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THE LIBRARY THE UNIVERSITY Oh BRHISH COLUMBIA CJt S.D, Scott i 4 ^ i PREFACE. l;i presioitiiig to tlie public the following litilo volume, wo would ol.serve, by way of apolt^gy, that these " Tales, Essays and Pokms" aro the prodiictious of tlie leisure hours of two young students, and as such, we trust all their snorteoniings and errors will be forgivingly overlook^'d. We have enddavorod to place it within the reu'h of all ; and if it will aiford its readers a few pleasarit hours, or awaken the happy memories o*" departed years, we shall feel doublv repaid tor the many mis^. tings we have felt in giung to an inttlligcnt :\nd discriminating public these immature thoughts. THE AUTHOKS. Amukusi, N. S., April ).")th, I87(>. ^ i y ^ fart |iwt-"I»Us and (kmp. »♦* The Mysterious Ring ; OB, THE BROKEN VOW. — :o: — BY •'NOMA." — :o: — chaptm: I. The MYSTF-nious RiNo. " What is man, , r • . When the worst heart can wear a brow ot virtue. And false appearances smile us to destruction .'' And yet, what is he not, when crowned with Irjli., With every social virtue - _ ^^^.^ ^^^^^^^^^ ''ILL, 1 have often noticed that ring you wear : what a curious setting it has ; pray, what is the stoue !" « "It is my wife." The first speaker started back ap^^ast— and we'l he might To admire a simple finger ring, worn by a friend and be coolly informed that it was a person whom' he thought quietly resting in her tomb, with the roses blooming, the willows droopmg, and the birds singing above her lowly head, was enough to startle any firm-nerved man. The querist, whom we shall introduce to our readerst as Gerald Thome, was a tall, handsome gentleman. A splendid form ; auburn hair ; a full, round face, closely phaven ; and merry blue eyes ; all cambmed to make a noble looking man. His dress, simple yet elegant, proclaimed him to be a man ot wealth. Ihat he was 'so, would become more apparent from the fact that many and deep were the plots and schemes laid \ TlIK ilYSTElUorS ni>'o. by dfesignlug miiiniua'*, who, witli halt'a dozen marri- a;;oable d!Uia;hi.>>r3 on their hatids, wishod to »tisnare liim lor 0113 of these devotees of tashioii, who draw so lieavily upou a sleuder purso. The other \<^.s also tall and very sUni. His ht>nd was graced with a profiiMi')n oi' short, jet bhiek curls ; his eyes wore dark and j;littcriii<», and wlieii Hashing v.irli anger woidd strike ono with tho impression that in th^'ir (lark depths lurked treachery; ha "vore military looking moustache and whiskers ; whi.e on his breast was suspendetl a sin^de ghttering s;ar, the reward of 8o:ne brave deid, and on the little tini^'T of his letlb hand he wore the strangi* ring winch was t!ie su'-ject of (lerald's question. This personage was Major William Alton, of thn 27ih Wiltshire Cavalry. He was a widower, and chiklless, death having visited his homo with a heavy hanfl, eirryirig away his throe beautiful children, who were quickly followed by their mother; an! when she was laid beside her litth* darlings, who had prececdfd her on thi road to Paradise, William Alton felt that he ha'' now nothing to live for, that with all his wealth and Lo IT, he could never be hai)py again. And perh.ips ho never did feel again the blessing of true happinp^s, Could we have beheld his heart, wo might have found a wound that only death could heal, a sorrow that wculd sometimes throb forth anew, whetht-r surrounded by merry comrades, or in the solitude of his chamber, with no cotnpanions but his own sad thoufihts. The ring itself was of massive gold, with a heavy grey stone setting, unlike any gem with which we are acquainted, in the rays of the sun it only emitted a faint, almost imperceptible glimmer ; but in the dark- ness, the twilight, or the soft moinbeams, it flashed and gleamed with a strange, weird brilliancy. Many had observed the stoae nnd its seeming freak, and were fascinated by its spectral gleams. Major Alton always maintained a strange silence when the ring was mentioned, and to no ono would he give the least information concerning it, and thus it gained its name, "The Mysterious King," and came to be looked upon with mingled wouder and superstition. THE MYSTERIOUS RINO. 7 Until new, the Major hnd kept the liistory of the ring a secret, and then revealed it only to his bosoni frion«i, Gerald Thorue, "Why! what in th.» name of the saints do you mean?" asked Gerald, recovering from hin a-itonishment. "1 menu just uliat I say," anpwered the Major, " I have never told the seoret to any one, but I will tell vou, enjoinit)g you upon the honor of a man and a gentleman, lo k»ep it Bi'cvcc still." *' You may depend upon me, Will, I shall never bi'eathe it to a living seul." " Yes, 1 know I can tru^t you. You know that three years ago I lost all my children, and a few days after, my idolized wife. As she lay upon lier death bed she asked me never to wed again, and there, in the sacred presence of deaih, I made a vow never to till my home with another bearing the ilarae of Wife. " Wishing to have her I loved ever near mo, I went to the cemetery the night of tlie funeral, disentombed the body, convtyed it to a noted chemist, and had it transformed into this stone, which has attracted so much attention from the curious. •'There, you have the whole history." " AVhich is both wonderful and interesting," said Gerald, " whiL the ring certainly deserve" the tame it has v^on ; but keep your vow sacred, for if you break it, you will never expetieuce happiness or peace of conscience again." CHAPTER II. A PnOSIENADE IX THE AVENUK. " Love at fijgt/ight is never iage ; It catches at a match like tinder, And nothing can its blazinpr hinder ; But soon it dies without a name, Unless we constant fan the flame." —From an anonvmous French author. We pass over a year from the opening of our tale ere we again meet Major Alton and his friend Gerald. Tiiere is no perceptible change in either, unless it be that here and there a few silvery hairs reveal them- selves in the curly locks that deck the shapely head of \« / THE MYSTERIOUS RI50. the Mhjop, who utill keeps liis vow, while Gernhl remains in blissful bnt-heiorhood, his heart uumelted by any of the ehiirms or stratagems the fair sex can bring to bear against him. Ttiey were walking in the •' Forest Avenue," a ir.ngniiicetit promeriade jtii^t outside the gates of a certain town in "Merry Old Englmd." It was indec d a splendid promenade. For nearly a mile the street was straight as an arrow, smooth tnd level as a ball-room ; whil.- on each sid** rosf- stately oaks and docping elms, with wild rost-s, heaths, and almost every speries of beautiful ulirulibery and wild flowers mingled lo\ingly at their feet, in one tanglel, Juxuriiii't mass of enchanting beauty, ai;d far away in the distance could be seen old ocean's Mue waves. Herj met, on summer evenings, the t lit**, the wealth, fashion and beauty- ot this little rown. It Rei'med as if, on thi^ particulnr evening, nil the iuhahitauts had turned out to swell the brilliant gathering, and th*' number of equipages of all descrip- tions, family coaches, phaetons, broughanas, baroichfS and so foith, equestrians and pedestrians, which lined the AvenuH from end to end, proilaimed that tht^ gooH people of this lit'lo town were not behind in the ranks of wealth a-id fashion, and furthermo'e, tiiat they meant to cjij ^y themstdves. And why not ? Wher.' is the use or sense of people toiling and worrying their brains, striving to add another dollar to the already glittering heap, or another acre to the broad farm that already stretches far over hill and vale, and yet never take any comlort in their wealth? How many are there in this world, who, counting their dollars by the thonsnnd, still work, and pinch, and scheme, and slave, as long as they can push one foot before the other, to gain a few more dollars for their heirs to quarrel over when they are in their graves, carried thither while yet in early years, the victims ef overwork and anxiety. Cannot such persons see the wrong, aye, the downright sin of such a course, and reforming, take a little more pleasure in life than the mere amassing of riches, which often " take to themselves wings and fly away?" TIIC MI8TlbBIOUS BING. 9 *' Gerald," Maid tho Major, '* Do you see thoie two ladiea approaching? What beauties! th- one on the tlark horse, especially. By Jove ! she'u lovely as aa hourie." "Perfectly charming f " Who are they ?" "1 haven't the blightest idea; but, by George, 1 must get an inlroductioa to the dark haired one." " Hush I or they will overhear you." Just then the horse on which was seated the lady who had awakened the Mnjor's a«Jtniratioo, frightened by something in the shrubbery, reared, plunged, and cast his beautiful rider headlong to the hard pavement, and had not the Major sprang and caught her in his arms, she must have been fatally injured. As she fell, a thrilling shriek rent the air, and when she alighted in her rescuer's arms, sho became unconscious. AVhen she revived she wildly asked, ' Where am I ? what has happened ?" "Please calm yourself, my dear laHy," said the Major, "you have been thrown from your horse." it Oh I yes, I remember now," said she. "I hope you are not injured," said the Major. *• I think not," said she, rising. " Oh ! my ankle is sprained," exclaimed she, as, unable to stand, she sank I ack into his arms, and he not unwilling to support so fair a b-jrden, did his best to console her. And fair indeed she was. With the form of a Hebe ; a shower of golden hair, '.hat fell in waves over her graceful shoulders aud down her swelling, snowv neck ; soft, smooth, delicate skin ; full forehead ; large", liquid, blue eyes ; dark, arched eyebrows ; medium nose, inclined to the Grecian sliape ; a sweet mouth and coral lips, tinctured with a bewitching, smile ; cheeks soft aud full, like the suuny side of a peach ; pearly te«th ; a plump, round chin, bathed in dimples ; and lilv white hands, with tapering fingers, and nails of mother of pearl ; she was enough to melt the hardest heart that ever beat in the bosom of man. And her voice, soft, distinct and n^usical, was alone enough to win her the homage of a thousand steely hearts. What wonder then, that as Major Alton held her in his arms, and 10 Tin; MVSTEKlOt'S l!l^i' sho ild lOV. Ill Hi'.nii-d upon Ur ra\i>luiig lOV. liiia-.s, i.c i;.,.l no (I'Hiiv tu ivle..yp lur, perlmps v.''\<-v .,,.vn lo t'cl a thrill run thr.'u-lt l>is lusut, as her „"(nvy aniu, \v.-n' fduei coiiiklinnly a'^out l.i^ neck; nnd her ]\ -m] rested upon lis .sliouhler. . G,i-nM, imtndi.iteU- upon the Mvidcut to the hur imUurxr, asisted hT o.nipanion to td.ght. Ho b horses laving disappeared duriufi the exeitiment. tie ttskea the ir.iured hidv if ho sl.ouhi ord r a le, tor llie li(liii«olemii vow, to win her if ])os.-iijle ; then in the still, dim light, the ring upon his linger WDuId t!a--ii with ;v stn-ac e, uut ari hlv gleam, such as he had never seen before, and t]\r prde, sad, sweet face of his departed wile would lise nom amid the gloom, the bluf e\es peering into his with a searching gaze, as if intent ii[iuu reading all ihal was passing in the depths of i is irino^t heart; then liis resolve would fail ; and he wuuld determine to con*]Ut-r his love ; and tiien he woukl curce the \o\\ lie had so solemnly taken, and resolve to care nau^Jit for it, ami when morning dawned, it found him still j'acing the floor of his room. As the rays of the rising sun glimmered through the window , he cast himself upon his untouched bed, and fell into a heavv sleep, which cotitinmd far into the day, aiul fi-om which tise -ervatit, wh.en t.l.e came to 12 THE MYSTERIOUS 1UX«. call l)iin, fail.'d to rouse him, while the dfep, troubled Itreathiiig silone told that lite still h', as he sat \uth her that niglit beneath a noble elm, while the rays of the setting sun lighted up her heautiUil face an! glimiuere.l amono !u r golden locks, "Agnes, darling, 1 nlu^t t^peak the thoughts that come from mv heart : L love vou. will you be mine? Oh ! do not say no!" Her lips moved not, hut her tioft eyt s spoke volunits, ftud she laid her warm hand in his, and riciiiied her fair head upon his si.ouldcr. IJe drew her to his heart and wliispered — But gentle rciider, we will lojve the lo' ers alone in their joy. Gerald must have caught encourageir.cnt from the beaming face of the Major, for next evening he ofti'refl his heart to the lovely L-.iura, and it was not in vain. " AVill," said he, as thev wended their wav home- ^"^ THE MYSTERIOUS BING. 15 wards, "you muet congratulate me, I have won my Laura." " I givo \(iu my bist wi^ljes, my dear boy." said the M:ijor, cl;i,s[ inp; his h;ind, "and will acc(^pt yours in return ; the (x-autit'ul A,»ijes U mine." "And so is the broken vow; I sincerely hope and pray tlat you may be l-appy, but I tear you will not.'' CHAPTER IV. Rkflkctiox and Wahxing. " And it is a maxim Allowed among them, so they may deceive, They may swear anyt'nng ; for the queen of love, As they hold constantly, doe* never punish, But smiles at lovers' perjuries." — Massinycr, That (light the Major laid his head upon his do«ny pillow, ar.>! thought himself tlie happiest man in the wide world ; i\e iiad lain down his heart at beauty's shrine, where huiidreus had worshipped before him, and from wliieh they had been spiirned, while he alone was successful, and his cup of bliss seemed full; but with the calm hours of morning came reflection. '• Oil I cursed am I ! In the presence of death, by the side of her 1 loved, as her pure spirit entered the land of Paradi-e, I. made tins vow, which 1 am about to break. Oh, God ! why didst Ihou not give me strength to keep it? No I 1 am an outcast from Heaven, I can never hope to see its pearlv gates and shining streets. »v'Iiy did she impose upon me this vow? why bind me under its galling chains ? what could be her motive, when she thus put me, as it were, under a curse? That promise, sacred though it bo, ihough it be registered in the presence of it-n thousand holy angels, shall bind me no longer. A curse upon woman's will, when it binds man under such a bond, and lays him under the sin of perJL:ry, and places him in the power of all the fiends of darkness. Oh! God in Heaven above, have pity, h.ivo mercy I" he groaned in his agony. " Oh I can she look down from abo'-e, and calmly smile upon my misery? The thought maddens me, it sets mv brain on fire! I will destrov myself ! and then 16 THE MYSTERIOUS RING. til what would the world tay? and she? it would break her young and iunoceut heart. No! 1 will live, and cast aside all thought of her ;— but it is now too lute, we are betrothed. I will shield ht-r from the storms of life, com« what may. 1 dare fate ! No tempests nor chilling winds shall beud the fragile flower that 1 have sworn to love and cherish I Ccme ! all ye turies ard fates ! add to my crazed brain another pang, and all will be ovjrl The flowers will bloom above the grave of a maniac, unheeding him who lies beneath! Am — am I to be bound ?" — And nearly maddened by the overwhelming thoughts that forced themselves upon his brain, he grasped his hat, and rushed from the liouse, and strode down the shaded walk with the air of an escaped lunatic. He wibhed to be in the open air, aud cool his burning brow and throbbing temples. He reached the street, and caring little whither he went, he walked out of the town, through the Forest Avenue, aud far into the country, heeding none be met. At last, when two or three miles from the town, he almost stumbled into a u have made your bride, in daBauce of that vow; then^ shall be heart burnings and sepu ration, aye bitter separation. Mark well my words ; you shall i'rel pangs tenfold more deep than those that now burn wilhiu }X)ur bosom. "No children shall bless your union, for your star i . sinking in the sky— lower, lower it wanes, till it vanishes in darkness '.'" He was so excited and awed by her slow, measured, shilling words, that he could scarcely articulate, in a deep, hoarse tone, the single word : "Proceed:" « There is little more to say ;" replied she, in the 8anie viild, weird tone, "you will mock at separation, and banishing all spirit and hate, will win he/ again ; but will you be happy? No!" Is this th" tru'h, or the mere idle cant of your ■ tribe?" asked he, arousing from the spell whivh t-eemed to be thrown over him. " Forest Flower weighs well her words ;" rejoined she, coldly, "our race may be down -trodden and despised, but we ere far happier than many who dwtll ill princely halls, and look down upci us as though we were not created by the same God. "Set what would tempt me to resign my wild, roving life for the gilded mansion vou claim as yours !' IFj felt the keen foive ot her words, and handing her a golden coin, turned his steps homewards. For hours he pondered over the prophetic words of the Gryp.-y. Would they prove true? If so, how little happiness ".^as in store for him. . " Ha I*' exclaimed he as he cast ofi* his wild thoughts, " they were nothiug but the words ot a wandoring 18 THE MYSTEklOUS BIXO. Gypsy, intent upon gain either by flatUrj or falsehood, 1 will thiuk no more of them." CH4PTEB V, The Doubi,b Wkddino. " Marriage is a matter of more worth Than to be -^ting. be wa« surprised to mnet a mnn leaving the house, a man who took no notice of his salutation. In reply to his inquirl-s, Agnes informed him it was Joseph Morton, a barrister, who had called upon some business with which she intrusted him. This was satisfa-jtory, and nothing more was said upon the subject. When, howcvtr. a week later the same aftair was repeated, with the same explanation, he begr.n to grow suspicious. He resolved to let affairs take their course and note the consequence. THE MTSTEniOUS RIXO. 21 Mortou's visits grt-w more Ir^qjent, always huppeo- ing wlicn tlie Mnjor wa« nbsetit. At last ho could bear it no longtr, a!)d (iHtermined to Beek nn fxplnnat'on. "Agnt'S," said he, going into thr drawing room where slie wa« seated oae iiiurniog, *' can you spare ine a few moTiPnts?'' " Tea, Willie," said shi-, looking up from the book she was perusing. "Then 1 wish you to erplniu lu-.w it is Ihot'this lawyer, Morion, always happens to be present when I am absent, a d 1 ntver have tht^ plea-*uie of uie» rinj; hin\," said he savagely, while he closely watched her face. It was the firt^t time he had t^ver spoken a harsh won! to h r, an! the tears started to her plead'ng blue eyes as she answi-red : " Oh ! Willie darling, I have often told you how it is; liH has charge of the estates and other property whiih werw my fat'ier's wedditig gift, and as to his coming when you are abroad, it is purely accidental." "AccidpMts happen very conveniently sometimes," he hissed. " Oh ! 1 am telling you the very truth ; his evening visits shall cease, if it is disai^reeable to you, and he shall come in the hours of day." " Jt is disagreeable to me ; it looks very much like uutaitlifuloeFs.'' " I would rather plunge a poisont^d dagger into my heart, than that yon !»hoi.ld doubt my faithfulness,** Si. id shr, looking sndly and pleadingly into his glaring eve8, and bursting into a flood of tear-*. ' The demon was now raging within him, and he would not listeu to reason ; even her tearful face did not move him, but in a hoarse voice he said, as he tJtrode away : " You shall heoi* more of this anon. " lie turned his steps to the office of Morton, with whom ho had a s'ormy interview, receiving the same explanations that he had from Agnes. When he left her, she went to her room, long and bitterly w.'eping over the barrii r that had sudiienly 22 THE MYSTERlorS RING. arisen between her nnil her husbaud, whom she truly loved. •• Oh I why has he laid to my charge tliia terrible sin, of which heaven knows I am intiocHnt ? Jealousy has crnzed his brnin, and he will not listen to reasor). JJut come whnt may, I am innocent. There was no stain upon mv name ai a muideu, nor shall there bo any aa a %ife. " The Major did not seek her presence again for several days ; her heart was sal and wenry, the deli- cate tints faded from her checks, and her blue eyes bo- came languid with weeping. Mr. Morton had called two or thre^ times, but she always dismissed him immedint*ily. This the Mujor looked opon as tho greatest proof of guilt, for wouLl she not, wheu discovered, instruct him to shorten his visita;? The Mnjor was nearly fran'ic with jealousy and its kindred d.trk passions. H« would have struck his enemy to the earth, only that he wished to torture him, and make him feel pangs more keen than those which were racking his own heart. " Accursed be his form, who brought misery to my heart ; accursed be she, that has proved faithless. Alas 1 thnt I ever beheld her fair form. Accursed be I, and my weak will, that [ ever broke that vow, which, had I kept sacred, would have kept this agony from me; now I shh, when too late, my folly, my ?in, my CRIME I " he shneked. While in this frame of mind, he sought Agnes, and had a long interview with her, at the close oi wh'ch he said : " Woraai: ! we must pirt, you shall no longer bring misery to my home. " No prayers, entreaties, or protestaliooH wrung from an agonized heart, could avail aught, and she returned to thb home of her childliocd, growing paler and sad- der, da} by diy, and her b.autiful form wasting Away to a mere shadow. THE MYSTERIOUS RIXO. V CHAPTFR VII. Rkmobsk. '♦ Tale u thy •mock I Whon we mett at rompt ThU look of thin* will n.ut ui.v huuI t'roni ileaven. And fiends will unatcli at it. Cold, cold, my girl? Even like cliastity __" — Shakfpeare. Three lotig monllis pnflsed away, with their change*, tlieir soTowji, and their trials. Major Alton had suffered all ^the pain« jealo sy cculd heap upon him. Hate, madnes?, (ioubt, and fear, with their rt-timie of conflictiRg thoughts and 'juiotions, had racked his brain and seared his heart. Yet bow l.ttle did he Buffer compared to the tortures that were murdering the pure being he had in his blindness and rage tianished from his home! He had not driven her from his heart. He loved her yet, and it but added to his pangs. Night after night he paced his room, his pillow untouched ; day after day he passed ill bewildering thought, but he came forth from the furnace, purified I He had been convincrtd of her innocen''e. He h formed plans for ascertaining whether she was reeily guilty or not, and putting them into execution, he was overwhelmed with proi)f8 of her innocence, and his cri.elty. And all the horrors of remorse seized his guilty conscious. He was in an agony of fear, ai d deep were the prayers tor pardon that winged their way on high from his repentant heart, ile determined to seek Agoes, and plead for her forgiveness. " Oh! to hear her sweet voice say ' Willie darling, I forgive you,' would be a balni to my soul, far greater than any other pleasure earth could bestow; aye. Heaven itself can hold no greater joy ; it woul J be music far more rapturous than ever fell from angels' harps ; f(ir it 1 would pass through all the torments earth or the dread Iitreafter could heap upon mv guilty soul. I wust seek her, and on bended knee beg her pardon, and if it ia refused, I will quit forever this dark world! Better thep.ings of eternaljtorture, than the miierj of such a lift? as mine would be. Yet 24 THE MYSTERIOVS r.INO. Low can I 8ie her? I will be s^jiirned Jrom li< r home like a slave, beaten away lik« a cur! But 1 ivill are hor, before anoih^r diybars me ihat muih further from Para.lise. I will fir.e Mrs. Alton. " She is not to be seen," said the servant. '• I have important business with her." " »She is very ill-*" " All the greater reason 1 should be admitted to her presence," sHid he, turning [-ale. "Ah: Miij).