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neration and that of him the most beloved, and any such trivial cause-and it is from trivial let her only fear lest she improve it not to the causes that most differences arise-are easily uttermost. The ten talents have been entrusted dispelled by a few words; but as many drops to her, and "to whom much is given, from him of water make an ocean, accumulations of trifles much shall be required." Perhaps she is aware raise up insurmountable barriers between once of this-perhaps she feels already how easy it is united hearts. The beau ideal of the confidence for the happy to be virtuous-how easy it is for of love has been beautifully described as thinking the grateful to obey-and how sweet it is for aloud in the presence of another; assuredly if loving hearts and hands to labour together in such a practice were universally adopted, tragetheir Master's vineyard. Perhaps her only fear dians and novelists would have little matter for is that she herself may fail-that even her affec- their pens, and unhappy marriages would certion may not endure, and she follow the exam-tainly be very rare. It is perhaps unavoidable that, in the varied affairs of life, two individuals so closely associated must in some instances run counter to each other's views, or mutually misunderstand each other's conduct. In such cases, often from good, but mistaken motives, a total silence as to the offence or misunderstanding is preserved; but how much better for both parties, in reality how much kinder to each other, would be a perfect frankness !

ple of too many of her companions. If she trust to herself, she does well to fear. Let her rather for then only will she be safe-let her rather confide humbly in a Higher Helper, at the same time herself using her utmost endeavours to preserve unbroken the serenity of her domestic life-watching as well as praying. Even in every-day life, by the homely fireside, there are immutable principles which should guide our doings. Were we now by that maiden's side, thus we should advise her. If she wish to escape domestic discontent, and keep undiminished the happiness of the morning of her love, three things more especially are essential. In the first place, a perfect sympathy should exist between herself and her husband. Perhaps some habits may differ, or some of their tastes be opposed; but if they cannot generally think and feel in unison, their choice is not a happy one. Yet few ever think of this. How many hands and fortunes are united, while their owners have hardly a sentiment or impulse in common! Love cannot exist without sympathy; hence, rightly speaking, these never loved. They deceived themselves. A passing admiration perhaps impressed their fancy, or a vivid imagination agitated their hearts; and either of these feelings may for a time assume entirely the appearance of love. They were too precipitate deceived by these transient emotions, they approached the altar as ignorant of each other's real character as they were on the day when they first met. They may admire, or perhaps esteem each other sincerely; they may be agreeable companions, or even good friends, and all will go on smoothly for a time; but their Love will only have a Dawn, and its decline will be very rapid. In the first place, it is then absolutely essential for the preservation of love that a perfect sympathy exist between lovers; and in the second place, for the conservation of domestic peace, it is as essential that a perfect confidence subsist between husband and wife. Should sympathy be wanting, confidence is the only thing at all capable of supplying its place; and should sympathy exist, it can effect very little without the companionship of confidence. What does it avail that two hearts beat in unison, and are filled with the same thoughts and sentiments, if those thoughts and senti-culated to preserve love and promote harmony ments are never interchanged? And on the other hand, how is it possible for two such hearts ever to become indifferent or estranged, if habituated to complete and continual communion. Differences, occasioned by misapprehension, or

Matters often seem much worse than they really are; many apparently bad actions had good motives. Indeed we are inclined to believe, that if the most erring men could but lay bare their hearts, we should find strong palliations even for the gravest faults-(that is, judg ing them by ourselves, as frail human creatures) -we should find more cause for pity than condemnation. How then could an offended husband or wife resist the influence of a frank confession? In the mingled mistaken motives which had led to it, they would find abundant excuses for the error, and such a mutual explanation would not only dispel instantaneously all the doubts which had occasioned it, but would render such doubts likely to be of very rare recurrence. Let the young wife then continually reflect, that confidence alone can preserve the heaven of her love unclouded. But let her also especially remember that, although to be perfect it should be mutual, it is even more essential that it be voluntary; hence, while she is frank and open as the day herself, she must forbear from any attempt at extorting explanation, for that is the surest way to repel confidence.


Of the three essential and infallible preservatives of domestic peace, to which we alluded, the two first (which we have already dilated upon) refer equally to husband and wife; third and last regards women only, and is of so much importance as to be capable of preventing discord even in those unhappy cases where neither sympathy nor confidence exists, and is so essentially necessary, that the most perfect confidence and the most perfect sympathy cannot preserve harmony without it; and thiswe almost fear to say it, lest our fair readers turn from us indignantly-is the wife's acknowledgment of her husband's supremacy. We know of no single rule or principle so well cal

as is this. It were surely needless to dilate upon
its authority -
a command, and one of the
earliest, delivered by God himself, and reiterated
again and again by the apostles-"Ye wives, be
in subjection to your own husbands." (St.

