Chapter L: M. C (3)

“‘Aunt Sarah Stetson,’ another single lady, was a dear and honored friend of my own. She was of masculine size and stature, gaunt and ungainly in the extreme. But before she had uttered three sentences, her hearers said to themselves, ‘Here is a wise woman!’ She was the oldest of thirteen children, early deprived of their father, and she bore the brunt of life from youth upward. She received only such education as was afforded by the public school of an obscure town seventy years ago. To add to their scanty means of subsistence, she learned the tailor’s trade. In process of time, the other children swarmed off from the parental hive, the little farm was sold, and she lived alone with her mother. She built a small cottage out of her own earnings, and had the sacred pleasure of taking her aged parent to her own home, and ministering with her own hands to all her wants. For sixteen years, she never spent a night from home, but assiduously devoted herself to the discharge of this filial duty, and to the pursuance of her trade. Yet in the midst of this busy life, she managed to become respectably familiar with English literature, especially with history. Whatever she read, she derived from it healthful aliment for the growth of her mental powers. She was full of wise maxims and rules of life; not doled out with see-saw prosiness, but with strong common sense, rich and racy, and frequently flavored with the keenest satire. She had a flashing wit, and wonderful power of detecting shams of all sorts. Her religious opinions were orthodox, and she was an embodiment of the Puritan character. She was kindly in her feelings, and alive to every demonstration of affection, but she had a granite firmness of principle, which rendered her awful toward deceivers and transgressors. All the intellectual people of the town sought her company with avidity. The Unitarian minister and his family, a wealthy man, who happened to be also the chief scholar in the place, and the young people generally, took pleasure in resorting to Aunt Sarah’s humble home, to minister to her simple wants, and gather up her words of wisdom. Her spirit was bright and cheerful to the last. One of her sisters, who had been laboring sixteen years as a missionary among the southwestern Indians, came to New England to visit the scattered members of her family. After seeing them in their respective homes, she declared: ‘Sarah is the most light-hearted of them all; and it is only by _her_ fireside that I have been able to forget past hardships in merry peals of laughter.’

“During my last interview with Aunt Sarah, when she was past seventy years of age, she said, ‘I have lived very agreeably single; but if I become infirm, I suppose I shall feel the want of life’s nearest ties.’ In her case, however, the need was of short duration, and an affectionate niece supplied the place of a daughter.

“Undoubtedly, the arms of children and grandchildren form the most natural and beautiful cradle for old age. But loneliness is often the widow’s portion, as well as that of the single woman; and parents are often left solitary by the death or emigration of their children.

“I am tempted to speak also of a living friend, now past her sixtieth year. She is different from the others, but this difference only confirms my theory that the mind can subdue all things to itself. This lady is strictly feminine in all her habits and pursuits, and regards the needle as the chief implement of woman’s usefulness. If the Dorcas labors performed by her one pair of hands could be collected into a mass, out of the wear and waste of half a century, they would form an amazing pile. In former years, when her health allowed her to circulate among numerous family connections, her visits were always welcomed as a jubilee; for every dilapidated wardrobe was sure to be renovated by Aunt Mary’s nimble fingers. She had also a magic power of drawing the little ones to herself. Next to their fathers and mothers, she was the best beloved. The influence which her loving heart gained over them in childhood increased with advancing years. She is now the best and dearest friend of twenty or thirty nephews and nieces, some of whom have families of their own.

“A large amount of what is termed mother-wit, a readiness at repartee, and quickness in seizing unexpected associations of words or ideas, rendered her generally popular in company; but the deep cravings of her heart could never be satisfied with what is termed success in society. The intimate love of a few valued friends was what she always coveted, and never failed to win. For several years she has been compelled by ill health to live entirely at home. There she now is, fulfilling the most important mission of her whole beneficent life, training to virtue and usefulness five motherless children of her brother. Feeble and emaciated, she lives in her chamber surrounded by these orphans, who now constitute her chief hold on life. She shares all their pleasures, is the depositary of their little griefs, and unites in herself the relations of aunt, mother, and grandmother. She has faith to believe that her frail thread of existence will be prolonged for the sake of these little ones. The world still comes to her, in her seclusion, through a swarm of humble friends and dependants, who find themselves comforted and ennobled by the benignant patience with which she listens to their various experiences, and gives them kindly, sympathizing counsel, more valuable to them than mere pecuniary aid. Her spirit of self-abnegation is carried almost to asceticism; but she reserves her severity wholly for herself; toward others she is prodigal of indulgence. This goodly temple of a human soul was reared in these fair proportions upon a foundation of struggles, disappointments, and bereavements. A friend described her serene exterior as a ‘placid, ocean-deep manner’; under it lies a silent history of trouble and trial, converted into spiritual blessings.

“The conclusion of the matter in my mind is, that a woman may make a respectable appearance as a wife, with a character far less noble than is necessary to enable her to lead a single life with usefulness and dignity. She is sheltered and concealed behind her husband; but the unmarried woman must rely upon herself; and she lives in a glass house, open to the gaze of every passer-by. To the feeble-minded, marriage is almost a necessity, and if wisely formed it doubtless renders the life of any woman more happy. But happiness is not the sole end and aim of this life. We are sent here to build up a character; and sensible women may easily reconcile themselves to a single life, since even its disadvantages may be converted into means of development of all the faculties with which God has endowed them.”

