that the beam of their pure lives should extend beyond the very narrow limit of their mortal

career.

The brilliant examples of those eminent men and women, whose biographies are trumpeted through the world, are not adapted to the every day's wants of a medium condition. What have the wives of our American citizens, or those of our village artizans and country farmers, in common with Madame de Stael, Madame de Genlis, the mistresses of Louis Fourteenth, or even the "eminent women of England?"

Our home productions are better suited for our home market, and we believe there are women in our towns and villages whose domestic, unconscious virtues, not elicited or set off by uncommon circumstances, would be far more edifying to the million than the blazonry of great real names, or the possible perfection of imaginary characters. But the true story must be told, and this remains to be done by some master hand. Our humbler task is to record a few traits in the characters of two of our village maidens who have fallen with the falling year.

Harriet Gale was known among her own set as a quiet, kind-hearted, industrious girl, who performed her duties well and said nothing about them. They were to her the allotted work of life and she did them cheerfully, without any apparent thought of difficulty in the task or merit in its accomplishment. Two or three years since she was invited to live with a sister who was well established somewhere in the vast West.

She found a happy and exciting home there and was delighted with her improved condition. It must be confessed that our emigrants from New England, in their earnest struggle for the good things of this life, sometimes forget the commandment, "Honor thy father and thy mother." Their thoughts are on their fair fresh fields, standing thick with corn, and they do not, like Joseph, remember the old man whom they may have left straitened at home. Our friend Harriet did remember him. Her father is aged, and hearing that her presence and filial ministry were becoming important to him, she did not hesitate for a moment to sacrifice her agreeable position to his comfort and, "true to the kindred points of Heaven and home," she returned to him.

There is too little sympathy between youth and age; it is difficult to make activity and repose harmonize. The stream of love and care, sacrifice and benefaction, naturally runs down from parent to child, and to this order of nature the parent's love is generally adequate. But when, as sometimes toward the close of life, the stream is to be turned and the child is to minister to the parent, the exigence requires an extraordinary virtue in both. The child's mid-day must be somewhat

Father is always kind and always cheerfulhe never lets anything worry him, come what will, and he has had enough to make other men disappointed and fractious-poor old man! I am afraid he will miss me! I said to him this morning, father, I dont know who will keep your accounts and mend your pens when I am gone." "He did not answer me. He could not; but he will give up. I know he will-he is used to it!" Here was no exaggeration of her importance---no selfish or egotistic fear that she should be forgotten.

Harriet had a step-mother, a name that is for the most part a signal for the revolt of the affections--a relation that enlists all the mean jealousies, selfishnesses and asperities that beset domestic life, and in truth is so involved in difficulties that few seem to think it worth while to struggle against its tendencies.

It seems," said Miss Gale to me, with a sweet smile, "when mother (her step-mother) comes into that door as if an angel entered my room." She has made this room seem to me like the gates of Paradise. I have many kind hands to smooth my pillow, but there is no hand like mother's!"

I would abstain from published praise of living worth, but I cannot forbear saying that there must have been an equal fidelity in both parties to make this happiness. God's servants are the only true alchymists they alone turn the baser metals to gold.

There are few of the relations of life that produce the happiness of which He who "set the solitary in families" has made them capable. How many barren or half tilled fields are there in domestic life. We cease to wonder at the abuses of the conjugal relation-that relation most beset with difficulties and most liable to abuse-when we see parents and children, brothers and sisters, fail to reap the golden harvest of which their Heavenly Father has sown their fields at broad cast.

I saw Harriet Gale when she was fast sinking away with consumption. She was so cheerful and manifested so hearty an interest in all the village concerns, that I took it for granted that, like many persons in that disease, she was deluded as to its progress, and I was taken by surprise when our kind village dress-maker having sent her word she was prevented coming to watch with her, by some fancy dresses which must be finished for a fancy ball to be given on the next evening, (the 4th of July,) she said, "Well, I don't envy them; death

looks pleasanter to me than life ever did. I have enjoyed living too!" she added, with a sweet smile.