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The Dawn of Love.

Peter.) "Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands." (St. Paul.) Every wife at the altar vows to obey this injunction; yet although its obligation is generally admitted, how little is it really and practically carried out. To this circumstance we are fain to attribute a great part of the domestic unhappiness which we so much lament. But we would not be mistaken on this point-we do not recommend, as an example worthy of imitation, the unparalleled Griselda. She certainly carried out to the uttermost the principle of wifely obedience, but then she entirely neglected exercising a most important trust, peculiarly committed to wives, and to obedient wives, namely, Influence-good Influence. However faulty any human creature may be in himself, he can yet, generally, exercise some beneficial influence upon others; and surely, if the wife love her husband, to benefit him will be her desire as well as her duty. How beautifully has the apostle, even while prescribing obedience, shown the extent of the blessings that influence may procure-" that, if any obey not the word, they also may without the word be won by the conversation of the wives." Hence, for the wife to submit in sullen silence to what she believes to be wrong, is highly culpable; but neither is violent opposition nor expostulation fitting. The rule which applies to all human laws applies here-" If laws are bad, endeavour earnestly to have them amended; but (unless they be opposed to higher laws) obey them till they be amended." Otherwise every rebel would find an excuse for insubordination. If a man breaks the law, we never excuse him because he say he deemed it unjust; yet how many wives excuse themselves on this plea, and account themselves blameless!

Very many ladies there are, who devoting nearly all their time and thoughts to their household cares, rightly deeming domestic duties a woman's very honourable employment, while they are careful to maintain their due authority and reign paramount over their little household kingdom, endeavour to extend their jurisdiction even over him whom they call lord" they keep their children and servants in their right position, but they seem to forget their own. Hence, if the husband have also a will of his own, perpetual discord is the consequence; while, if he be "a good, easy man,' things may seem to go on well enough, but all

will be out of tune.

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Obedience is one of the most difficult duties, and one of the hardest to acquire. The selfrenunciation of love is easy enough; it is spontaneous, and requires no effort. We read of a maiden of ancient days, who ransomed her lover by the loss of her own right hand; and what maiden reads the tale without sympathising in the sacrifice? (but what woman regards it as a sacrifice?) Yet many a maiden who has been ready to do as much, and who would have done it if put to the test, has yet failed to make

a duly submissive wife! "Love, that tempests never shook," 33 66 a breath or touch" has often shaken.


gave the command gave also the happy emotion Obedience is hard, we admit; but He who of love to lighten the burden, and render it possible and comparatively easy to bear. Love itself is not sufficient; love can sacrifice all at once, but not continually little by little. higher principle is needed: the wife is not to obey because she loves, but because it is her duty; duty must inspire the exertion, and love will render it sweet and easy.


Such is the advice we would give the young bride; such are the three points most worthy of her care. Let her at least give them a trial. Let her husband be one between whom and herself a cordial sympathy can exist. Let her, by a continual and unreserved confidence, chase away every rising cloud; and lastly, let her by a due submission preserve unbroken the harmony of her hearth. With such guardian spirits to watch over it, the celestial plant will blossom perennially by her fireside, and even in the evening of her days her love will seem yet in its dawn. Such a desideratum is by no means impossible; such happy marriages are occasionally to be met with.

And lo! we have found a companion for our favourite picture-for this "Dawn of Love”— one as natural, as beautiful, as interesting, and tive, not of a prospective nature. It has been as suggestive; only its interest is of a retrospecpainted in immortal verse, and it gleams with the vitality of truth before the minds of those who know it-the fireside of "John Anderson" and his wife. Yes! even for the lovers by the waterfall we can desire no happier closing scene. Yes! looking at the aged pair, we may well believe they once plighted their troth in some such rustic spot. Now may we contemplate the lovers with happier anticipations, for even in the sunshine of their "Dawn" we can picture their cloudless eve. their appearance, but even thus tenderly and Time may effect a change in admiringly, when

"His locks are like the snaw,"

will the lover still gaze upon his wife; while she,
bound down by years, but yet rendered beau-
tiful by emotion, looks on him with the same
fond affection that glowed in her countenance
by the waterfall, as in a voice of thrilling ten-
derness she speaks of the happiness of their
youthful days, and exults over a love that will
endure to the last:-


"We clomb the hill thegither,

And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither;

Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go,

And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo."


