frg^jf-L»p >irHttiO yt-iit^ ^-^i' BERKELEY .13RARY INIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA Vr,«.. :i '^<^ (l^l^ ^U- \l CU I • « .* 9?- MH niLETMWiSo -/ . yt€/6^/y■/,^^/^./ y/y^/ v^///./. WV//'/v/^//. J /^/ ,/, ^^^ 'AX.,-/- Z ■^^./rY////r/ ^^y^ry y/v/.j. yf /'/A/v / , / / / / / / y^/^Y/'/'l.y THE LADIES' lEEPSAIE, AWJ HOME LIBRARY E3JBELLISHED WITH NUMEROUS ErsGKAVlNGS - < • ' ^ ' • ♦ NEW YOKK : BCRDICK & SCOVILL No. 8 SPRUCE STREET. IpAN STACK .' -2 3 INDEX. Aloise Senefelder, 77 A Picture, 100 A Glimpse at Fairy Land, 101 A Hideous Monster, 108 Advice to a Young Lady, 114 A Sister's Value, l-jO A Biblical Critic, 173 Captain Smith and Pocahontas. 147 Every Day Life, 37 For an Album, 27 Flowers, 119 Home, .... .... 80 Hints for Lovers, 199 I was Sick and ia Prison, 74 Jeanne D'Arc, - » - S3 Lord Stanhope to Lady Shirley, 27 Love on, <52 Live to Do Good, 71 Leave me Alone, 206 My Wife is the Cause of it, * 131 Marv Warren, 165 Midnight Musings^ 200 Make one Happy Heart, 132 Our Common Joys, 30 Position and Character, 72 Pleasant Words, '3 Power of Consistency, 126 Poetry, 182 Romance of Ancient History, 13 Religion, 18^ Itevolutionary Adventure, 187 Sin no more, ^ 34 Spring, 121 Sadness, 195 T^88 17 INDEX. PAOE Transient Joys 28 The Wit of the Family, 31 The Naturalist, 35 The Old Apple Tree, 38 The Old Deacon, 43 Trifles, 51 The Destiny of Poetry, 61 The Gold Pen, 67 The Hunter Stevens and his Dog, 81 The Poet's Death, 104 The Old and the New, 106 The Slanderer, 107 The Wedding, 113 The Dream, 123 The Painter and the Madonna, 127 The Utilitarian, '. ..' 151 The Wife, 162 The Changes of Life, 163 True Philosophy, 176 Thamyris, 177 The Story of Napoleon, 181 The Bereaved Sister, 196 The Broken Vow, 203 The Path to Happiness, 208 The Oak and the Willow, 210 Uncle Zim and Deacon Pettibone, 133 "Woman, 212 Yearnings of the Spirit, 174 EMBELLISHMENTS. STEEL ENGRAVINGS. The Sisters, 2 Rip Van Winkle, 42 The Idle Servant, 76 The Wedding, ,., 110 Captain Smith and Pocahontas, 146 Napoleon's Farewell with his Son, 180 STEEL ENGRAVINGS COLORED. European Globe Flower and Livid and Black Hellebore, 3 Garden Tulip, 11 }i i) L ±. Page A Lawyer's Opinion of Xaw 18 A Sea Voyage— by D. S. M 56 A Lock of Hair— by S. C. R , 76 A Wintry Landscape — by Mrs. L. G.. Abell , , . 202 Birthplace 20 Be Faithfal— by Albert Todd 174 Chance Rescue, or the Ocean Brave — by Mrs. E. D. Rayraond 51 Charity 173 Cultivation of Taste — by Mrs. A. E. Gillett "...*!! 216 Domestic Happiness 144 Dies Ire — by Horace Dresser. Esq ». 161 Derelict Pulpit — by Horace Dresser, Esq 141 Evelyn Richmond, or the Disappointed Bride 9 Eventide — by Horace Dresser, Esq 67 Favorite Means of Committing Suicide 86 Friends — by Albert Todd , m Female Education — by Nelson Sizer 130 Friendly Suggestions — by Dr. J. H, Hanaford 176 George Sinclair, or the Student's Noble Resolve — by Mrs. J. H. Hanaford 68 Home 121 I Live to Die — by Lilla Linwood 17 I Die to Live — by do. do 17 Immortality of Influence — by Rev. James Hoyt 50 Lament 110 Light and Daguerreotype — by C . Wingate 164 Learn to Sing— by Rev. W. C. Whitcomb 213 Maternal Influence — by J. B. Hoag 45 Mem.ories of Childhood— by Mrs. R. M. Conklin 146 S'athan and Solomon 19 yNineveh — by C. Wingate 179 Old Year's Realities and New Year's Anticipations— by Mrs, Hanaford.. 193 Vm INDEX. PAGE Revolutionan' Sketch — by ^Irs. Williams 57 Richard Colhu- Dc Lion aiul Berengaria, Princess of Navarre — by llcv. Isaac M. Sherman 81 Sonnets — Niasrara — by Horace Dresser, Esq 35 Scene on the Hudson 117 San Francisco — by Rev. Isaac M. Sherman, D. D 153 Sacramento City 157 Summer Sketch — by Horace Dresser, Esq 175 The Cousins ; or, Be ye not unequally yoked together 21 The Creditor— by Mrs. J. H. Hanaford 27 The Gospel as an Element of Progress 34 Truth— by S. A. Andrews 36 The Heart's Idol— bv Mr.s. J. H. Hanaford 87 The Student— by J. R. Higgins 95 The Glad Thanksgiving Day— by Mrs. J. H. Hanaford 97 The Thinker— by F. W. S 105 To my Mother on her Eightj'-Fourth Birth Day— by Mrs. M. E. Davis.. 107 The Journeying of the Wind — by Lilla Linwood 108 The Fairy's Advice, or Amelia's Christmas Gift — by Mrs. Hanaford 123 To my Flute— by William B. Hovey 129 The Mother's Influence— by N. W 147 Time's Soliloquy— by Orrin P. Allen 169 The Hour of Prayer — by Miss Mary A. Malin 173 The Young Bride 189 Twilight Musings— by J. B. Hoag 209 To the Ambitious— by J. B. Hoag 210 Temperance — by W. B. Hovey 216 The ^oliau Harp— by M. A, A. Phinney 218 Washington and Napoleon : a Comparison — ^by G. L. Cranmer 15 Worth Heeding , o 18 Wonders of the Microscope — by C. Wingate 203 EMBELLISHMENTS. STEEL ENGRAVINGS. The Cousins 6 lone 42 The Dream 80 View near Anthony's Nose, Hudson Highlands 114 San Francisco 152 The Young Bride 188 STEEL ENGRAVINGS COLORED. Proven's Rose 7 Caliopse 115 MUSIC. Witliin this Humble Dwelling , 40 Morning Song 184 ROMANCE OF ANCIENT HISTOBY. A STORY OF ATHENAIS. The Grecian sa^e, Leontius, was lying on bis couch, calmly awaiting the approach of death. His daughter, the beautiful Athenais, was bending over him, and bathing his brow Avitn her tears. The fadins; beams of the setting sun illumined the apart^ ment, and cast over the cheek of the dying man, a glow that mocked the hue of health. As the weeping Athenais beheld this rosy flush, she hushed her voice of mourning, and, for an instant, a ray of hope irradiated her brow, and shone amid her tears as a transient sunbeam sometimes gilds a stormy cloud, and sparkles amid the falling rain. Leontius beheld the change, and said in faint but tranquil tones : « Deceive not thvself, my dear Athenais, with vam illusive hopes— they will but cheat thee into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow, and render the hour of grief, that must come, more painful to endure. Learn to look calmly upon the trial that awaits thee, and bear with becoming fortitude, the loss thou art about to sustain. I feel that I must die. Even now the lamp of hfe burns dimly in its socket, and ere long it will be quenched for ever. -Weep not so bitterly, my child, at this decree of the ffods They are wise-they are merciful. They have granted me a lono- sojourn on the earth, and they are now conducting me peacefully and pleasantly to repose. Murmur not, then, at their dispensations, but bow submissively to their will, and pray for aid to strengthen thy spirit in the coming season of aftuc- tion." , But Athenais renewed her lamentations, and her tears flowed more freely as she listened to her father's words. Grief had rained the mastery over her spirit, and for a time it ruled with despotic sway. Calmly Leontius waited till the violence of the storm had passed, and in the lull of those passionate lamenta- tions, he said : - I crrieve to see, my child, that all the lessons 14 ROMANCE OF ANCIENT HISTCRY. of wisdom and virtue which I have taught thee, have fmUd to lift thy mind to that elevation which I had hoped it would attain. But I despair not that thy soul will one day be .is lofty and heroic as my fondest wish could desire. Thou art young, and thy heart is yet tender enough to take a deep impression from every passing touch. Let but a few more years roll away, and the breath of sorrow, like the beam of joy, will pass almost unheeded over thy spirit's fount of feeling, and wake only a ripple on its surface. Thus would I have it. And now, my dear Athenais, I have but a few more moments to linger, and I entreat you to listen to the voice that will soon be so silent for- ever. Hereafter it might be a source of deep regret to re- flect that you had not heeded my dying words." This admonition had the desired effect — the young mourner dried her tears — lifted her beautiful head, and with a forced calmness and composure, listened to his words : " In leaving thee, my child, to the evils of life, and the temp- tations of the world, I do not leave thee w^ithout a protector, for thy own excellent heart will be a guardian more vigilaut and more useful than the wisest I could appoint — and in bequeath- ing my patrimony almost entirely to thy two brothers, I do thee no act of injustice, for thy youth and loveliness, and above all, thy many virtues, constitute a dowry that queens might envy. What were -riches to one like thee? What were stores of sparkling gems, and heaps of glittering gold ? Hast thou not a beauty whose splendor can rival the diamond's light, and treasures of the mind whose value is above all price ? These last, my daughter, are a legacy which none can take away. Time, who will steal thy youthful charms, cannot deprive thet of thos.e unftiding treasures. They are exhaustless as the earth, and enduring asjife. Thou art nobly portioned, and I die happji in the belief of thy w^elfare." The philosopher paused — a solemn silence reigned in tht apartment, and it seemed that death was hover'mg near. Faint and fainter grew the light of departing day — dim and dimmer burned the lamp of expiring life. Low^ as the softest whisper of the leaves when stirred by the breath of spring, ro«e once more the voice of the dying sage : " M}" daughter, see you not yon lingering radiance in the west — how slowly and majestically it gives place to the foot- ROMANCE OF ANCIENT HISTORY. 15 steps of nigbt. How softly and sweetly the last beam fades away, and sinks to rest ? Thus does a philosopher bid farewell to earth. Thus calmly and peacefully sink to his last repose. May such, dear Athenais, when thy sojourn here is ended, bo thy closing hour. Blessings bo with thee now and forever. Farewell !" So gently and so tranquilly had he sunk into the arms of death, that the bereaved Alhenais dared not disturb, with the voice of her sorrow, the silent and solemn scene. For many moments she sat tearless, motionless — almost breathless, gazing reverently upon the hushed and holy features of the departed. But as soon as the awe which that fearful visitor, Death, in- spires in every one, who, for the first time marks his approach, had passed away, the young mourner gave full vent to her grief, and bending her blooming cheek to that marble brow, she wept with the bitterness of a desolate spirit. Her father had been so dear — so immeasurably dear to her heart, that in losing him, she fancied she had lost all that could render life endurable. Her mother had been dead many years, and Leontius had supplied the place of both parents. It was his eye that had watched over her in the troublous days of infancy, and his voice that had gladdened, with words of praise, the happy years of childhood. In the pleasant spring-time of youth he had been ever near to guide and protect — to lead her steps in the path of virtue, and her mind to the fount of know- ledge. He had been parent, companion, friend, and preceptor, and Athenais had loved as never child loved before. It is a sad thing, the first deep grief of a young, fond heart. As a deso- lating storm would bruise and blight the gentle tenants of a flower-garden, so does that tempest of the soul destroy its ten- der blossoms of feeling, and lay waste its beautiful buds of hope. But although terrible in its effectsj it is transient in duration, and passes away like the cloud from a summer sky. Youthful emotions are so buoyant and elastic, that they spring back to their former position as soon as the pressure of misfortune is removed. It was thus with Athenais. When the first violence of her grief had passed away, she could reflect calmly upon her bereavement, and turn to the memory of her lost parent as to something holy and dear. She would sit for hours alone, recdl- ing his every look and tone, and dwelling fondly upon his words 16 ROMANCE OF ANCIENT HISTORY. of love. At such times she would remember all his precepts, and breathe a prayer that they might guide her safely through the perilous path of life. With a spirit chastened by sorrow, she sought the home of her brothers. They had lived apart from her since the days of childhood, and they had none of those gentle and pleasant memo- ries which linger so sweetly around the hearts of those who have been reared in the genial atmosphere of home. They re- ceived their sister as a stranger, and greeted her with the chill- ing words of unklndness. They feared she would become a dependant on their bounty, and consume a portion of the patri- mony which they had so recently inherited. How strange a passion is avarice — how it contracts every lofty principle of the mind, and chills every warm emotion of the heart. How it de- grades every noble sentiment of humanity ! Leontius had with- held his w^orldly riches from his daughter, in order to bestow all upon his sons, thinking, no doubt, that they would gladly share the dowry with their only sister. But the spirit of avar- ice had entered their hearts, and they grudged the gentle Athen- ais a home. They frowned upon her when she asked their protection, and unwillingly granted the shelter they were ashamed to refuse. She would have turned away from such unnatural kindred, to seek a home among strangers, but she had been reared in retirement, and knew nothing of life save what she had learned from study, and she dared not go forth into the w^orld friendless and alone. Thus, compelled to accept the boon so ungraciously granted, she became an unwelcome dweller with her inhospitable brothers. But though with them, she was not one of their family, for their fire- sides never shed a cheering radiance for her, and their tidtisehold gods never smiled upon her spirit. She was desolate and un- happy — the memory of her father's love and kindness was ever Hngering around her heart, making her altered situation more sad and more difficult to endure. Still, in the treasures of the mind, those which her father had deemed so rich a legacy, she found a resource and shield from, despair. There were moments when she could steal from the troublous cares that oppressed her, and forget, in study, and the intellectual pursuits she loved, the many ills to which she was subjected. But even these brief intervals of consolation ROMANCE OF ANCIENT HISTORY. 17 ■were denied, and the last flower that bloomed 11 her darkened pathway, seemed about to perish. A Eoman of high birth, named Marulles, who saw Athenais at the house of her brothers, became charmed with her beauty. He numbered more than twice her years, and was a man of corrupt character. He had led a dissolute life, and wandered through the garden of Pleasure, until there seemed not a soli- tary flower rare and beautiful enough to please his satiated fancy. Surfeited with pernicious sweets, and almost weary of the life that could afford him no new enjoyment, he continually sighed for some novelty to awaken the sluggish emotions of his heart. That novelty he seemed now to have found in Athenais. Her beautv at first attracted his admiration, but it was her purity of thought and modesty of demeanor that fixed his atten- tion, and inspired a love such as he had never known before. He looked upon her as a treasure which he had long sought in vain, and which he was at last blessed with the hope of obtain- ing. He resolved to make her his wife, and accordingly sought an opportunity of declaring his love. He blindly imagined that his birth and wealth would insure success, forgetting that he possessed not a single quality that could win the affection of a pure young heart. Athenais^ at first, gently but firmly refused his offers, but when he repeated them again and again, she be- came displeased with his perseverance, and repelled him with disdain. This seemed rather to increase than diminish his ad- miration, and he determined to obtain her at any sacrifice. He made known his wishes to the brothers, and besought their aid Then w^as Athenais constantly persecuted with entreaties to become the wife of Marulles. Commands followed entreaties, and threats followed commands, until she had scarce a moment's peace. The brothers, seeing a chance of escaping the duty of maintaining her, whom they regarded as an incumbrance, were firm in their resolve to make her accept the offer, that they feigned to consider advantageous and desirable. They em- braced every opportunity to throw Athenais into the now hated company of her admirer — they made her home more wretched than ever, they wounded her heart by the most unkind and un- feeling words; in short they made use of every means that cruelty could suggest, to force her into a compliance with their wishes. Weary of continual persecution, and overcome by de- 18 ROMANCE OF ANCIENT HISTORY. spondency and grief, tho unhappy Athenais knew not what course to pursue. Sometimes she was almost tempted t( yield to the sad fate that thi'eatened her, and then, the thoughts of sacrificing herself where she felt only dislike, and of being irre- vocabiy united to age and vice, made her pure heart shudder with dread. At length she asked and obtained the boon of three days respite from solicitations, during which time she was not to be persecuted with threats or entreaties, or even spoken to on the subject that gave her so much pain. This favor was granted, on condition that she would spend the time in endea- voring to think more favorably of Marulles, and in learning to look upon a union with him as an event which she could not hope to avoid. Those three days seemed, to Athenais, like a short respite granted to a condemned criminal. At one moment a joyous sense of freedom would thrill her heart, and then a dark re- membrance immediately usurp its place. Now a ray of hope would shoot athwart her spirit, and then the shadows of fear instantly dispelled the light. Oh, how she longed for her fath- er's counsel and advice, to ouide her through the oloom that surrounded her path. J3ut his voice was silent in the grave, and there was none to whom she could turn for consolation. The last day of the three was drawing to a close, and Athen- ais had vainly striven to fortify her mind to meet the fate she dreaded with soniething like a spirit of resignation. With a heavy heart she went to the window of her apartment, and looked out upon the setting sun. As its last beams faded in the west, she was forcibly reminded of her father's dying hour, and a thrilling feeling of mingled awe and pleasure crept over her mind, as she fancied his spirit miijht be hoverins: near. Sinkins; on her knees, and lifting her tearful ey^s to Heavei, she breathed an audible prayer : " Oh, thou dear departed, if thou canst leave the company of the immortal gods, to visit once more the scene of thy former life, look down, I pray thee, on thine unhappy child, and guide her safely through the ]^;crils that surround. The lessons of virtue which thou imparted, have failed to insure the promised happiness, and the rich storo of wisdom which thou bequeathed, has not even purchased the boon ■>f content. Oh, my father, without thee, thy instructions are nothing. I atn like a barque moving unguided over the waters, and spe<3ding to destruction. ROMANCE OF ANCIENT HISTORY. f9 Life that was sweet while shared with thee, is now a burthen too wearii3ome to bear, and I pray thee, shade of the departed, beseech the merciful gods to take me from the earth, and give me a home with them and thee." This invocation, which expressed so truly aed touchingly, the deep sadness of Athenais. was interrupted by the sound of approaching steps. She looked up ; her female attendant, Marina, had entered the apartment — fear and anxiety was pic- tured on her countenance, and Athenais felt that some new trouble awaited her. Eapidly, and in a low tone, Marina im- parted her information. She had, a few moments before, over- heard a conversation between the brothers and the admirer of her mJstress. By that, it appeared, Marulles, fearful of losing the prize he so ardently sought, had obtained from the brothers permission to wed Athenais without further delay. Everything was prepared, and an early hour of the following morning was the time appointed for the ceremony to take place. Their vic- tim's wishes were to be no longer consulted ; she was to be forced to the altar, and if she there persevered in resisting their commands, she was to be confined in a gloomy and solitary apartment, deprived of every comfort, and only supphed with the smallest pittance to sustain hfe. These were the cruel arrangements, and as the faithful attendant disclosed the plot, she wept at what she considered the inevitable fate of her mis- tress. Athenais sat a few moments in deep thought, pondering upon the inteUigence she had received, and revolving in her mind what course to pursue. There was not much time for reflection ; only that night was left to decide and to act. The next morn- ing she would be a prisoner in a dungeon, or a captive in a more fenr^ul bondage s^iP. At leno^th her resolution was taken. She GCciiJedio steal aoisoiessly from the house — prcoeed without delay to the seat of government, and ask the aid of royal protec- tion against her unnatural kindred. It was not a long journey from her brothers' residence to the Imperial palace, and she felt that her desperate fortunes would give her energy and resolution to endure whatever fatigue or hardship she would have to incur. The Eastern Empire was, at that time, under the dominion 20 ROMANCE OF ANCIENT HISTORY. of Pulclieria, daughter of Arcadiiis, and granddaughter cf Theodosius the Great. She was invested with the sovereign power, during the minority of her brother, the younger Theo- dosius. Although possessing a high, proud spirit, she wan renowned for the justice and benevolence of her character, and Athenais felt, as she reflected upon what she was about to undertake, that the Empress might be awakened to womanly tenderness and pity for one so desolate and unhappy. As soon as her design was formed, she proceeded to put it in execution. She fortunately escaped from the house without arousing suspicion, and, with no companion but her attendant, proceeded on her journe}^ In due season, and without obstacle she reached the palace. Then, and not till then, did she pause and hesitate, and think fearfully upon the ordeal she was about to endure. She had been reared in the simplest and plainest manner. She was totally unacquainted with the forms and rules of a court, and dreaded to pass those lofty portals that seemed frowningly to forbid her entrance. But one thought of her friendless situation called back her courage and nerved her to the task. Without difficulty she gained admittance, and ere long was ushered into the presence of the Empress. Noth- ing could afford a better illustration of the industry and simpli- city of the females of that day, than the sight which met the eye of Athenais, as she entered the stately apartment. A group of maidens were seated round the room, all engaged on works of embroidery, and in their midst, portioning out their respective tasks, and occupying herself, from time to time, with the same feminine employment, was the Empress of the East, the proud, ambitious woman, Vv^ho, at the age of sixteen, received the lofty title of Augusta, and wielded the sceptre with some of the wis- dom, and much of the spirit that characterized her illustrious progenitor, Theodosius the Great. As soon as Athenais beheld the benevolent features of the Empress, her fears were dispelled, and advancing with graceful ease, she knelt at her feet. In the kindest manner Pulcheria raised the maiden, and bade her make known her wishes. That she might attract less observation, Athenais had arrayed her form in a plain and humble garb — her eyes were dimmed with tears — her features wore the languor of weariness and the gloom of anxiety, yet despite these disadvantages, her beauty shone ROMANCE OF ANCIENT HISTORY. 21 conspicuous aud charmed the eyes of beholders. With a low but lirm voice, she said : " Illustrious Sovereign, you see before you, in the charactei* of a suppliant, an unhappy, destitute, and desolate orphan. If one who has no inheritance but Sorrow — no friend but Hope, and no shelter but Heaven, can claim your pity, then, most gra- cious lady, award that pity to me. Driven by unnatural kindred from an unhappy home, and flying from the persecutions of one who would force me into a union whose ties are more fearful than death, I come to plead, with voice and heart, for the boon of your favor and protection. lam a humble maiden — born, reared, and educated in retirement. I know not the language of a court, and if my freedom of expression offend your ear, I pray your Majesty's pardon ; but listen, oh ! deign to listen kindly to my appeal. I know not what words to use, but I feel that the voice of Pity in your bosom will plead eloquently in my behalf I am poor and miserable, but beneath my humble garb beats a heart filled with loyal and generous emotions. Grant me the boon I ask, oh 1 Sovereign, and the service, the devotion, I had almost said worship of that heart, shall bo yours. Shield me w'ith your gracious power, from the loneliness and sorrow that oppress my spirit, and life will be too short to pay the debt of gratitude I shall thus incur." The voice, the words, the manner of Athenais, all had a pow- erful effect over the Empress. She immediately soothed the sup- pliant w^ith words of kindness, and gave her many assurances of favor and protection. She ministered to her wants, and sought by every gentle means to make her forget the ills which she endured. Every passing moment added to the interest she had awakened in the breast of Pulcheria, and the latter at length began to indulge secret thoughts of making her the wife of her brother. Theodosius was at that period about twenty years of age. Although possessing few of the illustrious qualities of his grand- father, the elder Theodosius, he was a youth of virtuous heart and fine endowments of mind. His education had been care- fully superintended by his older and more imperial-minded sis- ter, Pulcheria, and she had also scrupulously instructed him in all the graces and dignities of royalty. He was deeply imbued with the sublime spirit of Christianity, then fast dispelling the 22 TIOMANCE OF ANCIENT HISTORY. errors of Paganism from the world, and all his acts were g aided and governed by its divine precepts. His mildness, his benevo- lence, and his piety, caused him to be respected and beloved by all who surrounded him. A short time after her fair suppliant's arrival at the palace, Pulcheria sought an interview with Theodosius. In tones of pleasure she addressed him — " My brother, I have this day seen and conversed with a young Grecian maiden, who is, in every respect, worthy to be the wife of the future Emperor of Eome. Listen, while I de- scribe a being such as fancy never pictured to your mind. Im- agine a form of lofty stature and graceful proportions, invested with all the charms of youth, yet merging into the richer beauty of womanhood ; a brow white and pure as the unsullied snow- flake, around which cluster locks of the softest texture and richest luxuriance ; an eye that eloquently expresses every ten- der emotion of the soul, yet darts around such fires as flash from the noon-day sun ; a cheek where the first rose of spring seems to have nestled long and lovingly, and tinted its resting- place with its own dehcate and beautiful hue ; a mouth that ex- presses at once sweetness and intelligence, whose voice is music, and whose smile, hke the rainbow of peace, can charm away all storms from the heart. Add to all these external graces, a mind lighted by nature with the divine fire of genius, and stored by education with the wisdom and learnins; of a sagre ; a heart C5 CD I where every generous and kindly emotion has found a home ; a virtue that has been tried in the fiery ordeal of woe, and found pure as the shining ore that emerges from the severest test, without spot and without blemish ; a character, in short, my brother, which, hke the sunbeam of Heaven, must shed univer- sal brightness and gladness around." Theodosius had listened with looks of wonderins: delio:ht, tc his sister's glowing description of the young Grecian, and when she closed, he said — " You have, indeed, dear Pulcheria, described a w^ondrous being — such an one as only the brightest day-dreams have ever imaged to my soul, and my spirit pines to behold her. But if she is all you so brightly picture, she is surely capable of feel- ing an elevated and noble attachment — a love founded on pure and divine principles. Such a love I have long sighed to ROMANCE 01 ANCIENT HISTORY. 