IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) /. *> 1.0 1.25 >tt l&i 12.2 L£ i2.0 lU ■u u DM A" V ^ ^ ^ VQ 7 V^;'^.^ ^^♦. // %J^^' /A %* ^^ #^ 7 Riotographic Sciences Corporation 33 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716)872-4S03 '^ ;,5f: 'iH CIHM/ICMH Microfiche Series. CIHIVI/iCIVIH Collection de microfiches. Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microreproductlons historlques Technical and Bibliographic Notas/Notaa tachniquas at bibliographiquaa Tha Inttituta haa anamptad to obtain tha baat original copy availabia for filming. Faaturaa of thia copy which may ba bibliographlcaily uniqua. which may altar any of tha imagaa in tha raproductlon, or which may aignificantiy changa tha uaual mathod of filming, ara ciMckad balow. □ Colourad covara/ CoMvartura da coulaur r~n Covars damagad/ Couvartura andommagia □ Covars rastorad and/or laminatad/ Couvartura raataurte at/ou palllculAa □ Covar titia misaing/ La titra da couvartura manqua □ Colourad maps/ Cartas gtegraphiquaa ti coulaur n D D D Colourad ink (i.a. othar than blua or black)/ Encra da coulaur (i.a. autra qua blaua ou noiral Colourad plataa and/or illustrations/ Planchaa at/ou illuatrationa m% coulaur Bound with othar matarial/ RalM avac d'autras documents Tight binding may cauaa shadowa or distortion along intarior margin/ Laraliura sarria paut causar da I'ombra ou da la distorslon la long da la margo inttriaura Blank laavaa addad during restoration may appear within the text. Whenever possible, these have been omitted from filming/ II se peut que certainea pages blanches ajoutias lors d'une restauration apparaiaaant dans la texte, mais. lorsqua cela Atait poasibia, caa pages n'ont pea «t« filmAas. L'Institut a microfilm* la meilleur exemplaira qu'il lui a At* possible de se procurer. Les details da cat exemplaira qui sont paut-*tre uniques du point de vue bibliographique, qui peuvent modifier une image reproduite. ou qui peuvent exiger une modification dans la mAthoda normala de filmaga sont indiqute ci-dessous. □ Coloured pages/ Pages da coulaur r*~| Pagaa damaged/ D Pagea andommagiaa Pages restored and/oi Pages restaurias at/ou pelliculies Pages discoloured, stained or foxe< Pages dAcolortes. tachetAes ou piquAes Pages detached/ Pages dcVtachias Showthrough/ Transparence r~l Pages restored and/or laminated/ ry\ Pages discoloured, stained or foxed/ I I Pages detached/ PT] Showthrough/ r~n Quality of print varies/ QuaMt* inAgala de I'impression Includes supplementary material/ Comprand du matiriel supplAmentaira Only edition available/ Seule Mition disponible Pages wholly or partially obscured by errata slips, tissues, etc., have been refiimed to ensure the best possible image/ Les psges totalament ou partiellement obscurcies par un feuillet d'errata. une pelure, etc., ont itt filmies A nouveau de faq on A obtenir la meilleure image possible. El Additional comments:/ Commentairas supplAmantaires: Wrinkltd may film slightly out of focus. This item is filmed at the reduction ratio checked below/ Ce document est film* au taux de reduction indiqu* ci-dessous. lex i^v lav 99V 9AV 9nv y 12X 16X 2CX 24X 28X 32X Th« copy flini«d hmn has b—n r«produe«cl thanks to tho gonorotity of: Nmv Brunswick MutMim Saint John Tho imagoo appoaring haro aro tho boat quality poaaiblo conaMoring tho condition and iogibility of tho original copy and In kooping with tho filming contract apociflcationa. L'oxomplairo fiimA f ut roprodult grico i la g4n4roait* do: Naw Brunswick MusMim Saint John Laa imagaa auhrantaa ont 4t4 roprodultoa avoc lo plua grand soln, compto tonu do la condition ot do la nottot* do l'oxomplairo flimi, ot an conformit* avac loa condltiona du contrat da fllmago. Original copioa in printed papor covora aro flimod beginning with tho from eovor and anding on tho last paga with a primad or iiluatratad impraa* sion, or tho back cover whon appropriate. All other original copies are filmed beginning on the first page with a primed or Illustrated Impree- sion. snd snding on the laat page with e primed or illustrated improasion. Lea exemplaires origineux dom la couverture en papkN* eat ImprimAe som f ilmte en common^ant par la premier plot ot en terminam soit par la demMro pogo qui comporte une empreime d'improeakin ou dlliuatration, soit par lo second plat, salon lo cos. Tous lee autree exemplaires origineux aont fllmte en commen^m per la promlAro pogo qui comporte une empreinte dimpreeaion ou d'lllustration et en terminam par la demMre page qui comporte une telle empreinte. Tho last recorded frame on oech microfiche shall contain tho symbol — »• (meaning "CON- TINUED"), or tho symbol ▼ (mooning "END"), whichever applloe. Un dee symboiss suivanta apparattra sur la demMro Imago do cheque microfiche, selon lo caa: lo symbole — »> signlfle "A SUIVRE", lo symbolo ▼ signlfle "FIN". Mapa. plates, charts, etc., mey be filmed at different reduction ratioa. Thoao too largo to bo entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in tho upper left hand comer, loft to right and top to bottom, aa many framoa aa required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: Lee cartee, planches, tableaux, etc.. pouvom Atro film4e A doa taux da rMuetlon diff Arents. Lorsquo lo documem Mt trop grand pour Atre roprodult en un soul cilchA, 11 est fllmi A partir do I'angle supArieur gauche, do gauche A drolte, ot do haut en baa. en prenom lo nombre d'Imeges nAcessalre. Los diagrammes suh^anta illustrent la mAthode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 8 6 vTV.' •■ • •• \,\ \ I 1^ ' ' I }' i 1. 'If 4 *;, 4 .SciiJeMiigexi' HW. Smith So F(C))[K:((Sii:T m\£. f^i©Ta ''■V" ., *r O W^^VI^ m' I ■5?^ * ■i.'- ScL3e; '¥<:.S -:.vg; -ijii*. * J% >.•.- .€- *fe. 4 *-4 I ^/9 3 *' ■sj.' ■^7 THB LILY OF THE VALLEY, FOB ¥ >Sl. 1852. .?'i Alt, BDITXD BY MBS. M. A. LIVEEMORE. I BOSTON: JAMES M. USHER. OINOINNATi: J. A. OUBLIT. i.'- Entered, lecordinf to Act of Coiigreae, In the year 1861, Bt JAMES M. USHER, In the Clerk'e Office of the Diatrict Court of MaMtchuietta. :r.^- PREFACE Under the nurturing sunlight of public favor, and the fostering care of patrons and friends, the Lily has again ventured to put forth its petals, amid the many " annuals" that grace this season of the year with their blossoming. It is again tendered to the public, with the hope that it may prove an acceptable offering, advanced in lit- erary excellence, and without moral blemish or imper- fection. May the kindly reception granted it on its first appearance be again accorded to it, with such a meas- ure of encouragement and patronage as shall lead to its more perfect development, and to the perpetuity of its existence. July 31, 1851. LIST OF PLATES. - » ■- (Frontispieoe,) — ViQNKTTB (Title-page) "" «♦ Lord, havk Mbboy upon us," 6^ Education o? Natueb 1°* Napoleon and his Son, ^^2 The Spinnino-Whkbl, ^72 CONTENTS. . ♦ ■ Thk Watkb Bylph, .... Prof, Alpheus Crodty, 11 Thk Exile, Mitt Phabe Carey, . 84 TuK Fortunate Aooidemt, . Mrt. M. A. Livermore, 80 The WiiiLinANTio, Mrt M, Ji. Livermore, 67 Jottings rBOM a Foreign Tour, Rev. A. B. Muzzey, 60 *' Lord, HAVE Merot upon us," .^r<. JV*. T. Munrott 69 ** Dost thou well to be Angrt," Horace Greeley, . . 72 Pergolesi, Rev. J. W. Hanton, 82 A Brazilian SKxrron, . . . G. H. Ballon, ... 86 Sonnet, M. A. L 107 The Heart Chamber, . . Rev. Henry Bacon, . 108 Impressions or a Bi-Centeninal Day, Rev. J. G. Adamt, . Ill La Puebla be los Angelos, Mrt. M. A. Livermore, 185 Education op Nature, . . M. A. L., 187 The Good Time Now, . . . Rev. Henry Bacon, . 189 Thoughts by Lake St. Charles, NEAR Quebec Rev. A. G. Laurie, . 167 A Chapter prom the History op a Family, Mrt. M. A, Livermore, 169 t Vni CONTENTS. TnK Anniversart, . . . James Lumbardt . . . 189 Napoleon and his Son, . Mrs. M. A. Livermore, 192 The Pilot Miss. E. Doten, ... 106 Tiik! Home of the Soul, . Rev. R. Tomlinson, . 201 TUE AllTIST AND HIS LiTTLE Friend, Mrs. M. A. Livermorey 213 St. Valentine's Morning, Mrs. M. A. Livermore, 244 The Two Vessels, . . . Mrs. C. M. Sawyer, . 2G7 The Spinning-Whekl, . . M. A. L., 272 The Defaulting Brook, . Mrs. T. P. Smith, . . 274 Amie, M. A.L., 297 The Parting of Sigurd and Gerda, Miss E. Doten, . . 300 The Meeting of Sigurd and Gerda Miss E. Doten, . . . 304 m THE LILY OF THE VALLEY THE WATER SYLPH. BY PKOP. A. CBOSBT. I THREW myself down in my rocking-chair, last evening, as is, perhaps, too much my wont, for meditation. I know that it is a dangerous place for a student, especially uefore a good fire in a long winter evening ; and, most of all, when another chair stands at a convenient distance for the feet, so that your v;ell-stuffed rocking-chair becomes a delicious compound of a seat and a bed. It is then a species of enchanted ground, belonging to that mighty wizard, Indolence. All around it, there are invisible cords, which fasten themselves about head, and neck, and body, and arms, and feet, until the luckless wight who has trusted himself there has become a close prisoner, — both mind and body helplessly cap- T*;- .'■^■r-n'/vv.-jy^-t- THE WATER SYLPH. tive. His fate reminds us of Gulliver, bound down by the Lilliputians, or of Samson, with his locks shorn in the lap of Delilah ; but neither the miniature men of Lilliput, nor the siren of the valley of Sorek, had the power of binding mind, as well as body, to inaction. And yet, there is a charm that tempts us to venture upon the peril- ous ground, against all the lessons of experience, and the loud warnings that come to us from repealled imprisonment in past time, and from many a lost hour. Can we find, anywhere, a more striking verification of the expressive lan- guage of Thomson ? — *• A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was, Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, Forever flushing round a summer sky. There eke the soft delights, that witchingly Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, And the calm pleasures always hovered nigh; But whate'er smacked of noyance, or unrest, Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest.'* I was venturing, last evening, as I said, to partake, though I intended to do it very guard- THB WATER SYLPH. 13 edly, of "the soft delights" of "this delicious nest." By degrees, every wave of agitated feel- ing subsided to a perfect calm, and my thoughts, which had been roaming abroad, all came home to nestle ; till, at last, my sole occupation was to watch a little column of vapor, gently rising from the tube of a water-urn, which had been con- nected with my grate to prevent the air of the room from becoming too dry. And now, for the first time in my life, I began to perceive that the particles of vapor had a distinctly visible and organized form. They • issued from the mouth of the tube, having the appearance of the tiniest fairies that imagination could conceive of, — mere infinitesimals, and yet perfect in every limb and feature. As they rose, and the expan- sion of the column gave them room, their size en- larged, but they soon vanished into thin air. At last, one of these little beings, seeming to catch my eager eye, left the column and came towards me. As she approached, — for the visitant wore a sweetly feminine aspect, — her form dilated, till it had reached the stature which my fancy had • ^1 u THE WATEE SYLPH. been wont to ascribe to the sylphs of the air, — those happy beings, who, as the poets tell us, " In the fields of purest ether play, And bask and whiten in the blaze of day.** She stood before me, with a sweet smile upon her exquisite and brightly beaming features, but silent, and evidently waiting for me to address her. I gazed a moment in admiration, and then spoke, in the gentlest tones I could command : — " Who art thou, bright being, that hast come to visit me ? " " Nothing," she replied, with a soft voice, of bird-like melody, — " nothing but a mere particle of water." "But whence," I asked, "hast thou this fairy form, and this wondrous gift of speech ? " " They are bestowed upon us all, after a cer- tain number of circuits through air, earth, and sea, as a reward for our services." "Didst thou receive these gifts ages ago, or but lately?" " Quite lately. Indeed, I have made only one full circuit since their bestowment. All my THE WATER SYLPH. u air,— IS, >> e upon •es, but iddress id then ind: — 'S ;t come )ice, of particle s fairy a cer- h, and igo, or ily one Lu my previous existence seems to me, as I look back upon it, only as the dim tracery of an almost for- gotten dream, — a faint, vague impression of consitant hurry, of ceaseless motion, and nothing more." " then, fair spirit ! " I exclaimed, " deign to relate to me the history of thy recent, thy con- scious existence." I was delighted to hear the reply, "With pleasure," and listened with intense eagerness, as the sylph proceeded : — " When I first awoke to consciousness, I found myself emerging from a sparkling fountain upon a hill-side, into a playful rill. I was surrounded by companions like myself, and with these I ran down the hill, joyously leaping from rock to rock. In the ravine at the bottom, we found a rivulet of a larger size, into which we passed. Here our occupations were more various, but all delightful, especially to me, to whom everything was new. Sometimes we ran a race with each other, down a steep descent, over a rocky bed, joining our little voices to make all the babbling we could. Then we would loiter in our course, ■til m THE WATER SYLPH. and, joining hands with each other, whirl around in a little pool. Sometimes we amused our- selves by playing with the grass upon the bank, or with the depending branch of an over-hanging willow. Again, we frolicked with a group of noisy urchins, who, having pulled off their shoes, if perchance they wore any, and having rolled up their trousers, would work like beavers to stop us by a dam. Fruitless toil! for, after a few minutes of sport with them, we would either leap their barrier, or, quite as often, sweep it away. But our favorite playmate was the dappled trout, and we owed a bitter spite to the hard-hearted man or wanton boy who sought to lure him to the cruel hook. But, pray, since I have answered thy questions so readily, please to solve a difficulty of mine." "With all my heart, if 1 can," I replied. "What is it?" " I have often wondered what can induce so many of your race to toil, day after day, with hook and line and pole, and to take so many a weary step along the banks of a small brook, for ''■■'n r THE WATER SYLPH. 17 the sake of obtaining a few tiny fishes. Are they influenced by avarice, or by malignity ? " " By neither, I hope. But why propose such an alternative ? " ' "I have supposed that they must have in view either profit or pleasure; and I have ob- served that these trout-hunters are not com- monly of the poor, but of the rich. If, therefore, they are willing to make such exertions for the mere paltry profit of a few little fishes, they must be miserly indeed." " 0, that is not their motive ! " I exclaimed. " Well, then," she proceeded, " let us make the other supposition. If they can find so great pleas- ure in the cruel tortures and lingering death of beings whom the same Great Father created, — and created that he might rejoice in their happi- ness, and that their gambols might speak his praise, — must not their hearts be full of a desperate malignity ? Or is not this the word to express that character which finds pleasure in tho pain of others?" ; ^i " Alas ! " I replied, " I know not what plea to urge in behalf of such pleasure-seekers, except 2* 4 ts THE WATER STLFR. the very poor one of thoughtlessness. Let thii mitigate their offence, as far as it will; for, in truth, tfaey are not themselves as hard-hearted as we must pronounce their occupation to be. 1 have known benevolent clergymen, even doctors of divinity, who delighted in the sport; nay, stranger still, tender-hearted ladies, that would weep hour after hour over scenes of imaginary distress." ♦ T^e sylph gave an incredulous shrug, as much as to say that the benevolence and tender-heart- edness of such clergymen and ladies must be merely imaginary. I made no reply to the shrug ; for, though I did not wish to say it, I was fully convinced that she was at least half right. She seemed to understand me ; and, with a deli- cate regard for my feelings, said no more upon tile subject, but proceeded with her narrative. " From the rivulet, we passed into a brook of a larger size ; and here we found a dam, not the sportive work of boys, but the solid construction of men. From this we could obtain release only on condition that we would turn a water-wheel, and thus assist the neighboring farmers in grind- ■i^t' TRfi WATER SYLPH. 19 ing their grain. As we deem all useful labor honorable ["Would that all men did!" I ex- claimed to myself], we did not refuse the condi- tion. We found it mere spori to ride down in the buckets of the wheel, and went on our way rejoicing. We were soon received into a small river, of which the brook was a branch. Our occupations were now more various, and though less playful than at the beginning of our course, yet they brought us a far higher delight, because we felt that they were more useful. Thou hast doubtless learned that the highest joy consists in living for the happiness of others, and that all true good has this remarkable property, — that he who gives away the most of it to others, also keeps the most for himself." ' *'^' '' "I am not ignorant of that great truth," I replied ; " and I recognize in it a wonderful proof of the wisdom and benevolence of our Heavenly- Father. Yet I am ashamed to say that I have not observed it as 1 ought, in my practice. But what were these occupations ? " "Sometimes we joined in bearing up a boat freighted with gay young hearts, who were in THE WATER SYLPH. quest of innocent recreation, and who made our shores vocal with their melodies. Sometimes, and with no less pleasure, we urged on a raft, which had been laden by hard-working laborers. It was a frequent and a pleasant work to set in motion the machinery of those who were produc- ing articles to supply the wants of their fellow- men. We imparted of our own buoyancy and vigor to the swimmer's limbs. We bore nutri- tious particles, which we deposited upon all the meadows within our reach; and often lin- gered in our course to observe and assist the farmer's labors. But there was one act which I remember with as much satisfaction as any other." "What was it?" ^; :.,.*. " One day a poor widow came down to the river-side, with a basket of clothes, which she had undertaken to wash, that she might have some means of procuring bread for her little ones. She looked already weary and faint. She put her basket into the water, and then sank down exhausted. We saw her, and, hastening to her aid, we took the soiled garments, and, by THE WATER SYLPH. 21 those arts of purifying which we understand so well, extracted every offensive particle, so that when at length she had recovered a little strength, and raised herself to commence her work, behold, it was already done. Every gar- ment was white as the driven snow. I shall never forget with what wondering joy her eyes were directed downwards to her basket, and then with what fervent gratitude they were lifted up, to thank Him who is the widow's God and the Fatlier of the fatherless." She dropped a tear of sympathy for the poor widow, in which I could scarce refrain from join- ing her, and then proceeded: — "The river in which we now were, passed through a small lake, and, happening to arrive here just as winter was setting in, we firmly joined hand in hand, and formed a transparent covering to protect our fishes from the cold. We might have found the confinement tedious, had it not been for the amusement which ruddy- cheeked boys gave us, by skating over the glassy surface. At length the genial breath of Spring came, and we felt at liberty to pursue our way.. II! 22 THE WATIR 8YLFH. t u Hurrying on, we soon became part of a mighty stream, which bore up steamboats and merchant ships, and swept proudly through fertile valleys and by rich marts of trade. At last, througrV :hc river's broad mouth, we entered the -".M o eu... And now my first feeling was, thn*, Wv, w ^ all lost in the measureless expaiise .ut we soon found, such was the hospitL.lity with which we were received, that, if we had lost ourselves, we had found a host of friends. Here I remained several months, taking part in all those great transactions of which the ocean is the scene. I* Now I was busy in wafting a fleet, — now, in raising a tempest ; at one time in smoothing the ocean surface to a glassy calm, and at another in breaking it into terrific billows; now in hiding the whale from his pursuers, and now in dissolv- ing a dangerous iceberg. One act, and only one, I regret." ■ r ' : f^ - *♦ What was thin « " - "Curiosity iruiujca luj to join a large party who were going to visit the famous Maelstrom, upon the Norway coast. Here I became fren- zied, like the rest, in the maddening whirl, and THE WATER SYLPH. in the wild mania of furious exc itement, I aided in drawing into our vortex a fisherman's rk. In mad merriment, we whirled it round an I round. Each revolution was more rapid than the preceding, and brought it nearer the centre. At length it reached the fatal spot, and the pk - ing cry of the crew, as the vessel was c.igulfeu, awoke me from my delirium to the agonizing consciousness that in ni) frantic sport I had been taking life, and making orphans and widows. O! that cry! It is evei now ringing in my ear." •-■ -. • '-. •- • • '■■ '■ ♦•* " Still, thou art happy, i '^ thou hast but one deed to regret. But how didst thou leave the ocean ? " " I had begun to regard it as my permanent home, when, one warm day, as I happened to be upon the surface, I observed tnat some of my companions had wings, and wer rising into the air. I was struck with amazem nt at this new sight ; but, looking round at my own shoulders, I perceived that pinions were springing from them also. Yielding to an irresistible impulse, I made trial of them j and, rejoicing in this new faculty. THE WATER SYLPH. rose, with my companions, into the air. Our life was now one of wonderful freedom, and of strange privilege. We had the power of assum- ing different shapes and colors, and even of becoming invisible. By arranging our squadrons in various forms, we give signs of a coming storm or of fair weather to the anxious mariner. Once, when a large vessel was pursuing a smaller one, we came down and formed a mist around the fugitive. Under this concealment, she changed her course, and made her escape. We then vanished, and left her to pursue her way under a bright sky. After some time thus spent over the ocean, a desire came upon us to visit the scene of our early wanderings, and look down upon the land through which we had flowed in streamlet, and brook, and river. A strong east wind arose opportunely to bear us to the American coast, and from the coast into the interior. We first showed our power by forming a gloomy veil, which hid the sun. But, observ- ing that this brought us a cold welcome, we rose higher into the air, and, reflecting the sun's beams, presented to the eye a mass of dazzling THE WATER SYLPH. 25 white. Sometimes we dispersed ourselves over the heavens in thin and fantastic but beautiful lines ; and then, again, took part in the golden glories of a gorgeous sunset. One day, finding the air of a chilly coldness, we chose to fold up our wings, and descend to the earth. I united with several others to form a drop; and, the sun striking upon us in our descent, we reflected his rays in the bright hues of the rainbow. Return- ing to the earth after so long an absence, I first sank into its bosom ; but, after pursuing a short subterranean course, I emerged again to the light, in a clear fountain, near the Cochituate lake. I hurried into the lake, and thence I came hither, by the noble path-way which has been opened with so much toil, to tempt us lovers of the country to visit the city. I am now rising again, thanks to the genial warmth of this good fire, to revisit the air ; and, shouldst thou wish it, when I see thee again, I will give thee a tale of new adventures." "Thanks, many thanks, for this recital; but go not yet. I have still many things to ask thee." THE WATER STLFH. "I cannot stay "to answer them. My com- panions are already far in advance of me. And yet, I will not go without one parting word. Blessings attend thee, mortal; and if thou wouldst be virtuous and happy, be like me ! " She was already leaving me, as she uttered this. "Nay, not yet!" I cried; and sprang forward to detain her by force. But she had now become invisible. Nor could I longer dis- cern anything of the ascending host of water- spirits. I looked intently, and rubbed my eyes, but there was nothing to be seen, except a little column of vapor. " So, then," I said to myself, aloud, " it is all a dream ; and, in spite of my good resolutions, I have been asleep, this so long time, in my chair. Well, for once I cannot regret it." I have no superstitious faith in dreams; but this was so very vivid, and so odd in its charac- ter, that I have not been able to keep it out of my mind. Especially have my thoughts been busy in attempting to find some meaning for the parting words, whose sweet music seemed '^r- '<'^ H THE WATER SYLPH. 27 lingering in my ear, as I awoke: — "If thou wouldst be virtuous and happy, be like me." " What ! be like a particle of water ? Surely, that is fantastic enough for one of Horace's * sick man's dreams.' I will not waste another thought upon such an absurd precept." But not to think upon it I found to be impossi- ble; and these are some of the results of my thinking: — A particle of water is a strict observer of the principles of equality, fraternity, and sympathy. In a vessel of water, we have a perfect democ- racy, such as human society knows nothing of. The equality among the particles is absolute, and is not at all affected by their position in the mass. Whether they happen to be at the top, in the middle, at the sides, or at the bottom, of the ves- sel, they are alike free and " equal," and " en- dowed with certain unalienable rights." Each particle occupies as much room as it wants, is free to change its position whenever it pleases, and exerts an influence which is felt by every other particle in the mass. Nor is there here 28 THE WATER SYLPH. any lack of fraternity or sympathy. There are no warring parties ; there are no individual feuds ; there is no attempt of one to destroy or oppress another ; there is no assumption by any one of superiority over any other ; there is no contempt of the lower by the higher, and no envy of the higher by the lower. They all dwell together as brethren, scrupulously respecting each other's rights, having a mutual and universal attraction, and actuated by a sympathy so perfect, that no effect can be produced upon a single particle without affecting every other particle in the mass. What lessons are there here for me ! I, too, belong to an assemblage, and a vast assem- blage, where, amid all the diversities of position, and all the changes and varieties of movement, an essential equality belongs of right to every individual. By the principles of natural law, every one has an equal right to subsistence, to occupation, to knowledge, to dignity, to happi- ness. We are all alike endowed with immortal powers, capable of endless expansion. What matters it whether, in this embryo state, one passes his little day in a palace or in a cottage ? THE WATER SYLPH. 29 What matters it whether he grasps a handful more or less of shining dust ? Among immortal beings, can any distinctions which are but for a day, give to one man any real superiority over another ? Well did the poet say, •• I feel my immortality o'ersweep All pains, all tears, all time, all fears, — and peal, Like the eternal thunders of the deep, Into my ears, this truth — Thou liv'st forever ! ** Nor is this the equality of isolated beings. We are all bound together by cords of sympathy, which we may disregard, but which we can never break. If I am indifferent to the happiness of a single fellow-being, I am cherishing a spirit which is inconsistent with my own happiness. But, without this indifference, if I know that others suffer, how can I help suffering with them ? The conclusion is unavoidable. My happiness is bound up in the happiness of others, and their happiness in mine. As then I would be happy myself, let me do all in my power for the happiness of others, — for their happiness here, — for their happiness in the life that is to 30 THE WATER SYLPH. i come. Let me concentmte all my strength of emotion, of thought, of purpose, of exertion, upon this noble, this angelic, this Divine work. " Rouse to some work of high and holy love, And thou an angel's happiness shalt know, — Shalt bless the earth while in the world above ; The good begun by thee shall onward flow, In many a branching stream, and wider grow; The seed that in these few and fleeting hours Thy hands unsparing and unwearied sow, ^all deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers, And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal bowers." But let me pursue my inquiry, and see what other lessons I can derive, from a particle of water. It is strictly observant of law ; it never violates a single ordinance of its Creator ; it con- forms with equal readiness and ease to every position in which it may be placed ; it accommo- dates itself as gracefully to the tin cup of the child as to the golden goblet of the monarch. It never delays, and is never wearied in its work. What a model is there here for my imitation! There are laws which I, too, must observe, if I would accomplish anything for my own good or THE WATER SYLPB. 31 for the good of others, — laws of matter and of spirit; of body, mind, and heart; laws estab- lished by infinite wisdom and boundless love, no less than by absolute power. These laws let me study, and let me strive to conform to them in every thought and feeling, — in every word and action. My position in life may not be that which I should have chosen, if the privilege of choice had been given me. But it is the precise position which One who sees " the end from the beginning " saw to be the very best possible for me, with reference to all my interests. As such, then, let me cheerfully and thankfully accept it, assured that even the resources of infinite love could provide for me nothing better. Let my sole anxiety be how I can best fulfil its duties. Let me never hereafter yield to Procrastination, the " thief" that " steals year after year, till all are fled." Let me never more sleep in the en- chanted bowers of Indolence. " Wake, ere the earth-bom charm unnerve thee quite, And be thy thoughts to work Divine addressed; Do something, — do it soon, — with all thy might. An angeVs wing would droop if long at rest. And God himself, inactive, were no longer blest. 32 THE WATER SYLPH. " Some high or humble enterprise of good Contemplate, till it shall possess thy mind, Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food. And kindle in thy heart a flame refined. Pray Heaven for firmness thy whole soul to bind To this thy purpose — to begin, pursue, With thoughts all fixed, and feelings purely kind ; Strength to complete, and with delight revieW) And grace to give the praise where all is ever due." But there is yet one lesson more. The particle of water, in its beneficent course through streamlet, brook, and river, is continually de- scending, till at last it is received by the ocean, and then seems to have lost the power of confer- ring any further benefits upon the land through which it has flowed. The great law of gravita- tion, which binds the universe together, appears to forbid its return. But no ! By a mysterious process, it rises towards heaven, and, borne aloft, revisits mountain, and plain, and meadow ! Thus it maintains that continual circuit upon which the fertility and beauty of the earth and the life of its inhabitants depend. So let it be with me. Whenever I find my strength declining in the THE WATER SYLPH. 33 labors of earth, let me soar heavenward, in de- vout aspiration and earnest prayer. While liv- ing on the earth, and for the earth, let me still live above the earth. While hands and feet are busy in their sphere, let mind and heart ascend to that pure, blissful, and glorious region, where spring the fountains of all true power, as well as of all real peace and solid joy. There is a heathen fable of a giant who received new strength whenever he touched his mother Earth. The fable reversed, becomes for the heaven-born Christian a profound verity. Enfeebled by con- tact with the earth, he obtains new accessions of vigor only by rising, on wings of faith and prayer, to his native skies. Let me, then, strive to know, by blessed experience, the meaning of those words of the prophet ; — " They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength ; they shall mount up with wings, as eagles ; they shall run and not be weary, and they shall walk and not faint" niE EXILE. BT UIS8 FH(EBE OABET. As one, who, wandering by that sea Where the wilH heron may not dip, Finds fruit that lured him temptingly, But turns to ashes on his lip, — So, whatsoever destiny To my unwilling lip has prest, Has been bui; ashes unto me. And life a burden of unrest. And sometimes I have felt as one E'er with the elements at strife, Since wind and wave have borne me on From one who loved me more than life ; One, in whose last and long embrace Was spoken such a world of woe ; One, the sad beauty of whose face Will haunt me wheresoe'er I go ! THE EXILE. 35 waves ! that heaved me to and fro, O winds ! that shook your snowy spray, To bear me, o'er a track of woe, From her who holds my heart to-day ; In pity for my bitter wail. Sent towards the fast-receding strand. Could ye not rouse one adverse gale. And drive me backward to the land ! THE FORTUNATE ACCIDENT. BT MRS. M. A. LIVERMORR. Never was a marriage solemnized under happier auspices than that of Laura Clarkson and Henry Atwood. They had long been be- trothed, although the bride had seen but eighteen summers. Their hearts were full of love for one another, and of bright anticipations of the cloud- less future before them. They possessed riches, health, and personal comeliness; and, in their undisciplined and inexperienced hearts, thought earth a very Eden. Their bridal was one of pomp and display. Arrayed in satin and blonde, orange-flowers and lace, the queenly bride won the admiration of the two or three hundred guests assembled in her father's princely man- sion to witness her nuptials; while a blaze of light shone through the lofty and pictured apart- ments, soft strains of music stole out on the listening air, mingled with the musical laugh of the young and gay, and fairy feet tripped lightly THE FORTUNATE ACCIDENT. 