THE DOVES UPON THE ROOF, 
well trained, prompt and industrious, won¬ 
dering if their misties3 would bring homo a 
brighter face than she had worn for weeks; 
and the soldier laid down a volume of Em¬ 
erson that ho had been trying to fix his 
mind upon, and sighed for Sophie to como 
home. She, off on the College Hill road, 
shivered and suffered alone (but soft June 
day. 
Well, so it is with us all. No matter how 
many or how tender our friends may be, all 
the hard struggles and crises of our lives 
alone. Do not say it 
of Cincinnati, to find some friend who would 
be her surety. 
On this day she had gone to an old family 
friend on College Hill to secure the favor, 
but with no avail. Do you wonder that she 
stood chilled and downcast in the golden 
light of that lovely, laughing evening ? 
Where was a girl of twenty-five to find the 
man who w as rash enough to be her security 
for two thousand dollars? It looked like 
madness to seek such a one. Her business 
was good, and the contract would make it 
secure; but no one had confidence enough 
in the business qualities of a woman to come 
to her aid. 
Yet down the river, in a luxurious library, 
among his reports and papers, sat 
to what poesy is, has done, and may do, he £> 
said: 
“ The poetic literature of a land is the finer S 
and purer ether above its material growth /j 
and the vicissitudes of its history. Where it 
was vacant and barren for us, except, per- /) 
haps, a feeble lark-note here and there, Dana, 
Halleck and Bryant rose together on 
steadier wings, and gave voices to the soli¬ 
tude— Dana with a broad, grave undertone, 
like that of the sea; Bryant with a sound 
as of the wind in summer woods and the fall 
of waters in the mountain dells; and Hal¬ 
leck with strains blown from a silver 
trumpet, breathing manly fire and courage. 
Many voices have followed them ; the ether 
The crooning doves 
Along the eaves send covert looks fit me,— 
No human ojrcs e'er looked so pityingly. 
“ So lone tliou art ” their glances atum to say. 
“ So lone, so still, through all the weary day.” 
Sometimes athwart 
My window lodge they pass with whirring wings. 
The Bound into uiy heart sweet solace brings; 
And when in answer to my murmured call 
They pick the crumbs that from my table fall, 
1 thank the CttfttST 
That still blest winds of lloaven are left to me, 
With softly pi (imaged birds for company, 
“Whoso wings may bear them to my garret roof 
While clicks my needle through the shining woof. 
My tale Is old : 
A seamstress, toiling for her dully bread — 
For a frail shelter to her aching head, 
On silken sheen that mocks a wretched fate, 
And makes a narrow room more desolate. 
Poor and forlorn; 
Yet oft in dreams upon my pallet low,— 
Forgotten all my poverty and woo,— 
I float in fancy to the viol's sound, 
My braided hair with sweetest garlands bound. 
Fair, comely dames 
Around me press, und bearded Icnlghts so gay 
With sting and lute the hours chase away; 
The faded rose I fling upon the floor 
They cross their swords In fiery contest o’er. 
Down to the lees 
Meanwhile I drink from pleasure's giddy cup; 
On godlike viands nightly do 1 sup. 
Till pleasure palls ii)>on my wearied sense. 
Sickened I turn from all magnificence, 
Ami bless my Got). 
Some happy nmrn when waking from my sleep. 
That ne'er for folly's sins my eyes need weep, 
Content to simply sew the shining woof 
And listen to the doves upon the roof. 
we must pass through 
is from lack of sincere affection that our 
friends arc never at hand in the bitterest 
straits, that we walk our rooms, and wring 
our hands alone when sorrow mounts to 
frenzy ; but accept it as the stern law of life 
mid development, that stealthily removes 
every aid, every helper, before the trial lakes 
place that is to force us into new strcngtli 
and higher being. All human hearts that, 
become worthy to bear the impress of the 
Divino image at some time or other echo the 
cry “ I have trodden the wine press alone; I 
looked, and no man was with me.'’ 
