times sadly upon the happiness of women, who are naturally adhesive and conservative, and take ready and deep root in the soil where they are first planted. The ordeal of the first years of married life, which is even to congenial natures not without severe trials before two natures, in some respects different, are assimilated, is all the severer when attended with the frequent changes and startling incongruities of the social position; and the American girl who has been the pet of her father's house may, without falling into unkind hands, have many a misgiving and sinking of heart when she finds herself in a new and strange home, with a husband tried by business cares that never intruded upon the old hours of honeyed courtship, and among neighbors who are strangers to the companions, and perhaps to the associations and refinements, of her youth. Let her lot be of average good fortune, she must find that society, in many respects, is unsatisfactory and aggravating, and she is tempted by the universal emulation to measure her condition by what she desires, not by what she possesses; and, unless she has a better guide than the ruling fashion, she is led to count her competence a disappointment in view of the more brilliant prizes that have fallen into some dashing neighbor's eager hands. This habit of invidious comparison is the fatal bane of American families; and when the wife's envyings happen to cross the husband's ambition, and her social vanity refusing to enter into his business schemings, claims for ostentation the time and substance that he needs to cope with some rival's grasping competition, woe comes to the household, and the good angel vails his face and is ready to depart. Let him not depart; but let the wife, who should know wife the necessity of constant watch over the nerves of her peculiarly sensitive system, from which so large a portion of her moods and dispositions come. The nerves, especially the great sympathetic nerves, have much to do with the welfare of us all; and the man is a novice who has not learned that headache and the blues, instead of originating in the brain, come from the stomach and its net-work of nerves. But with woman the nerves of sympathy are the ruling powers of her being, and within the sympathetic ganglia of her maternal system she seems to have an occult universe of her own, with movements as marvelous as those of the solar and lunar worlds above. Her little and great tempers come mostly from this source, and are often as unforeseen and unexpected by herself as the changes of the sky. It may be that, to a certain extent, nature compels woman to a certain nervous excitability, and that the physiologist, as well as the poet, must call her "Varium et mutabile semper." But nature, which imposes liabilities, offers compensations; and no greater mistake can be made than to regard woman's constitution as wholly given over to caprice and excitement merely because it is peculiarly sensitive. If touched to finer issues than ours, her constitution can be touched by more gentle affections, and the nerves themselves have a principle of compensation in their susceptibility to soothing and cheering influences. They feel as quickly comforts as irritations, and woman's life wins at once new calmness and power the moment she learns the secret of curing one emotion by another, and especially the art of checking all excessive nervous sensibility by healthy muscular exercise. A true method of life will make far more, instead of less, of the nervous sensibilities, by giv-him best, keep the heavenly guest; and if loneing them all their full and various play, with a fair share of social excitement to keep them awake, and a fair share of out-door activity to keep them composed. The wife who knows this art will not need the fearful old-fashioned specifics for putting the whip and curb to her nerves, for she can be lively enough without green tea, and calm enough without laudanum or paregoric. We urge this point with the greater emphasis because, next to the intemperance of husbands, we believe that the nervous petulance of wives may be named among the sources of domestic discomfort and alienation. The delicate constitution of our American women gives to their nervous sensibility a fearful im-associate whom she and her husband both like portance, and the facts that are from time to time made public imply a vast amount of less conspicuous, but perhaps equally desolate, suffering. The wife's sensitive organization is much enhanced by the nature of American society, which has so little domestic stability, and constantly favors changes of fortune as of locality. We are, as a people, in a continuous revolution, and, in city and country, the man who lives and dies in the old homestead of his fathers is the rare exception. This mutability tells some ly self-discipline or devout sacrifice be too great an effort, let her bring social fellowship to her aid, and comfort herself and her husband by such society as blesses and edifies the home. The wife who will use the good privileges of any village or city, and encourage the presence of the friends whom, though few, she