MUSIC AS AN ACCOMPLISHMENT. Out of the prodigious number of young women who learn music and drawing, for instance, how many are there who, after they have become mistresses of their own time, and after they have the choice of their own amusements, continue to practise these accomplishments for the pure pleasure of occupation? As soon as a young lady is married, does she not frequently discover that "she really has not leisure to cultivate talents which take up so much time?" Does she not complain of the labor of practising four or five hours a day, to keep up her musical character? What motive has she for perseverance? She is, perhaps, already tired of playing to all her acquaintance. She may really take pleasure in hearing good music; but her own performance will not, then, please her ear so much as that of many others. She will prefer the more indolent pleasure of hearing the best music that can be heard for money at public concerts. She will then, of course, leave off playing, but continue very fond of music. How often is the labor of years thus lost for ever! BERNARD BARTON, 1781-1849. BERNARD BARTON, the celebrated Quaker poet, was born near London in 1784, and in 1806 removed to Woodbridge, where he shortly afterward married, and was left a widower at the birth of his only child, who now survives him. In 1810, he entered as clerk in the banking-house of the Messrs. Alexander, where he officiated almost to the day of his death. There is very little of incident in his private life. He had for some time previous to his death been afflicted with disease of the heart. On the day of his death he appeared as well as usual; but, soon after going into his chamber at night, he rang the bell for his servant, who, on entering the room, found him in an easy chair panting for breath, and his medical attendant arrived only to see him breathe his last, on the 19th of February, 1849. Bernard Barton is known to the world as the author of much pleasing, amiable, and pious poetry, animated by fine feeling and fancy, and delighting in subjects of a domestic and moral character. He sang of what he loved-the domestic virtues in man, and the quiet pastoral scenes in nature; and no one can read his poetry without feeling it to be the production of one of a chastened imagination, pure moral feeling, and who sympathized with all that tends to elevate and bless man. His works are full of passages of natural tenderness; and his religious poems, while they are animated with a warmth of devotion, are still expressed with that subdued propriety of language which evinces at once a correctness of taste and feeling. His first volume of poetry was published in 1811, and he con tinued to write till near the close of life, his poems filling seven or eight volumes. His "Household Verses," a collection of fugitive pieces, published in 1845, contains, perhaps, more of his personal feelings than any previous publication; but much of his poetry remains unpublished in the hands of his friends. A few years before his death, he received a pension of one hundred pounds, conferred upon him by the queen, during the premiership of Sir Robert Peel. To those of his own neighborhood, Barton was known as a most amiable, genial, charitable man-of pure, unaffected piety; the good neighbor-the cheerful companion-the welcome guest-the hospitable host. Whether at his official place in the bank, or in the domestic circle, he was the same pleasant man, and had the same manners to all; always equally frank, genial, and communicative: and as he was charitable toward all, so he was beloved by all, of whatever creed, party, or condition in life. SPIRITUAL WORSHIP. Though glorious, O God! must thy temple have been, When the cherubim's wings widely waving were seen, When even the chosen of Levi, though skill'd To minister standing before Thee, Retired from the cloud which the temple then fill'd, Though awfully grand was thy majesty then; Less splendid in pomp to the vision of men, And by whom was that ritual for ever repeal'd To enter the Oracle, where is reveal'd, Not the cloud, but the brightness of heaven?— Who, having once enter'd, hath shown us the way, Not with shadowy forms of that earlier day, This, this is the worship the Saviour made known, By the patriarch's well sitting weary, alone, How sublime, yet how simple, the homage He taught, If Jehovah at Solyma's shrine would be sought, Or adored on Samaria's mountain. 1 Read "Selections from his Poems and Letters, with a Memoir," edited by his daughter. Also, "Gentleman's Magazine" for November, 1849. "Woman! believe me, the hour is near, When He, if ye rightly would hail Him, "For God is a spirit; and they who aright A CHRISTIAN IS THE HIGHEST STYLE OF MAN. "Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto!" A noble thought! and worthy to awake, From Rome's proud senate, in her palmy days, Both for the orator's and nature's sake, O'erwhelming echoes of accordant praise. "I am a man! and therefore to my heart Of weal or woe to make it dear to me!" I can but feel-a Christian, by his faith, In a still dearer brotherhood fast bound! Is he a follower of The Crucified The Nazarene-who died that all might live? In that one bond of union is implied More than the Roman creed could ever give. That would but link, by human sympathy, Than proud philosophy had power to scan. This, of itself, has a more hallowing leaven Then chide me not, if, yielding homage due ON SOME ILLUSTRATIONS OF COWPER'S "RURAL WALKS." Why are these tamer landscapes fraught With charms whose meek appeal To sensibility and thought The heart is glad to feel? Cowper, thy muse's magic skill Has made them sacred ground; The hoary oak, the peasant's nest, The shrubbery, moss-house, simple urn, Thy verse, no less to nature true O'er every object sheds a hue That long must linger here. Amid these scenes the hours were spent Of which we reap the fruit; And each is now thy monument, "Here, like the nightingale's, were pour'd Thy solitary lays," Which sought the glory of the Lord, "Nor ask'd for human praise." A WORD FOR PEACE. "Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you."-JOHN xvi. 27. If such the legacy bequeathed By JESUS to his own; If such his meek injunctions, breathed How should his lowly followers fight, His kingdom is not of this world! The banner from his cross unfurl'd The Christian's warfare is within! With pride and passion, self and sin! Whence come your wars, frail worms of dust? Envy and hatred, greed and lust, Which in your members war! Dwells such a dark, unhallow'd host In temples of the Holy Ghost? When angels first, to shepherd's ears, Announced the Saviour's birth, What watchword did the heavenly spheres When Christ, on Calvary's blood-stain'd bill, What peaceful love, triumphant still, Who bid their fellow-creatures bleed, From sea to sea, from shore to shore, Till earth below, and heaven above, Join in one hymn of PEACE and LOVE! STANZAS TO A FRIEND ON HER MARRIAGE. "The blessing of the Lord, IT maketh rich: and he addeth no sorrow with it."-Prov. x. 22. What can I wish thee, gentle friend, On this eventful day, With being's onward course to blend, Since He who condescends to care For ALL still hears and answers prayer. |