it is the truth, "that God so framed our memories, that it is the infirmities of noble souls that chiefly fall into the shadow of the past, while whatever is fair and excellent comes forth from the gloom in ideal beauty." "In looking back upon the past," says Miss Stickney,-for she had not yet won that new name which has since passed into a household word among the wives and daughters of England; "In looking back upon the past, how little that is sordid, mean, or selfish, appears conspicuous now. Past hours of simple, everyday enjoyment, are invested with a charm they knew not at the time. A veil is thrown over the petty cares of by-gone years— passion is disarmed of its earth-born violence, and sorrow looks so lovely in the distance, that we almost persuade ourselves it was better to weep such tears as we wept then, than to smile as we smile now." "In life," writes the same American author from whom we have before quoted, "there are many things which interfere with a just estimate of the virtues of others. There are, in some cases, jealousies and misconstructions, and there are false appearances; there are veils upon the heart that hide its most secret workings, and its sweetest affections from us; there are earthly clouds that come between us and the excellence that we love. So that it is not, perhaps, until a friend is taken from us that we entirely feel his value and appreciate his worth." Then it is that we begin to weep and lament for the happy days that will never come again! Nay, even to exaggerate them in our grief and our affection. The vision is loveliest in its vanishing away, and we perceive not, perhaps, till we see the parting wing that an angel has been with us! Years afterwards, we say one to another-" Those were happy days!" It may be that "All are not taken! there are left behind In this case the same cry will be lifted up years hence, and so on to the end of our lives-" Alas! for the happy days that are gone!" It is a very common thing to hear people talking of the happy days of childhood; and recalling past scenes and pleasures, exclaim with lingering regret, "How happy we were then!" Or speaking thus to one another. "Do you remember the woods where we used to go nutting; and where the earliest violets were always to be found? And the fields and lanes where we went to gather wild flowers? And the pond where we used to sail our paper boats, and where the water-lilies grew so plentifully in the summer-time? And above all, the village-school? How we enjoyed our half-holidays then! How merry we were! Yes, certainly, those were happy days!" in those pleasant They forget that They forget how They forget the hands and dresses torn woods, and the pain and chiding afterwards. flowers do not grow all the year round. dark, and green, and turbid that pond looked when there were no water lilies. They forget the bitter tears shed over neglected, or difficult tasks; remembering only those rare half holidays; or how often, intending to make the most of them they had gone to rest weary and foot sore. Years glide by, and again old playmates, and schoolfellows, and the companions of youth, meet together, and say to one another "Do you remember?" They recal to mind their first ball" what a scene of enchantment it was! How happy we were then!" They forgot all the little jealousies, and heartburnings that ever accompany such scenes. Or it may be, they will talk of a first love, although, in general, we think far more than we speak of these things. They exclaim with tears— "Those were happy days!" They forget the trembling and the woe that mingled in their cup of joy; and how one by one the links in the chain of affection were rent asunder, or else rusted and worn away; and how the heart bled afresh at every severed link. They forget the shadow, and remember only the sunshine of the past. They forget its thorns, and remember only its flowers. They forget its discord, and remember only its harmony. They forget its tears, and remember only its smiles. They forget the cloud and the tempest, and remember only the rainbow! Now all this is natural and poetical, but it is not always calculated to make us either better or happier. It may afford hours of pleasant dreaming, but will tend to no practical usefulness. What a sweet employment it would be to keep a constant record of happy days-a journal of thanksgiving! "Alas!" exclaims one of our gentle readers, "it would never be filled! There is always something in this world to come between us and our happiness. 'Life has but one leaf of gold, Yet must we turn the rest. Not so, dear reader! Life's book is a blank, and if we were only as thankful for joy, as we are ready to murmur at its reverse; as eager to say "God be praised!" as we are to exclaim in sorrow, "God be pitiful!" how many a page which now bears no record, would become bright and golden-tinted! We admit that there is always something to come between us, and what we deem our happiness; but if we cannot remove it, let us be happy in spite of it ! "Every heart," writes Professor Longfellow, "has its secret sorrow which the world knows not." While L. E. H. touchingly demands" Shew me a heart without its hidden wound!" It may be so, but we still maintain with a cheerful faith, that it has also its secret happiness, and its hidden joy. We are told in the beautiful language of scripture, that "the heart knoweth its own bitterness; and a stranger doth not intermeddle with its joy." There are many things which are very easy to feel, but very difficult to put into words and explain; and what it is that makes and constitutes a happy day, is one of them. It may be the meeting of old friends or a loving message or letter from one whom we half feared had forgotten us, and would never send or write again-good news concerning ourselves or others —a reconciliation—or simply, an approving look-a fond smile— a pressure of the hand-or