Though few of such may gem the earth, yet such rare gems there WOMAN'S TENDERNESS. Ir has often been remarked that, in sickness, there is no hand like woman's hand, no heart like woman's heart and there is not. A man's breast may swell with unutterable sorrow, and apprehension may rend his mind; yet place him by the sick couch, and in the shadow, rather than light of the sad lamp that watches it—let him have to count over the long, dull hours of night, and wait alone and sleepless, the struggle of the grey dawn into the chamber of suffering-let him be appointed to his ministry, even for the sake of the brother of his heart, or the father of his being, and his grosser nature, even where it is most perfect, will tire; his eye will close, and his spirit grow impatient with the dreary task; and, though love and anxiety remain undiminished, his mind will own to itself a creeping in of an irresistible selfishness which, indeed, he may be ashamed of, and struggle to reject, but which, despite of all his efforts, remains to characterize his nature, and prove in one instance, at least, his manly weakness. But see a mother, a sister, or a wife in his place. The woman feels no weariness, and even no recollection of self. In silence, in the depth of night, she dwells, not only passively, but, so far as the qualified terms may express our meaning, joyously. Her ear acquires a blind man's instinct, as from time to time it catches the slightest stir or whisper, or the breath of the now more than ever loved one, who lies under the hand of human affliction. Her step, as in obedience to an impulse or signal, would not awaken a mouse; if she speaks, her accents are a soft echo of natural harmony, most delicious to the sick man's ears, conveying all that sound can convey of pity, comfort and devotion; and thus, night after night, she tends him like a creature sent from a higher world, when all earthly watchfulness has failed; her eye never winking, her mind never palled, her nature that at all other times is weakness, now gaining a superhuman strength and magnanimity; herself forgotten, and her sex alone predominant. aus THE FINER FEELINGS. No. I. BY B. H. NADAL. ALTHOUGH the mariner may not understand the combination of causes that produce the evening rainbow, and may expend his rude philosophy upon it in vain, yet as soon as it appears he identifies it with as much ease as the philosopher, and hails it as the harbinger of a pleasant breeze and a smiling sky to-morrow. So, notwithstanding the "finer feelings" may not have been subjected to a philosophical investigation by all, and though some who have examined and reflected upon them may differ as to what they are, yet all know them when they appear, and render acknowledged or secret homage to their charms. By the "finer feelings" we do not mean the feelings of fine, splendid, or pompous people-we do not mean a delicate perception in the choice of finery-an exquisite sense of personal beauty, or correct notions of bodily symmetry, graceful bowing, and fashionable grimace these are things which owe their existence to the pride and folly of our nature, and their shape and coloring to haberdashers and dancing-masters-they are to be reckoned not among the ornaments but the clogs of the mind, fastened upon it under the pretext of embellishment, but becoming the tawdry bonds of intellectual slavery. But by the "finer feelings" we mean those pure and generous emotions of our nature-those moral and intellectual gems, as valuable as rare, which glitter in the mind and glow in the heart, adorning the character, while they enrich the soul. In speaking of the "finer feelings" we use the word "fine" in its highest sense, viz., dignified, noble; and "feeling" we shall, define as an emotion or state of the mind. By the "finer feelings," then, we are to understand, the most noble and most dignified states, or emotions of which the human mind is susceptible. It will not, perhaps, be expected that all these feelings should be embraced in this article this would detain both you and myself too long. I shall, therefore, select a few, and leave you to number as many more as you can; for the more of these feelings you find, the more you ennoble our nature. 1. The first of these feelings which we shall notice, is that which results from a just perception of the virtues and talents of others, and a cheerful readiness to acknowledge them. We readily admit this feeling to be rather intangible, and difficult to refine; but even the slightest examination of it will show that it has not been improperly classified. The great Creator intended that we should derive pleasure from every beautiful object in nature, and every amiable quality of the mind. This appears to be the law of our being. Hence we esteem the blind man a great loser-the charms of creation being shut out from his vision. And if any man with his organs of vision complete, were sincerely to tell us that every beautiful object in nature, instead of giving him pleasure, pained and tortured his mind almost to frenzy, we would at once say that this was a horrible perversion of the sense of sight-that the loveliness of creation ought greatly to augment, instead of diminishing his happiness. So, if we see a man unwilling to look candidly at the excellences of another-if we see him in torture at beholding virtue or wisdom in another-if we think at all, we at once decide that he is violating the law of his nature, and the law of God, and that his punishment is self-inflicted, in the torture which his envious soul endures; for talents and virtues have not less of real beauty and excellency when found in another than when found in ourselves; and surely, wherever they may be found, they ought to yield more pleasure to an intelligent being than all the beauties of inanimate nature. But still, lovely and charming as the amiable qualities of the mind may appear to the eye of disinterested virtue, when they are viewed through the discolored media of prejudice and jealousy, their beauty is marred and the sight is painful. How ignoble, how grovelling must be that man who cannot look upon the foibles of his fellow without magnifying them into vast moral delinquencies! But how much more contemptible and unhappy is that creature who cannot see true worth in another without having all the worst passions of his heart inflamed and thrown into commotion! On the contrary, how ennobled how raised above everything sordid-how versed in the practical philosophy of mind-how true to his