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It excited scarcely so much surprise among Mr. Villiers's Liverpool friends that he should fix on Forest Lodge for a summer residence, as it did among us, the aborigines of the very pretty village, in which the Lodge is the principal house. Before the Reform Bill the decayed old town near us had sent two members to Parliament, and building this pretty house had been a freak of one of our representatives, who wished to please his constituents and his wife-a very pretty, very young, and very whimsical woman. When her husband no longer sat for our ancient and loyal borough, the lady took a distaste for the place, and the Honourable Edgar Mountfincher left Forest Lodge, for which he in vain sought a tenant, until, in the summer of 18, Miss Villiers, only daughter and heiress of Ralph Villiers, Esq., had the scarlet fever: as soon as she recovered enough strength to undertake a journey, she begged her father to look out for some out-of-the-world, quiet, country place, where she might breathe fresh air, and do just as she pleased. The Honourable Edgar Mountfincher and Mr. Villiers met somewhere at dinner; the Honourable heard the merchant mention that he wanted a house, recommended him Forest Lodge, and within a week had the satisfaction of telling his wife his anxieties about money were, for a short time, ended; he had found a capital tenant for Forest Lodge-had secured an exorbitant price, as a gentleman's sick daughter had taken a fancy to the place.

The Honourable Mrs. Edgar Mountfincher was in a reclining chair, sipping lemonade, and reading "Henrietta Temple:" she languidly raised her eyes, and said very quietly, "I always told you, you would let it some day, if you would only have patience."

As she immediately resumed her reading, the Honourable Edgar gave a low whistle, and was compelled to starve for the present his want of sympathy. In the mean time waggon-loads of furniture arrived to garnish the Lodge; it afforded a week's occupation and conversation to all our old neighbours at the almshouses, who sat patiently, hour after hour, on the benches, in their long, low porches, commenting on the shape, quality, and quantity of the furniture. Next to the Lodge ranks our own farm-house, in point of importance and size. We are so near, that we can almost see into some of the rooms. I believe we were never envied the position of our house till the Villierses took the Lodge. My brother, with whom I resided, was young, intelligent, and generous; a good farmer, and very fond of me. We hazarded many conjectures about Mr. Villiers and his daughter, and I hoped they would be sociable

neighbours; almost the only acquaintances we had in Forest End at present consisting of a lady who kept a boarding-school, and a foolish young farmer who had been crossed in love, and, according to rule in such cases, taken to playing the flute. I was tired to death of his lugubrious "Away with Melancholy!" A sad parody on the name of the air was the fitful manner in which he tortured out a few undecided notes. I disliked him all the more because I was the person to whom he ascribed the blighting of his hopes !



When the Villierses had come to look at the house, we were unfortunately out, and so had missed seeing them. Mrs. Prince, the gouvernante (called irreverently by my brother boards") disclaimed all curiosity, "than which," she observed, "nothing could be more opposed to the quiet, orderly self-possession so characteristic of a young gentlewoman." I remember, nevertheless, that she and her pupils marched two and two down the village that afternoon, along the London road. About seven o'clock, Miss Maxby, Mrs. Prince's assistant, called upon me, and gave me the following information:-"We have walked on the London road; you might have seen us. She is the fairest creature, Miss Hall, the fairest creature; and so elegantly attired! They went in by the other gates; therefore you did not see them of course?"

"You refer to Miss Villiers, I suppose?" said I.

"Yes: did I not tell you so?-no, it escaped me."

"On the contrary," said my brother, who had been standing unseen at a window behind us; "it did not escape you, or we should have heard it."

Miss Maxby blushed up as high as possible, and said, "Good evening, Mr. Hall; I did not see you."

As Henry soon went out of the room, and I hinted that he would not return for some time, Miss Maxby left me to my work. The next morning Henry and I called at the Lodge. We scarcely expected to see Miss Villiers, but were conducted at once into the pretty morning room where she sat. Her hair was very fair, her features small and English. Her mouth appeared the only remarkable point in her face, and that was delicate, small, and as red as anything can be. Henry discovered much more: he saw that she was perfectly beautiful, just his beau ideal of a woman; such soft, deeply blue tender eyes-such a smile, and such a touching paleness yet upon her cheek! He wondered what her name was: something romantic, no doubt!

All this he told me while she went to speak to her father. Henry, I believe, was quite startled, when he opened a book upon the table, and saw written on the first page "Ann Villiers." "But then," he said, "there may be another lady in the family." But she soon returned with her father, who addressed her as "Ann.”