31 through the mazy windings of the dance. It was an occasion of mirth and revelry, that, to some, seemed ill-suited to the solemnities of the marriage-hour, when two untried and inexperi- enced beings take upon themselves the weightiest responsibilities of mortal life. The wedding ceremonies over, a bridal tour was performed, with all due regard to sight- seeing and the demands of fashion ; and then the young couple returned to their city home, to settle down into the quietude of domestic life. They were soon domiciled in their own house, where every convenience, comfort, and luxury of life, surrounded them ; and now, bound to each other by the golden and indissoluble ties of wed- ded love, commanding every means of rational enjoyment, — caressed by friends, cherished in the bosom of elegant and cultivated society, — what could prevent the realization of the dreams of happiness they had pictured, or could mar the almost perfect felicity they seemed to have at- tained ? For a few ninths, all the happiness of which they had ever dreamed was theirs. There was 4 38 THE FORTUNATE ACCIDENT. unanimity in their interests, pursuits and enjoy- ments ; a continual flow of kind feeling between them; a careful observance of the minute but affectionate attentions necessary to the happiness of married life; mutual forbearance was exer- cised, and mutual sacrifices performed. The love which had drawn them together was care- fully guarded, lest any breath of coldness or estrangement might blow upon it. But they seemed to forget how completely we ourselves shape the joy or sorrow of our coming years, and inweave bright or sombre hues into the warp of life; and soon began, like many others, to " hew out rugged paths for themselves," all the while " accusing their fate of cruelty." As constant intercourse produced familiarity, there sprang up a neglect of the thousand nameless attentions necessary to keep bright the flame of connubial love ; they became indifferent as to pleasing each other, forgetful of the kind offices so dear to the heart, and, at times, wearied of each other's society, and desirous of other com- panionship. These evils being uncorrected, there gradually crept in a series of petty differences THE FORTITNATE ACCIDENT. 89 between them, which led to sarcastic remark, to jeers and scoffs which were unpleasant, to bitter epithets, mutual recrimination, and, in the end, to bitter self-upbraiding and keen anguish. Unfortunately for Mr. and Mrs. Atwood, both were highly endued with pride ; and this opposed a barrier to perfect reconciliation, whenever any little misunderstanding arose between them. The language of contrition and forgiveness was foreign to their tongues ; and hence their slight differences were never healed by mutual conces- sion, nor was their waning affection rekindled by asking and obtaining pardon of each other. When once the seeds of discord are sown be- tween two loving hearts, it is astonishing how rapidly they germinate, how rankly they flourish, and ho\f deadly is the fruit they bear. Like the dragon's teeth sown by Cadmus, they spring up an armed host, ready for destruction. Mr. and Mrs. Atwood indulged in petty bickering and strife, in almost unimportant fault-finding, in irritation of feeling and manner, and thus pre- pared the way for more serious differences, and for weightier and more lasting contentions. 4a THE FORTUNATE ACCIDENT. "Trifles light as air" were magnified into enor- mities ; momentary ill-will was cherished, till it became settled dislike ; peevishness indulged, till it became habitual fretfulness and ill-humor; retaliatory measures pursued, till it became an important aim in the life of each to disturb and harass the other; and, eventually, these causes combined, seemed to annihilate the once ardent love of the young husband and wife, and to render their wedded life intolerable. Three years passed away, two of which were spent in wretchedness, that none dreamed of who beheld their seemingly happy and enviable lot; and then their affairs came to a crisis. There had been sullen ness, silence, and smothered wrath, on the brows and in the hearts of each, for weeks, and both felt that this state of things could not longer be borne. They were sitting together, in the quiet of the evening ; the mild light of the shaded lamp fell softly upon them and their differing employments. Their baby- daughter had been dismissed to her nurse and hei bed, and was sleeping quietly; they were alone, unhappy, supremely wretched. The long, THE FORTUNATE ACCIDENT. 41 painful silence was broken by Mr. Atwood. "Laura," he said, "we lead a miserable life together." The remark was, perhaps, intended as the prelude to a pacification ; but it was not so understood, and was received ungraciously. " It is in our power to lead a different life," waa the haughty and cold reply. "How?" " By separation." " Do you desire it — prefer it ? " " I am far from objecting to it." " Very well ; you shall have your choice. We will separate." " Thank you for the first favor I hav^ received at your hands these two years ! " and the eyes of Mrs. Atwood flashed defiance and indignation into those of her husband. The next day witnessed the dissolution of their unhappy partnership. Mrs. Atwood, with her daughter, hardly a year old, returned to her father's house, while Mr. Atwood took rooms in a fashionable hotel, at a distant part of the city. The world, to whom the causes of this sundering were inexplicable, was astounded at the occur- 4# 42 THE FORTUNATE ACCIDENT. rence, and for more than " nine days " was the wonder discussed. The troubles and dissensions of the twain were but little known, even in the family circles of each, and hence had never been publicly gossiped abroad. The countenances, language, and movements of both were submitted to the closest scrutiny, that some inkling of the real state of affairs might be obtained ; but both husband and wife were impenetrable, and gossip was left to blind guesses of the trouble. A shade of sadness was observable on the countenance of each ; there was more reserve, and yet more of pride, in the manners of both ; but beyond this the most penetrating could perceive no change in the outward demeanor of either party. Mrs. Atwood wholly gave up society, and devoted her- self to her child, on whom the restrained and pent-up tenderness of her woman's nature was prodigally lavished ; while the husband plunged into business, and so absorbed himself in mercan- tile pursuits as to have no thoughts for aught else. Both were seen in the sanctuary, and occasionally in the house of a friend ; but they never met, and never spoke of each other. THE FORTUNATE ACCIDENT. 43 And was all this external indifference real? and had they, who once loved so tenderly, utterly quenched in their hearts the last spark of affection ? Had they succeeded in exorcising each other's memory from their bosoms? Did they never revert tenderly to the halcyon days of their early affection? Alas! alas! there came, at last, a lull to the storms of passion and strife that had wrecked their peace; and then memory and conscience became avenging furies, more terrible than the mythic Alecto. Tears of remorseful regret wet the pillow of the unhappy wife, who wore the semblance of content by day, as, in the silent, sleepless hours of the night, her wronged heart cried out bitterly against the injury she had inflicted on herself, and on him who was once dearer than self. At times, the agony of her spirit overwhelmed her; and it required the aid of all the pride she could sum- mon to wear well the mask of indifference. The ghosts of dead joys were forever haunting her ; the memory of harsh expressions and taunting remarks, which had slain her peace, was forever rankling in her bosom ; and she sometimes longed 44 THE FORTUNATE ACCIDENT. to fall on her husband's neck, and contritely ask his forgiveness and the return of his love. And sometimes, when thought chased sleep from his pillow, there came smiling to the bedside of the husband the image of his Laura, as she was in their happier days, loving, forbearing, tender, and good ; and though he closed his eyes to shut out the vision, and turned uneasily on his couch, yet a sigh would come from his burdened heart, as he thought how different their lot might have been, had he borne with her failings more patiently, and extenuated them more fully, and cherished her with more affection. He yearned for the days of bliss that were ended for him, — for the love of wife and child, forever removed from him ; — the one too widely estranged ever to be won ; the other, a prattling, smiling innocent, that would grow up in ignorance of its father's care and affection. But of all this the world knew nothing, nor did even the most intimate friends of their lives; pride so well sustained them, in their outward bearing, that all were con- vinced that, whatever might have separated them, they would never be united. THE FORTUNATE ACCIDENT. 45 Years wearied on, and the little Rosalie had attained her fifth year, when, without any ap- parent cause, while surrounded by affluence and comfort, the health of Mrs. Atwood began to fail. The color forsook her cheek, light fled her eye, and vigor her foot-step. Her friends became alarmed ; for, though she complained of no suffer- ing, and never spoke of the wasting away of her life, which was apparent to all, yet she sank away almost as rapidly as a snow-wreath in spring-time. By some, her decay was attributed to her nun-like seclusion from society ; by others, to her devotion to her child; while yet others were sure that it was caused by an insidious pulmonary affection, that had dried the hidden springs of her existence. But the truth was not reached by any of these dim guesses ; none suc- ceeded in divining the wasting sorrows that had wrought such ravages in her being. Like the Spartan youth, she was falling a martyr to pride ; and while remorse and grief were consuming her heart, she drew the mantle of her pride more closely about her, and hugged her tormentors to her bosom. With the lapse of years, all hope of 46 THE FORTUNATE ACCIDENT. reunion with her husband had fled, if any had ever existed; and, steeled by the pride which was her predominant characteristic, and by what seemed her husband's total indifference to her, she resolved to suffer and die in silence. But so secretly and surely had her physical powers been attacked by the suffering within, that her life was fast failing; and, with grief and alarm, her friends summoned the most eminent medical men to her relief. Among other remedial measures, change of air and scenery was recommended; and, there- fore, accompanied by a relative and a servant, she was removed to a celebrated watering-place, not far distant. The little Rosalie also made one of the party ; for the mother and child were inseparable, even for a few months. The journey was accomplished, and the fresh, bracing sea- breeze, with drives, baths, and occasional walks, soon partially renovated the health of the invalid. Her thoughts were diverted from their one gloomy channel, and she began to take pleasure in the gay scene around her, — the ever-shifting THE FORTUNATE ACCIDENT. 47 and brilliant panorama of a fashionable watering- place. One beautiful afternoon, when the sunlight was cresting with gold the dancing waters, when health and invigoration came on the wings of the clear air, Mrs. Atwood was lured forth by the beauty and serenity of the hour ; and, taking the hand of her daughter in her own, she saun- tered forth, without other attendance, for a walk. Most of the gay guests of the place were occu- pied at the time, — some in an afternoon siesta, some in drives on the distant beach, and others in reading or quiet employment in-doors, — so that her walk was undisturbed, and comparatively solitary. Guided by the wishes of her child, who led the vray, and who was in quest of tiny shells she had seen in a particular spot, they ^^'alked on, till they came to a range of rocks, that, seamed, scarrod, and riven as with some mighty convulsion of nature, lifted up their bold and rugged fronts against the angry waves of ocean, that came dashing against their everlast- ing bases, and then recoiling as in affiright at the flinty barrier they had met. This wild ledge .a-LLA'ii'jiiiit/, 48 THE FORTUNATE ACCIDENT. sloped gradually down, till the rocky land lay level with the water's edge, at high tide, which it now happened to be. Guiding Rosalie by the hand, Mrs. Atwood walke'1 slowly and carefully down the inclined plane formed by the sloping ledge, now stopping to watch the curling waves break far down beneath them, to listen to the roar, or to spy out the white wings of the distant vessels ; to note the approach of steamers, by the wreaths of blue smoke that lay lazily on the atmosphere ; or to watch the motions of a little boat not far distant, in which were seated three men, who seemed to be idly enjoying a sail, and the novelty of skimming over the restless waters. They came, at last, to the water's level, nearly opposite the boat, which, a little distant, had now tacked about towards the usual landing-place. Here the little girl spied the tiny and pretty shells she was seeking scattered around with pebbles and stones, and, with a cry of joy, set her- self to gathering them. Mrs. Atwood's attention w^s, for the instant, diverted from her careless charge towards the graceful boat, that cleaved its way through the waves like a living thing, and THE FORTUNATE ACCIDENT. 49 was shooting towards the landing, when the dancing, bounding child leaped forward, in her eagerness, a step too far, and, losing her balance, was precipitated headlong into the water. The mother darted forward to save her, but too late ! and as she saw her earthly all disappear beneath the deep waves, she gave utterance to the agony of her mother's heart in a piercing cry of dis- tress, that rang out wildly on the calm air ; and then sank like yielding wax to the earth. The whole occurrence was but the work of an instant ; but it had been observed from the neighboring hotel, and crowds of people ran down to the aid of the mother and the rescue of the child. But help was nearer at hand. The men in the boat had also perceived the accident, and heard the mother's wild shriek; and, instantly veering their course, they hastened, with crowded sail, to the scene of danger. As they neared it, perceiving the child rise to the surface, and that the water was comparatively tranquil, one of the men, with the speed of thought, divested himself of the more cumbersome parts of his clothing, and, plunging into the water, cleaved his way to / THE FORTUNATE ACCIDENT. the drowning child, with a sinewy and courage- ous arm. She had again risen, and was again sinking for the last time, when he reached her, and, diving, clutched her dress, and drawing her towards him, lifted her face above water. Then turning and breasting the waves more slowly and with exhaustion, he swam towards the boat advancing to meet him, when both were aided into it, and the tiny craft urged its way tov\rards the shore with the utmost speed. A large concourse of people, with blankets and Testoratives, awaited their arrival ; the mother ■was already cared for ; and, conveying the child to the nearest house, and sending for a physician, they now applied the usual remedies for the resuscitation of the little innocent. The gentle- man who had been mainly instrumental in the rescue of the child bent over it with womanly tenderness, refusing all offers of comfortable clothing, and disdaining to seek rest for himself while the life of the little one seemed precarious. Understanding better than any who had as- sembled what was necessary to be done, he wrapped the child in warm blankets, chafed its THE FORTUNATE ACCIDENT. 51 nous, d as- e, he sd its hands and temples, sought to inflate its lungs with his own powerful breathing, and succeeded in restoring signs of life before the arrival of the physician. And when the little girl was fully recovered, and able to be conveyed to her mother's apartments, he resolutely refused all offers of aid, but, ordering a carriage, took her in his arms as tenderly as if she were his own child, and surrendered her only to the maid in her mother's dwelling. Evening came, and Mrs. Atwood awoke from the last of a series of death-like swoons, in which she had lain since the accident, to find herself in her own apartments, and her child sleeping calmly and quietly beside her. In answer to her inquiries, the history of her child's rescue was made known to her, as, also, the interest and solicitude the stranger had manifested towards it. 0, how her heart warmed with gratitude towards the savior of her darling Rosalie! She must see him, — she must pour out the fulness of her thankful heart into his ear : she must relieve her overladen spirit of its gratitude ! She could not be dissuaded from her hastily formed purpose; J* ty'zJJ^ fitOtiAM'^'J^ 52 THE FOBTUNATE ACCIDENT. and, calling for her writing-desk, weak and excited as she was, and late as was the hour, she indited a warm and earnest note to the stranger, asking an immediate interview. The messenger shortly returned, with an answering note. As she almost expected, her request was politely and gently refused. " He had but performed a simple act of humanity," so ran the reply ; " he had but performed his duty. If he had relieved a fello v being of suffering, if he had added to another's happiness, it would cheer his hours of loneliness to remember it, and he asked no other reward." But Mrs. Atwood's heart was too much excited, too full of glad and thankful emotions, to be thus satisfied, and she wrote again : ,, ,. ... " Mrs. Atwood asks pardon for her importunity, but she feels that it will be impossible for* her to rest without seeing the deliverer of her child iaoe to face, and thank- ing him for the infinite obligations he has conferred upon her. If it be possible, she begs that her request be granted. The favor will add greatly to her happiness, and is almost indispensable to her, in her present feeble and excited state." ' A second time the messenger returned; but THE FORTUNATE ACCIDENT. 53 not alone. A servant announced the arrival of the benefactor of the little Rosalie, and was deSi'red to show him into Mrs. Atwood's parlor. Slowly, and with evident reluctance, he ascended to her room; the door was opened, and Mrs. Atwood rose to receive him. But why did she stand as if rooted to the floor? Why did her tongue become palsied, and the blo9d rnsh back to her heart like a torrent? It was her own husband stood before her ! For a moment an oppressive and death-like silence reigned in the room, while Mrs. Atwood pressed her hand on her heart, to still its tumultuous and violent throbbings, which almost suffocated her. Mr. Atwood was the first to break the silence. * "I would have spared you this interview, Laura," he said, in a mild, sad voice ; " but you woulrl not be refused. I am happy that it was in my power to serve you to-day ; and I th^nk God I was enabled to save the life of our child, as dear to me as to you. My presence is painful to you, as I foresaw it would be ; and, therefore, with your permission, I will withdraw. Good- evening." And, bowing, he turned to leave. ' 54 THE FORTUNATE ACCIDENT. But Mrs. Atwood sprang forward with vehe- mence, and clUng to him convulsively. " Stay ! stay ! " was all she could utter ; and, trembling like an aspen, she sank upon the sofa, and bury- ing her face in its cushions, wept violently. For a moment Mr. Atwood stood irresolute. Pride and a^vakened affection were busy within, strug- gling for the mastery. But the long pent-up, defrauded love of his heart grew strongest, as he looked, on his feeble, weeping wife ; every othei consideration was overpowered, and he sat down beside her. " Laura," he said, tenderly, and his voice trembled, and tears were in his eyes, " do we not yet love one another?" She made no reply, but, lifting her head from the cushions, buried her face in his bosom. " Can we not for- give one another, and bear with each other as we never have done, and be happy as we used to be ? I have humbled myself to ask of you for- giveness ; will you not grant it ? " With passionate earnestness, Mrs. Atwood raised her streaming face to her husband, and burst forth, with vehement energy, — " No, no, Henry! don't ask my forgiveness but forgive THE FOBTUNATE ACCIDENT. m me! forgive me!" and, clasping her hands prayerfully, she almost sank at his feet. " For- give me, or I must die ! I have done wrong ; but see how I have expiated my wrong ! " and she put back her hair from her pallid, sunken face, with her thin hand. " I have erred towards you ; but see how I have atoned for it ! They say I am consumptive ; but oh, Henry, I am dying of sorrow ! Forgive me, and love me, and I shall be again well and happy ! " r^-^-^Mi<< The softened, subdued man folded his wife to his heart in a long embrace. " My poor Laura," he said, while tears rained from his face upon her cheek and brow, "you have been more sinned against than sinning ! If Heaven spares my life, I will indeed atone for the grievous wrong I have done you ! " * But Mrs. Atwood's weakness and excitement became so great that it was necessary to summon attendance, and, soon afterwards, medical skill. For a few weeks she tossed in the restless, burn- ing delirium of nervous and brain fever: now piteously imploring aid to save her drowning daughter ; now conjuring her husband to forgive 56 THB FORTUNATE ACCmENT. her, and receive her to his heart; sometimes bursting into frantic despair, as she fancied both were lost to her, and then as frantically abandon- ing herself to joy, as she believed them both her own. With prayers, and tears, and hope, Mr. Atwood watched beside her bed , and when she was pronounced beyond danger, his heart was filled with unparalleled gratitude. ■^'' ' -''^ Slowly she returned agein to life and health ; and when the bloom of the rose was again on her cheek, and the light of joy sparkled in her eye, amid the congratulations of friends, and the good wishes of acquaintances, the reunited couple once more set up their Penates, resolved never again to allow the bitter waters of strife to quench the fires of their rekindled aiTection. ,,-^'- •'■' ; ,■ \j! H;-»i •-,■". -" ,^> -.i^ ■f. KiX^^ ,-. ^^■^.>%- J.^ul -SLi-Ml^^^/M ■ a.-i^'t: THE WELIMANnC. I''"^ ^^'^'' BT MBS. H. A. LIVKBMOBB. ii Close at my feet runs the bright Willimantic, Now curving and winding along the green lea ; Now tripping demurely, now playfully antic, Now leaping and dancing in frolicsome glee. Now golden in sun-Mght, Now silver in moon-light, It catcheth from beauty, in passing, some gleam ; While it floweth right onward, the fair Willi- mantic, - r ' Ne^er lagging, nor weary, the beautiful stream. Now bounding along by the side of a mountain, It tumeth the ponderous wheel of a mill. Where it catcheth the gleam and the foam of a fountain, — * Then through forests umbrageous it stealeth allstiil; ^^^ ' ^ - " ' ■ Its step is so noiseless. Its song is so voiceless :d4 1 ■ i 68 THE WILLIMANTIG. It waketh not even the bird from its dream ; >»«. While the trees that stand round it, the bright Willimantic, Bathe calmly their feet in its soft-flowing stream. Fair flowers bend o'er it with sweetest caresses ; It smileth back fondly each blossom's em- brace ; ^ » - The amorous zephyr flits o'er, and professes Its love with the streamlet's bright, beautiful face; But the wooing of beauty ^^ . Turns not from its duty, ^ Nor wins it to stay in its pathway along; So onward it floweth, the true Willimantic, Beguiling its journey with laughter and song. O heart ! be thou taught by this stream of the meadow! ^^ >: i^. ,._..»■ i/ Let duty e'er guide thee, not pleasure or will ; Be thy way in the sun-light, or shadiest shadow. Press onward right bravely, sing cheerily still ! Thou canst not be saddened, But only be gladdened, THE VriLLIMANTIO. . 69 •» t When urging thy progress with brave heart and fece; ' -'"" ^''- '' For the wrestling with duty will give to thee beauty, And fling o'er thy life-stream a luminous grace. *i *'?•' )^J iS «i; "< , t,\ -f f> e^ f rs.\t^ tft- ! I"* • i >1 '%U 'i^t f /t "i-vJ- Hi «-• V* J «f:fji ■**? •jA''** »^~* J t^ * v# to- ^ . i. '.f 4 , Vfi ■ ^ / ., .3 •<■«■»-. kl '■'•>? V ■". 'V ' >■* I <3' V t i.^'ai '/'*'-^;'i^ '"''t-.'r .r ti:'-' ■Hi;t is-^-iW ;;^ JOTTINGS FROM A FOREIGN TOUR. r %'^m BT BEV. A. B. MUZZET. »!.( '.A July 21, 1843. — It was yesterday my precious privilege to visit that sublime work of God, Mount Vesuvius. A party of six, we left our hotel, in Naples, at half past one o'clock in the morning, in a carriage. At three we reached the post-house, where we exchanged our vehicle for ponies. Starting with them at half-past four, we rode through a lovely scene, where flowers and fruits regaled our senses, as Wu gently ascended the mountain for five miles. We came now to a hermitage, where the monks of a certain convent entertain all who ascend Vesuvius. From this point we continued our ride, until we were within half a mile of the summit. At a quarter before six we stood on the very edge of the crater. The last of our way, the foot journey, was less difficult than we had anticipated, as we had each a guide, furnished with a loose belt, by JOTTINGS FHOM A FOHBIGN TOXTS. 61 clasping which in our hands, the walk was greatly facilitated. ''■■" - ■■■*■''' ''■- '■a""^«'*ft'^^ ''--^y '■■■i ■'. '^a'wc ,^rt-* The first impression produced by the volcano was, to my mind, perfectly overwhelming. Its detonations broke on the ear with a deep-toned and solemn uniformity. As far down as the eye could reach, we saw two mighty apertures, through which issued, with alternate eruptions, volumes of dense smoke and detached portions of burning lava. The beauty of the curling clouds, as they rose and formed one broad canopy above, was truly surpassing. ^ * ffiV^^ijii^f-vi?, My companions remained on the edge of the crater, with one exception ; and he, after descend- ing perhaps one half the distance, abandoned the attempt. But I felt irresistibly disposed to press on, myself, as far down as any previous traveller had ventured. Accordingly, taking a guide, I commenced my downward walk. And yet, it could scarcely be called a walk, for I was soon compelled to use my hands, as well as my feet, clinging to crag after crag, as I leaped down the precipitous steeps. I soon came to a spot where smoke and a sulphurous vapor poured gushingly 6 62 JOTTINGS FROM A FOREIGN TOUR. forth. And now each step brought me nearer and nearer to the bottom of the yawning chasm. The rocks on which I stepped were first warm, then hot, until, at length, I could employ my hands no longer, except to guide a staff among the ledges and crevices that promised me any slight assistance. Meantime, the sulphuric smoke increased so rapidly that I found it difficult to inhale the air. At one time, I thought this would compel me to return instantly; but, recovering my breath, I went slowly forward. And now the sound of the successive eruptions became almost deafening. The discharge of artillery does not compare with it, nor yet does the roll of the distant thun- der. The reverberations seemed constantly to increase, — around, above, below, — peal upon peal. I went onward, however, until I reached a spot where fresh lava had lately fallen; and this seemed the very farthest that safety would permit me to go. My guide descended to the very borders of the cone, at the bottom of the crater, from which the red-hot lava was then bursting; but I besought him in a moment to JOTTmOS FROM A FOREIGN TOUR. 63 return. He had watched the falling lava, he said, formerly, and stamped coins in the pieces before they cooled. One of these, which he gave me, I have now in my possession. No language can portray my sensations, as I looked up from this point. To feel myself so far below the earth's surface, was impressive ; but to reflect, also, that I was standing in the very bosom of that tremendous agent, which had rushed forth so many times, and might, even at this moment, to lay waste fields, habitations, and whole cities, in its awful course, was completely overpowering. If terror be an element of the sublime, then I enjoyed, that hour, a truly sublime prospect. There was a sense of peril; and yet, so intense was the interest of the scene, that I was bound to it by a spell, and felt reluct- ant to retra^^e my steps, and to think I should never more stand within the mountain-high walls of the renowned Vesuvius. *^ • The crater is usually silent, and only emits a dense smoke. But we were told that detonations had been heard for a fortnight before our visit. These increase, at certain times, in frequency 64 JOTTINGS FROM A FOREIGN TOUR. and power ; at other periods, both the sound and smoke nearly cease ; and in this way they give warning of the approach of a destructive eruption. Torre del Greco, a village at the base of the mountain, has been three times buried beneath the lava. A single edifice alone, it is said, escaped, in the last eruption. i - •. . We ascended on the side which is covered with the lava, as its points furnish a good foot- hold. But we came down on the ashes, — these yielding to our steps, and making the descent quite easy. The ages of the successive eruptions are clearly marked by the coloring of the several strata of lava, until you come to a point where its decay is productive of vegetation. Our descent afforded several magnificent views. There lay the celebrated Torre del Greco ; there, too, was Resina, built actually upon the city-top of the deeply-buried Herculaneum. And, richer than all, our eyes rested on the exquisitely beautiful Bay of Naples. Vesuvius, on its summit, is craggy, suUeh, and barren ; but ere long, as you descend, you come to a few stunted vines; then follows a JOTTINGS FROM A FORXION TOUR. 66 better/ growth, — the mulberry, the luxuriant vine, and the goiden apricot. Flowers of a thousand hues and of delicious perfumes accom- pany the traveller down to the base of the moun- tain. After leaving Vesuvius, wo visited, on our way back, the ruins of Pompeii. This city, at its first appearance, occasioned dis ppointment. It looked bare and bald, as we eiik-ied its walls. But this impression soon vp i 'led. We sa :/ the prison, where criminals were confined ; it was below the ground, and there still remained the little orifice through which the sentence was made known to the prisoner. At the uncovering of the city, bones were found in one of these prisons, with chains attached to them. In some of the houses were small niches, in which the "household god- ' iiad been placed. In "The House of the Fauns " is a fine Mosaic pavement, representing ihe Nile and its various animals. We saw, in the house of Sallust, another very rich pavement. Near the gate of the city were several tombs; and in one place an oven, in which, according to the Boman custom, the 6* ' m§ JOTTINGS FROM A FOREIGN TOUR. bodies of the dead were burned. Near it was a tomb containing several urns for the ashes. Pompeii, which was buried by an eruption of Vesuvius, A. D. 79, was a republican city, as appears by an inscription discovered on a tablet at its gate. Excavations are still going forward, forty men being employed, while we were there, by the King of Naples. A military guard followed us at every step, but I managed still to bring away several pieces of Mosaic work, pottery, &c., from the ruins. I took a fragment from a wine-jar, in the house of Diomedes. His house must have been splendid, judging from its long cellar, through which we walked. . Ten miles from Pompeii, and near the sea- shore, we found Herculaneum. This, being less remote from the volcano, was buried by lava at the same time the former city was overwhelmed by the ashes of Vesuvius. We descended eighty feet into the old theatre, which was very close, damp, and gloomy. Over this very building we rode along the streets of the present Resina. A very rich pavement was shown us in a house which is wholly excavated ; and in another place JOTTINGS FROM A FOREIGN TOUR. 67 was a prison ; and, still further on, an altar for heathen sacrifices. In the museum at Naples are many relics, taken from these two cities, which make a visit to them much more interesting. I purchased there some lentils, taken in a charred state from Pompeii. We saw many fine paintings in fresco, a few of which were from the Temple of Isis. Here is the statue of Agrippina, who was sen- tenced to death by her son, Nero. There were also two or three heads of negroes, and among them a fine bust of Scipio Africanus, which indi- cated, to say the least, the average talent of our own race. In one of the twelve rooms, we saw a Roman " Implumentum," which contained Wjater that had been enclosed in it nearly two thousand years. There were several fine specimens of work in glass. Here, too, we witnessed the pro- cess by which the burnt papyrus has been un- rolled and deciphered. We saw stamps used for printing the bcker's name on his loaves. How near an approach was this to the art of printing ! In the gallery of paintings is a splen- -V'X JOTTINGS FROM A FOREIGN TOUR. «?■ did Madonna, by Baphael ; also, a fine " Danae,*' by Titian ; both, of course, original works. In the. library, we were shown a Greek MS., on papyrus, which was five hundred and sixty years old. The jewelry of the wife of Diomedes was elegant. Nor was the useful wanting ; for nearly all our culinary conveniences existed before the Christian era, and others, which must be ranked among " the lost arts." In the room of epitaphs, was one representing a bird ascend- ing from the hand of a Psyche, giving evidence that the soul was believed, by some among the Bomans, to rise, on the death of the body. Thus have i presented the reader with a flying leaf from reminiscences of a tour whose- full im- pression my pen can never record. Most happy shall I be, if these meagre inklings can stir his imagination to conceive what is, and ever must be, to so large an extent, wanting on the written page. ■ .-.- ,..-,..... ... W^:^W ' ■ ' "■' .' ■ - -i- .;. :^'?i' ^ .- '■'■'fi,^i^^V^.:ti:i-' ?^S ■i'^'S:'<:i» ' .;>•} ;■!■■; _, %J^ff r^^^J*.-';-^- » mi ■rt ^ BaxrauttBuxi [L@[FS[&) i^c/^y^i m\L\FmY fij[p(©M ;Li^. ^fcrr.f" <%ii-j(:,Arit*^''j*'i^'_ ,. •• -.i.«»Jvr 1 V. . J i*- V "-ijtir*- } -■■■• ••T'IS. ■' '■omiQi &c ■ ■at m%^ ■■'. •"; li-C S T •• F. FK.nBU of th His wcrcy tH«yfts^;pf*;'lmt wildly, Mi..Vi#ii^^. '■.Hav^ m^^rcv •'jK.-Ji us, di Lo^'dT' '.^ I;. v...:v* *■ •■ tf. as* .'-iJiftiJassiT"' F-S. i^. :;;'r~i,''^'Vfe'* ."'■'''.■ "LORD, HAVE MERCY UPON US/' 1 ■ BT KS8. X. T. MVNKOE. Prayeb of the penitent, suffering, and weary. From thousands of spirits borne upward to heaven ; From the roar of the ocean, the desert waste dreary, & • Where man's heart has grown faint, or his spirit has striven. •"»■' 'j^ ' '::iis!'v He sinks in the snares that the tempter is spreading, ^ ' -■.-■■'■,■& And in wild cries for mercy he yieldeth his breath! ■ -,■ .■ . . t --•- . ' ■.•■■■ .•■, ■ 'i,<'!^V\- f ■■'■''■, t J ' .-•: J* ' ' V- - ' .-^^i Have mercy upon us ! Thou heuicst them ever. The cries and the pleadings we send to thy throne; -^ ■'■'■' ■''■"'■-- --■•*-•-- ^ ^^^ In vain and unheeded thy children pray never, — We ask thee for mercy, and mercy is shown. ■:i .-- . ■ '?-^ W''-'''-^.'^' . f ■ ; ^1- • • t,'. ;i;'" ■.: „5( . " ,,.;» •''-►ii'^.'s't' ' \ ^itr.V/ "DOST THOU WELL TO BE ANGRY 7" BT HOBAOB OBEELET. ,),.