own best interest the man who can as easily excuse his neighbor as detect his faults-who can nobly dare to withhold flattery from wealth and power, and bestow well earned applause to true greatness, though unsupported by patronage, and unadorned by pompous titles who can discern merit wherever it exists, and appreciate it wherever it is discerned! The man who is possessed of such a feeling governs the kingdom of his mind with ease, and is "greater than he that taketh a city;" for his feeling turns ordinary fare into luxury, and the luxuries of men into something far surpassing the fabled nectar and ambrosia of the heathen gods. 2. Another of these feelings is gratitude. Gratitude differs from thankfulness in this-gratitude is feeling-thankfulness is the expression of that feeling. We may see the estimation in which this feeling is generally held, if we reflect how men regard its antagonist, ingratitude. Nothing wounds us more than harsh treatment from those who have been laid under obligation by our kindness. And why? Only because it proves them ungrateful. A son who returns his father's indulgence and affection by prodigality and disobedience, merits and receives the contempt of society. And wherefore? Mainly because ingratitude enters largely into his offence. The traitor Arnold is held in sovereign detestation by every American who is acquainted with the history of his treachery. And why? Chiefly because he was ungrateful to the land which gave him birth, and the government which gave him office and power. Our hatred of ingratitude is the measure of our admiration of gratitude. Just as much as we hate ingratitude, just so much we love gratitude. Again. The forms of society testify in favor of this feeling. If the most indifferent question is asked respecting our welfare we make large acknowledgments of gratitude, and the phrase, "I thank you," is kept as constantly in motion, in the politer circles, as any word in our vocabulary. And the reason for this is obvious. Gratitude is so noble a sentiment, so exalted an impulse, that every one would be thought to possess it. The rogue, the hypocrite, the gamester, the niggard, all lay claim to a share of this feeling, and use the forms of society in reference to it; and although as worn by them, "it is a mere pretence, in which the devil lurks, who yet betrays his secret by his works," yet their selecting it as the cloak of their dishonesty, or meanness, proof of the great value set upon it among men. How widely it differs from the pretended thanks of the inflated Pharisee! and how strikingly is it developed in the spirit and conduct of the grateful Zaccheus! It softens the heart of him who feels it, and repays and blesses him who receives it. The following remarkable incident, illustrative of the power and loveliness of this feeling, is recorded in the history of Persia. is a In one of the battles of Cyrus with the Babylonians, in which the former was victorious, among the prisoners of war there was a lady of exquisite beauty by the name of Panthea, the wife of Abradates, the king of Susiana. Such was the fame of her charms, that Cyrus was requested to see her. He positively refused, and ordered the lady to be protected until she could be given back to her husband. Panthea wrote to Abradates, her husband, and he immediately repaired to the Persian camp with two thousand horse. Cyrus restored his wife to his bosom, which treatment so overcame them both with gratitude, that they forsook their kingdom and became the faithful subjects of the Persian general. Now, my readers, is not gratitude a "feeling"-a noble feeling -a powerful feeling-a feeling that never can be adequately described, either by the "poet's" pen or the sculptor's chisel, or the painter's pencil? Abradates and Panthea felt this powerful emotion, when at its bidding they laid aside their regal authority, and bowed at the feet of Cyrus as his faithful subjects-they felt it when it rose up out of the deep fountains of the soul-when it gushed from their eyes in tears, and fell from their lips in melting confessions of boundless indebtedness. Cyrus understood it, then, for he felt that his own princely benevolence had produced it-he understood it then, for he read it in the faces and conduct of this noble pair. The historian has written an account of this affair, and we have repeated it; but the historian's page is but a shadow of the gratitude of the king and queen of Susiana, and what we have said is but the reflection of that shadow. 3. Another of these feelings is sympathy with human misery. Our estimate of this feeling will be heightened by imagining for a moment what the world would be without it. If this "bird of heavenly plumage fair" were to take its flight from the earth, there would scarcely be left a relieving object for the eye to light upon. True, the globe might not change its furniture. Its woods might still resound with the song of the bird, and the tuneless melody of the shaking leaf-the zephyrs might be as gentle, the sky as bright, the sea as pure, and the earth as fertile as everour cities might still be filled with wealth, and decked with gaiety, and our private saloons and places of public entertainment might continue to echo to the dance, and reverberate with the laugh of the fashionable and polite. But still without this sympathy, desolation would be reigning over half the globe. The earth would wear its verdure, and the heavens put on their glorious garniture in vain for the millions that would be dying unaided and unpitied. The widow, in visiting whom Christ declared pure and undefiled religion to consist, would be abandoned, a prey to unresisted disease. The asylum for the helpless orphan would be blotted from the list of institutions. The aged man of wealth, with his infirmities thickening upon him, forgetting his own feebleness, would dash the tattered hat from the hand of the broken soldier as he held it out to beg, and deride his unsightly limbs, which had been shivered in defence of his country. The fierceness of war would allow no mitigation. As war is now conducted, when the warrior strikes the deadly blow, and sees his enemy fall, he admires his valor, and laments his fate. But in a world destitute of sympathy for human misery, war would be nothing better than cold-blooded slaughter, and the battle-field a mere butchering place. But let us adore the great Exemplar of sympathy, that the world is not altogether without this feeling. See a Howard, spending his whole time and fortune |