- Alton 1 pen;eive," ."aid tlie servant, smiling, as he ri-rognized him. " Admit me at once to the preseu^v of Mrs Alton, or you are a dead man," s.iid the Major, pre enting a loaded pistol at tiie head of the servant, " be quick now, and make no fuss, for if you betray me, your li'e will not be wo!th the bullet th,.t ends it'." "Follow me," said he, leading the way to the room ocL'upie 1 by Agnes. " Pronn's.- that it shall not b- kno-^n 1 am m this THE MISTfiBlOUS RING. 25 I house, twid you shall be well rewar'Jed; btttray me, and you die," snid the Major, in a low, hoarse tone ! " I promise," Mid the servaut, . >7:i>i %» .ri I *., " Is Mrs. Alton alone ?" *' She is ; sjia i» |U»pwig," replied the 8erya|it, ai he withdrew. ''-?» w.tH !!• ' // :j-it saio-) : m He entered the room, and for a moment stood spell- bound. On a sofa lay the waatud form of her who onc« was Agnes St. Clair, but now Agnes Alto ., ban- ished from the home of her husband, of wliom she was dreaming, and who she hopaJ would yat fondly clasp her to his heart. Her ouce fair form was now a mere shadow, her face was pale and thin, with not a par- ticle of color to Hoften its ashy hurf, her e^ea were red with weeping, and yet a heavenly smile played upon her lips. Ho cast off the spell, and with an agouized heart sprano; forward, impriating on her lipi one long, lingering kiss. She unclosed her eyes, and gazing at him a moment, held out her arms to him with the words ; "I knew you would come. " In a moment she was folded to his heart, and between lus sob^s he asked her, " Agnes darling, can you forgive me my cruelty ?" " Willie, dear, it is I who should be forgiven, for giving you cause to doubt "' "Xol No I it wat I who in my fiendish rage and jealousy caused all this misery. " " But 1 should never have admitted il.at lawyer, ex- cept in your prwsence, and this sad parking would never have bien known." " You had a perfect right to do so, my darling ; but the demon if madness seized me, and drove away rea- son. " " Never mind, Willie mine, let the past, with nil its dark shadows, be forgotten. " " You shall never again have cause to mourn my harshness. " •' Nor vou to doubt my fjiit hfuiness. " And then !-e told her the story of his life, of the broken vow, and of the ring she wore. " It shall be a token of renewed love, dearest, that m fM Mr8TW»KWr6 BHfd. •hall not be brokeo till death parts tw," mU ^^ neatlmg closer to fiim. . , .^^,/ Their tears mingled, and tbev wer* recoodlfdi " Dear reader, the past is fef^vw, tbcr futot© looks Wngfct, perhapu a part of th# Gh^sy'. prophwy may not come true, and so we will drop the ouFtetn dpon thjf saored BMetiog of the loving ones- who have been put asunder so sadly, but who now find a new pleg- Bure m loving and being loved. (i.iK ,5 ■ ?i! yii, /t:^-i i .l,r""j; r.r'i) ^i^i j ,, U / f ■f t - viit^ i.r ^ li/jifO .r,; u._. ;f? i .-' ■i > . 1 !'f> t ' f. •iCjtl VI ri.'f.Si, r *« 1 J ' • s •J 1 i Romance"and Reality Y D — ;o: — BY "NOMA." 1 ^ — :0: — 1^ rN this enlightened age, suparsfcition ia fast dj^ig out before the adyancing might of civilization. The old time Eom&nce, whose tales and mys- teries have charmed artd delighted us, is falling befoire stern reality, and soon trill be forgottMi. Tales of wonder, stbrids of lairies, mermaids, and the belief in gbds and goddesses, are giving way to seteoee, atid soon th6 marvellous wobders of the past will only protoke a contemptuous smile. Perhaps it is best that it should be so ; but will not man, when these illusions have faded away, sometimes sigh for another draught at the fountain of Eomance ? Although the change is for niU eutrarK'e'ua, a8"wH";wauder in'thejdaj'a dying glory aloiig th*t banks of the rippling lake ; thy song no longer will float in dulcet waves Jof harmony across its swelliu4;bosom|; our . sad no more will be pillowed in thy loving Arms ; and thy downy robe will never again be laid npon thejsloping bank, tesdf to capture tbee a gallantJoYer. Far beyond the rainbow tints of the sotting sun, tboti mats! be found, in a bright and hnautiful land. wh^rH thou wilt reign supreme, but to usjfchou 'art no mort*. So fara-t lie well, bright and iovdy one. 'Tis a sad]word ty whisper to thee, fair inaidiM>,*bnt fheVorlirwiiJs, and we must even ober its oruel .Tiandnte. '-"-^ "f ()n« of the fanci»'8 of childhootl, its brightest'droam. a mystery on which the youthful imagination loved to dwell, to'conjure up bn"gnt?picture« o(f if, and to listen to the many charming'tales told of it, nt th.e mother's knee, has^frded into^the shudowy past. Fairyland, with.^it8 flowery meads and moonlit dales, its murmiu- iug>rooklets and sta ry skies, its music, song, and brtmls of happy, roving princes and princesses, delighted not childhood's mind ofily,— men and womwn, old in years but joung in heart, have^bowed at its shrine, and Irom .tlieir| pens have come some of the most enehauling ta'iea ever written. More has-been said, sung and writtt n [of the beauties and b^p^iuessj of Fairyland than any o^her romance that ever delighted tha mild of man with its ever changing fancies. • Who, as he treads byl^moonlight ^the flowery paths of some^tall fo«e8t,':dop8jnot 8tart,|aod look, and listen, at every sigh of tlie.'wind, or night bird's song, eipect- mgjto see arise before him a hand of happy fairies, and hear their laugh and songVing out on the evening air' Therd js food for ti>y wild fancy, lover of the romantic. (Jo mto the forest dt 11 when Luna's beams steal softly down through the] wavmg boughs, transforming the dewy "jirthl to a silver tapestrv ; where the wild Howers bloom, untouched by the 'pacrilegious ha-^d of mar), making fragrant the gentle brei^ze; where the little brooklet murmurs at thy feet, speaking to thee so KOMAjrCl AlID BEAiaXT. plhiiil, tut Ihou mast hear md understand ; ^.hfwe the nightingale 6 song rises on the balmy .ir- and where thcu art alo.ewilh Iby OMns^ett, uild fancies, and thou mit drirk in the UbvU^b oi ^he^ing ralurp •nd revel m the towers of Fairyland. "n„dV '^'^I^Py «P/'^»'. :^0V'^ ^**t «e poor mortals I .u T uV J'*'"' J"'" '*• '"'"^ *'fi" "ports, arrd make ihe derk forest rirg with our feughiftg shoutp. Bi,t, dear fairies, thou art haniehed from o..r loUgirrg eyefl, by the rrnelty of man, while we, held hr the 8flm« galling fht.in, are forbidden the light of thy presence^ Thou art happy on Pome flowery shore we know rot. Oh ! wilt thou not beckon to us from its gulden strand, ai d reveal to u« thy biding place, that we may join tbee, and be freed ftcm care ard In the memory lingers anothefrdtntecV,Ji.l\i'ile'tb'it once w:.? a living reality- the wardering Gvpsv This 8 rar,ge race, witb its curious CUstotas, unintelli- gible language, uncouth dress, dark flowing loi^li* beautiful faces md soft eypp, and fometimes rumbei- irg in Its bar,d8 the fair daughters of princes,— driven ;• 7"^''7/fpm their palace homes, and forced fo seek food and shelter with thece strange, half wild tribes, who themselves can claitn no home on the face of the rolling globe,— has degenerated into the idle, vagabond, pitiable beings so well painted by Shakfpeare : "A hungry lean fae'd Tillain, A m«re anatbniy, a mountebank. A thread-bare juffsler, and a fortan** teller • ' ■ ^ .°*'^<^y' l»ollow-ey'd anarp-lookinc wr«tch' A living dead man." ' Ab ! poor Gypsy ! we pity thy sad lot ; it is one of the hard, bitter realities of liie ; little poetry or romance dost thou find in being spu-ned from the door of him who should point thee to a better land on high where though Miightst rest from thy weary wacderiLgs. i>08t hou not sometimes long for a better portion and a home beyond the grave ? Boat thou not some- times yearn for position and influence, and wish thou couldst cast off thy tattered garm*^t8, forfake thy wild, roving life, acd mingle with the sons of wealth ROBANCE AKD BEAUTT. •nd honor? Thou canst not even singasofywra thy m*rry.ong: .•-.> H:m 7,1J " r.ineath the old oak tree, • ' '^ Come join »he Gypsy 'e u*nce.* We hop« better days are in store for thee, that, the time 18 coming when 'men will bold out to the© the hand of fellowship, and wekonie tbt-e to their homes. The time is speedily coming; every yenr, every day, every hour brings nearer Oui glad time when tUpu shaltclaima home in our citie«, and men will ao longer drive thee from their doors. It may not be till the happy Millennium alls the resoundi^ig world with the glad chori.3 of "P^ace on «arth; good will to raen," wlien war shall rage no more, when the I'onand tlie lamb shall lie down side by side in green p^souren, when every man shall recline be.ieath his own vine and fig-tree, wht-n everything shall breathe of peace, joy apd happiness, and when every knee shall bow and glorifv the Saviour of men. Haste, haste the Joyful day when we may swell the angel chorus I Oh, Gypsy, come aad kneel at our shrink, learn tho glorious story of the Redemption, and accept the hand of love and fellowship we offer you. The query naturally arises : And i» th^re to be uo " romance? is life to be entirely made up of harsh reality? is there no poetrv, nothing but the dull prose"^? is there no music to soothe the weary, no song for the longing ear ? are there no soft tints in the dark picturb? and are we to toil on, the creatures of a destiny with no tender breathings of romance, to smoothe and brighten our pathway thru, ah life? No! man cannot live without romance. Though the ol 1 superstition has passed away, yet thei^e is romance, G»)d ordained romance, on every side. Her devotee eagerly asks : " Where? where? tl ..re is no romance, bitter realicv has banished it forever.'' There is romance in the curl of a maidea'a lip, the ripple of her laugh, the glance of her eye, the rose of her cheek, the alabaster of her brow, the ruby of her mouth, the tcuch of her soft hand, and the nectar of her kiss; ♦here is romance in the lightning's f^ash, and the thunder's roar ; there i-. romance in the rushing ROMANCE AND HEAUTT. 33 torrent, the rpgjng waterfall, the cerulean river tl at winds through waving meadows and gold.Mi ooroi'n ! *., the foreat stream tliHt meanders sweetly along in is woodland home, and the peaceful lake which nestles ,-o calmly amid the eternal snow-clad mountuins ; there is romance in the hills and valleys; there is romance m the sandy desert acd the rolling prairie; there is romance in the gory battle field, and the Mild fliimes of the fire king; there is romance in the slarrv tky j.ikI the fleeting cloud, in the billowy ocean and the c. iin la^'oon ; and there is romance in 'the sunnv cHde, ivd the moonlit dell. VV^herever we turn, we h'nd romun e, Nature's romance, the truest, the beat, and the swee-^ ,t that can charm mortal eye. You tell me there is no romance in all this long ii t. If no», why doe.-i the maiden's lip curl in scorn of i le man who attempts to win her? why do the roses wii her cheek take a deeper dye when a loved footstet) i-s heard upon the threshold ? why do the hands clasp, m d the hps linger long at parting,' it not for the roman •« there is in love? Why have infatuated hundreds c; t themselves from Niagara's dread brirk, and met :tfi awful death in its boUine flood, because thev could not resist the fascination of ifs waters? Why have ilie poets dwelt lovingly on the f_ iet river, and went iio raptures over the blue lakn, if not for the romance 1 1; y find in Nature? And why do lovers select the stnr y night for their ramble, when they may walk for h under heaven's blue arch, and gaze enchanted upon tlin floating clouds as they take a thousand beautiful forn-s, if not for the romance there is in the star snan^' ■ d firmanent? ^ ^ We will not want for romance, if we but make the best of this beautiful world, if we help our fellow m ti onward in the path of life, aud fulfil the Divine co- -- mand : " Do unto others as ye would that they shou; i do unto you." There is romance in doing good : It will smooths over stern realities, and build a o-oL' a bridge for us to crjps the river of death, at the suns >t of a well spent hie. But oh ! v/hen the last moment comes, when tlia world and all its beauties, all its sorrows, and Ha ii* 34 ROMANCi: A.5D BIALITT. < , trials fade from our eyes, when Wj look back for the last time over the bright record of a life speot in doiog good, and when weeping friends gather around, to say the last sad farewell, where then will be dim,n)iHtj romance? Far away, in the vale of obliyion. Then w'll reality, — a sweet reality, bo ours ; the glorious, golden, unfading and undying reality of Paradise. -«♦♦- Minnie — :o: — BY " NOMA.' — :o: — ?(HE was not very beautiful, yet her face always ^ ^ wore a pleasant expression, wreathed with a <^ quiet smile, find her ways were kind and cheer- ful, and had gained for her the love of all the inhabitants of the little seaside town of D — . There was one, Iiowever, who loved her with a deep, true love, which was returned with all the glowing briglit- ness of youth's first, pure, warm affection. Happy was Harry L — , the millionaire's son, the friendly stranger, the almost unknown sojourner of the sum- mer season in this rocky, seaside village, in having won from Minnie W — the promise that, when another year had passed, and the roses were budding, the daisies blooming, asd the violets peeping from their moss beds, she should leave her childhood home, and go with him, to grace a city mansion as his bride. As Minnie walked along the ssashore on the morn- ing our story opens, and drank in the strange, wild beauty of the scene, — the uewly risen sun, casting hi* golden rays far over the ocean's gently heaving bosom, the blue vault above, uodimmed by a cloud or ni'.st, the huge old grey rocks jutting out into the sea, the white-winged ships speeding across the gentle waves, or lying secure at their anchors, the village in the background, whib upon her ears the low, soft, mvlan- MINNIE. r.5 I oholy music oft lie rolling wates, as they broke upon the rocks, and the sea-bird's wild cry, fell with soothi: g harmony,— she theught of Harry's words to her tl e ni^ht before. " And he spoke such sweet vrords to me, and t( M me of biii city home, and of the silks and jewels 1 should WMir, and asked me to be his, ard I promis-d, and when the spring flowers dec-k again these famili-r hillsides, I ^ill not be here to pluck them, but I shi ]! Je Harry's bride Oh ! I am very happy, but I wi. h I were worthy of him, I wish I at least had beaut , that his friends might not look upon him with reprou- n for hating married the unlotely daughter of a peer fisherman. Oh I that I were more worthy of Harr . noble Harry." She sat down upon a rock &nd burst into tears. O! ! was not her heart pure ; and her love warm ; uod wis she not fre« froM guile ; and did she not truly lo\e him, when she wept beca <» she had not riches f i- loveliness for him, because » .e had nothing to give hii i in return for his pacaionate promises, but pure, warn;, unselfish love? yet her future was bright. She he) the place that many a proud belle, who dwelt in cit mansions, longed to hold. She held the heart thf many had tried to win. But alas! for the briphr, visions and glowing hopes of youth, they are sometim. s suddenly dashed to the ground. In the afternoon of the same day, how differen.: looked the sea and sky. The waves, urged onward b the fast rising gale, came t'saring and dasLing toward < the dark, stern foeks, and broke upon their rugge-i sides with a sullen roar, casting sheets of white spra ■ high in air, as if bearing on their foam-crested form^ warnings and threateninf s ; dark, lowering cloud ^ hurried across th* sky, obscuring the sun ; lightninp could be seen and thunders heard in the distance, f a • across the raging ocean, which was now one sheet r ' angry foam ; and everything betokened the approach c an unusual storm. The fishermen had all sought tb-^ 'and, their boats were made rast; and all that could b^ 36 MIXWTT. I! dooe in preparing fo the conflict ot elements was done. As the afleruoon woro away, the etorm increased, the sky became heavier and darker, and \he rain fell in torrents. Ships wvre seen ei-iuMing under bare poles, and many a prryer went up on behalf of the sailor boys on the wide, ^ride ocean. Night was falling on the now dreary scete of gloom and darkness and with it came a heavy, dull, undefined shadow of for- bodidg upon the inhabitants, not making itsell known in words, but in the expression which each countenance wore. Such a night had never been known upon that coast; the sea a yeasty foam, the rain, driven by the pitiless gale, falling in such torrents that it seemed as if the very windows ot heaven had been opened, the lightning's blinding glare, the thunder's roar, and the ocean's hollow moan, combined to fill the soul with fears too deep for words, fears for many an absent one, who perchance might be driven by the merciless tempest to week rest under the mighty billows. The fishermen and their families were sitting around their firesides, whpn boom I ime the sound of a great gun, making itcelf heard above the roar of waters ; boom ! came another, and above the din of the battling elements came still another. The fishermen sprang UP, put on their coats and hats, and rushed to the ueach, for well they knew thefraeaning of those cannon shots, and many a time had they seen proud ships stranded on that rockbound coast. Through the gathering mist and pelting rain, omild be distinguished the outlines of a large ship, lying very near the rocks, and every mountain billow breaking over her. Stout hearts there were artong that band of hardy men who stood upon the beach, but none were there who would trust themselves to the n.ercv of those boiling waves. " James, can nothing be dout. to help them ?'' said one of the band, approaching ne of his companions. " Nothing, I fear," was the reply, " but I am viilling te go, if a boat could be kept right side up." " A boat could not be rowed twenty yards in such a sea as that." "No." MT!.ST¥. 87 " It it no use lO try it, it would only hti a foolhardy piece of work, just throwing lives away." They hud all come to the coru-luiNion that nothing could be done to h•^.p the poor sailor, although every wave threatened to be the on(» which would carry them down in its x-.virlitig rush. Above the rush of waters, and dm of the tempest, still came the boom of signal gunr, hIcv rockets fler.t up their bi le and red lights, ii prayer for help. Help, — was there any help, any hope tor ihem Y did not te:*rs fills the eyes of those noblo mari- ners, as they turned at the hfavy windlass, and thought of home and the dear ones whom they might never sen again ? While the fishermen stoo'l in consultation, a noble form rushed in among them, his eyes flashing with pride and excitement, determination stamped upon his glowing cheeks and high brow, and his tall lithe iorm erect, with manly, stately bearing. It was Harry L — , the rich man's son, who had gladdened by his pleasant ways the hearts of these toilers by thu sea, during the short time he had been staying among them. Althon<-' his shapely hunds had never l>een hardened or browned by toil, tew knew how much good they could do, or what a noble heart ho bore within his boiom, now heaving with high emotions. " Has a boat been "nt to the ship ? " a-jked Harrv. '• No, " was the reply. " What ! will you stand here and see your fellow- me 3 perish under your very eyes ? Where iS your bravery ? Where are your stout heart h, or rather, have you hearts at all ? " " A boat could never reach that vessel." " Don't lalk such nonsense, but get a boat ready for me." '•* What ! " exclaimed the fishermen, amazed, " you don't intend to launch a boat ; who will man her in this storm?" " I will," said Harry, firmly and calmly. " No ! you cannot, it's folly to think of such a thing. We shan't let you go." •• The man who attempts to binder me will do so to bis sorrow ; get me a boat ready." ^1' 38 MUfNIB. Hi« deterniined worda bore danger in thorn, and the men launched a boat for him. Aahe stepped aboard, he paused and epoke : " I may never come back again, but if the waves sweep me awa3,let the world know I died fultilling mjr duty, a duty from which others ahrauk. You think bec'ause I am neb I can d nothing to help my tellow men by my heart and bands alont-. 