trees, high black trees, standing close along each side of the way, and between them lies the snow, white and unbroken. Yes, here is a rude little cabin by the wayside, and three little bareheaded boys are out in the cold, hailing the coach; a young girl stands in the door crying, and a middle-aged woman, wearing a black kerchief and a mourning ribbon on her plain cap, is holding the hand of the young woman, and apparently giving her some words of parting advice. By the gate stands a small trunk, which is lifted to the coach-top; and the young woman, who is seem steadying up their hearts, for they weep less wildly as she caresses and talks to them. "When will the morning come?" they say, again and again. Alas! it will bring only a new sorrow the grave will then close over the face, which, though so hushed and white, they are still permitted to look upon; and no more then forever shall they see their father come home from the fields when the night closes-no more shall they tell by the evening fireside the little story of their daily life-no more rejoice in the bright promise of a new hat or gown-no more bail the full moon that illuminates all the woods-clad simply, poorly indeed, turning from the little and no more look across years of toil and privation to some time in the distance, when the rude little house shall have given place to a pretty cottage, and the rough wild trees to a garden full of flowers: all plans, all prospects, all hopes, are swept into the impenetrable dark. Poor little company of mourners! the sun that is down will come up again, the storm drives the ship into the haven sometimes, and the snow makes the wheat green in its time. The grass and the daisies creep over the grave-mound, and at length the peace of reconciliation comes over the heart. But words are useless; grief must have its way, and time will do its work. You have still a Father in heaven, and he will not forget nor forsake you. Let us leave the mourners with their dead. We have seen how poor they are, and how hopeless they are-let us go. The sun shines across the level snow, and the thin shadows of the leafless trees look cold enough as they stretch eastward; the citizens are hurrying homeward, closely wrapped in muffs and cloaks, and the country people are not much abroad. Faces press to the windows of the houses that dot the roadside as the stage-coach is heard muffling through the snow. The face of the driver is as red as a rose, as it shines out from the gray cap tied close under the chin, and his thick woolen mittens seem not to keep his hands warm, for he thumps them together every little while, as he holds the reins between his knees. Gayly the four white horses toss their manes, and proudly they arch their necks, as over the hills and along the level way they dash forward-—a great cloud of smoke precedes them, and their snorting may be heard a good deal farther than the noise of the coach-wheels. The twilight seems to have fallen suddenly, and the passengers all look from the windows of the coach; but they have come into a thick woods, and that is all-nothing is to be seen but faces, pulls hurriedly the black vail over her eyes, and climbs up the steps of the coach unassisted; for who of the gentlemen inside will step down into the snow to help a poor girl like her? She hesitates, for some one calls out, "There is no room." The driver throws down the reins, and says, authoritatively, "Make room on the back seat;" and the two elegant ladies seated there reluctantly gather up their ample skirts, looking their displeasure at the poor girl, who, timid and trembling, takes a scanty and comfortless seat. Often she puts her coarse plain handkerchief to her eyes as she goes along; but the vail covers them, and if she weeps no one sees it. Dim and red the sun stays among the treetops, but does not shine any longer. With ax on his shoulder, the chopper walks briskly home, and windows begin to show ruddy fires within. It is the time "the busy housewife plies her evening care." The reins are tightened at the gate of a large white house, which stands in a yard that is filled with trees and shrubberies. It has a silent and melancholy look in spite of the evident wealth of the proprietor. Two of the inside passengers find themselves on the ground the same moment to offer their hands to the two elegant ladies, whose journey is here ended. The coach is lightened of a quantity of baggage, and dashes forward again, while the ladies make their way up the snow-covered avenue. Need we say they are Mrs. Gordon and daughter, and that they are come to pass a month with cousin Victor? On the neighboring hill, and partly screened by a clump of elm-trees, stands a small rustic school-house, which the young girl notices with much interest; and a little farther on, at an oldfashioned farm-house, she is set down. She is evidently expected, for two striplings come romping forward, and, carrying the trunk between them, lead the way to the house; and when they have reached the door, they wait a moment to say they don't think the young woman looks much like a school-mistress. That she is the Mary we saw at midnight in the cabin, comforting her brothers and sisters; and that she has come now among strangers to earn something for them by school-teaching, is the supposition which the reader has doubtless made. We leave to their imagining her struggle and her sorrow, her homesickness and heart-sickness, till the evening of a mild February day is closing in, and she is seen following a troop of noisy boys and girls at a little distance, quietly, and reading as she walks. She does not see the two ladies and the gentleman who are cantering down the road, but keeps right forward, her eyes intent on the book before her. The younger of the ladies is well nigh upon her, yet she turns not her horse aside; suddenly she feels his breath in her face, and, hastily stepping back, lets fall the book; the horse tramples it beneath his feet, and the gay rider goes forward with a merry and derisive laugh. The other lady follows, wondering what little body could be so impudent as to remain in the middle of the road when they were coming up. I "But where is Victor?" asks the young lady, looking anxiously back. "Stupid fellow! thought he would consider my spurring a challenge, and come after me." eliciting some attention and