WE ARE NOT OLD, We are not old, though years have rolled Like shadows from our path away, Bince first to me thou didst unfold Thy love—oh! happy, happy day! ‘We are not old 1 Thy cheeks are fairer than the rose, Thy lips are sweeter than the dew, Thy hand is whiter than the snows, And as the heavens thine eyes are blue: We are not old { Time dealeth gently with us here, No ehange our hearts have ever known; Our joy increases year by year, For sweet contentment is our own: We are not old | \s in the past may we glide on, All gently down the stream of life; And when we reach our journey’s end, May we together rest—my wife: Weare not old ! WHY HAD HE LEFT HER? “Papa, I would thank you for a check for three hundred pounds, before you go down town this moming,” “Why do you want so much, An- thine? 1 thought I gave you enough, yesterday.’ “True, papa: but Madame Fontaine gives a wedding reception, for her came once to Anthine, and begged to see her, but she refused to meet him. Then he sent her a letter, entreat- ing her to read his explination, but she returned it unopened, He became distinguished in his pro- fession, and occasionally they met in society, and though Anthine could not help noticing the sad expression on his face, she Invariably avoided meeting his glance, and when obliged to speak to him, she did so with as much coolness as politeness would allow, To night she knows that Paul Well- ington is to be an honored guest at her friend’s house, and almost wuncon- sciously she has chosen her dress to suit his taste, as she remembered it so long ago. Now she fastens her gloves and picks up her jeweled bouquet holder, in a half reverie, thinking, perhaps, of a time when she was the bnde ex- pectant, as happy for a little time as the bride she was going to greet. “Oh, will happiness ever come to me again?’ she murmurs softly to her- self, as she sinks on the carriage cush- ions and is driven rapidly away. The parlors were crowded, the music was perfect, the guests the gayest, the daughter Clara, next Wednesday even- ing, and I must have a dress suitable for the occasion.” “Certainly my dear; your father de- | lights in nothing so much as in seeing | you enjoy the rich blessings that have been given us. Ilove to see you look a very queen among the rest. I was sadly disturbed yesterday afternoon.” “Why, papa?” And stately Anthine Elleston leaned over the velvet easy-chair, and drew her white fingers caressingly through the silky white hair of the father she loved so well. “Because just as I was leaving my office to step into the carriage, a little black eyed child, with such a famished 1° face, put out her thin hand and begged | for a penny—only one, because her | papa was so sick and hungry, I was tired, cold and impatient, and I knew | I had nothing else than a sovereign in | my pocket, sol told the child I had nothing for her, and hurried into the | carriage, and told John to dnive on. “But I caught the disappointed look | on that child’s face, and it has haunted | me ever since.” “My dear father, you are too > tive about such things, You are inno | way to blame. You cannot be expected | to give to every begger child you | meet.” “I know that Thenia,’® which was | his pet name for his elegant daughter; “but I have been thinking that, as Heaven has given much to us, He will expect much from us,” “We do all we can, I am sure; and I would think no more about this little | incident, The child will get along, no doubt, well enough. They all manage | to live in some way.”’ So the matter rested; neither father nor daughter forgetting it, either when the costly dress was bought, or later still, when in the elegantly appointed | boudoir, Anthine Elleston stood before the long pler-glass, that reflected back her stately form in all its queen-like beauty, arrayed in the sea-green silk, whose folds as she moved, seemed like | 80 many silver-tipped waves, half hid | though tiiey were by the costly lace | flounces, Diamonds and rubies sparkled on her | fair neck, were clasped on each shapely arm, and shone amid the satin-like | coils of her dark hair, that was wound | in the form of a coronet around her | head, and a gem larger than the rest | sparkled above her forehead, She was a beautiful woman; she knew it, and gloried in it. Her father | was proud of her, and she strove to | please him; but that which steeled her heart, and made her so haughty and | reserved-—so heartless, as her admirers | said-—was the fearful blow she received when only eighteen. On that eighteenth birthday thegrand old mansion was thrown open to a] goodly company, and Anthine, in her | fair young beauty, with the orange flowers on the brow, sat waiting with her bridal-robes around her, for him, who had chosen her to walk beside him down life's pathway. Paul Wellington was a noble fellow-— manly, truthful, and upright in every action of his life: even then, though only twenty-five a lawyer of some note. But on that bridle-night, with the guests awaiting, and the bride as beautiful and loving as a bride could be, no bridegroom claimed the bride, A telegraph to his distant home was sent, and the answer came at once that Paul Wellington, on the day he expected to start for his