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2 went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was When kindness, love, and concord may be ours. small,
The gift of ministring to others' ease, And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for To all our sons impartial Heaven decrees; us all;
The gentle offices of patient love, And what with her husband's sisters, and what with Beyond all flattery, and all price above; childr'n three,
The mild forbearance at a brother's fault, 'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me. The angry word suppress'd, the taunting thought:
Subduing and subdued the petty strife,
Which clouds the color of domestic life; An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got,
The sober comfort, all the peace which springs For Thomas's buildings 'd cover the half of an acre
From the large aggregate of little things; lot; But all the childr'n was on me- I couldn't stand
On these small cares of daughter, wife, and friend
The almost sacred joys of Home depend: their sauce
There, Sensibility, thou best may'st reign, And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there
Home is thy true legitimate domain. to boss.
Since trifies make the sum of human things,
We climb, we pant, we pause; again we climb:
WHICH FURNISH A THEME FOR REFLECTION, AND A TEXT FOR
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 may become invet. erate 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 n:ver be brought to think him all unworthy:- Washington Irving Memory:
Memory is the only paradise out of which we can not be driven away.—Richter.
'Tis memory alone that enriches the mind by preserving what our labor and industry daily collects.Watts.
Memory is the power to receive again in our minds those ideas which, after imprinting, have dis. appeared, or have been laid aside out of sight.Locke.
Excellence is never granted to man but as the reward of labor. It argues, indeed, no small strength of mind to persevere in the habits of industry without the pleasure of perceiving those advantages which, like the hands of a clock, whilst they make hourly approaches to their point, yet proceed so slowly as to escape observation —Reynolds. Laughter:
Laughter, while it lasts, slackens and unbraces the the mind, weakens the faculties, and causes a kind of remissness and dissolution in all the powers of the soul; and thus far it may be looked upon as a weakness in the composition of human nature. But if we c
consider the frequent reliefs we receive from it, and how often it breaks the gloom which is apt to depress the mind and damp our spirits, with transient, unexpected gleams of joy, one would take care not to grow too wise for so great a pleasure of life.--Addison. Life:
We talk of human life as a journey; but how vari. ously is that journey performed! There are those who come forth girt, and shod, and mantled, to walk on velvet lawns and smooth terraces, where every gale is arrested and every beam is tempered. There are others who walk on the Alpine paths of life, against driving misery and through stormy sorrows over sharp afflictions; walk with bare feet and naked breast, jaded, mangled, and chilled.—Sidney Smith. Love:
Oh, how beautiful is love! Even thou that sneer. est and laughest in cold indifference or scorn if others are near thee—thou too, must acknowledge its truth when thou art alone, and confess that a foolish world is prone to laugh in public at what in private it reveres as one of the highest impulses of our nature -namely, love.—Longfellow. Marriage:
Marriage is a feast where the grace is sometimes better than the dinner.-Colton.
Marriage, indeed, may qualify the fury of his passions; but it very rarely mends a man's manners.Congreve.
Marriage is the best state for man in general; and every man is a worse man in proportion as he is unfit for the marriage state.-Samuel Johnson. Money :
Money does all things; if it gives out, it takes away; it makes honest men and knaves; fools and philosophers; and so, forward, to the end of the chapter.-L'Estrange.
A wise man should have money in his head, but not in his heart.—Swift
The works of nature will bear a thousand viewe and reviews; the more frequently and narrowly we look into them the more occasion we shall have to admire their beauty.–Atterbury.
Nature, the handmaid of God Almighty, doth nothing but with good advice, it we make res arches into the true reason of things.- James Howells.
It is a great mortification to the vanity of man that his utmust art and industry can never equal the meanest of nature's productions either for beauty or value.--Hume.
Novelty is the great parent of pleasure.-South.
Novelty has charms that our minds can hardly withstand.— I hackeray.
Obstinacy in opinions holds the dogmatist in the chains of error, without hope of emancipation. Glanville.
No liberal man would ever impute a charge of un. steadiness to another for having changed his opinion. -Cicero.
