We suppose these views evince the excellence of American manners as well in point of morals, as in whatever relates to the essence of a polite behavior; but there is probably a deficiency in exterior address, in ceremonial punctilio, in the modulation of tone and the studied grace of action. And it may be true, as asserted by the writer whom I have quoted, that "nothing is more prejudicial to democracy than its outward forms of behavior. "Many men," he says, "would willingly endure its vices who cannot support its manners." The metal it seems may be of the purest ore, but wants the polish to give it brilliancy and credit. Still, I am unable to discover why the true metal may not receive the highest polish; why virtue and merit should assume an outward form, or put on a dress which impair their loveliness and splendor. There is surely no reason why courteous action may not accompany benevolent deeds, or graceful deportment may not herald kind intentions; in short, why refined manners should not be the natural expression of a generous heart and cultivated intellect.

Therefore since "manner is something with every body and every thing with some," I shall commend it as the last point of duty, though it may not be the least, of the citizen to show by his behaviour, that there is nothing in our social order, to which grossnes or vulgarity is congenial on the contrary, that as it is adapted to produce and has produced the best condition of national morals-the truest exponent of these would be the most graceful and pleasing forms of outward action.

STANZAS.

BY THE EDITOR.

Lady. Will you please write in my album ?

The Poet. Certainly, with pleasure, fair lady.-OLD SONG.

When in festive days

Music sweet we hear,
Lingering long, the pleasant lays

Still carol in the ear:

We live again the happy time,

By listening to their after-chime.

So when we have joyed

With those who won our love;
We cherish still their fragrant names,
Where'er we rest or rove;

And any relic borne away.

Will cheer some cloudy after-day.

Then give me from your heart,

Some earnest cheerful line;
And write beneath your name,
To show that it is thine;

Then, here's my hand, good-bye, good-bye,
A heaving heart, and a teary eye!

1858.]

The Lord's Prayer.

239

THE LORD'S PRAYER.

[The following Poem is interesting on account of its pious sentiment and as a specimen of curious composition. By some it is attributed to King James I, and by others to Bishop Andrews.]-ED.

A MOTHER'S CARES.

BY THE EDITOR.

"I WOULD like to go this evening, but I cannot leave the children." These were the only words we caught of the conversation of two ladies who met and exchanged a few words on the pavement as we passed them. Strangely this sentence lingered in our ears, and deeply it touched our heart. Why it was that these simple words impressed us, the reader shall know.

It was toward evening on the fourth of July that we heard them. The place was a quiet and beautiful country village. Near the village there was a beautiful spring in a charming grove, which nature and art had combined to transform into a paradise. Here the happy villagers and hundreds from the country had spent the day in cheerful celebration of our country's natal day. There was fresh spring water, tables spread under the cool shade, music and speeches patriotic. There friends met friends in happy recognition, and there children played, and romped, and ran over the green sod, at the sight of which grey heads were reminded of their own childhood long gone.

From an afternoon visit to this cheerful scene the mother just mentioned was returning. "I would like to go this evening." What did that mean? The reader shall know. That grove around the spring, and the long avenue between rows of willows along the spring, leading all the way to the town, was that evening to be illuminated with over two thousand candles. On the large surface of clear water at the mouth of the spring were to float barks stuck full of candles. Along the slope above the spot where the waters gushed out strong enough to turn a large mill, were to be arches and other devices of blazing candles. The reader may imagine what a fairy scene that spring grove, and avenue, would present when thus lit up in a calm summer evening. To add to this grand display, several balloons were to be sent up with lights in them. There too the grove was to blaze and roar with all kinds of fireworks. The fire-crackers were to explode all around-the Roman candles puffing up into the tree-tops were to shed their variegated colors through the rich foliageand the fierce sky-rocket was to soar still higher up through the calm air of evening to explode into a bright boquet at its highest point, making a half dozen fiery descending lines-while the whole scene was to be enlivened by the joyous shout of the spectators at each new wonder iranspiring before them.

All this was in store in that beautful grove for the evening. It was to this that the remark on the pavement referred. "Are you going out again," was evidently the question which we did not hear. The answer we heard: "I would like to go this evening, but I cannot leave the children."

We went; but all the while that sentence of the mother keep sounding in our ears. Its meaning seemed to widen before us as we reflec:ed.

1858.]

A Mother's Cares.

241

Incidental as it was, and insignificant as it may seem to many, to us it was as if the curtain which hides the quiet and anxious life of a devoted. mother from common gaze had been parted, revealing a thousand things which we might have known on reflection, but which we never did see or think of as we should have done.

Call us foolish if you will, but we only liked ourselves the better when we found that every beautiful sight we saw in the grove on that festive and brilliant evening, carried our thoughts anew back to that mother, and would make itself a new commentary on the words we heard on the pavement. We had some eight miles to go hom, and right pleasant to us were our meditations on the text, "I would like to go this evening, but I cannot leave the children.”

