"I WILL GO."

BY MARY GRACE' HALPINE.
[See Engraving.]

"And they called Rebekah, and said unto her, Wilt thou go with this man? And she said, I will go.

AMONG all the interesting scenes and incidents of Scripture, there is none more touching and lovely than that which portrays the perfect love and confidence with which Rebekah left father, mother, brother and sister, the scenes of her childhood and the associations of her youth, for a land of strangers. And it was no blind, unthinking confidence, but a firm, unwavering trust in the wisdom and goodness of the God of her fathers, in whose love and fear she had been trained from her early childhood.

How sweetly and truthfully is "the meeting at the well " portrayed, by the magic pencil of the artist, where Rebekah had gone forth to draw water with her maidens.

How proudly toward the fair and sunny skies,
Like monarchs tall, the stately palm-trees rise !

How cool and refreshing the vine-wreathed fountain, where,

Obedient to their master's least command,
The patient, thirsty camels meekly stand!

The queen of beauty, 'mid that lovely scene,
Bethuel's daughter stands, with brow serene.
Note the mild glance, the calm and saintly grace,
The quiet meekness of her placid face;
The shrinking form, its gentle, nameless charm;
The rounded beauty of the extended arm.

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When her fond brother, in his manly pride,
And gentle mother, drawing near her, cried,
'Daughter! wilt thou the voice of God obey,
To other scenes and pleasures wend thy way,
Leave thy fair home, with all its varied charms,
Thy noble father's kind, protecting arms,
Thy brother's glance, thy gentle sister's smile,
Which could in darkest hours thy grief beguile?
O! wilt thou, canst thou, leave her fond caress,
Whose tones were ever raised to guide and bless, –
The hand that wiped away thy infant tears,
The heart that shared in all thy childish fears,

The sunny plain, the cocoa's leafy shade,

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The pleasant paths where thy young feet have strayed, -
With stranger forms in stranger lands to roam?
Say! wilt thou leave them for that far-off home?
This answer came, in accents firm and low,
"The Lord our God hath spoken. I will go."

Holy and pure, 'mid the frail things of dust,

Is gentle woman's firm, unchanging trust.

For him, the chosen, she will leave her home,
Share the rude cottage or the stately dome;
Will meekly follow where he leads the way,
To whatsoever clime his footsteps stray.
Whether around his head the tempest lowers,
Or fortune decks his path with fragrant flowers,
Until in death her loving eye grows dim,
Whate'er betide she still will cling to him.
Wipe from his clay-cold brow the dews of death,
Soothe the last pang, receive the latest breath.

Yet, Christian wife, if he to whom is given
All love, save that due to your Lord in heaven,
With whom the thorny path of life is trod,
Denies his Saviour and defies his God, -
If Sinai's threatenings fail his heart to move,
If the strange story of redeeming love
Wakes in his breast no sweet responsive tone,
If to your Father's throne you kneel alone,-

Of love, of sympathy, 't were vain to talk,
In different paths, toward different homes, you walk :
You, toward that radiant land where angels dwell;
He, the dark, gloomy path that leads to hell.

If he, the father of the child who lays
Upon your breast, or round you sportive plays,
Is all unworthy of the charge that 's given,
That pure and stainless bud, the gift of Heaven, -
Unfitted to direct its steps aright,

To guard from danger, or to shield from blight ;
Say is it not a bitter thing to bear

To the weak heart a hindrance and a snare?

Then, Christian maiden, bend the suppliant knee,
And breathe a fervent prayer to God that He
May keep thee from that dark and fearful snare,
A prayerless, godless husband! O, beware!
The heart that in thy gentle breast doth swell,
It is a priceless gift. O, guard it well!

Yet, should it be thy happy lot to find
One in whose mild, yet firm and steady mind,
Thou canst with safety every thought confide,
Whose hand thy feeble, faltering steps can guide,
Whose truth and honor will for aye endure,
Whose heart is noble, as his soul is pure,
On whose strong arm thou mayst all proudly lean,
With soul untroubled and with brow serene ;
Whose heart the love of God hath early won,

A loving brother and a filial son;

If such should woo thee, thou may'st murmur low, Like Bethuel's lovely daughter, "I will go!"

THE THREE MOTHERS.

EDITORIAL.

CHAPTER I.

THINGS were getting to be too bad in the family of my cousin, Mrs. Dilmer. I felt that I could remain with her no longer. Nothing could be pleasanter than it was when I first came to reside with her. She was such a fine-spirited, warm-hearted creature, and such a nice little housekeeper, and her husband was so kind and good-natured, and their snug parlor so sunny and warm in winter and so shady and cool in summer, and my chamber with its white draperies was so fresh and neat, and we had such agreeable neighbors and such pleasant tea-drinkings, such sleigh-rides in winter and such picnics in summer; it was the very perfection of village life. We put no more scandal into our gossip than just to redeem it from insipidity, and make it piquant and agreeable, and at the least breath of sorrow or misfortune, we were all alive with sympathy and kindness.