|. The most searching trial of human virtue is that presented by the contemplation of triumphant vice. Two lads have grown up, from infancy, in the same neighborhood ; have studied in the same schools, toiled in the same fields, shared in the same sports, and looker! >ut on the grc. dim ocean of coming time with the same eager, pe- ful, sanguine eyes. But manhood separatrj them ; — the one wanders off, in fierce, un- scRipulous pursuit of fame and fortune; he becomes a soldier, a chieftain, a ruler; and returnt perhaps, at forty, a man of mark and power, to be flattered, feasted, and almost dei- fied; while the playmate and equal of his child- hood, who has kept due on in the path of humble, uiie'= tiring usefulness throughout, lives unob- ■eivju aui unconsidered, — a farmer, artisan, or pastor, in his native hamlet, with no higher "DOST THOU WELL TO BE ANGRY)" 73 earthly hope than to see his children comfortably settled in life, and then close his eyes in peace with all men, and be borne to his final rest amid the respectful tears of the few who intimately knew him. The feverish dreams of his boyhood have long since vanished ; he had ceased, years since, to look or hope for more than this, until the return of his more ambitious and adventurous playmate, covered with icldt, and surrounded by every outward symbol of success and exaltation. But these stir within him long-buried thoughts ; they awaken unwonted impulses ; they make his way of life seem poor and trivial ; they provoke disparaging contrasts, and suggest the ii.quiry, " Why have I achieved so little, while he has acquired all?" The hardships, privations, and perils, of the conqueror's career, are all forgotten, with the thousands who, starting in the race of life abreast with him., have long since been struck down, and perished by the various mischances of the warrior's course. The one brilliant success is alone regarded ; and the rustic contrasts with this his own uneventful, undistinguished life, and half unconsciously murmurs, "Is this the 7 ■ •••'■..V , ♦ "DOST THOU WELL TO BE ANGRY »" reward of virtue ? I have harmed no man, and wished harm to none ; I have done what little good I might, in my humble sphere ; yet I am no- body, while my old schoolmate, who has sought advancement and personal advantage, in utter disregard of others' well-being, — who has stood ready to kill or be killed, in any quarrel, just or unjust, which proffered him a chance for fame or promotion, — has thereby rendered himself the idol of the multitude, the cynosure of admiring eyes. What encouragement do these facts hold out for perseverance in virtue ? " ' "^ ' Why, murmuring friend, what do you desire ? You have virtuously refrained from setting your feet on the necks of your fellows; and do you repine that they do not cast themselves in the dust before you, and insist on being trampled? You have declined exaltation at the expense of your brethren ; and are you chagrined that they do not force it upon you? Was your virtue, after all, but a cloak for your ambition ? If not, and you have health, peace, competence, security, and are surrounded by those who appreciate and esteem you, what would you more? Is your "DOST THOIT WELL TO BB ANOBTl' 75 Tirtue so weak that it needs the cheers of the multitude to keep it in countenance? Will it exhale, if no one takes note of its excellence ? The truth is, that our current virtue lacks that quality of Divine patience which is the seal of true nobility of soul. We shall never b6 truly qualified to pity an unlucky sinner, until we shall have learned sincerely and heartily to pity a lucky one. Let a sea-captain turn pirate, and live a dozen years by plunder and murder, gorg- ing his sensual appetites with every conceivable indulgence and excess, — and how few regard him with any feeling of compassion ! But let him be caught, convicted, and sent to the ^:\s and, at once, handkerchiefs are lifted, ir o rt ; to thousands of streaming eyes. Y' s'it'v it is» more deplorable to be a pirate than •) '^; I r jcL Nay, if a man were base enough to be a pirate, and there were no other way of checking his depraved inclination, he ought to thank any one who wauM hang him ; and those who have most regard for him should unite in his expression of gratitude. It is not the termination of an evil course, but the persistence therein, which should be contemplated with alarm and sorrow. >. 78 "DOST THOU WELL TO BE ANGRY l" The shallowness, the hoUownesa, of our virtue, is the main cause pf our incompetency to deal adequately and satisfactorily with the great problem of crime and the treatment of criminals. Throughout the civilized world, crime increases with fearful rapidity. All see this ; — the thoughtful are alarmed by it ; but none who are heeded devise adequate remedies. The scale of retribution oscillates fearfully, from age to age, and from country to country ; — now severity, now leniency, is the fashion ; here thieves and coun- terfeiters are put to death, and there assassins, nine times in ten, escape all legal punishment ; yet the tendency to crime is in neither case arrested, nor even diminished. What shall we do? The first requisite toward a more enlightened treatment of criminals is a clearer understanding of the nature and causes of crime. Never, while we fancy the criminal's career Caicj of enjoyment, — of delights into which we, too, would gladly plunge, if we were sure of escaping the penalties denounced against transgression, — can we do anything effectual toward the reform of offenders, 'T;:Tf7-.YT,V^j;.m-'.-- "DOST THOU WELL TO BE ANGBY?" 77 or even the prevention of offences. The fires of lust and depravity may be superficially covered by denunciation and severity ; but only to bum more intensely at the centre, and soon to break out in every direction. What the criminal needs is not to know that crime and vice are ultimately and terribly punished; he knows that already, and has decided to bravv. the future penalty for the sake of the present gratification. What he needs is the removal from his eyes of the delud- ing, distorting films which forbid his seeing the intrinsic, inseparable relation between vice and misery, crime and suffering. Never, while there shall seem to mingle one spice of envy of his enjoyment with our reprehension of the culprit's misdeeds, can we exert any moral influence in arresting his guilty course. The apostle of peni- tence and the policeman move in radically differ- ent orbits, and labor to radically different ends. The one makes converts; the other, convicts. If the earth were thickly covered with policemen, there might be fewer sins than at present, but no fewer sinners. What the moral world imminently needs is a 7# 78 ' "DOST THOU WELL TC y"^ ANGEYJ" clearer, more general radiation of that Divine compassion which found utterance in the gra- cious assurance and exhortation, "Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more." If we were but able to look on sin from the moral alti- tude of the Saviour, we should not loathe it less, but we should pity the sinner more. We should feel how fearful a load guilt is, and how almost impossible is the increase of that load by the superaddition of penalties. Here, for instance, is one who, impelled by passion, by lust, by avarice, or desperation, has imbrued his hands in the blood of a brother. Have we any true concep- tion of the fearful thing it is to be such a crimi- nal ? If we have, the consideration of what ihaU be done to him, — what privation of life or liberty, what infliction of suflTering or ignominy, shall be visited upon him, in consequence of his crime, — will seem quite secondary and trivial in comparison. The real question for us will be, " What can we do to awaken him to a full realization of his depravity, if he be not yet conscious of it? and by what means can we most probably, most efficiently, aid to cleanse him of "dost thou well to be angry?" 79 his guilt?" Society must, of course, look to its own security, and tranquillity also, — must shut the culprit up in a dungeon, or even take his life, if it seem impracticable otherwise to guard against a repetition of his crime, — but that has really nothing in common with the idea of punishment, any more than with that of reform. Of the three considerations, — public security, criminal reform, and punishment, — each is totally distinct from, and independent of, both the others. They may all be regarded together, or a sad necessity may seem to require the disre- gard of the second, in stern obedience to the urgent dictates of the first and last ; but we may imprison for life, or even consign to instant, igno- minious death, a culprit^ without hr«ting, or wish- ing to harm him. The safety of the community is not merely before, but above, all considerations of individual interest or immunity. A murderer may be put to death, in perfect consistency with the law of love, if it be morally certain that so only can he be restrained from future murders ; but so vnr y a maniac. It is not the nature nor the extent of the intHction, but the spirit which W' *' DOST THOU WELL TO BE ANGEY ? " impels to it, that determines 'is moral character, and stamps it justifiable or malevolent. The criminal is hardened and confirmed in his evil course, by a conviction that the law-abiding are his enemies, hating, and seeking to crush him. To his distorted perception, it seems that he is engaged in a war, wherein the adverse host has so great a preponderance of strength and means, that he must resort to craft and stratagem, or be instantly destroyed. In this war, he must be Fabius, because he cannot afford to be Hanni- bal. If he is ever to be truly reformed, anil not merely disarmed, he must first be made to feel that the righteous and loyal are the enemies of his vices and crimes only, and that, apart from them, they regard hin with a profound sympathy and sorrow. He m/u®t feel that they seek to arrest his evil course, no* merely to save their own goods from deprec^ -.tioii but also to save him from debasement and woe. He must feel that, while they resist him as a felon and a spoiler, thev love him as a man and a brother. The founuitions of any comprehensive and successful effort for the abolition of crime, and //;P0ST THOU WZLh 10 BE ANGRY?" 81 the reformation f/f the criminal, must be laid deeply and strongly m a spirit of sympathy for the guilty. Not unless we truly love and pity them, can we ever get near enough to their hearts to influence and transform them. But, if the great body of the reputable and loyal were profoundly conscious that the vicious deserve compassion, rather than hatred, — that they are victims of depraved influences, inter- nal and external, — and that they are but what we, under like circumstances of birth, constitu- tion, training, and temptation, might have been, — it need not, and would not, be difficult to win a great portion of them immediately, and nearly all ultimately, to the paths of pleasant- ness and peace. One-half the efforts and means now employed to protect society against the crimes of the evil-minded, would, if wisely employed in the right spirit, protect it far more efficiently, by curing nine-tenths of theni of their depraved inclinations. Such is the Lesson of the Age ; — shall i* not be heard eid heeded ? PERGOLKSI. TRANSLATED BT BEY. J. W. HAKSON. [Giovanni Battista Pergolesi (so named from his birth- place, Pergola, — whose n-al name was Giambattista Jesi) was one of the greatest musical composers the world ever saw. He flourished from 1707 to 1739. He was called by his countrymen t^he Raphael of music. Among his remarkable productions, his Stabat Mater is first. There is a tradition that he died on performing it in public. I have not translated the far-famed Stabat, as no English can do justice to the sublime beauty and melody of the original.] Now the high task is completed, And the upright master, seated, Hymns his praises to God's throne ; Heavenward billowy music marches, Through the dome's high, cloistered arches, Blending song and organ-tone. Stabat mater dolorosa Juxta crucem lacrymosa, Dum pendebat filius, ■^J.^;1■.^■. (.-»♦/ PEBOOLESI. 83 Cujus animam gementem Contristatam ac delentem Per transivit gladius. Thoughts of the God-mother's anguish Caused all hearts with grief to languish (Hear the organ grandly swell !) ; Yet each heart for grief atoning Must for its own guilt make moaning, As the sin-made tear-drops well. Quis est homo, qui non fleret, Christi matrem si videret In tan to supplicio, Quis non posset contristari Piam matrem contemplari Dolentem cum filio. Sacred trembling, holy rapture. Of the master's soul made capture, — Death's strange yearnings, earnest, mild ; And with heart that did not falter, Looked he to the mystic altar Of the Virgin and her child. FEBGOLESI. Virgo, virginum praeclara, Mihi jam non sis araara, • * Fac me tecum plangere, Fac ut fortem Christi mortem Passionis ego sortem £t plagas recolere. Hark ! there came sweet seraph-singing From the angel-choir down-ringing ; — Floated downward Forms of love ; Swiftly thronged they fast and faster, By them homo, the mighty master Floated with his song — above. Fac me cruce custodiri, Morte Christi pmemuniri, Confoveri gratia ; Quando corpus morietur, Fac ut animae donetur Faradisi gloria. / A BMZILUN SKETCH. H BT 0IDDIN08 H. BALLOU. " Stop ! " I cried, to Jos^, our guide, who, with his heels, was endeavoring to accelerate the pace of the cross-grained mule on which he led the way, in advance of myself and companion. " Stop, Jose ! No doubt the beast has a taste for the picturesque, like ourselves. Let your mule rest a few moments. Time enough before us yet ; and, more than all that, the prospect in froa of us is capable of moving even the soul of a ctGi*l:ey. Truly, Brazil is a great country, Jos^- ! " The clouded brow of the guide instantly relaxf d its furrows. " S» senhor ! Vossa merce tern razao. Bra&il he muito bella terra ! " I had touched the right chord. Jose had been once more on the point of venting a vehement objurgation upon our inexplicable propensity for 8 A BRA7TUAN SKETCH. lingering by the way; but his patriotic vanity responded to the well-directed speech. Jos^ sat the very personification of good-humored resigna- tion, while Colonel Roscoe joined in my admira- tion of the scenery before us. We were on the highest reach of the roa*!, which, penetrating a pass of the Serra R(ichedo, sweeps downward into the valley of San Marcos. On every side rose and fell the luxuriant growth of tropic vege- tation, mantling the deep valley with vivid and lovely tints, or rising, in fadeless verdure, height on height, to the tops of the distant mountains. Among many noble trees, — the slender palms, mocking the sky with their graceful piumes ; the coral-trees, rich with glowing leJ, - the downy- leaved embeaporbas most especially attracted the gazer's eye; while unnumbered parasitic plants clung around the trunks, and spread themselves over the branches of supporting trees, adorning them with flowers of yellow, and deep scarlet, and purple, almost overpowering the sense of beauty by their gorgeous luxuriance. The cheer- ful notes of the birds, the balmy air, and the glowing sun above, served to harmonize all these A BRAZILIAN SKETCH. 87 Startling cor s of color, and to fuse the whole landscape into one magnificent sensation. I J ^ked long- and silently upon the scene, and, at Itiii Irawing from my bosom a sigh »:'.' «&r" pleasure, I withdrew my gaze, and tunicu )n my companion. " Weil, liiy dear colonel, what see you there on which your eyes fix with such intensity ? " Looking at my companion more closely, I per- ceived that his eyes were wet with moisture. He pointed to a little hill which rose from the midst of the valley. Upon its summit stood the ruins of a church, or small convent, overgrown with moss and parasitic creepers. "Were you ever in our English Cumber- land ? " he inquired. I shook my head. " I was born there," he continued ; — "in the little village of Paxton. My father's house was at the foot of a hill on which stood the ruin of an ancient church ; and, notwithstanding the differ- ent tint of the landscape around, yonder bit of ruin comes over me, for all the world, like the same spot that I used to look up to with such ^ff^. V.V', o. o^"*.^ ¥' -^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) ^ VI y 1.0 1.1 11.25 L&|2j8 12.5 Ujj ^^ ■■i ■ii 122 12.2 S La 12.0 Kluu ^1^ 6" PhotDgraphic Sciences Corporation n WEST fAAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. MS80 (716)872-4503 SB A BRAZILIAN SKETCH. superstitious awe, when a child. Ay, I know one might laugh to see me, an adventurer with- out home or fortune, giving way to a sentimental recollection. But I tell you, friend, there is something in these old by-gones which will at times pour over the soul like a flood, obliterating for the nonce the strife of passion, the pride of our honors (alas ! an empty and bootless gain !), and even the burning sense of disappointed hope, and the stings of bitter poverty. I have camped with the hardened soldier, and the veteran scorched and scarred by years of exposure and battle; and though seldom touched by these things, there are moments when they are more vulnerable than the beardless boy. Yes, every one must play the child at odd moments, and I care not to claim the meed of stoic immutability. But let us proceed on our way; for Jos6 is getting impatient ; and, to tell the truth, a good supper and night's rest, at ' mine inn,' is not of so common occurrence in Brazil that we should look forward to the same with indifference." My companion had termed himself an ad- venturer. It was a designation, however, which ' a ■ A BRAZILIAN SKETCH. 89 Colonel Roscoe, last of all men, would have allowed to be entertained in an invidious sense. Jealous of reputation and personal honor, even to the point of punctilio, he was in character the farthest possible removed froAi the aspiring and rather loose-principled class, who are by this appellation most generally designated to English ears. One of the younger sons of a respectable but impoverished family, at an early age he left his native country, and, after various vicissitudes, entered the Buenos Ayrean service, where signal bravery, and some valuable instances of "skill and sagacious conduct, raised him, in a short time, to the rank of colonel. A year or two elapsed, dur- ing which the jealous enmity of a poor-spirited but influential superior exposed him to such slight and ingenioas contumely as could not be endured by a spirit like that of Roscoe. The latter resigned his commission, after endeavoring in vain to procure the proper redress, and went forth into the world again, a poor and almost friendless man, manfully determined to com- mence the world again as hopefully as he might. I had said almost friendless; but I may be 8* 90 A BRAZILIAN SKETCH. wrong ; for, with a few real and tried friends, why should he mourn the crowds of " summer swal- lows," usurpers of the name which should be ever sacred and intact? And Roscoe found a few who were ready to give a hearty appreciation to his worth and his sacrifices in the cause of the ingrates whose malice, worse than serpent-like, had turned its venom against the welfare of a brave brother-in-arms. .. . Colonel Roscoe had lately resided in Rio ; and happening to become acquainted with him about the time I was starting on a journey into the interior, I gbdly accepted his proposal to accom- pany me on my ey'ursion. I found him a gentleman, courteoi; d well accomplished, but occasionally disposed to a vein of misanthropic philosophy, easily to be accounted for by his too oft unhappy experiences. The sun was gradually declining, when, descending the western slope of the Serra, we caught sight of the estalagem, or inn, of Senhor Gervasio, miles distant, at the opposite extreme of the valley. The rays of light glistened on the roof as on a mass of glittering gold, and Jos^, ▲ BRAZILIAN SKETCH. 91 smacking his lips, in anticipation of a dish of feijao^ urged his mule into a very respectable degree of speed. "The inn, senhor, the inn!" he ejaculated. "The bravest inn in all Brazil. Good wine; and such ycyao.'" An exclamation from Roscoe withdrew my attention from the enthusiastic Jos^. As I fol- lowed the direction of my companion's finger, I saw a black cloud rapidly descending the steeps of the lofty mountain on our right. Quickening our steeds, we pressed on, and, at a turn in the road, came upon a group composed of an oldish- looking cavalier, and a young lady, who might be his daughter, as I supposed, together with a low-looking fellow, who seemed to act in the capacity of servant, or guide. The cavalier was dressed in the antique garb which still holds ground in portions of the interior, and was in appearance a personification of my idea of the Spanish hidalgo of past time: somewhat stiff and dignified in carriage, and, doubtless, priding nimself on a pedigree of good length, and as immaculate as it could well be when maintained 'a>i;. 9Si A BRAZILIAN SKETCH. amid the wilds of Brazil. I noticed that he bore on the saddle, in front, a small mah(^ny box, toward which the servant, or guide (whichever he might be), occasionally turned a look of peculiar interest. The daughter was one of the few Brazilian women who could be justly termed beautiful. But she would most surely have merited the appellation: features regular and delicately formed; the olive-tinted complexion, so clear and pure; the eyes rich and dark, and soft with womanly gentleness. Roscoe's features lighted up at sight of her lovely countenance; the shadow of melancholy fled away ; and as the words of greeting were interchanged, and he entered into an easy chat with our companions, I could not help thinking that the colonel, with his handsome figure, and fine, soldierly bearing, was by no means ill-pleasing in the sight of Inez, as 1 overheard her termed by the cavalier. "'"'' The sun went down while we were yet a couple of miles distant from the inn. The clouds hung thick and dark overhead, and I shouted to Jos4 to hasten, when, all at once. A BB^ZILIAN SKETCH. 93 through the darkness, pushed some half-dozen mounted ruffians, and threw themselves upon the cavalier. "Holy Mother! help! help!" shouted the senhorita, in an agony of fear. . 0,,^ There came a flash of lightning, at the instant, and I saw Roscoe ride bodily over one of the ruf- fians, — man, steed, and all, rolling over in the road. Jose was off on the first alarm. For the rest, I had the sangfroid to prevent myself from following his example ; and coming pretty close to one of the villains, I managed to fire off a pistol. My ideas being somewhat confused at the time, I can give no very clear account of the effect of my valor ; but, in a second or two, up came Roscoe to the side of the cavalier. "Well, senhor, the rascals have left us, it would seem. You are not much hurt, I hope ; — and the senhorita ? " " She is safe, senhor ; I give you many thanks for the timely Hid you rendered us." We hurried on as rapidly as possible, for the storm had burst upon us. On our arrival at the inn, we found the worthy Jose in full recital of N 94 A BRAZILIAN SKETCH. the attack made upon us by a troop of banditti, winding up with the bloody death which we must have suffered at their hands. Unfortu- nately, our appearance, " in viva persona," put a stop to his romance of the terrible, the finale of which was reversed by us into the enjoyment of a hearty supper and some very decent beds. *''' Rising pretty early next morn, I found the guide attending to the welfare of our equipage. " " Ah, Jos^," I said, — " quite a narrow' escape we had, last night ! " " Santissim& Virgem ! " he rejoined, lifting up his hands in a most edifying attempt at devout- ness. " It is truly wonderful that we were not all murdered, senhor ! " " But the cavalier and his daughter, — do you know who they are?" ^ - > " Si senhor ! I do know them. Don Pedro is rich ; and his daughter ! — half the young lords in the country are madly in love with her. A lucky man will he be who weds Donna Inez." After breakfast, Roscoe and myself prepared to resume our joumej'^ ; but the old don would not hear of the thing, and gave us a pressing invita- A BRAZILIAN SKETCH. 05 tion to accompany him home. With little hesi- tation, we accepted the offer; and set out, in company with Don Pedro and his daughter, for their chacara^ or country-house, situated among the hills to the northward. "''v '.^ * »>^ • It was near noon when we arrived at Don Pedro's estate. After a refreshing ablution, we joined the family at the table, and partook of a good dinner of soup, came secca (or jerked beef), and feijao, y&ms, farinha, and a variety of fruits. Roscoe, with ready ease, attuned himself to our host, and descanted upon climates and soils, or satisfied a rural inquisitiveness by relating some of the scenes in which he himself had been an actor. We separated to the enjoyment of the siesta ; but, after the ngc^' of the heat was over, sallied forth, with Don Pedro, to view the estate. Evening came, and we joined the merry circle of old and young, entering into the gay trifling of the youngsters with a hearty zest that seemed to carry us back once more to the years of our childhood. I could not help thinking that Donna Inez was particularly attracted toward my friend the colonel ; and as I saw her dark eyes fill with m k MNAMtt.UN *KNT(*tt. mt>rry liirhtt nr *it(Wn wtih inom^ntnry unitrtftRM, I \y\\\\\\\ Imvr vt^ntuml my ivpiMntiuti lor unuiioity oil tilt* AM«*rtiuii (Imt I Imil dimMivrrtMl in htir couiitoimiu't* \\\p iti^iiN III' \\\%\ ** (oiulrr imNNidii." \V«» Nwrr to |mH'f\tiM i>voii iiioro nnxioun to IMtH'wil tlmii I xMiM, 1 |M>rt'civtHl tlio Rhndow Nvliioh «tol« owr tht» fiion of tlio \W\f hwm \v\\m\ wu «)iokti or our ()c|Hir(uM^, niul tliin ntirvmi to coitHnu mo in my formt^r co»\joctuiv. At hrt^kr»8t, Domm hwt wnn nhic^nt; ami xvhil« >votut«riii|7 wlmt hiid In^oomo of our fair f\twn%\s my ntttrntion was nttmctrtl l>y tho bo- hiivior of th<^ ut'i^ro f(\t\ who >vn8 in wnitinpf. 8h« WAS evidently full of «oino mnttor of import, for ev«ry now aiuI tlicn alio put her tingfi^r to her ilip«> and nodded her head to>vnrtl Roscoo ; and Anon the wid rtiNiuiio our joiirimy. Our himhI old lioit wiiN oviilntitly diiNiroUN ol' our Uiimnt iojoiirn; but p^rciiiviii^ tlint our ronolutioii wa» iixrd, iimdn no iurllior ntttjinpt to dolnin um. Tlio ruinily tiMoinblml to ^ivo im ft |Hirtinf( Nnluto : Don I'odro iiiid two rof(uiNli'(*y(id ^riuid- nophnwN, with lti(% niNo, wIiono vUtwU, Morriowliiit pttlfS joilllMl to ttiO IKUIMivO UttnriUKMi of tiio ioft " Ad^MtM, MoiihoroN," iniido nu* iuNtinctivoly turn a gliirico upon tny ffdlow-travtdb.'r. I nuw hi« countonnnr.n chnngo; there wan Nirnothing in itw look which I could not fully undorMtntid, — a latent gloom, •— nn nxprc'NNion of n^fi^ct not wholly Huhjru'tod to hid habitual calmncHiv of feat- ure. Wu Imdu farewell to the old mansion and its hoHpituble ponscHaofH, whom we should, doubt- less, never greet again, and rode rapidly away. Thp road, curving on the rise, opened to us a view of Don Pedro's mansion, with the dark 9 M A BRAZILUN BCBTCR. eoflfee-bushes spreading over the declivities be- yond, contrasting strongly with the gay green of the sugar-canes. Indeed, the little rural picture formed no mean vignette to the gorgeous scenery which we were told lay further to the north, but which must, to us, for the present, at least, remain an unseen gallery of beauties. The colonel and myself had checked our steeds at the spot, and I was regretting the fortune which de- barred my further inroad in a direction so promis- ing of enjoyment, when my companion turned abruptly, and said, pointing to the pretty villa beUw, — "There, comrade, it was, that fancy for a moment whispered me the thought of a rural life among the hills, with love and plenty for my companions, — far from the strifes of war and the disappointments of ambition. Alas ! it was but for a moment ! — the dream burst in thin air, like a boy's soap-bubble." "But why should not the dream become a reality?" I asked. "Methinks the fair Inez — " "Yes," he said, half soliloquizing; "did I A BULZILliM SKETCH. think thftt she could have really loved me — but no! 'TwBi a meve girlish fancy, — a wkim. No ! I will not give up my freedom of soul, and my hopes of lofty deed, for a soft face, and the companionship of a wax doll. Gould she indeed have been what I would have her to be ! — could hers have been the love of the soul, instead of a transient passion of the fancy ! Well it is over ! The rainbow is gone, and I am the same aa » ever. "Do you address yourself to your felloW- traveller in the body, colonel ? " I asked, " or to attendant spirits, unseen by common eye ? If to mey I must confess myself at a loss to read the riddle of your converse." Roscoe hesitated, — looking downward, as if somewhat ashamed of his partial disclosure. However, he presently replied, with a frankness which was but heightened by an air of embarrass- ment. " Why, the fact is, my dear fellow, I do not mind making you a bit of a confidant in this matter, knowing, as I do, your own somewhat fanciful turn. To be short, then, the fair Inez t 100 A BBAZILIAN SKETCH. sent to me this mom a message, indicating the proffer of her hand and fortune. "What think you of that ? " I was almost dumb with surprise, with which, indeed, was mingled no small portion of indigna- tion. " And you — ? »' " I understand what you would say," he added, hastily, — " a. d I — refused the offer, like a fool as I was ! Well it may be so, — it may be so. It is possible you are right. But I am ten years her senior ; I am poor and homeless, and at the same time too proud to seize upon such a means of recruiting my shattered fortimes. And, then, how do I know that there is a soul, beneath those comely features, worth the sacrifice of a true man's heart? I tell you, friend, that I have sometimes thought that the old Arabian was near the right, when he averred that women had no souls. Pretty butterflies, — the triflers of a sunny hour, — for the most part engaged in gay gewgaws and fantastic nothings; born to seduce men's thoughts from what is high and noble ; bringing them down to their own delusive A BBAZILIAIf SKETCH. 101 shallowness. There are exceptions, you say. True; but how many? Not one in a thousand. But when such an one does arise to cheer our hearts, she shines upon us p.s the sun upon the tempest-tossed mariner ; and when her blest radi- ance disappears, our life is indeed a dark and dreary solitude." There was a pathos in his last-spoken words, which disarmed the indignation I had felt on account of Roscoe's ungallant coldness. I recol- lected that in Ric I had been told, by an English- man of Roscoe's acquaintance, that the latter had in early youth lost, by death, one to whom he was most warmly attached ; and that the wound thus inflicted had never entirely healed. Never- theless, I could but be offended somewhat at my friend's unreasonable demurs ; for, if my judgment in physiognomy was good for anything. Donna Inez was as good and true-hearted as she was beautiful. It is tnie that her preference for the colonel had been signified in a manner entirely new to northern notions of propriety. But I was aware that such was a custom of the interior, and that a maiden was permitted thus to declare 9* 102 A 9BA»IMJir ^OBftcn. herself to a stranger, without any di^iagsemei^ to the requirements of virgin modesty. Certainly, nothing could be further removed from the ap- pearance of forwardness than the retiring and even timid demeanor of Jne;;. I thought of all this, and inwardly anathematized Uind Fortune, who had made my companion, instead of myself, the arbiter of so fair a future. "^ " They did right," I said, " to paint her wiik bandaged eyes ; for has she not, in all times, con- ferred her favors on those unfiUed to turn them to their proper advantage ? " * »!:%»i*v .4? w a rt**. On our return to Rio, Koscoe and myself took chambers in the Rua Direita. In about a fort- night, when we had become pretty well domicili- ated, we received the honor of an invitation to an evening party at Donna Francesca d'Almarez*. Don Ricardo was in some way connected with government matters, while his lady (a lively and rather pretty woman, who had seen the world, and been at Paris) affected the reputation of a patroness of belles-lettres, and gave soirees a la Parisienne. Hi.Mt4}^t''i » »>:ft'H»F «f"»> ••» »■ *..'^ .lt«nfV jji We chatted and interchanged ispartees with A. BMZIUAW fUTCK. im certain of our acquaintance, and had the pleasure of listening to some fashionable modinhatj whose only merit lay in the novelty and bold kregiii- larity of their measure. Presently Donna Fmn- cesca approached. ■ iv :^sjr*;^*'* "My dear colonel," she said, "let me intro- duce you and your * fidus Achates ' to the attrac- tion of the evening; and then, if your hearts endure the trial scatheless, I will own that they are indeed unconquerable.'* *, f';-};:>'»f^r^i',:-^:^,,i^^*m Resigning ourselves to the guidance of our hostess, we approached a comer of the apartment where a small group of damsels and gallants were gathered round a lady playing on the gui- tar. The instrument was touched with that most perfect feeling, the place of which not even the highesjt efforts of mere art can supply. We feared to advance, lest our presence might In^ak the enchantment of sound ; but Donna Francesca drew us forward till we entered the charmed circle. The fair musician, whose countenance had hitherto been averted, turned at our ap- jNToach ; — Irsz ! — she started ; turned pale ; her lips parted, and she seemed about to fall, / 104 A BRAZILIAN SKETCH. when Roscoe sprang to her assistance; but, recovering herself at the instant, she repulsed him with the gesture of a princess, and then, with a proud smile, extending her hand, said, mereiv, tr ..■'.,/■'■••/•, >^-'^ . , And where the barber's waters seemed to sleep In breezeless calm, and deep, untroubled rest, She glided in, furling her weary wing, Dropping her anchor down, and, like a living Settling securely on the water's breast. So, oh my God ! from the rough sea of life, Driven by doubt, and fear, and haggard care. Let me my worn and weary spirit bear Far from its rage, an4 noise, and stormy strife. Into the haven of thy sheltering love. And find an anchorage no storm can move ! M* A. L* . . jd^J: tdiitMUIr^ <'r *'k THE HEART-CHAHBER. BT BKY. HENUT BAOON. m^'^4 W^: 1 HATE a chamber in my heart, A little antique room ; ^^ ^^ ,^^ ^^^^^ Sometimes 't is filled with golden light, — There richest roses bloom. , ;: V^V!?-^; -v jf.A Vt'^i'v'^ 'S'^^' 'T is hung around with pictures dear. By Memory's pencil drawn ; — Here is a cottage by a brook, And there a spreading lawn. ^3 i)i Here is the church upon the hill, — And see the grave-yard near! ' "■ ' O, could you see that small white stone, You would not chide my tear ! This is a lovely moonlight scene, — • '**^ ' How quiet is the lake ! As tranquil as the infant soul. Ere yet the passions wake. THB HBART-CHAMBEB. 109 You will not care to look on these,— r : I will not lift the veil ; — „„ si But here is one ; come, sit you down, f And let me tell the tale. ^r''<■■: ^: vr^lj-'-i^ ; /.*« .4%'.-., *J , IMPRESSIONS OP A BI-CENTENNIAL DAY. iT KIT. 9. O. ADAMS. ^^ ^- • , . .. ■ Then, grateftil, we to them will pay The debt of flime we owe, i^ Who planted here the tree of life, ,< >^ ^ Two hundred years ago. — Fumt. Dm the reader ever witness and enjoy a Bi- centennial celebration, such as not a few of our F^ew England towns have indulged in, within the last thirty years ? If so, the thoughts to which we here give utterance may strike certain sympa- thetic chords within him, somewhat to his edifica- tion. If he is not edified, however, will he pass charitably on to the next article ? This one we shall write because we feel inspired to, having been a gratified partaker of the interests of the occasion here noted. "'t ^ /^ . ' It is the morning of a day which completes two hundred years since the first settlement of one of our thriving little towns, not far from the world-famed "Boston, in New England," — a 112 IMPRESSIONS OF A BI-CENTENMIAL DAY. morning long waited for by many an expectant soul ; a morning in strange contrast with certain other mornings, which looked upon the ojter'rr scene of the coming of the earliest N< iV j^ug> landers here, when the first ground was br >1:en, and the first cheering strokes of t^< mallet of civilization were heard celling on the river shores, while the thick Ailderness around was budding in its solitude, in the genial atmosphere of spring. Those mornings we can only imagine. They were mornings of prayer and hope, of anxiety and toil, to the fathers and mothers of our pilgrim town. They were certainly not like this morning. i .