THE IRON WILL. LOGAN Sat thoughtful a moment, and then said, as he rose to his feet, "Agreed. It'll be the best thing for us, as well as for our families o When the Emily sailed, at twelve 'clock, the two men were on board. Days came and passed, until the heart of Mrs. Logan grew sick with anxiety, fear, and suspense. No word was received from her absent husband. She went to his old employer, and learned that he had been discharged; but she could find no one who had heard of him since that time. Left thus alone, with two children, and no apparent means of support, Mrs. Logan, when she became at length clearly satisfied that he for whom she had given undermined her health, which had become délicate, and weariness and pain were the constant companions of her labour. Sometimes, in carrying her work home, the forsaken wife would have to pass the old home of her girlhood, and twice she saw her father at the window. But, either she was so changed that he did not know his child, or he would not bend from his stern resolution to disown her. On these two occasions she was unable, on returning, to resume her work. Her fingers could not hold nor guide the needle; nor could she, from the blinding tears that filled her eyes, have seen to sew, even if her hands had lost the tremour that ran through every nerve of her body. A year had rolled wearily by since Logan went off, and still no word had come from the absent husband. Labour beyond her and trouble up everything had heartlessly abandoned and grief there for her her, felt as if there was no hope for her in the world. "Go to your father, by all means," urged the woman with whom she was still boarding. “Now that your husband has gene, he will receive you." "I cannot," was Fanny's reply. woman. Y "Work for my children," she replied, arousing herself, and speaking with some resolution. "I have hands to work, and I am willing to work.299 19975 2 'Much better go home to your father," said the woman. 66 I "That is impossible. He has disowned spirit to bear, had sad work upon the forsaken wife and disowned child. She was but a shadow of her former self. Mr. Crawford had been very shy of the old Quaker who had spoken so plainly to him; but his words made sion, though no one would impres supposed so, as there was no change in his conduct towards his daughter. He had forewarned her of the consequences if she acted in opposition to his wishes. He had told her that he would ever. way, and painful She had taken her own her, for as it was to him, he had to keep his word- his word that had ever been inviolate. He might f me-has ceased to love me or care for me. pity her; but she must her he might I cannot go to him again; for I could Such a direct and facto uger. not bear, as I am now, another harsh repulse.Noetno I will work with my own hands. God will help me to provide for my children's tot bew In this spirit, the almost heart-broken of disobedience to his wishes was not to be forgotten nor forgiven. Thus, in stubborn pride, did his hard heart confirm itself in its cold and cruel estrangement. Was he happy? No! Did he forget his child? her and dreamed of L young woman, for whom the boarding- No. He thou and night after night. house keeper felt more than a common interest-an interest that would not let her thrust her out from the only place she could call her home sought for work, and was fortunate enough to obtain sewing from two or three families, and was thus enabled to pay a light board for herself and children. But incessant toil with her needle, continued late at night and resumed early in the morning, gradually | her, day after day, But he had said it, and he would stick to it! His pride was unbending as iron. Of the fact that the husband of Fanny had gone off and left her with two children to provide for with the labour of her hands, he had been made fully aware, but it did not bend him from his stern purpose. "She is nothing to me," was his im patient reply to the one who informed him seen, seen. But his heart tremblat could be his heart trembled at the intelligence. Nevertheless, he stood coldly aloof, month after month, and even repulsed, angrily, the kind landlady with whom Fanny boarded, who had attempted, all unknown to the daughter, to awaken sympathy for her in her father's heart One day, the old Friend, whose plain words had not pleased Mr. Crawford, met that gentleman near his own door. The Quaker was leading a little boy by the hand. Mr. Crawford bowed, and evidently, wished to pass on; but the Quaker paused, and said 5.11 "I should like to have a few words with thee, friend Crawford." 1975 "Well, say on." policy End 160V Thee is known as a benevolent man, friend Crawford. Thee never refuses, it is said, to do a deed of charity.": I always give something when I am sure the object is deserving."