"You must remember, however, Louisa," returned her father, "that what I have spoken of, is that most delightful species of beauty which is expressive of high moral qualities; and this depends not on regularity of feature, or perfection of form, but on that which is infinitely superior to both, good and amiable dispositions. Where the mind is pure, the thoughts elevated, and the sentiments liberal and kind, a pleasing expression will be found to pervade the most rugged set of features that were ever bestowed upon a human being. Besides, this species of beauty is highly improvable, for as the mind becomes cultivated—as it takes a wider range among the works of nature, and a deeper interest in the happiness of its fellow-beings, and the cultivation of its own powers, the expression of the face will become more refined and elevated. The chief beauty which struck me in the English gleaner, was that of expression, the expression of a kind and amiable heart, and the light of moral goodness illumined her countenance: and it is that species of beauty alone, my dear children, for which I am anxious to see you conspicuous."
"But, papa!" exclaimed both the sisters at once, as their father now rose from his seat, "you must not leave us so soon, we have not heard half enough about England yet."
"I have spent as much time with you as I can spare at present, but will take an early opportunity of indulging myself in retracing some more English scenes, many of which were as new, though few more interesting than the Gleaner."
THE STORM.
BY MRS. HUGHS.
"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air."
"Will you come to our house, and help Jenny, for my mother is very ill?" said a little girl, in the feeble accents of childhood, whilst she knocked at the door of a cottage. The voice was weak, but it uttered tones, which, though they may sometimes be heard with indifference by the inmates of a palace, never fail to find a ready way to the heart of the humble cottager. "What sound is that I hear?" said the mistress of the lowly dwelling, as the voice of the child roused her from a sound sleep; "was I dreaming? or did I really hear a voice?"
"Will you come to my mother, for Jenny thinks she is dying?" continued the little girl, as she again applied her hand to the door. Convinced now that it was no dream, the benevolent cottager started from her bed, and opening the door, exclaimed in a tone of surprise, "Why, Sally, is that you?—Here, all by yourself, in the very dead of night!"