^ ..:. :,^J'\ y. It is a morning of Nature's own, in her light and loveliness ; such a morning as we had little cause previously to hope for. Many of the pre- ceding days had been cloudy, dull, unpropitious ; and late into the : .< preceding this d^y of days there hun 'l'*?» i :iUen paxi over us, and ere the peep of day-light there was the sound of an abundance of rain. Dubious, indeed, to the expectants aforesaid, in view of all the prepara- tions ; and more especially to that indispensable IPBE8S10N8 OF A B[«K:ENTBNNLU. MT. llX com'unation of body and fOul, in reference to all such times and seasons, the *' Gommitu of Arrangements." They h«d arranged nearly b 1 things pertaining to th« celebration but the weather. That was under a wiser directioni rJ^^dt* theirs. They could only hope and trast ; a >d their highest hopes are answered. Never broke; there from behind the dripping rain-clouds a skv of clearer blue, a sunriMng of more golden spien dor. The wind, for many days past from the cold east, has veered round to a soft south-west, and the very air breathes out benedictions. Such a call to joy is answered from every habitatbon, and from every heart. The streets are filled with life j flags and streamers are run skyward, and the thundering cannon, and rich full music-strains,, welcome in the day. Hearts are leaping in exul- tation ; the young, the old, th* staid, the volatile^ all have one common feeling of satisfaction and delight. . .- The day advances. Crowds are coming in, on every hand. There is no hindrance to their assembling. Nature's invitatior. is most readily understood, and it wiU not fail to bnng the 10* 114 IMPRESSIONS OF A BI-CENTENNIAL DAY. multitude. Civic, military, musical, secular (for the New England pedler has looked out and taken his ground here), all are represented. At ten, the procession comes, with its plumed escort, its gay marshals, its thrilling bands pouring out their bi-centennial harmony, and making the heart keep quicker time than any feet that move in this great company. All grades of honored ones are here, — chief magistrates, legislators ; all the professions, representatives of various respectable institutions. The fireman's glazed cap and red shirt, the Free-mason's golden apron, the Odd- fellow's beautiful regalia, seem brighter and more glowing for this full sunlight. The soberest citizen or stranger wears an expression of wel- come on his face. One* group seems to me the most attractive of all. It is that of the aged ones of the town, seated together in carriages provided for their accommodation. We cannot see them thus again. They pass us as the aged of other days passed away here in the great procession of all the living, to the greater congregation of the dead. Among this group are those whose young hearts partook of the anxious thoughts awakened ■^id- w I IMPAESSIONS OF A BI-C£NTEIfNUL DAt. 115 in our revolutionary struggle; who saw and heard the strife on that famed mount near by, where the granite column points to the heavens. One is a venerable minister, long enjoying the respect of his people here, but now resting, in the infirmity of age, from his pastoral labors. There is also an aged matron, verging towards her hundredth year, with eyesight and memory keen, and full of recollections of the long and wonder- ful past. She remembers the old times of sim- plicity, when, contrary to present fashions, the mothers and daughters wore their checked aprons, to the village church, and the good parson his muff, in winter weather. She has lived to note another day, and to mingle in other and very different scenes. The boys are in this proces- sion, as full of the present as any others here to- day, though not one of the youngest of them, in all probability, will look with mortal eyes on the |^s' next centennial procession in these streets. But the train enters the field, and surrounds the rough rock, on which, tradition says, once hung the • church bell, and near where the first old church - stood. On this rock, duly platformed and deco- . rf j»i- 116 IMPRESSIONS OF A BI-CENTBNNIAL DAY. rated, stand the orator and poet of the day, both worthy natives of the town. They speak their earnest words to listening and rapt auditors; they call up holiest associations; they awaken emotions which words alone cannot utter. They consult the dim past, brightening its outlines, and tilling them up with happy creations and realities ; they bring that past near to the present ; ^ they invoke Heaven's light and mercy for the future. There seems but one soul in all the congregation. Prayer goes up from the ap- pointed chaplain of the day, — a prayer such as the old New England fathers would have re- sponded to, — such as does honor to the Puritan name. Select and most appropriate words of the Scriptures are spoken, and hymns of praise chanted, in full and swelling chorus, on that sacred ground. The benediction comes, and then the movement of the procession to the feast, in the great pavilion. The tables are filled, and so are the mouths of the sanguine celebration ists seated around them. Then follow speeches, songs, musical interludes from the bands ; toasts * and sentiments uttered in earnestness, and often IMPRESSIONS OF A BI-CENTENNIAL DAY. 1 17 'j^\ eloquently responded to, — toasts and sentiments drank not in bacchanalian wine, that hath so often been deemed a " positive institution " at all feasts, but in clear, cold, and sparkling New England water, — a feature of the festival mark- ing most emphatically the day in which we live. Speech, toast, and song, are at length cut off by the sunset salute from the deep-throated cannon near by, and the multitude adjourn for one hun- dred years ! How we should like to look on that adjourned meeting, and see the faces, and hear the names called, and the allusions to the past made, and note some of the differences which a century will have effected ! But we know not, perhaps, what we are desiring. The evening comes; and such an evening, too! — so singularly in contrast with the day. Dark, heavy clouds set in all around us, yet without wind or rain ; so tliat when the fire-works and illuminations begin, the scene is one of sur- passing attractiveness. Every dwelling seems like a house of burning gold; and arch, and spire, and staff, and tree, hung with fire, flash out their rays upon that night's thick darkness. 118 IMPRESSIONS OF A fil-CENTENNIAL DAY. In the midst of the village is a glassy pond, in which the illuminations are reflected ; and in the centre of this beautiful sheet of water there floats, at the close of the evening, a raft of blazing wood and tar. The fire-works and illuminations present a scene never to be forgotten by those who wit- nessed it. There may be more light on the eve- ning of that adjourned meeting already alluded to ; but there will be no more of beauty, unless the aurora borealis itself comes out in the scene, — no more magnificent and imposing contrast of darkness and of fire. It would seem, too, that such a back-ground as that given us this night is only spread out about once in a century. So the day closes in social mirth, and music, and song; and ere midnight comes, that loud and prolonged voice of celebration is hushed, to be awakened by these multitudes no more. And how shall the day be remembered by them ? We need not ask how many will bear it in mind chiefly as a day of light, and music, and noise, and merrymaking, from its early dawn to the last twinkling of its illuminations in the midst of that dark drapery which the heavens IMPRESSIONS OF A BI-CENTENNIAL DAY. 119 hung down around us. They will think of the day, jather than of the times and events it was used to proclaim and to honor; for thus, and thus only, do many celebrate these remarkable days, keep these extraordinary festivals. But not in this direction wholly would we have our musings run. While, wearied with excess of enjoyment, the throngs separate and go to their rest, with the living realities of the day floating most vividly in their imaginations, and following them into their deepest slumbers, let us improve the occasion, ere the day is utterly gone, to note its teachings. They may not be so near us again. We may not soon be in so favorable a frame of mind to listen and give heed to them. How emphatically speaks to us, this hour, the great truth of human change! This always comes to us when any such contrasts are called up of the present with the long or distant past, in which we read the frailty of man, with all his boasted greatness, and the enduring nature of that vast government, which, with undisturbed majesty, moves continually on, under the guid- ance of Him whose ways are everlasting. At 120 IMPRESSIONS OF A BI-CENTENNIAL BAY, whatever poiot we take our stand ; at whatever observance of time, — be it annual, centennial, or at the ending of the thousand years to man, which are with God but as one day, — we be- hold, as we survey the past, the solemn and striking manifestations of steady, inevitable change, in all that pertains to mortal being and to mortal destiny. We ask for ancient Egypt, in her greatness and splendor; for Babylon, Nineveh, Palmyra, Rome, Carthage. Their greatness and splendor were the admiration of the world. But the ocean waves of time have swept them away; and either desolation reigns on the very ground of their high places, or other voices there speak, and other hearts beat with human emotions. On our own shores, what changes have beeri wrought by time! As the historic panorama passes before us, we see the wilderness inhabited by the red men, its barbarian proprietors, and their astonishment at the approach of the heralds of civilization, and their decline before them towards the setting sun, where, on the Pacific shore, they are again met with new multitudes IMPRESSIONS OF A BI-CENTENNIAL DAY. 121 of the race who have outgrown them. And now, where the council-fire gleamed, and the chase was followed, and the Indian war-whoop rang, fanes and monuments arise, and the hum of industry goes up from morn till evening, and the smoking steamer ploughs its way through the mighty rivers, and the thundering train sends its echoes through valleys and over thousand hills, in every section of our glorious land. And what change this new nation has seen ! How difiTerent the interests, pursuits, the eter- prise and means of enterprise, now, from what they were one century, or half a century, since ! At the first settlement of our own neighborhood, the limits of population seemed to be set by these hills near us, and stretching away into our neighboring towns. But they could no more stay this tide than could sands the running of the stream over them, or pebbles the washing of the sea-waves upon the shore. It breaks over every barrier, and will roll its floods through the deserts, and cover the whole land. And who shall calculate the future? Our population doubling in a little more than twenty years — a 11 122 IMPRESSIONS OF A BI-G£NTENIfIAL DAT. population now in the neighborhood of twenty millions ; in sixteen years from this, to be thirty- six millions; in twenty-three years from that, seventy-two millions ; in less than one hundred years, two hundred and eighty-eight millions of our race! We are lost in the calculation of changes, as we are amazed in that of numbers. And in the midst of such changes shall we pass away. We speak the experience of human nature, and memory tells us it is true. But yes- terday, our ancestors were walking forth, in the vigor of life and youth. Now, they are beneath the dust ; and we seek out their graves, to wonder why they passed so soon away, and to read our own destiny. So shall we lie down, to wake no more to mortal being here, but to leave our homes to those who come after us, and our tombs to their protection and blessing. As we reflect on these earthly mutations, it is good — and how good no human language can describe — to think that there is One to whom all this change is but an instrumentality, in his own hand, of mercy and righteousness with his children; that he is "without variableness or '■(T IMPRESSIONS OF A BI-CENTENNIAL DAT. 123 ■hadow of turning ;" and will ever remain, as he was in the beginning, their Helper, Preserver, and Friend. How such truth tends to give us strength of vision, and stability of purpose, and faith, and hope, and gratitude, and love, as we • gaze back upon the wondrous past, or seek to penetrate the yet undeveloped future! Man is bom, and lives, and dies, and is buried; and, though forgotten by his fellow-men, yet is he not by Him who called him forth from naught, to be, to suffer, and enjoy. No ages can be long enough to obliterate him from the Divine memory, — that mind to which the present, past, or future, is eternal now. Here is great light, as these shadows of human mutation pass over us. Thanks for it ! — thanks to its inex- haustible Source ! Another thought, now pressing upon us, is that of our indebtedness to the past, — to its agencies, powers, and accomplishments. Often are we chargeable with the sin of forgetfulness, in this respect. We do not properly regard our dependence on what the past has achieved for us in the mental and moral conceptions, in the wills 124 IMPBESSIONS OF A BI-CBNTENIVIAL DAT. and deeds, of those who have gone before. We too frequently and generally think and act, in reference to all our gifts and advantages, as though we were the first finders of them all; that, although we were to hand them down to others, we were not obliged to believe or under- stand that others had hnnded them down to us. Like the reckless spendt;hrift of an estate left him by his father, .vho, in his eagerness to enjoy the present gratifications to which this wealth may minister, forgets the hard toilings and close calculations of his parent to accumulate this very fortune, so ar*^ we, too often, in our lavish ex- penditure of the many temporal means, and dis- regard of the improvement of the moral means, left us by our fathers, liable to forget their toil- ings and their prayers for the good of their descendants. This should not be. Shame on the son who will forget his parentage! on the child who will fail to honor the beings who gave him life! on the people who are too stupid, or selfish, or indifferent, or worldly, to pause, at times, in the midst of life's way, to ask what other hands have contributed to the means now IMPRESSIONS OF A BI-CENTENNIAL DAY. 125 enabling them to keep this way in strength, and safety, and peace ! Such a time has just come. Let us not be heedless as it passes, but let us learn its lessons well. We are debtors to the past, — debtors to the generations who have gone before. They lived and \iTought for us, while as yet we were not. Humble men and women, whose faces we should not know, had they been present with us to-day, — whose voices we should not have recognized, had they been raised in our hearing, — whose places were filled, and well filled, according to the bestowments of a good God upon them, — have lived, and made effort, and secured blessings for us, to whom we owe everlasting obligations, and for whose works, amidst all our onward movements, and new lights and acquire- ments, we may thank God evermore. In our intellectual and moral strifes and attain- ments, this same kind of error, against which we arc speaking, is manifest. We are too prone, at times, especially in this day of invention, and discovery, and progress, and improvement on the past, to undervalue what this same past has actually done. The real gold of our ancestors ll=i<= IS6 IMPRESSIONS OF A BI-CENTENNIAL DAY. too often loses its value, in comparison with our more recent coin. We are apt to think that we have just found out a way, that was cast up, in part, by others of the past, who have really aided us in rendering it more available and nearer per- fect. Some of our reformatory radicalism may learn a lesson here. While it would not carry the stone in one end of the bag to mill, as our ancestors did, instead of dividing the portion of grain therein, it need not forget that there was actual grain carried by these old fathers, and that, notwithstanding this want of philosophy in conveying it, they understood the use of the thing itself quite as well as we. Well is it to remember, then, our indebtedness to the past; our obligations to those who have, by their pre- paratory deeds, given us advantages and bless- ings which, without them, we could not have known. We should have the right reverence for that which has been, that we do justice to noble virtues, and secure reverence for ourselves in the hearts of those who may succeed us in the work of life. For with what measure we mete, in our memories of the past, and in our justice to what IMPRESSIONS OF A BI-CENTENNIAL DAT. 127 it has efTected, it shall be measured to us again. Others will sit in judgment on our characters and deeds ; and as we would that they should give us our just dues, let us see that this same dealing in the right is observed in our judgment concerning those who have preceded us. But then, while we would speak thus rever- ently of the claims of the past ujwn us, and of our duty to our ancestors, we would by no means disregard another consideration, suggested by the occasion just now passed ; and that is, the duty of rightly discriminating between the past and the present, that we may the better learn our greater work than that which devolved upon our fathers. There is a tendency and habit, in some men, to see greater good in the past than they see now ; — times, then, such as can never be realized again ; people, then, who have not true representatives at the present hour. Sidney Smith, in some of his writings, speaks most pointedly of this error : — " Our wise ancestors, — the wi.. dom of our ancestors, — the wisdom of ages, — venerable antiquity, — wisdom of old times. All this cant about our ancestors is M 128 IMPRESSIONS OF A BI-CENTENNIAL DAY. merely an abuse of words, by transferring phrases of true contemporary men to succeeding ages. Whereas, of living men, the oldest has, ccsteris parilnis, the most experience ; of generations, the oldest has, cateris paribus^ the least experience. We are not disputing with our ancestors the palm of talent, in which they may or may not be our superiors, but the palm of experience, in which it is utterly impossible they can be our superiors. We cannot, of course, be supposed to maintain that our ancestors wanted wisdom, or that they were necessarily mistaken in their institutions, because their means of information were more limited than ours. But we do confi- dently maintain, that when we find it expedient to change anything which our ancestors have enacted, we are the experienced persons, and not they. The quantity of talent is always varying in any great nation. To say that we are more or less able than our ancestors, is an assertion that requires to be explained. If you say that our ancestors were wiser than we, mention your date and your year. If the splendor of names is equal, are the circumstances the same ? If the IMPRESSIONS OF A BI-CENTENNIAL DAY. 129 circumstances are the same, we have a superi- ority of experience, of which the diflference between the two periods is the measure. It is necessary to insist upon this." This is just reasoning. Though we are in- debted to the past, this fact need not render us blind to the wants, the deficiencies, the failings, of this past, and to our own positive advantages above it, in many respects. At least, we should be careful that, in our veneration for our fathers and mothers, we do not venerate their errors, as well as their virtues, — that we do not keep their prejudices and wrong habits among the remem- brances of their good fame. We should be care- ful that the cry of innovation do not keep us back from improving on many of the very deeds which our ancestors have done, and of correcting certain wrong habits into which they may have fallen. Errors in social life, religious supersti- tions and opinions, political prejudices, are not to be held and honored by us because they were held and honored by them. What if the opinion, prejudice, or habit, did belong to them ? So did certain uncomely garments and inconvenient 190 IMPRESSIONS OF A BI-CENTENNUL DAT. modes of dress. We should laugh at ourselves for thinking to adopt these at the present hour. No, no! such respect, such attraction to the wrong of the past, we need not possess. We must live, see, note, judge, adopt, or discard, for ourselves. What of the past we find wrong, that must we declare wrong, that those who succeed us may have the benefit of our experience, de- cision, and example. No squeamishness, no fal- tering, because our ancestors, who are dead, may be dishonored in our new opinions or practices. If, in their spiritual estate, they have higher dis- cernment than we, and know of our improvement on what they have done, they will give praise to Ood that his truth has such advancement and obedience in their children. "New occasions seek new duties ;" new experiences bring us into loftier regions of observation. We are standing higher up, in not a few respects, than our fathers stood. Only let us see to it that we use our eye- sight as well as they used theirs, and make as good a report to posterity as they, with their means and opportunities, have sent down to us. One other consideration let us just name,— .. ■^.■■:\v^;.y-v-^-;i7' that is, the endurance of whatsoever is good and true, through all the ages of human history. Material substances may change and dissolve; the heavens may " wax old as doth a garment ;" but that which is spiritual, like God himself, shall not thus give signs of decay. Mind partakes of the eternity of its source. Thoughts, truths, emotions, once given to the world, are not lost, — cannot be. They exist and perform their duty, a thousand years after their origin, as they did on the day of their birth. They pulsate through the hearts of all succeeding generations. All that is noble in the world's past history, the influ- ences of the great and the good, somehow endure. They outlive the changes of geographical names, the shifting boundaries of earthly dominion ; 'they are unaffected by the advancing or receding waves of population. History is the past experi- ence of our nature ; and this, like the life of the individual, consists in ideas and sentiments, deeds and passions, truths and errors. We need to have saved for us the good thoughts of the past ; and we have reason for thanksgiving that so many of them survive, for our instruction, and £ . ^' O."^ I kiAl l|t^ . 132 IMPRESSIONS OF A BI-CENTENNIAL DAT. ^»- strength, and truest glory and renown. What shall we do to add to such influences, that the generations to come may have the blessing of them, — that they may add their interest to this moral principal we shall bequeath to them, and so increase the truest wealth of the future ? The future! One century more of it, and what shall this future bring forth ? At the time of another centennial day, what work shall have beeri effected that shall bring the world nearer its deliverance from the evils now besetting it, and introduce man more truly to himself and to the great God who made him? Shall human hatreds have given place to love? Shall Slavery's day be ended, and old War be buried beneath the sod, with all his banners of blood, and the fields be tilled with the implements of his destruction ? Then, oh then, shall the words of the poet's prophecy be fulfilled, fraught, as we must believe them to be, with the living truth of Heaven, — when the record of the then present, for a still coming future, may be thus gloriously written: IMPEESSI0N8 OF A BI-CENTENNIAL DAY. 133 ** Through yine-wx«athed cups, with wine once red, The lights on brimming crystal fell, Drawn, sparkling, from the rivulet head. And mossy well. " Through prison-walls, like heaven-sent hope, Fresh breezes blew, and sunbeams strayed. And with the idle gallows-rope The young child played ! " When the old and the new shall form such com- binations as we have not yet the power to effect, and the cherished errors, which we now deem too consecrated by long usage to be set aside, are regarded, by those who shall be wiser in such things than we, as we ourselves now look upon the condemned and discarded errors of our pre- decessors here. But these meditations must end. Our Bi- centennial will be numbered with the past. Bright and beautiful day, farewell ! Move on in the mysterious and mighty procession of all days of human history ! If thy scenes are reflected to other intelligences, of whom we know not, may they be seen to our honor, and not to our shame ! 12 134 IMPRESSIONS of A Bl-CENTENNIAL DAT. May the lesson^ ^oti fiast given induce us to hold with stronger grasp the blessings we enjoy, and pass them down, with pure and steady hands, to posterity ! ' • V'l*'?!:* -:^*i>'<^i" •'>■■•- -i. ^^--■. ,' i • !i ■.. ..i , ry: """■"■ ■•"'• ( ' ■ •«f**j^'v.- .'■*'.^it*'r- ■■' ■> _. ■ .,.,,. ^.ly-. "' ' ■ ■ ^' ^^•:.-t,< h^; •'. ■ - _ _'.'. ,. ,4 .Jifrfiir '- '-■ I.'*-* - ■ . ''■ -. - -■ V - • . - ■i, l',S<.;ii'"'Ai'' „|t v.- ^.'^1.'. t '4- > > }■' i • ft*-. 1;^ i i' '■♦*i, ' , ' ^^ t^jf^ , ^1 v' I f' LA PUEBLA DE LOS ANGELOS,? BT MBS. M. ▲. LIVBKMOKX. | [*..;;. I .# ,. .^}i::-: m^^' %. "''^^' ■'*: -'. \ k ¥ f^' #mTrON OF KATURE. T L ^ V ;^t'K round ihe niovu^»% J,ev- &i** .ifei)(|i$l'?s go. .:«?:»a33,;..k ^r^i^ ■fls.t »fM.t3*i*nu» i.T^ the taeauow, W;iy^ ^ Isle's. -l^nt^j^,,:. -I A.i^ w*^ f^p T. ■■''Veiled hurn*jitij^"^r, — what absorbing interest was thrown around it, — when John the Baptist appeared, to teach repent- THE GOOD TIME NOW. 161 nnce; when Jesus appeared, to be baptized of John ; when the temptation was completed, and the victory over it too ; when Jesus sat on the mountain, and delivered the sermon of truth ! To each one of the multitude our Saviour healed, what a now was experienced ! When the poor baffled cripple, at the pool, spw the face of Christ kindling with the fervor o Divine sympathy, and the words com'ng- to save him. — when the man with the withered hand was required to stretch forth his hand, in the midst of the cavil- ling synagogue, — and when the woman pressed through the crowd to touch the robe of Jesus, — what a now was known ! If all nature had stopped in its course, it could not have made the time more a special hour. And what, amid all our hoy. M, — our dreams of the future, — can bring anything more sublime, more abounding with the purest and most thrilling poetry, than was known in that now when afresh flowed the tears of the weepers of Bethany, because " Jesus wept " ? What a good time now would it have been with those weepers, in the place of graves, had they read the moral significance of that 152 THE GOOD TIME NOW. iiour! Had they known what millions would take that incident into their chambers of dark- ness, and dwell on it as they sat beside their dead, — had they known how it would be used to annihilate the iron force of stoicism, and prove sorrow no sin, tears no insult to God, groans no reproach against Providence, -r- had they antici- pated what in our age is drawn from those tears, as they are seen radiant with the soul of Jesus, — they would have deemed that nmv one of the grandest hours of man. The past would have been but a back-ground to the central figure of glory; and far into the future would the light of that present have been seen shining. The great hours of man, as seen in history, assist us to give significance to wow, and show its acceptance with God for grand issues. Quiet as the birth of a star in the twilight, still as the coming up of the moon from the ocean, has been the birth-hour of some of the sublimest events in the progress of humanity ; and how closely united the most awe-inspiring and the simplest incidents are sometimes found, is well shown in the ap- pearance of the meteor that guided the eastern THE GOOD TIME NOW. 153 Magi to the infant Saviour, and th6 familiar picture seen when they found the object sought for: — "And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child, with Mary his mother." Signs in the heavens may draw to the sight of familiar things, in such a way that we shall readily pay homage where, otherwise, we might take no note of what was near, — " feeble beginning of a mighty end." Now ! What is it ? Is it not really a portion of our existence ? — the living cord, binding us to our identity, — conveying to our consciousness what we have been and are, and reaching pro- phetically, with its electric shootings, into the future. It is a time for faith, hope, and charity ; for aspiration and endeavor; for baffling the tempter, and helping the tempted ; for catching new visions of duty, new incentives to heroic action, new reasons for gratitude to God and devotion to Christ. Now! Why, it is a part of God's eternity, — his providential sovereignty over man; and who can tell what may be ready to burst on our astonished vision, to make this an hour that shall be the parent of ages of good 154 THE GOOD TIME NOW. for man? What magnificent issues, in some quarter of this globe, may not the eye of Om- niscience see springing forth in the germ? When the bird alighted on the branch of the tree, at the mouth of the cave into which Ma- homet had fled, it seemed.no moment to take note of, — to be marked in the world's history ; but it nevertheless was such a moment. Ma- homet was saved by the inference his pursuers drew from the bird sitting on tlfat branch and singing. What a now was that to him! A song was between him and death ; — the song prevailed. Speaking of a song, reminds me of a poet, and a peculiar use of this word now. She lay on the bed of death. Her large Hebrew eyes were full of lustre, beneath a jutting forehead, white as the robe of Jesus at the transfiguration; and, flowing upon the pillows beneath her ' id, were the dark ringlets, tossed here and there, at times, by the hand, as the arm swayed itself around her head, as though parting the vines and flowers in some eastern bower. The music of angels dropped upon her hearing, and her face was radi- THE GOOD TIME NOW. 155 ant with the light of a beatified soul ; and such visions of flowers what eye ever saw ? It was a time when a pure soul was being crowned, and the significance given to the nofw made the future a continuance of rapture and glory. ^^Now,' spoke the dying Christian; "now — " and her voice failed, or dropped into that whisper of ecstasy which seems to regard a louder speech as profane for the thought to be uttered. "Now" was expressed distinctly; but the sentiment it heralded was only to be caught from the move- ment of the lips ; - - it was, " Now we see through a glass darkly." The soul that uttered it felt it was a great thing to see eternal glories, even darkly, — in riddles, as it vs ere dimly as, in outline, we behold objects witliout the frosty pane, in the streets of the city. It was a good time now to her heart, as she looked darkly, dimly, at the things of heaven; and when she said " but then face to face," the rap- ture that lighted up her whole being, and seemed to float her on an atmosphere of beauty, was kindled by the right estimate of the now. She died as she had lived, a child of faith ; and the 166 TH£ GOOD TIME NOW. memory of her quiet household ways, her retir- ing graces, hnr excelling sweetness, her keen intuitions of the Divine, her exquisite discern- ment of the poetic, her worship of God in the loveliness of cheerful obr3dience to duty, gives to this hour of thoughtfulncss a sacrcdtiess that says, Noto is the accepted time to copy that excellence you admire. Now is the day of sal- vation, when you may be redeeming from that captivity which keeps you from the enjoyment of the freedom she knew, — knew in childhood, youth, and womanhood, — that gave her joy as she felt her lot amid the universe of things that spake of God and his love, and prompted her to sing, — *' heart of mine ! Thou, too, shouldst be An ever taW. unsounded sea Of joy and love ! " Let the noto of our being be as beautifuUy filled up with Christian endeavors, and then — who can tell what will be then ? — what mission our life may execute? — what future it may make for others ? Let us be faithful to the present ; — God will give it a future. -■^,^r THOUGHTS BY LAKE ST. CHARLES, NEAR aUEBEC. ■'. DY RKV. A. a. LAUEin There aro moments when mirth will forsake us, And calm cover bosom and brow, And silence and thought overtake us, — Their shadow is over me now. The dark, woody mountains around me, The lake lying still at their feet, The magic of Nature hath bound me. Her spell at once solemn and sweet. The clouds hasten down to their slumber, And follow t'le sun to the west ; All glowing in golden and umber, They sink in his radiance to rest. And nov from the silence above me The stars look upon m , • and shine So steadfastly, — surely they love me. And smile with affection Diviii^i. 14 158 THOUGHTS 5V LAK:. ST, CHARLES. O Natnre, dear Nai!7r*e ! thou \>! iy, — When, worn wita the world and its chain, We turn from it, loathing and lonely, — Thou only canbt sootho .is a^ain. We throw ourselves bjc-i: on thy bosom, And hopes that were withered and dead, Spring freshly in beauty and blossom. To lure, where they ever have led. , I So, tread we the bright path or dreary. To reach the sad rest of the sod. We hope and pursue, till we 're weary. Then turn — but to Nature ? or God ? Alas ! while we pause upon Nature, In her such attraction we find. Too rarely we reach her Creator, Sublime in the shadow behind^ '^iaskm. IM A CHAPTER FROM THE HISTORY OF A FAMILY. BY HKS. H. A. LIVEBMOBB. Among the many beautiful and picturesque villages that are scattered throughout the length and breadth of dear New England, not a lovelier can be found than the little village of D . Its location, the natural beauty of its scenery, the cultivation bestowed upon it by the lavish hand of wealth and taste, together with the grouping of neat white homesteads and occasional princely mansions on its hill-sides, conspire to render it one of the most charming of country towns. At a distance, old Holyoke and Tom lift sturdily up their green heads towards heaven, appearing to extend the aegis of their protection over the towns below; a tributary of the Connecticut, like a thread of silver, winds amid the beautiful dwell- ings, the embowering shade-trees, and flow- ery gardens; while green hills and pine-clad mountains girdle the landscape with their en- circling arms. 160 A CHAPTER FROM But though the very spirit of beauty dwells here, there is an entire absence of another spirit, without whose tutelary presence no New Eng- land village can grow and thrive, — the spirit of enterprise. An atmosphere of dreamy quiet hangs over the town, like that which brooded over Sleepy Hollow ; for none of the din, and turmoil, and confusion, incident to the clang, clatter, and whizzing of machinery, have ever found their way thither. No branch of mechan- ism or manufacture is carried on in the village. It is not extensively engaged even in agriculture ; and the railroad, with its sjmoking, snorting, puffing, whizzing train, that has intruded every- where, and violated every sacred retreat of nature, comes not within the purlieus of the vil- lage, but makes a detour of some three miles around it, as if conscientiously scrupulous about disturbing the holy quiet of the spot. Th** vil- lage store, the blacksmith's shop, and a small mil- linery and dress-making establishment, furnish all the employment to be found in D ; and those in need of other employment are obliged to seek it elsewhere. Most of its residents, hov/ ■"/ THE HI8T0BY OF A FAMILY. lei ever, are people of wealth or competence, who already possess the means oi livelihood, and who find life in this paradisiacal and somewhat aristo- cratic village congenial to theii h^ibits and tastes. With some, however, it is otherwise. Occa- sionally there are those whose circumstances force upon them the necessity of removing to some more enterprising town, or of coming to certain poverty amid the beauty and cultivation of their old home. Among this number must bp classed Mrs. Ward, a widow lady, with three children ; the eldest f an age and ability to pro- vide for herself, if an jt^ "^unity were granted her, the younger two requiimg parental care and maintenance for some years to come. Mr. Ward, a man of intellectual culture, scholastic attainments, and gentlemanly accomplishments^ had formerly been a practitioner at the bar ; but just as he was acquirinsf fame and fortune by his profession, death ca .lo lO interrupt his career, and he was summoned from duties and labors here to the labors and duties of a higher life. For a long time his bereaved and inconsolable wife struggled on as best she could ; — the ex?