manifestation, she says, childishly and poutingly, which she fancies her most charming method, "Don't you think, mamma, that Victor is growing tired of us? He don't talk to me, and I believe he wants me to go home." "What a darling you are!" replied the mamma; "just as if cousin Victor could ever be tired of you;" and seeing that cousin Victor said nothing, she went on, "Naughty cousin, why don't you tell Louise?" "Tell her what?" asked the cousin, quietly. "Whether you want her to go home. Now, honor bright." "My house is quite at her service, certainly, so long as she is pleased to honor me;" and Victor lifted not his eyes from the fire as he spoke. "Do you hear him, Louise?" whispered the mamma; "that is as much of a declaration as we can ever expect him to make." "Pardon me," she resumed to Victor, after a brief silence, "but don't you think it would be a nice thing to send Jane away? It would be so much pleasanter, you know." Jenny lifted her head as though the meaning of the words were perfectly clear to her, and, catching at her brother's hand, began to cry. "Thank you for your kind intentions," replied Victor, and he said nothing more. "I don't know, of course; it's all as you and But whether or not the gentleman understood Louise think," Mrs. Gordon said; for by boldly the challenge, he was evidently indifferent to it; assuming the devotion of Victor to her daughter, for he no sooner saw the accident than he was she seemed to think would make it truth; and on the ground, and, taking up the soiled volume, so quietly, and as though she were rather in the offered such apologies as caused the young school-way of the sentiment, she withdrew, coaxing mistress not a little confusion. "No," he said, Jenny, with the promise of some pretty toy, to as she reached for the book, "you must allow accompany her. me to replace it; and as for the carelessness of my guest, I can neither ask you to forgive it nor to excuse it;" and bowing low, he remounted, and rode forward at a pace which did not allow him to overtake the ladies till they reached the gate of home. SCENE FIFTH. Victor sits at the fireside, and his sister Jenny on a low stool at his feet-her head rests on his knee, and his hand is laid on her head. The shutters are closed, and the rain beats dismally against them; but the room is full of warm light, and all looks cheerful. Mrs. Gordon and her daughter Louise come in together-dressed and overdressed, especially the younger, who evidently supposes herself irresistible as she adjusts pins and flowers; that she will complete a conquest to-night she is resolved, and, by way of "Now, tell me true," said Louise, seating herself on the vacant stool at his feet, when they were left alone, "don't you want me to go away, so you can go and visit the school-mistress? Now, true, Victor. An't you half in love with her?" "No, certainly not." "But did you not go to see her last night, and carry her such a sweet, pretty book for the ugly, old one my bad horse trod on?" "Yes." "You did?" "Certainly I did." "Then I will go home, and you may go to see her, if you choose. I don't want to be in your way." "I don't know," said Victor, "how you can suppose yourself in my way. I shall visit the school-mistress without such movement on your part, if she will permit me." "You shall, shall you?" "To be sure." who was dead by violence, and the house seemed lonesome, almost fearfully so, he went out, as "And yet you pretend to tell me that you are usual, and notwithstanding the entreaties of his not half in love with her?" "Altogether in love, may it please you." Louise flew out of the room, crying, "I always thought you a fool, and now I know it," to seek comfort in the arms of her mother. Till long after midnight they condoled with one another; often repeating the asseveration that never were woman so abused in all the world; and at daylight they took an unceremonious leave. If they were to appear in another scene, Louise would be venting her disappointment and petulance on the poor maid who plucked from her head the gray hairs preparatory to her re-entering society; and the mother would be discoursing on the excellent match which her daughter might have made but for one trifling circumstance, upon which she does not enlarge. SCENE SIXTH. The sweet, sweet May! God has made the world as it were new; the birds are flying wild with music, and the greenness on the hills and on the trees makes glad the heart. The silver moonlight of the April and the golden sunlight have been transmuted into flowers, and hill and valley are spotted with white and yellow. About the many porches of the house we have talked of the jasmin grows starry, the lilacs are all purple, and the roses are beginning to show their crimson. The dewy clovers make all the air pleasant, and the young wheat gives a rich promise. Sitting in an arbor, half in sunshine and half in shadow, is Victor and his young and excellent wife, the Mary of the cottage and the schoolhouse. And like the light in which they sit, their hearts are touched with a mingled feeling of joy and sorrow. They are talking of Jenny, and Victor is making a troubled confession to the fair priestess of his heart. I need not repeat his words, but the substance of the story is this: When he was young and careless, he was much in the habit of mingling with young persons more gay and careless than himself. Often it happened that he was away from his father's house the greater part of the night; but always, however late he returned, his good sister Jane was waiting for him. Often he resolved to amend, but the time of amendment came not. At length, one dismal night, when their parents had gone to watch with the corpse of a neighbor sister that he would remain with her. There was an engagement which he must keep, he said, but he would come back early, surely and surely, he would. But wine is a mocker, and he forgot his good intentions, and the clock had struck twice since the midnight when he found himself at home. Jenny was not waiting for him that night; he had wearied out even her patience; and he, with a mind sick with remorse, and a body sick with dissipation, went to his own room, and was soon lost in an insane dream. He would go and watch with his sister now to atone for all her watching. So gathering the sheet about him, he went softly to her room, and, without speaking or