Opinion is, when the assent of the understanding is so far gained by evidence of probubility that it rather inclines to one persuasion than to another, yet not altogether without a mixture of uncertainty, or doubting -Hale.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
I dare say the reader has remarked that the upright and independent vowel, which stands in the vowel. list between E and O, has formed the subject of the mais part of these essays. How does that vowel feel this morning? - fresh, good-humored, and lively? The Roundabout lines, which fall from this pen, are correspondingly brisk and cheerful. Has anything, on the contrary, disagreed with the vowel? Has its rest been disturbed, or was yesterday's din ner too good, or yesterday's wine not good enough? Under such circumstances, a darkening, misanthropic tinge, no doubt, is cast upon the paper. The jokes, if attempted, are elaborate and dreary. The bitter temper breaks out. That sneering manner is adopted, which you know, and which exhibits itself so especially when the writer is speaking about women. A moody carelessness comes over him. He sees no good in anybody or thing; and treats gentlemen, ladies, history, and things in general, with a like gloomy flippancy. Agreed. When the vowel in question is in that mood, if you like airy gayety and tender gushing benevolence-if you want to be satisfied with yourself and the rest of your fellowbeings: I recommend you, my dear creature, to go to some other shop in Cornhill, or turn to some other article. There are moods in the mind of the vowel of which we are speaking, when it is ill.conditioned and captious. Who always keeps good health, and good humor? Do not philosophers grumble? Are not sages sometimes out of temper? and do not angel women go off in tantrums? To-day my mood is dark. I scowl as I dip my pen into the inkstand.
Here is the day come round-for everything here is done with the utmost regularity:- intellectual labor, sixteen hours; meals, thirty-two minutes; exercise, a hundred and forty-eight minutes; conversation with the fainily, chiefly literary, and about the housekeeping, one hour and four minutes; sleep, three hours and fifteen minutes (at the end of the month, when the Magazine is complete, I own I take eight minutes more); and the rest for the toilet and the world. Well, I say, the Roundabout Paper Day being come, and the subject long since settled in my mind, an excellent subject-a most telling, lively, and popular subject-I go to breakfast determined to finish the meal in 934 minutes, as usual, and then retire to my desk and work, when – oh, provoking! Here in the paper is the very subject treated on which I was going to write! Yesterday another paper which I saw treated it—and of course, as I need not tell you, spoiled it. Last Saturday, another paper had an article on the subject; perhaps you may guess what it was—but I won't tell you. Only this is true, my favorite subject, which was about to make the best paper we have had for a long time: my bird, my game that I was going to shoot and serve up with such a delicate sauce, has been found by other sports
men; and pop, pop, pop, a half-dozen of guns have banged at it, mangled it, and brought it down.
“And can't you take some other text?” say you. All this is mighty well. But if you have set your heart on a certain dish for dinner, be it cold boiled veal, or what you will, and they bring you turtle and venison, don't you feel disappointed? During your walk you have been making up your mind that that cold meat, with moderation and pickle, will be a very sufficient dinner: you have accustomed your thoughts to it; and here, in place of it, is a turkey, surrounded by coarse sausages, or a reeking pigeonpie, or a fulsome roast-pig. I have known many a good and kind man made furiously angry by such a contretemps. I have known him to lose his temper, call his wife and servants names, and a whole household made miserable. If, then, as is notoriously the case, it is too dangerous to balk a man about his dinner, how much more about his article? I came to my meal with an ogre-like appetite and gusto. Fee, faw, fum! Wife, where is that tender little Princekin? Have you trussed him, and did you stuff him nicely, and have you taken care to baste him and do him, not too brown, as I told you? Quick! I am hungry! I begin to whet my knife, to roll my eyes about, and roar and clap my huge chest like a gorilla; and then my poor Ogrina has to tell me that the little princes have all run away, whilst she was in the kitchen, making the paste to bake them in! I pause in the description. I won't condescend to report the bad language, which you know must ensue, when an ogre, whose mind is ill regulated, and whose habits of self-indulgence are notorious, finds himself disappointed of his greedy hopes. What treatment of his wife, what abuse and brutal behavior to his children, who, though ogril. lons, are children! My dears, you may nincy, and need not ask my delicate pen to describe, the language and behavior of a vulgar, coarse, greedy, large man, with an immense mouth and teeth, which are too frequently employed in the gobbling and crunch. ing of raw man's meat.
And in this circuitous way you see I have reached my present subject, which is Ogres. You fancy they are dead or only fictitious characters—mythical representatives of strength, cruelty, stupidity, and lust for blood? Though they had seven-leagued boots, you remember all sorts of little whippingsnapping Tom Thumbs used to elude and outrun them. They were so stupid that they gave in to the most shallow ambuscades and artifices; witness that well-known ogre, who, because Jack cut open the hasty-pudding, instantly ripped open his own stupid waistcoat and interior. They were cruel, brutal, disgusting, with their sharpened teeth, immense knives, and roaring voices! But they always ended by being overcome by little Tom Thumbkins, or some other smart little champion.
Yes; they were conquered in the end there is no doubt. They plunged headlong (and uttering te