HOME SACRIFICES.

BY REV. WILLIAM BATES.

It is a general law, both in the natural and moral world, that every prize must be won. Every desired object is to be secured only by appropriate effort, and by sacrificing to its attainment some other real or supposed good.

The man who resolves to be rich must ordinarily sacrifice to this object domestic enjoyment and intellectual improvement, and give himself up to ceaseless toils and wearisome anxieties. Whoever would become learned, obtain a reputation for scholarship, and secure a high and symmetrical mental culture, must present many offerings at the shrine of knowledge. The cultivation and enjoyment of a literary taste have their price. The scholar must give up the contest for wealth, as well as for political promotion; must forsake the paths of pleasure for retired study; must deny himself ease and social enjoyment, for exhausting research and protracted investigation, and must leave to others the accomplishment of philanthropic enterprises. The politician must also pay his price for the honors of office. He must be willing to descend to the low arts of electioneering and political intrigue; to submit to abuse from opposing parties; to have all his foibles exposed to public view, his motives unblushingly impugned, and his character shamelessly defamed in party journals and political speeches.

So is it in all the departments and relations of life. Everything has its price. Every coveted good demands toil and sacrifice.

From this great law in the divine economy, home and the parental relation are not exempt. No home can be what it should be,- the retreat of peace, affection, social enjoyment and sacred confidence,— without the renunciation of many things esteemed desirable. Both the father and the mother must, for the sake of making their home attractive, forego many enjoyments in which they indulged antecedent to marriage. The father must be willing to surrender, in a great measure, his evening pleasures abroad. The reading-room the saloon, the store, the shop, or other resort for political discussion, or for the retailing of gossip, must no longer find him a stated and devoted visitant. That father, who worships with such constancy at the altar of Mammon, or at the shrine of Learning, as to be forgetful

of his duties and privileges as the head of a family, is recreant to his high trusts. He ought never to have assumed the sacred relations of his position, without being willing to abate of his love of riches or knowledge, as much as is requisite to his faithful discharge of the conjugal and parental duties.

The mother, too, must resign some of her former pleasures, to be the ruling spirit and centre of attraction in her home. No longer may she be a wandering star, or be found ambitiously shining as the brilliant belle. If she has a taste for appearing at the place of fashionable resort, and for shining in the crowded drawing-room, this must be superseded by a love for home duties and enjoyments. If she has a literary taste, something of this must be sacrificed. The mother who neglects her husband or her children, in her devotion to music, French or German,— who loves poetry or novels more than the pleasure and duties of home,- dishonors the position of wife and the relation of mother.

"I SAW THE TALL AND REVEREND PRIEST.”

BY MARY GRACE HALPING.

I SAW the tall and reverend priest,
With his white and flowing hair,
Smile, as he raised his hands to bless
A bright and happy pair.
Upon a couch of softest down,
With costly silk o'erspread,
I saw the first-born darling lie,
Within its cradle bed.

I saw a mournful funeral train
Move slow with solemn tread;
I saw the pale, dead mother lie
Within her coffin bed.

I heard the wails of anguish wild,
I saw the turf laid o'er-

Her breast, who was a happy bride
But one short year before!

O! stricken ones, around that sad,
Deserted household hearth,

What are love's nearest, dearest ties ?
What are the joys of earth?

Like the bright, gorgeous sunset hour,

As fleeting and as brief;

The fading of the summer flower,

The falling of the leaf.

STRAWBERRY-HILL.

[SEE PLATE.]

ON our approaching Twickenham, we go along Strawberry-hill, the elegant villa of the late Horace Walpole, Earl of Oxford.

His lordship constructed this charming habitation after some models selected from Gothic architecture. He has displayed much taste in the numerous ornaments and in the choice of a collection of pictures, statues, antiquities, and of other curiosities which the edifice contains.

The deceased lord appointed, by testament, that the house should be occupied by Madame Damer, generally considered as sculptor, for her genius and good taste.

In pursuing our route, the classic habitation of Pope first strikes our notice. The house was humble and small during the life of the poet, but veneration for his memory has been the cause of the additions which have been made. On the bank of the river stand two weeping willows, planted by the hand of Pope, and preserved with much care; some slips of these trees have been sent into different countries. Catherine, Empress of Russia, caused some of them to be placed in her garden at St. Petersburg. The grotto, formerly so celebrated, is only remarkable as having been constructed under the immediate direction of the bard. The hand of time, aided by the spoliations of travellers, has nearly reduced it to ruins. Pope and his parents are buried in the church of Twickenham.