> '%. 162 A CHAPTER FROM penses of their daily life were met, and means of improvement and culture secured to her children. But, as time sped, her cares and responsibilities increased , the needs of her children demanded a larger expenditure of money, and she found that some plan must be devised to increase the limited means left her by her husband. What could bo done ? Again and again she revolved the query in her own mind, and at last decided to sell their cottage and to move to a distant city, where, she hoped, and was induced to believe, employment might be found for herself and daugb r. Harriet, this daughter, some eighteen or nineteen ye^irs old, was a beautiful but timid and shrin.ang girl; well educated, and possessed of many accomplif ii- ments. Her mind was of a superior order, and her father, whose pride she was, had bestowed upon it no mean cultivation. Her voice vras one of richest melody, and her musical talent had b'on well deyeloped by the first masters in the region where she lived. She was qualified to t ach, or to give lessons in music ; but there was no opportunity for her to do either in her native town, and both she and her mother hoped her THE HISTORY OF A FAMILY. 163 musical skill might be called in requisition in the city. As for Mrs. Ward, she had decided to rent a convenient and moderate-sized tenement in a pleasant part of the n.eiropolis, hoping to secure some three or four pleasant boarders as inmates of her family, by whose patronage she might be able to eke out her slender income. For her sons, she anticipated the unequalled advantages of the city schools, justly the pride and glory of New England, which open to rich and poor alike the priceless boon of a good education. Her plans once formed and matured, she lost no time in carrying them into execution. Their tasteful cottage and garden were disposed of; such of their household goods as they were not to take with them were also parted with ; a pleas- ant house in ;\ pleasant street was secured ; and then, with some secret misgivings as to the wis- dom of the course she was pursuing, and with many relentless heart-aches, she turned from the dear spot, indissolubly linked with the memory of her ascended husband, and plunged into the 164 A CHAPTER 7R0M bustle, the bewildering turmoil and confusion, of the city. Her sons were much too young to grieve over the change, or be otherwise than pleased with its novelty ; but Harriet, whose retiring nature was one of great sensitiveness, and whose heart clung to the home of her infancy, felt herself fluttered with fear, like a frightened bird, at the thought of being thrown among strangers, while a chilling sense of isolation gathered about her spirit, as she saw crowds of people passing and repassing their dwelling, and felt that in their very midst she was yet alone. As soon as they were settled in their new habitation, Mrs. Ward offered her accommoda- tions to the boarding public, through the medium of the advertising columns of two or three re- spectable daily papers. Harriet's services as music-teacher were offered in the same way, while James and Clarence received admission into the School, and were punctual in their attendance, and unremitting in their application. But weeks passed away, and though Mrs. Ward's advertisement drew applicants to her house, she ^,#\ THE itlS^ORt Of A FAMILY. 165 was yeft unsuccessful in obtnining Any inmates to her family. One was not pleased with her ac- commodations ; a second thought her terms too high ; a third deprecated the location ; a fourth disliked to board where there were children ; a fifth preferred a larger boarding-house ; and so on, to the end of the catalogue. Nor was Harriet more successful in her en- * deavors to obtain music-pupils. The city was already overstocked with music-teachers; — pa- rents found it easy to obtain the instruction of the most scientific masters, and most accom- plished artists, for their children, before whose brilliant execution, and rich, ^^', .iiisiic singing, Harriet's abilities, fespectabis. vi i*^;!y w-'-e, paled and sunk into insignifica c. ^'i Ij while, however, their expenditures ^... on as usual; for everything they enjoyed, for the merest com- fort, — the most indispensable necessary of life, — they were required to make payment, that, to them, accustomed as they were to the cheaper prices of a country town, seemed ruinously exor- bitant ; and as this continual outlay was not met by the first sous in the way of income, their F>- 166 A CHAPTER FROM scantily-filled purse was soon well-nigh drained, and blank poverty stared them in the face. Mrs. Ward's heart died within her, as did that of her daughter. They now saw that their removal to the city was an injudicious step ; but while they had not the means of returning to D , if they would, they felt that a return thither would be only to change the location, and retain the grinding poverty. But something must be done. It would not do for Mrs. Ward to fold her hands in inaction, or to give herself up to despair. Three children had claims upon her; and for their sakes, sick at heart and de- sponding as she was, she must yet battle with life, and stem the current now setting in against her. Her first step was to reduce the enormous house-rent she was paying ; and this she effected by admitting another family under the roof, re- serving but three or fo» apartments for herself and children. As she had now abandoned all hope of maintaining herself by taking boarders, she disposed of the recently-purchased furnituie, and thus raised a small fund that gave them temporary relief. Harriet besought her mother THE HISTORY OF A FAMILY. 167 to sell the piano, which she believed would bring nearly its full value; but Mrs. Ward avowed her determination to sacrifice that only in the last extremity. Her only desire now was to obtain labor, however menial, so it was honor- able ; — labor which would secure to herself and children the necessaries of life. They soon found they had been very fortunate in the family they had received into the house. They found them kind-hearted, sympathetic, and neighborly ; and, in the end, a permanent friend- ship grew up between the two households. One of the daughters, who was a teacher in one of the many primary schools of the city, formed a strong attachment towards Harriet, whose deli- cate figure, soft violet eyes, and pensive face, could not fail of awakening interest in any heart. She soon perceived that she was educated and accomplished beyond her station in life ; and learning from the dejected girl something of their destitute circumstances, and, with womanly intu- ition, guessing the rest, she deter.*nined to be- friend her. She was herself on the eve of marriage ; and, accompanying her resignation of 168 A CHAVrF?: FEOM her office, she made, in person, an application to the chairman of the committee for Harriet as her successor. Dr. Arnold, the chairman of the hoard, was a man of large heart and ready sym- pathies; of active benevolence and well-known philanthroDV ; and as he listened to the urgent pleas in Harriet's behalf, and to the eloquent eulogy of her merits and virtues, pronounced by her friend, he becam*? interested, and begged an introduction to the young applicant. Accordingly, on the next day, the timid, trem- bling, self-distrustful girl, with her new-found friend, called at Dr. Arnold's office. The grace and beauty of Harriet instantly pleased him ; for he was unmarried, dear reader, — a bachelor of more than thirty ; there was something, to him, infinitely touching in her soft eyes, her low, sad voice, and shrinking manner ; and he saw, at a glance, that, unfitted as she was to meet the rude shocks of life, she was yet the child of sor- row. His whole heart was enlisted for her. He gave her words of encouragement and cheer, and^ a promise of aid, that called up quick, hot tears to the poor girl's eyes, that she would fain have I THE HISTORY OF A FAMILY. 169 hidden. Finding her as well qualified for the situation she desired as she had been represented, he exerted himself actively in her behalf, and so effectually, that she was the successful candidate for the vacant school, although some thirty or forty previous applications had been laid before the board ; and the next week saw her installed in her new office, with a salary of some three hundred dollars per annum. And now Harriet's kind friend gave timely aid, also, to her mother. Being well acquainted in the city, she introduced Mrs. Ward to a large establishment, extensively engaged in the manu- facture ot various garments, which gave employ- ment to some hundred or more of women, who were paid liberally and t lomptly ; and here Mrs. Ward was furnished with employment. They were now lifted out of their former difficulties ; their expenses were reduced ; they had an income more than sufficient for their needs, if managed with good thrift; and the terrible anxiety that had tugged so heavily at their hearts was now removed. They formed pleasant acquaintances ; they enrolled themselves as members of a relig- 15 170 A CHAPTER FROlVf ! ious body, of their o'vn faith, that worshipped near them. James and Clarence were kept steadily at school. Only favorable accounts were received from them; — *^ey were grateful and happy. The summer passed along quietly and pleasantly. Harriet was successful, in ii?r new vocation, beyond even the expectations of hcjr most sanguine friends. Her pupils loved hex; their parents respected her ; expressions of appro- bation were largely meted out to her by the visiting committee of her school, — by Dr. Ar- nold, especially, whose visits to her school-room were not "like angels' visits, few and far be- tween." He manifested a great and strange interest in his young protegee, and seemed never weary of encouraging her, — of assuring her timid and fain^wi*^ heart, and of aiding her in her duties, by his ^ i^i^dly and judicious sugges- tions. Dignified, elevated, and superior as he was, in the eyes of the youn^ girl, — of mental and moral stature that towered far above all whoi she knew, — there was yot mingled with his loftiness an urbanity, a kindness, a gentle condescension, that soon set her at ease with THE HISTORY OF A FAMILY. 171 him. While he was inspecting her method of teaching, and the progress of her pupils, she felt not in the presence of a censor or stern judge, but in that of a friend whose praise was justly dear to her, and whose strictures w^ere made in kindness. Fall came, and with it the shadow of a great grief which enshrouded the little household. Clarence, the youngest child, whose rapid ad- vance in his studies gave promise of future great- ness, while his heart was as richly endowed with all the attributes that render one lovely as was his mind with the gifts of genius, returned from school, one afternoon, with a flushed cheek, a wild eye, and an aching head, and, complaining bitterly of illness, sought his couch, from which he v/ns never more to rise. The taint of a con- tagious fever had already corrupted his blood ; the fires of disease were in his veins, and before the dawn of the next day he was wandering through the mazy labyrinths of the wildest delirium. With the fii it gleam of light, Harriet summoned Dr, A moll to his bedside, beseeching him to haston to her brother ere he died. The sum- 172 A CHAFTER FROM mons was promptly obeyed, and for the first time the benevolent physician entered Mrs. Ward's dwelling. Amid all the confusion and sadness incident to the child's sudden sickness, Dr. Ar- nold could not but observe, even then, that an unusual air of refinement was apparent in the arrangement and. furnishing of the humble apart- ments, while good breeding and high culture characterized their unpretending occupants. His whole attention was given to the little suflferer, during his brief but painful illness ; but neither his skill and attention, nor the prayers of his kindred, could avert his threatening doom ; and as the second day of his illness closed in upon the distressed watchers by his couch, the sleep that knows no waking sealed his eyes in dream- less slumber. The grief of the survivors was intense ; it was not boisterous nor obtrusive, but deep and quiet. The little fellow's presence had been to them sunlight and music, and it seemed as if earth were robbed of its brightness and melody, now that his blue eyes were closed, and his pleasant voice hushed in death. There was little to di- THE HISTORY OF A FAMILY. 173 vert their minds from their bereavement, for the poor have few outward sources of enjoyment, and find in home and in the bosom of affection their chief happiness. Few came in to sympathize with them, for they were strangers. Few came to follow with them the pale sleeper to his last resting-place. Dr. Arnold proved himself an invaluable friend to them ; — his attentions did not end with the life of his patient ; he made the last sad arrangements for the obsequies of the dead ; called with a clergyman, who offered them the holy consolations of religion ; brought " pale flowers" to strew over the faded blossom of earthly being, and attended himself the burial services, accompanied by an elderly maiden sister, who wore the same benign and noble countenance as her brother. Deeply grateful for his unexpected kindness, Mrs. Ward was yet astonished at it ; — she could not understand it, nor divine its meaning. There were others, and among them their friends in the house, who saw more clearly. The first stunninof effects of this bereavement were hardly over, before James, the other son, 174 A CHAPTER FROM was seized with the same malignant type of fever. For a long time the lad hovered between life and death. There were moments when his breath seemed departing, — when his spirit- wings seemed already out-spread for flight, — and when hope died in the hearts of the mother and sister, who hung over him with anxious as- siduity. But the skill and remedies, which could not save the life of one, availed to raise from the brink of the open grave the other; and, after weeks of ?uflbring, the widow's son began to amend. Careful nursing and judicious manage- ment gradually brought back the roundness of his cheek, and kindled in his eye the fires of returning health ; but even when he became con- valescent, the visits of his physician were con- tinued. The services and kindness of Dr. Ar- nold had filled with gratitude the hearts of Mrs. Ward and her daughter. Had he been an angel, their regard could not have been more reveren- tial, their gratitude more profound, nor their homage more religious. ^But when his visits were continued after the necessity for them was annulled by the conva- THE HISTOBY OF A FAMILY. 176 lescence of her son, Mrs. Ward was puzzled ; and if Harriet was not, she never sought to enlighten her mother by word or hint. It could not be that the doctor found any attraction in their humble abode; it could not be for the pleasure of her conversation, although Mrs. Ward was cbliged to confess that his discourse was mainly addressed to her ; it could not be for any special interest he felt in Harriet ; for, though he loaned her books and periodicals, and brought her sheets of music, and never left without craving a song, or the performance of some new or favorite piece, yet this was easily accounted for, as the doctor was a man of letters, an amateur in ir i^sic, a flutist of no mean order, and a member of two or three musical clubs. It was incredible that a man like Dr. Arnold, — over thirty, tall, dignified, and commanding, highly connected, with a considerable fortune and a large practice, fliiiijg many honorable and lucrative offices, and who, if he desired to marry, might choose from the rery flower of the city, the very elite of the metropolis, — it was incredible that such a man should look with special or tender interest on a 176 A CHAPTER FROM II E :^n girl like Harriet, poor and humble in station, a very Mimosa in her sensitiveness and timidity ; unknown, unsought, and almost iincared for. So reasoned Mrs. Ward, somewhat blindly, to be sure; and in the mean time Dr. Arnold called and called, always when Harriet was at home, whose blushes and downcast eyes seemed to indi- cate that her ease and self-possession with the physician were at an end. As fall deepened into winter, circumstances occurred Vhich rendered Dr. Arnold's visits again necessary. The health of Harriet, never robust, had become greatly impaired through the watch- ings, care, and labor, iiicid'^nt to the illness of her brothers ; and, before she had at all recruited, as soon as she could be spared, she had resumed her labors in the school-room. The heavy drafts upon their purse had well-nigh drained it, during the sickness and death that had visited them; and, in the desire to replenish it, they often plied the needle till after the city clocks had rung out the hour of midnight. This additional labor, at any time, was too much for the frail health of Harriet ; but at that time it was making unwar* THE HISTORY OF A FAMILY, 177 rantable dcmaaJs upon nature, who, thus oiit- rnired, was keeping- a close account with the ti^ orroggyj^ to be balanced at no very fl>.'i:iiw'. n*r rs,g-day. The heavy fogs, pericuu: ;)g: uaL nd driving rains and sleets, of Novem- ber, ^.v^iupleted the prostration of her health ; and the seeds of disease sprang up noxiously and rankly in her system. With a fevered pulse, a brain whirling in strange and dizzying activity, an eye like a wounded eagle's, and a cheek that glowed like fire, she started for school, one morn- ing, sure that slie was not well, yet unwilling to confess herself ill. But the duties of the morn- ing were not half over, when increasing illness overcame her, and, amid the receding and dying sounds of study and recitation, she sank to the floor in a swoon. Her young pupils alarmed the neighborhood in their fright; a carriage was sent for, and poor Harriet was conveyed to her mother's dwelling, seriously indisposed. Her disease had attacked the lungs, and after a short but violent fever, it appeared to abate, and it was thought she would soon be convales- cent. These hopes were not realized. A cough .0^, ** IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // 4^ m 1.0 ■u iii& |Z2 ^ tiS. 12.0 I.I L25 111114 11.6 — 6" ^^ ^l!^ 7: w y HiotDgraphic Sciences Corporation 33 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 f^ t 'TB-;w^-rggy?yT;»!T^^gF't^ri^fyT'gwp^'y ^^^ ^yi^ij^wmu^i,! wiiii^|tftKWl' ^i4tJWW »B i WB j5i^^ r w 178 A CHAPTER FROM ensuedf slight at first, but gradually increasing in violence ; febrile symptoms returned, and by and by there appeared each day, on the emaciated cheek, the bright, brilliant, fearful glow, that tells of consumption. The large blue eye dilated, and grew more and more hollow and dazzling ; the delicate face and little hands blanched and shrunk, till the net-work of blue veins could be seen all over them, and they were as diminutive as a girl of twelve summers ; while the moisture of the rich brown tresses was drunk up by the fever-heat, till they fell off from the white tem- ples upon the pillow, like a mass of golden threads. Weeks passed away, and she was no better, but in a state of increasing debility and prostration. Mrs. Ward became alarmed ; — she recognized in her daughter's ailments the pre- cursors, if not the attendants, of the same insidi* ous pulmonary complaint that had bereft her of her husband. Dr. Arnold was alarmed ; he had, from the first, attended her most carefully and constantly, but now he summoned the best medi- cal skill of the city to her bedside, to consult with him on the nature of his patient's disease* THE BISTORT OF A FAMILY. i7d and the remedial agents to be employed. But still the sick girl amended not ; she was no bet> ter; patient, resigned, uncomplaining, touchingly submissive, she lay and wasted fearfully, though gradually. The poor mother turned from her daughter's bedside, with an expression of anguish on her face, and wrung her hands despairingly ; she fol- lowed the doctor's footsteps, whose anguish and anxiety she could not see, so blinded was she by her own grief, and besought him for the hope that in his heart he dared not cherish, and dared not give to others ; while the hours that passed into eternity went laden with prayers, and tears, and agonizing wishes for her darling's life. To add to her distress, her finances were again exhausted, with no present means of replenishing them ; and while pale-faced sickness sat brooding in her dwelling, and the fearful angel of death was watching at her door, gaunt poverty stalked again among them. But on the very day when her last cent was paid out, relief came from an unknown source ; — the post-boy brought her a note, enclosing a fifty-dollar bank-bill, and beg- 180 A CHAPTER FROM ging its acceptance from "a friend." With bewilderment, with thanks, Mrs. Ward received the gift, regarding it as a direct interposition of Heaven, but hardly guessing its real source. She did not imagine herself overheard when she sent her son to the pawnbroker's with a valuable brooch that she had worn in better days, nor could she easily have brought herself to believe |hat Dr. Arnold felt, in her and hers, interest sufficient to induce him to an act of such gene- rosity. It was a long, desolate winter to the poor woman, who saw, with harrowing anxiety and desolating sorrow, the silent dece her meek child. She could not bring herself to believe that it was God's will her idol should be shat- tered ; she could not but believe that God, in his mercy, would forbear so utterly to crush her life, as to remove her daughter from her. All the long day, and the yet longer night, she hovered over the pillow of her uncomplaining and often unconscious child, ministering to her as affec- tionately, as tenderly, as carefully, as only a mother can ; while from her heart went up voice- THE HISTORY OF A FAMILY. m less but passionate ejaculations to Heaven, — " O Father ! spare her ! — raise her from death ! — crush me not so utterly ! — spare ! save ! heal!" March came, at last, — the first month of spring, — and Harriet seemed lower than ever. Dr. Arnold saw, with infinite pain, that the strug- gle must soon be decided one way or other, — that the long- contest between life and death must soon be terminated. Was she to live, or die ? O, how his heart prayed for the healing airs of summer, which he hoped would raise the invalid, if her life could be prolonged till then ! How his brows contracted with pain, when balmy, spring-like days were followed by weather that belonged to December ! Life had ebbed so low in his dear patient, that it was like the flickering light of a dying lamp; a single breath might extinguish it, or it might be fed and nursed into longer continuance. Never had he watched over a patient with such intense interest. Hours were passed beside her low couch; he seemed more like a nurse than a physician, — more like a doting parent over a 16 182 A CHAPTER FROM petted child, than a medical man with a sick girl. His own hand smoothed her pillows, and put back from her brow the bright masses of golden hair; now he administered the healing potions he prescribed, and now he sought to tempt her appetite with some delicate nourish- ment. Always he spoke to her in a low, tender voice, and always cheerfully. The dignified and commanding mien which had so awed her, in her days of health, was completely laid aside ; and even while Harriet stood on the threshold of eternity, her whole heart went out to him in love. And at times, when her large violet eye was raised to his in tearful thankfulness, and her white lip quivered with words of gratitude, moist- ure gathered in his own eyes, and his lips pressed her pale brow, as he besought her to manifest her gratitude by speedy recovery. April came, with milder airs and balmier skies. Harriet seemed to rally a little, and after a time Dr. Arnold ventured to assure Mrs. Ward that he could perceive in his patient a change for the better. The ashy, death>like hue had passed from her features, leaving her THE HISTORY OF ▲ FAMILY. 183 frightfully pale, it is trae, but less ghastly, less corpse-like ; — the hectic fire burned less fiercely on her cheek ; her mind hovered less amid the fanciful and unreal creations of delirium; she expressed interest in matters and things pertain- ing to her every-day life, — asked about the weather, her school, her acquaintances, and similar other matters. No language can express the unutterable gratitude of Mrs. Ward's heart. As she bowed, now, before high Heaven, her ori- sons were but fioods of grateful tears. May came, with yet balmier airs, which re- kindled the long-prostrated energies of the yet feeble girl. She now could sit up ; she craved food ; she amused herself with books, and some- times desired her arm-chair to be drawn to the piano, when her attenuated, transparent little fingers ran over the long-silent keys, bringing forth from thence faint gushes of melody. The terrible anxiety for her life was now over. Dr. Arnold, who came once or twice a day to see her, — most physicians would have discontinued their visits now, dear reader, — could banter her a little over her skeleton proportions, and laugh- 184 ▲ CHAPTER FBOM ingly predict astonishing increase of weight and substance. - -- - "^ At last, the good physician gave Harriet per- mission to take a drive ; and, more than this, he came to the door in his own chaise, one bright June morning, when the air was all incense, the earth all bloom and song and life, and lifting her into the vehicle as if she were a mere babe, drove her to the outskirts of the city, where the fresh air of the country came to her like the inspiration of health. Again and again were the rides repeated, — now to the classic grounds of Cambridge, and now to the hallowed shades of sweet Auburn, — Dr. Aniold all the while con- versing with his fair companion, and often upon topics that painted the deepest carmine on her cheek, and deprived her of the power of raising her eyes to his face. And when he returned her to her mother's dwelling, one might have seen with what tender solicitude he lifted her from the chaise ; and that, as he parted with her, just inside the hall door, his lips met — not her brow — but her rosy lips, which bashfully returned the kiss laid upon them. What did it all mean ? THE HISTORY OF A FAMILY. 186 Mrs. Ward at last began dimly to see things as they were, though still she was slow to believe what the whole neighborhood were gossiping about, — the attachment of Dr. Arnold and her daughter. By and by Harriet informed her mother that her school had been given to another, adding, with painful blushes, which did not escape the notice of the mother, that Dr. Ar- nold advised her not to resume teaching again. A few days later, the doctor and Mrs. Ward were closeted together for a long time, when the latter came forth from the interview with a beaming face and tearful eyes, and, clasping her daughter in her arms, bestowed a benediction upon her. And soon Harriet was obi, »• ed to be deep in the mysteries of millinery and dress- making, threading Washington-street for the prettiest and most appropriate fabrics, and con- sulting about modes and fashions with her digni- fied friend, the doctor, who still continued his visits at Mrs. Ward's, though no one now re- quired his medical attention. Some great event was evidently approaching. " How is that little patient of yours, brother ? " 16# 186 A CHAPTER FROM asked the maiden sister to whom we hare before referred, as Dr. Arnold and she sat together, a few evenings after. " I refer to the one whotie brother's funeral I attended, — Harriet Ward; has she regamed her health ? " "Yes," replied the doctor, with animation; "she is quite well now. She has improved wonderfully, this last month." " I am glad to hear it," was the rejoinder ; " for her poor mother's sake, I am glad she has recovered." " And I am glad for my own sake," frankly and calmly avowed the doctor. "Harriet's life has become very dear to me. Through the winter, I thought it impossible for her to recover ; but, in the beautiful language of, Elizabeth Bar- rett Browning, whose sonnets you were reading to me last evening, she has _ . » « 'yielded the grave, for my sake, and exchanged Her near, sweet view of heaven, for earth with me.' " "Why, brother! what do you say? Have you considered all the consequences of a mar- riage with Harriet Ward ? " THB HISTORY OF A FAMILY. 187 " Consequences ! What consequences can en- 9ue, but pleasant ones, — happiness to both of us?" " Yes ; but what will the world say ? " " 0, as to that, it may say what it pleases. A man marries to please himself, not to suit the hollow-hearted, the knaves and simpletons, who compose 'the world.' Among all the ladies whom I know, Harriet Ward is my preference. We are attached ; we believe we shall be happy together. I am in circumstances to marry, — and who is there to say * nay ' ?" " Well," replied the sister, musing a moment, "you are right. If Harriet Ward is all you describe her, she is not unworthy of you ; and her humble station in life does not disgrace her. But few, however, will coincide with this opinion. But when am I to lose my brother ? " "You will gain a sister, not lose a brother, some time in the early fall. Mrs. Ward has agreed to become our housekeeper, at least till Harriet is well enough, and sufficiently compe- tent to take the head of affairs herself. And when we are all well domesticated in our new 186 HISTORY OF A FAMILY. home, you must come and see for yourself if my ideas and expectations of happiness are at all Utopian." ' " And now, reader, in conclusion, — if that can be called " a conclusion wherein nothing is con- cluded," — let me assure you that Dr. Arnold never repented his forgetfulness of caste, and the artificial distinctions of society, in his choice of a wife ; and that the great '* world," even, soon for- got to laugh, in its eagerness to do homage to the beautiful bride; and ceased to sneer, as it was compelled to testify to the grace, goodness, and genius, of her whom all loved and esteemed. :^-iv ih^ >'• '•--'-'■' ■••■-•■ '''■[. z'^' ' . . :4V } . :<.>rv' $-.' ■■^'':^ .H^M .mi ■ t ., i..r..i ,j-, ^■ '■\f;>>^'" .— * •■ .7 ..'*' .p*' 't -■.. ;'(",fi'r -1 ^ ' ''**l '• » .li THE ANNIVERSARY. BT JAMlg LUMBARD. A YEAR of shifting scenes has gone To dwell entombed with ages fled, Since thou wert taken, gentle one, To slumber with the silent dead. A year has gone, — and yet it seems ,^ A little while since thou wert here. Engaging in the toils and schemes Of this convulsed and darkened sphere. •^ 'T is hard to think that thou art gone Forever from our earthly ken, — That we shall never look upon Thy dear familiar form again. We cannot think thy spirit passed To that mysterious realm above. That thy warm heart is cold at last. So lately full of hope and love. 190 THE ANNIVERSARY. But thou art in the charnel dark, Its damp mould on thy bosom prest, And flowering shrubs are all that mark The spot where thou art laid to rest ; But on the souPs white tablature, Engi-ayed in characters of light, Thy many virtues shall endure, As fadeless as the stars of night. :^ Full many fairer forms may throng The path that now before us opes. With winning words and witching song, ' To thrill our hearts with sunniest hopes ; But, oh ! we never can forget The friend of our serenest days. Whose orb of being darkly set. And faded from our tearful gaze. Full many a long and weary year May toil adown oblivion's steep, Ere we shall close our journey here, And in the grave's still darkness sleep ; i fiVJwJu e ;<■ riSi-^-ielW iv^ ti"i.5"3Bl K'ia,i^„^^i;j^liiAhi THE ANNIVERSARY. 191 ;W^- But graven on our heart of hearts The memory of thy worth shall be, Until each waiting soul departs, To dwell forevermore with thee ! "¥• ^m if NAPOLEON AND HIS SON. BT MBS. M. A. LIYEBMOBE. He held his son within his arms; — Not with the reverent love, Not with the gushing tenderness, A mother's heart doth move. No benediction from his lips Greeted the princely boy ; ) But proud, ambitious, lofty schemes Were blended with his joy. -') " King of Rome ! " the father mused, * «; When gazing on his son, " Resplendent glory waits to gild The life thou hast begun. Thy father's hand has hewn the way ;, Up to the Gallic throne; And all o'er which thy France bears sway Is thine, and thine alone ! sway •..*;■ <•♦ #: : s.'>v, ' .:^'ij'»''* *!■ Mas* ^.3., Ifr y,ViMQRlt. Mr- helj hb -".wi within his .ime ; -— No ! it,edktii/i> firf^w ^/.h lijT«? '- ^ ■ ^'ete^i th#,^irifMw|y' boy ; 4 I "-0 Euii; f»' " ..• " the fflther rnus^il, , , W hfcu r;-^!^? on hi?3 son, !$, ■**■ B^apl<*H4'.- . .- ; ^ . v» ry .waits '#gii(l Tfay fftllt^'t. handjisi'? hewn thf way tJp to the Gal; ;c throne'; And all o'^v x'tikhmy Ftv- • 'K-srin-: swav Is thiiHS a«4 thir>t5' 'm- ■ ■ ;y-. 1^ f^Af^(n)[L[i:(n)r]^ awld) Ki'Dg ^@n MAPOLBON AND HIS SOH. << Th« purple of the Caaan thim, And thine die MoorMi land,— > IMvetia locked in fastneaees, By mountains bdd and gvand. And soon the sceptre of the Czars I *11 proudly give to thee ; And Albion, with her world-wide flag, Shall bend to thee the knee. "And where my eagles perch aloft, Their conquering pinions furled. Thy rule shall be, till thou shalt wear ^ * The purple of the world ! * O ! men shall bow bewildered down Before thy dazzling state ; And earth shall own thee, with acclaim. Her mightiest Potentate ! " Vain boast and empty ! came there then No shade of Waterloo, The ensanguined field, where death and shame So rankly, thickly grew ? 