It was a wet, dreary day in November, in the year 1836; and the rain pouring heavily and unceasingly down, made the pavement more slippery, and the whole aspect of the little country town of D-more unprepossessing than it was usually wont to be. Now to speak truth, the said town had never been celebrated for beauty, and on this particular occasion it looked about as disinal as any country town could do. There was one bright spot, however, on which the eye rested, amid all this desolation, in the shape of a large and substantially-built house, of more pretending exterior than those which surrounded it: the bright cheering light of a fire from within threw its red and fitful gleams through the lower windows, across which many young and some fair forms were seen to pass at intervals. In the room from which this light proceeded were assembled a number of young girls, all neatly, and some even elegantly attired. Some, grouped together round the ample hearth, conversed earnestly in whispered tones; while others moved restlessly about, and from time to time peeped curiously through the casement. In a corner of the chamber, and at a table strewn with papers, sat a lady, no longer either young or handsome, but whose mild and intelligent countenance, and widow's garb, could not fail to excite both interest and sympathy. The ease and dignity of this lady's demeanour might have done honour to the proudest mansion, yet in reality was she nothing more than the mistress of a school; and we need scarcely add, that the young assemblage were her pupils. We shall, with the reader's permission, say a few words concerning her. As we have already observed, she was at that period of life when the dimmed eye and feeble step tell in unmistakeable language that the energy of life is long passed. In that very dwelling, where she now sat the struggling hard-working woman, had she once been the cherished wife, the proud mother, and the brightest ornament of an elegant happy home; but misfortune, in its direst shape, had visited that prosperous dwelling; death in one year had taken away the father and the son, and the widowed wife and bereaved mother was left to struggle alone with the bitter lot of poverty and sorrow. Great as were these afflictions, they failed to paralyze the energies or overwhelm the soul of her to whom they were sent; and though sore was the anguish which wrung her heart for the loss of those she loved best on earth, it did not make her forget that her path was henceforth to be the rugged one of privation and selfdependence, to prevent her from becoming a burden on those who perhaps could ill sustain it. These reflections had determined her to take the only means of honourable independence for which her previous education and tranquil habits adapted her; and with the wreck which alone remained of her former affluence, she had opened the establishment we have before mentioned, some years previous to the commencement of our story. It was evident that something unusual was in agitation among the young community, and this was in reality the case; no less event being anticipated than the long-expected arrival, as a permanent resident among them, of the only daughter of the richest and most important personage in the parish of D--. Such an event is always one of absorbing interest in a school, and it was therefore not surprising that the young ladies of Mrs. Adams' establishment should be so earnestly employed in speculating on the appearance, manners, and dress of the new comer, in honour of whose expected arrival they had been permitted to lay aside for that day their usual occupations. Leaving them, therefore, to the indulgence of their natural curiosity, we shall proceed to give the reader a slight sketch of the person whose arrival was matter of so much interest among them; it will, however, be necessary to say a few words first on the subject of her family and home. Not very far from the school, and just outside the little town, stood a house of some pretension, enclosed in spacious grounds, and concealed from the high road by a thick shrubbery. Altogether its appearance suggested that the owner was a person of more wealth and importance than his neighbours, whose small and insignifi cant dwellings surrounded his residence; and this was true. Mr. Percival, to whom the dignified mansion belonged, was a retired speculator, who having been more than usually fortunate in the business in which he had engaged, had purchased with the fruits of his success this property, intending to make it his residence. It may give the reader some insight into his character, when we add, that his motive for selecting as his abode a neighbourhood entirely devoid of society or mental resource, was the vulgar and not uncommon ambition of being the most important personage in whatever place he happened to reside. Past middle life, of arrogant manners and unsocial habits, Mr. Percival was more generally feared than esteemed in the spot which he had made his home; too weak to perceive his error, and proud to excess of his pecuniary advantages, he fancied himself entitled to the unbounded homage and highest consideration of those whom he continually insulted by the assumption of a superiority which their natural pride refused to acknowledge. Thus it was that, at the end of a residence among them of some years, he was obnoxious to every inhabitant of the town of D--. Mr. Percival's family consisted of his wife, a son, and a young daughter. Of the former we shall only say that she was fretful, capricious, devoted to dress and every other species of frivolity; and, as might have been expected, the son of such parents was of mean disposition and unworthy tastes, inheriting the vulgar haughtiness of his father's character, and the love of ostentatious parade which characterised his weak and uneducated mother. We have generally remarked, that however unprincipled or despicable a family may be, there is always one at least of its members who is superior either in intellect or feeling to the rest, and this was the case in the present instance. Cassie