LADIES'

A WEEK IN PHILADELPHIA.

THE city of William Penn is a great and beautiful city. Our visits there have been sufficiently wide apart, by intervening years, to enable us to notice distinctly the changes which American Progress produces in such a field as this. Venerable to the Christian and the patriot must Philadelphia ever be, by virtue of the moral beauty and majesty of its Founder, and the scenes of the First Congress of the United Colonies, when on the air of this city floated the Declaration of Independence as read from the steps of "Independence Hall," and borne afar by the clang of the prophetic bell in the tower. Its regular streets, its imposing buildings, the vast and elegant show of marble, the one hundred and seventy Churches, the Banks, the public edifices, the Parks, the presence of water in abundance, its Libraries and Schools, render Philadelphia a gorgeous and wealthy place to the stranger and a pride to the citizen. We went thither last May to spend two Sabbaths with our friends of the Locust Street Church, ("The Church of the Messiah,") and now make a few notes of the many things we saw and the thoughts they suggested. They are but our daily letters home. We left Providence on Friday evening, and the noon of the next day shone dimly on the city in the distance as we looked out to behold it.

Disembarking from the cars at Tacony, we entered on board the steamboat that by an half hour's sail was to bear us to the great city. When the noise and bustle called us out of the retreat which rheumatic tortures made us seek, the city was seen veiled in the mist of a cold and drizly north-easter. It seemed to come out from the mist to meet us, as though there was a necessity to be seen nearer in order to remove the unfavorable first impression upon the traveler. There is something grand in this approach to a vast city like Philadelphia-to notice how diminutive huge and massive objects become as VOL. XX.

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the breadth of the city comes more into view, and your own little self makes but another of the hundred thousand of Lilliputians on the shores and in the streets. Alone in the great city! What a feeling! But what a relief comes when the spirit of the Gospel inspires the soul with those ideas of moral relationship which transforms the stranger into a member of the same spiritual family, a dweller in the city "whose Maker and Builder is God." Should accident require for us aid, how out of these seemingly rude and selfish crowds would rush friendly hands to our relief-all the restraints of an iron conventionalism would be broken asunder, and we should find how speedily opened is the treasure house of human sympathies when the electric touch is given to the secret spring. Such thoughts make us at home in the strange land, prompt us to bear patiently with the rough outside of the noisy and wrestling throngs, and animate us on our way as singing of their own sweet will they make melody in the heart.

To avoid the smothering crowd of hackmen, we passed on with luggage in hand, though the rheumatic fiend had us "on the hip," but all along our way we were persecuted first, by the patter of the drizly rain, and next by the pattering feet of young runners who thought it terribly wrong that a jintleman" should carry his own baggage. But the Exchange came in view, and the right kind of a curve brought us round to South Third Street, where we were to find a friend whose countenance was ever present to our imagination as seen at our great festival-the meetings of the General Convention. The house was home to us, and there in quiet freedom we were to spend the home hours of a week in Philadelphia. The storm increased, and right merrily now sounded the rain as it made the glass of the windows its tambourine. In cheerful conversation the evening passed, and with thanks for a week's mercies and hopes for the morrow, we slept to find sleep "nature's sweet restorer."

A rainy Sabbath! So it must be, and why

make it more dreary by complaint and fretfulness? Let fair weather be in the heart, and accept the day for what it is-a time of holiest culture for the soul. The day being rainy, we could not, of course, see much of the beauty and fashion of the city in the streets, but nevertheless the Chimes of Christ's Church, and the bells of the churches, though too hurriedly rung, gave a pleasant music to the morning. One of the sights that attracted us was a procession of Catholic orphan children, preceded and succeeded by sisters of charity, on their way to church. They were dressed in a sombre uniform-their costume being entirely black hoods and cloaks, with but a line of white about the neck; they looked like a row of drooping willows we once saw, covered with smoke from a blacksmith's shop. We could hardly catch any view of their faces, and could not keep out of our thoughts sad misgivings that the joyousness of childhood was lost to these little ones, and on their young minds was put the pressure of ascetic devotions that wither the strongest energies of the developed woman. I passed in the evening a large church of the Catholics, with three illuminated windows at the rounded corner of the building-the centre one presenting a huge cross, that shines afar as a beacon-to guide the devotee to the altar, and to alarm the bigoted Protestant to fight more vigorously against Popery.

Passing Dr. Furness' neat church, whose four marble columned portico gives it a fine appearance, we soon looked up to see the towers and building of the new Universalist Church in Locust Street. It is one of the handsomest church edifices we have seen. We, of course, did not see it under circumstances favorable to a right appreciation of its beauty, as the confusion of the process of building was before us.

be dedicated probably in September or October of this year.