17 .m •Ti As sink within the troubled sea Vf. "' The wrecks of vessels grand, So, in the storm by thee evoked. Which fiercely swept the land, — Now toppling thrones from dizziest heights, And now uncrowning kings, — Now trampling men on war's red plains. As they were worthless things, — •m "'^^ 1-i NAPOLEON AND HIS SON. In that wild storm thy star went down, In night that knows no mom ; Like chaff from off the threshing-floor, Thy proudest schemes were borne. Ah ! let us pause, and learn of thee ^ How weak is human might, * ^. When daring to contend with God, Or battle with the right ! J yv, m*'.\ "i^y #«'i^ '*s%W'^#lf .'^'tM* 105 4*^,-rt. . vafpM 3> If^i - ». ^} r**i;i; t t*^' Ih ' 'Ll- f.. THE PILOT. • ry i BT MmS. X. A. LiyBfiMOKS. " O'er a wide and troubled ocean, Oft with storms and tempests dark, Tossed by winds' and waves' commotion, I have steered my little bark. All in shreds the sails are tattered, Splintered every towering mast, — Masts and spars and sails all shattered By the fierceness of the blast. « Many a foaming mountain billow Has broke o'er the trembling deck; And I have forgot my pillow, Watching for the whelming wreck. And the red and hissing lightning Hath scarred all its timbers o'er ; — On the ocean curling, whitening, I can trust my bark no more ! r-X! THE PILOT. wt " Now without the harbor riding, Here the pilot's boat I wait ', And, alas ! the day is gliding Down the west, in regal state. Shall I never reach the haven ? Ne'er at anchor calmly lie ? O, good pilot ! haste thee hither, — Pass me not unnoticed by ! " , Lo, he comes, the fearful boatman ! At the sailor's eager beck. Wide he cleaves the gloomy waters, Climbing to the tottering deck. Stem, unspeaking, strong, gigantic, Now he guides the loosened helm. Where the ever-thundering breakers Seek the bark to overwhelm. Darker falls the night about them. Fiercer grows the pilot's mien, — Blackness o'er and underneath them. Not a glimmering star is seen ; While more hoarsely roar the billows, And more furious howls the gale — 17* 196 TRB PILOT. Ah ! the sailor's heart has faintedi And his cheek is ashy pale. i . ; k ... " Pilot, thou wilt strand my vessel ! I shall he a cast-away! '* ' ••"" And my bark, that 's crossed the ocean, Will not see another day ! " " Peace ! thou timid, trembling sailor ! I have sailed this sea before ; And no vessel makes the harbor, fiJ: But is piloted by me ! f ■■f.X' '.rf*' " Never yet a ship has stranded ^^^, On this wild and surge-washed coast ; Into port each vessel rideth — Not a shallop has been lost ! '* Still the sailor's heart beat wildly, With his agonizing fear, And he looked, with sad fo"t I mVj.^. For the morning to appear. ^^ ^^\i *'' This vision may satisfy the mind inquiring for the reasons of the souPs present intimate rela- tions ; in part it may answer questions proposed, and secure a patient striving and waiting for that more perfect promised: — "Now we know in part," " We see as through a glass darkly," hop- ing for a larger knowledge, and a better sight. This is the condition of the soul in its present habitation ; and though its life is not derived in any considerable degree from it, it is essentially modified by it. Sometimes, however, it becomes, as it were, independent of these conditions, by a forgetfulness of them, produced by spiritual contemplation and devotional communion. Then it lives not in the body, but in and with Christ, having a foretaste of the blessing anticipated. It is absent, iu effect, from the body, and is present with the Lord; and how precious are these THE HOME OF THE SOITL. ^66 seasons to every spiritaal soul ! They bring to it a deeper, truer life, fill it with devotion and Divine aspirations, and are the medium through which the joys of heaven are participated, and angels come to make their abode with it. They furnish evidences of the possible deliverance of the soul from the slavery of the passions, and from the bondage of sin, and of its complete tri- umph over the desires of the earthly man. For, if through their instrumentality its affections and thoughts are perfectly engrossed a single moment, by a continued appeal of the same power, they may be enraptured still longer, and yet longer upon every successive appeal, until their aspira- tion is the main-spring of, and spiritualizes, every action. When thus exalted, the soul has a life beyond and without its earthly habitations ; " has meat that it knows of," — not the manna of the wilder- ness, " but the bread of God which cometh down from heaven and giveth light to the world." But this, though its appropriate sphere, and its true position in this world of duties and conflicts, is not its divinest home. 18 \ ;^ 906 THE ROME OF THE SOUL. " A building of God, an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens," awaits it. A glorious habitation is prepared for it ; one incor- ruptible and immortal, which it is certain to pos- sess when the present perishes by its inj&rmities and weaknesses, and by what is familiarly called death. 'iiii:^t^it:M-r -Ai^t!:i,ii^ t>'itb':-i^i.j^AiJi- 'STx^Af,^ -.U«£k Here the confidence of the Apostle may assist y^ qui thought and faith : — " We know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God ; " " Mortality shall be swallowed up of life ; " " He that hath wrought us for the self-same thing is God ; " " We are confident, therefore, and willing to be absent from the body, and to be present with the Lord." And the Master hath spoken encouragingly to all who trust his words and receive his gracious promises. Said he to his disciples, under circumstances of much afiiiction, " Let not your h-.-'t be troubled : ye believe in God, — believe also in me. In my Father's house are many mansions : if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place THB HOME OF THE SOUL. 207 for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am there ye may be also." *'*' Our faith is assisted by such heavenly assur- ances, and a hope is inspired that when the scenes of this troubled life are o'er, the soul will find a home in heaven, where storms and tem- pests are unknown, and all is peace and joy. To that home it is destined ; — for it was created with all its yearning powers, its swelling sympa- thies, and deathless aspirations. It sometimes feds its immortality begun, and takes possession of the joy ; but this, in the brightest moments of its spiritual life, can be only a lUtle foretaste of that which shall be when mortality is swallowed up in immortal fruition. The largest anticipa- tion of the soul will fall infinitely short of the realities of that home to which we go ; for is it not written, " Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him" ? • He can gather only some fsdnt shadows of the beauties and glories of that land, through the inspiration of our faith, and the imperfect com- m THB HOMB OF TPS SQVL. parisQos which we are allowed to make between it and earthly things. We can say of it, it has no night of darkness and sonow, for the Lord God is its everlasting light. It has no sickness or pain, but perpetual health. It has no mourn- ing, but an ever-increasing joy. It has no death, for its life is immortal, like the angels that bend in sweet sulnnission before the eternal throne. It has immortal capacities, and instructions and duties worthy of them. It has teachers of infi- nite understandings, and companionship perfect in purity, whose every thought and word is but a reflection of the eternal Mind, ^hose every desire is the will of God, and the consummation of his great purposes. The loved of every land and clime are there, happy in their glory and glori- ous in their happiness, — loving still, and better than before, and still advancing in the measure of their power, and in the graces of an incorrupti- ble existence. ; i t t.^ . ^ ^ ?j^ The cruel distinctions of this world are there unknown. That home has no rich and poor, no masters and slaves, no bond and free ; but all are one in Christ, and God is all in all. ^ 'eimm:^v:k THE HOBIE OF THS 80VX.. 209 • This is the hoipe of the soul; a glorious, deathless home, which knows no withered joys, ;i;io|r parting hours, — no disappointed trust, nor blasted hope. It is the home of heaven. Be- hold iti weary pilgrims, burdened with the cares pf life, — its conflicts, strifes, and woes ! Wel- come the anticipations it inspires, the encourage- mei^t it gives, the patience it secures ; and wait in cheerfulness the period of release. Time's never- tarrying wheels will bring it speedily. The Father's good pleasure will be done, and the kingdom will be yours. ^..^m-.- Pondman, behold it ! and allow the vision to cMer thee* Verily thou art a child of God, an heir of heaven, and shalt ere long partake the joys denied thee here. It is a thorny way thou goest. Oppression's hand is heavy on thee now; The stripes inflicted, and the chains thou bearest, are burdens cruelly unjust ; but patiently endure the evils from which thou canst not yet escape, ^ and give the soul its triumph in the thought that there are ages of infinite delight for all thou suf- ferest here. By divinest dispensation thou wilt be a freeman yet, — a freeman made immortal, 18* ■^*-\ .'l i^lO THE HOME OF THE SOUL. — yea, more, — a king and priest of God's for- ever. Faint not, — wait in hope. ^'^ '"■' m Oppressor, behold it ! and be inspired by it to a better, truer life. Let it teach thee that he whom thou crushest is thy brother, beloved of thy Father, and, if weaker than thyself, den^ands thy pity, not thy scorn and hate. Break not him by thine oppressions whom thou wilt meet ' in heaven, and who, perhaps, will be thy com- panion, — teacher, — at least, thy friend and brother, — an equal sharer with thee of spiritual joy. Truly, heaven is thy horo.3 and his, as God is his and thy Father. Why shouldst thou thus oppress him, and dig for him the pit, and make him grind continually in the prison-house ? Bridge o'er the gulf that separates thee ere thou shalt pass the swelling flood, beyond which God will make thee one, and he no longer slave, but child of God immortal. The vision of that future home will make the spirit of the present like it, and purify the soul, as Christ is pure. 1 Wanderer from the way of virtue, behold it! and in it the angel-spirit of a mother, sister, brother, who, watching o'er thee, and knowing THE HOME OP THE SOUL. 811 thy temptations, prayeth that redemption may be thine, and spiritual life. Thou canst not sin with that immortal eye upon thee, and while conscious of the prayer that goes unceasingly to God, in thy behalf. Thou wilt not be a slave to evil, knowing the immortal family of which thou art a member, and the immortal destiny that awaits thee. The inspiration of the thought will break the bondage of the spirit, and make thee truly free. , Mourner, there are thy loved ones, pure and happy, feasting upon spiritual meat, and drinking in the flowing waters of immortal love. Be com- forted ; — no evil can betide them. Soon thou wilt join them, and form one perfect family in heaven. Dying mortal, pray for this vision, that hope may swell the sail of thy frail bark, as it swiftly glides over the uncertain sea of human life, and prepare thee well for that dark shore toward which thou art hastening, and from which pil- grims start, sometimes, afirighted, for their im- mortal home, — "a city which hath foundations whose maker and builder is God." ^ ^ •*> m TBI H01l£ Of THE SOUL. M '-' These are the contemplations awakened by a view of heaven as the home of the soul, and reveal some of the practical influences of that cheering faith. The Apostle hath rightly said of them, " Every man that hath this hope in him purifieth himself, even as He is pure." r r/^j^^r^w ^#-mr^ ,nip«'-4f r>i''!«^?c$ tw*-- ■'**'■?' ^M'^ • ■t-^-.ytJi^ I *4i. '«<« ¥^im^ %^^ ^l«lt ^ THE ARTIST AND HIS LITTLE PRIENI). ***" :fii.-«»t«r' -. 2, Bx MXBi iLiiABixa soxyv. Tub eveningf twilight had faded from the walls of a cheerful New England home, and now the lamps were lit, and the little family had gathered near the fire. Mr. Upton, the husband And father, was reading the evening papers. He was a man of sound judgment, clear intellect, and a great heart ; with strong moral principles, that won him the name of a man and a Christian in the wofld, yet left him free from bigotry and religious intolerance ; and in his home, among his little ones, he was just one of those husbands and fathers that Miss Bremer is ever ready to fall in love with, charmed by their social virtues. There, too, was his wife, who sat near the table, sewing most industriously. Ah! she was just such a woman as such a man might be expected to marry, — calm, cheerful, dignified, — one who believed that woman's rights were woman's /'' 214 THE ARTIST AND HIS LITTLE FRIEND. duties; and, laboring faithfully in her own sphere of action, she strove to do all things well, and bring up her children in the " nurture and admo- nition of the Lord." Upon the hearth-rug sat two little ones, chatting away right merrily, and cutting out paper figures of houses and men, cows and elephants, which they plastered upon the sides of the fireplace, or condemned to the flames if they chanced to meet with their disap- probation. Then, "last but not least," was Master Willie. He was seated by the table near which his mother sat at work, and, with his head leaned upon his hands, his whole soul seemed to be absorbed in the book which lay before him. Occasionally his look of fixed attention would change to one of enthusiasm, which kindled across his face, and beamed in his eyes like sun- shine. Then he would start and turn over the leaves quickly, as though he feared the rest would be a blank, or would slip away from him before he could finish it. He seemed to be wholly unconscious of all that passed around, and no sound from without reached him, — not even the merry chatter of the little ones, though THE ARTIST AND HIS LITTLE FRIEND. 215 the father often dropped his paper to listen, and the mother looked up from her work to watch operations. ' "0, look here!" exclaimed the eldest; "just see what a dog I have made ! Don't he look just like Mr. Hicks' Snip?" . «, " yeth ! " lisped the little fellow, as he dropped his scissors, in admiration ; " I sthould think it wath him. Now I mean to make Mith Beanth's cat, 'cauth you know they '11 thit down together, and not bite or sthcratch. Don't you like paper things, Jimmy, thometimes, better than you do live oneths ? 'cauth you can make wingths to the caths, if you want to, and you can cut off the boyths' heads and sthee how funny they'll look; 'cauth, you know, it don't hurt 'em." " Yes ; and you don't have to put hinges on the doors of the paper houses, but you can pinch them open or shut 'em, just as you please. Now I mean to cut out Mr. Hicks, and after that I shall make Mrs. Bean." Just then the outer door opened, and the wind came whistling through. Both children dropped 216 THE ARTIST AKD HIS LITTLB FRIEND. ♦ their scissors, and looked earnestly towards the door of the room. It opened slowly, and ah old lady, enveloped in a plaid cloak, with the head drawn closely about her face, made her appear- ance. In an instant the little ones were on their feet, and ran towards her, with shouts of wel- come. . ''' '■ ' •' ■ '^«' ' >•-'■ ' ■■ > ■■ " Go away, you little plagues ! " said she, as she threw back the head of her cloak, displaying her good-natured face, and her clean, white cap, ornamented with a profusion of yellow bows; " go away, I say ! You know I don't like you, and yet you are always taking after me." " Good-evening, Mrs. Bean," said Mr. Upton, and he rose to give her a seat. " Good-evening," said his wife, as she extended her hand to wel- come her. ' "There, now, sit down, both of you! If yOu move an inch for me, I'll go home! I didn't come here to make you trouble." She threw her cloak over the back of a chair, and seating her- self, she drew her knitting-work from her spa- cious bag. " You see," said she, " I 've brought my work with me. The Scripture says, * In all ■«r^ « Tdfi ARTIST AND HIS LITTLE FRIElVD. 1^*7 tabor there is ptofit, but the talk of the lips tend- eth to penury ;' so, as I had a deal of talking to dOi I came 'armed and equipped, as the law directs.' I got all out of work, so I thought I 'd begin a pair of stockings for my little — . There, pow," said she, as she placed her hand upon her mouth, and glanced towards Willie, "I came within one of telling. Why, what 's the matter with you, to-night, 'Billy boy'? You are al- ways the first to welcome me, and now you don't notice me at all. Willie! Willie! wake up!" and she shook him gently. The child started, and turned round ; but his face grew radiant with smiles, as he seized her by the hand. "Why, Mrs. Bean! you dear Woman ! " he exclaimed, " I did n't know you were here." " Well, then, I guess you did n't ; but I should have cried, in a minute more, if you hadn't spoke to me. What book is it you are devouring so earnestly?" "The Life of Franklin." " Franklin what ? " said the good lady, as she 19 ,..T 218 THE ARTIST AND HIS UTTLE FRIEND. arranged her spectacles, and took the book in her hand. " Why, Dr. Benjamin Franklin ; — it 's a biog- raphy." " A what ? O dear ! you know too much for me, already ; and by and by you '11 be reading; Webster's Dictionary, and then there'll be no such thing as talking with you. Why, Mr. Up- ton, don't you think it's dangerous for him to get so intelligent so young? According to my ideas, a child ought to be a child when he is a child." " So 1 think," replied the father; "but Willie is not coming on too fast ; — he has a little work, a little play, a little study, every day ; and when he reads for amusement, I am careful to see what it is ; for I 'd not like to put Jack Sheppard or Gulliver's Travels into the hands of such a child. Besides, I don't think Willie is anything extraor- dinary in the way of intelligence." " Yes he is, too," said Mrs. Bean, with a great deal of warmth ; "he is one of the lovin'est, best- natured, most obliging boys in the whole world, or America. Why, when I was cutting and paring THE ARTIST AND HIS LITTLB FBIEND. 219 apples, he strung them for me as well as I could have done it myself; and, more than that, them little hands have helped me shell two bushels of beans, this winter. Then, too, there 's that poor little helpless orphan boy, Johnny Millar, that can't walk a step without his crutches, — just see how he dragged him on his sled and in his roller-cart, as tenderly and carefully as his own brother. Then, too, he learned the three youngest of that bereaved family to read, young as he is; and they can do it as well as I can, and better, too, without my spectacles. I tell you what, he's an uncommon child." Quite exhausted with this spirited defence of her favorite, she stopped to take breath. With a quiet smile, the mother glanced at Willie ; but he was again absorbed in his book. "Ellen Millar," recommenced the old lady, " said, with tears in her eyes, that Willie was the best friend she had, and little Johnny could n't do without him; and, besides that, I've taken a fancy that he looks just as my Robin used to. To be sure, Robin's hair and eyes were black ; but then, — come here, Willie, — it 's just across ^0 THB ARTIST AND HIS LITTLE FRIEND. the nose, here, and down this side of the face. But, I tell you the truth, I 've had my misgivings ahout him. I vms afraid, if he read and studied so much, he 'd be just like Andrew Grieves, that poor, secluded individual, who has n't spoken ten words to me since I kept house for him, or been further than the yard gate for this two years. I think that people grow just like what they associ- ate with most; and when one gets buried heart and soul in books, they grow dumb and speech- less, just like 'em; and that's the only reason why Andrew Grieves sits in his chamber, now, silent as a mummy, without believing in God, or taking any interest in his fellow-men." " Not believe in a God ? " exclaimed Mr. Up- ton, in surprise. " No ; that 's a solemn fact ; and it 's just what I came iri here to talk to you about, though I did n't want to come on to it too soon. And now sit round here, ' Billy boy,' and listen, for you have got a part to act. You remember that yes- terday was one of our Lord's own days, when the sky was blue, and the west wind, as it came through the fir-trees, was soft and warm as sum- THE ARTIST AND BIS LITTLE FSIEND. 221 mer. Well, it came way into my heart, and I felt a kind of nearness and loving feeling for everybody ; so, when I carried Mr. Grieves* din- ner up to i im, I wanted to say something e^ctra ; and says I, ' This is a fine day, sir. Don't you think a walk would do you good? It would make you feel as brisk and happy as a bird.' He lifted up his head, and, shaking it sorrowfully, says he, 'Mrs. Bean, I never shall he happy again.' ' 0, don't be down-hearted,' said I ; ' this is a very good sort of a world, if we are only a mind to look at it in the right way. Besides, we've got all heaven before us, and all God's children to love.' " He seemed to be quite willing to talk ; for, said he, ' I have been in sunnier lands, beneath brighter skies than this. Twelve long years 1 dwelt in Italy, and stu4ied the works of the best masters. But when I turned my face homeward, it was with a feeling of joy j my heart was full of hope and love, and it yearned for the home of my childhood, like a wandering bird for its nest. I came, but it was desolate. My father slept iu a drunkard's grave, and my blessed mother la/ , 19* 222 THE ARTIST AND HIS LITTLE FRIEND. beside him. I had a brother, but they told me he, too, was a drunken, worthless sot ; and my sister, — the idol of our household, the pride of our hearts, — a while she reigned the queen of beauty and fashion, and then they bade me seek her in the dens and burrows of the city.' Then he laid his face in his hands, and moaned as though his heart was breaking. I could scarce speak for crying. 'But,' said I, * trust in God, and he will do you good.' O, Mr. Upton! 1 wish you could have seen him then. Look here ; he laid his hands down on the table, so, and turning his pale face towards me, with those great dark eyes, he said, 'Mrs. Bean, I don't believe in a God ! ' I most always have an answer for everything, but then I was taken by surprise. I looked at the white-winged cheru- bim, in the comer, and at the picture that hung with its face to the wall, but I could n't find any- thing to relieve me ; so I stood for as much as five minutes, with him looking straight at me ; then I backed slowly to the door. * Good-morn- ing, Mr. Grieves,' said I, and ran down stairs, with my heart fluttering like a wounded bird. THE ARTIST AND HIS UTILE FRIEND. 223 " Well, that afternoon, Mr. Hicks came in, as he often does, in a friendly way, to chat and take tea; and as we were talking confidentially to- gether, I heard some one speak my name. I turned my head, and, looking out of the window, I saw Mr. Grieves standing in the back portico, with his head leaned against one of the pillars. ' Come here,' said he. * What two children are those ? ' and he pointed towards the river's bank. «' Well, I saw it was ' Billy boy ' and Johnny Millar; and so I told him. .- » .< " * What a misshapen, ugly-looking thing that smallest one is!' said he. "*Yes,' says !, 'but he's a good child. "Looks is nothing, — behavior's all;" besides that, "the Lord made us, and not we our- selves."' ■ ■> i A " Then he laughed, in a strange, scornful way. * So, that is one of the creatures your God has made, to drag out a miserable, painful existence, and then go, no one knows whither.' " I felt vexed. * No,' says I, * God never made him so ; but he had the whooping-cough and measles, and, his worthless mother not caring for 224 THE ARTIST AMD HIS LITTLE FRZENp. him as she should, he suffered the consequences. It was not our Lord's doings. But look there ; there is a child that is growing as God ir^ade him, — coming up to a glorious manhood, to he useful in the world, and a blessing to his fellow- creatures. He is the friend and helper of all, from the little lame boy that he is leading so carefully, to the tiny ant that builds her home in his path- way.' I spoke rather sharply, for I was earnest, and I knew I was speaking truths that came home to him ; but I felt almost sorry, he looked so sad. " * Tell my little friend,' said he, ' I should like to see him, and talk with him ;' and then he went to his chamber. > "Now, 'Billy boy,' may God aid and bless you. I've nearly talked my hour out, for I promised to be home at eight o'clock, as Mr. Hicks said he should call ; but, mind and come to- ■morrow^ for since he has taken a liking to you, there's no knowing how much you may do to comfort and heal his poor suffering heart." " I will surely come," said the child, who sat with his hand clasped in hers, and had scarce I I THE ARTIST AND HIS IITTLB FRIEND. !i)95 token his eyes from her while she was speaking. " I will come and coax him out of his dark room into the sunshine. I will lead him among the little children, and then his heart will grow warm, and he will be happy." CHAPTER II. Through the whole of that night, the lone passer-by might have seen a light gleaming from the artist's chamber ; and Mrs. Bean, as she woke from her peaceful slumbers, heard the measured fall of his footsteps, as he paced to and fro. It smote upon her loving heart like words of sorrow, and her cheerfulness only returned when the sunshine of another day brought with it her darling Willie. " Good-morning, * Billy boy,' said she ; " I am glad you've come. Poor, Mr. Grieves hasn't been in his bed all night, and this morning he looks sad and sorry enough. I asked him if he would like to see you, for I was afraid he had forgotten you. *Yes,' said he; *if he comes, send him up.' So come this way." 226 THE AHTIST AND HIS LITTLE FRIEND. She led him through the richly-carpeted «ntry, and up a flight of stairs ; then, pointing to a half-open door, she whispered, " In there," and left him. The child stood hesitating upon the threshold, for a moment ; but, as the artist caught the sound of his footsteps, he turned, with a pleasant smile, and stretched out his hand towards him. " Come in, my little friend," said he ; "I am glad to see you." In a moment, all the restraint and awe with which Mrs. BeaA's wonderful stories had im- pressed him vanished. He stepped frankly for- ward, and took the offered hand. " How do you do, this morning, sir ? I was afmid I should dis- turb or interrupt you." " Not in the least. I was only looking at this picture, which has hung with its face to the wall for these five years. It is the work of my old master, Gjibriel Grassini. He was a good old man, — a perfect enthusiast in his art, yet simple- hearted as a child, and this was his master-piece. See ! it is ' Christ blessing the little children.' He sold all his other paintings, but this he would THE ARTIST AND HIS LITTLE FRIEND. 227 not part with ; and, because I was a favorite, he bade me take it for my own, should he die while I was with him. Often I have seen the old man sit for hours, with folded arms, and gaze upon this picture, till the tears streamed down his fur- rowed cheeks. One night, when I was going to a concert, I left him thus, and when I returned I found him sitting just the same. I spoke to him, but he answered me not. I went to him, and placed my hand upon his forehead. He was dead ! but the peaceful and beautiful expression that lingered upon his face was the same as this is here." " 0, he v beautiful ! " murmured Willie, as he clasped his hands instinctively, and looked up to that gentle, serene countenance, whose celestial beauty the old painter had portrtiyed with so much fulness and strength of feeling. "It makes me wish that I was one of those little children." " You are not the only one who has had that wish," replied the artist ; " for often, as I have looked at this picture, I have felt yearnings of love for that gentle and beautiful being, and 228 THE ARTIST AND HIS LITTLE FRIEND. longed that he should raise me in his arms and bless me, as he does that little child. But when my light became darkness, and I knew I could be a child no more, I turned the picture to the wall, and strove to forget it." " O ! " exclaimed Willie, as if visited by a sudden thought, "how I wish little Johnny could see this ! He would be so pleased. He is sick land lame ; and now that he has learned to read, and has read about this very thing himself, it would do his heart good to look at it." " Go and bring him, then," said the artist ; and scarcely were the words spoken, when Willie bounded away like a deer. Once more alone, the artist folded his arms, and stood again before the picture. " Yes," he murmured, " faint gleams of light visit the mid- night of my soul, and I feel as if awakening from a deep and troubled sleep. Ere now, Beauty and Order have sprung from Chaos, and Dark- ness has ever been the parent of Light. 1 feel unwonted strength ; and Hope whispers me that out of the winter of my soul shall spring buds of promise, which shall blossom in love and glad- THE ARTIST AND HIS LITl'LE FRL^ND. 229 ness. That child, with his earnest love and simple faith, makes me doubt the truth of my own philosophy ; and yet, how tenaciously have I clung to the belief that man can only receive as truth that which appeals to reason, and his judg- ment sanctions! But this child receives, in touching faith, whatever one may tell him, doubting not that time will prove the blest reality. Ah! now it comes! And thus, per- chance, we worms of dust, when looking up to God and angels, feel an influx of diviner life, — a something strange, intangible, unknown, — but which, when cherished in the soul, assuming form and beauty, becomes a mighty power, and flows out from the lips and hands, breathing and working blessings. Am I dreaming nowl I have dreamed enoagh ; and cold philosophy has blown upon me, with its wintry breath, until I seem transformed, — more like an iceberg, lift- ing up my chilling front, and daring Heaven to smite me. God! He seems a shadow, — a phantom born of men's affections, — and yet my soul is loaning towards him, through a sad 20 230 THE ARTIST AND HIS LITTL£ FftlEin). necessity. Ah! it seems prophetic. Yes, I yield. O Father ! lead me ! " The voices of the children, below, reached him, and he went out to meet them ; and when he saw how hard it was for the little lame child to walk, he went down and brought him up ten- derly and carefully in his arms, while Mrs. Bean, who stood below, lifted her hands in surprise. Willie threw open the blinds of the chamber ; and as the light came streaming in upon that divinely beautiful countenance, with the happy mothers and innocent little ones around him, the sensitive and suffering child burst into tears, and, kneeling on the floor, he seemed to be imploring that blessed spirit to be mindful of him also. "Why does he weep?" said the artist. " ! it 's because it comes to him //crc," said Willie, laying his hand on his heart, and speak- ing earnestly. " I can feel it, but I cannot tell you what it is ;" and, kneeling beside his weeping friend, he drew him close to his bosom. The artist trembled with emotion, as he beheld them; and as he lifted his eyes to the white- winged seraph that stood in the corner, now THE ARTIST AND HIS LITTLE FRIEND. 231 looking down upon him, in the clear light, with her saintly countenance, he thought he saw a silvery cloud about her, and, in the midst of it, the faces of his loved and lost. The warm, gushing fount of affection sprang up anew in his heart ; and his eyes, long unused to tears, were filled to overflowing. He called the children away, and, taking their hands in his, he talked to them a long time, asking them many ques- tions ; and when he found that Willie had taught his friend to read, he asked that he would read to him. The child willingly drew a little book from his pocket, and commenced, while the artist listened attentively; but when he came to the words, "Except ye are converted, and become like little children, ye cannot enter into the king- dom of heaven," he took the book and said, " It is enough ;" but he looked at it, and thought of it, and read it many times himself. "Let us go," said he, at length. "It is a pleasant day, and I will walk with you." So they went down the stairs together, and Mrs. Bean, who yet stood there, looked most gra- S32 THE ARTIST AND HIS UTTLS FBIEND. ciously upon Willie, but spoke not a word. They wandered down to the river's bank, to the little bridge above the old saw-mill, and away into the woods, where the birds were building their nests, and blossoms opening to catch the sunshine. As if God had commenced another creation, so "all things seemed to be pressing towards new conditions," — the bursting buds, the springing grass, and new-born insects ; and, partaking of the general spirit, the sorrowful artist opened his heart to receive the harmonious and invigorating influences of Nature. He talked freely with the children, telling them, in a simple way, many strange and wonderful truths about the formation of the world and the great universe ; and as he instructed their minds, and elevated their affections, by a mutual blessing, his own soul was exalted and strengthened. Then, when the poor lame child complained of weari- ness, he took him in his arms, and bore him to his home. Though poor and meanly furnished, yet the home of these orphan children was the abode of contentment and love. The sun stole in through THS ARTIST AND BIS LITTLE FBIEMD. 233 the vines at the window, and glimmered upon the neatly-swept and sanded floor; and the flowers arranged upon the chimney-piece told how well these simple-hearted children couM appreciate the beautiful in nature. A canary, which hung at the open window, was pouring forth his blithest strains; but softer and more musical by far was the low sweet voice of Ellen, who sang as she worked, with the two little onea at her feet. In the next room, too, could bj^ heard the steady tap of the hammers of the two oldest brothers, Roger and Harvey, who were, shoemakers. These were the sounds of life, love, and industry, which gladden every happy home. The little ones ran to meet Willie, with open arms ; and when the artist came, leading little Johnny, they welcomed him also. So he took them on his knees, and stroked their silken hair, and watched their merry, laughing eyes, as they told him some simple tale. Then Ellen, the gentle sister, when she saw how much he iioticed the little ones, looked up to him with confidence ; and he talked to her also, not fearing 20* * ji , I 234 THE AETIST AND HIS LITTLE FRIEND. her, or feeling abashed in her presence ; for she was so calm, so meek and pure-hearted, it seemed very natural he should say many things to her that he would not to all; and as they both became interested, she told him of the many difficulties they had been obliged to encounter, and the sorrows and sufferings they had borne since their parents died, and how, at last, they had overcome them nearly all, by patient perse- verance, and mutual love and good will. 0, how the artist wondered at himself, to think that he had been shut up in his room, fret- ting over his own sorrows, while others were suf- fering thus, and he had money enough, and to spare ! Then he spoke of his own experience, — of his sorrows, his weary mind-wanderings and heart-burnings, and how he had been led to think of many things by simply seeing his little friend Willie leading her poor lame brother, so tenderly and carefully, by the river's side. He said much, and spoke very earnestly ; — ah ! he was so elo- quent he made her weep ; and when he looked up to her, as she stood by her chair, with her pale, sweet face and sorrowful eyes, he thought how THE ARTIST AND HIS LITTLE FRIEND. 