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cheerful invitation to a drive into the country. Her vanity was not proof against an opportunity to display her beauty to such advantage, with a proud pair of bays and an elegant chariot of the latest fashion. And then, as her eye glanced at the noble figure of her husband, for a moment her hatred would soften. His attentions seemed to be agreeable, and for an afternoon she would bestow on him the sunlight of smiles, and kind words. He, in a moment, forgot the past, and one gentle word from her atoned for weeks of unkindness. And yet it proved no more lasting than the dews of morning. No one can tell the anguish of his disappointment on these occasions, and yet he bore it like a martyr.

At one time he prepared a surprise for her which he trusted would prove agreeable to her. Without consulting her he brought home an elegant guitar, of the richest tone and costliest make, and as she swept its nicely-modulated strings, the harmony of the instrument, giving richness to her own and her husband's voice, acted as a charm. The evil spirit fied and the grateful wife rushed into her husband's arms. And he, happy by the unlooked for exhibition, abandoned himself to glorious visions of future joy. But the evil spirit returned, and with an aching heart he gave up hope.

Ilope is our morning-star, and rarely does it cease to shed light on the path of an earthly pilgrim. It may seem gone forever, but again it unveils its face, and beckons the pilgrim on to the land of Beulah. So Anne's husband found it. Again he essayed to conquer her perverse cruelty. Now he would place on her shoulders a magnificent shawl or mantilla, and again present her a beautiful satin dress, and at another time costly jewels. But now her willful disposition took another turn, and she reproached him for his lavish expenditures. “ He was a spendthrift and would be a beggar. Did he expect to foot his encrmous bills with her money?"

Do what he would, it was not pleasing to her. Did he make her splendid presents ? Then he was a spendthrift prodigal. Did he suffer a few weeks to elapse without some costly present ? Then he was cruel, and was breaking her heart by neglect. Did he lavish attention altogether on her when in general company


She berated him as always dangling at her apron-strings, like a mere puppet, instead of acting the part of a well-bred man.

Did he bestow his attentions as a gentleman on others whom he met in society? Then he was a base-hearted man, who had married her from the most selfish motives, and now that she was in his power he was resolved to kill her by studied contempt. At one time she would assume the attitude of a martyr, and weep in silence in the presence of her family and friends, and at another time ply him with the keenest reproaches.

By degrees the truth began to be known, how unhappy were the ill-mated pair, and friends took sides. Some knew he was a monster, or such an angel would not be so miserable with him. Among these were the most of her rejected lovers, especially Mr. Gripe. Others said she was the sole cause of the trouble. He was a noble fellow, who would pluck out bis tongue rather than make Anne unhappy. Of course these parties by action and sometimes by word would interfere, and the consequence was that the difficulty grew no better, but

That it was a great calamity is obvious, and none the less so because the husband was the object of such merciless persecution from the wife. It is a cruel casualty which places a woman in the power of a wicked man, but it is no less intolerable when the woman becomes the aggressor. From her relations to the husband, she is possessed of a thousand avenues of pain and annoyance, and if she will she can martyrize him. All husbands, who are wedded to Xantippe, cannot play the part of Socrates, who no doubt found it more easy to be pleasant as his spouse flung slops on his head from an upper window, than when she plied hiin at home with all the ingenious tortures which a shrew only knows. And observation has convinced me, that the immortal Shakspeare must have fell on some magnificent exception to the general rule, when he made the shrew-iamer say so boldly :


For I tell you, father, I am as peremptory as she is proud-minded ; And when two raging fires meet together, They do consume the thing which feeds their fory: Though little fire grows great with little wind, Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all, And so I 10 her, and so she yields to me; For I am rough and woo not like a bale."

There may be an occasional incident in real life proving that the shrew's repentance is not hopeless, and yet facts prove it to be quite improbable. When such an instance does occur,



the happy man who effects it may rightly be addressed as in Shakspeare :

Now go thy ways, for thou hast tamed a curst shrew;"


and yet the truth will always be hit admirably by the reply to that remark:

"'Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tamed so."

It is easy to say what one would and could do with such a woman, but on trial every one finds himself at his wit's end, just as Anne's husband did, and every avenue to happiness hedged up. At this very point I cannot forbear remarking, that observation has convinced me, lies a cause of much dissipation. Home is purgatory, and in the choice of evils, not unfrequently the bowl is resorted to. And then woe, woe to both parties, for truly “ the two raging fires meet together.” Man's passion, kindled into a fierce heat by strong drink, meets woman's passion, burning like a furnace with fancied and real wrongs. The weaker must perish, and perhaps both.