23 ^waU'Ti— such a true and sincere affection have I ardently wished to inspire. But, surrounded by a ho^t of admiring friends and followers, who applaud and flatter, and offer me the servile homage of interested hearts, T still vainly seek and pine for that unalloyed affection which all desire to obtain. The attentions, the praises, the adulations, which are paid to my rank, and not to mjseW] are distasteful, and satisfy me not : as the drooping flower thirsts for the dew, my soul thirsts for the lan.o-uage of truth— for the words of pure and sincere esteem. If I could woo this young maiden as a lowly and humble mdi- vidual, might I not win a love that the favored of fortune sel- dom possess, and that kings often sigh for in vain ?" Pulcheria approves her brother's sentiments, and assures him that his desire can be gratified. They arrange that he is to gaze unseen upon the fair stranger, and then, unknown, to seek to win her love. Concealed behind the drapery in his sister's apartment, he awaits the entrance of Athenais, who has been summoned to the presence of Pulcheria. With what delight he beholds her radiant face, and listens to her silvery voice ! His ardent imagination finds the original fairer, if possible, than the picture his sister had so vividly drawn, and his youthful heart beats rapidly beneath the touch of Love. He can scarcely await the fitting season for the interview, and longs impatiently for the appointed hour. As he led a quiet and secluded life, it was easy for Theodo sius to practice the innocent deception which he had planned, and in a humble garb he was introduced to Athenais as one of the tutors of the young Emperor. Pulcheria daily devised ex- cuses for an interview between the young pair, and by that means the lover had the necessary opportunities to carry on his plan. Every one who approached Athenais was instructed in the secret, and commanded not to divulge it, thus she had not the most remote suspicion of the truth. Feeling none of the timidity which would have characterized her intercourse with him, had she dreamed of his rank, and grateful for his respect- ful attention, Athenais soon extended to the young tutor her confidence and regard. It was not long ere a warmer sentiment sprung up in her heart, and lent a new charm to hc^r life. Then, indeed, all things wore a smiling aspect, and time sped by on the wings of joy. 24 ROMANCE OF ANCIENT HISTORY. Athenais became daily a greater favorite with the Empress, pjid receiving from her constantly the most unequivocal marks of regard, she ceased to feel her dependent situation, and ban- ished from her mind all thoughts of care. She was grateful and happy. Her heart, like a summer-bird, warbled forth in- cessantly, the music of dehght. She was surrounded by every comfort and luxury of life ; she loved and was beloved ! "What a contrast with her former friendless condition. "With what happy dreams and anticipations she looked forward to the future. One day, while indulging this pleasant frame of mind, she received a message from the Empress, bidding her to an interview. With a hght step and a lighter heart she entered the presence of her benefactor. " Well, my bird of beauty," said Pulcheria, " art thou not happy in thy new bower ?" The maiden's face was radiant with the sunshine of the soul, as she replied : " Not even in the days of innocent childhood, when I wan- dered by the shores of my own blue sea, or decked my brow with the flowers of my own dear native plains, did my heart revel more gladly in the joyous sense of existence. I am no longer a friendless, houseless exile ; for thou, dear lady, hast supplied the place of country, kindred, and home. What can I do to serve thee !" " Listen, my dear Athenais ; have I not in all things studied thy comfort ? Have I not given thee a home that the greatest might envy, and clothed thee in raiment that queens might wear ? Have I not bestowed attendants to obey thy slightest bidding, and surrounded thee with luxuries that only the noble can gain ?" " Yes, my Sovereign, you have done all this and more. You have wiped the tear of woe from my eyes, and plucked the arrow of grief from my heart. You have soothed my wounded spirit with the voice of consolation, and whispered peace when despair was at hand. You have converted fear into hope, and regret into joy. You have awakened love in the heart where sorrow before reigned supreme, and made the life that was fast becoming a burthen a blessing and a delight. All this you have done, dear lady, and now what can I do to testify my gratitude ? Name but the price, and though it were life itself — the very life you have so cheered — it shall be sacrificed for your good." ROMANCE OF ANCIENT HISTORY. 05 "I want no sacrifices, Athenais; I am fully rewarded by see- ing you happy, and to show my sense of your gratitude, I am about to confer a favo" greater than any you have yet received. I am about to give you in marriage to m.y imperial brother, the young Emperor of the East." As if a mighty spell had suddenly converted the maiden into stone, she stood, pale, speechless, motionless, her hands clasped, her head bent forward, her eye fixed despairingly upon the Empress, and her whole appearance indicative of the most in- tense amazement. At length she spoke : " I pray thee, dear lady, unsay those fearful words. Mock not my misfortunes with such an offer. I am too humble and too unworthy to share the splendid destiny of thy brother. Choose him a bride more suited to his birth, and more befittino- his exalted station." "Not so, Athenais — thy beauty, thy virtue, thy learning, make thee his equal, and render thee, in all respects, worthy to be a monarch's consort. I have willed it, and thou must be his bride." Then an expression of the deepest sorrow passed over the features of the maiden — she went forward and bent lowly at the feet of the Empress. " Lady, I entreat thy forgiveness, but I cannot obey the bidding. My heart is already united to another." Pulcheria received this announcement with the greatest ap- parent displeasure. She reproached Athenais for her ingrati- tude, and threatened her with punishment and persecution, if she did not instantly renounce her love. Finding reproaches and threats alike powerless to call forth this renunciation, she tried other means. She described her brother, handsome, wise valiant, and noble. She represented the greatness, the pomp, the power his consort would enjoy — the splendors that would surround her, the luxuries that would minister to her comfort, and pictured all the charms of a regal station, in their most fas- cinating colors. But to all these temptations Athenais seemed insensible, and when Pulcheria had finished, she rose from her humble position, dried her tears, and with a look of dignity and a voice that trembled, said — " Banish me from your presence — send me forth to the world friendless and miserable, as when I sought your protection — OQ ROMANCE OF ANCIENT HISTORY. torture my spirit with cruel threats and reproaches — kill me, if you will, but do not, dear lady, force me to renounce my love. It were sacrilege to tear away the image that lives in my heart, and seek to place another in its shrine. Here, in thy palace, I met a j^outh — humble, homeless, friendless, as myself. The bond of sympathy united us. He spoke kindly to cars that had long been accustomed to the words and tones of harshness. What w^onder that in those ears his voice became a music sweeter than all other ? What wonder that, when he breathed the accents of love, my soul responded in a kindred strain ? What wonder that, when he asked my affection, it was given him freely and forever ? AVith such feelings, oh ! Sovereign lady, can you ask me to wed your imperial brother ? No ; that union were misery to us both. AVhat is marriage without affec- tion, but a bondage of the most sad and insupportable kind ? — a state of servitude that trammels not only the body, but the mind, and destroys even the freedom of thought. You tell me of the wealth, the splendors, the honors I should enjoy; oh ! these w^ould but gild the gaUing chains, and render them heavier Btill. Think not, dear lady, I am insensible to your kindness, for while my heart continues to beat, it will cherish with fervent gratitude the memory of your favors ; but the very evil that led me to supplicate your bounty, will drive me again from your presence, an outcast alike from your home and heart." A flood of passionate tears prevented the utterance of Athen- ais, and she could say no more. Theodosius, who had been concealed in the apartment, during the interview between his sister and the maiden, drank in every w^ord with eager ear and delighted soul. As soon as Athenais was silent, he emerged from his place of concealment and sprang to her feet. " Here let me kneel," he said in impassioned tones, '' here let me kneel, and pour forth my gratitude and my love. Know, excellent Athenais, that thy angel-affection is given not to the humble tutor, but to Theodosius himself, and lofty as is his birth, exalted as is his station, he feels that he is scarce worthy of the treasure he has obtained. Porgive, dear maiden, the stratagem I used to gain thy heart, and believe me, when I say, my future life shall be a study to deserve the precious boon." Pulcheria shared the happiness of her brother, and Athenais, bewildered, yet blest, testified, in smiles, and tears, and wonder- mg looks, her pleasure and surprise.- FOR AN ALBUM. 27 The nuptials were soon after celebrated with regal pomp, amid the joyous acclamations of the people ; and thus the world beheld, what seemed more like a tale of fiction than reality, a humble maiden elevated, by her virtues, to the lofty honors of the Imperial throne. LORD STANHOPE TO LADY SHIRLEY, IM APOLOGY FOR AN EXCESSIVELY LATE CALL< Too late I staid — forgive the crime — Uuheedecl flew the hours ; For noiseless falls the foot of time, That only treads on flowers. What eye with clear accomit remarks The ebbing of the glass, When all its sands are diamond sparks, That dazzle as they pass 1 Or who to sober measurement, Time's happy fleetness brings, When birds of Paradise have lent Their plumage to his wings % FOR AN ALBUM. I saw the morning's golden beam Lie bright upon a passing stream : I saw at eve — 'twas sparkling yet, And pure as when at first they met ; And thus the joys 'that gaily now Give beauty to thy snowy brow, Still may they o'er thy life- tide shine, And gild thy spirit's last decline. TRANSIENT JOYS. I saw a bright-eyed, laughing child, reach upon tiptoe for a rose that grew upon the topmost branch of a tall bush. After many an ineffectual struggle, she at last attained the prize ; and in an ecstac}^, admiring the soft petal, and enjoying its sweet perfume, she skipped away to communicate her plea- sure to her companions. I saw her an hour after, and sorrow now clouded that once happy countenance; the tear of disap- pointment stood in her eye ; she was gazing on the rose, but its leaves were fiided and drooping, its fragrance had fled away in the air, and its beautv szone forever ! We stood upon the porch of a friend, looking out with admir- ing eyes on nature's lovely velvet, that overspread the ample lawn, and suddenly there came bounding over the fence a fawn whose white spots still lingered on its yellow coat. We won- dered how the timid creature dared to venture near the habita- tion of man, its foe. But in another moment we saw the object which had lured it away from its own instinct ; it had gained confidence in the little girl who stood with gathered leaves to give the loved one its accustomed supper. They gambolled and skipped about on the grass together, and in the sparkling eye of the damsel you could read how deeply she loved the petted fawn. The morning sun rose brightly, and the balmy air gave spring to every nerve, and seemed to say, " be happy." And never were two creatures more happy than were the child and her fawn. Happy in each other, and as they bounded along to- gether, the four-footed creature outran its benefactress, and sought in distant meadows the -first nippings of tender grass. An hour after this, a deep wail of agony broke on every ear, and brought each member of the household to the scene of grief The spotted fawn, lifeless and bloody, torn by unpitying dogs, was brought to its doating mistress. Here was sorrow TRANSIENT JOYS. 29 that could not be assuaged, for her ^Yhole heart was bound up in the fawn, and no promised joy could obliterate the remem- brance of this she had lost. Again : I saw an indulgent father purchase for liis boy a horse of passing beauty. The Bucephalus of Philip's son was not more gallant in his bearing, and never was Arabian steed more fleet, more docile, and never one more sagacious. The kind attentions of the youth were not lost upon the animal ; in vain might the hostler manoeuvre, in vain the lads pursue ; no other hand but his master's could take him in the field; and the boy's whistle was always returned by an affectionate neigh. Proudly and gaily he rode among his compeers, and out-stripped them afl in the race. But his joy, too, was destined to be short- lived. One bright day, a pet of nature, that inspired every hvmg thing with gaiety, the horses running in playful mood in the field'i'the fleetest, foremost, fell upon a sharp stake, which en- tered his heart, and left him upon the field, impaled and dead. But I looked away from childhood's giddy hour, to man in reason's prime. I saw the fine estate, the accumulation of half a centmy's toil, swept suddenly away by one ill-judged act, one rash endorsement ! Who has not seen the man of fortune made pennyless by change of time ? A ship sinks, a bank breaks, and the broken-hearted father is plunged in despair. She who once rolled in aflauence, now begs in penury, while the daughter, fed by golden spoon, now stitches by the midnight lamp to earn her bread. But yesterday I looked upon a neighbor's family, whose cup of earthly happiness seemed filled to overflowing. His ample fortune had reared a splendid mansion, and furnished it with elegance and taste. Every comfort and evefy luxury were at his bidding; and to share all this was one whose beauty at- tracted evel-y eye, and whose gracefulness drew forth the admira- tion of each beholder ; while her elegance of form and manner gained her respect on the first interview, her afi-ability and ele- vation of mind chained to her every intimate friend. We saw her in her own hospitable saloon, among gems, the brilliant of chief attraction, the spirit that animated and charmed all around The elegance of her attire well became her symmetrical form ; 30 OUR COMMON JOTS and, while all admired, the oje of her husband rested on her, oft and again, with doating fondness. A. few morns passed over us, when a deep but subdued moaning called our attention. We gathered around, but not for hilarity. The well-turned arm lay motionless by her side, that expressive eye was lustreless ; the diamond had fallen from its casket, and beautiful as that casket was, we touched but to recoil, for death's icy hand had ruined it. Yes, we gathered around, to carry to her last home this beau- teous and beloved woman ! And who can paint the agony, or soothe the sorrow of that stricken heart that loved her best. Al\ that could be said — and it was the feeling of every soul — wap. how sublunary is human happiness ! how transient the best of earthly joys ! OUR COMMON JOYS. BY C, D. STUART. Our common joys, oh ! what are they 1 The brightest and the best, They glad us in our busy walks^ Are with us when we rest ; An angel band, they hover round In waking and in dream, And o'er our hearts, in saddest hours, They shed a golden beam. Our common joys, oh ! what are they But blessings felt within, For smallest deeds of goodness done Amid a world of sin 1 Tlfe mite we give the child of want, The slightest word of cheer, That lifts a heart with sorrow bowed, Or dries a falling tear. Our common joys, oh ! what are theyl The priceless pearls and gold, ■Wliicli Memory sifts upon the heart When life is growing old; The thought that we have treasured up Where nought can steal away — A consciousness of doing good, With every passing day. THE ^IT OF THE FAMILY " Are his wits safe 1 Is he not h'ght of b-raia V — Shakspeare. Feared by the whole household, is the Wit of the Family; dreaded by cousins and connections ; avoided by visitors ; en- couraged by father and mother; and concihated by brothers and sisters. He is Sir Oracle^ and when he " opes his mouth, let no dog bark." Conticuere omnes — all listen, all applaud. His platitudes are ranked above proverbs, and his paradoxes are prodigious. His forte is sarcasm, and he is apt upon occa- sion to be terriblv severe. He considers fault- findino: an indi- cation of superior discernment, and to " run down" people and things in general is his delight. His rudeness is tolerated on account of his wit, and his reputation for humor frequently saves him from chastisement. His repetitions of worn-out jokes, his second-hand sayings, crmii his cocta^ are quoted as extraordi- narily clever, and although the family have heard each and every one of his jests a thousand times, they are ready to expire w^ith laughter whenever he retails them. If a stranger happen in at dinner, or for the evening, he at first finds it difiicult to comprehend the reason of the frequent cachinatory explosions, whenever a certain stupid looking youth makes a common-place repartee, or rehearses an antique anecdote; but the m.ystery soon becomes solved, and his mind enlightened, when he is in- formed — as he is certain to be, before he has been in the house a quarter of an hour — that Bob is " wonderful smart," the most satirical chap, the capitalest mimic, the admirablest punster, so amusing, so droll, so queer, so funny — in short, the acknow- ledged " Wit of the Family?' Bob w^as a dull boy at school — a very dull boy, but so was Sir Walter Scott. He was always at the foot of his class, never would learn his lessons, never passed a fair examination in any one study, but neither did Richard Brindlc}'' Sheridan. Great archetypes these for dolts and dunces at school. The 32 THE ^VIT OF THE FAMILY. example was appropriate, the parallel perfect, so long as Bob was a boy ; but from the very moment he emerged from child- hood, his models were not imitated and the resemblance ceased. He was as dull a youth in college, as he had been a boy at school. He came " within an ace" of not getting his degree, but consoled himself by saying, as many of his predecessors had said before, and so often, that it had become one of the " stand- ing jokes" in the college, he intended to rise suddenly in the world, and not by degrees. After four j^ears passed in vacant idleness and profitless association of congenial spirits. Bob " studied the law," of course — that is, he entered his name and person in the office of an attorney, perhaps his own father, or some one equally indulgent. There he dwaddled for three years ; read French novels, and smoked segars ; played on a wind instrument at a private musi- cal society, and frequented the opera, where he turned up his nose at the performance and the ladies' dresses. He was then " admitted to the bar," but it strangely haj^pens that he never has any business, nor a single brief, nor so much as the drawing up of a deed. During all this time, while a dull boy at school, a vacant idler at college, a loiterer about the precincts of the law, he lives, with occasional absences, at home, in his father's house, under his mother's e3''e — and was, and is, and will be, so long as that household lasts, the Wit of the Pamily. What would be re- sented as insolence in another, is mere fun in him ; what would be punished as unwarrantable liberties, is only " his ways ;" what would be frowned down as vulgarity, is in him freedom of manners. If a friend comes in, and his feelings are wounded by one of Bob's severe remarks, he is told not to mind it, " it was only a joke ;" — if a young lady is caused to blush crimson by a queer allusion, or shocked and disgusted by his sportive familiarity, she is advised not to take notice of it, — "' Bob is pri- vileged, you know — he means no harm — he is such a funny fellow !" The family think it very naughty, indeed, for any body to kick Bob, for his impudence, or tweak his nose for one of his harmless witticisms, or threaten to turn him out of doors unless he behaved more like a gentleman. " It is strange — very — that people don't understand our Bob better ; he don't mean THE WIT OF THE FAMILY. 33 anything ; it is all in fun." Nevertheless, persons out of doors who are the subject of his pleasant sarcasm and playful irony, are in the position of that individual in the fable, who did not like to be jumped upon by a donkey. Therefore, it is alwaya safest for him to confine his severity to members of his paternal household, and never insult any lady, except when she ventures on a visit to his mother and sisters. It is just possible for him to be tolerated by a few old friends and near relations ; but he cannot be sure of immunity, except when it is perfectly under- stood that he is " The Wit of the Familv.'" For my own part, not being very quick at taking a joke, or guessing a conundrum, or discovering the concealed meaning of equivocal grossness, I could never appreciate the cleverness nor admire the verbal dexterity of an acknowledged wit. It always seems to me, that he is an insufierable bore. There are few inflictions more tedious than the company of one who is making perpetual efforts to astonish you. I ahvays feel myself called upon to say something brilliant by way of rejoinder, and as I generally fail in this respect, I am doubly annoyed by my own stupidity, and the sneers of my interlocutor. I am a quiet man, one of whom it cannot be said, as Steele sagaciously ob- served of Shakspeare, *' he has an agreeable wildness of imagi- nation." I therefore " cotton," to use a coinage of Mrs. Fanny Kemble Butler, to people who talk sense rather than wit, who dehght more in extolKng merit than in detecting faults. I value the man who possesses a sound judgment above him who has a turn for ridicule. True wit and genuine humor are quahties as fascinating as they are rare, but nothing is more common or dis- pleasing, than an affectation of the one, or low attempts at the other. There is nothing more annoying to a sensible person than an encounter with a professed wit. You are constantly afraid that one of his random arrows will hit you; for, however blunt or poorly feathered it may be, it is sure to reach its mark, if wafted and guided by the laughter of those present. You can neither retort rudeness when it comes from such a quarter, nor resent an insult, without incurring the imputation of a sudden and cap- tious temper. Your only refuge is, to adopt a forcible phrase of the vulgar, " to grin and bear it." You may resolve at the moment within yourself to cane the professed wit, the first time 34 SIN NO MORE. you catch him alone ; but, before long, you laugh at yourself for being angry with a fool — a Harlequin of society, who is suffered to cut up his antics, crack his traditionary jests, and even thrust his cap and bells into your face, exciting nothing less than a smile of derision. Of those pretended votaries of Monus, there are many. They differ in kind and degree. Some are public, and they shine at great dinners ; some are convivial, and ttiey dazzle at small sup- pers ; some are legal, and they coruscate in the courts ; some are medical, and they make merry of disease and death ; some are clerical, and . they torture texts for the diversion of the brethren ; and some arc domestic, and they are excruciatingly funny about everything, and thought the world of at home, and abominated everywhere else — of whom, I have endeavored to describe a specimen under his accorded title, " The Wit of the TamUy." ■<•*- SIN NO MORE. BY SAMUEL WOODWORTH. A SONG of gratitude begin, To praise the God who saves from sin ; Who marks the penitential tear, And deigns the contrite sigh to hear. Who whispers peace, when we our sins deplore, " Thy God condemns thee not — offend no more." But ah ! such love can ne'er be sung, Such boundless grace, by mortal tongue, For e'en celestial minstrels deem Their highest skill below the theme, Yet mortals can with gratitude adore The God who pardons all who " sm no riiore." Dear Lord, is this condition all, To fight the foes that wrought our fall ? Thus armed with Hope, I'll quell a host, Not let my heavenly seat be lost. Oh, then repeat the sweet assurance o'er, " Thy God will not condemn thee— sin no more." THE NATUEALIST: OR, BIHDS OF A FEAT II EH. As you pass along the wooded outskirts of the hamlet, notice, for a moment, that row of sullen, moody-looking birds, about twice the size of a common turkey. They are sitting on that old log, resting from their labors : labors that have quite over- come them, and have, in truth, incapacitated them for a flight above the wood. But in what have they been engaged ? And why, as they sit thus leisurely, does not the sportsman make them his mark ? They are a species of falcon or hawk, of a giant size, and are well known in some parts of our country, by the famiUar coo^nomen of •• Buzzards." Those who notice their habits, know that they soar in the air with a watchful but slug- gish movement, over forest and iield, passing without obser\ing all the delightful perfumes of the blooming orchard and of the clovered meadow, deigning never to stoop to earth till they snuff the pestilential air of a dead and decajnng animal, when they quickly alight upon the carrion and engorge their depraved appetites upon the revolting morsel. The fowUng-piece seldom disturbs them, for they are utterly worthless, except for the £lthy office which they occupy. They are Nature's feathered scavengers. Analogous to this unlovely bird, is a character among men. Yes, such is he who loves to feast his imagination upon the vices of mankind, who stores in his mind nothing but the frailties of his fellow-beings, passes each amiable trait unnoticed, and pounces with the perverted taste of the turkey -buzzard, upon that only which is odious. His eye sees nothing but gloomy prospects, his ear listens onW to hideous sounds, his olfactories perceive nothing but the inodorous. "When a person of distin- guished merit passes by, whose virtues obtrude themselves upon tis consideration, he either detects something to find fault with, 36 THE NATURALIST '. or he allows Envy (which is rottenness to the bones,) to dispos- Bot^s him of all the happiness he might otherwise feel in the advancement of a neighbor to a post of honor : and all the pleasure he might enjoy in the virtuous conduct or useful life of some worthy companion. And all this hatefulness of character, in the very height of its imperfection, is attained by the indul- gence of an undiaritahlc disposition. But let us return to the quiet portico of our own little cot- tage ; and as we enjoy the retirement and shade of the fragrant honey-suckle, observe for a moment, that beautiful little thing that darts from flower to flower so quickly that we scarce can tell what it is. At one moment we declare it as a bee, but the next we are assured it is a bird. Yes, it is the very link between the insect and the feathered creation. Our Maker seems to have formed her to elicit admiration, and we know not which to dwell upon most, the prismatic colors of her plumage, the deli- cacy of her frame, or the agility of her movements. But there is more than grace in her action — there is music there. The rapid flapping of her tiny wing produces the sound from which she takes her name of Hummino'-bird. But step this way — ^it is a digression from our subject — but only for a moment. Come close to the lilac-bush, raise yourself now on tiptoe — look down, just here. Peep into that thimble-like nest, see its miniature deposit of two httle peas of eggs. "We wonder how she hides her precious treasure from curious eyes, and from the crushing hand of wanton boys ! But M^hen we behold those tiny patches of green moss, the very color of the branch on which the nest hangs, so nicely thatching the whole of her paradise home, that the eye of the keenest is deceived, and few would take it for other than a clumsy knot, from whence a branch had some time since been broken, we admire her do. mestic economy and can scarce help exclaiming : " Little one, thou wast taught of thy Maker." But see her now, as she darts from flower to flower, and dips her needle-like beak into the very calyx of the deepest, and extracts from thence its sweet- est nectar. She sees nothing but the beautiful, lives among life's odors, and tastes nothing but the sweets that this w^orld affords. Beautiful Humming-bird ! thou art a gem even among the handiwork of God ! And such among human beings is he whose benevolent heart finds a ready excuse for the peccadilloes EVERY-DAY LIFE. 37 and slips of his fellow-mortals. He takes 2^^e<^sure in the amia- bility of this one, and delights in the noble generosity of the other. He sees and appreciates each excellence that adorns his companion, enjoys all that is good ; and if forced at any time to notice something that looks Hke fallen nature, ho hides with the mantle of that Heaven-born charity, which " covers a multitude of sins," the faults which pain him to his heart, and drive him, perchance, to his closet to petition for his friend the forgiveness of a long-suffering God. Eeader, it is a trite old adage, " Birds of a feather flock together." And where shall we find our companionship ? With th« Buzzard or the Humminij-bird ? — with the Censorious or the Charitable ? EYEEY-DAY LIFE A FAMILY resembles at the same time a poem and a machine. Of the poetry of it or the song of the feelings which streams through all parts and unites them together, which wreathes flowers around life's crown of thorns, and clothes " the bare hills of reality" with the greenness of hope — of this every heart knows. But the machinery, (without whose well-accompanied movements Vopera della vita is entirely unsupported,) m.any consider as unimportant and neglect it. And still this part of the plan of domestic life is not the least essential, for its harmo- nious operation. It is with this machinery as with that of a clock. If the wheels, springs, &c., are in good order, the pen- dulum needs but a touch, and everything begins its proper mo- tion. Everything goes on in order and quiet, as if of itself, and the golden bands of peace and prosperity point out all the hours upon its clear face. THE OLD APPLE TREB. BY MKS. ANN S. «TEPnKN3. I AM tliinlsing of the homestead With its low and sloping roof, And the maple boughs that shadowed it. With a grocn and leafy woof; I am thinking of the lilac trees, That shook their purple plumes, And when the sash was open, Shed fragrance through our rooms, I am thinking of the rivulet, With its cool and silvery flow, Of the old grey rock that shadowed it, And the pepper-mint below. I am not sad nor sorrowful. But memories will come, So leave me to my solitude. And let me think of home. There -was not around my birth-place A thicket or a flower. But childish game or friendly face Has given it a power To haunt me in my after life, And be with me again, A sweet and pleasant memory Of mingled joy and pain. But the old and knotted apple-tree That stood beneath the hill, My heart can never turn to it, But with a pleasant thrill. Oh, what a dreamy life I led, Beneath its old green shade "Where the daisies and the buttcr-cui* A pleasant carpet made. THE OLD APPLE TREE. 39 'Twas a rough old tree in spring-time, When with a bkistering sound, The wind came hoarsely sweeping Along the frosty ground. But \Yhen there rose a rivalry 'Tween clouds and pleasant weather, 'Till the sunshine and the rain drops Came laughing down together • — That patriarch old apple tree Enjoyed the lovely strife, The sap sprang lightly through its veins, And circled into life ; A cloud of pale and tender buds Burst o'er each rugged bough. And amid the startling verdure, The robins made their vow. That tree was very beautiful When all the leaves were green, And rosy buds lay opening Amid their tender sheen. When the bright translucent dew-drops Shed blossoms as they fell, And melted in their fragrance Like music in a shell. It was greenest in the summer time, When cheerful sunlight wove. Amid its thrifty leafiness, A warm and glowing love ; When swelling fruit blushed ruddily, To summer's balmy breath, And the laden boughs drooped heavilyj To the green sward underneath. 