But the lapse of six years had brought three children to Mrs. Dilmer's family, and this had changed matters wonderfully. Willie, the eldest, was a darling, bright, little creature, and, when a baby, I had learned to love him dearly. Many a romp have I had with him, and many and many a time have I coaxed and nursed him to sleep in my arms. But, as he grew older, and especially during this particular winter, he had become so noisy, rough and unmanageable, as really to torment me. Katie, a year and a half younger, was following in the steps of her brother; and even little Sally, the youngest, was beginning to set up her will, and enforce her rights over every member of the family.

I know very well what people say about old maids' children; but why should not an old maid know how to bring up children properly, when she has nothing to do but observe other people's mismanagement? If I have a talent for anything in the world, it is for the bringing up of children. I have my own theory, and it is my hobby. I could have made Willie, Katie and Sally, the best children in the world, for they were naturally sweet and full of charming

traits. I should not have indulged them as their mother did. But no one likes to interfere with other people's children; so I determined, rather than have a constant heart-burning and vexation, to make a certain, long-promised visit to my relations in New York, thinking that if I could find among them some little, snug, unoccupied corner, I would settle down where I should not meet with so much to annoy me. I felt pretty sure of finding a welcome; for, having a handsome little independence of my own, and making a very respectable appearance, none of my friends could be ashamed of me; and, possessing great cheerfulness and vivacity of temper, and knowing how to make myself useful in many little ways, I was rather a desirable inmate than otherwise.

I did not know, until the time actually came for parting, how much I was attached to the family where I had lived so long, and, on the whole, so pleasantly. I was to leave early in the morning, and late in the evening Maria came to my room. I had not thought it necessary to tell her that I probably should not return. I would write it from New York. A kind of coldness and distrust had grown up between us of late, entirely on account of the children. She saw that I did not approve her management; and I did not like to speak out, for fear of making a difficulty. This was painful to us both, for our mothers had charged us to love and confide in each other, and I had once loved Maria like a sister.

Parting softens the feelings and opens the heart. We both found it so. Looks and words of old-remembered kindness gradually broke up the ice-crust which had of late been forming between us, and we again saw into each other's hearts and minds. I found Maria's heart warm and true. I saw the young mother loving and earnest, and striving to learn how to fulfil her arduous duty. I began to suspect that a bilious and nervous attack, under which I had labored for the last two or three months, had somewhat discolored the medium through which I saw things; and that, after all, these children might not be worse than others. As the ice was broken, however, I spoke my mind very freely to Maria, advised her to read the Proverbs of Solomon attentively, and promised to write, for her benefit, the observations which I made in the families of our friends.

I must confess that my heart beat a little on taking leave of Dr. G., our nearest neighbor, and one of the most excellent and agreeable of men; but if I shed a few tears I did not let him see them.

His wife had been my dearest friend, and since her death her little orphan daughter had been my special pet and favorite. During the last summer, I had seen the doctor go into his garden almost every morning to cut flowers, and about half an hour afterward, Fanny would be sure to come running over with a pretty bouquet for me. He always passed his evenings with us; but that was natural, living so near, and having nobody at home. As I took a last look at the house and garden,— the prettiest in the village,-I felt a little choking in the throat; but it passed off. I am not at all a sorrowful sort of person; and I have my share of pride.

I pass over the details of my journey. As I neared the city, my mind was full of queries and anticipations concerning those I was going to visit. It was twelve years since I had been in New York, or seen my relations there, and people alter so in twelve years! I have a mobile, enthusiastic temper. Perhaps nobody is more affected by the people and the circumstances around them than I am. But steam-travelling does not allow much time for the imagination to work. In the morning I was far, far away in a secluded country town; at three o'clock I was ushered into the house, or rather palace, of my rich cousin, Mrs. Dater, in Fourteenth-street, New York.

I had expected to find my cousin well situated, for rumors of her magnificence had reached us in the country; but I had witnessed nothing of the sudden growth of luxury in New York, and was not prepared for the splendor of her establishment. So many beautiful and elegant things I had never seen collected in one house before; such appliances for luxurious enjoyment to every one of the senses! I must confess I was very much struck by it. I will not describe the furniture, the tables, the dresses, the equipage; it is sufficient to say that everything was superb and costly. I could not help thinking Julia Dater a fortunate woman; and, as she had received me graciously, even kindly, I felt almost secure of a permanent position in the midst of all this luxury and magnificence. My habits and mode of life had been extremely simple, and for several days I felt oddly, as, in my brown merino dress, and plain little black velvet bonnet, I ran up those massive stone steps, with heavy carved balustrades, and was let in by a great moustached porter to a broad hall lined with statues and hung with pictures; as I ascended the superb staircase, sinking into the thick, richly-tinted carpet at every