You are “getting into years.” Yes, but the years are getting
into you; the ripe, mellow years. One by one, the crudities of
your youth are falling off from you; the vanity, the egotism,
the bewilderment, the uncertainty. Every wrong road into
which you have wandered has brought you, by the knowledge of
that mistake, nearer to the truth. Nearer and nearer you are
approaching yourself.--GAIL HAMILTON.

THE OLD MAID’S PRAYER TO DIANA.

By Mrs. Tighe, an Irish author, who wrote more than fifty
years ago, when single women had not attained to the honorable
position which they now occupy.

Since thou and the stars, my dear goddess, decree
That, old maid as I am, an old maid I must be,
O, hear the petition I offer to thee!
For to bear it must be my endeavor:
From the grief of my friendships all drooping around,
Till not one whom I loved in my youth can be found;
From the legacy-hunters, that near us abound,
Diana, thy servant deliver!

From the scorn of the young, and the flaunts of the gay,
From all the trite ridicule rattled away
By the pert ones, who know nothing wiser to say,--
Or a spirit to laugh at them, give her!
From repining at fancied neglected desert;
Or, vain of a civil speech, bridling alert;
From finical niceness, or slatternly dirt;
Diana, thy servant deliver!

From over solicitous guarding of pelf;
From humor unchecked, that most obstinate elf;
From every unsocial attention to self,
Or ridiculous whim whatsoever;
From the vaporish freaks, or methodical airs,
Apt to sprout in a brain that’s exempted from cares;
From impertinent meddling in others’ affairs;
Diana, thy servant deliver!

From the erring attachments of desolate souls;
From the love of spadille, and of matadore voles;[F]
Or of lap-dogs, and parrots, and monkeys, and owls,
Be they ne’er so uncommon and clever;
But chief from the love, with all loveliness flown,
Which makes the dim eye condescend to look down
On some ape of a fop, or some owl of a clown;
Diana, thy servant deliver!

From spleen at beholding the young more caressed;
From pettish asperity, tartly expressed;
From scandal, detraction, and every such pest;
From all, thy true servant deliver!
Nor let satisfaction depart from her cot;
Let her sing, if at ease, and be patient if not;
Be pleased when regarded, content when forgot,
Till the Fates her slight thread shall dissever.

[F] Terms used in Ombre, a game at cards.

GRANDFATHER’S REVERIE.

BY THEODORE PARKER.

Grandfather is old. His back is bent. In the street he sees crowds of men looking dreadfully young, and walking fearfully swift. He wonders where all the _old_ folks are. Once, when a boy, he could not find people young enough for him, and sidled up to any young stranger he met on Sundays, wondering why God made the world so old. Now he goes to Commencement to see his grandson take his degree, and is astonished at the youth of the audience. “This is new,” he says; “it did not use to be so fifty years ago.” At meeting, the minister seems surprisingly young, and the audience young. He looks round, and is astonished that there are so few venerable heads. The audience seem not decorous. They come in late, and hurry off early, clapping the doors after them with irreverent bang. But grandfather is decorous, well mannered, early in his seat; if jostled, he jostles not again, elbowed, he returns it not; crowded, he thinks no evil. He is gentlemanly to the rude, obliging to the insolent and vulgar; for grandfather is a gentleman; not puffed up with mere money, but edified with well-grown manliness. Time has dignified his good manners.

It is night. The family are all abed. Grandfather sits by his old-fashioned fire. He draws his old-fashioned chair nearer to the hearth. On the stand which his mother gave him are the candlesticks, also of old time. The candles are three quarters burnt down; the fire on the hearth also is low. He has been thoughtful all day, talking half to himself, chanting a bit of verse, humming a snatch of an old tune. He kissed his pet granddaughter more tenderly than common, before she went to bed. He takes out of his bosom a little locket; nobody ever sees it. Therein are two little twists of hair. As Grandfather looks at them, the outer twist of hair becomes a whole head of ambrosial curls. He remembers stolen interviews, meetings by moonlight. He remembers how sweet the evening star looked, and how he laid his hand on another’s shoulder, and said, “_You_ are my evening star.”

The church-clock strikes the midnight hour. He looks in his locket again. The other twist is the hair of his first-born son. At this same hour of midnight, once, many years ago, he knelt and prayed, when the long agony was over,--“My God, I thank thee that, though I am a father, I am still a husband, too! What am I, that unto me a life should be given and another spared!” Now he has children, and children’s children, the joy of his old age. But for many a year his wife has looked to him from beyond the evening star. She is still the evening star herself, yet more beautiful; a star that never sets; not mortal wife now, but angel. The last stick on his andirons snaps asunder, and falls outward. Two faintly smoking brands stand there. Grandfather lays them together, and they flame up; the two smokes are united in one flame. “Even so let it be in heaven,” says Grandfather.

Useless, do you say you are? You are of _great_ use. You really
are. How are you useful? By being a man that is old. Your old
age is a public good. It is indeed. No child ever listens to
your talk without having a good done it that no schooling could
do. When you are walking, no one ever opens a gate for you
to pass through, and no one ever honors you with any kind of
help, without being himself the better for what he does; for
fellow-feeling with you ripens his soul for him.--MOUNTFORD.

THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW.

BY LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.

It stands in a sunny meadow,
The house so mossy and brown,
With its cumbrous old stone chimneys,
And the gray roof sloping down.

The trees fold their green arms round it,--
The trees a century old;
And the winds go chanting through them,
And the sunbeams drop their gold.

The cowslips spring in the marshes,
The roses bloom on the hill,
And beside the brook in the pasture
The herds go feeding at will.

Within, in the wide old kitchen,
The old folk sit in the sun,
That creeps through the sheltering woodbine,
Till the day is almost done.

Their children have gone and left them;
They sit in the sun alone!
And the old wife’s ears are failing
As she harks to the well-known tone

That won her heart in her girlhood,
That has soothed her in many a care,
And praises her now for the brightness
Her old face used to wear.

She thinks again of her bridal,--
How, dressed in her robe of white,
She stood by her gay young lover
In the morning’s rosy light.

O, the morning is rosy as ever,
But the rose from her cheek is fled;
And the sunshine still is golden,
But it falls on a silvered head.

And the girlhood dreams, once vanished,
Come back in her winter time,
Till her feeble pulses tremble
With the thrill of spring-time’s prime.

And looking forth from the window,
She thinks how the trees have grown
Since, clad in her bridal whiteness,
She crossed the old door-stone.

Though dimmed her eyes’ bright azure,
And dimmed her hair’s young gold,
The love in her girlhood plighted
Has never grown dim or old.

They sat in peace in the sunshine
Till the day was almost done,
And then, at its close, an angel
Stole over the threshold stone.

He folded their hands together,--
He touched their eyelids with balm,
And their last breath floated outward,
Like the close of a solemn psalm!

Like a bridal pair they traversed
The unseen, mystical road
That leads to the Beautiful City,
Whose “builder and maker is God.”

Perhaps in that miracle country
They will give her lost youth back,
And the flowers of the vanished spring-time
Will bloom in the spirit’s track.

One draught from the living waters
Shall call back his manhood’s prime;
And eternal years shall measure
The love that outlasted time.

But the shapes that they left behind them,
The wrinkles and silver hair,--
Made holy to us by the kisses
The angel had printed there,--

We will hide away ’neath the willows,
When the day is low in the west,
Where the sunbeams cannot find them,
Nor the winds disturb their rest.

And we’ll suffer no telltale tombstone,
With its age and date, to rise
O’er the two who are old no longer,
In the Father’s house in the skies.

A STORY OF ST. MARK’S EVE.

BY THOMAS HOOD.

St. Mark’s Day is a festival which has been observed on the
25th of April, in Catholic countries, from time immemorial. The
superstition alluded to in the following story was formerly
very generally believed, and vigils in the church-porch at
midnight were common.

“I hope it’ll choke thee!” said Master Giles, the yeoman; and, as he said it, he banged his big red fist on the old oak table. “I do say I hope it’ll choke thee!”

The dame made no reply. She was choking with passion and a fowl’s liver, which was the cause of the dispute. Much has been said and sung concerning the advantage of congenial tastes amongst married people; but the quarrels of this Kentish couple arose from too great coincidence in their tastes. They were both fond of the little delicacy in question, but the dame had managed to secure the morsel to herself. This was sufficient to cause a storm of high words, which, properly understood, signifies very low language. Their meal times seldom passed over without some contention of this sort. As sure as the knives and forks clashed, so did they; being in fact equally greedy and disagreedy; and when they did pick a quarrel, they picked it to the bone.

It was reported that, on some occasions, they had not even contented themselves with hard speeches, but had come to scuffling; he taking to boxing and she to pinching, though in a far less amicable manner than is practised by the taker of snuff. On the present difference, however, they were satisfied with “wishing each other dead with all their hearts”; and there seemed little doubt of the sincerity of the aspiration, on looking at their malignant faces; for they made a horrible picture in this frame of mind.

Now it happened that this quarrel took place on the morning of St. Mark; a saint who was supposed on that festival to favor his votaries with a peep into the book of fate. For it was the popular belief in those days, that, if a person should keep watch at midnight beside the church, the apparitions of all those of the parish who were to be taken by death before the next anniversary would be seen entering the porch. The yeoman, like his neighbors, believed most devoutly in this superstition; and in the very moment that he breathed the unseemly aspiration aforesaid, it occurred to him that the eve was at hand, when, by observing the rite of St. Mark, he might know to a certainty whether this unchristian wish was to be one of those that bear fruit. Accordingly, a little before midnight, he stole quietly out of the house, and set forth on his way to the church.

In the mean time, the dame called to mind the same ceremonial; and, having the like motive for curiosity with her husband, she also put on her cloak and calash, and set out, though by a different path, on the same errand.

The night of the Saint was as dark and chill as the mysteries he was supposed to reveal; the moon throwing but a short occasional glance, as sluggish masses of cloud were driven slowly from her face. Thus it fell out that our two adventurers were quite unconscious of being in company, till a sudden glimpse of moonlight showed them to each other, only a few yards apart. Both, through a natural panic, became pale as ghosts; and both made eagerly toward the church porch. Much as they had wished for this vision, they could not help quaking and stopping on the spot, as if turned to stones; and in this position the dark again threw a sudden curtain over them, and they disappeared from each other.