The little, well-bred, pleasing woman, go¬ 
ing down the hill, under the garden trellises, 
was going through one of these dark and 
tedious straits. You would not have thought 
that she differed from the hundreds who fill 
the streets, common-place, well-to-do mor¬ 
tals; the cut at the side of her shoe was be¬ 
tween the sole and the upper, and did not 
show; the rents in the gray alpaca were 
neatly mended, and hidden by the long 
cloak : the bonnet was a little old-fashioned 
a man, 
proud, rich, and the Representative in Con¬ 
gress for his district, who would have flown 
to thus girl’s help, if she had been willing to 
summon him. Innocent, frank and tender, 
she was pretty and soft and graceful as a 
wood pigeon, with its swelling breast and 
smooth, bright head, aud swimming motion; 
bred a Quaker, she was guileless and dove- 
like, born in the country, she was fresh and 
enticing as moadow roses, with the piquant 
attraction of a decided little will of her own. 
What did this man with an idle heart do 
but wish for this country girl, and —I’m not 
romancing now—follow her to Cincinnati 
and try to lure her to his protection. First 
he won the frank child’s love by appearing 
as an old, experienced fatherly friend, then 
threw off the mask, and showed her how 
jealously fund of her ho was. The little 
Quaker stood upright, in her room when she 
heard his confession and bade him put the 
world between them, locked her door in his 
face, and turned to her work, resolute, cour¬ 
ageous, but with her faith absolutely broken 
in human worth and friendship after that. 
You may he sure the tempter kept whis¬ 
pering to her as she threaded the dingy 
part of a noble nature. The truly great 
walk forth in the energy of manhood, fear¬ 
ing no difficulty, and yielding to no meanness 
to accomplish a purpose. They are fully 
conscious of their own worth and the value 
of their integrity, yet they are not vainly 
proud. They cherish their knowledge and 
keep selfi.shneas aloof; and the wisdom they 
glean from the wide experience of life they 
freely Impart to others, and follow for their 
guide aud standard of right. 
It is never wrong to do right. Some say 
that life was given to enjoy. So it was; but 
to properly appreciate it, wo must become 
every day better and more wise. To run to 
extremes, as many do, is not to enjoy life; 
for enjoyment is a natural and calm feeling, 
foreign to the excitement and turbulence 
which springs from an ill-advised judgment. 
Wisdom seeks this enjoyment, not for the 
purpose of being counted wise by the multi¬ 
tude, and rising in the estimation of others, but 
for the pure pleasure to which it gives rise. 
Contentment in obscurity is preferable to 
honor or fame in public, where often the sta¬ 
tion stifles the real sentiments of the heart, 
which would otherwise find an exit. If we 
philosophize upon Life, we can but deduce 
from its mysteries one rule— 1 That, man is the 
founder of his own fortunes; subject to the 
dispensation of a higher power. Happiness 
is more inmile than existent in extraneous 
intones for 
SOPHIE’S TRIAL 
liY SHIRLEY DARE. 
room, .sojI lier books and engraving’s, and go 
back to the wool carding and the bluc- 
dyiug, scrubbing floors and pressing cliccse, 
and fade out of sight among the walnut 
valleys. 
“ Mother and Jos’ will say ’ I told you so, 
and you liad no business to think you could 
set. out in the world and make your living 
like a man,’ ” she thought, wearily plodding. 
“ Father will think less of mo than ever, and 
not lot me go out of his sight, again; and 1 
shall lose all chance of anything pleasant all 
my life long. How can I give it up? And 
Frank Hart! Let tho poor fellow go 
without a friend ? I can’t!” 
She lifted her eyes to the frowning woods 
opposite, on the Kentucky side, where the 
living mist buried itself among the trees in 
the hollows. An odd, helpless feeling came 
over her. and the voice of an old song seemed 
chanting in her ear. 
“ Oh to bo burloti thero, 
Oh to bo hurled there ; 
To turn my back on the light. 
And the world and nil things fair, 
That my soul have found a snare.” 
“ The cloud was made to h 
A light, soft rain was falling over the 
Ohio hills, bringing out the bright tints of 
green and the delightful, penetrating odors 
from the walnut woods, and outlying gar¬ 
dens that surround Cincinnati. The yellow 
brilliant West shot a thousand glassy sparkles 
over tho dripping foliage that overhung the 
high iron gate and stono wall of a country 
scat, where from a bend in tho path one 
could see the somber banks of the Covington 
side, shadowed by the rain-clouds which fled 
away in purple, heaving masses. 