-1 So I am a aware Do you see this little boy?" Mr. Crawford glanced down at the child the Quaker held by the hand. As he did so, the child lifted to him a gentle with mild, earnest, loving eyes, face, It is a sweet little fellow," said Mr. Crawford, reaching his hand to the child. He spoke with some feeling, for there was a look about the boy that went to his ΓΙΟΥ heart Tol. qwezib biker “He is, indeed, a sweet child—and the image of his poor, sick, almost heartbroken mother, for whom I am trying to awaken an interest. She has two children, and this one is the he oldest. Her husband is dead, or what may be as bad, perhaps worse, as far as she is concerned, dead to her and she does not seem to have a relative in the world, at least, none who thinks about or cares for her. In trying to provide for her children, she has overtasked her delicate frame, and made herself sick. Unless something is done for her, a worse thing must follow. She must go to the almshouse, and be separated from her children. Look into the sweet innocent face of this dear child, and let your heart say whether he ought to be taken from his mother. If she have a woman's feelings, must she not love this child tenderly; and can any one supply to him his mother's place.?" "I wish thee would go with me to see her." buff There is no use in that. My seeing her can do no good. Get all you can for her, and then come to me. I will help in sdf the good work cheerfully," replied Mr. Crawford.c .bating wi "That is thyo dwelling, I believe?" said the Quaker, looking round at a house adjoining the one before which they stood. Yes, that is my house," returned Mr. Crawford.12 barded trapde sad יד Will thee take this little boy in with thee and keep him for a few minutes, while' I go to see a friend some squares off?" Oh, certainly. Come with me, dear?" And Mr. Crawford held out his hand to the child, who took it without hesitation. "I will see thee in a little while," said the Quaker, as he turned away. The boy, who was plainly, but very neatly dressed, was about four years old. He had a more than usually attractive face; and an earnest look out of his mild eyes, that made everyone who saw him his friend. "What is your name, my dear ?” asked Mr. Crawford, as he sat down in his parlour, and took the little fellow upon his knee. "Henry," replied the child. He spoke with distinctness; and, as he spoke, there was a sweet expression of other lips and I eyes, that was particularly winning.d "It is Henry, is it?" Yes, sir."}} thing strangely familiar and attractive. What it was, he did not, until this instant, comprehend. But it was no longer a mystery. "Do you know who I am?" he asked, in a subdued voice, after he had recovered, to some extent, his feelings. The child looked again into his face, But longer and more earnestly. Then, without answering, he turned and looked at the portrait on the wall, "Do you know who I am, dear?" repeated Mr. Crawford. "No sir," replied the child; and then again turned to gaze upon the picture. "Who is that?" and Mr. Crawford pointed to the object that so fixed the little boy's attention. 66 My mother!" And as he said these words, he laid his head down upon the bosom of his unknown relative, and shrank close to him, as if half afraid because of the mystery that, in his infantile mind, hung around the picture on the wall. Moved by an impulse that he could not restrain, Mr. Crawford drew his arms around the child and hugged him to his bosom. Pride gave way; the iron will was bent; the sternly-uttered vow was forgotten. There is power for good in the presence of a little child. Its sphere of innocence subdues and renders impotent the evil spirits that rule in the hearts of selfish men. It was so in this case. Mr. Crawford might have withstood the moving appeal of even his daughter's presence, changed by grief, labour, and suffering as she was. But his anger, upon which he had suffered the sun to go down, fled before her artless, confiding, innocent child. He thought not of Fanny as the wilful woman, acting from the dictate of her own passions or feelings; but as a little child, lying upon his hosom-as a little child, singing and dancing around him as a little child, with, to him, the face of a cherub, and the sainted mother of that innocent one by her side. When the Friend came for the little boy, Mr. Crawford said to him, in a low voice-made low to hide his emotion "I will keep the child." "No. Bring the mother, and the other child. I have room for them all." A sunny smile passed over the bene volent countenance of the Friend, as he hastily left the room. Mrs. Logan, worn down by exhausting labour, had at last been forced to give up. When she did give up, every long-strained nerve of mind and body instantly relaxed; and she became almost as weak