t 
} 
THE PRESENT GOOD 
growing together of two natures, as it is the 
work of life, is worthy of the whole of life; 
for he may learn the whole of heaven who 
has, with heroie self-sacritiec, tilted him¬ 
self in every element of his being to the 
faculties of another, so that by antithesis 
or by concord, by unison, or by harmony 
of different parts, there may spring up 
a glorious union of diversities. 
I think Heaven will not shut forevermore. 
Without a knocker left upon the door. 
Lest some belated Wanderer should come, 
Hoart-hroknn, tnkttiK just to die at home. 
So that the Father will at last forgive. 
And looking on ills taco, that soul shall live. 
I ihiuk there will ho Watchmen through the night, 
Lest anv. far off, turn them to the light; 
That lii' who loved UK Into llto must be 
A Father infinitely Fatherly, 
And, groping for Him. these shall find their way 
Front outer dark, through twilight, Into day. 
Imitation*, —Tt is commouly supposed, aud 
perhaps justly, that no one can closely imitate a 
Browning, especially the Browning,— Eliza¬ 
beth Barrett. Her style is individualistic as 
is the style of lew writers. But here is averse 
as Browningish as one could desire, which is 
found in a catalogue of Constant Meyer’s 
paintings recently issued: 
“ When you go out in a garden to walk, 
Swept darlings 1—and talk, 
Be sure before you go under a tree 
There is no one to see. 
The nymph in the fountain may keep up a clatter, 
"But she don't matter; 
But the spruce little gentleman hidden near- 
On you waul him to hear?” 
In the same catalogue occurs the following 
verso, exceedingly Tennj soniitn : 
“Isn't our Alice fall, mother? Look at hor, she 
stands. 
With laurels in her hair, mother, and lUies In her 
hands, 
Pure ns the pearls on her neck, and beautiful as the 
day, 
She shall he Queen of the May, mothor, she shall he 
* mitmxxs (ia 
BY A. A. HOPKINS, 
I TniNK the earth will brighter he 
Through all the future’s gulden glory, 
For gleams, that now wo may not see. 
Within the present's shadowed story. 
I think each life in days to come 
WU1 thrill to melody diviner, 
For walking now in darkness, dumb, 
liuhlest With ail the music, finer. 
CULTIVATING THE VOICE, 
BOOKS AND BOOKISH PEOPLE, 
No successes of human mechanism ever 
yet equaled the human voice. What its pos¬ 
sibilities arc can only be guessed at, seem¬ 
ingly. What it can compass no one knows 
wlvo bits not heard Curtis, “ the silver- 
tongued," in oratory, or Jenny Lino, or 
Patti, or,—let them not blush at the com¬ 
panionship,—‘‘the Black Swan,” in song. 
For what a wonderful voice that uncomely 
negress has, if she be yet living! How it 
will go down among the profundities ot the 
bass! llow it will soar to tlie topmost 
waves of melody, and laugh and sparkle in 
its airiness! 
The voice may be musical outside of either 
oratory or song. There are some voices 
which charm us even in common conversa¬ 
tion like the rippling of water, and which 
are soothing as a balm. Everybody likes to 
hear them. But alas! how few these are. 
One great reason why there are not more is, 
want of cultivation. All voices cannot be 
made really melodious, but many can,— 
many which are now harsh and painful to 
the ear. 
A late article in Every Saturday treats at 
length of this subject, and closes with the 
following suggestive paragraph: 
The cultivation of the voice is an art, and 
ought to bo made as much a mat ter of edu¬ 
cation as a good carriage or a legible hand¬ 
writing. We teach our children Losing, but 
we never teach them to speak, beyond cor¬ 
recting a glaring piece of mispronunciation 
or so; in consequence of which we have all 
sorts of odd voices among us—short, yelping 
voices like dogs, purring voices like cals; 
eroakings, and lispings, and quackings, and 
ebattcrings; a very menagerie, in fact, to 
be heard in a room ten feet square, where 
a little rational cultivation would have re¬ 
duced the whole of that vocal chaos to order 
and harmony, and made wlial is now painful 
and distasteful, beautiful and seductive. 
fathek and it* Author, —That was a tnarvel- 
ouaeffortof William Bbckforu's,— the writing; 
of Vathek, an Eastern Romance, at a single sitting. 
Marvelous considered solely in the mechanical 
sense; for in typo of ordinary size it makes a 
considerable volume, and to pen so much matter 
with no stoppages for rest, other than to take 
slight nourishment, was the weightiest task of 
the kind ever performed. No wonder it made 
the writer seriously ill. 
As a work of imagination Vatbek is a wonder¬ 
ful production, and has never been equaled in 
thedaysof modem literature. It was the last of 
a line of stories long popular because of their 
wild picturesqueness and rich coloring; aud its 
many beauties of composition, albeit marred 
frequently by defects, will preserve it when its 
predecessors,—aud possibly its prototypes, for 
Beckfobd has been strongly accused of imita¬ 
tion,—will bo wholly forgotten. Peculiarly 
Eastern in tone, and in Us rarely voluptuous 
pictures, it goes far to proclaim the author’s 
whim of announcing it as a translation,—a fash¬ 
ionable whim iu the last Century,—more truth¬ 
ful than whimsical. It could have been written 
only by one who added to an imagination of un¬ 
usual brilliancy a close knowledge of Oriental 
lore. It contains little that might not have beeu 
found in any of the old Arabto tales, and would 
almost deceive Eastern travelers. 