Under the wall stood a young, fair, slight 
woman, in a water-proof cloak, and small, 
black bonnet, with an umbrella unopened in 
her hand, pausing in her walk to view the 
cold, dark banks of the opposite shore. We 
know how congenial, in certain moods, this 
reflection in the face of Nature may 1)0, and 
that it was so in this case might be easily 
guessed by a glance at the young woman's 
face. 
She was about twenty, with a little, child¬ 
ish figure, and pale, Quaker face, whose 
light, blue eyes had bluer linos drawn be¬ 
neath them, and whose delicate, full lips 
wore compressed with tho same anxiety that 
lined the fair feminine brow. Dear little 
Soi’hie! It saddens me now to think of 
her, standing in the rain-gilt, loaf-hung 
avenues of College Hill that afternoon so 
long ago, sad, forlorn, miserable, and, most 
of all, alone! 
It is the story of one of my early friends 1 
mean to tell you, and the image of that pale, 
woe-begone face, so fair and childish, gives 
me a pang, even when I contrast it with the 
calm, successful features which told me the 
story a few years ago. 
Mr. Cauew stopped to ask himself what 
brought her there, when, loitering about his 
handsome grounds after the rain, he caught 
sight of the fixed, desperately sad face, lie 
was one of the rich men of College Hill; 
rich in heart as well as in real estate, and 
preferred bonds, and in the very idleness of 
his benevolent old heart he thought he would 
come round, above the wall, and speak to 
her. But as he picked his way with slow, 
senile footsteps, the young woman gathered 
her cloak round her and was gone, Bo close 
had Want and Benevolence come without 
reaching each other. 
Perhaps you would like Mr. Carew’s 
question answered for you. Suppose we 
take up tho threads that connected this 
young woman to the earth on which she 
stood, and trace them to their cud. 
An outlying farm; fair aud plentifully 
producing, in one of the counties near Cin¬ 
cinnati, where a quiet Quaker family went 
their ways, peaceful and affectionate; a sim¬ 
ple second story room where a sick soldier 
lay patient on n. lounge, and a show-room on 
Main street with plate glass windows, bril¬ 
liant carpet and well dressed attendants. 
Between these places and the little woman’s 
soul ran cords of interest, and she was the 
center and darling of each. The old, placid 
Quaker mother, as she pattered round after 
her chickens and her kneading tray, wonder¬ 
ed what Sophia was about that showery ( 
day, if she wasn’t through at the ware-rooms i 
early and gone home to her little nest, and I 
the tiny housekeeping she took such pleasure i 
letters of intrudin'‘^*n, and recommended 
her to apply in fresh quarters. The security 
she offered was good, but no one was dis¬ 
posed to take it from tho hands of a woman. 
Ilor father was unable to assist, her. But in 
this strait her pure heart never faltered. If 
the scheme of her life failed she was ready 
to die, but not to win by unlawful moans. 
She. reached home after dark on this day 
of which 1 speak, utterly weary and dis¬ 
pirited. The lamps were unlit, and she 
took off her wet cloak in the dark. Presently 
a faltering but sweet voice filled : 
“ Sophie." 
In the intimacy of the sick room she and 
the soldier learned to call each other by 
their names. 
“ Is the pot of gold found yet, Sopiiie ? ” 
lie asked, with a feeble attempt to win ber 
to a smile. 
By way of reply she put. her head down 
on a chair and sank to the floor and cried. 
She had never given way before Frank in 
this manner, but her nerves lost their ten¬ 
sion, and the sight for a moment was pitiful. 
Great tears gathered in the sick man’s 
eyes to behold it, and dragging himself up on 
one elbow, he reached his arm to her with a 
caress, as if she were a sister. Wore you 
ever so mournful that sympathy seemed to 
make your trouble more ghastly? The 
feebleness of that faithful hand seemed to 
add to the utter helplessness of her case, but 
the cold touch of despair gave her calmness. 
“ After all, Frank,” she said, wiping her 
eyes. “ One can’t any more than have one's 
head broken and die, can they ? And we’ll 
THE POETIC INSPIRATION, 
We have seen it staled that a certain 
poetess, well known in this country as a 
prolific writer, is in the habit of penning, on 
the average, two poems each day. It may 
well be doubted if such a continual outflow of 
rhyme can proceed from genuine poetic in¬ 
spiration. We do not believe it can, and we 
think we see in many of the lady’s produc¬ 
tions a kick of true poetry which proves our 
belief correct. The Muse is not a slave, to 
obey every behest of the mind. She will not 
come at every momentary call, and sing to 
us with entrancing sweetness. 