The two came to one conclusion; each conceiving that St. Mark had marked the other to himself. With this comfortable knowledge, the widow and widower elect hied home again by the roads they came; and as their custom was to sit apart after a quarrel, they repaired to separate chambers, each ignorant of the other’s excursion.

By and by, being called to supper, instead of sulking as aforetime, they came down together, each being secretly in the best humor, though mutually suspected of the worst. Amongst other things on the table, there was a calf’s sweetbread, being one of those very dainties that had often set them together by the ears. The dame looked and longed, but she refrained from its appropriation, thinking within herself that she could give up sweetbreads _for one year_; and the farmer made a similar reflection. After pushing the dish to and fro several times, by a common impulse they divided the treat; and then, having supped, they retired amicably to rest, whereas until then they had seldom gone to bed without falling out. The truth was, each looked upon the other as being already in the churchyard.

On the morrow, which happened to be the dame’s birthday, the farmer was the first to wake; and _knowing what he knew_, and having, besides, but just roused himself out of a dream strictly confirmatory of the late vigil, he did not scruple to salute his wife, and wish her many happy returns of the day. The wife, _who knew as much as he_, very readily wished him the same; having, in truth, but just rubbed out of her eyes the pattern of a widow’s bonnet that had been submitted to her in her sleep. She took care, however, at dinner to give the fowl’s liver to the doomed man; considering that when he was dead and gone she could have them, if she pleased, seven days in the week; and the farmer, on his part, took care to help her to many tidbits. Their feeling toward each other was that of an impatient host with regard to an unwelcome guest, showing scarcely a bare civility while in expectation of his stay, but overloading him with hospitality when made certain of his departure.

In this manner they went on for some six months, without any addition of love between them, and as much selfishness as ever, yet living in a subservience to the comforts and inclinations of each other, sometimes not to be found even amongst couples of sincerer affections. There were as many causes for quarrel as ever, but every day it became less worth while to quarrel; so letting bygones be bygones, they were indifferent to the present, and thought only of the future, considering each other (to adopt a common phrase) “as _good_ as dead.”

Ten months wore away, and the farmer’s birthday arrived in its turn. The dame, who had passed an uncomfortable night, having dreamed, in truth, that she did not much like herself in mourning, saluted him as soon as the day dawned, and, with a sigh, wished him many years to come. The farmer repaid her in kind, the sigh included; his own visions having been of the painful sort; for he dreamed of having a headache from wearing a black hat-band, and the malady still clung to him when awake. The whole morning was spent in silent meditation and melancholy, on both sides; and when dinner came, although the most favorite dishes were upon the table, they could not eat. The farmer, resting his elbows upon the board, with his face between his hands, gazed wistfully on his wife. The dame, leaning back in her high arm-chair, regarded the yeoman quite as ruefully. Their minds, travelling in the same direction, and at an equal rate, arrived together at the same reflection; but the farmer was the first to give it utterance:

“Thee’d be _missed_, dame, if thee were to die!”

The dame started. Although she had nothing but death at that moment before her eyes, she was far from dreaming of her own exit. Recovering, however, from the shock, her thoughts flowed into their old channel, and she rejoined in the same spirit:

“I wish, master, thee may live so long as I!”

The farmer, in his own mind, wished to live rather longer; for, at the utmost, he considered that his wife’s bill of mortality had but two months to run; the calculation made him sorrowful; during the last few months she had consulted his appetite, bent to his humor, and conformed her own inclinations to his, in a manner that could never be supplied.

His wife, from being at first useful to him, had become agreeable, and at last dear; and as he contemplated her approaching fate, he could not help thinking out audibly, “that he should be a lonesome man when she was gone.” The dame, this time, heard the survivorship foreboded without starting; but she marvelled much at what she thought the infatuation of a doomed man. So perfect was her faith in the infallibility of St. Mark, that she had even seen the symptoms of mortal disease, as palpable as plague-spots, on the devoted yeoman. Giving his body up, therefore, for lost, a strong sense of duty persuaded her that it was imperative on her, as a Christian, to warn the unsuspecting farmer of his dissolution. Accordingly, with a solemnity adapted to the subject, a tenderness of recent growth, and a _memento mori_ face, she broached the matter in the following question:

“Master, how bee’st thee?”

“As hearty as a buck, dame; and I wish thee the like.”

A dead silence ensued; the farmer was as unprepared as ever. There is a great fancy for breaking the truth by dropping it gently; an experiment which has never answered, any more than with iron-stone china. The dame felt this; and, thinking it better to throw the news at her husband at once, she told him, in as many words, that he was a dead man.

It was now the yeoman’s turn to be staggered. By a parallel course of reasoning, he had just wrought himself up to a similar disclosure, and the dame’s death-warrant was just ready upon his tongue, when he met with his own despatch, signed, sealed, and delivered. Conscience instantly pointed out the oracle from which she had derived the omen.

“Thee hast watched, dame, at the church porch, then?”

“Ay, master.”