most respects, will find herself mightily strengthened; and a few intimates of true quality will cheer and help her far more than the whole world of frivolous fashionists, who care for her the less after all her attention to them, and not seldom make sport of her best endeavors to entertain them in style. Let the wife know that every and respect is a tower of strength and a tressure of comfort to the family, and a few sensible, well-principled, good-hearted, independent men and women may be a match for all the foolery of the town, and create an atmosphere in which every good affection and right purpose thrives. Happy is the wife whose best friends are also her husband's, and who is nearer him and his worthiest purposes by their companionship. Ill fares the wife who takes the other course, and, surrounded by frivolous trifers who despise all serious thought or toil, tempts her husband to like folly in the opposite extreme, by quitting home to chat forever with the drudges of the market-place, if not to carouse with the revelers of the club and gambling-house. to set the matter right, will be sure to stand by the wife's essential rights, and defend her against the tyrants who deny that she has any will of her own, and the libertines who aim to identify her will with her impulses, and so enslave her to her passions and caprices. It is not easy to say which most insults the wife, the bigot who makes her the minion, or the sentimentalist who makes her the mistress of her husband, with freedom to leave him or to be left by him at pleasure. The free-love doctrine, in its first principle, denies the very essence of the affection that makes the woman the wife. It leaves out the idea of divine law, immutable obligation, which is not only more binding, but more attractive than any impulse, however impassioned. Passion attracts for the hour, but duty attracts for a lifetime, and has the eternity of the God who ordained it. We firmly believe that not only the permanence but even the charm of the marriage relation lies in its inviolableness, and that it would not only be less sacred, but less attractive, if the tie were dissoluble at the pleasure of the parties. There is a solemn fascination in the highest sanctity, and every true woman who takes her marriage vow is won quite as much by the inviolable sacredness of the obligation as by the affectionate confidence of the promise. She does not wish to have any ifs or buts in her vow or her husband's troth, and the marriage is no marriage, but adultery, the moment the thought is entertained that the union is only one of pleasure, and the children who may be its issue, if a stronger impulse favors, can be virtually orphaned by the recreancy of either or both parents to the sacred covenant. As human nature is there must be some standard of judgment outside of the house itself; and for good or for ill the wife, as well as the husband, must set the watch by some ruling timekeeper. The greater the need, therefore, of having the true standard of conduct presented in the companionship, as well as the principles, of the family. We remember once asking a most excellent lady, in the midst of winter, in a house scorching with furnace heat, how warm it was by the thermometer, and her reply was that they did not use any thermometer, but regulated the temperature by their own feelings. As their feelings might not be, and were not mine, and as the wife's point of summer heat might not be exactly the same as the husband's, it would surely be better to have some rule to go by. In domestic affairs there is a yearning for such a rule, especially in any conflict of tempers or purposes; and if no higher standard prevails, social cliques and public opinion will have their influence. Thus, in our America, the wife is protected far more by public opinion than by law, and every reputable home in the land is guarded by a power that is as penetrating and effective as the atmosphere itself. American opinion invariably sides with the wife against the husband in every instance of wrong, and tolerates no neglect of her comfort unless her faithlessness has forfeited his protection. In spite of the indignation of the orators of women's rights conventions at the wrongs of We suppose that the faults of wives are chiefwomen, she has at the bar of public opinion ly one of two classes, according to their tempermore rights than the husband; and she may, ament and disposition, or according as sensitiveperhaps, with impunity, treat him with an in-ness of feeling or strength of will may be the difference or neglect that would not be tolerated on his part toward her. The statute law may, indeed, in some cases, unjustly restrict her rights of property, but public opinion abates the injustice by insisting upon the most liberal provision for her comfort during the husband's lifetime and after his death. In the favored circles of American society, or above a certain line of limitation and hardship, the wife is almost the queen of the household, and it is taken for granted that the husband's toil and gains are to be tributary to her elegance and comfort. Now, with all the follies of our