Beck ford was only twenty-two years old 
when he dashed it off, as a tour etc force. This 
was m 1781, aud the work was not published 
until live years later. Thou it. appourod iu 
Paris, being translated into French by the au¬ 
thor, ahd sent out in that language, as another 
wnitn. Indeed his whole nature was whimsical. 
And he left no whim uugrutifled. Possessed 
of an immense fortune, he spent it in the most 
reckless manner, and surrounded himself with 
every attainable means of realizing bis vivid 
faqcles. Fontldll Abbey, bis residence iu Eng¬ 
land, was “ a cathedral turned into a toy-shop,” 
and was overflowing with every conceivable 
treasure of art ami nature. When Its tower 
burned down ho sot about rebuilding it, and 
gratified a peep liar fancy by taking four hun¬ 
dred aud fifty men at one tirno from the royal 
works at Windsor, and employing them in re¬ 
lays upon it night and day. 
Ueckford was little bettor thau a cltUetante 
ill literature, in reality he only played with 
loiters. Vathek was his greatest work, and this 
lacks the motive of an earnest purpose, it. bos 
liiLle moral,— is in fact only an excursion of 
fancy unbridled. It is issued in this country 
by Scribner, Welford & Co., ns one of the 
“ Bayard Series,” —an olegaut edition of handy- 
volumes printed by a Loudou house. 
It sooins—and I would fain Peltevo 
It is not all un empty seeming— 
That oauh Ids measure must receive 
Of good In hand, or pleasant dreaming 
That every life must liavo It* meed 
Of Joys that llfu regards the fairer; 
That every asking human need 
is of the world's supply a sharer. 
A SPLENDID BUILDING. 
The engraving herewith given illustrates 
one of the most beautiful and expensive busi¬ 
ness edifices in New York City. The site it 
occupies, extending on Broadway from Leon¬ 
ard street to Catherine lane, a width of sixty 
feet, and running back almost two hundred 
feet, was formerly occupied by a large ware¬ 
house, which was burned down in the winter 
of 1807. It was llien purchased by the New 
York Life Insurance Company, for $400,000, 
and the erection of the present noble struc¬ 
ture was begun thereon in the summer fol¬ 
lowing. Since then nearly three hundred 
men per day have been employed upon it, 
and it is now about completed. The cost is 
little short of $1,000,000. 
It is of the Ionic order of architecture, 
taken from the Temple of Ercctlieus, at 
Athens. The material is Westchester coun¬ 
ty white marble, and though solid the gen¬ 
eral effect is very airy and graceful. There 
are seven floors iu all, with a floor space of 
90,000 square feet. The interior arrange¬ 
ments arc admirable in every respect, com¬ 
plete ventilation being one of the chief fea¬ 
tures. Indeed, generally considered, the 
edifice is a model. 
It acorns to me that ho who gropes 
For something far beyond his grasping, 
Huh even iu Uls longing hopes 
The sweetest thrill of ho man clasping; 
That in some still, uucotiSOlOUA way 
The answer creeps into his being. 
And bides there till some after day 
Reveals Us presence to his seeing! 
It seems - a pleasant seeming this !— 
That in our orins wo fold unheeding, 
The forms of Joy we saddest miss 
Ahd search for most In our proceeding; 
Thai walking on the weary path 
To reach some goal with radiance shiniug, 
Each way-worn pilgrim ever hath 
Somewhat of all the end’s divining! 
NEW PUBLICATIONS 
Hitherto : ,1 Story of \'e*lerdat/». (Boston; 
Lorimr.)— In "Faith Gartney,” Mrs. A. D. T. 
Whitney gave promise of something yet more 
worthy. The promiso is fulfilled in tins book. 
•‘Hitherto” has a richness of thought and ex¬ 
perience that is strikingly unusual. Its depth of 
feeling, religious feeling especially, is remarka¬ 
ble. Its reflex of certain phases of the inner 
life Is clear, vivid and natural. Like “ Faith 
Gartney" it is strangely suggestive. Its beauties 
arc not till spread out in detail. A singie sen¬ 
tence often coutains as much os a sermon, and 
suggests more. A brief paragraph has oi l on a 
whole picture in itself, of which Ibo vendor 
readily Bees varied lights and shades. As a piece 
of ittorary art tho story is in somo respects 
admirably wrought out, in others it is opeil to 
criticism; as an embodied Christian influence, 
breathing some sweet ministry for many lives, 
it stands alone among fictitious literature. It 
may bo objected that Mrs. Whitney does not 
invest her characters with sufficient difference 
of individuality, - wo should urge that as her 
chief fault; but whether iu her own avowed 
person, or speaking through those whom she 
makes to spunk, she asserts the individuality of 
a mind earnest and meditative, and fully Imbued 
with Hie simplicity of faith. Anstiss Dolrearf, 
and Hope Devine may bo, as they are, quite 
similar in tho deeper consciousness of their 
being, but there Is only one Hope, after all, iu 
the real spirit of her life, aftd its outer mani¬ 
festations, and we could wish more were, like 
Anstiss, in some degree copies after her. Purely 
A foolish poet’s dream, say you ?— 
That, life lias what It wauls and misses?- 
That longing, all our life-long through 
Is one of living’s sweetest blisses? — 
That llfn will so much richer he, 
Within the glorious future golden, 
For joys that, all unconsciously, 
Arc now within our arms onfolden ? 
