NEDL TRANSFER
HN 5DTS T
HOWITT'S
STORY BOOK.


Jun 185026
.
دي | KC
Ibarvard College Library
FROM


Mary H. Deane
with the best inishes
ther affectinate imele
1. Roberto
Hurbilang
Febey 24./153












STORY-BOOK.









MARY HOWITT



STORY BOOK






weaks Howitys
STORY-BOOK.
LASS
505
MASA vs SI
Published by C S. Francis & Co., New York





MARY M
HOWITT'S
S T O R Y BO O K:
WITE ILLUSTRATIONS.

NEW YORK:
0. S. FRANCIS & CO., 252 BROADWAY.
BOSTON:
J. !. FRANCIS, 128 WASHINGTON STREET.
1850.


Jou 1850. 26
CARVARD COLLECTION
QALI, 732
LIBRARY
Eron tominum
mary H. Dlane


CONTENTS.
Part ¥.
.
.
.
.
Page
.
-
11
.
.
·
·
·
43
64
65
.
A CHRISMAS CAROL
THE STORY OF LITTLE CRISTAL •
MABEL ON MIDSUMMER-DAY
THE CHRISTMAS TREE . .
A DREAM
· ·
THE PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN .
THE BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE
THE BIRDS AND THE GUINEA-PIGS
CORN-FIELDS - - - -
THE PIGEON-HOUSE - - -
THE SPIRIT'S QUESTIONINGS ·
THIS WORLD AND THE NEXT
SD THE NEXT .
.
-
102
-
-
-
-
-
118
138
141
157
159
·
·
.
.
.
7
10
.
Part ¥¥.
LITTLE CHILDREN . . .
THE YOUNG TURTLE DOVE OF CARMEL .
THE JOY OF ENGELE
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE . . . .
THE PAINTER'S LITTLE MODEL . .
MAN IN A WILDERNESS
. .
THE BLIND BOY AND HIS SISTER - .
.
.
.
36
126
148
157
:
-
-


CONTENTS.
Part XXX
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER · · · · ·
OLD CHRISTMAS - - - - - -
TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL · · · · ·
THE CHILDREN . . . . . .
BEGINNING AND END OF MRS. MUGGERIDGE'S
WEDDING DINNER - - - - -
COMING SPRING . . . . . .
THE TAX-GATHERER'S VISIT . . . .
7
43
47
118
121
141
143


Part *
THE CHRISTMAS TREE;
AND OTHER STORIES.





A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

WAKE, arise, good Christians,
Let nothing you dismay ;
Remember Christ our Saviour
Was born upon this day!
The self-same moon was shining
That now is in the sky,
When a holy band of angels
Came down from God on high.


A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
Came down on clouds of glory,
Arrayed in shining light,
Unto the shepherd-people,
Who watched their flocks by night.
And through the midnight silence
The heavenly host began,
“ Glory to God the highest ;
On earth good-will to man!
"Fear not, we bring good tidings,
For, on this happy morn,
The promised one, the Saviour,
In Bethlehem town is born!
Up rose the joyful shepherds
From the ground whereon they lay,
To hail this blessed day!
Up rose the simple shepherds,
All with a joyful mind;
“And let us go, with speed,” said they,
“This holy child to find !”
Not in a kingly palace
The Son of God they found,
But in a lowly manger
Where oxen fed around.


A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
11
The glorious king of heaven;
The Lord of all the earth,
In mercy condescended
To be of humble birth.
There worshipped him the wise men,
As prophets had foretold;
And laid their gifts before him,
Frankincense, myrrh, and gold.
Long looked the simple shepherds,
With holy wonder stirred,
Then praised God for all the things
Which they had seen and heard.
And homeward went rejoicing,
Upon that Christmas morn,
Declaring unto every one
That Jesus Christ was born.
That he was born,—the Saviour,
The promised one of old;
That they had seen the Son of God,
To every one they told.
And like unto the shepherds,
We wander far and near,
And bid ye wake, good Christians,
The joyful news to hear.


THE STORY OF LITTLE CRISTAL.
ITTLE CRISTAL'S
mother was Barbara ;
she died soon after he
was born, and left hiin
to the care of Nancy.
Barbara and Nancy
De were both poor; they
A do lived in a dark, gloomy
court, which turned
out of an alley in the very heart of London ;
a broken wooden staircase led up to their
room, for they lived together ; they had one
bed, a very poor one, and but little to cover
them.
Little Cristal lay in his mother's bosom,
and helped to keep her warm, and when she
was dead he lay in Nancy's arms, and com-
municated the warmth of his little body to

12


STORY OF LITTLE CRISTAL.
13
her. Nancy was not a young woman as
Barbara had been; neither was she hand-
some nor good tempered, but I need not
describe her; what she was you will find
out. She was, as I told you, very poor, and
as she had promised Barbara to be a mother
to her child, she had to work for his support
as well as her own. All day long she sate
crouched on a stone step in one of the most
public streets of London and sold dolls dress-
ed in crotchet work, which she was doing
all the time; she was the first person who
invented little crotchet parasols, and while
the thing was new, she had a great run for
them; those were golden days to her, but
before a month was over she had so many
rivals and imitators that her sale sank down
again to a doll a day. Not far from her
stood, in another recess of the street, a man
who sold dog-collars; he was a neighbor of
hers, and his name was Ephraim. Little
Cristal, who was now six years old, was
very fond of Ephraim; he had another trade
besides selling dog-collars, and that was
catching birds, which he sold to a man in
Seven Dials. He went out early on Sunday


14.
STORY OF LITTLE CRISTAL,
mornings, while it was yet grey dawn; and
walked many miles into the country with
his snares and his decoys to some pleasant
woodland fields or breezy downs, where he
caught the birds. Now and then he would
take Cristal with him, and nothing delight-
ed the child more than this; the grey dawn,
the golden sunrise, the masses of opal-colored
cloud that opened a pathway as it were for
the ascending sun, filled him with incon-
ceivable joy. Ephraim never noticed these
things himself, and yet when the little lad
called his attention to them, he often replied
with the scrap of a hymn or some odd text
of scripture which had stuck, as it were, in
a corner of his memory from the time when
he had been a child like Cristal, and had
been taught out of the Bible or the hymn-
book by his mother. But those days were
long and long gone by. Ephraim read
neither in Bible nor hymn-book now; and yet
he was not a bad man either; in some great
pressure of poverty in former days he had
pawned both Bible and hymn-book; he meant
at that time to get them soon back again;
but he never could manage it; so he had


STORY OF LITTLE CRISTAL
15
now been six and thirty years without either
one or the other, and as to going to church
or chapel, that was a thing he never thought
of, because he never had decent clothes to
his back.
Nancy was in these respects very like
Ephraim, only that when she was a child
she had had no good mother to teach her
either out of Bible or hymn-book. She
could not read herself, and therefore she
never thought of little Cristal's learning; yet
neither was Nancy wilfully wicked ; she was
very ignorant, and that was her misfortune.
As far as she knew it she did what was
right, and hence it was that she had saved
the unhappy Barbara from a great, a very
great misfortune; had become, as it were, a ,
mother to her, and a true friend when she
had none beside, for poor Barbara had thirst-
ed and Nancy had given her to drink; she
had been hungry and Nancy had fed her;
she had been a stranger and Nancy had
taken her in; she had been sick and in
prison and Nancy had visited her; therefore
we will not blame her, though she neither


16
STORY OF LITTLE CRISTAL.
taught Cristal to read, nor yet took him to
church nor chapel.
These Sunday rambles with Ephraim
were the greatest pleasure that little Cristal
knew. While the old man lay down and
slept in the green fields amid the golden
sunshine, Cristal lay down too, for he was
not allowed to run about, lest he should dis-
turb the birds, but he never slept. Some-
times he lay with his face to the grass, feast-
ing his eyes and gladdening his little impris-
oned soul, that was struggling as it were
within him for light and love and freedom,
with the beauty of a yellow cowslip, or
crimson-tipped daisy; nay, even a blade of
grass with its brown fibry roots taking hold
of mother earth, as if it loved her bosom, filled
him with inexpressible gladness, and yet he
knew not why. At other times he lay on
his back and gazed up into the blue and
sunny infinity above him, finding beauty
and sublimity in illimitable space; in the
masses of summer cloud, whether they lay
piled up like mountains of heaven, or were
swept along on the viewless wings of the
wind. All this poor little Cristal felt, but


STORY OF LITTLE CRISTAL.
17
he understood nothing about it, excepting
such little meanings as he gleaned up out of
Ephraim's hymns and scraps of scripture.
It was in this way that he learned about
God the Father ; of Jesus Christ, I am sorry
to say, he knew nothing, and that was a
great pity, for he had a heart to have loved
the Saviour—the poor child in the house of
the carpenter. But nobody told him of these
things, so he went on groping his way as
best he could along the dark paths of igno-
rance, and never foregoing any little glimpse
of truth or knowledge which came in upon
his soul by the way. One thing, however,
I must tell you; after Cristal came to have
a little knowledge of God the Father, he
never could bear to hear wicked people curse
and swear, and though he knew nothing
about the ten commandments, he felt as if
he himself could not take the name of God
in vain. Of angels, too, he had a dim but
very pleasing idea from the same source; he
often fancied that he saw angels in the
sun-lighted clouds. The beautiful tropical
flowers also that he saw, now and then.
exhibited in gardeners' windows in London


18
STORY OF LITTLE CRISTAL.
suggested to him, he did not know how or
why, the idea of angels.
"Move on, you young rascal!” said the
police to him many a time when he stood
at the shop windows, wondering at and
admiring the beautiful things which were
there exhibited. Exquisitely chased vessels
of silver; alabaster figures; fine engravings
and paintings appealed, as it were, to some
opirit within him, which could only thus
make itself heard and felt.
It was a very populous court in which
Cristal lived; besides Ephraim, he had
another acquaintance, and this was a poor
widow who went out washing. The widow
lodged with a deformed young woman, who
was a seamstress, and both were very poor.
The widow had two valuables, a great old
bible and a lark in a wicker cage, which
was always hung out of her window by
three o'clock on summer mornings, when she
went out a-washing.
The lark sang in his cage glorious hymns
to that freedom of which he was deprived;
but as nobody understood the language of
the bird, none knew how heart-touching and


STORY OF LITTLE CRISTAL. 19
pathetic they really were. Cristal, who had
always found it so delightful to go out with
Ephraim to catch birds, had no idea of there
being tyranny and cruelty in the thing. To
his fancy, the litle decoy birds, that are
trained by the cunning and wicked craft of
man to beguile and betray their innocent
and unsuspecting brethren of the fields, were
the cleverest and most wonderful little crea-
tures in the world. Ephraim made money
by the birds he caught; it was an honest
way of livelihood everybody thought, and
that was enough.
The imprisoned lark that sang its eloquent
anthems to the little bit of blue sky above
that dirty and melancholy court, was the
most beautiful and delightful thing which
little Cristal found near his own home. If
ever he got money enough, he resolved within
himself, he would keep a lark. When the
widow was at home, she allowed Cristal
now and then to have a close view of the
bird, because he never failed to bring home
with him from his Sunday rambles a fresh
sod for the prisoner. Little did the poor lark
know the care that the child had taken to


20
STORY OF LITTLE CRISTAL.
choose, as he thought, the most beautiful sod
in the fields, and in which there was always
a daisy, an orchis, or a cowslip root in flower.
The lovely speckled breast, the graceful
form, the bright black eye, were character-
istics of the most surpassing beauty to the
soul of Cristal. “If ever I can get money
enough I will keep a lark,” said he to him-
self time after time; and whenever he walked
through the streets, he never failed to stop
at any shop where bird-cages were sold, to
look out and see if there were one in sight
which would do for his lark—when he got it.
One holiday in the autumn-it was not
Sunday-Ephraim and Cristal went out
together to collect plaintain seed for canaries.
They went into the neighborhood of Wim-
bledon, which was a very favorite resort of
Ephraim's. As they were walking slowly
along the road, all at once there caine sweep-
ing along, like a whirlwind, a small troop
of Life Guards in scarlet and gold, on splen-
did horses covered with glittering trappings.
After these came several open carriages, in
which sate, as it seemed to Cristal, the most
beautiful ladies and the most magnificent


STORY OF LITTLE CRISTAL.
21
gentlemen in the world. But that which
struck him most was a little boy in hat and
feathers and green velvet dress, who sate at
the side of the principal lady. They passed
on like a flash of lightning; another troop
of guards came after them, and all were
gone, leaving nothing behind but a cloud of
dust, which almost smothered the poor way-
farers.
“It is her Majesty the Queen," said
Ephraim, “I have often seen her when I
have been hereabouts. She loves fast dri-
ving, and that little chap beside her is the
Prince of Wales."
It was the first time that Cristal had seen
the Queen and the Prince. A strange, mel-
ancholy feeling came over his soul, like a
cloud obscuring the sunshine. He had often
before seen grand carriages and grand people
in the streets of London, but he had taken
no notice of them; they were nothing to him,
and neither troubled him nor gave him
pleasure. It was a new feeling that he had
now at the sight of the Prince; he did not
envy him, nor feel angry; he only felt as he
had often done at the sight of beautiful


22
STORY OF LITTLE CRISTAL.
works of art; a yearning, as it were, for
something more beautiful and more perfect
than his own life afforded to him. Tears
filled his eyes, and he asked Ephraim if he
fancied that angels were like the Queen and
the little Prince of Wales. Ephraim said
may be they were; may be they were not;
he could not tell.
All that day Cristal thought of what he
had seen. Ephraim was more cheerful than
ever, because he sold eighteen pennyworth
of plantain seed on his way home; he treat-
ed himself to a pot of ale at a way-side
public-house, and made Cristal drink with
him. Ephraim calculated that they brought
half-a-crown's worth home in their bags;
he might well be in high spirits.
Much as Cristal loved Nancy, he could
not have told her how he felt at sight of the
Prince, because he did not understand his
own feelings, and even had he been inclined
to open his heart to her, he would not have
done it, when he saw in what a bad temper
she was when they reached home.
I have not told you yet that Nancy was
often angry; she was very poor, and found


STORY OF LITTLE CRISTAL.
23
great difficulty in getting money enough to
buy bread and potatoes with, and to pay for
her miserable room. On this particular day
she was in a worse temper than common.
She scolded Ephraim for taking out the lad,
" lounging about,” and she scolded Cristal
for going with him. She said that he was
now old enough to do something for his own
living, and that she would make him do it.
The next morning, Cristal went out with
three crotchet-dressed dolls in each hand,
which he offered at two pence a piece. His
life now grew harder than ever; Nancy
thinking to make him industrious, and to
teach him to mind his business, said, that
ụnless he earned sixpence a day, he should
have no supper; and you must remember
that supper was everything to Cristal, because
he never had any dinner. Nancy did not
really mean to be as cruel as she was; she
thought she was doing right, and her heart
often ached when she sent the boy supperless
to bed.
Winter came on; people did not want dolls
with parasols, or even umbrellas, so nobody
bought any. An old woman who sold wash.


24
STORY OF LITTLE CRISTAL.
leathers often took compassion on him, and
gave him of her poor victuals; and another
who sold little slates in a very windy passage,
told him that he should have seven little
slates from her for fivepence, which he could
easily sell for a penny a piece, and he might
pay her when he got his money. She taught
him how to hold them between his little
fingers, like a sort of fan, and sent him to
what she thought a good situation, near a
great thoroughfare in the city.
Poor Nancy, who was so sorely pinched
by poverty, was well pleased that these good
women befriended the lad, and though his
supper was scant enough at all times, I
must do her the justice to say, that she fared
no better herself.
Cristal stuck the little slates as he had
been taught, between his thin, small fingers,
but his hand soon grew tired, and he could
not hold them firmly. About noon, when the
throng of people was the thickest, a gentle-
man who had suddenly found himself the heir
of a large property, leaped out of a cab, and
ran across the pavement, to the lofty door of
a great banking house, where his money


STORY OF LITTLE CRISTAL.
25
was deposited. He was in great haste, and
thinking of nothing but his good luck, jostled
against Cristal, knocked the slates out of his
weary hand, and set his heel upon them,
crushing them all to pieces. Cristal's dismay
and distress were inconceivable; the gentle-
man, who meant no harm, and whose good
fortune made him in good humor with all
the world, took a coin out of his pocket, the
first that came to hand, and threw it to the
boy; it fell to the pavement; Cristal saw it
fall, and took it for a shilling, but in reality
it was a sovereign. Before he could pick it.
up, the quick hand of a wicked young man,
snatched it from the ground, and darted
away through the crowd; some of the people
saw him do it, and were inclined to take
Cristal's part; but just then somebody said
that it was a trick of the lad's, who had.
thrown down his slates to get money from
the gentleman, and therefore he deserved no
pity. It was in vain that poor little Cristal
cried and protested his innocence; those who
had seen the money snatched away from
him, were gone on their way, and those who
remained, looked on Cristal as an artful boy,


26
STORY OF LITTLE CRISTAL.
who only wanted to excite their pity, and
get money from them.
The police told him to move off; and full
of misery and indignation, he walked slowly
along the pavement. He did not know,
however, how great his loss had been; he
believed that he had only lost one shilling,
when in truth he had lost twenty.
The woman who had trusted him with
the slates, would not believe him. She said
that she saw now that she had been deceived
in him, that he had sold the slates, and that
this was all a tale made up, that he might
keep all the money, and that as she could
not afford to lose her property in that way,
she would find out where he lived, and see
his mother: for have the worth of the slates
she would, that was certain !
Cristal did not tell her that he had no
mother, and that Nancy, when she heard of
this, would beat him. He turned away from
her, weeping bitterly, and dared not go home.
It was the first week in January, and bitterly
cold. He felt the piercing cold to his very
bone, for he had only in addition to the poor
clothes which he wore in the summer, an


STORY OF LITTLE CRISTAL
old green and red comforter round his neck,
and the cape of Nancy's cloak which she
had lent to him, and which did not reach to
his knees.
For the first time in his life he felt utterly
miserable; fear, anger, and a sense of wrong
and unjust accusation weighed upon his
spirit, and almost crushed him to the ground.
Towards midnight he crept into the court
where Nancy lived, and in this court there
were some houses which had never been
finished, and which had stood for years, black
and melancholy objects of premature ruin.
Within this place he found shelter for the
night. Nancy, although she had insisted on
his bringing home his sixpence every eve-
ning, was uneasy at his not coming home
as usual. She loved him very much, and
her intention was not to be cruel to him, but
poverty made her hard and severe, and this
must be her excuse; besides which, when
she compared Cristal's life with her own as a
child, his, even at the worst, was much hap-
pier than hers had been. Poverty has so
many curses besides those of actual bodily


28. STORY OF LITTLE CRISTAL.
suffering, and poor Nancy's nature was
warped by these.
Cristal lay down in this miserable, win-
dowless dwelling, and strange to say, soon
fell fast asleep. In his sleep he dreamed;
his dream was the most beautiful in the
world; he dreamed of the young Prince of
Wales; of angels; of sunshiny fields full of
flowers, far more beautiful than any of those
which he had seen in the gardeners' win-
dows; the softest of breezes seemed to be
fanning his cheek; birds were singing above
and around him, and a sense of gladness,
sufficiency, and freedom, seemed to make up
his whole being. He dreamed that the little
Prince, who, instead of a hat and streaming
feather, wore a beautiful crown on his head,
took him by the hand and said,
“I will lead thee to my mother."
And then she that he supposed to be the
Queen, was before him, and all at once he
knew in some incomprehensible manner, that
it was his own mother; that very Barbara
of whom Nancy had so often spoken. While
his mind was in a tumult of joy and wonder,
a blaze of light seemed to dazzle him, a


STORY OF LITTLE CRISTAL.
29
noise like thunder roared in his ears, and
Cristal, waking from the lovely dream, started
up from his miserable bed, and saw at once
that that side of the court in which the
widow lived was on fire: the flames were
bursting from the windows of some of the
houses, and fire-engines rushed into the court.
Whilst Cristal was yet dreaming, and be-
fore the fire had burst out, Nancy, who, as
I said, was full of anxiety, had gone out into
the cold blackness of night to look for him;
she was very angry with him at the same
time that she was very anxious, and she said
to a drunken neighbor whom she met stag-
gering home, that when she found him, she
would thresh him to death; she did not
really mean so, but it' was her way of talk-
ing. Nancy went out, she knew not whither;
the drunken man went home, lighted a
candle and set fire to his bed, which was
soon communicated to the whole wretched
building
Whilst Cristal, in terror and astonishment,
looked round him, he saw that the flames
had reached the widow's room; he could
even see the shadow of the lark's cage within


30. STORY OF LITTLE CRISTAL.
the window. The old woman and her lame
lodger, thinking only of saving their lives,
rushed into the court, dragging down part
of their bedding and a few clothes. Without
a moment's thought for himself, Cristal rush-
ed up the broken stairs, and amid the smoke
which filled the place preparatory to its
bursting into flame, and snatched down the
cage, below which lay the widow's large
bible. He did not know the real worth of
the book, but with a sort of instinctive im-
pulse, he took it up also, and darted again
down the stairs, being wetted to the skin
with the water from the engines which was
poured upon the burning houses.
Everybody who saw this courageous act
of neighborly devotion, praised him; and
while Cristal felt pleased with what he had
done, the drunken' man who had been the
cause of all the mischief, and who was sober-
ed by terror, took occasion to tell him how
angry Nancy was; how she was gone out
even then to search for him, and her dread-
ful threat on leaving the court.
The danger of the fire spreading further
was over; the crowd began to disperse, and


STORY OF LITTLE CRISTAL.
31
the police walked about to keep order. The
night was bitterly cold, and little Cristal was
wet to the skin, yet he dared not go home,
because of Nancy's threat. He crouched
down again therefore under the blackened
walls of the unfinished building, and as it
seemed to himself, went to sleep.
Wonderful things now happened to Cristal,
such as neither philosopher nor poet has
described, nor ever can, therefore it is not for
me to tell you much ab ut them. This
much however I do know, he seemed to
wake, and yet how unlike any former awa-
king it was; he seemed to be himself, and
yet how different to what he had ever before
been : cold and hunger, want and suffering
were no more. He remembered his admira-
tion of the young Prince, but now he himself
was more glorious than any earthly monarch,
and yet there was no crown on his head, nor
sceptre in his hand. This was London in
which he stood; this was the very court in
which he had lived, and yet at the same
time it seemed filled with the glory of the
Infinite. With his hands clasped palm to
palm, against his breast, although no one


32
STORY OF LITTLE CRISTAL.
had ever taught him to pray, he stood in
silent wonder and adoration.
A policeman was the first who in the grey
dusk of that winter's morning found the body
of little Cristal; his wet clothes were frozen
upon him, he had perished by the extreme
cold of the night. Nancy who had returned
to the court just after the fire was extin-
guished, heard from the widow how like
a hero the boy had behaved, and how he had
saved those very things which she valued so
much, and yet in her terror had forgotten;
the lark and the bible. The drunken neigh-
bor also came up and informed her, how he
too had seen Cristal, and had delivered to
him her threatening message. Nancy felt
relieved; and imagined that Cristal had
taken shelter with some of the neighbors for
the night.
The news reached her early the next
morning, that the boy was found frozen
under the wall. What an anguish then
struck through her heart; her hard words
pierced her like daggers. “Heaven help
me !" groaned she. “I never yet said an


STORY OF LITTLE CRISTAL. 33
unkind word, or did an unkind thing, with-
out bitterly repenting it !"
Many a one beside Nancy has experienced
this.
In that strange, new and glorious state in
which Cristal now was, the anguish which
Nancy endured, though known to him, caus-
ed him no grief, he knew that which the
wisest men have been teaching us for ages,
that out of suffering comes purification, and
that there is hope for every one, who, in
sincerity repents him of the evil that he has
done.
The body of little Cristal lies in a pauper
burial-ground, in a rude coffin furnished by
the parish work-house.
May all of us so live that when like his,
our bodies return to the dust, we may awake
to that new existence, which, enfolding us
with an increase of light and love, brings us
yet nearer to the Divine Presence!


MABEL ON MIDSUMMER DAY.
A TALE OF THE FAIRIES.


vou
RISE, my maiden, Mabel,”
The mother said, “ arise,
For the golden sun of Midsummer
Is shining in the skies.
34


MABEL ON MIDSUMMER DAY.
“ Arise, my little maiden,
For thou must speed away,
To wait upon thy grandmother
This livelong summer day.
“And thou must carry with thee
This wheaten cake so fine;
This new made pat of butter;
This little flask of wine !
“ And tell the dear old body,
This day I cannot come,
For the good man went out yester-morn,
And he is not come home.
“And more than this, poor Amy
Upon my knee doth lie;
I fear me, with this fever-pain
The little child will die !
“And thou can’st help thy grandmother ;
The table thou can’st spread ;
Can'st feed the little dog and bird,
And thou can’st make her bed.
“And thou can'st fetch the water,
From the lady-well hard by ;


36
MABEL ON MIDSUMMER DAY.
And thou can’st gather from the wood
The fagots brown and dry.
“Can’st go down to the lonesome glen,
To milk the mother-ewe ;
This is the work, my Mabel,
That thou wilt have to do.
“But listen now, my Mabel,
This is Midsummer-day,
When all the fairy people
From elf-land come away.
“ And when thou art in lonesome glen,
Keep by the running burn,
And do not pluck the strawberry flower,
Nor break the lady-fern.-
“But think not of the fairy folk,
Lest mischief should befall;
Think only of poor Amy,
And how thou lov'st us all.
“Yet keep good heart, my Mabel,
If thou the fairies see,
And give them kindly answer
If they should speak to thee.


MABEL ON MIDSUMMER DAY.
37
“And when into the fir-wood
Thou go'st for fagots brown,
Do not, like idle children,
Go wandering up and down.
“But, fill thy little apron,
My child, with earnest speed;
And that thou break no living bough
Within the wood, take heed.
“For they are spiteful brownies
Who in the wood abide,
So be thou careful of this thing,
Lest evil should betide.
“But think not, little Mabel,
Whilst thou art in the wood,
Of dwarfish, wilful brownies,
But of the Father good.
“ And when thou goest to the spring,
To fetch the water thence,
Do not disturb the little stream,
Lest this should give offence.
“For the queen of all the fairies
She loves that water bright;
I've seen her drinking there myself
On many a summer night.


38
MABEL ON MIDSUMMER DAY.
“But she 's a gracious lady,
And her thou need'st not fear;
Only disturb thou not the stream,
Nor spill the water clear!"
“Now all this I will heed, mother,
Will no word disobey,
And wait upon the grandmother
This livelong summer day !"
Away tripped little Mabel,
With the wheaten cake so fine ;
With the new-made pat of butter,
And the little flask of wine.
And long before the sun was hot,
And morning mists had cleared,
Beside the good old grandmother
The willing child appeared.
And all her mother's message
She told with right good-will,
How that the father was away,
And the little child was ill.


MABEL ON MIDSUMMER DAY.
39
And then she swept the hearth up clean,
And then the table spread;
And next she fed the dog and bird ;
And then she made the bed.
“And go now," said the grandmother,
“ Ten paces down the dell,
And bring in water for the day;
Thou know'st the lady-well !"
The first time that good Mabel went,
Nothing at all saw she,
Except a bird—a sky-blue bird-
That sate upon a tree.
The next time that good Mabel went,
There sate a lady bright
Beside the well,-a lady small,
All clothed in green and white.
A curtsey low made Mabel,
And then she stooped to fill
Her pitcher at the sparkling spring,
But no drop did she spill
“ Thou art a handy maiden,”
The fairy lady said;
“Thou hast not spilled a drop, nor yet
The fair spring troubled !


40
MABEL ON MIDSUMMER DAY.
“ And for this thing which thou host done,
Yet may'st not understand,
I give to thee a better gift
Than houses or than land.
“Thou shalt do well, whate'er thou dost,
As thou hast done this day;
Shalt have the will and power to please,
And shalt be loved alway!"
Thus having said, she passed from sight,
And nought could Mabel see,
But the little bird, the sky-blue bird,
Upon the leafy tree.
-“ And now go,” said the grandmother,
“ And fetch in fagots dry;
All in the neighboring fire-wood,
Beneath the trees they lie.”
Away went kind, good Mabel,
Into the fir-wood near,
Where all the ground was dry and brown,
And the grass grew thin and sere.
She did not wander up and down,
Nor yet a live branch pull,
But steadily, of the fallen boughs
She picked her apron full.


MABEL ON MIDSUMMER DAY.
And when the wild-wood brownies
Came sliding to her mind,
She drove them thence, as she was told,
With home-thoughts sweet and kind.
But all that while the brownies
Within the fir-wood still,
They watched her how she picked the wood,
And strove to do no ill.
“ And oh, but she is small and neat,"
Said one, “ 't were shame to spite
A creature so demure and meek,
A creature harmless quite !"
“Look only,” said another,
“ At her little gown of blue;
At the kerchief pinned about her head,
And at her little shoe !"
“Oh, but she is a comely child,"
Said a third, “and we will lay
A good-luck-penny in her path,
A boon for her this day,—
Seeing she broke no living wood;
No living thing did affray.”


42
MABEL ON MIDSUMMER DAY.
With that the smallest penny,
Of the finest silver ore,
Upon the dry and slippery path,
Lay Mabel's feet before.
With joy she picked the penny up,
The fairy penny good;
And with her fagots dry and brown
Went wondering from the wood.
“Now she has that," said the brownies,
“Let flax be ever so dear,
Will buy her clothes of the very best,
For many and many a year !"
_" And go, now," said the grandmother,
“Since falling is the dew,
Go down unto the lonesome glen,
And milk the mother-ewe!”
All down into the lonesome glen,
Through copses thick and wild;
Thro' moist, rank grass, by trickling streams,
Went on the willing child.
And when she came to lonesome glen,
She kept beside the burn,


MABEL ON MIDSUMMER DAY.
43
And neither plucked the strawberry-flower,
Nor broke the lady-fern.
And while she milked the mother-ewe
Within the lonesome glen,
She wished that little Amy
Were strong and well again.
And soon as she had thought this thought,
She heard a coming sound,
As if a thousand fairy-folk
Were gathering all around.
And then she heard a little voice,
Shrill as the midge's wing,
That spake aloud, “ a human child
Is here—yet mark this thing !
“ The lady-fern is all unbroke,
The strawberry-flower unta'en !
What shall be done for her, who still
From mischief can refrain ?”
“ Grant her a wish !” said three;
The latest wish that she hath wished,"
Said all, “ whate'er it be !"


44
MABEL ON MIDSUMMER DAY.
-Kind Mabel heard the words they spake,
And from the lonesome glen,
Unto the good old grandmother
Went gladly back again,
Thus happened it to Mabel
On that Midsummer-day,
And these three fairy-blessings
She took with her away.
—'Tis good to make all duty sweet,
To be alert and kind;
'Tis good, like little Mabel,
To have a willing mind!





HOWITT'S STORY BOOK

TA
MINIMO
ANA
The Christmas Tree,
p. 45.


THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
So
und
LL of us looked
at the picture, and
agreed that it was
a very pretty one;
and from looking
at it, we began to
talk about Christ-
mas and Christ-
mas trees in gene-
ral; and the chil-
dren would not be satisfied, unless I told
them about good Mrs. Kinderliebe and her
two remarkable Christmases.
“You have all heard about fairy-godmo-
thers," said I; “and you know that they are
always very small, and very neat and prim,
with little feet and hands, and little neat old-
fashioned faces, with grey hair, and lace-bor-

SI
45


46
THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
dered caps. Well, just such a nice little
neat old lady was Frau Kinderliebe, or Mrs.
Kinderliebe, as we will call her. She lived
in the prettiest house in the whole town, and
yet she had not all the house to herself, for
she had only one floor, and a very learned
old Professor lived up stairs above her. He
was just as unlike her as he could be. He
was big and brown, with a large old dry
face, hands, and feet; he did not look very
clean either, and there was such a smell of
tobacco-smoke about him, that it always
made the dear old fairy-godmother cough
whenever she talked to him. He was a very
good man, however, for all that—and so
learned !
The fairy-godmother was a widow; she
had been a widow I can't tell you how many
years, and the death of her husband had
been a very great trouble to her. She ma-
naged, however, to be very cheerful and
happy—she had been so for a many, many
years; and the way she contrived to be so
was by always doing good and kind actions.
She never seemed to think about herself, ex-
cept how she could make somebody happy


THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
47
or be of use to them. In summer, you saw
her going out with a basket in her hand full
of cakes, or fruit, or flowers, and they always
were for some poor or sick person, to whom
they would bring a pleasure. In the winter,
you would see her going through the snow
and the frost all the same, in a little pair of
clogs, and a fur cloak, and little velvet bonnet;
and sometimes, Barbele, her old servant, was
trudging beside her with a lanthorn, if it was
- at night, and a large bundle of warm cloth-
ing, or something of that sort, which she was
carrying to some poor, half-starved creature.
And it was wonderful how much sewing and
knitting her dear little fingers did, and her
fingers were hardly any larger than yours ;
but then she had such a large heart, it was
large enough for an Emperor !
The fairy-godmother loved everything that
lived; but most of all did she love little chil-
dren. She was an old woman you must re-
member, but that did not matter; she was
as merry as a child herself; she knew all
sorts of riddles and nursery songs, and such
wonderful stories! and, what was better than
all, she never was tired of telling them. Be-


43
THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
sides this, she knew how to make all kinds
of gingerbread, and sugar cakes, and candies,
and preserves : and she had almonds, and
raisins, and apples, and all sorts of nice
things standing in her closet; and she used
to say to old Barbele, “Do find some child or
other, Barbele, to eat some of our good things,
for it is a shame we should eat them all our-
selves;" and old Barbele, who had lived so
long with her mistress that she was very like
her in many things, used to go and fetch in
the poor milk-woman's little children, who
lived at the next door, or the little chimney
sweeper, and then what a feast they had !
The fairy-godmother often used to say
how glad she was that as long as the world
stood there always would be plenty of chil-
dren; and whenever she saw them at play,
she smiled so pleasantly, and when she saw
any in trouble she used to go and wipe away
their tears and comfort them; and if she
saw them quarrelling she went among them
and talked to them so lovingly that you would
always be sure to see them kissing and em-
bracing and all good friends again. I can-
not tell you how she loved little children


THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
49
and how they all loved her; but then you
must remember she was just like a fairy-god-
mother.
"If it were not for the Herr Professor,” Mrs.
Kinderliebe used to say to Barbele, “I should
like us to have some poor orphan child to
live with us; I think we could make her
happy and good. Yes, if it were not for the
Herr Professor, one would have one; but he
cannot bear a noise, Barbele, so we must give
it up;" and with that the fairy-godmother
sighed, and so did old Barbele, who thought
of all things she should like to have a pair
of little shoes to clean every morning, and to
lay a little knife and fork beside the old
lady's for dinner. They both thought a great
deal about it; but the old Professor, who
was so learned and who could not bear a
noise, always stood like a bug-bear in the
way.
One night, it was just at the beginning of
December, the Herr Professor was heard
shutting his room door overhead and then
coining down stairs, very slowly and very
quietly, as he always did; and then he
knocked at the fairy-godmother's door, and,


50
THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
when she told him to come in, he walked in,
with his hat in his hand, as he always did
when he came to call upon her, for he was
very polite. He looked very sad, and scarcely
smiled when he spoke to her; and anybody
could see that he had a great trouble on his
mind—and so he had! Before long, he
pulled a letter out of his pocket, which was
sealed with black, and he began to tell her
that this letter had brought him the news of
the death of a friend of his, a very learned
man too, who lived in Tübingen, a young
man whom the Professor had taught him-
self; and he and his wife were both dead of
a fever, and had left two little daughters.
Anybody who had known the Professor be-
fore that night would never have expected to
see him crying, because he looked so hard
and dry; but he shed many tears that eve-
ning in the fairy-godmother's room, and he
talked so much about the poor little orphans
who had no friends, and who now were very
poor, that the fairy-godmother cried too.
"I wish some good person would take
those poor children,” said he, “and bring
them up creditably for their good father's


THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
51
sake; and with that he took up his hat from
the table, and hardly saying good night, he
went up stairs again.
The fairy-godmother and Barbele plotted
together. It was a very nice plot that they
laid; and the next news the old Professor
heard was, that Mrs. Kinderliebe was gone
off by the eilwagen a long journey, and would
not be back till a day or two before Christ-
mas. And now I wish you could have seen
old Barbele at work, for several days before
her mistress's return; she was so busy gild-
ing walnuts and apples, and making all
kinds of cakes and sweatmeats; and such a
huge Christmas tree was brought into the
house as was never seen before; and there
were stags and shepherds all in a garden
below it, and hundreds of little candles were
fastened to its twigs, and all the cakes and
the beautiful things that Barbele had made
were hung among them like fairy fruit.
On the morning before Christmas-day, old
Barbele went up stairs with her mistress's
compliments to the Herr Professor, and “she
hoped he would come down in the evening
and see her Christmas tree and what the


52
THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
Christ-child would send her.” The Herr
Professor, who was very polite, sent his
compliments back, and he would have that
honor.
Mrs. Kinderliebe had come back the night
before, and she had such a great quantity of
luggage with her! The Herr Proſessor's old
servant told him so, but he forgot all about
it the next minute.
About six o'clock, he went down stairs,
dressed all in his best, with his silver
buckles on, and a new wig, and gloves,
and black silk stockings, just as if he
had been going to visit the Grand Duke.
He gave a little company-knock at the
fairy-godmother's door, but, before she could
answer, old Barbele sprang out of the kitchen
and opened it for him; and there was the
old lady, all dressed in her best, in her little
tiny high-heeled shoes, and grey satin and
white lawn apron, and lace handkerchief
and cap, looking so beautiful, that the Herr
Professor could not help bending his stiff,
straight back, and kissing her dear little
hand.
The Christmas tree stood in the best par-


THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
lor, and the next moment the best parlor
door opened, and there was the beautiful
Christmas tree all blazing, and just under it
stood a beautiful little girl, about six years
old, with long shining hair falling over her
shoulders, and rosy cheeks, and large blue
eyes, in a black crape frock, and with a
black ribbon round her beautiful golden hair.
“The Christ-child has been here,” said
the fairy-godmother turning to the old Pro-
fessor, “and has brought a present for you,"
and with that, she took the beautiful child
by her hand and led her to him; “it is the
little daughter of your late friend, the young
Professor of Tübingen. She is now my
child. She shall live under the same roof
with us. We will both of us be kind to
her !
Again the old Professor kissed the dear
old lady's hand, but he did not say anything;
he only sat down on a chair, and took out
his large green pocket-handkerchief, with
which he wiped his face many times.
The little child's name was Seraphine,
and before long she was sitting on the old
Professor's knee and leaning against his


54
THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
breast, for she liked the smell of tobacco,
because her dear father used to smoke, as all
learned men in Germany do. That was
the happiest Christmas Eve that the dear
fairy-godmother, or the Herr Professor, ever
spent.
They talked much about little Seraphine
and her dead parents ; but this was after she
was gone to bed, and about her little sister,
who was younger than she,, and who was
gone to live with a great uncle, a farmer, in
Bavaria. The great uncle was a coarse,
stern man, who talked loud, and thought it
a great vexation for people to die and leave
orphan children behind them. Mrs. Kinder-
liebe could not help crying when she thought
what a comfortless home this poor, dear
child very likely would have.
Seraphine loved the fairy-godmother very
much, and she loved the old Professor too.
She used to go up every day and say a
lesson to him; he had great pleasure in
teaching her; he used to let her look in his
big books that were full of pictures. Down
stairs she learned music from the fairy
godmother, and all sorts of beautiful needle-


THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
55
work; she had a work-box, and a silver
thimble, and she worked a sampler with
blue silk; and all the time she sat at work
the fairy-godmother told her stories and
beautiful verses, and gave her riddles to
guess. In the kitchen, she helped Barbele
to make nice cakes and sugar bread, of
which she always took some to the Herr
Professor.
Poor little Seraphine! She ought to have
been very happy, but she was not: every-
body was happy but herself. The old Pro-
fessor seemed to get quite young again ; you
could even hear him laughing down stairs;
the fairy-godmother, whose face had always
been so bright, looked now brighter and
lovelier than ever, and as to old Barbele, she
sang all the time she cleaned the little shoes
and made the little bed, which now stood
in the dressing-room within the fairy-god-
mother's chamber.
Seraphine knew that they all loved her
and that she must try to be happy ; but
somehow, whenever she peeped through the
palings into the milk-woman's garden, and
saw the milk-woman's two little daughters


56
THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
playing together, it made her sad, for she
thought of her own little sister Angela, and
she could not help crying. She would some-
times cry as she sat at work, and once or
twice she could not help sobbing on the
fairy-godmother's knee, and thus wetting
with her tears the old lady's lace hand-
kerchief.
Nobody asked her why she cried so; but
neither did anybody scold her for it. She
fancied that nobody noticed it; but they did
though, and the old lady, who was, you
must remember, like a fairy-godmother, she
knew why she cried, and why she was
unhappy, just as well as if she had been
told.
The old Professor and the fairy-godmother
used often now to have a deal of talk
together, and whenever they saw Seraphine
looking sad, they only nodded at one
another.
It now was twelve months since Sera-
phine's father and mother died, and she had
been nearly that time with the fairy-god-
mother; but for all that she could not help
crying when she thought of Angela, and it


THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
57
seemed to her as if she thought more and
more of her every day. The fairy-god-
mother and the old Professor seemed to be
always talking together; and one day, a
very short time before Christmas, Seraphine
was told that she would do no more lessons
up stairs at present, for that the Professor
had set out on a journey, and would not be
back till the day before Christmas.
Barbele and the Professor's old servant
had now such a deal of work to do; but as
it was always up stairs in the Professor's
kitchen, Seraphine was never invited there;
she sat down stairs with the fairy-god-
mother, hemming a blue silk handkerchief,
which was to be given to the Herr Professor
at Christmas.
The fairy-godmother told Seraphine, that
the Professor had sent his compliments down
stairs, and invited them to go up that eve-
ning; for this was the morning before
Christinas-day, and to see his Christmas
tree and the presents which the Christ-child
would bring. Seraphine and her fairy-god-
mother sent up their presents for the Profes.


