in the winter. While Charlotte and her mother stood looking at them, they cut down five or six tall trees, which came thrashing to the ground, and made the leaves and dust fly. They then lopped off the branches with their sharp axes, and cut up the trunk into logs. 66 looking steadily at the Western clouds, and asked her what she saw there. "It looks as if a storm was rising," said Mrs. Ray, "and we must now set out for home. We are as much as two miles from the house, and I fear that we shall get wet before we reach home." Farther on, they fell in with a large lot Charlotte looked up at the clouds, and of ground which was entirely covered with saw that they were moving fast up the yellow flowers. Charlotte was delighted heavens. They were heavy and black, with the prospect, and wondered what and she knew that this appearance was a flowers they were. Her mother told her sign of rain. She took hold of her moththey were mustard going to seed. Char-er's hand, and they churried forward as lotte was surprised that so simple a thing fast as they could. They had gone but a as mustard should look so beautiful. But short distance, when the wind arose, and they now fell in with many other autumn blew the leaves and dust into the air. flowers, some of which were blue, others The tall trees bent, the woods roared, and were white, and some were of a dark red. so furious was the wind that Charlotte and 'How beautiful everything in the her mother were obliged to stop for a few world is!" cried Charlotte. "I thought moments, as they could not force their that when summer was gone, everything way against the wind. Then they heard looked dreary and dull.' the large drops of rain come pattering down upon the dry leaves. Mrs. Ray said that it was of no use to try to reach home, and she would endeavor to gain a little cottage not very distant, on the other side of a corn-field near which they were. But all its fury. Little rivers and pools began to form in their path. The sky grew darker, and the wind drove the rain directly into their faces. Still they hurried forward, splashing through the water, and stumbling over the stubble of the cornfield. All seasons have their beauties," replied Mrs. Ray, "if we are only in a condition to enjoy them. In spring, the ice begins to melt, the rivulets run, the tender grass peeps forth, with its lively green, the willows put on their small leaves, and at last the early flowers appear in the woods. In summer, you will see the flowers in full bloom, and the blossoms falling from the trees to give place to fruit. Then the woods are pleasant, for the shade is deep, and the leaves are thick upon the trees. Even winter has its delights." ་་ 'Yes, mamma,' " said Charlotte, "I know that very well; for last winter we had several very fine sleigh-rides, and the last time, we visited one house where they had a great many nuts that the boys had gathered, during the autumn, from tall trees. I think that the snow looks beautifully too, when it lies on the fields, the rocks and hills so very clean and white. But it is most beautiful of all, when the branches of the trees are covered with ice, and the sun shines upon them. In the morning, there is frost upon the windows, and it is sometimes in the shape of houses, churches, and trees. The first time that I saw it, I did not know what it was, and John said that Jack Frost had been drawing pictures on the windows." Charlotte now saw that her mother was now the rain came down in At length Charlotte heard some one singing at a distance, whenever the wind held up a little, and she told her mother. "We cannot be far off, if ing," said Mrs. Ray. you heard singBrownell at her spinning-wheel. She is "It is old Mrs. very industrious, and does not seem to be much troubled by the storm." Just then they came in sight of Mrs. Brownell's cottage. It was a one-story house, and looked quite small to Charlotte, who had always lived in a larger building. There were several large trees around the cottage, which made a good shade in the summer time; but now, whenever there came among them. But Charlotte had no time a gust of wind, it roared loudly to make observations on the scenery around the cottage. Her mother opened a little gate, and hurried her through the Mrs. Ray might easily have made it appear that she had come abroad on purpose to visit Mrs. Brownley, but she chose to tell the truth. Therefore she smiled and said "I had certainly intended to visit you before a great while, but this time I came for my own convenience, as we were caught in the storm, and your house was the nearest shelter that I could find," Mrs. Brownell smiled and said-" You are none the less welcome for that, my lady. But take off your things and dry them, for have got wet." you Charlotte saw that there were but two rooms in the cottage. One of them contained a bed and some articles of clothing, while the room in which they sat, had a large old-fashioned fireplace, and was poorly supplied with furniture. Mrs. Ray said to the old lady, "I see that you continue to be busy at your wheel, though you must now be over seventy years of age.' "Yes," said Mrs. Brownell, “I am thankful for my health, and while I have that, I