cheeks glowing, her lips hardly able to finish without laughing, that when she had really finished, we both burst into a loud laugh. "Well now, seriously," said she, "the present race of women, excuse me, ladies, are very frail -physically frail. Their constitutions are feeble, their cheeks pale, their forms are slight and fragile. Indeed should they have the misfortune to be like myself, stout and hearty, I use a homely but expressive phrase, they are regarded with pity. Perhaps you may think I am selfish when I say that this shows a very perverted taste in the present generation." "But you must own, Kate, that is impossible for every one to brave the weather and the walking with the same impunity with which you can do it." "Yes, I will allow it. But still these weak, frail creatures, with their delicate constitutions, who cannot walk unless the weather is just so, who cannot fetch the water to wash their own hands, who never dream of going through the extraordinary exercise of sweeping their own rooms, will yet venture out into the damp air of night, for ball, party, or concert, sit in heated, un wholesome rooms, or exposed to cold draughts, till a very late hour, and then if they take cold, it is so very strange how they could possibly have taken it." "But you do not condemn balls, parties, and concerts, if I am not mistaken, I think I have heard that Miss Kate herself has a certain passion for the theatre." "Yes, when there is some great attraction, worth taking all the trouble we must necessarily take to go. Indeed I am no enemy to these things in moderation, but then I like to see people consistent." "But one is not to blame for being sick and delicate, and afraid of east winds and muddy walking. You would not advise a person like our friend Clara D to brave the weather of to-day." "Certainly not, but now you speak of Clara, take her for example. Beautiful and interesting she is, I will allow, so much so, that it always sends a painful feeling through my heart to look at her. But what has made her so delicate and fragile? What but injudicious treatment from her youth up. Kept away from wholesome air and exercise, confined to her books and studies, for which having a natural taste and inclination, she felt no hardship, and did not sigh for out of door exercise as some children would have done, and so she grew up pale and delicate, though very lovely and interesting. A kind hearted, affectionate creature, the idol of her parents, the charm of the circle to which she belongs, brilliant in conversation, with a noble mind and intellect,- -a beautiful and rare jewel, but shrined in such a slender casket, that the lightest breath of heaven may shiver it to atoms. And she, too, who can take no exercise at home, who even when conversing, has that soft, languid air, so indicative of ill health, she attends concerts two or three times a week, for with her passionate love of music, how can she forego this pleasure? And if you have ever seen her after such exertion, you can tell how much they affect her. Alas for the happiness of the noble heart of Albert B loving her so fondly, and trusting to call her his wife ere another Winter, but the flowers of the present Summer will, I very much fear, blossom upon her grave. Oh the mistaken love of parents, who thinking too little of the health of their children, seek to cultivate their mental powers, and make them smart and precocious, to the neglect of their physical powers, forgetful how nearly the two are connected. I hope that now women have entered into the study of medicine, the mistake will be corrected. But what a homily I have been reading you. I hope you have not gone asleep while I have let my tongue run so loosely. But what directed my thoughts into this channel, was a scene which I had just witnessed before I came in here." "What was it, Kate, relate it to me; indeed I have been highly entertained, and am not at all sleepy." Kate settled herself comfortably into her chair as if beginning a story. You doubtless remember Lucy C—, our old school-mate, whom we used to call lazy Lucy sometimes, when vexed at her. It makes me laugh now to think of it; I believe she was naturally very indolent, indeed we had every reason to think so. Her mother indulged her in it, saying she was not well, poor child; she told people so often that she was not well, that Lucy herself began to think she was not, and as it! suited well her disposition to be thought an invalid, she was well content. How I have longed many a time to lead that girl a march up and down Washington Street, and round the ComI had faith that I could cure her in a week, but I never had the chance to try. Well, as you know, she got married. Married pretty well, too, a fine house, two servants, a husband who dressed her very well, and loved her I suppose | as well as he could. Ever since the birth of her mon. first child, her health has been declining. It was too much exertion to take care of her child, so another servant must be procured. This was done, and then she grew a little better. In due time two more children were given to the happy couple. Her health of course grew worse and worse. I called there this morning, to speak to her about a little girl who had been living with her, and who is now with my sister. I was shown into the parlor. I waited and waited, looked at all the books and pictures, and every thing in the room. At last she came, and she looked so languid and ill, that 1 fairly begged her pardon, fearing I had disturbed her. 