Percival, though little more than a child in years, was old in mind; circumstances having conspired to make her more thoughtful than was either natural or good for her age. Gifted by nature with a keen sense of all that is best and purest in our nature, her finest instincts and best feelings had been continually wounded by the total absence of that tenderness towards each other, and consideration for others, which marked the daily conduct of her unworthy family. To a less pure and gentle nature these circumstances would have been productive of a selfish and callous state of feeling; but on the young Cassie their only effect was to render her more serious and reserved in character than is usual in young persons of her age. It might have been otherwise, had her father's habits led them to mix much with those among whom they lived; but imagining that his dignity would suffer in the eyes of the world, by contact with those whose worldly circumstances were inferior to his own, he carefully abstained from encouraging the intimacy of his neighbours. Thus it was that his young daughter (whose life was rendered more sad by a forced seclusion) had retained her native refinement and gentleness of manner. It had been lately determined upon, by the parents of the poor girl, to place her for the finishing of her education-which her weak mother was too indolent to undertake --under the superintendence of Mrs. Adams, and this was the day fixed on for her entrance into the establishment. Cassie had taken leave of her mother without much grief, for she was not sorry to leave a home where she had seldom experienced the fondness of a parent. Pale, and trembling with the natural fears of a shy and sensitive nature, when about to be put to the trying ordeal of strange and perchance critical eyes, the young girl entered (accompanied by her stately and uncommunicative father) the carriage which was to bear her away. A feeling approaching to terror seized her when she found herself fairly within the spacious and somewhat gloomy chainber where Mrs. Adams usually received her visitors; but when, on the entrance of that lady, she perceived a countenance from which sorrow and suffering had failed to banish the calm light of unalterable goodness and serenity, a pleasant and until then unknown feeling entered her heart. She fancied that in that sad but gentle woman she might perhaps find the friend and protectress which had been denied to her childhood. Having with many pompous expressions confided his daughter to Mrs. Adams, the wealthy parvenu withdrew, and Cassie Percival found herself alone with her future instructress, for whom she had already conceived esteem and admiration. It was with something of her former fear, however, that she followed the lady to the school-room we have already described, and where expectation was at its height. The door flew open, and scarcely knowing how she had entered, the young girl found herself in a large and cheerful apartment, and surrounded by some thirty young persons of different ages and appearance. Mrs. Adams took her hand kindly, and led her forward. "These, my dear girl, are your school-fellows and future companions," said she, glancing as she spoke at the young ladies; " and I hope and believe you may find friends among them, for to my knowledge there is not one cold heart or unkind disposition in my school." Though the persons on whom this flattering eulogium had been pronounced appeared highly gratified, they yet made no attempt to prove worthy of it, for none came forward to greet the stranger; and on Mrs. Adams being called away to another apartment, she remained standing alone among the pupils. Trembling and confused, Cassie scarcely dared look around, and already her eyes grew dim with involuntary tears at the unwonted strangeness of her position, when a light touch was laid upon her arm, and turning thankfully at the signal, she beheld a pale and faded-looking girl, a little older than herself, who led her to a seat, and then placed herself beside her. Cassie turned her eyes gratefully towards the person who had been the only one to welcome her arrival, and perceived that her appearance indicated, if not poverty, a near approach to it. But as this young girl plays a conspicuous part in our story, we shall devote a short space to relating her history. Josephine Howard was the daughter of an artist of no mean talents, who, though not a native of D——, had resided there some years, during which time, from unknown circumstances, the family had struggled vainly with penury and misfortune. Some blighting influence appeared to hang upon their house, though what it exactly was no one could tell, as they lived entirely secluded from the world, and rarely even exchanged words with any of their neighbours. It was, however, well known that the burden of supporting his family fell entirely on his wife-a sickly, broken-spirited woman, who bore her trials with patience, and even fortitude. Besides Josephine, they had one other child, a son, who from his birth had been a cripple, and consequently unable to bear his part in the task of assisting those whom he bitterly felt were already bent to the earth with ceaseless toil and sorrow. It might seem strange under these circumstances that Josephine Howard should be an inmate of Mrs. Adams' establishment, but the reason was this: the latter, whose kind heart was ever open to the misfortunes and distresses of others, had, with her accustomed generosity and kind feeling, admitted the poor girl (for whose mother she entertained admiration and respect) to the same advantages as her other pupils, and nobly refused any recompence. Let not the worldly reader curl his lip in scorn, as though such things existed but in fiction; true charity and self-forgetfulness, though uncommon, are not so rare as the world loves to think, and would be oftener found, did it look where (though least to be expected) they oftenest reside in the obscure dwellings of the indigent and oppressed. It had been the kind intention of Mrs. Adams to educate her protegée for