can pay my way by spinning flax." "But do you not sometimes get weary of this mode of life, and feel lonesome? inquired Mrs. Ray. No, madam," said Mrs. Brownell ; "I am never weary when I know that I am doing right, and am never lonesome while I feel that Divine Providence is around me, and his handiwork is in every leaf, and his breath in every breeze. I know that it cannot be long before I shall go to Him, and therefore I think of Him the more as the time draws nigh.' Mrs. Ray then entered into conversation with the old lady, and was highly gratified to find that she was of a cheerful mind, and that her faith in the promises of the Scriptures was strong and fervent. "After The clouds then began to pass away, and the sun shone out clearly. all," said Mrs. Ray, "the storm has proved to be nothing more than a shower, and we will not intrude upon your hospitality any longer. I will call and see you again before long." "Do so, my lady," said Mrs. Brownell," and bring your little girl with you; for I see that she is not unmindful of those things which relate to virtue and to peace." Mrs. Ray and Charlotte set out for home. The storm had passed over, and all nature looked more lively for the rain. When they had nearly reached home, Charlotte's mother said to her, "now tell me, my dear, what is the most beautiful thing that you have seen to-day?" 'I will, mamma," said Charlotte; "it was that old lady, so contented though so poor, and so thankful to Providence for what little she had." You have seen two kinds of beauty," said Mrs. Ray; "one was the beauty of the outward creation, and the other was the beauty of a faithful and hopeful spirit. The beauty of the heart is called moral beauty, and that we may possess, however old and wrinkled the body may be." LET US PRAY. From the F.ench of Jules De Kess Equier. In this world sad or bright, Day after day, our joys grow less, In vain we wish for happiness, We wish that from the common sluice To sail with rudder lost; Without the martyr's cross. A star would sit in light, We wish-oh! folly worse than vain ; Pray, pray! and ask His healing grace M. C. P. Editor's Table. In holding out either hand, the one to the retiring lady who preceded us as editor of this Magazine, pleasantly filling the chair, and deftly scattering gems upon the table now fallen to our occupation, and the other to the readers who are to be pleased or displeased, as the case may be, with their new commissariat, we find ourselves the victim of a strange and incomprehensible spell. We endeavor to speak the farewell and the introductory salutation with the smiling, graceful courtesy becoming a lady who would be altogether comme-il-faut, when, lo! the manner assumes the inflexible dignity of military precision, and the lady-like courtesy subsides to a mere military salute. The color of the times has infected us-all things wear a military aspect, all sounds assume a military tone. We ramble out into the meadows to search for the sweet June flowers, but the green grass seems studded, instead of its natural gems, the flowers, with ten thousand of those glorious flags of the "red, white and blue," which we so lately watched floating from hundreds and hundreds of mast-heads, steeples and housetops, within the precincts of the noble Empire city. We return to our cottage, and from under its eaves, watch the robins and orioles that flit about among the orchard trees that hedge us in, striving to catch their sweet songs that they at least may furnish something pleasant wherewith to spice our modest introductory; but again we are defeated, for a bull of Bashan that goes ramping about the neighboring barn-yard, tossing his horns, and pawing the dust with his hoofs, drowns their voices with his warlike roar. Scarcely has this sunk to quiet, when another and more unwonted sound-the booming of cannon and the huzzas of excited multitudes-comes up from the mile of village streets, even in this secluded spot, driving all peaceful thoughts away. For we know by this, that another martial squadron of young and stalwart men is filing on through our peaceful village, to one common centre and for one common purpose. We do not debate the question of the right or the wrong of this purpose, though we have our opinion; but we think of the great aching of mother-hearts that is filling this beautiful land from North to We ask ourselves, does that mother's heart ache for each of those sixteen, thus laid on their country's altar, as the hearts of other mothers ache for each of their smaller numbers thus devoted, as ours for our little three? A rumor, vague and not yet confirmed, of disaster to our troops, is at this moment wringing the hearts of thousands who are waiting for an answer to the fearful question, "Is mine among the dead or wounded?" However that question may be answered, to whomsoever the reply may bring joy or anguish, may all feel assured that God in his own time will, by means of lesser evils, work the destruction of the greater, and therewith be content, thankful if what is sorrow to us, may in the end bring joy to others. "Tis worth a wise man's best of life, The countless ills beneath the sun." It is said that Napoleon the 1st was in