departed
Since home in high state this quaint cradle
was brought,
Attesting the advent of one who, light-hearted,
Gave joy pure and holy, of sad sorrow
nought!
Dear relic of dream-days I what rest have you
• granted
To mother and infant, when hushed was his
mirth; —
How grateful was sleep when the babe for it
panted;
A boon is the cradle which stands by the
hearth!
The old oaken cradle, the rocker-worn
cradle,
The high-posted cradle which stands by the
hearth.
Not all mem’ry’s promptings of by-gones that
gather.
Are free from a sadness made sacred by
space,—
Since angels led two from our home, —and for
ever
Seraphic beheld they Immanuel’s face ;
And we who remain, from those scene are all
distant,
But never forget we the place of our birth -.
The light of our mem’ry, in realms reminis
cent,
Reveals the staid cradle which stood by the
hearth;
The old oaken cradle, the rocker-worn
cradle,
The high-posted cradle which stood by the
hearth!
—Edward P. Nowell.
GIRLS, HELP YOUR MOTHER.
"Georgia, come and make some
yeast,’’ said Mrs. Gray to her daughter.
It was Saturday morning/ and there
was a great deal to be done; for Mrs.
Gray’s family was large, and she kept
mo servant., Georgia made the yeast,
and then left the kitchen and went to
her chamber to read in a new novel
which had been sent to her.
" Georgia! Georgia!” said her busy
mother, several times; but there was
po Georgia to be found. She then
tried Jane. “Here, Jane, come and
see to the fire; my hands are in the'
dough. I wish you wouldn’t, all get
off out of sight and hearing when
there is so much to do. What is
Agnes about ?”
“Finishing the boot-mark,” was the
reply.
“Go and tell her to put that right
away, and sweep the parlor and set it
to rights,. Find. GroAgift, -anGrtell MCIT
tor Bo' up the chamber-work;' and do:
jyou.stay.here to help me.”
' “Yes, mother,” was the obedient
reply.
The girls all obeyed their mother’s
orders. They never thought .of doing
otherwise; but they never thought of
doing anytMng without orders. The
whole care of everything rested on
their mother now, when she was fifty
years of age, feeble and weary, and
the mother of three healthy, full
grown daughters, as it did when she
was in her prime, with a band of little
ones around her. Perhaps the first
fault had been her own; perhaps she
had not rightly trained her girls; but
they were old enough now to amend
their mother’s mistake. They knew
very well how miserable her health
was; but they did not seem to realize,
as everybody else did, that unless she
could be quite relieved from care and
labor, her life would soon-be over.
Every day she groaned with weari
ness, and at night and in the morning
her limbs were so stiff that she-eould
hardly bend them.
"Mother, why in the world don’t
you make the girls do more ?” .asked
her husbaqd. almost every day of his
life; and as often Mrs. Gray replied,
"O, they do a great deal, they- are
always willing to do all I ask them.
They are a great help to me.” Just
like a mother! She can always be
woefully imposed upon. She’ll shield
her cMldren to the last.
The Gray, girls were always willing
to do what their mother bade; but
they were not always ready.
“Come, Jennie, it is almost six
o’clock,” Mrs. Gray would say.
“Yes, in a minute.” In ten, fifteen,
or twenty minutes, Mrs. Gray would
speak again.
“Yes, mother, I am just going.”
But it would sometimes be nearly
dark before there would be any actual
move, and the father and brothers
would be home from their day’s work,
hungry and of course cross, when
they saw that the supper was beMnd
hand. Poor Mrs. Gray was so tired
of perpetually repeating directions,
and of the effort of causing them to
be seasonably and properly carried
out, that she often did the work her
self, when she felt hardly able to
crawl, rather than try to get the girls
to do ft. 0, how thoughtless and un
feeling those daughters were! They
quietly allowed the mother to do all
that’ she would; but they were re
warded. They loved their mother,
and they were not really very cruel or
wicked girls. Could they have had
one glance a few months forward,
how utterly changed would have been
their conduct! But no one of us can
see for a moment before us.
"Suddenly the devoted mother.was
missing from her .post in the kitchen.
She was to he waiter and drudge no
more. She died; but had she been
cared for and cherished as she should
have been, she might have been the
companion and comforter of her hus
band and her children for many happy
years! When they saw the tired feet
at rest, the worn, hands folded, the
dim eyes closed at last, self-reproach
took hold on them, and they wept.
