EXPANSION OF HOME DUTIES

Generally, we are under an impression that a man's duties are public, and a woman's private. But this is not altogether so. A man has a personal work or duty, relating to his own home, and a public work or duty, which is the expansion of the other, relating to the state. So a woman has a personal work or duty, relating to her own home, and a public work or duty, which is also the expansion of that.

The man's work for his own home is to secure its maintenance, progress, and defense; the woman's to secure its order, comfort, and loveliness.

state.

Expand both these functions. The man's duty as a member of a commonwealth, is to assist in the maintenance, in the advance, in the defense of the The woman's duty, as a member of the commonwealth, is to assist in the ordering, in the comforting, and in the beautiful adornment of the state. What the man is at his own gate, defending it, if need be, against insult and spoil, that also, not in a less, but in a more devoted measure, he is to be at the gate of his country, leaving his home, if need be, even to the spoiler, to do his more incumbent work there.

And, in like manner, what the woman is to be within her gates, as the centre of order, the balm of distress, and the mirror of beauty; she is also to be without her gates, where order is more difficult, distress more imminent, loveliness more rare.-Ruskin.

THE BISHOP'S HOME

To afford an idea of the household of the Bishop of D———, and the manner in which two good women, subordinated their actions, thoughts, even their womanly instincts, so liable to disturbance, to the habits and projects of the bishop, so that he had not even to speak, in order to express them, we cannot do better than to copy here a letter from Mademoiselle Baptistine to Madame la Vicomtesse de Boischevron, the friend of her childhood:

your own.

"MY DEAR MADAME: Not a day passes that we do not speak of you; that is customary enough with us; but we have now another reason. Would you believe that in washing and dusting the ceilings and walls, Madame Magloire has made some discoveries? At present, our two chambers, which were hung with old paper, whitewashed, would not disparage a chateau in the style of Madame Magloire has torn off all the paper: it had something underneath. My parlor, where there is no furniture, and which we use to dry clothes in, is fifteen feet high, eighteen feet square, and has a ceiling, once painted and gilded, with beams like those of your house. This was covered with canvas during the time it was used as a hospital; and then we have wainscoting of the time of our grandmothers. But it is my own room which you ought to see. Madame Magloire has discovered beneath at least ten thicknesses of paper some pictures, which, though not good are quite endurable.

Madame Magloire has cleaned it all, and this summer she is going to repair some little damages, and varnish it, and my room will be a veritable museum. She also found in a corner of the storehouse two pier tables of antique style; they asked two crowns to regild them, but it is far better to give that to the poor. I am always happy; my brother is so good, he gives all he has to the poor and sick. We are full of cares: the weather is very severe in the winter, and one must do something for those who lack. We at least are warmed and lighted, and you know those are great comforts. My brother has his peculiarities; when he talks he says that a bishop ought to be thus. Just think of it that the door is never closed. Come in who will, he is at once my brother's guest, he fears nothing, not even in the night; he says that is his form of bravery. He wishes me not to fear for him, nor that Madame Magloire should; he exposes himself to every danger, and prefers that we should not even seem to be aware of it; one must know how to understand him.

"He goes out in the rain, walks through water, travels in winter; he has no fear of darkness, or dangerous roads, or of those he may meet. Last year he went all alone into a district infested with robbers. He would not take us. He was gone a fortnight, and when he came back, though we had thought him dead, nothing had happened to him, and he was quite well. He said: 'See, how they have robbed me!' And he opened a trunk in which he had the jewels of the Embrun Cathedral which the robbers had given him. Upon that occasion on the return, I could not keep from scolding him, a little, taking care only to speak while the carriage made a noise, so that no one could hear us.

"At first I used to say to myself, he stops for no danger, he is incorrigible. But now I have become used to it. I make signs to Madame Magloire that she shall not oppose him, and he runs what risks he chooses. I call away Madame Magloire; I go to my room, pray for him, and fall asleep. I am calm, for I know very well that if any harm happened to him, it would be my death: I should go away to the good Father with my brother and my bishop. After all, what is there to fear in this house? There is always One with us who is the strongest: Satan may visit our house, but the good God inhabits it." Victor Hugo.

THE LITTLE SOLDIER

"Mamma, may I be a soldier boy?"
"Yes, my little man;

Shoulder your musket and off to the wars,
Fast as ever you can."

The musket was only a housemaid's broom
But he gallantly marched around,
With a bright tin-pan in place of a drum,
And my room for his battle-ground.

"Mamma, there's nothing for me to kill,"
My baby wearily said;

And casting the broomstick far away,
In my lap laid his curly head.

And then with fear my heart stood still.
"Dear Christ, be it always so!

Nothing to kill through his whole sweet life.
May my baby ever know."