the habit of foreshadowing his great military contests, and fighting his battles in advance upon the chess board. Then he would spend whole nights in strategic operations, deploying his pieces along this mimic field, routing his adversaries, check-mating their kings, and winning or losing the game with all the ardor and interest he manifested on those broader and grander fields, when living, breathing men were his machinery, rival kings his opponents, and kingdoms and crowns the stakes for which he played. As the game upon the chess-board terminated, so he drew his auguries of the fate of the impending battle, anticipating victory, or darkly looking for disaster as he had on the mimic field achieved the one or suffered the other. This kind of superstition, verging on fatal ism, is not very uncommon. We all have our signs, omens, and oracles, natural or supernatural, to which we yield a certain vague credence, scarce half-acknowledged perhaps, yet one nevertheless often exerting more influence over us than we are ourselves aware, and not unfrequently shaping the ends of before doubt ful phases of our life. We have been led to these remarks by watching a curions and amusing little warfare lately inaugurated, and still going on at intervals in our domestic menage, and which, we know not wherefore, we have got into the habit of regarding as a representative war. The battles have thus far been short and inglorious, yet ridiculous as it may seem, each one of them has latterly seemed to come before us as a prophecy, or rather as a type of the battles in a more serious and more momentous conflict. May the oracle, undignified as are its utterances, speak true. The details are these. We have a venerable house-dog-in his prime a bold and mighty hunter, but latterly in his failing years, given to indolence and inactivity. Honest and faithful in his nature, he bears, according to the opinion of a friend who takes great interest in his welfare, the grave and reverend expression of an octogenarian divine in the neighborhood, and by his general deportment wins the kind feelings of all. It is time for Port to retire to the ease and unambitious quiet of private life. But like many another with greater pretentions to wisdom than himself, Port finds it difficult to grow old gracefully, and having long been monarch of the farm-yard he still naturally enough desires to continue so. Indeed his authority there is still generally acknowledged, and he gravely asserts it by driving out all intrusive cattle, keeping the poultry within bounds, occasionally barking obstreperously at an echo which never fails provokingly to bark back again, and otherwise making himself generally useful. But all sunshine has its shadow, and it may be that Port's serene old age is destined to be seriously disturbed. We are sorry to say, symptoms of treasonable rebellion have of late covertly manifested themselves in a department of the state, and these a few days since culminated in an open revolt, when two widowed turkies set up a secession standard and boldly defied the government. Never was war-worn veteran ruler more taken by surprize than Port. At first he seemed quite incapable of meeting the exigency, and we blush to confess, beat a hasty and most inglorious retreat Like most of such backward movements, this proved a grand and well-nigh fatal mistake, giving boldness and impudence to the rebels, and quite demoralizing and weakening the cause of the government. This Port soon discovered to his cost, when he found that the capital was actually taken, and that any attempt on his part to enter the barn-yard was met by a vigorous assault from the amazonian rebels, who putting him to flight, followed on the wing hard after him, beating him with their pinions, and raising loud cries of victory until poor Port, terrified and shrieking, gained the shelter of the house-door, where he crouched down as completely cowed as ever deposed and conquerel ruler was. At first this scene of bravery and discomfiture struck us as infinitely ludicrous and amusing, but after two or three repetitions, Port yielded, and went no more to his dominions. Then suddenly the farce seemed to assume portentous and prophetic importance. "This rebellion must be put down," said we. "Port, are you a coward? Do you give up beaten without a contest? Go to the barn-yard and defend yourself." Port looked steadily in our face for a minute, understanding as plainly as you do, rose with difficulty to his feet, poor old dog-and walked composedly out to the disputed territory. The rebels were ready, furiously attacking him as usual, but this time Port did not flinch. Though flapped, and pecked, and beaten, he stood his ground like the old hero he was in his early days, shaking the Oriskany hills with his deep growling, and facing the fury of his assailants until nearly exhausted; when from the conservative clans of the farm-yard, which had all this while remained obstinately neutral, a brisk little tan-terrier, like the forlorn hope of an army, rushed unexpectedly to the rescue. He came none too soon, but his interference was effective. He was everywhere at one and the same time; snapping at the heads, the wings, the