In the case I am now describing, the husband was too high-minded to resort to the bowl, and too proud to confide his wretchedness to any friend. He buried in his own breast his agony, and there, like an ulcer unlanced, it burrowed and festered, tiil the man was prepared for any desperate measure. His mind was unfitted for business, and this, with his enormous expenditures to please his wife, had reduced him to the brink of bankruptcy. Despair was fast settling about him, and, as is common, some pitied him as a heart-broken man, while others“

wagged their heads” and whispered that here was the paragon of conjugal tyranny. Time only made his condition more intolerable, and he was a stranger to those high motives of religion, which bid a man suffer joyfully, if he be innocent. The fear of God was not before his eyes, and such a man driven to desperation is prepared for anything. Like a ship unhelmed in a tempest, he is at the mercy of the winds, and is a fit victim for the breakers.

One particular week had been the witness to repeated outbreaks on the part of Anne, which he bore without a rebuke, and yet ruin,“ hungry ruin," was staring the proud man in the face. And he would have met the loss of all his property without a sign, if he could be happy at home. Things were at this crisis, when, ai breakfast one morning, Anne announced to him her ntention to return to her mother'e house. “ She

had suffered his tyranny and niggardliness too long, and she had enough to live on. She would home and seck a little of that happiness she once enjoyed, before it was her hard fate to cross the path of such a wretch !"

He seemed literally crushed by the announcement, and at last found words to expostulate with her mildly. But she, who had learned to be willful from childhood and in everything, would not forbear now, when the man she hated plead with her. It only seemed to make her more vehement and determined. With a strong effort at self-control he replied: “ Anne, if I have wronged you in any way,

1 beg forgiveness. I have loved you, and the brightest dream of my life has been to make you happy. In this I have failed, and God knows how to apportion the blame. Oh, Anne! to be hated by my wife, and to be crushed by that hatred and fast coming bankruptcy, this is my lot ! Perhaps I deserve it. I do not complain, nor shall my wishes any longer stand in the way of your happiness.”

The unhappy man left the room, and in a few minutes the guilty wife was roused by the report of a pistol. She hurried to her sleeping apartment, and what a scene met her gaze! Her husband lay stretched on the floor, and by his side the murderous weapon with which he had ended his existence. Her shrieks filled the house. She had not looked for such a tragic divorce, and now that the hand of self-violence had done the act, conscience arraigned her, and condemned her. Hundreds ran together, and not the least dreadful item of the scene was her cry, “I have killed him! Husband, dear George, speak to me once more! forgive me!" And then succeeded fainting fits which threatened life itself. It is needless to dwell on the heart-rending picture of distress.

Had the father been there, would he have thought of the misdeed of his youth, and of retributive justice even in this world ? His daughter lived, but scarcely less to be pitied than the mangled victim her unnatural perverseness had driven to the desperate resort of self-destruction.

The remains of the suicide were committed to the earth, and the wife, ever the creature of impulse, bewailed him loudly, not because she was changed, but because conscience was her

In due time she returned to her mother's house, and if her actions were the proper index to her feelings, when the first




burst of grief had spent itself, she felt herself, on the whole, relieved of an irksome companionship. The final tragedy itself, now that it was passed, did but give zest to her present enjoyments. But these were of short endurance, and a living witness was to be placed in her own arms, in the form of a posthumous son. For the first time real agony began its office-work. Here was the son of a father who had been driven to suicide by her cruelty, and the son was a miniature of his father. She could not look at him without recalling the past, with its sins, and I fear that in her heart she wished him dead. At first she regarded her child with horror, and could not endure him in her presence, but her mother would not suffer such an unnatural wrong to be inflicted on the innocent child. And while she held that beautiful boy in her arms, remorse for the past began truly. The greatness of her sin haunted her, and yet she was too froward to repent of it.

No one can tell the horrid thoughts she revolved in her heart during that distressing period, and some of them in her more desperate moments pointed to the little creature who imaged forth his wronged and self-murdered father.