“And thee didst see me spirituously?”

“In the brown wrap, with the boot hose. Thee were coming to the church, by Fairthorn Gap; in the while I were coming by the Holly Hedge.”

For a minute the farmer paused; but the next he burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter; peal after peal, each higher than the last. The poor woman had but one explanation for this phenomenon. She thought it a delirium; a lightening before death; and was beginning to wring her hands, and lament, when she was checked by the merry yeoman:

“Dame, thee bee’st a fool. It was I myself thee seed at the church porch. I seed thee, too; with a notice to quit upon thy face; but, thanks to God, thee bee’st a living; and that is more than I cared to say of thee this day ten-month!”

The dame made no answer. Her heart was too full to speak; but, throwing her arms round her husband, she showed that she shared in his sentiment. And from that hour, by practising a careful abstinence from offence, or a temperate sufferance of its appearance, they became the most united couple in the county. But it must be said, that their comfort was not complete till they had seen each other, in safety, over the perilous anniversary of St. Mark’s Eve.

* * * * *

The moral this story conveys is one which might prove a useful monitor to us all, if we could keep it in daily remembrance. Few, indeed, are so coarse in their manifestations of ill-temper as this Kentish couple are described; but we all indulge, more or less, in unreasonable fretfulness, and petty acts of selfishness, in the relations of husband and wife, parents and children, brothers and sisters,--in fact, in all the relations of life. It would help us greatly to be kind, forbearing, and self-sacrificing toward neighbors, friends, and relatives, if it were always present to our minds that death may speedily close our intercourse with them in this world.--L. M. C.

WHAT THE OLD WOMAN SAID.

One summer eve, I chanced to pass, where, by the cottage gate,
An aged woman in the town sat crooning to her mate.
The frost of age was on her brow, its dimness in her eye,
And her bent figure to and fro rocked all unconsciously.
The frost of age was on her brow, yet garrulous her tongue,
As she compared the “_doings now_,” with those when _she_ was young.
“When _I_ was young, young gals were meek, and looked round kind of shy;
And when they were compelled to speak, they did so modestly.
They stayed at home, and did the work; made Indian bread and wheaten;
And only went to singing-school, and _sometimes_ to night meetin’.
And _children_ were obedient _then_; they had no saucy airs;
And minded what their mothers said, and learned their hymns and prayers.
But _now-a-days_ they know enough, before they know their letters;
And young ones that can hardly walk will contradict their betters.
Young women _now_ go kiting round, and looking out for beaux;
And scarcely one in ten is found, who makes or mends her clothes!
But then, I tell my daughter,
Folks don’t do as they’d ought’-ter.

When _I_ was young, if a man had failed, he shut up house and hall,
And never ventured out till night, if he ventured out at all;
And his wife sold all her china plates; and his sons came home from
college;
And his gals left school, and learned to wash and bake, and such like
knowledge;
They gave up cake and pumpkin-pies, and had the plainest eatin’;
And never asked folks home to tea, and scarcely went to meetin’.
The man that was a Bankrupt called, was kind’er shunned by men,
And hardly dared to show his head amongst his town folks _then_.
But _now-a-days_, when a merchant fails, they say he makes a penny;
The wife don’t have a gown the less, and his daughters just as many;
His sons they smoke their choice cigars, and drink their costly wine;
And _she_ goes to the opera, and _he_ has folks to dine!
He walks the streets, he drives his gig; men show him all civilities;
And what in _my_ day we called _debts_, are now his _lie_-abilities!
They call the man unfortunate who ruins half the city,--
In my day ’twas his _creditors_ to whom we gave our pity.
But then, I tell my daughter,
Folks don’t do as they’d ough’-ter.”

FROM THE OLIVE BRANCH.

THE SPRING JOURNEY.

O, green was the corn as I rode on my way,
And bright were the dews on the blossoms of May,
And dark was the sycamore’s shade to behold,
And the oak’s tender leaf was of emerald and gold.

The thrush from his holly, the lark from his cloud,
Their chorus of rapture sung jovial and loud;
From the soft vernal sky to the soft grassy ground,
There was beauty above me, beneath, and around.

The mild southern breeze brought a shower from the hill,
And yet, though it left me all dripping and chill,
I felt a new pleasure, as onward I sped,
To gaze where the rainbow gleamed broad overhead.

O such be _life’s_ journey! and such be our skill
To lose in its blessings the sense of its ill;
Through sunshine and shower may our progress be even,
And our tears add a charm to the prospect of heaven.

BISHOP HEBER

MORAL HINTS.

BY L. MARIA CHILD.

Probably there are no two things that tend so much to make human beings unhappy in themselves and unpleasant to others, as habits of fretfulness and despondency; two faults peculiarly apt to grow upon people after they have passed their youth. Both these ought to be resisted with constant vigilance, as we would resist a disease. This we should do for our own sakes, and as a duty we owe to others. Life is made utterly disagreeable when we are daily obliged to listen to a complaining house-mate. How annoying and disheartening are such remarks as these: “I was not invited to the party last night. I suppose I am getting to be of no consequence to anybody now.” “Yes, that is a beautiful present you have had sent you. Nobody sends _me_ presents.” “I am a useless encumbrance now. I can see that people want me out of their way.” Yet such observations are not unfrequently heard from persons surrounded by external comforts, and who are consequently envied by others of similar disposition in less favorable circumstances.

