He had black eyes, with long lashes, red cheeks, and hair almost black and almost curly. He wore a crimson plaid jacket, with full trousers, buttoned on. Had a habit of whistling, and liked to ask questions. Was accompanied by a small black dog. It is a long while now since he disappeared. I have a very pleasant house and much company. My guests say, "Ah! it is pleasant here! Everything has such an orderly, put-away look--nothing about under foot, no dirt!" But my eyes are aching for the sight of whitlings and cut paper upon the floor; of tumble-down card houses; of wooden sheep or cattle; of pop-guns, bows and arrows, whips, tops, go-carts, blocks and trumpery. I want to see boats a rigging, and kites a making. I want to see crumbles on the carpet, and paste spilt on the kitchen table. I want to see the chairs and tables turned the wrong way about; I want to see candy making and corn popping; and to find jack-knifes and fish-hooks among my muslins; yet these things used to fret me once. They say: How quiet you are here; ah! one here may settle his brains and be at peace "" But my ears are aching for the pattering of little feet; for a hearty shout, a shrill whistle, a gay tra la la, for the crack of little whips, for the noise of drums, fifes and tin trumpets; yet these things made me nervous once. They say: "Ah! you have leisure-nothing to disturb you; what heaps of sewing you have time for." But I long to be asked for a bit of string, or an old newspaper; for a cent to buy a slate pencil or peanuts. I want to be coaxed for a piece of new cloth for jibs or mainsails, and then to hem the same; I want to make little flags, and bags to hold marbles. I want to be followed by little feet all over the house; teased for a bit of dough for a little cake, or to bake a pie in a saucer. Yet these things used to fidget me once. They say: "Ah! you are not tied at home. How delightful to be always at liberty to go to concerts, lectures and parties; no confinement for you." But I want confinement; I want to listen for the school bell mornings; to give the last hasty wash and brush, and then to watch, from the window, nimble feet bounding to school. I want frequent rents to mend, and to replace lost buttons; I want to obliterate mud stains, fruit stains, molasses stains, and paints of all colors. I want to be sitting by a little crib of evenings, when weary little feet are at rest, and prattling voices are hushed, that mothers may sing their lullabies, and tell over the oft repeated stories. They don't know their happiness then those mothers. I didn't. All these things I called confinement once. * * * * * * * * * * A manly figure stands before me now. He is taller than I, has thick black whiskers, and wears a frock coat, bosomed shirt and cravat. He has just come from college He brings Latin and Greek in his countenance, and busts of the old philosophers for the sitting room. He calls me mother, but I am rather unwilling to own him. He stoutly declares that he is my boy, and says he will prove it. He brings me a small pair of white trousers, with gay stripes at the sides and asks if I didn't make them for him when he joined the boys militia ! He says he is the very boy, too, that made the bonfire near the barn, so that he came very near having a fire in earnest. He brings his little boat to show the red stripe on the sail (it was the end of the piece), and the name on the stern-"Lucy Low"--a little girl of our neighborhood, who, because of her long curls and pretty round face, was the chosen favorite of my little boy. Her curls were long since cut off, and she has grown to be a tall handsome girl. How the red comes to his face, when he shows me the name on the boat. Oh! I see it all as plain as if it were written in a book. My little boy is lost, and my big one will soon be. Oh! if he were a little tired boy in a long white night gown, lying in his crib, with me sitting by, holding his hand in mine, pushing his curls back from his forehead, watching his eyelids droop, and listening to his deep breathing. If I had only my little boy again, how patient I would be! How much I would bear, and how little I would fret and scold! I can never have him back again; but there are still many mothers who haven't yet lost their little boys. I wonder if they know they are living their very best days; that now is the time to really enjoy their children! I think if I had been more to my little boy I might now be more to my grown up one. What Hebrew wife her rival taunted sore? Who, after fasting long, an angel saw? What prophet wrote of Syria's overthrow? Who from her husband's mother would not go? Where did St. Paul his books and parchments leave? What king of giant race did Israel slay? What priest first used a pulpit made of wood? Where did a servant slay his lawful king? What friend did Paul request his cloak to bring? Who threshed, and by a wine-press hid the wheat? Now, children, search your Bible, and you'll find THE RHINE. BY J. ADDISON ALEXANDER, D. D. I hail thee as an ancient friend, To greet thee, royal Rhine. The day and hour, when last we met, As then I saw, I see thee yet, Unchanging, changeful stream. The rush of waters o'er thy bed, What is the secret of thy life? The earthquake and the blast? Why is it that the swollen tide, Its well-marked station keeps? Why dost thou not, old Rhine, at length Break thy ignoble chains, And mustering all thy mighty strength Thou art a king among the streams, In regal pomp thy service gleams- Thy full deep current bold and proud, In his almighty view, Is but the sprinkling of a cloud, A drop of morning dew. Though thou shouldst empty every rill, And drain the neighboring land, Thy giant waters could not fill The hollow of his hand. The same almighty hand, that drives Can well control it, when it strives And struggles to be free. And if at times that hand grows slack, He brings thee still at pleasure back, So when I bend my stubborn knee, I render homage, not to thee, ACQUISITION OF A GOOD NAME. BY GAMMA. Reputation and character, though frequently confounded, are as widely different as heaven is from earth. The former is the estimation in which a man is held, and may be just or unjust. The latter is the form and hue