'Twas brightest in a rainy day, When all the purple West Was piled with fleecy storm-clouds, That never seemed at rest ; When a cool and lulling melody. Fell from the dripping eaves. And soft, warm drops came pattering Upon the restless leaves. But. oh ! the scene was glorious, When clouds were lightly riven, And there, above my valley home, Came out the bow of Heaven ; 40 THE OLD APPLE TREE. And in its fitful brilliancy, Iliino; quivcruig on high, Like a jeweled arch of paradise, Reflected through the sky. I am thinking of the footpath My constant visits made, Between the dear old homestead, And that leafy apple shade ; Where the flow of distant waters Came with a tinkling sound, Like the revels of a fairy band, Beneath the fragrant ground. I haunted it at even-tide, And dreamily would lie, And watch the crimson twilight, Come stealing o'er the sky ; 'Twas sweet to see its djnng gold Wake up the dusky leaves, To hear the swallows twittering Beneath the distant eaves, I have listened to the music — A low, sweet minstrelsy, Breathed by a lonely night-bird, That haunted that old troe, 'Till my heart has swelled with feelings For which it had no name, A yearning love of poesy, A thirsting after fame. I have gazed up through the foliage With dim and tearful eyes. And with a holy reverence, Dwelt on the changing skies, 'Till the burning stars were peopled With forms of soirit-birth. And I've almost heard their harp-strings Reverberate on earth. -•••- THE OLD DEACON BY MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS. " She loved not wisely, but too well." It was a balmy pleasant Sabbath morning; so green and tranquil was our valley home, that the very air seemed more holy than on other days. The dew w^as floating in a veil of soft mist from the meadows on School Hill, where the sun- shine came warmly, while the wild-flow^ers in the valley lay in shadow, still heavy with the night rain. The trees which feathered the hill-sides, were vividly green, and Castle Eock towered — a magnificent picture — its base washed by the water, and darkened by unbroken shadow, while a soft fleecy cloud, woven and impregnated with silvery hght, floated among its topmost cliffs. The two villages lay upon their opposite hills, with the deep river ghding between, like miniature cities, deserted by the feet of men ; not a sound arose to disturb the sweet music of nature, for it was the hour of morning prayer, and there was scarcely a hearth-stone which, at that time, was not made a domestic altar. At last a deep bell-tone came sweeping over the valley from the Episcopal steeple, and was answered by a cheerful peel from the belfry of our new academy. The reverberations Were still sounding, mellowed by the distant rocks, when the hitherto silent village seemed suddenly teeming with life. The dwelling-houses w^ere flung open, and the inhabitants came forth in smiling family-groups, prepared for w^orship. Gradually they divided into separate parties. The Presbyterians \valked slowly toward their huge old meeting-house, and the more gail^'^-dressed Episcopahans, seeking their more fashionable house of worship. It was a pleasant sight — those people, simple in their habits, yet stern if not bigoted sectarians, gathering together for so good a purpose. Old people were out — grand 44 THE OLD DEACON. fathers and grandmothers, with the blossom of the grave on their aged temples. Children, with their rosy cheeks and sunny eyes, rendered more rosy and more bright with pride of their white frocks, pretty straw bonnets and pink wreaths. It w^as pleasant to see the little m.en and women striving in vain to sub- due their bounding steps, and school their sparkling faces to a solemnity befitting the occasion. There might be seen a newly- married pair walking bashfully apart, not daring to venture on the unprecedented boldness of hnkmg arms in public, yet feeling very awkward, and almost envying another couple w^ho led a roguish little girl between them. She — a mischievous little thing — all the time exerting her baby strength to wnng that chubby hand from her mother's grasp — pouting her cherry lips when either of her scandalized parents checked her bounding step or too noisy prattle, and, at last, subdued only by intense admiration of her morocco shoes, as they flashed in and out like a brace of wood-hlies, beneath her spotted muslin dress. Apart from the rest, and, perhaps, lingering along the green sward which grew rich and thick on either side of the high-way, another group, perchance, w^as gathered. Young girls, school- mates and friends, with their heads bending together, and smiles dimpling their fresh hps, all doubtless conversing about sacred themes befitting the day. Such was the aspect of our village on the Sabbath, when the subject of this little sketch takes us to the old Presbyterian meeting-house on School Hill, a sombre ancient pile, already familiar to those of our readers who have read the " Home Sketches" preceding this. Our academy bell had not ceased ringing, when the congre- gation came slowly in through the different doors of the meeting- bouse, and arranged themselves at will in the square pews which crowded the body. The minister had not yet arrived, a circum- stance which occurred to some of the congregation as somewhat singular. Twenty years he had been their pastor, and during that time, had never once kept his congregation waiting. At length he appeared at the southern entrance, and walked up the aisle, followed by the grey-headed old deacon. The minis- ter paused at the foot of the pulpit stairs, and with a look of deep and respectful reverence, held the door of the " Deacon's Seat," while the old man passed in. That little attention went THE OLD DEACON. 45 to the deacon's heart ; he raised his heavy eyes to the pastor ^Yith a meek and heart-touching expression of gratitude, that softened many who looked upon it, even to tears. The minister turned away and went up the stairs, not in his usual sedate manner, but hurriedly, and with unsteady footsteps. When he arrived in the pulpit, those who sat in the gallery, saw him fall upon his knees, bury his face in his hands, and pray earnestly, and it might be, weep, for when he arose his eyes were dim and flushed. Directly after the entrance of the minister and deacon, came two females, one a tall, spare w^oman, with thin features, very pale, and bespeaking continued but meekly-endured suffering. There was a beautiful and Quaker-like simplicity in the book muslin kerchief folded over the bosom of her black silk dress, with the corners drawn under the riband strings in front, and pinned smoothly to the dress behind. Her grey hair was parted neatly under the black straw bonnet, and those w^ho knew her re- marked that it had gained much of its silver since she had last entered that door. In her arms the matron bore a rosy infant, robed in a long white frock, and an embroidered cap. A faint color broke into her sallow cheek, for though she did not look up, it seemed to her as if every eye in that assembly was turned upon her burthen. They were all her neighbors, many of them kind and truthful friends, who had knelt atthe same commu- nion-table with her for years. Yet she could not meet their eyes, nor force that tinge of shame from her pure cheek, but moved humbly forward, weighed to the dust wnth a sense of humihation and suffering. A shght, fair creature, walked by her side, partly shrinking behind her all the way, pale and drooping, like a crushed lily. It was the deacon's daughter, and the babe wai5 hers, but she was unmarried. A black dress and plain white Vandyke supplanted the mushn that, in the day of her innocence, had harmonized so sweetly with her pure complexion. The close straw bonnet was the same, but its trimming of pale blue was displaced by a white satin riband, while the rich and abun- dant brown curls that had formerly drooped over her neck, were o-athered up, and parted plainly over her forehead. One look she cast upon the congregation, then her eyes fell, the long lashes dropped to her burning cheek, and with a downcast brow she followed her mother to a seat, but not that occupied by the 4G THE OLD DEACON. old deacon. There was a slight bustle when she entered, and many eyes were bent on her, a few from curiosity, more from an impulse of commiseration. She sat motionless in a coiner of a pew, her head dropping forward, and her eyes fixed on the small hands that lay clasped in her lap. After the little party was settled^ a stillness crept over the house ; you might have heard a pin drop, or tlie rustle of u silk dress, to the extremity of that large room. All at once there arose a noise jit the door opposite the pulpit ; it was but a footstep ringing on the threshold stone, and yet the people turned their heads and looked startled, as if somethins; uncommon were about to happen. It was only a handsome, bold-looking young man, who walked up the aisle with a haughty step, and entered a pew on the opposite side from that occupied by the mother and daughter, and somewhat nearer the pulpit. A battery of glances was levelled on him from the galleries, but he looked carelessly up, and even smiled when a young girl, by whom he seated him- self, drew back with a look of indignation to the farthest corner of the pew. The old deacon looked up as those bold footsteps broke the stillness ; his thin cheek and lips became deathly white, he grasped the railing convulsively, half rose, and then fell forward with his face on his hands, and remained motionless as before. Well might the wronged old man yield, for a moment, to the infirmities of human nature, even in the house of God. That bold man who thus audaciously intruded into his presence, had crept like a serpent to his hearth-stone — had made his hon- est name a bye-word, and his daughter, the child of his old age, a creature for men to bandy jest about. But for him, that girl now shrinkinrr from the o-aze of her own friends, would have remained the pride of his home, a ewe lamb in the church of God. Through his wiles she had fallen from the high place of her religious trust, and now, in the fulness of her penitence, she had come forward to confess her fault and receive forgiveness of the church it had disgraced. The old deacon had lost his children one by one, till this gentle girl alone was left to him ; he had folded a love for her, his latest born, in his innermost heart, till all unconsciously she had become to it an idol. The old man thought it was to punish him, that God had permitted her tosink into a temptation; he said so, beseechingly, to the elders of the church, when, at her re- THE OLD DEACON. 47 quest, he called them together, and made known her disijrace. He tried to take some of the blame upon himself; said that he had, perhaps, been less indulgent than he should have been, and so her affections had been more easily won from her home and duty — that he feared he had been a proud man — spiritually proud, but now ho was more humble, and if his heavenly Father had allowed these things in order to chasten him, the end had been attained ; he was a stricken old man, but could say, " the will of God be done." Therefore he besought his brethren not to cast her out to disgrace, but to accept her confession of error and repentance ; to be merciful and to receive her back to the church. He went on to say how humbly she had crept to his feet, and prayed him to forgive her ; how his wife bad spent night after night in prayer for her fallen child, and so he left her in their hands, only entreating that they would deal mercifully by her, and he would bless them for it. Willingly would the sympathizing elders have received the stray lamb again, without further humiliation to the broken- hearted old man; but it could not be. The ungodly were will- ing to visit the sins of individuals on a whole community. The purity of their church must be preserved — the penance ex- acted. From the time of that church meeting, the poor father bent himself earnestly to the strengthening of his child's good pur- poses. He made no complaint, and strove to appear — na}^, to be — resigned and cheerful ; he still continued to perform the office of deacon, though the erect gait and somewhat dignified consciousness of worth that formerly distinguished him, had ut- terly disappeared. On each succeeding Sabbath, his brethren observed some new prostration of strength. Day by day, his cheek grew thin — his voice hollow, and his step more and more feeble. It was a piteous sight — a man who had been remark- able for bearing his years so bravely, moving through the isles of that old meeting-house with downcast eyes, and shoulders fitooping as beneath a burden. At last the mildew of grief began to wither up the memory of that good man. AYhen the first indications of this appeared, the hearts of his brethren yearned toward the poor deacon, with a united feeling of deep commiseration. The day of Juha's humiliation had been appointed, and the Sabbath which pre- 48 THE OLD DEACON. ceded it was a sacramental one. The old deacon was getting very decrepit, and his friends would have persuaded him from performing the duties of the day. He shook his head, remarked that they were very kind, but he was not ill, so they let him bear the silver cup filled with consecrated wine, as he had done for twenty years before, though many an eye filled with tears as it marked the continued trembling of that hand, which more than once caused the cup to shake, and the w^ne to run down its sides on the floor. There was an absent smile upon his face when he came to his daughter's seat. On finding it empty he stood bewildered, and looked helplessly round upon the congre- gation, as if he would have inquired why she was not there. Suddenly he seemed to recollect : a mortal paleness overspread his face. The wine-cup dropped from his hand, and he was led away, crying like a child. Many of his brethren visited the afflicted man during the next week. They always found him in his orchard, wandering about under the heavy boughs, and picking up the withered green aj^ples which the worms had eaten away from their unripe stems. These he dihgently hoarded away near a large sweet- briar bush, w^hich grew in a corner of the rail-fence. On the next Sabbath- he appeared in the meeting-house, accompanied by a minister as we have described, to be outraged in the very house of God, by the presence of the man who had desolated his home. It is little wonder, that even there, his just wrath was, for a moment, kindled. The service began, and that erring girl listened to it as one in a dream. Her heart seemed in a painful sleep ; but when the minister closed his Bible, and sat down, the stillness made her start. A keen sense of her posi- tion came over her. She cast a frightened look on the pulpit, and then sunk back pale and nervous, her trembling hand wandering in search of her mother's. The old lady looked on her with fond grief, whispered soothing words, and tenderly pressed the little hand that so imploringly besought her pity. Still the poor girl trembled, and shrunk in her seat as if she would have crept away from every human eye. The minister arose, his face looked calm, but the paper which contained the young girl's confession shook violently in his hands as he unrolled it. Julia knew that it was her duty to arise. She put forth her hand, grasped the carved work of the seat, and THE OLD DEACON. 49 stood upright till the reading was finished, staring, all the time, wildly, in the pastor's face, as if she wondered what it could all be about. She sat down again, pressed a hand over her eyes, and seemed asking God to give her more strength. The minister descended from the pulpit, for there was yet to be another ceremony : a baptism of the infant. That gentle, errino; girl was to go up with the child of her shame, that it might be dedicated to God before the congregation. She arose with touching calmness, took the babe from her mother's arms, and stepped into the aisle. She wavered at first, and a keen sense of shame dyed her face, neck, and very hands, with a pain- ful flush of crimson, but as she passed the pew where young Lee was sitting, an expression of proud anguish came to her face, her eyes filled with tears, and she walked steadily forward to the communion-table, in front of her father's seat. There was not a tearless eye in that whole congregation. Aged, stern men, bowed their heads to conceal the sympathy betrayed there. Young girls— careless, light-hearted creatures, who, never dream- ing of the frailty of their own natures, had reviled the fallen girl, now wept and sobbed to see her thus publicly humbled. Young Lee became powerfully agitated; his breast heaved, his face flushed hotly, then turned very pale, and at last he started up, flung open the pew door, and hurried up the aisle with a disor- dered and unequal step. "What name?" inquired the pastor, bending toward the young mother, as he took the child from her arms. Before she had time to speak, Lee stood by her side, and an- swered in a loud, steady voice : " That of his father, James Lee !" The trembling of that poor girl's frame was visible through the whole house, her hand dropped on the table, and she leaned heavily on it for support, but did not look up. The minister dipped his hand in the antique China bowl, laid it upon the babe's forehead, and in a clear voice pronounced the name. A faint * cry broke from the child, as the cold drops fell on his face. The sound seemed to arouse all the hitherto unknown and mysterious feehngs of paternity slumbering in the young father's heart.. His eye kindled, his cheek glowed, and impulsively he extended his arms and received the infant. His broad chest heaved be- neath its tiny form, and his eyes seemed fascinated by the deep 50 THE OLD DEACON. blue orbs, wliich the little creature raised smilingly and full of wonder to his face. Lee bore his son down the aisle, laid him gently in his astonished grandmother's lap, and returned to the pulpit again. Julia still had moved a little, and overcome with agitation, leaned heavily against the railing of the pulpit-stairs. Lee bent his head, and whispered a few earnest words, and held forth his hand. She stood for a moment, like one bewildered, gave a doubtful, troubled look into his eyes, and laid her hand in his. He drew her gently to the table, and in a firm, respect- ful voice, requested the minister to commence the marriage ser- vice. The pastor looked puzzled and irresolute. The whole pro- ceeding was so unexpected and strange, that even he lost I presence of mind. " A publishment is necessary to our lav. . ' he said, at length, casting a look on the deacon, but the old man remained motionless, with his hands clasped over the railing, and his face bowed upon them. Thinking him too much agitated to speak, and uncertain of his duty, the divine lifted his voice and demanded if any one present had aught to say against a mar- riage between the two persons standing before him. Every face in that church was turned on the dC'Hcon, but he remained silent and motionless, so the challenge was unanswered, and the minister felt compelled to proceed with the ceremony, for he remembered what was at first forgotten, that the pair had been published, according to law, months before, when Lee had, without giving reason, refused to fulfill his contract. The brief, but impressive ceremony, was soon over, and with an expression of more true happiness, than had ever been wit- nessed on his fine features before, Lee conducted his wife to her mother, and placed himself respectfully by her side. The poor bride was scarcely seated, when she buried her face in her hand- kerchief, and burst into a passion of tears, which seemed as if it never would be checked. The congregation went out. The young people gathered about the doors, talking over the late strange scene, while a few members lingered behind, to speak with the deacon's wife before they left the church. Lee and his companions stood in their pew, looking anxiously toward the old man. There was something unnatural in his motionless position, which sent a thrill throuo:h the matron's heart, and chained her to the TEIFLES. 51 floor, BB if she had suddenly turned to marble. The minister came down the pulpit stairs, and advancing to the old man, laid his band kindly upon the withered fingers clasped over the rail- ing; be turned very pale, for the hand which he touched was cold and stiffened in death. The old man was feeble with grief, and when young Lee appeared before him, his heart broke amid* the rush of its strong feelings ! % -«•»- TRIFLES, A FLOWER, given by one we love, Is prized far more than sparkling gems, A smile, a look, a gentle word, Outweighs the costliest diadems. Then why should we those trifles call, Which make the sum of life, the all That man doth live for here below, And make him joy or sorrow know 1 A tear upon the loved one's cl:eek, Will make the haughtiest spirit quaii, A look of pain, or grief, or care, Will turn the rose to lily pale. Then why should we those trifles callj Which make the sum of life, the all That man doth live for here below, (Vnd make him joy or sorrow know 1 I A look of scorn hatli led to hate, A kindly smile hath won a heart, The one leaves but unhappiness, The other's joy shall ne'er depart. Then why should we those trifles call, Which make the sum of life, the all That man doth live for here below, And make him joy or sorrow know 1 LOVE ON, BY ELIZA COOK. Love on, love on, the soul must have a shrine — The rudest breast must find some hallowed spot: The God who formed us left no spark divine In him who dwells on earth and loveth not. Devotion's links compose a sacred chain Of holy brifi^htness and unmeasured length ; The world with selQsh rust and stain May mar its beauty, but not touch its strength. Love on, love on— ay, even though the heart We fondly build on, proveth like the sand : Though one by one, faith's corner-stones depart. And even hope's last pillar fails to stand : Though we may dread the lips we once believed, And know their falsehood shadows all our days, Who would not sooner trust and be deceived Than own the mean, cold spirit that betrays % Love on, love on, though we may live to see The dear face wither in its circling shroud ; Though dark and dense the cloud of death may be, Affection's glory yet shall pierce the cloud. The truest spell that Heaven can give to lure, The sweetest prospect Mercy can bestow, Is the bless'd thought that bids the soul be sure 'Twill meet above the things it loved below. Love on, love on— Creation breathes the words; Their mystic music even dwells around ; The strain is echoed by unnumbered chords. And gentlest bosoms yield the fullest sound. As flowers keep springing, tho' their dazzling bloom Is oft put forth for worms to feed upon, So hearts, though wrung by traitors and the tomb, Shall still be precious, and shall still live on. JEANNE D»AEC. A HISTORICAL SKETCH. There was joy and revelry at the Court of Charles VI. ; gay pennons were flyincr ; the bells sent forth a merry peal, while peans of praise ascended from the old cathedral, that a pnnce was born to France ! Charles received the congratulaticrns of the courts with dignity and grace, deeply sympathizing in their feelings of joy. The first wish of his heart was gratified in the birth of a son and heir— the second, that his much loved consort was in safety. After the Court had broken up in the evening, Charles trod with a grave and measured step the galleries and anti-rooms, until he^'came to a door at the end of the corridor. Opening it, he threw off his court dress, and ringing a silver bel], said to a page in waiting : " Tell Mon. Casini, I am ready to receive him." A person entered from a private door, tall and stately in fig- ure, apparently from sixty to sixty-five years of age, dressed in a long robe of black velvet, with a cap of the same on his head. His fece was pale with thought, the forehead high and bald, while the eyes, deep set and dark, glowed with the fight of enthusiasm and truth. Charles waited a moment, and then said : " The Prince's natal star, how is it ? Have you cast his horriscope ?" « I was inspecting the heavens with much mterest, when you sent for m.e. Sire, to see if it were the same as last evening. The young infant's star then rose beautifully, and increased in bril- liancy as it approached the meridian. I have calculated the horriscope, the dechnation and direct ascension of the surround- ing planets with care." « Do any malign influences threaten it ?" " None, Sire, excepting " " Speak fearlessly, Casini." 