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Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirety included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent §tre film^s A des taux de reduction diffdrents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre reproduit en un seul cliche, il est filrn^ A partir de Tangle sup6rieur gauche, de gauche d droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images ndcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mdthode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 6 6 1$ marriage a failure ? C9$l I ana many « « I 6ein$ of Uerie < A N A D A ^ By €iara R. mountcastk I I ■■■■■■II" I I II II ■ IS MARRIAGE A FAILURE? 7 LOST ! AND MANY GE)MS OP VE^RSE) HY Glara H. MOUNTGASTLE) TORONTO : Imrib, Graham N: Company, Printers, 31 Church Strrei 1899 Entered according to the Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year 1899. hy t lara H. Mountcastle, at the Department of AgricuUuie CONTENTS. Introduction 4 ** Is Marriage a Failure ? " 5 Lost, l8 Leaves From a Life 28 The Wonder of 1882 38 Dust and Ashes. 4' Rose and Cream 45 The Artist's Soliloquy 46 The Lamentation of Orpheus 48 A Picture of the Past 5° To June 5» In Yuma S"' My Sisters and I S3 Sappho 54 Sweet-brier 55 The Foot on the Stair 55 Arise, ye Christain Nations ! 5^ Lines to 57 Canada, my Country I 57 Canada's Appeal to Britain 59 The Heath of June 60 Canada to England 62 Divided 62 Victoria, Our Queen 1 63 From the Cradle to the ( Irave 63 To a Critic 64 INTRODUCTION. AiiOUT ten years ago the rector of a certain parish requested any of his congregation who had talent in the way of author- ship, to write an essay on any suitable subject, and read it, at one of the churcli entertainments— then in full progress— with the hope of raising some money for a charitable purpose. Hence the advent of" Is Marriage a Failure? " The essay failed to appear then, or since, through the pro- longed illness of the writer, who now gives it to the pubHc in company of some choice bits of verse which are inserted for preservation while she is determining whether or not there be sufficient love of poetry in the hearts of the Canadian people as will justify her lu bringing forth a more finished volume. Love of poetry tends strongly to the advance of civilization, and should be fostered by all lovers of their country ; but it is not to be expected that the poetry of any country, much less a young country like Canada, will attract the masses, unless it be simple, earnest and touching. Pathos is the soul of poetry, " and the best verse is so simple that a child may understand it. I have all due respect for Browning and his school when I make this assertion ; but we are a busy people, and need poetry as a relaxation, not as a means of adding one more study to the already over-burthened brain. Poetry, if strong, simple and touching, is a wonderful delight to the soul of man, therefore it should not be so confidently asserted that Canadians do not care for poetry because they do not like Browning and others who write obscurely. They have no time for the study of these. They need poetry in the home, poetry that will give rest and pleasure and keep alive the best feelings of humanity, not a " Browning Club,' where the lovers of that poet meet together and try by united effort ot intellect to ascertain what the gifted man is writing about. With these few remarks I offer my simple verse to my countrymen, and will let them decide upon its merit. THE AUTHOR. " Is riarriage a Failure ? >> The desire to know what an unmarried woman has to say about the wedded state has doubtless drawn some here to-night who would otherwise have little interest in the subject. Let such remember that a " looker-on sees most of the game! " Married folk know little beyond their own round of daily joys and sufferings, be they great or small, while the single have almost unbounded facility for noting the reason why many married people cannot, or do not, live together in harmony. The query " Is Marriage a Failure?" has been going the rounds of the press for the last twenty years, and, as far as I know, has met with few replies that are likely to benefit this or future generations. Close observation has taught me that marriage, far from bemg a failure, is, where there is mutual love and esteem, a great success. When I speak of love, I do not mean the fever that attacks young people like measles, whooping-cough and chicken-pox- all of which are the natural result of being young ; nor that love that burns itself out like lava, and leaves "nothing but scorched and blackened ruin to mark the devastation it has made. I mean the love that springs from mutual admiration of character and aims in life— that love that springs up in the heart of each where tastes and pursuits are in harmony— that sympathy, that, if one suffers, the other feels the pain, be it mental or bodily— that fondness that makes a man and a woman so "chummy" that they never wish to be separated— that love that would lead them to die for each other. Such love partakes of the God nature within us, and is i^<\ and kept alive by mutual faith and trust. Where there is this love between husband and wife, the married state must be happier than the single. A friend has reminded me that too much sweetness palls. This is true. I am not alluding to sweetness, but love that may have as much spice as is required to keep it warm. /S AfAA'/^'/AGJ-: A FAILURE? There is .1 yreat difterence l)et\veen the teasing, that keeps love warm and the Ijiiitality that causes a man to say some- thin>; unkind to his wife when he j;oes to his work — thus leaving her ail day in tears. Mt-n have tried this nonsense and won- dered, later, why their wives became lunatics. St. I'aul says, " Let the wife see that she reverence her husband." If all women acted on St. Paul's advice, there would probably be fewer marriages ; but such as were consummated would no doubt be happy, as men like to be looked up to and reverencedi and a woman capable of this feeling for any ordinary man, must have a large portion of the anjjelic in her composition, and it is these women who make happy homes, or, if unequally mated, die in the attempt. On the contrary, there are women who think that to rever- ence the best of husbands would detract from their dignity. These set St. I'aul's opinions at defiance, and want to be the " head " of the man and manage his business, when they do not know enough to manage their own ; and the more unfitted they are to rule, the more persistently they contend for the right to do so, till the man who should be the head, gets dis- couraged and gives up everything, and the family comes to grief; when, if the wife had attended to her own affairs, and striven to economize in her own department, he, the bread- winner, would have made a happy home. Well might men say, " From all contentious women, ^ Lord, deliver us ! " I have stated that matrimony under normal circumstances is a great success, while in others it is as decided a failure, and is likely, under the present regulations of society, to remain so. It is a God-ordained institution, and ought to be a state of perfect harmony between the man and woman, especially if they be among professing Christians. Yet it is not so, as even the most casual observer can testify ; but whether matrimcwy is to be blamed for the wretched state of society, or society to be blamed for the miseries of matrimony is a problem difficult to solve. It is a subject that opens up a wide field for thought, leaving much scope for the abilities of the "Social Refoimer," and the few remarks on the subject that I am here to make, are offered merely to start discussion, that wiser heads than mine may take the matter up, and pursue it to a successful issue ; by which I mean inaugurate a few simple reforms, such as will render it possible for matrimony to be as great a success as it was when Adam and Eve first looked fondly into each others eyes. This was before the fall. When they were driven out of Paradise, Adam would very naturally say, with temper : pood /S MARh'IAGE A FAII.VHEt won- ^ '.'< " It's all your fault, Eve, that we are in this miserable condi- tion." And Elve would retort : *' It didn't take much persuasion to induce you to taste the apple, anyway." The devil was the first rau>e of marital unhappiiiess, and is likely to be the last ; for from the days of job until now he has never tired of "^oiny to and fro in the earth, nor of walking up and down in it " and doing all the niischief he could ; yet, although he has invented a spurious article to take the place of it, he has never been able to kili love. There are still, fond, pure, love glances exchanged between men and women, and, occasionally, between husband ana ^ fe, and it is because of their rarity in the last instance that, w.ien we do detect them, they are so beautiful. Fond glances between husband and wife are r? < , firsjy, because in seventy-five cases out of a hundred, as suon as the honeymoon is c -they cease to pay each other those little \^->- ing attentions that call them forth, and secondly becaus! there is a ba ■ '• :»r between them. This barrier may be caused by many different circumstanrrs, which summed up would mean that state that we term mis- mated when a man, if he did not want victuals, would forget he had a wife, though she might be everything a wife ought to be, true-hearted, tender, loving, until from want of appreciation the fount of affection is frozen within her. Again theie are women who, if they did not want money for dress and foolery, would forget they had husbands. Then there is the man who marries the doll-woman with in- tent to train her. I would say to that man : " Leave her for some other man who thinks her perfect as she is," A man now living in this town, once suggested to me that I was not doing my duty in life by remaining unwed, and > xpatiated upon the great work I would do, if I would marry seme poor sinner and reform him. He mentioned a drunkard as a suitable party. I gave the matter due consideration, and then informed him that society would need to be re-arranged before I could under- take the work. The W. C. T. U. and a lot of other Societies would have to be abolished, as I should want him at home in the evening to enjoy the beauties and delights of that home with me. The cry for total prohibition would have to be stopped, as the management of him would become my affair, and I would not want the government to interfere with me, and place beyond his reach the temptation, that, as my husband, I should wish 1 I 8 IS MARRIAGE A FAILURE? him to have the decency to avoid, and the strength to subdue. I would not expect him to be like a chni of three years old, from whose reach you deem it advisable to place the sugar-bowl on the highest shelf in the cupboard. You take this precaution, remember, when the child is three ; at five you tell him not to touch the sugar, and if he disobeys you, you spank him. Thus through the feeling of the outer flesh you teach him to subdue the cravings of the inner man. Self-denial is the grandest attribute that man can possess, and the idea of legislating to stop the growth of it, is awful when you think of the result. Therefore I would not want legislation to aid me in the management of my drunkard. If wifely duty, and a happy home, would not cure him, I would tie him up when he was, what is termed, " on the spree," that he might not publicly disgrace himself and me ; give him some nasty medicine, suitable to his case, and when he was sober, reason with him ; and if I could not in this way convince him ot the error of his ways, I should be certain that he was insane ; and all I would ask of the government would be an asylum, where he could work for his living, and have proper medical attendance till cured ; when we would live together happy ever after. So much ado is made about drunkenness, yet there are many worse evils that a wife has to contend with, of which law and society take little notice. If a man and a woman wish to tread the path of life side by side in peace and happiness, it is of all things most essential that their footsteps tend toward the same goal. That they occupy the same position in society, and that they be equally refined, or equally vulgar. I hold vulgarity in abhorrence ; yet I would not deny the vulgar man a companion in his vulgarity, while there is a suit- able one to be found. If he sees a woman, who will smile upon him with bewitching approval when he utters his coarse jokes, all else being equal, let him marry her, if he can, and they will have a fair chance of happiness in their way; but if in his courting days he puts on fho manner of a gentleman, and thereby wins the favor of a high-minded refined woman, every nerve in whose body will thrill with repulsion the first time he gives vent to the foulness within, there cannot be any happiness for either — though each may he striving ever so hard to please. To be ill-mated is a very serious matter. It means to be mentally unsuited. A man who makes persistent efforts to win a woman who is not suited to him, not only wrongs her, but he wrongs the man 1 1 1 { :h to subdue, ree years old, he sugar-bowl :hild is three ; if he disobeys I teach him to possess, and is awful when int legislation t cure him, I an the spree," ne ; give him when he was way convince n that he was would be an have proper live together jere are many 'hich law and fe side by side essential that t they occupy lually refined, not deny the here is a suit- th bewitching ; being equal, fair chance of fs he puts on he favor of a )se body will > the foulness -though each means to be oman who is tngs the man f /S Af A RAVAGE A FAILURE ^ 9 she would have suited, and he wrongs the woman who would have suited him, and who, tailing to find a mate, lives out her life in loneliness. There axe men and women who marry for money. I have nothing to say to them, save that they are contemptible, and there are those who marry without money, which is foolish ; for if their affection for each other is strong enough for them to contemplate facing the trials of life together, without anything to begin upon, it would