the situation of a governess, so as to enable her to afford some assistance to her unfortunate family; but she already foresaw that the young girl would never be able to realise these expectations. Poor Josephine was unfitted to struggle with circumstance; for though she inherited her mother's fortitude of character, the sorrows and hardships of her position had told severely upon a constitution at once delicate and excitable. All this was written upon the face of the poor girl who sat beside the new pupil; and the young Cassie's heart filled with pity, when she contrasted her wan look of premature age and sorrow, and the extreme shabbiness of her dress, with the bright faces and becoming attire of her companions. In the course of conversation, Miss Percival heard with regret that her new friend was not a boarder in the establishment, but returned home every evening; and when the hour for parting came, they embraced mutually, with the frank warmth which characterises youthful affections. The evening had closed in, and a thick damp vapour floated through the still wet streets, when Josephine Howard set out on her way home, whither, with the reader's consent, we shall follow her. had already left the best part of the town some She walked rapidly along for some time, and distance behind, when she turned suddenly up an obscure court, composed of several mean dwellings, whose forlorn and neglected appearance spoke unmistakeably of the extreme poverty of their inhabitants. Before one of these, whose carefully-secured windows looked unutterably sad in the dim light of a November evening, Josephine stopped, and knocked softly at the door. Some moments elapsed, but at length it was opened by a sadlooking elderly female. "You are late, my child," said Mrs. Howard; come quickly in, for this damp air is death to such as you. Oh! my dear one, you know not how I have longed the whole day for your return; the time seems as if it would never go when you are so long away." So saying, the poor mother drew the young girl fondly to her arms, and kissed her wan cheek with warm affection. The daughter returned her caress, and clasping her mother's hand within her own, they together entered a small dark chamber, where a dim fire burnt feebly in the grate. The room looked out upon a grass-grown yard, the thick walls of which shut out all view from beyond. The furniture, though faded and much used, had evidently once graced a nobler dwelling; and an old piano, which stood in a corner of the apart ment, also appeared to have seen better days. Some books there were likewise, carefully placed on a high shelf, as if out of reach of harm; and on a small table by the window lay some unfinished specimens of work, on which the unfortunate mistress of this dreary establishment had been employed, by the melancholy light which penetrated into the small room. Poor girl! it was a sad home for one so young; for in youth the heart is more tenderly alive to sad realities than in after life; and the blighting influences of poverty fall more heavily on the spirit than when years have taught us that there are sorrows to which outward circumstances, however dreary, can add nothing. (To be continued.) "Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, TENNYSON." A FEW REMARKS ON MANY THINGS. BY MRS. VALENTINE BARTHOLOMEW. No. IV.-TEMPER. The unhappiness that one bad-tempered person can occasion in a family circle, should be witnessed to be truly understood. Unfortunately, casual observers are but too prone to make excuses for the offender, by remarking, "You must overlook the temper when the heart is in the right place." But let any one be shut up day after day, and year after year, with a companion of violent passions, and it will soon be acknowledged that a bad temper and good heart are almost incompatible. The effects of violence are often fearful and disgusting, as many a bruised and broken spirit could testify. Tears of penitence and remorse may cleanse, but not heal, the wound which an angry and insulting word has inflicted. Under the influence of rage a death-blow may be struck; and if the unhappy culprit escape the gallows, his soul must always remain a prey to the most poignant anguish. Mothers who suffer their little ones to scream until they are black in the face, to obtain a forbidden plaything, little dream that the unbridled passion of the child may in the man become the hurricane which will drive his frail bark on the quicksands of despair. like It is quite possible to subdue any ebullition of passion in the onset: give it brave battle, and, many another enemy, it will fly before you; but suffer it to make one advance, one safefooting, and you become its slave for ever. Sometimes persons rise in the morning with such a feeling of irritability, that it is all but unconquerable at such moments: a straw in their path would become a stumbling-block: at breakfast the tea is too hot or the toast too cold. Perhaps some unlucky dog or servant acts as a safety valve: the one gets a kick, from which it dies; or the other an unmerited scolding, which induces her to give warning. A valuable domestic is often lost under a temporary fit of the spleen, and it should be recollected that servants have their own private annoyances as well as their mistresses; and allowances ought to be made for a sharp answer, which is not intended to be impertinent. "Tis a wise rule for the lady of the house never to take the warning of a domestic when given under a sudden impulse, and as hastily repented. An author of one of our oldest plays has put the following words in the mouth of an ancient follower: "Please, sir, if you don't know when you have got a good servant, I know when I have got a good master!" Some men who fulfil public duty with honour and gentlemanly suavity are tyrants at home, keeping their household in the most abject state of submission, ruling their children with a rod of iron, until every affectionate feeling of reverence and love is lost in fear and aversion. Their absence from their families is hailed as a jubilee, and their return