Wil. Yes, indeed; I would n't exchange. Louis. Let us see it. Wil. Poh! I would n't waste my breath. James. Well, you will not see it; come, Bill, let's go home. Wil. Yes, I will show my new new [Louis comes up to listen.] -you need not listen, Louis; I shan't tell. You need not follow us; you will not know. [Enter Henry.] Henry. What is the matter, boys? I thought you were the best friends in the world. Wil. And so we were; but Louis has found something, and won't tell us what it is. Louis. I told them to guess, and they would not. James. We could not; but I've found something, and he shan't see it. Henry. How foolish, boys, to get angry at such trifles! Nothing you have, even though it is gold, can be of more value than your friendship for each other. Wil. Louis began it!—he ought to have shown us what he'd found. Louis. Well! yoù began to get mad right off, before I had a chance to tell. James. O Louis, what a story! Henry. See, now, what a great fire a little spark kindleth. Louis, if you had shown what you had found, you would have saved this trouble. Louis. Jim has found something too, and would not let me see it; and he says he 's going to have a birth-day present tomorrow, but I shan't be any the wiser. And Bill's got something new at home; but I don't care Henry. Now, boys, listen to me. wrong. Come, Louis, you was the first trespasser; show what you found. [Louis hesitates.] Come! You have all done Louis. O, it is n't much. I only wanted to see what they'd say. Henry. You wanted to excite their curiosity, and exercise a little superiority. Well, boys, I would n't care to know what it is. If it was a prize, he'd show it quick enough. Louis. Ask Jim what he's got; if he'll show, I will; and what has Bill got at home? Henry. Come, James, open your hand. James. Pooh, it's only a stick! Louis. And mine is only a cent! Wil. And I've got at home a kitten! Henry. Now, boys, see how foolish your quarrel; here you were, all by the ears, almost ready to fight-for what?a stick, a CENT, a KITTEN! Just think of it! weeks would have passed, and you would not have spoken to each other. And so with many quarrels, that begin in trifles, and end only in bloodshed and the prison. Beware, boys, of such tempers! Louis. Ho! I did n't mean anything. I just wanted to teaze them a little, to see if they were good Yankees at guessing! Who could n't have guessed a cent? James. And who could n't have guessed a stick? Wil. And who could n't thought of a new kitten? Henry. That's enough. Now, be frank with each other; tell your good luck, and take a joke as a joke, and not make a serious affair of it. Wil. Oh, we don't care for it now, - do we, James ? James. No; come, Louis, we won't think anything more about it, will we? all Louis. No; I did n't mean anything. Henry. I'm glad to see you ready to forgive, and we can go home happy now. Come. [All go off.] THE LADIES' WREATH-A TOPIC. Characters considered : H. A. H. WAIT. JOANNA BAILLIE; HANNAH MORE ; ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD; CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY; LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY; FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. First Speaker. It has been asserted that females are unfit to pursue the higher walks of science and imagination, in which the nobler sex delight to tread; but is the stigma just? Second Speaker. That it is not, let her answer to whom science is no less indebted than to her illustrious father; and let the sweet remembered notes, also, of Rhyllon's noble poetess respond. Third Speaker. Why, then, if woman has a mind capable of lofty thoughts and noble aspirations, does she submit to spend her life, the gaudy butterfly, flitting from flower to flower, to suck up honeyed words of praise. Fourth Speaker. How can even the noblest mind expand beneath the culture hitherto bestowed on woman's intellect? While exercise of the most rigid character has been imposed upon the mind of man, woman has been taught to feel that her mission is fulfilled when she has made herself mistress of a few accomplishments. Thus is her taste vitiated, her mind perverted, her influence misdirected, and her heart rendered, too often, the receptacle of all that is vain, foolish, and unprofitable. Thus not unfrequently has her life been all beauty without soul -an ornament without intrinsic value. Men have placed around her mind a barrier almost insurmountable, and then, forsooth, they have exclaimed, How feeble the intellect which cannot burst its bands! And when, perchance, one noble mind breaks forth, how is she made the gaze and wonder of a stupid world! She is honored and admired, it is true; but she is elevated above the pleasures and delights of life, upon a marble pedestal, and deemed as cold and heartless quite. She is condemned to see others far beneath her laving their brows in the pure fount of affection, whilst hers is parched and withered beneath the laurel wreath which binds it. Fifth Speaker. Shall it always be thus ?