58
THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
sor by Barbele to his servant, for her to give
the Christ-child.
The evening came! Seraphine was dress-
ed in a white frock, with blue shoes on, and
a broad-blue sash; and her beautiful hair,
which the fairy-godmother combed and
brushed herself, fell over her shoulders, just
like an angel's in a picture. When she was
dressed, her fairy-godmother looked into her
face with such a deal of love in her eyes,
and kissed her. Seraphine could not help
crying; she clung to the dear old lady and
sobbed so; for her heart was very full, and
she had been trying not to cry all day, and
now she had once begun, she felt as if she
never could leave off. She was thinking so
much about Angela, and wondering what
sort of a Christmas she would keep with the
stern, great uncle in Bavaria.
The fairy-godmother told her she must
not cry, and she gave her rose-water to
wash her face in, and told her to be quick,
for the Herr Professor himself had come
down stairs to conduct them up, because he
was so impatient at them being so long.


THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
59
Up stairs they went;—the fairy-godmother
in her grey satin, and little high-heeled shoes,
and her lace cap and handkerchief, leaning
on the Professor's arm, and little Seraphine
following, and Barbele following her with a
lamp in her hand, for she too was going up
stairs; and the Professor's servant was stand-
ing at the top with another lamp in her
hand, so that they had plenty of light.
The door at the top of the stairs opened
at once into the Professor's best parlor. The
door swung open; the Christmas tree blazed
out, like a tree of beautiful fire; and just
below it stood Seraphine's little sister Angela.
The Herr Professor had been into Bavaria
and fetched her; she was his present to
Seraphine; they were not going to be parted
again.
Seraphine and Angela sprang into each
other's arms: they laughed and cried to-
gether.
That was the happiest Christmas that the
Professor and the fairy-godmother ever spent.
And no wonder !


A DRE A M.
OAR with lapse of ages seemed
The silent land toward which I
drew;
And yet within myself I deemed
The dwellers in that land were few.
A strong conviction seemed to rest
Upon my heart that I was then
In the sole portion of the earth,
Which since creation's perfect birth,
Had held the sons of men ;
And I was on a marvelling quest
Of that small colony of the blest.
60


A DREAM.
61
How lone, how silent! not a sound
In earth or air, from wind or flood ;
But o'er the bare and barren ground
Brooded an endless solitude.
It was an awful thing to tread
O’er grey and parched and mighty plains,
Where never living thing was seen,
Where the live heart had never been:
The blood chilled in my veins,
Yet still I felt in spirit led
Across that wilderness of dread.
But lo! that deadness of the world,
Which seemed of an eternal power,
Like a light vapor was unfurled,
And I walked over fern and flower ;
Hills, robed in light celestial blue,
Bounded that amplitude of plain;
And round me there were lofty trees,
Yet moveless, soundless to the breeze;
And not a wild bird's strain,
Nor cry of beast, could still undo
The spell which silence o'er me threw.
But man was there. Not far aside
One I beheld who strongly toiled ;
He seemed a youth of solemn pride,
Of noble from, but dimmed and soiled


A DREAM.
With rural labor and with care,
And he clove wood for sacrifice.
I listened for his sounding stroke,
There was no sound; and now the smoke
Did from the pile arise;
And he gazed on it with an air
Less marked by pleasure than despair.
But then a lovelier vision sprung
Before me; and between the tall
And shadowy trees, a low cloud hung,
So low, it scarcely hung at all;
'Twas like no cloud which sails the sky;
Around it all was clearly seen ;
It mixed not with the ambient air;
Rolled on itself compact and fair,
It rested on the scene,
More still and motionless than lie
The clouds of summer in the sky.
Beside it stood a hoary seer,
And through my heart a whisper ran,
“ God, or his angel shrouded here,
Holds converse with this holy man.”
Dark was that cloudy dwelling-place;
No glory on it seemed to dwell;
Yet still on every thing around,


A DREAM.
63
On tree, on shrub, and heathy ground,
A streaming radiance fell ;
And on that patriarch's awful face
Glowed with intense, unearthly grace.
Propped on his staff, in peace he stood,
Sandaled, and girdled in his vest,
And his full beard in silver flowed
Far down his pure and quiet breast;
His eye was on the cloud, as one
Who listens to momentous things,
And seems with reverence to hear,
Yet with more confidence than fear,
What some great herald brings.
But as I gazed, a little boat,
Swift, without rudder, oars, or sail,
Down through the ambient air afloat,
Bore onward one who seemed to hail
The patriarch,—and he turned his head ;
He turned and saw a smiling boy,
Smiling in beauty and in youth,
With eyes in which eternal truth
Lay with eternal joy.
He touched that old man's snowy head,
And boat, youth, cloud, and patriarzh fled !


64
A DREAM
A multitude of dreams have passed
Since this, and perished as they came ;
But in my mind imprinted fast
This lives, and still remains the same.
The beauty of that gliding car;
The mystery of the cloud and sage;
Those plains in arid drought so stern ;
That solemn hush that seemed etern;
In memory's living page,
Still stand in light, more real far
Than thousands of our day-dreams are !


ΤΗ Ε
PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
CHAPTER 1.
THE LITTLE AUGUSTUS.
Ma
imu
cottage in a wood, not
OOR THEODORA
M a s lived in a lonesome
cottage in a wood, not
far distant from the
banks of the Danube.
Her husband, who was a fish-
erman, had died, in the bloom
of life, only a short time before.
The one comfort which she had in her early
widowhood was her only son, a kind, hand-
some boy, of about five years old, who was
called Augustus. That which she consider-
ed of the greatest importance, was the teach-
ing him to be good and pious; and her
unceasing care was to preserve for him the
paternal cottage, and the right of fishing.


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PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
It is true that she had been obliged for the
present to give up the fishing; and the
fishing tackle of her late husband, as it
hung useless on the wall, and his fishing-
boat, which lay turned upside down near
the cottage, were painful sights to her. In
the meantime she supported herself and her
son by making fishing-nets, in which she
was very skilful; and often at midnight,
when little Augustus had been long asleep,
she worked unweariedly for him. Nor had
the little fellow, on his part, any other
thought than how to give his mother plea-
sure. The good mother wept on every occa-
sion which reminded her of her late hus-
band; and Augustus, when he saw this, did
all that lay in his childish power to comfort
her. A few days after the death of her
beloved husband, her brother, who was a
fisherman in the next village, came and
brought her a fish as a present. Theodora
looked at the beautiful carp, and began to
weep: “Ah !" said she ; “I did not think
that I should ever have had again such a
fine fish in my cottage.”
“Do not cry, mother !" said little Augus-


PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
67
tus; “when I am a great man, I will catch
you fish enough.”
The sorrowful mother smiled again, and
said, “ Yes, Augustus, I hope that you will
some day be the comfort of my age. Be
only as good and upright a man as your
father, and I shall then be the happiest of
mothers."
Once, upon a fine autumn day, Theodora,
from early morning, was busied upon a
large fishing-net, which she wished to finish
that day. In the meantime the boy collect-
ed, in the surrounding wood, beech-nuts,
from which his mother wanted to press the
oil, in order that she might have a cheap
light for her netting in the long winter eve-
nings. Little Augustus rejoiced, above all
things, whenever he could bring to his
mother his oblong, deep hand-basket heaped
up with beech-nuts. His mother praised him
always when he did so, in order to animate
him to industry, and to accustom him to a
life of labor. It was now getting towards
noon, and the little fellow was hungry and
weary; at length the mid-day bell sounded
in the next village, and his mother called


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PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
him to dinner. She had set out the little
dinner, which consisted of a dishful of milk,
into which bread had been broken, under
the beautiful beech-tree that stood not far
from the cottage, in an open green space of
the wood.
After the bread and milk had been eaten,
and the dish was empty, the mother said
to the boy, “Now lie down in the shade of
the tree and sleep a little : I will go on with
my work, and will come again at the right
time and wake you. Now, sleep well !"
cried she, as she looked round her once
again, and then went with the empty dish
into the cottage.
In a little while she returned and looked.
The little boy lay sleeping on the green turf:
his curly head rested on one arm, whilst the
other was thrown round his tidy little bas-
ket. He smiled in sleep, and his counte-
nance and his rosy cheek were sweetly
shaded by the wavering beech-leaves.
She hastened back again to her work,
and netted on industriously till the net was
finished. The hours passed, over her work,
like so many minutes. She went now to


PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
69
waken little Augustus, but she found him
no longer under the beech-tree.
“The industrious child is again at his
work with his little basket,” said she joy.
fully. Ah! she foreboded not what a grief
awaited her.
She went back again, and spread out the
net upon the green turf. She found here
and there a place in it which required mend-
ing; and so a considerable time passed.
But as the boy still did not come back with
his basket, she began to be uneasy about
him. She sought for him through the whole
wood, which was about three miles long,
and a mile and a half broad, but she found
him nowhere. She shouted a hundred times,
“ Augustus !-Augustus !” but she received
no answer.
She was very much frightened: she felt
the most extreme anxiety. “If he should,”
said she, “have forgotten the warning which
I have often so earnestly repeated, and have
ventured down to the water !" She trem-
bled at the very thought, and ran down to
the river : but neither could she perceive any-
thing of him there. She then went weeping


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PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
and lamenting to the village. A crowd of
people collected round the mourning mother:
all had compassion on her, especially her
brother: not one of them; however, knew
anything of the boy. In the meantime, the
whole village assembled, determined, with
one mind, to seek the child. Some betook
themselves to the wood, others to the sur-
rounding country, and others again to the
river, to look for him. Night approached,
and nowhere had anybody discovered the
least trace of him.
“If he be drowned in the Danube," said
one of the fishermen of the village, “we
shall certainly find the body. We know the
course of the water well : below there, on
the gravel, where the great willow-tree
stands, it will certainly cast him up again."
The mother shuddered at these words,
and went back to her cottage full of distress,
and watched and wept there solitarily
through the night. As soon as the light of
morning showed itself, she hastened down
to the river, to find perhaps, there, the
body of her beloved child. Yes, for many
days and many weeks went she, every


PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
71
morning and evening, with terrified heart,
and wandered lamenting up and down the
stream. The fishermen who, in the early
dawn, were on the river at their daily work,
or were returning from it late in the evening,
saw her often wandering thus, and often,
too, raising her hands to heaven, and were
all of them heartily sorry for her.
So passed on a long time. The body
never came to view : the mother neither saw
nor heard anything more of the child. She
was always unspeakably cast down. “In
so short a time," said she, “to lose such a
good husband and such a beloved child-ah,
that is hard! If I did not think that the
Almighty had permitted it thus to be, I
should be in despair !" Often most bitterly
did she reproach herself: “I ought to have
taken better care of the boy,” cried she,
weeping and wringing her hands. “Oh,
you mothers,” said she to the wives of the
village, who wished to console her, “take
example by me, and be more watchful.”
Poor Theodora ! by degrees her grief made
her as pale as a corpse, and wore her away
till she was as thin as a shadow. As she


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PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
went to church on Sunday, in her black
mourning dress, some weeks after the loss of
the child, the people said one to another,
“Poor Dora ! she will soon follow, of a cer-
tainty, her husband and her child to the
grave!"
The clergyman of the village, a venerable
old man, who took the liveliest interest in
the fate of his parishioners, had already
visited her, and comforted her, several times
at her cottage. But when, on this day, he
saw her pale, deeply-troubled face, he was
greatly distressed. When the service was
ended, he sent for her. When she entered
his room, the good old man, whose snow-
white hair was covered with a black velvet
cap, was sitting at his desk, and was writing
something in the parish book. He greeted
her kindly, and said : “Wait a little while,
I shall be ready in a moment."
Whilst she waited, Theodora observed a
small picture that hung on the wall, in a
round, beautiful, gilt frame. She was very
much affected by it, and the tears streamed
down her cheeks.
- Now," said the pastor, as he flirted the


PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN
73
ink from his pen, and raised himself, "does
the picture please you ?"
"Ah, yes," replied Theodora, “it is very
sweet. I cannot help weeping as I look
at it.”
“Do you know whom it represents ?”
asked the Pastor.
“Oh yes, very well,” said she; “it is a
picture of the Virgin Mary, the mother of our
Lord. I never saw the sorrowful mother,
as she weeps for the death of her son, so
beautifully painted.”
“Thus,” said the Pastor, “is she the most:
beautiful and the most consolatory example:
for you: observe, therefore, her image care-
fully. See, the sword in her breast is a
symbol, according to Simeon's prophecying,
of the deep pain which should, as it were,
pierce through her heart for the bloody death
of her divine son. Her eyes, full of tears,
as well as her clasped hands, which are also
raised to heaven, show her devotion and her
confidence in God. The golden beams, how-
ever, wbich gleam around her head, signify
her glorification in heaven, to which she will
at length attain, through her patience in


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PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
suffering, and her submission to the Divine
will. Good Theodora,” continued he, "you
have lost much-your husband and your
child: a two-edged sword has pierced your
heart: but look up, like Mary, to heaven !
submit yourself to God's will !trust in
Him Spray for comfort and for strength
from above! You know that Mary, con-
fiding in God, and strengthened by his mercy,
stood erect below the cross. The faith in
which she spoke, to the joyful communica-
tion of the angel — Behold, I am the servant
of the Lord, do to me according to thy will !
-filled her heart also in the hour of suffer-
ing, and permitted it not to sink. It is only
the assurance that God does all aright, that
that which He permits is the very best which
can support you from being overwhelmed by
your affliction : forget not, therefore, the
great and beautiful object of all our suffer-
ings. The sufferings of time bear no com-
parison to the glory which shall be revealed
to us. Through suffering is virtue perfected:
the sufferings of time lead to everlasting joy.
Even Christ himself attained to his glory
through suffering. On this way, Mary fol-


PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
75
lowed Him: nor is there for us any other
way to Heaven."
Theodora listened to him greatly affected,
and found great satisfaction in the beautiful
picture. She could not sufficiently contem-
plate it. “I will follow," said she, “the
example of the afflicted mother: I will look
up to Heaven, pray, believe, and say from
my very heart, as she did, 'Lord, thy will
be done!”
“Good !” said the Pastor ; "that is right;
that pleases me.”
According to the opinion of that good
man, nothing was too costly for the conso-
lation of a sorrowing spirit. He took the
beautiful picture from the wall, gave it to
the poor fisherwoman, and said: “In order
that you may not forrget your beautiful
resolution, and be able to adhere to it, take
this picture home with you: I give it to you.
When your heart begins afresh to bleed, and
it feels as if a two-edged sword were within
"it, then cast your glance upon the picture,
renew your resolution, and the wound will,
with God's help, heal by degrees, and above,


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PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
in Heaven, will a crown of glory also await
you."
Theodora followed the advice of the good
Pastor; and her grief became much milder :
but still whenever she passed the tree under
which she had last seen her boy, there
always went a pang through her heart. On
this the thought came into her mind to make
a hollow in the tree, and to place within it
the beautiful picture. “The tree," said she,
“causes me ever new sorrow; but then I
should also here ever find new consolation.
Ah !" sighed she, “other mothers place,
for their dead children, a little memorial in
the churchyard; the tree may thus become
the memorial of my dear Augustus."
She mentioned her idea to the good old
Pastor, and he had nothing against it. “So
that it brings you consolation, do it, well
and good.”
She cut, therefore, with a deal of trouble,
a round hollow, about the size of a window-
pane, in the bark of the tree, placed the.
picture within it, and, when she now passed
the tree, she looked upon that beautiful
· picture, and said: “I also will be a servant


PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
77
of the Lord, like Mary; to me also it
happened according to His will!" and by
degrees her heart became less sorrowful.
CHAPTER II.
MR. WAHL.
TN the meantime, whilst the afflicted mo-
ther wept her beloved Augustus as dead,
the little five-years-old boy had made a jour-
ney of more than three hundred miles; had
arrived in the imperial city of Vienna; lived
there, gay and full of health, in a magnifi-
cent house that resembled a palace; was as
beautifully and richly dressed as if he were
of noble birth; and, which was more than
all this, he was educated in the most careful
manner, and was instructed by the very best
teachers in all that was good and useful.
This extraordinary change had been
brought about in a very simple manner.
After Augustus had awoke, under the beech,
and had rubbed his eyes, he set off immedi-
ately into the wood, to seek again for beech-


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PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
nuts, and had soon nearly half-filled his little
basket. At length he came to where there
were no longer any beech-trees, and went on
and on till at last he came out of the wood
on the side bordering the river. A large
boat lay on the shore there. The boat had
only lain-to here to wait for some passengers
that it had to take up. The other passen-
gers, who were in part very rich people, and
in part families of the middle class, had all
come on land. The elder persons walked
up and down the green and meadow-like
banks for a little exercise, and the children
amused themselves by looking for bright-
colored pebbles among the gravel on the
shore. Presently the children saw the little
Augustus, and then came up to him and
peeped into his little willow-basket, to see
what he had in it. The pretty brown beech-
nuts, with which they were unacquainted,
delighted them.
“They are very queer nuts!" said the
little Antonia, a lovely child, somewhat
younger than Augustus, and who was dress-
ed as prettily as a lady: “such little three-
cornered chestnuts I never saw before !"


PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
79
.“ Nay,” said Augustus, who had never
heard of chestnuts, “they are not such odd
things as you say; they are beech-nuts, and
one can eat them.” He divided whole hand-
fuls among the children, and they made
a great rejoicing. It gave the good little
Augustus the greatest pleasure to find such
a many merry children all together; such a
happiness as this was very rare, for it was
not often that he saw even a child from the
village. He joined himself to the children,
and they gave to him of all that they had,
pears and plums.
Augustus was now very curious to see the
boat nearer : it was the first large boat that
he had seen near. The floating house upon
it, a great deal larger than his cottage,
appeared to him very wonderful. The chil-
dren took him with them into the boat.
Antonia led him into the papered room,
which was appointed for the use of the
higher class of passengers.
“Eh !" cried Augustus, in astonishment,
“ there is in this house a prettier parlor than
we have at home !"
Antonia and his other new play-fellows


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PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
showed him now their toys. Augustus was
enraptured by the sight of all these splen-
dors, and thought no more about going
home. In the meantime the boat, without
the boy being the least aware of it, put from
the land, and floated majestically down the
river.
Nobody in the boat had paid any particu-
lar attention to Augustus. The passengers
who had been longest in the boat, supposed
that he belonged to some of the new-com-
ers; and the new-comers imagined that he
belonged to those already there. It was
only when the evening approached, and the
poor child began to cry aloud, and ask for
his mother, that people discovered that a
strange child was on board. They were
not a little astonished, and no small distur-
bance arose in the boat. Many lamented,
and pitied both mother and child; others
laughed at the unbidden little travelling
companion : the boatmen scolded, and threat-
ened to throw the boy in the water.
At that moment the master of the boat
came up and examined him. “Tell me


PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
81
now, little fellow," began the grave, fat man,
" from what city or village came you ?”
“I am from no city, and from no village."
said Augustus.
“That is strange," said the master; "yet
you niust have a home somewhere."
“My home," replied he, “stands in the
wood, not far from the village."
“Good, now," said the master ; "what is
the name of the village."
“Ha !” said Augustus; "what should it be
called but the village? My mother never
called it anything else. She used to say,
Now they ring the bell in the village for
dinner, or, to-morrow you shall go with me
into the village to buy bread."
“What, then, is the name of your parents ?"
asked the master.
“My father," answered the boy, “is dead,
and my mother is called the fisher-wife,
Dora."
“Then," said the master, “ she is named
Theodora ; but what is her surname ??
“She has no other name but Dora,” said
the little one; "she has often said to people,
that they need not call her anything else.”


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PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
The master saw very well, that from an
inexperienced child, who had no notion even
of a surname, but little information would
be obtained. He grew very angry, and
said: “I wish that the cuckoo bad brought
you anywhere rather than into my boat.”
The good little one, whose eyes were full
of tears, answered, quite simply, and without
passion, “The cuckoo has not brought me
here: I have never once seen him, but in
spring I have often heard him."
Everybody in the boat laughed, but the
master was in great perplexity. Here, unfor-
tunately, the Danube flowed through an
uninhabited woody region, and far and wide
no open space could be seen. In a while,
however, as the sun was about setting, they
discerned a distant church tower. “I will
leave the child in that village,” said the
master, " that the people there may take it
back to its mother; and there, since we can-
not go much further to-night, will we sleep."
But Mr. Wahl, the father of Antonia,
would not consent to this. He was a rich
merchant, who was taking several chests
full of gold and treasure with him, for he,


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83
like the rest of the boat's company, were
fleeing before the enemy, it being during the
time of the Thirty Years' War which laid
waste Germany.
"I wish with all my heart,” said Mr.
Wahl, “that the distressed mother could,
without delay, have her dear child back
with her. But at this moment it cannot be
done! The enemy is advancing, and is
approaching the Danube; a delay of a few
hours might endanger our falling into the
hands of the enemy, and losing all that we
possess. In Heaven's name proceed."
Mr. Wahl, who had great cause for
anxiety, insisted also that the boat should
travel through the whole night, considering
that it was the time of full moon. They
said that this was against their custom : but
as he promised a great sum of money both
to the master and the boatmen, they con-
sented at last, and proceeded in the clear
bright moonlight onward, through the whole
night.
At sunrise, they came to a little village
that lay close to the shore. The master
now endeavored to induce the peasants to


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PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
receive the child, begging them to inquire
out the village, and the mother in the district
whence he came, and thus to do a deed of
mercy both to mother and child. But the
peasants said: “Who knows to whom the
boy belongs? It may very easily happen
that we shall never get rid of him, and shall
have to bring him up amongst us. In these
hard times, poor folks have more than
enough to do; we will not take any new
burden on ourselves.”
Soon after this they saw another village on
the other side of the river, which lay not far
from the shore, and looked very large and re-
spectable. The master determined here to
take the child only to the village authorities
or to the clergyman, and ordered them ac-
cordingly to put to land. But all at once
Mr. Wahl exclaimed, “Hark! Do you not
hear the thunder of cannon? The ene-
my is near us; we must not waste a mo-
ment. Forwards ! forwards with the ship !"
The master, who feared that in the end
the child might be left on his hands, opposed
Mr. Wahl, and soon a violent contention
arose between them. At this moment, Mrs.


PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
83
Wahl, who was a kind and benevolent lady,
stepped between them, and said, in her own
peculiar friendly manner, softly to her hus-
band, “We will take the handsome, affec-
tionate boy to ourselves: thus we can do a
good work, and put an end to all dispute.”
This proposal pleased Mr. Wahl very well,
and he immediately said aloud, “ Proceed !
I will adopt the child, and will provide for
him !!
The master was satisfied with this, and
everybody in the boat praised the noble-
hearted determination of Mr. Wahl.
The boat arrived happily in Vienna. Mr.
Wahl bought there a handsome large house,
and began again his business as a merchant.
He engaged very excellent instructors for his
only daughter Antonia, and permitted Au-
gustus to take part in her lessons. The little
fellow, however ignorant he might be, show-
ed uncommon abilities, and made, in a short
time, such progress in his studies as amazed
every one. Besides this, he was so discreet
and obedient, so good-tempered and amiable,
and of so pious a heart, that Mr. and Mrs.
Wahl loved him as if he had been their own


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PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
child. The sentiment of love of God, the
seeds of which his mother had at first im-
planted in him, became more and more liv.
ing and strong in his heart.
Mr. Wahl observed, with pleasure, that
Augustus showed great inclination for trade.
He gave him every opportunity for acquiring
all the knowledge necessary for a merchant,
and then took him into his counting-house.
Augustus was soon here of the greatest ser-
vice: and before he had reached his twenti-
eth year, he was quite capable of conducting,
in the best manner, the most important affairs
of his foster-father. Mr. Wahl extended his
business still more and more. He undertook
great commissions for the army, and, although
he never allowed himself any unlawful
gains, he became thus immensely rich. He
saw clearly how much of all this he owed,
as well to the skill as to the unwearied in-
dustry and inviolable honesty of his adopted
son, and was determined to reward him.
The little Antonia was, in the meantime,
grown up to be an amiable young lady; she
was spotless in heart and mind; a real im-
age of innocence and beauty ; besides which


PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
87
she was greatly attached to her youthful
companion. To Augustus, therefore, Mr.
Wahl gave Antonia as a wife, and nothing
in this world could be happier than they two.
When the war was ended the emperor, to
whom Mr. Wahl and his son-in-law had
done great service, raised them to the rank
of nobles. Good Mr. and Mrs. Wahl, how-
ever, could only enjoy for a few years this
long-desired peace. They were beloved ten-
derly both by Augustus and Antonia, and
affectionately cherished to the end of their
days. They died, the one soon after the
other, in the comfortable hope of seeing again
these beloved children, in that blessed abode
where reigns eternal peace.
Augustus, now Baron von Wahlheim, gave
up his commercial concerns, and determined
to purchase, either in Bavaria, or in Swabia,
one of those noble estates which had been
devastated by the war, and which now were
to be had at very low prices. Several were
offered to him. He inade a journey, there-
fore, saw them, and selected the beautiful
estate of Newchurch, which particularly
pleased him. He immediately prepared for


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PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
the rebuilding of its fine but desolated castle,
and then returned to Vienna to fetch his
wife and his two children.
When Antonia came with her husband to
their new possessions, and saw everywhere
traces of the misery which the war had oc-
casioned, she was very sorrowful. Many
houses of the village were nothing more
than heaps of rubbish ; others threatened to
fall to pieces; and whole districts lay uncul-
tivated.
“Ah ! the poor, poer people!” said Anto-
nia, with tears in her eyes, “we must help
them !
Augustus rejoiced that his wife thought as
he did, and he devoted a large portion of his
wealth to the helping his dependants out of
their great poverty. He gave timber and
money for building; he purchased corn for
seed and cattle, and divided them as free
gifts among his people. The peasants could
not sufficiently praise their new lord, and
came to thank him.
“God has made me from a poor boy into a
rich man," said he, “and has blessed me
wonderfully in all things. It would be in.


PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
89
gratitude if I did not impart of this blessing
to others. I rejoice to be able to contribute
anything to your happiness: there is no
higher happiness than that of making others
happy."
CHAPTER III.
THE WONDERFUL DISCOVERY.
WHILST Augustus von Wahlheim had
become a rich and fine gentleman,
his mother, the good Theodora, had experi-
enced much hard fate, and had led a life of
great poverty; yet, at the same time, from
her dependence on God, a life of great con-
tentment.
· Soon after the time in which she lost her
child, the war advanced into the country of
the Danube, where she lived, and the ene-
my's troops took at once possession of the
woods. Theodora lost her solitary cottage,
and fled into the village to her brother, who
possessed the paternal house: but here also
was there no lasting abode for her. The


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PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
village, during a skirmish, was almost re-
duced to ashes, and the greater part of the
inhabitants dispersed themselves. The
house of Theodora's brother was burnt to
the ground; but he endeavored to maintain
himself as a fisherman, and Theodora fled
to her sister, who lived about thirty miles off.
The sister received her very kindly: she
had many children, and Theodora helped
her to bring them up. The two sisters lived
together in peace and unity, and lightened
to each other the sufferings which the war
had brought upon them both. After some
years she received a letter from her brother,
written from the old home. He wrote to
her, that his wife was dead, that his two
daughters, during the war, had married
away from him, and that he wished that his
sister should return to him, and take charge
of his house. Theodora returned therefore
again to her old home.
Scarcely had she arrived in the village
when she betook herself to the wood, and
sought for the beech-tree in which she had
placed the beautiful picture, and which she
had, in her sudden flight, forgotten to take


PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
91
with her. But, good heavens! how every-
thing was changed here! The path which
had led to her cottage was no longer to be
found : it was lost in high grass and thick
underwood. Where hitherto only low bush-
es had grown, now tall trees had raised
themselves, with widely-spreading branches :
on the contrary, many large old trees, which
Theodora had well known, had disappeared.
There had not been for long one single trace
of her poor wooden cottage; even the place
upon which it had once stood she could no
longer find with certainty: all around was a
thick impenetrable wood. Theodora was at
a deal of trouble, but in vain, to find the
tree under which she had wept so much,
She passed through thorns and underwood,
and carefully noticed every beech-tree.-"If
I can no longer find that beautiful picture,”
thought she, “still the empty hollow in the
tree would make known to me where once
the picture had been."
“Do not give yourself such labor in vain,
good mother,” said an old man, who was ga-
thering fire-wood there. “I think that the
tree is no longer standing. As it is with us


92
PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
on our return to the village, so is it in the
wood ;-men that we left here as children
are grown up; those who then were grown
up are now old people; and the old people
of those days are now lying in their graves.
The young growth presses upon the old
trees : all things in this world soon pass
way: men still quicker than trees. We
have here no abiding place; therefore will
we strive after that which is above, and
which endures for ever.”
The old man went on his way, and The-
odora gave up all hope of ever again finding
the tree.
Baron von Wahlheim lived many miles
from here; but both that wood, and the vil-
lage in which Theodora lived, belonged to
the territory which he had purchased. One
day he came into this very wood, in order to
distribute among the people of the village
fire-wood for the winter. The wood had
grown quite wild, and would be greatly ben-
efitted by the felling of a deal of timber. He
wished, however, to see with his own eyes
that every needy person obtained his proper
share. He sent, therefore, for all household-


PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
93
ers, and soon distributed to this one and to that
one a tree. Theodora came in the place of
her brother. According to his arrangement,
the tree against which Baron von Wahlheim
stood as she came up, was apportioned to her
brother. She stepped up, therefore, and said,
“ That the gracious gentleman would please
to pardon her brother not coming himself, as
he was ill, and could not leave his bed.”
Baron von Wahlheim never thought that
that aged, meanly-dressed woman, was his
mother; and just as little did she think that
the gracious gentleman who stood before her,
handsome and blooming as life itself, in a
fine blue dress, and with a diamond ring on
his finger, was her son. He felt, without
knowing her, the most heartfelt compassion
for her, and gave her the tree.
The forest-master made some demur. “It
is," said he, “a pity to give away that large
handsome beech-tree. Aspens and birches
are good enough for poor people. The beech-
wood ought to be saved for the family use
of the gracious Baron himself.”.
Baron von Wahlheim looked gravely at the
forest-master, and said, “It is not only the


94
PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
bad, and that which we reject, which we
should give to the poor, but of the best also;
and especially in a time of need. The tree
therefore belongs to the sister of the sick
man, and, more than this, it shall be felled
and cut into fire-wood at my cost, and shall
be delivered also at the door of the poor peo-
ple. Lay hand, then, to it instantly, you
wood-cutters, before you cleave my wood.”
He hastened onward in order to spare her
thanks. Theodora looked after him, with
tears in her eyes, and said, "God bless the
good gentleman !" and then went her way.
And thus mother and son, who had seen
each other in this wood, for the last time, up-
wards of twenty years ago, and who this
moment had again met here without recog-
nizing each other, might very well again, and
perhaps for ever, have become separated from
each other, if the holy providence of God
had not ordered it better.
Two wood-cutters immediately laid the
axe to the tree: it fell with a great crash to
the earth; and the men cried out in amaze-
ment, “A miracle !-a real miracle!" The
tree trunk had broken in the fall, a piece of


PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
95
the bark started off, and the men discovered
at once that picture for which Theodora had
so long sought in vain. The colors of the
lovely picture were as perfectly fresh and
lively as ever; and the frame, the gold of
which had been tried in the fire, shimmered
in the light of the sun, as if the picture had
been surrounded with bright rays. The
wood-cutters were young men, and knew
nothing of the history of the picture. "It
goes beyond our understanding,” said they,
“how that beautiful picture of the Virgin
should ever get into the tree! There is some-
thing unheard of in it; it is an evident mir-
acle!”
On the disturbance which the men made,
Baron von Wahlheim, who was scarcely two
hundred paces distant, came up. He took
the picture in his hand and examined it.
“Of a truth," said he, “it is very beautiful,
I might almost say a master-piece. The pale,
melancholy countenance, and moving glance
cast upwards to heaven, are incomparably
beautiful; the red dress, and folds of the dark
blue mantle are also excellently painted.
Still it is very easy to imagine how it caine


96
PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
into the tree. Some pious person has made
a hollow in the tree-trunk, and has placed it
there. The bark, by degrees, as is usual
with these trees, has again closed over it, and
thus the picture has become enclosed in the
tree.”
Suddenly, however, Baron von Wahlheim
grew pale, and his hand which held the pic-
ture trembled. “Ah !" said he, “this is most
extraordinary !" He was obliged to seat him-
self on the trunk of the fallen tree, for he
had turned to the back of the picture, and
had read these words, “In the year of our
Lord 1632, on the 10th of October, I saw
here, under this tree, my only son Augustus,
aged five years and three months, for the
last time. God be with him wherever he
be, and comfort, as he comforted Mary un-
der the Cross, me, the heart-broken mother,
Theodora Sommer.”
The thought went through him like light-
ning. “I was this lost child! Name, year,
and day agree exactly! It was my mother
who placed this picture here !"
As he was thus thinking to himself, his
mother came by. She had been waiting in


PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
97
in the wood for a neighbor, with whom she
was to return to the village, and the tidings
of the picture which had just been found,
filled her with astonishment.
“Ah, gracious sir," said she, “ that picture
is mine. I pray you give it me. See my
name stands to it; the late pastor wrote it
there. At my request also did he write the
other words. Ah,” said she, weeping, as she:
examined the fallen tree, “this then is the
tree under which my child slept for the last
time so sweetly and calmly, before he was
taken from me! How often have I gone,
since I returned here, past this tree without:
recognizing it! Oh, my Augustus—thus,
then, I see the place once more, where my
eyes beheld thee for the last time! Ah!
thee, thee I shall see no more in this life. It
is to me as if I stood upon thy grave !" She
could say no more for weeping
Baron von Wahlheim was almost beside
himself to see his own mother in that poor
woman. His heart burned within him, and
he was ready to spring up and clasp her in
his arms, with the exclamation, “My mo-
ther !” but he restrained himself, for it oc-


PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN. 99
vealed himself to us as the Power who does
all things for the best.”
“Yes," said the mother, "he has done so,
the dear, good God! He has taken thee from
me because I, perhaps, from a too tender love,
might not have brought thee up well. He
has given thee to me again, to be my helper
in need—nay, for the whole country around,
to be a comforting and sustaining angel. All
that He does is wisdom and love. Praised
be His name !" .
All those who stood around joined with
her, and praised God aloud.
Baron von Wahlheim now bade the forest-
master say to the brother of Theodora, that
she would return home next morning, and
then bring her son with her ; and she engaged
her good neighbor to attend, in the meantime,
upon her sick brother. After this, Baron
von Wahlheim ordered his coach to come,
helped his mother into it, placed himself near
her, and drove with her back to his castle.
Here new joy awaited the good woman. She
was half ashamed of appearing in her mean
dress before her daughter-in-law, the Baron-
ess: but Antonia was too noble to think of


100
PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
this; she met her with open arms, saluted
her in the kindest manner, and esteemed her-
self happy in knowing the mother of her
dear husband. Theodora wept for joy; but
when, beyond this, her two grandchildren,
Ferdinand and Marie, were brought to her,
both loving and lovely, amiable and good as
angels, her joy became perfect rapture.
“Inexpressible,” said she, “was my sorrow,
but my joy is now yet still greater. I can do
nothing but weep, praise and thank God !
On the following day, Baron von Wahl-
heim went, with his mother in his coach, to
visit her sick brother. Theodora remained
with her brother till he recovered, and then
removed to the castle, for so her son and his
wife desired. They provided also for her
brother in the most kind manner, for they
were too wise and too good to be ashamed of
any poor relation.
More than this, they invited, on a certain
day, parents, children, and grandchildren, to
a great festival, giving to Theodora the place
of honor. The good people were quite en-
chanted, and sate with tears of joy in their
eyes.


PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN.
101
The Baron and his wife took this opportu-
nity of inquiring exactly into all their cir-
cumstances, and afterwards gave such assist-
ance to each as would be most useful and
advantageous to them.
Baron von Wahlheim hung up the little
picture in the family parlor : "It shall,” said
he, “be a perpetual incitement to confidence
in, and gratitude to, God. The inexpressibly
beautiful glance which Mary casts up to
heaven, shall lead ours there; for what, in
all dangers and sufferings of this life, can
sustain us—can preserve us from sin, and
awaken us to good, more than a pious glance
upwards to heaven ?"


THE BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE,
AN OLD SEAMAN'S STORY.
TD
M’LL tell ye, if ye hearken now,
A thing that chanced to me-
It must be fifty years agone-
Upon the southern sea.
of the First-mate was I of the Nancy,
A tight ship and a sound;
We had made a prosperous voyage,
And then were homeward bound.
We were sailing on the Tropic seas,
Before the trade-wind's power;
Day after day, without delay,
Full thirteen knots an hour.
102


BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE.
103
The sea was as a glassy lake,
By a steady gale impressed;
There was nought for any man to do
But just what liked him best.
And yet the calm was wearisome;
The dull days idly sped;
And sometimes on a flute I played,
Or else a book I read.
And dallying thus one afternoon,
I stood upon the deck ;
When far off, to the leeward,
I saw a faintish speck,
Whether 'twas rock, or fish, or cloud,
At first I did not know;
So I called unto a seaman,
That he might look also.
And as it neared, I saw for sure
That it must be a boat;
But my fellow swore it was not so,
But a large bamboo afloat.
We called a third unto us then,
That he the sight might see;
Then came a fourth, a fifth, a sixth,
But no two could agree.


104 BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE.
“Nay, 't is a little boat,” I said,
“ And it roweth with an oar!"
But none of them could see it so,
All differing as before.
“It cometh on; I see it plain;
It is a boat!" I cried,
“ A little boat o'erlaid with pearl,
And a little child to guide !"
And sure enough, a boat it was,
And worked with an oar;
But such a boat as 't was, no man
Had ever seen before.
Within it sate a little child,
The fairest e'er was seen ;
His robes were like the amethyst,
His mantle of sea-green.
No covering wore he on his head,
And the hair that on it grew
Showered down in thick and wavy locks,
Of the sunniest golden hue.
The rudest man on board our ship
Blest God that sight to see;
For me I could do nought but weep,
Such power had it on me.


BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE. 105
There sat he in his pretty boat
Like an angel from the sky
Regarding us in our great ship,
With wonder in his eye.
The little oar slid from his hand;
His sweet lips were apart;
Within my soul I felt his joy
His wonder in my heart.
And as we tokened him to come,
His little boat he neared,
And smiled at all our friendly words,
Nor seemed the least afeared.
“Come hither a-board !" the captain said ;
And without fear of ill,
He sprang into the lordly ship,
With frank and free good will.
He was no son of the merman;
No syren full of guile ;
But a creature like the cherubim,
From some unknown-of isle.
And strange to tell, his pleasant speech
Was English, every word;
And yet such English, sweet and pure,
As his I never heard.


106
BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE.
There were three, he said, who dwelt with him
Within a tamarind-grove:
His parents and his sister young,–
A family of love.
His father, he said, had made his boat
From out a large sea-shell ;
“And what a wondrous tale," said he,
“I shall this evening tell !”
His robes, he said, his mother had wove
From roots of an Indian-tree ;
And he laugh'd at the clothes the seamen wore,
With the merriest mockery.
When the little child had stayed with us,
May-be an hour or so,
He smiled farewell to all on board,
And said that he would go.
“For I must be back again,” said he,
“For me they all will wait ;
I must be back again," quoth he,
" Or ever the day be late !"
“He shall not go!" the captain said ;
“Haul up his boat and oar !
The pretty boy shall sail with us
To the famous English shore !


BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE.
107
“Thou shalt with me, my pretty boy ;
I'll find thee a new mother ;
I've children three at home, and thou
To them shalt be a brother !"
“Nay, nay, I shall go back !” he said ;
“For thee I do not know ;-
I must be back again,” he cried,
“Before the sun be low!"
Then sprang unto the vessel's side,
And made as he would go.
The captain was a strong, stern man ;
None liked him overwell ;
And to a seaman standing near,
Said he, with voice and look austere,
“Haul up yon cockle-shell !
And you, my boy, content you,
In this goodly ship to dwell !”
As one who gladly would believe
Some awful threat a joke,
So heard the child, with half a smile,
The words the captain spoke.
But when he saw them seize his boat,
And put his oar away,
The smile was gone, and o'er his face
Quick passed a pale dismay.


108
BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE.
And then a passion seized his frame,
As if he were possessed ;
He stamped his little feet in rage,
And smote upon his breast.
'Twas a wicked deed as e'er was done
I longed to set him free;
And the impotence of his great grief
Was a grievous sight to me.
At length, when rage had spent itself,
His lofty heart gave way,
And, falling on his pretty knees,
At the captain's feet he lay.
“Oh take me back again !” he cried,
“Let me not tarry here,
And I'll give thee sea-apples,
And honey rich and clear ;
“And fetch thee heavy pearl-stones
From deep sea-caves below ;
And red tree-gold and coral-tree,
If thou wilt let me go!
“Or if I must abide with thee,
In thy great ship to dwell,
Let me but just go back again,
To bid them all farewell !”


BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE. 109
And at the word “farewell” he wept,
As if his heart would break;
The very memory of his tears
Sore sad my heart doth make.
The captain's self was almost moved
To hear his woful cry;
And there was not within the ship
One man whose eyes were dry.
When the captain saw the seamen’s grief,
An angry man was he,
And shut his heart against the child,
For our great sympathy.
Down from the deck he took him
To his cabin all alone ;
We saw him not for many a day,
But only heard his moan.
TT was a wicked deed, and heaven
All wickedness doth hate ;
And vengeance on the oppressor
It cometh soon or late,


110
BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE.
As you will see. There something was,
Even from the very night
Whereon the captain stole the child,
On board that was not right.
From out the cabin evermore,
Where they were all alone,
We heard, oh piteous sounds to hear,
A low and quiet moan;
And now and then cries sad enough
To move a heart of stone.
The captain had a conscious look,
Like one who doeth wrong,
And yet who striveth all the time
Against a conscience strong.
The seamen did not work at all
With a good will or a free ;
And the ship, as she were sullen too,
Went slowly over the sea.
· 'Twas then the captain from below
Sent down in haste for me.
I found him lying on his bed,
Oppressed with fever-pain ;
And by his death-struck face, I saw
That he would not rise again, -


BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE.
111
That he, so lately hale and strong,
Would never rise again.
“I have done wickedly,” said he,
“ And Christ doth me condemn ;
I have children three on land,” groaned he,
“And woe will come to them!
“I have been weighed, and wanting found;
I've done an evil deed !--
I pray thee, mate, 't is not too late,
Take back this child with speed !
“I have children three," again groaned he,
“And I pray that this be done !
Thou wilt have order of the ship
When I am dead and gone :-
I pray thee do the thing I ask,
That mercy may be won !"
I vowed to do the thing he asked,
Upon the Testament;
And, true enough, that very day
To his account he went.
I took the little child away,
And set him on my knee,
In the free fresh air upon the deck,
But he spoke no word to me.


112
BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE.
I feared at first that all his grief
Had robbed him of his speech,
And that I ne'er by word or look,
His sunken soul could reach.
At length he woke from that dead woe,
Like one that long hath slept,
And cast his arms about my neck,
And long and freely wept.
I clasped him close unto my breast,
Yet knew not what to say,
To wile from him the misery
That on his spirit lay.
At length I did bethink me
Of Jesus Christ; and spake
To that poor lamb of all the woe
He suffered for our sake.
“For me and thee, dear child,” I said,
“He suffered, and be sure
He will not lay a pang on thee
Without he give the cure !"
Like as the heavy clouds of night
Pass from the coming day,
So cleared the sullen weight of woe
From his dear soul away.


BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE. 113
Oh happy hours of converse sweet ;~-
The Christian's hope he knew,
And with an eager heart he gained
That knowledge sweet and new.
And ever by my side he kept,
Loving, and meek, and still:
But never more to him returned
His bold and wayward will :
He had been tried and purified
From every taint of ill.
The eve whereon the captain died,
I turned the ship about,
And said unto the seamen good,
“We'll find the island out.”
So back unto the place we came,
Where we the child had found;
And two full days, with anxious watch,
We sailed it all around.
And on the third, at break of day,
A far-off peak was seen;
And then the low-lands rose to view,
All woody, rich, and green.


114
BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE.
Down on his knees the child he fell,
When the mountains came in view,
And tears ran streaming from his eyes,
For his own isle he knew.
And, with a wildly piercing tone,
He cried, “Oh mother dear,
Weep not,—I come, my mother !"
Long, long ere she could hear.
And soon we saw a mountain-top
Whereon a beacon burned;
Then as the good ship neared the land,
An answer was returned.
“Oh give to me my boat !” he cried,
“And give to me mine oar!”.
Just then we saw another boat
Pushed from the island-shore.
A carved boat of sandal-wood,
Its sail a silken mat,
All richly wrought in rainbow-dyes,
And three within her sat.
Down from the ship into the sea
The little boy he sprung ;
And the mother gave a scream of joy,
With which the island rung.


BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE. 115
Like some sea-creature beautiful
He swam the ocean-tide,
And ere we wondered at his skill
He clomb the shallop's side.
Next moment in his mother's arms
He lay, O sweet embrace !
Looking from her dear bosom up
Into her loving face.
The happiest and the sweetest sight
That e'er mine eyes will see,
Was the coming back of this poor child
Unto his family!
-Now wot ye of his parentage ?
Sometime I'll tell you it:
Of meaner matter many a time
Has many a book been writ.
'T would make a pleasant history
Of joy scarce touched by woe;
Of innocence and love ; but now
This only must you know.
His mother was of English birth,
Well-born, and young, and fair ;
In the wreck of an East-Indiaman
She had been saved there.


116
BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE.
His father was the island's chief,
Goodly as man can be ;
Adam, methinks in Paradise
Was such a one as he.
”T is not for my weak speech to tell
The joy so sweet and good,
Of these kind, simple islanders,
Nor all their gratitude.
Whate'er the island held they gave;
Delicious fruits and wines,
Rich-tinted shells from out the sea,
And ore from out their mines.
But I might not stay ; and that same day
Again we turned about,
And, with the wind that changed then
Went from the harbor out.
—'Tis joy to do an upright deed;
'Tis joy to do a kind ;
And the best reward of virtuous deeds
Is the peace of one's own mind.
But a blessing great went with the ship,
And with the freight she bore ;
The pearl-shells turned to great account,
So did the island's ore;-


DOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE. 117
But I someway lost my reckoning,
Nor found the island more.
And how the child became a man,
Or what to him befel,
As I never trod the island more,
Is not for me to tell.

COOOO


THE BIRDS AND THE GUINEA-PIGS:
OR,
HOW THE PANTRY-DOOR KEY WAS LOST, AND
THEN FOUND.
ell e r ILD and pleasant
W
was the weather,
in the beginning
of January; the Poet's
two children ran about
the garden with no-
thing on their heads
but their beautiful long
hair. Up in the pigeon-cote there
was a deal of discussion going on:
Jessy and Crow, one pair of pigeons,
were talking about having eggs, and a young
brood; while Snowdrop and her little hus-
band Cravates said it was quite too soon to
think of such a thing. These pigeons be-

· 118


THE BIRDS, ETC. 119
longed to the poet's children, who fed them
twice every day and loved them very dearly.
They were very handsome pigeons: Jessy
was quite a rainbow of colors, and he strut-
ted prodigiously; Crow, his wife, was very
dark, all purple and green; nobody would
have taken her for a hen-pigeon, she was so
large and grand. The other pair, Snowdrop
and Cravates, were very different; she was
as white as snow, and looked as sleek and
round as if she had been cut out of marble;
her husband, Cravates, was of rich red brown,
with a white ring round his neck, which the
children called his cravat. On the floor of
the dove-cote lived a pair of guinea-pigs, Toby
and Jenny. Toby was a quiet old fellow
that lived very much to himself, and never
troubled his mind about anything; he squeak-
ed a little to himself; he always found plen-
ty to eat, and that was all he cared for.
Jenny, his wife, was a little plump, busy,
merry guinea-pig, that not only looked after
her own large family, but kept up a deal of
intercourse with the pigeons: they were on
the best terms in the world, and now, when
there was all this discussion about whether


120
THE BIRDS AND
the pigeons should begin to lay or not, she
sided with Jessy and his wife, and told them
by all means to make a nest, and have a
brood, for that it was an uncommonly fine
season, there would be no more cold weather,
not a bit! and even if there were, what would
it matter ;-fat, well-feathered birds like them
never felt the cold; for her part, she never
felt it: she had forgotten what cold was.
The poet's children, she said, never let them
want; for her part, she did not believe in the
existence of such a thing! It was only a
bugbear to frighten ignorant pigeons and
guinea-pigs with. Jessy and Crow said the
same; they said they always felt so warm
about their hearts, and their feathers were so
thick, that even after they had eaten their fill
there was plenty of food, so they would have
a brood.
Cravates and Snowdrop were convinced
by what they heard, and when Crow's young
ones began to peep from the egg, Snowdrop
had been sitting three days. Jenny, the
guinea-pig, had seven little ones. It was
the merriest little region of life that ever was


THE GUINEA-PIGS.
121
seen. Guinea-pigs and pigeons were all as
warm and fat as possible. The poet's chil-
dren were as happy as these little creatures ;
they clapped their hands and screamed with
delight when they saw the young pigeons
come out of the shell. Snowdrop and Cra-
vates were now full of family business, first
one sat on the eggs, and then the other, and
in two weeks they also would have two
young pigeons.
There were many changes of weather in.
January: now it was fine and mild, and
then it was bitterly cold, and froze and snow-
ed, and thawed and froze again; the pond
was covered with ice, and little boys slided..
At the commencement of February it grew
colder and colder every day; the earth
was like a hard board, nothing could come
out of it, and the little snowdrops and.
hepaticas, and winter aconites, that had ven-
tured in the mild weather to put up their
heads, now were quite sorry for it, and were
so pinched with cold they did not know what
to do. They said one to another how cold:
the bed was, and they wished so much that
snow would fall, and thus give them blan-


122
THE BIRDS AND
kets and coverlets to keep them warm ; but
no snow came, and every day it froze harder
and harder.
The poet's children, like their pigeons, felt
very little of the cold, for they were well fed,
and full of life and strength, and had warm
woollen clothes on; twice every day they
went and fed their pigeons and their guinea-
pigs. Snowdrop's young ones were ready to
be hatched, and Crow's were growing fa-
mously ; but they had as yet only greyish
down on their little bodies. One day they
said to their mother that something “bit
them.” “ It is only the cold," she replied ;
“silly little things!” and she told them to lie
closer under her feather petticoat, which was
lined with down, and so they did; and they
felt no more cold, for their mother and her
feather petticoat were as warm as a little fire.
Just then, old Jessy, the father, came in; he
had been taking his morning airing, and it
was amazing what a deal of cold air seemed
to come in with him; the very tips of his
feathers seemed frozen ; but he said he was
as warm as a toast; that he felt nothing of
the cold. He said he had been up at the


THE GUINEA-PIGS.
123
rookery; that they were all in a pretty state
there; they had begun to build some days
before, while the weather was mild; but
that now everything was at a stand-still; and
they were all talking of a famine; they
looked very discontented and down-hearted,
and they said they did not know what would
be the end of all this; they could get no-
thing out of the ground, and they could get
nothing out of the air,—what then was to
become of them? Jessy said it was very
unpleasant to hear all this; and he told
them that, for his part, he believed there was
plenty of food to be had, if they would only
look for it; he had often heard their outcries
of famine, but he thought it was all discon-
tent, and of people's own bringing about.
The rooks were very angry to hear him talk
thus, and if he had not flown off he did not
know what the consequences might have
been; he then went into the poet's garden,
and there were all the foolish flowers that
had come out too soon, shivering like naked
beggars in the street, till it was quite unplea-
sant to see them ; he told them, that they
should have stopped at home by their warm


124
THE BIRDS AND
fires, and in bed among the blankets, and
that if they would run themselves into trou-
ble, they must take the consequences. The
flowers made no reply, for their poor mouths
were so stiff with cold that they could not
open them. The next thing he saw were
the little birds of the garden ; there were
robins, and tom-tits, and red-starts, and hun-
dreds of sparrows; they had all puffed out
their feathers like so many muffs to keep
them warm, and they looked plump enough,
but all they talked about was this famine.
There was nothing to be had, and they
thought they must all die; they looked very
dismal and dispirited; they could not even
twitter ; they did nothing but hop about on
the hard, stony ground, and pick at little
bits of dirt, out of which nothing came; or
if anything eatable were in it, ten to one but
three or four of them fell to quarreling about
it. They told dismal tales about many that
had died, and said they expected that they
too should die of want; they said everything
was against them this winter; that last
summer so little hedge-fruit came to matu-
rity, and thus the great store of nature was


THE GUINEA-PIGS.
125
empty ; there were no berries on the pyrac-
antha that grew up one side of the poet's
house this year, and that was a great loss;
and they did not know why, but the poet's
children seemed to have forgotten them, they
found no crumbs now, as they used to do.
Oh! it was very melancholy, and they knew
that they should all die of want. The black-
birds and the thrushes that sate upon the
boughs about, sighed out the same melan-
choly ditty ; they said that this great frost
had locked up the pantry-door, and there
was no chance but of their dying of hunger.
It troubled Jessy the pigeon to hear all
this. He felt very uncomfortable, and he
wished not to believe what he had heard.
He told his wife, and Snowdrop, and her
husband, and old Jenny the guinea-pig; and
just as he had finished, up came, like two
beautiful angels, the poet's children, and
scattered tares and peas for the pigeons, and
brought bread and milk and green sprouts
for the guinea-pigs. There was such plenty
in this dovecote ; there could be no want out
of doors—there could be no famine ;-it
must be discontent, and improvidence, and


126
THE BIRDS AND
bad management which brought the others
into their evil plight. Whilst the pigeons
were thus settling the question, old Toby,
the father guinea-pig, who had not yet spo-
pen, asked abruptly, “Why did they lock the
pantry-door-we always let ours stand open,
and therefore we always have plenty.” They
all said that Toby had hit the right nail on
the head, and Jessy siad before long he
would go out and ask the same question of
all the discontented out of doors.
The frost grew harder and harder, and
one morning a heavy yellowish cloud filled
the sky, and the white feathery snow began
to fall; all day and all night it fell. The
garden was beautiful; it lay two feet deep
upon the ground, and on the upper surface
of every leafless branch and bough, and
bent the evergreens like heavy plumes. Ev-
erything was as silent as death ; not a bird
twittered. The little snowdrops, and hepat-
icas, and winter aconites, said one to an-
other when the snow began to fall, “The
blessing is come at last ; now we shall go to
sleep, and lie warm and snug till the better
days come.” They closed their eyes, and


THE GUINEA-PIGS.
127
fell into the sweetest sleep, and the soft, deli-
cate snow, like loving hands, heaped up the
warm covering around them.
The little birds-robins, and redstarts, and
tomtits, and the little good-for-nothing spar-
rows-peeped from under the broad leaves of
the ivy that thickly covered the whole of
the poet's house, and did nothing but sigh
all day long. “It will be a deep, deep snow,"
said they; "it may berhaps lie four or five
weeks; the pantry-door key will be lost in
the snow, and how shall we ever get the
door open again ?" The snow fell thicker
and faster, and in the afternoon the poet's
gardener cut a path through the snow from
the kitchen-door to the dovecote. The old
garden blackbird, the bird that had cheered
the hearts of the poet and his children all
last summer, sate half-starved in a hole in
the sycamore tree, and saw the two children,
wrapped up in great coats and cloaks till
only their eyes and the tips of their noses
could be seen, go from the kitchen-door along
the path that had been cut in the snow to
the dove-house. They carried tares and peas
in a basket, and soaked bread in a basin;


128
THE BIRDS AND
they were going to feed their favorites, and
never once thought of all the little hungry
stomachs and longing eyes that were all
around them.
"The pantry-door is fast locked, and the
key is now lost !” was sighed out all that
night from under the roof and from the
crannies of the old walls, and from under
the ivy leaves, and from the hollows of the
sycamore trunk. “The pantry-door key is
lost, and we shall die of hunger!" The
poor rooks left off building; the snow lay a
ſoot deep in every unfinished nest; the last
year's rooks asked the old ones if they had
ever known the pantry-door key lost before.
Very few of them ever had ; they had heard
their grandfathers talk of such a thing in
their time, but they did not think it could
have been as bad as this! The key of the
pantry-door had never certainly been quite
lost before ; but they hoped it might be
found. The young rooks were quite dis-
heartened, they did not believe that the key
ever would be found. They were ready to
grow desperate ; it was all that the most ex-


THE GUINEA-PIGS.
129
perienced could do to persuade them to pa-
tience and hope.
The poet stood at his window and looked
out; the snow had lost its first purity; it had
fallen from the tree branches, and had been
shaken out from the evergreens, lest it should
break them; it lay like a casing of marble over
all the earth : it was hard frozen, and glit-
tered in the sun like crystal points. It was
now a week since it had fallen, and there
seemed no chance of the frost going. The
poet saw his children rush from the dove-
house with their rosy faces and bright eyes :
Crow's two young pigeons were full feather-
ed; how they had grown ! and Snowdrop's
were like two little balls of down. The
children were on their way to tell this to
their father.
But before they came he had something
to tell them. As he stood at his window he
had seen the rooks on their way through
the cold wintry sky to the distant meadows.
What could the poor rooks find there for
food? The thought fell on his heart with a
sadness. He thought of all the suffering
creatures in this bitter season, and he wish-


130
THE BIRDS AND
ed that he could help and save them all.
Whilst he was thus thinking, he heard the
twittering of the little birds in the laurusti-
nas round the window, and he saw the old
blackbird sitting just above in the arbutus.
Hunger had made them very tame. He
heard their mournful twitter, and he under-
stood it—for a poet understands all lan-
guages, especially those which come from
sorrowful hearts. At that moment his two
children came in : “Hush,” said he, and they
trod as softly as falling snow; “listen to
what the little birds are all saying. They
say, 'the pantry-door is locked, and the key
is lost! there is no one to feed us, and we
shall all die of hunger ! This is what the
little birds are saying.
The tears started to the children's eyes,
and their father continued, “ Thus say the
little birds; and they speak truly; their
pantry-door is locked, and the key is lost;
many of them will die; they are now like
so many little skeletons; they have puffed
out their feathers to keep them warm, but
they are starved for all that; for the famish-
ed have so little warmth within them. We


132
THE BIRDS AND
“Yes,” said their father, “it is a serious
thing when creatures with appetites find the
pantry-door locked, and the key lost. You
must think about these things !"
“But I think,” said he, again speaking,
and this time more cheerfully, that this bird
is not dead; I believe it is only benumbed,
and I tkink we can revive it.” The children
rushed about like wild creatures, for they had
such loving hearts. They could find neither
a cage nor a basket at the moment, but they
brought an old last year's garden-bonnet,
trimmed with blue ribbon ; they put some
warm flannel in it, laid the bird within it,
and then tied the bonnet in a handkerchief;
their father said he would take charge of it
for them, in his study, and they must go and
see if they could not get the pantry open for.
the other poor little birds.
They could not understand what the birds
said as well as their father, because they
were only poet's children ; so in the even-
ing, when all the birds had had a good
dinner, he told them what had been said.
They had said that the old blackbird was
right; help had come when they at least


THE GUINEA-PIGS.
133
expected it; somebody had picked the lock
or burst the pantry-door open, and behold
every shelf was full of bread! They won-
dered how it was ;—they were only birds,
and so they could not tell; this, however,
was certain, there was plenty now where but
a minute before there had been famine. It
was just as the good blackbird had said.
He was a prophet and a poet, and yet he
who knew all this, and had cheered them
with hope, was dead! That was a sad
thing! They must confess that he was a
great poet; they had not thought much of
him when he was alive; but they must
raise a monument to him now he is dead.
“But he is not dead," said the children ; "he
is all alive in the magpie's cage, and very
happy !"
“But they do not know it,” said the father ;
“they think him dead and mourn for him.
They thought very little of him when he was
amongst them, but they will honor him now
they think him dead."
The frost still lasted; and the pantry re-
mained as full as ever. Jessy went and told
them in the dove-house that he knew he was


THE GUINEA-PIGS.
135
comed each the other; and then the flowers
understood all about the dreadful time that
had been since they went to sleep. Many
birds were dead ; that was a certainty :
many a dear little bird that had sung to the
flowers last summer would never sing to
them again! Among those that had died,
they said, was the grand old poet, the black-
bird; he was a wonderful creature; he suf-
fered dreadfully in the famine; but he tried
to cheer all their hearts, and foretold the
better times, and the opening of the pantry-
door, just before it took place; but he never
saw it himself. That was the one sorrow
they had to deplore; and they did deplore it
sincerely.
The flowers were very sorry, tears hung in
the snowdrop's beautiful eyes, for she loved
the blackbird. At that moment all the little
birds flew away, for they heard footsteps
coming down the garden walk. It was the
poet's children, with the great magpie's cage,
in which was the blackbird. They set it
just opposite the snowdrops and the other
flowers, for they said, “he shall see how


136
THE BIRDS AND
beautiful the garden is the moment he gets
out of the cage.”
The blackbird sprang from the open door
of the cage, and flew into a hawthorn-tree
that grew just by. All the little flowers saw
him, and could hardly believe their eyes.
The moment he alighted on the tree, he
carolled forth such a hymn of thankfulness
and joy as filled the whole garden. The
little birds could scarcely believe their ears.
He was alive and well! His song told
everything, and every one interpreted it his
own way. The poet heard it as he sat in
his study; it told him that the spring-time
-a time of plenty and of gladness—was at
hand. A gushing tide of love and gratitude
warmed his heart; he took up his pen, and
wrote words which were immortal.
It reached the fat pigeons on the house-
top, as they were strutting about with their
young broods, now out in the great world
for the first time; and old Jessy said to his
wife, that if it really were true about the
famine, he was glad that such a fine singer
as the blackbird had got well through it!
It reached the poor rooks, that had suffered


THE GUINEA-PIGS.
137
so dreadfully in the famine, as they sate on
their elm-tree tops, and taking the song for a
good omen, they began their building again
that very moment. As to the little flowers
down in the garden-beds, they were so full
of joy, that they reared up their heads, and
opened their beautiful eyes to the sun, and
shot down their little roots under ground,
and woke the sleepy worms and little shining
insects, and told them it was time to be stir-
ring, for the beautiful spring season had just
begun.
All that day nothing was heard but a
shouting on the tree-tops--the burden of the
song was the same everywhere—“ The key
that was lost so long has been found ; the
pantry-door stands wide open ; and there is
plenty for all !" The poet's children walked
hand in hand in the garden, and were hap-
pier than ever.


CORN-FIELDS.
N the young merry time of spring,
When clover 'gins to burst;
When blue-bells nod within the wood,
And sweet May whitens first;
When merle and mavis sing their fill,
@ye Green is the young corn on the hill.
But when the merry spring is past,
And summer groweth bold,
And in the garden and the field
A thousand flowers unfold;
Before a green leaf yet is sere,
The young corn shoots into the ear.
But then as day and night succeed,
And summer weareth on,
And in the flowery garden-beds
The red-rose groweth wan,
138


CORN-FIELDS.
139
Ånd hollyhock and sunflowers tall
O’ertop the mossy garden-wall :
When on the breath of autumn breeze,
From pastures dry and brown,
Goes floating, like an idle thought,
The fair white thistle down;
O then what joy to walk at will,
Upon the golden harvest-hill
What joy in dreamy ease to lie
Amid a field new-shorn,
And see all round on sun-lit slopes,
The piled up shocks of corn,
And send the fancy wandering o'er
All pleasant harvest-fields of yore.
I feel the day ; I see the field;
The quivering of the leaves ;
And good old Jacob and his house
Binding the yellow sheaves ;
And at this very hour I seem
To be with Joseph in his dream.
I see the fields of Bethlehem,
And reapers many a one,


140
CORN-FIELDS.
Bending unto their sickles' stroke,
And Boaz looking on;
And Ruth, the Moabitess fair,
Among the gleaners stooping there.
Again, I see a little child,
His mother's sole delight;
God's living gift of love unto
The kind, good Shunamite;
To mortal pangs I see him yield,
And the lad bear him from the field.
The sun-bathed quiet of the hills ;
The fields of Galilee,
That eighteen hundred years agone
Were full of corn, I see,
And the dear Saviour take his way
’Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath-day.
O golden fields of bending corn,
How beautiful they seem !-
The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves,
To me are like a dream;
The sunshine and the very air
Seem of old time, and take me there !


THE PIGEON-HOUSE.
AN AUTUMN TALE, OF THE SWEET USES OF
ADVERSITY.

WAIR Summer was
e past; the roses,
76 and the jasmines,
and the sweet peas, were
all over and gone for this
year; but the poet's garden
was full of flowers for all
that. The dahlias were
out, and the chrysanthe-
mums and china-asters, and great big cock's-
combs, like crimson madrapores, made of
velvet : the leaves were changing on the
trees; but apples were yet hanging golden
and red upon the boughs, and looking as
beautiful as flowers; and as frosts had not
141


THE PIGEON-HOUSE.
143
son hawthorn in blossom ; the eggs that the
birds then sate on were now little living birds,
that flew with great flocks of their kind into
the stubble fields. The rooks had reared
their young ones, and so had the blackbirds,
and all for the time present were living in a
land of plenty, forgetting that in the early
spring the pantry-door key had been lost for
a season. Everything was changed, but
most of all was there a change in the pigeon
house, where Jessy and Crow and Snow-
drop and Cravates had lived "on clover," as
the saying is, when all the world around
them were starving. They lived then, as
they did now, in the higher regions of the
dove-house, and the fat little guinea-pigs,
Toby and Jenny, with all their numerous
family, lived below them.
When first we spoke of these pigeons, Jes-
sy, and his handsome wife, Crow, in her blue
and green shot-satin, were the lord and lady
of the place, and Cravates and his wife their
respectable neighbors. Jessy and Crow built
their nest, and laid their eggs, and reared
their broods, and all things went prosperous-
ly with them. Cravates and Snowdrop did


144
THE PIGEON-HOUSE.
the same, but they were unfortunate. “Cra:
vates must be in bad circumstances,” said
Jessy to his wife; "he has such a down-cast
look with him. He never goes strutting
about on the roof in the sunshine, as I do.
You may take my word for it, his banker
has broke, or he has over-speculated, or he
has got an execution in his house !” and
with that the next time they met on the
roof, Jessy swaggered up to him and shoved
him aside. Jessy was tremendously proud
in those days; and his wife stood by and
admired what she thought her husband's
spirit; and what was still worse, their eldest
brood, now a couple of flaunting pigeons,
named Pecksey and Flapsey, seeing the
little respect their parents had for Cravates
in his trouble, never saw him without tread-
ing on his toes, or on his tail, till it had
quite a draggled and disconsolate look.
Poor Cravates did not resent this ill-treat-
ment; but when he saw them coming, tried
quietly to get out of their way. Nobody
pitied Cravates but the poet's children ; and
tears were often in their eyes when they saw
his troubles and the unkindness of his neigh-


THE PIGEON-HOUSE.
145
bors. These children were to the pigeon-
house like the good angels of God to human
beings. They looked on and pitied the sor-
rowing, and mourned over the arrogance of
the proud; but morning and night they duly
gave to all of their bounty-to the good and
to the evil alike.
One day, while poor Cravates was in his
trouble, a new pair of pigeons made their
appearance in the house; they were both
dressed in black velvet and white satin; she
wore a black velvet dress, and white satini
petticoat; he, a black velvet coat, and white
satin waistcoat and breeches. They looked
exactly as if they were going to court, and
as if they had new dresses for every day..
They were evidently in good circumstances;
they were pigeons of birth and breeding, and
they settled themselves down in their new
home with a self-possession and propriety
that was quite instructive. Jessy and Crow
saw from the first moment that they must
be treated with respect. The new comers
were Dico and Dixi. Jessy could see at a
glance that they had ancestors, perhaps, as
far back as the Norman conquest; they
10


146
THE PIGEON-HOUSE.
looked as people do who have loads of
money in the bank, and who, from time im-
memorial, have had a fine old family seat of
their own. If they had been men and
women, they would have been the most
noble the Marquis and Marchioness Dico
and Dixi, and their children would have
been earls and countesses. Jessy immedi-
ately sought to make their acquaintance, and
endeavored to enlist them in the persecution
of the poor unfortunate Cravates. Dico and
Dixi, however, treated Jessy with the utmost
coolness; they said they did not wish for his
acquaintance, and as to poor Cravates, he
and his troubles were matters of no conse-
quence to them; they knew nothing of him,
either for or against ; that there was a deal
of trouble in the world, there always had
been and always must be,-but they did not
see what they had to do with it. They
must have thought Jessy a snob and an up-
start, a purse-proud fellow, and a parvenu,
from the way in which they treated him.
As to poor Cravates, he had too much on his
own spirits to trouble himself about any of
his neighbors. Jessy's wife and his eldest


THE PIGEON-HOUSE. 147
brood, Pecksey and Flapsey, were equally
unsuccessful in making acquaintance with
the grand new pigeons; they, therefore, set
them down for a couple of proud aristocrats,
who thought themselves too good to associ-
ate with their fellows; they were very much
vexed, but they did not dare to begin any
persecution; for Dico and Dixi looked like
those whom it was better not to meddle
with.
About this time Cravates died; and Jessy
and his wife, and Pecksey and Flapsey, and
the other young pigeons, had a deal to say
respecting the post-mortem examination,
which the poet and his children had made.
Something like copper was found in his sto-
mach. “He had taken poison,” said Jessy,
“no doubt, therefore, but that his circum-
stances were bad, and that he was on the
point of bankruptcy, and had committed
suicide.” He even told this to Dico and Dixi;
but it did not interest them at all! Never
in this world was there such pride as this !
Jessy thought how he should like to tread on
their black velvet and white satin : but
there seemed no chance of such a thing !