In due time her heart bowed as to a resistless agency, and she repented. Oh, that she could make reparation to the dead! but that is impossible. She was led to fly to a Saviour, as a guilty and ruined sinner. “ Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out,” is the promise of Jesus Christ, and this great sinner found it true. The past had its terrors to her still, and yet she hoped it was forgiven. With this came a change towards her child. She now loved him, and surely the sun scarcely could look on a fairer, nobler boy than he. He grew fairer and nobler every day, and the mother's new affection grew into a passion. She would atone to the father by love to his

This, added to the natural love of a mother, made her affections expend their entire power on this object. The luxury of true love hitherto had been a stranger to her selfish heart, and now she seemed like one absorbed in a pleasant dream. Had one seen this assiduous, meek, loving woman caring for her boy, and training him with such success that all admired and loved him, he could hardly have convinced himself that this was the perverse and froward Anne, the willful and the wicked wife,

whose husband, through her unkindness, was filling a suicide's grave.

One stroke more and I have done. That boy, so idolized, lived till he was six years old, and then he died. During his sickness every

feeling of the mother was alive with agony. She seemed insane, as she reproached her physician. “You shall make him well! I will not give him up! Here, sir, is money; give him back to me!" To her minister she was scarcely less reasonable. “ Could not he use the prayer of faith? Oh, Mr. Andrew, have pity on a broken-hearted mother, and give me back my boy! Oh God, I shall die !” And her wild feelings burst forth into passionate cries, and never had a more distressed scene been witnessed.

Had Anne been properly educated she would not have acted thus. Hitherto she had given good evidence of a changed heart, but now what could such rebellious and almost insane demonstrations mean? She had become inveterately willful, and could not bear to have her joys taken away. This blow came unexpected, and nature and education sprang on her when she was like a besieged city with its gates thrown open. But God knows what is good for his children, and chastens them for their profit. The scene I am describing is no fiction, and I record it simply as wonderful, leaving it to others to explain.

The mother's phrensy was unabated, and serious results were apprehended. For several days she hung over her dying boy, and he, with an intelligence far above his years, sought to comfort her. He seemed to know his situation, and spoke of his pleasure in prospect of heaven. Even for his mother he would not give up his hope of seeing Christ. The disease was hastening to its fatal issue, and the beautiful victim had fallen into a sleep. The mother was in despair, and her cries were heart-rending. Suddenly the child's face was lighted with a smile as though an angel had whispered something to him. He opened his eyes, which beamed with unearthly brightness, and fixed them on one corner of the room. At length, without moving his eyes, he spoke in a tone whose melody seemed borrowed from the heavenly world, so sweet, so entrancing was it:

Oh, mother, mother, mother! only look up there!” and he pointed his little finger upward.

The mother seemed subdued, as though a




visitant from the other world was addressing her.

Why, my child! I see nothing there,” she replied, in a mild tone.

The dying boy seemed so entranced with holy visions that his mother's voice was unheeded, and again he said, in tones of mingled awe and exultation

“Oh mother, mother, mother! look up there!" * What do you see, George ?” she asked.

"Oh mother, it is Jesus Christ, surrounded with such beautiful angels !"

For a moment he lay with his eye fixed on the same place, as though he were contemplating some animating scene, beyond our reach. Again he bid his mother “look up there," and again she asked him what he saw.

“ Oh mother, I see the good men you have so often told me of; Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob, and Moses, and Isaiah, and a great multitude of beautiful beings who look like men, and yet they are so beautiful, and look so happy!"

llad one been sent from the dead to speak to us, it could not have been more solemn, and this voice of her child almost glorified, recalled the rebellious mother to submit herself to God.

The little boy had lain there in wrapt admiration, when he again exclaimed, in the same subdued and heavenly tone

"Oh mother, mother, mother! look there again!"

His joy seemed to be an ecstacy, as though he now saw a company of congenial spirits.

George, my dear child, tell your mother what you see.”

“Oh mother! I see a great throng of little children, clothed like angels, looking happy : and I seem to hear them singing, as you once told me the children in Jerusalem did, · Hosanna to the Son of David !' Mother, such music! listen, it is sweeter than even you make!"

A moment more, the child turned his eyes to his mother, all radiant with love, and bade her cease weeping He would be happy, and in heaven they would meet again. Before the day broke, the spirit of George had joined the throng which he had seen. It was enough. God had brought even Anne to say, “ Father, thy will be done !” Henceforth it was her business to prepare for heaven. Her most precions earthly treasure was in heaven. Amiction had done its office-work well, and when it was complete, comparing her present prospects with her former wickedness, she could say with truth and sincerity, He hath done all things well. The words of Paul seemed significant, “ Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth.”