No virtue has been so much recommended to the old as cheerfulness. Colton says: “Cheerfulness ought to be the viaticum of their life to the old. Age without cheerfulness is a Lapland winter without a sun.”

Montaigne says: “The most manifest sign of wisdom is continued cheerfulness.”

Dr. Johnson says: “The habit of looking on the best side of every event is worth more than a thousand pounds a year.”

Tucker says: “The point of aim for our vigilance to hold in view is to dwell upon the brightest parts in every prospect; to call off the thoughts when running upon disagreeable objects, and strive to be pleased with the present circumstances surrounding us.”

Southey says, in one of his letters: “I have told you of the Spaniard, who always put on his spectacles when about to eat cherries, that they might look bigger and more tempting. In like manner, I make the most of my enjoyments; and though I do not cast my eyes away from my troubles, I pack them in as little compass as I can for myself, and never let them annoy others.”

Perhaps you will say: “All this is very fine talk for people who are naturally cheerful. But I am low-spirited by temperament; and how is that to be helped?” In the first place, it would be well to ascertain whether what you call being naturally low-spirited does not arise from the infringement of some physical law; something wrong in what you eat or drink, or something unhealthy in other personal habits. But if you inherit a tendency to look on the dark side of things, resolutely call in the aid of your reason to counteract it. Leigh Hunt says: “If you are melancholy for the first time, you will find, upon a little inquiry, that others have been melancholy many times, and yet are cheerful now. If you have been melancholy many times, recollect that you have got over all those times; and try if you cannot find means of getting over them better.”

If reason will not afford sufficient help, call in the aid of conscience. In this world of sorrow and disappointment, every human being has trouble enough of his own. It is unkind to add the weight of your despondency to the burdens of another, who, if you knew all his secrets, you might find had a heavier load than yours to carry. You find yourself refreshed by the presence of cheerful people. Why not make earnest efforts to confer that pleasure on others? You will find half the battle is gained, if you never allow yourself to _say_ anything gloomy. If you habitually try to pack your troubles away out of other people’s sight, you will be in a fair way to forget them yourself; first, because evils become exaggerated to the imagination by repetition; and, secondly, because an effort made for the happiness of others lifts us above ourselves.

Those who are conscious of a tendency to dejection should also increase as much as possible the circle of simple and healthy enjoyments. They should cultivate music and flowers, take walks to look at beautiful sunsets, read entertaining books, and avail themselves of any agreeable social intercourse within their reach. They should also endeavor to surround themselves with pleasant external objects.

Our states of feeling, and even our characters, are influenced by the things we habitually look upon or listen to. A sweet singer in a household, or a musical instrument played with feeling, do more than afford us mere sensuous pleasure; they help us morally, by their tendency to harmonize discordant moods. Pictures of pleasant scenes, or innocent objects, are, for similar reasons, desirable in the rooms we inhabit. Even the paper on the walls may help somewhat to drive away “blue devils,” if ornamented with graceful patterns, that light up cheerfully. The paper on the parlor of Linnæus represented beautiful flowering plants from the East and West Indies; and on the walls of his bedroom were delineated a great variety of butterflies, dragon-flies, and other brilliant insects. Doubtless it contributed not a little to the happiness of the great naturalist thus to live in the midst of his pictured thoughts. To cultivate flowers, to arrange them in pretty vases, to observe their beauties of form and color, has a healthy effect, both on mind and body. Some temperaments are more susceptible than others to these fine influences, but they are not entirely without effect on any human soul; and forms of beauty can now be obtained with so little expenditure of money, that few need to be entirely destitute of them.

Perhaps you will say, “If I feel low-spirited, even if I do not speak of it, I cannot help showing it.” The best way to avoid the intrusion of sad feelings is to immerse yourself in some occupation. Adam Clarke said: “I have lived to know that the secret of happiness is never to allow your energies to stagnate.” If you are so unfortunate as to have nothing to do at home, then, the moment you begin to feel a tendency to depression, start forth for the homes of others. Tidy up the room of some helpless person, who has nobody to wait upon her; carry flowers to some invalid, or read to some lonely old body. If you are a man, saw and split wood for some poor widow, or lone woman, in the neighborhood. If you are a woman, knit stockings for poor children, or mend caps for those whose eyesight is failing; and when you have done them, don’t send them home, but take them yourself. Merely to have every hour of life fully occupied is a great blessing; but the full benefit of constant employment cannot be experienced unless we are occupied in a way that promotes the good of others, while it exercises our own bodies and employs our own minds. Plato went so far as to call exercise a cure for a wounded conscience; and, provided usefulness is combined with it, there is certainly a good deal of truth in the assertion; inasmuch as constant helpful activity leaves the mind no leisure to brood over useless regrets, and by thus covering the wound from the corrosion of thought, helps it to become a scar.

Against that listless indifference, which the French call _ennui_, industry is even a better preservative than it is against vain regrets. Therefore, it seems to me unwise for people in the decline of life to quit entirely their customary occupations and pursuits. The happiest specimens of old age are those men and women who have been busy to the last; and there can be no doubt that the decay of our powers, both bodily and mental, is much hindered by their constant exercise, provided it be not excessive.

