uncertain. A yearning beauty transfigures hear you called "blessed art thou among women " inasmuch as, thus unselfishly devoted, from you shall radiate a circle of wisdom, purity and happiness, that shall widen and still widen when your feet have vanished from their path on earth, and gone to tread those of that world whose atmosphere is round you even here. your features, such, perhaps, as clothed the aspect of our first mother as she turned her last, lingering look on Eden, ere her soul accepted its destiny, and she went forth on that path so like yet unlike yours. Like yours, for God had marked it out, and her polar-guide was the same. Unlike yours, for her hand was held by another who would strengthen her on the way. Unlike yours, for the star of her destiny shone on two, while like the flaming sword at the gate, the star which shines before you flashes sternly between you and the Eden to which the sweet, alluring voice invites you." My friend covered her face with her hands, and a soft tremor thrilled her form. A doubt filled me. "Shall I proceed?" "Proceed." The yearning beauty of her face had in the short moment become sublime abnegation. "Proceed." "I see you, the alluring voice no longer heard, calm and beautiful and serene, treading your path of light, but not now alone. Crowds of young forms whose eyes are turned, now on you, and now on the polar-guide, are walking with you, and their faces have a glory which they have caught from yours. Their souls are filled with the beauty and purity which rests upon your features, and which your teaching and example have brought there. You, who are of all others the best fitted for this mortal life, because of the beauty and joyousness of your nature, are most wisely and lovingly leading these young beings that cluster around you, a fair and beautiful tiara numbering its many hundreds! unfolding in their spirits a gentleness, intelligence, beauty and goodness that shall make each one of them a centre from which shall hereafter radiate light and purity and goodness to many others. You are teachng them how to think. You are teaching them how to create time, by awakening an intelligence that can imbibe in a moment knowledge and ideas that can only be acquired in years by the dull and ignorant. You bid them not be satisfied to remain on the poor level whereon so many of our sex contentedly dwell, knowing not the divine duty which requires each generation to lend its strength to the beautiful task of lifting the next generation to a higher place than its own. You teach them that it is possible even here to reach a place where all selfishness shall be unknown, virtues never sullied, goodness ever active and happiness universal. Do you accept the vision? The expression of divine abnegation and devotion which transfigured her features, and the prayer in her eyes was the answer of my friend. HOW STRANGE. 66 Another friend and subscriber has sent us a little poem for the "Table," which is suggestive of many thoughts, some of them sad ones. The carelessness manifested towards each other by many married persons, even whose love for one another is true and unabated, is a melancholy and most unwise thing. It rusts the brightness of home delights, and scatters dust and ashes on the hearts that should still be young and green. I deny, however, the proposition that it is 'what all lovers become." On the contrary, the very hand that penned the lines, committed foul treason against its own by the deed, for she is a living witness that I hold up in the face of the world to prove how warm, and bright, and fresh and unfading wedded love and wedded happiness may, through a quarter of a century, be kept. But many will read it, undoubtedly with a pang, that "That strangest of strange things under the sun," a wilful permitting of so sweet a thing as wedded love to die a natural death, is sometimes seen. And I hope many also will read it, who, on the threshold of carelessness, may be led to draw back into the warmth and genial sunlight of that happy life, which is fed by daily manifestations of interest, and those little attentions which, costing nothing, are yet all the world to wedded affection. Without being aware of it, how many really happy husbands and wives, by a carelessness of manner towards one another, give an impression to others that they are not happy. Do they ever think what a treason they are committing against those lookers on who may be absolutely led to abjure marriage altogether, hy witnessing the seemingly indifferent state of feeling existing between them? I have at this moment no doubt that many a heart now shut up in itself and many a life now wearing Ah, my friend! from the hereafter I already away alone, its wealth of capacities unappro priated and unsuspected, that it would, had it not been for the spectacle of some seemingly cold and careless married life, which chilled their desires for that state, now be themselves living witnesses of the happiness of wedlock. It is the careless married men and women who do much to form the idea that was in my last Editor's Table, contending that “Marriage is a Lottery." Let them think of these things, then, and reform, and the careless little ditty that follows shall have performed no unimportant mission. HOW STRANGE. BY FLORENCE PERCY. As happening under the sun! How strange it will be! By a curious coincidence, the following contribution to the Editor's Table from our Western Associate, came to hand after the above cogitations on Married life were complet ed, and is inserted as an agreeable pendant. CONJUGAL. Overhearing a young lady remark, that she How strange it will be love-how strange when hoped when she came to be married, the cer we two Shall be what all lovers become. You frigid and faithless, I cold and untrue; do; Loves bright web unravelled and rent and And life's room left empty-ah hum! How strange it will be! How strange it will be when this witchery goes, When your thought of me loses its couleur de 66 emony would be so short, she wouldn't have time to be frightened; we were reminded of an incident that occurred in Boston, some thirty years ago. A young couple went into the study of a Judge of the Supreme Court, who by virtue of a commission as Justice of the Peace, was authorized to solemnize marriages, and desired him to marry them. "Very well," said his honor, whom they