They felt that they might have kept
her. 'They remembered all their lazy,
careless ways, and how worn-out with
care and toil they had allowed their
mother to become. Every groan they
had heard her utter came back to
them, and they were filled with re
morse for all they had failed to do.
The weeks and months only showed
them more and more plainly what
they had lost and how guilty they had
been. But it was too late to make
atonement. All they could do was to
lay the lesson to'heart and try to im
prove by it. This they all did, and
they cherished the memory of their
dead mother as they had never cher
ished her.
If any girls who are-walking in the
ways of the Gray girls will but take
warning by their punishment, they
may perhaps escape a, similar, one.
There are few agonies more hard to
bear than to look on a dead face, more
near and dear, and feel that our treat
ment has hastened the parting hour.
God save ns all from that !—Springfield
Republican.
THE NEW WIFE.
Mr. was a professor of reli
gion, and was considered quite a good
man. He had the misfortune to lose
his wife, who was also pious. Having
a large family Of children, he found it
necessary to marry a second wife. He
chose one that had moved in high life,
but nearly all of whose relatives re
jected the doctrines of evangelical reli
gion.
Mr. .did not mean to be irreli
gious, but he thought too much
religion would not please his wife or
her friends, and for this reason he, ne
glected family worship and other
Christian duties.
One night, a short time after their
marriage, when he and his wife had
retired to rest, she said to him:
" Mr. , I thought, when I mar
ried you, I was marrying a Christian.”
“ Why, my dear wife, ‘ do you
doubt my being a Christian?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“What reason have I given you to
think so'?”
“ Because, sir, a Christian prays
with his family, and you do noff”
His reply was, " I thought that the
reading of t.TießiKle and prayer would
be unpleaaaat«i%niit t3ggoma.Ja.Qne that j
had been reared under such ah""inrtU'= J
ence and moved in such, a circle as
you have.”
“ Sir, you have nothing to do with
all that. Your business is to do your
duty as a Christian. It is true I have
moved in such a circle as you have
described; but I have been influenced
by a different one. I do, believe in. re
ligion, and I do love to see professors
faithful and consistent.”
Her husband said to her, “ As it is
your wish, I will erect a family altar
to-morrow morning.”
"Will you wait until morning ? We
may both of us be in hell before that
time.”
“ Why, my dear wife, are you will
ing to rise to read the Bible and pray ?”
" Certainly I am.”
Accordingly they arose and dressed,
the husband read a portion of God’s
word, and knelt in prayer; and when
,he had prayed, bis wife was ready to
pray. The minister was afterwards
inquiring of this brother how he got
along with the family altar. His reply
was, “By the grace of God, it has
never gone»down since my wife and I
erected it that night.” *
WHAT WILL YOU HATE?
After a day’s work of calculation
and copying, I was under the necessity
of waiting an hour in the tap-room of
a tavern, to secure the services of a
mail-guard, who was to carry a parcel
for my employers. Amid the smoke,
the spitting, and the clatter of a erowd
of inn-haunters, I could not but find
some subject for reflection.
The presiding genius of the bar was
a bloated, whiskered young man,
whom I had long known as the aban
doned son of a deceased friend. I
sighed and was silent.
Ever and anon, as one after another,'
or squads of two or three approached
his shrine to receive and empty his
glasses, and deposit their sixpences, I
heard the short, peremptory formula
of the bacchanal minister, “ W hat will
you have ?” “ Brandy ? gin ? punch ?
What will you have ?” And the vic
tims severally made their bids, as the
case might be. The constant repeti
tion of the “form in that case made
and provided,” set me upon a drowsy
meditation on the question, “ What
will you have?” “Methinks I can
answer the question,” said I to myself
as I cast a glance around the murkv'
apartment. And first to the young
shoemaker, who with a pair of newly
finished hoofs is asking for “grog.”
What will you have? Young mhn,
® OOll have an empty pocket?
1 here is a trembling/ragged man,
with livid spots under the eyes He
is a machinist, and has lodgings in the
house. What will you have? Ah!
the barkeeper knows without an an
swer ; he takes gin and water. Poor
man! I know also what you will
have. Already you have been twice
at death’s door; and the gin will not
drive off that chill. You will have
typhus fever and death.