54 JEANNE D'ARC. " I do not know fear, Sire, when elucidating these sacred mys- teries — excepting the adverse influence which your star will ex- ercise over it." " Oh, I recollect ! at the angle of forty-five degrees, my star looses its lustre. I will trust it." The astrologer looked attentively at Charles, then said: '' There is amid the astronomical lore of my family, this old distich, which has not yet been fulfilled, but w^hich was realized last night in the planetary destiny of the young Prince. Observe the conjunction, Sire ! (1.) The planet that rises on Jupiter's right (4) of Capricorn, close by the equator line, (2) and reaches the zenith at noontide of night, (5) will rule the bright star that there dare appear, (3) and enters its course in the zodiac sign, (3) with love and fame, and an early-dressed bier. These cal- culations and predictions were made two hundred years since, by Casini, the Hermit." " Does the early death," said Charles, " refer to the Prince, or to the individual at whose birth the star near Jupiter, pre- sided?" " The latter, Sire. Oh ! it is a beautiful planet ! pure and brilliant in its light, fixed far above in illimitable space, yet rul- ing in love, the destiny of mortals !" " My son ?" " Yours, Sire !" replied Casini. " But can I not be spared? every moment now, is important." Masters in every branch of education, and in every elegant exercise and accomplishment, were provided for the Dauphin Charles. He gave his attention to them with considerable energy and perseverance. Poetry, which then began to excite considerable interest in France, and the Troubadours, who sang and recited this poetry, with many other soft luxuries, exercised a strong influence on his fervid imagination. The King, his father, negotiated with Yolands, Queen of the Two Sicilies, for the hand of her daughter, Maria of Aujou, in marriage. This negotiation was averse to the wishes of Charles. Love, as dressed in poetry and romance, had thrown around him her brightest spells, her sw^eetest visions, and it was a rude awaken- ing, when his bride, plain in person and manners, though rich in possessions, whs presented to him. The marriage of the Dauphin with Maria, of Anjou, was cele- \ EANNE d'aRC 55 brated with great pomp and splendor. Festivities, tournaments, and every manly exercise, with rural sports for the peasantry, occupied the time for a month. The Dauphin, unrivalled in every accomplishment, became a great favorite with the court. His person fine, his manners frank and graceful, his temper gay, every little courtesy of life in liim seemed doubly charming. Eumor at this time gave some uneasiness at court, respecting the movements of the Burgundian party. An intercepted letter had been received, developing a plan of treachery, which made the king scowl with anger and revenge, and was fuel to the jealousy always existing between himself and cousin. The Dauphin strove to allay these bitter passions, and induced some ot the nobles to think with him. The king seemed to acquiesce in these friendly feelings, and proposed, as testimony of re- :newed confidence and regard, that the Duke of Burgundy should be invited with whatever train he chose, to spend a few days at the court, and join the festivities of the hunting season. Queen Yolanda, a woman of masculine mind, and great pene- tration, asked the king, if the Dutchess and their distinguished son LeBon, would be of the party? The king replied, he hoped so, and trusted every mark of respect w^ould be tendered them. A short time after this, Queen Yolanda, wishing to ask permission for herself and Maria to spend a few days at the monastery of St. Catharine's, for the performance of some reli- gious ceremonies, entered the anti-room next the king's apart- ment. Not finding a page in waiting, she was leaving the room, when she overheard Du Chatel exclaim : " The deed were bet- ter done, Sire, on the road, than at the hunt. This hand is at your service to strike the blow." Near the small village of La Mannieul, a bridge of some length had been thrown over a rapid stream, easily swollen by the rain. On one side of this bridge was a piece of wood, on the other a mountain shutting out every ray of light. Clouds, heavy with rain, hung in the dark sky, the wind moaned as if in mortal agony, and pools of water stood in indented places, when four horsemen came riding abreast, engaged in conversation, their horses' hoofs striking the bridge simultaneously. They were confronted by four others, who, wheeling suddenly from out the wood, and" each one choosing his antagonist, pressed them with fury ; the taller of the party exclaiming, " I have thee 5G JEANNE d'aRC. at bay now, <-liirk Duke of Burgundy !" Blows quick and sharp fell on the night air ! — a heavy fall ! — a groan ! — another and another! — when a lliirLl party entered the bridge, their mirth scarcely chocked by the sound of arms. '^ What have we here ?'' said the Dauphin, returning with several gentlemen from a hunting excureion of some days. " Different game from deer, I trow 'f " Game to suit the king's palate;" said Tennigui Du Chatek " A boar's head, (referring to the Burgundian coat of arms,) for the first dish." " Now, Heaven forfend that such a foul deed should be per- petrated !" exclaimed the Dauphin. " My lather's nanie, too, maligned ! Measure your words. Sir Knight ! My blood is up ! I will answer for my actions to the king !" Grief and anger raged tumultuously in the breast of Philip Le Bon, for the murder of his father. These were soon merged, however, in a strong insatiable thirst for revenge. But how to gratify it : he took an oath never to occupy that father's seat in his ancestral halls, never in the councils of the Provinces, till that father's death was aveno'ed. But how was this to be done ? His feelings of patriotism revolted from taking over the armies he commanded, to the Enghsh ; although this seemed the only way, and had been pointed out by his officers, who sternly demanded revenge for their brave leader's death. The English were introduced into France, and the treaty of Arras, follovred by the ignominious treaty of Trojle, a short time after, disinheriting the Dauphin and placing the French crosvn upon the head of an English monarch. Two years after, diaries YL, imbecile in mind, morose in temper, closed his hfe, leaving a stain upon his name, and consequences to his son long to be regretted. Charles had now a miniature kingdom and but few subjects. He was obliged to remove his court for security, to Chinon, on the south side of the Loire. The country round was very beau- tiful, including Torrain, called the garden of France, and abound- ing in the richest productions of the climate. Henry V., the invader, was dead, but Paris and the Northern Provinces w^ere held in charge for the young prince, Henry VI. Charles, shorn of half his glory, felt deeply his altered position, but he had the ^visdom, perhaps an intuitive faculty, of choosing his counsellors JEANNE D ARC. 57 wisely, and of attaching them to bis person and interests, in some measure, perhaps, by tb® charm of his manner, the respect and reverence he always testilied to gray hairs. His love of chivalry, of poetry, and the fine arts, with his personal endow- ments, and a certain romance thrown around him, as a disin- herited prince, created much interest among the European courts, and drev/ around him not only younger sons of the nobiUty, but the greatest captains of his age. But, however happy in his counsellors, it was Yolanda, his mother and coad- jutor, who was his firmest friend, and most zealous adviser. She seemed to read the mind of Charles ; his indolent, imagina- tive, confiding character ; his need of mental stimulousto perform any'great or noble deed, and the beneficial influence a high and gifted female mind would esercise over him. She urged her daughter to exert this influence, to arouse the king to repel the incessant invasions of the English. But Maria, though finely educated, of strict principles, gentle and affectionate, had never been loved by Charles, although her conduct had secured his es- teem. His heart must be touched through the medium of his imagination, and Maria possessed neither the charm of conver- sational talent, or any particular grace of person or manner. Love of country, like a threefold chord, bound them together, inducing sacrifices, particularly in the life of Maria, which seems more like a tale of fiction and romance, than history. The Shepherdess of Domeri, paced rapidly the little path her steps had marked along the wild rushing stream that intercepted the valley. Her soul was fired with indignation at the oppres- sion exercised on the peasantry of her native village. Some more flagrant instance of tyranny had now been perpetrated, and the rumor that the English were going to besiege Orleans, the principal stronghold of Charles, sank deep in her heart. Love of country and a holy enthusiasm, glowed in her bosom ; not an enthusiasm caught from external circumstances, a light to be extinguished, but a Uving principle, originating in pure and noble elements of character, and leading to deeds of high renown 1 The afternoon passed aWay, and the silence of night rested ou everything around. Jeanne D'Arc gazed upon the light star of her nativity, with feelings of religious idolatry. Scarcely a hamlet in France at this time, but felt an interest in the aspect 58 JEANNE U ARC. of the heavens, and would give a month's hospitality to an Ijn- erant astrologer, for predicting a favorable destiny to the infant child. Jeanne knew the current of her life was not to flow in a calm and peaceful stream, but wild and rushing, fertilizing the soil o'er which it flowed, and bearing on its bosom blessings to others. She thought on enslaved France — the crimes and woes those silent watches of the night looked down upon — and apostrophizing her own particular star, as it rose fair and bright in ilhmituble space, she cried : " Let France be redeemed, and I am \^ illing to pass away and be forgotten ! Aye, to be doubly sacriticed were it possible !" She laid down on the green sward, ner eyes fixed upon her beautiful planet, when sleep fell upon them. A celestial visitant from another world, hovered over her with wings of silvery brightness, with aspect of peace and love, presenting to her mind, now disencumbered from the body, visions of future glory and beauty ! " Pursue the path where inspiration leads," was whispered in her soul's ear. " Thy sacri- fice i.s accepted, thy destiny accomplished, and France redeemed!" The Shepherdess of Domeri, (a shepherdess no longer,) sprang up. No look of fond remembrance was given to the peaceful valley. " Onward ! onward !" was her motto. The glowdng earnestness, the enthusiasm of her character, imparted itself to other kindred minds, till patriotism, like a tongue of living fire, rested on each follower of that little band, as they w^ent forth to victory or death ! Jr. ihe court of Charles was heard with mingled joy and w^on- -ler, '.ne conquests won by that fair and youthful leader, with Ler commission from above to deliver France. Her approach to Chinon with a large army flushed with success, was hailed vith shouts of rejoicing. An embassy had been sent to Charles from the towns and villages conquered, acknowledging their allegiance. Queen Yolanda seemed to comprehend immediately the high and devoted character of Jeanne D'Arc; in truth and purity of life so severely just, so beautifully righteous, her love of country, so deep in afl'ection, so strong, yet so tender, so wide and so womanly ! She staid not to ask if her commission was from on hiu'h, bearinc/ the sio:net of heaven — she knew it was orthodox to her who received it, and would be crowned with Ibe palm of victory ! •j'he king, shaking ofl" his indolence and indecision, aroused JEANNE d'aRC. rn 59 himself from his inglorious ease, bowed to the energy of truth and beauty, and thought, with others, that patriotism never before had such an advocate. Multitudes thronged to her standard. Her divine commission was fully acknowledged. Accoutred in armor raid girt with the sword, made mysteriously sacred in the eyes of her soldiers, by former conquests, she entered Orleans. Nothing could withstand the energy of her power, or circumvent her knowledge of military tactics. She headed every sally made on the English out-posts, and in the decisive engage- ment seemed to bear a charmed life, her long v/hite plume always seen where the strife was the hottest. A week from this time the city was won and the English in full retreat. Thus far every effort had proved eminently successful, but the strong wild wish of her heart now was, that Charles should be crowned at Rheims, that kingly old city, made sacred in the remembrance of all true Frenchmen by the holy associations connected with it. Many persons, and among them Charles and the brave Dubois, tried to dissuade her from the extravagant project. From Chinon to Rheims, every town was in possession of the English, and they were not willing to accept the self sacrifice she so generously offered. But what was once enthusiasm in Jeanne, was now inspira- tion. An inspiration derived from above, yet exercising itself not only through the affections, but through the reason,°the in- tellect, the imagination ; not arbitrarily, but in accordance with the powers of the mind, by a mode of operation as constant and natural as the gravitation of planets, or the chemical attraction of atoms. The expedition to Rheims was undertaken, and in defiance of fatigue, danger, and difficulties few have encountered, was crowned with success. Her followers devoted themselves to her guidance with a conviction of success, that perhaps will never be known again. Whether angel or prophetess, they cared not, she was the deliverer of France, invincible in battle, a minister- ing spirit of mercy and peace around the wounded and the dying. At Rheims the coronation took place. As Charles kneeled at the altar, Jeanne stood beside him, leaning on her snow-white banner, spotted with the Fleur de lis, of France, bearing the simple inscription, " Jesu Maria." Inspiration sat on her brow. AA ith head bowed, with resolution and sensibility in every fea- (30 JEANNE d'aRC. ture, she gazed upon the august ceremouy, then throwing her- self at the feet of the king, bathed in tears, she exclaimed : " My mission is accomplished, France is free, and the king triumph- ant !" What did Charles feel, under this hcly enthusiasm — these deep obligations ? and from a being self sacrificing — with less of earth tlian heaven? Jeanne now earnestly wished to return to her native village, but this wish was warmly opposed by the court, especially by the Queens, Yolanda and Maria. They saw the renovating influ- ence of her pure and devoted character on the king, an influence not likely to fade, uniting, as it did, the best feelings of his heart and the highest flights of his flmcy. Eiches, and honors, and courtly favors, all waited upon Jeanne, and were pressed upon her acceptance. She only asked, in her meekness and moderation, that her native town might be released from taxa- tion, and to this day the request stands recorded, a testimony of her high patriotism. The strong sentiment of royalty she cherished for the king, and the friendship of the Queen, made her present hfe bright and beautiful. Jeanne felt that she was the savior of her coun- try, that all loved and reverenced her, and she blessed God for these mercies. But she resisted these attractions — perhaps too the pleadings of her own heart — and resolved with unwavering firmness to seek the shades of retirement. Before this design could be put in execution, however, the dark and hasty tragedy of Eouen, took place, wliich not only clothed a nation in mourning and electrified Europe, but through succeeding ages, will be remembered with regret and sorrow Allthatwas mortalof Jeanne D'Arc was consumed by fire. Her expiring words were, " Jesu Maria, deliverer of the captive, re- ceive my spirit !" The beautiful planet of her nativity still rides triumphant through the heavens, and may we not hope that in the firmament above, her spirit, amid the just made perfect, shines a star of no small mao-nitude ? J. D. F. THE DESTINIES OE POETEY. (•^ SANSLATED FROM THE FEE NCR OF LAMARTINE.) S- ._<., lono; as man himself endm^es, can man's noblest faculty ,.e.nsL ? What, after all, is poetry ? Like all else in us that is iivine, it cannot be defined by one word nor by a thousand. It iS the. incarnation of the deepest things of the heart, and the most godlike things of the intellect: of the most magnificent orio:ma]s of external nature and its most melodious sounds. It is at once sentiment and sensation, spirit and matter ; and therefore it is that complete language, that peculiar language, which satis- fies trie entire man ; for the intellect, ideas ; for the soul, senti- ment; images for the imagination, and melody for the ear. Therefore iUs, that this language, when fitly spoken, transfixes man ike the thunderbolt, overcomes him with internal convic- tion and unreasoned proofs, or intoxicates like a love-potion, and lulls him motionless and charmed, hke a cradled infant, to the loving accents of a mother's voice. This also is the reason why man can neither produce nor bear much poetry ; for, laying hold of the entire man, by the soul and the sense, and exalting at once his two-fold powers, the intellect by thought, the sense Dy feehng, it exhausts him, it soon overwhelms him, like every excess of pleasure, with voluptuous weariness, and makes him pour forth in a few fines, and in a few moments, all the life and sentient power that exist in his two-fold being. Prose addresses itselt only to the intellect ; poetry at once to the intellect and the sensibilities. This language, mysterious, instinctive as it is, or rather for the very reason that it is instinctive and mysterious will never die. It is not, as they have not ceased to declare, despite the denials of successive ages, it is not merely tlie lan- guage of a people's infancy, the stammerings of human intelli- gence; it is the language of all the ages of mankind, 7iaive and 62 THE DESTINIES OF POETRY. simple, when at the cradle of the nations, loquacious and mar- vellous as a nurse beside the child's pillow ; sentimental £.nd pas- toral among young and pastoral nations ; warlike and epic among warlike and conquering tribes ; mystical, lyric, prophetic, oi aphoristic, in the theocracies of Egypt or Judea; grave, philo- sophical, and corrupting, in the advanced civilization of Rome, Florence, or of Louis XIV. ; frenzied and clamorous in periods of convulsion and ruin, as in '93 ; fresh, melancholy, doubting, timid, and bold, all together, as at present : afterwards, in the old age of nations, sad, gloomy, grieving and discouraged, as the people itself; now breathing in its verses doleful presenti- ments, fantastic reveries of the world's last catastrophe, and again the firm and divine hopes of a resurrection for humanity under another form. Such is Poetry. It is man himself ; it is the echo from within, of all his impressions ; it is the voice of thinking and seeing humanity, caught up and attuned by certain men, more truly men than the people — mens divinior — and which floats above this tumultuous and commin2:led noise of generations and survives them ; witnessing to posterity their sorrows or their joys, their deeds or their imaginings. One day, I had planted my tent in a stony field where grew a few knotty and stunted olives, under the w^alls of Jerusalem, a few hundred feet from the tower of David, and just above the fountain of Siloah, which still flows along the w^orn pavement of its grotto, near the tomb of the poet-king who has so often sung its praise. The high, black terraces which once supported the temple of Solomon, arose on my left, crowned by the three blue cupolas and the light and airy columns of the mosque of Omar, which now stands upon the ruins of Jehovah's house. The city of Jerusalem, which the plague was then ravaging, was flooded with the rays of a blinding sun, thrown back from its thousand domes, its white marbles, its towers of gilded stone, and its w\alls polished by time, and by the salt winds of the Dead Sea. Not a sound arose from its interior — sileni and mournful as the couch of a dying man ; its large gates opened, and jou. saw now and then the white turban and red cloak of the Arabian soldier, the useless sentinel of those abandoned walls ; nothing entered, noth- ing came out. Only the morning wind hfted the heaving dust if the highway, and produced for a moment the illusion of a caravan; but when the breath of wind had passed, when it had THE DESTINIES OF POETRY. 63 gone to expire upon the battlements of the Pican tower, or on the three palm trees of the house of Caiaphas, the dust fell again — the desert was once more visible : but the step of no camel nor mule sounded upon the pavement of the wa}-. Only every quarter-hour, the two embossed doors of each gate of Jerusalem, unfolded, and we saw pass out those who had died of the plague, ^^hom two naked slaves bore upon biers toward the tombs scat- iered around us. Sometimes a long procession of Turks, Arabs, Armenians, and Jews, accompanied the dead, and drew off, sing- ing, among the low olive trees ; then returned, silently and slow, Into the city. But the dead were oftener unattended. And when the two slaves had dug the sand, or the earth of the hill- side, to a few palms' depth, and placed the dead in his last couch, they sat down upon the mound which they had just raised, divided among themselves the garm.ents of the deceased, and lighting their long pipes, they smoked in silence and watched the smoke of the chibouks, rising in light blue columns, and vanishing away gracefully, in the clear, transparent air of those autumn days. At my feet stretched away the valley of Jehosa- phat, like a vast sepulchre; the parched Kedron, strewn with large pebbles, seemed to cut it as with a white furrow, and the two hill-sides that enclosed it were all white with tombs and with the sculptured turbans — the common monument of the Osmanlis A httle on the right, the hill of Ohvet was dimly seen, and between the scattered chains of volcanic cones among the mountains of Jericho, and of Saint Sabba, the horizon lengthened itself like an avenue of light between the tops of waving cypresses ; the eye sought the spot involuntarily, at- tracted by the blue, hvid lustre of the Dead Sea, which glistened at the foot of those mountains ; while behind, the blue hills of Arabia Pettsea, bounded the whole scene. But to hoimd is not the word, for the hills seemed transparent as chrystal ; and you saw, or thought you saw beyond, a vague and undefined hori- zon stretching still farther away, and floating on the ambient ex- halations of an atmosphere tinged with purple and glinimering red. It was noon : the hour when the Muezzin spies the sun from the highest gallery of the minaret, and, each hour, sings forth the hour and its prayer — a living, animated voice, that under stands what it utters and what it sings ; far more eloquent, it 64 THE DESTINIES OF TOETRY. fieems to me, than the stupid, unconscious voice of our cathedral bells. ]\[y Arabs had given the goat skin of barley to the horses tied here and there around my tent. AVith their feet bound to the rings of iron, the noble and gentle beasts stood motionless; their heads bent down and covered by their long, scattered manes, and their gray coats shining and smoking beneath the rays of a vertical sun. M}' men gathered under the shade of the largest olive ; they had spread their Damascus mats upon the ground, and now smoked in company, telling tales of the desert, or singing the verses of Antar — Antar, that ideal of the wandering Arab, at once shepherd, warrior and poet, who had described the desert to perfection in his national songs ; sublime as Homer, plaintive as Job, sentimental as Theocritus, philo- sophical as Solomon. His verses which soothe or fire the ima- gination of the Arab as nmch as the smoke of the narguile, arose in guttural sounds from the animated group of my Sais ; iind when the poet touched more skilfully or profoundly, the delicate chord of those wild, but susceptible men, you heard a slight murmur from their lips ; they joined their hands, raised them above their ears, and bowing the head, cried one after another, Allah ! Allah ! Allah ! A few paces from me, a 3'oung Turkish woman, seated on one of those little monuments of white stone, with wh.ich the hill sides around Jerusalem are so thickly strewn, was bewailing her dead husband. She seemed hardly eighteen or twenty years of age, and I never saw so ravishing an image of grief. Her profile, which the veil thrown behind, permitted me to see, had all the purity of outline in the most faultless heads of the Parthenon ; but at the same time, the softness, the suavity, and graceful languor of the Asiatic women — a beauty infinitely more feminine, more voluptuous, more fascinating than that severe and somewhat masculine beauty of the Grecian statues. Her hair, of a sort of golden blond — a color much esteemed in this land of the sun, of whose rays it is a kind of permament reflection — her hair, unbound, fell all around her and literallv swept the oround. Her bosom was entirelv uncovered, as is the custom with the women in this part of Arabia; and when she bent over to embrace the sculp- tured turban, or to place her ear against the tomb, her naked breast touched the earth and left its impress in the sand, that mould from the beautiful bosom of the buried Atala, THE DESTINIES OF POETRY. 