1 will show you iiffereiitly. I have won the haart of Minnie ^^ » she was to be my bride, I loie Iwr truly, and oh Gad ! be kind to her for my sake. Lf I dio, tell her it was .tt my post, and with her sweet Daa.e upon my lips. Farewell ! my dear friends, be kind to Minnie." As he spoke tbe last tender words, with trembHug voice, and a tear stealing to his eyw, he pushed off from the shore the boat in which he stood. As he did so, a wild cry of surprise escaped from the group on shore. Harry turnei and beheld seated beside him in the boat, Minnie W ! " Take me with you, Harry dear," said she, ♦' if you go, I shall go too." " Minnie darling, it cannot be, vou risk your life, and if you should find yft«r tocab "j the sea, I should always know myself to be your murderer." "I must go." Expostulations were useless. The entreaties of Harry, and of those on shore, were fruitless. So oiit into the falling night, and foaming ocean and beating storm, rode Harry aiid Minnie, their boat now and then visible on the top of a mountain waie, bearing salvation to the rock-stranded mariners, in whose hearts hope had died, giving way to gloom v despair. Many a prayer went up on behalf of chat frail boat and its noble rowers, and many a cheer greeted it when it came in sight of the lone vessel, which proved to be a large ship that had been literally stripped by the stonm. The sails had been torn to ribbons, the boats washed off, the helm carried away, and the ship herself, while driving under bare poles, had struck upon the rocks, and was naw on the point of going down. Little time was spent in talking, and the crew. MINNIE. 39 fortuuately a small one, having boarded the boat, the little craft, now burdened almost to sinking, started on the return, just in time to escape being carried down in the whirlpool which the sinking ship created, as she sought a home in the ocean's bosom, over whose mighty billows she had so long and triumphantly rode. A few more strokes of the oars, and the danger would be over. Oh ! that it might have been so ! But a billow, mountain high, sweeps away poor, noble Harry, the bearer of life to others, the saviour of other* from that watery grave which he himself found, alas ! to soon, and the last words he over spoke on earth were, "Minnie darling, I'm " and then the crue! waves closed over him forever, and to-day he sleeps in that spot, the billows rolling over him, and waiking melancholy music above his lowly tomb. " Oh ! Harry, Harry, we shall not be parted !" exclaimed Minnie, as she rose from the seat and attempted to cast herself after him she loved. One of the sailors caught her in his arms, and she became unconscious. " Where's Harry ?" was the cry, as the boat reached the shore. Dear Header, let me not speak further of this sad. gloomy scene, the reproaches men casi upon themselves, the bitter agony, the mourning, the wails of grief, and the scalding tears of sorrow. A year has passed away, and we are again at the little town of D — . Let us enter this neat cottage. But ah ! what mean those sounds of weeping thst fall upon our ears as we lift the latch ? Upon the bed of death lies a fair young girl, surrounded by a circle of sorrowing dear ones. Can it be possible this is Minnie ? ■f- It is indeed, but how changed. She has become I beautiful, such beauty as cannol be of earth. Listen ! she is speaking. " I am dying ; papa, mamma, brothers, come close ; I am broken-hearted, the wound cannot be healed on earth, and I must leave you all. Oh ! meet me above, in the golden city. I shall stand at its pearly gates and welcome you home. But before I die, I have one 40 MiifjnB. request to make, and but one. When Sabbath morn- ing comes, place me with dear Harry under the waves, and let me share his to.nb. Papa, will you do so?" " Yes, my darling,"' was the low, sobbing reply. " Then I die happy. I am soon to see my Harry, I do not, fear death, the sting is taken away. Farewell ! Oh! there are the aDgele, sae ! they beckon to nie, 1 muvst go. As the last words lied upon her lips, she calmly passed away from earih to her glorious rest, in the angels' arras, and with a heaveiily smile upon her beautiful face. 'Tig Sabbath morning, not a cloud casts a shalow over the landscape, so calmly beautiful in the golden rays of th«* sun, the sea is quietly swelling, the waves gently breaking upon the beac-h, with low, sweet music, and morning's zephyr ie laden with the fragrance of a thousand flowers. ' The mortal form of Minnie is born*^ to the beach, amid a mourning circle ot relatives and friends ; from the shore a groupe of boats, with slow and measured sweep of oars, bears the assemblage out upon the heaving waves, and when the solemn, beautiful words of the ceremony, made doubly impressive by the sad scene, are concluded, the form of Minnie is consigned, 'mid the svbu of weeping ones, to her ocean tomb, to join the noble hero she loved so well in life, and now she sweetly sleeps beneath the moaning waves, her heart bound up and her tears wiped away, by Him who called her spirit home. And when the state' 3- ships sail over the sacred spot, the mariners reverently ce.»se their labor, silently dropping a tear to the memory of the devored one* who sleep below. d \i Recollections of my Teachers, School- mates and Pupils. — :o: — BY "NOMA." — :o: — 'Y Teachers I How many a fond memory the> > words call up; how my mind often turns from the cares of every day life, to the pleri- sant hours spent with them, both in tlui school room and out. How careful they were to guide my youthful footsteps in the right paths, showin^j; me the dangers that lay hidden from ray untrained eyee, helping me gently over the rough places of school life, and how very, very often were their kindness and love rt'paid hy carelessness, scorn, and harsh words ; v't how patient they still were, many a tim« overlook- ing faults, bestowing praise where it was little deserveti, and still, no matter how wearied they were wiin tlu; day's toil, earnestly working to implant the precious germB ot knowledge so deeply in tiie mind, that tht-y might never be forgotten. How I would delight to see their faces once motv, but alas ! I know not where liiany of thi^m are. Houxi have settled dcwn to a quiet married life, one is witli her afijed parents, two are in distaut colleges, — cue with every prospect of becoming one of our most, eloquent divines, the other a prominent M. D., — some are still fighting under the old banner and nobly bearing it onward, whilst others 1 have almost forgotten. Yet, though ihey are far from me, 1 often tl;ink of them, and long to behold their familiar faces. Deeply do I regret every harsh word spoken to them, evevy unkind action, every neglect of their teachings, ani everv tear I may have thoughtlessly caused, since experience has taught me how hard is a teacher's lite, how fraught is thoir vocation with care, trouble and anxiety. 1 know their brightest roses are marred by cruel thorns, that every ungentle word or deed drives deeply int<» the heart. mm:mk:mm^ 42 KFCOLLECTIOXS, ' 5' * Oh I dv.'at teafrhers, if these words evei* resch your eyes, you will jtt 'pnut jjnow that your wayward pupil, who asks you to receive hi:n iuto your ranks, now sees the follios of earlier dstys, and humbly asks your for- giveness. My scliool mates! where are they, the friends of ny youth, with whom 1 have sptnt so many liappy days ? They wauner fur and wide, in every land, claimed by jvery calling, honored on every sidi, bright beacon lig'i s to guide their followers through the rocks and tempests that beset tlie voyage of life, aud crowned by the laurels that Fame be&tows only on \\orthy ones. Some are still near me, winning for themselves golden names, aud endeared by the recollections of the past. Many I have never beheld since the time when we all stood together, to Bay good bye, and go into the world, each following a diflerent pith, but all with the same object in view, to wrest from the hand of Fame the wreath she offers to those who can win it. -How we start when we hear the names of our old schoolmates uttered, what a thrill of pleasure bounds through our hearts when we hear them lauded, how eagerly we catch every word of praise, how we rejoice to hear these distant friends of b_ gone years spoken of with honor and pride, and with what a heartfelt emotion we thank God that such noble men and women were once oar companions. Oh I ray loved schoolmates, what a happy meeting it would be could we all gather once more in the old school room. What tears of joy would flow, and what con- gratulations would be exchanged. Then let us work diligently and faithfully, let us think kindly of one an- other, and perhaps our dearest reward will be that joyous reiinion in the bright years to come. My Pupils ! Often I fly back, on the wings of fancy to the days sperit with them, days that, despite their weariness and anxiety, were my happiest, days that form the brightest picture of my life, when new hopes and new aspirations were awakened, days whose memory intrudes upon every waking hour, in every busy scene, in every lonely moment, and ofttimes in the softest dreams, davs that have tied, and taken with BISSIE, THE FLOWER GIRL. 43 them much of life's iweetness, and many of its fontUst hopes. Ob I my dear children, longingly remeraberi d is every bright eye and smiling taco ; once more 1 think 1 bee you in the Ions forms, waiting for dismis- sal, then sadiy comes the reality, and 1 find mvf»< If alone. When we gathered in the dear old school roon ior the last time, the final tisks weio said, the bAi rung, and good-bye sadly whispered, and when your teacher ha(l lingered a few moments by his desk n) watch tile little ones disappearing over tiie hill, ai d then closed and locked the creaking door, do not thii k that with a sigh he dismissed you from his heart. Alt ! no, you are ever dearly remembered, and while li e throbs, n ver will the memory of your sweet faces be obliterateu "ora his mind, My Teachers ! My Schoolmates ! My Pupils I brig'it oases on life's desert, glad pictures of the past, nev^r forgotten relics of happier days, your remembran-e brings a teuderuesj to the heart, and a moisture to t;ie eye, that words cannot paint. -^»- Bessie, the Flower Girl. . X CHRISTMAS STORY. — :o: — BY "NOMA,"j„jj-,, — :o: — rT was Christmas Eve. Without, the snow wis falling fast, driven into every crevice and oorri'^r by the bitter wind. People hurried from t le gay shops to their pleasant homes, laden wiMi presents for the little ones, who eagerly looked for t'lw coining of " Santa Claus." No one cared to stay long in that cruel storm. Within, we all know what joy and plenty made glad hearts gladder. There was one heart to whom Christmas wrought no j6j' Poor little Bessie, the Flower Girl, had no hoiie to be gladdened by this happy day, no place to lay 1 er .""WO 't e iftd 44 BESSIE, THE FLOWBB OIRL. weary bead but in a pile of straw unJer an old shed. How wistfully, longingly and tearfully she gazed in the window* of Mr. Mansfield's elegant, home, at the happy group of children who wvre making the evening gay with Christmas songs and games. "Oh! tht^y have plenty, while E am starving, they have a bc^e, while I have no home but the streetr<, and they are happy, while I am freezing and famishing. Oh ! dear father, sweet mother, why did you die, and leave poor Bessie to perish, with no one fro care for her, or love her ?" Foor Bessie, clad only in tattered garments, with stockingless, almost shoeless feet, with bare head and bands, and no one to notice or pity her, what sorrow and anguish must fill her hungry heart, as she sinks down in the snow, weeping bitterly. "Papa," said Ella Mansfield, a little golden haired beauty of seven, "I thought I saw some one looking in the window." " Nonsense, my darling." " But I'm sure I did. It might be one of the angels." " What do you think an angel would want out in this storm, Ella dear?" " I don't know, but won't you go out and see, papa ?" " Oh ! there's no one there, it was only your fancy, my child, run away to your play." " But I do want to see, papa ; I'm sure it was an angel's face," " Ok ! yes, papa, de let us go out and see," chorused half a dozen briRht eyed boys and girls. " Well, well, I suppose you must have your own way,'" said Mr. Mansfield, good-naturedly, " where's my lantern ?" " Here it is, papa," said Albert, lighting it. Out into the storm they all go, led by happy hearted Ella. " Well Ella, have you found your angel ?" asked h«r father, as he saw her stooping over some prostrate object, " Yes papa," replied she. " Holloa ! what's this ?" said he, looking down, " why BESSIE, THE FLOWER GIRL. 45 dear me, it's a little girl, f'rozea to death 1 believe ; here, let's take her in," and lifting the Sfnseless form, he lightly c-arried it into the warm i\>om. Great was the wonder and excitement of these young doeis ot good, and their hearts gave a great bound of joy and thankfulness, when, after the application of restoratives, they saw the signc of returning life. Poor Bessie had almost crossed the dark river, and when consciousness returned she murmured, as she looked around th« beautiful room and upon the happy faces, " Is thiti Heaven?" "No! my dear child," said Mrs. Mansfield, "but it must be your heaven to-night." "Are you cold, little girl?" asked Ella, softly, putting her arms around Bessie's neck. " Oh ! I wa« so cold, and then 1 areamed i was in heaven, and now I feel so warm." " Ain't you hungry ?" asked the blue-eyed an^el of love. "Tea! I have had nothing to eat to-day," said Bess, sadly. " Poor, little girl !" »aid Ella, smoothing back her tanglttd dark locks and bursting into tears, while the others provided a feast of dainties for Bessie. They all worked with a will a»d a gladness, to make the poor waif happ)i and comfortable, but nooeof them like Ella. She chafed the chilled hands and feet, kissed the tear-stained cheek, combed the curly locks, aftd taking Bessie to her room, dressed the wondering child in clothing of her own. " What is your namw, little girl?" asked Ella. " Bessie," roplitd she. " Where is your papa ?" " In Heaven." " And where is your mamma?" " She is with papa." " Poor Bessie ! no papa I no mamma ! wliere do vou live ?" " Anywhere ! in the street. I used to sleep in a pile of straw, and sell wild flowers in the summer, but now there are no flowers, and I have to live on what I find in the streets, or people give to me. ^/■^'^ 4» BESSIE, THE FLOWKU OIRL. Oh : I wanted to di->, and go wl.ern father and moth.H- nrft" said shn, bursting into tearc. : C W childreu, ' said Mrs. MansH.ld, as they aga.n oame into tbe sitting room, " it is bed time, and ban a 6aus wants good little boys and girls to go to bed eariv We will hear Bessie's story im the morning. The chapter is read, and prayer otlbrt-d, iQ which gratetu. thanks are given that they have been the Laos of saving the life of one ot God's little ones, coo.lnight is whispere-l, the chihlren trip lightly to their rooms, and for the first time m many months, Be«sie sleeps in a war.:^ bed ; Ella's arms are round her neck, and dark curls are mingled with golden. What draws the child's heart so fondly to the poor ragged flower girl? The angels look down «nd smile, ana lovingly guard the sl«eping iimocei.tP. Christmas .i.orning broke bright and clear. The white snow lav on the streets and houses like a robe of puritv. The wind was hushed, and the bells chimed out on the crisp air the gracd old chorus of " 1 eace on earth, good will to men." Mr. Mansfield's happy family gathered round the breakfast fable, and recounted to their parents the rich gifts " Santa Claus" had brought them. Even poor wondering Bessie had her numerous gifts to tell of, a!!d half of Ella's had been given to her, in addition to her own, bv the noble-hearted little girl. "Now "'said Mrs. Mansfield, when breakfast was finished, '" we will see who has got the best presents ; but first we will listen to Bessie's story." It was soon told, how her father, a prosperous mechanic, suddenly was taken sick and died, how her mother had supported heraelf and bar child by nee.1ie- work, until slie too was laid upon a bed of sickness, and one by one their household things were sold how her mother died, and the bard hearted landlord turned her, pennileea, upon the world, how she had sup- ported hersi'lf bv seiliog wild flowers, and when they ceasrd to bloom; how shft'nad wandered suflfenug about ■i((! -i! '(/is 'it(fno({ 'ro .Bi'j'=!»n-»« ndt nf hnft I \iu\v rt.t BES8IE, THE Fi.OWKR OTTII,. 47 the sireets, and how al last she sank down beneath the window in tlirt cruel snow-^^torm, sicknt heart and tired cf the worhl, praying that sh^* might die, and had wept herself to sleep. " VV^hat was your father's name, Bessie ?"' asked Mr. Mansfield. " William Laymou," said Bessie, " What was your mother's name?" snid he hoarsely. "Clara; she used to tell me sho had a rich brother somewhere in the city, who would keep me when slu^ died, but sho went so quickl\ she never told me his name.*' "My poor, dear child,'' said Mr. MansHeld, clasping her in his arms, and kissing her fair cheek, " I am that brother, your mothir was my loved arid only sister. Oh ! Clara in Heaven, why did 1 not see thy face in this dear child's?" and the strong mrai burst into tears. AVondering faces gathered round. "Husband," said Mrs. Mansfield, "tell us all about it ; I never knew you had a sister.' "Tea ! do, pa, tell us all about it," clamored the children eagerly. "Fifteen years ago," began he, "my only sister Clara married Williiim Laymon. against her paronts' wish, and they forbade her ever entering the house again. She and her tiusband went a\nay, i never could learn vihere, and I never beheld my idolli-.c! sis- ter again, though I searched much for he*-. On his death-bed father relented, — mother had dono so long before, — and left a fortune for her, should she ever be found, in my care. I have searched vainly for her, while she lived and died almost in the shadow of my home. Her husband was a noble mari, though he never beca.ne rich. And Bessie, the image of her mother in her girlish days, the picture of my dear Clara, is rich at last. But rich or not, she shall ever have a home with us ; I know Ella loves her like a sis- ler already. Come Ella, my darling, what was your best Christmas gill ?" " My dear sister Bessie, the beautiful angel I saw in the vindow, " said the denr goldeu-haired child> 48 IN MEMORIAM. folding l»er arms lovingly around Bessie und dtftwing her to her heart. Aud Bessie has touud a home at last, ^o more wanderings, heart-ac-hari, tattered garmsuts, nor shoe- less feet. Oh ! what a happy Christmas to her. Sweet Ella ! daur little ange-l of love ! may no thorns .ever beset thy pathAuy, and may every Chriutmas-tide be as happy' to you as the one that gave you another dear sister to love. Bessie's parents look down from Heaven and re- joice that their darlings darkest hours have fled, the sinless angels sweetly smile, tune their golden ha' ps anew, and wake holier songs of praise. M In Memoriam. — :o: — BY "NOMA." — :o: — On the death of Jogephine Hatfield, ..^uyhter of Capi. James A. and Catherine Ilatjield of BrookvxUe, Parmhtro ; who ?m« droii^ed trhiie tailhigon Halfumy River Lake, totth a party of friends. \t was evening, clear and calm, '^o cloud dim- med the azure sky, the wind was hushed, save a low sigh amid the boughs of the fo'-est trees ; and the setting eun cast his golden rays over ...„ bosom of the quiet lake, whose surface shone as smooth as polished glass, with not a ripple to mar its sleeping loveliness. The birds sang in the trees, the lambs played upon the hillside, and the streamlets laughed and glistened, as they murmuringly hastened onward to mingle their purity with the limpid waters of that beautiful lake, so soon to fold in its cold and clo'^e embrace three yoang and jwyuus beings, who little dreamed of df^ath. TX MEMOKIAM. "I Five happy yoiillis and ninitleris 8tr!i\eil to th' liar 1.^ of the lake, nr:d lHi>nchiD|L.' a hoat weiv noon sportiii't on ii8 surtiue. iheir merry laiigliter ringiii}; out on the still air, waking sweet echoes nniid the hills uliiii sloped to the pebbly beai-h. Little did they dream of harm ; little did they thi^'i tliat even now deain wac Mfretrliing out his re'-Mitlo h hand, to ctnsp them to his bosom and claim the i as his own. Yet it was ever) bo. In the moment wheii joy was nt its htiglit, t]."+ treacher. ... hoat in which they were seated gave a r. ! and hurled them into the water. How ijoon was their merriment hushed in th^ 1 •• ■ bin struggle for lile, in the wild clutching for soin' • thing to save them, in the groans and shrieks, find — let us hope — in the prayers both of those who sunlc !t their watery graves and of those to whom lif spared. Oh I whiit a ftarf>'l moment. Culled n .> eternity without a moment's wartiing, without tlio messenger even knocking at the door, to bid them tiiiii their lumps. When Josephine Hatfield left her roc , she sn li : " If 1 am not back at the usual hour, \'ou ne^d lu.t wait for me, for I will be over the river. " Yes, slie was 'ovc* the river' — over the cold Jordan, whosa swe'ling waves she crossed with the grim ferryman who had come to take her home, home to henven : awav from earth and its trials, home to God, wlio l).;d culled her to himself. Dearest .losie, thou art resting from thy foil-;; mourned by parpntG vvho loved thee so well, by brothers and sisters who idtnost worshipped thee, by fri^-idv who ever loved thee, by playmates who found tl ci? their best loved companion, by children A-ho, in thy school room, loved thee too well to ever t'isobey tiy gentle rule, and by those stricken ones irto who > bleeding hearts thou hast often pourea the sweet b.iia of '.'onsolition, Icr whom thou hast shed the peaiiy tear of sympathy, and to whom thou hast whispered words of comfort and cheer. Thou wa.