There is a peculiar mental mood especially 
necessary to poetic utterance. This mood 
may be courted, perhaps, and in certain or¬ 
ganizations it may respond more readily 
than in others; but that it is constantly 
at command,— that it can be depended on 
for regular routine duty,— is by no means 
the case. They who fancy it cau are not 
themselves poets, aud have no adequate con¬ 
ception of what poesy relies upon for ex¬ 
pression. Bayard Ta ylou alluded to this 
in the oration w hich he delivered recently at 
the dedication of a monument to Fitz 
Greene Halleck, in Guilford, Ct., in these 
words: 
“ The German poet Uhland said to me: 
‘ I cannot now say whether I shall write any 
more, because I only write when I feel the 
positive need, and this is independent of my 
will, or the wish of others.’ Such was also 
the law of Halleck’s mind, and of the 
mind of every poet who reveres his divine 
gift. God cannot accept a mechanical 
prayer; aud I do not. compare sacred things 
with profane when I say that a poem can¬ 
not be accepted wdiich does not compel its 
own inspired utterance. He is the true 
priest of the human heart and the human 
soul, who rhythmically expresses the emo¬ 
tions and the aspirations of his own.” 
The poetie inspiration is indeed the puls¬ 
ing of that divine something within us which 
prompts to better things. Men may laugh 
at sentiment, — the practical, matter-of-fact 
man may hold his friend the poet in con¬ 
temptuous regard,—but the fact remains that 
poesy is all the while ennobling men, and in 
a subtle way benefiting the race. It speaks 
the heart’s longings, and the heart thrills 
with a keener sympathy and a livelier hope 
because of the utterance; it pictures glad 
visions of some dawning morrow, and look¬ 
ing at these we are content to wait until the 
morrow shall come, and the realization shall 
be ours. Mr. Taylor spoke very truly 
when, on the occasion referred to, in regard 
ang over my 
life,” she said, bitterly. “ I wish it would 
gather blacker and blacker, and wrap me in 
it, and do its worst. I wish I dared lie down 
here in the mud, and let tho rain wash me 
away! 
“ I hate that sun, shining away down the 
river l It looks too peaceable and bright, as 
if there were no trouble in the world. 
Frank ! Frank ! if you were only a strong 
man, able to take care of me! ’’ 
Tho woman’s face grew so wistful you 
would have said you guessed her secret; 
that when the wounded from Fort Donelson 
were distributed among kindly hands in the 
city, Fate had sent, her a man to love in the 
shape of a sick soldier to nurse. 
Brave little Sothie, the knitting-machine 
agent, had taken this Frank II.Vrt to her 
lodgings, and nursed him, in company with 
her room-mate, till he was something more 
than the fraction of humanity that had 
been brought in on a stretcher, wild with 
fever, torn with wounds. Now, though her 
newly started business was staggered by a 
heavy law suit which was pending, the 
sweet, kind heart could not think of sending 
her soldier away till he was well. 
All this stormy day she had been out, 
walking to save expense, trying to find some 
one who would be her security for two 
t housand dollars, the recognizance necessary 
SANDWICHES, 
Human progress —From pap to papa. 
How to make a clean sweep— Wash him. 
The woman question —Is he rich ? 
Musicians that never fail to draw—Mos¬ 
quitoes. 
Another new reading—Man proposes, 
but woman accepts. 
What is better than a promising young 
man ? A paying one. 
Our hopes are bubbles, born with a breath 
and broken with a sigh. 
Of all the dust thrown in men’s eyes, gold 
dust is the most blinding. 
Think always only of the best, and the 
good will very soon appear. 
Dentists, however cheerful, are obliged to 
look “ down in the mouth.” 
Are people of the first water necessarily 
of the temperance fraternity ? 
As liberality makes friends of enemies, so 
pride makes enemies of friends. 
Prize-fighting at sea — Buffeting the 
waves and boxing the compass. 
Best time to get a mouthful of fresh air— 
When the wind is in one’s teeth. 
It is more wise to prevent a quarrel before¬ 
hand than to revenge it afterwards. 
When we think of good, the angels are 
silent; when we do it, they rejoice. 
Modesty in woman is like color oti her 
cheek—decidedly becoming if not put on. 
in ? The girls at the shop went steadily on 