65 the dust of the sepulchre still retained. She had strewn the tomb and the earth around with all kinds of flowers ; a beautiful Damascus carpet lay under her knees. Tpon tlio carpet were some vases of flowers and a light basket filled with figs and {Trains of barley ; for this woman was about to pass the entire day in her lamentation. A hole dug in the ground, and which, as she thought, corresponded with the ear of the dead, served to bear her voice to that other world where he slept, whom she had come to visit. From time to time she bent over towards this narrow opening ; she sang verses, interrupted by her sobs ; then she applied the ear once more as if she waited an answer ; then she began to sing again and weep. I tried to understand the words which she thus uttered, and which were audible, even w^here I sat, but my Arab drogman could not gather nor trans- late them. How I regret that loss ! AYhat depths of love and grief; what sighs, laden with the very life of two souls torn from each other's fond embrace, must those confused half-smoth- ered words have contained. Oh ! if aught could wake the dead, it were such accents murmured by such hps ! At two steps from this woman, under a piece of black cloth which was held by two reeds fastened in the ground, so as to form a protection from the heat, her two little children were playing with three black Abyssinian slaves, sitting, like then mistress, upon the carpet which covered the sand. These three women, all young and beautiful, with forms erect, and with the marked profile of the Abyssinian negro, were grouped in various attitudes, like three statues cut from a single block. One of them had one knee on the ground, and held upon the other knee one of the children, wiio was stretching out his arms toward his weeping mother ; the other had her two legs bent under her. and both hands clasped upon her blue apron, in the attitude of the Magdalene of Canova. The third was erect, and swinging her body to and fro, lulled to sleep the infant upon her breast. When the sobbing of the young widow reached the infants' ears, they began to cry ; and the three blacks, after responding by a sigh to the sigh of their mistress, began to chant some soothin"^ airs and simple words of their country, to calm the two infants. It was Sunday. Two hundred feet from me, behind the thick and hi-gh walls of Jerusalem, I heard the faint and distant echoes 60 THE DESTINIES OF POETRY. of the evening hymn, proceeding at intervals from the dark cupola of the Grecian convent. It was the hymns and psalms of David that arose; brought back here, after three thousand years, by strange voices and in a strange tongue, to the very scenes that had inspired them : and I saw on the terraces of the convent, the forms of some old monks of Palestine, going and coming, with breviary in hand, and murmuring those prayers already uttered by so many ages in varied measures and various tongues. And I, too, was there, to sing of all those things, to study history at its cradle, to ascend to its very source the u.nknown stream of a civiHzation, a religion ; to become inspired with the genius of the spot, and the hidden sense of the histories and the monuments, upon those banks which were the starting point of the modern world, and to nourish with a deeper wisdom and a truer philosophy, the grave and thoughtful philosophy of the advanced age in which we live. This scene, thrown by accident under my eyes, and recorded as one of my thousand reminiscences of travel, presented to mo almost the entire destiny and changes of all poetry. The three black slaves, lulling the infants with the simple, thoughtless songs of their country, represented the pastoral and instinctive poetry of a nation's infancy. The young Turkish widow, be- waihng her husband, and breathing her sighs into the ear of the tomb, represented elegiac and impassioned poetry — the poetry of the heart. The Arab soldiers reciting the warlike, amorous, wild verses of Antar, the epic and warlike poetry of the nomadic and conquering tribes. The Greek monks singing psalms upon their deserted terraces, the sacred and lyric poetry of the periods of rehgious enthusiasDQ and renovation; and I, myself, meditating beneath my tent and collecting historic truths or reflections throughout the earth, the poetry of philosophy and reflection, offspring of an age in which humanity studies itself and analyzes itself in the very songs W'ith which it amuses its leisure. Such is Poetry in the past. But what will it ])e in the future ? Poetry — the music of Thought conveyed to us in the music of Language. THE GOLD PEN The Age of Gold is at hand— he that doubts it can have no faith in omens. There are those who affirm it has come already — that we live in a golden age of avarice. I mean <•• the age of faLlcd gold," SO beautifully dreamed of by the ancient poets, in distinction from the brazen and iron ages. " The Pea" has become golden ! that instrument more pow- erful than the sword, more wonder-working, in fact, than the en- chanter's wand in fable — which has done, and is yet to do so much for human happiness— is now made of polished gold. Beautiful invention ! Whisper me, Fancy, of what features in American hterature is this predictive ? Of brilliancy— that is obvious : the sheen of such a pen ever present to his eye, will, by the principle of association, incite an author to polish his sentences. Of high artistic excellence : nothing is easier than to write in a slovenly manner with a goose-quill ; but now the perfect instru- ment will shame the imperfect work, should a writer allow care- less diction to flow from a golden pen. Clearly, too, is this in- vention ominous of sohd, pure, imperishable worth in future authorship. Who would write cheap literature with a golden pen ? Erilliant powers will be devoted to the best purposes. How " full of meaning" the fact, that of all the implements of art or trade in existence, that of the author alone, is best made of pure gold. Hitherto geese could boast that they furnished the pens with which human wisdom was written ; but a new era is dav^ning — this invention is its orient star ! Am I tran- scendental ? Let us then reason upon the subject coolly and succinctly. The easy flow of composition depends much upon ease of penmanship. Many a thread of argument has been broken by stopping to mend a pen : often has the author from the inter- G8 THE GOLD PEN. ruption of nibbling his quill, omitted to point his sentences : but now, once upon the track, he need never stop till the inkstand is dry ; so that not a good thought can escape him if he once catch sight of it. Further, no fact is more striking in the psychological history of man than the associated ideas to con- crete ones. A regular catenation of laws and causes, has often produced less effects through reason, than has a casual associa- tion of images through the medium of the imagination. Grant- ing that this has always been a prolific source of error and evil — must it forever be so ? May we not at last obtain advantages from the unreal thsit we have failed of extracting from the real^ And may not this charming association of gold with authorship, begin a revolution in its character, that reason, conscience, and criticism could not effect ? indicating that the golden age of avarice is fading in the west, and that of literature brightening the east ? I leave to the reader if this is not as good reasoning as the subject admits of; and as good metaphysics as Bishop Berkley's nonsense. The patriarch of old wished that his doleful complaints might be graven with an "u'on pen." We conclude that was the Iron Age. An era of sharp controversy, factious contention, and paper wars, would be appropriately symbolized by the steel pen. Those ages are vanishing away — retreating like dark clouds in the east, when the sun looks forth and paints upon them the celestial bow. In future may we anticipate that bril- liant pens will write sterling sentiments, and win " golden opin- ions.'" " The Pen" is a metonymy widely significant compared with " a pen." Thus we find Scott metonymized under the figure of " the great modern pen." In like manner we speak of" reading an author," instead of his book ; while the genius or ability dis- played in it, is often, by an easy trope, predicated not of himself but of his pen. This figure will admit of subdivision by the use of a specific adjective : — thus authors may be classified as they of the gold pen, the silver pen, the iron pen, or the steel pen. Many a beautiful gift has never been given solely because the w^ouldbe donor could not decide on a pretty or fitting selection. As this precious gem of art will solve all such perplexities, and furnish an appropriate present for every occasion or any person, it is easy to infer that the epoch of gold pens will be distio- THE GOLD PEN. 69 guished for kind feeling and generosity. In those future happy days, when not a single adult will be found in the ITnited States, barring idiots, who cannot read and write, we expect that these nice"" articles will become a kind of circulating medium for compliment and friendship. Easily transmissible even by letter, durable, useful as it is, he that cannot think of any tiling else to 2ive as a keepsake, will give a pen. Cutlery instruments are reported to divide love, and therefore unsafe presents ; a pen would be a perfectly safe gift, and any person to whom it might be unacceptable could not deserve a remembrancer of any kind. That stcreotvpe gift, a silver cup, precious as it is. has ill asso- ciations, recalling to thought a bad habit which the human race is determined to break off. Even he who gives his friend a splen- did new book is liable to give what is worth but little. Mounted with a heavy gold case, elegantly wrought, such a pen will be an offering beautiful enough for a monarch or a president. Swords oFhonor, of costliest workmanship, are conferred upon fortunate soldiers. We look for a Golden Age, when authors who have gallantly waged war against vice and folly, and done their count'rv good service on the side of truth and virtue, will receive from"' municipal corporations, or legislatures, presentation pens of exquisite beauty and richness, with appropriate devices. Like a sword to the warrior, such a gift will reward them for labors past and invite them to new achievements. " Stop when you get through," Bhould be neatly engraved on the gold pen of every author and authoress. The greatest writers that ever lived have been they who knew what not to write. A critic might object to this motto that the sentiment is homely, or the'style jagged— that it embodies a meagre, mean truism, void of sense or poetry— that it would be as useful as a board put up in Broadway with this inscription— '' do not run your heads against this brick wall." No five words in the lan- guage, however, convey a shrewder generahzation of wisdom. The\lunt emphasis of those two harsh monosyllables, " get through," clenches the meaning; and its plain old-fashioned Saxon-English style, makes this a choicer motto for authorship, than the d°aintiest bit of an Itahan sonnet in existence. To say that it amounts to an obvious truism, is to express the reason 70 THE GOLD PEN. for which I select it. Like the man who hunted all day for his spectacles, and found them an his eye-brows, authors have over- looked this maxim because of its obviousness, and disobeyed it because of its familiarity. No one could imagine that Philip, of Maccdon, would long forget he was a mortal man ; yet so treacherous was his memory on this point that he employed a slave to cry in his ears daily, " Philip, thou art mortal !" The words inscribed over Cotton Mather's study — " be short" — are the only rule that can rival this in appropriateness : but that fails in respect of generalization, for there might be exceptions to it, whereas to this there could be no exception. Should any say that he can never get through the subject he is entering, that try as long as he may, he can never " express the inexpressi- ble," this motto would caution to stop before he begins. It mio-ht catch the eye of the transcendentahst while his pen is gal- loping across his page, and induce him to draw rein and benefit mankind by digging in his garden. No work has come down to us on the stream of time from remote antiquity, that you could not clasp between your thumb and finger ; the ponderous authors have all sunk like lead to the bottom. Humble .Esop's Fables have survived thousands of learned tomes that went to heat the baihs of Alexandria. Of literary glory, they have often gained most who sought it least. To seek supremely is to forfeit Fame : that capricious goddess spurns from her feet all abject worshippers : they only are crowned with her unfading garland, who pay their devotions in the Temple of Truth. An immortal book is a beautiful proof of the soul's immortal- ity. Shall that which is made be more enduring than its maker ? Man's material works, like his material frame, slow^ly but surely decay : the best productions of his mind live not only with a perpetual, but a growing existence ; they realize a perennial youth, and attest in this world his immortahty in the next. Thus to delight and profit mankind through ceaseless ages, is the most exalted achievement of mind ! Little wonder that the dazzling prize should attract a countless throng of aspirants. Lament we that so m.any thousands fall short on the race — that the toils of those who succeed are infinitely surpassed by those who fail ? That were absurd. What, if in the Olympic foot race, the laural crown had descended on the brows of all the LIVE TO DO GOOD. 71 competitors, instead of the single victor ? Honors, like diamonds, are precious in proportion as they are scarce. This paucity of success hath ever been, and must be the grand stimulant to in- tellectual exertions, which in themselves are profitable. Did all obtain who seek fame, the result would be similar to that of suc- cess in finding the Philosopher's Stone, which by transmuting the base metals, might increase gold, but would diminsh riches, by taking from that its greatest value, rarity. -•••- LIVE TO DO GOOD. " LiYK to do good ; but not with thought to wia From man return of any kindness done ; rvemeraber Ilim who died on cross for sin, The merciful, the meek, rejected One ; Wiien he was slain for crime of doing good, Canst thou expect return of gratitude 1 *• Do good to all ; but while thou servest best And at thy greatest cost, nerve thee to bear, When thine own heart with anguish is opprest, The cruel taunt, the cold, averted air ; From lips which thou hast tauglit in hope to pray. And eyes whose sorrows thou hast wiped away. '• Still do thou good ; but for His holy sake Who died for thine : fixing thy purpose ever High as His throne, no wrath of man can shake ; So shall He own thy generous endeavor, And take thee to His conqueror's glory up, When thou hast shared the Saviour's bitter cup. ''■ Do nought but good ; for such the noble strife Of virtue is 'gainst wrong to venture love. And for thy foe devote a brother's life, Content to wait the recompense above ; Brave for the truth, to fiercest insult meek, In mercy strong, in vengeance only weak." POSITION AND CHARACTEE.. "WnKx a man is placed in a false position, the very traits of his character that would be virtuous in a true one, are often looked upon as faults, or denounced as vices. When the temple of Minerva was finished, at Athens, two rival sculptors of that city were employed to decorate its sum rait with a statue of the goddess. Each labored in secret, and followed the conceptions of his own mind, with a view to the production of a master-piece of art. On the day that the merits of the statues were to be decided upon, and the hour for so doing had arrived, a few of the self constituted judges gathered in front, while thousands remained behind who could see nothing. Those in front passed judgment upon the production, and the thousands who could see nothing, hurrahed and responded to the decision. One statue w^as of the size of life, finely sculp- tured, and of most exquisite workmanship; the features beauti- fully chiselled, until life seemed starting from the marble. The other was of collossal size, with huge and apparently unshapely limbs, and features that looked, to the immediate observer, more like unmeaning protuberances than any thing else. When the judges gave a decision in fiivor of the small but beautiful statue, it was gradually raised amid the shouts of the multitude, and became dimmer and fainter as it receded from their view ; and when it finally reached the pedestal, it resembled nothing human or divine, but seemed to have dwindled to a mere point. The applause gave way to murmurs and disapprobation, and it was then lowered to make room for its rejected rival, w^hich was very reluctantly hoisted in its stead. As it receded from the earth, its deformities lessened, and gave way to an appearance of symmetry and beauty, which increased with its distance from the earth : and when it finally reached the pinnacle from which the sculptor, from his knowledge of perspective and proportion, designed it should be viewed, then it looked as if the divinity herself, so beautiful was its aspect, had descended to receive the homage of her worshippers. So it is with men. And when a m.an is placed by circumstances in a position lower than that in which he was created to move, his virtues become vices in the eyes of those whose vision is too short to view him as a whole, and who therefore reject him as unfit for elevation. PLEASANT WORDS. ' Pleasant words are as an honey-comb, sweet to the sonl and health to the bones." — Prov. xvi. 24. Man'Y truths the Wise Man gives To his sons and daughters, Useful, p.ure, and stron^^, and bright, As streams of living waters ;* But one I choose from all the rest And call it now the very best. Pleasant words, he says, are like A comb of fragrant honey, The savings' bank of thriving bees, Whose cells contain their money, Where they, in little space, lay up The gains of many a flowery cup. " Sweet to the soul"— they gently soothe In days of bitter anguish ; •= Health to the bones"— they cheer the sick, And lift the heads that languish ; And prove, in every state and mood, A quiet way of doing good. Let us, then, ask God to plant In us his flowers of beauty. And teach us to watch over them With humble, patient duty. Sweet flowers that grace the heart of youth, Love, meekness, gentleness, and truth. For as honey is not found Where no flowers are blowing, So. unless within our hearts Love and truth are growing, No one on our lips will find Pleasant words, sincere and kind. 74 I WAS SICK AND IN PRISON. But— unlike the fragile flowers, Wlio die as soon as ever They*hav'e given their honey up — The more that we endeavor To lavish kindness everywhere, The more we still shall have to spam. PIeas3;iv. vords ! Oh, let us strive To use them very often ; Other hearts they will delight^ And our own they'll soften ; While God himself will hear above, Pleasant words of truth and love. Pleasant words ! The river's wave That ripples every minute, On the shore we love so well, • Hath not such music in it : Nor are the songs of breeze or birds Half so sweet as pleasant words. -«•»>- I WAS SICK AND IN PRISON. Thou hast not left the rough-barked tree to grow Without a mate upon the river's bank ; Nor dost Thou on one flower the rain bestow. But many a cup the glittering drops have drank : The bird must sing to one who sings again. Else would her note less welcome be to hear ; Nor hast Thou bid thy word descend in vain, But soon some answering voice shall reach my ear Then shall the brotherhood of peace begin, And the new song be raised that never dies. That shall the soul from death and darkness win, And burst the prison where the captive lies ; And one by oue new-born shall join the strain, Till earth restores her sons to heaven again. H . Mae s .xxn-!! 1- '■■6tS-iiti W' H.S Sadi.Sci ALOISE SENEFELDER. At Munich, in the year 1795, a new comedy was acted one night at the theatre. The part of one of the characters, whose duty it was to keep the audience in a perpetual roar of laughter, was sustained by a young man, whose mournful actions and spiritless gestures were strangely at variance with the drolleries he uttered. He seemed to be about seventeen years old, his figure was tall and slender, his countenance pale, and his large blue eyes v'ore an expression of profound melancholy. The piece was unmercifully hissed ; and, as soon as it was over, while the young actor was changing his dress, one of the attend- ants made his appearance. " Mr. Aloise Senefelder !" said he, " the manager wishes to speak to you im.mediately." " Tell him I [im coming," replied the young man ; and hastily finishing his toilette, he repaired to the manager's room. "Mr. Senefelder," said the man in authority, " do you know I am the author of the play acted to-night ?" " Yes, sir," said Aloise timidly. " Do you know the piece is condemned ?" " Sir," said Aloise, " I did my best—" " To make it fail, and you have succeeded," said the incensed author. '' From this moment you are no longer one of my com- pany. Here is what I owe you — take it, sir, and withdraw." Astonished at these words, Aloise stood like a statue. He seemed without power either to take the money or to move. At length the box-keeper, who was present, took the few coins and placed them in his hand; and the cold contact of the silver recalling him to recollection, he clasped his fingers convulsively together, and falling on his knees, burst into tears. "Ah! don't send me away! — don't send me away!" he cried. " I want an actor, not a mourner," said the manager-author, 78 ALOISE SENEFELDER. in whose ears the hisses were still ringing. " In place of lajgh- ing you weep." " Sir, my father died two days ago, and he is not yet buried for want of a cothn to contain his dear remains. My mother and my iive little brothers and sisters have only me to depend on. Try me, then, Mr. Sparman — try me once more, I beseech you." " Sorry I can't grant your request," said the manager, tak- ing up his hat and moving towards the door. As he passed Aloise, on whose pale face the burning tears seemed frozen, the better feelings of the onan partly conquered those of the author, " Double the salary and pay for the father's funeral, Mr. Fitz," he said to the box-keeper, and went out. Fitz took a few crowns from a drawer, placed them in the hands of Aloise, helped him to rise ; and then giving him his arm, assisted him out of the theatre. Kindly supporting the poor boy's tottering steps, the box- keeper led him to an undertaker's shop, and gave orders for an humble coffin. Then seeing him able to walk to his mother's lodging, Fitz took leave of him and returned to the theatre. The vridow Senefelder inhabited a miserable apartment in an obscure part of the city. Want and misery were stamped on the innocent faces of the five little ones who surrounded her, and who with one accord rushed toward Aloise as he entered. The eldest, a pretty girl about ten years old, drew them back, and putting her lips close to her brother's ear, whispered — " Have you brought any supper, Aloise ?" " Here," said he, giving her the silver he had received. "So much as that?" said the sister; " they must be much pleased to give you so many crowns." " So much pleased, Marianne, that they have dismissed me." " Then you are no longer an actor ?" said one of the little boys. " So much the better. It is an ungodly profession our curate says." " Yes," rejoined another child, " but how shall we get money to buy bread, if Aloise does nothing ?" " Hush, hush !" said Marianne ; don't let our dear mamma hear this bad news to-night. "We will pray to God who has taken papa to himself, and perhaps He will send us some con- solation." ALOISE SENEFELDER. 79 Aloise was silent. He watched all night by his father's corpse, and the i.ext morning followed it to the grave. Instead of returning home he wandered idly through the streets, pur- sued by the still recurring question— " What can I do ?■' Night approached. He thought of returning to his mother, recalling how uneasy his absence would make her; but when he looked around he knew not where he was. In absence of mind he had wandered far into the country, and the rushing of a river struck his ear. He approached its bank, and, overcome by fatigue and hunger, sank down upon the soft grass. For some time he watched the flowing water, till a dreadful idea entered his poor harassed brain. " Beneath that quiet wave," he thought, " all woes would soon be ended. I am no longer good for anything. I am only a burden to my mother, giving her another mouth to feed. I will therefore die, and all will be over ?" Aloise had been educated in sentiments of Christian piety ; and now hke a ray of light from heaven, the thought struck him that he was meditating a fearful crime. He shuddered, and kneeling down, prayed fervently to God for pardon. While on his knees, his ideas became gradually confused, the water ceased to flow and the stars to shine. Aloise slept. When he opened his eyes, it was daylight. The scene around was gilded by the rising sun. He heard the pleasant singing of the birds, and his heart expanded with joy. He was still among the living — he had not accomplished his wicked re- solution ; and falling again on his knees, he thanked God for his mercy. Notwithstanding his bodily weakness, he felt refreshed, and sat down for a few moments on the grass, to collect his thoughts, ere he set out on his return to the city. While thus resting, his eyes fell on a smooth white chalk stone, on which was traced the dehcate semblance of a sprig of moss, with all its minute flowers and tender fibres. He re- membered that the evening before, his tears had fallen on this stone, and moistened the sprig of moss which had probably fallen on it from the beak of some wandering bird. Now, the moss was no longer there, the wind having borne it away, but its impress still rem.ained so exquisitety traced on the smooth white surface of the stone, that the young German could not help being struck with the phenomenon. 80 ALOISE 8ENEFELDER. '•' This means something," thought he. " I may have letn led in mercy to this spot. I am a bad actor, a bad singer, but who knows ? I may be reserved for something better." Taking the stone in his hand, Aloise rose up and turned his Bteps homeward. At the gate of the city, he met his little brother, whom his iDother had sent to seek him. The child told him tliat an old uncle of their mother had come to see her on the morning of the burial, and had given her a sum of money to relieve her wants. " My God, I thank thee," said young Senefelder, mentally. He did not then know that the stone which he held in his hand would cause him in a few days still greater emotions of thank- fulness. At first he employed his discovery onl-y in ornament- ing the covers of caskets, snuff-boxes, &c. ; but one day it occurred to him to take off on wet paper the picture drawn on stone. The experiment succeeded, and lithography w'as dis- covered. In time Aloise brought the art to perfection. He studied chemistry for the purpose, and rich and happy were his pros- perous family around him. He felt that he could never be suffi- ciently thankful for having outlived his design of self-destruction. " Why should we ever despair ?" he would say. ** God can turn our pain into pleasure, and our bitterness into joy." ■^•^ HOME. Home ! 'Tis a blessed name ! And they who rove, Careless or scornful of its pleasant bonds, Nor gather round them those linked soul to sonl B3' nature's fondest ties — wliose priceless love And holy truthfulness make up a ' Home, And make a heaven of home' — and more, far more I Enfold the spirit in a sweet content, And bid it hope a second home in Heaven — But dream they're happy. THE HTJNTEE STEVENS AND EIIS DOG-, A SAD BUT TRUE STORY. FROM THE GERMAN' — BY MRS. ST. SIMJN. A FINE black Newfoundland doo- belonsfin;^ to the Advocate Floyd, of Holmfirth, after having for several days, mani- fested an uncommon sadness, drowned himself in the stream which flows in the rear of his master's dw^ellino;. He was seen to plunge into the water, and endeavored to sink b}' keeping himself perfectly still. He was drawn out and chained for a short time, but no sooner was he loosed again than he renewed his attempt, and after many trials which exhausted his strength, he, at last, succeeded in eifecting his purpose, and this by hold- ing his head resolutely beneath the water for some time ; when he was drawn aoain to land — he w^as dead ! The foreo-oino; anecdotu of the sins^ular suicide of a doof, might have been read not a very long while ago, in almost every journal, and although man}?^ doubted it, yet, alas ! the fact could not be denied. But the manner in which the poor beast was driven to a pitch of despair, actually found only among civilized men, is a sad story, known to but few, a story which I will here relate : CHAPTER I. THE HUT. Far, far in the distant West, there where the Missouri rolle its turbid stream into the " Father of Waters," the mighty Mississippi ; at the foot of the pine-clad hills, which shut in the fruitful bottom-land, stands a mean hut, built of rude logs, and covered with rouoh boards. 