148
THE PIGEON-HOUSE.
Cravates was dead. Pecksey and Flapsey
set up housekeeping together; and the most
noble the Marquis and Marchioness Dico and
Dixi had an heir and an heiress. Snowdrop
was solitary; but neither Jessy nor Crow
offered her any consolation; nay, even, I am
ashamed to confess it—when they saw her
come out to sit in the sunshine on the roof,
they shoved her off, just as they had done
poor Cravates; they strutted about, and ad-
mired one another as the sun shone on their
beautiful plumage, and grew more and more
self-satisfied and tyrannical every day.
But a great change was at hand. One
day, a stout-built, thick-necked, positive, do-
mineering sort of pigeon, was introduced as
a resident into this little community. He
was dressed in black, with a white patch
under his beak. He was the famous cham- .
pion, Blackbeard ; not so called because his
beard was black, but because he wore black
and had a white beard.
Jessy, when he saw this second new arri-
val, of course introduced himself; but such
a fellow as this Blackbeard had never been
in the pigeon-house before. He did not strut


THE PIGEON-HOUSE.
149
about in the conceited way that Jessy and
Crow did, as if they were always thinking
about themselves; nor did he carry himself
at all with the cool self-possession of the most
noble Dico and Dixi; he was a positive,
dogmatical, overbearing, unscrupulous fel-
low, with impudence and audacity for any-
thing. Jessy thought at first he was just the
fellow to join with him in putting down the
pride of their 'aristocratic neighbors ; but
Blackbeard cared nothing for the pride and
indifference and self-possession of Dico and
Dixi; he did not trouble himself about them.
Jessy and Crow set down Blackbeard for a
low, vulgar ruffian, and they hoped Dico and
Dixi would join them in putting such an in-
sufferable fellow down. But Dico and Dixi
would do nothing of the kind; and though
they never had any intimacy with Black-
beard, it was not long before Jessy had the
mortification of seeing that they were quite
as civil to him, in their cold, proud way, as
they had ever been to himself-perhaps a
little more so.
In a very short time there was a regular
feud between Jessy and Blackbeard. Jessy


150
THE PIGEON-HOUSE.
had never in his life met with his match be-
fore; and, one day, when he was strutting
about in the sunshine on the roof, that his
wife might admire him, what should Black-
beard do but strut up to him, and try to
tread on his toes. It was more than Jessy
could bear. His spirit was roused, and he
strutted up to him in return, meaning to
shove him right off the roof; but he might
as well have tried to shove off the roof itself.
They fought, and each said he had won the
victory. Poor Jessy! a most uncomfortable
feeling rose in his mind that Blackbeard was
not so easy to be conquered. He wondered
that Pecksey and Flapsey, his own offspring,
did not join with him, and give the fellow a
regular beating ; and then it came out that
Blackbeard was paying attentions to Flapsey,
and there was every reason to suppose that
she would become his wife.' Here was an
affair in the pigeon-house!
To Jessy it seemed as if the very world
were coming to an end ; there was a convul-
sion everywhere; nobody seemed quiet and
cool but Dico and Dixi, and they did not
condescend to mix themselves up in the


THE PIGEON-HOUSE.
151
affair. Jessy, who now began to feel the
force of adverse circumstances, bethought
himself of the guardian and guiding angels
of the pigeon-house, and wondered they did
not interfere to put things to right.
Things, however, had to get a great deal
worse before they could be mended. The
poet's children looked on and mourned, but
the time for their interference had not yet
come. Blackbeard cast off the poor solitary
Snowdrop, and Flapsey and he became hus-
band and wife. He had a prodigious notion
of his own importance, and was determined
to master Jessy, but he did not ask Dico and
Dixi, or anybody, to help him, because he
fancied he was strong enough for anything.
Jessy and Crow had now another young
brood,—it was the fourth or fifth they had
had, for they were a most domestic couple-
the very best of parents. Blackbeard turned
all this into ridicule; he said that people
were foolish for bothering themselves with
large families; so his wife Flapsey sate on
one egg, which in due time was hatched.
Poor Jessy never now went out to suu him-
self on the roof, or to pick tares and barley,


152
THE PIGEON-HOUSE.
which morning and night the poet's children
scattered out of that basket which never was
empty, without Blackbeard thrusting himself
before him, and shoving him away, or pick-
ing up the very grains that he wanted.
Again and again they fought, and now it
was no uncommon thing for Blackbeard to
tread upon Jessy's toes.
There were several beams which ran
across the pigeon-house. Jessy had his nest
over one of them, Blackbeard over another,
and the mansion of the noble Dico and Dixi
was just by a third ; and beside them, there
were others, which, like public pleasure-
grounds, had hitherto been common to every
one. Now, however, Blackbeard laid claim
to all; he even encroached upon the demesne
of Dico and Dixi; as to Jessy, he would not
suffer him to set his foot anywhere but on
his own beam, whilst he himself marched
about here and there, up this beam and down
that, with all the daring swagger of a bravo.
Anybody who had seen Jessy now might
have said that his circumstances were em-
barrassed, that he had been over-speculating,
and that he would be a bankrupt some of these


THE PIGEON-HOUSE. 153
days, so careworn and dejected did he begin
to look. He no longer strutled about on the
roof in the sunshine; and when he saw
Blackbeard approaching, he flew away. His
spirit was subdued; everything seemed
gloomy and discouraging. The summer
was past—the long, bright and warm days,
the days of his glory and self-gratulation,
were over. The leaves of the sycamore
were brown and curled, and every wind that
blew shook hundreds of them down. The
lark, the linnet, and the blackbird, that elo-
quent poet of spring, of gladness, and of hope,
were silent; he and the rest of his fellows
were out on the abundant stubbles, rejoicing
in the bounty of autumn. Jessy sate alone,
and to him the world seemed a dreary his-
tory of oppression and discouragement.-
Blackbeard, who had neither sentiment nor
pity, thought only of crushing the bird that
he hated ; and he fell upon him on every
occasion, and persecuted and tormented him.
Jessy would now have given anything to be
quiet ; perhaps he now remembered poor
Cravates with pity, and wished that he had
shown him kindness and mercy. He and


154
THE PIGEON-HOUSE.
Crow sate together on their beam, and Black-
beard swaggered about over his broad terri-
tory; he was lord and master of the pigeon-
house. He had humbled the pride of Jessy,
but that did not satisfy him ; and it seemed
now as if he would have his life. Jessy's
and Crow's feathers, plucked by Blackbeard,
flew about the pigeon-house, and even in the
autumn sunshine and among the falling.
leaves of the sycamore. It was a melancho-
ly sight.
Poor Jessy sate on the roof of the garden-
house, , and long trails of the gossamer-spi-
der's web floated around him. The garden
was as still as death, excepting when the
wind passed mournfully among the shivering
leaves, and scattered them down with every
breath; or now and then, when an apple
fell on the grass from the old apple-tree with
a dull sound, and then lay motionless. There
was something mournful in the garden, and
Jessy thought of his own torn and dingy
plumage when he saw the seared and un-
sightly leaves of the trees. His pride was
gone, like the pride of the year; they were
both sad and dishonored together.


THE PIGEON-HOUSE.
155
With slow steps the poet walked up and
down his garden. An expansive spirit of
love filled his heart, which was sedate rather
than gay; for he, too, was thinking on many
things which were calculated to sadden.
All at once, amid the silence of the place
and the melancholy of the fading and falling
leaves, a little robin redbreast began to sing.
Its song was low but clear, and tender as the
song of an angel. The poet heard it, and as
he was a real poet, he understood every tone
that it uttered. It sang of the sweet uses of
adversity; how winter gives birth to spring,
how death opens the portals of eternal life ;
how suffering and sorrow, unkindness and
ingratitude, and the hardness of men's hearts,
bring forth love, and pity, and forgiveness in
noble and pure natures; it sang how that
there is no suffering, no humiliation, no sor-
row, which has not its compensation, and
that in a hundred-fold degree, if we will only
receive our affliction in meekness and pa-
tience, and the submission of love. It spoke
of angels that watch over the mourner,—
that breathe into his soul consolations which
cannot be spoken by words; it spoke of hope,


156
THE PIGEON-HOUSE.
and truth, and faith ; and the chorus of his
song was still “the uses of adversity are
sweet."
The sorrowing bird and the poet received
willingly the consolatory influence. Crow
joined Jessy on the roof, but there was no
more strutting about, no desire to lord it over
others. They sat side by side in silence, as
if they were waiting for something. And
they were, but they knew it not.
Justice and Mercy had in the meantime
done their work in the pigeon-house Black-
beard, the tyrant oppressor, and his weak
companion, Flapsey, were gone; their fel-
lows would see them no more, and their
nestling lay beside Jessy's and Crow's in
their nest. Now was an opportunity for
them to return good for evil.
Jessy and Crow fed the young bird as if it
had been their own. The poet's chidren told
their father, and he explained to them all
that the robin had sung of the sweet uses of
adversity.


THE SPIRIT'S QUESTIONINGS.

ZANU
HERE shall I meet thee,
y Thou beautiful one?
Where shall I find thee,
For aye who art gone ?
What is the shape
To thy clear spirit given ?
Where is thy home
In the infinite heaven ?
I see thee, but still
As thou wert upon earth,
In thy bodied delight,
In thy wonder and mirth!
But now thou art one
Of the glorified band,
Who have touched the shore
Of the far spirit-land !
157


158
THE SPIRIT'S QUESTIONINGS.
And thy shape is fair,
And thy locks are bright,
In the living stream
Of the quenchless light.
And thy spirit's thought
It is pure, and free
From darkness and doubt
And from mystery!
And thine ears have drunk
The awful tone
Of the First and Last,
Of the Ancient One!
And the dwellers old
Thy steps have met,
Where the lost is found,
And the past is yet.
Where shall I find thee,
For aye who art gone? ..
Thou beautiful one ?


THIS WORLD AND THE NEXT.
OW goodly is the earth!
Look round about and see
The green and fertile field
The mighty branchèd tree;
The little flowers out-spread
In such variety!
Behold the lovely things
That dance on airy wings;
The birds whose summer pleasure
Is not of stinted measure ;
The grassy vales, the hills ;
The flower-embordered rills ;
The clouds that lie at rest
Upon the noonday's breast ;
Behold all these and know
How goodly is the earth!
How goodly is the earth !
Its mountain-tops behold;
Its rivers broad and strong ;
Its solemn forests old;
Its wealth of flocks and herds;
Its precious stones and gold ;
159


160
THIS WORLD AND THE NEXT.
Behold the radiant isles
With which old ocean smiles ;
Behold the seasons run
Obedient to the sun;
The gracious showers descend;
Life springing without end ;
By day the glorious light;
The starry pomp by night ;-
Behold all these, and know
How goodly is the earth
How goodly is the earth!
Yet if this earth be made
So goodly, wherein all
That is shall droop and fade;
Wherein the glorious light
Hath still its fellow shade;-
So goodly, where is strife
Ever 'twixt death and life;
Where trouble dims the eye;
Where sin hath mastery ;
How much more bright and fair,
Will be that region, where
The saints of God shall rest
Rejoicing with the blessed ;-
Where pain is not, nor death,—
The Paradise of God!
.


art 天天
​THE TURTLE DOVE:
AND OTHER STORIES.


LITTLE CHILDREN.

PORTING through the forest wide ;
Playing by the water-side;
Wandering o'er the heathy fells;
Down within the woodland dells;
All among the mountains wild,
Dwelleth many a little child !


LITTLE CHILDREN.
In the baron's hall of pride;
By the poor man's dull fireside ;
'Mid the mighty, ʼmid the mean,
Little children may be seen,
Like the flowers that spring up fair,
Bright and countless everywhere!
In the far isles of the main ;
In the desert's lone domain ;
In the savage mountain-glen,
’Mong the tribes of swarthy men;
Wheresoe'er a foot hath gone ;
Wheresoe'er the sun hath shone
On a league of peopled ground,
Little children may be found !
Blessings on them ! they in me
Move a kindly sympathy,
With their wishes, hopes, and fears ;
With their laughter and their tears ;
With their wonder so intense,
And their small experience!
Little children, not alone
On the wide earth are ye known,
'Mid its labors and its cares,
'Mid its sufferings and its snares.


LITTLE CHILDREN.
Free from sorrow, free from strife,
In the world of love and life,
Where no sinful thing hath trod
In the presence of your God,
Spotless, blameless, glorified,
Little children, ye abide!


YOUNG TURTLE-DOVE OF CARMEL. 11
read in the Bible; she often read to him
about Elijah and Elisha on Mount Carmel,
and he used to think then, that if ever he
were rich, he would go and see all the won-
derful places mentioned in the Bible. He
never was rich, and yet he came here. He
was very pale and thin, and had large beau-
tiful but sorrowful eyes. He took a violin
with him to Mount Carmel; it was the
greatest treasure he had on earth. He played
the most wonderful things on his violin that
ever were heard, and everybody who heard
him said that he was a great musician. In
the winters he suffered much from the cold
and the fogs of England ; so last summer
he saved a little money, and set off with his
violin for Syria ; and all last winter he lived
in the monastery on Mount Carmel, among
the grave old monks. There was one little
old monk, a very, very old man, who soon
grew very fond of him ; he too had been a
musician, but he was now almost childish,
and had forgotten how to play; so the monks
took from him his old violin, because they
said he made such a noise with it. He cried
to part with it like a child, poor old man !


12 YOUNG TURTLE-DOVE OF CARMEL.
The young musician had a little chamber
in the monastery, which overlooked the sea;
nobody can think what a beautiful view it
had! The sun shone in so warm and plea-
sant, and a little group of cypresses grew
just below the window. The young man
often and often stood at the window, and
looked out on the sea, and down into the
cypress trees, among the thick branches of
which he heard the turtle doves cooing. He
loved to hear those turtle doves—and so did
the little old monk. One day early in Janu-
ary he saw that the turtle doves had built a
nest just in sight; he watched the birds
taking it by turns to sit on the eggs, and his
heart was full of love to them; they turned
up their gentle eyes to him, but they never
flew away, for they saw in his mild and sor-
rowful countenance, that he would not hurt
them.
Beautiful and melancholy music sounded
for half the day down from his window to
where the birds sate; it had a strange
charm to the doves; they thought it was
some grand, new kind of nightingale come
down from heaven. The little old monk


14 YOUNG TURTLE-DOVE OF CARMEL.
cypress-tree were the turtle doves' nest was;
he would sit for hours and look at them, and
many beautiful thoughts passed through his
mind as he did so. Never had his heart
been so full of love as now; the little old
monk used to sit on a low seat before him,
waiting for the time when he asked for his
violin; that was a great happiness to them
both. The musician loved him very much,
and often when he played, he meant to pour
bright and comfortable thoughts into his in-
nocent, affectionate soul
It was the end of March; the turtle-doves
were all preparing for their flight to England;
the pair that had built under the musician's
window had a home in some old quiet woods
in Surrey, where it was delightfully mild
and pleasant even in winter; but they never
were there in winter, although their wood
had the name of Winterdown. It was a
lovely wood; broad leaved arums, and prim-
roses, and violets blue and white, covered
the ground in spring; in summer there were
hundreds and hundreds of glow-worms there,
and the old tree-trunks were wreathed with
ivy and honeysuckle. It was a very plea-


16 YOUNG TURTLE-DOVE OF CARMEL.
had ever sat so; the young man played;
a heavenly joy was in his soul; he knew
not whether he was in heaven or on earth;
all his pain was gone. It was a blissful mo-
ment; the next moment and all was still in
the chamber—wonderfully still. The lamp
still burned; a soft breeze blew in from the
half-opened window, and just stirred the old
man’s Carmelite frock, and lifted the young
man's dark locks, but they neither of them
moved.
“That glorious bird has done his singing
for this morning," said the old doves; “he
will now sleep-let us set off; all our friends
and neighbors are off already; we have a
long journey before us." The parent doves
spread their wings; they and their elder one
were away; the younger sate as if entranced
in the nest; he could think of nothing but
the glorious bird that had just been singing;
his family wheeled round the cypresses and
then returned for him; they bade him come,
for it was late; that the sun was rising above
the sea, and that all the doves of Carmel
were ready for flight. The younger dove
spread his wings also for this long journey,


YOUNG TURTLE-DOVE OF CARMEL. 17
bearing with him still the remembrance of
that thrilling music which affected him so
greatly.
The turtle doves were forth on their long
journey. The young musician and the little
old monk had started before them on one
much longer.
It was the end of March; the poet's garden
was beginning to be beautiful; the daffodils
were out in great bunches; the polyanthuses
stood on their round green cluster of leaves
like bright-headed pins on a lady's pin-
cushion; the jonquils had burst their dry de-
licate spathes, and were ready to open their
lovely fragant cups to the sun; the hyacinths
were just bursting forth also, whilst upon the
old wall shone out like radiant gems the in-
tense scarlet flowers of the pyrus-japonica;
the air was fragrant with violets, and the li-
lacs and westeria were beginning to show
their profuse wealth of flowers; the little
clustered buds on the tops of the elm-trees
looked in the sunshine as if cut out of coral;
the roses were full of young shoots, some
green and some red; and the peony pierced


18 YOUNG TURTLE-DOVE OF CARMEL.
the mould with its dark crimson leaves folded
up, as yet, like so many blunt-headed spears.
The old blackbird had a mate, and he was
singing to her with all his might; the rooks
had forgotten all their winter troubles, and
were now busy building and quarreling. It
was a true spring morning, and the poet's
children walked hand in hand up and down
the garden laying out great plans for the fu-
ture of this summer.
Just then, the weary turtle-doves of Car-
mel had reached England; the flock that
had set out first had all come safely; they
now, however, were very weary and hungry;
the young turtle that loved the music so
much was the weakest and most wearied
of all the flock. “We have not far to go,"
said the mother, as it lagged behind and
seemed ready to faint; “in an hour we shall
be at Winterdown;" the little turtle grew
fainter and fainter; just then they passed
over the poet's garden, where the poet's chil-
dren were walking. “There they are," said
the mother, “the poet's children with their
loving eyes and their golden hair; we shall


YOUNG TURTLE-DOVE OF CARMEL. 19
be at Winterdown in less than an hour ;
follow me!”
The weary camel in the desert when it
perceives water afar off, although faint and
ready to sink the moment before, bounds for-
ward in hope and joy for the promised relief
-so it was with the flock of doves; soaring
above the outskirts of London, they saw in
the distance the old favorite woods of Surrey,
towards which they winged their way with
impatient delight.
The weary young turtle sank down among
the rose-trees, and heard the voices of the
children as they went by. In the evening,
they saw what they thought a white pigeon,
on a young pear tree; they were so pleased
that they even dreamed about it. Next day,
the young turtle was still there; so hungry
and frightened, and feeling so forlorn and
friendless. The children again saw it; this
made them happier still; it must be come to
live with them; they stole up softly to the
tree where it sat, and the little trembling
bird allowed itself to be caught. They
rushed into the house; they had caught,
they said, the white pigeon that was so beau


20 YOUNG TURTLE-DOVE OF CARMEL.
tiful and yet so unlike their own old ones.
"It shall live with us; it shall love us; it
shall have a mate and be so happy," said the
children.
For the first time since it had left Carmel
it had now plenty to eat. It put its head be-
hind its wings and slept calmly for hours.
The poor little turtle-dove, however, was
unhapps, though no one knew it; it looked
out of the bars of its large cage, and longed
for the freedom of Mount Carmel and the
long-talked-of breezy heights of Winter-
down. It could not understand the nature
of the wicker bars which enclosed it. It
thought of free flight in the blue heavens,
and fluttered from side to side of its cage.
The little turtle dove was sick at heart: it
wanted it knew not what; but a something
which was beyond its reach. It understood
not the loving eyes of the children ; it wanted
space, freedom, and companionship, but not
in a cage!
The next day was Sunday. The turtle's
cage stood in a boudoir ; it looked beautiful
in the window among the flowering camel-
lias. Before it stood an alabaster vase; the


YOUNG TURTLE-DOVE OF CARMEL. 21
picture of a young lovely girl looked down,
as if from the wall, in tenderness upon it;
books were there behind gilded wire-work ;
all was bright and beautiful. This little
boudoir opened into the drawing-room, where
a youth was playing some grand sacred
music; the dove flew from side to side of the
cage; somebody heard him, and said the
poor bird wants to get out, he sees the day-
light through the window; so they put down
the Venetian blind, and a soft green gloom,
as of a wood in sunshine, filled the room.
The youth continued to play; and the poet's
children came in to listen also; nobody but
them thought more of the dove. “The
dove does not like it,” said they to each other,
for the dove was more to them than the
music; "it distresses him; it is no use telling
them not to play; but, oh! how unhappy he
is! Let us take him and hang him in our
room ; it is so quiet there."
They hung his cage in their pretty room;
called him the sweetest names they could
think of, and went down to listen to the
beautiful music. But they could not forget
the dove. In less than an hour they stole up


22 YOUNG TURTLE-DOVE OF CARMEL.
stairs; the room was dusk, and the bird was
calm and still; they thought he slept; and
they closed the door softly, lest they should
wake him. The next time they looked at
him he was just in the same place; they
mounted on a chair, peeped into the cage,
and then they knew the truth. His little
life, like that of the young musician and the
old monk of Carmel, had passed away on
the spiritual wings of harmony.
Life is a strange riddle; and all that I
have told you of the little turtle dove is
quite true.


HOWITI'S STORY BOOK.

Turtle Dove of Carmelo
p.22





THE JOY OF ENGELE.
HAT ENGELE's
baptismalname was,
I am sorry I cannot

pe tell you
there must
rents knew, no doubt,
and so did her grand-
mother, but I never
heard of anybody
else who did. En-
engele she was called,
and I'll tell you why. Her father was a
painter, and his name was Paul; he painted
the inost beautiful pictures that ever were
seen: he painted angels, and the Virgin
Mary, and little Jesus, and all kinds of beau-
tiful saints, with white lilies in their hands.
He was a sort of strong, good angel him-
self: he had a grave, but loving counte-
23


24
THE JOY OF ENGELE.
nance; his hair, which was of a deep brown,
hung down in rich waves on his shoulders,
and he had a handsome short beard and
moustache. It was quite a picture to see
him in his dark painting gown, and black
velvet cap, standing before his easel, and
working out some heavenly picture in
which his wife and child always made a
part. I wish you could have seen Engele's
mother ! but as you cannot, I will tell you
how she looked. She was young, and had
more of the peasant in her than the lady;
she was not rich, you must understand ; both
husband and wife were peasant born ; and
though they had come to live in the city be-
cause he was a painter, they still both of
them were as simple in their lives as when
they were little children in the village to-
gether. The child was called Engele, be-
cause almost ever since she was born she had
served as the model for her father's angels.
When she was a baby, swaddled up in baby
clothes, she had served for the new-born
Jesus on his mother's knee, the Virgin al-
ways being the sweet mother of Engele; as
she grew older, she stood, and sate, and slept,


THE JOY OF ENGELE. 25
for every kind of angel, and so she gained
the name of Engel or Angel. They called
her, however, Engelein or little Angel, and
this they shortened in their own old-fashioned
dialect into Engele—and that was the reason
of her name.
Engele was now seven; she was quite too
old for the new-born Jesus, or the infant Jesus.
She would soon be a model for St. Catherine,
and such like saints, now she was useful for
young John the Baptists. Nothing pleased
Engele better than to be her father's model;
she stood for hours and hours to him; he al-
ways talked so cheerfully when he was
painting ; and her mother used mostly to sit
at her work in the room, and often at her
spinning. Often her mother sang; and
sometimes, when Engele was very much
tired, her father would take his violin out of
its case, to play to her and her mother while
she rested.
Engele lived in a little German city; I
have forgotten its name, but you might find
it on the map, because there is a university
in it ; if I remember the name I'll tell you.
She had no companions except her parents


26
THE JOY OF ENGELE.
and her old grandmother, and the student
Berthold, who lodged at her grandmother's.
Berthold was a great friend of her father's,
and used often to come to his studio, and that
made her feel always at home with him.
One day Engele heard her parents talking
about her father's grand picture which he
had been many years in painting, and in
which she herself had been the model of the
new-born Jesus, and then, before the picture
was finished, of the eldest of the little an-
gels, as well as of the intermediate ones.
She heard them talking about how this pic-
ture was gone somewhere, a long way off,
for the king to see; and perhaps it would
get a gold medal; and if the king bought it,
then her father would be rich, and would be
able to take them all to Italy for him to
study beautiful pictures there. Engele lis-
tened to all this, and because she saw that
her parents were anxious about the picture,
she prayed every night when she went to
bed, that God would make the great people
admire her father's picture; but she prayed
in such a low whisper, that nobody knew
anything about it..


THE JOY OF ENGELE.
27
Another thing she heard her father and
mother talking of one day; and of it she
thought a great deal. She was lying as a
sleeping angel for her father, and he thought
she really was asleep, so he and her mother
talked freely. They said it was very incon-
venient now Engele was getting so big, be-
cause her father had no very young model
to paint from. He wished so much that they
had a baby for a model. The mother sighed,
and the father sighed, and then they both
were silent for some time, and nothing was
heard but the clock ticking and the buzzing
of the mother's wheel.
"It is a pity Engele grows so tall," again
said the father; “ she made such a beautiful
model for a baby; I always sold my pictures,"
said he, “when I had a baby to paint.”
“Engele does certainly grow very tall,"
said the mother; and then all again was
still.
This conversation, trifling as it was, made
Engele very sad; she wished so much that
she could turn herself into a baby again.
At night she prayed that somehow or other


THE JOY OF ENGELE.
29
She was a very nice old woman for all that ;
and she had such beautiful old-fashioned
Dresden china in a cupboard with a glass
door, and brown squab mandarins that put
out their tongues and nodded their heads,
and always made Engele laugh; and she
had a cuckoo clock in her house. And the
student Berthold, who lodged with her, and
was a great friend of the painter, he used
to play on the guitar and sing such funny
songs ! Engele was always glad to go to
her grandmother's.
Besides the student Berthold, who lodged
at the old woman's, six of the oldest boys at
the Gymnasium, which was just by, used to
come in every day to have their dinners with
her; so she had enough to do with cooking
for them all, and with her rheumatism, which
made her so lame; and that was the reason
why she did not very often go across the
city to her son's.
One day, when Engele was there, she
heard the old woman say to the student Ber-
thold: “Yes, and when the baby comes my
son will do famously; he wants an infant


30
THE JOY OF ENGELE.
model very much; Engele, you see, gets too
big for that !”
The student was smoking with a long
pipe, on the bole of which was painted a
beautiful copy of one of Paul's most beauti-
ful pictures—Mary and Jesus--the models
of which had been his own wife and Engele.
Engele's eyes were fixed on this as the
grandmother spoke. The student said no-
thing, for he was in a pleasant dream over
the fumes of his tobacco; but Engele lost
not a word. Was there really, then, a baby
coming for her father to paint? It was a
strange thought; she could not get it out of
her head all day; but she said nothing to
any one.
When she got home she could not help
looking at all her father's pictures that had
young children in ther. Such an indescri-
bable love sprang up in her heart for the
baby that was coming, and that would be
like these, that it seemed to her as if she
were already possessed of a great treasure.
Her father had a very fine picture in
hand; but as yet it was only an outline car-


THE JOY OF ENGELE.
toon. He often said that that picture would
establish his name; so said his wife, and so
said the student Berthold. He only, how-
ever, worked at it now and then, on what he
called his good days. One day he drew it
forth; he seemed so happy, and the sun
sbone into the room, and fell upon his long
hair, and made its brown tint almost golden.
Engele could not help looking at her father ;
she thought he looked so like something in his
own picture. He had two beautiful white
lilies in his hand.
“I shall get on gloriously with my picture,"
said he, “ when the baby comes ! and then
he stuck the two white lilies into his wife's
hair, and kissed her, and said he would
make a study of her head for his grand pic-
ture. She had only a grey woollen gown on
of her own spinning, a black velvet bodice,
which was in part the peasant's costume, a
curiously worked leathern pocket outside her
dress, and a little bunch of keys hung to a
silver chain : but for all that she looked fit
to be a great painter's wife.
Engele dreamt that night about her fa-
ther’s grand picture, and about a baby which


THE JOY OF ENGELE.
lay on her mother's knee, and which he was
painting; it was such a lovely dream, that
she was quite sorry when her father woke
her. He woke her very early; he told her
to get up and dress herself, and go to spend
the day with the old grandmother; he helped
her to dress; he plaited her long thick hair,
and tied it like a coronet round her head; he
put on her little old-fashioned grey woollen
frock, with its long waist and full skirts ;
pinned a little red shawl over her shoulders,
and, opening the door which led into the
street, told her to go straight to her grand-
mother's, and he would fetch her in the
evening.
Engele had no bonneton, because she
never wore one; nobody but the rich did in
that part of Germany, and her family were
not rich, so neither she nor her mother wore
bonnets. Engele walked all through the
city, wondering why she must go so early to
her grandmother. It was so early in the
morning, that the watchman was only just
coming out of the church, in the tower of
which he had been keeping watch all night.
He nodded kindly to Engele as she passed,


THE JOY OF ENGELE.
33
and so did the country women, who were
seating themselves in the street with their
pitchers of sour milk, and their eggs and
fruit, which they had brought, early as it
was, into the town for sale.
Engele's grandmother did not seem at all
surprised to see her; and when Berthold,
the student, came into his breakfast, and
saw her there, he went up to the old woman,
and asked, in a whisper, but loud enough
for Engele to hear, if the baby were come.
The student never went to the University
all that day; he played on his guitar, and
showed Engele beautiful pictures in his
books, and on his pipes, for he had a great
many. Berthold was a rich student: he
wore silver spurs, and rode upon a fine black
horse. Engele often saw him on horseback;
and when he met her anywhere when he
was riding, he always took off his cap, as if
she were a great lady. She thought Ber-
thold a perfect gentleman; and besides, he
was her father's great friend, and admired
his pictures so much
Berthold dined at an inn; and the six


34
THE JOY OF ENGELE.
gymnasium boys dined with Engele and her
grandmother.
In the afternoon Berthold's fine horse was
brought to the door for him to take a ride,
and Engele's father came in just at that mo-
ment; he looked so handsome and so happy;
he kissed the old woman, and said, “Well,
thank Heaven! I shall get on gloriously
with my picture now. I have now such a
baby for a model as never was seen!”
Tears were in the old grandmother's eyes,
and she said, “Thank God!”
Engele was ready to cry for joy also; but
she had no time; the student Berthold
caught her in his arms, and kissed her, and
said that she should ride before him on his
fine black horse, and that he would set her
down at her father's door as he went by.
I wish anybody could have seen Engele's
face, as she rode up the street sitting before
the student!
Instead, however, of going direct to the
painter's house, he went down some back
streets, and stopped at the post-office. Here
they gave him some letters—one only of
which he opened.


THE JOY OF ENGELE.
35
“Here is good news for us, Engele,” said
he; “ brave good news, and thou shalt take
it to thy father. The king has bought his
picture—they have conferred a gold medal
upon him—and all the world will now ac-
knowledge that he is a great painter !”

22


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
A FIRESIDE STORY.
HRISTIANITY, like a little child,
goes wandering over the world.
Fearless in its innocence, it is not
abashed before princes, nor confound-
☺ ed by the wisdom of synods. Before
it, the blood-stained warrior sheathes his
sword, and plucks the laurel from his brow;
-the midnight murderer turns from his
purpose, and, like the heart-smitten disciple,
goes out and weeps bitterly. It brings liber-
ty to the captive, joy to the mourner, freedom
to the slave, repentance and forgiveness to
36


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
37
sinner, hope to the faint-hearted, and assu-
rance to the dying.
It enters the huts of poor men, and sits
down with them and their children ; it makes
them contented in the midst of privations,
and leaves behind an everlasting blessing.
It walks through great cities, amidst all their
pomp and splendor, their unimaginable pride,
and their unutterable misery, a purifying,
ennobling, correcting, and redeeming angel.
It is alike the beautiful companion of
childhood and the comfortable associate of.
age. It ennobles the noble; gives wisdomi
to the wise ; and new grace to the lovely..
The patriot, the priest, the poet, and the elo--
quent man, all derive their sublimest power
from its influence.
Thanks be to the Eternal Father, who
has made us one with Him through the be-
nign Spirit of Christianity.
nign Spiritus one with sternal Fathe


PART I.

Willilllll,
WINIA
mit
IROUGH the wide world went Marien,
On a holy mission sent,
A little child of tender years,
Throughout the world she went.
And ever as she went along,
Sweet flowers sprang 'neath her feet-
All flowers that were most beautiful,
Of virtues strong and sweet.
38


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
And ever, as she went along,
The desert beasts grew tame;
And man, the savage, dyed with blood,
The merciful became.
Now, if you will attend to me,
I will in order tell
The history of this little child,
And what to her befel.
No friend at all had Marien,
And at the break of day,
In a lonesome place within the world,
In quiet thought she lay.
The stars were lost in coming morn,
The moon was pale and dim,
And the golden sun was rising
Over the ocean's rim.
With upturned eye lay Marien ;-
“And I am alone,” said she,
“Though the blackbird and the nightingale
Sing in the forest tree:
“Though the weak woodland creatures
Come to me when I call,
And eat their food from out my hand ;
And I am loved by all:


40
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
“Though sun, and moon, and stars come out,
And flowers of fairest grace,
And whate'er God made beautiful,
Are with me in this place :
“ Yet I am all alone, alone,
Alone both night and day!
So I will forth into the world,
And do what good I may:
“For many a heart is sorrowful,
And I that heart may cheer ;-
And many a weary captive pines
In dungeons dark and drear ;-
And I the iron bonds may loose,-
Then why abide I here?
“And many a spirit dark with crime,
Yet longeth to repent;
And many a grievous wrong is done
To the weak and innocent ;
And I may do the injured right,
May save the penitent !
“Up, I will forth into the world !”
And, thus as she did say,
Sweet Marien from the ground rose up
And went forth on her way.


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
41
Through the wood went Marien,
The thick wood and the green ;
And not far had she travelled ere
A cruel sight was seen.'
Under the green and leafy boughs
Where singing birds were set ;
At strife about their heritage,
Two ruffian brothers met.
“Thou shalt not of our father's land,"
The elder said, “ have part !”
The younger brother spoke no word,
But stabbed him to the heart.
Then deep into the forest dark
With desperate speed he ran,
And gentle Marien stood beside
The bleeding, murdered man.
With pitying tears that would not cease,
She washed his wounded side,
And prayed him to have faith in Him
Who for the sinner died.
But no sign made the murdered man,
There stiff in death he lay ;-
And Marien through the forest wild
Went mourning on her way.


42
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
Ere long, as she went wandering on,
She came to where there sat,
With folded arms upon her breast,
A woman desolate.
Pale was she as the marble stone,
And steadfast was her eye;
She sat enchained, as in a trance,
By her great misery.
“What ails thee, mother ?" Marien said,
In a gentle voice and sweet;
“What aileth thee, my mother ?”
And knelt down at her feet.
“ What aileth thee, my mother ?”.
Kind Marien still did say:
And those two words, my mother,
To the lone heart found their way.
As one who wakeneth in amaze,
She quickly raised her head ;-
And “Who is't calls me mother ?”
Said she, “my child is dead !”
“He was the last of seven sons-
He is dead-I have none other ;-
This is the day they bury him ;-
Who is it calls me mother ?"


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
43
“ 'Tis I,” said gentle Marien,
“Dear soul be comforted !”
But the woman only wrung her hands,
And cried, “My son is dead !"
“ Be comforted,” said Marien,
And then she sweetly spake
Of Jesus Christ, and how he came
The sting from death to take.
She told of all his life-long love,
His soul by suffering tried :
And how at last his mother stood
To see him crucified.
Of the disciples' broken hearts
She told, of pangs and pain ;
Of Mary at the sepulchre,
And Christ arisen again.
“Then sorrow not,” she said, “ as though
Thou wert of all bereft;
For still though thy beloved are not,
This blessed faith is left,
“ That when thy dream of life is o'er
Thou shalt embrace thy seven,
More beautiful than earthly sons,
With our dear Lord in heaven!"


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
Down on her knees the woman fell,
And “ blessed be God," said she,
“Who in my sorest need hath sent
This comforter to me!"

2
.


PART II.
NOW Marien in the woman's house
Abode a little space,
And comfort to the mother came ;
And a dear daughter's place
Had Marien in the woman's heart,
Doing the while a daughter's part.
But now 't was time that she must go,
For Marien's duty was not there,
Now grief was past and woe was done ; .
So with the rising of the sun,
She rose up forth to fare.
“ Nay, bide with me,” the woman said,
“ Or, if as thou dost say,
Duty forbids that this may be,
I a day's journey go with thee,
To speed thee on the way.”
So forth the loving pair set out,
The woman and the child ;
And first they crossed the desert heath,
And then the mountains wild.
45


46
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
And in the woman's arms she lay
That night within the forest hoar,
And the next morn with loving heart,
They said farewell, as those who part
To meet on earth no more.
Upon her way went Marien,
From morn till set of day,
And the peace of God that passeth word,
Upon her spirit lay;
And oftentimes she sang aloud
As she went on her way.
The joyfulest song sang Marien
That e'er left human tongue;
The very birds were mute to hear
The holy words she sung.
But now the darksome night came on,
And Marien lay her down
Within a little way-side cave,
On mosses green and brown.
And in the deepest hush of night
Rude robbers entered in;
And first they ate and drank, then rose
To do a deed of sin.


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
For with them was a feeble man,
Whom they had robbed, and they
Here came to foully murder him,
And hide him from the day.
Up from her bed sprang Marien,
With heavenly power endued;
And in her glorious innocence,
Stood 'mong the robbers rude.
“Ye shall not take the life of man!"
Spake Marien low and sweet;
“For this will God take strict account,
Before his judgment seat!”.
Out from the cave the robbers fled,
For they believed there stood,
A spirit stern and beautiful,
Not aught of flesh and blood.
And two from out the robber-band
Thenceforward did repent,
And lived two humble Christian men,
On righteous deeds intent.
When from the cave the robber-band
Had fled, the aged man
Rose from the floor where he was laid,
And marvelling much, began :


48
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
“ Who art thou, child ? and those few words
Of might which thou hast spoken,
What may they be? My foes have fled
And lo! my bonds are broken ;-
At thy few words my foes have fled,
My rigid bonds have broken!"
Then Marien 'gan to tell him how,
Through her God's power had wrought;
And him from peril, nigh to death,
Thus wondrously had brought,
She told how holy Daniel's faith
The caged beasts disarmed ;
How the three righteous children walked
Through raging fire unharmed.
She told how Peter, bound with chains,
Lay in the prison-ward,
How God's good angel freed him straight,
And the strong prison’s iron gate,
Oped of its own accord.
“God knows our wants,” said Marien,
"And in our sorest need,
Puts forth his arm to rescue us,
For he is merciful, and thus
It is that thou art freed."


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
“Let us go hence !" the old man said,
And o'er the forest sod,
They, hand in hand, with quiet steps,
Went forward praising God.
Ere noontide to a forest grange
They came, a sylvan place,
Where trooped, no longer fearing man,
The forest's native race,
The white doe and the antlered stag,
And every beast of chase.
"T was joy to see them drawing near
The old man as he came;
And this he stroked, and that he called
By some familiar name.
'Twas joy unto the little child
This pleasant place to see;
« This is my home," he said, “and here
Thou shalt abide with me."
"I have no child to be mine heir,
And I am growing old ;-
Thou shalt be heir of all my lands,
And heir of all my gold.


50
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
“Thou shalt be comfort to mine age,
And here within this wood,
'Mongst faithful, gentle things, shalt thou
Grow up to womanhood!”
There dwelt the loving Marien;
Within the forest wild,
And she unto the lone old man
Was dearer than a child.
There dwelt the loving Marien ;
Yet not long dwelt she there;
The old man died; and then came forth
A kinsman for the heir.
A lean and rugged man of pelf
In wickedness grown old;
From some vile city den he came
And seized upon the gold ;-
He slew the tamed forest-beasts,
The forest-grange he sold.
And with hard speeches, coarse and rude,
Away the child he sent:
Meek Marien answered not a word,
But through the forest went.


PART III.
THROUGH the wild wood went Marien,
For many a weary day;
Her food the forest-fruits, and on
The forest-turf she lay.
The wildern wood was skirted
By moorlands dry and brown;
And after them came Marien
Into a little town.
At entrance of the little town
A cross stood by the way,
A rude stone cross, and there she knelt
A little prayer to say.
Then on the stone steps sate her down ;
And soon beside her crept,
A pale child with a clasped book,
And all the while she wept.
“Why weep you, child," asked Marien,
“What troubleth you so sore ?"
At these words spoken tenderly,
The child wept more and more.
51


52
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
“I have not heard," at length he said,
“Kind words this many a year,
My mother is dead-and my father
Is a hard man and severe.
“I sit in corners of the house
Where none can see me weep;
And in the quiet of the day.
'Tis here I often creep.
“ The kid leaps by his mother's side,
The singing birds are glad:
But when I play me in the sun,
My heart is ever sad.
“They say this blessed book can heal
All trouble, and therefore
All day I keep it in my sight;
I lay it 'neath my head at night,
But it doth bring no cure to me:-
I know not what the cause may be
For I of learning have no store !"
Thereat, like to a broken flower
The child drooped down his head ;
Then Marien took the clasped book
And of the Saviour read.