of the spirit, and may be wholly misunderstood. It is manifest, therefore, that the two may not correspond. Reputation often springs up in a day and is as quickly blasted; because it is based upon a single act which is no test of true greatness. Character demands a long time for its formation, and reputation should advance with equal pace, neither faster nor slower. Mushroom growth is never healthy. It is the sturdy oak which sends its roots deeper and deeper into the soil for centuries, that can withstand the rough blasts. Reputation, however, is always based upon character, real or supposed. It should be the true measure of our inmost worth. Only then, is it to be desired. This is the meaning of a good name, as the phrase is used by Solomon. It is not the favorable opinion which the hypocrite receives, and under the cover of which he carries on his wicked designs. It is the favorable opinion of the good--an cpinion which is deserved, because it is an index to the soul. Do you wish to acquire a good name? it is indispensable, then, first to establish a good character. Our task, accordingly will be to point out the elements, at least the more prominent elements, which constitute such a character. The first we shall name is self-respect. Cherish this feeling; for only he who respects himself, has a right or title to the respect of others. What, shall we have regard for one who will be guilty of any meanness, it matters not how great? It is impossible. His acts forfeit all regard and say more plainly than words can say, that he cares not for your opinion. Cultivate a high sense of honor which rightly conceived of, is identical with true self-respect. Avoid, however, that false honor. of which the world makes so much account. A man who will break every tie of decency and morality, who will rob innocence of its virtue and God of his glory, receives what he is pleased to call an insult, challenges the supposed offender, meets him in the field, and sends a bullet to his heart. Then he thinks he has vindicated his honor. Honor! Poor fool! he has no honor, and I care not whether he is a Senator at Washington, or a bully in New York. Respect yourselves, young men, and you will have no need to resort to the pistol and the dagger to maintain you rights. Pure self-respect is farthest in the world from pride. Pride stands aloof from others and looks down upon them with contempt. Because of some distinction, whether of birth, wealth, education or religion--for there is a spiritual pride-it cuts itself off from men, and is wrapt up in itself. The proud man will not deign to look upon the poor, however respectable they may be. He will have nothing to do with the lowly because they are beneath his station in society. All this is directly opposed to true self-respect. He who knows his worth as a man stands above all such distinctions, and tramples them under his feet. Respect yourselves, and you will not fail to extend the right hand of fellowship to the humblest mechanic and the most ignorant rustic. It is not poverty as such, it is not ignorance as such, that is contemptible. It is poverty associated with vice, and ignorance that is wilful. The poor man is the image of God as well as yourself; and if you respect that image in your own bosom, you will respect it in the bosom of others. The feeling we ask you to cultivate is still farther removed from vanity. The vain man is a pitiable object. He is always prating about his own excellencies, which no one sees but himself. He who knows himself, and only he can respect himself, knows his own littleness. Let his accomplishments be what they may, he is perfectly conscious that they are far short of what they might be, and he is little disposed to be vain. His insight into his real character is too deep to permit him to trumpet his own praises abroad. True selfrespect is always associated with humility. Only the humble man can become truly great, and the great man is always humble. I do not mean that he has no sense of his personal worth, and of his superiority to others. Most assuredly he has. But whatever the heights he may have attained, he can condescend and become as plain as the plainest and that, not from policy, which would prove him destitute of honor, but from principle, for he recognizes in all, something divine, in the presence of which all human distinctions fade away. Such a feeling will make you shrink from deceit as unworthy of a man. If you respect yourself, you cannot be a liar. He who is guilty of open falsehood, is mean in his own eyes. His soul was made for truth, and to prevent that truth is to prevent his whole nature. And the lie, if nothing else, will bring the blush of shame to his face. But while there are few who so far forget their dignity, many are wily and cunning. Such a character is scarcely less odious and far more pernicious than that of the open liar. For he cloaks his designs and catches the unsuspecting in his trap. Under the hypocritical mask of friendship and politeness, he pulls the wires and makes the puppets dance for his interests. It is detestable, not only to the pious, but to all who have a spark of honor burning in the heart. Be open and candid. Thus will you be able to maintain respect for yourself, and win respect of others. Nor can you take the advantage, if you have a proper sense of your own dignity. The clerk who secretly puts his hand into his employer's drawer and takes out the money he spends for his pleasure, is already lost to all shame. Attendance at those hot-beds of vice, the theatre and the brothel, have so far corrupted his heart that he will hesitate at no crime. He may be quick to resent an injury, he may talk grandiloquently about his honor, but it is mere talk, for he has less honor than his faithful dog. Respect yourself, and you cannot become a thief, much less a libertine, than whom hell contains no viler wretch. To nip the frail flower of innocence in its bud, and then leave it to wither and die in this cold unfeeling world -there is no language to describe the heartlessness, the fiendishness of the act. Young men ! maintain your honor, cherish your self-respect. In this lies your safe-guard. If you violate its dictates but once, God |