How few there are who on such an occasion would not have indulged in some lamentation over the frivolity of the world, in which, alas! for poor human nature, a drop of pharasaical self-complacency would have mingled. Harriet Gale's pure spirit was like those healthy atmospheres that disinfect whatever they embrace.

It was on the same eve of our festival of independence that, raising her feeble head and looking through the window at the stars, she said, "It is a clear night and I think we shall have a pleasant day to-morrow I hope so, for it is a pity to have so many people disappointed."

Such cheerful and gentle sympathies are rarely felt in the midst of suffering, (Miss Gale's was extreme at this time,) and they are therefore more impressive than strong and bold expressions of religious triumph.

She used no threadbare phrases to express her feelings, nor seemed for a moment to think there was anything unusual about them. Her face and tones were uniformly quiet and cheerful. She said to me with her habitual and never to be forgotten smile, "My happiest hours have been in this room!"

"But you have suffered here extremely," I replied.

"Yes," she answered, "but God is good, and if it were better that I should be removed with less suffering I certainly should be."

Harriet Gale had been from her early youth a member of the Methodist church, and her familiar friends looked upon her death but as the fitting conclusion to the Christian fidelity of her life.

Those strangers who were admitted to the privilege of seeing her in the last extremity, for the first time, saw how it was that the sting of death was taken away, and heard, mingling with her sweet tones, 'It is I-be not afraid.'

The Lord taketh pleasure in his people. will beautify the meek with salvation.'

He

It is but two Sundays since the body of another of these meek servants of their Lord was reverently borne into our beautiful little church and set down before the chancel, while her pastor interpreted the occasion to our hearts and held before us the instruction of her life and the consolation of her death.

She had endured a life-time of invalidism by bending like a reed before the relentless blast. For many years she had supported herself and contributed to the support of her family with her needle, and by doing, that worst paid of all labor, plain sewing. To" stitch, stitch, stitch," was the business of her life, and it was done with such

fidelity and completeness that her employers became her friends. She never brought reproach or self-reproach upon herself by unpunctuality. Her work when done was well done; so well that I believe it would be difficult to estimate the amount of comfort she has produced by her humble ministry. No seam of hers ripped, no button came off, no string was wanting. Thus a world of petty vexation was saved-a world of that chafing and fretting that makes up so much of the friction of life.

She was free from an infirmity very common among our people who, while they sell their services, soothe their pride, wounded by the implied inferiority, by telling you, with no thought of abating the money compensation but asking a little more than the thing is worth, that they will do it to oblige you. Thus to accomodate you' you are permitted to board in a family at the highest price going, you have the 'privilege' of hiring a horse or buying a turkey, or, purely to oblige you, your sewing is done. Our friend was quite above this sort of cant. She wanted employment and she was grateful for it, and so the relation between her and her employer had its reciprocal blessing.

She knew the value of her moderate gains. They secured to her independence and gave a comfortable aspect to her family. Some years ago the price of sewing in our village was considerably advanced and it was recommended to her to raise her prices. "No," she said, "I am quite satisfied with the provision my good God has made for me."

Her pale face and attenuated form told the story of her life of bodily suffering, but that pale face was lighted up with contentment, patience and cheerfulness, so that to her seemed already accomplished the promise to the faithful, They shall be like Him for they shall see Him as He is.' saw her Father in her God.

She

Not long before her death a subscription paper was offered to her for money to adorn our burialplace. She cheerfully rose on her bed and wrote her name for the last time, saying, "It is pleasant to me to think that I shall be laid to rest in that beautiful place."

Her life so gradually and gently faded away that neither she nor her friends were aware of the diminution of her light till it was nearly extinct. Then, when a loving and devoted sister told her she had not many hours to live, she asked to be left for a little while to herself. And when that sacred communion, which words could but imperfectly have interpreted, was over, she sang with a low but sustained voice a part of the hymn beginning

Could I but read my title clear

To mansions in the skies.