stand the strain of a few years waiting while each was endeavoring to save something from their in- dividual earnings to comm.ence married life in a rational manner. A woman should look to marriage as a probable event in her life, and early fit herself for the position of wife and mother, by making as careful a study of every branch of house-keeping, cutting out of garments of every description, sewing, house- decoratmg, etc., as though she were expecting to pass an ex- amination and win a gold medal for proficiency in these accom- plishments. Especially should she be proficient in cookery, for some wise person has said, •' If you want to make your husband happy, feed the brute." This does not sound very romantic, yet there is much truth in it. Well cooked food is, undoubtedly, a source of happiness m the home. There is very little hope for domestic felicity under the pre- sent educational system, when a girl marries as soon as she leaves scl'^ol, where all her time has been taken up with studies that henceforth will be of very little use to her. Thinking seriously on this subject, would it not be well to have the training necessary for the ground-work of a happy home, namely cookery, house-work, etc., made compulsory and taught in a separate room of the common school at the public expense. It would be more conducive to happiness than a term in the high school, for which comparatively few have any real need. A woman should be above the faintest shadow of reproach ; and I do not advocate her following any line of conduct that would tend to " brush the bloom off the peach," but think it best for her happiness that she wait to be sought and sought persistently ; yet, in this advanced age, many sensible people admit that a woman has a right to pop the question. If so, she should not offer herself as a candidate for matrimony, or accept the position of "ife without the necessary qualifications. It is as absurd for her to do so as to accept a position as bookkeeper when she does not knew that two and two make four. I believe that the poor are far hapj^.er in their marriage • 10 IS MARRIAGE A FAILURE ? \ : ! relations than the rich (I mean the very poor), because they are more dependent on each other and have fewer temptations to indulge in selfishness and the smaller vices so ruinous to domestic felicity. Among the middle classes marriage is often a failure, unless the wife has money of her own wherewith to purchase her knick- knacks — what is termed pin-money. Of late years dress has become such a craze among women that, no matter to what grade of society they belong, they must have their silks and satins, and husbands object to the expense. Therefore it must be disagreeable for a wife to have to ask her husband for every cent that she spends on her personal adornment ; and if she is not adorned, no matter what her loveliness of mind may be, he will contrast her with other women to her disadvantage ; and if she runs bills, he will be angry when the bills are sent in, and say he "can't see for what so much money was spent.'' Study of color should be part of a woman's education. A becoming toilet adds much to married felicity, and a dress, ribbon or flower, does not cost any more when its tint suits the wearer, by giving her a sparkling complexion than it would if it made her look dull and sickly, and I never yet saw a complexion but there was a color made to suit it. Dress is not a matter to which a woman needs give r"uch time. Let her once understand the harmony of color and without increase of expense (if she does her duty in her home, thinks good thoughts, does good deeds, and looks on the bright side of life), she will be beautiful, and if she cannot thus hold her husband's affection, why, let him go. Some people think that a man and his wife should be about the same ages ; but the happy marriage of Lord Beaconsfield, who was ten years younger than his wife, has set aside this idea. Ashmead Bartlett is nearly thirty years younger than his wife, yet we do not hear that they are unhappy ; but Miss Angela Coutts was rich and could afford the experiment. I would not advise any other woman to try it. Ten years' difference in age, either way, is of no importance. Married happiness is a matter of congeniality of mind, not of equality of age ; yet if a woman of thirty marries an unformed boy of eighteen or twenty, she must not wonder if he falls in love with other women until he is thirty, as he would have done had he been single ; and I would say to such a wife, don't draw the reins too tightly ; and if he is mentally suited to you when full grown, you may yet be haj^py; but a woman who marries a boy runs a great risk, and I don't approve of it, because it is unfair lo the boy. t /S MA RAVAGE A FAILURE? 11 ise they are iptations to ruinous to lure, unless her knick- 5ng women they must ct to the 'fe to have is on her atter what with other he will be e for what on. id a dress, t suits the t would if et saw a jive !>^uch d without lie, thinks right side hold her lie about consfield, this idea, his wife, 5 Angela ould not )ortance. d, not of nformed i falls in ive done fe, don't 1 to you lan who e of it, i A man, anywhere between thirty and seventy runs an equal risk in marrying a very young girl whose mind is unformed, and it is impossible to say in what way she may develop; for if he has employment away from home, she will be more sub- jected to outside influences than to his; also, she is likely to consider him an " old fogy " whose ideas are old-fashioned. Men over seventy occasionally marry young girls, and if it pleases them there is no harm done : for the Hible says that •' after threescore and ten, all is labour and sorrow " anyway ; so what matters a little more or less ; and as for the young girl, if she can keep him alive long enough, she will have gone through a season of healthy discipline ; and when she has laid him to rest, will be of a more suitable age to form a happy alliance with his successor. The happiest marriages (allowing there is mutual affection) are those which take place when the contracting parties are between thirty and forty years of age, when the minds of each are thoroughly formed. I am aware that Tupper thinks differently ; but men are not as clear-sighted as women in these matters : and, doubtless, with all his *' Philosophy," he married the wrong woman. One of the reasons why people live more happily together when married later in life, is that they are disciplined and do not expect as much of each other as the young, who think that '* Love's young dream " is going to last for ever. Wonderful are the reasons some people give for entering into the holy bonds of matrimony. Some men have been captivated by a neat foot and ankle ; some by a slim waist ; others by a well-shaped hand or a beautiful throat. Some women marry because their lives are monotonous, and they welcome any change ; some marry for a home ; and a short time aj^o a woman told me that she married a man because his hair was curly. It is quite possible that some of these marriages may have been happy. Why not .'' If there was nothing within, and they were outwardly suited to each other, why should they not he happy ? There are little failures and big failures ; and where marriage is an utter failure, I can say without fear of contradict: :.n, that it is caused by a man marrying the wrong woman, and vice versa. Therefore the object of the " social reformer " should be to point out the way in which this disastrous climax to social intercourse may be avoided. This marriage, which is no marriage, is often entered into blindly, but in many cases with the eyes wide open. This is especially the case where it is the result of that 12 /S MARRIAGE A FAILURE? abomination of the present d;iy, that which among the lower middle class is termed •' keeping company,'' a custom that should not be tolerated m any civilized country, especially Canada, whose lustre we would wish to preseive untarnished. A man, if he has any sense of manliness in him, will end in marrying the woman in whose company he has spent every available evening for two or three years, sittmg on the sofa in the best parlor, where no other member of the family dares intrude, occupying the time till " the wee sma' hour " in love- making, whatever that may be. This man, I say, if he be half a man, will marry this woman, even though, if after two or three years of this intercourse, which cannot tend to the development of the character of either, he finds she does not suit him ; and his sacrifice might take the form of martyrdom, should he in the meantime have met one in the ordinary intercourse of life, where characters that assimi- late so quickly discover each other ; one for whom he would be willing to sacrifice half his life were he free to offer himself. Is it any wonder if this man's marriage proves a failure ? And what is to blame for it ? What, but a form of courtship that should not be tolerated in a civilized community. " Keeping company " originated with house servants, who, sitting in the kitchen, were compelled to receive their sweet- hearts alone. These servants often married into a higher sphere in life, and never having been taught differently allowed their daughters to do as they had done, and thus in late years it has become a wide-spread, most objectionable, and in many cases soul-degrading habit throughout Canada. " To the pure all things are pure," and I do not say that wrong is always the outcome of this fashion of love-making ; but it compromises a woman in a manner quite unnecessary ; apart from which, I have heard on good authority, that in nine cases out of ten it is the results of this so called " Keeping Company " that fills the " Infants Home," in Toronto. I have stated that one of the essentials to married happiness, is that a man choose his wife from among those who occupy the same position in society as himself. Nothing but misery can accrue from marrying into a family whose caste is inferior to his own ; even though the object of bis affection be highly cultured and thoroughly conversant with the rules of good breeding ; his marriage will be a failure, unless he leaves his own, and takes her to a fu.eign country. He has no right to jifilict his kindred with the society of the underbred relations of his bride, all of w hom, to the ninety-ninth cousins are ready to claim relationship to the family into which the best specmien of their own has found an entrance ; rudely forcing themselves upon the notice of people who have not a IS MA /LAVAGE A FAILURE? 18 ng the lower custom that 'y, especially ntarnished. II, will end in spent every n the sofa in family dares ur " in love- ' this woman, intercourse, cter of either, ight take the 'e met one in that assimi- he would be himself. failure ? of courtship ty. rvants, who, their sweet- ligher sphere llowed their years it has many cases lot say that 3ve-making ; innecessary ; that in nine 1 " Keeping nto. d happiness, who occupy into a family object of his iant with the re, unless he jciety of the ninety-ninth y into which nee ; rudely have not a thought or a feeling in common with them, and who bear their terrible affliction, only for the sake of the son or brother, who in the majority of cases, has sacrificed himself and family to a mad passion for a pretty face or a mariner that turns a boy's head ; for it is usually boys that are caught in nets of this description. A man in love thinks he can raise his wife to his own level. This can be done where a woman has a quick intellect, good taste, common sense, and a very yielding disposition ; but he cannot raise all her tribe; especially if aggressive assurance be their prevailing characteristic. Even in this '* Canada of ours " where classes are so mixed up, it is impossible to fit for refined society the woman who tosses her head in the air and says : '• I'm as good as she is ;" or the man who asserts that •* Jack is as good as his master." I have known cases where Jack was much better than his master (if better means better bred) but these Jacks never said so. They bore their position with becoming modesty and self- respect, until time offered them more congenial employment, and they were able to mingle with their equals. Five hundred years ago, if romance is to be relied upon, the failure of wedded bliss was caused chiefly by the stern rule of parents who compelled their daughters to marry men, who were in every way objectionable to them, and in many cases where their affections had been already won by another. Such a state of affairs was not likely to tend toward the felicity of the newly-wedded pair. But in our day it is different. Woman is now, if I may so term it, a self-supportmg institution ; and if her views matrimonial do not accord with those of her father, she sets him at defiance. A virtuous woman may use whatever talents God has given her, wherewith to earn her bread without being frowned down by society, as was the case so late as forty years ago ; yet there are still many, who, no matter what their mental attainments may be, are so sensitively and delicately organized, as to find it almost impossible to go forth into the world to fight the battle of life alone. Yet I have seen these delicate sensitive natures, struggling through life, bearing burdens, for which their mental and bodily strength was quite unequal ; patiently looking for death to release them from the weariness and loneliness of life, rather than enter into a loveless union with men, whose ineans would place them beyond the necessity for wondering where the food for the next day was to be found. Is it wonderful then that a woman, in whom the moral tone is less elevated, should say : 14 /S MARRIAGE A FAILURE? \ i. " I don't care much for John ; but I don't care for anyone else, so there can't be any sin in accepting him. Mother says it will be a good match for me, and that it is safest to have the love on the man's side. So I suppose I had better marry him." When John calls again the wedding day is fixed, and for a few weeks the excitement of selecting and making up the wedding finery leaves little time for serious thought. The marriage is consummated, and for a time [ohn is