Mr. Villiers was a tall, fine man, with features I can only signalize by the epithet "distinguished." He spoke with my brother of the beauty of the country about us, and other topics usual among strangers. He conversed with me very politely, and said he hoped Miss Villiers would be allowed the pleasure of my companionship, as she would be lonely when he was obliged to be away. I assented very readily: saw she was very weak as yet. Before we left she was very much flushed, although only the most common-place subjects had occupied us; and that day opened upon me the wretched life of living in the same house with a romantic lover of somebody else! Our pleasant air and neighbourhood soon effected a change in the appearance of Miss Villiers: the pretty paleness became replaced by the faintest tinge of delicate rose-colour: the blue eyes shone daily brighter and clearer. As soon as she was able she began to walk out. I found her a passionate admirer of nature; a great reader of Wordsworth. She was

"well pleased to recognise In nature, and the language of the sense, The anchor of her purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of her heart and soul, And all her moral being."

She was often a-field by six o'clock, and unavoidably often met my brother-the shyest and most decorous of lovers and of men. He had pitied her for her ill-health; he began now to rejoice in her recovery. He talked to her of country sights and sounds-what man can withstand the influence of a beautiful face, on which his eloquence can call up any expression he will? The tender eyes were fixed in attention while he called her notice to some pretty wild-flower or cheerful singing-bird; her soft, low voice-that "excellent thing in woman"echoing his own sentiments completely. From walking together when they met, they progressed to meeting for the avowed purpose of walking. My brother had more, and I less, of my fair neighbour's society. There was that natural attraction for them in each other, which a similarity of taste in nature, art, and literature so happily produces. Henry was getting very, very deeply in love: he eschewed smoking, and began to talk of buying a flute--an intention I opposed to the utmost of my power. I should have been conquered, though, I verily believe, had not Miss Villiers one day said, Somehow I never can like to see a man play the flute: it would spoil the face of Adonis !"


The bright and glorious summer began to wane: Ann was well, and really beautiful. A look of fragility seemed natural to her; but she

now wore an appearance of health, which made her light figure look like that of a beautiful sylph. Henry began to wonder whether Mr. Villiers intended giving up the Lodge at the end of the summer. In all his companionship with Miss Villiers he remembered that she was a great heiress, and he a young man, with little as yet but good prospects. He rejected as absurd the idea of asking for the hand of his beloved. He said he was not so blindly in love as to forget the difference in their social positions. If she had had no fortune, then, indeed, he could have hoped. He was too humble in regard to himself to believe that she reciprocated his love. "The facts are these," said he to me, after a long conversation on the subject; "she is a sweet, natural, kind-hearted girl, who loves the country, and appreciates my endeavours to make it agreeable to her: and I have been fool enough to give myself up so thoroughly to the pleasure of her company, that I have fallen in love with her!"

But I fancied that Ann really manifested a more than common-place toleration of his company, in want of any one's else; however, I said nothing about this, lest I should raise unfounded hopes; for, if even the lady were wil ling, there was Mr. Villiers, and many poor lovers have discovered that fathers are less sus ceptible than daughters towards well-looking, fortuneless young men.

The summer went, the autumn passed away, and with it the inhabitants of the Lodge. Again the house was dull, and the windows shutteredthose windows that, under Ann's gentle reign, had been so prettily curtained with the whitest of curtains, and filled with flowers.

I began to be seriously uneasy about Henry; he grew pale, listless, and silent. The next time we heard of Miss Villiers, it was to know that her father had taken a handsome house in London, where she was receiving the élite of the three great worlds of the metropolis-those of politics, literature, and fashion. The newspa pers chronicled the brilliance of her parties; her portrait hung at the Royal Academy, and was soon in the hands of the engraver. Pennya-liners began to arrange preliminaries of mar riages for her, the reports of which frightened poor Henry dreadfully. The Honourable Edgar Mountfincher having become a widower, was one of her suitors. "It is reported," said a fashionable journal, "that want of fortune has raised an insuperable objection against an Honourable M. P., whose attentions to the lovely Miss V. have been freely noticed and commented on in aristocratic circles."

"Want of fortune!" another blow to my poor dear brother. I suggested that it was much more likely to be want of brains and heart. At length I broke the ice, and told him I was sorry to see he was not well. I implored him to write to Miss Villiers, that he might know his own fate. He seemed alarmed at my boldness-write to her! How could he? Was she not farther than ever above him? Besides, he was forgotten long ago; it was a year since


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