and helpless as an infant. While in this state, she was accidentally discovered by the kindhearted old Friend, who, without her being aware of what he was going to do, made his successful attack upon her father's feelings. He trusted to nature and a good cause, and did not trust in vain. "Come, Mrs. Logan," said the kind woman, with whom Fanny was still boarding, an hour or so after little Harry had been dressed up to take a walk-where, the mother did not know or think—" the good Friend who was here this morning, says you must ride out. He has brought a carriage for you. It will do you good, I know. He is very kind. Come, get yourself ready." Mrs. Logan was lying upon her bed. "I do not feel able to get up," she replied. "I do not wish to ride out." "Oh, yes, you must go. The pure, fresh air and the change will do you more good than medicine. Come, Mrs. Logan. I will dress little Julia for you. She needs the change as much as you do." "Where is Henry?" asked the mother. "He has not returned yet. But, come! The carriage is waiting at the door." "Won't you go with me?" "I would with pleasure-but I cannot leave home. I have so much to do." Then After a good deal of persuasion, Fanny at length made the effort to get herself ready to go out. She was so weak, that she tottered about the floor like one intoxicated. But the woman with whom she lived, assisted and encouraged her, until she was at length ready to go. the Quaker came up to her room, and, with the tenderness and care of a father, supported her down-stairs, and when she had taken her place in the vehicle, entered with her youngest child in his arms, and sat by her side, speaking to her, as he did kind and encouraging words. So, The carriage was driven slowly, for a few squares, and then stopped. Scarcely had the emotion ceased, when the door was suddenly opened, and Mr. Crawford stood before his daughter. 66 My poor child!" he said, in a tender, broken voice, as Fanny, overcome by his unexpected appearance, sank forward into his arms. When the suffering young creature opened her eyes again, she was upon her own bed, in her own room, in her old home. Her father sat by her side, and held one of her hands tightly. There were tears in his eyes, and he tried to speak; but, though his lips moved, there came from them no articulate sound. "Do you forgive me, father? Do you love me, father?" said Fanny, in a tremulous whisper, half rising from her pillow, and looking eagerly, almost agonizingly, into her father's face. "I have nothing to forgive," murmured the father, as he drew his daughter towards him, so that her head could lie against his bosom. "But do you love me, father? Do you love me as of old?" said the daughter. He bent down and kissed her; and now the tears fell from his eyes and lay warm and glistening upon her face. "As of old," he murmured, laying his cheek down upon that of his child, and clasping her more tightly in his arms. The long pent-up waters of affection were rushing over his soul and obliterating the marks of pride, anger, and the iron will that sustained them in their cruel dominion. He was no longer a strong man, stern and rigid in his purpose; but a child, with a loving and tender heart. There was light again in his dwelling; not the bright light of other times; for now the rays were mellowed. But it was light. And there was music again; not so joyful; but it was music, and its spell over his heart was deeper, and its influence more elevating. The man with the iron will and stern purpose was subdued, and the power that subdued him was the presence of a little child. THE intellect is the servant, not the lord of the heart, and science is a futile, frivolous pursuit, unworthy of greater respect than a game of chess, unless its issue be in some enlarged conception of man's life and destiny.-G. H. Lewes. MOORE AND HIS MOTHER. THE mother's care of Moore's early years and unabated love through her advanced age, was truly beautiful. They were requited, too, with the fullest measure of grateful affection and undying respect by the son. When Mr. Moore (the father) died, having held for years a Government appointment of barrack-master, friends sought to secure for his widow a pension; but Moore claimed the privilege of her support, and declined the kind agency which would have debarred him of a son's greatest pleasure. His habit was to write twice a week, at least, to his mother; and the postman's knock at the expected period was an anxiously watched moment in the old woman's fleeting hours. Any visitor could tell, on entering her drawing-room, as she sat in winter by the fire, or in summer at her window, whether the bi-weekly want was supplied. A shade upon her aged brow told either that the letter had not come, or the news was not good; whilst a radiant smile