'Oh no,' she said, 'she was thankful to get away from the noise of the children for awhile, and was very glad to see me.' How is your health?" said 1. "It is not very good," she replied, “I am troubled with a nervous affection, and the noise of so many children worries me exceedingly. Children are very troublesome, don't you think so? but then you are very fortunate, you have no opportunity of knowing." "Oh yes," said I, "I am with my sister a good deal, and she has four little ones, and I always have a grand time with the merry urchins." Ah well," sighed she, "they do very well to play with for a little while, but if you had the care of them day and night, as I do, and my delicate health, you would know what a trial they were." Just at this moment a little dirty faced boy thrust his head in at the door, and called loudly for mother. She rose hastily, and stepped into the entry. I heard a noise which sounded very much like the application of her hand rather smartly to his ear, a cry from the child, a push along the entry; and she opened the door and entered. "The rogue," said she, "always following me, there is no peace for a moment." I would have finished my business as quickly as possible, but upon mentioning my errand, she entered into a long complaint upon the never ending and ever grievous subject of help. They were so ignorant, so wasteful, so impudent, so careless, that they almost wore her to death. "What a fortunate circumstance," said she, "that you are not married, and are not plagued with children and servants; you know not what you enjoy." Just as I rose to go, the master of the house entered. I noticed that the face of his wife, instead of brightening at his approach, as I have VOL. XX. 54 always understood the face of a true wife should do, grew still darker, if possible. She stood gloomily aside while her husband spoke to me, but I could see that his eye wandered uneasily towards her. "Poor man," thought I to myself, "he is to be pitied; I know he will be obliged to hear a long complaint after I am gone, and he I fancy is perfectly sensible of the fact." I took my leave as soon as I could, and in passing down the stairs, I heard the cry of an infant blending with the sturdy war of an older child. I quickened my steps, and was soon in the street. My heart was full of pity for Lucy, for I knew she was really miserable. While if she had been properly trained in youth, what was now to her a source of misery, might and ought to be her greatest, truest happiness. "But then if she is really sick, it is her misfortune, not her fault." I do not deny but it is partly so, but the fault lies at somebody's door. But, O dear, if she only had a little energy and will. I think she would succeed better, if she would not give up to every petty annoyance; but she was never taught to do this, and has not moral courage enough to perform it now. But it is so sad to see the truest happiness and purest joys of life looked upon as a trial and a burden.” "But you are so healthy yourself, Kate, that you do not have charity for those who are ill. People are not always to blame for being sick." "It is because I have so much charity that I have spoken so long upon the subject. And that there is so much sickness in the world that cannot be avoided, is why I would have people exercise more care, and understand better, and pay more attention to, the rules of health. In my way of thinking, sickness was sent by God to call forth the noblest faculties of our nature, and to discipline our souls. Were there no sick beds, we should never hear of those beautiful instances of self-devotion and love, which shine round our path like gleams from Heaven. The best lessons of my life have been taught me when I have watched by the bed of sickness; and I have experienced as much true happiness when sitting by the suffering, and endeavoring to cheer the hours of pain and anguish, as I have in times of health and joy. But how I have run on this morning; I really must be going, and hoping that the wind will soon change from the East, and the mud soon dry so that you can walk out and enjoy the fine Spring, I wish you a good day. Somerville, Mass. N. T. MUNROE. EXCELSIOR. THEY who have freedom's race to run, Must claim, with angel smile, the sway, For those who strive in freedom's cause. WHEN our good Master noticed with what eagerness those who were invited to a feast, thrust themselves in the uppermost seats, he pointed out to them the impropriety of their conduct. He enforced his remarks by a very weighty consideration, that it might happen that the ruler of the feast should think proper to invite some more favored individual to occupy the seat which they had selected, and then they would with shame pass to a lower place; whereas, if in the first instance they took a more humble station, they might be invited to a higher, and the guests would then respect them, because the preference was shown to them and not assumed by them. Having inculcated the lesson, he endorses it with a moral of very general application, "he that exalteth himself shall be abased, and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted." This lesson is a hard one to learn, and after we have got it by heart, it is still hard to practise. We are often pleased to gratify our pride by calling in our vanity and placing them both to the account of a proper self-respect. That is a very dignified word, and a convenient substitute for the more objectionable term, a proud spirit. It may satisfy the person who uses it as the genuine coin, but he will scarcely get the world to receive it without a very large discount. "What," says the man of self-respect, "shall I be so wanting to myself, shall I be so unmindful of my station, fortune, family or talents, as to take a lower stand? Am I thus to be shorn of my honors?" By no means. In taking that stand, you are substantiating your title; you are making yourself secure in the possession of it, and you are doing this on the most approved principle, one that will save you from the jealousies and heart burnings of others