HOUSEWIFE S DEPARTMENT. 



471 



was at first paineJ by this endeavor of tlie love- 

 ly and innocent girl : he was next indiiFerent ; 

 but when he sometimes heard her, as she fan- 

 cied him asleep, praying for his recovery, and 

 as the morning and evening hymn of that pious 

 household came upon his ear, his mind gradu- 

 ally changed ; and he at length listened with 

 attention to the inspired Word which the af 

 fectionate child delighted to read to him. He 

 was particularly regardful of those consolatory 

 passages which proclaim the efficacy of a sin- 

 cere repentance, and recalled his interesting in- 

 structor agaiji and again to the parable of the 

 Prodigal Son. He one day burst into a flood of 

 tears, and requested to see a minister of God. 



The heart of his yet unknown Mary rejoiced 

 at this determination. She hurried to her kind 

 pastor, and at once explained the wish of the 

 afflicted man, and the circumstances of her rela- 

 tion to^ward him. The clergj'man entered the 

 room of sickness. The penitent sufferer briefly 



detailed how the thoughts of religion had 

 been awakened by the dear child who attended 

 him. and without reservation related the cruelty 

 of his conduct to his wife and cliildren. He had 

 suffered every species of calamity, which he- 

 hoped might be some atonement for his crime ; 

 and his greatest anxiety was to hear whether 

 those beings whom he had so injured were 

 alive. If he could receive their forgiveness he 

 should die happy. The kind minister gradu- 

 ally revealed to him that his daughter now 

 stood beside him, and that a superintending 

 Providence had permitted her to be the instru- 

 ment of his repentance. It is impossible to paint 

 the affecting scene which followed. The son, 

 and lastly the wife, of the afflicted prodigal 

 were introduced to him ; and amid the tears of 

 all present, (the good clergyman not excepted,) 

 his Mary gave him the most solemn assurance 

 of her forgiveness and her love. He lingered- 

 a few days and then expired. 



The Farmer's Daughter. — There 's a world of buxom beauty flonrishing in the shades 

 of the country. Farm-houses are dangerous places. As you are thinking only of sheep or 

 of curds, you may be suddenly shot through by a pair of bright eyes, and melted away in a be- 

 witching smile that you never dreamt of till the mischief was done. In towns and theaters, and 

 thronged assemblies of the rich and titled fair, you are on your guard ; you know what you are 

 exposed to, and put on your breast-plate and pass through the most deadly onslaught of beauty 

 safe and sound. But in those sylvan retreats, dreaming of nightingales, and hearing only the low- 

 ing of oxen, you are taken by surprise. Out .steps a fair creature — crosses a glade — leaps a etile. 

 You start, you stand lo.st in wonder and astonished admiration ! You take out your tablets to write 

 a sonnet on the return of the Nymphs and Dryades to earth, when up conies John Tompkins, and 

 says. " It 's only the farmer's daughter." What ! have farmers such daughters now-a-days ? Yes, 

 I tell you they have such daughters. Those farm-houses are dangerous places. Let no man with 

 a poetical imagination, which is only another name for a very tender heart, flatter himself with 

 fancies of the calm delights of the country — with the serene idea of sitting with the farmer in his 

 old-fashioned chimney corner, and hearing him talk of corn and mutton — of joining him in the pen- 

 sive pleasure of a pipe and jug of brown October— of listening to the gossip of the comfortable 

 farmer's wife, of the parson and his family, of his semions and his pig — over a fragrant cup of 

 Young Hyson, or capped in the delicious luxuries of custards or whipped creams — in walks a fairy 

 vision of wondrous witchery, and, with a curtsy apd a smile of most winning and mj-sterious magic, 

 takes her seat just opposite. It is the fanner's daughter, a lively creature of eighteen ; fair as the 

 lily, fresh as May dew, rosy as the rose itself graceful as the peacock perched on the pales there 

 by the window; sweet as a posy of violets and clove gillivers, modest as early morn, and amia- 

 ble as your own imagination of Desdemona or Gertrude of Wyoming. You are lo.st. It 's all over 

 with you. I wouldn't give an empty filbert or a frog-bitten strawben-y for your peace of mind, 

 if that glittering creature be not as pitiful as she is fair. And that comes of going into the country,, 

 out of the way of vanity and temptation, and fancying farm-hou.ses nice old-fashioned places of 

 old-fashioned contentment ! [" The Hall and the Hamlet," by William Howitt. 



THE BACHELORS COMPLAINT. 



Returning home at close of day. 

 Who gently chides my long delay, 

 And by my side delights to stay ? 



Nobody. 



Who sets for me the easy chair. 

 Sets out the j'oom with neatest care. 

 And lays my slippers ready there ? 



Nobody. 



Who regulates the cheerful fire, 

 And piles the blazing fuel higher. 

 And bids me draw my chair still nigher ? 

 Nobody. 



When plunged in dire and deep distress, 

 And anxious cares my heart oppres.s, 

 Who whi.spers hopes of happiness? 



Nobody. 



When anxious thoughts within me rise, 



In sore dismay my spirit dies. 



Who soothes me by her kind replies ? 



Nobody. 



When sickness racks my feeble frame, 

 And grief distracts my fevered brain, 

 Who sympathizes with my pain? 



Nobody^ 



(671) 



Then I '11 resolve, so help me Fate! 

 To change at once the single state. 

 And will to Hymen's altar take — 



Somebod}'. 