It is recorded of Michael Angelo, that “after he was sixty years old, though not very robust, he would cut away as many scales from a block of very hard marble, in a quarter of an hour, as three young sculptors would have effected in three or four hours. Such was the impetuosity and fire with which he pursued his labors, that with a single stroke he brought down fragments three or four fingers thick, and so close upon his mark, that had he passed it, even in the slightest degree, there would have been danger of ruining the whole.” From the time he was seventy-one years old till he was seventy-five, he was employed in painting the Pauline Chapel. It was done in fresco, which is exceedingly laborious, and he confessed that it fatigued him greatly. He was seventy-three years old when he was appointed architect of the wonderful church of St. Peter’s, at Rome; upon which he expended the vast powers of his mind during seventeen years. He persisted in refusing compensation, and labored solely for the honor of his country and his church. In his eighty-seventh year, some envious detractors raised a report that he had fallen into dotage; but he triumphantly refuted the charge, by producing a very beautiful model of St. Peter’s, planned by his own mind, and in a great measure executed by his own hand. He was eighty-three, when his faithful old servant Urbino, who had lived with him twenty-six years, sickened and died. Michael Angelo, notwithstanding his great age, and the arduous labors of superintending the mighty structure of St. Peter’s, and planning new fortifications for Rome, undertook the charge of nursing him. He even watched over him through the night; sleeping by his side, without undressing. This remarkable man lived ninety years, lacking a fortnight. He wrote many beautiful sonnets during his last years, and continued to make drawings, plans, and models, to the day of his death, though infirmities increased upon him, and his memory failed.

Handel lived to be seventy-five years old, and though afflicted with blindness in his last years, he continued to produce oratorios and anthems. He superintended music in the orchestra only a week before he died. Haydn was sixty-five years old, when he composed his oratorio of The Creation, the music of which is as bright as the morning sunshine. When he was seventy-seven years old, he went to a great concert to hear it performed. It affected him deeply to have his old inspirations thus recalled to mind. When they came to the passage, “It was light!” he was so overpowered by the harmonies, that he burst into tears, and, pointing upwards, exclaimed: “Not from _me_! Not from _me_! but _thence_ did all this come!”

Linnæus was past sixty-two years old when he built a museum at his country-seat, where he classified and arranged a great number of plants, zoöphytes, shells, insects, and minerals. Besides this, he superintended the Royal Gardens, zealously pursued his scientific researches, corresponded by letter with many learned men, taught pupils, and lectured constantly in the Academic Gardens. His pupils travelled to all parts of the world, and sent him new plants and minerals to examine and classify. In the midst of this constant occupation, he wrote: “I tell the truth when I say that I am happier than the King of Persia. My pupils send me treasures from the East and the West; treasures more precious to me than Babylonish garments or Chinese vases. Here in the Academic Gardens is my Elysium. Here I learn and teach; here I admire, and point out to others, the wisdom of the Great Artificer, manifested in the structure of His wondrous works.” It is said that even when he was quite ill, the arrival of an unknown plant would infuse new life into him. He continued to labor with unremitting diligence till he was sixty-seven years old, when a fit of apoplexy attacked him in the midst of a public lecture, and so far impaired his memory that he became unable to teach.

The celebrated Alexander von Humboldt lived ninety years, and continued to pursue his scientific researches and to publish learned books up to the very year of his departure from this world.

The Rev. John Wesley continued to preach and write till his body was fairly worn out. Southey, his biographer, says: “When you met him in the street of a crowded city, he attracted notice, not only by his band and cassock, and his long hair, white and bright as silver, but by his pace and manner, both indicating that all his minutes were numbered, and that not one was to be lost.” Wesley himself wrote: “Though I am always in haste, I am never in a hurry; because I never undertake more work than I can go through with perfect calmness of spirit.” Upon completing his eighty-second year, he wrote: “It is now eleven years since I have felt any such thing as weariness. Many times I speak till my voice fails me, and I can speak no longer. Frequently I walk till my strength fails, and I can walk no farther. Yet even then I feel no sensation of weariness, but am perfectly easy from head to foot. I dare not impute this to natural causes. It is the will of God.” A year later, he wrote: “I am a wonder to myself. Such is the goodness of God, that I am never tired, either with writing, preaching, or travelling.”

Isaac T. Hopper, who lived to be past eighty, was actively employed in helping fugitive slaves, and travelling about to exercise a kindly and beneficent influence in prisons, until a very short time before his death. When he was compelled to take to his bed, he said to me: “I am ready and willing to go, only there is so much that I want to do.”

Some will say it is not in their power to do such things as these men did. That may be. But there is something that everybody can do. Those whose early habits render it difficult, or impossible, to learn a new science, or a new language, in the afternoon of life, can at least oil the hinges of memory by learning hymns, chapters, ballads, and stories, wherewith to console and amuse themselves and others. A stock of nursery rhymes to amuse little children is far from being a foolish or worthless acquisition, since it enables one to impart delight to the little souls,

“With their wonder so intense,
And their small experience.”