32 THE HUNTER STEVENS AND HIS DOG. But seldom does it happen that human eye remarks it, or human footj that of its occupant excepted, crosses its threshold, for it stands deep in the forest, surrounded by mighty trees, and a scarcely discernible foot-path is the only thing which connects it with the surrounding world. It is a wild, romantic country ; and here, at a time w'henman as well as wild beast, found their couch not far distant from each other, a solitary hunter took up his abode that he might follow the chase the more easily, undisturbed by the tiresome faces of his fellow-men. But the hut itself, before we pass to its occupants, is deserv- ing of a brief description, for by a strange and singular w^him of its possessor, its interior was arranged in a manner truly remarkable. The space enclosed by the unhewn logs might be about four- teen feet square, but within, little was to be seen of the rough wood, for immense buffalo skins hung around the walls, and the floor was covered with large shaggy bear skins. The half of one side of the hut was occupied by a deep chimney, roughly plastered with clay, in which a cheerful fire was burning; oppo- site to this stood a somewhat elevated bed, made of the skins of wild animals, piled one upon another, and at its foot was a smaller one, upon which lay several well gnawed bones, proving it to be the resting-place of a dog. Above the low^ door lay a long western rifle, upon two braces that were fastened to the waU with wooden pegs, and behind this door hung the ball- pouch and powder-horn, together with a broad leathern belt, in which was thrust a small knife and a hatchet. The only articles of household furniture visible, w^ere a roughly formed table which showed traces of the axe alone, and a similarly constructed stool, overspread with a bear skin, w^iile upon a shelf, very skilfully fastened against the wall, stood a wooden dish, asmaU iron kettle, and a pewter cup. In a corner of the room stood a section of a hollow tree, filled with shelled corn. In addition, a long spear was seen above the chimney- place, and several empty bags made of dear skins, hung on cross pieces from the rafters which supported the roof of the cham- ber. But who were the occupants of this singular dwelhng ? This matter we wfll investigate in the next chapter. THE HUNTER STEVENS AND HIS DCIG. 83 CHAPTER II. THE OCCUPANTS. In front of the chimney, upon the skin-covered stool which we have just described, sat the owner of the hut, a hale and ruddy cheeked old man, with snow-white hair, and clear blue eyes. He was busied sharpening his long hunting-knife upon a whetstone. His dress was that of a hunter. Leathern leg- gings and moccasins enveloped his legs and feet ; a loose hunt- ing shirt of the same durable material, ornamented at the seams with notched fringe, fell over his shoulders, and an old felt hat, crushed by the wind and rain into all possible fashions, covered his snow-white head. His throat was bare, notwithstanding the cold autumn wind whistled through the leafless trees, and his broad, leathern belt held a knife, a small hatchet, and a second pewter cup, while a woolen blanket lay rolled up at his feet. The man had evidently prepared himself for the chase, and was just trying the edge of his faithful steel, to satisfy him- self that it was bright, and sharp, and fit for use. Before him was seated the second occupant of the hut, not upon a stool covered with bear-skin, but upon his own hind- quarters, and was gazing with his large, good-natured eyes, impatiently in the hunter's face. It was a powerful, black, long- haired Newfoundland dog, with a broad chest and strong frame. The smooth, glossy skin of the noble beast was rent in many places by wide scars, which proved how bravely, at his master's side, he had fought many a perilous fight. But he knew also how dear he w^as to this master, and, in truth, never had man and dog been truer or more inseparable friends. He looked up gravely in the face of the old hunter, who having just finished his task, placed the whetstone between two logs above the chimney, and thrust the knife back into its sheath. " Pup !" he said in a familiar tone, as he glanced down at the faithful partner of his labors, " Pup ! shall we go a hunt- ing ?" Now. the dog, in truth, was a pup no longer, yet he had preserved his youthful name, and seemed to be well satisfied with the tender appellation, for he had scarcely heard the kind voice of his master, when he turned his head a little to one side, drew up his upper lip, so that his shining ivory teeth were visi- 84 THE HUNTER STEVENS AND HIS DOG. ble, and oegan to wag his long busby tail in a most extraordinary manner. " Pup !" said the hunter once again, " what say you, dog ?" " Wow !" said Pup, and he hfted one of his broad paws upon his master's knee. " Where then, shall we go to-day. Pup ?" asked the old man again, as he placed his hand upon the head of the faithful ani- mal. " Ha ! what is that you are growling ? Shall we hunt the wild turkey, eh ? You have no great liking for that." Pup had removed his paw from his master's knee, and looked down upon the ground ; he seemed not quite satisfied with hunting the wild turkey. " Or shall we start the big deer that hides down yonder in the cane brake ? What says the dog ?" Even this did not seem to move Pup ; he scratched the ground with his paw as if impatient, and then held himself still again. " Well, Pup, I know nothing better then than to take a stroll among the hills, and see if we can find an op|)osum — that doesn't taste so bad, eh ?" Pup gazed for a moment in his master's face with great gravity, but as the latter did not add another word, he rose, growled angrily to himself, and w^ent to his bed, upon which he cast himself, greatly vexed and olit of temper. The old man had watched the sagacious beast with a smile, but when the latter closed his eyes, and appeared resolved to pay no attention to any farther propositions, he spoke to him anew. " Pup !" Pup did not hear. " Pup ! I don't care about a 'possum." The dog contracted the skin upon his head as if he would prick up his ears. " Pup ! shall we go to the river ? Shall we see whether the hear has crossed the brook again ?" In an instant the dog was at his side, and gazed up in his face with his large clear eyes, as if in doubt. '* Hunt the bear. Pup ?" said the old man, and barking loudly, the dog leaped in wild joy upon him, licked his hands, seated himself at last again, and howled most piteously. " So — so ! that's enough !" said his master, laughing. " Come, THE HUNTER STEVENS AND HIS DOG. 85 be reasonable, Pup !" and with these words he hung his ball pouch around him, took his rifle from its place, and followed by his dog, stepped from the door which he secured without by a peg. " Wait, Pup !" he now cried to his dog, as the latter, striking into the well known path, ran onwards toward the bottom-land. " Wait, Pup ! we will first take a look at the smoke hou.se, and see if all is right there." With these words he approached the building so-called, which scarcely deserved the appellation of " house," for it was rather a kind of enclosure formed by a number of stakes driven close to each other in the ground, and protected from the wind and rain by a strong roof of bark, while the weight of numerous stag's antlers prevented the pieces of bark from falling down or being blown away. A low door, closed by a wooden peg, formed the entrance, and within were the wiater stores of the industrious hunter ; several pieces of bears' flesh, a row of smoked venison hams, and two bags filled with honey, formed the principal portion thereof; besides these, several short sec- tions of hohow trees stood upon the ground filled with maize and salt, and on sticks, laid crosswise, hung slices of dried pumpkin, the finest vegetable raised in the Western States. Stevens — this was the hunter's name — after a look of satisfac tion around the interior, was already about to fasten the door again, when he glanced once more over the row of hams, and then, bending down, examined attentively one of the stakes, evidently occupied in counting the notches cut in the wood. " One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine — right ! And here," he continued, rising, " one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight — hem !" he said, and looked thoughtfully at the vacant place where the ninth smoked ham had hung, " that is strange ! Pup ! doesn't Pup know what has become of the ninth ham ?" Pup, who had again joined his master, seemed not to have heard the question, for he was deeply occupied in contemplating a sun bleached bear's skull, which he gazed at with extraordi,- nary attention. " Hem ! singular !" muttered Stevens between his teeth, " not i trace of a living thing here, except Pup and I, and yet the ham is oone. Can T have miscounted ? But this is now the 86 THE HUNTER STEVENS AND HIS DOG. third time that I have missed something. Pup ! pup ! yuu must watch better !" he continued, turning to his dog, " this musnt go on so any longer. If I miss anything again, I will make your bed in the smoke house." Pup cast a sh}^ side glance up to his master, and then, as the latter now closed the door and raised his rifle upon his shoulder, he sprang joyfully before him toward the dense bottom-land, to scent out the promised bear track. CHAPTER III. THE HUNT. When Pup had once fairly turned his back upon the house, he began to wag his tail violently ; he was a most excellent dog upon a track, and was in his element as soon as he trod the soil of the forest, which occurred, indeed, the moment he crossed his master's threshold' The latter also knew how to prize the excellent qualities of his dog, and left him in all respects his free will, neither had any one ever heard that an. unkind word had passed between the two ; they understood and esteemed each other, and as is well known, it is only out of mutual esteem that love and friendship can arise. Pup had come upon a fresh bear's track, and often stopped and looked back, grinning friendly to his master, while he raised bis upper lip, as if he would say — " Are we not a couple of fine fellows, and will we not have capital sport ?" The old man would then nod, and cry, smihng — " Pight, my dog ! brave beast !" It was in autumn ; the white oaks bore ripe acorns, and the bears often clambered up the trees, in order to break down the weaker branches and devour the fruit. That part of the country is even yet one of the best hunting grounds in Missouri ; bears are found there in considerable numbers, but soon the poor beasts will be driven thence, and be obliged to leave " the land of their father," to be chased in the everlasting hunting grounds, by the spirits of the murdered Indians. "Pup!" said the old man suddenl}^, in a low and cautious tone, " Stop, Pup ! I hear something." But Pup had as sharp ears as his master, and a still better nose ; he raised his, therefore, in the air, stopped for a moment, THE HUNTEPc STEVENS AND HIS DOG. 87 then returned to the old hunter and scratched his leomuo-s with his right paw. " Yes, dog — I know it ;'• said the other, smiling, as he patted the head of the sagacious beast, " I hear it, too, but come, be right careful — we must have bear's meat for supper to-night." "With this the two, hunter and hound, glided toward the sound which fell louder and more distinctly upon the ear, and now could not be mistaken. It was caused by the breaking down of heavy branches, which, falling from a height, rustled and rattled, far through the silent wood. They soon reached a small dry brook, in whose cnannel they might have stealthily approached close beneath the tree, undis covered by Bruin, who was perched above. But when about fifty paces from the tree, the old man paused, gave his dog a sign, and raised himself cautiously erect, in order to get sight of the bear, which, greedily devouring the acorns within its reach, dreamed bui little of the proximity of so dangerous an enemv. The bear was sitting about ninety feet from the ground, upon a tolerably strong branch, holding in his paws a bough which grew above him, and which he was endeavoring to break off, but the pliant wood withstood all his efforts, and he was evi- dentl}- afr^iid to venture flirther out lest the vreak branch might give way beneath his ponderous w^eight. Stevens had already cocked his rifle, but as he saw from all the movements of the beast that he found himself quite com- fortably lodged above, and would not descend very speedily, he w^as in no hurry to shoot, but resolved first to wait and see in what manner the huge fellow would demean himself when he had broken the branch. But Pup, who from the bed of the brook could see nothing of all this, grew impatient, and began to scratch his master's legs w^th his paws. '' Pup !" whispered Stevens, in a slightly threatening tone. Pup, who had seated himself upon his hind-quarters, and rocked restlessly from one fore paw to the other, obeyed for a •while his master's warning, until again the affair seemed to him unreasonably prolonged, and a second time, bending his head far back, he scratched his master's legs. The old man raised his foot as if to tread upon him. Pup was not to be frightened in this way, however, for he knew very well that his master 83 THE HUNTER. STEVENS AND HIS DOG. would not trend, ond he remained, therefore, quietly in his posi- tion, without bctra3'ing the slightest fear. In the meanwhile, the bear had seen that he could in no way- break off tlie branch which he wished to have in his possession, as his position was too insecure to permit him to venture upon much motion ; he clambered, therefore, somewhat higher, as- cended to tlie desired branch, which, at its farther extremitv, bore a mass of noble acorns, and endeavored to break it off, but the wood yielded sooner than he expected, and with some difficulty Bruin saved himself upon a neighboring bough, where he now tat with great self complacency, and scratched his head. Pup had leaped up at the cracking of the branch, and looked with eager attention at his master, but still the latter did not make the slightest movement to shoot, for the bear had now^ drawn the broken, jet not completely severed branch within easy reach, and was devouring the hard-earned fruit with evi- dent satisfaction. The dog now lost all patience ; he seized the leathern fringe of his master's hunting-shirt, and plucked at it with such sudden violence, that the latter called in a startled tone — " Pup !" The sound reached the bear which w^as quietly feeding, and growing attentive, he paused in his meal, looked carefully down from the tree on all sides, and began to feel less at home in his exalted position. Stevens knew that the right moment had arrived, for as yet the bear did not stir, as he first wished to know^ from what direction the suspicious sound had reached him, and the hunter, quickly and surely, raised the death-dealing tube, took aim for a moment, and thundering echoes bore the crack of the rifle across to the adjoining mountains. The branch escaped from the beast's paws, and swung back and forth ; the latter, however, still held firm in his position for several seconds, then nodded forward a few times, and at last fell, head fore- most, from the dizzy height, down upon the hard soil, so that the ground trembled. Immediately after the shot, Pup had with a few bounds, reached the open ground, and now, barking with delight, darted towards the tree, at the foot of which the bear, mortally wound- ed, was struggling- in his blood, and after a few convulsive movements, lay outstretched in death. Not wi.ths tan ding the impatience which Pup had thus far THE HUNTER STEVENS AND HIS DOG. 89 manifested, he now demeaned himself with perfect staidness and propriety. He hcked the wound a httle, and then laid him- self quietly down beside the lifeless beast, to wait until his master had cut it in pieces, and was ready to carry it home. But Stevens had brought no horse with him, as the only one he could call his own, was running wild in the forest, and had not appeared near the house for several days. It was, therefore, almost sunset before he reached home with his last load, where he hung the hams and the sides in the smoke-house, spread out the skhi to dry, and broiled for himself a few very dehcate pieces from the loin. " Here, Pup," he said, as he cut off a piece and reached it to the dog, '"here, you wouldn't eat out yonder— perhaps it will taste better now." But even now it tasted no better, for Pup smelt of the flesh, shook his head, and laid himself down upon his bed. Stevens gazed at him thoughtfully, and at last asked in a tone of sympathy— " Are you sick. Pup ?" Pup did not think it worth the trouble to answer, and was soon buried in a deep sleep. CHAPTER IV. THE SINGULAR THEFT. The sun had already appeared above the hiil-tops on the fol- lowing mornincr, when old Stevens rose from his bed; he would not hunt on this day, for it was Sunday, and he cooked his breakfast with the greatest contentment, and then seated him- self by the fire to mend his moccasins a little. Pup had again refused all food, and the old man cast many an anxious glance at his favorite, who, on his part, seemed little to heed him, and cowering upon his couch, lay with his eyes fast closed. " Pup", is anything the matter ?" asked the old man, after^ a while, during which he had gazed attentively at the dog. " I declare he is wounded!" he exclaimed suddenly, and springing from his seat, he ran towards him to find out what ailed bim. It was no actual wound, however, but the hair seemed to be rubbed off on one of his sides, as if by a blow or scratch, and the skin itself, particularly in two spots, appeared broken. « The cursed bear !" said the old man, sadly, while he stroked the head of the faithful animal, " he gave you a scratch then ? 90 THE HUNTER STEVENS AND HIS DOG. I thought it was over with him. But wait, Pup, we will soon cure you — clean bear's grease upon such wounds, you know, is a sure cure." Pup cast a restless glance at his master, wagged his tail slightly, then rose and followed hirn from the hut. AYhen Stevens opened his smoke house, his first glance was at the smoked hams, one of which he feared might have been stolen since yesterday, and he hastily ran his eye over the row. " One, two, throe, four^ live, six, seven," he exclaimed, in a l.)ng drawn tone, " seven ! Pup, they have stolen one of our hams again : I cannot stand this any longer. You must sleep for the future in the smoke-house Do you hear, Pup ?" Pup wagged his tail slightly as a sign that he understood his master, yet did not appear, however to feel particularly inter- ested in the smoke-house, for he was ...^"iir }ost in deep contem- plation of the old bear's skull, w^hile the nunier carefully walked around the smoke-house, and looked everywhere to see if any of the stakes w^ere loose, or a piece of bark displaced from the roof — but all w^as fast, and not a single track was anywhere to be seen. " This night you sleep in the smoke house, Pup !" repeated the old man once again, " w^e must put a stop to this, and if you observe any thing suspicious — why, give me notice — perhaps we shall then catch the thief" It was no sooner said than done. From this night Pup slept on a soft skin that was spread out for him in the smoke-house, and the thefts ceased, yet the change of air seemed to operate very favorably upon the dog's health also, for his side healed, Sind his appetite returned in a very satisfactory manner — he ate every thing that came in his way, bears' and deers' flesh, nay, at times, he did not refuse even the despised roast turkey. Aftei about a fortnight, during w^hich nothing remarkable had happened, Pup seemed no longer inchned to occupy his new sleeping chamber, for he came one day to his master's couch and cowered down at his feet. " All safe, Pup ?" asked Stevens, " all safe, dog ? Are you tired of keeping watch out there ?" The dog seemed to understand his master's question, for he raised himself slightly and brushed his fore paW over his moc- casins. THE HUNTER STEVENS AND HIS DOG. 91 " Good dog !" said Stevens, and patted his head, " capitrl dog!" Both now had agreed to leave the smoke-house this ni^ht to its fate. But what was the hunter's astonishment on the fol- lowing morning, as he glanced at his smoked hams and found only six! What could be the meaning of this mystery ? Dur- ing the last few days he had shot four other deer, whose hams were also hung up, but the midnight thief preferred the dry smoked ones, and did not touch the other flesh. " Pup !" said Stevens, " this is very strange. I must lie awake to-night — the moon shines, and if I push aside the skins I can have a fair shot at the smoke-house from my bed. But come here, and leave that cursed old skull alone — and you, Pup, shall sleep in — no, not in the smoke-house but outside of it — if any body comes you have the better nose and can pursue him." For three nights in succession, Stevens lay awake, and Pup ghded about the smoke-house in the moonlight, but nothing was seen ; on the fourth, when both, wearied with much watching, sought their beds, the thief came again, and on the next morn- ing but five hams were found hanging in their places. The patience of a saint would not have been proof against such an occurrence, and Stevens was but an ordinary Christian man ; he stood, therefore, holding the door with one hand, upon the threshold of the smoke-house, or rather on the place where the threshold should have been, and swore — " he would be d d if he knew how that could iiave happened !" Neither did Pup know, for he stood close to his master, and looked also in won- der at the peg, from which no longer hung the last stolen ham. Both shook their heads in the s:reatest astonishment. CHAPTER V. THE STRATAGEM. The business now began to look exceedingly mysterious to old Stevens — there was something truly inexplicable in the whole affair, and he resolved to watch yet another night, and by break of day on the following morning to counsel about his matter with the nearest neighbor, in order, if possible, to probe Jthe business to the bottom. Now this next neio:hbor lived some 92 THE HUNTER STEVENS AND HIS DOG. twenty miles distant, but as the old hunter's harse was grazing in that direction, he resolved to search for it on this occasion, and so kill two birds with one stone. When he returned to his hut he took down his rifle, cleaned the lock, poured fresh deer's grease into the cavity in the stock, cut a pair of new thongs to tie his leggings with, and cast a few balls. Pup, in the mean while, as he saw his master busied with his rifle, had laid down before him, and was now looking at him wistfully with his large, dark eyes, for he expected, doubtless, that they were about to take a ramble in the forest. But the poor beast, although he had probably slept the whole night, seemed strangely wearied ; after a few moments his eye-lids closed, and with his head far outstretched, he nodded now^ toward this side, now toward that. " Go to sleep. Pup," said the old man, " we will not hunt to- day. You can lie down in quiet." Pup did not wait to hear this twice ; he rose, stretched out first the left, then the right hind leg, scratched himself with ex- traordinary dexterity on the throat, leaped upon his bed, turned round the customary three times, and laid himself down to take a long sleep. Stevens, in the mean while, had taken his ball-pouch from the peg, and examined its contents, to see whether all was in order for his morrow's journey — nine baHs, and one in his rifle were ten — that was enough for three or four days : a file, three flints, a piece of sponge, some tow for swabbing out "his rifle, a piece of fine leather for patches, a screw-driver, a w^histle to decoy the wild turkey, and a small bag of salt — aH was in order, and he w^as in the act of pouring from a large horn, some pow- der into the one which he commonly carried about him, when Pup moved restlessly npon his bed, and began to whine softly — the dog was dreaming. " Hem !" said Stevens, as he glanced with a smile at his dog. " The old Indian w^ho w^as with me w'hen I shot the bear lately, told me that if a man spread his handkerchief over the head of a dreaming dog, and afterwards laid it under his own head, and fell asleep, he would dream the dog's dream right over again. Shall I try it for once with Pup ?" Pup now began to scratch with both his fore legs, as if be THE HUNIER STEVENS AND HiS DOG. 93 were caught in some narrow place, and was trying to get loose, while at the same time he whined softly and pitifully. u I_I will try it !" said the old man with a smile, took off his neckcloth, spread it over the head of the sleeping dog, and closely observed his movements. For a good while he lay motionless, his rapid breathing alone told that his mind (not his instinct, for the instinct cannot dreamj ^vas in operation ; at last he becran to paw with his two fore feet, then again lay qmet for a while, then suddenly straggled with all his might, and after that did not stir. Stevens took the neckcloth softly from the head of his do^r, placed it beneath his own, and in five minutes was sound asleep, for a true hunter must be able to take advan- tage of every opportunity for repose, that he may have no lead in^his e^^e-hds when it becomes necessary for him to remain awake and watchful, perhaps for a considerable space of time. The autumn sun shone warm and friendly upon the hunter's hut, in which the occupants were slumbering. CHAPTER VI. THE DISCOVERY. It might have been about two o'clock in the afternoon, when Stevens awoke. Pup, who during the last half hour had been busy without the hut, had just entered the door again, and now lay quietly in his old place, but Stevens raised himself half erect in his bed, and looked for a long while upon the ground as if sunk in thought. He then glanced at the dog, breathed a heavy sigh, as if in great pain, shook his head, and called— « Pup 1" Pup was awake, he therefore at once opened his eyes and wagged his tail shghtly, but his master only shook his head the more violently, and cast upon the dog a reproachful glance, which he kept steadily fastened upon him. Pup seemed to feel uncomfortable beneath this glance: he raised his head in the air, and looked slowly, first towards one, and then toward the other side, but always met again the fixed and steadfast glance of his master, so that at last as if impelled by some iaward power, he rose, went up to him, rubbed his head against him, and tried to lick his hand which hung over the bed-side, but Stevens drew it back and repeated his reproachful " Pap !" 94 THE HUNTER STEVENS AND HIS DOG. " Bow ! \vbow !" barked the dog, and with his fore paw he scratched the old man's knee, as if he would have said — " Come ! no jesting — I hate that !" But tlie latter thrust him back, set his feet upon the floor, so that he sat upright, and then addressed the attentively listening animal as follows: " Pup, for four years from the time when 3'ou were a very little Pup, we have lived together in true friendship — I have never beaten j^'ou except twice, once as we were following the track of a bear and you ran off after a rabbit, and afterv^-ards once when you would not go under the tree i>n which the wild cat was, and I had but a single ball with me. Have you not always had enough to eat ? have I ever let you want for any- thing? And that time when I could not get a single shot at anything for three days, did I not fairly divide the last morsel with you, and afterwards we both hungered together ? Have you anything to say against this ?" Pup, in the meanwhile, had gazed at every spot in the cham ber, except at his master's face, and seemed'^to feel by no means at ease and comfortable, nay, he even glanced once sorrowfu'liy towards the door, as if he would say, " If I could only get out!' But although the door stood open, he did not stir from thf spot — he had a guilty conscience ! "Pup," continued the old man, after a short pause, " Pup, you are an ungrateful, wicked dog — you have abused my kind- ness, stolen into my confidence, and now you are a thief Yes, Pup, you are a thief Do j^ou see that loose board there in the corner, near the chimney ? There you creep out at night. Do 3^ou deny it ?" he continued angrily, as Pup, almost as if he were in- nocent, rose and smelt of the designated spot. " Do you deny it ? Hear, then, what I dreamed of j^ou, to-day. Scarcely was the cloth which caught 5^our dream, under my head, when I fell asleep, and at the same moment, to my utter astonishment, I found myself in a hole near that chimney corner, with my head and half my body out.side the hut I strug2:led through with infinite exertion ; my side smarted when I reached the ground, but still on I ran, and to my amazement, on all fours, to the door of the smoke-house, and then drew out the peg with my teeth, instead of, as usual, with my hand. Pup, I am almost ashamed to repeat what I did there. I clambered upon the salt gum, tore one of the smoked venison hams from its place, carried it out, fastened the THE HUNTER STEVEXS AND HIS DOG. 95 door carefully, and ran with the ham into the thicket across yonrler by the fallen oak." With a heavy sigh the old man here paused in his narration, and shook his head reproachfully at Pup, but the latter could rest nowhere ; he balanced himself first on one leg, then on the other, looked now in this corner, now in that, scratched the earth a few times with his fore paw. (for no Hoor was laid in the simple dwelling,) and glanced with longing eyes towards the open door, but still did not venture to quit the chamber. "When there," continued the hunter sadly, v/hile with his open palm he brushed from his eyes two big tears, " when there, I laid myself upon it with both hands — it seemed to me as if they were paws — and gnawed the flesh from the bone — I then buried the remains under the leaves and moss, and returned through the hole near the chimney, here into the chamber, where, to conceal my shameful act, I pushed back the board which hid the opening within, then went to my bed, turned myself a few times around in a very singular fashion, and laid down. Stay here, Pup ?" he now cried in a loud tone to the latter, who by many windings had brought himself quite near to the door, and was now upon the point of withdrawing from the conversation, whicli w\as become decidedly disagree- able, " stay, Pup ! are you not ashamed, you wicked, ungrate- ful dog ? But wait — we will first find the j^roof of your guilt — ■ come wuth me to your hiding-place." With these words, Stevens took his rifle and powder-horn, (for a true hunter does not go ten steps from his house without his weapon,) and with a commanding gesture, directed the dog to follow him. Pup, however, whose suspicions had probably been excited by his master's vaiious gestures toward the chim- ney-corner, scarcely remarked the direction which the old man took, when he hung his ears, drew his tail between his legs, and stole after him very disconsolately. Twice he stopped upon the way, and looked back wistfully toward the house, but Stevens watched him closeh^, and he endeavored in vain to escape his attention. At last they reached the place where Stevens had, in his dream, buried the bones — there lay the tree, here was the old root overgrown with thick bushes of sassafras and wild vines, and close at the foot of the tree — Stevens pushed the leaves and moss aside with his rifle — lay the proofs of the theft — the remains of the stolen hams. 9G THE HUNTER STEVENS AND HIS DOG. If Pnp at this moment could have crept through a hole into a hollow branch, he would have done it with the greatest plea- sure in the world, so disconsolate, so wretched did he feel at heart ; ho beheld himself discovered, convicted, and knew that the glance of his usnall}'' so kind master, was fastened upon him with vexation and displeasure. Pup considered himself at this momeut incontcstibly the most miserable doo; in all Missouri. With drooping head, trembling limbs, and half-closed eyes, looking sorrowfully at the green leaves, he stood for a long while awaiting rebuke, or even chastisement from his master. But to his o;reat astonishment uothinof of the kind followed Old SteV'Cns gazed upon him for a while rather s'adly than sternly, then shouldered his rifle, and walked silently into the forest. Pup followed him sorrowfully. Night came, and the two laid themselves beneath the spread- ing branches of an oak — but the tie of friendship which had once united them was broken. Pup, indeed, tried once to knit together the severed threads, but Stevens kept him off, and said — " Go, thou art a wolf!" and he could not have rebuked more severely, for both abhorred nothing in the world more than a wolf Pup went sadly away and laid himself far from the fire and his master, beneath a tree. CHAPTER VII. THE PUNISHMENT. At break of day on the following morning, Stevens traveled onward, and about ten o'clock reached the Missouri. At first his intent had been of a more cruel nature ; the greater his former love for his dog, so much the more painfully was he now affected by the deceit of his character, and he had at first pur- posed to shoot him through the head ; he could not, however, bring his rnind to this, but resolved rather to take him to the nearest settlement, and there give him away, although he well knew how hard it would be to prevent the dog from returning. As he thus sat, gazing sadly and irresolutely upon the ground, ho heard coming down the river, one of those steamboats which now and then ascend the stream, partly to carry the mountain, hunters farther into the interior, partly to take the skins and furs of the trappers, as well as the produce of the farmers, to THE HUNTER. STEVENS AND HIS DOG. 97 St. Louis. "When a few hundred paces from the spot where he was seated, the steamboat stopped to take on board several cords of wood which had been spUt and piled up here by those settlers who lived in the neighborhood. Stevens walked towards the boat. " Hallo, old man ! you have a noble dog there !" cried one of the passengers, a fair-haired, slender man. " Will you sell him ?" " Sell him ?" cried Stevens, " No, never while I live ! but if you want him, and will promise me to take him far away— and treat him well," he added, after a side glance at Pup, who stood quite downcast beside him, "why then— then you can have him." " Really !" cried the stranger in astonishment, for he had taken a great fancy to the noble, long-haired animal. " ^Vell, I am going to sail in the next packet from New-Orleans to Lon- don. Is that far enough for you ?" " Take him !" said Stevens, and turned away. At this moment the bell was heard from the boat, which was ready to start. The Enghshman quickly tied his handkerchief about the neck of the unresisting animal, drew him on board, and the next min- ute they left the shore. TJntii now, Pup, oppressed by a guilty conscience, and dis- turbed by the silent behavior of his master, had kept perfectly Btill, but when he beheld the distance between himself and his old 'friend growing every instant greater, a foreboding of his fate suddenly gleamed upon him, and he whined and barked as in old times when he summoned his master to the hunt. The tender heart of the old hunter, already so deeply pained at part- ino- with his do^, could not withstand this appeal. He turned and called — " Pup, my dog, come here !" and howling with delight, Pup was abont to obey the call, but his new owner had probably anticipated something of this sort, and the next moment the poor beast found himself fastened by a strong chain, from which with all his struggles he was unable to free himself « Pup ! Pup !" cried the old hunter in deep grief— but Pup's form was already vanishing in the far distance ; his call echoed across like a gentle breath, and the steamboat sped, snorting and groaning, down the stream. 