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
53:
She read of him the humble child
Of poverty and scorn;
How holy angels sang for him
The night that he was born.
How blessed angels came from heaven
To hail that Christmas night
And shepherd people with their flocks
Beheld the glorious sight.
Then read she how a growing youth,
His parents he obeyed,
And served with unrepining will
St. Joseph at his trade.
Then how he grew to man's estate
And wandered up and down,
Preaching upon the lone sea-side,
And in the busy town.
Of all his tenderness, his love,
Page after page she read;
How he made whole the sick, the maimed,
And how he raised the dead.
And how he loved the children small,
Even of low degree;
And how he blessed them o'er and o'er,
And set them on bis knee.


54
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
When this the little child had heard
He spoke in accents low,
“Would that I had been one with them
To have been blessed so!"
When spoke
“Thou shalt be blessed, gentle one !"
Said Marien kind and mild,
“ Christ, the Great Comforter, doth bless
Thee, even now, poor child !"
So conversed they of holy things.
Until the closing day;
Then Marien and the little child
Rose up to go their way.
As to the town they came, they passed
An ancient church, and “here
Let us go in!” the pale child said,
“For the organ pealeth over head,
And that sweet strain of holy sound
Like a heavenly vesture wraps me round,
And my heavy heart doth cheer.”
So Marien and the little child
Into the church they stole;
And many voices rich and soft
Rose upward from the organ loft,


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
55
And the majestic instrument
Pealed to an anthem that was sent
To soothe a troubled soul.
Anon the voices died away,
The pealing organ ceased,
And through the church's ancient door
Passed chorister and priest.
And Marien and the little child
Went forward hand in hand
Adown the chancel isle, and then
At once they made a stand.
Over the altar hung a piece
With holy influence fraught,
A work divine of wondrous skill
By some old painter wrought.
The gracious Saviour breathing love,
Was there like life expressed,
And round his knees the children small
Were thronging to be blessed.
Down dropped the child upon his knees,
And weeping, tenderly,
Cried, “ Bless me also, poor and weak,
Or let me go to thee !"


56
- MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
Anon his little head dropped low,
And his white lips 'gan to say,
“Oh kiss me gentle one, for now
Even I am called away
The blessed mother's voice I hear,
It calleth me away!"
So died the child ;—and Marien laid
His meek arms on his or teen his hands ;-
With the clasped book between his hands ;-
Thus God had given him rest !
And Marien, weeping holy tears,
Sate down beside the dead,
And slept that night within the church,
As in a kingly bed.
Scarce from the church had Marien passed,
When came the father there,
As was his wont, though fierce and bad,
To say a morning prayer.
Not seven paces had he gone,
When, heart-struck, he surveyed
Before his feet, that little child
In his dead beauty laid.
At once as by a lightning stroke
His softened soul was torn


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
57
With a deep sense of all the wrong
That little child had borne.
And then came back the timid voice,
The footstep faint and low,
The many little arts to please,
The look of hopeless woe,
And many a shuddering memory
Of harsh rebuke and blow.
No prayer of self-approving words,
As was his wont, he said,
But humbled, weeping, self-condemned,
He stood before the dead.

hey


PART IV.
TEN long days' travel Marien went,
O’er woodland and o'er wold,
Teaching and preaching by the way,
Like Jesus Christ of old.
Sometimes within the Baron's hall
A lodging she would find,
And never went she from the door
But blessings staid behind;
Proud foes forgiven, revenge withheld,
And plenteous peace of mind.
With shepherd people on the hills ;
With toiling peasant men,
She sate ; with women dwelling lone,
On mountain or in glen.
By wayside wells she sate her down,
With pilgrims old and bent ;
Or, hand in hand, with children small,
To the village school she went.
58


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
59
She made them spare the singing birds
All in their leafy bowers ;
She made them love all living things;
And praise God for the flowers.
But now she came to where there raged
Wild war throughout the land;
She heard the vexèd people's cry;
She saw the ravaged corn-fields lie;
The hamlets smoking to the sky;
And everywhere careering by
The spoiler's savage band.
All hearts were changed. Like rav'ning wolves
Men preyed upon each other;
Dead children lay on the bloody mould ;
And pitiless had grown, and cold,
The heart of many a mother.
Wild shouts and horrid shrieks around
Filled all the air; the earth
Reeked with the blood that had been spilt;
And man made mockery and mirth
Of agony and mortal woe:-
Yet through all this did Marien go.
Outraged of heart, the child went on,
Weeping upon her way;


60
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
And now she soothed a dying wretch;
Then for another ran to fetch
Water; and every day
Did deeds of mercy, good and mild :-
Thus journeyed on the pitying child.
On went she,—and as she went on,
Men grew ashamed of blood,
So beautiful did mercy seem;
And the wild soldier rude
Slunk back as slinks a noisome beast;
And to their homes once more
Came mothers with their little ones;
And old men, weak and hoar,
Sate in the sun as they had wont,
Unfearing at their door.
On went the child, and as she went,
Within the Baron's hall,
Were hung up helm and mail and sword,
To rust upon the wall.
On went she,--and the poets sung
No longer war's acclaim,
But holy hymns of love and joy,
To hail her as she came.


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
61
On went she, like an angel good;
With bounding steps she went,
Day after day, until she came
To the great Conqueror's tent.
There sat he, a strong man of blood,
Steel-mailed and scarfed with blue,
Poring o'er charts of distant lands,
For new lands to subdue. .
Beside him stood the gentle child;
And now he traced with care,
Measuring from river unto sea,
A fertile region fair.
“ 'Tis a good land,” said Marien,
“From river unto sea :
And there a quiet people dwell,
Who never heard of thee.
“They feed their flocks and herds in peace;:
The fruitful vine they till ;
The quiet homes their fathers built
They and their children fill.
“Even now their happy children's joy
Thee and thy will condemn;
“Wherefore should'st thou possess that land ?'
God gave it unto them !"


62
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
Into her face the proud man looked,
Amazed at what he heard;
Then turned unto his charts again,
And answered never a word.
Another land among the hills
He measured with his eye;
“ 'Tis a stern land,” said Marien,
“A land of liberty!
“There fled the Christians in old time,
And built their churches there;
The bells upon the Sabbath more
Call all that land to prayer.
“Would'st thou God's people tribulate ?
A cursed thing it were
To make that Christian land of love
A bloody sepulchre !"
The proud man turned him round about
And fiercely gazed at her.
.“ Rivers of blood have flowed for thee !"
Unblenching Marien said,
“ And many a Christian land hast thou
With Christian blood made red.
“Up, sin no more! 'Tis coming now,
The day thou canst not flee,


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
When all the thousands thou hast slain
God will require of thee!
“Thou man of blood, repent, repent,
Repent whilst yet thou may,
And store up deeds of love and peace
Against that awful day!”
Up from his seat the conqueror rose,
And paced the uneasy tent,
And ground his teeth and groaned aloud
As one that doth repent.
Forth from the tent sped Marien;
And many a summer's day
Throughout a blessed land of peace
She journeyed on her way,


PART V.
AT length, after long travel past,
She came as it grew late,
Along a beaten road, that led
To a vast city gate.
A vast and populous city, where
Rose dome and tower, and spire,
And many a gilded pinnacle,
Far-seen, as the bright sunset fell,
Like glittering points of fire.
A city vast and populous,
Whose thronging multitude
Sent forth a sound afar-off heard,
Strong as the ocean-flood.
A strong, deep sound of many sounds,
Toil, pleasure, pain, delight,
And traffic, myriad-wheeled, whose din
Ceased not by day or night.
64


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
65
· And through the city gate a throng
Passed ever, never spent;
A busy mingling human tide
Of those who came and went.
'Twas a proud city and a rich;
A city fair and old;
Filled with the world's most costly things,-
Of precious stones and gold;
Of silks, fine woods; and spiceries ;
And all that's bought and sold,
Thither came homeless Marien,
Came there as it grew late,
Foot-sore and weary, friendless, poor,
Unto the city gate.
There found her a poor carpenter
Returning from his trade,
And he, with pitying countenance,
Her weary form surveyed.
“Come !" said he, “thou unto my house,
Shalt go: and of my bread,
And of my cup, thou shalt partake;
Shalt bide with me!" and as he spake
Her weary steps he led.


66
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
Unto an humble place that stood
'Mong dwellings of the poor
He brought her; bade her welcome thrice
Unto his lowly door.
The good-wife met her with like cheer
“And though our fare is scant,
Fear not,” she said, “ whilst we have food
It is not thou shalt want !"
So dwelt she with this humble pair
In the great city; cherished so,
As parents cherish their first-born;
Nor would they let her go.
Thus for a year she dwelt with them;
And that while their abode
Was blessed exceedingly; their store
Grew daily, weekly, more and more;
And peace so multiplied around,
The very hearth seemed holy ground,
As if once more on earth was found
The Paradise of God.
'Twas she that blessed the bread they ate,
'Twas she soothed all their cares ;
They knew not they entertained
An angel unawares.


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
67
With simple hearts that had no guile
They of the Saviour heard ;
And, weeping tears of joyful faith,
Believed and blessed each word.
No more they marvelled how their board
With plenteous food was spread ;
Five barley loaves dispensed by Christ,
The famished thousands fed.
With love that would not be repressed,
Their kindling bosoms burned,
And ’mong their neighbors poor they went
To teach what they had learned.
To teach how Christ unto the poor,
The sinner vile, was sent;
How Mary washed his feet with tears,
And wiped them with her golden hairs,
And weeping penitent.
And how the sinful woman stood
Unjudged before his face ;
How the poor prodigal sped back
Repentant to his place ;
How to the thief upon the cross
He said, thou art forgiven,


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
69
“ Bishops have taught a thousand years,
And learned men are they;
These are mad doctrines, false, unfit,
Devised to lead astray."
Therefore the simple people were
To a full synod brought,
To answer for their altered lives,
And for the faith they taught.
Much marvelled all those learned men
To see them fearless stand,
Calm, unabashed; with ready wit,
And fanguage at command.
And to their taunts of low estate,
They answered, “ Let alone
All pride of rank; Christ chose the poor,
To make his gospel known.
“And what are we?-Immortal souls,
For whom Christ's blood was shed;
Children of one great sire, with ye,
Co-heirs of Immortality;
Alike you both in birth and death ;
Alone our lot so differeth,
As God shall judge the dead !"


PART VI.
So perished, for their faith in Christ,
This righteous couple; for their foes
Beseeching pardon; blessing God
That they were reckoned among those
Worthy to die for Christ, whose place
Is with the Holiest face to face.
Beside the pile stood Marien
Weeping sad human tears,
Yet strenghening, comforting the while,
And soothing all their fears.
And as she spoke, her countenance
With heavenly lustre beamed,
And all around her youthful form
Celestial beauty streamed.
Men looked on her with wondering awe,
As on an angel's face,
And pity, and love, and sweet remorse,
In every heart had place.
71


72
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
Throughout the city rang the tale
Of this divinest child ;
And for her sake unto her faith
Many were reconciled.
Unto the synod came these things;
And “Here let her be brought,
To answer for herself,” they said,
“And suffer as she ought.”
As Christ among the doctors stood,
So she among these men,
Stern, rugged-browed, and deeply versed
In parchment and in pen;
Meekly she stood; when they reviled,
Reviling not again.
Yet with sweet words and argument,
Rather of love than lore,
She pleaded for the faith, as ne'er
Pled youthful tongue before.
All were amazed who heard her words;
And straightway spoke each one
Unto his neighbor, “Through this child
May mighty things be done !"
Then threatening words anon grew soft,
“And thou with us shalt go,"


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
73
They said, " and with the poor and vile,
No longer suffer wo.
“Thou shalt be clothed in purple robes,
In gold and linen fine;
Shalt eat the daintiest food; shalt drink
The spirit-gladdening wine.
“And with us in proud palaces
A crowned queen shalt be;
Leave but these men, for they are poor,
And can do nought for thee!
“Behold the stake at which they burn-
The iron-rack behold
Are these the men to make thee rich
With silver and with gold ?
“Come with us, glorious Marien,
And in our places high,
We will exalt thee as a queen,
Will deck thee royally!"
« Nay,” said sweet Marien, “as a queen
It is not I may bide; .
I am not won with power nor gold,
Nor aught of human pride.


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE
“Who clothes the lilies of the field,
Will clothe me, even as they ;
Who hears the ravens when they cry,
Will feed me day by day!"
But still the tempters kept with her;
And “Come away,” they said,
And she unto a sumptuous dome
With royal pomp was led.
They showed her all that palace proud :
They showed her store of gold;
They told her of a hundred realms,
And wealth a hundred-fold.
“And all this shall be thine," they said,
“All this be thine, and more,
So thou wilt bind thyself to us,
And leave the weak and poor !
“Thou that art weak and poor thyself,
A crowned queen shalt be!".
Said Marien, “In the wilderness
The Tempter came, and he
Offered to Jesus Christ such gifts
As now ye offer me !"


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
75
Those rugged brows grew dark. “Come now
With us,” they fiercely said,
“ And see what never daylight saw,
The halls of dool and dread !”
Then unto chambers hidden, vast,
Mysterious, far from view,
They led her; there was set the rack,
The knotted cord, the screw,
And many a horrid instrument,
Whose dark ensanguined hue
Told of their purpose. “These," said they,
"Many strange wonders do!
« Look well; could'st thou endure these things ?
Strong men have died ere now
Under their torment; men were they,
A little child art thou !"
Then Marien meekly answered, “What
God suffereth you to dare,
He, to whom darkness is as light,
Will strengthen me to bear!”
“ Come onward yet,” they said; and down
Damp, broken stairs they went ;
Down, down to hidden vaults of stone,
Through vapors pestilent.


76
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
And then with sullen iron keys
They opened doors of stone;
And heavy-chainèd captives there
They showed her, one by one.
Old, white-haired men; men middle-aged,
That had been strong of limb;
But each, now pallid, hollow-eyed,
Like spectres worn and dim.
And many, as the dull door oped,
Ne'er lifted up the head ;-
Heart-broken victims of long pain,
Whose very hope was dead.
Others with feverish restlessness
Sprang up, and with quick cry,
That thrilled the hearer to the soul
Demanded liberty.
With bleeding heart went Marien on;
And her conductors spake,
“ These are our victims; these await
The rack, the cord, the stake.
“ And as these are, so shalt thou be,
If thou our will gainsay;
Accept our service, pride, and power ;
Or, on this very day,


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
77
Racked, prisoned, poor, and miserable,
Thou shalt be, even as they !"
Down on the floor sank Marien,
And “Oh, dear Lord,” she cried,
“ Assist thy poor and trembling one
This awful hour to bide;
Let me be strong to do thy will,
Like Him who bowed, and died !
They took her :-of that prison-house,
The secrets who may say ?-
Racked, fettered, captived, in their power,
The gentle Marien lay;
Captive within their torture-halls
A long night and a day!


PART VII.
THEN forth they brought her ; gave her wine,
And pleasant food to eat;
And “rest thee, Marien, in our arms,”
Sung syren-voices sweet.
“Rest thee within our arms; refresh
Thy fainting soul with wine ;
Eat and be glad ; forget the past,
. And make all pleasure thine !"
“ Tempt me not !" said the feeble child,
“Take hence your spiced bowl;
Is 't not enough to rack my limbs,
But you must vex my soul ?
“ Look at my flesh, which ye have torn;
Look at your bloody rack ;-
Take hence your gifts, and let me go
To my own people back.
"To my own people let me go,
A bruised and broken reed;
I for your purpose am unmeet;
Let me go hence with speed !"
78


80
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
When one from out the felon-band
Came softly to her side,
And “do not weep, thou little child !"
With pitying voice, he cried.
“At sight of thee, I know not why,
My softened heart doth burn,
And the gone tenderness of youth
Doth to my soul return.
“I think upon my early days,
Like unto days of heaven;
And I, that have not wept for years,
Even as a child, shed ceaseless tears,
And pray to be forgiven!”
“Blessèd be God !” said Marien,
And rose up from the floor;
“I was not hither brought in vain!
His mercy I adore,
Who out of darkness brought forth light !"
And thus she wept no more.
But ever of the Saviour taught;
How he came down to win,
With love, and suffering manifold,
The sinner from his sin.


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
How, not to kings and mighty men
He came, nor to the wise,
But to the thief and murderer,
And those whom men despise.
And how, throughout the host of heaven,
Goes yet a louder praise
O'er one poor sinner who doth turn
From his unrighteous ways,
Than o'er a hundred godly men,
Who sin not all their days.
Thus with the felons she abode,
And that barred prison rude
Was as if angels dwelt therein,
And not fierce men of blood;
For God had her captivity
Turned into means of good.
Now all this while sweet Marien's friends,
Who in the town remained,
Of her took painful thought, resolved
Her freedom should be gained.
And at the last they compassed it,
With labor long and great ;
And through the night they hurried her
Unto the city-gate.


82
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
There many a mother stood and child,
Weeping with friendly woe,
Thus, thus to weep, as 't were from death,
And then to bid her go.
To bid her go, whom so they loved,
Nor once more see her face;
To bid her go; to speed her forth
To some more friendly place.
Thus, amid blessings, prayers, and tears,
About the break of day,
She left the city, praising God
For her release, and swiftly trod
Upon her unknown way.


PART VIII.
A BOW-SHOT from the city-gate
Turned Marien from the plain,
Intent by unfrequented ways
The mountain-land to gain.
With bounding step she onward went,
Over the moorland fells;
O'er fragrant tracks of purple thyme,
And crimson heather-bells.
Joyful in her release she went,
Still onward yet, and higher;
Up many a mossy, stony steep,
Through many a flock of mountain sheep,
By the hill-tarns so dark and deep,
As if she could not tire.
Onward and upward still she went
Among the breezy hills,
Singing for very joyfulness
Unto the singing rills.
83


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
The days of her captivity,
The days of fear and pain,
Were past, and now through shade and shine,
She wandered free again.
Free, like the breezes of the hill,
Free like the waters wild ;
And in her fulness of delight,
Unceasingly from height to height
Went on the blessed child.
And ever when she needed food,
Some wanderer of the hill
Drew forth the morsel from his scrip,
And bade her eat her fill.
For He who fed by Cherith-brook
The prophet in his need,
Of this his wandering little one
Unceasingly had heed.
And ever when she needed rest,
Some little cove she found,
So green, so sheltered, and so still,
Upon the bosom of the hill,
As angels girt it round.


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
Thus hidden 'mong the quiet hills
Alone, yet wanting nought,
She dwelt secure, until her foes -
For her no longer sought. '
Then forth she journeyed. Soon the hills
Were of more smooth descent ;
And downward now, and onward still,
Toward the sea she went.
Toward the great sea for many days;
And now she heard its roar ;
Had sunlit glimpses of it now,
And now she trod the shore.
A rugged shore of broken cliffs,
And barren wave-washed sand,
Where only the dry sea-wheat grew.
* By patches on the strand.
A weary way walked Marien
Beside the booming sea,
Nor boat, nor hut, nor fisherman,
Throughout the day saw she.
A weary, solitary way;
And as the day declined
Over the dark and troubled sea.
Arose a stormy wind.
W


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
It was an old and crazy boat,
Wherein the man was set,
And soon 't was laden heavily
With many a laden net.
“ Ob sorrow, sorrow !” groaned he forth,
As rose the sudden squall,
Thinking upon the mother dead,
And on his children small.
“Oh sorrow, sorrow !" loud he cried,
As the helm flew from his hand,
And he knew the boat was sinking
But half a league from land.
“Oh sorrow, sorrow !” as he sank,
Was still his wailing cry:
And Marien heard amid the storm,
That voice of misery.
Now all this while the children small
Kept in their dreary place,
Troubled and sad, and half afear'd
Of their dead mother's face.
And when, to while the time, they played
With shells beside the door,
They found they had not hearts for mirth,
And so they played no more.


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
Yet keeping up with forced content
Their hearts as best they might,
Still wishing afternoon were gone,
And it was only night.
But when, hour after hour went on,
And the night-tempest black
Raged o'er the stormy sea, and still
The father came not back;
It would have touched a heart of stone
To see their looks of fear-
So young and so forlorn ;-their words
Of counsel small to hear.
And now they shouted through the storm;
And then with better wit,
As they had seen their mother do,
A fire of wood they lit,
That he might see the light afar,
And steer his boat by it.
Unto this light came Marien ;
And ere her weary feet
Had reached the floor, the children ran
With eager arms to meet
Their loving father, as they thought,
And give him welcome sweet.


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
89
Alas! the father even
Had run his mortal race;
But God had sent this comforter
To fill his earthly place.


PART IX.
W
O'S me, what secret tears are shed,
What wounded spirits bleed;
What loving hearts are sundered,
And yet man takes no heed !
He goeth on his daily course,
Made fat with oil and wine,
And pitieth not the weary souls
That in his bondage pine ;
That turn for him the mazy wheel ;
That delve for him the mine!
And pitieth not the children small,
In noisy factories dim,
That all day long, lean, pale, and faint,
Do heavy tasks for him !
To him they are but as the stones
Beneath his feet that lie:
It entereth not his thoughts that they
From him claim sympathy.
It entereth not his thoughts that God
Heareth the sufferer's groan,
90


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
That in His righteous eye, their life
Is precious as his own.
This moves him not. But let us now
Unto the fisher's shed,
Where sat his weeping little ones
Three days beside the dead.
It was a solitary waste
Of barren sand, which bore
No sign of human dwelling-place
For miles along the shore.
Yet to the scattered dwellers there
Sped Marien, and besought
That of the living and the dead
They would take Christian thought.
So in the churchyard by the sea
The senseless dead was laid :
“And now what will become of us !"
The weeping children said.
“For who will give us bread to eat ?
The neighbors are so poor!
And he, our kinsman in the town,
Would drive us from his door.
“For he is rich and pitiless,
With heart as cold as stone!


92
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
Who will be parents to us now
That ours are dead and gone ?”
“Weep not,” said faithful Marien,
Man's heart is not so hard,
But it your friendless misery
Will tenderly regard !
“And I with you will still abide
Your friendless souls to cheer,
Be father and mother both to you;
For this God sent me here.
“And to your kinsman in the town,
Who hath such store of gold,
I will convey you: God can change
His spirit stern and cold.
“And ye, like angels of sweet love,
From earth his soul may win.
Fear not; and we with morning light
The journey will begin.”
They took their little worldly store;
And at the break of day,
Leaving the lonesome sea-side shed,
Set out upon their way.
'Mong sandy hills their way they wound;
O'er sea-grass dusk and harsh;


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
By many a land-mark lone and still ;
Through many a salt-sea marsh.
And thus for twice seven days they went
A little, loving band,
Walking along their weary way
Like angels, hand in hand.
And everywhere kind Christian folks
They found, as Marien said,
Who gave them lodging for the night,
And gave them daily bread.
And thus they pilgrimed, day by day,
Alone, yet not cast down,
· Strengthened by Marien's company,
Unto the sea-port town.
A busy town beside the sea,
Where men were all astir,
Buying and selling; eager-eyed,
Two different races, yet allied, -
Merchant and mariner.
A place of ships, whose name was known
Far off beyond the main ;
A busy place of trade, where nought
Was in repute but gain.


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
Thither they came, those children poor,
About the eventide ;
And where dwelt he, their kinsman rich,
They asked on every side.
After long asking, one they found,
An old man and a poor,
Who undertook to lead them straight
Unto the kinsman's door.
But ever as he went along
He to himself did say,
Low broken sentences, as thus,
“ Their kinsman !—well-a-way!"
All through a labyrinth of walls
Blackened with cloudy smoke,
He led them, where was heard the forge
And the strong hammer's stroke.
And beneath lofty windows dim
In many a doleful row,
Whence came the jangle of quick looms,
Down to the courts below.
Still on the children, terrified,
With wildered spirits passed ;
Until of these great mammon halls,
They reached the heart at last,-
A little chamber hot and dim,
With iron bars made fast.


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
95
There sate the kinsman, shrunk and lean,
And leaden-eyed and old,
Busied before a lighted lamp
In sealing bags of gold.
The moment that they entered in,
He clutched with pallid fear
His heavy bags, as if he thought
That sudden thieves were near.
“ Rich man!” said Marien, “ope thy bags
And of thy gold be free,
Make gladsome cheer, for Heaven bath sent
A blessing unto thee !"
“ What !” said the miser, “ is there news
Of my lost Argosy ?”
“Better than gold, or merchant-ships,
Is that which thou shalt win,"
Said Marien, " thine immortal soul
From its black load of sin.”
“ Look at these children, thine own blood,”
And then their name she told ;
“ Open thine heart to do them good,
To love them more than gold ;-
And what thou givest will come back
To thee, a thousand-fold !”
“Ah," said the miser, “even these
Some gainful work may do.


96
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
My looms stand still ; of youthful hands
I have not half enow;
I shall have profit in their toil ;
Yes, child, thy words are true !"
“Thou fool!” said Marien, “still for gain,
To cast thy soul away!
The Lord be judge 'twixt these and thee
Upon his reckoning day!
“These little ones are fatherless,
He sees them day and night;
And as thou doest unto them,
On thee he will requite !"
“ Gave I not alms upon a time ?"
Said he with anger thrilled ;
“And when I die, give I not gold,
A stately church to build ?
“What would'st thou more ? my flesh and blood
I seek not to gainsay.
But what I give, is it unmeet
Their labor should repay !"
So saying, in an iron chest,
He locked his bags of gold,
And bade the children follow him,
In accents harsh and cold.


PARTX,
OH leave us not sweet Marien!"
The little children spake;
“For if thou leave us here, alone,
Our wretched hearts will break.”
She left them not-kind Marien!
And in a noisome room,
Day after day, week after week,
They labored at the loom.
The while they thought with longing souls
Upon the breezy strand,
The flying shuttles, to and fro,
Passed through each little hand.
The while they thought with aching hearts,
Upon their parents dear,
The growing web was watered,
With many a bitter tear.
And the sweet memory of the past,
The white sands stretching wide;
Their father's boat wherein they played,
Upon the rocking tide;


98
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
The sandy shells; the sea-mew's scream;
The ocean's ceaseless boom;
Came to them like a troubling dream,
Within the noisy loom.
Wo-worth those children, hard bestead,
A weary life they knew;
Their hands were thin; their cheeks were pale,
That were of rosy hue.
The miser kinsman in and out
Passed ever and anon;
Nor ever did he speak a word,
Except to urge them on.
Wo-worth those children, hard bestead,
They worked the livelong day;
Nor was there one, save Marien,
A soothing word to say :-
So, amid toil and pain of heart,
The long months wore away.
The long, the weary months passed on,
And the hard kinsman told
Over his profits; every loom
Increased the hoard of gold;
“ 'Tis well!” said he, “let more be spun,
That more may yet be sold !”


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
99
So passed the time; and with the toil
Of children weak and poor,
The sordid kinsman's treasure-hoards
Increased more and more.
But ere a year was come and gone,
The spirit of the boy
Was changed; with natures fierce and rude
He found his chiefest joy.
The hardness of the kinsman's soul
Wrought on him like a spell,
Exciting in his outraged heart,
Revenge and hatred fell ;
The will impatient of control;
The spirit to rebel
Hence was there warfare 'twixt the two,
The weak against the strong ;-
A hopeless, miserable strife,
That could not last for long :
How can the young, the poor, contend
Against the rich man's wrong!
The tender trouble of his eye,
Was gone; his brow was cold;
His speech, like that of desperate men,
Was reckless, fierce, and bold.


100
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
No more he kissed his sister's cheek;
Nor soothed her as she wept;
No more he said at Marien's knee
His prayers before he slept.
But they, the solitary pair,
Like pitying angels, poured
Tears for the sinner; and with groans
His evil life deplored.
Man knew not of that secret grief,
Which in their bosoms lay ;
And for the sinful brother's sin,
Yet harder doom had they.
But God, who trieth hearts; who knows
The springs of human will;
Who is a juster judge than man,
Of mortal good and ill ;
He saw those poor despised ones,
And willed them still to mourn:
He saw the wandering prodigal,
Yet bade him not return.
In his good time that weak one's woe,
Would do its work of grace ;
And the poor prodigal, himself,
Would seek the Father's face ;


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
101
Meantime man's judgment censured them,
As abject, mean and base.
The erring brother was away,
And none could tell his fate:
And the young sister at the loom,
Sate drooping, desolate.
She mourned not for her parents dead,
Nor for the breezy shore :
And now the weary, jangling loom
Distracted her no more.
Like one that worketh in a dream,
So worked she day by day,
Intent upon the loving grief,
Which on her spirit lay;
And as she worked, and as she grieved,
Her young life wore away.
And they who saw her come and go,
Oft said, with pitying tongue,
“ Alas, that labor is the doom,
Of aught so weak and young !"
Alone the kinsman pitied not ;
He chid her, that no more
The frame was strong, the hand was swift,
As it had been before.
X


102
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
-All for the child was dark on earth,
When holy angels bright
Unbarred the golden gates of heaven
For her one winter's night.
Within a chamber poor and low,
Upon a pallet bed,
She lay, and "hold my hand, sweet friend,"
With feeble voice she said.
“Oh, hold my hand, sweet Marien,"
The dying child spake low;
“And let me hear thy blessed voice,
To cheer me as I go!
“ 'Tis darksome all—Oh, drearly dark !
When will this gloom pass by ?
Is there no comfort for the poor,
And for the young who die!"
Down by her side knelt Marien,
And kissed her fading cheek,
Then of the loving Saviour,
In low tones ’gan to speak.
She told of Lazarus, how he lay,
A beggar mean and poor,
And died, in misery and want,
Beside the rich man's door.


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
103
Yet how the blessed angels came
To bear his soul on high,
Within the glorious courts of heaven,
On Abraham's breast to lie.
She told how children, when they die,
Yet higher glory win,
And see the Father face to face,
Unsoiled by tainting sin.
“ Blessèd be God!" the child began,
“I doubt not, neither fear,
All round about the bed, behold,
The angel-bands appear !
“I go !-yet still, dear Marien,
One last boon let me win! -
Seek out the poor lost prodigal,
And bring him back from sin !
“ I go ! I go!”—and angels bright,
The spirit bare away :-
On earth 'twas darksome, dreary night,
In heaven 'twas endless day!
- And now, upon that self-same night,
Within a carvèd bed,
Lay the rich kinsman wrapped in lawn,
With pillows 'neath his head.


104
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
Scheming deep schemes of gold, he lay
All in that lordly room;
Blessing himself that he had stores
For many years to come.
Just then an awful form spake low,
A form that none might see:
* Thou fool, this very night thy soul
Shall be required of thee.
And when into that chamber fair,
Stole in the morning-ray,
A lifeless corpse, upon his bed,
The miser kinsman lay.
-Beside his door stood solemn mutes ;
And chambers high and dim,
Where hung was pall, and mourning lights
Made show of grief for him.
Full fifty muffled mourners stood,
Around the 'scutcheoned bed,
That held the corse, as if, indeed,
A righteous man were dead.
Within a tomb, which he had built,
Of costly marble-stone,
They buried him, and plates of brass
His name and wealth made known.


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
105
A coffin of the meanest wood,
The little child received;
And o'er her humble, nameless grave,
No hooded mourner grieved.
Only kind Marien wept such tears,
As the dear Saviour shed,
When in the house at Bethany
He mourned for Lazarus dead.


PART XI.
NOW from the miser kinsman's house
Came many a jovial sound;
And lavish heirs had spent his gold,
Ere twelve months had gone round.
That while within the busy town
Dwelt Marien; and each day,
In some good deed of Christian love
And mercy, passed away.
For many an abject dweller there,
Grief-bowed and labor spent,
Groaned forth, amid his little ones,
To heaven his sad lament;
And unto such, to raise, to cheer,
The sent of God, she went.
But she who, even as they, was poor,
Failed not of daily bread;
stranger, many took her in,
And warmed, and clothed, and fed.
106


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
107
And when a sickness sore befel,
And nigh to death she lay,
Kind hearts there were who came to her,
And watched her night and day.
And afterwards, when evil men
Doomed her in bonds to lie,
Many a true, noble friend arose.
Willing for her to die.
Oh, blessed Christian hearts, who thus
Unto this little one
Did deeds of love ; for as to Christ
These righteous works were done !
And they who blessed her, for themselves,
A tenfold blessing won !
Thus dwelt sweet Marien in the town
For many a passing year,
Yet of the poor, lost prodigal
No tidings could she hear.
She found him not; but yet she found
Others who, even as he,
Had gone astray, and pined forlorn
In hopeless misery.
To these repentant, outcast ones,
She spake kind words of grace,


108
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
And led them back, with yearning hearts,
To seek the Father's face;
To find forgiveness in His heart,
And love in His embrace.
Oh blessed, blessèd Marien!
-But let us now recall
Whate'er had happed of change and woe
Unto the prodigal.
He saw his little sister pine ;
He saw her silent woe;
He saw her strength decline, yet still
Her weary labor grow.
As this he saw, yet more and more
He hated that hard man,
With whom their cheerless misery,
Their daily tasks began.
And even to true Marien,
He bare an altered mind ;-
Alas, that injuries should make
Else loving hearts unkind !
But so it is ! and when the twain
To cheer his spirit strove,
His wrath arose, and he repelled
Their patient deeds of love.


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE
109
Then evil men assailed his youth ;
And he who was so frail
In suffering, 'gainst the tempter's might
Was feeble to prevail.
He was their easy prey; their tool ;
And bravely clothed and fed,
In desperate scenes, mid desperate men,
A lawless life he led.
Yet often to his soul came back
Sweet memory of the time,
When he, a happy, thoughtless child,
Had knowledge of no crime.
And like a heavier, wearier woe,
Than labor night and day,
The consciousness of evil deeds
Upon his spirit lay.
He thought of slighted Marien,
And of the sister meek ;
Of the thin hands that plied the loom,.
And of the fading cheek ;
Yet how he had deserted them,
The faithful and the weak !
Y


110
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
He heard his loving parents' voice
Reproach him in his sleep;
And conscience, that stern bosom-guest,
Ceaseless upbraidings keep.
Yet, for the hated kinsman's sake,
Neither would he regard ;
And, because man was hard to him,
Made his own nature hard.
Thus doing outrage to his soul,
By chance he went one day
Thro' the brown trodden church-yard, where
The little sister lay.
A sexton there at work he found;
And why he turned the mould
So carefully, he asked, since there
No name the tenant told.
Replied he, “In this wide church-yard
I know each separate mound;
Yet unto me that little grave
Alone seems holy ground.”
And then he told of Marien,
And how she there had wept
Over the child, that 'neath the mould,
In dreamless quiet slept.


112 ·
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
Lay self-condemned, believing all
On his account were sent.
Anon a tempest rose, and drove
The ship before the gale,
For three long days, and bore away
Her rudder, mast and sail.
On the fourth night dark land appeared,
And the strained vessel bore
Right on the rocky reef, and lay
A wreck upon the shore.
At day-break only he remained
To note the vessel's fate;
The Crusoe of a desert isle,
Abject and desolate.
- The world went on as it was wont;
And in the city street,
And in the busy market-place,
Did thronging thousands meet.
Upon the hearths of poor men's homes
Good neighbors met at night;
And kindness and companionship
Made woe and labor light.


114
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
Saw how his human pride was gone,
His human will subdued.
Saw him and loved him. Broken heart,
Look up! the Father's voice
Calleth thee from thy depths of woe,
And biddeth thee rejoice !
-Now Marien from the trading town
Had voyaged; sent of Heaven
She knew not whither : and the ship,
Which with long storm had striven,
At length upon a glorious isle
Amid the seas was driven;
Where dwelt a gentle race at rest
Amid their flowery wilds,
Unknown to all the world, with hearts
As simple as a child's.
With them abode sweet Marien;
But now it chanced one day,
As in a slender carved boat
Upon the shore she lay,
A strong wind came, and filled the sail,
And bare her thence away.


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
115
She had no fear, true Marien ;-
That God was good, she knew,
And even then had sent her forth
Some work of love to do. .
The prodigal upon his rock
Was kneeling, and his prayer
For confidence in heaven, arose
Upon the evening air,
Just as the little boat approached
The island bleak and bare.
The boat ran up a creek, as if
'Twere steered by angels good;
And ere the evening prayer was done
Beside the youth she stood.
The chiefest joy it hath not words
Its deep excess to say;
And as if he had seen a sprite
His spirit died away.
Then with clasped hands and broken speech,
And tears that ceaseless flowed ;
He pourèd forth from his full heart
A fervent praise of God.


PART XII.
“ BUT let us hence," said Marien;
And with the earliest morn,
Within the slender carved boat,
They left that isle forlorn.
A light breeze from the desert shore
Over the waters blew,
And the little boat sailed on before,
Till the isle was out of view.
As friends long parted, met once more,
They sat; and of times gone,
And of the blessèd dead conversed,
As the slender boat sailed on.
And as they sailed, sweet Marien
Over the Gospel bent,
And read of joy that is in heaven
O’er sinners that repent;
And of the weary prodigal
Returning bowed with shame,
And the good father hastening forth
To meet him as he came •
116


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
117
And how he bade the fairest robe,
Be brought; the golden ring ;
Shoes for the feet: and music sweet,
As if to hail a king.
“For this, my son,” said he, “ was dead,
And is alive; is found,
Who was long lost ; 'tis meet, therefore,
That stintless joy abound !".
“Oh, child of woe,” said Marien,
“Look up, for thou art he;
And round about the Father's throne
Many rejoice for thee !”
“Oh, Lord, I bless thee,” said the youth,
“That of thy mercy great,
Thou hast vouchsafed to rescue me
From my forlorn estate !
And henceforth, to thy work of love
Myself I dedicate!
“ The meanest of thy creatures, low
I bend before thy throne,
And offer my poor self to make
Thy loving-kindness known !


118
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
“Oh, Father, give me words of power,
The stony hearts to move;
Give me prevailing eloquence,
To publish forth thy love!
“Thy love which wearieth not; which like
Thy sun, on all doth shine!
Oh, Father, let me worship Thee
Through life, by gladly serving Thee !
I love not life; I ask not wealth ;
My heart and soul, my youth and health,
My life, oh, Lord, are thine !"
So spake the youth ; but now the boat
The glorious island neared,
Which, like a cloudland realm of bliss,
Above the sea appeared.
Skyward rose sunny peaks, pale-hued,
As if of opal glow;
And crested palms, broad-leaved and tall,
In valleys grew below.
A lovely land of flowers, as fair
As Paradise, ere sin
And sorrow, that corrupting pair,
With death had entered in.