«t ever loved i y ail who knew thee! and fear not that thou hnlt ih 50 ▲ FTKR I-0\0 TEARS. forgotten ! for it will be many a long, long day ere our tears are dried, or the flowers fade on thy grave. Parents and friends, we know how deeply your hearts are wounded, and we oflfer yon our deepest sympathy, and point you to that loving friend on high, who called your darling ^rom earth. We mourn not as those without hope, we know she is not lost but gone before, and now stands on the golden shore beckoning us to cross the river and meet hpr in that laud where sorrow never comes. That sad scene, when for the last time we gazed on the dear hce, slet^ping so still and cold in death, will never be forgotten ; tears will flow as it rises fresh iu th'* memory. Dear Josie has gone home ; she strikes iu joy her golden harp, her sweet voice wakes angel music 'mid the celestial choir. AVe fancy we almost hear the faint, swet't echo of her voice across the river of death, over which she has ''jft a shining path for us to follow, to meet her there to part no more. «#> After Long Years. R •• "NOMA." ^T was with bowed head, tearful eyes, snd face, ^^^ and slow, broken steps, that a young man started down street from a neat little cottage. Little wonder that he was sad. He had laid his heart at the feet of a beautiful girl, the one, the only love of his life, and — she h."»d refused to share his homo, to help OBDOothe his pathway through life, and be to him a comfpacion, whom he could love, and from whose life- roses be -could pluck the thorns, that she might never feel iheir bitter stings, and that her journey through this vale might not be so dreary aa he would now find it, when he went forth into tha world, his love \inre- APT£K liONO T£AB8. r,\ turned, his dearest hopes van'sht^d, ambitions g'Oi s fair prospei'ts blasted and bligbted, nothing luore y live for, and with a nad feeling of louelinesa ai. I deeolatioD clinging to bitn. '* Alice," said he, as they stood at sunset b^nen 'i the drooping branches of a stately elm, ** Allie dnrlit , will you be mine? will you join haod^ with mo in f " path of life, and let me guide your footsteps, over is rugged length? Ob I darling, do not say no, or yi u will break my heart, fo'* you, and you only, do I lo ■. You are the only one I ever did or ever shall lo Oh I Allio, sweetest, say ycu will be mine, and ma . > me happy." •' No I Henry, I cannot marry a man who^- relatious despi-'e me. I am poor and were 1 to marry you.yoii* best friends would r^iscard you." " No ! Allie, darling, they would do no <4Uch thiii ;. They hcaor and respect you the same as they do mc ' " It can never be, Henry ; you must give me up and forget me. Your love is not so deep as you thiuk, ai.d vou will soon find another whom you can laveiaiil marrv, and with whom you will be happy."- •'-: (M;i!t "Never!" said Henrv, in a ho«'''i"'''"^ i*"" 'ru;i(| j^ntt.ii-of hin "Un t4«Hi' ife'«Bet#i«V'rt«r^*V'J«o'b!ff"«lo*^"l-'t^HHbf. «'To i '"''nlllWrfdti^iVe'h^afe^^dfr'ft*.^' ■'" ''f'' ■''*' "''■"•^ "'■''ifhetV?'^ '^ IIOV M llv/ L'OV IIO'JU f>CSt*-^l Ji'.flt V,0T!08 l>Mj: ^'H..-w}4ilv'A(ii4*,S^aMl3(»'t/!ldlV>riwd.i^Hd.^l!i^''«f'^c-' «^' «t!Wm H^V^'^al^'vc^t'L^hrt{ag''iwMt]^,^l''ta^st M .«"«'«i4#4ll."'"lMM«"'h(4#"gtt''ivWiy. 'T« tor'^'hyvfeHfr '^ •dli,«% fli'.Alr,"b'ilf (^'f^mf'Mi .»e»1^tln(lly'a?" "To-dav. y AFTER LONG YEAHS. 55 "Wherever you f{0, remember me as a friend." " Thanks, many tbaDks for your great kiiidDesii to oue whose heart is desolate." Aa hour later, Henry sorrowfully bade his fellow clerks good-bye. There \ias not a dry eye among them when he went, for he was loved by them all, and very sorry were they to lose him. The westward bound train that afternoon bore Henry towards the Rocky Mountains. Oh ! wlat despair and misery was there in his heart as the roofs ot Lynn died away i" the distance. What scorching tears HUed his eyes, as he was swiftly borne away, from all for which he cared, from all he had to live for, from all that he loved, from all his once bright hopes, and turned his pale, tear-stained face westward, while from the depths of his seared heart came an agonizing prayer that he might die, that God, who had dealt so bitterly with him, would call him home, and still forever that throbbing, aching, bleeding heart. Too late did his proud relatives regret the fatal course they had taken, too late did they bewail their pride and harshness. Ah I parents, friends, never interfere in affairs of the heart. You know not what untold misery, anguish, and despair it causes, how many hearts are broken, and how many livas are withered, that might have been bright, but for your fatal and unchristian inter- position. Oh ! take a warning in time, lest you be even now on the verge of ruining for life, perhaps forever, some one whose prospects in the world are fair and briglit, but whose hopes will be turned to the darkest desp^iir and demon madness, if \ou oppose his heart's deep, true, and only love. It is ten years since the opening of our story, and after a long journey by rail, stage and en foot, we are in Miners' Canon, a village of log houses and canvass tents, inhabited by rough miners. Miners' Canon is a break iu the Rocky Mountains, far beyond the bounds v»f civilization. The miners are a motley looking crowd, 60 AFTKB LONG YEARS. \ and an attempt at description would be f'*'-'*!'^^ ( f \^^ leave the task untouched. The sceiiery is wdd and raiestic. Lofty mountains, th^ir skv reaching peaks Tvered with the eternal snows, encl.se the p ace oi. every side ; dark rocks and stunted trees eomewl»at ,e- Tve tb^ grandeur or the indescribable scene ; but turn the eye which way we will, we find ourselves encircled hv the same nijzhtv mountains. 'We will enter this te.-t. Ah I who i. this l.es upon the bed of sickness, surrounded by rough, unshorn miner.; whose ey^s, for year« utmsed to weeping, now "hed tears freeW ? It is Henry . Dal ton but how changed '. Though we can still distinguish the marks of a gentleman, yet he is almost as rough and sh.agu.v as those around him. He fell from a high ro.k tVns raornit.g, severely wounding hv.nself and now he lies here, no gentle wife or mother near him to fan bn hot cheek, or cool his burning brow, .:o loved one to bend- oTer him and whisper words of hope and ^^^^rf He w^s cared for as tenderly as possible, by these men, who are unfamiliar with sickness, and now hey M-eep. for poor Harry is dying. They all hjved h.m though he never would join in their drinking and gambling. His quiet, gentlemanly ways had won them, th°.v cculd see that he bore some great grief and thev were kind to him as they knew how to b^. li>ey haxe gathered to say a tew parting words, and go down with him to the brink of the Dark Kiver bt.ll- ness reigns within the tents, broken now and then by the weeping of strong men. A woman,-Heaven bles^ her, or.e that has not entered the Canon for y«ars before,- silently steps into the tent, and goes to the bedside " Harry, Harry darling, don't you know me The wounded man turns his head, and then his arms are folded lovingly around the neck of Alice, his only love. , ^ „ ■ <. tu^ the miners steal awav, feeling that it is not the place for'lhem, and leave the lovers alone. We have little more to say. Alice, travelling for her heahh, came accidentally to Miners' ( anon, and met oDce more tlie ox-j one she ever loved, and under PASSING AWAY. «7 her skilful nursing, he was soon himself again. They soon left the Canon forever, and were married at last, and though some still opposed the marriage, they cared not, but peacetully and happily glided down life's stream. And now bright eyed elfins often accompany Henry to the store which once bore the name of Morton &, Co., but which now bears that of *' Mortorj & Dalton." Passing Away. — :o: — n Y "NOMA." — :o: — lASSlNG AWAY is written in living letters on everything which the human eye beholds. The morning sun, rising in the unclouded east, rolling on in the blaze of meridian splendor, and sinking to rest in his couch of glory, 'mid the radiant clouds and brightness of the Queenly West, says " Passing Away." The hilver moon, traversing slowly the aziire sky, 'mid the mazy labyrinth of myriad twinkling stnts, giving to the heavens a new beauty, and to earth a flood of pura, swef't light, gently whispers — " Pa'^siog Away." The many-colored flowers, bloomujg in * ?ir sweet- ness, till etit down by the mower's scythe, or the heat of noonday ; the warbling song birds ; the pearly dew- drops, glistening a few hours on the waving grass, and disappearing ; and the murmuring brooklet, all sadly tell us — "Passing Away." The storm cloud, sweeping across the gloomy sky, darting forth angry flashes, and deep-toned mutterings, shaking the earth to its very foundations, proclaims to us in thunder tones — '* Passing Away." But this lesson comes to us in madder, deeper, and more heart- searching tones, when for the last time we 58 PASSING AWAY. i^aze upon some coffined form, that in life was very dear to us. The motinuless breast, such a little while ago throbbing with joyous lite, with a wreath of flow- *'Vi lying upon it, placed thnre by some loving hand that may soon be still forever, the cold and folded Imuds, the closed eyes, the colorless cheeks, the pale lips, uo longer speaking words of sweet love and kind- ness, the niarbli^ brow, and the golden ringlets, lying HO quiet and still I'pon the white pillow, all speak to us in that !:our of bitter anguish, too plainly and too sadly to be mistaken, telling us that life is very, very rapidly " Passing Away." And what is the lesson we gather trora these two little words ? It is that we are to prize the present, that while rolling days, and months, and years, tell us that time is flying swiftly by, we are to make to-day our own, for we will not see to-morrow, that mysteri- ous day which is always coming, but never here, which IS no nearer us to-day than it was ten thousand vears ago, and which we may be alwavs grasping and wishing for, only to see it glide away, like the spectre of an excited imagination. Then let us work while it is to day, before the night of bitterness and black despair comes, for unless we rightly use the present, come it surely will. Let us be up and doing ; whatever object we have before us', let us strive to accomplish it, in the bright and golden hours of the glorious present. Don't let Procrastination woo us from the work with his beguil- ing tales of ease and idleness, his pictures of a couch of roses, and murmuring music to win us from our ••area and trials, for the awakening will come sooner or later, an.! it will be very bitter No! though the way look gloomy, dark and rough, though xse tread on thorns, let us hurl this enchanter from us, and face our destiny and our work with a fixed determination not to ht baffled, aud then, when we have finished the task, when we lay down the heavy load, when we reach our destination, and feel that the work is done, sweeter, far sweeter will be our reward than had we shrank from the toil till forced to take up the weary burden, and plod on amid darkness and fear. BllOTHEB AGAINST BUOTUBR. 59 Then let us one and all unite in making a good use of the present, knowing that iwvi is the time when our task will be lightest, and that our reward will beg.ven amid sweeter music, softer soRgs, purer rest, and brighter, dearer facei, than had we loitered on lue's highway, aLu idly spent the precious hours so swiftly " Passing Away." •♦^ Brother Against Brother; AN EPISODE OP THE LATE SOUTHERN REBBLLIOIT. BY -:o: — NOMA.' ^T was in the latter part of the year 1860, that two brothers, George and John Devere, met in New York, tj talk of their prospects. George was a Soutliero landholder of great wealth. His estates bordered on the noble Savannah River, and were renowned far and wide for their beauty and fertility, as was their proprietor for bis open hos- pitality and munificent generosity. In figure he was tall and handsome, with a frank, genial countenance, and dark eyes ever glancing from one object to another, very dark hair, and moustache waxed and twisted a la Napoleon. He was a man on whom one could rely, and whose word was as good as his bond. John was a well -to do New York merchant. His house waa oi: a firm foundation, and, the crisis in monetary circles failed to shake it. He had not, when commencing business, plunged into wild schemes and speculations, but had worked his way up by honesty and perseverance, uutil he had reached his present prosperous position. In figure he much resembled his brother George. His quiet and unobtrusive < liarity liad won for him a noble name, and many a poor orphan had blessed the 60 BROTHER AGAINST BEOTHEB. m hid day which filled his hand with silver, from the well supplied purse of John DaVere. John aud George had m«t, as we said, to talk of their fut'-re prospects. " It looks very dark," said John, " the cloud grows heavier every day, and we know not what hour it may break." " Very true," replied George, " things begin to wear a threatening aspect ; I am p. fraid, judging from present appearances, that war is not far distant." " Heaven grant it may not come to that," exclaimed Tohn. " I earnestly hope it may not," said George, " it would create a sad state of affairs, this setting of brother against brother." " George," said John suddenly, " in the event ot war, which side would you espouse?" " I should give all the aid in my power," answered he, " to the poor bleeding South, my home." " Born and bred in the Nort.h, to leave home, and fight against kindred," said John, sadly. " It m\i*t be so," said George, " and you,— but I suppose I need not ask ?" " Would be among the first to obey my country's call to arms," replied John. " Brother against Brother," repeated George. The battle raged fiercely ; cannons roared till the very earth trembled with their death boom ; volley upon volley of musketry rollf d along the ranks ; the smoke of contest hung in heavy clouds over the com- batants ; sabres gleamed and flashed in the rays of the setting sun ; horses rushed riderless through the death fire, seeming to have lost all sense of danger ; men rolled and fell to earth in pools of crimson gore ; columns charged, shook, wavered and fell back, only to gather breath, and rush again into the very jaws of destruction; while above all rose the shouts of the leaders, — cheering on their followers to a glorious victory — or death,— and the cries of the dying. BBOTHKR AGAINST BKOTHEB. 61 Night was fast deepening on the «cene of battle, and neither seemed to gain or lose an inch ot the blood-stained field ; at last the Southerners won some slight ad?an- tage, which bade fair to turn the scale of contest in thiur favor. The captain of a cavalry detachment saw this, and determined to make a great effort with his handful of men. Many a time that afternoon had they charged, and charged agai^^, each time rjcoiling ' i many an empty saddle. With an echoing che«r hey rushed forward, right for the centre of the Hebel ranks, covered by a telling fire from the infantry. Nobly they cliarged, and nobly they conquered. A shout — "they run ! they run !'* — went up from the brave heroes, and their glad cheer seemed to reiicbo even to the vaults of Heaven. Tke North had won the day, through the almost superhuman efforts of that gallant band of cavalry, who, when they returned from the death charge, left their brave leader, John Revere, lying on the blood- stained field, all unconscious of his noble victory. The moon rose calmly that night uy»on the gory field, with cold, stark, and lifeless corpses strewn, soldiers who had foutrht beneath their country's ban- ner, and had proudly borne her sword, and maintained honor, spotless and unsullied. Calmly she shone over their unconscious forms, like a blessing brecthed soflly on their gallant heads. Northern hero and Southern soldier mingled in their attendance on the wounded, gently binding up their bleeding wounds, and enddavoring to alleviate, as far as possible, the sufierings of those who, but a few hours before, had been their comrades in the strife. Among those in attendance on the sufferers, was George Devere, now a captain in the Southern Army. With what bitter feelings he threaded his way among the fallen, expecting every moment to meet the ghastly face of some friend of his youth, now cold in death. As he was passing along, be almost stumbled u BBOTUEa AOAIirST BROTHEtt. orer a prostrate form, that of his brother Johu. He would have pasaed on, luid not a groan from thrt now conscious man attracted his atteutiori. He stooped down to make an exarniuaiion of the wounded man when he started buck with the wild exclamatioa— * •♦ Mj God ! at lust ! " For a moment he stood bpell-bouod. gazing on the old tamilisir l&ce, and th^-n. with the assistance of so-ne soldiers, he had his brother conveyeJ to the nearest building where the wounds were epee^iily dressed. Alter a tew hours, the surgeor. pronounced him out of danger, and George returned to his own encampment with a sad heart, but withal, a changed -nan The scenes of his childhood a d his homo came before him and in his mind there wad a new and holy resolve Ihe mornir.g reveille wa-. sounding, calling together the iiebel soldiers. As man after man stepped it.to the ranks, many a tenr was shed, when it was seen how thinned were their numbers, anl how many a place was empty, which but the day before hud been hlled by those %yho now, on the red'battie plain, slept the cold sleep of death. ^ ^ When all were in their places, Captain Devere rode torward and requested of his superiors permission to speak, which was granted. Eidin- back to his detach- Ti"' '" \^o"-"e ^'e«P ^vith trerauloMs eraotien, he addressed them in these words : " Comrades ! when we think ot our companions, who are lying uncoffined oo yonder gory field, when we realize how bitter is our defeat, it brings to our eyes a tear and causes our hearts to swell with the deepest emotion ; but hope holds out to us the bow of promis.- and we must not be disheartened, but make ar.otbe; ettort, and hurl the invader from our homes pJ,.^r?^'V *° *^\^'°"'- of battle, you know I was evei to be found where dangers hung dark and IJ^ itening over your gallant heads, that I was ever torward in the strife, and that 1 never forsook the glorious cause ; you know that but yesterday I led you ti THl OLD SCHOOL HOLSJC. «d into the heart of battle ; you know I alway* lo?ed our cause, and was uever a traitor to it. I love the cause yet, and hope to see it conquer; but to-dav t must turn traitor, to day I must forsake this sacred causp, and bid my gallant comrades farewell. " Lust night, while wandering bv the light of the pale moon over that blood-stained tield, seeking to succor whom. I' might,— on the crimson sod, I found my brother, lying bathed in his own life's gore, which ras ebbing fast away. "J/^«« borr. in' the North, it was the home of mv childhood ; there live my aged parents, and should they know that their son is their enemy, it would bring their grey hairs in sorrow to the grave. " Comrades ! I cannot fight against my own kindred. The bleeding South is my loved home, and with her my sympathies shall always be; but for her I cannot fight, though I hope to see her triumph. "Strive for the right, drive home the accursed Northerner, and make the victory yours. " Comrades ! will you accept mv resignation, or shall 1 be imprisoned as a traitor?" The answer was » ringing cheer. He handed to his superiors his commission, took a solemn oath never to raise arras against the South, received a p:»ss, bade farewell to bis comrades, and galloping away, was soon lost to sight. -*^f*~ The Old School House. — :o: — BY "noma." — :o: — ( Written ujnm the occasion of removing from an old school house to a netv one.) ''E have bade fa 3weli to the little, red, old- fashioned school house, with its rows of bard benches, smoke-stained, pencil-marked walls, dusty floors, cracked and figured black-board, and rusty old stove, — around which, on a cold winter's 64 THE OLD SCIII. nOUSE. m morDiog, night be seec a group of school-boys, trying to coax up a sickly little Are, or perhaps endeavoring to keep the poor old stove from freezing, — and taken our well worn books to a larger and more pretentious edifice, which is an ornament and a pride to our neigh- borhood. From the windows of our new school-room we can see the old one, elevated high and dry on runners, ready to be moved away, to form, aftar its prominent part ir) teaching tlie young idea " how to shoot," a dwelling house of modest aspirations, in which children dwell without that fear of the ferule which characterized their predecessors. What a host of memories does the old house call up. Looking back through the dim vieta of by-gone years, we may see the old master, with his cap and gown, tiis rod in one hand and chalk in the oih«r, rapidly covering the blackboard with long " sums" in the much detested and thrice denounced pounds, shillings acd pence, while paper wads are flying around the room, now and then striking some red-headed urchin, causing him to spring from his seat with a Vf hemeut interjection, \» hich brings the red down on the offender a back, dispelling the fun, and not a smile is to be seen for the next two minutei. The seats are tilled with healthy, barefoot boys, and joyous, laughing maidens, of all aees, from the tender infant of four to the blushing young lady of eighteen, who smiles sweetly at the young man across the aisle. A class in spelling is soon called up, and diphtheria producing words given to the thick headed pupils, and soon there is a great commotir jo the cla>«s, as one after another leaves his plac^ .t or near the head, taking his place at the foot. Presently a rosy-cbeeked girl makes a mistake purposely, that she may be beside the boy at the foot. It is a great event when the old time "School Committee Man" puts in an appearance, to puzzle youthful heads with some hard questions, which only one can answer, and ihat one is the genius of tt<» school, the one whom his fellow pupils look up to as the eighth wonder of the world. He always has his hssons perfectly, is great on composition, has ciphered \ THE OLD SCTIOOI, BOUSE. G". through .h» Rithmetic, is the best cricketer, aiid can without difficulty tell the distance to the next torn. But we must return to the " Committee Man." Afte- half an hour's visit, he ikes a speech, fo wise that no one can understar.d it, how. low, and takes bis departure. What a hubbub there is when the youngster? are let #»ut for the noon hour of play. Lessons and books are cast, for the time being, into oblivion, and sports ot various kin.ls take their place. When out again at ni^ht, they must walk home ujider the eye of authoritv bowing uj obeisance to every one they meet, until it Vs a wonder the poor things' necks do not become trans- Dxed m a perpetual bow. But the old ma8f«r has passed away, and his pupils have become men and women, and taken their places lu a sterner school, where the world is 'be school-room life the book, and experience the tearher, winning for themselves positions of prominence and renown. la their stead new teachers and scholars occupy the old torms. The ludy teacher fills the chair of the old master. She wearily turns her eye Ircm the dull routine of miserable lessons, mischievous and disorderly pupils, hard and dusiy floors, to the faded flowers on the desk beside her, and thinks of one who waits for her, beneath the willo\. oranches, with a true heart and fresher flowers. We look across the familiar room. >J ith the exception of being a little more shattered and shabby, it is unchanged. But a new fashioned group of scholars are in the old seats. With the old years have passed away the old fashions. Shoeless feet no longer meet our gaze, for kid and morocco must enclose the dainty foot of youth. Furs, flowers laces, and other delicate articles have obtained supremacy over the old-fashioned, but comfortable home-made gar- ments. Instead of only Arithmetic, Reading, Spell- ing and Writing, we now run over a course of Algebra, Latin, Greek, French, Philo.