American ladyworship, we have an idea that a noble conviction is bound up, and will ere long vindicate a fairer future for the wife, by claiming for her a true place in our sacred humanity. There is a certain national sentiment of chivalry that only needs to articulate itself into a principle to make the way clear for her. We ought to expect much smoke before the fire burns clear, and it is, in some respects, quite encouraging that the true place of woman is now so widely and so warmly discussed, and the laws of love and marriage are debated. The American heart, which needs only to codify its own common law prevailing characteristic. If the disposition be Of but we forbear, content with this passing hint, and not wishing to have our ears pulled by some gentle friends who are just on the borders of the folly without being committed to the sin. The New Testament gives us all the safeguard that the wife's conscience needs, and the law of the land, if it may not of itself create, should not consent to undo what God hath ordained, or sever those whom he hath joined together. It may be that hereafter Christianity may be found as powerful a sanction in inducing and perpetuating marriage as it once was in inducing celibacy. In the early ages, when selfsacrifice was needed in a peculiar form, and the whole domestic civilization was to be reformed, and home and friends were to be left in order to preach the Gospel to the heathen, or to defend it amidst near enemies, celibacy was the providential vow of the loyal servants of God. In our age, when the Gospel has now a foothold upon the earth, and the problem is not so much to convert the nations to the Gospel as to infuse its spirit into the general life, and organize religion as a family bond, it may be that marriage is the providential vow, while, in strange opposition to the primitive times, celibacy is now the easy choice of worldly indulgence. We are quite firm in the faith that a truer religious purpose would reinaugurate mar THE riage as the decree of God and the blessing of humanity, alike by putting an imperative check upon all licentious indulgence, and moving all men and women who are drawn together by a true congeniality to unite their hearts and homes, under God's blessing, more earnest to follow His will and their own holiest instincts than to wait upon the world's fashions and policy, until the inexorable years shall call them childless, and perhaps heartless, to the grave. Then hotels and monster boarding-houses, filled with celibates who are not always monks or nuns, would dwindle, and true homes of husbands, wives, and children would arise in their place. We are perhaps writing in a too sober vein, and we might more easily indulge in ready satire over the infirmities of wives and the mishaps of married life. But we are willing to err on the right side, and say our poor word most heartily for the good wife, and for every principle and institution that gives her light to the home and the social circle, and raises up children to call her blessed, and to be themselves a blessing to the nation and the world. Surely, so far as our own America is concerned, the best of all missionaries for our new and old States are good wives, and the homes, affections, and principles that go with them. NEXT YEAR. BY LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. HE lark is singing gayly in the meadow, But she is gone, the music of whose talking Was sweeter than the tones of summer rills. Sometimes I see the blue-bells blooming in the forest, Sometimes I seem to hear the rustle of her garments I see the sunbeams trail along the orchard, And fall, in thought, to tangling up her hair; But never any pleasant thing around, above us, More lofty than the skies that bend and brighten o'er us, More constant than the dove. She walks no more beside me in the morning, But once, at night, I heard a low voice calling, "Oh, faithful friend, thou hast not long to grieve!" Next year, when larks are singing gayly in the meadow, I shall not hear their tone, But she, in the dim, far-off country of the stranger, Will walk no more alone. IT OUR QUEER PAPA: A CASE OF ORGANIC AFFECTION. I. was glorious June at the summer resort of Old Babyland. Bathing the world about that placid place in rose, and gold, and luxurious shadow; thrilling the ear with bee murmurs and the sighs of grain swept by the gales afield; beaming in the ripples of the close-by lake, with a smile that said, "Come lie on my breast-be kissed by me !" flooding with a peaceful yet earnest sense of delicious life, all men, women, boys, girls, babies, trees-universal being, that dwelt in the fragrant tranquillity of Old Babyland! Oh, that was a beautiful place! Good people who go to the springs-surf-floundering public whom I love-ye who do all summer the same things ye have been doing all winter, in hotter places and with less room to do them in, perennial six-times-a-day dressers, bore-martyred, bill-distressed, mosquito-bitten, sulphurdrenched souls-envy me! For Old Babyland is a nook among the mountains, far, far up on the very top of Sullivan County, where fashion cometh not, but