Women undoubtedly have the advantage of men, in those in-door occupations best suited to the infirm; for there is no end to the shoes that may be knit for the babies of relatives, the tidies that may be crocheted for the parlors of friends, and the socks that may be knit for the poor. But men also can find employment for tedious hours, when the period of youthful activity has passed. In summer, gardening is a never-failing resource both to men and women; and genial qualities of character are developed by imparting to others the flowers, fruit, and vegetables we have had the pleasure of raising. The Rev. Dr. Prince of Salem was always busy, in his old age, making telescopes, kaleidoscopes, and a variety of toys for scientific illustrations, with which he instructed and entertained the young people who visited him. My old father amused himself, and benefited others, by making bird-houses for children, and clothes-horses and towel-stands for all the girls of his acquaintance who were going to housekeeping. I knew an old blind man, who passed his winter evenings pleasantly weaving mats from corn-husks, while another old man read to him. A lathe is a valuable resource for elderly people; and this employment for mind and hands may also exercise the moral qualities, as it admits of affording pleasure to family and friends by innumerable neatly-turned little articles. The value of occupation is threefold to elderly people, if usefulness is combined with exercise; for in that way the machinery of body, mind, and heart may all be kept from rusting.

A sister of the celebrated John Wilkes, a wise and kindly old lady, who resided in Boston a very long time ago, was accustomed to say, “The true secret of happiness is always to have a little less time than one wants, and a little more money than one needs.” There is much wisdom in the saying, but I think it might be improved by adding, that the money should be of one’s own earning.

After life has passed its maturity, great care should be taken not to become indifferent to the affairs of the world. It is salutary, both for mind and heart, to take an interest in some of the great questions of the age; whether it be slavery or war, or intemperance, or the elevation of women, or righting the wrongs of the Indians, or the progress of education, or the regulation of prisons, or improvements in architecture, or investigation into the natural sciences, from which proceed results so important to the daily comfort and occupations of mankind. It is for each one to choose his object of especial interest; but it should be remembered that no person has a right to be entirely indifferent concerning questions involving great moral principles. Care should be taken that the daily social influence which every man and woman exerts, more or less, should be employed in the right direction. A conscientious man feels himself in some degree responsible for the evil he does not seek to prevent. In the Rev. John Wesley’s journal for self-examination this suggestive question occurs: “Have I embraced every probable opportunity of doing good, and of preventing, removing, or lessening evil?” Such habits of mind tend greatly to the improvement of our own characters, while at the same time they may help to improve the character and condition of others. Nothing is more healthy for the soul than to go out of ourselves, and stay out of ourselves. We thus avoid brooding over our own bodily pains, our mental deficiencies, or past moral shortcomings; we forget to notice whether others neglect us, or not; whether they duly appreciate us, or not; whether their advantages are superior to ours, or not. He who leads a true, active, and useful life has no time for such corrosive thoughts. All self-consciousness indicates disease. We never think about our stomachs till we have dyspepsia. The moral diseases which induce self-consciousness are worse than the physical, both in their origin and their results. To indulge in repinings over our own deficiencies, compared with others, while it indicates the baneful presence of envy, prevents our making the best use of such endowments as we have. If we are conscious of our merits, bodily or mental, it takes away half their value. There is selfishness even in anxiety whether we shall go to heaven or not, or whether our souls are immortal or not. A continual _preparation_ for eternal progress is the wisest and the happiest way to live _here_. If we daily strive to make ourselves fit companions for angels, we shall be in constant readiness for a better world, while we make sure of enjoying some degree of heaven upon this earth; and, what is still better, of helping to make it a paradise for others.

Perhaps there is no error of human nature productive of so much unhappiness as the indulgence of temper. Often everything in a household is made to go wrong through the entire day, because one member of the family rises in a fretful mood. An outburst of anger brings a cloud of gloom over the domestic atmosphere, which is not easily dissipated. Strenuous efforts should be made to guard against this, especially by the old; who, as they lose external attractions, should strive all the more earnestly to attain that internal beauty which is of infinitely more value. And here, again, the question may be asked, “What am I to do, if I have naturally a hasty or fretful temper, and if those around me act in a manner to provoke it?” In the first place, strong self-constraint may be made to become a habit; and this, though very difficult in many cases, is possible to all. People of the most ungoverned tempers will often become suddenly calm and courteous when a stranger enters; and they can control their habitual outbreaks, when they are before people whose good opinion they are particularly desirous to obtain or preserve. Constraint may be made more easy by leaving the presence of those with whom you are tempted to jangle. Go out into the open air; feed animals; gather flowers or fruit for the very person you were tempted to annoy. By thus opening a door for devils to walk out of your soul, angels will be sure to walk in. If circumstances prevent your doing anything of this kind, you can retire to your own chamber for a while, and there wrestle for victory over your evil mood. If necessary avocations render this impossible, time can at least be snatched for a brief and earnest prayer for help in overcoming your besetting sin; and prayer is a golden gate, through which angels are wont to enter.

“And the lady prayed in heaviness,
That looked not for relief;
But slowly did her succor come,
And a patience to her grief.

“O, there is never sorrow of heart
That shall lack a timely end,
If but to God we turn and ask
Of Him to be our friend.”