-ophy and such branches, combined with thefirst mentioned, and our education is pronounced complete. Yet, if it is all we require, it is all right. ^ There were often, in the oWen times, quarrels with -'"i^^^p^^^* 66 THE OLD SCHOOL HOUSE. ;:1 i ■■t the teachers, arising from Tarious causes, which goner- ally ended, afier some storming ou the part of the teacher, and stubbornness on the other side, in the of- fender rfceiving a castigation, and bt-Iug compelled to beg, on bended knee, the pardon of the highly insulted pedagogue. But sometimes these little brawls were not «o easily settled. High words were followed by dismissal and positive refusal to teach the wayward scamp. It sometimes happened, however, that the blame was on the teacher's part, and after the usual preliminaries, a d the pupil remaining at hoiue a few days, that worthy was glad to coax his much wronged disciple to grac» by his presence the bench so lately vacated by him in high dudgaon. When we look at the surroundings of the old house, it brings to mind the games we hafe there enjoyed, — Cricket, and Base Ball, when each party strove hard for the innings, and when the ball would sonaetimes strike a youaker on the head, the ' bawl ' coming out of his mouth. In winter, skating, sliding, coasting and other games which 'vere entered into with zest, kept us from freezing in the vast snow banks, throngh which we labored in the cold mcrnings, with a little fellow under each arm, and another on our "boulders. Then too, were sinking schools and caody puUings, vessels to carry off the surplus merriment with which vve were fairly boiling over. It would be folly to at- tempt a description of the'-e familiar scene?, the fun and the excitement which these diversions awakened. But the best fun of these affairs were the sleigh drives to and from them, when the joyoue daughter would ring out on the clear, frosty uvening aii% and loud hur- rahs would bring good folks to their doors, to see what was the matter. Then at the candy parties ;— how the old floors 'and walls would shake, when twelve or sixteen lads and lasses took the flonr to the music of Sambo's violin. Poor old Sambo! h© rests beneath the sod, but his spirit has wing»d its way to the happy land where all good darkies go. But we must bid good bye to the old house, with all its plea«ant dreamy memories of hard tasks, beloved ^MLr.^;r. • * WHr SHE NEVER MAHRIED. 67, eachers aud happy scholars, innoceut fun and all suvh things which are the common lot of .very old schooi house, and which will, in time to come, be said of the new and elegant edifice we now occupy. -•♦^ ^Vhy She Never Married. — :o: — BY " NOM — :o:— ELL girls, said our Aunt Poky is she vas called, " since you !iuve teasoU mp, too, so often, I will tell you \v\^j^ 1 .ney^r lurried." " Oh ! do, dear Aunt Poily." w>^ ill cried m a breaib. So five of us,— my two cousins £«a and ilaud, my sisters Louisa and Anna, and my own rattle-brained self, rejoicing in the modest name of Angelina Celeste, —drew our chairs closer together, that we might not- lose a vord of the forthcoming etory we hfd so often coaxed and implored our Aunt to relate. We knew 8ome strange secret hung over her life, so that she, in our recollection nerer loved any man, but became one of those much abused and oft ridiculed ange's of good -an old maid. To b'. sure she was only thirty-three, but already sdver threads were mingled with her dark locks, and lines that should not be there, were on her frtce. let she was cheerful and kind, always striving to make some one happy. We were a gay lot, none of us above nineteen, I, thj youngest, sixteen, and the only one destitute of that ladies all in all-a " beau "-due, probabi . , to mv iack of personal charms, and my .^ild, untrained nature, hov once, however, wo drew down our faces. aud were sober. '« Now 1 declare, girls, " said Aunt Polly, '« vou are only making fun of me, putting on such sanctimonious 68 WHV SHE NEVEB MABEIBD. H Pre J faces ; you know you caa't keep the laugh back, agreat mind not to tell you a word." ^ •« Oh ! yes vou must, Auntie, and I won t be sober any more," 'said Maud, bursting into a laugh, in which we all joined. . "Fifteen4 years ago," b^gaa Aunt Polly, as quiet was restored, " 1 was young and lively, like yourselves. My lather owned a largd factory in Hampton where we resided, surrounded by everything hoart could wish. How well I remember the dear old home, and that happy summer, when I was eighteen. It hardly 8eeme more than a few weeks ago, when my father employed a young stranger as book-keeper and foreman in his establishraant. Arthur Dunraore was a tall, handsome vouLg mai» of twenty-three, with jet black curls and' moustache, eyes like midnight, and small, white hands. Above all he was highly accomplished, having graduated Jib a first-class college, and popular in society, so no wonder if he was a heart breaker. " It was arranged that he was to board with our family, and thu« we became intimate. " I need not tell you how quickly the summer went, for every evening he used to take me driving, or we would ramble along the beach «r down by the mill- stream, standing under the linden trees, talking on every interesting subJH'.fc we could think of, or we would sit in the garden and he would read to me,— what a splendid voice he had,— till the sun wont down and the moon and stars came out. Then we would go in and he would play and sing. Those sweet old songs are still ringing in my memory, through the long years. Oh ! I was happy, very happ,-. " One evening, as we stood beneath the lindens, he told me the ' old, old story,' and for the first time I felt his kiss— the kiss of betrothal— on ray lips. .My cup of happiness was full, I believe I even cried for jov when I was alone. We were to be married the ne'xt spring. Yes ! my dear girls, your poor old Aunt Polly was as near married as that. • In the latter part of Autumn my sister Minnie returned from boarding school, where she bad been for a year. She was two years older than 1, and vary WHY SHE NEVER MAEBIED. 69 beautiful, while I uever laid any great claims in that direction. " What followed I hardly know, till I found that Arthur grew cold, distant and neglectful to me, and turned his attention more closely to Minnie than I thought exactly right for one engaged to another. Yet 1 said nothing, hoping he would soon be the same to me as of old. " One glorious autumn evening 1 strolled out into the garden, hopiug to meet Arthur, and win him back to me. for it now almost seemed ss though we were estranged, though I had no suspicion of the real truth, for I deemed him too pure and high-souied to be faith- less. 1 attributed it all to my own feelir)g8, and endeavored by every possible means to prove to him how dear he was to me. "As I stood beneath the trees, thinking, 1 heard familiar voices ;.ear me, none but Arthur's and Minnie's, speaking in low, earnest tones. I listened, and this is what I heard : " ' Minnie, Minnie darling, my heart is yours, will you accept it? Oh ! my love, can you not, will you not make me happy ?' " " ' Of how many have you asked the samo?"' " ' I swear by the God of love that you are the first, and the only one I ever loved. Darling, what is your answer ?' " " I heard the whispered ' yes,' as I drew nearer, I saw her golden head resting on his shoulder, and their lips meet. Then, somehow, I stole away, in spite of the sickness and agony at my heart, and left them alone. I don't know how I ever got to my room, and lived through that night. It was a bitter struggle. "The next day Minnie told me of her love, and unconscious that sbe had destroyed my happiness, asked my blessing, and I gave it, with m;' heart bursting, even as I folded her in my arms and kissed her lipt-. though all she saw of xay emotion was that I was a little paler than usual. I never told her my secret, and I released him fron all semblanceof a ti« with me, in a shcrt note, for I would not see him alone again, ■ H ■ ii 70 THOUGHT. and asked bin to be kind to ray dear sister, and to love bar trulv, adding my blessing. t u j i i j " Tbey were niarried at the very time 1 bad lookea . forward to as my wedding day. Minnie wanted me to be her bridesmaid, but when the day came, 1 waa tar awav. JIow could I see her staud in the place that was* mine by right, and hear her take vows binding her to the only man 1 ever lovwd. for with \w to love once, was to love always. , . " There, girls^ you have my story, yet it is only a broken dream, one of life's shadows, that will be lifted from the heart in Heaven's clet»rer sunshine. God grant you may never know such shadows, my dear KH*ls." , „ The tears filled Aunt Polly's eyes, as she saw us all cryiug. Somehow we kissed her good-bye, and stole away, sober enough for onre, and now Aunt Polly is dearer to us than ever. <♦> Thought. — :o: — BY "NOMA." — :o: — fOW boundless, limitless and untiring is thought, as it goes rolling and bounding through space, time and eternity, never ceasing, never paus- ing, always restless and roaming. The mind of man is never idle ; even when sleep fans us to rest with her downv wing, in dreams the mind goes on, and on, and on", in fancy's wild flights, or lives over the scenes of hours that hare tied.7;Tbought'.is like the rolling sun, never stopping to rest , it is like a mighty river, whose banks ard bright with flowers, flowing sometimes amid sunshine and souietines amid shadow, sometimes clear aud limpid, sometimes dull and turbid, sometimes singing lightly, sometimes roaring with r: THOUGHT. 71 angry voice ; it ia Hke the ocean, whose billows never cease to break ou the giant rocks, with their ever varying harmony; and it is like time itself, for it reaches far beyond the bounds of life and the portals of the tomb, into the dim fature. Sometimes it paints the coming days with joy and gladness, bringing to the heart peace and relief; some- times it tills the soul only with tho dark hues oi sorrow, anguish and despair ; sometimes it awakens meiuories of golden moments and hours of sweetness, that fled too quickly into the past, and now cling to the heart like bright pictures ; sometimes it brings dark, gloomy portraits of a fearful past, that make the heart shudder and grow sick, filling the soul with horror unspeakable, almost tearing reason from her throne, and setting up demctiiac madness and lunacy in her place ; sometimes it brings bright hopes, with rainbow tints ; and some- times it delights to torture us with the bitt«r memories of cruel disappointment* and broken hopes, of pleasures that slipped from our grasp, of happiness that ( juld not last, and of ambitions that were cherisht- d only to vanish. What has thought given us? Everything that we enjoy, everything that delights us, and everything that is useful to us. It has built vast manufactories, and filled them with ingenious machinery and busy crowds ; it has covered the globe with a network of railroads and telegraph lines ; it has dotted the ocean with white winged vessels, and given them compass and chart to guide them over the pathless billows ; if has built cities, towns and villages ; it had invented printing presses to educate the world: its flights of imagination and inspiration have given them unceasing employ- ment, and filled our librarie*) wi*^h delightful books and poet creations ; it has deluged the world with wars and seas of blood ; it has spread the mantle of peace over conflicting nations ; it has built up and pulled down kingdoms ; it has delivered man from the thraldom of darkness and superstition, and placed him in the magic circle of civilization ; and look where we may, we see the productions of thought, new creations, new wonders, and new triumphs. 72 THE FATE OF ROSONOBA. What an agent for good it is, what a mighty one for evil, if misused. Let us, then, endeavor to think of doing good to mankind, ht our thoughts be pure, untarnished by the foul touch of sin, and let us so shape our lives, by the thoughts that must como, that we shall be blameless, that we shall be bright lights and shining examples to our fellow travellers, and that when the last hour comes, we shall have nothing to fear, but look with the clear ey« of faith at the golden gates, till the angel'i bear us home. ■<♦ » The Fate of Rosonora. BY — :o: — ♦' NOMA. LAN(tUID river slowly rolls its waters over a bed of sparkling gold. Down to its banks slope gentle hills, doited here and there with nodding groves, while in the distance dark mountains lift their gigantic forms high into the bright moonshine that rests softly upon the sleeping land- scape like a flood of glory. The air is sweet with the perfume of wild flowers. On the bank of the river stands a massive old castle, its rag;::ed grey walls and Kolid towers tinged with a softness and seeming to wear a smile in the magic rays of the silver moon. It has stood there since the first days o' knightly dreams, though the clinking ot hammers closing the armor rivets no longer resounHs in the old courtyard, the knights no more enter its deserted lists on foaming chargers, or ride to the chase with merry blast of horn and gay halloa. But to-night lights gleam brightly from every window of the old castle, and sounds of music and ringing laughter fall upon the ear. What means it ? To-night the old Baron Wuidain, who still occupies the feudal mansion bequeathed ^• him from a THE FATE OF E080N0HA. 73 long line of illustrious nncestors, gives a b«ll in honor of his fair and only daughter Rosonora, who is just eighteen. The knightly, the brilliant, the wealthy,"and the gay, from all the country round, are there, and midst the assemblage is the noble Sir Edgardo, who ia betrothed to the fair Rosonora, and is to claim his bride one year from to night. Wealthy, titled, honored, and a brave knight, no wonder he is courted by all, and regarded as a jiero well worthy of mating with lovely Eosonora. " I wonder what delays the appearance of Lady Eosonora," said the Baron, as dancing commenced and she did not appear. Where was she? la her boudoir, finishing her toilet. How sylph-like she was, with her faultless figure, raven locks, dark eyes, lofty brow, pearly te- th, ruby lips, and beautiful complexion, clad in a robe of spotless white, glittering here and there with precious gems, and a necklace of purest pearls upon her snowy neck. Her maid was fastening some rare old gems of untold value in her dark curls. *• Wait, Euphemia, " said she, as these preparations were nearly completed, "do you remember those clus- ters of lilitts and violets that we saw en the bank of the river this morning ? " •• Yes, my lady. " "Don't you think we can steal out unnoticed and gathciT a garland of them ? " "Certainty, my Hear lady, T know of no hindrance; but I will go and pluck them, while you remain here. " " Oh ! no, I will go with you, Euphemia, the moon- light is so beautiful. And then I will wear a wreath of these wild flowers, with a few rosebuds, instead of these jewels. Don't you think they will be nicer?" said she, enthusiastically, for wild flowers were her de- light. " They will, most assuredly, lovely lady. " " Let us go. ■' Hand in hand, out into the open court yard, unseen by any one, across the swinging drawbridge, and down to the river, go the fair and motherless Eosonora and her pretty maid Euphemia, who loves her even to de- votion, stopping for a moment to mutually and sil.ently Jj 74 IPHIVO. admire the beautiful water, and then begin to gather the IotoIt, dewy, sparkling flowers. Suddenly an awful shriek breaks the stillness, as the hollow ground gives way, and Rosonora sinks into her tomb, with the cruel waters closing above her, and is seen no more on earth. Need we tell of the anguish, wailing, and sorrowful hush of revelry ? The peasantry still speak in saddened tones of an old grey-headed baron, bowed with the weight of grief, and of a noble knight, whe threw away his life in bat- tle, a? a thing not worth having, and tell that as each year rolls round, for a few short hours the old ruined castle is lighted up from foundation to battlement, tower and keep, the river flows placidly en in the moonlight, the lovely Rosonora gathers wild flowers on the bank, a fearful shriek is heard, and then all is dark and silent again. -*»♦- i Spring. — :o: — BY "NOMA.'' — :o: — fOW delightful it is, these balmy days, with their sunshine, their sett, south breezes, — bearing fleecy clou .j through the azura depths of the sky, — with the green grass springing up under our feet, with the flowers budding around us, with the trees clothing themselves in their robes ol green, and with the little feathered songsters warbling their happy carols, to wander away to some sequestered dell, deep in the woodland shades, far from the dusty streets and haunts of care, and spend a few hours listening to the little brooklet murmuring pleasantly over its pebbly bed, daohing down a miniature cataract, and meandering through its peaceful rale, till lost to BPBIKa. 