"How beautiful it is to die," she said, and while the words were passing from her lips her soul

realized its holy vision and passed from the dead body to eternal life.

So lived with swect patience and so died with sublime faith our village seamstress- Harriet Greenleaf.

"Around thy earthly tomb let roses rise, an everlasting Spring, in memory of that delightful fragrance which was once from thy mild manners quietly exhaled."

SKY-CANOPY bendeth

O'er weltering wave,
Where wild ocean lendeth
Sweet Mary a grave.
Sweet Mary, the fairest
Her village had seen,
Of blue eye the rarest,
Of spirit serene.

How light in the dance

Were her small bounding feet,
How bright was her glance,

And her laughter how sweet.

And her quick tears would glisten
Like dew-drops in June,

When wild-roses listen
The nightingale's tune.

Thus she lived in her beauty,
Unconscious the while,
And each sylvan duty
Fulfilled with a smile.
Gay, happy, and bright,

And content with her part,
Till grief brought a night
O'er the sun of her heart.
Young Edwin, the pride
Of the village I ween,
Had wooed for his bride,

The shepherdess queen.
When ripe grain shall brighten
In Autumn's warm gale,

Sweet Mary shall lighten
His home in the vale.
As dread-bolt that falleth
When sunshine is high,
As spectre appalleth,
When revels are nigh,

So sorrow fell sore

On the fair village maid,
And on her heart's core
Unpitying preyed.
For Edwin's foes uttered
The accents of shame,
And evil tongues muttered
A blight on his name.
And darkly were riven
The loved ties of youth,
And forth was he driven
To exile and ruth.
But evil could never

Sweet Mary's love chill,
She trusted him ever,
She clung to him still.
Yet cruel hands tore him
From sad Mary's side,

And winds and waves bore him
Away from his bride!

But vainly they're parted!
Yon land of despair,
The maiden true-hearted
Will follow him there.
Forth, forth from her home,
O'er the wastes of the sea,
Where the wild billows foam

In their desolate glee,

Or welcome waves surging,
Gales bending the mast;
The good ship is urging,
Her way through the blast
Soon love shall be wreathing
Its garland of rest,

The mournful heart breathing
New life on her breast.

Alas! on mid-ocean,

All borne from afar,
By the blue waters' motion,
Float timber and spar.
Captain and vessel's crew,
Crowd upon deck,
Gazing with saddened view
Out on the wreck.

Mary with shrinking gaze
Questions each token,
Brightly a sunbeam plays--
Hope's chain is broken!

The waves have closed o'er him!
There floateth the name

Of the vessel that bore him
To exile and shame.

She readeth the letters,

She sees that the deep Hath broken his fetters,

And lulled him to sleep. What is there left to thee

Under the sun,

Thy sole hope now reft from thee,
Desolate one?

Turn thy fair brow aside,
Close now thy blue eyes,
Gently shalt thou abide,
Where lost thy love lies!
Curling waves veil thee
Thy slumbers above,
Shrill winds bewail thee

And tell of thy love.
'Mid green hills far hidden,
The home of thy youth
Shall cherish unbidden
The tale of thy truth.
As fountain o'ershaded
By envious cloud,
Its sparkling life faded,
Seems lost in a shroud,
Till parting clouds sever,
And 'neath the sun's beam
As brightly as ever

The pure waters gleam;
So dark shadows vanished
From Edwin's good name,
And unto the banished
Gave back the fair fame.

But gleamings of sunshine,
And joy's pleasant sound,
The spell can ne'er untwine

That Death's hand hath wound.

The white foam is cresting
The far ocean waves,
The lovers are resting
Asleep in its caves.