235 very much she looked like the white-winged seraph in his chamber. Each felt comforted and gladdened, by this outpouring of their sorrows ; and wlien he rose to depart, the little ones came trooping after him, begging him to come again ; and Ellen, when she bade him "good-by," thanked him for " his kindness." He could not exactly tell what that kindness wns, but he felt that he had given out something of light and goodness from his own soul ; and as he walked up the street, holding Willie by the hand, he stepped lightly, lifting his face to the sunlit heavens, and wondering if he vas indeed his former self. Such hours come not often in a man's life, and when they do, they seem almost too simple to speak of in words ; but they are great eras in existence, — the prophets of the future. CHAPTER III. Drawn together by a strong tie of love and sympathy, Willie and the artist became warm and earnest friends; and as the artist received light and inspiration from the beautiful manifest- 236 THE ARTIST AND HIS LITTLE FRIEND. I ations of the child's unaffected goodness of mind and heart, so was Willie constantly adding to his little store of knowledge, from the rich treasurej opened to him by his friend. When the child was free from his school duties, they would wan- der Lway whole days together, through the fields and woods, gathering rare specimens of flowers, minerals, and insects ; resting, at times, in some village porch, or taking their noon-day meal at some old-fashioned farm-house, until "the artist and his little friend" became well known all about the country. Thus years passed on, and — as it very naturally happens, in the course of time, and change of seasons — there dawned, at length, a blessed morning, in the month of May, when heaven was all a-light with sunshine, and earth returned its gracious smiles with blushing bloom and matchless beauty. Then thoughtful heads and loving hearts were conscious of the nearness of the Lord, and thanked him for his goodness ; and thus it was that Mrs. Bean, the lone and childless widow, rejoiced in the influences of this grateful spirit, and made her own heart glad with the happiness THE ARTIST AND HIS LITTLE FRIEND. 237 of Others. She went from room to room, throW- ing open the windows to let in the air and sun- shine ; scanning every comer, to see that not a particle of dust remained; arranging the chairs for the twentieth time ; adding a few more fresh flowers to the already loaded vases, and then looking around with a smile of perfect satisfac- tion, as she pronounced it " all correct." Down deep in her \\e&Tt was the knowledge of a blessed truth, which must be told. That very night Andrew Grieves was to take Ellen Millar, the poor orphan girl, as his lawful and wedded wife, and shield her from the world's rude storms under his own protecting wing. " Ah ! " thought Mrs. Bean, as she stood in the little back kitchen, and looked straight at the Chinese idols on the mantel-piece, "it was the most natural thing in the world that he should fall in love with her ;" and surely there had not been such an excellent match since the time when she herself stood up, and promised solemnly to love, honor, and obey her now de- parted husband. Dr. Alpheus Bean. But sud- denly her meditations were interrupted by the 288 THE ARTIST AND HIS LITTLE FRIEND. hasty entrance of Mr. Hicks, bearing a great two- year-old baby in his arms, which he carried with the air of a hero returning with the spoils of battle. " Why, Mr. Hicks ! " exclaimed the good lady, in astonishment, " where did you get that child?" But Mr. Hicks was too exhausted to speak. He placed the child upon its feet, and sinking into a chair, he could only murmur something about " ' Billy boy ' and the mother." He was such a full-favored and fleshy man, it was no wonder he was very much overcome. But, as Mrs. Bean stood regarding the child with the greatest curi- osity, her darling Willie made his appearance, also, leading a pale and fainting woman by the hand. " Is this the place ? " she said, in a faltering voice. " Have you told me the truth ? Shall I rest here ? Lord ! " and she fell upon the threshold. In an instant, Mrs. Bean was at her side, and, with the assistance of Mr. Hicks, she was brought in and laid upon the sofa. She had fainted, and while Mrs. Bean labored to restore THB ARTIST AND HIS UTTLE FKIElfD. 230 her, she began to question Willie. " Who is she ? and where did you find her V* "I will tell you," said he. "My Uncle Richard sent me a nice basket of oranges, last night, and I thought I would run down, this morning, and carry a few to old Mother Mason ; but I had scarce turned the corner of the street, when I saw this woman coming, leading the little child. She seemed to be so weak she could scarcely walk, and before I reached her she sank down upon one of the door-steps. I ran to her as quick as I could, v/hen she begged me, in the ' name of Heaven,' to give her something to eat, for she was perishing with hunger and fatigue. I gave her some of the oranges, and she ate them so fast it frightened me. Then she asked me if I knew a man named Andrew Grieves. I told her I did, and that he was one of my best friends. At this, she caught me by the arm, and talked so fast I could not understand her. I could only gather, from what she said, that she was his sis- ter, and wanted to see him. So I turned back to show her the way, when we met with Mr. Hicks, 240 THE ARTIST AND HIS LITTLE FRIEND. who insisted upon carrying the child, for the poor little thing could scarce step." " O Lord of love ! " exclaimed Mrs. Bean, as she raised her hands, in grateful surprise ; " is n't this remarkable ? His own darling sister ! But don't say a toard, Willie ; don't say a word^ Mr. Hicks ! Keep it a secret, and we '11 surprise him. O, won't this be one of the blessedest nights the moon ever shone upon ? " and she redoubled her exertions, pouring out the cologne with a lavish hand, until the warm glow returned to the stran- ger's cheek, and she was able to sit up. • " O ! " she murmured, as she clasped her hands on her forehead, and gazed around, " how sick and starved I have been ! And my poor brother ! he is perishing too! 0, sir! go to him! Save him ! " she exclaimed, turning to Mr. Hicks. "He is a poor, broken-spirited man; but they keep him in their dens of corruption, and he can- not escape. O, save him ! save him ! " " Yes, yes ! " cried Mr. Hicks, as he sprang up and pulled on his hat; "I will do anything in the world, — only tell me what ! " He buttoned up his coat with nervous energy, and looked round for THB ABTUT AND HIS UTTLE FRIBND. 941 aomewhere to go. He could scarce wait for a definite and clear direction, when he hurried away to the coach-office, with his great heart beating joyfully in its broad tenement, and his whole soul bent upon the accomplishmrnt of his mission ; nor will it be ill-timed, ever) now, to say, that ere noon-day he had returned, an( the erring brother sat, with his sister and hur little one, by the kitchen-fire, "clothed ui • in his right mind." But the artist knew nothing of all this, as he sat alone in his pleasant chamber, with his hands clasped upon his bosom, and his face raised to the sunlit heavens, pouring out the deep grati- tude of his soul to the Giver of all good. Much he wondered what had become of his little friend, — he who had not ;'^' ied to meet him each day since their first acquaintance, and whose thoughts, and sympathies, and love, had become so needful to his happiness. And, of all times, that he should forsake him tujw! — the fairest, proudest, happiest day of his life. Yet the time passed on, and he came not; and even when the lamps were lighted, and the guests 21 242 THE ARTIST AND HIS UTTLE FBIEND. assembled, and the artist stood there, with that dear chosen one leaning upon his arm, who seemed so much like the white-winged seraph in the comer, even then he looked in vain for that young, familiar face. But while the artist stood thus, with his soul's affianced leaning upon his arm, the folding doors were thrown open wide, and his youthful friend, with sparkling eyes and a glowing countenance, made his appearance, leading by either hand the lost brother and sister, while Mr. Hicks brought up the rear with the child; and the artist, as he turned his eyes towards them, knew them in an instant. His face grew pale, nnd his limbs trembled ; but, as he stretched out his arms to embrace them, a fervent " Thank God ! " burst from his lips. Then everybody laughed, and everybody cried, they knew not why. Mr. Hicks shook hands with Mrs. Bean, as though he had never seen her before, and cast significant glances at the young couple. The five Millar children drew close about their sister; the little paper-cutters danced for joy ; and Mrs. Upton, though she was by no THE ARTIST AND HIS LITTLE FRIEND. 243 means weak and sentimental, laid her head on her husband's shoulder, and wept. Then the artist, as he stood thus, with his own loved angel leaning upon his arm, lifted his eyes to the white-winged seraph that stood in the comer, and to Jesus as he blessed the little chil- dren ; and because his soul was too full for utter- ance, he simply laid his hand on the head of Willie, and earnestly exclaimed, " May God bless 2/oM, my little friend !" SAINT VALENTINE'S MORNING. BT MAS. M. A. LIYBBMOK] «Wb shall have a gay time to-morrow, Cousin Addy, — a gayer time than we've had before, this winter ! " and the lively little Louise rubbed her hands together, while her eyes sparkled with thoughts of coming enjoyment. " Why, what takes place to-morrow ? " asked the graver and more serious Adelaide, looking up from her homely needle-work, and suspend- ing, for a moment, her labors. " Why, don't you know that the day is conse- crated to fun and frolic, Tna. belle, — to downright solid enjoyment?" " Well, I must confess my ignorance, Louise ; — I did not know that the day was different from any other." " May Saint Valentine forgive you ! " replied the little maiden, clasping her hands, and raising her eyes in affected horror. " Of all the saints' SAINT VALENTIMB's MORNINO. 245 days in the calendar, his is the only one I remem- ber or keep holy." " 0, to-morrow is Saint Valentine's day, is it ? I beg the saint's pardon, as well as your own. But what of that? I know there is an old notion that on this day birds choose their mates. Chaucer alludes to it ; so does Shakspeare, in the •Two Gentlemen of Verona,' I believe j and Herrick has a couplet like this : * Oft have I heard both youths and virgins say, Birds choose their mates, and couple, too, this day.* But how is this going to make fun for you, you little wild puss ? " " What a horrible bas-bleu you are, Adelaide ! Let me tell you, there will be that going on to- morrow that the birds will utterly ignore. All day long, a stream of Valentines will come pour- ing in upon us from the post-office, — senti- mental, confidential, and lack-a-daisical ; serious, comic, and tragic ; inscribed upon paper of every hue and quality, bearing all manner of dainty devices, embossed, perforated, painted, and per- fumed, and made as killing as possible; and 2Vl^ * 246 SAINT valentine's MORNINO. can't you see, you icicle, that this will make fun for us?" " Ah ! I begin to comprehend ! The pairing is not wholly confined to the feathered race, then ? " "I don't know about that, — the fun is not. Well, then, besides the Valentines, a party of us are going over to the Shaker village, in the after- noon, and to see the Indian relics, — t\/o places I have been dying to visit, these two years ; and in the evening we have our grand fancy ball, — the ball of the season, — when I intend to look my prettiest, to dance my lightest, and to queen it in a most regal manner. 0, these glorious balls ! — the music of those divine waltzes ! — how it haunts me ! — Tra la la la ! Tra la la la ! Tra la la la ! la la la ! " and, humming the air of a fashionable waltz, she began caracoling about the parlor, in the wildest and most graceful man- ner imaginable. "Then I suppose we are to give up our in- tended horseback ride, in the morning ? " "0, bless me! no, indeed!" cried Louise, stopping short in her dancing. " I had forgotten that. No, indeed ! Let 's crowd all the enjoy- SAINT valentine's MORNING. 247 ment into day that we can ! We '11 be up by the first pe of day, and, mounting our good steeds, we '11 * to the hills ! to the hills, away ! ' " " But will you not crowd too much into one day?" " Too much enjoyment? — who ever heard of such a thing ? " " Not you, ma mignonne, I '11 be bound. Do you know there is a superstition that the first gentleman one meets, on Saint Valentine's morn- ing, is to be one's future husband ? " " No, — is there ? " asked the little beauty, her bright eyes flashing at the thought of additional fun ; " then we '11 surely have our ride ; and we '11 make it a regular husband-hunting expedition, won't we? My eyes will be open bright and early, I assure you." " I should n't suppose you would feel interested in such a superstition," said Adelaide, signifi- cantly, looking archly at her cousin ; " you. who are betrothed, and as goci as wedded ; but for me, now — " " Indeed, now," interrupted the little lady, her whole manner instantly changing, — tossing her 348 SAINT valentine's KO/iKfTNO. ii head scornfully, arching her 3ip pt;>;id!T, and looking indignation, -^ " indeed, now, Couisin Adelaide, I don't kuov what you mean by saying I am betrothed, and as good «s wedded." "You don t, indeed! Wiiat would Horace Grey say, think you. to bear an avowai of such J!» loranc'i ? " ** He might say what he pleased, for all that I should care. It is a matter of indifference to me what he says, upon any subject." " Heigho, Louise ! How very lofty you are ! But what 's the matter ? Are not Horace Grey and you friends ? " " We have been.'* " But are not now ? '* " But are not now. Our unfortunate engage- ment is ended ; and I beg you '11 never mention Mr. Grey's name again, in my presence," she added, with an attempt at dignity that made her cousin smile. " But, pray, Louise, what has caused this sud- deii estrangement ? " "O, don't ask me anyth? '>: bout it," replied :h/j now saddened girl. ■ im not to be tyran- SAINT VALENTINE^S MORNINQ. 249 nized over, nor to be dictated to, by a husbajtdt — much less by a lover. I am glad our acquaintance is over, for I am much happier than I was before ;" her face and voice both giving the lie to this as- sertion, as it was evident she was on the point of bursting into tears ; " and now, cousin, if we are going to rise early, we must to bed immediately." Unusual seriousness settled on the face of Louise; her gayety had fled. A painful chord had been touched ; and the cousins soon withdrew to their common sleeping-room, in silence, and disrobed for the night. Adelaide forbore any fur- ther attempts at conversation, seeing that Louise preferred it ; and she was fast sinking into slum- ber, when she caught the sound of a stifled sob, and, rousing herself, found Louise in an agony of tears. Drawing her tenderly to her bosom, she endeavored to draw from her the secret of her grief; but, failing in this, she soothed and quieted her, till, at last, her troubles were lost in sleep. Louise Linton was an only child, an heiress, and p beauty. Petted, indulged, humored, ca- ressed, and ^f' tered, she had become wayward, selfish, cctpricious, aud tickle; and, but for the i&M 250 SAINT valentine's MOBNINO. good influences exerted upon her by her cousin Adelaide, the eirly death of whose parents had made her a member of the same family circle, she might have been utterly spoiled. Older, more thoughtful, less highly favored by nature and fortune, Adelaide was yet endowed with a most beautiful spirit, a strong, clear mind, and the most correct principles. A strong attachment had sprung up between the two cousins, — an attachment almost maternal on the part of Ade- laide; and, in consequence, some of the most glaring faults of Louise, arising from a defective education, had been gradually but effectually remedied. The work of improvement was still going on, silently, almost unconsciously ; and the impressible but warped nature of Louise was being slowly moulded into symmetry and beauty, by the strong-minded, harmoniously-developed Adelaide. Her great beauty and most attractive manners had captivated the fancy of Horace Grey, at first, and an acquaintance with the young heiress had stolen his heart. He was some eight years older than she, — manly, upright, enth':>.;^'astic in his SAINT valentine's MURNIN9. 251 love of the good and beautiful, thoughtful and studious. It seemed strange that his heart should settle on so giddy a creature as Louise ; but no one could doubt the fact, who witnessed his devotion. Louise, in return, loved him with the entireness of an undivided heart, and sought to elevate herself to his lofty standard, and to render herself worthy of him. Adelaide, who had watched the growth of their mutual affection, predicted, in her own heart, the happiest results to Louise from her betrothal, and prayed most earnestly that there might be an assimilation of their spirits, — an ultimate complete blen'^jr:;: of their natures, — necessary to perfect happiness in wedded life. Louise could not, however, correct all her faults at once. She had a spice of coquetry in her nature, and had been so long accustomed to the belleship of the circle in which she '• . \ — had become so used to subduing hearts, and to indulge in meaningless flirtations, — that it was almost impossible for her to renounce, immedi- ately, the homage paid her, or to withstand the flattery and adulation yet sweet to her. Though 25^ «A1NT valentine's MORNING. her heart was wholly Horace Grey's, she now and then indulged in a flirtation which she per- suaded herself was harmless, but which greatly annoyed Y.im to whom she was betrothed, who was himself guilty of no such weaknesses. These had drawn forth many a remonstrance from her lover, which were received with tears, with promises of amendment, and expressions of peni- tence, which bound her to his heart more closely than ever. On the last occasion of his protest jainst this, her besetting sin, he had expressed himself in stronger language than usual, thereby greatly rousing the ire of his lady-love, who, to the astonishment of Grey, protested angrily against his tyi-anny, accused him of petty domineering, avowed her dete . mination to do as she pleased, and, Anally, closed her angry tirade by a demand to bo instantly released from her engagement to him, which shr pronounced "i^k^ome, odious, and hatefn] A3tonished, angry, and grieved, Grey immedi- ately complied with the sudden request; and, before Louise had recovered from her anger, they SAINT valentine's MORNING. 253 had parted, both wretched, both angry, and both persuaded that earth could give no future happi- ness. Louise was the more wretched of the two ; for to the sorrows of wounded affection were added, in her case, the pangs of remorse. She strove to conceal her trouble, and, by affecting an unusual gayety, had succeeded in retaining her secret within her own heart, until it was drawn from her by her cousin, as narrated. She was not, however, a skilful dissimulator ; and the moment the fact of her broken engagement became known to another, all her (;ourage forsook her, and she abandoned herself to passionate tears. She loved Grey tenderly and proudly ; — every pulsation of her heart was his, and the withdrawal of his love was like the blotting out of the sunlight to her spirit. She was proud of his elegant figure, and handsome person; of his fine talents, and social position ; she knew no woman who might not feel honored to call him husband ; and she now feared he was lost to her forever, and that she could never win him back, after so greatly annoying, and then so rudely repulsing him. It 22 254 8AINT valentine's MORNING. was these ever-present thoughts thnt caused the tears she shed cm her cousin's bosom, who guessed the trouble that Louise hesitated to avow. Morning came, and, as Adelaide awoke the lit- tle gypsy from a deep slumber, she was not sorry to see that the traces of the last night's showery grief were nearly gone, and that her spirits were buoyed up and excited by the prospect of the day's enjoyment. They were soon equipped, and, mounting their spirited steeds, were away to a distant part of the town, where the scenery rose from the picturesque and romantic into the bold, the wild, and sublime. They had taken so early a start, that they met no one on their way thither; and, in the absence of all restraint, gave themselves up to the exhilaration of the exciting exercise they were taking. The morning was a delightful one for winter ; the air, fresh and brac- ing, wantoned with their tresses, gave brilliance to their eyes, and vermilion to their cheeks and lips ; and, as they were borne over hill and valley, their spirits rose higher and higher, till the usu- ally calm, serious Adelaide was wild with excite- -^\ SAINT valentine's MORNING. 255 ment, while the gay Louise gave vent to her exuberant spirits in laughter and song. At last, they reached their point of destination, — a bold, steep elevation, which commanded an extensive prospect, in whose rugged and cran- nied sides many a dwarfed pine-tree and hardy evergreen shrub had rooted itself, relieving it of its boldness, and giving it, in winter, even a pleasant appearance. Here they halted to take breath, and to survey the scenery. The distant town, with its white dwellings and churches ; the intervening river, sheeted with ice, and glittering like crystal in the morning sun ; the cultivated farms, with their various appurtenances; then the increasingly wild and broken face of th^ country ; and, at last, the clustering, rocky, ra; ged hills, which nature had rudely tumbieu. together, — here a narrow defile between them, and there a yawning chasm, far down in whose depths tumbled a black, troubled stream, whose wild leapings the severest cold of winter could not tame, — on one side, bleak, stern hills of granite, lifting their bare heads to heaven ; on the other, gentler elevations, crowned with perennial 256 SAINT VALENTIKE'S MORIfQfQ, verdure ; large masses of dazzlingly white snow, lying piled up in hollows, and covering the high lands, for miles, — all these together, glistening with the heavy frost of the preceding night, and gleaming in the wintry atmosphere, made up a prospect on which the eyes of the fair maidens, who were ardent worshippers of nature, feasted long and admiringly. But, tt last, remembering the waning morning, and the various employ- ments and amusements that were to be crowded into the brief and already far-advanced day, they descended the hill, and turned their horses' heads homeward. "Well, but what does this mean?" inquired Louise of her companion, as they cantered rapidly homeward. "We did not meet a single gentleman on our way to the 'Rocks,' and we are not likely to meet one on our way back. Whp* "nay this portend, Addy ? " * O, a life of single blessedness, probably," laughingly replied Adelaide. " As for myself, it was all I expected from the omens of the morn- ing." "Don't predict single blessedness for me! I SAINT valentine's MORNING. 257 protest against it ! I shall not accept it ! I must get a glimpse of some swain, before I reach home, if it be only an Irish hod-carrier. I have no desire to * keep my maiden peace, still calm and fancy free,' as the song has it." " I do not know as you deserve anything bet- ter, after having discarded — " " See ! see ! " interrupted Louise, eagerly ; " is not that a gentleman on horseback, just coming on the bridge ? " " Yes ; Saint Valentine is going to prove pro- pitious, after all." "Now, then, my destiny is to be decided. How do I look, Adelaide, — like a fright ? '' " No ; most bewitchingly beautiful, of course. But no matter how you look, as it 's only Horace Grey coming." " Who ? — what ? — Horace Grey ? " and, rein- ing in her palfrey suddenly and violently, she came to a dead halt. "Let's turn and go back ! " she said, with her usual impulsiveness ; " let's go back ! " at the same moment turning her horse's head. " No, indeed, Louise ; don't think of anything 22* 258 SAINT valentine's MORNING, SO absurd. You will make yourself ridiculous. Come on ! " she continued, endeavoring to seize the bridle of her horse. " Are you afraid of Mr. Grey?" " No ; but I will not meet him ! " she replied, with much resolution ; and wheeling round, as a sudden thought seized her, she added, " We are by the river's side, and I will cross it. The ice will bear. I will vrait on the other side, while you come round by the bridge ; so adieu^ ma belle cousine^ — au revoir ! " and kissing her hand gayly, in farewell, she dashed wildly down to the river. " Stop, Louise !" shrieked Adelaide, in terror; " stop ! the river is not frozen over the channel. For Heaven's sake, come back ! Don't venture on the ice ! " and she followed after, imploring her return, in agony. But Louise was excited, and the reckless dar- ing of the thing pleased her. Just casting a glance back at her terrified cousin, and laughing gayly and mockingly, she urged her palfrey to a yet madder speed, and dashed on to what seemed certain destruction, the long plumes of her blue riding-cap streaming wildly in the wind, and the SAINT VALENTINE'S MORNING. 269 ample folds of her long azure habit flowmg back upon the flanks of her horse. But there was another who had witnessed this mad-cap movement of Louise, with more distress even than Adelaide. As Horace Grey came oflf the bridge, he had recognized the cousins, and had instantly comprehended the cause of Louise's halting. A feeling of mingled indignation and sorrow came over him, at this decided expression of aversion ; but this gave way to emotions of horror, as he saw her head her horse towards the river, with the evident intention of crossing it. The stream here was deep, und ran swiftly, ren- dering it an unsafe place for crossing in the coldest weather, bat now doubly pei'ious, fronr. the lateness and mildness of the season. More- over, he saw, what had escaped Louise's observa- tion, that the river was not much frozen in the middle; and he judged rightly, that the ice around was brittle, and, perhaps, detached from the main body. Putting spurs to his horse, as he saw the imminent peril of the wild girl, whom he loved, at this moment, immeasurably, he followed after 260 SAINT valentine's MORNING. her, calling on her name loudly and imploringly, and using every means to arrest hn attention ; but in vain, — Louise, deaf to his cries, and madly intent on carrying her point, dashed on as furiously as ever. There was nothing to impede her progress, and in a moment her horse's hoofs were clattering on the ice, when, looking over her shoulder, and perceiving, as she supposed, both Grey and her couiin in pursuit, she re- doubled her already terrible speed. A deep groan came from the depths of his soul, as he saw her blindness tc her danger ; and, dismount- ing from nis steed at the river's brink, he yielded, for a moment, to the sickness of heart that stole over him. But he could no* so resign her to death, and made one more e^xt to arrest her progress. " Louise ! " he shouted, while .is Maite lips quivered, and a cold dew oozed out on his brow; "Louise, stop ! You c;innot cross the river ! You will perish in the attempt ! For the love of Heaven, stop! Tu. ice already bends under you ! otop, or you will perish ! " Every nerve in his system was drawn to its utmost tension SAINT VALEWfTNE's MOHNINO'. 261 already, by his anxiety for her , and he leaned against his horse in a state of exhaustion, as he beheld her still flying on to death, unarrested by his voice. But she stopped, at last, suddenly, and as in affright, while a piercing shriek was borne to the ears of those who were watching her, who saw, at the same time, that her hands were stretched imploringly towards them. Suddenly she had found herself on the brink of a yawning chasm, and had felt the footing of her horse failing under him. Pulling upon the rein, she tried to turn him ; but the rotten ice was cracked around, and his efforts to gain a surer footing only disturbed the detached blocks, sending them out into the open stream, rer lering the chasm wider and the danger greater. With distended nostrils, and eye« starting from their sockets, the noble beast leaped and struggled to save himself, — spring- ing from one sinking mass of ice to another, and neighing in wild affright, —hut his struggles were to no purpfw?, and, at last, uttering an almost human cry of agony, he sank under the disturbcil Wfiteri. 262 SAINT VALENTINES MORNING. Louise perceived that her steed was sinking under her, and, disengaging herself from the saddle, and gathering in her hand the long folds of her habit, she leaped towards a large, loose mass of ice floating beside her, at the same time catching a glimpse of Horace Grey flying over the sheeted river to her relief, and faintly hearing his voice uttering words of encouragement, and assuring her of aid. But she did not reach the ice, and her lover and cousin saw her disappear far down beneath the cold, black, running water, with anguish inexpressible. Adelaide involuntarily covered her face with her hands, as if to shut out the sight, while Grey, to whose feet love and anguish had given wings, flew to the spot where she had sunk, saying, " I will save her, or perish with her ! " But when he came to where he had last seen her, there was no trace of her to be seen. Further down the stream he beheld the reeking head and blood- streaming nostrils of her pony above the water, who was making a last effort at self-preservation. Thither he hastened, leaping from one block of ice to another, and gazing downward with strain- SAINT valentine's MORNING. 263 ing eyes and a palpitating heart. At last, he descried her receding form far down in the water, dragged downwards by the weight of her heavy garments; and having already disencumbered himself of the most burdensome portions of his clothing, he plunged in, and brought her to the surface, pale, unconscious, and apparently dead. Lifting her head above the water, he made his way among the loose blocks of ice that were floating down the river, until, feeling himself failing from exhaustion, he supported himself and his precious burden upon a large mass that moved more slowly along, and upon which he eventually gained a footing. It gave temporary support, but he felt it sinking, and leaped to another, and another, until, finally, by superhuman e>.ertions, he stood upon the main body of ice that covered the river, with Louise folded to his heart. An exclamation of gratitude burst from his inmost soul, as he perceived that her heart pulsed with life, though but feebly; and, folding his cloak warmly around her, he bore her to the shore, as one would a babe. Adelaide came to meet him, proffering her assistance, which he declined with 264 SAINT valentine's MORNING. a gesture, for his full and excited heart would not allow of words ; and still holding her in his arms, he seateu himself in the saddle, and urged his horse to the nearest house, when he resigned her to the care and attentions of others. Even then, he could not be persuaded to take thought for his own comfort; nor could he be drawn from her bedside until she was pronounced out of danger, when his glad and grateful emotions vented themselves in tears. Evening came, and the brilliantly lighted hall was thronged with the graceful figures of fleet and airy dancers, clad in fancy costumes ; and music, mirth, and gayety, ruled the hour. But Louise Linton, who had proudly reckoned to grace the scene with her beautiful presence, was not there. Often was her name mentioned, during the evening, coupled with expressions of regret at her absence, and of sorrow for her bitter disap- pointment. But there was not a heart in that gay assembly that throbbed with such deep and holy happiness as did hers on that evening, though lying in a dimly-lighted chamber, on a SAINT valentine's MORNING. 265 couch of weakness. Beside her sat Horace Grey, for whom she had first inquired, when consciousness was restored, and who, with irre- pressible tenderness, had kissed away the tears of penitence that flowed from the beautiful eyes of his beloved, assuring her of the pardon for which her pale and trembling lips would have sued, and folding her to his warm heart with a love a thousand-fold increased by the events of the day. The hours passed away in that sweet companion- ship known only to loving hearts, — in frank confession of faults, with heartfelt promises of amendment ; in generous expressions of trust and affection, and in df^lightful planning for the now rose-colored future Soon, " Cousir Addy " glided in, making a third one in the happy party; and though she saw the cheek of Louise was pale, and her lip tremulous, she could not forbear rallying her a little. " You will never have faith in the superstition connected with Sa.' t V^alentine's morning, after this," she said ; " the practical working of it has proved so very adverse to your wishes to-day." fl3 266 SAINT VALENTIME'S MOEMWO. Louise looked a tender reproof; but Grey answered, gayly, " yes ; faith in that supersti- tion is to be a part of our religious creed, here- after. We were both baptized into it, this morning; and Saint Valentine is to fce our favor- ite saint, henceforth and forever. We are not sure that we shall not build him an altar, some day." " As matters stand now, you had better build yourself a house^ as soon as possible. Unless you cage your bird, it may attempt to fly again, and then you may have another wild-goose chase m pursuit." "Just do me the favor to box Addy'e ears," now spoke Louise, smiling faintly. "And when she is stronger, she will repay you with interest," added Adelaide. And so they continued to chat, in free and careless converse, until the lateness of the hour warned them to retire, when they sought their rest, happier and better for the trials of the day. TK V. SELS. BY MRS. SAWTKS. " Noble ship ! with silken streamers, Floating on the summer breeze, Sailing, in the yellow sunlight, O'er the deep and silent seas. Swiftly as the cloud-cast shadow O'er the sunny landscape flees, — " From the same far country voyaging. Pilgrims o'er the same wide sea, Furl, I pray, thy sails of beauty. Tarry yet a while for me ! Though my bark be small and humble, Let me bear thee company. "Fearful is the seaman's loneness. Who nor friend nor comrade hath, While across the trackless ocean He pursues his silent path • 1 v^ \^ ^3^ ^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 ^^ Vi lu 114 1.1 m mt^^ ' ^ < 6" ► ^ w 7 PholDgraiiiic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WE»STER,N.Y. MSM (716)a72-4S03 268 THE TWO VESSELS. Fearful in the calm that wakes not, Or the tempest's sleepless wrath. " Thus upon these heaving watei*s Long and lonely have I been; Silent stars have journeyed o'er me, All around were waters green, And the sunlight and the moonlight Glimmered with a lonely sheen. " Linger, then, thou noble vessel, — Mirth and joy are on thy deck ; Gay forms to and fro are flitting, Who of pain nor sorrow reck ; God forbid that aught of evil E'er their harmless glee should check ! " Like the song of some sea-maiden. In the far-dowTi ocean-caves, ^ Music from their lips comes stealing Sweetly o'er the dark-green waves. Blending with the billow's chiming. That my little shallop laves. THE TWO VESSELS. " Pause a while, then, noble yessel ; From thy deck a cable cast To my little bounding shallop, — I will make it strong and fast ; Blest by tones from human voices, Little shall I heed the blast." " Little bark, the ocean skimming. What art thou, that, on our way, When the winds our sails are filling, Spreading wide our streamers gay, Bearing us so fleetly onward. We for one like thee should stay ? " Whiit to thee the voice of music. Mellow flute and sounding harp ? What the ray from soft eyes gleaming, Like the stars, when night is dark ? Stay us not amid our pleasure ; Fare thee well, thou little bark ! " " Fare thee well, then, haughty vessel, I thy cruel haste forgive ; 22* 269 6i£[&UUiUii 270 THE TWO VESSELS. Though alone upon the ocean, 'Neath the eye of God I live ! I forgive thee ! and, in parting. Heed the warning that I give ! " When the darkness gathers round tnee, As the daylight fades away. And the heavy wings of slumber On thy crew unguarded lay. Then a dark and sullen stranger To thy rudder takes his way. C( On hiu brow, so pale and ghastly. Sits a smile to waken fear, While his lips to viewless comrades Whisper words thou canst not hear; ! beware the gloomy steersman ! — Danger threats when he is near. " When most madly leap the billows, Wildest wars the angry blast ; When the fiercest flash the lightnings. Loudest groans the straining mast, — !?