wedding, sailed In a steamer for India, without any explanation whatever. It was a fearful blow to poor An- thine, but her pride came to her res- cue, and when she went out again she was, as we find her now, stately, and far more beautiful than in loving girl hood. It is seven years since that night, when the act of her, lover, who seemed 80 noble and good to her, sent the chill- ness of death to her heart. It was past understanding, and afte a time she ceased trying to comprehend it. and sealed her heart to mankixd, clinging only to her father, who icol- ized her. Paul Wellington came from Isdia, bride and bridegroom the handsomest, in spite of the admira- | moved up and down the long room, looking every inch na queen in her royal beauty, her heart was strangely sad, and it was a positive relief when a maid in attendance brought her a sealed note, Breaking the seal in the dressing- room, she read: “In memory of one who loved you, ‘not wisely, but too well,” come to your dying cousin, I send my little daughter to conduct you, late though it is. You won’t refuse me, Anthine; you cannot when I am dying, JAMES HoLMEs." It was all very strange, but Aunthine, nobue-hearted as ever, never hesitated one moment, That cousin, James, had been the | bane of her life. A gay, frolicsome was a mixture of teasing and | tion. A long time ago he declared his in- a wife and this note Anthine holds in | her hand 1s the first Soy have heard of | | him all these long yea It took but a ya to send for adieu to and they at the gate driver to their hostess, waiting directed their she gave, Bat it was a sudden change, from the grand mansion, with its beau- tiful gaslight and grounds, and music and feasting, only a few streets back, wickedness as they found themselves, when the carriage stoj pped tumble dowa looking building, broken windows gnd rickety steps, Even Anthine’s step faltered as they followed the quick step of the little girl up broken stairways, down dark passages, until the garret was reached at last, hearing at every door vilest oaths, and often screams and blows. Anthine had often visited the poor, had often brought clothes and delicacies, { such misery she had read of, but thought it a stretch of a vivid writer's imagination—now she knew it to be real. Opening the door that was hanging with death. One tallow-candle lighted the room, but after the darkness of the hall, it seemed quite bright, and showed plainly the straw bed in the corner, on which It seemed impossible that the rated sallow face and attenuated form could ever have been that of the dashing and fun-loving James, “Oh, Thenia, I knew you would come! I felt you must,” said he feebly, as he held out a thin hand to each of them. “God is good, when I least deserve It.” “Tut, tut, boy; why haven’t you sent to us—nay, come to us, instead of suf- fering like this,” spoke oul good Mr, Elleston. “Oh. uncle, I could not until hfe was despaired of, come to those I have so deeply injured!” “Hush, James; you were wild, but you never hurt us, and it is folly to talk so. You must go home with us now.'’ “Uncle — Anthine, your kindness overpowers me. Don't you see—can’t you see that I am dying? and, oh, I must tell you while life lasts,” “Tell us what, James?’ asked An- thine softly, as she put her cool, soft hand over his fevered forehead, “Thenia, do yom remember your wedding night, seven years ago? And did you ever wonder why Paul never came to you?” “Yes, yes, indeed, Tell me, do you tnew why?” and unconsciously she drew nearer, “Oh, Thenia, it was some of my ac- cursed folly, I loved you and hated Paul, and was envious of him for having won what I was unworthy of, And the morning before he expected to start for you, he received a letter telling him you were married to your cousin, James Holmes, and were to start immediately on your bridal-tour, dding him forget you and seek some one more worthy, To that letter your name was signed, Thema, and it was posted here. You know Paul’s proud heart, how such a blow was death to him, and how he sailed in the first ves- sel that left the harbor. “I thought to win you then, Thenia; but in your proud eyes I saw no hope of ever taking Paul’s place, so I went away and found a soft-voiced little girl, who loved me only too well, and only lived long enough after I called her wife to give me a little velvet- checked baby; whom we christened Anthine, after you; and then, with that innocent baby looking into my eyes, I wrote again to Paul, and con- fessed my wickedness. Directly, with new hopes, he came to you, but you refused to see him, He wrote to you, but you returned his letter unopened, and with a saddened heart he began anew, striving for fame and honor, that you might know he was incapable of the base act of which you believed him guilty. When he sought me he could not find me, ago. It was very wicked, Thenia, but oh. forgive mel’ pleaded the dying man. “It was wicked, James, but we were taught to. forgive,” spoke up her clear, pure volce, though her eyes were full of tears, Poor James Holmes was weeping, too, as he gathered his little girl closer, but he was failing, as they could see, Suddenly his eyes brightened, and said he, feebly: “There is his step