found writing, pass me your certificate and you may go. The man handed a certificate that the Judge continued his employment, until the imbanns were published, but remained. The patient bridegroom again announced the intention of his visit. " and again pursued his task. After some further Very well," said the Judge delay, the neglected applicants once more reminded His Honor of their desire to be married. "Why go home," said the magistrate, 'you have been married this half hour." And it was true. The law then, we know not what it is now, only required an acknowledgment of present intention before a Justice of the Peace and a recognition of that intențion by the Justice in his official capacity. There was no form of words necessary to the purpose, nor any ceremony, other than a simple declaration, which the Judge did not permit, for a moment to disturb his meditations. We imagine that law must have been made to ac How strange it will be when we willingly stay comodate bashful lovers. Or, getting remotely apart as we may, How strange it will be! Dear love, if our hearts do grow torpid and cold, As so many others have done: Equally brief, but without the painful suspense, was a wedding ceremony performed by a distant conrection of mine, an old Squire residing in one of the central counties of New York. He had just got comfortably snuggled down in bed, one dreary November night, when all at once there came a thundering rap at the kitchen door. He slept in a recess, divided from the room only by a curtain. Leap If we let our love perish with hunger and cold, ing out of bed, for he thought some one of hi "Could ye change a five dollar bill?" asked the bridegroom. “Why, no; my pocket-book's tu hum.” "Well, then, I'll stop and pay ye when we come back; we'll come back this way and afore night, too; 'cause we'll be in sumthin' of a hurry," and they rode off. "And did they stop and pay you?" married children must be in their death-throes, he caught up his nether-garments and hurried to the door. Stopping there a half moment, he thrust one leg into his trousers and opening the door on a crack, exclaimed nervously, "what do you want?" We want to be married," was the reply. "Go home and go to bed; you're married enough," and dashing the door in the faces of somebody, whether white, black or red, he did not know, he drew his leg out of its hastily assumed covering and bounded into bed again. "But did they really consider themselves married," I asked. "I reckon they did, Carline; less than a year arter-ward, they stopped here one day and show-of conjugal affection. During the reign of the ed me a bouncing great boy, whom they had "I am." "Wall, we've been up to your housen, and your old woman told us you'd gone down this road, and said she thought we'd catch you, if we tried hard. You see, sir, Sallie, here, and I, wants to get married and we're in sumthin' of a hurry, 'cause we want to go to Syracuse, and get home afore night." "I reckon they did; Carline, and I reckon they was married, too, jest as strong as it I'd gone hum and put on my Sunday-go-tu-meetin' clothes." By some curious train of association, the above incidents recall the following instances feudal system among the Highlanders, the Laird of Grant had condemned one of his vas sals to be hanged. When Donald came to the gallows, accompanied by Janet, his faithful wife, he seemed very reluctant to mount the ladder, and stood a longtime before the fatal tree, shrugging his shoulders. "Hoot away, Donald," said Janet, clapping her dear spouse's cheek; gang up like a mon, and plaise the Laird." It was the most powerful motive to obedience the poor woman could suggest, and Donald could resist no longer, but went up and was hanged, as she said afterwards, like a mon! We know not which to admire most, the affection which could urge such a powerful motive, or the counter affection which spurred on to implicit obedience. I have given you the ludicrous-now let me show you the sublime. Pietro della Valle, an enterprising Italian traveller, who lived in the seventeenth century, and wrote an interesting account of many regions of the East, rarely visited by Europeans, married, when in Assyria, a beauitful girl of Christian parentage, and a native of Mesopotamia. Though very Very well," said the old man," turn back young and delicate, the fair Giserada accompa to the house, and I'll be there soon." "Couldn't you do it jest as well out here? you see we're in sumthin' of a hurry." nied the wandering Italian wherever he went, and was with him even in battle, when he fought as an officer of the Persian king. A "Yes, I suppose 1 can. Get off and I'll premature death separated her from the hus make you one in less than no time." Won't it be jest as strong on (horseback? you see we're in sumthin' of a hurry." band of her choice, as he was preparing to carry her to India - her body he did carry; he had it enclosed in a coffin and placed on board "I reckon it will; just hitch up to Sallie and of ship, in the cabin where he slept. For four get hold her right hand." The young man did so, and then and there, the old 'Squire, with his cradle on his shoulder, the stump of his pipe in one hand, his whetstone in the other, clad in homespun overalls and frock, performed the ceremony. years it was the inseparable companion of his long and perilous journeys by sea and by land; and at the end of that period, he deposited it, with great pomp, in the tomb of his noble ancestors at Rome, pronouncing himself the fu neral oration, which contained an account of her extraordinary life. C. A. 8. ARMY CORRRESPONDENCE. It is long since an extract from army correspondence had its place in the Editor's Table. Meanwhile no day passes that does not furnish material to stir and touch every heart which feels an interest in the army and its brave Northern men and boys, and I wish to say a word for them. How much these need the letters and prayers of loyal and good women, and how much good may be affected by these letters and prayers, we may never know, till the Day when all things are revealed; but we may be sure that we cannot write too much. I have spoken of this more than once before, and now again try to impress upon you all, dear readers, that if you would do good in the world, write to your friends in the army, making your letters and prayers a link between them and