IT is a mistaken idea that the guilty ever escape punishment in this world. They are punished here as well as hereafter. The outward gilding of wealth and prosperity may impose on the rest of mankind, but in the dark closet which every man carries within his bosom, the spectres of remorse and fear work in the silence of night like sheeted ghosts, unseen except by him to whom their special mission is directed, shrieking in the ear and pointing the skinny finger of scorn or denunciation. The guilty live in perpetual fear and a life of fear is a life of misery. What though their crime had no witness but the eye of Omnipotence, which penetrates the inscrutable obscurity of midnight darkness-what though years of impunity may have stilled the voice of conscience, blunted the sting of remorse and rendered detection every day more improbable, still there exists one who knows it all, and that one is omnipotent. He can at any time draw the secret crime from the bottom of the deep, and when least expected unfold the dark mystery that has so long been hidden from the eyes of men. There is a dread consciousness of this power haunting the imagination of guilt and preying on its vitals. To the eye of the world it may seem prosperous and happy. It may acquire wealth and honors, it may be possessed of the very fullness of outward prosperity; but there is a worm in the bud; a disease of the heart lurking unseen by mortal eyes, unknown and unsuspected except by the guilty wretch and Him who sees and knows all things. In this world we see nothing but the outside; we cannot unfold the secrets of the hearts of others and enter into those dread mysteries which baffle human investigation. Hence it is, that we are beyond doubt perpetually making erroneous estimates of human enjoyment and not unfrequently becoming guilty of the presumption of questioning the justice of Heaven for having apparently made such a strange, unequal distribution of happiness in this world. Nothing but the recognition of a future state of reward and punishment, it would seem, could have possibly reconciled the superficial view we have of those secrets with the attributes of the Supreme Being. The following tale, founded on fact, will illustrate this brief introduction :

More than forty years ago a traveller, journeying in haste and on an occasion of great interest,

found himself one Summer evening, himself and his horse equally weary, coursing slowly along the bank of a river by a pad equally solitary and wild. On the side he travelled the country was rough, rocky and barren, without a habitation for many miles; while the opposite shore exhibited a succession of cultivated fields, beautifully variegated with waving woods and farm-houses, almost aspiring to the dignity of gentlemen's seats. One at a distance especially caught his attention as exhibiting evidences of superior taste, in the arrangement of the grounds and the architecture of the building, which was much more extensive than any other within sight.

The night came on apace and with it increasing darkness, caused by a vast mass of gathering clouds that ever and anon were lighted up by flashes of lightning too distant to illuminate the obscurity of his way. As he proceeded on slowly and wearily, the thunder, muttering afar off in whispered murmurings, foreboded a coming storm, and the traveller pricked his worn-out steed to quicker motion in vain, for he was quite tired out. Bye and bye, a black, condensed cloud, with ragged edges, suddenly appeared above the high hills that ranged along the river, about two miles from its banks, chequered at almost every moment by zig-zag lightning that leaped athwart its gloomy face, and that freezing pause of nature which so frequently immediately precedes the tempest and the rain, announced its speedy coming.

The traveller gazed anxiously around, but the incessant flashes disclosed no place of refuge as he plodded along slowly and still more slowly, close to the margin of the river. At length, turning a point of land, he was enabled to perceive by the aid of a bright flash of lightning, whose radiance seemed to linger for almost half a minute in the pitchy sky, a little cove skirted by a border of white sand, in the centre of which he thought he perceived a building of some kind or other. Descending the bank, which was low and skirted with water willows, he peered anxiously around, and, by the aid of another flash, discovered a rude fishing-house, which had been hastily put up for the shad season but was now abandoned. He could hear the roaring of the storm across the river, which was nearly a quarter of a mile wide, and there was no time to be lost nor any other

shelter nigh. The door had been broken down and the traveller, warned by the drops of rain that heralded the coming torrent, without asking leave or knocking for admission, entered the hut, leading his horse after him. He presently discovered that the floor was carpeted with straw, and groping about lighted on a rude sort of bedstead, formed of rough boards, containing a bed of straw without any ticking. The wind whistled or rather shrieked along the solitary shore, the waves dashed in quick succession on the pebbly sand, the rain fell in torrents, the thunder pealed incessantly and the sky seemed one sheet of living fire. After a while the traveller, finding himself weary, unsaddled his steed, placed the saddle at the head of his bed for a pillow and instead of lamenting his hard fate or uttering peevish complaints, thanked Heaven for a dry skin, and speedily sank into a profound sleep, the blessing of a quiet conscience and a wearied frame.