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
119
A lovely land !" And even now,"
Cried Marien, “ see they come,
Children of love, my brother, now
To bid thee welcome home!
" For these, God kept thee in the wild,
From sinful men apart;
For these, his people, through distress
Made pure thy trusting heart !
“ Thy work is here! Go forth, mid these
Meek children of the sun,
Oh, servant of the Lord, and tell
What He for thee hath done !"
Down to the shore thousands came,
A joyous, peaceful host,
To welcome Marien back, whom they
Had sorrowed for as lost.
“ And welcome to thee, little child!"
They sang forth sweet and clear;
“ And welcome to the stranger poor,
Who cometh with thee here !"
And then they brought him silken cloth,
Since he was meanly drest;
And juicy, mellow fruits to eat,
And perfumed waters for his feet,
And mats whereon to rest:


MARI
121
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE
Like to some ancient church of Christ,
From worldly taint kept free,
Lay this delicious isle of love
Amid its summer sea.
But now the work he had to do
Was done; and ere his day
Approached its noon, his strength, his life,
Was wearing fast away.
They saw his cheek grow thin and pale;
His loving eye grow dim;
And with surpassing tenderness
They sorrowed over him.
Old men, and youths, and women meek,
And children wild and young,
Followed his steps with watchful care,
And weeping round him hung.
In flowery thickets of the hills,
Sad mourners knelt in prayer,
That God this servant so revered,
This friend beloved would spare.
And round about his feet they sat,
Observant, meek, and still,
To gather up his latest words,
To do his slightest will.


122
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
Now all this while good Marien
Had wandered far and wide.
Through divers realms, for many a year,
The hand of heaven her guide.
And now unto the glorious isle
She came; but on the shore
She saw no wondering company,
As she had seen before.
’T was Sabbath eve, and o'er the isle
A solemn stillness lay;
A stillness, how unlike the calm
Of many a Sabbath day!
A hush, as of suspended breath,
Ere some great grief began ;
For the mournful people silently
Stood round the dying man.
Through the still vales went Marien,
And came at length to where,
Mid flowering trees, knelt many a one
In agony of prayer.
Onward she went, not many steps,
With heart of mournful ruth,
When, like a dying angel laid,
She saw the holy youth.


124
MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
“Even like the Master whom I serve,
I pray ye not to grieve;
But as ye have believed in me,
Also in Him believe !
“I go, but leave you not forlorn,
As sheep without a guide ;-
For Christ, the unfailing Comforter,
Shall still with you abide!
“Oh weep not, friends ; a better home
Awaits me, and I go,
But to that home which is prepared
For ye who love me so !
Farewell, farewell! Unto my God,
And unto yours, I go!"
The Sabbath sun went down amid
A golden, cloudless sky;
And the freed spirit, cleansed from sin,
Arose to God on high.
Beneath the trees where he had died,
They buried him, and there
Enwove the flowery boughs to form
A quiet house of prayer.


MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE.
125
Long time with them dwelt Marien,
Until she was sent forth,
At the Lord's bidding to perform
New service on the earth.
Good speed to thee, thou blessed child,
May angels guide thy bark,
Mid slumbrous calm, mid tempests wild,
And o'er the waters dark !
Good speed to thee, thou blessèd child
The angel of the poor-
And win from sorrow and from sin
The world from shore to shore.
07
A


THE PAINTER'S LITTLE MODEL,
HERE was nothing but
sunshine, beautiful flow-
er-beds, smooth grass,
and singing birds, with-
in the high wall of the
garden. A young mo-
Use ther sate with her chil-
dren under a birch-tree
in this garden. They formed a lovely group.
Outside the wall the swarming children of
the poor neighbors were at play; their shouts
and merriment were heard by the mother and
her children, and for some time their con-
versation was about them.
“You little know, my children,” said she,
after this subject seemed exhausted, “that
when I was young I too was a poor child,
a very poor child. I will tell you of my
childhood.

126


THE PAINTER'S LITTLE MODEL. 127
“My father was a gardener. I was the
second of seven children; we lived in a
narrow court that opened by a very narrow
entry into the public road. There were
many gentlemen's houses round us, and the
tall trees of some spacious pleasure-grounds
overtopped the houses on the one side of
our court; but they gave us no pleasure, be-
cause in summer they shut out the light and
made the air close, and in wet autumn wea-
ther the leaves lay in decaying masses in the
corners of the court. The house in which
we lived was the smallest in the whole court,
and I well remember that my mother never
ceased lamenting over the hardship of our
having to pay the same rent as all the others.
The public road into which our court open-
ed, and from which it was as totally unseen
as if it had not existed, was wide and open;
there was, in fact, a sort of green in the
middle of it, round which the road ran, and
houses, shaded by old trees, or standing in
the midst of gardens, surrounded it. On the
the other side of the court lay a beautiful
church, the burial-ground of which adjoined
it; but there was a high wall between it and


128 THE PAINTER'S LITTLE MODEL.
the houses, by which the air was again con-
fined, and the church-yard itself was locked,
so that the children never played there.
“My father was a working gardener who
was employed by the day; he was not an
old man, and yet he had a slow and heavy
gait from rheumatism, which was a great
trouble to him; and this probably was the
reason that he was so often out of work.
He loved flowers, and he used often to talk
to us children about the beautiful gardens
which belonged to the gentlemen's houses
around us, and of the lovely flowers, which
he had a particular way of describing, as if
they were living things that he loved. Often
when he talked in this way, my mother, or
some of us children, asked why he did not
sometimes bring home some flowers from
these beautiful gardens, where there was
such abundance. But the flowers were not
his; he was a very honest man, and there-
fore he never took any.
“The descriptions which my father gave
of these gardens excited me very much. I
desired above all things to go into these beau-
tiful gardens, and to see these wonderful


THE PAINTER'S LITTLE MODEL. 129
flowers. I often lingered about the gates and
palings of the great houses to peep in, and
the little glimpses I thus got only excited
me the more.
“Our neighbors' children mostly went to
school. There were seven of us; five old
enough to go to school; but my mother had
bad health, and my father had but little
work, and therefore it was not always that
the penny a-week could be raised to send
with each to school, and unless we took the
penny on the Monday morning the mistress
would not receive us. I was very useful at
home to nurse the younger children; and
when not needed for this purpose, or perhaps
when want was very pressing upon us, I was
employed to nurse the baby of a neighbor
for my food.
“As the court was so close we children
were always sent out into the road to play.
Had we been allowed to play on the little
green all would have been well, but this
green was private property, and was enclosed
with handsome green iron palisadoes, which
looked very pretty, but which shut us out
from its enjoyment. Our favorite place of


THE PAINTER'S LITTLE MODEL. 131
The face was grave, with apparently strong
ly marked features, and a slight palsy kept
the head in movement. Whenever the chil-
dren were particularly noisy, the head ap-
peared at the window, and the tremulous
palsied movement gave the idea of her shak-
ing her head at them and being angry. Some
of them thought this very amusing, and
would make loud noises to bring her to the
window. They called her the old witch.
“The sight of this old, singular head, seen
now and then at the upper windows of this
gloomy old house, excited my imagination
strongly; I wished very much to know what
sort of a room it was in which she lived ;
what she did when we did not see her at the
window, and who and what she really was.
“The windows of the room adjoining that
in which the old lady lived, had also a strange
look. There were three of them, the mid-
dle one of which only was open, and that
was much taller than the others, and extend-
ed towards the roof; the other windows were
darkened. Sometimes the old woman was
seen to look out from this strange middle
window, but that was very rarely indeed.


132 THE PAINTER'S LITTLE MODEL.
“The children, the boys especially, seem.
ed to delight in ridiculing the old lady; no-
body had ever seen her go out, and as the
grand people of the neighborhood were very
rarely seen to call at the house in their car-
riages, they said just what they pleased about
her.
“Beside the old lady there lived a gentle-
man in the house, whom everybody said
was a great painter. He lived a deal abroad,
in Italy and Germany, and though people
said that he was a fine painter, nobody knew
exactly what that meant; he was not a
merchant, nor a lawyer, nor a doctor, nor a
clergyman, though he lived in a large house,
nor, though he was called a painter, was he
a house-painter, which would have been in-
telligible to everybody. He was believed
also to be poor, and yet, as he always paid
ready money at all the shops, nobody trou-
bled themselves about his poverty, but that
was considered to explain the reason why
the rich neighbors did not visit with him, and
this in some degree influenced the poor.
" I used to sit and nurse and play with the
children by the stone benches, and cast fur-


THE PAINTER'S LITTLE MODEL. 133 .
tive glances at the house with fear and won-
der. One day I chanced to go down with
other children into some adjoining fields,
through which there was a footpath, and
while standing against a stile was addressed
by a singular-looking gentleman with long
hair, and a handsome but thoughtful counte-
nance. He asked me many questions-of
my parents, of my education ; he stroked.
my hair ; put it back from my forehead, and
looked into my face; took my hand, looked
at it inside and out, examined my arms, and
then asked if I should like to be painted in a.
picture. I knew not what to say ; I felt å:
little ashamed, and as was always the case:
when I addressed people of a station higher-
than my own, I replied in a whisper. The:
children that were with me laughed, and
that only increased my embarrassment. The
gentleman, however, inquired where I lived,
and said that he would see my mother, and
talk to her.
“When he was gone, some of the children
said that he was the great painter who lived.
at the house where the old witch lived; and
AA


134 THE PAINTER'S LITTLE MODEL.
they jeered and laughed about my having
my picture painted.
“When I came home my mother said
that the gentleman had been, and that
I was to go next morning to his house.
I was half frightened. The gentleman said,
that he would send his servant over for me,
and I was to be paid for my time, twice as
much as for nursing the neighbor's child,
and was to have my victuals into the
bargain. My parents were well pleased with
the arrangement, and the next morning a
middle-aged respectable woman came for
me. We were so poor that my mother had
washed my clothes while I slept, that I
might go to the great house perfectly clean;
and, hardly dry though they were, I went
in them the next morning.
-“I cannot tell you how strange it seemed
ito feel the great gate open for me, and to be
staken by a side door into that large myste-
rious house. We entered a large marble-
flagged hall, and went up a large staircase,
where stood huge strange-looking figures,
as they seemed to me. Higher and higher
we went, and at length I was led into a


THE PAINTER'S LITTLE MODEL. 135
large, darkened room, in which was a
window high up to the ceiling, the shutters
of which were closed below. Everything in
the room had a strange look; large pictures,
some finished, and others in progress, stood
on large easels ; casts of the human form,
some beautiful and some which seemed
horrible to me, stood around; hands and
arms and feet in plaster were hung against
the wall, and a huge figure seemed to be
sitting in a tall chair covered up with cloth,
from beneath which peeped forth a black,
bare foot, which I at the first moment
believed to be that of a live person, but
which I afterwards found to belong to the
lay figure in the chair.
“ The gentleman whom I had seen the
day before received me kindly, he wore a
grey painting-coat, and held his pallet and
brushes in one hand, and a stick in the
other, which at the first greatly frightened
me, because I thought perhaps he might
beat me with it. My fears were very great,
for I was ignorant, and knew nothing about
artists and pictures. I spoke as usual in a
low whisper, and as I meant to be very


136 THE PAINTER'S LITTLE MODEL.
well-behaved I said "please” before every
sentence. I sate without my frock in my
little brown petticoat and ragged chemise
sleeves. My attitude was not a difficult
one; I was to represent a child among the
shepherds of Arcadia, and in the picture
sheep and lambs were lying around me in
the midst of a beautiful pastoral landscape.
I soon became tired, however, and very
restless. After a while the door of the studio
opened, and in came an old woman; at the
sight of her the painter drew forward a large
chair, arranged the cushions, and giving
the old lady his hand, seated her in it; her
head shook a little ; but her countenance
was beautiful; mild and gentle, and full
of intelligence and affection; she looked
first at the picture and then at me atten-
tively for some time. I saw at once that
this was the fearful old lady whose face I
and the others had seen so often at the
window. There she sate; in a black stuff-
gown, a sort of furred short cloak, and that
plain white cap, looking at me with her
keen, clear blue eyes. She supported her-
self with a silver-headed cane, which she


THE PAINTER'S LITTLE MODEL. 137
still held while she sate. Her head' moved
slightly, and her eye rested upon me. “The
child is tired,” said she to the painter, and
then calling me up to her, she said, with
what appeared at that time, severity, that
I was one of those noisy children who
disturbed her so much in the front of the
house! I was frightened, and if she had
required an answer from me, I could not
have uttered it. Without asking her son's
permission, for she was the painter's mother,
she bade me go and take a run round
the garden, and then come in again, for that
I was not used to sitting so long and so
still.
“Without knowing how to find my way
into the garden, I went slowly down the
great staircase up which I had been brought,
past all the huge torsoes and plaster figures,
and after I had stood in an uncomfortable
state of bewilderment and terror in the great
hall for a minute or two, the same middle-
aged respectable woman, who had fetched
me to the house, came out of a large closet,
with a jar in her hand, and locking the
door, saw me standing there, and looking


138 THE PAINTER'S LITTLE MODEL.
half frightened. In reply to her inquiries,
as to what I wanted, I told her in my usual
whisper, that the old lady had sent me to
have a run in the garden, and that I did
not know where the garden was. Without
returning any answer, she led me to a glass
door at the end of the hall, and opening it,
I saw at once a grand old garden, which
like everything else about the place, im-
pressed my mind at first with a feeling of
awe.
"Instead of running in the garden as I
had been desired to do, I walked slowly. In
after years, I came to know that old garden
well, and everything became familiar to me,
but I never forgot my earliest impressions,
although I remembered them as if they had
belonged to somebody else. However, there
I was then, strange to everything, and full
of wondering terror. There was a square
grass plat near the house, and in the middle
of this stood a sun dial on a stone pillar
of about my own height. I had no idea
what it was, and it looked mysterious.
Below the grass were cypresses and yew-
trees, and lower still in the garden an im-


THE PAINTER'S LITTLE MODEL. 139
mense cedar-tree, with a bench under its
wide-spreading branches. The whole gar-
den was quiet and solitary. There was no
gardener at work in it at all, the sound that
I heard was the monotonous splash of a
little fountain which was encircled by a
second grass plat, but all this lower part
of the garden had a wild and somewhat
neglected appearance. At the bottom of all,
on a sloping bed, grew strawberries, at that
time full of leaves and fruit. I saw the
red, juicy, delicious berries lying abundantly
among the leaves, and for a long time I
resisted the temptation they offered. My
mouth watered at every step; I thought
after a little while that I might take one,
just one, nobody would miss it. I stooped
down, but before my hand had touched the
plant, I saw a movement among the leaves,
and out crawled a something which made
my blood run cold. I had read at school
about the serpent tempting Eve to eat the
apple, and involuntarily I thought that this,
too, was the serpent, or the evil one in
another shape. The serpent, however,
tempted Eve to sin, but this strange appa-


140 THE PAINTER'S LITTLE MODEL.
rition drove at once from my mind all desire
to pluck and eat.
Some way or other, I know not how, but
I felt as if this was the strange, unshapely
spirit of the place; the solemn yew-trees,
the black-branched cedar, the large, gloomy
house, the old, mysterious lady, with her
palsied head, the artist's room, with his
plaster figures of beauty and terror, all at
once combined themselves into one idea, and
that was connected with the queer, crawling
creature that was now slowly receding from
me: I ran down the walk, past the fountain
and the cedar-tree, and within sight of the
house, where I once more took my time, and
walked slowly, looking at some large scarlet
lilies that had sprung up among a tangle of
jasmine, starred over with its white flowers,
and which, partly fallen from the wall, either
by neglect or accident, produced a beautiful
effect, and which, as I afterwards found, the
artist himself had been observant of, and
had introduced into the foreground of that
very Arcadian picture in which I myself
was figuring. Here I stopped, and here


THE PAINTER'S LITTLE MODEL. 141
again, moving slowly along the border,
was, as I supposed at first, that very same
unshapely monster from which I had just
fled
"' I was, at that time, an ignorant little
creature; I had heard of witchcraft and
magic, and imps and fiends, and I knew but
very little of the true history of any thing;
therefore it was perhaps no wonder that I at
once imagined that myself or the garden
was bewitched, and that the very thing from
which I had just filed, had, by some strange
power, conveyed itself away to be ready for
me when I next stopped.
"I was frightened, indeed, and with a sort
of franctic terror I ran back to the strawberry
bed to see if it were there. But I could see
nothing of it; it was gone. Where should
I see it next? I did not dare to stop and
look, but running now with all my might,
I hastened back to the house, and passing
through the large glass door once more was
in the great silent hall, and at the foot of the
staircase. I lingered a long time in the
hope of seeing the middle-aged woman, but
she was invisible, and all was as silent as


142 THE PAINTER'S LITTLE MODEL.
the tomb, excepting the loud, and, as it
seemed to me, deliberate ticking of a large
old clock, the face of which was surrounded
with gilded rays, and the great pendulum
of which heavily swung to and fro, keeping
such audible count of its moments, that I
felt as if it would stun me if I listened
to it. I therefore made the best of my way
back to the artist's room.
" The old lady was still sitting in the
large chair as I had left her, and with her
silver headed cane in her hand as if she had
never moved. The artist was at work at
his picture, and I at once saw that the old
woman had taken my place as his sitter, and
that he was painting her also into his large
picture. Neither they nor I spoke, and for
a little while I watched him at work on that
old and really grand head.
“Everything seemed strange and like a
dream around me. I felt as if the picture
were real, and I and everything else ideal.
Out of this dream-like feeling I was roused
by the old lady who, calling me to her side,
asked me abruptly what I had seen in the
garden. Her manner was kind, although


THE PAINTER'S LITTLE MODEL. 143
somewhat sharp, and therefore, although I
still spoke in my timid whisper and with
my scrupulous regard to what I thought
propriety, I answered candidly in my uncul-
tivated English,
“Please,' said I, “there's such a queer
thing in the garden-oh, such a queer un !
“What does she say? asked the old lady,
who was rather deaf, and to whom my
whisper was inaudible.
“Her son repeated my words with a smile,
and coming forward to us asked me what
that was like which I had seen.
“I described, with all the exaggeration
of my ignorant fear, the creature that I had
seen; its strange unearthly withered sort of
countenance and its four legs like distorted
arms; and the strange case or “lid," as I
called it, under which it hid itself, and upon
which were curious and mysterious looking
signs, as if painted in dingy gold. I said
that the creature seemed to move slowly,
but that when I left it at the strawberry bed,
and ran with all my might towards the
house, it had got there before me, and was
staring at me from under a red lily.


THE PAINTER'S LITTLE MODEL. 145
fixed my eyes on her countenance, thinking
how very old she also looked, when she
startled me by saying, perhaps you think
me as old as the tortoise; perhaps you think
me a hundred years old ? No, I'm not that,
I'm not so old as the tortoise—I am only
eighty-nine !
“The painter now came forward with his
book and laid before me an engraving of
just such a tortoise as I had seen. He
began to read to me something about it,
and then suddenly interrupting himself, he
said ;- but you can't understand this; you
know nothing either of natural history nor
geography—it's no use reading to you.' He
said truly; I understood neither one nor the
other; and my mind at that moment was in
a strange confusion.
“He put the book back in his back-case,
and then sitting down before his beautiful
picture, took me between his knees.—There
is the very tangle of jasmin out of which
grows the scarlet lily, and there, under
those branches, creeps forth one of the very
tortoises you have seen! I gave an invol-
untary shudder as I there indeed saw it,
10


THE PAINTER'S LITTLE MODEL. 147
death deprived seven young children of
their parents, we found the truest friends
in the good artist and his aged mother.
“She lived, like the tortoises, to be a
hundred years old, and as to the painter,
you know him, my children, it is Mr.
, the well known Royal Academician,
my revered and beloved benefactor."

w


ABOUT THE MAN WHO LIVED IN A
WILDERNESS,
AND WHO HAD A CHILD FOR A NEIGHBOR.
4
and yello
T was a June morning ; roses
and yellow jasmine covered the
old wall in the poet's garden;
.. the little brown mason bees
flew in and out of their holds
beneath the pink and white
and yellow flowers; peacock
butterflies, with large blue eyes
on their crimson velvet wings,
fluttered about, and settled on the orange-
brown wall-flowers. Aloft in the broad-
leaved sycamore-tree, the blackbird was sing-
ing as if he was out of his senses for joy ;
he sang as loud as any nightingale, and his
heart was glad because his young brood
were hatched, and he knew that they now
sate with their little yellow beaks poking

148


MAN IN A WILDERNESS.
149
out of the nest, and thinking what a famous
bird their father was. All the robins, and
tomtits, and linnets, and redstarts, that sate
in the trees of the garden shouted vivas,
and bravuras, and encored him delightfully.
The poet himself, to whom the garden be-
longed, sate under the double-flowering
hawthorn, which was all in blossomhe
sate on a green chair, and his best friend
sate beside him. Beneath the lower branch-
es of the tree was hung the canary bird's
cage; the children had brought it out be-
cause the morning was so fine, and the little
canary loved fresh air and the smell of
flowers. It never troubled him that other
birds flew about from one end of the garden
to the other, or sate and sung on the
waving and leafy branches; he loved his
cage, and while the old blackbird poured
forth his grand melodies, the little canary
sat like a prince in a stage-box and nodded
his head and sang an accompaniment.
One of the poet's children, the little
daughter, sate in her own little garden;
the garden was full of flowers, and bees
and butterflies flitted about in the sunshine.
BB


150
MAN IN A WILDERNESS.
The child, however, was not noticing them;
she was thinking only of one thing, and
that was the great daisy-root which was
all in flower; it was the largest daisy-root
in the whole garden, and two-and-fifty
double pink and white daisies were crowded
upon it. They were, however, no longer
daisies to the child's eyes, but two and
fifty little charity children in green stuff
gowns and white tippets and white linen
caps, that had had a holiday given them;
she saw them all with pink cheeks and
bright eyes, running in a group and talk-
ing as they went; the hum of the bees
around seemed the sound of their voices.
The child was happy to think that two-
and-fifty charity children were let loose
from school to run about in the sunshine;
her heart went with them, and she was
so full of joy that she started up and ran
to tell her father, who was sitting with
his best friend under the hawthorn tree.
Sad and bitter thoughts, however, oppressed
the poet's heart; he had been disappointed
where he had hoped for good; his soul was
under a cloud, and as the child ran up to


MAN IN A WILDERNESS.
151
tell him about the little charity children,
in whose joy she thought he would sympa-
thize, she heard him say to his friend :-
“No, I have no hope of human nature
now; it is a poor, miserable thing that is
not worth working for. My best endeavors
have been spent in its service; my youth
and my manhood's strength-my very life-
and this is my reward! I will no longer
strive to do good. I will write for money's
sake as others do—and not for the good of
mankind !
The poet's words were bitter, and tears
came in the eyes of his best friend. Never
had the child heard such words from her
father before; he had been to her hitherto
as a great and good angel.
"I will write," said he, "for money's sake,
as others do, and not for the good of man-
kind !!
“My father, if you do," said the child, in
a voice of mournful indignation, “I will no
longer read what you write; I will trample
all your writings under my feet !" Large
tears rolled down her cheeks, and her eyes
were fixed on her father's face.


MAN IN A WILDERNESS.
153,
taken possession of his cave; they troubled
him night and day; they dropped canker
blight upon his roses, nipped off his jasmine
and honeysuckle flowers, and in the form
of caterpillar and blight, ate his beautiful
fruits. It made the man angry and bitter;
the flowers were no longer beautiful to
him, and when he looked at them he
thought only of the canker and the cater-
pillar; 'I can no longer take pleasure in
them,' said he, 'I will leave the cave, and
go elsewhere. He did so; and he travelled
on and on; but it was a vast wilderness
in which he was, and so it was many
and many a day before he came to a place
of rest, nor did he know that all this time
the evil spirits who had plagued him so
in his own cave, were still going with him ;
but they were; and they made every place
he came to seem worse than the last;
their very breath cast a blight upon every-
thing. He was footsore and weary, and
very miserable. A feeling like despair was
in his heart, and he said he might as well
die as live; he lay down in the wilderness,
and scarcely had he done that, when he


154
MAN IN A WILDERNESS.
heard behind him the pleasantest sound
in the world; a little child singing like a
bird because her heart was innocent and
full of joy; the next moment she was at
his side. The evil spirits that were about
him, when they saw her coming, drew
back a little, for she brought with her a
beautiful company of angels and bright
spirits, little cherubs, with round, rosy cheeks,
golden hair and laughing eyes, stuck be-
tween two doves' wings as white as snow.
The child had not the least idea that these
beautiful spirits always were about her ;
all she knew was, that she was full of joy,
and that she loved above all things to do
good. When she saw the poor man lying
there, she went up to him, and talked so
pityingly and yet so cheerfully to him, that
he felt as if her words would cure him.
She told him that she lived just by, and
that he should go with her and rest, and
get well in her cave. He went with her,
and it was just such a cave as his own,
only much smaller. Roses and honey-
suckles and jasmines grew all round it;
and birds were singing, and gold and silver


MAN IN A WILDERNESS.
155
IN
inne
All styre
al met
Coming
al mit
Sand's
dou
es un
28 The
fishes were sporting about in the water ; and
there were such beds of strawberries, all red
and luscious, that filled the air with odour.
It was a beautiful place; there seemed to be
no canker nor blight on anything; and yet
the man saw how spiders had woven webs
like the most beautiful lace from one vine
branch to another; and butterflies that had
once been devouring caterpillars were flitting
about; and just as in his own garden, fat
yellow frogs were squatted under the cool
strawberry leaves; but the child loved the
frogs as well as the green lizards, and said
that they did her no harm, and that there
were plenty of strawberries both for them
and for her.
“The evil spirits that had troubled the
man, and followed him, could not get into
the child's garden ; it was impossible, be-
cause all those rosy-cheeked cherubs and
white angels lived there; and that which'
is good, be it ever so small, is a great
deal stronger than that which is evil, be
it ever so large. So they sate outside
and bit their nails for vexation; and as
the man stayed a long time with the
7 m2
ad


156
MAN IN A WILDERNESS.
child they got so tired of waiting, that
some of them flew away forever. At length
the man kissed the child, and went back
to his own place. When he got there he
found that owing to the evil spirits having
been so long away, the flowers and the
fruits had in great measure recovered them-
selves; there was hardly any canker or
blight left, and as the child came now very
often to see him, and brought with her
all her bright company, the place was
freed, at least while she stayed, from the
evil ones. That is a true story. There
are many men, who, like him, live in a
wilderness, and it is happy for them when
they have a child for their neighbor.”
The poet was silent; the child kissed
him, and then, without saying a word
about the little charity children, ran off
to sit down beside them, and perhaps to
tell them the story which her father had
just told her.


THE BLIND BOY AND HIS SISTER. 159
“ The harebell and the gowan
Are not alike to me,
Are different as the herd and flock,
The blasted pine-tree of the rock,
The waving birch, the broad, green oak,
The river, and the sea.
“ And oh, the heavenly music,
That as I sit alone,
Comes to mine inward sense as clear
As if the angel-voices were
Singing to harp and dulcimer
Before the mighty Throne !
“ It is not as of outward sound,
Of breeze, or singing bird ;
But wondrous melody refined ;
A gift of God unto the blind;
An inward harmony of mind,
By inward senses heard !
“ And all the old-world stories
That neighbors tell o’nights ;
Of fairies on the fairy mound,
Of brownies dwelling under ground,
Of elves careering round and round,
Of fays and water-sprites ;


160 THE BLIND BOY AND HIS SISTER.
All this to me is pleasantness,
Is all a merry show; .
I see the antic people play,
Brownie and kelpie, elf and fay,
In a sweet country far away,
Yet where I seem to go.
“But better far than this, Annie,
Is when thou read'st to me
Of the dear Saviour meek and kind,
And how he healed the lame and blind,
Am I not healed for in my mind -
His blessed form I see!
“Oh, love is not of sight, Annie,
Is not of outward things ;
For in my inmost soul I know, ..
His pity for all mortal woe;
His words of love, spoke long ago,
Unseal its deepest springs !
“ Then do not mourn for me, Annie,
Because that I am blind ;-
The beauty of all outward sight;
The wondrous shows of day and night;
All love, all faith, and all delight,
Are strong in heart and mind !"


Part ¥¥¥.
FIRE SIDE TALES.


THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
to

R. JOSEPH HIL-
UMU WA
DUMI
27 YARD was a rich
dyer in one of our
largest manufacturing
towns, a plodding, hard-
headed man of busi-
ness, who never lost
sight of the main chance
but once, and that was when he
o married old Green's daughter, with
seven thousand pounds to her fortune, instead
of Ellen Stretton, who had nothing. He
soon found out his mistake, for his wife was
one of those unhappy-tempered women who
make everybody miserable about them.
Ellen Stretton married also two years after-
wards, not for love, I am sorry to say, and


THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
was not more happy than he. Her husband,
whose name was Trevisham, was also a
dyer, as hard a headed man as Hilyard, but
without his good qualities. He was always
in law with somebody; he had a desperate
lawsuit with Hilyard about the fence of their
drying-grounds, which unfortunately adjoin-
ed; it was but a small thing to quarrel about,
but, like a rolling snowball, it grew at every
turn, and, in the end, brought on bis ruin.
He lost his lawsuit and then he died, leaving
his affairs in a very bad state. When all
were wound up, the creditors, out of compas-
sion to the widow, whom everybody respected,
gave up sufficient to ensure her and her only
child, a daughter, an annuity of seventy
pounds for her life.
Hilyard had been a fierce adversary to the
husband, and the widow felt a peculiar grief
to see herself, in some measure, ruined by his
means; still she was not without comfort,
even in her depressed circumstances; she had
good health, a cheerful disposition, a heart
full of love both to God and man, a beloved
daughter, whom she herself was able to edu-
cate well, and beyond all—now that poor


10
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
though they dwelt in the same town, he lived
in a large square stone house which a law-
yer had built and he had bought, in one
suburb, and she, since her misfortunes, as
they were called, lived in a little cottage-a
very little one—in an opposite direction. He
questioned, as I said, whether he should
marry her, but, someway or other, the idea
seemed strange; he thought people would
talk amazingly if he did. No, his marrying
days were over, he decided
People saw him buttoned up in his good
broad-cloth going steadily about his business
and making his fifteen hundred a year, and
never suspected one atom of the romance
which had taken possession of his naturally
good heart. One day he took a drive to the
little suburban village in which the widow
lived, and, leaving his chaise at the inn,
strolled up the lane in which her cottage
stood. He had no idea of making a call,
not the slightest in the world, he only wanted
to see the place. It was a very small cot-
tage; two gentlewomen living on seventy
pounds a-year could not afford a large house.
“ It cannot be above eight or nine pounds


THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
13
a little girl was coming up with a milk-can,
and, turning in at the green gate, knocked
at the door. He was a wealthy man, as we
know, and a girl taking milk to his own
house would have excited no interest in his
mind; and yet he stopped to see who would
open the door to take this pennyworth of
milk. It was only the little servant girl. At
the bottom of the little garden he stopped
again and looked at the front of the cottage;
the fire that was burning in parlor and kitchen
cast a glow within, for it was getting dusk,
and by the parlor-window stood Kitty read-
ing, for she had gone to the window for light.
The outline of the bent head and the youth-
ful bust sent a still warmer glow to his heart;
it reminded him of that Ellen Stretton who
had once been all the world to him. With
hasty steps he then returned to the inn, or-
dered out his chaise, drank a glass of negus,
and then drove home to his large square
house, and his many servants.
People talk a deal about “the luxury of
doing good.” Mr. Joseph Hilyard determined
that he would enjoy this luxury; but he did
not say a word to any one-not a syllable!


14
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
He thought a deal about the cottage fireside
and seventy pounds a-year. Christmas-day
was not far off, and he remembered that peo-
ple could not have fine Christmas dinners
with only seventy pounds a-year. Two days
before Christmas-day, therefore, the carrier's
cart stopped at Mrs. Trevisham's cottage,
and left, carriage paid, a large hamper. It
was carried into the little kitchen, and the
little servant-maid summoned her mistress to
open it.
“Dear me! what can it be?" exclaimed
Mrs. Trevisham, as the girl hastily cut the
strings and opened the creakling lid of the
hamper. “Kitty, come here !" and Kitty
came instantly out of the parlor with her
sewing in her hand, which, however, she soon
threw down to help in unpacking the ham-
per ;—a turkey, a ham, a dozen of mince-
pies, so beautifully packed that not one was
broken, a game pie, such almonds and raisins,
and delicious fruit for desert, and a dozen of
wine!
6 Who can have sent them? What can
it mean ?" exclaimed both mother and
daughter.


THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
15
It was long since Mrs. Trevisham had had
a regular Christmas dinner of her own; now
and then she and her daughter were asked
out, but not often; now, however, here was
a splendid dinner for them, and who must
they invite to partake of it? Oh, there were
plenty of poor folks who should have some
of it ; that was soon decided ; and then
nothing was thought of for the rest of the
evening but who could have sent this present?
They could not imagine; it might be this
person and it might be that; but they hardly
thought it could be! They never guessed
the right person—and how indeed should
they ?
It was now five years since this first Christ-
mas dinner was sent, and at the same time
precisely, for the next four years, did the
same carrier's cart bring the same present, or
slightly varied, to the widow's house. It was
a pleasant mystery; it was a real comfort to
know that there was somebody who cared
that much for them. But the delicacies of
that Christmas provision were not eaten
alone by the widow and her daughter; some
poor neighbor, some sick woman or man, or


10
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
18
all that, the daughter found time to teach in
the Ragged School, which never would have
been established but for her, and that she
herself gave half-a-guinea to its funds.
Mr. Joseph Hilyard pulled out his large
well-filled green silk purse, and gave the doctor
five pounds for this school, which he said
must be put down as from a friend; and then
taking leave of the good man, he turned back
and walked slowly down the lane. Again
the cottage chimney smoked, and again his
heart was as warm as if he had sate by its fire.
He was filled with all sorts of grand schemes
of beneficence; he would do—he did not
know what, for such excellent people as these.
While he was thus vaguely thinking he ap-
proached the cottage; the door opened, and
out came Kitty Trevisham in her dark merino
dress, plaid shawl, and straw bonnet with
dark-blue ribbon. She looked at Mr. Hil-
yard as she came out, and then walked
briskly on as if she had business in hand.
She was a sweet, bright-looking creature,
with the kindest eyes that were ever set in a
human countenance. When she came within
sight of the parlor-window she looked towards


THE CHRISTMASDINNER
19
it, smiled sweetly and nodded; Mr. Hilyard
looked also, and there stood the mother, in
her plain cap and black dress, and nodded
affectionately to her daughter. This little
circumstance expressed a great deal; mother
and daughter were all the world to each
other: there was the most perfectly good un-
derstanding between them, and the last look,
even for an absence of an hour or two, was
full of affectionate intelligence.
She walked on briskly and he followed ;
she had such a neat pretty figure. She
walked uncommonly well, and had a re-
markably pretty foot and ankle, as he could
see when she held up her dress where the
road was wet.
“I wish I were a young man for her sake !"
thought Mr. Hilyard to himself; “now I
wonder who she will marry ?" and with that,
all at once, a grand idea floated into his mind.
He would send for his nephew, Edward Grey,
and adopt him as his son, and he should
marry this good and pretty daughter of
widow Trevisham! It was a splendid idea.
This nephew was the son of his only sister
who had married a poor schoolmaster in the


20
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
country. She had often asked him to do
something for this, her eldest son ; he was
said to be a fine scholar; a very gentlemanly
young man, of excellent principles, and he
was now six-and-twenty. He could not think
how he had never done anything for him be-
fore; he felt all at once as if he had been a
hard-hearted wretch; never, till that day,
had he given a penny even to a Ragged School.
Well, he would turn over a new leaf, now;
he would send for his nephew, get him mar-
ried to this poor, but good girl, and then he
should no longer be ashamed of himself.
Little did sweet Kitty Trevisham know of
the schemes which were working in the head
of the respectable gentleman who was fol-
lowing her. She was going to the Ragged
School for a couple of hours that evening,
and she was thinking of nothing but her
poor scholars.
In a month's time Edward Grey was at his
uncle's, as handsome a young man as his
mother had described him, with an open
countenance, and a great deal of decision in
his manner. He was one of those men who
in reality do not need any one to help them


THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.'
21
on in life; the elements of success are in
themselves; and men of this character are
not such as can have a path chalked out for
them by another. Joseph Hilyard found his
nephew a very different person to what he
expected; he fancied that he would be pliable
and extremely grateful, and that he should
open his plans to him with respect to Kitty
Trevisham, immediately, but there was an
independence about him which it did not
seem safe to interfere with, and almost an in-
difference about the large income of which,
if he pleased, he might be the heir, so that
his uncle felt pretty sure that if he all at
once revealed his designs, his nephew would
turn restive on his hands; and there was at
the same time so much manliness and
straightforward honesty of character about
him, that he could not help feeling respect
for him. “Besides this," as the foreman said,
" he took very kindly to the business," and
seemed so thoroughly to understand it, that
there was no doubt of his becoming a most
valuable assistant, or partner.
They were, in fact, two of the most excel-
lent men that ever met; and yet, in some


22
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
respects they were so different in character,
that while they remained in any degree
strangers to each other, they worked ill to-
gether. Edward Grey was unlike any per-
son with whom his uncle had come in con-
tact; as yet he had been sole king and
master of his world ; he had no idea but of
remaining so, and now here was a young
man whom he had introduced into it, carry-
ing everything his own way, and that with
the utmost quietness and self-complacency.
He never asked his uncle's leave for what
he did, and yet he established directly a
Temperance Society among the men, and
set about forming a Mechanics’ Institute for
the whole town. Mr. Hilyard, as we said,
was full of all sorts of grand benevolent
schemes a short time before, and approved
of Temperance Societies, and schools for the
people, yet now he was angry with his
nephew for zealously co-operating in them.
Perhaps he was displeased that men of in-
fluence in the place-great philanthropists
with whom he had never had anything to do,
should seem to court his nephew's acquaint-
ance as they did, stranger though he was to


THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
23
them all; it was a sort of tacit reproof to
himself, and it annoyed him. But let the
fault be where it would, the uncle and the
nephew did not get on so comfortably to-
gether as they ought to have done, when a
little circumstance seemed, for the moment,
to be the one drop to the full cup of the
uncle's displeasure, and made it overflow
abundantly.
He had, immediately on his coming, made
his nephew a present of a handsome gold
watch and chain, and this the young man
lost one day when he was bathing. It was
a most distressing thing to him, and he could
only surmise, that some dexterous thief had
stolen it from his clothes as they lay on the
river's bank. He said nothing to his uncle
of his loss, for so grieved was he to have
failed, as he felt he had done, in winning his
affection, that he was unwilling still further
to displease him by this apparent careless-
ness. In his heart, Edward Grey regarded
his uncle as a second father; he would have
died to have served him ; but he was not one.
of those who could make professions, and as
his uncle seemed cold and distant, he deter-