in a state of untold bliss, or as long as Mary submits, without open hostility, to his lover-like caresses ; but there comes a time when the love that never was is simulated no longer, and Mary turns away from his proffered kiss, with, '• Don't bother me, John," and John goes to his daily work feel- ing hurt, and wondering what he has done looffend his wife- and on his return to dinner tries to make it up, and finds there is nothing to make up. No response to his affection, and in time he begins to realize that he has made a mistake. That he has married the wrong woman. He does not realize that it is in part his own fault. That in the ardor of his young love, he was satisfied with being al' twed to pour out his feelings, without thought as to whether or no his affection was reciprocated. She said she would marry him, and all he thought of was that he would gain the woman he had set his heart upon winning. And she, what words of condemnation can be too severe to apply to the woman, who took all and gave back nothing ? She may not have assumed any of her fascinating wiles to win him, yet nevertheless it was a fraud. What wonder, then, that, entered into in such a manner, this marriage was a failure .'' Slightly different from the foregoing was a case that came under my own observation. In looking back upon the lives of some young people, one feels tempted to think that they never would have been satisfied with less misery than that which they were called upon to endure. Particularly does it seem so in the caseof George Bl;ink, who in youth was a clerk in a large wholesale warehouse. It was at the age of i8, and while so employed that George, who I fancy must have been in love ever since he was born, was desperately smitten with a cousir. of his, who appeared to have as few attractions as might readily fall to the lot of young girl- hood. Be that as it may, he informed me that all his hopes of happiness were centred in gaining this young girl for his wife. This infatuation lasted a few weeks, when he was thrown into the society of three sisters, to all of whom he proposed in as many months, beginning with the eldest and ending with the il II IS MARRIAGE A FAILURE/ ]5 "■ for anyone other says it to have the marry him." and for a mg up the fohn is in a vithout open a time when Mary turns ly work feel- lis wife- and inds there is and in time That he has It. That in ;ing aF twed lether or no marry him, ; woman he oo severe to thing ? ing wiles to at wonder, rriage was a that came le, one feels itisfied with endure. Blank, who lat George, IS born, was red to have young girl- ) hopes of his wife. :hrown into posed in as ig with the youngest, and w.is refused by all. These were followed by many more that it is not necessary to mention. At length fate or the •* evil one," led him to change his habita- tion, and he became an inmate of a boarding-house, kept by a widow who had no other means of supporting herself and an only daughter, Grace, who was five or six years older than George. Just the most attractive to a boy, and being constantly in her society, he, as was his wont, again fell in love. Grace, who had lavished all the girlish affection of which she was possessor on a young man who died a few days before that which was fixed for their wedding, had mourned his loss, for six years, as only a widow could have mourned, and had been heard to declare that she would never marry because she could never love another, stood a siege of three years more, and then capitulated, on the ground that she could not, as she phrased it, be that despised thing, an old maid. This woman vowed at (Jod's altar, to love honor and obey poor George Blank, who was so hungry for affection, while all the heart she had ever had was buried in the grave of her lover. It could not have been a large heart at any time, or some womanly tenderness would yet have been left in her, whereby she inight have shewn some appreciation of one of the best and tenderest of husbands. Always cold and statuesque, she grew colder and colder, as years passed on. It would be a word misplaced were I to say that this ill matched couple were blessed with several children. She may have been blessed, or rather she may have felt that her cross was lightened by their presence ; but he certainly was not ; for he was seldom allowed to see them, and never to play with them. Her manner gave him distinctly to understand that they were her children. I was in their house one day when, thinking, no doubt, that my presence would be a protection to him, he dared to stoop with the intention of taking the baby from the crib to fondle it ; but dropped it instantly as his wife's voice rang sharply on the air : " Don't touch the baby, George ; you'll spoil its clothes." Recalling this incident leads me to remark, that marriage must be a failure, when a wife allows her children to absorb all her attention, or show in any way that her love for them is greater than her love for their father. That they are all she thinks of, or cares about, and that he is nothing but a machine for grinding the material that makes their daily bread. \ I !| 1 16 IS MA It/? /AGE A FAILURE? In a discussion on the training of children a woman once told me that she would not allow her husband to lay a hand on her children, and she said it with a fiery tongue and flashing eyes, that made me shudder. It seems scarcely respectable for a woman to forget that her children are also her husband's, and that he is supposed to have an equal interest in their welfare ; and where the father is willing and anxious to support his wife in the government of their children, and the mother rudely and unnaturally declines his as- sistance, it is her fault if they turn out badly — as they did in the case I mention. This animal love for her children on the part of their mother is too often the cause of the unjustly treated husband and father becoming a slave to intoxicating drink. Poor George Blank did not live long to be snubbed. Driven from home by his wife's coldness and bitter tongue, he got into gay company where the wine cup went freely round, and in a few years, one of the largest-iiearted, best men I have ever known filled a drunkard's grave. And who is responsible for his wretched end .'' Who but she, who robbed him of his heart's best affection, and gave back nothing in return. I suppose she suffered, poor thing, for her voice was always sharp. No tioubt it was an affliction to have this big soft-hearted man continually in her presence trying to win from her a word or look of affection, when she had none to give. She shr'.Ud have known that marriage must be a failure to the woman, who in cold blood contemplates, and does unite herself to a man, simply to save herself from what she is pleased to consider, the odium of being an old maid. But for that opprobrious title she might have borne the situation with Christian fortitude and saved herself from sin. Shakespeare says " What's in a name .'' That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet." The immortal bard was mistaken ; for by force of associa- tion, if you called a rose an onion, it would smell strongly of garlic ; and if you call the sweetest woman on earth an '• old maid," you would think of her as crabbed and sour. There is the woman who hunts a man down till she catches him. This reminds us that the *• Last days " are at hand, when •' seven women shall cling to one man." It is the man in this case that suffers. The woman who does this kind of thing is of too coarse a fibre to know what home happiness means. I do not know how many women marry merely for the sake of being married and having the prefix " Mrs." to their name, but I do know that all such marriages must of necessity be failures. t I Oman once told y a hand on her d flashing eyes, ) forget that her ipposed to have father is wilHng nment of their declines his as- they did in the Jren on the part unjustly treated ating drink. ibbed. jitter tongue, he nt freely round, jest men I have JO is responsible jbed him of his return, oice was always loft-hearted man 1 her a word or e a failure to the oes unite herself he is pleased to lave borne the lerself from sin. which we call a orce of associa- smell strongly m earth an •• old sour. till she catches " are at hand, 1." It is the of too coarse a /S MARRIAGE A FAILURE f 17 A few years ago I remember reading in one of the daily papers an article entitled " A plea for • Lady.* " This article set forth the advantage that would accrue to the unmarried if all women were spoken of by the appellation " Lady." I do not like " lady" save as a title ; but I think it is time that society came to the relief of single women, by allowing them to drop the objectionable prefix *' Miss " with her pina- fores as a boy drops '' Master " with his knickerbockers. I care not whether she be Mrs. or Madam, but the advance of civilization demands that single women be freed from the prefi.x " Miss," that advertises them, as it is vulgarly termed, *' in the market." Such advertisement is naturally revolting to the mind of a refined woman ; and humanity is weak. What wonder if, as in the case ot Mrs. Blank, she marries to escape the discomforting publicity, and her doing so, is, as I have shown, one of the reasons why marriage is a failure. If girls were allowed to drop "Miss" at the same time as boys do " Master " and married and single alike, adopt the pre- fix Mrs. or Madam, or better still the old-fashioned term Mis- tress, women would be less self-conscious, and more easy and natural in their converse with men, and affections purer and truer would be likely to spring up between the sexes, and matri- mony, the result of mutual appreciation after long acquaintance, would be a great success. A man would think twice before he began to make love to a woman, who might for all he knew have a husband within hearing. It will be time enough for a man to try to ascertain if the woman he admires be single, when after much converse be finds that their tastes harmonize, and that their footsteps tend toward the same goal. If that goal be fashion and folly, let them flutter on side by side. If it be ambition let them soar together. If it be God and Heaven, let them press onward and upward, hand in hand, cheerfully bearing each others burdens, one in heart and soul, and thus will their marriage be a complete success. ;ly for the sake " to their name, of necessity be 18 LOST! LOST ! A Tale of the Early Settlement of Huron. (Revised from " The Mission of Love." J Dear Huron ! Land of forest, glade and streams, Thy name recalls my childhood's happy dreams. Again, I wander by the trickling rill, Acain, I see the homestead on the hiH, With pointed gables looking fward the road. O home of trust and love ! O blest abode ! The sumach still is there, and there the same Sweet dog-rose creeping up the window-frame, Where oft in girlhood 1 have idly stood And watched the full moon pour her trembling flood Of liquid beauty on the trees and flowers ; Ave. I have watched the cold pure moon for hours, Heeding not then how iwift Time's river flows. Dreaming such dreams as girlhood only knows. Wandering in realms more beautiful than this> Dreaming of love, and the still greater bliss Of being loved— O sweet ! O rapturous thought ! Should I in my obscurity be sought By one, as yet unknown, and he, I ween. The noblest type cf manhood ever seen. My soul from infancy was taught to soar By one, who loved the truth and honor, more, Far more than life ; and he my mind did train In lore of chivalry, in martial strain ; ^ Praising great deeds of daring, till I ne er Could know what 'twas the coward callelh tear. Telling old tales of hot and desperate strife. Making a poem of my daily life. Long years ago he settled in this place. With all around as far as eye could trace A forest of illimitable space ; The home of bears and wolves and red men wild. A roving fancy had him here beguiled ; He loved not towns nor cities with their strife, His heart clung fondly to a country lue ; And here he brought my mother, one.of three Fair maidens reared in urban luxury. Bravely the trials of her life she bore, ^ Counting her many blessings o'er and o er. Nor breathed a sigh for what had been before, i LOST! 19 OF Huron. streams, dreams. road, de! same frame, mbling flood rs; n for hours, •r flows, knows, m this> bliss > thought 1 n, , more, id train 'er leth fear. itrife, ce men wild. ir strife, e; af three er, 1 before, Nor let a discontented fancy rove, But always to assist her husband strove, For what can equal woman's deathless love. Five little children came to light that home, And seven God took— of three sweet (mes, the tomb Is underneath the hemlock tree, whose spread Keeps cool the earth above our loved and dead. The elder ones of that fair little band Sleep in the bosom of the " motherland." From early morn until the eventide The farmer labored on, nor yet supplied His off"spring, who in childhood plainly fared, And in the face of famine often stared. Then better times had come, and he had cleared More land, and greater herd of cattle reared. Each child, however small, had work assigned. To spin the wheel, the tangled skein to wind. To pluck the chicken, or to make the stew, Even the baby in the crib could coo ; And she, the next in years would tend that pearl, That lovely fair haired, blue-eyed, laughing girl. Twas no light task, for be it understood. The youngest ever is of wilful mood. The father's darling, and the mother's pride, Seemeth to be by all the rest belied ; If they should dare complain that she had wrought Some ill, with much of direst mischief fraught. All had their several tasks and as her share The baby fell to lot of little Clare ; Who, when most tried by that tempestuous mood Which babies oft indulge, and still no good Follows each cooing, sweet and soothing word, Would often wonder how it had occurred That Ma, who had so many, should have brought This one to share the trials of their lot. The eldest, Ella, sweet and fresh, and fair. Would oft her mother's heavy burthen share In milking cows, and other household care, And keeping well-worn clothing in repair. Leila and Edwin ; they, a fragile pair. Were