98 THE HUNTER STEVENS AND HIS DOO CHAPTER VIII. THE PURSUIT. Four days Liter, a horseman in a leathern hunting shirt, with a rifie upon his shoulder, pushed his weary, jaded norse, through the streets of St. Louis, toward the steamboat landisg. When there, he sprang from the saddle and inquired of a cartman who was standing at the water's edge, after the steamboat " Yel- low Stone." " She sailed yesterday for New Orleans," said the man, as he lifted the last barrel of flour upon the cart, and then drove into the city ; but the horseman stood yet for an hour upon the bank of the broad Mississippi, and gazed along the swiftly hurrying stream. Then he raised himself slowly into the saddle, and with- out deigning to cast another glance at St. Louis, rode back into the forest. CONCLUSION. The rest is soon told. Pup w^as taken to England, and as ho had sadly pined upon the passage, he was nursed by his new^ master with the utmost kindness and affection. Pup saw this also perfectly well, thought much of his new^ protector, but took no interest in anything else, ate what was offered him, and lived through the autumn and winter in England, as quietly and contentedly as a poor dog, an exile from his native land, could live. But when the spring came with its new buds and blossoms, wdien, after her long winter's sleep, nature awoke with renewed strength and fresh joy, and when the swallows returned to the houses, when all grew green and blossomed, when the birds twittered and the tame turkeys strutted, clucking about the farm-yard, poor Pup's heart sank within him — he thougiit of his forest home, of the now green, glorious groves, of the sil- very brook which dashed by the house ; he thought of the hunts by the salt lick, where he had watched so many nights by his master — he thought of the free, fair forest life, how^ m.uch bluer the sky when viewed through those branches, how much brighter the stars when beheld throuoh the thick bushes — he thought THE HUNTER STEVENS AND HIS DOG. 99 of the tracks of the wild beasts, of his fights \Yith the bear and panther, and his heart was near breaking— he grew melancholy, drew his tail between his legs, and went about a picture of dis- consolate v.'oe. At one time his master feared that Pup was mad, and set a basin of water before him. Pup drank it, however, without nesitation. But it was in vain that the children who had grown fond of the large, good tempered beast, brought him all kinds of delicacies. True, he ate them, but remained, notwithstand- ing, sorrowful and downcast. One day his master, who still kept up communications with America, received a box from St. Louis ; he opened it— Pup vras looking on— and took out, one after another, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine smoked venison hams. This was too much — former sad remembrances rushed across the poor beast's heart— he thought of his former master, how^ fonclly the old man had loved him, how- shamefully he had de- ceived him, how fearfully he had suffered for it, and suddenly resolved to put an end to a life which w^as so full of remorse and torment to him, and plunged into the stream that flowed at the rear of the house. The rest, too painful to repeat, has been pubhshed in all the journals ; we will add this only, that his lifeless remains were drawn from the greedy flood, and received a decent burial. Poor Pup ! thou liest in a foreign land, in for- eign soil, and it was but a single fault that banished thee from thy home ! But thy master — what became of thy poor old master? Silent and solitary he returned to his hut, and for months long his rifle remained untouched and unheeded, lying upon the two braces over the door. Old Stevens had fiillen ill ; a violent fever had confined him to his bed, which he only left at intervals to crawl to the neighboring brook for a draught of cool water. But v;hen the spring came with its new buds and blossoms, when after her lono; winter's sleep, nature awoke with renewed strength and fresh joy, when the swallows returned to the hut, and all '^vew green and blossomed ; when the birds twittered, and the wild turkeys were heard in the woods, then the old man grew too sad, too lonely in his formerly so cheerful hut. He cleaned his rifle from dust and rust, he took out his hunting im- plements again, saddled his horse, and rode far, far to the w^est. 100 A PICTURE. to the distant prairies. But all beside that he iook with him from his former dwelling to his new home, was a bear-skin, "which he carried rolled up behind him upoE the saddle — the skin of that same bear which he killed when he hunted for tho last time with his dog Pup. i4M>- A PICTURE. BY JULIA A. PLETCHEK. I saw a man of fearful crime With hurried step pass by, As if from guilt's enslaving power He vainly sought to fly ; It dwelt upon his haggard brow, And in his gleaming eye. And then I asked, can he be saved From passion's fearful sway 1 Can his dark pathway be illumed By virtue's pleasant ray 1 But then with bounding step flew past A merry child at play. Thus met they then— that man of guilt— That child who knew no wrong— And with a cry of glad surprise He hushed his bird-like song ; " Oh, father ! I am glad your'e come, You have been gone so long." Tears ! holy tears ! From guilt-sealed four ts Gushed many a cleansing rill, And then I knew that dark-browcd man Might yet be won from ill. He still had one whom he could love, Had one to love him still. A GLIMPSE AT FAIRY LAND. BY CAROLINE BRIGGS. There is a charm in an old country farm-house, a great, weather-stained, generous farm-house, with its over-hanging eves, its moss-covered roof, where the trilling swallows make their yearly home and welcome the summer ; a house so old and dingy, that it seems with its accompanying well and drip- ping bucket, as much a fabric of nature's own handiwork, as the noble trees that tower above it ; the mountains in the blue distance ; the dim, dark mass in the west, behind which the sun sleeps at night, or the brook that ripples by the door stone; that dear old door-stone with its thronging pleasant memories, how gladly my feet pressed its moss-grown surface one early summer morning, after the long tedious months of city-life. The pure, fresh breezes were playing with the nodding flowers and the long waving grass that drooped under its sparkling burden of glittering dew-drops ; how the sun hngere-d and glanced in each tiny diamond, making a pathway of more than regal splen- dor for the wandering zephyrs ; the morning birds were lading the air with sweet sounds, and my heart danced in the universal joy, such pure untroubled gladness as nature alone can minister. The sun was flinging me warm kisses, and the cooling breeze that played over my brow won me to wander with them, and ere long I found my favorite nook in these " grand old woods." The tufted moss at the foot of the gnarled willow, was a soft seat of nature's own providing, and as I listened to the musical rustle of the wind-stirred leaves, and dreamily watched the weaving of the light, fantastic, ever-changing net-work which they and the sun-flecks wrought so delicately at my feet, I fan- cied it would be a fitting spot for a fairy-revel, and wished that they might again appear to mortals as they did in the " good old times." Ere long I was startled by a little tinkling sound and the petals of a blue bell, that grew beside me, softly un- closed, and a tiny creature, arrayed in what I deemed a butter- 102 A GLIMPSE AT FAIRYL VND. fly's holiday suit, appeared, and thus addressed me in sweetest murmurs : " Mortal ! a kind fortune hath directed thy steps to this lovely spot, for I am the queen of the fiiiries, and this hour I hold my court, and here my loyal subjects come on the wings of the wind from all parts of thy pleasant earth and whisper of the success of their missions. Silence is the onl}'' restriction 1 im- pose — observe it strictly — for the sound of mortal voice would put to flight all Fairy Land, and when our court disperses, one wish shall be wanted thee." Eagerly I looked and listened in breathless silence ; the little queen waved her wand, and the air was filled with a rustling hum as of myriad gossamer wings, and there came a busy murmur from the waving, trembling flowers kround me, and wonderingly I saw a fairy-group emerge from each perfumed cup and bell. Quickly and noiselessly they assembled around their sovereign, each with reverent obedience, a moment's stillness, and then a tiny fairy came tripping forth, whom the queen called the " Fairy of Good Gifts." B'reathlessly I caught the silvery tones of the white-robed creature as she spoke thus : " gentle queen, I have wandered far from the forest glades to the busy haunts of a crowded city. On its thronged pave- ment I found a pale-faced child with tattered garments and bare and aching feet, and as I watched her, the tears trickled fast over her wan face, as with extended hands she supplicated charity for a dying mother. Just then a gentle lady came near, and I whispered to her of the child's sorrow — her heart was touched, and she spoke kindly to the little one whose tears were soon chased by brightest smiles. As I left them, the lady clasped the hand of the way-worn child, and departed on her ' mission of mercy,' fair}'' prompted." The queen smiled approvingly and the fairy vanished. Another knelt at the feet of her sovereign, and thus addressed her: " fairest queen, thou knowest full well that I have loved ever to visit the hearts of the children of mortals, and minorle in their innocent sports ; to-day I have hovered near tv;o little ones, within whose hearts anger had found place while en- gaged in their childish play. I whispered to the little bright- faced girl, 'loving smiles are the best of all weapons,' and as A GLIMPSE OF FAIRY-LAND. 10 o fthe flung her arms lovingly around the neck of her brother and proffered the kiss of peace, m^^ mission was accomplished." As the spirit of *' Loving Smiles" retreated, a I.ily of the Valley at my feet rung its tiny bells, and a little drooping sprite with a sad, sweet face, glided lightly over the moss to the feet of her sovereign. " Gentle queen," murmured she, " I have lingered to-day, as ever, amid scenes of sadness ; but now I left the cot where a mother wept over her dead boy, her darling one, caressing his golden curls in her wild grief Softly I whispered to her heart, * This is but a frail remembrancer of thy child, his shadowless spirit hath gone to the light-lands above.' As she lifted her saddened eyes, the tears were already dried in the sun-rays that streamed from the home of her boy, now her angel child." Again the queen uttered w^ords which my untaught ear could not catch, and the sweet fahy of " Tears" gave place to another, who thus told her mission of love : " To-day I sought a beautiful garden where two children were playing ; the sad face and dark garments of the one told of orphanage, and contrasted painfully with the laughing, happy face of her companion. In a moment of rest, memory touched a chord in the heart of the lone orphan, and a tear glistened in her eye. Softly I spoke to her playmate, of sympathy and its strong, deep powder to cheer the sorrowing heart. As her arms encircled the stricken one, and the wealth of her heart was lavished npon her, I deemed my words of some avail." The fairy of " Gentle Words" retreated, and the queen mov- ing her magical wand, the air was again filled with the rustling hum and murmur, as before, and the fairies hied them away. Then with sweetest voice the sovereign of the spirits murmured, •' Mortal, thou hast heard of the fairies' missions, and now, of their gifts one may be thine — which hast thou chosen ?" Softly I whispered, " fairest and gentlest of queens, I would that I might combine all in one — the powers of making others happy — and never, never forget the teachings of the kind and loving fairies." " It is thine," was her gracious response, and then bidding me a silvery "farewell," the petals of the Blue-bell tremblingly opened, and as the Fairy Queen sank into its per- fumed bosom, I awoke with the abiding memory of my dream. The royal gift has since proved to me a gift indeed. THE POET'S DEATH BY ISABELLA STEVENS. There it stood, that grand old forest, there they stood, th )se ancient treos, With their stalwart arras all grandly waving in the genial breeze ; Downward through the pleasant sunshine, lingering shadows did they fling, While from out the deep recesses, conies a sweet low murmuring, Where the brook light-hearted wanders, whisp'ring low among ths reeds, And with quiet laughter leaving forest shades for flowery meada. Toilsome now upon the upland, come an old man and a child, All unheeding the rough pathway, they the weary way beguiled With their converse sweet and cheering, till they 'neath a beach-tree stood, On the outskirts of the forest, where the upland meets the wood ; And then spake the old man softly, while low rose the blue-bells chime, " I would go to yonder forest, stay thou here a little time," Turning then the old man entered deep into the forest old. Trod unerringly the windings, for he knew the pleasant wold ; On the sward the sunlight golden, glancing through the bowered leaves, Cwst in dim fantastic shadows, all the gnarled and hoary trees, Through the dan and mystic arches where the tree-tops bend to meet, Strive to enter amber sunbeams — striving too to stay and greet Little meek-eyed violets hidden 'mid the quivering grasses shade, In thoae dim and mystic arches where the sunlight seldom strayed. Underneath a spreading oak-tree did the old man sit and dream, While upon his soul rushed memories, like a swift and mighty stream ; Days long past rose up before him, and loved forms now flitted by, And as o'er him waved the green leaves, he remembered with a sigh How he wandered 'neath these branches, wandered by his Mother's side, While the swiftly-flying hours hastened on to even-tide ; How she for his sake did study, conned the page of classic lore, And when wandering in the forest, told him tales of distant yore ; Then she told of ancient Minsters, whose tall spires do pierce the sky, Where beneath the fretted arches, forms of Saints and Heroes lie : — Stern and grim with unbarred vizors, Knights in armor too are there With their hands devoutly folded, as if life had been one prayer Quiet sleep those knights in armor, undisturbed their ashes lie. While the choir in joyful anthems sound their praises toward the sky j And upon their stony faces, purple waves of light fall down, THE PCI^t's death. 105 Flickering through the blazoned window, where each with halo-crown, Stand the' twelve,, who through his life-time with the Holy Saviour walked And who hlessed, above all others, listened reverent while he talked. Kings and emperors there are gathered, who in life but acted parts. Wherein pomp and manly pageants did but cover aching hearts ; For their life was one of turmoil, one of trouble and of care, And to prop a falling kingdom, those without must see all fair; There rest knights who in past ages fought in holy Palestine, With their names graved on their tomb-stones, /o?/-7?.^rs of a lordly line. There lie, too, than kings more mighty, they who by the power of mind. Swayed a sceptre o'er a kingdom, by limit nor by bound confined. Then, as full of avre he listened of the wondrous boy she told, Who ever loved to wander through a Minster grey and old. When the moonlight pale was streaming on the high and groined roof, Piercing e'en the carved corners, where dark shadow's held aloof; There he read the quaint old legends, conned the letters o'er and o'er, Deeply graven on the tomb-stones— deeds of them that live no more ; There he paced, the boyish poet, till the present passed away, And the Past was present to him, where but Chivalry had sway ; Such a world as Poets dream of, Minstrels sing in ro:mdelay ; Who knows not the saddened story, how he died in dread despair. How the world whose bitter hatred, broke his heart with weight of care, Raised a poean o'er hira buried, and when ended hopes and fears He was mourned with bitter sorrow, 'mid a nation's flowing tears, Then she spoke of th' olden Masters, at whose names our pulses thrill, Who by the magic of their art control our feelings still ; Who by humble patient waiting, with a pious trusting heart, By their love of all that's truthful, by devotion to their art, By their life of care and turmoil carved them out an honored name, But died at last unconscious of their ever growing Fame. Time passed on, the child so earnest saw his gen+le mother die, And long years of patient sorrow with their griefs had flitted by On his soul fell lightning flashes of a genius high and rare, Waving circlets Iris-hued, sparkled in the ambient air ; All his wild impassioned feelings now breathed forth in fitting song While in grand and stirring lyrics glowed his hatred of the wrong Aud the poet nobly trusting that all hearts were like his own, Saw waving proudly round his brow, the bright-leaved laurel crown Ah, alas ! that thus it should be, sadly did his hopes deceive, Cold neglect than scorn more bitter, this the pasan he received : Broken down his high aspirings, crushed his longings after Fame, Gone the dreams that brightly whispered of a loved and honored name But when sad and most desponding, he bethought him of those lays Which his gentle mother taught him in those loved and bye-gone daya He bethought him of those Masters, who in Poetry and Art, Long did toil and lo7ig did struggle, never, never faint of heart ; ^ Thus admonished strove he manful, shaking off his dark despair, And with effort strong enduring all his heavy weight of care ; 10(5 THE OLD AND THE NEW. With a heart then brave and fearless, entered he the world of strife., No more to sit with folded hands, nnd gloomy shrink from busy life ; All ! ho needed heart courag:eous, ah ! he needed nerves of steel, For a })oet in Life's Babel, nought must care for, nothing feel; Still the Poet trustful-hearted, dreamed and hoped the day would dawo When the shadows dark and gloomy, swift woiild fly before the mora. While thus hoping and courageous, grey old age stole on apace And at last worn out with waiting. Hope had hid her radiant face ; As he sat now 'neath the oak tree, bitter memories waken'd fast, And a struggle fierce was raging, as his thoughts roamed in thfi Past. Oh ! his soul was stirred within him. and rt-bellious thoughts would rise, For he knew that Death was near him, and 'twas hard to close his eyes-- While the Fame he long had toiled for, now by him could not be gained — All his strivings were unanswered, his high goal jet unattained ; Thought he then of those who suffered, counting earthly sorrow light, While they did their Master's bidding. j,'uidedby his word aright; They who suffered persecution, dic-d at last in perfect faith, Feeling that deep peace of heart, which takes away the sting from Death And such thoughts did calm his feelings, o'er his spirit casta spell, Bowed him to the will of Heaven, which " doeth all things well." And the old man said with fervor, (now the victory was won,) '' Not my will, Oh ! Heavenly Father, not my will but thine be done." In the old man's heart remained now nought but peacefulness and prayci, With an humble trust and childlike, he was dying without care. In the forest all was peaceful — shivering aspens shook no more While a human soul was passing to the far-off heavenly shore. Down behind the western mountains passed the sun with cloudless train, Purple vapors hung in miJ-air, shadows rested on the plain; Twilight starless breathed in quiet o'er the woodland far and u'^ar. But the child beneath the beach tree, toward the forest looked with fear. For the shadows dark and gloomy o'er it hung like dusky veil, And the wind through branches sweeping, passed away with mournful T\nil, And at last he fled affrighted, though he knew not Death had muie In the forest, solemn «ilence — in the shadows, deeper shade. THE OLD AND THE NEW. "Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide Into the new ; the eternal flow of things, Like a bright river of the fields of Heaven, Shall journey onwaid in perpetual peace." THE S LAND ERE E'. Of all the ills, and maladies, and distempers, ^vl^ch " flesli ia heir to,- few indeed are so dangerous and deadly, and none so insidious as slander. The daHc insinuation, the equivocal ex- pression, the half-suppressed sentence, the low \yh\si^er— these, with their appropriate accompaniments of looks, wmhs, and nods, are the execrable weapons with which the quiet, smooth- tongued slanderer does his work of desolation and death. An unguarded expression often serves as a foundation for the most poisonous slanders. Did he attack you openly, you could guard against the as- saults, and if you should fall, fall fighting manfully in defence of your honor'and reputation. But no ! the blighting inuendo is passed from one to another, until the whole town is in posses- sion of it, ^vith all its snow-ball-hke accumulation, and all the way along the blasting secret has traveled under the protection of confide^ntial secresy, so that the injured, and perhaps ruined subject of the slanderer, is the last to have the doleful tidings sounded in his ears, and by this time the fatal stigma has fas- tened upon him with such weight of suspicion, that it may be impossible in a whole lifetime, to cast off effectually the foul assertion. The busy, meddling tattler should have the brand of infamy burnt deep into his very forehead, and exposed to universal scorn ; but idle curiosity and itching ears give support to the hateful serpent, and he is enabled to live on the vitals of virtuous society and luxuriate in the spoils of innocence. For the villain i\'ho seeks your life there is a gallows prepared, and standing up in terorem ; for the thief who robs you of your property, a prison, 2^ penitentiary, and the just execration of society ; but the black- hearted moral cannibal who secretly blasts your reputation, the fiibric of many years toil and virtue, a thousand times more val- uable than property, and dearer than life itself, should be for ever discountenanced by the worthy and '^ pure in heart," and banished from the circles of a truth-loving community; 108 A HIDEOUS MONSTER. That vilest o^ demons smiles at the desolation wrought by the venom of his tongue, retains Ids rank in society. " Oh, tell it not in Gath, nor publish it through the streets of Askelon," and in many instances, unimpeached in his standing in the Church of Christ also. The murderer is a Christian, the foe a friend, the robber a saint, compared with the moral turpitude of the saintly-seeming slanderer, who, with the tongue of an angel, com- bines a heart as black as the smoke of perdition. A HIDEOUS MONSTEE. There exists in society, a hideous monster known to all, though no one disturbs it. Its ravages are great, almost incal- culable; it slays reputations, poisons, dishonors, and defiles the splendor of the most estimable form. It has no name, being a mere figure of speech, a very word. It is composed of but one phrase, and is called — They say. " Do you knov/ such a one ?" is often asked, and the person pointed out. " No ; but they say he has had strange adventures, and his family is very unhappy." " Are you sure ?" " No ; I know nothing about it. But they say — " "This young woman, so beautiful, so briUiant, so much admired — do yon know her ?' " No. They say it is not diflficult to please her, and that more than one has done so ?" " But she appears so decent, so reserved." " Certainly ; but they say — " "Do not trust that gentleman. Be on your guard—" " Bah ! his fortune is immense ; see what an establishment ha has." " Yes \ But they say he is very much involved." " Do you know the fact ?" " Not I. They say though—" This " they say,^^ is heard in every relation of life. It is deadly, mortal, and not to be grasped. It goes hither and thither, strikes and kills manly honor, female virtue, without either sex being ever conscious of the injury done. j^^ ^ JS>4- ''\ :/?