virtue. How many you may save from ruin if you only will! While there they are fighting to save our beloved country, do you what you can, and if possible, save them from the temptations and snares which surround them. A friend, who has from the commencement of the war been Commissary in one of our largest general hospitals in Baltimore, writes me thus: "Were I competent to portray the many sad scenes which I witness here, I could fill a volume. Many young men whom I knew at the North, have been in hospitals here, and all of them are very much changel by camp life. Some who were temperate at home, have become complete sots." This is sad, and we should try and change this thing, as we may and can to a considerable extent. I know a lady who writes to a number of young men who are in the army, and I have seen their replies. They tell her with deep gratitude what safeguards her letters are to them, and what influence for good they have had on their comrades when read aloud to them. It is not too much to say that she has saved many from the ruin that falls on so many others. Do not think that books, papers and tracts can take the place of letters, though these are good. A letter warm from the heart is indivdual, and strikes home to the one who receives it. Do not shrink from this duty because some say, so strange," "80 improper," but remember that you may "save a soul from death." And our soldiers deserve so much at our hands. O, think of their dangers and sufferings and death, and, the proud 66 64 est, most exclusive among you, be not guilty of the passive sin of suffering one to go down, whom a kind word from you could save. Let me move you by another extract from the let ter from which I just quoted. The writer says "There are altogether ten government hospitals in town, with an aggregate capacity for 4000 patients. Ours, the largest, will accommodate 800. We are near the railroad depot, and receive all dangerous cases, while the more favorable ones are sent to other hospitals. I think, out of the six hundred men now with us, one-third have lost limbs; one half are disabled for life, and three fourths are subjects for discharges either on account of bullet wound: or diseases contracted in camp. "Some of the saddest scenes in the whole panorama of the war are enacted here. Pa rents, brothers and sisters arrive daily; some to learn that the loved one has been consigned to the grave, others to find them crippled, and others still to be disappointed by meeting some other of the same name as the one they are seeking. A mother came last week from Ohio, just in time to witness the death of her son, who was wounded at Malvern Hill. This was the fourth son she has lost during the war. One was killed at Shiloh; one at Newbern; one at Vicksburg, and this last received his deathwound, as I have said, at Malvern Hill. She has two others still living, one of whom is in the army." Do you, who robing yourselves in your gay silks and velvets, trail the costly garments through the streets, in reality ever think of your brothers and sisters thus stricken in this war? It seems hardly possible to believe it. Is there one of you, then, who will lay by the adornments so unbecoming now, and give yourself to the good work I have spoken of above? Some brother, or cousin, or friend, who may be dying, or worse than that, while you are dressing, have you not the heart to try and save him even at the expense of the great self-denial of foregoing the vain admira tion of others as thoughtless as yourself? I am sure you have, for you are loyal at heart, and vanity cannot make the loyal heart a stone. Cheer up and encourage some one who is in the army; bid him be a true and faithful man, a valiant hero in battle, and an unspotted patriot, who shall be honored and beloved on his return. I could write all day on this subject for I feel it, but I have said enough for now. THE LADIES' REPOSITORY. MAY, 1863. "Down to the oak spring, sir. I want to hunt some wild violets to press in my Bible. Maybe there'll be none at our new home." Her cheeks flushed as she spoke, and her heart quickened its throbs, for she had told her father but a part of the truth, and she feared he would guess it all, and peremptorily command her to stay at home and sit down to her reading. Ordinarily the old man would, for his was one of those stern natures that rule their household with an iron rod; but there was a soft spot in his heart, as there is in all mens, though so hidden sometimes, that only the hand of the Omnipotent can roll the rock away; a well-spring of tenderness that bubbles over at times, in spite of will and custom. His soul was laved in those tides of memory just then, for memory with its angel hand had troubled the deep waters. On the morrow, he was to leave forever that moss-covered cottage which had been his home for thirty years; the home to which, when a hale young man, he had brought the fair girl I who had forsaken father and mother, and all, to cleave unto him; the home in which six times the hymn of birth had been so sweetly sung, and in which too, six times the dirge of death had been so sadly chanted. Wife and mother slept in the village grave-yard, and in a row beside her, five little ones. That old, low kitchen was strangely haunted at that sunset hour. The brown, curling heads of three little boys shimmered to and fro, in every flash which the bright fire-light darted into nooks and corners, and at still bo-peep with them, played the baby faces of two fairy girls, while all about the room, now like a soft shadow, and then a quivering shape, glided a form which took strange semblance to the bride of early years. With these forms of the departed " all about him, the old man had no heart to forbid his sole surviving child, she who for years now, had been his only tie to life, to go once more to the old oak spring, though he well knew it was not so much to gather the blue violets as to look once more into the blue eyes of a lover; so he said only, "mind and be home again before it is dark. We must be early to bed to-night, for the sunrise must find us on our way." "I'll not be gone long, father," and she glided out of the door, taking with her, it seemed to the old man, all that was left of the sunshine. Through the garden, tangled with last summer's flowers and weeds, across a meadow verdant with April showers, over |