left to roam at will for freshened air ; And when with plough the farmer turned the earth Would follow in the furrow full of mirth, Till little weary limbs would idly creep, Then lie upon the fresh damp earth and sleep. And there the father, slowly moving round, Would find his offspring lying on the ground Before the horses' feet ; then he would stay, 'M 20 LOST.' And liear his treanures in his arms at\ay, And lay them on his coat, in some safe spot, NV'here they would sleep as sound as in their cot. S(»l sent his lervent kisses from on hij^h, Catbirds and blackbirds sanf{ their lullaby ; Fresh breezes played about each little form, Bearing the scent of clover, and a storm Of snow-while blossoms from the hawthorn trees, Wealth of the Hies and was[)s and honey bees ; Bringing new life upon their dainty breath, And thus these babes escaped the grasp of Death. In busy times the farmer oft would send The children, who their bounding steps would l)end Toward the forest wild to seek the cows, That wandered miles and miles away to browse Ui)on the young green twigs and herbage sweet. That grew in wild luxuriance at their feet. *' Stray not, my girls," he said, " from out of sight Of tree-trunks standing 'gainst a line of light." These marked the clearing, as they knew full well. Acquainted were they with each hiil and dell. Where roved the hare, and where the wood-chuck dwell. One day, in early June, the farmer came In from the fields, and calling oft by name His children ; Ella and Leila ('Mickly bound From rear of barn, where they a nest have found Of new laid eg^s, which they in triumph bear. And give into the smiling mother's care. Then eager turn to hear their father's quest, Who in lew words his wishes thus expressed : " Ella, and you, my little Leila, go Beyond the farm, and where the brook doth flow Vou'll find the cows. They all day long have lain Within the clearing, to avoid the pain Of black- flies which infest the leafy wood, And from the worried cattle drain the blood. They're hungry now, and they I fear may stray. If not brought home before the close of day. List ! Do you hear the bell for four doth chime ? 'Tis only two hours hence to milking time ; 'Twere pity they should wander out of sight. Without they're sought they'll not be home to-night. Go quickly ! Go, before they further stray, And bring them through the bush the nearest way ; And call them as you go, so they'll not roam. But know there's something nice for them at home. Take heed ! If ever you should lose your way When hunting cattle at the close of day, Keep with the bell, my pets, and know no care ,._!* lost: 21 't, ir cot. 1 trees, ses ; Death. >uld l)end owse weet, ; of sight It." nil well, ill. 1-chuck dwell. d Found ar, I d : I flow ive lain tray, hime ? to-night. >t way ; ». home, 'ay ftre For wrely Ma and I will find you there." This as a warning— he had nought to fear The cows that evening were so very near. Away flew Ella, where the palhw.\y led, And followed Leila, with as quick a tread ; They cross the brook and gain the higher ground, Their supple forms o'er logs and fences bound. They reach the bush, and in a little dell. Distinctly hear the sound of Brandy's bell. A moment slay their panting breath to gain, Then sounds the cow-call over hill and plain. " Co Brandy, co Brandy, co Brandy, Coo ! CO o ! co-o ! Co Lily, CO Lily, co Lily, Co Dolly, CO Dolly, co Dolly, Co-o ! CO o ! co-o ! Co Jennie, co Jennie, co Jennie, Co Lady, co Lady, co Lady, Co Colly, CO Colly, co Colly, Co-o ! ro-o ! co-o ! co-o ! Then held their breaths to listen— called anew. No bell is heard, for Brandy listens too ; Vet only for a moment stays the sound, Again it rings through all the forest round ; For having fasted all the live-long day. In haste she doth the tender herbage slay ; While yet again with clear and merry chime. To turn of tongue and teeth the bell keeps time. Tearing from limb of tree the nearest spray. The children rush upon their hungry prey, Deeming, as was their wont, they'd quickly take The path that wound around the cedar brake, And o'er the cross-way leading to the lane. Below the path just traversed through the grain. In vain they tried to drive the cattle back Along the mouldy, time-worn, beaten track. They dodged from right to left, now here, now there» As loath to leave so soon their dainty fare ; And thus, through wandering on in search of food, They led the children further in the wood ; Round and about, and in and out they wind. Until they leave the clearing far behind. In vague alarm the little ones look round. The swaying trees give forth a dismal sound, And naught familiar to their eye is found. Where is the darksome dell so lately crossed. Can it be possible that they are lost ? They raised their eyes to seek the god of day. By whom their father ever steered his way ; *»W-«.'^WI T^'-rr;^ 22 I [ LOST.' Put all in vain, nor right nor left they spy The faintest sight of his one brilliant eye. All, all around the sky is overcast "With dismal clouds, and there they stand aghast, Look in each others eyes, and seeing there The terror which they mutually share, Each tries her sister with a smile to cheer, Though quaking inwardly with mortal fear. Dire tales oft told of hungry wolves and bears That prowling wander from their sheltered lairs, And roam by night the densely wooded lands ; Of Indians, scalping knives, and burning brands ; All dreaded scenes that infant fancy finds. With sick'ning horror, rush into their minds. With fearful glance they scan the forest drear. The shades of coming night are Gathering near ; Each bush and log some direful shape assumes, A giant Indian from the distance looms^ Upon their w?y ; and banks and turned up-roots Take forms of bears, and wolves, and other brutes That roam the forest wild in search of prey, And oft behind some log in ambush lay. From whence they might at any moment start ; This thought sent death chills to each little heart. Then hunger's first awakening pangs they feel. And thoughts of starving make their senses reel ; Imagination every wonder weaves ; ^ *' Would robins come and cover them with leaves ? Should they lie down and die upon the sod ? And would their spirits find their way to God,? And then poor Pa and Ma ; what would they do, Would they be searching all the forest through. Perhaps for days and weeks, and all in vain ! They'd never see their little maids.again ; And tears which their own terrors could not bring, For sympathy beneath each eyelid spring. And form large crystal drops, that slowly roll Adown their cheeks, while mourned each little soul With grief unspeakable, for those who'd grieve For them long after they had ceased to live. Yet other thoughts to them sweet solare bring. Taking from death the fear, the bitter sting ; When they were dead Mamma would love them more, Nor think so much of baby as before. Here spoke the woman's soul, that slumb'ring lay Within those little tenements of clay. O v.'oman ! sweet and gentle, thou dost prove A perfect martyr in the cause of love. I f ill l|:i V II il M LOST : 28 py id aghast, ere :er, fear. [ bears ;red lairs, [ lands ; ig brands ; ids, ninds. drear, ng near ; issumes, i up-roots ther brutes prey, U It start ; ittle heart. ley feel, nses reel ; th leaves ? " sod ? to Godi? Id they do, through, vain ! n ; d not bring, ng, i^ly loU Lch little soul d grieve ) live. ce bring, sting ; love them more, mb'ring lay ;t piove But not for long these thoughts their bosoms sway. They mark the gloom and watch the closing day Swift blending into night, and terrors new. On every side loom nearer into view. In quaking fear they closely keep to where Old Brandy still regales on dainty fare ; Then white with terror turn their glance to see Dolly has made a bed beneath a tree ; Lily, with snow-white face and crumpled horn And stump of tail, from which the switch was torn. Had mounted on a bank lo rest and chew. Too well these signs the frightened children knew, A blinding mist of tears obscured their sight, As no\y the cows prepare to pass the night ; There in the forest dark, where beasts of prey And roving red men prowled ; there they Must stay till morning, and they could not sleep Both at one time, for one good watch must keep, As soldiers do, when they to battle go, Tftat they be not surprised by lurking foe. Here a new thought arose their hearts to cheer. New hope has ta'en the place of deadly fear, No longer hungry, caring not to roam. Mayhap they yet mir^ht bring the cattle home ; Eut which way should they drive, they could not say, No landmark could they find to tell the way ; But still the cattle knew which way to go, Then softly called to Brandy, co co co, They dared not raise their voice, so great their fear Some ugly Indian might be lurking near ; Then as she did not move, they desperate grew, And seizing switclies at the cattle flew. A direful rout ensued, and for a space They rush in wild confusion round the place, Then tails in air in one direction start, The children following, each sick at heart. Meantime the parents fully occupied, Miss not their offspring till the eventide, V,"hen lengthened shadows creep into her home. The mother marvels that they do not come. " Give me the baby, Clare, and go you out, And see if any cattle are about. Or if you hear the bell, come quickly back ; If not at home, they may be on the track ; It's very late and I am sore afraid." Here Clare returning, to her mother said, " I tan't see any tows, nor hear no bell." "Go quickly, then, and to your father tell Your sisters are not back. He must be gone And search for them before the daylight's done." ' r 24 LOST! But ere the child the door behind her drew, What first was fear to active terror grew ; " Good Heaven ! If they are lost what shall I do !" And with the baby in her arms she flew Across the fields, and gained her husband's side, And panting with exertion gasping cried, '« The children, Sidney ! They have not come back ! 'Tis growing dark, they must have missed the track." Appalled the astonished father stood, then said, " They'll soon be here, dear wife, be not afraid. They know the bush right well for miles around, Don't cry, dear love, believe me, they'll be found ; Indeed, I did not know but they were back, Or I long since had been upon their track ; 'Twere useless now to try their way to trace, 'Twill be pitch-dark before ten minutes' space Of time elapse, and what then could I do, In darkness I can't search the forest through ; My dearest wife, I'll have them with thee soon, Be patient till the rising of the moon." "■ Patient ! Think you that I can calmly wait, Uncertain of our precious children's fate ; Why, even while we stand here speaking, they May be devoured by some fierce beast of prey. There must be something done ! I cannot wi'.it, Before the moon rise it may be too late ; How can you stand there looking into space, Nor of the children try to find a trace ? If I remain inactive all the night I shall go mad before the morning light ; Oh, Sidney ! Sidney ! Something must be done, Would it not do for you to fire your gun ? If not too distant they will hear the sound, And I will gather sticks the field around, A nd make a fire upon the hill-top there, ".'hose brilliant flame arising high in air, May light them home, if yet they are alive. This dreadful thought my wounded heart doth rive, I may have only three, where I had five. O God ! have mercy on me ! Hear my cry, Preserve my little ones, let them not die This dreadful night, but have them in thy care, O Heavenly Father, hear a mother's prayer ! O save my children from a cruel fate If yet, if yet, O God ! 'tis not too late." The flames rose from the quickly kindled fire, On the dark night they mounted high and higher ; The mother wrought with zeal that could not tire, The gun was fired, and on the air was borne 1 ii ii • IB: LOST! '25 ill I do !" side, ;ome back ! he track." said, .fraid. ound, : found ; ^1 :e, lace gh; soon. vait, they rey. t w-^i;, ce, )e done, doth rive, care, er! fire, 1 higher ; not tire, rne At intervals, the sound of dinner horn. The neighbors hearing the unusual sound, Came to the scene from full two miles around, And offered all the aid within their power. But nothing could be done in that dark hour, Naught but re-echoing their shouts and cries. Until the slowly waning moon should rise. The anxious faces round the blaring fire Made scene that any painter might inspire ; Foremost of all the group the father stood With hand to ear in listening attitude, Erect he stands upon a little mound In hope to catch the bell's first faintest sound ; In him an upright, manly form behold, Fashioned in Nature's best, most perfect mould. Some troubled lines about his mouth you spy, But hope beams brightly in his hazel eye ; Buoyant by nature, he could not believe That harm would come his little ones to grieve ; Though oft by many troubles sorely tried, He always looks upon the brightest side. Now by the fire-light you distinctly trace, The signs of pain upon his shadowed face ; 'Twas sympathy for her his bosom moved, For her so truly and so fondly loved. Oft is his eye with humid feeling turned On her, who as the fire-light brightly burned Flits here and there with ever restless haste. Tall was her form and slender was her waist ; Complexion soft, and dazzlingly fair, Abundant tresses of rich auburn hair ; In joy, no brighter face than hers was seen ; When trouble came, so changed was her mien ; A stranger scarce would know her as the same ; For, in that delicately fashioned frame. Exist the power to suffer, strong and deep. And mourn, as women mourn, who never weep. Beyond the blazing fire, a trifling space, Sits little Clare, with troubled, wondering face, That ever restless baby on her lap, Not mindful of the hour for evening nap ; For, as the ruddy fire-light sparks and glows, In infant glee she claps her hands and crows. Edwin with long green pole stirs up the sticks ; With forked and curling tongues the bright flame licks The air, and glows upon the herbage tangled mound. And shows the neighl)ors sitting on the ground In motley garments clad — a rural sight — Waiting the advent of the queen of night. '■^F '26 LOST! Sudden, one starts upon his feet, " Hush ! hush I I surely hear a bell in yonder bush ; Be still, and listen ! Yes, I'm sure I do, And every moment coming nearer too ; And see ! A liyht spreads on the eastern sky. The moon is rising. Bless me, marm, don't cry ! They'll be here in a twinkling. Yes, I trows, I'm certain sure they will not leave the cows." This to the mother — for when hope came near. Raised from her heart the weight of deadly fear, Rolled down her cheeks in pearly crystal tide The tears so long her agony had dried. So 'tis with women of strong feeling, e'er They weep for joy, when grief can't find a tear. Return we to the lost ones from the fold ; These children, only eight and ten years old ; What horror must their youthful minds have known. What fear, by training made too proud to own. They know not where they are, the way how long, Or whether going right, or whether wrong. Till Brandy takes the lead ; they form in line, Of large and small they number seven kine ; As though attaining one united mind. They slowly through the darkening forest wind. Then Leila clapped her little hands and cried. Soon as the line of cows she had espied, " See, Ella, see ! They're surely going home ! Come quickly, come I Make haste I Come Ella, come I'm sure they've found a path, see how they wind, And each the other follows close behind. Yes, here it is, though dusk I see the track, Come quickly on I And let us not look back : It is so dark, we do not know what's there, There might be some racoon, or wolf, or bear. No ! I'm not frightened, oh, no I There's no fear. The cattle would not let a bear come near, But turn nnd hunt it, as they would a dog. What's that black thing we passed ? Was it a log ?" Trembling in every nerve with inward fear, Those two poor little ones bring up the rear Of that procession ; and like those ahead, The elder walking first with rapid tread ; Poor Leila, worn and weary with the race. Makes desperate efforts to keep even pace. A stick across the pathway lies— she trips— A stifled cry escapes her pallid lips ; Then Ella turns, all thought of fear has fled. Like the trained soldier who has fought and bled. With cry that through the dismal forest rung, I, M i iin LOST! 27 husht iky, 't cry ! kVS, 'S." ear, fear, de ;ear. 1; s known, wn. w long, le, ind. :d, ne ! e Ella, come wind, k: u. no fear, t a log ?" Like lion rushes to protect her young. " I'm here I What is it, Leila dear ?" she cries ; " Nothing," a little trembling voice replies ; •• A nasty stick across the pathway laid, I tripped and fell. Oh, no ! I'm not afraid, I cannot be a coward, Ella dear. You know Papa says, ' only cowards fear,' Let's closer still to little Colly keep, Where are we now ! This bank is very steep. I ihink I know the place, yet cannot tell, Now we go down into a little dell, And now we rise a hill, and on this side — ' Yes, here it is !' " with wild delight she cried. And flung her arms around, in joy to see A monster knot that grew upon a tree. " Here is my knot ! I found it long ago, It's on the left hand side— I told you so ! We're going home, we now will soon be there, See ! There's a light arising high in air ; And what are all those noises that we hear As to the clearing we are coming near ? There I There again ! Hark 1 Was not that a gun ? 'Tis Papa tiring, hasten, let us run." The welcome sound put all their fears to rout. Each little throat gives forth responsive shout ; New strength again their weary limbs inspire ; The brilliant light from the high blazing tire Beams on their pathway with a flickering glare ; They onward bound as though they trod on air. The crossing's passed, that darksome place of dread. The clearing gained, and all their terror fled. They climb the hill, and reach their parents' side. Then in exultant accents, Leila cried : •' They're all here, Papa ! Even Colly, small, There s not one missing, we have brought them all." bled. ■^..ii.^i_.,7-' > i 28 I ■ i LEAVES FROM A LIFE \ ■"•^L K IIM I LEAVES FROM A LIFE. i^ : \ - What have I lost ? What more ? Only the clasp of a kindred hand, Hand outstretched, when the shifting sand Of life, left no place for my feet to stand. Yet more ; ah me, yet more. Only the glance of a deep blue eye, Pure and clear as the azure sky, That fettered my soul, I knew not why. Yet more ; ah me, yet more. Only a kindly thought, or word. That erst my soul to its depths had stirred. Ere faint with the sickness of " Hope deferred. Yet more ; ah me, yet more. Only my faith in a promise given. Ah, Heaven aid me, in vain I've striven To banish the doubt that my soul has riven. No more, I need no more. And yet, I go back to the day when last We met, and my weary heart throbs fast, And the gulf of time seems over-past, I listen again, to the voice that taught How poets their airy web had wrought, Till mine ear the charmed music caught. And that voice had a power my soul to move And subdue ; and my spirit no longer strove. And his face, to look upon was to love. The Firm sweet mouth courted trust, and I With reverence looked in the calm deep eye. E'en as one may gaze upon Deity. He fostered hope ; the sweet hope, that I Might try my wings in soaring high. As greatest poets had dared to fly. He offered aid, and my soul did lave In ecstatic bliss. Ah, I do not rave ; And I thank my God for the friend lie gave ; Now mine no more ; no more. FE LEAVES EROM A LIEE. 20 LIFE. ig sand jtand. vhy. stirred, pe deferred." riven as riven. 1 last i fast, it. ;ht ght, ught. 1 to move er strove. )ve. t, and I deep eye, that I He gave ; A cloud has arisen, I know not where. A shadow has darkened the orient air Of my morning of hope, that arose so fair, And I stand alone once more. Alone, alone, with no hand to guide My wiiid-tossed bark o'er life's stormy tide, While here, on earth, my spirit abide. Storm or calm are alike to me, Helpless, I drift on the treacherous sea Of life ; and my thought goes back to thee. And I marvel what can have come between Thy soul and mine, what thing unseen, That I would to Heaven had never been. Pain and grief in my breast are rife ; Yet, what have I lost in this weary strife ? Only a link in the chain of life, Only a link, no more. And what have I gained in this fever-time ? A little knowledge in prose and rhyme ; A new-found joy of the heart, now fled ; A new-born hope, now cold and dead. A little patience ; a few grey hairs ; A few more wrinkles ; a few more cares ; A soul more weary of earthly strif^e ; A few more steps on the path of life ; No more, ah me, no more- Why beat thy wings O soul, Against thy walla of clay ? Wouldst thou be gone afar, far hence, Ere yet 'tis day ? Dost hear the seraphs' wings ? And wouldst thou join their flight ? Beware, lest what to them is day, To thee be night. Hear'st thou thy kindred call From realms of boundless space ; Those who have gone afar from thee, And left no trace ? They come in glorious shapes ; And speak to thee in dreams ; Yet nothing in this whirling life Is what it seems. 1. , l! 1 80 LEAVES FROM A LIFE. And who knows that beyond, Who knows if it were best, That thou shouldst fto to reams unseen To seek thy rest. Then why take heed of sleep, With all her fancies wild, Her visions that the morn dispels ? Art thou a child, To be thus led away ; To chafe thy wings and fret ? Be patient, soul, and run thy course ; Thy time's not yet. The time, it is not yet When thou thy bliss shalt see ; Thy wounds are bleeding ; yet thou know st God loveth thee. Then, soul ! be still, and wait, Nor seek thy bonds to free ; A little longer, here on earth, God needeth thee. Rejoice, O ye heavens ! Rejoice, O ye earth ! My hope has arisen, Rejoice in its birth. Rejoice, all ye star-eyes That watch from above. Rejoice, O ye angels ! Ye guardians of love. Whisper softly, ye leaves. In your green shady bowers. Lift your faces and laugh. All ye sweet breathing flowers. Come, ye breezes, and play, And caressingly speak In mine ear, and kiss softly My fever-red cheek. Ripple, brooklet, and tell. On your way to the sea. All the joy, all the brightness That Cometh to me. Ye song-birds, awake I And with glorious voice Rejoice in my gladness ; All nature, rejoice ! Away, dreary doubt ! Hie thee far far away ; I i ; i LEAVES FROM A LIFE. 31 The morn has arisen, Again it is clay. Ambition, awake ! Love, be silent, yet true. Sweet Hope, make a home In my bosom anew. Rise ! bright expectation ! Uplift your bowed head ; The clouds have dispersed, And the darkness has fled. He came. He clasped my hand in his ; I looked upon his face once more. While surged the life-tide to my heart As beat the waves upon the shore . I looked into his eyes once more ; Those eyes so deeply, darkly blue. My soul met his ; and in that glance, Knew, in a moment, he was true. He spoke to me ; I heard him not, Or only as we hear in sleep ; He held me spell bound by his glance, So pure, so passionless, so deep. I know not how the moments passed ; So few, so fleeting, and so dear. I know not if I thought at all ; I only knew that he was near, Methinks I felt a kindred thrill That moved his pulse ; I know but this, My soul was fettered by the spell That merged my being into his. We wandered, while the silent eve Crept darkening o'er the western sky ; I know not where my footsteps led, I only kney that he was nigh. My lips framed words, I know not what. I seemed as speaking in a trance ; I had no will but his ; and I Obeyed his deep mesmeric glance. I heard my voice as though afar ; As though my soul, apart from me, Gave utterance to its hidden thought, Its hidden pulse of misery. He answered, and I cannot tell Of what he spoke to me, and yet III! a-i LEAVES FROM A UFE. His lips breathed fervid woids of pain, In tones I never can forget. So strong the bond of sympathy ; So thin the veil our souls divide ; Again, I felt the unseen powe» That drew me closer to his side. Love ! The boon my heart has craved Since childhood left me sad and lone ; 1 stretch my arms to thee, and yet, 1 dare not claim thee for mine own. The moments passed, and sank my soul In sadness deep, and drear, and fell. O Pain ! Thou hast no ba'sn ! 'Twas but A hand-clasp spoke our last farewell. ******* 'Twas the night of the eve of our parting ; And I in a fevered unrest Sought the casement, woo'd thence by the night-wmd, And stood and looked out to the west. The last tints of sun-set had vanished ; No moon shed her love-kindling light. From the great dome, above me, the star-eyes Peeped dim through the veil of the night. In silence and stillness, unbroken, Those star-eyes looked tenderly down ; Aud peered through the mist, and the shadow, That hung o'er the calm, sleeping town. And saw where earth's beauty had languished, Unwept, in the day's sultry hours ; And dew-drops, as nectar from heaven, Fell down on the slumbering flowers. O balm of the silence and stillness ! To thee is not given the power Forever to hush the wild spirit. Forever to charm the dark hour. O flow'rets ! sweet flow'rets, thy incense Is borne on the night-wind in vain ; Thy petals enclose not nepenthe. Nepenthe, the soother of pain. The rose-buds that lay in my bosom Upwafted their odorous breath ; While a shadow crept over my spirit. Like unto the shadow of death. I ill I LIFE. f pain, LEAVES FROM A LIFE. 38 IS craved lone ; yet, wn. my soul fell. Twas but ;well. * * ur parting ; ;nce by the night-wind, e west. nished ; ; light. e, the star-eyes the night. en, down ; nd the shadow, ng town. had languished, fs ; heaven, owers. less ! ly incense /ain ; le. )osom ' spirit, Pain follows the footsteps of pleasure, As the day is fast followed by night ; And the shadow is ever the sharpest That crosses a vista of light. The path ot the past rose before me, A rugged and storm-beaten track, Where flashes of sunshine yet flickered Mid shodows, dense, dreary, and black. Ah ! the joys ! they were sweet, though so fleeting ; Vet mine for a space ; and the pain ; Ah Heaven I and can it be ever My spirit shall know it again ? As the mariner, tossed by the tempest. And drifting afar from his goal. Seeks his compass to guide through the darkness ; I stood, and looked into my soul. And I saw, where afore-time the tempest Had raged in its fierceness and power ; And the garnered sweets for a lifetime Had withered and drooped in an hour. And I gazed on the wreck, and the ruin Of idols that fell in the strile ; While faint through the storm, and the darkness. Had flickered the lamp of my life. And I said to my soul, " Thou bright essence ; The boon of the All-giving God ; Oh ne'er, as thou hopest for Heaven, Retrace the dread path thou hast trod." Awake I O my soul ! Burst thy fetters ; Awake thee ! and dream not again ; And the demon of darkness will seek thee. To conquer thee. Spirit, in vain. While the deep eye of faith pierced the shadows, Unuttered, a prayer sped above ; Yet the Merciful heard, and encircled My soul with the power of His love. Then the stillness of peace fell upon me, The peace that descendeth from where The Great Eye of Love looketh downward, On mortals who seek Him in prayer. While slowly the midnight crept nearer, A weary head sank to repose ; 84 LEAVES FROM A LIFE, And faith threw a veil over sorrow, And shut out the world, and its woes. Softly Cometh sleep ; Passeth a gentle hand Over the throbbing heart ; Over the weary brain ; Closeth the tired eyes; Singeth a lullaby. Like to the sighing wind, As he whispers to the trees ; Or to the murmuring waves, As they kiss the sand on the shore. Softly singeth sleep ; Then all s still 'Neath the shadowy pinions that Night outspread, A dream, that was born of a day now dead ; A fugitive dream, came in on the air And lifted an eyelid, and entered there. And the sleeping vision beheld with pain A scene that lingers on heart and brain ; An omen, dread, of a day to be In the unknown realm of futurity. I stood on the marge' of a crimson lake ; Crimson, with flame of the setting sun ; And counted the white gulls, one by one, That skimmed the wave like a white snow-flake A breeze, that came from the farther shore. Faintly the trees on the headland fanned ; And the opaline eddies kissed the strand. And murmured, "Ever, or nevermore." Saddest voice that is heard on the shore ; Saddest soumi, \v\\X the wave repeats