Outside of the new church in Locust Street, we saw little to remember that rainy Sabbath. We preached morning and evening in our offhand way-first, on Saul at the martyrdom of Stephen, and second, on the Elements of the Blessedness of Faith. We enjoyed the Sabbath services, though not a little singular is the custom here to curtain from the sight of the congregation the choir-like the seclusion of the women in Jewish synagogues in a gallery by themselves. We can but regard this custom as "more honored in the breach than in the observance." The kindling eye and face has much to do with the power of fully expressing a holy thought or feeling. Emotion may quiver in the tone, and the full halleluiah of the heart may measurably come forth in the gushing voice, but "the human face divine," has its own measure of revelation. Supremely is this seen in Jenny Lind. The fountain of song pours its etherial essence through every pore of her face, and her eyes sparkle and glow and glitter till they shoot arrows of light that make music as they are winged to our sight. Measurably the same transforming power is seen in every face where the soul of music plays on the chords of true feeling. What a power for impression the preacher would lose were he veiled! But customs and usages are strange things mid different people, and we have no more desire to attempt a crusade against such fashions as this veiling of the sweet singers, than to say any thing of the custom of wearing in the streets those veils which only square off the face into chequers, by the daguerreotyping sun, as though woman's cheek was to be made a chess-board, upon which invisible sprites are to play their games of love and chance. A lady remarked to me, that nothing seemed more strange when she first attended worship in Boston, than the sight of the singers. Undoubtedly for a while it would disturb the devotions of such an observer, but soon the contrast would be found to be compati

dart heavenward, others rise by spiral circles, but it matters not what the method may be, if they both speedily reach the blue skies,-

"Where nothing earthly bounds their flight, Nor shadow dims their way."

The Sabbath is gone-even while we sat talking with our host, for, to our astonishment, when taking our watch out to wind it up, we found

the time a quarter past one! But notwithstanding the wise talk of physiologists about a quiet brain for hours before retiring to insure good sleep, the benediction of that gracious power speedily descended as though newly invented, and performed all that could be desired for a "successful experiment."

Rain, rain, with the morning. This was not put into the bill of expectations when we came here, and it had the same effect on our ideal of the weather we were to enjoy, as the sight of a lady eating had on Byron-the charm was gone. But the soul-barometer must point to "Fair Weather" on its index, and so it did. We had entered with dutiful temper the school of SelfReliance for a week, and on the independent principle live we would-that length of time. So the rain beat, and we did not care. The hail came rattling against the window panes, but we were in glory. The winds whistled and halloed as though we were in the woods and they would help us out, but we heeded them not. They had got up a storm and we a sermon. The storm is passed, but the sermon is left, bearing record in its imagery of the wild day on the forenoon of which it was written. It is the great lesson of Christian philosophy to put all ills into the body -keep them from reaching farther, and thus preserve a controlling and conquering force in the citadel of the soul. It is sad to be imprisoned by the storm in a city whose beauties and wonders you fain would go forth to see; but the height of folly in such a case is, to thrust one's self into an inner dungeon and the stocks by fretfulness and wrestling with inevitable evil. The brain in the little dome of this living organism of ours, is free from the pains that have beset it for months, and in a brief freedom from associations that remind of cares and anxieties, the spirit of existence seems endowed with new vitality and exuberant animation. We will be happy to-day.

Morning again. Thank God for clear skies, for notwithstanding we wind ourselves very high as spiritual beings, we are made to know that we have bones and joints and nerves to deal with. To-day the weather is extremely beautiful. The storm left us during sleep hours, and we have a purely bright and warm day. Though lameness reminded of body, the mind was active by curiosity, and forth we went sauntering along the crowded streets, disposed to turn every thing into contributions to a vast museum, looking in upon the shows of print-shops and jewelry stores, and enjoying the exhibitions

made by the shops of a great city. These are among the first of the sights we select to gaze upon and study. The best articles of skill and taste, the newest inventions and the latest fashions, are always exhibited in the windows, and the streets are really thus made a world's fair in the vast crystal palace of the pure atmosphere of a bright May morning. What gorgeous paintings, what beautiful and magnificent engravings, what exquisite pieces of needle-work, what ingenious contrivances for the arts or domestic utilities, were to be seen in the shop windows! And then too, the beauty and gaiety that animated the streets, for though Walnut Street is the thoroughfare of fashion on the Sabbath, Chestnut Street holds that rank on the other days of the week. To find rest, the Academy of Fine Arts was entered, and as a catalogue was offered for sale, the thing was refused by the sudden thought, If a picture does not tell its own story, let it go. As to knowing the artists, there is no room for that in this brain today. Fine halls are here,-one of statuary, the others hung round with paintings. Four years and a half have passed since our last visit, and many changes have taken place; but here are still the great paintings of Benjamin West,— "Death on the Pale Horse," and "Christ Healing the Sick." The latter is astonishing for its contrasts of the various sicknesses which were oppressing those who were brought to Christ to be healed. There is a beautiful picture here, of, as we supposed, Hylas, and no wonder he went down into the water with the naiads if such eyes were on him, and such lips kept up the persistent music of the persuasive utterance of "Hylas!" You could almost see the graceful forms of the naiads making the waters yield, and Hylas sinking with them to their coral home. Did ever a delicate hand lay more conqueringly on the shoulder of man! At a direct angle from this mythological picture was a real Yankee scene-A Pic Nic in the Woods. On the right the river is seen, and near the foreground, amid trees, a young woman is plucking flowers alone; then in the centre, the table is spread, with all luxurious eatables and some justly proscribed drinkables; on the right of the centre picture, a gentleman is playing a violin, to the great delight of a child and his mother, while a roguish maiden stands on tip-toe behind him with a little sprig tickling his forehead, producing that sport in those who observe the act which affords a fine contrast with those who are absorbed simply in the music. Opposite