We pass now before the delightful residence of Baron Howe (Richmond House), the pretty villa of Mr. Drummond, and other charming houses of the country. Then we touch the little isle of Twickenham, which possesses an excellent hotel, named Eel-piehouse (or Pie of Eels), the usual end of aquatic excursions. Steamboats from London are of daily occurrence during the fine season. Beyond the church of Twickenham is York House, along with a noble habitation built by the late Lady Anne Conolly.

Stands like the sun, and all which roll around,

Drink life and light and glory from her aspect. - BYRON.

ANGER; OR, THE HAPPY FAMILY.

BY MRS. S. P. SMITH.

In a small village, a few miles from the city of Boston, lives an aged gentleman with a large family of adult sons and daughters. Some of them are married, and have removed to other homes; but three daughters still remain with their father. It is a pleasant and interesting family. Their mother has been dead some years, and though another for a time filled her place, yet she, too, soon followed. At the time of her death, she left to the care of her husband and his daughters, an idolized child of a former marriage, then about twelve years of age.

To the eye of the casual observer, it would seem that if happiness could be found anywhere in this sinful world, it was certainly beneath that consecrated roof. There the incense of the morning and evening prayer rose like fragrant odors on zephyr's wing, bringing in return Heaven's choicest gift, the smile of an approving God. There, too, science and religion went hand in hand, and the alacrity with. which the stern behest of duty was obeyed, convinced the beholder that pleasure was there, with her joyous smiles, attending each weary step, and mitigating each irksome task.

The neighbors loved much to drop in occasionally to spend an hour with those interesting sisters, whose cheerful tones, beaming faces, and intelligent conversation, made the time pass so pleasantly. Strangers were led to their abode, that they might carry away with them the grateful recollection of a pleasant interview. By all who knew them they were emphatically called "The happy family." But where, upon this sin-stained earth, can happiness be found free from some base alloy? The family of whom I write were happy, it is true, and at times it would seem that even Paradise, in its primeval purity, could hardly be more inviting.

And yet, within the bosom of that peaceful home, there lurked a very demon, who, whenever it chose to make itself visible, turned that quiet fireside into a very Pandemonium. This troublesome visitor was Anger, and it always appeared in the person of the young girl above mentioned. She was unusually beautiful in person, and was thought by all, save those who knew her at home, to be lovely

and amiable in disposition. But, alas! she was the victim of unlimited indulgence. While her mother lived, every whim was gratified, every wish granted; and now, though her guardians loved her dearly, and only sought her good, they soon found she was beyond their control. If her desires in everything were not consulted, her face would flush with passion, and her beautiful features become distorted with anger. She, who was once "a mother's pride," and who might have been "a fond father's hope and joy," had given admittance to this foul guest, until it seemed to have made her breast its permanent abode. Yet, if the sad truth had been whispered to those who saw her only in the parlor, it would at once have been pronounced a base and cruel slander. But follow her to the kitchen, and listen to what is passing there, and we have quite another picture. Yet we can hardly believe that those angry tones, which fall with such withering power, can really proceed from the same voice, which, but a few hours since, was as soft and as gentle as the zephyr's breath when it awakens the early flowers of Spring. We rejoiced to hear the clear ringing tones of that silvery laugh, for it • spoke to our hearts of innocence and joy. And when the rich cadence of that tuneful voice fell upon our ears, in strains of gushing melody, we almost fancied she had caught some seraph's lyre.

Such scenes were of frequent occurrence in the old gentleman's dwelling. It was enough to move a heart of stone to witness the treatment he received from one, whom for years he had cared for with a mother's tenderness. But now, when the shadows of declining years are about his path, when his head is whitened for the grave, he is made to feel

"How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is

To have a thankless child."

Sometimes he would venture a gentle remonstrance, and exhort to more self-control; but he usually said nothing, and rarely uttered the language of rebuke. He had found that it only added fuel to the fire, and he gave up in despair.

One morning she came down with an expression of countenance, indicating anything but kind feelings. The doors were slammed with violence, and the dishes thrown on to the table with a force that threatened their demolition. If spoken to, she answered with insulting words and looks, which were like daggers to the feeling