As ever its greal ..eart throbs and beats ; That sad, fr-sJ, lingering, "Nevermore." Never more ; and methought that again, Never more ; would I see his face ; Never again ; and would lime erase The sense of loss, and the sickening pain ? Kindred spirits, though far apart. Hear the voice of their kindred soul ; And though between them an ocean roll ; Yet heart responds to the beat of heart. He stood beside me ; but when he came. Or how, it is not for me to know ; IE. LEAVES EKOM A LIEE. 3.') >es. shore. ght outspreai, 3W dead ; lir lere. b pain rain; ake ; iun ; f'one, e snow-flake :r shore, nned ; trand. lore." lore ; :s ;ats ; more." ;ain pain ? roil ; art. came, He looked at the waters ebb and flow, That shimmered and glowed in the sunset flame. I had known him run as we stood by the wave ; Hut for the blue, as of midnight skies. The falhoiiniess blue of the soul-lit eyes. And the kindred clasp of the hand he gave. I love that hand, of the true, the pure, I love it, for with it he ofTt-red up To my thirsting soul a nectar'd cup, And 'tis mine to cherish forevermore. Love it ! aye, love it ! I, who had given All the wealth that my soul could know, To that one fond dream of the long ago, Whose incense neareth the gate of heaven. Fainter, fainter, and far away Over the wave the echoes flew Of the voice that murmured, " I'm fond of you," In that sweet, tremulous, long dead day. Hand in hand we stood on the shore, Hand in hand, and our souls were stirred To their inmost depths, yet we spoke no word ; While the waters whispered " Forevermore." Hand in hand, in the free wild air ; Then his accents fond did my soul o'erflow ; Then died the dream of the long ago. And the great reality met me there. love ! sweet love ! I knew it well ; 1 knew it not for the joy it brought, Not as a beam from heaven caught, But as anguish deeper than words can tell. Softly whispered the sighing wave ; With my loosened tresses his fingers toyed ; And oh ! the hunger ! the aching void, That I dared not till with the love he gave. The waters murmuied along the shore ; He bent his ear ; he inclined his head To the wave, that vied with the ruby red. And louder muttered " Forevermore." A storm arose from the farther shore ; The fierce clouds hurried, the lightnings flashed ; Afar, the foam on the water splashed, And the waves rolled in with a hollow roar. i 3b LEAVES FROM A LIFE. Ah, Heaven ! grant me the power to save, It comes, the destroyer of peace and life ; It comes, the begetter of wrongs and strife, Its odors wafted across the wave. Odors faint, that breathed of the vine ; Then the deep blue eyes dilated wide. As they watched the wind tossed, crimson tide And the sunset lake was a sea of wine. And siren voices arose and fell, And white arms beckoned, and long hair streamed On the wind, and on crest of the wavelets gleamed. As heaven reclined on the breast of hell. Spell-bound he gazed ; then with one fierce wrench He escaped my twining arms, and gave His beautiful form to the eager ./ave. That polluted the air with its sulphurous stench. Odors foul from the burning flood, Where phantom images writhed and tossed. As Milton paints the hell of the lost ; And the crimson wave was a sea of blood. One moment only, afar from shore. His form arose from the seething wave, And sank again, while with wilder rave The waters thundered, " Forevermore." ♦ ♦«**« I awoke from a nightmare of horror ! Awoke, with a shuddering cry ; The air was alive with wild tumult. Forked flames leaping up to the sky. My vision bewildered and blinded ; Their fierce breath invaded my cheek ; My brain was benumbed and insensate ; My limbs were reluctant and weak. A cry broke the horror around me ; No demon had heard it unmoved. " Hold fast to the sash ! I am coming To save thee, mine own, my beloved." Strong arms held me close to the ladder, That seemed as a raft on the wave Of the crimson dyed bosom of Huron, That in dreamland had yawned for a grave. Th'«n darkness, black darkness, soft footsteps, And again, I had wakened to life ; I IJ I I i II I W: : \ I \ i If ;i liiH:! i I JFE. LEAVES FROM A LIFE. ;57 r to save, ind life ; and strife, vine ; vide, crimson tide wine. mg hair streamed wavelets gleamed, of hell. one fierce wrench i gave ave, )hurous stench. nd tossed, )st ; jf blood. wave, r rave more." * or! It. ky. 1; leek ; nsate ; mmg ;ed." ladder, ron, r a grave. ft footsteps, But Time svill not drink up those waters, Nor blot out that horrible strife. I have walket' in the way of the lowly, In the paths where Cirist's footsteps have trod And my tempest-tossed sou! found a haven Of rest, at the feet of my God. The days flee away into shadows, The nights creep apace to the morn ; And I know, yes I know, out of darkness A glorious day has been born. And the ache, and the pain, the heart-hunger, They were stilled, or effaced on that pyre, With the life of the loved of my childhood, Who saved from the demon of fire. Alone down the valley I wander ; I pass through the shadow of death ; With weary and faltering footsteps, With faint and with quivering breath. With eyes tliat are misty, yet tearless, With voice that is falterin'er'ng thro!) to our heart — beats, From a pulse that's akin to our own. And we give of the goiii of our heart's blood ; And lay on Love's altar, and burn Our purest and holie-t emh, no earth love Can feed the unsatisried soul. ;^8 I THE WONDER OF 1SS2. i .1 i!ii;.hl Ijllli THE WONDER OF 1882. 'Twas not a hundred years ago, A youth by summer moonlight roved To meet his own, his best beloved, The fairest in Ontario. He rested on a little knoll, Beneath an aged sycamore ; His locks hung loosely, and he wore A sunflower in his button hole. He listened to the sighing trees, That made their melancholy moan ; In that soft, murmuring undertone ; Complaining to the evening breeze. He bared his pale, majestic brow ; And gazed upon the rising moon ; And whispered to the night. How soon. How soon shall I behold her now ? My heart's adored, my cherished Rose, Let me but clasp thee once again, To this fond heart ; and all my pain Will end, and all my doubts and woes. A long robe brushed the falling dew ; She comes ; and lo ! a maiden fair, With halo bright of golden hair, Stepped from the shadows into view. Tall was her slender form, and light Her step, that pressed the yielding sod ; Where little feet had often trod On many a witching moonlight night. Her eyes were of the deepest blue That ever lover raved about ; A dimple playing in and out; Now vanishing, now full in view ; Enticed a lover's lip to press The glowing cheek whereon it played ; Like sunshine, toying with the shade ; Provoked the lender, fond caress Most like to heaven of all the sweet That falls to connnon mortal's lot ; THE WONDER OE 18S2. 39 I know the spell, and who does not, When lovers' lips by moonlight meet. And oh, the glory of her hair, Coil upon coil of palest gold ; Coil upon coil, and fold on fold, It nestled round her neck, and there Peeped forth in little rings, and fell Soft to her snowy bosom's verge ; Where undefined emotions surge. With every undulating swell. It was that crown of palest gold, That first had caught the raptured sight Of that fond youth ; and on that nighl, He longed those tresses to unfold ; And see their shimmering wealth displayed In the soft moonbeams' mellow glow ; That once his longing eyes might know His love in all her charms arrayed. And as he pressed her to his breast, With fondest words in cooing tone ; He drew the hair pins one by one, That held it in its place of rest. Nor knew she in that moment fond, Where his untutored fingers strayed ; Received his kisses undismayed ; And dreamed of love, and naught beyond. Naught but that blissful moment sweet. What language can the sequel tell ? What words can paint the scene ? It fell, A glittering glory to her feel. Why are his eyes distended wide With horror in their burning glance ? He seemed as sinking in a trance ; Gazed he on it, and gizing died. What wonder that the life was reft. From that lesthetic youthful lover ; Who in an instant could discover, And not of reason seem bereft ; That as that glittering glory spread Down to her feet to softly sink ; He missed the bright connecting link Between that glory, and her head ? 4 in; mm' III' 40 THE WONDER OF 1882. The maiden fled, and never more, Thouqh searched for many a day and night, By man or woman, ghost or sprite, Was seen upon Canadian shore. The Pesthete's soul, by sprites below, On snow-white wings was seen to rise ; To seek his dwelling in the skies ; Where seraphs charm away his woe. And as he soared his upward way, The watchers noted from below, A streaming pennon's golden glow Seen in the moonbeam's quivering ray. And up, and up, into the blue ; Till fastened to a wandering star, It streamed athwart the heaven atar. The comet wonder, of 'eighty-two. Exposure since to many a clime, Mas bleached that golden tress to white ; Yet still it shimmers on the sight, A warning from the olden time. That tells the ruin and the wreck, Wrought by the fair-haired laughing witches, Who wore long burnished golden switches In wildering coils about the neck. That beauteous tress that softly flows, If it be true what wise men name. May yet be known to ♦light a flame. Will plunge the world in deepest woes. * It was supposed by some that the comet of 1882 would set the world on fiie. [ 'If 11 ,1 m 882. DUST AND ASHES. 41 nd night, DUST AND ASHES. w, rise ; ray. ar, A-hite ; ig witches, witches ws, le, voes. Duld set the worKl on fire. She looked into the wood fire's blaze, A brilliant dark-eyed maid ; Upon the softly rounded cheek The lights and shadows played. One fair white arm, as pedestal, Implanted on her knee j Upheld the meditative head, In dreamland revelling free. A wealth of rich dark tresses fell Upon her shoulders white ; And waved, and rippled o'er her form Into the void of night. The embers glowed upon the hearth. The blue flame shyly crept Among the sticks, beneath whose shade The soft grey ashes slept. Faint murmurs floated on the air. As angels' wings in flight ; And on the dome above her head, Wavered a trembling light. Like halo, limned by painter's hand, Some beauteous saint above. It cast a radiance o'er that form, The shrine of life and love. And as the embers flashed and glowed, So dreamed that maiden young ; In wildest strain of sweet romance, That e'er from firelight sprung. The misty eyes see from the coals A shape of glory rise ; A peerless form, in beauty pure As seraph from the skies. The dark bright face still brighter glows The red lips trembling move ; And to the ear of night is borne The whisper, " O my love." A rustling in the shadow'd air, Two white wings widely spread ; \ ' 42 DUST A\D ASHES. A guardian angel bendeth o'er That vision-haunted head. The red coals close their eyes beneath Their shadowy lids, nor see The blue flamt hide beneath the log, That slumbers dreamily. All sounds are hushed, for none may hear How through the chimney's height, The smoke sped up, and hung a veil Upon the brow of night. ***** She sat before the wood fire bright, A woman, pure and sweet ; Her hair, unbound, around her fell, Her little pearly feet Peeped from the long white robe, as they Were playing hide and seek ; The firelight danced, and leaped, and glowed. Did everything but speak. Companion of her idle hours. Her trusted friend, to whom She told hei- inmost thoughts, when night Had curtained her in gloom. She saw the flame play with the sticks. The sparks take upward flight To die, and leave no trace of life ; Quenched by the breath of night. And it is thus, she thought, that I Must pass, and leave no trace That I have sojourned here on earth, E'en for a little space. Must my weak feet tread life's long way Replete wiih tears and sighs ; And must I die, alone, unmourned By dew from kindred eyes. She dreamed a sweet, a waking dream, That woman fair and young ; A babe lay nestled in her arms, To which she softly sung A cradle song, in tones as sweet As angel choir's above ; The pulses of her heart beat time, Each note, a throb of love. J liii h DUST AND ASHES. 48 eneath -log, may hear leight, a veil ght, fell, e, as they 1, and glowed, 'hen night ! Sticks, t Fe; jht. t I ;arth, ang way led dream, t e, A footstep at the open door, A blush of fond surprise ; And all a woman's untold love Was mirrored in her eyes. That form so oft in dreamland seen, Again before her stood ; Again, with godlike beauty, shone In flashes from the wood. 'Twas he who at creation's hour From chaos sprang, to be Her guide, her strength, her soul's beloved, Through all eternity. She laid the infant in his arms With all a woman's grace ; And all a mother's love and pride Were sparkling in her face. Oh, scene that painter never limned, Nor poet ever sung ; Too beautiful for earlh, and night Her shadows o'er it flung. The firelight flickered low, and paled Before that scene of love ; While there the guardian angel bent Low brooding from above. The red coals fall asleep, and lie Beneath a snow-white shade ; And morn crept in, and saw that scene In dust and ashes laid. She sat before the wood fire bright, A woman in her prime ; Lightly upon her forehead lay The shadowing hand of time. The dark brown hair, luxuriant still, In ripples wild and free Played round her neck, nnd fell in long Rich masses to her knee. She dreamed, and drank the nectared cup Imagination drew From flowers of fancy, sweet and pure, As morning steeped in dew. A tiny rosebud nestled close Within her fond embrace ; CA-^'-lTiiX^i-- ■ -iCai— — •sax**" 44 f DL'ST A AD ASHES. Her eyes, deep wells of love, were bent Upon the cherub face. Two spirit forms, in long white robes, Knelt lowly at her feel ; While upward rose the evening prayer In infant lispings swe^t. The mother's heart yearns wildly o'er These phantom flowerets three ; As lowlily the dark bowed head , Droops forward on her knee. That wild heart yearning, who can tell That haih not felt and known ? It finds its source in depths where dwell No tears, no sigh, no moan. She gazes in the shining; coals With dream-filled eyes, and now, Her low tones tremble on the air, " My soul's love, where art thou ? " •' I'm lonely, love, without thee here, I'm tired, my heart is sad ; How long before thou comest, love, To make my spirit glad ? " I'm weary, weary waiting here. My love, where canst thou be ? Dost thou ncit hear me in thy dreams As I am hearing thee. " I'm lonely, lonely, soul of mine. When wilt thou come to me ? Must I walk through this world alone. And meet eternity " Without one glance into thine eyes. One fond hand-clasp ; one tone To take with me beyond the shades, My spirit's love, mine own ?" * * * * She sat before the wood fire bright A woman, old and wan, Alone ; the dreams of early youth. The phantom treasures gone. Alone her footsteps traced life's path ; Alone, she met the strife ; Alone she fought, and bled, upon The battle field of life. lil«i DUST AND ASHES. 