76 to« eye m the recesses of its leafy forest home ; to recline upon a mossy baok ; to look far into the dreamv clouds, fancying bright visions in their floating, ever changing forms ; and to listen with ravished ear to the songs of the merry birds, wishing that we were of their joyous number, that we might dwell forever in such an enchanting scene. How gontly the sweet odors of the charming forest flowers are borne to us on the soul reviving zephyrs of morn, whispering to our raptured senses tales of an angel land, where flowers never fade. How calmly and peacefully we sit and meditate on the glorious panorama, and fancy wings us back to the Garden of Eden, until our hearts become so tender that we would not harm a flower, but drop a sympathizing tear, did we see its lovely form crushed to earth and yet pour- ing out its sweet odor to the one who has rumed it a holy emblem of forgiveness. * Who does not love, iu these sweet, bright days, to forsake the beaten paths, the stern, hard walks of toil, and wander idlj through Nature's flowery meads, to pluck the modest violet or the blushing wild rose* to inhale their fragrant perfumes, and dream of those wonderful lands where perpetual flowers are blooming, and creating an earthly paradise, almest too beautiful] bright, and sacred for poor erring humanity to tread therein ? " Only a little way further on, I see a touch of the hazy hills, Growing bright as the rosy dawn Gaily glimmers on rocks and rills, • Where ioyous minstrels of Nature biing Their gladdest songa for the glorious spring. " Ethalma. A T^'^'Crk.yi. OF THE OLDEN TIME. — :o: — BY ♦'NOMA." — :o: — WAS wandering over a wide plain, where once had been fougb^ a dead;> battle. Presently 1 saw before me the forms of fallen warnors, clad - in shining mail, their noble steeds lying beside them. Broken helmets, pierced shields and Bhivered lances lay thickly strewn around. Long I mused upon the sad scene. «« And this," thought I, " is the end of their earthly ambition. Men proudly enter the lists of battle, where friend is arrayed against fnend, and brother against brother. They close in deadly conflict, and behold ! this is the issue thereof; this « ^l^e/^nje they seek, death, and a deathless name. Oh! that these warriors might wake and speak to me." Suddenly 1 bethought me of a phial 1 carried in my pocket, containing the Water of Life. 1 hastily sprinkled this upon the cold forms, when they stood upright before me, and asked in hoarse, sepulchral "Why disturbest thou our rest? What would'st thou?" . i, 1 J 1 " I would know, bravo warriors, of your leader, and wherefore you battled." ♦' We fought under the banner of the great queen Ethalma, whose golden sword no one can withstand, and at the cost of our lives, we vanquished king Cadmir, who wished to make her his queen. " Where rises queen Ethalm&'s castle ? "Behold its towers," said the spectre warrior, pointing to the south," but follow her not, neither approach her gilded castle, or thou art forever lost, for she can be vanquished only by her own sword. •« And if she is defeated ?" ^^ " She becomes the bride of her conquerer. " I will hazard an encounter." SCNSHIKE AND SHADOW. w Then drawing from my pocket ooother phial, I poured upon tliem the Water of Death, and they sank down to their eveHauting sleep. I hurried to the turretted and towered castle, and entered the unguarded and tapestried banquet hall. On the wall hung Elhalma's golden sword, which dunced in ita richly gemmed ncnhbard as I entered. Taking this as an omen, I quickly ran and drew the charmed blade from its sheath, putting mine in its place. Hardly had I done so, when Ethalma herself appeared, radiant in all her queeuly magnificence and beauty, beauty such as I had never seen before, bewitching, enchanting, enthralling, Ere I had time to do her homage, she hastened to the sword, and drawing it, said : «• Draw ! for thou must fight." The conflict was short and sharp, and the fair queen Ethalma soon held nothing but a golden hilt. Throw- ing it from her, she sprang to me, and clasped her arms around my neck, whispering : " My love, you have conquered, my love forevrr, evermore." And the beautiful queen Ethalma became my ever faithful and loving bride. -»♦♦- Sunshine and Shadow. — :o: — BY"NOMA." — :o: — OW drear, dark, cheerless and unpleasant would be this world of ours, how joyless would be life, were there no sunshine of love to chase away the gloomy shadows that some- times rest over us. How we would pine for sunshine to light up once more the hills nnd vales, the moun- tains, the plains, the lak«s and rivers, and the waving 78 ▼rVXTTl. fields, did a dark shadow oow settle opon them, and eternally rest there, Teil<.Dg from us tnat orb whose golden rays we are too proae to slight. When we see prosperity, friends, and honors, as our lot, our thanks sbould ascend to the giver ef these prises, that a dark cloud did not ever rest upon us, that we were not downcast and down-trodden, sar- rounded by gloomy dungeon walls, and that we did not, doomed to separation from Lome and loved ones, wander far and wide, but that we dwelt in a land of sunshine and love, where home joys are the sweetest, and home loves the dearest. Life was meant to be cheerful to us, if we only try to make it so, by giving to all a kind word, and a pleasant smile. What is the use of being melancholy, and makin^ all around us seem dead and cheerless, when we might just as well be happy ? Be cheerful, be kind and loving, and life's shadows will all disappear, the brigbi sun of peace and content shining •'here it ones seemed so dark. -*•*- 3i Vivette. — :o: — BT "NOMA." — :o: — WAS rambling to-day along an old unfrequented path, bordered with delightful green mosses and shaded by overhanging trees, that led to a gentle rivulet, when rustic beauty fills the mind with rest, peace and calm. 1 threw myself down upon a mossy bank, beneath a spreading tree, to enjoy this beautiful scene, and listen to bird songs. Soon I saw I was not alone, for a little maiden, with fair hair, laughing blue eyes, and cheeks of rosy MTWTI. 79 red, came dancing lightly to the sparkling brooklet. The lofelj little fay held in one hana a boat,— formod, iw is true, only of a §Y[,>, , at trimmed with sails and banners, — and ia fiti cit.«~ j nose-gay ^f wild flowers. With the flowers t Hk> '- aded the little vessel, then laanched it. und as .ibr-,»ht waters bore it onward with its fv^^et freight, . ; gaily followed it, laughing and shouting in her cV Erer ^nd anon I observed some fair flower £ 'J ^ from the deck and floating behind on the stream. But at last II. ) miniature ship struck a hidden rock, and hurled its precious freight into the stream, then, lightened of its load, glided into a quiet pool, and ended its voyage, with one little flower clinging to its ropes. With ringing laughtar the fair child saw the mishap, watched the tiny craft sail into the haven, t^^en taking it in her arms, she disappeared in the forest glens, unconscious that a pair of charmed eyes had followed her every movement. The sweet vision ses me to musing. Tba picture's mission was fulfilled, it gave me an hour of golden thought, it won me from the disappointments of the world, and showed me a purer dream, made bright by memory's fondest rays. It called back to me the years of childhood, when I too sailed sbiagle boats, flower freighted, in those sinless days, when no pas- sionate dreams fevered the brow, and no care made the faee grow stern. The eye that watched those sportive joys has oft been dimmed by the mist born of broken hopes, the ear that listened to the bubbling brock has frown Mred of empty words and meaningless phrases, the feet that pursued untired those floating pleasures, •r"« wearied with following life's delusive phantoms, and the heart that clung to childhood's dreams, is worn and bitterly aching, but scarcely wiser, even though tan<^ht by harsh experience. The ships I sail to-day are frailer than those I used to freight with flowers, and loaded with care, and the waves on which they go are stormier waves, with many a sunken rock, on which they may be wrecked. But they will lose many of life's hopes on the ocean, like tha fay's lost flowers, even though they escape the rocks But perhaps the ships nay reac'j a peaceful havcjo ■M^ts -x^ikmiTm 80 GOD KNOWETH. at last, despite life's storms, and tempests and hidden rocks, and safely rest, amid a restless world. Yet it we would guide them to harbor, w . must keep a close watch on the shoals and reefs oi in, with a firm hand on th? helm, and a sure trust in the corapasi. And though we lose much ot the precious cargo, ynt if we bear home one golden sheaf, shall we not be rewarded accordingly ? God Knoweth. — :o: — BY "NOMA. " — :o: — 'HT is the soul of man always longing and yearning for something higher and holier? why is the mind always striking for some- thing unattainable? why are we always wishing for something bejond our reach, something that shall satisfy this lona^ing, and soothe this unrest to quietness ? why is the heart bo sensitive that it must sorrow when friends are taKen away, or dissappoint- ments come, and rejoice when gladness overshadows it? why are there so many shadow on our path? why do ungry storms sweep across the spirit's sky? why this care, toil and anxiety? why this yearning after something immortal ? why this looking into the secret and hidden future ? why these high hopes, »hat flit before us like meteors, and then are gone? why these broken ambitions? what is the soul? how is it inlaid in our mortal clay, an immortal, neverdying brealh? how does it remain there through every heart storm and spirit tempest ? how has it communion with tl.e Almighty. ' i its house of prayer ? how does it distin- guish purity and goodness from the stains of sin ? how has it such faith, that through darkness and fear and trembling its clear eye may see the golden city? and how does it take its leave,' when life's storms are over, ami the rich v-,rm glovt- of .unsol. tin-es (he pallid surterer s couc!. w.tt, ^oUlen «lur^ that we ran never 8.e 1 steal a-.v.y to th. realm, of Miss? how . - tow In "V'^? '^'"'''''^ l.alf of Hunshine and h.ilf of n dow, dark doucis of surf.riuj^, sir. and sorrow tha rend ti.e heart and wasto the b.,.lv? an.j when are fl,? •in-ary wanderin-.s. tlu^so bitter h ' rfc T\Z T ""'ithotronbiedspintent.ri;sl;:::L:ir'h^,r:;:j l.ushod and hdoro ,t, the white robed anZl b" d^ «;ak.n« from their harps sweet praises to [in, vl.!: s-.teth on the throne lirever ? (Ll Knowo ,"" '^''" -^♦*- The Paths of Knowledge. — :o:- n Y "NO M A — :o: — UK paths of knowledge am as devio.is as fhev are preeious ; only he who o.ven-ises the ntnjost care and pationee ean hope to walk its winfle roIcIm, paved paths ean never b.. travelled a«ain. Then throw not away the hours of youth ir) i.lleness, but make their sweets your own Treasure the minutt^s as vou would coldei, .•oin.H or glittonng jewels, aud with pleasure you will see them lengthen into hours, dav8 and yeaw. Let <^very leisure moment b.. employed in perusing some useful book or paper, and in after life, atnid its enres and worrynigs, and trials, you will find the words voil have read coming hack to you with a force you never t.lt before, ant a. A Picture of Innocence. RY"NOMA." — :o: — -. . [T is tho misty hour of gloaming. A fair young girl, with rosy checks, blae eye» mid golden hair, sits benoath a drooping olm, in that eweot hour when hoaven and larth soem neo'-ost together. In her hands is a boquct of beautiful flowers, soft as thoughts of budding love. " Buttercup," she says in a musical voice, " why do the chil li-en love you so V "Because," answers the Buttercup," my blossoms are golden coloured, and cliildren, like men, love gold, so both will be sought for, though mingled with thorns." "Daisy, why are you so dear to me?" "Because my blossoms are just like your heart, sacred to innocence." " Forget-m'vnot, what makes me blush when I kiss your delicate form ?" " Because I was given to you by one who truly loves you." " Heart's Ease, tell me your name." " He told it to you to-night, when ho kissed yon good-bye, saying, ' think of me."' " Liiy, why are you adored ?" " Like the one who softly questions me, for my puritv and modesty." " liose, dear, queenly, divine, beaubiftd Rose, why are you dear, po sweetly dear to me ?" " Because I am the emblem of love, true, undying love ; because when he gave rao to you he whispered such sweet words in your ear. Ah! fair maiden, I heard those words; I saw your blushes as you timidly laid your hand in his, and were so happy. You lovo me because I will bo laid under your cheek to-night and bring you sweet dreams. You lovo mo because ' 83 my mi..io.. i. to foil you h.v.v you ,.re IovhJ, and now you .nil k.ss n.y ,Wl..a I..V... Hn.U..,Jy l.v^uo „u-^ H nd I will b,3 d.ar to you for n.ar.y years, lor my trf:u7o7or' '" ^"'"^^"' '•'- ^'-^ 1-- ^-« ^ -- von?/- '"'Z'^^'^'' ^?t'^^' ^°^"^"' ^ ^''l «'^^«y« love how 1 shall treasure you. for you all tell me such a Hwoot sweot Hfory, that j^rows d.-aror to tnv heart fivery litriH it h repeafod." Then the fair pirl solely kisfles ll.o heautif.d flowers, froVsS g'-"""' '"m. a.id the sweet picture fades The Humming-Bird and the Violet. — :o: — BY«*NOMA." — :o; — LITTLE * ild violet bloomed all alone in the garden bowers, in undnturbed purity and modesty. A huinminfr-bird, in gay and re- splen.lont plumage, espi-^d her, aud soon was at her side. " Dear violet," said the huramiug-bird, «« I love vou truly, will you be mine ?" ^ " I fear you will be false," said the violet, tremblmc. for she loved the hummi >' ' -d *" •' Never ! dear violet ; I swear to love thee, and no other, for who could resist thy sweet charms, or ever leave thy side? G >9, darling violet, say you won't break my heart, an. i will ever love you, and be true to you. It shall be my greatest delight to shield you Irom the wind and the storm, and when the sun grown hot t^ project you from its ravs, and fan you to slotM> with my wings. Are you mine, dear little violet ''" I, . -^feiiiBiiJsr^ 8t. THK UROKKN HI ART vi Pretty little violet dropped her eyes, blusLiing deep- ly as she swetrtly whispered : '••Forever thiiie, dear hutnmiug-bird." " Now give me a kiss from thy sweet lip?, dear heart." . . And the humming bird hovered above her, kissing her again and again, vowing to love none else, till in delicious sips, he drew all the honeyed sweetness from her fair lips, then away he lltnv to woo another with his sweet, but false words, and violet never saw him agaiu. Poor little violet mourned, drooped, and faded away, till the hot sun, from which he had sworn to protwt her, beamed cruelly down upon hor, then, with a sigh, she dropped her head and dii-d. Though this is but a fable, the moral is so plain it need not be written. -♦♦♦- . t . . I 'i The Broken Heart. B Y " N O M A . " •°* % 'IIO can bind np the broken heart, the heart that is crushed, and torn, and bleeding and aching? Who can hoal its pangs, when disappointment tears it asunder ? can soothe it, when, crushed, it sees be- fore it nothijig but the blackness of despair ? Who can feel for it, when every sob tear? the bleeding wound still deeper? Who can pity it, when life is a blank, wben there is nothing to live for, when bright hopes are vanished, when ambitions are gone, when fair prospects are ruined and blighted, when all that was dear, but awakens a tresh pang, and when it fain would be in its lonely home, nnd forever at rest ? Far down in my aching heart hoar the answer ; through the rustling trees it painfully echoes ; from Who QOOD BYE 85 the cataract it roars ; from tlio storm it thunders ; from the darkness of uight it gleams ; from the forest 1 hear it carolled by thousands of sweet voiced songsters ; and far across the azure sky, frn«jh from the courts of heaven, borne on the fle(!t wings of faith, J hear the sweet and soothing answer whispered to my lonj^ing soul. — God. ^ Good-Bye. BY * ' NOMA, — :o: — OVV the heart throbs, and tears unbidden start tr the eye, when the hand is graspetl for the liisl iinie, and these sad words iiro spoken. Wo gaze for the last time on the dear features of the ono who goes far away over theooean, mountain, lake and plain, we clasp the hand, any farewell, and turn away t« weep. We know not when will come the hnppy timo that wo meet again, it may never be en earth ; and if it is, how changt^d will be everything. Some will be dead and gone ; otht^rs will be married ; little children will be grown up to men and women ; school boys will have won for themselves fame on the world's broad highway ; and middle agfd men will have become old and grey-head»Ml, tottering with their yjare, and calmly awaiting the summons that shall call tbem to enter the portals of the tomb. The fice of nature will bo very different ; where now rise dark frowning forests will appear neat villages, and stretch away in the distance waving fields. It is with sorrowful hearts that we bid adieu to a doar one. Tears, long dreary years of waiting and watching will elapse ere we clasp the hand and welcome home the dear wanderer, and it is with beating heart and tearful eye that the hand is pressed in the last magnetic clasp. 'r-l ■ Long Lake. — :o: — It V " N o M A , " — :o: — ILony Lake is situated in the forest a' the head of Cumbeiland Marsh. '^'-^njCEW have any idea of tiie rustic bonufy of this ' woodland lake, almost excluded from hccoss by foresto, morassee, and fens. But once theso obstacles arn ovftrcorae, the scenerv well re- pays the trouble eccountered in reaching it." A sheet oj water ovor a mile in length, smooth as polished glass, down to whose edge gentlv slope the moMV shores, crowned with nobl., trees, whose drooping branches hang over the surface of the water -the golden sunhght glittering on its quiet bosom, and thy fleecy clouds drifting softly onwards in those azure heights so far above our heads, seem, to our enchanted iBuids, to be the realms of Fairyland. When the water is smooth as a marble floor, with . the trees ju-.t budding and leaving out, forming a de- iighttui green border to its silvery surface ; when the summer sun beams down upon the rippling waves, aiMl summer breezes sweep over its surface, forming u thousand curling wavelets which come dancing merrily to the pebbly beach ; when tho forest hns taken on its gorgeous tints of crin.on and gold, and theser« leaves tall gently to the undulating wat*r, or mournful au- tumn winds come nighing across the cold waves : when It 18 a gleaming sheet of ice, dotted hero and ther^ with banks of snow, and snow wreath<^ hang curling on the trees, presenting a scene which would drive the skater into ecstacy; when the morning sun casts his bright rays over the ripples ; when l\^e moon sheds her soft light on the glistening waters ; and when the storm transforms its surface to a sea of foam, and the ram coiues down in torrent., the lightning flashes, and 87- the Ihund.T ro.irs, Lnr.a Fiuke presents n st-Hiie of benury \v<>ll vvoiMi ,i .hiy'.s tnjvol to ltoli<.|<|. Cannot this boautiful lake, wliosu I'rv.stnl waters neatle so palmly on their sandy b-xl, withiii tlioir forest home ; where the wild inhabitants of the woods slake their thirst, toss their noble heads, and bound away unharmed, rejoicing,' in freedom ; where the foot of man seldom wanders, and whose shores have never been defaced by his dustroyinjir hand, boast a prouder and more romantic name than the commonplace one that now adorns it ? Why, when shet-tH of wnt-Hr, with not half Its beauty, bear nam-s worfhv of a Oixld-fla, \h this otio Mt with Jiothinp; but unnrolondine " Lone Lake?" i s 5 <♦> ThG Story of the Leaf Fall. B Y " N M A , — :•: — fT dear little child, said a lovinjr mother, "do yuu want to leave your mother ?"' V "No, mother de:ir," snid the pretty littU? G one, " I want to slay with you always." " What makes you want to stay, liiy darlinf»?" " Betrauso I love you so, mother." "Then if you lov^* me so well, would you not want to obey my wishes ?" " Do you wish me to go, mother?"— asked the child, trembling, "1 thouglit we were always to lire to- gether." " My darling, no mother ever wishes to give up her precious little ones, but the time will soon como when we must part forever, cling closely to me till then." "Oh! mother, mother dear, why must Ilea ve you?" "Because, my dear, your father wishes you to; r would always keep you in my arms, could I do so." ^^■1 i. 88 THK 8TOHY «)F THE LEAF FALL. ■4 4 its. \^% " And am 1 nover to see you again, my darling mother ?" " Perhaps you will only go such a little way that you can always look at me, ami perhaps you will go fiuch a long diNfance thiit wh 8]iall never see each each again." •• Where am I to go?" " Vou are to go to a beautiful home, where you will never know any sorrow ; you will have a couch of sweetest, softest moss; the golden sutilight will b(. your food, and the gentle dow your drink, you will be with your brothers and sisters, many of whom are now there, find many more to follow you'; vou will be hap- pier than princes, for you will have a lovelier palace than they, and the little bright robed fairies will dance and sing in your pretty bowers; and you will never know anything but joy. But your mother's heart will sadly miss her little darling, and the tears will often fall from her eyes, in the dreary days that are coming " " But why can't I always stay with you, mother dear, to keep the sorrow fron. your heart, and the tears from your eyes?" asked the liti:le one, nestlinff closer, "J would rather stay with you." " Because, dear one, your father has a sacred mission for you to fulfil." " Why does he take a little c-hild to do his mission?" " Because my little darling is so pure and innocent." " When am I to leave you, dearest mother ?" '• Your father is calling you now." •• Oh : mother, mother darling, let me stay. I don't want to go. Oh ! hold m*- fast, keep me in your lov- ing arn>s, do.irest mother." " Oh ! if I ordy could, my child, I Mould b.- so happy. Kiss me good bye, darling." A gust of wind swept by, am* a dear little delicate leaf, gloHing with the brilliant huos of auf imn, flutters from its parent elm to a resting place amid the moss -t If Ill A Reverie — :o: — BY "NOMA." — :o: — WAS sitting at my desk, pondoring on the inisoru'8 and disappointments of lift-, when sud- dotily I btdii.ld one of fair form and beautiful countenance. She was clad in a snowy robe, reaching below her feet, on her brow was a wreath of flowers, and in her hand a golden harp. In a voico the sweetest to which I ever listened, she asked me : " Unhappy mortal, what wouldst thou?" " To be in some laud where sorrow never comes, and disappointment is unknown." " And what wouldst thou give to have thy wish ?" " I would give all ray riches, and the fame I have won." " To whom wouldst thou give thy riches ?" " To friends who have baen true to me." " Wouldst thou give none to the one thou lovest best?" •' Why should I r " To show that thou hast a forgiving spirit ; thy heart is not pure, llemember ! thou art as much in fault as she." '• What would you have me do?" " Go to her, and on bended knee ask her pardon, receiving her forgiveness ; then she will ask thy mercy, which thou must not withhold." " Will this, fair spirit, bring me happiness?" " Let the past bo forgotten, and heed my words, if thou wouldst ever see happiness on earth." " And is this the only way ? is there no happy is- land, where the weary soul may rest, dwelling with spirits as beautiful even as thyself?" " Is it not enough ? art thou not yet satisfied ? tiiere is no place this side of Paradise where mortals may be r"! 90 ONLY A BBOKKN LOCKET. complettOy happy, nnd if thou wouldst over enter its pearly ^attjs, thou must forgivo thine enemies on earth, even as thou wouldst be forgiven at the gates of Heaven." " Is it true, sweet angel, that she will look upon me witii loving eyes again ?" " Go thou, obey the words of Peace, whoso ofHco it is to hush the clamours of tho rebellious heart, and who now speaketh to thee, and thou shall be happy, and bless her name. Wilt thou do this?" " Bright angel, what thou has bidden mo, I will even do." Ere I had time to finish my words, she touched her harp strings, and there fell upon my ear a flood of rapturous harmony, gently rising and falling, thw sweet- est music that ever charmed thw spirit of mortal, and her song was a song of peace and reconciliation, too sweet to be aught but heavenly ; the angel's face glow- ed with holy radiance, bright rays of golden glory shone round her head, giving to the never-fading flowers on her brow a new lustre, and while the glorious harp symphonies still soothed my troubled soul, 1 awoke, and lo I it was a dream. Only a Broken Locket. — :0: — BY "NOMA." — :o: — fIS only a little broken locket, lying on the desk 'before me, yet how very dear it is, for it reminds me of bygone days and happier hours. Dear companion of my wandrrings, I woulo not part with it for many a golden coin. It whispers to me of happy, thrice happy hours that have fled. It speaks to me of that golden summer when first I wore it, of pleasant days spent in the schoolroom with bright eyed ONLY A BROKEK r/TCRET. n chiHren of weary tasks and sm^et memories th« burden ot care the ^ense of rest when t^ sehodroom nomewara. It reminds mo of many a long ramblo nnrl pleasan jo..rn«y. U calls back to me the^itnter tl.a^ io lowed, a term of hard, hard toil, but whrd yTel ed go den fruits from the neverfailing tree of loarnC It tel 8 of sea-sidH sojourns and well remembered M.ur .md boating excursions, and thousands of oth'r mem^ res confusedly mingled in the m.nd. that havrS .ke the creatures of a broken dream, nto the dim past casement., as though imploring not to be forgotten. f^om thethI^^^^'^r^"^" ^^^^ P'^*-« ^3 effaced trom the tablets of the heart. Too sweei are the recollections of the past, with its vanished hopes and va n dreams and sunny memories, to be h^SflT ?or bring again their happ.e.t hour., to ho^^ many wounded spirits do its fair pictures brin-. joy and Bmiles till the sorrows of the'present intra je\em selves like a mighty shadow, and the bright picture^s forgotten m the cruel reality and bitterness that swept It from them. The past ! the one bright spot Dear little locket ! you shall ever be one of my sweet- est treasures, bringing back to me the faded tints of the one fair picture that ever lingers close to my heart A strange mist-not toarH— comes over mv eves • T cannot write. Little locket ! I must lay your delicite pieces, heart treasures, away. 1 v'*^.- * V.' IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // / V W 5? ^ % < ^ % io (A v.. 1.0 I.I If: IM ^M llll-u III IM IM .6 y]

