and, extending his hand, pressed mine closely, his face wearing a mock expression of deep sorrow. But soon the cloud passed away, as we entered into easy conversation. Every mention, however, of his poor boy brought back a momentary look of sadness, which seemed put on, as if from a sense of duty, and passed away with any change of subject. So I relinquished the office of consolation as unnecessary. At length he began to ask my advice about the proper repairs for his house, and the workmen to be employed. "I know," said he, "that such considerations may appear unsuitable to a time of deep affliction; but overwhelming as my distress has been"-and here he drew a handkerchief across his eyes, and winked them, as if to force a tear-"I must bear up against it. Prudence forbids a man in my circumstances to give way to grief. I have calculated, as well as my troubles would permit--for I can't always help shedding tears when I think of himhow much my poor boy would have cost me if he had lived. He was to have gone to school next quarter, and that, you know, would have been something. Altogether, I think I shall be able to plaster the house at least. Poor fellow! I wouldn't have lost him for a thousand houses!" I gave my advice in regard to the disposal of what he had saved by his son's death; but he afterwards spent so long a time in perfecting his calculations, that the opportunity was lost: my friend finds himself threatened with another heir! STANZAS TO HELEN. By F. W. Thomas, author of "Clinton Bradshaw," &c. Lady! thou art changed indeed I may not love thee now, But view thee as an idol creed, Unworthy of a vow. Yet once thy love was all to me: It was a courted destiny, Such as his day-dreams show To the fondly trusting boy, Whose fancy is as full of joy As earth is full of wo. I wooed thy love as prophets woo How very vain the phantasy Of those who hope, and hope for aye, Till comes the chilling blasts. And then it dies, as my hope dies, No, never to relume; Devoted, as it highest flies, To an untimely tomb. How often in the moon!it grove, When we have pledged our mutual love, You've pointed to the star, And spoke of your unchanging soul, The needle's truth, and of the pole, And of the mariner. This is love's frailest common-place, It is the lover's word of grace, Before his vows are broken. Yet you, you spoke with such a look, That truth, as in the sybil's book, Seemed clothed in every word; And I-I listened and believed: And who may not be thus deceived, Who feels it as he heard? Thou queen of the voluptuous throng, Where pleasure holds her reign, No more I hear thy siren song, Or court thy proffered chain. No more the meeting hour of gladness, No more the parting hour of sadness, Shall light or cloud my brow: You've broke the vow I loved the best; I feel I have the power to jest With any other vow. They're like thee, in this western land, But then they have a warmer hand, I may not kneel at any shrine, Betrayed!-no, not betrayed by thee'Twas manhood's sober thought, That proved the cold reality My boyish fancy wrought To every virtue, every bliss: Yet who, for such a dream as this, With woman for his fairy queen, And earth as one bright gorgeous scene, A fairy land of joy. Yes! ofttimes as I sorrowing pine For those I've left behind me, The friends who bound their hearts with mine, As oft as I recall the hours I think of those who round thee hung, And when I clasp a friend's warm hand, 'Tis sweet with him to talk of thee, VOL. IV.-60 And when I hear it all unmoved, So very calm's my heart. I'm from thee many a weary mile, Oh, lady! in this changing world, Alas! I am a wanderer From those who love me best, Who, when it was my lot to err, Relieved an aching breast; From friends who loved my lowly name, And never heard a word of blame, But to defend their friend; And here, o'er mountain and o'er flood, I pour to them my gratitude; "Tis all I have to send. A few months ago I strung together a few thoughts upon this most delightful theme; and interspersed some passages from the poets, and legends from the classics, by way of illustrating those views. A critic of the cui bono class piqued me to write "More about Trees," in order to show that our countrymen had a love, and were fast increasing that affection, for these beautiful creations of God's hand: and the object of the present paper is merely to cite more of those illustrations, for The French called the Ohio La Belle Riviere; the beautiful river. the readers of the Messenger, from the ancient and modern poets. This is peculiarly the season for the resumption of this subject. How beautifully sings the wisest, when in his canticles he says: "The winter is past: the rain is over and gone; The flowers appear on the earth; the time of singing is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land: The figtree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines, with the tender grape, give a good smell." But few delights are there for the enjoyment of the lover of nature in the winter time,-I mean in our northern New England winter-time. My friend Brent has touchingly described the sheeny show of the sleet, lighted by the next day's sun, but that is evanescent at best, and always cold and dreary in its associations. Yet do I remember some winter days when my rambles afield have been as delightful and as free from discomfort as those of the merry summer time, or the more sober of autumn days. One in a particular manner recurs to me. It was in December. The sun rose as clear and undimmed as in May. I climbed to the top of a lovely hill in the neighborhood, to enjoy a beautiful, and, to me, a most rare spectacle. I had never before an idea of the fine effect upon a landscape of the curling of a thousand smokes, wreathing slowly and gently upwards from the cottage roofs of little villages scattered picturesquely around the base of a high hill. The atmosphere was perfectly clear, and the sun shed its short-lived warmth upon the sere grass at my feet, rendering its yellow tint more deep and golden. It dazzled my eye as it rested upon the sod. The sky was so soft and blue, and those little eddies of smoke were curling so