The Continental Monthly, Vol. 5, No. 1, January, 1864. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ our abilities or standing. These things ought not so to be. No man can find a substitute when he lies a-dying;—why should all his years be spent in the vain endeavor to find a substitute for living? An endless dependence upon the opinions, the whims, the prejudices of others, is the bane of living, and the mark of a weak mind, made so oftener by education than nature.

      When the young forget to abuse the old, and the old to run down the young; when mothers-in-law cease to hate their daughters-in-law, and to improve all opportunities for sowing strife; when wives take pains to understand their husbands, and husbands decide that woman nature is worth studying; when women can remember to be charitable to other women; when the Golden Rule can be read as it is written, and not 'Do unto others as ye would not they should do unto you;' when justice and truth rule men, rather than unreason and petty spite, then the aggravation of living will die a natural death, and the world become as comfortable an abiding place as its inhabitants need desire.

      Till then, hope and wait. Live the life God gives us, as purely and truly as you know how. Have some faith in human nature, but more in God, and wait his own good time for the perfect life, not to be reached here, but hereafter.

      THE LESSON OF THE WOOD

      In the same soil the family of trees

      Spring up, and, like a band of brothers, grow

      In the same sun, while from their leafy lips

      Comes not the faintest whisper of dissent

      Because of various girth and grain and hue.

      The oak flings not his acorns at the elm;

      The white birch shrinks not from the swarthy ash;

      The green plume of the pine nods to the shrub;

      The loftiest monarch of the realm of wood

      Spares not his crown in elemental storms,

      But shares the blows with trees of humbler growth,

      And stretches forth his arms to save their fall.

      Wild flowers festoon the feet of all alike;

      Green mosses grow upon the trunks of all;

      Sweet birds pour out their songs on every bough;

      Clouds drop baptismal showers of rain on each,

      And the broad sun floods every leaf with light.

      Behold them clad in Autumn's golden pomp—

      Their rich magnificence, of different dyes,

      More beautiful than royal robes, and crowns

      Of emperors on coronation day.

      But the deserted nest in silence sways

      Like a sad heart beneath a royal scarf;

      And the red tint upon the maple leaves

      Is colored like the fields where fell our braves

      In hurricanes of flame and leaden hail.

      I love to gaze up at the grand old trees;

      Their branches point like hope to Heaven serene;

      Their roots point to the silent world that's dead;

      Their grand old trunks hold towns and fleets for us,

      And cots and coffins for the race unborn.

      When at their feet their predecessors fell,

      Spring covered their remains with mourning moss,

      And wrote their epitaph in pale wood flowers,

      And Summer gave ripe berries to the birds

      To stay and sing their sad sweet requiem;

      And Autumn rent the garments of the trees

      That stood mute mourners in a field of graves,

      And Winter wrapped them in a winding sheet.

      They seemed like giants sleeping in their shrouds.

      DIARY OF FRANCES KRASINSKA;

      OR, LIFE IN POLAND DURING THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

Castle of Janowiec,Wednesday, May 27th, 1760.

      I had hoped too much! He is going, and the memory of the past will render the days to come very sad. I knew that Monday was an unlucky day: since my maid gave me such a fright by announcing the approaching departure of the princes, all has gone from bad to worse.

      The huntsman who brought me the bouquet from the prince, told me, in his name, that he too was forced to depart. With great difficulty could he invent a pretext for remaining three days after his brothers left. These three days will not expire until to-morrow, and yet he leaves me to-day; he must go, and can no longer delay. The king has sent an express for him, with an order to return as soon as possible. He will leave in one half hour, and I do not know when we can meet again. Ah! how soon happiness passes away!…

Sunday, June 7th.

      It is now two weeks since the prince royal left me; he has sent two expresses, and slipped two notes for me under cover to the prince palatine. But what is a letter?… An unfinished thought—it soothes for a moment, but cannot calm. A letter can never replace even a few seconds of personal intercourse; he has left me his portrait; I am sure every one would think it like him; but for me, it is merely a shred of inanimate canvas. It has his features, but it is not he, and has not his expression.... I have him much better in my memory.

      All consolation is denied me, for I will not reply to his letters; this restraint I have imposed upon myself; I am sure that my hand would become motionless as the cold marble were I to write to the man I love without the knowledge of my aunt, my elder sister, and my parents. I told the prince royal that he could never have a letter from me until I was his wife. This is a great sacrifice, but I have promised my God that I will accomplish it.

      Since his departure, time weighs upon me as a continued torture. During the first few days I wandered about as if bereft of reason; I could not fix my thoughts, or apply myself to any occupation. The illness of the princess has restored some energy to my soul. The injury to her foot, which she at first neglected, has become very serious; during three days she had a burning fever, which threatened her life. My anguish was beyond description; I am sure I could not have been more uneasy had it been my sister or one of my parents. I scarcely thought of the prince royal during the whole of those three days; and what is most strange, I no longer regretted his absence; if he had been here, I could not have devoted myself so entirely to the princess. The idea of her death was terrible to me, for, notwithstanding all the arguments of the prince royal and of the Princes Lubomirski, I feel myself very culpable in having withheld my confidence from her; if she suspects the truth, she has every reason to accuse me of perfidy.... There is in this world but one inconsolable evil, and that is the torture of a bad conscience—remorse....

      I hoped one day to be able to repair my wrongs toward the princess, to fall at her feet and confess my fault, but when I saw her in danger, I felt as if hell itself were menacing me, and as if I must be forever crushed under the weight of an eternal remorse.... Another thought too has distressed me to the very bottom of my soul! My parents are advanced in years; if I should lose them before I have confessed my secret to them! It is written above that I am to know every sorrow! Heaven has cruelly tried me, but to-day a ray of pity seems to have fallen upon my miserable fate. The princess is steadily improving, and I have received good news from Maleszow; I breathe again.

      Were the king to give his consent to our marriage, I could not be happier than I was on hearing from the physician's own mouth that the princess was out of danger.... I will then be able to open my heart to her! Ah! my God! if this painful dissimulation weighs so heavily upon me, what must be the state of the prince royal, who is deceiving his father, his king, and offending him by a misplaced affection!

      Why СКАЧАТЬ