less favorably situated than yourself. Whatever opinions the world may entertain as it respects the retributions of the next life, I fancy it is pretty well satisfied that as far as pride and humility are concerned, men are very justly dealt with in the present. Men's own passions and feelings are very ready executioners, and he whose insolence and pride is mortified, as it most assuredly will be, experiences an amount of retribution fully proportioned to all its gratifications; while on the other hand the truly modest and humble man will not fail to receive that consideration to which his virtues entitle him. There are few failings on which the world will not look with more indulgence than pride. The proud man in his intercourse with community makes a personal attack on all those with whom he associates. He cannot speak a plainer language when by his actions he asserts his superiority, if he said in just so many words, "You are my inferior." There is, in his case, no parable in the matter; it is very downright, unmistakable and offensive language. If he meets one whom he considers beneath himself in the social scale, he either does not notice him at all, or if he does, it is in such a manner as to mark his sense of the distance that exists between them, so that no notice would be less insulting than such a notice. Now as no one is altogether devoid of pride, he will be very apt to resent the insult, so that there is scarcely any vice not cognizable by the law of the land, which is so sure of condign punishment. Pride is scarcely more offensive to those towards whom it is manifested, than it is painful to the possessor himself. The proud man is the most sensitive of all human beings. He is sore all over. Like some nervous folks that we meet with, while they make not the slightest allowance for the feelings of others, they are all sensitiveness as it regards themselves, you cannot touch the proud man but he shrinks, and a direct assault, putting him in a ridiculous light in the sight of others, wounds him to the quick. Pride takes all its enjoyment and comfort from the deference it receives from others. It has to go abroad to seek its appropriate food. The respect, consideration, and approbation of the world, are what it covets. This is not the case with vanity. That has a good supply of food treasured up in its storehouse for home consumption, and without the intervention of a miracle, "its barrel of meal wastes not and its cruse of oil does not fail." The vain man is perfectly blest in his own self-esteem. If the rest of the world does not discover his merits, that is their misfortune and not his fault. He is conscious of his own possessions, and with that conviction he is satisfied; so that the saying which distinguishes between vanity and pride, is not out of the way, when it asserts that a man may be too vain to be proud. We see, then, what an uncomfortable thing pride is. How much it stands in our way and keeps us from the enjoyment of a thousand little agremens, as the French term it, and for which we have no corresponding word, unless we coin one and call it agreeablenesses, which tend so much in the journey of life to make the rough places smooth. A man swollen with pride will scarcely find room in any company, and the consequence is, that they will push him out or go out themselves and leave him alone. The frog in the fable whose ambitious pride led him to endeavor to puff himself to the size of an ox, and who burst in the experiment, (let the proud beware!) would not have gained much if he had succeeded. Though he might have been inflated to the size of an ox, that would not have made an ox of him, and he would have been no longer a companion for frogs. He would have needed the whole of the puddle to himself, so that after the attainment of his object he would have had but a sorry life of it. The most certain, and unquestionably the least objectionable way of receiving attention is to let it come to us and not to go in pursuit of it. What does the proud man ask from the world? He asks that deference and respect to which he considers his superior merits entitle him. Very well. Supposing that he does not estimate himself too highly (there is no danger of his setting himself up at too low a price), he must possess but a very limited insight into human nature, if he has not discovered that whatever respect and consideration he receives, must be a free-will offering and not a demand. A person may get up a pretty large subscription in his favor, perhaps with very moderate pretensions to the liberality or sympathies of the community, but if he undertakes to demand it as a tax from those who are under no legal obligation to pay it, he will not obtain a sixpence. Such a claim would at once be resisted, and his title which might not have been very narrowly examined, would at once be vitiated. The home government might have raised from the colonies all that it was in their power to afford, if it had been requested as an accommodation, but when it attempted to force taxes upon the people, which they esteemed unequal and unjust, they resisted the imposition and stood up boldly for their rights, and so it happened, that instead of getting a part, it lost the whole. The best remedy for pride is not to try and conceal it, but to labor to get rid of it altogether. If it is really in us, it will be working out in spite of us and betraying us. It is of a very ef fervescent nature, and the vessel must be very tightly hooped to prevent its escape entirely. The head will inadvertently be thrown back, the body straightened up, or words will drop or looks be given, that will tell of the spirit within, and the whole of the secret will be out. If we wish to subdue this evil and eradicate it, it is best to call to mind our own