24
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
mined quietly to go on fulfilling every duty,
trusting to time and circumstances for making
all straight between them.
The watch had been lost a week when it
came to his uncle's knowledge, and that ac-
cidentally. A person came to the counting-
house where they both were, and asked
whether Mr. Edward Grey had not lost
something. “My watch !" said thủ young
man, joyfully; "a gold watch and chan; I
lost them a week ago!"
His uncle was astonished and enraged;
“ Was the watch then of so little value that
he could lose it and say nothing about it?"
In twenty different ways he could look at this
affair and be made angry by it. He never
had lost his own watch, and if he had, he
should have been at some trouble to have
found it, &c., &c.
Grey thought his uncle unreasonable in
being thus angry without hearing him say
one word in his own defence. It seemed to
him that there was much more said than the
occasion warranted, and for that reason he
was silent, and by this means his uncle did
not know how much he had suffered, nor


THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
25
what pains he had, in truth, taken for the re-
covery of his loss.
The uncle was not only very angry, but
very much grieved ; in his anger he declared
that it was the last present that he ever would
make him, and yet, the next moment, he
threw him ten sovereigns, and told him to go
and see if he could get back his watch for
that money, which he did not believe. Grey
took the money thus ungraciously given, and
went out with the man who said he was sent.
by the person who had found the watch.
· Mr. Joseph Hilyard would have been no
little astonished, could he have seen his:
nephew conducted to Mrs. Trevisham's cot-
tage. It was a lovely afternoon, towards the:
close of summer; the little garden was as.
full of flowers as it could be, and jasmine and.
roses peeped in and clustered round the open.
parlor-window, and there sate Mrs. Tre-
visham in her mourning, and Kitty in a
pretty pink dress and black silk apron ; her
lovely dark brown hair fastened up in its
simple knot, and no single ornament about:
her excepting her own dear smiles and affec-.
tionate eyes, looking just like a rose, and
EE


THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
every bit as sweet, and she told Edward
Grey, who from the first moment he saw her
was quite in a bewilderment of delight, how
she and the servant maid set off one morning,
at five o'clock, to look for mushrooms in the
meadows, because her mother was so fond of
them, and how she found, under a sod, which
seemed to have been cut out for the purpose,
a gold watch and chain ; she said she was
so astonished that she did not know what to
do, and as she thought that most likely some
thief had hidden it there, she brought it
away; that there was no name in it except-
ing the maker's, and that was a London
name; that she and her mother considered
what had better be done; they thought of
advertising, and then it occurred to them that
she might inquire of some of the watch-
makers in the town if the watch had ever
been in their hands; that she did so, and
soon found one who told her that he had sold
it only a few weeks before, to Mr. Hilyard,
for his nephew, and that to him it belonged;
and in confirmation, he showed her an ad-
vertisement in the paper, offering a reward
for this very watch. And now here it was,


THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
27
and it was impossible for Kitty to tell him
the pleasure she had in restoring it to him.
The watch had become of ten times its
former value as he received it from her hand.
How he longed to kiss that hand! He was
the last man in the world to make fine
speeches, but his countenance expressed
something of what he felt. And then Mrs.
Trevisham began to say that in former times
she had known Mr. Hilyard; that unfortu-
nately there had been a lawsuit between her
late husband and him, but that when she
was young she had thought very well of
him. Grey said that his uncle was the best
man living; that he had given him the
watch, but that was nothing to his having
taken him into the business, which was a
great thing for him, who was poor, and the
eldest of a large family. Mrs. Trevisham
had evident pleasure in hearing anything to
his advantage; and how astonished the uncle
would have been could he have heard all
that his nephew said in his praise !
Kitty went on with her sewing, and the
mother and he talked a great deal. He sate
with the watch in his hand, and the wonder


28
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
is, that he did not commit some extravagance
or other, he felt so inconceivably happy. He
said that the thief who had stolen the watch
and hid it there, never imagined the blessing
he was conferring upon him. He did not
explain his meaning, but Mrs. Trevisham
knew very well what he meant, and perhaps
Kitty did, for she blushed as she went on
with her work. He had offered, in his adver-
tisement, ten pounds for the recovery of his
watch, but he never thought of offering it
either to the mother or daughter ; he would
much more likely have offered his heart and
his life; however, he left a handsome present
for the man who had fetched him, and who
was a poor gardener with a large family, and
after he had taken tea with them and walked
in the little garden, and helped Kitty to tie
up the carnations, he took his leave, promis-
ing to visit them again before long.
If his watch had been suddenly encircled
with diamonds, it could not have been more
precious. His uncle told him angrily he
hoped he would not lose it again. There
was no danger of that.
This affair of the watch did not tend to a


THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
29
better understanding between uncle and
nephew, and in spite of all Edward Grey's
assiduity in the business, he could not find
the way into his uncle's affections.
“There is something cold about him," said
Hilyard to himself; "a very good young man
he is, there's no doubt of that—but I hate
your good people : he is not the husband for
my Kitty-after all, I shall be forced to have
her myself,” and with that he laughed ama-
zingly. He thought a deal about both Kitty
and her mother, and one day he was at the
trouble of going to the Ragged School where
he thought that he might have some talk with
her. There she was, as cheerful as a lark,
and as fresh as a flower among the little
ragged urchins, and the very expression of
their faces, and the tones of their voices were
changed as they approached her. The mas-
ter of the school had not words enough to
praise her, and Kitty had no idea, not the
least in the world, that it was for her sake
that this good man now visited the school
and left behind him a second donation.
“How odd it will be,” thought Mrs. Tre-
visham, the day after Edward Grey had de-


30
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
clared his passion, and been accepted, " for
Kitty to be Mr. Hilyard's niece; I wonder
what he will say, and whether he has forgot-
ten those old times. Edward thinks he will
be pleased, though he is so rich, but then
Edward is young and in love, and I know
that he once thought a good deal about
money."
It was Edward Grey's intention candidly
to tell his uncle that he had fallen in love
with a pretty, penniless girl, some day when
he was in a good humor, and it was his
uncle's intention also to tell his nephew all
about sweet Kitty Trevisham some day when
they were talking about schools for the peo-
ple, and such things, for then he thought he
should be able to interest him a out the young
teacher at the Ragged School. He fancied
he could draw a very pretty picture of her in
the midst of her forlorn group, and this he
thought, considering his nephew's philan-
thropic propensities, would very likely make
a deep impression upon him.
Summer and autumn were now over.
Christmas was approaching. There had
been, as one may say, a cessation of hostili-


THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
31
ties for some time between uncle and nephew,
they were gradually and silently approach-
ing each other in the spirit of a mutual good
faith, still neither of them had found the pro-
pitious moment for which they were waiting;
and each was beginning to like the other so
well, that they almost feared to make the
momentous disclosure, lest it should throw
them back into that state of alienation which
had been so painful to both.
Edward was a frequent, though secret,
visitor at Mrs. Trevisham's, and the long
history of all their former troubles was
familiar to him. He also knew of the five
years' Christmas present, and of all their
fruitless conjectures as to who their unknown
friend could be.
“You will dine with us, Edward, on
Christmas day?" said the mother ; “I have
no doubt but we shall have our usual dinner,
but at all events you will come ?" Edward
promised, and went home determined that
this should be the last visit he would pay to
this beloved family without his uncle's know-
ledge, for he would make an opportunity if
he did not find one that very evening. The


THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
33
ard.
good earnest, “I may as well tell you at first
as last-I have often wished to tell you-I
want to see you married.”
“Very strange," said the nephew, joyfully;
“ but I was just going to tell you that I am
very much disposed to get married.”
* “ What, the deuce; you have no girl in
your eye, have you ?" asked he, as the idea
struck him, that perhaps his nephew might
be engaged to some girl at his native place.
“Yes, I have," replied Edward.
“What the dickens could make you think
of such a thing? How do I know who you
have chosen—what right had you to choose
for yourself ?!
“Nobody had so great a right to choose for
me as myself,” said Edward, astonished.
“Sir," returned his uncle, raising himself
in his chair and looking very angry, “I had
chosen a wife for you before 1 had seen you ;
don't interrupt me, sir,” said he, seeing his
nephew about to speak; "and I should not
have sent for you if I had not wanted a hus-
band for this good little girl. It was no
merit of yours that made me adopt you, but
my esteem and admiration for her; and I


34
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
have made up my mind, sir, either you shall
marry her, or she shall be my heir !" and
with this the uncle crossed his legs and threw
himself back in his chair, in a very deter-
mined and dogmatical manner.
“ Very extraordinary," said the nephew, in
a tone in which his wounded feeling was
very evident, “but if that be the case, I must
do the best for myself that I can; at the
same time I must say that your ideas are ar-
bitrary; I knew nothing of these conditions,
and I came to you in good faith. I wished
to love you as a father, and to serve you as
an obedient son ; and fathers do not com-
monly impose wives upon their sons; be-
sides,” added he, cheerfully, as a new idea
struck him ; “how do you know that the
young lady you have done me the honor of
selecting for me would like me ?"
“She would !" said the uncle; “she's a
good girl; one just of your own sort; fond of
Temperance Societies, and Ragged Schools,
and such things. I don't know one like
her."
"Well, sir," said the nephew, with half a
smile on his lips, “if these be her recom-


36
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
who had had for some years the pleasure of
sending this small present, proposed to eat
the Christmas dinner with them on this oc-
casion, and would also take the liberty of
bringing a young friend with him. The
hand-writing was unknown to them; it was
a very different hand to that which had been
familiar to Mrs. Trevisham in former days.
Of course they would be very glad to see
their kind unknown friend and his compan-
ion, yet still there was an undefinable anxiety
in the bottom of their hearts as to who it
would turn out to be. It was somebody who
wished them well, no doubt; they only hoped
that it would prove to be one from whom
"they would like to receive a favor.” We
always feel anxious when a mystery, how-
ever small, is about to be solved. At all
events they were glad that Edward Grey
would be there; and let the unknown friend
turn out to be whoever he might, they agreed
that Kitty's engagement to Edward Grey
should be made known to him.
The unknown friend, who had sent much
more than his usual supply on this occasion,
proposed to be with them for dinner at five.


THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
37
Edward Grey, however, was there by two,
and great were the pains which he and Kitty
took to make the little parlor look as pretty
as possible, with its red-berried holly, ivy, and
other evergreens. Though Mrs. Trevisham
had only seventy pounds a-year, and the par-
lor was very small, yet this was one of the
nicest little Christmas dinners that ever was
set out or cooked. Mrs. Trevisham had got
a neighbor who had been cook in a great
family to come in for the day; and as to the
table, it looked beautifully; there was a fine
damask table-cloth on it with napkins as
white as snow, and abundance of plate,
which had belonged to the family in its
better days, and bright glass and sparkling
water, and hock and claret which had come
among the good things in the last hamper.
Bless me! there was dinner enough for a
dozen people, and yet the unknown guest
could only expect four! Mrs. Trevisham,
however, expected five.
It grew dusk and then dark; the blinds
were drawn down; it was nearly five, and
the hearts of Mrs. Trevisham and her
daughter beat anxiously; so, no doubt,


38
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
would Edward Grey's, had he seen his uncle
driving along the road towards the house in
a cab, and in a very bad humor, although he
meant to make himself very agreeable to the
two ladies.
The cab stopped at the little green gate,
and the house-door opened. It was a very
undignified house; one was obliged to go
through the kitchen into the parlor, but there
was no avoiding it; so the little maid-ser-
vant stood with the door wide open, and Mrs.
Trevisham saw that there was one guest
instead of two, and that he was rather a
stout gentleman, buttoned up to the chin in
a great coat with a shawl round his neck.
She had not the least idea who he was.
She felt considerably excited, and he, we
must confess, was rather so himself, and yet,
as I have said twice before, he had fifteen
hundred a-year, and he had paid for the din-
ner which he now came to eat.
Mrs. Trevisham stood at the parlor-door
to receive him; he took off his hat in
the kitchen, and stood with his uncovered
and bald head before her. She saw at once
who it was, her own old friend, the adversarv


THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
39
of her husband; the uncle of her daughter's
lover.
“I feel myself rather in an awkward posi-
tion, my dear madam,” he began; but no
sooner had he uttered these words, than Ed-
ward Grey darted from the side of Kitty at
the parlor fire, and seizing his hand exclaim-
ed, “God bless you, my dear uncle, is it
you ?”
“And is this you, Edward ? Good Heavens!
how came you here?
“I never was so glad in all my life," said
Edward, helping his uncle off with his coat,
for now a great light began to dawn into his
mind. “I declare I don't know how to ex-
press my pleasure to think of meeting you
under this roof, of all places in the world !"
“And to think of meeting you here,” re-
turned the uncle. “ You must excuse me,
my dear madam," said he, turning to Mrs.
Trevisham; and he then sate down in a
large chair by the fire, feeling almost over-
come. Mrs. Trevisham was hardly less so.
“My good lady," at length he said, “I feel
now as if I had done very wrong: I ought


40
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER,
not to have been so abrupt. I have done the
whole thing clumsily.”
Mrs. Trevisham said truly that it gave her
extreme pleasure to find that Mr. Hilyard
had been their friend for so many years.
It was now Kitty's turn to come forward,
for she recognized in him the kind visitor of
the Ragged School.
His eyes glistened as he spoke to her, and
then Edward was at her side; an irresistible
power compelled him to speak.
“Uncle,” said he, and as he spoke he took
Kitty's hand; “we had made up our minds
to be candid to-night, let the guest be who he
might; and you, above all, have a right to
know our secret. This is my affianced wife,
let us have your blessing !"
The uncle took the two clasped hands in
his, and pressed them warmly: but he said
not a word.
Dinner was placed on the table. He still
sate with their two hands in his; he wiped
two great tears from his eyes, and then, in
the cheerfulest voice possible, said, that now
they would go to dinner, for that he was


THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
41
desperately hungry, and after dinner they
would talk about these things.
After dinner, when the desert was on the
table, how merry the uncle was at the ex-
pense of his nephew; and he told how he had
" by chance” met with the doctor, and heard
about Kitty and the Ragged School, and
how he thought first of all of making her an
offer himself, and then he thought of send-
ing for his nephew, and then he warned Kitty
that he was a very obstinate young man, and
that he would not be guided by his good
old uncle, who meant so well by him; and
then Edward had to tell him how it was the
losing of his watch, which brought him ac-
quainted with Kitty, and how happy they
had been ever since, with only one drawback,
and that was, that his uncle was such a
hasty-tempered positive man, who would not
allow his nephew, who wished to be so duti-
ful to him, the right to choose a wife for
himself, and how this said wicked uncle had
nearly broken his nephew's heart by quarrel-
ling with him about his intended wife.
There was a deal of laughter and mer-
riment though it was only a party of four;
FE


42
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER,
nor was there a Christmas party, high or
low, throughout England, where there was
more true-love and kind-heartedness to be
found.
After this day the course of this true-love
was so exceedingly smooth and sunshiny,
that it certainly would have become monoto-
nous, had not Mr. Joseph Hilyard insisted on
a wedding by way of variety; so the wed-
ding was held in May.
The young people lived in a small, but
handsome house, not far from the uncle's
large square one. Mrs. Trevisham still kept
on the cottage, though she was not much
there, for Kitty and her husband insisted on
her being mostly with them. Very often
too Mr. Hilyard was there; and as he had
of late grown so wise as not to care for what
people might say when a good action was in
question, he made up his mind to persuade
the widow Trevisham to give up her cottage
altogether, and remove to his large, square
house in the character of his wife. We be-
lieve that the wedding-dinner, and the Christ-
mas dinner will be eaten together on this
present 25th of December.


OLD CHRISTMAS.
And with sprigs of holly and ivy
We make the house look gay,
Just out of an old regard to him,-
For it was his ancient way.
We broach the strong ale barrel,
And bring out wine and meat;
And thus have all things ready,
Our dear old friend to greet.
And soon as the time wears round,
The good old carle we see,
Coming a-near ;—for a creditor
Less punctual is than he!
He comes with a cordial voice
That does one good to hear ;
He shakes one heartily by the liand,
As he hath done many a year.
And after the little children
He asks in a cheerful tone,
Jack, Kate, and little Annie,–
He remembers them every one!


OLD CHRISTMAS.
45
What a fine old fellow he is !
With his faculties all as clear,
And his heart as warm and light
As a man in his fortieth year!
What a fine old fellow, in troth!
Not one of your griping elves,
Who, with plenty of money to spare,
Think only about themselves !
Not he! for he loveth the children;
And holiday begs for all ;
And comes with his pockets full of gifts,
For the great ones and the small !
With a present for every servant ;-
For in giving he doth not tire;-
From the red-faced, jovial butler,
To the girl by the kitchen-fire.
And he tells us witty old stories ;
And singeth with might and main ;
And we talk of the old man's visit
Till the day that he comes again!


OLD CHRISTMAS.
Oh, he is a kind, old fellow
For though that beef be dear,
He giveth the parish paupers
A good dinner once a year!
And all the workhouse children
He sets them down in a row,
And giveth them rare plum-pudding,
And two-pence a-piece also.
Oh, could you have seen those paupers
Have heard those children young,
You would wish with them that Christmas
Came often and tarried long!
He must be a rich old fellow,-
What money he gives away!
There is not a lord in England
Could equal him any day!
Good luck unto old Christmas,
And long life let us sing,
For he doth more good unto the poor
Than many a crowned king!


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.

SHALL ne
ver be hap-
pier than I
now am, and
C nobody on earth can
s be!” exclaimed He-
"lena, with real delight, and
full of youthful gladness,
when she found herself for
the first time quietly at
home in her own pretty
house by the side of her
Albert, after all the marriage
festivities and visiting were
over.
These words, uttered by a
young, lovely, and beloved wife, who was
really worth loving, might well sound de-
47


48
TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
lightfully in the ears of the young married
man, and find a charming response in his
heart. He could not, indeed, say a word, for
joy. He pressed his wife speechlessly to his
breast, and a moment of silence, pure and
heavenly as the stars in the firmament, suc-
ceeded. After this the young, happy couple,
began to talk, to joke, and laugh merrily.
Ah! they had hitherto had so little opportu-
nity for so doing! They both of them be-
longed to the middle classes of society, and
it was not in the free unconstrained life of a
country town that their love had sprung up
and grown to its now blossoming state, but
within the walls of the capital, where there
is more of compulsion, etiquette, rules and
regulations, customs and usages, which
everybody must inevitably follow, than of
stone and brickwork.
The two young people had known one
another almost from their earliest childhood,
but had scarcely ever until this very moment,
been able, freely and uninterruptedly, to
converse with each other, and they now en-
joyed the happiness of their freedom more
than two birds of the wood, which, after


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
49
having been confined in a cage, from which
they had escaped, now can fly about from
tree to tree, seeking their own food, twitter-
ing and singing, meeting or separating, to find
companionship with other birds, or doing
whatever they liked best. Besides their free-
dom, they also equally enjoyed their solitude,
and they both agreed that they would not at
this moment be king and queen over a whole
nation, if they must be subjected to the con-
stant attendance of a gazing and listening
court.
“Our kingdom is that of love and devo--
tion to each other,” said Albert; "and our
attendants are little invisible genii, with bows:
and arrows, who flutter around us, and whis-
per to each other about a time when they
shall become visible;" with that he pressed a.
kiss upon his wife's lips, and then again there:
occurred a blissful silence, and then again
they laughed and talked. How lightly pass-
ed those first days of a happiness which
seemed as though it never could become
dimmed! .
All outward circumstances seemed to have
contributed to fulfil their happiness. They
GG


50
TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
belonged to the same class of society, and
possessed the same set of ideas; they had
been brought up in the same opinions; they
were most accordant in age; they were
equally amiable, the one as the other ;
equally beloved and envied ; they were
neither rich nor poor ; but their property, of
which the greater part was Albert's, when
united, like their hearts, made together a
whole which was by no means to be despised.
Their relations on both sides were perfectly
satisfied with the match, and, beside this,
none of their relations had anything to do
in bringing it about; it had been entirely the
work of the young couple themselves; but
still, for all that, they had as yet had but lit-
tle time for intercourse with each other.
They had on both sides numerous rela-
tions; brothers and sisters, cousins, aunts
and uncles, and friends and acquaintances
without number; visiting, therefore, and the
duties of society, had left them only brief
moments in which they had been able to
congratulate themselves on being alone.
Their glances had been in those days their
best mode of intercourse, and what they


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL. 51
knew about each other was mostly from
third persons; and what they heard was
this: “He is an uncommonly agreeable, well-
educated, clever, and excellent young man,"
was said of Albert; and “What a sweet,
lovely, good, unpretending, kind, well-be-
haved, accomplished, and well brought-up
girl is that Helena !" said they of her; and
that was all they mutually knew, because
their own eyes had, for a long time at least,
never said anything else than that they loved
each other with all the youthful fervor of
affection.
Now, however, they were united; now
they began to talk and think as much as
they liked ; now they had reached that goal
about which they had dreamed so often, and
beyond which there was something more and
still more. Now commenced, for the first
time, confidence and unrestrained intercourse,
and their opinions and reflections rushed like
a foaming river over soul and heart to meet
one another, and they felt the most unspeak-
able happiness when they found that these
harmonized, and did not break into those dis-
sonances which so often happen when a


52 TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
married couple have been brought up in a
dissimilar way, or have belonged to differ-
ent circles or classes of society. There was,
however, in this case, no danger of that kind;
for even if Albert's and Helena's ideas had
varied a little on minor points, they agreed
entirely on more important and greater sub-
jects in all that give coloring and tone to
life.
And now, in the first place, they began to
talk about how amiable, how agreeable, how
excellent, some of their acquaintance, rela-
tions, and friends were; but how tiresome,
disagreeable, and unbearable were others.
They were nearly always of the same
opinion in this comparison of their ideas;
and it not unfrequently happened that one of
them exclaimed, especially when the other
had let fall a disparaging remark respecting
some third person-
“Oh, really, do you think so ? That has
been always my opinion, but I fancied that
your taste was quite different.” “Yes!" the
other would reply, “one must disguise one's
feelings in this world ; one must put on such
a mask sometimes, that even those one loves


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL. 55
liked to have danced a few times with you,
as I used to do! It would have been infi-
nitely more entertaining than with those that
I care nothing about; but it was better not,
else they might have said that one of us was
jealous, or that we both were, or that we only
wanted to show to everybody how much we
thought of one another, or some other folly
which one cannot guess at.”
But it was precisely because the young
couple could not have as much of each
other's society as they themselves desired,
that these moments for intercourse were so
much desired by them, and so delightful at
the same time. They had both of them,
also, been brought up by excellent and pious
parents, and had been taught from their
childhood to go to church on the Sabbath,
and there before the Most High to examine
themselves and to offer up their prayers
and praises ; now, therefore, they failed not
of this duty, but spite of etiquette they sat
by each other's side, and Albert, unobserved,
held Helena's hand in his whilst their be-
loved minister poured forth his eloquent ad-
dresses, to the edification of all who heard


58
TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
was so long since any of her more fortunate
schoolfellows had been willing to recognize
her. She scarcely knew whether to trust
her own eyes, when she saw Helena on the
arm of her husband. Anna returned He-
lena's salutation with great embarrassment
and surprise, and not without a sigh for her
poor bonnet and cloak, and walked on beside
the young couple.
“Dear Anna," said Helena, “your way
home passes my new house; it is not late,
and your mother will not expect you so
soon; you shall now go with us, and see
how comfortably my good Albert and I have
got things."
Albert now pressed Helena's arm to his
breast; but Anna thought, “Ah she only
wants to show me all her grandeur !" She
went on with them, however, mechanically,
partly out of a little curiosity, partly out of
that want of independence which is so often
the unfortunate consequence of extreme pov
erty, which makes the poor fancy that they
are obliged to obey the rich.
A hasty and unpleasant thought, not alto-
gether unlike Anna's, passed through Albert's


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL. 59
mind; and he feared that possibly a little
vanity might enter into Helena's invitation
to the poor girl to accompany her to her new
home. At the door of the house, however,
he left them, under the pretence of a visit
which he had to make, but in reality to give
Helena an opportunity of showing in some
way that wealth and avarice are not synony-
mous.
“Look, Anna," said Helena, when they
had entered the house, “how nicely my kind,
dear Albert has had everything done for me.
Look, how comfortable, and convenient all
is, and how I have everything here which
one can desire to make one's life comfortable
and happy."
“Yes! God knows that !” replied Anna, in
that mournful tone which we should not err
greatly in calling envious, and which the
poverty-stricken observer of luxury and
wealth almost always, and very excusably,
feel something of; “now," continued the poor
young woman, “here you can live like
pearls and gold, and never once know what
want is."
“Ah, Anna!" replied Helena, "you are


60
TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
unjust both to my Albert and myself to think
so. It is precisely here, in this warm, con-
venient, handsome, and, in every respect
comfortable room, that we continually talk
and think about, the less fortunate than our-
selves, and grieve that we are not able to
make them partakers with us, and that
partly from one reason and partly from an-
other, among which vanity, avarice, or ego-
tism are not the least. You see, this is
what we acknowledge to one another with
sorrow, and it may in some measure correct
our fault ; but we soon fall into it again, and
yet, as I hope, each time less deeply than be
fore."
"Oh you are just the same good-hearted
girl that you used to be at school,” said
Anna, bursting into tears, and she had a
presentiment that her former playfellow had
not only delayed her there to show her some-
thing of her abundance, but also to bestow a
little of it upon herself; and Anna was so
poor, and had been reduced so low, had
striven both with hunger, want of clothing,
and many another want, both for herself and
her old mother, that all assumption, all pride


62
TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
haste, with some white manchet bread,
confectionary, gingerbread, and such like, in
a large shawl, which she tied together by the
corners.
“Now, my cook shall go with you, and
carry this for you, because she is not wanted
here, as we dine with papa and mamma,
to-day; and now we will just lay the bundle
aside, because I hear Albert coming.”
Helena spoke in a whisper, and turned
aside, for now Albert came in, and although
she and Anna hurried away the bundle, still
he saw it, though he pretended not to do so.
Anna took her leave, and in consequence
of Albert's presence was spared all the grate-
ful thanks she would otherwise have given,
and followed by the cook and the bundle, she
took her leave; and her grateful, tear-filled
eyes as she departed, and Albert's silent em-
brace, when she was gone, made Helena gay
and happy the whole day.
Sometimes it happened that Helena detect-
ed little faults and weaknesses in Albert also,
but not very often, for the sake of preserving
happiness and unity, because while a woman
can bear to be reminded a hundred times of


64
TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
even if he do not suspect such a thing,
for then they are most insufferable, be-
cause they court observation, whilst those
who really suffer, most frequently strain
every nerve to endure it patiently and silent-
ly. (This last recipe we recommend to
everybody, and to the married woman in
particular. It is true that if Helena, at any
time, looked pale, or a little out of sorts, Al-
bert was inconsolable; and when, at length,
she only left her home for a daily drive, he
himself assisted her in and out of the car-
riage; nor would anything during this time
induce him to stay away from home, after
the hours which his business demanded.
During this time, also, Albert and Helena
enjoyed in a high degree a pleasure which,
until now, they had never been able to afford
themselves. In the long winter evenings he
read unceasingly aloud to his young wife,
and they were both delighted,-not, it is true,
with everything they read, because they had,
both of them, very good judgment and pure
taste,—but that they nearly always agreed
in their praise or blame, in their likings or
dislikings.


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
65
“How beautiful that is!—how excellent !
Helena would exclaim sometimes, and Al-
bert's assenting glance, without interrupting
his reading, proved how entirely he was of
her opinion. “How stupid that is,-how
poor and disgusting !" she would say at an-
other time; and Albert had merely waited
for these words from her lips before he threw
the book at the wall-always an irresistible
impulse when one reads a bad book, and
which explains the reason why bad books
are just as much soiled, broken-backed, and
dog-eared as good books which are much
read. Far from throwing Det gâr an* at
the wall, they read it through and talked it
well over, but the great author of that work
must pardon us if we acknowledge that they,
in the midst of their happiness and love, al-
together condemned his book; and they
could not conceive how the same master-
hand who wrote “ The Chapel,” could paint
such “a picture from life” as this was. Yet,
what does it signify? There are very few
who condemn the book from the same cause
* See the translation of the Swedish story, No. 1, in
No. 40 of this journal.-M. H.


66
TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
as these two, namely, that they themselves
were speaking proofs of its condemnation.
But now the great catastrophe approached
which is so important in the history of a
new married life,—now the day was at hand
which should give to Albert and Helena a
son or a daughter.
The hour was come. Albert was almost
out of his mind with anxiety, on account of
his wife. He was one of those kind, amia-
ble, thoroughly good-natured creatures, who
are thinly sown, not one of those strong,
resolute characters, firm as a rock, who are
still more rarely to be met with, and the
strings of whose souls neither suffering nor
adversity can break, can only, on the con-
trary, cause them to vibrate the louder. In
proportion as Albert had suffered, was the
greatness of his joy when the nurse came
and announced to him that he was the
father of a healthy, charming, little daughter.
He was now almost beside himself with de-
light, he sprung up and embracing the old
woman herself, exclaimed, although he had
hitherto wished for a son, “ Just as good-I


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
67
would as soon have a daughter-so that He-
lena is but out of danger!”
Helena was out of danger; for hours her
husband sat beside her as she slept, never
moving himself, nor making the least noise
all the time, never once creaking his boots,
striking his chair against the wall, nor drop-
ping anything on the floor; neither cough-
ing nor blowing his nose, all of which was so
admirable in a gentleman, that we can do no
other than mention it—than write down this
entirely unusual and unheard-of circum-
stance—this proof of his unusual and un-
heard-of devotion to his little wife.
The baby had not been born a very long
time before the father bad it in his arms,
rejoicing over it, and greatly admiring it, and
holding it all the time tant bien que mal we
are afraid.
“What in heaven's name are you doing?"
exclaimed the nurse, hurrying into the room
where she heard the little creature crying.
“My goodness! but that will never do !" said
she in great trouble when she saw Albert
holding the poor little thing with its feet
higher than its head. “For Heaven's sake


68
TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
let the baby alone; gentlemen don't know
how to handle such little dears !" and with
these words, and many others, the baby was
carried off to its cradle. Helena was as
much overjoyed with her little daughter as
Albert, it was always at her side, greatly to
her husband's distress, who feared lest it
should fatigue her too much. But she
seemed scarcely to notice or trouble herself
about anything beside.
Helena was soon up and well again ; and
then great was the stir in the house, and the
cleaning and the preparation for the christen-
ing. Albert spent as much time as he possi-
bly could with his wife, and laughed at her
no little for being so incessantly occupied
with the child. He could not help wishing
within himself that “this troublesome chris-
tening” were over, so that things might
again fall into their old course, and when
Helena need no longer sit for whole days be-
side the cradle.
Poor Albert! he troubled himself exceed-
ingly about this; and nothing did again fall
into its old course. The little one was chris-
tened with four or five names, and had as


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
69
many godfathers and godmothers as filled
the drawing-room, not to mention those at a
distance, who had merely written. There
was Rhine wine, and confectionary, in abun-
dance.
The nurse was dismissed with fifty thalers
banco, for which she made fifty curtseys; the
visitors decreased in number ; quietness be-
gan to reign again in the house, and Albert
began to breathe more freely, but Helena
still sat for whole days beside the little cradle,
and Albert, glad at all events, to be rid of the
bustle and disturbance in the house, and to
be once more quiet with his wife, often sat
with her. In the beginning he thought it
very amusing; after a few days, however, he
said that it made him quite hoarse to talk
softly and in a whisper, which Helena re-
quired him to do through the whole day, lest
he should wake little Milla.
“Now Milla is as sound asleep as a little
sucking pig.” Albert would say sometimes,
“let Caroline sit and watch beside the cradle,
and you can come out into the drawing-
room, and then we can have a little reading
· together, or you can play and sing to me, for


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL. 71
nights in succession, she had made a bed up
for him in his little library, so that he need
not be kept awake unnecessarily. This ar-
rangement did not please him; but still he
was obliged to confess that Helena was right,
that there was no advantage to be gained, but
the very opposite, by his lying awake, when he
could not do the least good either to Milla
or herself, but was made heavy and sleepy
through the whole of the following day; so
Albert removed to the library, but not with-
out earnestly beseeching of Helena, that for
heaven's and his sake, she would spare her-
self a little, and endeavor to get some sleep,
and have more confidence in Caroline, or
else get some one else on whom she could
depend. Helena assented to all this, but she
did it not. And now that Albert was out of
the way, and no longer lay and looked on,
she felt as if she were at liberty to act as she
pleased; so she was up the greater part of the
night, carrying about and pacifying the child,
which only cried more and more; and then,
when at length it slept, she herself lay and
wept, because she thought it was ill, and
perhaps might die.