46 The spirit presence seen in dreams, And visions of the night Took up, for her, no earthly form To glad her yearning sight. She dreams no more as in the past, Of life's best, sweetest ties ; The great reality of death Is mirrored in her eyes. From out their shadowed depths they gaze Upon the burning glow ; While softly breathes upon the air, "Ah, love, at last I know ; *' I know while I lie dying here Unmournt'd and alone, That thou hast gone before, and I Am nearing thee, mine own." A shadow falls upon the hearth ; The firelight pales ; and low The embers lie, beneath a film Of ashes white as snow. Anear that hearth lies human dust Beneath a shadowy pall ; The vision of whose life had end In dust and ashes, all. ROSE AND CREAM. She wore a calico gown With stripes of rose and cream, And oh, how fair did she seem, Like a spirit-presence or dream. It fell in soft folds down To the carpet's glowing brown. Oh, fairer sight, I ween. Had never mortal seen. It fell as a glowing screen Over charms it could not hide. A woman's matchless pride Was seen in that graceful pose Under the cream and rose, As an ocean ebi)s and flows. And an ocean of love wns there, Love breathed in the ambient air, And I felt as though I could kneel I 46 /^OSE AXD CREAM. At her feet, and forever seal My fate as she read " Lucille." 'Twas a spell no man could resist A moment, that if twere missed Might never return again. Ah, Heaven ! the pain ! the pain ! Should my pleading be in vain. Bui oh, my love ! my true, What was it I felt and knew In the firelight's softened beam ? That the mingling of rose and cream Was neither a spirit nor dream As I knelt on the carpet l)rown Where rose and cream swept down. But a woman, pure and sweet, And I swore as I knelt at her feet, That as long as this heart should ])eat I would live for her ak ne. My Anna ! my life I my own ! AnA ever as in the past, Aye, as long as life shall last, And into eternity vast, 1 will love the softened gleam Of the mingling of rose and cream. THE ARTIST'S SOLILOQUY. In girlhootl's days when hope was strong And nature filled my soul with song, I wandered oft the fields among And skipped in buoyant revelry. The setting sunlight dyed the west. In glowing lints the landscape dressed, Soft, balmy winds the leaves caressed : All nature smiled in harmony. And voices whispered in mine ear In nature's accents, sweet and clear, " Bring forth thy brushes ! Draw a-near ! And paint me in simplicity." No tutor's aid did I invoke ; But something in my being woke ; Au'l nerved my hand while nature spoke. And thrilled my soul with ecstasy. I sat me down by nature's side, In glowing tints the canvas dyed. THE ARTIST'S SOLILOQUY 47 With landscape spreaditiR far nn.l wide, Nor thouRht r.f aught but mastery. .. J^-^" Creswell came, and Creswell said, Toil on ! toil on ! be not afraid » Keep close to nature ! with my aid You'll be in the Academy." I lived with nature, and I read Her books, while toiling for my bread ; Ami stole the moments when I spread The colors for my phantasy. But all in vain ! in vain I tried ! No hone stole in to stem the tide Of blacK despair, when Creswell died And left me in obscurity. For years I've labored on in vain ' No hand was stretched to me again No hand to aid, save M s when He strove with old-time chivalry Against the men who said me nay • The rulers of the O.S.A., Who banded in their power to stay My way to the Academy. They looked upon my work and found No misty stretch of foreign ground, But trees and bushes hung around With richness of our scenery. And said " We have no need of these, These Autumn-tinted glowing trees And vast tunuiltuous inland seas. The French have no such iraag'ry." Thus, none but he could have a chance Who studied in the school of France, In hope his glory to enhance. To sell his wares continually. They'll never smooth my path to fame, However lofty be my aim ; They'll bar my way to make a name Till I am in the cemet'ry. O, Canada ! I laugh to see These filmy artists crushing me ; y\y only sin is love of thee, In all thy vast immensity. 48 77/ A" AA'77S7'S SO/J/jUJfn' My l.inii .ihall hold llie highest place In pictured beauty, and no trace Of foreign touch slifill mar lliy face While smiUng in serenity. No bhirred ancl fdmy foregrounds lie Beneath my gaze wiien thou art nigh, But sunny held and smiling sky, Thine own beguiling witchery. Wliat need have I of foreign school? It seemeth me I'd be a fool To paint thy face by any rule 01 foreign art academy. I'll ^it me still upon the sod Where scjuirrels creep and Howers nod, And owe my teaching to my God, Whose hand can crown with victory. "The Artist's Soliloquy" is the outconie of an incident that occurred in the sprin;,^ of 1S97, when the secretary of the Ontarii') Artists' Society (himself an artist) visited the writer's studio, expressed himself as very much pleased with her works and requested her to send some of them to the Society's Exhibi- tion — then in preparation. She demurred from a feeling that the acknowledgment of her abilit\' to win fame in the field ot art had come too late. The entry papers, however, were forwarded to her, and she complied with the secretary's recpiest and sent two small pic- tures- These were returned in three days, accompanied by the information that they could not be hung, as the Society did not wish to encoura,L;e any but the French Impressionist School of Art, a s( hool with which the writer is not in sympathy. NoiE. — The pictures came before a hanging committee of three. (>f these one was for hanging them, two against. The one was a R.C.A. of long standing. The two, younger men just rising from the ranks. THE LAMENTATION OF ORPHEUS. A I'KAt;MRNr, Hark ! to the wild lamentation, Hark ! to the voice of despair. Hear how it wails on the air. Thracean rocks catch the sound, Echo it back to the caves, Wafteth it far o'er the waves Back to the earth's farthest bound. THE LAML.NTATJO^ OF ORPHEUS. 4i> [larU ! us the wild Inmentalion Throl)s on the liosoin ol night. Dim are tlie stars to the sifjht, Weepintj on flower and loal. Note the wild hyucintli s (,'rief, See tlie great tears in its eye. See the yicat heart of creation Moved to Its deepest foundation Moved in its great sympathy, Moved as it were by a spell. List ! to the wild lameiuation Home on the murmuring breeze, Rolleth it out o'er the seas, Keacheth it up to high heaven, Rolleth It back unto hell, luirydice ! Eurydice ! Hear thy bridegroom calling thee ! Full quickly fade the daylight hours, The dew is falling on the flowers, The zrphyrs in the tree-to|)s moan, And Love, I wander here alone. Eurydice ! Eurydice ! Why .'' why hast thou forsaken me ? The moonlight gleams upon the sea. The sad waves whisper mournfully, I hear thy name in every lone, Come back ! come back ! my love ! my own I Eurydice ! Eurydice ! Hear thy 'jridegroom calling thee. Come hither from the shadows drear To which the gods thy steps have sped. Hie thee across the silent mere, Heart's love ! come hither from the dead. Eurydice ! Eurydice ! Mine own ! Dost hear me calling thee ? bitter, bitter was thy wave, Avernus, bitter was thy tide To bear my treasure to the grave, To waft away my love, my biide. Eurydice ! Eurydice ! Flear thy bridegroom calling thee. The winds are hushed. The waters still. Avernus softly laps the shore. Haste thee, my love ! and fear no ill. The boatman swift will row thee o'er. Dost hear me, love ? I call to thee, 1 call thee hence from out the gloom, C'l 50 A PICTURE OF THE PAST. The dreary confines of the tomb. Dear life ! Heart's love ! come back to me, Eurydice ! Eurydice ! A PICTURE OF THE PAST. 'Tio midnight, and midnight's impalpable gloom lias crept to my door and invaded my room ; Night's manifold voices have lulled me to rest, And memory pillows my head on her breast, And with her deft fingers, to ease me of care, Paints a picture of nature surpassingly fair. Through the mists of the years, through the toil and the pain, In the glow of the moonlight I see it again, The hillside, the garden, the broad carriage rrad, That leads to my Eden, my childhood's abode. The low spreading homestead, with roses o'ergrown, The tall mountain-ashes — •like sentinels lone. The lilacs deep green, the acacia's frail form That bends to the zephyr and breaks in the storm. There the golden-hued sunflower flaunteth her charms, While resting her form in the sumach's stout arms. The quivering aspen still sprinkles a shade 0"er a rude rusiic seat in the evergreen glade. Where on warm summer days by the coolness beguiled, I have lain in the calm, dreamless sleep of a child. The cedars are there, that these hands, then so small, Had planted in groups near the little stone wall ; While deep in the dell where no footsteps invade. Lies the dark periwinkle, asleep in the shade. The numberless blossoms of blue, white and red, In that triumph of art — the elliptical bed, While steeped in its beauty, as slow pass the hours, Again on my sense steals the perfume of flowers. The wall-flower, the stock, and the sweet mignonette, In a small friendly circle together have met ; This trio, in lowliest raiment bedight, Now pour forth their odors to gladden the n'ghl. The moon, looking down from her pathway above. Sheds a light that invites all creation to love. What marvel her beauty man's senses beguile ? When the trees and the flowers are glad in her smile ? They glitter and gleam,, while 'he dews flashing bright. Make the scene an ineffable glory of light. Two forais to the picture love's rapture impart Hand irembling in hand, and lieart beating to heart ; He is noble of stature, his form is divine. As if nature and art had perfected each lirie ; TO J cm:. 51 His face has a beauty that ".izzles the sight, As he stands in his giandeu:, the king of the night. O noble and trie ! Can I blame thee who stole From my side, niy Carina ? O soul of my >oul ' She was guileless and pure. She had Ijjoomeil in the wild. She was young, she was fair. She was Nature's own child. She was tender aud timid, with soul that was white As the moonlight that shone from the heavens that night. Stay, memory, stay ' Ah 1 she yet standetii there, Heaven's light in her eyes, Luna's Hght on her iiair, And legions of angels through ether may call While the advent of love holds her spirit in thrall. A cloud vails the moonlight ; a shadow is cast ; A tear dims mine eye, and the picture has passed ! Turn its face to the wall ; still its wailings of woe ; And bury it deep in the long, long ago. In the years that have gone, as a cyclone have sped, Carina ! Twin soul ! Can it be, thou art dead ! TC JUNE. The summer sun is shining. The birds are saying " sweet," The dandelion is l)looming In clusters at thy feet ; The maple trees are tossing Their branches to thy sight. And thou dost croon, and l)al;ble, In infantile delight. I hear thy baby laughter, Mid sun and flowers, at play ; Thou art too young for weeping Above the bier of May. I watch thy budding beauty, Thy young moon rise and swell. And glow in pride above thee, With rapture none may tell ; I feel thy midnight breezes Play softly in my hair ; And bless thee, as I wander. Among thy flow' rets fair. Thy scented breath, at even, My spirit dot:, beguile ; Ah, I could live forever, Fair June, upon thy smile ! Like the immortal Mendelssohn, And his unspoken words, I hear, at early morning, 52 TO JUXE. Thy wondrous choir of birds ; They've waked me from my slumbers, l''re yet the morn began ; Of all thy glorious company, The robin leads the van. For months 'twill linger with me, That rich contralto tone ; And l)ring me back thy melody. Oh June, my loved, mine own ! I'o me thou art a glory Most ravishingly fair ; Too swiftly art thou shedding Thy life, upon the air. Thou tlllest me with rapture. Thy beauty I adore ; My soul is tilled with longing To keep thee evermore. Thou art unto my being. An ecstasy atune ; I breath into my life-blood, Thy balmy air, O June ! Thy days are gliding from me. Thy nights are waning fast. Too soon wilt thou be numbered With months that fill the past. I hear the mournful sighing Of the night wind o'er thy head ; Too soon, wilt thou be lying Beside the early dead. Thy days on earth are numbered, And when thy course is run, Thou'lt yield thy young, green verdure To July's torrid sun. Thou'lt go, and I will miss thee ; Ah ! none can tell how sore ; I may not drink thy beauty Again for evermore. Again I may not bless thee, The (lay that thou art liorn, 1 know not where I'll wander Thy resurrection morn. The tears I've mingled with thee, My spirit's sadness proved, I've watched thee hourly dying, Oh June, my best beloved ! IN YCWfA. 