■ THE TWO VESSELS. 271 Then the dark and sullen stranger Holds thy rudder strong and fast." " Many thanks, thou lonely boatman, For thy warning kindly made, But my bolts are staunchly driven, And my keel is deeply laid ; With the foul fiend for a steersman. Little should I be afraid ! " " Fare thee well, a little while, then, — Speed thy proud way o'er the main ; And forgive that for a moment I have stayed thy course in vain; On a shore where all are equal We, ere long, shall meet again. " One same solemn doom awaits us, — Nay, forbear thy bootless wrath ! — Shallop frail and kingly vessel. Ruled by one resistless breath, On the same rock will be shattered. For the steersman's name is DEATH ! " THE SPINNING-WHEEL. A YOUTHFUL matron, mild and fair, With hair of golden sheen, She sat beside the cottage door, Beneath a leafy screen. For trees stretched wide their arms above, Between her and the sky, «fc' And birds sat singing in the boughs. Trying their minstrelsy. Afar there gambolled on the green. In wild and gleeful mirth, The little ones, whose shout and song Gave sunshine to the earth. Such bliss was rooted in her heart. Song only could reveal ; And so she trolled a simple layi Beside her spinning-wheel. •:#, m 'VAinai >11U> fff-"^'. :„%i.'-^ i i # ■ 4 4 ^■# ■.»,., ,/«.:i«».V' ■%;'■ Tin, SPINNTNGWHEEI. A touT«Ki.'u mafiroTi, niiid and fair, Wid) huir of ifoid*:-!! shorn. She SRi bf'aidf, the cottage door, Be»''ath « leaty >' ri^en. For trees stretched wide their ftnus above, B« I %vs- -. I. Her ap d t h i ^ sk y , Andi»:. r-' . ,i ai^tisg m $]»« bo'ighi?, Trying I; i'..- =-i i.'i^icp^.itflf. .*»•" In tt-Hd s* •♦*i fli**^ uMi, The little aiw#* v/^x^rn^ shout and &ong Gave sunr^hints! !». ik^ carlh. SucVi bliss was rooted in ber )wtif% Song only could re \eiil; And so she rrojled a Rtmpl*? J&y, •^a^>,.i|^fe)^)ie»idc her spinriiniJ'Wheel. R Muckner Mux! i. W' ■R HuctaieT Mnit. HW Smith Sc Tr'[}=a[E g^FOI^ff^lif^CE W[KlltE[L, ^■&JSilU^.- :-i!."-.'*i,i. THE SPINNING-WHEEL. Fast, fast her slender fingers wrought, And fast the spindle flew, And larger was the fine-spun web That by her labor grew. ! what to her were Fashion's halls, Where Pleasure seems to dwell. Where wealth dispenses luxury. And mirth and music swell ? 273 She toiled for those she lived to love, And asked no happier lot ; > So labor lost its weariness, And, singing, still she wrought. O ! love can lighten every load. Remove each care we feel. And e'en in stem and homely toil Some beauty can reveal, As she found pleasure and delight Beside her spinning-wheel. M. A. L. THE DEFAULTING BROOK. A STORY FOR OLD AND YOUNO, HIGH AND LOW, RICH AND POOR. BT MRS. T. P. SMITH. " Niagara ! sublime, glorious Niagara ! " echoed a brook, at whose side a lady had uttered the words, in describing her visit to the ' wonderful cataract to a friend near her. And, as the brook repeated the words, she began to grow quite envious and angry that she was not Niagara, and quite displeased with the lady; and rudely pushing too near where she stood, wet her feet, rendering her, far from home as she was, very uncomfortable. When she left, the brook sulked and pouted, and at last exclaimed, " What am I ? Here I run, and run, and run, and try as hard as Niagara to be somebody ; and, after all, I am only an insignificant brook ! " — and then, remembering the little mill and the old miller, just at the foot of the hill, continued, " THE DEFAULTING BROOK. 276 well ! a mill is only quite a commonplace, matter- of-fact affair, — nobody admires that ! " Just then, the voices of merry children were borne on the wind across the field from the school-house, saying, "To the brook! to the brook ! " and a lovely girl of fourteen was heard to say, "The sweet brook!" and added (young girls always string adjectives together), "little, sweet, beautiful, elegant brook ! " A smile of satisfaction rippled, the face of the brook at this, but bad feelings soon displaced it; and saying, " Poh ! poh ! only children ! " very contemptu- ously, she turned from them, as, putting their mouths or their feet into the water, as was most grateful, they played upon her banks. Disregarding the sweet cheering of childhood, the brook grew more and more discontented ; and, as their admiration and joy were very evident, she grew sentimental, and said, "Well, nobody else loves me or prizes me, but children ! " In a moment after, the brook was startled by a noise, and looking further up stream, beheld a fine herd of cattle, driven by a good-looking farmer, stepping into the water, for their noon 276 THE DEFAULTING BROOK. drink. With a contemptuous rush, the brook moved past them, wondering how Niagara would water cattle ; and, running on, very soon cows, children, school, and fields, wore left behind, and, all alone in the wild woods, the brook thought she could murmur and make herself us miserable as she pleased. " O ! I am so sick of men, man- ners, and life! Here, in solitude, I will keep aloof, and be happy." The thought of the lady and Niagara came up again, and she so id, "0! if I was only a waterfall ! even a small one ! — then would somebody admire me ; but now I am only a brook ! " Soon, a step was heard ; a man was seen ad- vancing towards the brook, with a knapsack on his back, and a staff in his hand, — a handsome, intelligent-looking young fellow, — evidently a recruit, enlisted for the war. He took ofT his hat, and sat down, and leaning his head upon his hand, one might have seen, soldier though he was, tears straggling through his fingers. At length, the cause of them was made manifest. "Ah! pretty brook," said he, "I am now to bid thee adieu ' — to part from thee, my last friend, per- THE DEFAULTINQ SHOOK. 277 haps forever. When a child, I dabbled in thy waters, near my father's house ; — a larger child, I sailed my tiny boat in thy stream; made mimic dams and bridges over thy path ; and when older, I waded, fished, and bathed in thy waters. Since a man, my forest dinner has always been gladdened by thee. O! I shall think often of thee, — in the dusty march, in the camp, on the battle-plain ! I have left all the other loved scenes of my childhood, and now, thou last, loved memento, and boundary of my native village, I bid thee adieu ! When the vil- lage maidens come to bind their hair with thy flowers, and to bathe their brows with thy waters, would thou couldst whisper my name ! and when Nora comes, couldst tell her how I loved her ! But adieu ! I must have other thoughts than these. I shall have other pastimes than thinking of maidens, or toying with thee, pretty brook ! " So saying, he drank once of the waters of the brook, and passed out of sight. " Alone ! once more alone ! " said the brook, unheeding the kind words which had fallen from the young man's mouth ; and envy and discon- 24 \T. ■••■■'- 278 THE DEFAULTING BROOK. tent, those most baneful of all passions, drowned the better feelings which would otherwise have gushed forth. At last, arousing from a reverie, the brook exclaimed, " I '11 not take the trouble to run hither and thither, just for mere nothing at all. If I was a great river, and had manu- factories on my banks, then it would be worth while ; or, if 1 bore vessels upon my bosom ; — but a brook ! — I '11 just take what waters I have up into yonder hollow, and perhaps in time 1 may get enough to make a waterfall." So say- ing, the little brook gathered up its waters, and retired slowly to private life, in the hollow among the hills. On a fine summer's day, farmer Buntling saddled his mare Dolly, and, putting himself and a couple of bags of corn astride, set off for miller Dusty-brown's. As he neared the mill, he saw miller Dusty-brown out in the field, talking to his man John ; at which he wondered, as it was his busiest time of day, and on pleasant days he * never failed of a grist ; and as farmer Buntling had to wait for a first customer sometimes, he was rather pleased to catch miller Dusty idle, THE DEFAULTING BBOOE. 279 that he might get his corn ground without delay. So, giving Dolly a slap with the reins, and bid- ding her "Go lang," he endeavored to hasten forward ; but his admonitions had no efiect what- ever upon old Dolly, except to make her prick up her ears, and shake her mane and tail. How- ever, the clatter of her hoofs was heard, and mil- ler Dusty turned his head, when farmer Buntling saw at once he would have no corn ground that day. Miller Dusty was about seventy years of age, but hale and hearty. The little mill had been his father's before him, and a sort of heir-loom in the family ; and for half a century, with but two episodes, tha same suit of dusty-brown clothes had come out to welcome the villagers with thnr bags, — the same whitish hat, encasing a rf/sy, round, good-natured -fonn and face, which be- longed apparently to the same specimen of the Dusty-brown family. The two episodes of which I speak were, when Dusty-brown senior and Dusty-brown junior had respectively thought, as matters were " gwing on purty well at the mill, they might e'en as well look arter farmer Smith's S80 THE DEFAULTING BROOK. darter Sally for Dusty senior, and farmer Baker^s down-in-the-holler daughter Betsy for Dusty junior." At these particular times, both the young Dustp underwent the same metamorpho- sis, — the dust was carefully kept from their clothes for just four weeks ; but, with these two exceptions, the Dusty-browns were a race peculiar and indigenous to that little, old, itself dusty- brown mill. But this morning, to farmer Buntling's sur- prise, when miller Dusty turned round, he saw a surprising change in him ; — his clothes, hat, and shoes, were no longer dusty, nor was his face round, rosy, or good-natured. What could be the matter ? Farmer Buntling turned it over in his mind. It was not the death of his wife, for she had been dead several years. It must be his son's wife was dead ; and, reining in Dolly to a more funereal pace, if possible, he went slowly up to miller Dusty. Now, farmer Buntling was one of those who think they know everything, and who want everybody to see that they always know things beforehand ; so, going quietly up to miller Dusty, without his usual " Good-morning ; THE DEFAULTING BROOK. 281 how are ye?" vociferated at the top of his lungs, he, as I said before, rode quietly up, tied Dolly slowly and solemnly, took out his yellow cotton handkerchief, and wiped his eyes, rubbing them quite hard, and walking in very solemn style, said, " Sorry for you, friend Dusty ; but we must bear these things philosophically ! " giving him, at the same time, a sympathizing shake of the hand. " I came to get a couple of sacks of com ground ; but, if you do not feel like grinding, I'll do it myself; but you must not take on about this affliction. We must all give up our blessings, when the Lord wills." " Then I 'm thinking you '11 need your philoso- phy yourself, farmer Buntling; for neither j'-ou nor I will grind corn, this morning, nor any other morning, the way the brook looks now." " You don't say so ! " returned farmer Bunt- ling. " But I must ; — my family '11 starve." " They '11 have to starve, then ; for not a drop of water has run in the brook since Saturday, and it must be turned off entirely, or enough would come to turn slow." With a most demure and sympathizing look, the 24* 282 THE DEFAULTma BROOK. two wertt together to examine the brook, which they found, of course, dry; when, leaving miller Dusty, farmer Buntling hastened off to the nearest mill, which was a long way off. A week after this, he heard .miller Dusty was very sick. He went to see him. He found him pale, emaciated, and miserable. " O, neigh- bor Buntling ! " said he, when he saw him, " I am glad you have come, for I want to advise with you. At my time of life, it is a sad thing to come to want ; nevertheless, I am destined to do so. The little I have laid by will not last long ; and, now the brook is dry, I have nothing to do; and, alas! I, that have brought all my children up honest and respectable, must die in the poorhouse ! " and the old man burst into tears. Farmer Buntling did all he could to comfort him, and, taking his leave, returned home, soliloquizing to himself, as he went along, " What upon airth could ha' sot that brook to stopping ? It will be the death on him — I see it." Just as he had uttered these words, he had arrived at the bend of the brook! The brook heard, and shuddered. She had known the TBE DEFAtTLTINO BROOK. 283 Dusty-brown millers so long, — old and tried friends they had been ; and the thought that she should be the death of one ! — but no, it could not be ; farmer Buntling was speaking ironically^ she knew ; so, wrapping herself up in her pano- ply of green, she grew more selfish and hard- hearted. The village school was out, and the noi53r voices of the merry urchins might be heard, for a mile, as with youthful glee they sported round. " O dear ! oh dear ! " exclaimed the voices of several, coming to the brook. " What shall we do, if the brook never runs again ? How much we miss it ! We come so far,, it is dreadful to< have no water when we get here." The brook heard, and began to feel like relenting ; for she loved the sweet children that so often played at her side ; and, to tell the truth, for all her despis- ing their opinion of her, she felt lonesome, up there amo-ig the hills, without her pretty play- mates. But, like human beings who hug to themselves a whim, or delusion, and ward off everything that would convince them of it* fallacy, she said, "Well, when I get rich and 284 THE DEFAULTING BROOK. great, I will surprise and please them more;" and contented herself with the vain fancy of doing some great and wonderful thing by and by, instead of quietly and contentedly doing a little good now, in an unostentatious way, and which, after all, would result in more than a little good ; but, being only a brook, she could not see it. It was now mid-summer ; — the whole land- scape was parched and dry, and at mid-day, weary and panting with the toils and heat of the day, the industrious and hard-working farmer brought his cattle to water ; but, lo ! and behold ! not a drop ! — the stream from whence they had so often slaked their thirst and cooled their feet had vanished ! " Good gracious ! " said the farm- er, who was a pious man, and would not swear, " what can this mean ? " and suddenly reminded of what a Millerite neighbor had been trying in vain to impress him with, he said, " Bother the luck ! he '11 call this another • sign.' Miserable brook, to dry up just now, when we want it most ! But it is rayther curious, though, aint it, Brin- dle ? " stroking the front of a fine-looking ox, who THE DEFAULTING BROOK. 285 had worked hard, and wanted drink ; " twenty- four hours ago, there was water here, plenty; 'refreshment for both man and beast,' as the tavern sign says; but now we must go further and fare worse, as I told Susan, when she said she did n't love me ! " And here he appeared to be irritated, either by thirst or unpleasant reflections, both of which were caused by the defaulting brook ; and striking the nigh ox a rather severe blow, he sent them, on the run, a half-mile fur- ther, for water. The brook had heard all this, but did not care much, till the blow fell upon the poor ox. This cut her to the quick ; for, as the Homeopathists say, " like is very agreeable to like ;" and as the cattle had so gratefully returned, day after day, to receive her cool attentions, she had felt animate^ and warmed by their regards and pleasant faces, until a reciprocity of enjoyment and sympathy had sprung up between these otherwise unlike portions of nature and creation. Drops stood in her eyes, and ficods of giief choked her utter- ance, or she would have called out to them, from her hiding-place, to come back, and she would 286 THE DEFAULTING BROOK. run down to where they stood, and meet them ; but they went away so fast, they were gone before she had time or power to speak a word. More sulky and uncomfortable now, from her dis- appointment, she declared she would not go now, at all, never ; but would remain where she was, always. •' * Miserable brook ! ' he called me, did he ? He shall see I am not to be obtained in that way ! I wont go now, at all ! " and she relapsed into that state of belligerent suUenness which all people feel who persist in a course of action they are convinced is wrong. The summer passed away, — the winter set in; and untrodden snows surrounded the poor brook. As struggling rays of sunshine rested upon her waters, they responded not with their i)sual gleeful sound of leaping and running among rocks or over a pebble bed; for, sullen and stagnant, the brook gave no sound, save, now and then, a groan or sigh, as she thought how uncomfortable she had made herself. For- merly, at morning, noon, and night, the pretty prattling of children, as they went to and from school, had been cheering her; and the lowing THE DEFAULTING BROOK. as"? of flocks and herds, as they went past. Now, nothing was heard but the howling of the bleak winds, as they blew among the hills ; no prints of little feet and little sleds were on her borders ; only one uninterrupted icy chain of snows sur- rounded her. The old mill was untenanted ; miller Dusty-brown had gone home to a son's house, almost broken-hearted, to die ; and the vil- lage itself seemed almost another village, since the brook — which turned the mill, which watered the cattle, pleased the children, and gladdened all eyes with the dashing and leaping of its clear bright waters — had so suddenly vanished, — the naughty defaulting brook ! Another summer's sun shone on that pretty village, but it shone on the dry bed of that wilful brook. The Mexican war was ended, — our volunteers were returning, poor, ragged, and sick; seeking their homes, toil-worn and black- ened, and many of them to die. One of these might have been seen, slowly and with difficulty, threading his way to this village. A scar over a very pale and haggard brow told of wounds as well OS sickness, while his tottering and feeble steps 288 THE PPFAULTINO BROOK. evinced great weariness and exhaustion. On the borders of a piece of wood, he paused, and, panting, said to himself, " O ! if I had but strength to get a little further through this wood ! then, then — " and a glow overspread his pale features, — " shall I see my childhood's home, — my mother's house! O! that I might once more lean upon her breast ! — once more feel her soft hand upon my brow! — once more hear her offer for her wandering but repentant boy an earnest prayer! " Staggering on, he reached the middle of the wood ; but there ue was obliged to rest. It was now the middle of a very hot day, in summer. The thickest shade of the trees seemed to be penetrated by the burning sun, and he was parched with thirst. Rising, after resting a short time, he said, ^' I must go on as far as the brook! I shall certainly die here! I must have water to cool this bum :ag fever in my veins ! " Struggling on, he did not stop till he reached what was, alas ! only the dry bed of the ambitio brook ! With a groan and a gasp, he fell W]pi\ I. ^ lace;, 'uming his eyes towards the beautiful '.il.age, — the loved village, — the vil- 7HI DBFAVLTmo B&OOK. lage of his infancy, — the abode oi one whose image had sustained him in many an hour of desp'jiidtncy and suffering. But he should see $\ti no iii jre ! He must die, — die, without one loveil tone, — one dear form to be near to soothe his passage out of this world ! A whole lifetime of twenty-five years now came unbidden into a moment's thoughts. His soul seemed invested with infinite powers of remem- brance and thought. All his misdeeds, — all his forgetfulness of a father's counsels, of a mother's prayers, — all, all rushed through his soul, and he groaned in agony. The groan was heard by the brook, who, listening attentively, heard him say, " O God ! mtist I die ? and perhaps not be discov- ered here for weeks or months, — and then I am so altered I should not be recognized;" — and he groaned more bitterly than ever. There is some- thing in man's social nature that recoils from a death-couch far from any human being ; and the poor youth continued, " O my mother ! Could you but know your poor James was here, how would you run to him ! — and Nora ! Nora ! " The brook well knew who Nora was. Often 25 290 THE DEFAULTINQ BROOK. and often had the radiant form and face of the lovely girl been reflected from the clear waters of the brook, as she bound flowerets in her hair, or waded through the limpid waters ; and often had she heard the name of James from Nora's lips, when no human eye or ear was nigh, to witness the fluttering of her beautiful breast, or listen to her gentle sighs. Well did the brook remember that just in the place where he now lay, James had bidden her farewell ; and she became much agitated at the recollection, and listened ner- vously, and with many misgivings as to whether she had done right in drying up the dying trav- eller's draught. Once again he spoke, — "0 my God ! pardon a repentant sinner ; have mercy on my poor mother, if she finds me here. Bless Nora, — may she think of me ! 0, if I had only a drop of water, I might see you again, — all of you ; but, without it, I must die ! " The brook could no longer listen quietly. That the dear boy, who had paddled his tiny feet in her waters, sailed his mimic boat upon her bosom, drank often and often, when a handsome youth, at her gushing rills, should now die for THE DEFAULTING BROOK. 291 the want of one little draught, she could not endure. She became more and more agitated and restless, until, at last, with one bound, she sprang from her guilty hiding-place, and, rushing over the rocky bed, flew to his feet. The poor man heard a sound as of water mocking his dying moments, and, lifting once more his failing eyes, behold ! — there was water. Like a loving spirit, it kissed his brow and hands and blistered feet, and brought sweet fresh flowers for him to smell, and soon he began to revive ; and as he revived, and arose and went home, it seemed to him that he heard sobs and sighs, and then again a laugh, as if some one was crying and laughing for joy ; but he could see no one, and concluded it was but the noise of the brook running past. So was it, indeed. Wi*h the first return to duty, and the kind offices of love and benevolence, had come such a gush of happiness, that she was almost wild with joy, and laughed and danced and sung. At the same time, sobs of repentance occasionally interrupted her gladness, that she had been so remiss. Desirous now to make amends for past neglect, 392 THE DEFAULTING BROOK. she hastened on down to the village. It was, as I said, midday, and the children soon espied her ; and shouts of joy, and huzzas of rejoicing, soon rent the air for the return of their old friend. The little girls said they could hug and kiss the dear water. She had to stop one moment, and play with and return the kind greetings of the chil- dren, and, while doing this, she espied her old friends, the cattle; and the grateful look with which the dumb creatures stepped once more into her refreshing waters was sweeter to her, in her better state of feelings, than the noisy praise of some human voices. There was one thing the brook remembered with anxiety ; that was, that the old miller was sick. " Ah ! if he were dead, she could never atone ! " Hastening on, with an agitated movement and a heaving breast, she was filled with regret to see the old mill — the pretty, romantic old mill — neglected, useless, falling to ruins. Rushing in and out, she made all the noise she could, to attract miller Dusty-brown, if alive; but she found the house empty, and, supposing he was dead, was just turning to run further on, when THE DEFAULTING BROOK. 293 she saw the old man coming, — hurrying, has- tening, all excited, — to see if it could be true that the brook had come back, and that the mill would again work. He looked at the poor little dam his own hands had reared ; he looked over to the wheel; he looked up and down stream, and — he was an old man — burst into a flood of tears. " Blessings on the brook I " said he, at length ; " I shall be a man once more. This is the hap- piest day of my life. Here, you boys, some of you run down and tell my son John to come right up, as I shan't come back again ; I shall live and die here." Right glad was the brook to hear the tremulous tones of her aged friend, the mil- ler ; and to find everybody so glad to see her, filled her with delight. Even the old wheel gave a creak of satisfaction, as she passed. As she hastened further on to the next village, she observed that two or three smaller brooks, that had formerly been tributary to her, were now, owing to her bad influence and example, turning aside, and withholding their waters from the general good. But a few words of admoni- tion and encouragement from her inspired them 25# 294 THE DEFAULTING BROOK. with new life, and they soon followed her down to a large manufacturing town on the banks of the river, where she gladly took her humble place, wiser and better for her folly and repent- ance. The next day, she was oveijoyed to hear the following conversation between some of the com- pany of the water-power: " Well, Mr. Jones, I have good news for you." " What is it ? " said Mr. Jones. " Why," said the first speaker, " all those poor people of whom you spoke to me a while since can now be employed. Our tributaries came down from the mountains so freely, yesterday and last night, that we can employ a hundred more operatives. The lower mill, which has not been worked since last summer at this time, is now flooded; and you may send up all the men, women, and children, you find wanting work, and we will give them enough to do." " Right glad am I to hear this," said Mr. Jones, " for the poor people, who were turned out of that mill by the water stopping so suddenly suffered dreadfully — (a wave of regret and sorrow passed i^> THE DEFAULTING BROOK. 295 over the brook, at hearing this) — and I rejoice that they can again have work." " Yes," said the first speaker, " we are all look- ing up ; for all the wheels needed was more water, according to their power, and we are rejoicing in the prospect. It seems like old times ; and if the stream continues to run as full, we can have another dam as well as not, and another shop, still lower ; " and the two walked away, still talking over more plans of improvement. The brook remained very thoughtful. The reflections which arose were as follows : " How could I have envied Niagara ? How could I have been dissatisfied, when I was making so many creatures happy ? Ah ! the Creator of the universe knows best which waters should be Niagara, which the little brook. Let me joyfully stand in the lot and place assigned me, and make those happy around me, ambitious not for admir- ation, but to do my duty." There came a sudden shower and a rainbow, and this sweet sentiment of duty and lofty ambi- tion was exhaled in the mist, and, refracted by the sun, was written on the bow, addressed to every 296 THS DEFAULTmO BROOK. human being, thus: "Up! up! to life and to duty ! Do a little good, if you cannot do much ,• and be ambitious to make others happy and be- loved, rather than to be admired." AMIE. 0, LAKE of crystal clearness ! Thou gav'st thy depths of blue, Thy calm, untroubled azure, To eyes we looked into ! While feeling added tenderness to their bewitch- ing hue ! •i-- t 0, blush of early morning ! Thou play'dst upon her cheek, Where ever seemed revealing The th6ughts she dared not To give them further utterance, the lips were all too meek. 0, starlight soft and tender ! Thou gav'st thy saintly smile To glorify a beauty That saint-like seemed the while ! Like some rare, antique picture, devoid of earthly guile. 298 AMIE. O, soul of touching melody ! Thou livedst in her tone ; Her speech we listed as to song, Her voice was music's own ; Her soul was one of harmony, and not her voice alone ! O, angels of the Holy ! _ Ye sure to her were kin ! So meek, so pure her nature, So free from taint of sin. O, was it not an angel that dwelt that form within ? 0, angels of the Holy ! Ye wiled from us away The light that chased our darkness, The sun that made our day ! Say, did ye lack companionship, that here she might not stay ? 0, heaven high and glorious ! Thou shrin'st one jewel more, — IT-TT-TRiruB AMIE. 299 One more white seraph in thy choir, One song unheard before ! Alas ! the loan thou mad'st us thou bad'st us soon restore ! M< A* Im THE PARTING OP SIGURD AND GERDA. BT MISS KLIZABBTH DOTEN. " He is a strong, proud man, such as a woman might with pride call her partner — if only — oh, if he would but understand her nature, and allow it to be worth something." — See Miss Bremer's "Brolher$ and Sis- ters.** She stood beneath the moonlight pale, With calm, uplifted eye, While all her being, weak and frail. Thrilled with her purpose high ; For she, the long-affianced bride, Must seal the fount of tears. And break, with woman's lofty pride, The plighted faith of years. Ay ! she had loved as in a dream, And woke, at length, to find How coldly on her spirit gleamed The dazzling light of mind. n THE PARTINO OF SIOUKD AND OERDA. 301 For little was the true, deep love Of that pure spirit known To him, the cold, the selfish one, Who claimed her as his own. And what to him were all her dreams Of purer, holier life t Such idle fancies ill became A meek, submissive wife. And what were all her yearnings high For God and " Father-land," But vain chimeras, lofty flights. While Sigurd held her hand ? And then uprose the bitter thought, " Why bow to his control ? Why sacrifice, before his pride. The freedom of my soul ? Better to break the golden chain. And live and love apart. Than feel the galling, grinding links. Wearing upon my heart." He came, — and, with a soft, low voice. In the pale gleaming light, 26 302 THE FABTINO OF SIGURD AND QERDA. She laid her gentle hand in his, — " Sigurd, we part to-night. Long have these bitter words been kept Within this heart of mine, And often have I lonely wept, — I never may be thine." Proudly, with folded arms, he stood, And cold, sarcastic smile, — " Ha ! this is but a wayward mood, An artful woman's wile. But this I know ; so long — so long I held thee to thy vow. That I have made the bond too strong For thee to break it now." " You know me not ; — my lofty pride Was hidden from your eyes ; But you have crushed it down so low It gives me strength to rise. O ! all my bitter, burning thoughts, I may not, dare not, tell ! Sigurd, my loved, — forever loved ! — Farewell ! one more farewell ! " n TBE PARTING OF SIGURD AND OEBDA. 303 One moment, and those loving arms Were gently round him thrown ; One moment, and those quivering lips Pressed lightly to his own ; And then he stood alone ! alone ! With eyes too proud for tears, Yet o'er his stern, cold heart, was thrown The burning blight of years. O man ! so God-like in thy strength, Preeminent in mind, Seek not with these high gifts alone A woman's heart to bind. For, timid as a shrinking fawn, Yet faithful as a dove, She clings through life and death to thee, Won by thine earnest love. THE MEETING OF SIGURD AND GERDA. BT MISS SLIZABETH DOTEN. **And beautiful now stood they there, man and woman ; no longer pale ; eye to eye, hand to hand, as equals, — as partners in the light of heaven." — See Miss Bremer^ 8 '* Brothers and Sisters." " 0, EARLY love ! oh, early love ! Why does thy memory haunt me yet ? Peace ! I invoke thee from above, — 1 cannot, though I would, forget. How did I strive, with prayers and tears. To crush this wasting passion-flame ! But after long, long, weary years. It burns within my heart the same." She wept, — poor sorrowing Gerda wept, In the dark pine^wood wandering 'lone. While cold the night-winds past her swept. And light the stars above her shone. Dear, suffering dove ! her song was hushed, The blithesome song of other days, THE MEETING OF SIGURD AND GERDA. 305 Yet, oh ! when such true hearts are crushed, They breathe their holiest, sweetest lays. A step was heard. Her heart beat high ; Through the dim shadows of the wood She glanced with quick and anxious eye, — Lo ! Sigurd by her stood ; And as the moon's pale, quivering rays Stole through that lonely place. He stood, with calm, impassioned gaze, Fixed on her tearful face. '* Gerda," he said, " I come to speak A long, a last farewell ; Some distant land and home I seek. Far, far from thee to dwell. O, since I lost thee, gentle one. My truest and my best, I have rushed madly, blindly on. Nor dared to think of rest. " The night that spreads her starless wing. Beyond the northern sea. Does not a deeper darkness bring Than that which rests on me. 26* 306 THE MEETING OF SIGURD AND GERDA. Yet, no ! I will not ask thy tears For my deep tale of woe ; Forgetfulness will come with years ; Gerda — my love — I go ! " " Stay ! Sigurd, stay ! 0, why depart ? See, at thy feet I bow; O, cherished idol of my heart, Reject — reject me, now ! " But not upon the cold, damp ground Her bended knee she pressed ; Upheld, and firmly clasped around, She wept upon his breast. ' Reject thee ? No ! When earth rejects The sunshine's summer glow. When Heaven one suppliant's prayer neglects, Then will I bid thee go. And, by the watching stars above, And by all things Divine, I swear to cherish and to love This heart, that beats to mine ! " O, holy sense of wrongs forgot. And injuries forgiven ! THE MEETING OF SIGURD AND GERDA. 307 The human heart that feels thee not Knows not the peace of heaven. Dear Son of God ! thou suffering Dove, Who taught us how to live, 0, teach us also how to love, And freely to forgive !