weaknesses and imperfections, and to mark the small difference that really exists between ourselves and those of whom we think so little. When good old David looked out upon the universe and contemplated the vast machinery at work, beheld suns and systems innumerable rolling around him, and then saw the minute spot that man occupied in the vast panorama, he was confounded at the thought of his own littleness, and could not avoid putting the question to his own heart, "What is man?" Just think what a shadow he is, how fleeting! how unsubstantial! Follow him to the last scene of his career on earth, and what are the greatest, the wisest, the wealthiest? See the quenched eye, its fire is out; the pallid lips, they have lost the power of utterance; the prostrate frame, it is low enough now, and let pride stand rebuked. And this is only the threshold to the charnel house. Shortly the worm will carry off all the spoil that remains, and the lord and the peasant will furnish the same fare and share the same fate. "How lov'd, how honored once avails thee not, By whom remember'd and by whom forgot; A heap of dust is all remains of thee, 'Tis all thou art, 'tis all the proud shall be." It may be well to consider what are the pretensions on which pride founds her claims, and examine the different items with care and can. dor. The catalogue is not so long as to be tedious in reading it. There is birth, rank, fortune, learning and beauty. That is about the sum total, and taken even in the aggregate, it is not much to boast of. If a person united all these advantages in himself, and were modest, humble and unassuming, that would be the most just cause for pride, if there can be a just cause -proud that he was not proud. But this modesty must be real and not assumed, otherwise it will be only pride disguised, and the searching eye will discover it, and it will be obnoxious to the censure which a philosopher applied to one who in apparent humility affected a tattered garment; "I see that man's pride through the holes of his cloak." It seldom happens that all these good things come together. Favors are more equally distributed in general, and he who has more than his share of one kind, will be found deficient in another. It will, therefore, be best to take the items separately, and fix a price on each. Pride of BIRTH is with some of great account. They are well born; they have come of a good family; they have an aristocratic name; and if they can only trace their ancestry across the water and claim to be only a remote twig of the great tree of nobility, they have attained the height of their ambition. They would rather have a coat of arms than a coat to their back, and many who boast of an illustrious descent, would make a much better figure in the world, if they had as much credit at their tailor's, as they pretend to have at the herald's office. But if a man is nobly born, modesty and courtesy will not tarnish his rank. It will not lessen him in the eyes of those who are fond even of such fancies, but on the contrary will add lustre to his name. The tracing of lineage is somewhat dangerous to pride, especially in a commercial country, where rank in society is often the result of fortune, and the lowest on the wheel to-day may be uppermost to-morrow. I once heard of two gentlemen in one of the States, whose names were of aristocratic sound, having gone to Europe for the express purpose of tracing their parentage, but one finding that his great grandfather had been in the chimney sweeping line of business, and the other that his nearest of kin had been hung for sheep stealing, they let the matter drop. Of all boasts the boast of ancestry is the most vain glorious. It is one that has no pretension to merit to recommend it. Fortune, rank, learning and even personal charms, are in some measure identified with the possessor, but pride of ancestry is what the jackall is to the lion, it waits upon greatness, but has to seek its food in the grave-yard among dead men's bones. I rather admire the pride of Cowper, if we must have ancestral pride. 66 My boast is not that I deduce my birth, Next to birth we mentioned RANK. Rank which in this country takes precedence from office, when it has a title attached to it, has to some indescribable charms, and the happy possessor cannot restrain the emotions with which his proud bosom swells. He considers himself called upon to act the great man, and with those who lack judgment, that is but another name for what is properly called the "insolence of office." Perhaps the very thing that ought to prevent a proud bearing is the one which in many instances tends to produce it. In this republic most offices from the chief magistrate to the country squire, are of short continuance. Being thus brief, one would suppose that the holder would reflect how soon he must be placed on his former level and act with a becoming moderation, but those who have not good sense to steady them, only reflect that since they are "clothed with a little brief authority," they had better make the most of it, and discharge all that they feel within. Their turn has come to be captain, and they cannot forego the pleasure of commanding. Such pride is so ridiculous, that when we see it, we cannot but recall the anecdote we once heard of a good woman who forbid her children playing with those of her neighbors, because her husband had been promoted to the rank of a corporal. The pride of WEALTH and the purse proud, form another class. This of all pride, is perhaps the most difficult to eradicate. Wealth has so many fascinations thrown around it; so many are there to do it reverence. Those who abound in riches can command and do receive so much attention, that after awhile they begin to think that the tribute is paid to their merit and not to |