5)5 I IN YUMA. Why these tears ? hot tears. Do they start Because we are far apart ? Thousands of miles apart ; I here, "mid the hills of sand, The vastness of sky and land ; Here, like an atom of dust Dropped by a sudden gust From the nostrils expanded wide Of the tire-steed, as he flew Over mountains and prairie-land, Over marshes and gleaming tide, While ever above rode the l>lue, And between us the boundary line. Vet heart guideth to heart, And crossing the void of space My thought oft meets with thine, And I see thy passionate face As lit with a light divine, And thy form of matchless grace, Square shoulders and depth of cliest ; Wliere never, never again, Shall my weary head find rest, Never, never again. And the hot tears fall like rain, For a moment of IjUss and pain, A moment of heaven and rest. In the far-away mists of dead years. MY SISTERS AND I. The years roll on. \'outh Hies apace ; And age o'ertakes us in the race ; While poverty runs neck and neck. And little doth the oppressor reck That oft he sets his iron heel Upon the corn we sorest feel. He goads us onward o'er the ground, And lac(^rates each half healed wound;. More slowly moves the tide of life, ' As thus we meet the unequal strife. A weight seems clinging to our feet ; The tired hearts forget to beat ; The spirits faint ; the strength is gone, Vet weary limbs are toiling on Along the paths that lead to thee. Thou vast, unknown Eternity, 54 SAPPHO. SAPPHO. O boiil of song ! O lieart of fire ! Quenched in the blue Ionian wave. Thy form divine the waters lave. The pearl-white hands that tuned the lyre Its raptured notes of lore to speak ; No more its spell-fraugit strings shall seek. The voice that sang impassioned strain Is iuished forever in the flood. The heart that wept in tears of blood, Is stilled, forever, in the main. O Phaon ! false to honor ! thou. To foster in that bosom warm. Where played the sunshine, raved the storm, A passion deep, as ocean strong. In her the Lesbian queen of song ; Before whose genius nations bow. And leave to feed that singer, famed, That fond impassioned soul, untamed. The jealous fires that lead to madness ; Till in a woeful hour of sadness, Of reason and of soul forgot. She sought that isolated spot, To die. with yet the tide of life, Rich etldying in her veins, whence sprung The immortal tire that swayed her.tongue : And hc'urly fed her bosom's strife. Oh sweet, sweet li}—, that kissed thee, wave, As swift she sank to thy embrace. Oh sea 1 had'st thou no power to save ; Could"st thou not raise that glorious face ; Nor let thy suti'ocating breath, That heaven-born life of song erase ; Nor calm that wild heart unto death. dull, insensate, cruel sea ; To ([uench the life of one - lair ; Had'st tliou no balm for her despair. Who only sought a rest in thee. Oh ! cold, cold wave, that ])ressed her cheek 1 hear the murmuring undertone That doth thy late repentance speak. For ages wilt tliou sob, and moan^ Thy restless soul with sadness feed, And vain bewailings o'er thy deed. 'I'lu' liowling winds shall lash thy breast ; And zephyrs mourn upon thy shore ; Arul imiimur all thy rock'^ along ; Anil ihou, who stilled the voice of sone, Thy deep, great heart shall know no' rest,— Shall know no peace, forever more. SWEET-r,RIER. 55 SWEET-BRIER. 'Twas just like her to do it ! She set my heart on tire ; And when I begged a rose of her She gave me a sweet-brier. It rests upon my bosom ; And there it firmly catches. I placed it in my button hole With many pricks and scratches. Its sweetness steals my senses Like her who gave it to me, And seems to say, with smiling li|)s, Why don't you come and woo me ? Like her, it breathes of beauty. Like her, torments and scratches. Like her, it soothes my saddened soul As she with songs in snatches. She's sweet as sweet can be ; But when I come anigh her She's hedged about with thorns that prick, And scratch, like this sw-eet-brier. THE FOOT ON THE STAIR. Hush ! let each footstep lie light, And unerring as those that she lient To my chamber of pain, in the night, When the sickness that often approached And pursued me, and took unaware ; And held me in cold, icy clasp, Till I shrieked in my anguish and fear. Ah ! then, as that cry smote her ear, IIow quickly she sprang from her couch, And I heard her light foot on the stair. Look ! How silent she lies I Her pure spirit left me last night ; Last night on its way to the skies. She is freed from all burden and toil, From weariness, watching and care ; And I. when the torturer comes With his deep thrilling anguish of pain. May listen, and listen in vain, In all the drear midnights unknown, For the sound of her foot on the stair. 1 66 ARISE, YE CHRISTIAN XATIOXS She is dend ! O God ! she is dead. She is wan, she is breathless, and siill. And I. What was it I said When she stole in the dead of the night To my room, with her lamp-light aglare ? Did I say she disturbed my repose ? Did I bid her return to her bed ? Did I say I was crazed by her tread. That my brain would be softened and turned By the creak of her foot on the stair ? A ])itying angel of light Heard a low awful cry as it rang On the shuddering dark of the night, An r;gonized pleading for aid, A cry of remorse and despair, That quivered through silence and space, Vet is heard by no slumberer nigh ; A harrowing, soul-reaching cry. •* Eliza 1 Eliza ! O God ! For the sound of her foot on the stair ! " ARISE, YE CHRISTIAN NATIONS A WAR sOXG. Arise ! arise, ye nations, That live in Gospel light, Arise ! arise, to succor, To battle for thejight. Strike ! strike, for wronged Armenia, Ve Christian men, and brave ; Haste ! haste, across the waters, To succor, and to save. Speed onward all your war ships. And let your cannon roar. And echo, and re-echo Along the Moslem shore. Down ! down with Abdul Hamed, And his accursed band, The blood of Christian Martyrs, Is deluging the land. Rise ! chain this spawn of Satan, This ultra-demon fell ! Rise up, all Christian nations, And crush this Hend of hell. ': ;. LINES TO 57 LINES TO O, friend ! the touch of whose hand I love ; And whose voice hath a charm for my listening ear In the unseen future, that draweth near, Wilt thou he, as now, to my soul most dear ; Or will all Ije changed when we meet above. Will all he changed ? Where the spirit roves, And we breathe a sweeter, a purer air : In the mighty love that o'ershadows us there ; Shall we have no longer a thought, or care. For tlie weal, or woe, of our earthly loves ? Of life's brief moments, fast run the sands ; And I know not, on earth, if we meet again ; To soothe my spirit all prayers are vain t And thoughts of heaven have much of pain ; If there be no clasping of loving hands. I (juestion, and answer. It cannot lie, Where soul loves sou! in the world below ; That countless ages may come, and go. And soul meet soul, and never know'; On the shores of the vast eternity, CANADA, MY COUNTRY f Canada I My Country ! 1 tune my harp to tliee ! xAwnke ' my soul ! Awake ! and brint,^ Sweet mem'ries round me while I sing. And let the woodland echoes ring To footsteps bounding free. The strings vibrate with d\ilcet tone When swept for thee, my loved, mine own. O Canada I My Country ! How vast is thy domain ! Whnt wealth lies hidden in thy breast. And 'neath thy mountain's lofty crest, Thy valleys with what riches blest ! Thy lakes, what wondrous chain ! Thy prairie lands and forests wild Where dwelt the red man — Nature's child. O Canada ! My Country ! How fair thy vernal scene ! \\ hen song-birds sing in noi>y mirth, And wake the buds and flowers to birth ; 58 CA NA DA, MY CO UXTR I ' / When all the robes of Mother earth Are changed from white to tureen. The sun's fond rays have kissed the sward And blossoms peep with sweet iccord. O Canada ! My Country ! What words can paint thy May ! The apple bloom by breezes fanned Have shed their sweetness o"er the land. Lil fall. O Canada ! My Country ! My own ! My heart's delig CAXADA'S APPEAL TO B RITA IX. r»!> I love thy spring when flow 'rets blow, I love thy siinimer's fervid glow, Thy autumn glories lying low, Thy winter cold and bright. No other land my heart can sh.ire, No other clime with thine compare. CANADA'S APPEAL TO BRITAIN. O. Britain ! What has come to thee ? O, woe ! that I should live to see Thy garments soiled with moth and rust, Thy glory trailing in the dust ! I thought thee great, I deemed thee good ; O fool ! With Europe's grasping brood Thou watchest (standing idly by) The unequal strife for Liberty. One thought of thine, one word from thee. And Turkey would have bowed the knee ; Have l)ent before the power unseen, Have bow'd the knee to Britain's Queen. When Abdul, the accursed, came And swept the land with sword and flame. .Armenia looked for her release To all— in vain ; but little Greece, Whose warrior blood, from ages past. Rushed down in torrents, hot and fast ; As dwelt her wak'ning soul upon Miltiades and Marathon. And bounds her pulse at thought of thee, Thou glory-dyed Thermopylae W hose crimson mem'ries yet bespeak Unfading lustre for the Greek. She saw again the narrow pass, Where fell her brave Leonidas ; And in her old-time strength arose Willi tiery force to meet her foes. She heard the Cretan's cry for aid ; She faced the Towers undismayed ; Her war-cry rang from shore to shore, " And Greece was living Greece " once more. "AViiiun (luring the Turko-Greek u-ar in iSq;, ,)n hearinc; that the Briti-h Line of l.atile Ship, Canipeidown, had fired into the (Jreeks. m yy/A" DEATH OF fUNE, Alone, opposed on every hand ; Alone, she made a glorious stand ; Alone, to stem the devil's work ; Alone, to face the insatiate Turk. Alone 1 Alone ! O, shame to those Who swell the number of her foes ! Weil, Britain, might'st thou blush to see The climax to thy infamy. When men in power, with orders fell, Turnec4 upon Crete their shot and shell ; Howe'er unwillingly, through thee They hurled their darts 'gainst Liberty. With drooping head I lowly stand In shame for thee, ihe " Motherland." Bring forth thy force by land and sea. Break from thy trammels andbe free ! Rise, freemen, rise ! and early doom The bloody Abdul to the t(mib ; Though all the powers cry for peace, To arms ! to arms ! for little Greece ! Ye men who love her classic lore. In every land, on every shore. Raise, raise your banners ! let them fly ! And shout for Greece and chivalry. THE DEATH OF JUNE. We sat upon the balcony ; The roses at our feet Held up their faces to our gaze, While breathing perfume sweet. The full moon from the southern sky, Enveloped all the night In glory of eft'ulgency — A robe of shimmering light. The night was sultry, warm and still, And not a sound was heard ; Upon the maples in the grove No leaflet sighed or stirred. The kogs were mule beside the mere ; The beetle stayed his flight ; And all the world seemed hushed in grief, That sorrow-laden night. =' ■- THE DEATH UE JlSK. (>1 No sound came from the fir-trees tall ; No whispering woodland rune ; While Nature held her breath to catch The parting words of June. She came to us an infant, swathed And garlanded with flowers ; She spent with us in girlhood's days, A maiden's dream-tilled hours. Sne wandered in the sunshine bright, And whispered in the trees ; And oped her sweetest blossom buds To scent the balmy breeze. She murmured in the brooklet's waves. And blushed amid the flowers ; .And dyed our cheeks a carmine hue Through all her shining hours. Vet she was fading, fading fast, With all her wealth of grace ; And her successor drawing near To till her vacant place. .All silently and mournfully She passed into her death ; Her spirit-life was borne away Upon the roses' breath. While at the witching, ghostly hour When midnight meets the morn ; Amid the torrid breathles'-.ness The young July was born. Then black clouds rising upward spread ; And winds began to sigh : While rain poured down in torrents, from The wildly warring sky. The drabbled songsters piped a dirge To melancholy tune ; And roses, weepinL, bowed their heads Above the bier of June. :, (V2 CAIVADA TO IINGLAXI). CANADA TO 1:NCxLAND. Octolh'y f^lh, iSi)j. The thirteenth of Octoher Will lotifr remembered be, Wheii thou w.isl near to zero, And I at eighty-three. Bethink thee, Mother England, What sport it was to me, To know thee cold and frost l)ound While I scored eighty-three. Go teach thy precioii> Kipling How little sense he shows, To name thy dearest daughter, " The Laly of the Snows." DIVIDED. On life's young vsay we often met, And many a hajjpy day had we, Many an hour of mirth and glee ; I know it all ; I don't forget. Life broadened and diverged, and each Walked onward, but in separate way Walked onward till the close of day, Far, far beyond each otiiers reach. I judge you not, I only know When riglit and wrong before me lay, One cold and dreary autumn day, Vou took the patli I could not go. VICTORIA. OUR ()iE/-:\ t;.T VICTORIA. OUR OUEFN. Lines written on viewing the " Dianii 'lid Jii'iilee " P.>itiaii .f H.-r Mnjfsix, (,)iifen ui tln.;land, and Kiiipie^s of Iiuliu My heart throl:)s \\'\^\\ at lhoiiy;lu (jf tliee ! I hold thee in my hand, And gaze wynn tl y loveiines. — Hueen of our Mother land. Thy crown and lace, and fair round arms, And all thy rich array. God bless the ered, unsung ; I'assing away to the dust whence we sprung. 64 «i4i|MnmiWV<>IJu(Kf*'!'"^*^ TO A CRITIC. I TO A CRITIC. r Oh critic, that tendest with fostering care The flowers left in springtime to wither and fade ; To breathe out their breath on the dull murky air ; To blossom and droop in a wilderness, where Dank weeds had thrown o'er them their mildewing shade. • What marvel that you o'er my garden bemoan ? What v\'onder if every floweret were dead? No human tongue nurtured with life-giving tone ; In s]iringtime, I wandered earth's pathway alone ; And my garden ran wild while I struggled for bread. O tend ye my garden and water it well With the sweet dews of hope, and the flowers will bloom 'Neath thy hand, springing sweetly on hill and in dell, As seme wiznrd had muttered a life-giving spell ; And consign ye the weeds to oblivion's tomb. Wouldst have me an angel, my critic of worth. That no weed may spring up in my garden so fair ? Two natures were given to mortals at birth, The flowers are of Heaven, the weeds are of Earth ; And while Earth holds the spirit they still will be there. Then weed in my garden, and weed it with care ; But touch not my roses, my sweet mignonette ; Each flower shall bloom with a beauty more rare ; And a perfume more sweet shall exhale en the ai;- ; While thy fostering hand I will never forget. V#> \ I I'he line' " To .1 C.itic ' were addressed by liie .author to 'lie late J. E. Collini. :ll!"ig liis crilicisin on lier infant work, which he puMlsi ;d in '' The Life and „r c;.. i„i-,., A M^, ,'i.,.,„i,i " 'T'U„ — „ .- .,„. , _. .v,„ .: . ...v,« .v,^ ♦Tl on readi Times of Sir John A. Mncdonald." The poet was not awai i at the time who the writer was who criticised her work so severely, and yL-t left such bright hopes for the future. v#'^ -v-'-,,f ^^« n