home-happiness goeth with you -where nature has never been dethroned, and civilization sits from June to September at her feet, drinking in her eloquent music, learning her wise, sweet lessons with a joyful meekness. To the wide piazzas of the Mansion House, close by the singing ripples and the thickets of laurelrose, among the highland birches, and beeches, and evergreens, solaced by the birds and the echoes of Kaw-na-ong-ga, "The lake that ever is silver-white," come the fathers, the mothers, the young men and maidens, and the little children, to live their too short three months of hearty simplicity, loving one another, each truthful with each, gathering cheek-roses and eyedew, and growing strong for the labors that must meet them again on the autumn verge of Old Babyland. To be there, oh my friends, was like taking a run out into Paradise for a short vacation from natural depravity. Old Babyland was a surprise to me-altogether. All day I had been jolted in an ancient stage over a road described by an Irish friend of mine as being half-way up the second hill before you were down the first-along all sorts of highly dangerous and picturesque precipices -through tan bark peelings, all overflowed by black tarns, where the great dead trees stood like monster, unsheeted ghosts, shivering, ankle deep, in the chill waters of Styx, as they waited for a Charon who would not come. And of a sudden, at sundown, we burst without warning upon Old Babyland; right out of the dense, dark pines, as one might say, pop! or that other word of traditional celerity, the name of the late John Robinson. It was like feeling in the pocket of a queer, old, cast-off pair of pantaloons, and pulling out a gold eagle. To an author, that would be a delightful surprise; but not so great a one as this exquisite place, with all its specialities of lake and cloud, beautiful, natural women, manly men, wild, little, happy children, and hearty welcome. On the day after I arrived there, the Old Babylanders had "a celebration." I forget what it was for, but no matter; they had them almost all the time, and on the slightest provocation. Sometimes somebody's birthday was the auspicious occasion; then again it was a new wharf for the pleasure-boats, which, by the unbounded munificence and sleepless industry of somebody else among the gentlemen, had been erected for the Old Babylanders, and must be consecrated with speeches, feasting, and song. The beauty of Old Babyland was this peculiarity-that we all looked through rose-colored, convex spectacles at every little pleasant thing, till it seemed big and beautiful enough to be commemorated by perpetual libations. I verily believe that if Mr. W. Dubbleyew, one of the most distinguished of our community, had bought a new pair of boots without keeping it very private, we should all of us have taken him out with us six miles to a grove behind a potato patch, and made him put them on, in connection with a congratulatory address, an original poem, and six songs composed for the occasion to popular airs. After which, we should probably have had a corn-roast and some lemonade. The day of this particular celebration opened clear and fair. Kaw-na-ong-ga was more silvery than ever. The breeze was a delicious southeastern. All nature appeared ready for the picnic with us. That is the difference between town and country happinesses. Be jolly in the woods, and all out-doors will seem going on your good time with you. But who ever expects Stewart's, or Tiffany's, or Hanghwout's to show any exhilaration at the fact that he is going to hear Gazzaniga in "Linda," or to Mrs. Feudejoie's grand fancy ball? Amidst these sympathetic surroundings I frisked along, the gayest of the gay. An author getting up his susceptibility to the pictur esque, washing the mussed soul he had worn through all the winter galas of town in the great bath of forest ether, blue-ing it in that sky which is warranted to take out all sallowness. There were two detachments to our picnic party that day-No. 1, the Oldsters; No. 2, the Youngsters-a state of things which seldom occurred at Old Babyland, where we were all children for the summer, and wrinkles dropped out of their significancy as territorial boundaries of life, becoming only ideal lines of latitude and longitude. But to-day the children took it into their little heads to picnic by themselves—to see how it would seem to have their own particular jollity; and, as an eminent favor, they made me the only exception among the big ones, and took me along because I could tell mouse-stories. In a little, cramped, baby hand, with the letters snugging up grotesquely against one an other like rows of hastily-stacked muskets, the sagest and most executive of my juveniles had prepared the following programme for the day: PROGRAMME (A FAC-SIMILE). 1. Getting our things on and Walking there 2 fixing the Table and entertaining each other least gifts of a beautiful girl. And Elsie Landon was beautiful. Now I hope you will know why I thought, as the girl sat leaning her round, shining little head against the trunk of the birch whose root served her as chair, that she was an object very 3. A Mouse-story, from Mr. Charles Washington Bird. well worth being looked at. 4 A harty laugh. 