The commencement of eighteen hundred and was held on one of those beautiful days which visit us at the close of summer. We have always at this season a few such days, and every lover of Nature will note them. The heat of the season is past, and the works of Nature have reached their maturity and perfection, and all seems hushed into perfect peace and quietness, as if she had completed her task and stooped to survey and enjoy for a brief mo. ment before she sunk into the decay of autumn. Every leaf is in its richest green, and the summer flowers are in full bloom, and the green

vines trail over the fences of the meadows by the river, or hang on the dry tree and ware the soft summer breeze, and the breath of the sweet-briar steals through the casement, and the boy still finds the wild rose where the cows have wandered for shade; yet there is a change, though slight, yet perceptiblc--you cannot describe it, for the air is as warm, and the grass as green, and the sky as blue, and all as fresh and fair as if this world were to remain an Eden, unvisited by blight, desolation and death. But a shadow falls upon your spirit, and surely there is a little dimming of the brightness of




midsummer. The chirrup of the grasshopper is louder, and there is a soft sighing in the sunset wind. A melancholy soothes, not oppresses you, and dreams of a former state seem to return to you. You sit on the shaded door-step, or under the new-made hay, and muse over the past and foreshadow the future. You wonder if there were such days before sin and death entered the world; if then the perfection of beauty brought the deeper sense of decay; and as you think of the glory and brightness of heaven, you seem to feel that the heart would long for clouds and shadows there. Such days are the days to wander in the old burial places, among the tall mullens and the Michaelmas daisies, and to try to spell out the moss-covered names on the grave-stones. The very air seems in its hush and stillness to breathe oblivion, and you feel almost willing to be forgotten.

But it was a gay and bustling day at New Haven, and her streets were thronged with citizens and strangers. There were the faculty, and the students, and the alumni of the college ; much of the law, more of the divinity of the state ; societies, civil and military oflicers, processions of black coats, and a fair proportion of fluttering ribbons and floating capes. At the hour appointed the large meeting-house was crowded, and colloquies, and orations, and disputations in languages learned were listened to by ears learned and unlearned. The youth and fine personal appearance of the student gave added charm to the valedictory, always acceptable, both as the conclusion of the exercises and as being in a language understood by the audience. The young valedictorian looked like one who would not quail should he be met with frowns or hisses, yet the husbed attention, the approving glance, and the breathless silence were testimonials of his power not unheeded, and as at the conclusion of the address he cast his eyes around those erowded pews, and raised them to the sea of faces in the galleries, a deep flush of pride and pleasure tinged his cheek. But that last glance revealed to him more than the mere crowd. He met his father's look of mingled love and pride; he saw the tear in his mother's eye, the smile on his sister's lip. He glanced further and he saw a form half hidden by a pillar, a face downcast and alf averted, bu caught a glance from a deep blue eye that sent a deeper thrill than the applause of the multi

tude. Yet at that moment he forgot not that other eyes were upon him—the young girl saw in all that crowd him alone.

Annie Clarke had lingered near the window which commanded a view of the college until the last ray of sunset had faded away and the deepening twilight had bean followed by the shades of evening. Then she had trimmed her lamp and through the shutters watched the evening-star, until she had seen a glorious galaxy follow her and ascend far above her. Groups of young girls, with their friends and lovers, passed and repassed. The young men held their large straw hats in their hands to cool the fevered brow after the heat and excitement of the day; and the loose, light scarfs of the girls fell back from their fair necks. Gentle tones or merry voices reached her ears, but still she was alone. A shadow of disappointment and sorrow fell upon the fair brow of the young girl, and a tear dimmed her eye as the nine o'clock bell struck her ear and she took a lamp to retire. A footstep arrested her, and in a moment the young graduate was by her side.

" It is very late ; I know it, but I could not get away before, and even now I can stay but one moment, for my mother and sister are waiting for me. But I must come, Annie, though but for one minute and only to say good-bye-for we leave to-morrow in the six o'clock boat."

“ To-morrow morning ?" echoed Annie, and her cheek lost the glow his appearance had given it ; “nol lo-morrow ?"

Yes, dearest. My father has made all his arrangements, and I must submit to them. I must go," said he, hastily pacing the room.

Yes,” said Annie, breathing more freely, but sighing deeply, “ certainly, if your parents wish it."

“ It is very sudden,” said the young man. more gaily, “but I don't think I should be more willing to leave you if I had a week longer to think of it. Yet I had many things to say ; but I can write them, Annie, and you will write to me. I will arrange it all. Now, mon petite, here is something to remind you of me," and he placed a miniature-case in her hands; and don't let the black-coats steal you. You would make such a nice minister's wife that I cannot help feeling dreadfully jealous. Annie, I shall study hard to be worthy of you, and in a few years I hope to claim you. You will not forget me!"



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