AN ADDRESS TO YOUNG LADIES. BY MRS. M. O. WILBER. THERE are considerations, young ladies, for your encouragement in the path of duty, of truth, and excellence, high as heaven, deep as the unfathomable abyss, extended as the universe of God, reaching through all space and all eternity to come. Woman can shade the sunlight, dim the pure silver moon, put out the shining stars, and hang the moral heavens in sackcloth; or she may deck the arched vault with curtains of azure blue, tinted with golden hues, embroidered with white clouds, and over all spread a mantle of glorious light. She can adorn earth's moral surface with yellow harvests waving in the summer breeze, and enrich it with delicious fruits, or transform it into a vast plain of poisonous weeds, the odor of which is death. In the language of another, "It may be yours so to rivet principle that it will retain its integrity beneath the cloud and under the sea." We feel that woman has the moral power to write upon every young spirit the law of kindness and love; and so train and guide it that it will, in faith and hope, cling to the cross, and finally pass in triumph to the "better land." If our sex, united, would but actively fulfil their glorious home mission upon earth, influencing hearts to everything pure and lovely, placing all their attainments, all the results of their labors, upon the altar of undefiled religion, how soon would the dawn of millennial glory be ushered in! This is no ideal picture of woman's moral power. There are noble examples for your emulation. Not the daughters of mere fashion and display, who pass the precious hours of life in pleasure's gilded saloons, forgetful of life's realities, and whose "image and superscription" is beauty, and enjoyment merely selfish; but that band of heroines, who, conscious of their responsibility to a higher than earthly tribunal, feel existence a reality; those who labor to make the fountains pure, assured that then the streams issuing therefrom will be clear and refreshing, making home, and its influences here, train for a home of bliss across the deep-rolling stream separating time from eternity. Not a Mrs. Siddons, with all her wonderful fascinations; but a Harriet Newell, who, in the devotion of a sanctified spirit, went forth a pioneer missionary, to find a grave in the Isle of France. Not a Madame Roland, with her strength of mind, integrity of character, and firm patriotism, yet not looking beyond the tomb; but a Hannah More, changing, as it were, the destiny of the whole English commonwealth by her little tracts, bearing words of peace and holiness. Not a mere danseuse, though monarchs bow from their thrones of purple, and velvet, and gold, and proud men and fair women applaud; but Mrs. Judson, with her ornaments,—a meek and quiet spirit. Not a novelist; however intellectual, with her glowing but distorted delineations of character; but Mary E. Van Lennop, who left home and its endearments, to carry the glad tidings of salvation to a far-off land. She sleeps by the Bosphorus, By labor brief has blest the world, And early won her diadem." Not a Harriet Martineau, intellectual, gifted, educated, but casting aside humanity's "magna charta," and willing to believe in a "sleep for evermore;" but our own Fanny Forrester, the true woman, talented, learned, pure-hearted, in her sweet words, "Letting the light upon her being's cloud, Not the mere intellectual, clear, cold, and shining as the ice mount clothed with brilliants; but those with hearts learned in the school of Him who went about relieving human suffering, "ready for every good word and work." Let such be your ensamples; and in all coming years, whether your path be with sunlight and rejoicings, or if the deep, dark shadows come, and hope deferred, and pain are yours, ever remember your moral power, and that, to make it effectual as a blessing, your hearts must be right. Ever keep in remembrance, that those "who touch the strings that rule the soul," will be responsible for the music of that harp which performs but its prelude here, which reserves its full strain for the eternal world. Now, glancing down "the aisles of coming years," life seems but a point. May you all so live, that when earthly scenes are fading, you may cling to the Rock of Ages! May you all share in the "joy unspeakable and full of glory" above, join the triumphant anthems of heavenly music there, and shine forever in the glorious light gleaming from the eternal throne of uncreated Omnipotence ! IN the above engraving we have a representation of the last sovereign of the house of Stuart. Anne, the second daughter of James II., was born 1664, and ascended the English throne 1702. She married Prince George, brother to the King of Denmark, and became the mother of seventeen children, all of whom died young. During her reign, England and Scotland were united under the name of Great Britain, and the important place of Gibraltar added to her dominions. Her reign was distinguished alike for the brilliant success of the British arms, and as the golden age of English literature. Though of moderate capacity, she was an excellent wife and mother. The goodness of her disposition secured for her the title of the Good Queen Anne. AN EPISTOLARY FRAGMENT. BY A YOUNG LADY. I AM going to translate for you one of the parables of Krummacher, which I have just been reading in German. You cannot but be struck with its poetic beauty, even in the imperfect reflex of an English rendering. It is entitled, DEATH AND SLEEP. Twined in each other's arms, like brothers, the Angel of Sleep and the Angel of Death wandered through the earth. It was evening. They reclined upon a hill-side not far from the abodes of men. A melancholy silence reigned around; even the vesper-bells in the distant villages were mute. Then the Angel of Slumber arose from his mossy couch, and with gentle hand scattered the invisible influences of sleep. The evening winds wafted them to the dwellings of the weary husbandmen. Now sweet sleep embraced the inmates of the cottages, from the old man who leans upon his staff to the babe in the cradle. The sufferer forgot his pain, the mourner his grief, the poor man his care. All eyes were closed. His task fulfilled, the Angel of Sleep returned to his brother. "When the red morning breaks," cried he, in cheerful innocence, "then will men praise me as their friend and benefactor. Oh, what joy to do good in secret, and unseen! How happy are we, invisible messengers of the good Spirit! How beautiful our silent Vocation!" Thus spake the Angel of Slumber. The Angel of Death looked upon him with silent sadness, and a tear, such as the immortals weep, stood in his large, dark eye. "Alas!" said he, "that I cannot rejoice, like you, in the hope of gratitude! Earth calls me her enemy, and the destroyer of her happiness! } "O, my other," replied the Angel of Sleep, "will not the good man, who he awakes, own thee his benefactor and friend, and gratefully bless thee? Are we not brothers, and messengers of one Fener?" The eyes of the Death-Angel glistened, and the brother spirits tenderly embraced. Do you not like it, dear Helen? I think the delineation of the Death-Angel very beautiful. His large, dark eyes dimmed with tears, because earth calls him her foe,- grieved that his ministry is not, like that of his brother, a welcome one to men. How much better than the portraiture, which makes him a fearful, fleshless form, with the scythe in his bony hand, delighting to despoil and destroy! It is singular, that while the Pagan Greeks represented Death as a beautiful youth, the twin-brother of Sleep, he should have been transformed by Christian poets into a skeleton fiend, "the king of terrors." Surely it should not be so. As old Owen Felltham says, "Well looked into, Death is rather lovely than a monster. It is fancy gives him those hideous shapes we think him in. It is a soft and easy nothing, the cessation of life's functions, action's absence, and nature's smooth repose." 1 Another German, the poet Salis, has given us as beautiful a portrait of death as this of Krummacher's. You have, doubtless, seen Longfellow's translation of the poem, in which it occurs; but I will, nevertheless, quote it: "For all the broken-hearted The mildest herald by our fate allotted, Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand, To lead us with a gentle hand Into the land of the great departed, Into the silent Land! " WOMAN'S SPHERE OF ACTION BY JAMES THOMSON. THIS be the female dignity and praise; To give society its highest taste; To make well-ordered home man's best delight; |