The love of a mother is never exhausted, it never changes, it never tires. A father may turn his back on his child, brothers and sisters become inveterate enemies, husbands may desert their wives, wives their husbands. But a mother's love endures through all; in good repute, in bad repute, in the face of the world's condemnation, a mother still loves on, and still hopes that her child may turn from his evil ways, and repent; still she remembers the infant smiles that once filled her bosom with rapture, the merry laugh, the joyful shout of his childhood, the opening promise of his youth; and she can never be brought to think him all unworthy. WASHINGTON IRVING.

A mother's love!

If there be one thing pure,

Where all beside is sullied,

That can endure,

When all else passes away;

If there be aught

Surpassing human deed or word, or thought,

It is a mother's love.

MARCHIONESS de Spadara.

Poor George Somers had known what it was to be in sickness, and none to soothe - lonely and in prison, and none to visit him. He could not endure his mother from his sight; if she moved away, his eye would follow her. She would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as he slept. Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, and look anxiously up until he saw her bending over him, when he would

take her hand, lay it on his bosom, and fall asleep with the tranquillity of a child. In this way he died. WASHINGTON IRVING.

TRANSFIGURATION

BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT

On the death of her mother

Mysterious death! who in a single hour

Life's gold can so refine,

And by thy art divine

Change mortal weakness to immortal power!

Bending beneath the weight of eighty years,
Spent with the noblest strife

Of a victorious life,

We watched her fading heavenward, through our tears.

But ere the sense of loss our hearts had wrung,
A miracle was wrought;

And swift as happy thought

She lived again,- brave, beautiful, and young.

Age, pain, and sorrow dropped the veils they wore And showed the tender eyes

Of angels in disguise,

Whose discipline so patiently she bore.

The past years brought their harvest rich and fair; While memory and love,

Together, fondly wove

A golden garland for the silver hair.

How could we mourn like those who are bereft,

When every pang of grief

Found balm for its relief

In counting up the treasures she had left?

Faith that withstood the shocks of toil and time; Hope that defied despair;

Patience that conquered care;

And loyalty, whose courage was sublime;

The great deep heart that was a home for all,
Just, eloquent, and strong

In protest against wrong;

Wide charity, that knew no sin, no fall;

The Spartan spirit that made life so grand,
Mating poor daily needs

With high, heroic deeds,

That wrested happiness from Fate's hard hand.

We thought to weep, but sing for joy instead, Full of the grateful peace

That follows her release;

For nothing but the weary dust lies dead.

Oh, noble woman! never more a queen
Than in the laying down

Of scepter and of crown.

To win a greater kingdom, yet unseen:

Teaching us how to seek the highest goal,

To earn the true success,

To live, to love, to bless,

And make death proud to take a royal soul.

THE MOTHER IN FICTION

BY STEPHEN WILLIAMS

In the world of imaginative literature, as in actual life, the mother is a supreme figure. All sorts of women lend their enchantment to the pages of books, from the unscrupulous Becky Sharp to the sweet, pure, lovely heroines of Waverley. In the Waverley Novels womanhood approaches perfection. Di Vernon and the Jewess Rebecca are my favorite heroines in all fiction. Scott's women, however, are mostly free from exacting family obligations.

Jane Austen's characters and situations are always interesting, but her mothers are the most contemptible in English fiction. How we have wished that we could free them from their mercenary matrimonial pursuits! There is scarcely any variety of types, but Mrs. Bennett in Pride and Prejudice is the weakest and most lacking in sense. Mrs. Dashwood in Sense and Sensibility, and Lady Bertram in Mansfield Park, are so lifelike that they appear as old acquaintances, and will live as long as books are read. Few and simple were the incidents of Miss Austen's brief life, but she has described the society she knew with great

truth and simplicity. In passing to Anthony Trollope we have an abundance of material out of which it is not easy to choose. In Trollope's novels the interest is almost exclusively of a domestic nature, and we have some fine studies of the maternal relation. The Small House at Allington is one of his best stories, and the widow, Mrs. Dale, will always claim a warm place in our affections. Perhaps she made too many sacrifices for her daughters, but a true mother's heart knows no greater joy than comes from just these sacrifices. "Her own girls loved her, and respected her, and that was pretty much all that she demanded of the world on her behalf." Mrs. Crawley in Framley Parsonage, though only a secondary character, will always claim our sympathy. Life must have seemed very sordid to her as she thought of the wives of the neighboring clergy— Mrs. Proudie, Mrs. Arabin, Mrs. Grantly and Mrs. Mark Robarts. The good mother kept patiently on her way in spite of all privations,

Darning little stockings for restless little feet,
Washing little faces to keep them clean and sweet,
Sewing on the buttons, overseeing rations,
Soothing with a kind word others' lamentations.

Lady Lufton was a most devoted mother, sensible too, on the whole, but could not get rid of the notion that her son should marry a wife of her choosing. "The only thing quite certain to her was this, that life would not be worth living if she were forced into a permanent quarrel with her son." Mrs. Proudie