^. ^a / .^ <9 / . mc Scieices Corporation 23 WFST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY 14580 (716) 872-4503 # \ \ ■^ fv P- ^ • .;!■! t . 1 ^ On the SeD -Shore. — :0: — B Y " N O M A. ' — :o: — >BOUT once a year 1 take a trip to the shcns of ' the Northumbtrla.ui atrait, a vf-ry pleasant place to spend a few days, bathing, lishni*: and -S> cunnina. I love t- ramble around tl,o oM rucks, gun id hand, -md listen to Natures aw-etest music— the breaking wave. The iourney is a pleasant one, as we go gaily past broad farms, where the hardy sons of toil jre to«Hmg and Ditching the sweet scented hay, past courches school houses and shops, past orchards, grove, a.ui meadows, up steep hills and down deep vales, n^iking the big flocks of noisy geese get out of the way, ns ^'O CO rattling over their favourite sunny 8pot8,-\vhich libortv thev clamourously resent,— and on to the rustic bridge, beneath which the little hshes merrdy elide to and fro in the dancing sunlight, past charming old mills, over lazy streams, where the speckled trout lie in the deep pools, eager for the " fly," past c-ool SDrii.gs. with their welcome watering troughs, through low plair.s, where the berries grow in profusion, through deep shadv forests, where the glancing sun- beams love to play with the wild flower., and thousands of bright robed birds make the dark woods rinc with their happy melody, up and down a tew more hills, making the hours lively with song, and j.'st, and laughter, and hurrah! the blue waters of iNorth- umberlaud Strait are in sight. , u u A few moments more, and we are on the beach, Gathering curious shells, listening to the white capped billow, as it comes dashing madly on to the grey old rocks, breaking against their rugged sides v^ith mourn- ful music, and watching the sea gull, as, poising for a moment over the waters, it plunges, and then reappears, leariuj? away with a triumphant scream a finny victim. I* Olf THE aE\ SHORE. 93 ITow plnasant it is to sleep near the shore, and be lulled to rest by old ocean's p:oodiii|a'ht song, tor it seema to mo that it has an ever-changing soug for every hour, for every heart, and for every passion. For some it has a song of gladness and joy, for others the low wail of sorrow, the shriek of despair, or the dirge of deatli. I arose one morning just as the sun was rising. Oh I what a glorious scene lay before me. The sky undiramed by a single vapour, the sloping beach and the giant rocks, the sharp headlands and quiet cove?, in the distance the low reaches of Capo Torraentine and Prince Edward Island, the sea just stirred by the morning zephyr to a thousnnd little wavelets, snining in the sunlight like fretted gold, and the sun just emerging from his ocenn bed, casting his beams far over the watera, a dazzling glob • of light, beauty ar:d glory, while a large ship, every swelling sad set, and banners flying top-mast high, seemed to be sailing right irtto that fountain of light. Oh ! it was a glorious scene, a heavenly vision, that 1 must leave to a mightier pen than mine to paint. Well do I remember that eveniog. The unclouded starry sky, with the moon sot like a gem midst the twinkling worlds on high, the sleeping hamlot. by the shore, seeming in the moonbeams like spirit dwellings rather thrn mortal habitations, the lalmy air, fragrant with now mown grass, the rea like melted silver, as the gentle waves came softly to the pebbly beach, just kissing the stern rocks,— like a brighthaired littln girl climbing on her grandfather's knee, smoothing back the silvery locks, and kissing the furrowed cheek, — formed a scene too beautiful to be earthly, seeming like an emanation from the spirit land. No pen can describe it, no brush transfer it to the canvass. But what a dilferent picture is therein my memory, of one dreadful night when a dark storm cloud swept by. The big rain drops came pouring down, the thunder roared in deafening tones, the lightning flash- ed till it seem-d as if heaven and earth wore on fire, and the mighty foam crested waves came rolling, dash- ing and tearing on to the eternal rocks, breaking with 91 DEATH OF JOSEFII HOWE. frightful roar, as they randly essayed to tear them from their foundations and then all would tor a inoraeut be dark and still, save the howling of the wind and the driving rain. How we all held our breath, and could hear our hearts beating for very fear, while the stonn king was abroad, warring with the elements. But storms pass by, jind morning broke as clear and bright as if the angels had been walking the earth, strewing it with flowers. It is with deep regret that we bid good bye to Bay Verte, tor with bathing iu its limpid waters, fishing in the rivers that empty into it, capturing the speckled trout, roaming around the shores, gathering curiosities, and enjoying the fresh sea-breeze, our visit is a plea- sant one. -♦♦^ Death of Joseph Ho^ve. — :o: — B Y " N O M A . " — :o: — '^EATIT graceful folds of heavy drapery, in gubernatorial halis, with all his honours and glory clustering above his noble brow, a never foding diadem, surrounded bv his weeping family, on whose ears gently fall the 8o1)s of a mourn- ing nation, reposes the well known form of Somi Scotia's proudest son, — Joseph Howe, statesman, poet and orator, — from whose wreath of fame no leaves have fallen, who was ever the idol of the people, who, whe'i dangers hung dark and lowering over his loved native land, was ever foremost in the strife, until victory crowned his efforts, and who, when the death messenger appeared, was found ready to cross the Dark Valley without a murmur or regret. From station to station, from rank to rank, the hero fought his way, until ho won the highest position his DEATH OF JOSErU HOWE. O.j native hind coul.l offer him, and which no other so well deserved, for no son of Novji Scotia ever struggled so manfully and untiringly for the righi as did ho who now lies in his coffin, lamented by sorrowing tl^pusands. No more will the silvery accents of his matchless eloquence be heard in Parliaments, Senates and As- semblies, before Kings Queens and Lords, no more will vaulted roofs reecho with cheer upon cheer, as his burning words awoke the fires of patriotism and na- tional feeling. He may have had faults, he may have committed mistakes, but i i the battle he thuughl they were for the best ; nevtr did he betray the people who put their trust in him, and to-day his mistakes are forgotten, a veil has fallen over his faults, and we balk only of his noble deeds, in our sorrow for the great man, wisely casting aside all remembrance of aught but the good ho has performed, and without which we would now ho an unhappy people. u this sad day let no evil be spoken of him we loved so well. It was Sabbath morning when he passed to his Eternal K(*st, free from all the care and turmoil of statesmanship. Without, the golden sun was risintr from his orient bed ; within, in the darkened chamber, where ody low sobs of sorrow and parting words broke the stillness, the wearied soul of the loved man was passing from earth to Paradise, while round his dying form gleamed bright beams of honour, glory and a na- tion's love, in their sacred brightness and purity out- rivalling the orb of day. That quiet Sabbath morniog was a fitting close for the great man's life. He survived not long his well earned honour, for the feeble Iwdy could not wield the sceptre of state, when far past its prime. The funeral cortege moves forth, the grave is closed over the remains of Nova Scotia's loved cliieftain, and we turn from the sad scene, where stands the black bier, where solemn music is thrilling the soul's inmost chords, where banners are floating at halfmast, where a multitude is weeping, and seek our closet, silentlv dropping a tear to his memory. What more fitting tribute than a tear could we pay ? n A Fragment. — :o: — B y ' • N o M A . " — :o: — f HE golilen glo-.v of the afternoon sun rests softlv on th.« beautitul landscape and \ho. bluo Si-ii ; the air is qiiiot and balmy ; n l.i'o cioiuls ol vj, changing foniiB drift ;vlowly tlii-ough the sky; the ripening grain field.* and pleasant ni^adows slope to the san.ly shell strewn beach; the .w.lhng waves .•omo gently rolling on, :ill arrested by the divme ooinniiind, '" thus far shalt thou go, a;.d no tartli.r, and then break on tbe rocks with low, murnnn-ing music, that stills all bar h to. lings, hke a sweet .spirit song ; the grev old rocks grow sott if the mellow light- a bright laced, lighthearte.l yout.g mauieu wanders idly along the beach, gathering the many- hued shells, and stii'tly singing: '* Break, break, break, On tby cold grey slones, oh sea ! and as the shadows begin to lengthen, the maiden is ni^ated beneath a leatV tre<-, eagerly watching a tiny speck Heating upon the w;.vvs, far, far out at sea. l.>o dim object draws nearer and nearer, till at last ;t conies to shore, a boat, with neither sail nor oar. The nniid- en goes to meet it, as she has don many and many a time before, but when she «eea it is empty, smd hnds no familiar form there, she 1- ans, wenk, h.lp'.o » and past has been so bright, what may we not hope tor the future? She now has railway communieation witlv •lalifiix on the shores of the billowy Atlantic, and San Franci.^oo on the broad Paeific, and with th.> prospeet of at no very distant day seeinej the waters ot Ihxy VwuW united with those of Bale de Verte,— when the long projectei Baie d ; Vertc Canal is eonstructod, how can we predict too bright a future for our little town? J r In the immediate neighbourhood of thousands ot acres of the best marsh in the world, in the midst of a splcB'Ud farming sec-tion, with fine manufacturing capabilities, and with land and water communication with all parts of the world, is it too much to say, fhat those who live to see sixty years from now will find that Amherst has progressed during the comiug sixty yeurs, ns in the past sixty ? We can glide forward, on the wings ot fancy, to the day when Amherst shall have become a city ; wUm ever husv, surging crowds hurry through her long, broad streets, intent upon gain, or hasten to her lofty halls to listen to the burning eloquence of her own orators ; when vast manufactories arise on every hand ; when her marts of commerce nre frequanted by a throng of wealthy, intelligent, enterprising men, competent to make her a cit -' in more than the mere name. Am- herst has progressed vastly during the last few years, and we trust that the work will not now stop, but will go on, until at last our little village will l)ecome a pride to our native land. A Dreary Journey. — :o: — BY "NOMA." — :o: — r hnd b-^pt. .^no.v.ii;:^ and blowing ncnrlv iill iiiirhf, iind wlicn (hylio;ht appeared, it showed Jniure banks bk.ckinij up the roads, while tlie snow fell in myriiids of beaut ifiil, fent.herv, multiform flak.'S, and the A'';>d sti.l rnged, carrying tiiem in everv direction. It wan with no very pleasant feelings that [ aro-ie tlia* momtng, for a lono journey throu^'h thnt bowlinfr stcrm, «i:d over thost big snow barrk.s, !av before me. I would fain have r. maitied at hoirip, seated by the pleasant fireside, enjoying; Bvron's des- criptions of scenes so very different Vroin those 1 was to see to-day, buf atern necessity willed that it shcultl be otherwise. About noon my father and myself, donning over- coats, muffl-rs and snow-shoes, set out on our journev. The storm had now lulled, merely to take a breathiiip spell, and then burst forth anew. The wind howled and rayed, drivinp; the snow in almost blinding clouds. Well for us was it, that tli wind was not Irost.y, or we would probably hive perished, and thn snow have formed white mounds above our bodies, depened it) curling wreaths from our cold, stark limbs, and been our winding sheet. We had intended to take horses, when our jouriioy would have been short and pleasant, but the storm having rendered the hiojhwavs impas- sable, we were obliged to adopt the Indian ntylo of locomotion — snow-shoes. We passed on, by farmhouses and huge burns, bv cburches, school houses and shops, and dark groves, until night began to settle, just as we came in sight ol a low, dreary plain, through which we had to pas-\ Oh ! bow dosolate, cold and uninviting an aspect it wore. Clumps of small tamaracks and dwarf spruces stood here and there, their stunted forms covered with 100 A nilEAllT .TorUNF.Y f «' .ow, contrafltinf; 8tranRHl> vv'th thoir dark outlines • beyond tlio plain, n low, dark foreHt sremod but to ndd to tho gloom : and over h^^ad, dull, leaden coloured clouds,— with here and there a rift, which made them take a still more dreary aBpect,— drifted on before the wind. We travelled on, through the wild waste, whore for a long distance not a single lamp cast its cheering ravs into the night, illuminating the almost weird darkness. We had gono a long way without pasping a single habitation, when far back from the road, seemingly amid the trees, wo behold tho light from the window of a single log hut, which stood alono on the plain, witb no companion but an old barn, some hundred yards from the road, and which tor years has been but a mass of ruins, fast crumbling to decay. Rumor speaks of dark deeds perpetrated here in t'mt s gone by, and with the gloom of night upon this dreary scene, "it was enough to awaken a ghostly fear in tho minds of the timid. However, we now soon left this dreary region, autl reached our destination, rejoicing to be once more at a pleasant fireside, with kind friends and smiling faces around us. I have passed over the same road under summer skies, when roses and sweet wild flowers were bloom- ing, birds singing, and nature smiling, finding it pleasant and beautiful ; but never do I wish to traverse it again under the same circuustances on that long to be remembered dreary day. Death of Joseph Howe. — :0: — nv "NOMA." — .-:o: — k/VUUE for a moment, shcathw tho gleaminR sword ; furl the waviug banner ; 'et tho plough- man CHaso Irom turning the flowery sod ; let all sounds of labour ceaae ; let the orator'^ voice be hushed: let the sounding trumpet be silent, or breathe out a low, solemn dirge; let the wind cease to whistle across the moor ; let ocean's melancholy sigh b) still ; and let a nation come and drop a tear, and breathe a prayer at the bed-^ide of the noblest 8tn,to-<- nian whose voice ever thrilled with the fires ol eloquence the hearts of admiring thousands, as hi.< spirit passes from earth to the far beyond. It is no haughty patrician claims our homage, it is no plebeian asks our honours ; it is one far above, far nobler than these — it is a genius, a son of freedom, one who, from his boyhood's dayi% loved well his native land, and made her welfare his life's work. In his boyish duys, when others of his age would bo sporting with their toys, Joseph Hove would cast nf ide with scorn the baubles of the playground, and wander- ing through his native grovtis, would think, and plan, and picture out to himself the bright future, when fame and honour should be his, while his flashing eye alone proclaimed the thoughts that were passing in his mind. As he advanced in years, wiien others of his age would be rambling th i streets, the debating club welcomed his presence, where his speech was always the best, and most warmly applauded. As he reached the years of manhood, his genius shone forth with a lustre which nothing could dim, and rapidly he climbed the golden ladder, the flowery paths of fame, Hntil he reached the glorious summit, and looked with a proud smile upon his past labours, while Fame placed upon his brow the unfading wreath, and to those below, who, following in 102 DEATH OF JOSEl'Ii HOWE. his footntepa, 8triip;gUMl to rom-h thi> lofty pinnai'lH, sho Hui(i in Hilvt-ry tones, "Tiio wioath is not for tlion," — and tlio far otF hills and rocks soJlIv echoed — *' not for thoe." As ft statesman, an author, and a poet, th« same genius pointed out the sterling qualities of a great and noble man, and paved tho way to honour. If ever ther^» Iiv(5d a political hiTO, .loseph llowc was the man, lor ho raised a people froia politiral homhige to political libtrty. By tho fireside, in the .nuncil room, on the platform. |)outiufi forth his Mnpassioned words before a «ea of •'a(!er faces, he was still the S'ime inspired grinius, and beloved by all. No bitter party feflintisi'ver qu .-nched that hne. Men might hal(» the cause h.^ e-tpoused, but him they cotdd not. 1 hey might come betor.' him with bitter, Hcornfui wurdrt, thinking to mnke him *" tr.'inbl'', hut soon thtjy qnailed bdore his glance, and shrank away, abashed, before his words. In the lireside circle he was genial, kind a:.(i cheer- ful : in the halls of council, he was just, uprigjit, and nncorruptt d ; and on the platform, ho was peerless. Where will you look for a statesman to matcli him ? Tiipper, Blake, Mclvenzie, or across the foaming At- lantic, (Jladstone or Disraeli? Place them on thfl platform togetht-r, and even as the midnight torch nnikes the surrounding gloom still d.cper, so will tTo.seph Howe, by the bright beams of his honour and glory, throw into the shade (he host of hrilliant oratorn by whom ho may be surrounde i, atid ho alone will claim the homage ot admiring tfiousand^. and he alone will live in the hearts of a loving peop'e, — while grev- * hair.-d men, themselves fast tottering to the gr.ive will teach their little grandchildren to love tho spotless and luisuUied name of Howe, and to shield it from ausrhfc of evil. He has fulfilled liis life's mission. He has won his ' way, from the ranks of the people, to the highest position his native land could bestow upon him, and now, having readied the sum.nit of his earthly ambition, and wearing a blight diadtMn of love, honour, and glory, he rests from his weary labours. !»»