But then-"Would I have him a coward?"—No!

I lifted his golden head;

"Oh, my baby dear, there are things to kill-
Hatred and wrong," I said.

"For it is not men we will kill, dear heart,
When all fight these foes so dread;

There will never again be cause for strife,

For sin will, indeed, be dead."-Myrta Lockett Avary.

FOR CONSCIENCE SAKE

It was Saturday night in Philadelphia many years ago; Girard, the millionaire, was ordering his employees to return next day to unload a ship. One young fellow said, "I cannot, Mr. Girard." "Why?" "I cannot work on Sundays." "You know our rules." "Yes, sir, and I have a mother to support; but it is against my conscience to obey your order." "Step up to the desk and the cashier will settle with you. My men must obey the rules." But a few days after Mr. Girard recommended this young man to a friend for the position of cashier in a bank. "But you dismissed him,” said the banker. "Because he would not work on Sundays, and yet a man who will lose his place for conscience sake would make a trustworthy cashier."

AT WASHINGTON'S TABLE

New Year calls had their origin in Continental Europe. The custom was brought to New York by the Dutch and Huguenots as one of their peculiar institutions. On Friday, the first of January, 1790, the Government of the

MARTHA WASHINGTON

young United States being then located in the city of New York, the first President, George Washington, was waited upon by the principal gentlemen of the metropolis. Mrs. Washington held her levee as on other Friday evenings, but this special reception was one of unusual elegance. The weather was almost as gentle as May, and the full moon shone brightly into the chambers of the President's stately mansion. It was not the general custom for visitors to the President to sit, but on this particular evening, as I learn from a diary of the period, there were chairs in the rooms where Mrs. Washington met her friends, and, after they were seated, tea and coffee and plum and plain cake were served. Mrs. Washington afterward remarked that none of the proceedings of the day so pleased "the General" as the

friendly greeting of the gentlemen who called upon him.

Washington asked if New Year's visiting had always been kept up in New York, and when he was answered in the affirmative, he paused a moment and said, "The highly favored situation of New York will in the progress of years attract numerous emigrants, who will gradually change its customs and manners; but, whatever changes take place, never forget the cordial and cheerful observance of New Year's day." Mrs. Washington stood by his side as the visitors arrived and were presented, and when the clock in the hall struck nine she advanced and said, with a pleasant smile, "The General always retires at nine, and I usually precede him," upon which the company made their parting salutations and said good-night.

An English gentleman, a manufacturer, Mr. Henry Wansey, breakfasted with Washington and his family on the 8th of June, 1794. He was greatly impressed. The first President was then in his sixty-third year, but had little appearance of age, having been in his life exceedingly temperate. Mrs. Washington herself made tea and coffee for them; on the table were small plates of sliced tongue and dry toast, bread and butter, but no broiled fish, as was generally the custom. Miss Eleanor Custis, Mrs. Washington's granddaughter, a very pleasant young lady, in her sixteenth year, sat next to her, and next, her grandson, George Washington Parke Custis, about two years older. There were but few slight indications of form; only one servant attended.

Mrs Washington seemed somewhat older than the President, although they were both born the same year. She was short in stature, rather robust, extremely simple in her dress, and wore a very plain cap, with her hair turned over it. This description corresponds exactly with the portrait painted by Trumbull, now in the Trumbull gallery, at New Haven, Connecticut.

In 1793 Washington left Philadelphia for nearly three months, during the prevalence of yellow fever, and stayed at Mount Vernon. The disease broke out in August, but he continued at his post until the 10th of September. He wished to stay longer, but Mrs. Washington was unwilling to leave him exposed, and he could not, without hazarding her life and the lives of the children, remain. -Anonymous.

THE QUIET HOUR

If we will yield ourselves to the still hour's influence, we shall be helped to find ourselves. We lose our real selves, and it takes time, and thought, and prayer to get home again-home to God and home to our own better nature, to which we are in danger of becoming strangers in the rush of our crowded lives. We want, like little children, to get back into the closest and most loving relation to our Father.

We should take the quiet hours alone day after day till we have a clear vision of what we are and what we ought to be. What are the things, in the daily character and life, that ought to be got out of the way if we would make straight paths for the Master's feet? It's the same plain, old-fashioned road, but by no other are we coming either to happiness or success. No structure that we may

build will stand without foundation, and the only foundation is Christ. For this year, for any year, there must be, first, the absolute surrender to truth, the absolute devotion to being, whether the doing fail or succeed; the steady readjustment of the life till everything ignoble or unworthy in word or deed is removed, and the entire willingness that God, if he but make us good, give us success in measure that seems best to him.

Who among the circle of friends who will gather for the quiet hour in the firelight are ready to pledge themselves to this new life for the year already begun?-Mary Lowe Dickinson.