looked upon as an absolute penance. Others, again, appear so devoted to their wives in society, that they reap golden opinions from the fair and young of the gentler sex, who look upon such polite husbands as a pattern for all men. "How unworthy is that formal and reserved Mrs. to be the wife of that delightful man!" mentally exclaims a romantic and enthusiastic girl, who has been listening with charmed ear to the praises the gentleman bestowed on his better half, who, during the panegyric, remained as cold and motionless as a statue, with the exception of a slight curl on her pale lip, as the thought chilled her blood that she had only to bare her bruised arm to expose the violent treatment she received in private from the idol of the company. "My dear Louisa," or "my sweetest love," when used in great profusion, become very doubtful epithets. When single ladies are overcome with envious admiration at the attentions a husband lavishes on his wife, let them first ascertain if they be real, by observing if her cheeks glow with pride and pleasure when he speaks of her to another, and if her eyes follow him with that beautiful expression of tenderness which emanates only from those who love, and love worthily; then be assured the scene is not acted: nor does it follow that, because a married man pays homage to the talent, wit, and beauty of his wife's friends, that he should be the less satisfied with the woman he has chosen for his partner through life, although she may be entirely deficient in all the qualities he for the moment admires and worships in others. Yet but few females are exempt from the silly jealousy which is so fatal to domestic peace. If even the wife has proof that her husband's heart is estranged, let her endure that bitterest of anguish in silencelet her wait patiently the time when, by gentleness and forbearance, she may regain for ever the influence she has lost; and, above all, let her avoid taking revenge by encouraging flirtations with any of her male acquaintances, who are but too apt to lavish compliments on the neglected wife merely to let the world see they are in her confidence: nor should she confide her sorrows even to a female friend, for slight dissensions frequently terminate seriously by the interference and injudicious advice of a looker-on. Some really kind and true hearts are accused of being uncertain in their affections, when, most likely, they are but suffering from some misfortune which is a secret to the world. And there! are moments in everybody's life when the dearest friend would be an unwelcome guest; and when the impetuous and over-sensitive perceive this, they fly off at a tangent, never taking into generous consideration that there must be a thousand untoward events constantly happening to produce a cloud upon the brow, which the utmost self-control often fails to conceal. How frequently the kindnesses experienced for years are forgotten in an instant by the sensitive individual, who receives, or fancies he receives, a momentary neglect ! The huffy tempers often worry and fret themselves about childish trifles: they get a fit of the jaundice if they receive a letter from a valued correspondent who, in the pressure of business, may terminate the epistle with "yours truly" for "yours sincerely," or "yours ever" for yours affectionately;" yet not meaning to imply they are one iota the less cordial and friendly-unless, indeed, the letters prove cooler and cooler, wise is the receiver, if he values the esteem of the writer, to ask no explanation. The quarrels of two sensitive people, when they come in contact, are rarely made up. The extreme egotism of both parties makes each one consider himself the injured victim. Every one must have seen how matrimonial harmony is sometimes destroyed in the exigeante disposition of the lady or gentleman. The husband may be engaged all-day long in commercial or professional pursuits; worn and weary in body and mind, he looks for his reward in the social comforts of his domestic fire-side; but instead of being received with "smiles that make an atmosphere of love," his wife bores him with a description of silly quarrels with her servants, or imaginary slights she has received from his relatives, whom, if he attempts to vindicate, he is vehemently accused of being no longer her lover and protector: possibly he recriminates, by insinuating that she has also changed her character since their days of courtship, and is no longer conciliating and affectionate. Tears and angry reproaches follow, and the scene ends by the husband taking up his hat and finishing the evening at a theatre, or supping with a bachelor friend, whom he warns never to marry! The greatest trial to one's patience is to be shut up with a gloomy, discontented spirit, whose only happiness consists in being unhappy. To such an unfortunate being the seasons are always too hot or too cold-too damp or too dry. With his eyes wilfully shut to all the varied beauties of nature, he gropes on his way, clutching at the prickly thorn for support, and never seeking the gentle flower which blooms beneath it. Discontented with himself, he is disgusted with the world. He imputes to all men the selfishness which governs his own actions. Hating and being hated, he inflicts upon his wife, child, or dependent the daily details of his well-merited mortifications; and when his last hour arrives, he dies forgotten and unlamented. What an incomparable blessing is a sweet and even temper! When it is not given by nature, no pains should be spared to acquire it. Like sunshine, it throws a brightness on every sur rounding object. How completely it disarms anger! for it is utterly impossible to continue for any length of time displeased with a goodnatured person. THE DEATH OF THE DEAREST. I have seen the REST droop round me And have prayed beside their little graves I have seen their bright eyes closed in death, When my spirit has been waking, Has wrung my heart to breaking; 'T was then a low voice whispered, My last, my best loved one; And panting to be gone : To add a pang to mine: |