on the stairs now. Thank Heaven! he has not come too late. I can now see the hands clasped that I once seperated.” A moment more and Paul Welling ton, mn all his noble manhood, stood before them, One clasp of the sick man’s hand, one look in Anthine's eyes, and the ones were weeping in each other's arms, Out of the darkness has come light, Henceforth when they wept they Mr. Elleston graspad Paul's hand warmly, and they turned to him whose ook still told that life's Care was not yet ended. Ile was pointing “She shall be cherished and cared | for,” was Paul's solemn answer, as he eyes looked from other in childish wonder, All care was over, He had sinned much, and much had been forgiven. The film of now, but a set death was tled peace his uncle gatoerning as 1, and then his soul was borne from earth away. Months after 8 is, when the little one ace ustomed to her new home and her new relatives, there was Anthi is as queen-like and beautiful as ever, her greatest joy is her home with her father, and husband and in Her little cherished that say, namesake is tenderly and little pleading “A penny—only one” YOI0es are Mr. Elleston so was poor Anthine, Aes ames’s little Tired Biras. Many of our birds fly several thous. and miles every autumn, passing not only over Florida, where they might find perpetual summer, Gulf and far beyond into summer-land of the Amazon, after a short stay returning again to the North, penetrating to the extreme shores of the Arctic seas. prehensible ; but I have seea many of our small feathered friends on the little Key of Tortugas, two hundred miles or more from Cape Florida, the juwmping- off place of the United States. Great flocka of them would alight upon the walls of the fort, especially during storms, evidently thoroughly tired ; but the next day they were up and away off over the great stretch of the Gulf and the Carribean Sea. Numbers of the English birds and many from Northern Europe make yearly voyages down into the African continent, and careful observers state that they have seen the great storks, so common in Germany, moving along high in the air, bearing on their broad backs numbers of small birds that had taken free passage, or were, perhaps, stealing a ride, In these wonderful migrations many birds are blown out to sea and lost, while others become so fatigued and worn out that they will alight upon boats. A New England fisherman, who in the autumn follows his calling fourteen or fifteen miles out from shore, informed me that nearly overy day he had four or five small birds as companions, They had wan dered off from shore, or were flying across the great bay on the lower coast of Maine, and had dropped down to rest. One day the same fisherman fell asleep while holding his line, and upon suddenly opening his eyes there sat a little bird on his hand, demurely cock- ing its head this way and that, as if wondering whether he was an old wreck or a plece of driftwood, Horse Tralning in Arabia. The training the Arab horse has to endure is not only very severe, but it embraces a more varied system of exer- cise than falls to the lot of the English horse, The Arabs not only train their horses to endures fatigus, hunger, and thirst, and the maneouvers 80 Necessary in battle, but they also teach them to shine at feasts by the following accom- plishments : El FEntrabe ‘the caracol,” The horse walks, so to speak, on his hind legs, Scarcely does he touch the ground with his fore-feet than he rises again. One hand, in concert with the legs soon trains to this exercise a horse of fair intelligence. El Gueteaa, “the bucking.” The horse springs up with all fours off the ground, the horseman at the same time throwing up his gun into the air and cleverly catching it. To obtain this action, the rider marks certain inter- vals of rest, and works with his legs. He gives with the animal as it rises, in order to hold him up when he comes down again. Nothing can be more The horses quit the earth, the into the air, the ample folds of the the wind, thrown back by the vigorous arms of the children of the desert. Lastly, El Berraka, *‘the kneeling.” The rider, remaining on the saddle, causes his horse to kneel down. in the ne plus ultra of the horse and the animal, Not every horse is fit for this exercise, The colt is trained to it | by kicking him on the coronet, pinching | the knee, liminary steps. of the stirrups, touch with his long spurs the animals horse, It the horse should be scanty for in African most cultivated in the Arab is necessary that food and little water, wells are many miles apart, when the traveler has found water hat the horse and his rider have bro ht with 1" fortune,” the Arabs say. he is always on t march. ho is One good the w of in the world, a— A ———————— The Crar's Dominions A traveler in Russia says that the re- that “he who knows only and Moscow has not seen * was accentuated in my exper- when, on my way Asia, I accepted an Invi to a in the Russian interior, journeys to the extremities of in conlact | to tation Previous but I was anxious to see what the Czar’ under the out of reach of steamer railway whistle, and miles away from a post road, a telegraph station or a post. office, With interest, therefore, after driving over dusty roads, the whole of early morning approaching my destin. ation, house,” my friends had said, “for 1t is a new structure, of Elizabethan archi. tecture.’’ And so from the outside it was, One might have fancied it a Kentish mansion, purchased for £50,- 000, and sot down in the middle of a Russian estate, The interior of the house was somewhat more adapted to Muscovite ideas in that the doors opened one into the other, and the sleeping apartments of the family could be cut off from the rest, The materials of the house had been obtained for the most part on the spot, The bricks were burnt on the estate, and the handsome carving and wain- scoting of the hall were of indigenous timber, Some of the gprnamentation, however was from abroad. The panels of the drawing-room walls were filled with immense Italian paintings, and the room of my hostess was hung with photographs of the masterpieces of Raphael, In keeping with this was the intellec- tual culture of the family. English was spoken by parents and children all day long, and French, German and Russian when required. In the morn: ing we read, wrote and took horse ex- ercise, and in the evening were enliv- ened with classical music, after which, it was but a step out of the drawing. room doors on to the spacious terrace to look in the gloaming over one of those vast Russian plains, which can hardly be called beautiful, but which are striking to an Englishman by rea- son of their vastness and unlikeness to anything he sees at home. The man- sion was built on a hill at the foot of { which a river meandered, containing trout and perch ; and intervening were terraced lawns and grounds, covered in their seasons with homely butiercups and daisies, as well as for get-me-nots, wild roses and lilies of the valley, The grounds were planted, not, indeed, with conifers (for there are none on the estate), but with tall poplars and stur- dy oaks up to two feet in diameter, clusters of pliant willows and graceful birch, together with lime, beech and elm, These trees are a refuge for the cuckoo, thrush and nightingale, while a little further off in the forests are to be found, among birds, rooks and crows, ravens, hawks and eagles, and among animals, hares, foxes and wolves, But it was not the mansion that in- terested me 80 much as its surround- ings. The estate consisted of about 25,000 acres, of which one-fifth is for. rest and one-twentieth pasture, the soil varying between good black earth, loam, sand, loam and sand with clay It furnishes no building stone, but plenty of alabaster, which remains, however, unworked, Growing wild were to be raspberries, straw- rebiua ; while on the wheat was cultivated lands said to thrive (but not bar- rye, oats, peas, flax and hemp. inquired, of course, the cost of this produce, 36 Epglish pounds, whe o! sold for 2s., rye, 1s, ; potatoes, 7d. bay oi 244d. to 44, 1s, 8d.; oats, a bushel ; but not com- Ordinary poods of hay sort from being of tolerable quality, fodder, > glish an acre, and the better 50 to 70 poods, | i The estate is inhabited by about ing in wooden, usually of two rooms only, built often of willow, of which a long and 10 isches in the outer bark of the the inner bark for matting The houses were furnished ly scantily, Twenty in the home vil- lage mi St each perhaps possess a bed, but notone of them a bed and bed- stead, too. It was common, however, for a aly to posess a cow, one or more horses, and three or four sheep; last nds, and y od. per on- 40 pounds to its wool selling from 50 peu 43d. pound, consist or soup and with bempseed oll; simple, ing of rye bread and of cabbage boiled buckwheat eaten mushrooms, curds, For drink they consumed kvas (small beer made {rom rye bread) and here and there tea, though become among Beef was a delicacy and cost ind, mutton 14d. pork 24d. sold from 24d. to 44d. each, 6d. geese Jor 20h wh hile stchee, nd onions, general them. The ele pease of the peas- Hh A man’s summer suit consists of a cot- ton shirt, a pair of linen trousers and best ing 5d. per pair. If a peasant to high top boots they cost him from he pays about the same price for his homespun kaftan, while in COBL- to 30s. dearer I may remark, than I paid at Khiva, where common shoubas could be had for 10s each. —— ———— Glass Floors, “Living in glass houses is not an im- probability for the future, and may race more peaceable. Already in many of the business houses of Paris, and especially in those of which the cellars are used as offices, glass is now being extensive’y employed instead of boards for flooring. At the headquarters of the OCrenit Lyonnis, on the Boulevard des Italiens, the whole of the ground floor is paved with large squares of roughened glass embedded in a strong iron frame, and in the cellars (beneath there is, on even dull days, sufficient light to enable the clerk to work with- out gas, The large central hall at the offices of the Comptoir d’ Escompte has lately been provided with a similar flooring; and it is said that although its prime cost is considerably greater than that of boards, glass is in the long run far cheaper, owing to its almost unlimited durability, The material is cast in slabs just about eighteen