a kind word. Once upon a time (we love to commence thus) there lived a poor girl in a far off country place, who earned a precarious livelihood by spinning. Every morning she used to go to the cotton-mill, which was above a mile from her little dwelling, and return home at night weary and exhausted. But there were many others even worse off who had no home to go to; and knowing this made Mary thankful. Well, it so happened that the master of the cotton-mill was going to be married; and one morning he came into the work-room and announced the joyful intelligence, that they were all to have a holiday on the day of the wedding, the wages to go on as usual-for he knew it would be no holiday without that. "What a happy day we will have!" exclaimed Mary and her companions; and many a bright plan was laid before they separated. In her way home, Mary called in to see a poor neighbour, and all her pleasant anticipations of woods, and fields, and wild-flowers, vanished away before a higher purpose. The next morning she explained it to her companions, and invited whoever would to join her. "You know widow Dermott? Well, she is behind hand with her rent, owing to illness, and her eldest son breaking his arm. The landlord has threatened to turn her out of her little cottage if the money is not immediately paid, and she has no friends! What do you say, shall we give her a day's spinning now that we have the opportunity?" Some readily consented, others held back; but when the time came there were as many as twelve young girls assembled in the widow's cottage, laughing, and talking, and spinning; for somehow, as they said, it was more like play than work; while the poor woman alternately smiled and wept for joy. The merry wanderers who had been keeping holiday in the woods and fields, paused on their way home to listen to the sound of their cheerful songs; while some went in and decked the cottage with the wild flowers which they had gathered, until it looked like a bower. The united earnings of the young girls not only sufficed to raise the required sum which was to secure a roof over the head of the poor widow and her children, but left an overplus which she would have returned to them, had they not insisted upon her keeping it-they could even afford to be generous. "What a happy day this has been!" said Mary. "A happy day, indeed!" repeated her companions, as they walked home in the quiet moonlight. Those who had gathered nothing but flowers, were silent; they wished now that they had helped the poor widow. It is always a happy day in which we are permitted-for it is a sweet privilege to do good to others. We remember hearing tell of a poor but pious clergyman, residing in a scattered hamlet in the north of England. Let the weather be what it would, he used to go from cottage to cottage, sometimes miles apart, preaching the word of life, and seeking to bring back the wandering sheep and lambs of his Master's flock, into the fold of the good Shepherd. He was ever ready to attend to the call of the sick and sorrowful; and neither rain or snow-drift kept him away from his place at the bed of death. One winter's night, the cold seized him; he was providentially discovered lying on the ground only a few yards from his own home, whither they bore him, pale, helpless, and insensible. His wife bent over him in agony. She wrung the icicles from his hair, and kissed his white forehead. After he had sat a few moments before the blazing fire, and taking something warm, he began to revive. His pale lips moved, and smiled ; "What a happy day this has been!" murmured he. "And there is joy also among the angels in heaven!" It was Alice Vernon's birthday, and when she arose in the morning, she said within herself, "To-day shall be a happy day!" Now Alice was only a little child, and yet the resolutions which she made are well worth recording for our imitation. What "I will do all that I have to do, as well as I can; I will strive not to be impatient with my brothers and sisters; or angry, either with or without cause;-or undutiful to my parents. I will endeavour to do all the good in my powerto love everybody, and to try and make them love me. ever my mother gives me either in fruit, or cakes, or pocketmoney, I will divide with poor Phebe Green, who has no mother! And because I feel that I cannot do all this of myself, or in my own strength, I will ask God to help me." That night, when Alice's mother went into her chamber as usual, to kiss her, and see that she was comfortable; the child put her little arms about her neck, and whispered softly "Oh mother! what a happy day this has been!" Louis and Adele were playmates in childhood, and companions and friends in youth. Both had their faults for who has not? and both loved one another in spite of them. Louis had a good heart; but he was ugly and awkward, and consequently, sensitive and irritable. Adele was affectionate, highspirited, and beautiful; but then she was thoughtless and coquetish. Seldom a day passed in which they did not see each other, for the parents and sisters of Louis, looked upon Adele just as if she was already a member of their own family. One day some officious friend observed to Louis "Ah! you would not think so much of Adele, if you knew what she said about you the other day, and how she laughed at you." "Pshaw!" replied Louis. But presently afterwards he returned to the subject by enquiring with apparent carelessness"And what did she say ?" The idle words were repeated; it may be that they were even exaggerated. Louis would not believe that she had spoken them; but nevertheless their memory haunted, and rankled, and burnt into his heart! Adele felt that he was changed, but she never dreamed of the cause, having long since forgotten her own impatient words. She was angry with him, and when, after weeks of bitterness and estrangement, he at length accused NO. VI. M VOL. I. |