slowly upwards to its expanse, I could almost fancy it to be their resting place, and that it was from them that it received its own azure beauty. The little river which bears the same name as the hill, was gliding on its serpentine way, forming little islands and peninsulas, all covered with the same hue of wintery desolation, yet cheered and relieved by this un wonted and almost forgotten brightness. The sunbeam played under the brown bank with the leaping wavelet, which, as if delighted with its return, sparkled and flashed like scattering diamonds, beneath its influence. The very oaks, shorn, as they had so long been, of their verdure, and standing forth, as they did, in all their gaunt and gigantic majesty, seemed glad amidst all this gladness of nature: for they gently waved their minuter branches, and looked down, methought, into their transparent mirror, to catch, from the brightness it reflected, a part of this general inspiration of more. What! were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And lose you quite ! But you are lovely leaves, where we There are those who pretend to despise the SycaThis tree is not likely to come to perfection, unless planted upon the banks of rivers. It is not so good a tree for lawn or city as many others. Its rapid growth is in its favor. But the sycamore-haters should see it growing upon the Connecticut river: its noble stems gracefully dipping "its broad green crown" into the waves, and forming a verdant bower, into which you may drive your skiff, and sit like a nested bird, seeing but unseen. Old Herrick has a pretty address to this tree, among his delightful poems. 'TO SYCAMORES. "I'm sick with love: oh let me lie And a modern poet has been inspired by the beauty of such a tree as I have described. He says: This sycamore, oft musical with bees, Such tents the patriarchs loved! oh, long unharmed The small round basin, which this jutting stone Here twilight is, and coolness; here is moss, Coleridge. 'I am the prince of sports, the forest is my fee, The mottled meadows then, fresh garnish'd by the sun, The same poet has this pretty conceit. Who has And to unherd him then, I gallop o'er the ground, not seen what he so tenderly describes ? "This little lime-tree bower! in which I've marked While thinking, in our less genial clime, of such a bower as this, how natural is it for the lover of nature to exclaim, with poor Keats, "Oh for a beaker full of the warm south,- That I might drink, and leave the world, unseen, Such a 'forest dim' was that of Arden, when the duke kept court, when the melancholy Jaques watched Upon my well breath'd nag, and cheer my faithful hound. run; No little bubbling brook from any spring that falls, Adieu! I will yet, ere summer closes, climb more trees, with the Hesperides. J. F. O. ON HEALTH. TO MOTHERS. BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. Have we not all of us seen, with pity and regret, some sickly mother, burdened with the cares of her household? Feeling that there were employments which none could discharge as well as herself-modifications of duty, in which the interest of her husband, the welfare of her children, the comfort of her family, were involved duties which she could not depute to another, without loss-she continued to exert herself, above and beyond her strength. Still her step is languid, and her eye joyless. The "spirit, indeed, is willing, but the flesh is weak." Her little ones observe her dejected manner, and become sad; or, they take advantage of her want of energy, and grow lawless. She, herself, cannot long persist in a course of labor that involves expense of health, with out some mental sympathy. A temper the most amiable, will sometimes become irritable or complaining, when the shrinking nerves require rest, and the demands of toil, and the claims upon painful thought, are perpetual. Efforts, which to one in health, are like dew-drops shaken from the eagle's wing, seem to the invalid like the ascent of the Alps, or like heaping Pelion upon Ossa. the partner of his joys, is so dispiriting, how much more oppressive is it to those little ones who are by nature allied to gladness. Childhood, whose richest heritage is its innocent joy, must hush its sportive laugh, and repress its merry footstep, as if its plays were sins. Or if the diseased nerves of the mother do not habitually impose such sacrifices, it learns, from nature's promptings, to fashion its manners, or its voice, or its countenance, after the melancholy model of the sufferer whom it loves, and so forfeits its beautiful heritage of young delight. Those sicknesses to which the most robust are subject, by giving exercise to self-denial and offices of sympa thy, from all the members of a household, are doubtless often blessed as means of improvement, and the messengers which draw more closely the bonds of true affection. But it must be sufficiently obvious, that I allude to that want of constitutional vigor, or of that confirm ed feebleness of habit, which either create inability for those duties which in most parts of our country devolve upon a wife, a mother, and the mistress of a family, or else cause them to be discharged in languor and wretchedness. And I speak of them, that the attention of those who conduct the earliest physical education of females, may be quickened to search how an evil of such magnitude may be obviated. Mothers, is there any thing we can do to acquire for our daughters, a good constitution? Is there truth in the sentiment sometimes expressed, that our sex are becoming more and more effeminate? Are we as capable of enduring fatigue as were our grand-mothers? Are we as well versed in the details of housekeeping, as able to bear them without inconvenience, as our mothers? Have our daughters as much stamina of Admitting that a sickly woman has sufficient self control to repel the intrusion of fretfulness, and preserve a subdued equanimity, this, though certainly deserving of praise, is falling short of what she should wish to attain. The meek look of resignation, though it may cost her much to maintain, is not all that a hus-constitution, as much aptitude for domestic duty, as