5. A song from Mr. C. w. Bird 6. Oats peas beans and Barley grows 7th, Getting ready to go home 8. Going Home. II. I had finished my mouse-story, and was answering as fast as I could all sorts of questions as to what became of the little fellow afterward, and whether his tail, which had been cut off by the trap, ever grew out again, when I saw a very pretty face peering out with a look of intense interest from a clump of rhododendrons which concealed the rest of its possessor. The children caught a glimpse of it at the same time, and jumped up from their seats on the dead pine-leaves, crying, "Clear out-go away -you're grown up!" Elsie Landon-that was the interloper's name -emerged from her screen, and lifting her little white hands in pleading gesture, said, "Please-please-let me stay here with you. I like it so much-and I am not very big." That last was true. It was equally true that she was not very little. And truer yet, if there can be any comparative of that adjective, that had you been asked whether she was child or woman, you would not have known where to put her. Whether she was a child with one of those wonderful body-outstripping minds, or a woman with a great unsoiled heart that had not forgotten its snatches of cradle talk with the angels, I don't know to this day. But as she stood there—a visible fact to be disposed of by the rigid youngster-judges-I doubt whether any such philosophic analysis much occupied their minds. She looked so very young just then, as she stood pleading, that the instinct rather than the logic of the children said, "Let her stay!" So she staid. Her age, as we count years, was eighteen. Her form, the freshly blossomed woman; her height, five feet; her complexion, marble struck through with rose flush. Pygmalion's statue wife wore the same when she first woke in his arms to know she was a woman. Her hair, dark, waving, glossy brown, drooped low behind. Eyes of the same dye, large, long lashed, and thoughtful. Her nose just aquiline enough not to be Grecian; her mouth, rose-buds that kissed each other, but altogether too varying from the unrestrained wood-laugh to the grave look of puzzle when she said, "Why! do you think so?" to be measured like the ruins in a guide-book. I told you of her little white hands -shall I speak of the twinkling wondrous little feet? The ferns that she flitted over were kissed by them and did not tell. Nor will I. Though a little foot, and an ankle that melts into it out of its own smallness, are not the "What in the world put it in your brain to come here among the babies?" said I. "The grown-up people are all dying to hear you sing; and there are at least six very good-looking young gentlemen among their party, any one of whom would give his best trout rod for the pleasure of showing you some new walk through the woods, or a blossomy bank that was partieularly retired and romantic. Yet here you are with the children!" "I was a child myself not a day ago," answered Elsie Landon; "and, do you know, I believe I never got quite over it. At home, in New York, when they want me to come down stairs and entertain company, just as like as not I will be sailing paper-boats, and making believe the pictures on the bottom of the bowl are a sea-buried city, just like the pretty Norman story. I sometimes blow bubbles toothough you mustn't tell any one. I know it is dreadfully improper.” It was very natural that, under the circumstances, I should have done just as I did. The tremendous yawning chasm between twenty-five and eighteen made me feel very paternal. The children were not noticing they had come to that part of their programme marked as the "harty laugh," and needed no assistance from us; so I took the little white hand in mine as a favorite gray-headed uncle might have done, kept it there, caressing it tenderly, and said, "Yes, Elsie, you need an older, an experienced person, who has seen a great deal of the world, to advise you, to teach you-somebody like-like me--for instance." Whereupon I felt, and perhaps looked, a hundred years old. "Oh, that is the very thing!" cried Elsie, clapping her hands; "the very thing I have wanted, oh, so long! And may I always come to you when I don't know what to do? When papa keeps on smoking and says, 'Just as you please, dear,' and mamma never stops knitting endless Shetland shawls, but answers, 'Ask your father'-may I come then?" Exactly, that was the very time. And I would always tell her the infallibly right thing to do or say. I, the dispassionate and reliable Delphi, aged a quarter of a century. It was settled. And it would be splendid. Just then all the children got through their hearty laugh and began to cry out, looking over the shoulder of little Julia Post, the infant manager who held the programme, "A song-a song, from Mr. C. Washington Bird!" I sing a very good baritone-have taken a prominent part in several private operas-why was it, then, that my voice faltered in the cadenzas of the frog that would a wooing go without any regard to the peculiar preferences of his |