this gentleman is another with a flute hanging from his hand, he smoking, listening to the music of the violin. Children are round him, and near them a woman standing upright, holds a tumbler in her hand pledging another, who, at a small table, responds in the distance, they evidently being two who do not wish lovers and have no notion of ever dying the "relict" of somebody. On the left is a "love scene," -a gentleman reclining on a bank behind a lady, talking to her, with his hand on her shoulder, she seeming not to notice him, yet listening with intense interest. In the background is a gipsey scene,-a fire, a kettle on it, and all the incidentals that make up the idea of freedom and comfort for a day in the woods. The background of the centre carries the eye to beautifully arching woods and the river, suggesting the busy life to which a brief sail may bear the party away from the scene of the Summer Day Frolic. An exceedingly animated picture presents a group in a parlor while an enthusiast is singing, in 1792, the Marseilles Hymn. But the picture that pleased the most was evidently

The Convalescent. The scene is a room in an old English mansion. A beautiful and sweeteyed maiden sits in an easy chair in the centre of the piece; the physician has just touched her pulse, and with a smile that is a volume of revelation, he has evidently said, The crisis is past! An elder sister stands by the chair with her hands laid palm to palm, and a most devo. tional look, as she gazes upward in smiling thankfulness; a little brother on the other side, has his round, full eyes made larger and his rosy cheeks rosier by participating in the general joy, while the aged father, sitting by the fire-grate, clasps his hands in devout praise. The sentiment of the picture is very sweet and touching. It is addressed to and reaches universal sympathies.

But this evening in doors we had a domestic picture, surpassing tableau or pantomime-the festival of a little boy's sixth birth-day. He was full of the matter, and having assured us that we should be of "the party" and "have some," we became the poet of the occasion and wrote a birth-day song. Harry is an imaginative boy, full of quirks and turns, wise saws and great sayings, and we had a merry time. The " poetry" was read; the laugh was free, and then came Harry's "treat," and we were surely treated well, the bon bons affording some rich specimens of amatory poetry, especially funny when drawn forth by a six year old pilgrim. Too lit

tle is made of those recurring seasons which ought to be marked as festival seasons, linking the past with the present, and setting up, as it were, memorial tablets to aid memory in looking back to by-gone years. Quiet, happy, merry domestic festivals, uniting the old and the young of the family in one common sentiment, cannot but do good. They remind the parent very forcibly how years are passing, and what claims the increasing growth of his children makes upon him. It was a wise thing when the Church embraced in its holy days a day commemorating the Holy Innocents who fell by command of Herod when the life of the infant Jesus was sought. How touchingly on the recurrence of that day might the Christian think on the various ways in which innocents have been made to suffer by the theological Herods who have dashed out the joyous life of the heart.

This Wednesday afternoon a ride was enjoyed, in the carriage of "mine host," through the city and a circuit of six miles on the return, amid the suburbs of the city and the country beyond. Among the most elegant of the palaces we passed, there were three that had singular stories;-one, a magnificent affair, with extensive ornamented grounds and every possible refinement, was built by a gentleman who has lost all his children, and the splendid arrangements for their comfort, seem but mockeries of human hope. The second is a fine edifice, owned once by a man dying of ennui, and who got up a company to go to Mexico during the late war, and left in that country his bones, he having died of one of the diseases of that peculiar climate. The third was built by a young man to whom his father left three hundred thousand dollars; he was deemed the "bright" son, while his brother was deemed a dummy. He began this building, the marble itself costing over twenty thousand dollars, the land twenty-one thousand, so that the edifice when completed cost over eighty thousand dollars. The young man run out every thing, died prematurely, his house was sold for twenty-three thousand dollars. The other brother is thriving, having added to the legacy left him, pursuing a rational mode of living. What stories are linked with many a dwelling of imposing appearing-stories that tell how false are the ideas so commonly entertained, that wealth and happiness are necessarily at one, and teaching us anew the lesson of the hymn,

"If solid happiness we prize,

Within our breasts the jewel lies,