TWO FRIENDS' Counsel. 73
had so soon learned his peculiar tastes, were
not often to his liking. Helena was never
seen out of the house, and she always
begged of her husband to take his walks
alone, and never to refuse any invitation on
her account. At first she had made this re-
quest in vain ; he had no pleasure in going
without her ; but when, as she would not go
out he obeyed her wishes, she felt hurt, and.
shed many tears.
It was now winter; the evenings were:
long and dark, and often tedious to her ;;
sometimes Milla slept; she herself could not
do so, but walked up and down the dark
drawing-room, listening to every sound,
whether it might not be Albert; but he came
not, or if he did come, he often found traces.
of tears upon her cheeks. When these had
to be explained, they were always attributed
to anxiety respecting Milla ; but they did
not all come from that source, though she
said so. When Albert was away, and often
did not return for many hours, now and then
little tormenting suggestions, which had
hitherto been as still as the dead in their
graves, arose in her mind. She began to


74
WO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
fancy that Albert was gay, and full of ani-
mation, as his temperament was by nature,
when with other people, whilst at home with
her he was anxious and dejected. She called
to mind some little circumstances in his ear-
lier life, which since their marriage he had
related to her, and of which at the time she
took no heed. She remembered also, that he
had said, in speaking of a certain lady, who
had the power of attracting all young fel-
lows' hearts to her, on purpose to jilt them,
“I, myself, for a little while, was desperately
in love with her! Helena, when he told
her this, began to weep at the very thought
of his having loved anybody but her, at which
Albert laughed, and assured her, that the
love which he had for this lady, and that
which he had felt for his own Helena, were
as different as light and darkness. Helena
had been consoled by these words, and had
laughed at her "needless tears," as she her-
self called them. But, now, during those
long solitary hours, when she knew that her
husband was again in brilliant society,
among dozens of ladies, who would like
nothing better than to get this amiable young


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
175
man within their trammels, and who assur-
edly would spare no pains to do so, now that
Helena was out of the way, those unfortu-
nute words of his, “I, myself, for a little
while, was desperately in love with her !
again haunted her fancy, and with them
came the saddest, the ugliest, the darkest,
the most dangerous of all spectres of the
mindjealousy there it stood, suggesting
to her that what had once been, might be
again. This heart-torturing thought sent
floods of tears to her eyes; and as she often
thought that it was a sin to shed those tears
over little Milla, when she lay, sweetly and
calmly sleeping in her cradle, she hastened
to her chamber, when she heard her husband
coming, and pretended to sleep, in order to
conceal from his knowledge her red and
tear-swollen eyes. When she was asleep, or
seemed to be sleeping, Albert left the room,
or if it were not too late in the evening, went
out of the house. Helena fancied that she
could read in this an increasing coldness
towards herself. “Formerly," thought she,
“he never would have done in this way;
formerly, he would have sat silently by my


76
TWO FRIENDS COUNSEL.
side, till I had awoke;" and with this her
tears streamed anew. When the heart be-
gins, regretfully, to say, “Formerly it was
not thus," then it suffers bitterly.
Helena, however, did not remark how un-
happy her husband was all this time, pre-
cisely because he endeavored as much as
possible to conceal his suffering from her;
and he and her own mother, and other of
her friends, puzzled their brains in vain, to
find out some means of remedying the evil,
which seemed to increase every day; for the
more Helena wept, the more restless became
little Milla, and all this added to the trouble.
Albert wished to call in physicians, that he
might consult with them; so did Helena's
mother; but she herself, who best knew what
the cause of the malady was, persuaded
them to be satisfied with the old family doc-
tor, and he could not find that anything was
amiss, either with mother or child. He did,
however, what medical gentlemen are obliged
to do when they are called in unnecessarily;
he felt the pulse, looked at the tongue, imagin-
ed that a little cold had been taken, prescribed
the wearing of flannel and keeping the feet


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
77
warm, staying in her house for a few days,
being careful as to what was eaten, keeping
the mind free from excitement, going early
to bed, etc.; and, in order to satisfy Albert
and her mother, he wrote a prescription for
some innocent mixture, which should be
taken two or three time a-day. This unfor-
tunate bottle of mixture next became a sub-
ject of strife between the anxious young hus-
band and his wife. He fancied that all pos-
sible advantages lay in the draught, and she
cared no more for it than for the snow-flakes
which filled the air. He besought her to
take it regularly; she objected, saying that
it did her no good, but only made her feel
squeamish and poorly ; and, at last, when
they had had a long contest on this subject,
he called her obstinate and troublesome, and
that with a good deal of temper, going out
of the house at the same time, and shutting
the door after him with more violence than
common.
“Now I see it plain enough; now I know
it perfectly !” said Helena, to herself, bursting
into tears, “ Albert loves me no longer !
Some other one has possession of the heart


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
She had a keen, penetrating glance—a cer-
tain degree of cunning and quickness, which
by many people is called genius, because
people are so ready in the application of this
word, where the reality is wanting, and so
reluctant to allow it when it is sometimes
found. What was her own opinion on this
subject, we know not; but her manner of
laying down her opinion ; of giving advice
or directions; of never allowing herself to be
detected in the slightest error, ignorance, or
want of judgment; of only smiling, if any
lady proved to her, as clear as daylight, that
she was wrong, leaving it to them to call it
conceding the fact, or just what they pleased,
-in all this there was a something which
might be called, the having a high opin-
ion of herself. But, wonderful enough, no-
body did call it so. She awoke no spark
of envy or indignation, and she succeeded in
making almost everybody talk about her re-
ligious zeal; her deep, clear understanding;
her solid and varied knowledge (for she had
read and worked in the book line through
the whole of her long and undisturbed life);
about her great ability in writing down her


80
TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
thoughts; her skill in painting portraits (as-
tonishing likenesses, but horribly ugly); of
her steadfastness in keeping her word; her
fidelity in friendship; her never betraying
confidence; her renunciation of self; her de-
votion to others; her undeviating adherence
to principle ;-all this was spoken of, and at
the same time testimony was borne to her
tenderness; her quiet piety; her warm, sym-
pathizing heart; her goodness, gentleness,
and forbearance towards others, as well as her
severity towards herself; and, above all, her
beautiful irreproachable life,- for it was im-
possible to charge anything against her; in
some respects, too, she followed the rule of
the Scriptures, for she fed the hungry, clothed
the naked, and comforted the suffering in
every way in her power,—and that was
many, for she lived very quietly and econo-
mically with an old mother, who never hav-
ing been very bright in her mind, had now
sunk into second childhood. As this old lady
was never seen, her requirings could not be
very great; nor were Mary Ann's either ;
and thus at least two-thirds of her income
were devoted to works of charity. If any-


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
81
body were in want, they went to her ; if they
were in trouble, she sought to comfort them;
and if she did not, then nobody could ; did
any one want good advice, they asked it
from her, and it was not her fault that it was
so seldom followed, because of all the people
who ask advice, very few follow any but their
own.
Albert during his betrothal when he was
first introduced into the circle of Helena's re-
lations, out of which Mary Ann seldom went,
had been by no means favorably impressed
with the new cousin whose dogmatic and
solemn manner displeased him, and before
he had discovered how highly she was
thought of by all her relatives, he had said
to Helena, “There is something very like
an old Carmelite in Mary Ann, with her so-
lemn grimaces, in that everlasting brown
gown, brown shawl, and brown bonnet !!
Helena, however, laid her hand on his lips,
and besought him by all that was sacred,
never to utter such an unfavorable judgment,
and attempted to make him understand how
ill it would be taken, and how highly Mary
Ann was esteemed by them all. Albert


82.
TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
laughed and was silent, but afterwards when
Helena was his own, and they could converse
freely on all subjects, they had, with the
greatest secresy, come to the agreement that
she was a pattern of all virtues, and all dis-
cretions, a saint,, a burning and a shining
light, but a very tiresome person.
When Helena was married, she received
from friends and relations an unheard-of
number of presents and keepsakes. Mary
Ann had also distinguished herself at that
time—she gave to Albert a portrait of He-
lena, very well painted by herself, and“ very
like," as all the world said, to which Albert
always softly added, “Yes, when she is fifteen
years older,” because, though the features
were indisputably like, the portrait was of a
much older person. Albert set no store by
the picture, and only brought it out when
some one particularly wished to see it. To
Helena she gave a very beautiful bible, with
a cover worked in beads by her own hands,
(for she could do everything,) and upon
which Helena set the highest value. Besides
this, she had worked on a footstool in black
velvet, with silver, a design of Faith, Hope,


· TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
83
and Charity, and in presenting it she had
held a long and beautiful discourse on the
necessity of bending the knees in prayer, and
this black footstool was to serve for this pur-
pose. But as Alberts and Helena's prayers
were too earnest and simple, and came too
directly from the heart, to need the aid of a
cushion or stool, and as the setting their feet
upon it was a thing not to be thought of, it
was set aside in a corner, and no use made
of it whatever, except that Albert always
called it the Catholic, or the Monk. That
the young couple in their childish merriment
often made a joke over the black velvet stool
and poor cousin Mary Ann, as well as many
another thing, will easily be understood.
And it was now to this same lady that
Helena directed her steps. The young wife's
trouble had placed Mary Ann in a new light,
and she thought that from her she should get
counsel, comfort, and all that she lacked.
The room which Mary Ann inhabited, had
a singular appearance. It was large, lofty,
and dark, which last circumstance was owing
to her keeping the lower shutters closed,
so that the light was admitted only from


84
TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
above, which was desirable on account of the
lady's paintings, of which a great array filled
one side of the room. A large, brown book-
case, the doors of which were wide open, one
stood on legs between the windows, instead
of the customary looking glass, table or chef-
fonier. On one side of the room were ranged
eight or ten little stools in a circle, and on
these lay portions of children's clothes of
coarse material, which would be made up by
poor little girls, who at certain hours came
nither for instruction in needle-work. The
clothes were thus made up for children poorer
than themselves.
Before a large old-fashioned writing-table
covered with books and papers, sat the thin,
little dried-up lady, almost buried in a large
and very substantial chair. Her back was
turned to the door as Helena entered, and as
the tall back and sides of the chair prevented
her seeing without she had left her seat, she
inquired “ Who is there ?" and as Helena gave
no answer, she repeated her question. With-
out making any reply, Helena stood before
the table.
- “Ah! it is my young friend !” exclaimed


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
85
Mary Ann at the sight of her. “How are
you? What can have brought the young,
happy lady to old Mary Ann ?”
These words, “the happy young lady,"
were said with a certain emphasis, which im.
mediately and unpleasantly reminded Helena
that her cousin had often, during the early
part of her marriage said in a bewailing tone,
when she saw their happiness, “Ah! that
will not always last. Sorrow and trouble
will also have their time! People flee from
them as long as they can, but in the end they
overtake them."
“Ah, dear Mary Ann," said Helena, “I am
come to you to more she could not
say, but burst into violent tears.
“Yes, yes, my dear child," said Mary Ann
solemnly, “I expected this, but it grieves me
that it should have come so soon, that my
presentiment, my great knowledge of human
nature, should unfortunately have been so
true in this. Happiness and mirth are yours
no longer-is it not so ? And now you are
come to a friend in whose bosom you can
confide all the troubles of your soul, and
from whom you can look for comfort and


86
TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
counsel. But," added she, casting up her
eyes, “I have only one advice to give, one
consolation to offer, and that is the heavenly
manna which is to be found in prayer."
“Ah, Mary Ann," said Helena, weeping,
6 believe not but that I have prayed. I have
gone down on my knees many and many a
time, and besought the Almighty to give me
again the calm, beautiful, and pure joy which
was mine, but now which seems to fly far-
ther from me every day."
“No, my beloved cousin,” said Mary Ann,
“that is not what you must pray for ; nor is
that the manner. Do you not believe that
God knows what is good for you? He lays
no burden of sorrow upon you which has not
a high purpose to serve. No, my dear child;
of this be sure, sorrow and trial never come
without our having deserved them, or with-
out their being intended for our eternal wel-
fare; and, therefore, in prayer we must only
ask for grace, for strength, for courage and
steadfastness to suffer; and, besides this, we
must bear in mind, every day and every mo-
ment, how the Son of God suffered and was
tormented; and this will make our little


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
afflictions and sorrows seem small, indeed -
vanish into nothing, like a drop of water in
the sea."
There was a degree of truth, certainly, in
these words; but, ah ! they did not console
Helena. She did not find that which, with-
out she had properly explained herself, she
sought,—which was, advice how to regain
the former and lost happiness by the side of
her--now more than ever beloved-husband.
But Helena was such a good, pure, and open
spirit, that when she did not meet with all
she sought for, she took what she found.
She was convinced that there was a deal of
truth in much that Mary Ann had said, and
she listened to her as she went on with ani-
mation and earnestness, because she spoke
really from the conviction of her mind. She
took certain views of the duties of life and
religion, and she succeeded in instilling them
into the mind of Helena. She read and ex-
plained to her, in her own way, long pas-
sages out of books of devotion, which she
assured her would edify and console her, if
she only properly impressed them upon her


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
89
happy. Mary Ann came to comfort her, and
things grew worse and worse.
During this time Christmas, January and
February had passed. The sun of March
began to shine with all its cheerfulness,
awakening and giving life; and when He-
lena's eyes were free from tears she sate in
the light of this March sun working with the
greatest industry at a handsome piece of
worsted work which was to cover a large
and comfortable chair, with which she wish-
ed to surprise and gladden her beloved hus-
band, whose affections she fancied she had
lost forever, on his birth-day, which was at
the end of March. The first green leaf of
the lily of consolation began to spring forth
in her heart, at the very time when she was
forming with her needle those flowers for
him, whose whole life she would strew with
flowers if she only knew how.
Milla was now half a year old, and often
very sweet and quiet. Just at this time, too,
Mary Ann was very much occupied with
comforting and advising, as she said, some
other people, and therefore could not be so
much with Helena. Helena's tears flowed
KK


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL. 93
TS
lena's handsome young face, and Mary Ann
assured her, that a more lovely Madonna
could nowhere be found. This was a heart-
felt joy to Helena, although she did not con-
fess it to her cousin, and the thought flashed
through her mind, that Albert, perhaps, that
once, would think her handsome. Milla was
at the first rehearsal very restless, but Caro-
line managed to fix her attention upon her-
self by help of a bright-colored toy, which
she, concealed by the curtain, stood and
showed her, softly saying, all the time-
“Hush ! hush !" and it was hoped that the
same ingenious scheme would succeed at the
real representation.
: “Ah! if there were only somebody else
besides Mary Ann to receive Albert !" thought
Helena, when the time was come, and the
clock struck six in the evening, and she sate
with little Milla kicking her little legs about
with all her might, on her knee, behind a
great number of lights, and heard Albert
come, and Mary Ann fussing and fidgetting
about him. Immediately afterwards, she
heard them come into the room ; heard Mary
Ann place him in a chair which had been set


94
TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
for him, and heard him ask in astonishment,
“What in all the world is the meaning of
this?"
Just then, however, Mary Ann drew up the
curtain with great skill, and Albert experi-
enced a holy, unmingled feeling of pure joy
at the beautiful sight which he beheld. De-
lighted, he sprung forward, and would have
clasped the mother and child to his breast,
but Mary Ann attempted to keep him back
by the coat-laps, that he might understand
how faithfully the original had been followed
in the arrangement of the picture ; how ex-
cellent was the effect of the light; how
beautiful and how—as if in a glory of sanc-
tity and heavenly light-appeared the divine
mother and child, admonishing to an amend-
ed life and repentance for sin. Mary Ann,
in short, wished to address a few appropriate
words to Albert for his edification, which she
had prepared for the occasion; but Albert did
not trouble himself about this at all; he let
her scream and talk as best she would. Wil-
lingly leaving his coat-lap as her prize, he
rushed forward and clasped Helena and Milla
to his joy-overflowing heart.


96
TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
more, as she went into the kitchen to see
that Albert's favorite dish, which she had or-
dered for supper, was nicely prepared, she
was absent a considerable time, during which,
Albert had no very agreeable tete-a-tete with
Mary Ann Helena thought about this, and
therefore hastened back as soon as she possi-
bly could, and when she entered the drawing-
room, she was not a little distressed to hear
the two engaged in a hot and obstinate dis-
pute; neither seemed inclined to yield, and
the eyes of both flashed with a fire which
was not far from that of anger and indigna-
tion.
Albert had felt no good-will towards Mary
Ann for a considerable time; he had often
met her on the steps as he came home, and
many a time he attributed his wife's tears to
the visits of her cousin, and not unfrequently
had he fancied that he detected her spirit in
his wife's words. During Helena's absence,
they had, by an unfortunate accident, chanced
to begin talking about the well-known Ma-
dame Krudener, who travelled about preach-
ing for the reformation and improvement of
the human race, and who at length attached


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
97
herself like a shadow to the Emperor Alex-
ander, whom she perfectly knew how to
manage. Albert spoke of her as of an ad-
venturess, a fanatic, a mad-woman, etc.; who
did more harm than good. Mary Ann, on
the other side, who had read everything which
any one had written, either for or against.
Madame Krudener, and who knew perfectly
well, that she had not done anything wrong,
at least, not intentionally, although she cer--
tainly had not been able to do all the good.
which she intended ; called the celebrated
lady one of the lights of Heaven; a pro--
phetess, one of the inspired of God, a true:
seeress, gifted with great and supernaturali
powers, to look into futurity, and down into
the hearts and souls of men.
Not without some little malice, Albert in-
quired with a smile, whether Mary Ann be-
lieved that such like “elected beings” were:
to be met with, or ever had been ; to which
Mary Ann replied with great warmth and;
violence, that she did not almost believe, but
that she was fully, and firmly convinced of
it, and that there were richly endowed na..
tures, who, by prayer, renunciation, and self-
LL
,


98
TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
sacrifice, having made themselves worthy of
heavenly grace and inspiration, had been
gifted by God with far greater and much
more powerful abilities and endowments than
are common among the indolent, miserable
people of the world, who, deaf and blind to
the light and to the heavenly calling, crawl
in the dust, laugh, curse, doubt, and exalt
themselves, instead of trusting, praying,
hoping, and humbling themselves.
Mary Ann spoke a deal and vehemently
on this subject, and at the same time directed
keen and significant glances at Albert. For
the first time. Albert : was now alone with
Mary Ann, and being no longer kept within
bounds by a gazing and listening circle of
relatives, without weighing his words, or re-
penting his somewhat "sarcastic laugh, he
offered her first one and then another affront,
about her self-love; her self-consequence, and
the great opinion which she had of herself.
Things were in this position when Helena
returned to the room. The conversation, it
is true, then took another turn, but it was
constrained and wearisome. Albert yawned
now and then, and Mary Ann sate and


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL. 99
twirled her fingers and, cast from time to
time, long, solemn, Madonna-like glances, in
part upon Helena, and in part at the ceiling.
Helena rang, and ordered supper to be served.
But the supper turned out to be neither ex-
cellent nor agreeable; the veal-cutlets were
burnt to a cinder, and the groats were burnt
likewise, both which misfortunes had hap-
pened after Helena left the kitchen.
As soon as supper was over, Mary Ann
took her leave, but not without whispering to
Helena, that she feared that Albert was lost
forever, both to her and to all good. These
words distressed Helena extremely, as did
also Albert's remark, as soon as Mary Ann
was gone.
“What, in Heaven's name, dear, good He-
lena," said he, “had you to do with that tire-
some Mary Ann? This evening might have
been the most amusing, and the pleasantest
I have had for a long time, if you had only
spared me her company, or had had some
others here besides that woman, who is so
intolerable to me!"
Never before had Albert spoken in this
way of the excellent Mary Ann, “the idol


100
TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
and oracle of every one,” and Helena fancied
that she could read in his disapprobation of
her cousin, the same feeling towards herself,
towards the little device of the evening, and
everything else. She burst into tears, and
and those flowed more hotly than ever, be-
cause they were the wormwood drops of dis-
appointed hope. With despair in her heart,
and, without saying a word, she went softly
out of the room, and sate down, and wept,
by the side of her sleeping child; and Albert
on his part, with sorrow and trouble in his
soul, went into his gloomy and solitary little
library. For a whole hour, at least, he sate
in the dull moonlight, pondering sadly on his
fate, and comparing former times with the
present, and then he rang and ordered the
servant to bring him lights. When the lights
came, how great was his astonishment, and
at the same time his pleasure, to see the
large, handsome, and long-wished-for chair,
which Helena had presented to him, and
with that he immediately observed,—what
a deal of labor and pains she had taken, as
well with it, as with a basket to throw paper
in, which stood there, looking very elegant


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL. 101
with its wreath of flowers. Now he repented
a thousand times having vexed Helena with
his angry invectives against her cousin, who
perhaps had helped Helena with this great
piece of needlework—perhaps, indeed, he had
done the poor cousin a grievous wrong. He
felt a great self-reproach, and would so
gladly have recalled every word which had
wounded her, or annoyed Helena. He would
go, however, to his beloved wife, and retrieve
his error, and thank her with all his heart;
but Caroline said that she was already
asleep, and above all things, he would not
then disturb her.
Helena, however, was not asleep—she was
weeping; but in the morning, when Albert,
at nine o'clock, was compelled to go to his
office, she really was asleep, and that as
soundly and calmly as a pure spotless con-
science and a healthy youthful frame alone
can sleep. The chamber door stood ajar ;
Albert moved silently along the soft carpet,
and stood by the bed-side, observing how
sweetly and comfortably she lay. Her dark
brown hair hung carelessly but beautifully
over her white forehead and upon her round


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL. 103
had wished so much to have some talk with
him; she wished to have asked his forgive-
ness for the folly, as she herself now called
it, of having no one but Mary Ann there on
his birthday. During the night she had
: many good and evil thoughts; had concluded
that perhaps it was not right to let her cousin
have so great an influence over her, especially
when Albert did not like her; that there
were many circumstances which Mary Ann
did not thoroughly understand, and that she
(Helena) ought to take care not to be infected
by her cousin's extravagance in many things.
And now, therefore, she wept because she
could not confess all this to Albert, and beg
of him not to be displeased with her. It an-
noyed her all the more, not to have seen him
this morning, because this was one of the
days when he would not return till evening,
and at that time Milla was often so fretful,
that there was but little time for conversa-
tion.
The card which Albert had left in the
glass remained there unobserved of his wife,
for her morning toilet was hastily made, and
without one single glance in the mirror. Her


104 TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
hair hung negligently on her tearful cheeks;
her dress was carelessly put on, and a large
shawl thrown over all, completed her morn-
ing costume; and thus attired sate she at
twelve o'clock by the side of her child's cradle,
and rocked, and rocked, although the child
slept soundly, when all at once she heard
quick steps approaching the chamber. She
pushed her hair back behind her ears, drew
together the shawl, and with displeasure on
her upper lip she looked to the door where
she expected the unwelcome visitor with a
“Hush ! to warn the intruder from waking
the child.
But before the door opens, before the
stranger enters, for it really is one, we must •
hastily sketch the portrait of another of He-
lena's cousins.
Of cousins Helena had many, and among
these was Arabella, the most perfect anti-
podes of Mary Ann. She was ten or twelve
years older than Helena, and had been mar-
ried some years. She was no very great
favorite with the large circle of their formal
and precise relations; on the contrary, they
almost all of them found fault with her.


108
TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
"But then your children were always so
healthy,” said Helena, and rocked little
Milla.
“That they certainly have been,” returned
Arabella, “but so was I, and cheerſul and
merry, and that did a great deal. You, how-
ever, look as melancholy as if you had the
burden of the whole world on your shoul-
ders. What can be the great trouble which
casts you down so, dear Helena ?" said she
kindly, and drawing her chair closer to the
low seat on which Helena sat by the cra-
dle; "the child lies there as rosy and as
fresh as a rose-bud, but as cross as a little
tiger, because you have spoiled her.”
“How can you say so about my little angel
Milla ?" said Helena, half-laughing, and took
up the child, who now awoke with all this
talk, because she had been accustomed to a
death-like stillness.
“Come hither to me!” said Arabella, taking
her in her arms to play with and dance her
about, although she cried dreadfully; at
length, however, she was silent out of pure
astonishment at this new mode of entertain-
ment.


110
TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
pered husband off into his library, where you
let him be solitary, like a poor dog in his
kennel, that you may lie awake all night
and kill yourself over that baby who lies
there laughing; secondly, that you never
dress your beautiful hair as you used to do,
nor dress yourself nicely, either of which
would be a pleasure to your husband; and,
lastly, that you do not put the least confidence
in Caroline, who is such a clever person with
children, and— who has told me all this.
I know her well, for she lived with me three
years, and nursed my little Augustus, and
never would I desire a better, and to tell you
the truth, she was with us on Sunday, and
then I did, what I am never accustomed to do,
draw out of her that which I have now told
you; and that, I confess, I did with design,
for it is really dreadful to see how your
charming and kind-hearted husband, troubles
and distresses himself, believing that you are
ill or unhappy, because you are always cry-
ing. And what in the world have you to
cry for ?.. Perhaps you fancy that your hus-
band does not love you as much as formerly ?
I, however, can assure you that he does ; be-


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL. 111
cause those who see him now in society, and
who used to see him formerly, can best ob-
serve that his altered manner is the conse-
quence of his heartfelt trouble about you.
He never talks with any other ladies, never
looks at them, but sits there and plays at
whist with as much indifference as a statue,
and he used formerly to be so merry and
cheerful. But if at any time he hears your
name mentioned, he looks up hastily, just as
if conversation about you was the only sub-
ject that interested him. I have remarked
this, because I wished to try him. But you
must remember that he is a man, and a
young man, and you must not try his fidelity
too severely, but endeavor to restore his
cheerfulness before it be too late, and before
he begins to seek amusements in which you
can have no part.”
• “Ah! what would you that I should do ?”
said Helena, bursting into tears, for she felt
that Arabella's intentions were kind towards
her, and she was very much affected by the
description of her husband's behavior in
company; "what would you have me do?
I would gladly do anything to make Albert


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
113
head with suspicions about your husband. I
know very well, that she comes here morn-
ing and evening; and I know very well, too,
that all this may lead to a great deal of mis-
chief, although I must concede, that our
worthy cousin means well, both towards you
and others. I shall never forget,” continued
Arabella, in a tone half jesting, and half
sorrowful, “when my little Henry died, and
I grieved so that I thought I should lose my
senses, that Mary Ann came to comfort me,
and she comforted me till I thought I should
go and drown myself. She means well, but
she does not go the right way to work; and
my husband had regularly to take me to
task, and show me that one has no right to
spend many hours a-day in weeping and
lamenting, when one has a husband and
children and a family to look after ; so, in-
stead of weeping, I dried my eyes, and did
all in my power to be cheerful, as I had for-
merly been, and I was successful.”
Helena sate and pondered on what she
heard.
After this, Arabella began to talk about
other things, and she told her many little
MM


TWO FRIENDS' COUNSEL.
117
it, that she did not hear the much-desired
return of her husband, who entered the room,
and going up to the piano, stood for a mo-
ment in delight to listen, before he clasped
her to his heart, which was throbbing with
the purest joy.
It is perhaps scarcely necessary to add, that
from this day all their former happiness and
comfort returned to Albert and Helena, and
that ever after they were as happy as people
can be in this world, where perfect happiness
never does spring up and blossom; where the
heavens, indeed, are at times bright and
strewn with stars whispering of a better life-
but are also occasionally black with clouds,
dark and misty, mourning because of the bit-
terness of this.


THE CHILDREN.

EAUTIFUL the children's
$990 faces ;
All Spite of all that mars and sears;
900 To my inmost heart appealing ;
Calling forth love's tenderest feeling;
Steeping all my soul with tears.
Eloquent the children's faces-
Poverty's lean look, which saith,
Save us ! save us ! woe surrounds us ;
Little knowledge sore confounds us :
Life is but a lingering death!
Give us light amid our darkness ;
Let us know the good from ill;
Hate us not for all our blindness;
Love us, lead us, show us kindness-
You can make us what you will.
118


120
THE CHILDREN.
Train us ! try us! days slide onward,
They can ne'er be ours again :
Save us, save! from our undoing !
Save from ignorance and ruin ;
Make us worthy to be men!
Send us to our weeping mothers,
Angel-stamped in heart and brow!
We may be our fathers' teachers :
We may be the mightiest preachers,
In the day that dawneth now!
Such the children's mute appealing
All my inmost soul was stirred ;
And my heart was bowed with sadness,
When a cry, like summer's gladness,
Said, “The children's prayer is heard!"


BEGINNING AND END
OF
MRS. MUGGERIDGE'S WEDDING-DINNER.

T was quite a plea-
sure to peep into Mrs..
Muggeridge's house,
because it was so
clean and so well
furnished. It had
Ko three front windows
V and a door; on the
door was a brass-plate, as bright as leather
and whitening could make it; and on this
plate was engraved, “J. Muggeridge, Gar-
dener;" (it was a little bit of vanity, and all
the neighbors said so); and there were nice
white-fringed roller-blinds in the windows,
the tassels of which were tied up in little
NN
121


122
MRS. MUGGERIDGE's
frilled bags, and snow-white dimity curtains,
besides, in the chambers. The house-floor
was as bright as mopping every morning
could make its red bricks; and every after-
noon two yards of smart carpeting were laid
down before the fire. The mahogany case
of the eight-day clock, and the mahogany
chest of drawers, which stood in the kitchen,
were rubbed till they shone like looking-
glasses. This clock and chest of drawers
were the pride of Mrs. Muggeridge's kitchen;
for these, with various articles of tin ware
all block-tin together with a bedstead and
bedding, were her own contribution to the
house-plenishing when she was married-
to say nothing of a five and a ten-pound
Bank of England bill, which she kept in a
little red housewife, and which she had
saved partly in service and partly by dress-
making, in which she was very clever.
Someway or other this clock and chest of
drawers held a place in her heart; and yet,
let it not be imagined that she had a small
heart for all that-for, besides clock and
chest of drawers, let me see how many other
things, animate and inanimate, this heart


WEDDING-DINNER.
123
of hers held. First and foremost came
John Muggeridge-her first and her last
love, as she always called him-a stout-
built, ruddy-complexioned, brave-hearted
man, of five and thirty; secondly, her two
healthy, merry children, the youngest of
which was nearly five-children that always
looked clean and wholesome, even when
grubbing up to the eyes in the dust of the
little back garden ; thirdly, the little front
garden, with white cockle-shells set all round
its borders, and its fine carnations, double
stocks, and mignonette; and fourthly, her
house, and all that it held—pots and pans
included; and then I will leave it to any
jury of intelligent readers whether Mrs.
Muggeridge had a small heart or not.
It would have put any cynic into good
humor to have seen John Muggeridge's arri-
val at home on a Saturday evening. Clean,
and bright, and cheerful as things looked in
an ordinary way, they were made to look
ten times brighter to welcome that time. The
flower-pots in the windows were quite daz-
zling with red-lead; the clock and chest of
drawers had an additional polish ; the win-


126
MRS. MUGGERID
MRS. MUGGERIDGE's.
these were good, she said—very good, in
their way; and she wished with all her
heart that Muggeridge could only have a
taste of all the good things she had eaten.
Yes, these were all good, very ! but after all,
there was nothing that was cooked, either
roasted or boiled, that equalled hare! What
a shame it was, she said, that hares and
such things were quite out of an honest,
poor body's reach! There was something
so indescribable about hare, with its savoury
stuffing, and rich sauce, and currant jelly!
It made her mouth water even to think of it,
and she was sure it would do her good to see.
Muggeridge enjoying it. She knew very
well, she said, how to cook a hare; for in
one place where she had lived, she had been
servant of all work, and her mistress, who
often had hare, had been at a deal of trouble
to teach her how to cook it; and then she
went through all the detail of skinning, stuff-
ing, skewering, and so on, till it came to its
being cut up and eaten! Muggeridge, in
idea, devoured the hare; he was sure, he
said, that it must be good; and it was, as


128
MRS. MUGGERIDGE'S
her, for he loved her and the children a deal
better than money. But one thing troubled
him, and that was, that his "little bit of
money," and his wife's too, had been lost by
lending, greatly against his own will and
wishes, to a relation of Mrs. Muggeridge's,
and he now had nothing but his wages to
rely upon. On the loss of the money his
wife had volunteered, considering that they
had but two children, who now, as she said,
were "nicely out of hand,” to take to her
dress-making again, in which she had such
good reputation, and thus make an effort
to gain some more money in the place of
what was lost. Nothing in this world could
have made Muggeridge more grateful to his
wife than this voluntary offer. Unfortu-
nately, however, it never went beyond the
offer and the promise: she always said she
meant to do it some time, but she had pro
crastinated so long that her husband had now
no faith in the promise; and this was just
the one discordant string between them. On
the other side of the question, somebody had
told her that, if he only would, he might get
a five pound, now and then, by raising prize-


130
MRS. MUGGERIDGE's
her brain, she could not get it out again:
“ There's plenty of winter-savory and lemon
thyme in the garden,” thought she; “Mug-
geridge set that himself when I wanted to
make a stuffing for heart ;--and currant jelly,
why one might get a sixpenny pot of that at
the confectioner's, and what's left will do to
give the children after physic, if they should
want any. It will be a dear dinner,” thought
she, “any how; but just for once! At all
events I can go and ask the price of a hare
—there is no harm in asking.”
The poulterer's and game-shops were full
of hares, and pheasants, and turkeys—there
was evidently no lack of such things. Mrs.
Muggeridge wanted a hare for as little money
as possible. She was in despair when she
heard four-and-sixpence and four shillings
asked; she could not afford above two shil-
lings. The people asked her if she sup-
posed that they stole their hares to sell them
at that price. Mrs. Muggeridge turned round
and walked home disconsolately, thinking
that hares were not meant for poor folk's
eating. When she reached her own door,
she became, for the first time, aware that a


132
MRS. MUGGERIDGE's
make a hastener, before the fire; Mrs. Mug-
geridge was indefatigable in basting it. The
savoury odour proceeded forth from the house;
the neighbors seemed to do nothing all the
morning but come a-borrowing, first salt,
and then flour, and then a meat-saw, and
everybody knew what a dinner the Mug-
geridges were going to have that day!
The hare was done to a turn as the hus-
band and the children came in with the
foaming tankard of ale which they had called
for on their way; the sauce was poured into
a milk-jug, and the currant jelly turned out
in a saucer; the potatoes were smoking hot
and fit for a lord's table. Muggeridge could
hardly believe his senses when he came in,
it smelt excellently, and there seemed such
plenty of it! He tied on the children's pina-
fores and set them on tall chairs, and sharp-
ened a knife for his wife to carve this unex-
pected delicacy, and seemed quite delighted
with the compliment she had paid their
wedding-day.
The middle cut of the back, with plenty
of stuffing and gravy and currant jelly, was
on his plate.


WEDDING-DINNER.
133
"Now taste it, John,” said his wife, impa-
tient to see the effect it would produce; “I'd
live on bread and water for a week to see
you relish it properly !”
Muggeridge said it was good, very good!
but he was not quite sure, whether the pork
and apple-sauce last week was not as nice.
Mrs. Muggeridge was shocked to hear him
say so, and to please her he was helped a
second time; the children ate the potatoes
and gravy and currant jelly, as much as
they could get, and left the hare—but then
children are no judges !
Muggeridge went back on Monday morn-
ing to his work; and Mrs. Muggeridge
lived contentedly on potatoes and salt in the
memory of the sumptuous Sunday's dinner.
In the midst of these pleasant reminiscences,
what was her surprise and consternation to
receive a visit from a constable, who present-
ed a warrant issued by the then sitting
magistrates. She must go along with him
and answer for the high crime and misde-
meanor of having bought a hare from an un-
licensed dealer !
Poor Mrs. Muggeridge ! if her own kitchen


134
MRS. MUGGERIDGE's
floor had opened and swallowed her up, she
could not have looked in greater dismay.
Before the bench of magistrates was she
brought.
How had she become possessed of that
hare? From whom had she bought it?
Did she not know that she was amenable to
the law for having purchased a hare from
an unlicensed dealer ?
“Oh Lord, no! how could she think she
was doing any harm ?” asked she.
“ But what business had a person like her
with a hare at all? The poor had nothing
to do with game of any kind.”
These words put poor Mrs. Muggeridge
into a passion; and she said she meant no
harm by what she had done—not she, in-
deed! She meant only to give her husband,
who was an honest man, a treat on his wed-
ding-day, and that was the reason she had a
hare; and a very good reason too! But,
added she, her wrath growing as she spoke,
rich ladies who were fond of their husbands,
to whom, however, hardly anything was a
· rarity, might buy just what they liked, and no
harm done; but poor folks, who worked


136
MRS. MUGGERIDGE's
borne respectable characters, and this was the
first offence, she would merely be fined.
The fine and the costs, together, came to
five pounds!
She stood quite confounded as this sum
was named. Five pounds!
Yes, and she must either pay it or go to
jail! She thought of the money which her
own relation had robbed them of. She
thought of what her husband would say.
She groaned aloud, but said not a word, and
felt ready to drop.
The magistrates did not seem to consider
how next to impossible it must be for a poor
woman like her to pay the fine; they waited
for her answer, however.
“I have some good furniture," at length
she said, “a capital chest of drawers, and a
good eight-day clock; either of them is worth
the money, if your worships cannot make it
easier for me—for I meant no harm-not the
least—and have always borne a good charac-
ter Cannot your worships make it easier
to me?"
No! the magistrates said they could do
nothing of this kind, and that she must


WEDDING-DINNER.
137
think herself very leniently dealt with as it
was.
A warrant was, therefore issued to seize
furniture to the amount of fine and costs;
and she went home balancing in her mind
which she would rather lose, clock or chest
of drawers. She decided upon the latter, for
said she to herself, John would miss the
clock most, and the house would be so lone-
some without it. A clock is, as one may say,
a sort of live thing that keeps one company.
The men, however, said that the chest of
drawers was not enough by itself, nor the
clock either, so they must have them both;
and spite of all the poor woman said, so they
had. They told her for her consolation,
however, that they should be sold, and
whatever money was over, it should be sent to
her. But no money ever came.
Mrs. Muggeridge sate quite heart-broken
in her desolated kitchen; the pride of her
eyes was gone. She felt as if she should
never take pleasure in anything again-she
hated the very idea of hare. She was so
very miserable that she could not help scold-
ing the children.
00


WEDDING-DINNER.
139
out of evil. I'll begin dress-making to-mor-
row morning, that I will."
“Ay, do, my lass,” said John, taking her
hand kindly; "do, and we shall, may be, be
none the poorer in the end by our losses,
and I'll tell you what I will do too-it's
what master has wanted me to do a long
time-as well as you—I'll grow those flow-
ers for the show; I know I shall succeed if I
only begin—for when once I begin in good
earnest nobody can beat me.”
“Well, now, I am pleased,” said poor Mrs.
Muggeridge, ready to cry; "and I'll tell you
what, John, we won't fret ourselves any
more about the loss of the money and these
things, but we'll set to, and get more; and
after this, what we get we shall keep."
They did get more, and they turned it to
good account too.
Fifteen years afterwards, the time at which
we are writing, the house, which is now their
own, and to which considerable additions
have been made, looks as bright as ever; and
the fields at the back of the house, which
they have now on lease, and mean to buy, is
a large, flourishing nursery-ground and gar-


140
MRS. MUGGERIDGE'S, ETC.
den; and John Muggeridge and his two
sons, the eldest a fine young man, turned
twenty, and half a dozen men besides, are
busy at work in it; while Mrs. Muggeridge,
as buxom and cheerful as when she was
young, and her three pretty daughters,—for
when she began dress-making she had lots
of children-make the house inside more
cheerful even than a summer flower-garden.

DI LITU


COMING SPRING.
in
N all the years which have been,
The spring hath greened the bough-
The gladsome, hopeful spring-time ! -
Keep heart! it comes even now
as part The winter time departeth ;
The early flowers expand;
The black-bird and the turtle-dove
Are heard throughout the land.
i
The sadness of the winter,
Which gloomed our hearts, is gone;
A thousand sighs betoken
That spring-time comes anon!
'T is spring-time in our bosoms;
All strife aside we cast;
l'he storms were for the winter days,
But they are gone and past. on
141


142
COMING SPRING.
Before us lies the spring-time-
Thank God! the time of mirth-
When birds are singing in the trees,
And flowers gem all the earth;
When a thousand busy hands upturn
The bounteous, fruitful mould
And the heart of every poet feels
More love than it can hold,
In all the years which have been, -
The spring-time greened the bough-
The gentle, gracious spring-time !
Rejoice !--it comes even now.
ME


THE TAX-GATHERER'S VISIT.

ali
5. T about the distance of a mile
from Remete, in a valley lying
high among the hills, stands
the Rusniak village of H-
The most superficial glance
over the surrounding
of country would suffice
s to make the observer
acquainted with the occupation
♡ and means of subsistence of its in-
habitants, and that by such unmistakable
evidences as not even the uniform winter
garment of nature can conceal. Upon the
snow-covered ascents of both sides of the
valley, and above the leafless branches of
the underwood, fresh heaps of refuse or rub-
bish from the mines elevate themselves like
molehills; and amidst this very rubbish, and
143


146
THE TAX-GATHERER'S VISIT.
thus anxiously uneasy ; for even upon the
constable, the head man in the village, this
visit seemed to have produced the most disa-
greeable effect. Scarcely was he aware of
the arrival, when he sprang up from his
noon-day repast, over which he had been en-
gaged, and, snatching up his walking-stick,
the badge of his dignity, he hurried off to a
cottage at four doors' distance from his own
house.
Arrived here, he entered the room with a
bowed head, and found the whole peasant
family, consisting of seven persons, sitting at
dinner. His salutation to them was in the
bitter words of a curse. Now, although the
constable was reckoned a bold, determined sort
of a man, and although it was by no means his
custom to bend before his equals, yet he was
compelled in this instance, as he was in enter-
ing most peasants' houses, to assume a position
of humility, because the lofty domineering
air of office would have placed his head in
the clouds of smoke which filled the upper
part of the room, and which could not find
ready vent through the hole which was made
in the wall between the windows for its exit.


THE TAX-GATHERER'S VISIT.
155
tinued, “ Oh! what a great fur cloak Mr. B
has got !"
“ It is of wolf !" said the first speaker.
“How like a fool you talk! Can't you see
that it is made of bear-skin!"
“Look ye, look; Oetko is bringing his
half to sell," exclaimed one.
“ And there the petty constable is bringing
all the forfeited goods!” remarked the other.
“Now, God have pity on all those who at
this season have not paid their tax! It is
cold enough to freeze them to death !"
“Look! look! There comes the priest !
Most likely he would pay a visit to Mr. B. to
inquire after the poor, and to make entreaties
for the constable.”
“Now, I wonder whether it is true that he
received from the city authorities of St. Peters-
burgh a golden breviary as a new year's
gift ?": asked a peasant who stood to the
right of the window from his neighbor.
“ Certainly, he has had it from there.
Don't you remember some years ago, how
gracious the Emperor Alexander was to our
parish? If he had not travelled through
this place, our church would not have been
finished yet.”


THE TAX-GATHER
VISIT.
“What is that there? what is it ?" cried the
voice of a drunken guest behind them, as he
raised himself with a half-filled flask of brandy
from the table and tumbled against the win-
dow. “Who is it that's outside ?” cried he,
striking his hard fist at once through the
window-pane, and staring out at the empty
sledge. The host, who in the meantime
had become aware of the damage done to
the window, hastened forward and said to the
man-
* You must pay for that window, Gaidass."
“Don't make such a bawling, you rascal !"
returned the drunken man, and then broke
forth into curses and abuse.
In the meantime the servant of the newly
arrived official came into the room, and the
angry man was obliged to restrain himself.
The calm, however, could not be of long
continuance. The drunken fellow felt a
delight in letting loose his spite on the ser-
vant in his white travelling cloak, and boots,
and spurs.
“You are a rogue,” exclaimed he, "as
well as your master. Are you come here to
suck our blood, you rascal !"





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