making any noise, sat down on her bedside. Poor Jenny, whose nerves had endured all they could with the excitement and prolonged watching of the night, awoke, and saw what she supposed to be her brother's ghostsuch, at least, was the supposition, for from that night her reason was gone. Then, indeed, came the reformation and the life of atonement, or of all the atonement that was possible. And Mary wept as she heard the story; but smiled again as her three little brothers burst laughing into the bower, and, training the jasmin, she saw Jenny talking the while with her own good mother, who was smiling at last. WHO IS WISE? I ASKED the statesman, "Who is wise?" He replied, "The man who best understands the fundamental principles of civil and political government." The man of the sword responds, "He is wise who can vanquish an army more powerful than his own." The miser thought, that every one knew that the wise man was he who gets much and spends nothing. The man of letters informed me, that he was wise who felt himself perfectly at home in the whole circle of the arts and sciences. The physician said, "He is wise who is successful in removing the diseases of the human system." I heard these and various other replies, and being dissatisfied with all, I sought the Bible, and with augmented earnestness I repeated my inquiry, "Who is wise?" and I met this satisfactory answer, "He that winneth souls is wise!” RUSSIAN HOME-LIFE. ambition had committed him. There was no hour in which wretched recruits might not be seen Amesticated any by the Russians, and did not sands, to receive the Emperor's approval. It is IN English lady who, for ten years, was do- tramping in wearily, by hundreds and by thou quit their country till some time after the commencement of the present war, has just published-under the title of "An Englishwoman in Russia"-three hundred and fifty pages of information upon the actual state of society in that empire. The book confirms ideas familiar to many people; but, inasmuch as it does this in the most satisfactory way, wholly by illustrations drawn from personal experience or information of a trustworthy kind, its value is equal to its interest. Having read it we lay it down, and here make note of some of the impressions it has left upon us. The Czar of Russia practically stands before the greater number of his subjects as a little more than God. "The Czar is near-God is far off," is a common Russian saying. "God and the Czar knows it," is the Russian for our "Heaven knows!" A gentleman, describing one evening the Emperor's reception on the route to Moscow, said, "I assure you, it was gratifying in the extreme; for the peasants kneeled as he passed, just as if he were the Almighty himself." And who shall contradict this deity? Our countrywoman was once at the opera when the Emperor was graciously disposed to applaud Madame Castellan by the clapping of his hands. Immediately some one hissed. He repeated his applause; the hiss was repeated. His Majesty stood up-looked round the house with dignity-and, for the third time, solemnly clapped his hands. The hiss followed again. Then a tremendous scuffle overhead. The police had caught the impious offender. An example of another kind was made by a young lady whose brother was killed at Kalafat, and who, on receiving news of his death, smiled, and said, "She was rejoiced to hear it, as he had died for the Emperor." Imperial munificence rewarded her with a splendid dowry, and the assurance that her future fortune should be cared for. There is need now to encourage a show of patriotism. The Englishwoman who, on her return, found London streets as full of peace as when she quitted them, had left St. Petersburg wearing a far different aspect. Long lines of cannon and ammunition wagons drawn up here and there; parks of artillery continually dragged about; outworks being constructed; regiments marching in and out; whole armies submitting to inspection and departing on their mission, told of the deadly struggle to which the Czar's hard for us in this country to conceive the misery attending the terrible conscriptions which plague the subjects of the Russian empire. Except recruits, hardly a young man is to be seen in any of the villages; the post-roads are being all mended by women and girls. Men taken from their homes and families leave behind among the women broken ties and the foundation of a dreadful mass of vice and immorality. It is fearful enough under ordinary circumstances. "True communism," says a Russian noble, "is to be found only in Russia." One morning a poor woman went crying bitterly to the Englishwoman, saying that her two nephews had just been forced from her house to go into the army. "I tried "—we leave the relator of these things to speak in her own impressive words-"I tried to console her, saying that they would return when the war was over; but this only made her more distressed. 'No, no!' exclaimed she, in the deepest sorrow, 'they will never come back again; the Russians are beaten in every place.' Till lately the lower classes were always convinced that the Emperor's troops were invincible; but it seems, by what she said, that even they have got to know something of the truth. A foreigner in St. Petersburg informed me that he had 'gone to see the recruits that morning, but there did not seem to be much patriotism among them: there was nothing but sobs and tears to be seen among those who were pronounced fit for service, while the rejected ones were frantic with delight, and bowed and crossed themselves with the greatest gratitude.' Reviews were being held almost daily when the Englishwoman left, and she was told that, on one occasion, when reviewing troops destined for the south, the Emperor was struck with the forlorn and dejected air of the poor sheep whom he was sending to the slaughter. "Hold your heads up!" he exclaimed, angrily. "Why do you look so miserable? There is nothing to cause you to look so." There is something to cause him to be so, we are very much disposed to think. But we did not mean to tell about the war. The vast empire over which the Czar has rule is in a half-civilized—it would be almost more correct to say-in an uncivilized state. Great navigable rivers roll useless through extensive wilds. Except the excellent roads that connect St. Petersburg with Moscow and with Warsaw, |