-shall man alone rove freely in the field of science, and wander, at will, in the gardens of literature, and woman always be denied full freedom to walk therein ? Second. S. Surely it shall not be thus; for many choice spirits have already arisen to assert their claims to a higher destiny, and woman will, I doubt not, ere long learn her true position. And from among the fair flowers of female character, which have shed their fragrance upon the hearts open to their influence, let us cull a ladies' wreath of fame. first, Joanna Baillie, the sister of Shakspeare, as she has been called; her genius may be likened to the splendid "Aloe flower," which opens but once in a century; so rare, indeed, that it is regarded rather as a wonder than a blessing. And Sixth Speaker. Her literary career began in early life, and has been pursued with unremitted ardor. The great care she has ever manifested in the revision of her productions affords an excellent example of patience and industry for our imitation. Fourth S. Her power seems to have shone concentrated in one burning ray the knowledge of the human heart; and this knowledge she has illustrated in her poems, with the cool judgment of the philosopher, and the pure, warm feeling of the woman. Seventh Speaker. Probably no woman ever did so much to promote the cause of moral and social improvement as Miss Hannah More; certainly, no one ever more consistently subserved the best interests of her sex. First S. She possessed, I think, more talent than genius; more judgment than imagination; and her poetry, though good in every respect, seldom merits a higher epithet. Seventh S. Her honored name may be placed in our wreath, to be an amulet as well as an ornament. If there be any hesitation in designating it by a flower, it is because it deserves something less perishable; it is the "Evergreen pine," the emblem of piety and philosophy, which time has no power to wither. Eighth Speaker. How vividly comes over my heart the remembrance of Mrs. Barbauld's "Hymn in Prose!" Her name will ever live in my memory, mingling with the pleasant recollections of childhood. Third S. The genius of the good lady you mention seems never to have incited her to a wide range or a lofty flight, yet like the "Lavender," whose rich fragrance makes us prize its simple flower, her poetry will be treasured, because imbued with those pure and enduring qualities of truth and feeling which require little ornament. Sixth S. Who, that is conscious of possessing a soul that longs for immortality, does not feel that all high poetry must be religious? There are aspirations of the mind for something higher, better, lovelier, than can be found on earth, and it is the holiest office of poesy to embody in language those vague longings for purity and happiness, and to paint on the dark and torn canvass of human life transparent and glowing pictures of heavenly beauty and tranquillity. Ninth Speaker. Few writers have done this with more power than Mrs. Caroline Bowles Southey. ·Tenth Speaker. There is, indeed, a sincerity, a devotedness, ay, an enjoyment, too, in her religious musings, which show that Christian feelings have elevated the poetic sentiment, in her heart, till she can sing of the better land with the sure and sweet conviction of its reality. As the "Myrtle" is all beautiful, leaf, flower, and tree, so is her poetry all worthy of our admiration and esteem. Eleventh Speaker. I propose for our wreath the name of Lydia Huntley Sigourney, the sweetest poetess of our own fair land. Her genius brightens in the Muses' smile. The delicate spirit of her fancy brings sounds - sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. Her fine perception for the harmonious and appropriate appears in the smooth flow of her lines, and in the perfect adaptation of her language to the subject. Eighth S. These qualities, united with tender feelings and a naturally contemplative turn of mind, have, it seems to me, inclined her to elegiac poetry. The knell that summons the mourner to weep awakens her sympathy, and the tender dirge is sung to comfort the bereaved. She allows not the trophy of death to be left at the tomb, but shows us the resurrection and the life, thus elevating the hopes of the Christian, and chastening the thoughts of the worldly-minded. Like the Imperial Passion Flower," her genius has ever been 66 "Consecrate to Salem's peaceful king; Though fair as any gracing Beauty's bower, Twelfth Speaker. But we must not forget that highly gifted daughter of song - Felicia Dorothea Hemans. Her harp, like the "Rose," soothes and delights alike the humble and the elevated. Ninth S. Let others thank thee, Whose sweetness others breathe! Twelfth S. Well said. The mighty spell by which she wrought was love, in all its purest, holiest, sweetest emotions of household affections, patriotism and devotion; and while love shall have a place in the human breast, her name shall live green in the memory of the race. Fifth S. Sorrow, care, and the "wasting task and lone" of her minstrel vocation, caused a premature close of her life; and she died as stars go down, her genius bright and expanding till the last. Though she has gone from us, yet the light of her intellect will never be dimmed, nor the sweetness of her harp be forgotten. Tenth S. We would not win thee back, thy lyre, even here, Its tone was not of earth, too sweetly clear To blend with aught of life's sad harmony. A lofty part in heaven's sweet hymn, even now. |