we band wishes, who, coming from the vexed atmosphere of business or ambition, would fain find in his home the smile of cheerfulness, the playful charm of a mind at ease. ourselves possess? These questions are not interesting to us simply as individuals. They affect the welfare of the community. For the ability or inability of woman to discharge what the Almighty has committed to her, touches the equilibrium of society, and the hidden springs of existence. Tenderly interested as we are for the health of our offspring, let us devote peculiar attention to that of our daughters. Their delicate frames require more care in order to become vigorous, and are in more danger from the prevalence of fashion. I plead for the little girl, that she may have air and exercise, as well as her brother, and that she may not Men, prize more than our sex are always aware, the health-beaming countenance, the elastic step, and all those demonstrations of domestic order, in which unbroken activity delights. They love to see a woman equal to her own duties, and performing them with pleasure. They do not like to have the principal theme of domestic conversation a detail of physical ills, or to be expected to question, like a physician, into the variety of symptoms which have supervened since their departure. | be too much blamed, if in her earnest play she happen Or if this may be occasionally done, with a good grace, where ill-health is supposed to be temporary, yet the saddening effects of an enfeebled constitution, cannot always be resisted by him who expected to find in a wife a "yoke-fellow," able to endure the rough roads and sharp ascents of life. A nature possessing great capacities of sympathy and tenderness, may doubtless be softened by the exercise of those capacities. Still, the good gained, is only from the patient, perhaps the christian endurance of a disappointment. But where those capacities do not exist, and where religious principle is absent, the perpetual influence of a sickly and mournful wife, is as a blight on those prospects which allure to matrimony. Folly, moroseness, and lapses into vice, may be often traced to those causes which robe home in gloom. to tear or soil her apparel. I plead that she be not punished as a romp, if she keenly enjoy those active sports which city gentility proscribes. I plead that the ambition to make her accomplished, do not chain her to the piano, till the spinal column, which should consolidate the frame, starts aside like a broken reed ;— nor bow her over her book, till the vital energy which ought to pervade the whole frame, mounts into the brain, and kindles the death-fever. Surely we ought to acquaint ourselves with the outlines of the mechanism of this our clay-temple, that we interfere not, through ignorance, with those laws on which its organization depends. Rendered precious, by being the shrine of an undying spirit, our ministrations for its well-being assume an almost fearful importance. Appointed, as the mother is, to guard If to a father the influence of continual ill-health in the harmony of its architecture, to study the arts on which its symmetry depends, she is forced to perceive how much the mind is affected by the circumstances of its lodgment, and is incited to cherish the mortal for the sake of the immortal. Does she attach value to the germs of intellect? Let her see that the casket which contains them, be not lightly endangered or carelessly broken. Does she pray for the welfare of the soul? Let her seek the good of its companion, who walks with it to the gates of the grave, and rushes again to its embrace on the morning of the resurrection. upon her vitals? We know that it is so. Who, that has Those who educate the young, should be ever awake Let us educate a race who shall have room to breathe. Let us promise, even in their cradle, that their hearts shall not be pinioned as in a vice, nor their spines bent like a bow, nor their ribs forced into the liver. Doubtless, the husbands and fathers of the next generation will give us thanks. Let us leave no place in the minds of those whom we educate, for the lunatic sentiment, that the mind's healthful action, and the integrity of the organs on which it operates, are secondary to the vanities of external decoration. If they have received from their Creator a sound mind in a sound body, teach them that they are accountable to Him for both. If they deliberately permit injury to either, how shall they an It is not sufficient that we, mothers, protect our younger daughters, while immediately under our authority, from such hurtful practices. We should follow them until a principle is formed by which they can protect themselves from the tyranny of fashion. It is true, that no young lady acknowledges herself to be laced too tight. Habits that shun the light, and shelter themselves under subterfuge, are ever the most difficult to eradicate. A part of the energy which is essential to their reformation, must be expended in hunting them from their hiding-places, Though the sufferer from tight-lacing, may not own herself to be uncomfortable, the laborious respiration, the constrained movement, perhaps the curved spine, bring different testimony. But in these days of diffused knowledge, of heightened education, is it possible that any female can put in jeopardy the enjoyment of health, even the duration of existence, for a circumstance of dress? Will she throw an illusion over those who try to save her? and like the Spartan culprit, conceal the destroyer that feeds But how shall the mother answer it, in whose hand the soul of her child was laid, as a waxen tablet, if she suffer fashion to cover it with fantastic images, and folly to puff out her feverish breath, melting the lines that wisdom pencilled there, till what heaven would fain have polished for itself, loses the fair impression, and becomes like common earth. Hartford, Conn. TO A FRIEND AT PARTING. We part--perhaps to meet no more; Through distant lands and stranger climes Yet shall our hearts, like cadenced rhymes- Persuading us with siren strain, But should such hopes delusive prove, To A link in friendship's holy chain, F. G. |