A foolish dream, mayhap, and yet 
It holds a tender truth and real: 
Thai In ouch waiting soul Is set 
Some semblance of the good Idcnl; 
That life has not Its gladdest thing 
Hid out of sight in somo to-morrow ; 
That hearts their sweetest, song may sing 
Within tho stnvloss night of sorrow ! 
THE VIRTUE OF FRUGALITY, 
Tub Creator of the world is infinitely 
bountiful; and yet in all His provisions He 
allows no waste. 41 He weighed tho dust 
and measured the waters" when He made 
the world; and calculated to a nicety so 
much earth, so much air, so much lire, so 
much water went to make up such a world 
as this. The first quantity is still here; aud 
i hough mail can gather and scatter, move, 
mix and umnix, yet he can destroy nothing. 
Tho putrefaction of one thing is a prepara¬ 
tion for the being and bloom of another. 
Thus a tree gathers nourishment from its 
MY SINGULAR DREAM; 
OR, THE BURGLARY AT OUR HOUSE 
BY ELLIS DALE OVERTON. 
We lived at the corner of Dauphin street. 
The house was a large brick building, situ¬ 
ated in the midst of un extensive garden, the 
odors of whose 
flowers were the 
delight of every 
passer-by. Pas- 
\ sionately fond of 
\ flowers, it was 
\ my pride to lav- 
\ ish every atten¬ 
tion upon the 
numerous plants. 
At an early hour 
every morning I 
arose, rung up the 
servants, and as¬ 
sisted by l he gar¬ 
dener, went vig¬ 
orously to work 
with p r u n i u g- 
* i ..I ■ I jo-Uing^ my 
jj U-n,l l,,,t ■ hiii 
card parlies. 
NT. Y. One morning, 
on entering my 
garden, I was surprised to observe a large 
group of persons standing before the gate ot 
my friend’s residence. Inquiring the reason 
for their presence, I was startled by the 
reply that a burglary had been committed 
on the premises. Passing through the euri- 
THE ONE-LIFE 
Marvelously beautiful is the real inter 
THE NEW ZBCJILDINTG OF THE KEW YORK KIRK HS r STJRA.N7CK COMPANY 
blending of two lives. There is a subtle 
charm about it to all on-lookers. To sec 
selfishness giving way—forgive way it must, 
in tho process,—to observe how fully love 
answers love, and how completely nature 
conjoins with nature, is to sec the nearest 
type of things heavenly which, our earth 
contains. 
And this interblending is the worthiest 
occupation that can engage humanity. 
Singleness of life does not develop the life’s 
fullest meaning. Absolute singleness of liv¬ 
ing is dwarfed; that singleness which is 
made up of two beings rounds itself out in 
the nearest approach to perfect human 
beauty. To attain this should be the ambi¬ 
tion of all the married. As said Henry 
Ward Beecher in a recent lecture:—The 
own fallen leaves when they are decayed, 
and something gathers up the fragments, 
that nothing is lost. And when the Son of 
God was on the earth, and went about 
scattering blessings—when, with a word, Ho 
multiplied five barley loaves and two small 
fishes to feed many thousands of persons, 
He could in the same manner have provided 
another meal where or whenever the need of 
His followers required it; but instead of 
that He commanded that they gather up the 
fragments, that nothing might be lost, thus 
teaching us to regard frugality as a Christian 
virtue. 
idealized Hope is, surely; but a beautiful ideal 
to have in our mind, and the author deserves 
our gratitude for drawing her. She will live 
long in “ A Story of Yesterdays;” (for the book 
is destined to a life of usefulness;) would that 
she might make some man glad iu a living story 
of to-day. 
Jotting'* from the IHary of the Sun, (Bos¬ 
ton : Henry Iloyt.)—The sun paints many beau¬ 
tiful pictures. Hero lie tries his hand at the 
pen, ami gives ns some very pretty little pen 
pictures, opening with the New Yoar. 
The Cabin on the Prairie, (Boston: Lee & 
Shepard.) —Hero wo have Volume I. of the 
“Frontier Scries.” 11 is by Rev. C. H. Pearson, 
and is not without interest, though by no means 
up to the standard of the beat books of its class. 
Luck ami pluck, (Boston; boring.) -Hora¬ 
tio Alger, Jr., writes very attractively for the 
young. This volume is the first of a new series 
by him, and is quite interesting. 
The greatest pleasure I know, is to do a 
good action by stealth and have it found out 
by accident.— Lamb. 