The glasses are washed out and
cleaned in the slop-tub under the bar
shelf. Now a fresh bevy comes up,
cigar in hand. “Gentlemen, what will
you have?” I supply the answer for
myself. The baker there will have an
apoplexy or a sudden fall in his shop.
That tailor with green glasses will
have consumption; and I fear the
three idlers in their train will have
the next epidemic that shall sweep off
our refuse drunkards.
Sorry, indeed, am I to see in this
place Mr. Scanting, the cooper. Not
to speak of himself, I have reason to
believe that both of his grown sons
are beginning to drink. He looks
about him suspiciously. Now he
plucks up courage. He takes whisky.
You will have a pair of drunken sons.
That young fellow in the green
frock coat and colored neckcloth is a
musician, a man of reading, and the
husband of a lovely English woman.
He take§ his glass with the air of a
Greek drinking hemlock. You will
have a heart broken wife.
What! is that lad of fifteen going
to the bar ? He is, and he tosses off
his cogniac with an air. You will
have an early death.
The old man that has tottered out
of the door has doubtless come hither
to drown his grief. His last son has
died from the effects of a brawl‘in a
theatre. Wretched old man! Yon
will have the halter of a suicide.
I must take the rest in mass, for it
is Saturday night, and the throng in
creases. The barkeeper has an assist
ant in the person of a pale, sorrowful
girl. Two voices now reiterate the
challenge, “What will you have?”
Misguided friends! lam greatly afraid
you will have a death-bed without
hope. " ’ ■ ■ '
My man has arrived. As I walked
home across the common, I thought
thus: “And what will you have,
who, day after day and year after
year, dealt out the devil’s bounty
to his recruits, and received his six
pences, as it were, over the coffins of
his victims ? You, hardened tempter!
(if memory live hereafter,) will have
the recollection of your triumphs and
the vision of their eternal results s
You will have a terrible judgment,
and an eternity of such retribution
as befits your life.”— Rev. J. W. Alex
ander, DJ).
THE AMERICAN WOMEN.
The June number of Sours at Home
has an article on “How to Treat our
-Wives,” which those who think that
love IS' LitTC 1 —— -
true marriage will do well to read.
The article is too long for insertion in
our paper. The following are the
closing paragraphs:
The American woman is what the
American man requires her to be, and
what. the American institutions and
influences enable ’her to be. There is
constant and fruitful effort on the part
of men to secure for their daughters,
and for general female society, the
best advantages for education and
culture; and these same men do this
with wives in their homes who are
treated little better than housekeepers.
They are not regarded as partners;
they are not treated as intimate and
confidential companions. Equality of
position, identity of interest, commu
nity of sins, affectionate and consider
ate tenderness- and respectfulness of
demeanor, thorough sympathy that
shows itself in all private and family
intercourse, certainly do not prevail
between American husbands and wives,
when regarded in the aggregate.. Some
will be disposed to deny this who
only see life under some of its more
favored phases; but those who are
acquainted with all classes, in. the city
and country, cannot fail to recognize
the truthfulness of the statement.
Women are denied the sympathy and
society of their husbands to a shame
ful extent. They are kept in a posi
tion of dependence, and made to feel
their dependence; they are made to
ask for money for their personal use,
and compelled to feel like mendicants
in doing it. There are multitudes of
wives, supposed to be well married,
who never approach their husbands
for money without a sense of humili
ation. Now any man who compels
the woman of his love to do this,
insults her womanhood, degrades her
denies essentially his marriage vows
and does his best to kill out her
respect for him, and to make the con
nubial bond an irksome one. A wife
who is made to feel that she is a beg
gar, is no longer a wife, except in
name. A wife who is compelled to
feel that. she has no rights except
those which her husband accords to
her from hour to hour, loses her re
spect, and becomes a menial in feeling
and in fact. °
Old Age. —Old age is a public
good. Do not feel sad because you
are old. Whenever you are walking,
no one ever opens a gate for you to
pass through, no one ever honors you
with any kind of help, without being
himself the better for what he does;
for feHow feeling with the age ripens
the soul. ' r
Good manners are a part of good
morals, and ft is as much your duty
as you? interest to practice in both