feet of the turkies, all the while covering with the shield of his slender little person the weary and exhausted, but still brave old warrior, nor ceasing the combat until the rebels were in their turn put to flight. Gyp has evidently no particular respect for that portion of the fair sex which steps out of its proper sphere to enter the arena from time immemorial consecrated almost exclusively to the sterner sex. he ever heard of Boadicea,Semiramide, Cleopatra, or other female warriors (we know not, Whether manner. "I live a life apparently very miserable," said he. "I have no more body than just enough to enable me to suffer horribly. But what of that? Nature is so beautiful that I could even wish never to die, that I might gaze upon her always." but he evidently leans to the opinion of a or, of which he spoke in the most touching large class of biped philosophers that, whatever woman's rights may be, they who assume the vestments or prerogatives of men must also submit to their discomfitures. Port was full of gratitude to his brave little friend, who has since been his constant and watchful ally; several skirmishes have since taken place, for the war is by no means quite over. Symptoms of giving way are, however, discernible in the rebel widows, and we look daily for the striking of the secession flag, and a return to their allegiance, when we have no doubt the generous Port, overlooking their revolt, will receive them once more into all the old favor. He died a few days since, and I accompanied him to the cemetery. He was a Protestant. This I discovered only at the moment of his interment, by certain variations in the form of the funeral ceremonies. Poor fellow! of the Catholic priests who walked beside the bearers, followed by a weeping father and grieving friends, one alone lifted his hat, and he walked afterwards around him, with a disturbed and sorrowful face; the others stopped, looking on without giving any sign of respect either for the dead, or for the grief of those who mournhim. Alphonse Karr, pretty well known in this country as the author of Voyages autour de mon jardin, in his later work, Promenades hors de mon jardin, tells the following touch-ed ing incident, which we translate. "Since my residence in Nice, I have occasionally met in the Rue de la croix de-Marbre, a young man whose intellectual and expressive countenance attracted my attention. I found him always seated in the sunshine and in the same place. Entering into conversation with him one day, I learned that he was the grandson of the artist Hauser, was himself a distinguished painter, educated in Italy, but had been arrested in the midst of a brilliant career, by an inexorable malady. "Seldom have I listened to more interesting conversation than his. Possessed of high culture, and spending most of his time, where his illness prevented him from painting, in reading, his brain was far from being like that of many, continually absorbing but never digesting. He promptly assimilated knowledge of whatever sort, each new acquisition serving to nourish a very bold and very original mind. "With an attenuated and almost lifeless body, he was one of the most living men I ever saw. He passionately loved all that is beautiful and grand. He would descant on the themes of love, the sun, the sea, the trees, the heavens, poetry, music, liberty, like a great poet. A sublime image, a rich or harmonious tint upon a cloud, a leaf or a rock, intoxicated him with delight. "Seated on his bench, or lying upon a bed, where suffering at last confined him, whether the windows were open, or the sun shone through the panes, he imagined to himself sweet music, harmonious arrangements of col I remember that last year, the funeral cortege of a Vaudois heretic was insulted and assailed with stones by the populace, and that a bishop afterwards insisted that the body should be removed from consecrated ground. I am, however, far from supposing that the Catholic priests incite the people to these savage and barbarous acts. But perhaps they take no pains to instruct them in regard to those principles of charity which always lead to respect for the dead. At the field of repose, the pastor pronounced a discourse, in which, after a just eulogium on the dead, and some truly Christian remarks expressive of entire confidence in the Divine mercy, he expressed some regrets, evidently tempered by respect for the grief of the assistants, that doubts in relation to certain dogmas, had accompanied Octave d' Albuzzi even to the last moments of life a life where intelligence had not become slowly enfeebled, like the light of a lamp whose oil is exhausted, but had been suddenly extinguished with the body, like the light of a lamp that is broken. Nevertheless, said he, we ought not to doubt the mercy of God which is infinite. No, we ought not to doubt it; we cannot doubt it without doubting his justice and his power. But I myself should not have thought of promising mercy; I should have spoken of it as already manifested. Octave Albuzzi, thou who by the Divine mercy hast just been delivered from the sad prison of thy body, thou wert a great artist; so to speak, one elected from the small number of |