1

What limitations are thrown around the mother of a family by the care of her children. They confine her to one spot, beyond which she cannot go without dragging

At each remove a length'ning chain.

She must have them on her arm or on her heart, at home and abroad. Others may lay down their work, lock up their treasures, and dismissing their cares, depart with a free heart on business or pleasure; but she has a work which will not be laid aside, treasures which cannot be entrusted to lock and key, cares which cannot be dismissed. The consequence is that she either remains confined almost wholly to her home, or is full of uneasiness abroad. How often when others go to seek that relaxation and temporary relief from care, so much needed both by body and mind, is she, sweetly, it is true, from the love of her heart, but weariedly at the sametime from over-action by toil and watching, bound to the circle of her home, saying to herself, "I would like to go this evening, but I cannot leave the children."

Few persons can enter with anything like adequate sympathy into the position of a devoted mother. As in nature we fail to take much notice of the beauties of the landscape through the changing seasons, because they are so common and natural, so we come short of appreciating as we ought, the regular and unwearied every-day devotion of a mother to the interests of her family. We regard her routine as a matter of course, without reflecting on the anxieties which it involves on her part.

It is possible that even faithful husbands may fail of recognizing fully the self-denying services thus rendered by the wife and mother, day after day. There is certainly a vast difference between picking up the children for a few moments in intervals of leisure, and sustaining the care of them without intermission. With the husband there is out-door relief, there are changes of pursuit, there is variety of object and exercise, and thus there is ease in shifting; but with the wife each day brings nearly the same monotony of duties and cares, and these all to be met in the same place, she is relieved by no outward variety, but animated alone by that golden life of maternal love which is the only power, after the grace of God, that can change her toils into pleasures. All this ought to be thought of by husbands, and such aid and sympathy rendered as circumstances may render possible.

We have said that even faithful husbands may fail here; but if defects in this respect are found in such as may be denominated faithful, what

must be said of the many who can hardly be characterized as such in truth. There are thousands who perhaps are scarcely conscious of the fact that the mother's life is passing as such a sacrifice on the altar of maternal love. They do not count over her cares, and consequently fail to enter into sympathy with them where they lie beyond the power of his alleviating offices. Not even leisure hours are devoted to a relief of her cares. The tavern, the store, the shop, or even the corner of the streets, afford a pleasanter recreation than the circle of home. sacred obligation is here violated. What a deep debt of gratitude is

here left unpaid!

What a

She exerts an influence, which is
We are sometimes reminded of

But we must not forget that this devotion of a mother to her children, like all sacrifices, has its rich reward. only the greater for its being silent. her power to bless and of her reward for that blessing, when we see how the child, even the boy and girl, still prefer to run to her with their little pains and sorrows. How instinctively do they run past the father to lay their tear-diffused faces into the mother's lap; and a word from her has more soothing power than a dozen from him. What a reward! Nor does the sweet lesson of love which they have learned of her, expend its power in childhood. More sweetly than all others does her "softer name" linger in the heart in later life, and grateful memory still affords the perennial consolation when she has gone to the saints' everlasting rest. We have heard of an old infidel, who having at last been compelled by grace divine to give up his rotten foundations, began to desire reconciliation. From his mother he had learned in early life, the elements of the christian religion. The remembrance of her teachings and especially of her piety now began to well up in his dark spirit, seeking the light. Her image mingled with his penitence and his hope, and thus he began his first prayer: "O God of my Mother! have mercy upon me." What volumes does this incident reveal. How does it illustrate the undying influence of a mother. This is her reward.

We sit under a laden fruit tree and refresh ourselves with the ripe results, but let us not forget the hand that planted and nursed it in its first and feeble years. In like manner, when we behold the manifold blessed results of a mother's se f-sacrificing love, let us not forget to remember and mention her name with the gratitude due her noble life.

Did we suppose that beyond this, any mother reading this article should ask for a word of consolation in her toils, we would exhort her to look steadily to the joy that lies so near, and may be readily seen through the sorrow. In this, as in every labor that is truly worth performing and in every pain worth suffering, no night, no day, no cross no crown. As, according to our Saviour's word "a corn of wheat except it die remaineth alone," without fruit: but dying lives with thirty, sixty and an hundred fold power in others of its kind, so a life that lives to itself is alone and worthless, whilst that which dies to itself in devotion to others, truly lives in them for ever. Take heart weary mother! There are those who, though they may not sing so beautifully as the poet to your memory, will nevertheless muse over your name and kindness in the same spirit of grateful devotion:

Oft from life's withered bower,
In still communion with the past I turn,