He slept for several hours, and in all probability would not have waked till morning had not his horse, which was equally tired, hungry and above all athirst, at length taken a fancy to step out of the hut to the river side, where he regaled himself with a temperance draught and signalized his contentment by a long, loud, shrill neigh, which roused his master, who jumped up, wide awake to see what was the matter. He found the scene totally changed. The storm had passed away and a night of surpassing beauty had succeeded. The moon, almost as round as young Norval's shield, was a little declining toward the Western horizon of stately hills, giving lustre to the lonely scene and silvering the quiet woods and equally quiet waves. Nothing seemed to live, to move or have a being on earth but himself and his horse. In such an hour and such a scene if a man has any latent spark of poetical temperament in his mind it will, peradventure, be awakened to light and life; and our traveller, after gazing awhile at the enchanting harmonies of nature spread out before him, became gradually bewildered in the mazes of memory or imagination. For awhile he became insensible to the realities before him which had awakened his latent enthusiasm, and their place was supplied by a train of feelings, a succession of airy sprites of memory or hope, that danced before like the moonbeams on the rippling waters, whose agitation had subsided into a waveless mirror, unruffled by a single zephyr, though not motionless, as appeared from the trembling of the moonbeams as they sported on the surface.

As the traveller thus stood in a state of luxurious abstraction, forgetting himself, his hunger, and his pressing errand which called for his utmost exertion of speed, his attention was accidentally attracted by a boat which shot out suddenly from behind a high projecting point on the opposite

shore, a little higher up the river, whose dark brow, covered with hemlocks and pines, contrasted gloomily with the shining river. As he watched the little white boat, which passed noiselessly yet rapidly toward the middle of the river, he could perceive that it contained only two persons, one plying a pair of oars, the other sitting at the stern. All on a sudden it stopped. The man in the stern-for he could see it was a man-rose and approached him at the oars-the traveller heard a single wild, shrill shriek-a single dull, heavy plunge, and all was still on earth, in the waters beneath and the heavens above. The boatman at the instant resumed his oars, and the boat, now carrying but one person, darted rapidly behind the high wooded bluff and disappeared, but not before the traveller had involuntarily cried out " The All-seeing-Eye is upon you."

more,

All was again quiet and still, and the scene was as lovely as ever. But the traveller relished it no and all his visions fled before the stern reality which had just passed before him. He did not doubt for a moment that some horrible crime had been thus perpetrated in the silence of night, of which he alone was a witness, and his first determination was to stay his journey, cross the river in the morning and enter on an investigation of this mysterious midnight outrage. Waiting impatiently for the dawn, he mounted his horse and proceeded onward as speedily as the hungry, jaded animal could travel.

He had not ridden more than three miles at farthest before he came to a rustic inn, at which he was glad to put up for the purpose of resting and refreshing man and beast. Here, while awaiting breakfast, he reflected deeply on the scene he had beheld the preceding night and the course it best became him to pursue. He recollected that he was a stranger and with neither time to loiter on his way, nor money to expend in the punishment of the guilty. He had not been able to distinguish the air or features of the person who rowed the boat; he only knew it was a man and was sensible he never could identify him. It was possible that by patient inquiry and investigation a chain of circumstances might lead to the detection of the criminal, but this would be a work of time, and his time was precious, for he was hastening to the bedside of a dying parent. Accordingly, after refreshing himself and his horse, and making some inquiries of the landlord respecting the occupant of the fine house he had seen the evening before on the opposite side of the river, he proceeded on his journey, without detailing to the landlord or any one of his family the events of the preceding night lest it might cause a detention, leaving the supposed murderer to the vengeance of Heaven. If under these circumstances our traveller requires any justification, it may be here stated that he