in- ches square by aninch and a half thick, and transmits a bluish light, Mow to Buy Pretares, “Never take the advice of anybody, no matter how ‘cultivated,’ or ‘edu- cated,” or bow great ‘authority’ he or she may be,’’ This is somewat start ling, coming from a journal devoted to the advancement of art, but it has good reason therefor, It holds, and rightly, that people should buy that which they really like, and then ‘try it by living with it;” if it be really good “it will help the purchaser to get some- thing as good or, it may be, better the next time.” The suggestion is wholly sound, for it is in accord with the the- ory that pictures themselves educate the artistic sense, FOOD ¥OR THOUGH. The best victory is to vanquish one’s heart, Any truth, faithfully faced in itself, Truth is the highest thing that man can keep, If everyone mend one, all can be mended. If you cannot do as you wish, well as you can. To know how to wait is the secret of success, Men are apt to prefer a error to an afflicted truth, Obstinacy and heat in an are surest proofs of folly. The weak maybe joked out of any- thing but their weakness, We have not always enough reason to employ all our strength, The great rule of moral conduct is, next to God, to respect time, Justice is the bread of nations; they are always famishing for it, The mind grows narrow in propor- tion as the souls grows corrupt. A good part of duty is expressed in the simple 1mperative, remember. He who thinks his place below him will certainly be below his place. There is no better excess in world than the excess of gratitude, Animals feed, men ; isstrength do as great progperous argument the eat; but only Do what good you can, but leave room for promises and engagements, Poverty destroys pride. It is diffi cult for an empty bag to stand up- right. The heart of life 1s the love that is in it, and the worthiness of the persons loved. Slumber not in the tents of umns. The world is advancing, your col- ad- an un- rion be- A good soul may hide and a good to what a very stu- pid daughter of a very wise mother, "Tis an {ll thing to be ashamed of one’s poverty, but much worse not to Ss 10 avoid Superstition is religion it tle learning is wealth to the poor, an and a support and comfort to the Directly the idea of durability fades mind of the workman, only does his work begin to suffer, not bn ut person seldom fails to gain rill of those he converses with, because nobody enviesa man who does not appear to be pleased with himself. At the worklngman’s house hunger ut dares not enter; nor will or the constable enter, For ays debts, increas- A modest as despair th them, Teach self-denial, and make § tice pleasurable, and you destiny more ts prac- create for the subili iblime than brain of the wild If it is part of prudence to face every claimant, and pay every just demand on your time, your talents, or your always pay; for, first or last, you pay your entire debt. Nothing but frank i independent minds, nothing but dis- on equal terms, will keep a tually humble and con- flity. Any work, no matter how humble, that man honors by efficient labor and lication, will be found im- portant enough {0 secure for ntercourse with thinker intel 1 respect The bad man, diffusing the hue of spirit over the world, sees it treachery, selfishness and de- The good man is continually of Indolence is a delightful but distres- sing state; we must be doing something to be happy. Action is no less neces- sary than thought to the instinctive tendencies of the human frame, Do not press your young children into book learning, but teach them politeness, including the whole circle of charities which spring from the con- sciousness of what is due to their fel- low beings. There is nothing so elastic as the human mind. Like imprisoned steam the more it is pressed the more it rises to resist the pressure, The more we are obliged to do the more we are able to accomplish, The best rules to form a young man are, to talk little, to hear much, to re- flect alone upon what has passed in company, to distrust one’s own opin fons, and value others’ that deserve it. A bird upon the wing may earry a seed that shall add a new species to the vegetable family of a continent; and just so a word, a thought, from a liv- ing soul, may have results immeasura- ble, eternal, All trust is dangerous, if it is not entire; we ought on most occasions to speak all or conceal all, We have y too much disclosed our secrets to a man from whom we think any one single circumslances is to be con- There 18, I know not how, said Cicero, in minds a certain presage, as it were, of a future existence; this has the root, and is most discoveras ble in 8 grenest geniuses and most exalted so Whoever looks for a friend without im will never find what he We love ourselves with all our faults, be they few or many, small or and we ought to love our in like manner. In those vernal seasons of the year, when the air is calm and pleasant, it were an injury and surliness agains nature uot, to go out 2 see riches, partake a with heaven and saith, Our lives make a moral tradition our Individual selves, as the kind at large makes a moral
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