proclaimed that she got "Tom's letter." These letters, short though they might be, often but a line, were the cherished treasures of her old age. How beautiful, and the more beautiful because true, are the lines which he wrote in her pocket-book, in 1822: "They tell us of an Indian tree Which, howso'er the sun and sky Downward again to that dear earth, With love's true instinct back to thee." With what fond pride were those lines exhibited to those who had won the mother's confidence! A willing listener, one who did not soon tire of " Tom's" repeated praises, was sure of such a mark of favour. -Dublin University Magazine. THE Vatican contains eight grand staircases and two ordinary ones, twenty courts and squares, and 4,220 rooms. With all its galleries, grounds, and appurtenances, it has been computed to cover as large a space as the city of Turin, FEMALE CHARACTERS OF THE cruel tempests, and clinging for support BIBLE. III. RUTH. "In Rama was there a voice heard-lamenta tion and weeping and great mourning-Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not."-Jer. xxxi. 15. THERE was a voice of mourning in Moab. A young man revelling in the pride of youth and health, was suddenly ent down in his prime. Yesterday he trod the earth a bright and glorious creature now he lies hopeless and motionless upon his flower-strewn bier. Around him are weeping friends; and the wail of hired mourners is the only sound which disturbs the silence of the death chamber. At the head of the bier sat a melancholy group-his aged mother Naomi and her daughters-in-law. The years of Naomi had been many, but the days of her pilgrimage had not been cloudless. Still, grief had not bowed her down. Many a lightning shock had struck her and strewed the leaves of her beauty and torn away her branches, but firm, and trusting in her God she bent to the blast only to arise more erect than before. to the nearest thing. Orpah, widow of Chilion, sat on the other side of Naomi, wetting with her tears the long glossy tresses of the fair Ruth as she bent over to comfort her; or, looking up in wonder at the noble fortitude of the high-souled Naomi. Although Naomi bowed not at the storms of fate, there was a blight at the core. She felt not her griefs the less that she gave them not utterance, “The heart knows its own bitterness”—apparently calm she sat, beside the bier of her last cherished one, her eyes fixed upon the funeral linen which enveloped his body, but her thoughts were sad as they recurred to her early home, her beloved husband and darling boys. Happier days arose before her,-loved forms came to view, and voices of cherished lost ones were sounding in her ear. Mournful and lonely felt she then when the death trump summoning them forth aroused her, and the last link which bound her to earth yearned was torn away. Her Iway to the lands Many years since a grievous famine drove her forth fro subsistence beyond the from her pleasant home in Bethlehem to A few days after the burial, a train Jordan; although leaving her home for of camels was seen winding up the side a strange land, the hope and courage of of a steep hill which arose on the conNaomi failed not, for her husband Eli- fines of Moab. It was Naomi with her melech, and two sons, Mahlon and Chilion daughters-in-law wending their toilsome were with her. Elimelech being a man Judea The females of rank, was well received by Eglon, king alighted upon suminit, and, while of Moab, then ruler of Israel, which he had supper was preparing under the oak lately conquered by his arms; and who trees, advanced to the brow of the hill bestowed his young daughter Ruth upon to gaze e around them They looked Mahlon, the eldest son of Naomi. Their upon a gloomy scene. Before them lay happiness was short Ehud dethroned the Dead Sea, dark, stern, and motionless Eglon-poverty and death overtook the fanone could look upon its cold, still mily of Naomi. Her heart was filled with sharp anguish, but she knew her King Jehovah had called her husband and sons, and her loyal heart submitted without a murmur. Mahlon, her last son, now lies a corpse before her, but yet she sits erect beside it. Cast upon the floor in anguish of soul, her head buried in her mother's lap, Ruth, the widow of Mahlon, seems some tender flower, torn from its resting place by 12obsisq bis surface without a shudder. Bare, jagged cliffs, and hills of everlasting granite, arose from its shores, shooting up their sterile peaks in every direction. Orpah, and the princess Ruth, gazed with sadness upon this desolate scene; but a mournful smile broke over the face of Naomi, "My daughters" she said, “behold the famed salt sea! and beyond, the hills of Judea, my loved home, I see thee, at last! Now Lord, let thy servant die in peace!" This distant glimpse of the land they |