- DEATH OF JOSEPH IIO^VE. 103 Within Uie darkcnnd clumber, surroundtvl by hU w.'eping family, with the 8(ibs of n inoiiniiiig imlioii fallinir softly upju his ear, iitid with a smiiu upon his lipfl, tlio sDul of our lovoii chi(»rtaiM X'* passiug from eaith to tlio gluriey of I'aradise. If you have tears to ^ire, shed tliem now, in this 8«J hour. If you bear not in your bosom a heart ot stone, weep with those who mourn his !o«a, tor tho silver cord is loosed, the j^olden bowl is broken, and \w shall bf'h »ld our honoured bcro no more in life, \\^ will niiiiih with us no longer in our daily avocMtions. Can yon withhold a teur, as you t^aze ui)oii hia cold, marbl" brow , or buhoid him Itorno to the touib? And are all t'.iouglits, all our fond memories ,>ihim, to vanish, as his cotlin is lowcrod into the ijravo, an.l is oui' love fi)r him to be quenelied with thd clod that tills 8) solemnly upon his eoflin liu? No, he .vill liv.i for ages in th'^ hearts of his pr'0|»le, his niMmtry will be kept £»n'')n, and he will he lovo.l, as loiij us man has a heart to love the great and ujble. f iirt ^mnii'"ie$tm. BY VORHA. -*^*- The Morning Dream. If AD a blissful mornhvj dream. And superstitions say A dream is surest to come true When dreamed at datvn of day. High into the world of bliss I ascended, in my dreara, There I saw a blue-eyed angel. And her hair in ringlets flowed, And her face the rest outshone Of the angels that around her Sung their hymns of bliss and praise. Oh ! I V lew that maiden's features, 1 had Be<}n her on the rarth : When she saw me there she staried. Ceased her singing, ran to me, Flew, — with virgin pride embraced me, 8aid to me, with tearful eyes, Do vou feel that while on earth. Do you feel that all was right ? You remember how we parted. When our love was in its bloom. You, you know, were bold in love, 1 was rather diffident, And for that cause, and that alone, I decided not lo answer." But I dare not tell the rest Of what that maiden angel said, Lest I miglit to you reveal A hidden secret of the heart. At that maiden's voice I trembled lOG THE MYSTERY OF THE SPARE 2ED. As I ne'er had done before, 1 did not feel that I was guilty But to know she thought me so "Was what made mj heart so heavy. Was what made me wake .n tear^. Down to earth again I fell, With her words upon my heart (There they rest indelible, There they will forever rest). And hor face is still before me, And her eyes are beaming bright, But above all things she whispt^rs, " Do you feel that all was right ?" The Mystery of the Spare Bed. (TIERE stands the old houso, stiil ; Before the door some flowers grow, That seem to take theii? fill Of all that Nature can bestow; Proud still to charm the eye Of every passer-by, They gently bow to every breeze. They bow, but never bend their knees. But there the house still stands. And close beside, the gate still swings. Which, oft, a lover's hands Have opened, thoughtless of love's wings. But love is fleet of wing, And flown, he leaves a sting To agitate the cruc' wound That, ilying, ho has left unbound. Ye-, stiirthe house is there ; That house,— it tells a talc THP MTSTEBT OF THE SPARE BED. Of early lite, to one whose care Has made him old aod pale Before his lime ; alas I That he his youth should pass Id loving one whose hand and heart Knew but the one deceitful art. Twas March, long years ago, A mystic nymph that house espied — Resolved the place to know, And entered — mystery her guide. Uhe found the spare bed-room And in it found a broom ; Resolved at cnce the walls i sweep. Which always puts a nymph o sleep. 107 Why did she wish to sleep ? Because she felt, what well she knew, A mystic spell, to creep on her. Which magic's mystery drew From out the choicest shafts Of her romantic craft. She slept, and dreamed; her dream was brief, But, O ! it brought her such relief. She thrust her mystic hand Between the mattresses, jind there — * Yes there, while z-'phyrs fanned Her brow and waved her silken hair — She found a letter hid ; She lifted up the lid Of one of her deep, searching eyes. And read, with not a feigned surprise. She then departed thence, But, Oh, the dream she dreamed was true. And 'tis with no pretence but truth We tell it all to you. The letter was from one "Who everything had done Ta win a tteemiug loviug maid, m 108 THE iilTSTERT OF THE SPARE BED. And all attentions were repaid,— Until he ventured on A little further than he should, She turned her heel upon And answered not, nor answer would ; But he, enamoured still, Loved on, despite ill-will ; She hated, but he would love on, Ijntil his latest hope was gone. And when they often met They did not even deign to speak ;— How passing strange that yet No vengeance he did wreak. For, though compelled by pride To 'ffect disdain, ho tried, Yet, " Deep within his glowing soul The tyrant — Love— spurned all control." He knows she loves him not. He knows her heart— once fond — is cold. He knows her every thought Is of revenge, he sees her fold Backbiting in ..er tongue. Deceitful words which, sung To ears unused a lie to hear, Elicit both the sneer and jeer. The chord of love was strong, Deep-rooted in his youthful heart. But now he feels the "chord of song" Eight soon between they two must part. He feels the bondage break. He feels himself to &hake ^Vith strange emotions, when set free. He once more breathes sweet liberty. And now he smiles to think Of youthful love, and youthful joys. From love he now would shrink. For love is but ti thing for boys. THE PLANET WORLD. 109 X 13 fancy lends the charms • The lover's heart iiisarras, Renlity that raakes him feel 'Twas foUv, foolishness to kneel. The Planet World. 'S there no world where bcM"ng!« dwell, — Angels, nor ficrids, nor mortuls, — -ave iii lie! Ill Earth and H(>:iv'n ? No other sphere Where lives a soul — afar nor near ? Get thee away through boundless space. With thought itself keep equal pace, Till our sun seen from so far Appear but as a tiny star, Press onward further, if you will — There's endless space before you si ill — Till this whole system's lost to view Hidden by intervening blue. And still pursue your course anon, Until you can look back upon A thousand systems, breadths combiui^d. All governed by The Master Mi ml. Still on, a inillicn times as far, And find one planet to a star. There stop, and view tliat planet, lont* Which never-fallen mo'*tals own ; For thou canst gaze in ecstacy, A day, or tdl Eternity. It has no moon to cheer the night. But stars are near that, large and bright, Shed a still more refulgnnt liglit. no THE PLANET WOULD. n. Now pazing, question if yon can That planet \s a world for man, Adapted to him, tor him made, With glorious sun and lovely shade ; There nature proves a powV uuknown, A skill on earth 'she'th never shown. The lily's tint, the rosf's hue, The modest little violtt's hlue. And all that Nature here can boast In that high world must soon be lost ; For what are they when onoe coniparo glanced right at me, and she smiled sweetly then. And read from her card just thre< Ha, " Do you shave?" So an answer I got. and an answer I gave. And this is the anc;wer 1 gave her, ray friends, " Fnr an answer, as raeds b«, I'm at my wits' ends. "Are all well?" 1 then asked, sympathetically. Anil with blushes she answered, "I have uo family." I heard otherc question, " 1 heard their applause," I knew they were laughing, but knew not the cause, I was lost in thought more than as at a task, To know, when my turn came, what question to ask. When my turn came I asked her, *• Do you lore another?" And her answer was " Yes sir ; 1 do love my molber." Then she asked not me, but a young dandy near, " Gentleman ! sir, are you not an heir?" Then I got up my mad, and awaited my turn. And when it arrived she perhapa did discern, I in study was lost, or in thought did revel. And I asked her then, " Do you love the Devil ?** Then I was touched, for h««r ans. er was such — Here it is : " Yes -.. I admire you much." Then this charming young lady, apparePd in blue, Itead to a young fellow, " 1 do lov« you." Another admirer addrnssed the same lass : " Your servant I am ;" but, for him, alas ! She answered — which made him look pretty tame, " With the kitchen darkey it is the same" Ord Loil ; or, tho Spring Ramble. -^Q breatii of air to bieQk t\\*f caUu That Iftv upon the river there, Where Ord Loil, seated in the pleasant shade ^^ Of manv llourishins youug palm, TKou'rht of vain gforif s and how soon they fade, Of hunt-, and greatness, what they are, l)f man's aPCompliBhments, how few They are, compared with what they might have been U none had done an act to rue And ail e'er happened could have b^n foreeen. .Me looktHi upon the tranquil sheet That lav before him, long and wide, Trcps saw theii ebadows in its mirror face And dipped their foliage at his feet, I'lowors were hanging, of all hues, and grace That would become a royal bride. Melodious notes of joyful sound At times came, warbled by some songster gay, Whifili, liiddon in iho wood around, Kne* u»t man listened to its simple lay. I3ehind, a rugged mountain rose Magnificentlv high and bold, l^pon its summit Heaven seemed to rest, \fid half-way down the Sun t' n-pose Tn all his noon-attired glory dr'^ssed : Just long enough perhaps t' unfold Tho secrets of another day. That mountain's heights ne'er knew a trace of man, TS'o child of even human clay tTer trod its loftiest heights since time began. Trees gww far down the mountain's sid'^ Lux'M'iaut with their tinted leaves ; Some dead ; and yet, so beautiful in death That w.lh the liv^ifj tints they vied ; »^ome ill t>ld age appeared to draw their breath OBD lOtL ; Ott, THE SPKHfO KAMBLE. As near the end,— but youth releaves The solemu sadness of the scene, For may a leaf ih yet but in the bud And many more are growing frewh and grten That show the sikill of N^ature's God. Close by our ' c 'ay a smooth, dark rock On which he ... the following address To the Mountain : 123 "Oh ! Mountain, looming, towering, grand, B yond control of mortal hand, Why should'st thou from mankind conceal The secrets thou could'st well reveal? Why rise so high that none may see The glories of the scenery ? Why rise above each lowly thing And scorn the strongest eagle's wing ? Dfist thou not know what man has donf*? And thinkest thou his course is run ? That he shall not before the end Thy lofty heights, unscared, ascend ? But oh ! e'en as 1 write I feel A something in my brain to reel, I'm looking for thy giddiest height But 'tis a vain — though fond — delight. Thou art so e'en surpassing high It looks, forsooth, as though the sky And all the mists of vapoured rain Know not the heights thou dost attain, That what's upon thy future side Man knows not yet, is not denied. This proves not he shall never know, For man goes high and man goes low ; lie has a genius to explore, And cares not none have gone before. lie rides o'er ocean's storm-tosst'd wave, lie lives for glory and the grave, He is ijot satislied with fame Until he wins a hero's name, Terrific gales tear up the trees That bend not to the stifFost breeze, /Vnd send them whirling with the rocks 124 01 D loil; or, Tni spbino bambli. Which bind them firmer than the locks In prison dungeons hold the chains Of prisont-rs, whose wicked orains Planned misrhi.f which their hands have done, Recardless of the Three in One. But 1, e'en L am young and strong And I will climb thy side ^'er long; Thouc'h youthful, yet with buoyant hope My mind is slirred with thee to cope, And I will see thy further side, Else in a vain attempt have died. Ere many suns have gone to rest In their all-radiaut splendour dressed, So scorn me not in low contempt; To-day I start in the attempt. And you, oh '. mm, whoe'er shall read. Remember that it was decreed By youthful Fancy uncontrolled. That 1 should climb this mountain bold ; And that Ord Loil has gone to do That which mankind has failed, and you If e'er on earth you see him more May know he is a conqueror." Ho felt that quiet, beautous scene. That river still, and smooth, and clear, The birds still singing and the shade stiM cool. He left,— not with the stately mien Of courtier— straighter than a rule, But with a gait that showed no tear, A youthful step, a hopeful air. He left, and left of him no other trace Than the now told inscription there To mark his pleasant resting-place, With a bared breast, and buoyant tread He climbed up from the mountain's base. Some distance up successfully he rose, Theu stopped, for far above his head High rocks his upward passage did oppose. These were surmont.ted, and his face OnD LOIL; Oil, THH BPRIXO RA.MBLI:. 125 Glowed with such a triumphant Binile lie may (inscribe, who can describe the glee With which n youthful heart may 611 A full and boundless ecstacy. At times he'd pass a deep ravino Wliore onn mis-step might cast him down, Dowd, down, to certain death and rocky grave. Above them, and with naught between. He oftimes climbed, for dangers he must brafe Or lose his fond and fair renown. Climbed, aided by n shrub or twig Which, should it break, would end our hero's day. Climbed, for his heart was swelling big With such a hope, no rock could block his way. At times he found a fertile spot. Where luscious fruit and berries grew. On one of these he stopped when night came on. And thought — as others would have thought. How well he'd like there to remain alone And idly live his life-time through. To live without a trial or care And never know a man on earth again. No lovelier place than there For one proud eou' without restraint to reign. How cool and pleasant was the breeze That fanned our hero into sleep. How fresh, and springlike was the mo\intain air. How light the nights and dark the trees. And how the dew drops gathered on his hair. The moon shone on the mountain steep And small, wliite clouds ran o'er the sky. His eyes were closed, and he to sleep was given And did he dream, you would not ask me why. For where he lay was less like Earth than Heaven. He dreamed two lovely virgins came And sat beside him as he lay ; They l»oth were young, and they were dressed alike. ^- 1 26 OHD Loii. ; oa, the spring ramble. lie dreamed they asked to kncrv his name. And when ho heard those beauteous vipRins apeuk,- llis heart leapt up— his lips gave way— And out it poured — a heart to each It seemed, but theirs to hiirt were also Riven. Ilia name ho f^ave, and by this speech He wuH subdued, who oft with love had striven And always been the victor. The first of those fair virgins ipokn : " Ord Loil ! Ord Loil ! How did you here ascend Ord Loil ! Ord Loil ! Where dot^s your journey vtA ? " 1 see your glance Is down into the vale, And you, p<" aspir? To reach that shining stone Ambition's fire Burns not in you alone. " We will be one In purpose, heart and name ; Let us begone— Say, is your heart ' oo tamo ? lie could sleep on in quietude While dreaming of kind words of love, OBD LOHi ; OB, TIIK 8PBII70 RAMBLE. 129 Rut when he heard that seeraitig BCorDfu! jeer He waked, he was not ia the mooa To benr it, when true lovu was living near. " It is a dream, my passions move, Only a dream in which I rove," He said, and then to soothing sleep returned But so with dreamland thoughts inwove His pulse was beating fast, his face still burned. At morning dawn again he waked And went to '. iew .'»e rising sun, Over fair flowers, fruit, and berries trod ; Tlio fruit from oif the ground he raked AVhich, nifcllow^ed by its fail, served well as food And long that food he lived upon. He stood, and watolied the glorious orb Reftume his race with Time ; he saw the sky Loi,k glad, the eight did so absorb His whole attention, that ho cried in sympathy: •* I see the face of heaven shine With joy unspeakable as mine ; The sun which oft before hath shono Hath never sucli a lustre thrown O'er earth, and sky, and all that is. As now 1 must acknowledge his, At least hath never seemed to shine With rays so perfectly divine, lie does not stop to greet a friend, On friendship he does not depend, But rolling from his secrecy Into the cloudless vacancy, A pompous ball of flaming heat — Bids darkness far before retreat." Awhile he gazed, then back he went, Kesumed the great work yesterday begun And climbed once more the mountain's side. He knew that matiy a steep ascent He must ascend, before that day's bright sun Had settled down at eventide. Still shone a fire from his eye, ■ f^ 130 ORD LOIL ; on, THE SFRTNO RAMBLE. A flamo that in his inmost bosom burned, Which showed he must succeed or die, And lor success how strong his bosom yearned. And when the morning passed away And it was noon, beioro him rose Oigantic rocks, which bado >i8 hope begone. All the roniainder of that day lie sought a way to climb, but could fitid none, Rocks perpendicular as those And rising up some hundred feet, Were more than youth's ambition could surmount : But death Ord Loil could met't Better than meet the world's derisive tauut. At length, as darkness fell once more Enveloping the wide, wide world, lie would lie down and sleep, and rise next morn Earlv, 08 he had done before— To seek a chance to ascen- ; he would not turn From his resolve, thou^^h he be luirled From some hif^h eminence, fur down That steep and rocky mountain's side; He saw a brook, that, wild and lone, He could not cross, 'twere madness to have tried. 'Twas midnight, and as there be \b.j ^ A black cloud wrapped the mountain's top And it was dark,— was oh ! so densely dark—, No night like that e'er followed day, And rain was pouring like when Noah's ark Anxious, expected every drop To lift her up abov? her foes, And they— the world's r,r"'\t men and strong-be drowned. The brook there swells, anJ onward flows With doubled rushings toward the lower ground; And the wild, angry thunder pealed. Such peals,— 'twould rouse the sleeping dead, And make them think the day of Judgment come, If that were possible : revealed OHD LOIL; OB, TUK SPBINU BA.MDLB 131 Anid the p»als of Heaven's loudest drum, Like some great uew creation hid And seen b. for a moment's space, Jle saw at times, by vivid lightning's glare, llup«» rocks dashed from their resting placo, — The flash was gone — Lis was " a vacout staie," Another dazzling flash of light Long hui:^, to ligiit the dismal scene ; Hut no, too weak were now his dazzled eyes To treat him to that gloomy sight ; And though he felt his bed to sink and rise. Then a" short lull to intervene. Ho could not — as he fain would do — Walk out into the storm ; not bid it cease But storm, and storm a lifetime through. For storm he loved, — loved more by far than peace. And thus he lay until the morn Ueturning, ahod a dim, dull li|;ht Upon that gloomy, storm-wrapped beigh . He saw huge rock trom huge rock torn And violently -oiled below his sight. Tho noise and opening rocks unite To make hiir. 'ear an earthquake nigh. By which he might be hurled, and uooo see With pitying eye our hero die. Or drop a farewell tear of sympathy. The sky was cleared, the storm was o'er, The earth had quaked but opened not, And now he thought that he perchance might climb, But he could not, for, as before. High rocks towered preventing him. Till, close beside the self-same spot Where ho had spent that night of storm. Above the brook which there ran smooth and deep He saw the task he might perform, By aid of shrubs, and yet fond glory reap. Right soon he climbed above the brook, While hope within was running high, 132 ORD LOIt ; OB, THE SPRING RAMBLE. His weight was hanging on a single limb Of one high tree when lo ! it broke ; He fell ; alas ! he had not learned to swim, A small whirl-pool was whirling nigh, But not too small to suck him in. And into it he went and wus drav m down ; despair was ruling then within, Then sank the hope of fair renown. But mourn not, for he was not drowned ; He siood upon a rock beneath ; And when his deadened sense he regained. He looked in wonderment around. He found an upward passage he had gained, Straieht from the seeming pool of death. To the great heights he long had sought, ^ Up this he climbed, and ere the day was oer- Smiled at the work himself had wrought A teat oft tried by man, in vain, before. He stood upon the the topmost height. That high, impending mountain knew, And gazed with pride, and vonder, and delight. And yet with awe-for well he might- On the broad plains and woods beneath ; but mght. Night, such as darkens heaven's hue -From blue to a black blank, came on. Then turned he homeward with a joyful heart, Well pleased the honor he had won, Though 'twas but on a ramble ho did start. The Black-Eyed Girl. [Written by request, and adapted to mnticl (LACK are the sparkling eyes Of my dear intended, White is her ivory, Her face with beauty blended. Sweet and clear her accents fall, Like silver joy-bells ringing, And to my heart 1 feel Her loving heart is clinging. True, all the girls have eyes. And some, too, have black ones. For them our country Will I trust never lack sons ; But of all the maids 1 know This one has got most cash on ; She spares nor time nor pains In keeping up to fashion. Bold I may seem, perhaps, — But dried up leaves will rustle, — And if i speak the truth I think she wears a bustle. Piercing to my froztm heart. With eyes more fair than beauty. She led me to believe To love ht'r was a duty. Oh ! for a thousand eyes To view those charms so pleasing, A double sense of touch Those little hands for squeezing. Free and noble is her gait, — But do not think me funny, — Of all her charms, I think The greatest is her money. Lovard Love. (WAS a cleai , coW ni^ht ; the air was still ; ^ The frost ou,' whiskers covered; Alone we stood by the foreat roail,— vj^ Me aud our hero, Lovard. 1 spoke of home, he would not hear, He fixed his plume, and with a sneer Turned trom me with the exclamation Now to go home were mere vexation. With these few words he left me there And to the woods returning. Was lost to sight in the underbrush, For which he had been yearning. He was a youth so blithe and gay. He seemwl in truth to love to stray, Roth night and day, by the little river, Nature enjoy, and bless the Giver. With nothing to eat he wandered far, The rocks among and over ; His strange intent did not not lament. But with leaves his head did cover ; And through the wDod till morn he roved The neighborhood where he was loved, U'9 intent, suspecting, grew uneasy, ^ And iearched for him up the river " Mezie. They saw him at length en the river's bank ; lie stood intently gazing— Among the rocky hills he gazed. Where some cariboo were grazing ; But as they neared, he disappeared, " And never siuio has re-appeared ; ^/^^^/ £.1 ^jfn.^ And only he who rules above I , ^-^^^ j^^- Kuows what became of Lovard L.ove. ) •=- /iv^ The Midnight Cry. " And at midnipfht there waa a cry made, Behold tho bridegroom cometh, go ye ont to meet 'lim." IDNIGHT silecice held creation For a moraent 8il»x Lado and ihe Fowlers. IS Autumn, 'tis morning; The 8Ut\ is beaming bright, The forests and marshes Present a gladsome sight ; The breast of Lado swells with joy ; lie being only yet a boy. His heart is glad, for he is going Ou the flooded marsh a-rowmg. With nhot bag and powder, A double-bativUed gun, With fo\vl