-////-// -^./a/z/i' >. THE WEDDING The bark is out upon the sea, She leaps across the tide ; — The flashing waves dash joyously Their spray upon her side : As if a bird, before the breeze She spreads her snowy wings, And breaking through the crested se^g, How beautiful she springs. The deep blue sky, above her path. Is cloudless, and the air The pure and spicy fragrance hath, Which Ceylon's breezes bear — And though she seems a shadowless And phantom thing, in sport, Her freight I ween is Happiness, And Heaven her far-oflf port. Mild, tearful eyes are gazing now Upon that fleeting ship, And here, perhaps, an ashy brow, And there a trembling lip, Are tokens of the agony — The pangs it cost to sever A mother from her first-bom child — To say — Farewell, forever! # * « « The ship is gone, lost to the eye ; But still a freshening l:)reeze Is o'er her wake, and drives her on Through smooth and pleasant seas. Right onward, thus, she will dash on, Though tempests shalie the air, For hearts that fear not ocean's wrath, I ween will aye be there. * # « * That sea is Life — that Bark is but The Hopes of wedded love ; The Wind, which fills its swelling sails, I trust, is from above. And ever may its progress be Through summer seas right on, Till blended with Eternity's Broad ocean's horizon. ADVICE TO A YOUNG MARRIED LADY. You are now married, and, as is usual on such occasions, your friends and acquaintance wiU profess to wish you joy. Many will do so as an act of common civility, feeling little or nothing of the sentiment which the words import. When, however, I express a solicitude for your welfare, I think I am entitled to the credit of meaning something more than the performance of an empty cere- mony. But when congratulating you, I know of no better way of proving the sincerity of my professions, than by tendering you my advice as to some of the means I deem necessary to be pursued in order to render your new situation a matter of real felicitation. Young people are very apt to think, if they think at all on the subject, that when they get married their cares are all scattered to the winds, and that their happiness is secured for life. So far fi*om the truth is such a thought, that when reality awakens them from the dream of uninterrupted bliss, they find their sorrows certainly doubled, and whether their joys are to be increased or not depends mostly on themselves ; and they will still find causes enough to interrupt their happiness, though each should do their best to pre- vent or jsounteract them. One thing is certain, that the married state may be made more happy than the single life, or it may become a state of perfect wretchedness ; and whether your present situation is to be better than that you exchanged for it, depends much or mostly on yourself. It is therefore a matter the first in order, as well as the first in importance to you, that you should endeavor to ascertain the means best calculated to secure a continuance of that happiness which doubtless you expected to experience in the married life. On this subject I will endeavor to assist you. That you were happy during the period spent in courtship, you will not deny. That you were so, arose from the consciousness that you loved and were beloved in return : and from the pleasing hope or moral certainty that you would attain the object of your affections. This hope is realized, and that you are happy now, you need no one to tell you. If it is the reciprocated affections of your husband ADVICE TO A YOUNG MARRIED LADY. 115 which make you happy, it is yours which make him s.o ; aud hence mutual affections constitute the source of connubial bliss, and it is equally true that the infelicity of the married state, follows the loss of those affections. On the continuance of the affections, then, no less than on the choice of a husband, depends your happiness in the wedded life. The means to insure a continuance of those affections, is the subject next in course for your consideration. So numerous are the instances in which married people have lost their affections for each other, that the unreflecting have hastily con- cluded, that it is easier to acquire than retain them. If this be true, it goes to prove that you should be more assiduous to retain the affections of your husband, than you were to gain them. But it is not true to the extent which many believe. It is very unphi losophical to argue, that like causes will not produce like effects — or that the effect will cease, though the cause be continued. The truth most probably is, that when the affections of married people become extinct, it is owing to their neglect to continue the cause by which those affections were first elicited. What man in his senses, if be knew the disposition of the lady he addressed, would fall in love with a sour, sulky, brawling, ill-natured woman ? It is the opposite qualities which he sees, or thinks he sees, in the lady of his choice, of which he becomes enamored. It is a countenance illumined with smiles, eyes beaming with intelligence, a mouth flowing with sweet- ness and good nature — in short, a deportment indicative of modesty, mildness and benignity, to which he pays the homage of his heart. If such were the causes by which were quickened the tenderness of the lover, rely on it that nothing short of those will insure the affec- tions of the husband ; for when the causes subside, the effects must necessarily cease, and then misery and wretchedness will become the inmates of your household. More of the happiness of married people is involved in their con- duct during the first year, than in any succeeding period of their connubial association. There are probably but few instances where persons newly married do not discover, and that too, in an early period of their matrimonial relation, each in the other, some trait of character which had before escaped their observation — and much, very much, depends on the course they may pursue on those occa- sions. Should the newly discovered faults or follies of the husband appear to be such as preclude the hope of their being corrected, however unpleasant the task, the wife's easiest course will be to 116 ADVICE TO A YOUXG MAPwR. ED LADY. endeavor to accommodate herself to tliem. If she cannot bring her circumstances to her mind, the alternative is to bring her mind to her circumstances. Custom and habit tend to lessen the effect of evils which cannot be destroyed ; and common prudence will induce her to conceal from her husband her knowledge of those faults of his which she cannot expect to obviate, because it will not increase his affection for her, should he think that hers for him is on the wane. If a woman would correct the faults or follies of her husband, she should reflect, that she can only do it by means of her influence over him — that she has, in general, no other influence than what arises from his affections for her — that the continuance of these depends on the continuance of the causes by which they were first kindled : and you may rest assured, that whatever female patience, mildness and good humor, and tender affections cannot accomplish with a husband, frowns, sulks, sharp reproofs, and ill-natured reproaches never can achieve. By the former he may be soothed and softened into complaisance, and willingly led to abandon a foible or a fault ; but the latter will inevitably tend to sour his mind, to curdle all the milk of human kindness in his bosom, warm his resent- ment, excite his opposition, and confirm him in error. My acquaintance with your husband, has induced me to believe that his whole heart and soul accompany his affections and aversions ; and that it depends much on the exercise of your prudence and discretion, whether he will be to you a kind and tender husband, or an unpleasant and uninteresting associate. Perhaps you are now about to ask, if the wife must make all, and the husband no sacrifice to promote connubial concord and domestic peace ? I mean no such thing — on the contrary, so much depends on your mutual endeavors, that without the husband's, the wife's cannot succeed. But the path I have pointed out for you to take, is the surest, nay, the only one, to be pursued, to produce or continue in him the disposition to a corresponding course of measures. Can that be called a sacrifice which promotes a domestic bliss ? As well may he be said to sacri- fice his money who gives it for a larger sum. You will be disappointed if you expect your husband's face always to be the sporting place of smiles and graces, or his mind at all times attuned to the soft melody of harmonious strains ; — " As well expect eternal sunshine, cloudless skies, As men forever temperate, calm and wise." Sickness, disappointment, and perplexity in his business, and a thoi> ADVICE TO A YOUNG MARRIED LADY. 117 sand nameless causes, canuot but sometimes operate to disturb bia mind, depress his spirits, and becloud his visage : producing, perhaps, unsual taciturnity, or a strain of language not remarkable for its mellifluent cadences. This is not the occasion on which he is to bo met with a corre- sponding deportment on the part of his wife. It is rather the time when the exercise of all her philosophy is indispensable, a time when her temper is to be tried, her heart probed, and her affections put to the test ; the time when by her kind, soft, and sympathizing lan- guage, and a countenance and conduct bearing testimony to its sin- cerity, that ho is to be comforted at least with the reflection, that he has a friend in adversity as well as in prosperity, a partner in his sorrows as in his joys. I may possibly be singular in the opinion, but I could never entertain the fullest confidence even in the virtue of that female whose sympathies could not be excited by the sorrows of others ; and surely a wife can never appear so interesting and amiable in the eyes of her husband, as when he sees her melting with kindness to him, and sorrowing for his sorrows. In short, it should be the object of your unremitted attention, to make him feel that his home is a place of refuge from his cares, a sanctuary from the frowns of adverse fortune, and he will seek it as naturally as he would desire his own felicity. But when a husband ceases to regard his home as the happiest place on earth, he would shun it as he would fly his troubles ; and as it often happens, will take the road to ruin, and seek at the ale house, the gaming table, or more indecent places, a refuge from domestic broils, the consequences of which, though often seen, are too disgusting for detail. It could not be deemed a compliment to your husband's taste, to suppose he will be entirely indifi"erent to your dress, or pleased to see you careless in this respect either at home or abroad. Those wives have not reflected much, who think a slip-shod slattern hazards nothing of her husband's good opinion ; or that the lack of neatness in domestic dress is a certain indication of her indolence and the discorded aspect of her habitation. If your husband loves you, he could not but feel somewhat of disappointment, should the personal appearance of his wife be much inferior to that of the girl he courted, or to the generality of those females with whom you may happen to associate. He cannot but make comparisons, and it should be your care that they should not result to your disadvantage. 118 ADVICE TO A YOUNG MAKK.IED LADY. Extravaganoe in dress should also be avoided as ill calculated to increase the respectability of a married lady, and it sometimes occasions surmises no wise creditable to the female character. In- deed, you ought, by consulting your husband's wishes in this respect, to leave him not a doubt, that your dress is fashioned to meet his approbation, more than to attract the gaze or gain the admiration of any or every other person. It may be thought, perhaps by somc^ that the dress of the wife is, to the husband, a matter of very trifling consequence ; but rely upon it, the effect of disregarding his opinions on this subject, is not always wholly unimportant. You have doubtless seen and heard enough to know, that nothing short of crime, can more impair the respectability of a married lady, than often being seen at public places, unattended by her husband. Should yours have no desire to be thronged with company at home, nor disposition to seek it abroad; or should you unfortunately aspire to live in a style inconsistent with his feelings or resources, I have already said enough to show you, that no action of yours savoring of opposition, no look soured by disappointment, no ex- pression tinctured with reproach, will dispose him the more to gratify your wishes. That such means cannot succeed with a man of sense and spirit, is as obvious as the indiscretion through which they are adopted. Abrupt contradiction of any one, though sometimes the effect of an unguarded moment, is generally regarded as a sure indication of low and vulgar breeding : but such conduct in a wife towards a husband, seldom fails to render him ridiculous and her contemptible in the estimation of all who may happen to witness such an instance of her folly aiid imprudence. Much of the respectability of the wife is reflected from the husband ; and when she, by her indiscre- tion, lessens his, she is sure to sink her own in public estimation. To conclude — I have voluntarily, and perhaps officiously, offered you my counsel, and the best my judgment can afford. My motive is your good; but it depends on yourself whether or not it will be useful to you. But keep this letter by you^ and if, at the end of three or four years, you shall tliink yourself not benefited by its contents, you have my assent to burn it. That blessings of health, peace, and prosperity may attend you through life, is the sincere wish and earnest hope of your friend. Diet cures more than the doctor. FLOWERS In a grove of tulips, or a knot of piuks, one perceives a difference in almost every individual. Scarce any two are turned and tinctured exactly alike. Each allows himself a little particularity in his dress, though all belong to one family : so that they are various and yet the same. A pretty emblem this, of the smaller differences between Christians. There are modes in religion which admit of variation, without prejudice to sound faith or real holiness ; just as the drapery on these pictures of the spring may be formed after a variety of patterns, without blemishing their beauty or altering their nature. Be it so then, that in some points of inconsiderable consequence several of our brethren dissent ; yet, as all live amicably and sociably together, for we harmonize in principals, though we vary in punc- tilios. Let us join in conversation, and intermingle interests; dis- cover no estrangement of behavior, and cherish no alienation of affec- tion. If any strife subsists, let it be to follow our Divine Master most closely in humility of heart and unblameableness of life ; to serve one another most readily in all the kind offices of a cordial friendship. Thus shall we be united, -though distinguished; united in the same grand fundamentals, though distinguished by some small circumstantials : united in one important bond of brotherly love, though distinguished by some slighter peculiarities of sentiment. Between Christians, whose judgments disagree only about a form of prayer or manner of worship, I apprehend there is no more essen- tial difference than between flowers which bloom from the same kind of seed, but happen to be somewhat diversified in the mixture of their colors. Another circumstance recommending and endearing the flowery creation, is their regular succession. They make not their appear- ance all at once, but in an orderly rotation. While a proper num- ber of these obliging retainers are in waiting, the others abscond ; but hold themselves in a posture of service, ready to take their tnrn, and fill each his respective station the instant it becomes 'yacant. The snow-drop, foremost of the lovely train, breaks her way through the frozen soil, in order to present her early compliments to her Lord : dressed in the robe of innocency, she 120 FLOWERS. steps for ill, fearless of clanger, long before the trees have ven- tured to unfold their leaves, even while the icicles are pendent on our houses. Next peeps out the crocus, but cautiously, and with an air of timidity. She hears the howling blasts, and skulks close to her low situation ; afraid, she seems to make large excursions from her root, while so many ruffian winds are abroad, and scouring along the jether. Nor is the violet last in this shining embassy of the year ; which, with all the embellishments that would grace a royal garden, condescends to line our hedges, and grow at the feet of briars. Freely, and without any solicitation, she distributes the bounty of her emissive sweets : while herself, with an exemplary humility, retires from sight, seeking rather to administer pleasure than to win admiration. Emblem, expressive emblem, of those modest virtues which delight to bloom in obscurity, which extend a cheering influence to multitudes who are scarce acquainted with the source of their comforts ! Motive, engaging motive, to that ever- active beneficence which stays not for the importunity of the dis- tressed, but anticipates their suit and prevents them with the bless- ings of its goodness ! The poor polyanthus, that lately adorned the border with her sparkling beauties, and, transplanted into our windows, gave us a fresh entertainment, is now no more. I saw her complexion fade, I perceived her breath decay, till at length she expired, and dropt into her grave. Scarce have we sustained this loss, but in comes the auricula, and more than retrieves it. Arrayed she comes, in a splendid variety of amiable forms ; with an eye of crystal, and garments of the most glossy satin ; exhaling perfume, and powdered with silver. A very distinguished procession this ! The favorite care of the florist ! Scarce one among them but is dig- nified with a character of renown, or has the honor to represent some celebrated toast. But these, also, notwithstanding their illus- trious titles, have exhausted their whole stock of fragrance, and are mingled with the meanest dust. Who could forbear grieving at their departure, did not the tulips begin to raise themselves on their fine wands or stately stalks ? They flush the parterre with one of the gayest dresses that blooming nature wears. Did ever beau or belle make so gaudy an appearance in a birth-night suit ? Here one may behold the innocent wantonness of beauty. Here she indulges in a thousand freaks, and sports herself in the most charming diver- sity of colors. Yet I should wrong her, were I to call her a coquette, because she plays her lovely changes, not to enkindle dis- solute affections but to display her Creator's glory. SPRING. " A.GAIN upon the grateful earth, Thou mother of the flowers." 'Rejoice, oil, man, rejoice! Welcome, season of smiles — hail. Spring robed in verdure — a mortal bids you hail ! Come forth, child of sorrow, and behold the handiwork of your Maker. Is not the finger of Grod manifest in the flowers just opened to heaven, in the tender blade of grass, in the putting forth of the lofty forest tree ? Has he not given you these things to bless you, and yet your heart leaps not at the sight. Open your eyes and con- template the glorious prospect : look up and be filled with gratitude. But forget not a richer inheritance is prepared for those who love Him. Enjoy the spring, enjoy the summer, and exult, if the heart will, in time of harvest. But let not the joyous seasons pass unprofitably by. The works of Providence are as an open book, where you may read and get wisdom. The beautiful, the strong, decay. The oak outlives the mistletoe, the honeysuckle the morning- glory, but they all contain the elements, the seeds of death. They are like us, for a season, and their years will have an end. Never- theless, rejoice and give thanks, oh, man, for the spring is also a token that for thee there is no end. As the earth is now seen in its glory after a season of storm and cloud, so mayest thou be seen ir the brightness of the Redeemer's glory, when the storm and clouc of this world shall have passed away. Mourner, come forth ! the dew of the morning is precious balm. Be not overcome with grief, for God is with you, and the morrow may bring healing on its wings. Are not the paternal skies beautiful and full of glory ? Behold yon cloud of gold and purple, rolling on in grandeur, as if to welcome the rising Sun, which has decked it so magnificently. And farther south, there is one like unto a rainbow in beauty, when first it bends over us on the ruins of the storm. The fields too, how surpassingly lovely, teeming with the riches ol Providence. Beautiful world ! But for the bad passion.s of men. 122 SPRING. even here angels might stoop to dwell, and fold in peace their snowy wnigs. Hear the voice, thou sluggard, and awake. Know you not you are wasting the precious hour of a fleeting life, more precious because of its limited duration ? There is music on the breeze, and jo}^ in the bracing air. Not long since you complained of the slow approach of Spring, and now that Spring has come, unscathed by time, bright and lovely as the dawn ef creation, you close your eyes to its beau- ties, and your ears to its gushing melody. The beasts of the field, the feathered tribes are praising their maker and Grod — they are speaking a language your heart does not respond unto. Shame on you, ye sons of ease and opulence, " there will be sleeping enough in the grave." Little children, rejoice, sing, and give thanks to your Heavenly Father, who causeth the sun to shine on all his creatures. Fling back your gay ringlets, and woo the light breeze of Spring, as it passes on to its bourne. Nature has a thousand sweets for you, wdiich the humming-bird and the bee know not of. When you pluck the pretty flowers, and put them in your bosom, you say, " God made them." So, indeed, He did. And to the innocent heart, a sense of the goodness and love of Grod is sweeter far than honey to the little insect which buries itself in the lovely blossoms you cherish so fondly. - Now learn a lesson. These pretty fragrant flowers, so lately called into being, will soon die, and be hidden in the dust, and you will miss them in your walks, and enquire, "where are they?" Even so, little children, you must die, " and life be left to the but- terfly." Then those who loved you will mourn, and refuse to bo comforted; but God, dear children. He will raise you up at the last day, whose names are written in the Lamb's book of life. Hail, Spring ! redolent with blessings — emblem of a purer and brighter world — type of Paradise ! Welcome to the lonely heart and the " mind diseased." " Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted." ♦■ • '^ » » Fine sense and exalted sense are not half so useful as common sense. There are forty men of wit for one man of sense, and he that will carry nothing about him but gold, will be every day at a loss for readier change. THE DEEAM. BY ANNIE DANE. « Could we by some spell of magic change The world and its inhabitants to stone In the same attitudes they now are in, ■\VTiat fearful glances downward might we ca«t Into the hollow chasms of human life 1"' As twilight flung o'er earth her misty veil, And faintly beamed the moon serene and pale, 'Neath the bright stars that shed their fitful gleams. I laid me down alone to pleasant dreams ; To pleasant dreams ! Alas ! what potent spell Came o'er my soul 1 What spirit rung the knell Of joyous hopes that deep within the heart, Bright with youth's smiles forever quickly start '? Could moments waken thoughts so darkly wild, Or chill the life-blood flowing clear and mild'? But sleep hath its own world, and who may know Its fearful visions or its deepest woe 1 Methought I came from some bright sphere, to Earth, Still beautiful and fair as at its birth. But the life pulses that throughout it thrill. Had ceased to play, and all was strangely still; Like Parian stone wrought by the sculptor's care, But cheerless, motionless, and coldly fair. 'Mid the thick shade of young, green summer leaves, There stirred no wind-harp, and there swept no breeze The gushing fountains and the silver streams Had ceased'to play beneath the sun's pure beams; Hushed was the tumult of each ocean wave, And closed forever its dark fearful grtive ; Billows that raise their war-song loud and high, No longer raved beneath a frowning sky ; Their r°ocky tops glared white beneath the ray The sun cast on them through each cloudless day, While night-black chasms, powerless and deep, Lay chained benea-th them in eternal sleep. And man escaped not from the feartul doom That wrapt the world in an unbroken gloom; *24 CHE DREAM. Amid the gathered thronfr no sound was heard, Nor parting lips breatlied forth the welcome word ; There beamed no smile, there rose no bitter sigh, And soulless was the gaze of every eye. But yet each spirit fled had left a trace Where oft its sudden gleams had lit the face, As, fanned by hope, or fed by wild despair, Its struggling light burst forth in glory there ; And though most strange, 'twas easy to define, What passion fires had kindled on its shrine. In each gay city hushed was all the din, The war, the restlessness, the woe and sin, That weighing heavy on the harp of life, Breaks its fi-ail strings, unequal to the strife ; Or make strange discord, v.iiere, high-toned, shoak The heart's sweet music, incense to the skies. The silent street, thronged with its motley crowd, Was a strange spectacle, for there the proud, Who erst turned coldly, with disdainful ej^es, From the wan beggar and his faltering cries, Had, by the God who looked on them with scorn, Been made as friendless, helpless and forlorn. Those with the fearless soul, the daring might, Those with foul hearts, black as a starless night; The rich, the poor, the coward and the brave. Together stood, the earth one mighty grave. On the wide festive hall I gazed awhile. To mark the graceful form and winning smile ; But where the song, the full, rich tide of song Is wont to floAV 'mid such a joyous throng, And where the voices, lisping thoughts of glee, From hearts that gush with untaught melody 1 No such were hastening on that banquet hour ; O'er it was reigning the same mystic power. On many a brow, as some fresh snow-wreath fair, The frail Avhite garlands rested gently there; 'Mid the rich wealth of eastern braids still lay The sleeping pearls, in pure and bright array; While through dark tresses flashed the diamond's lig' Proud that they decked the beautiful and bright: But fearful silence hold unbroken sway In that fair group, where smiles were once so gay, The unquatfed goblet clasped with jewelled hand, Pressed many a lip amid that gathered band ; And many a form with queenly air and glance, Had paused while mingling in the merry dance ; THE DREAM. ^'*^ Alas ! the dreams of youth's glad hour were o'er, And e'en Hope's angels that throughout it pcur Fresh incense on the heart to feed its flame, Had sped away, forgot in very name. Hid 'neath its mantle of thick ivy green, In a lone cottage that could scarce bo seen, On a low couch I saw a mother lie, Whose soul had fled before the blast swept by ; Calmly and gently it had passed away, As sunbeams melt at close of summer day ; The placid brow was beautiful in rest, The snow-white linen lay upon her breast, But there was kneeling by that bed of death One who had bowed 'neath sorrow's fearful breath, Stirred with its agony intense, her soul Had heaved like waters when the tempests roll ; And wildly thrilled each quivering spirit chord, Swept by the angel's snowy wing, that soared To bear Heaven's richest, holiest gift away, A mother's love, back to its own spring-day. Upon her pale and hueless cheek there lay, The woe- wrung tears, like drops of ocean spray, Her hands were tightly clasped in strong despair, Her eyes upraised, as if on wing of prayer The soul had sped. Blest seemed the God of love, So soon to call her trembling soul above ; Who can endure to live, endure to die. Without a mother's smile, and love-lit eye 1 I looked into the miser's lonely lair ; The yellow heaps were still secreted there ; His icy hand, shrivelled, and thin, and old, Still clasped unconsciously the shining gold; And his wan face wore a strange look of woe, As he had turned far from the dreaded foe, The face of man and the pure light of day. Friendless and drearily to pass away. I saw pale students, whom the long still night Ever found gazing, by the taper's light. O'er some worn page. One was a boy in years ; Thought brought him manhood, not life's doubts and fears. His marble brow, untouched by care, was graced With the deep lines that early thought had traced ; The thickly mingling waves of dark brown hair, Carelessly beautiful, were resting there ; 126 THE DREAM. And all too bright seemed his clear, serious eye, Though death had borne its glory to the sky. Ko sordid wish for earthly fame, I knew, Had led him thus to search life's secrets through. To fathom many a mystery of the soul, With thoughts that rushed as racers to their goal ; But the wild longing, the strange thirst within, For something more than we on earth can win ; Longings that may not cease, till, at God's shrine. Heaven's truths unfold with clearness all divine. Others had kept the lingering night watch, too, Till in the east the early dawn looked through ; An old man sat half-raised upon his bed ; On the low casement lay his snowy head ; For he had died, searching, though all in vain, Some knowledge of the unknown worlds to gain; To pierce their beauty as with dewy light, They mock the soul through all the holy night; The weary, fainting souls that seek release. Breathe but one prayer, ask but a home of peace. Each wildly beating heart stern death had hushed With icy finger, and Earth's spirits rushed. White-robed, unto their God — and all was still, As if awaiting His Almighty Avill. Then the loud voice that said, " let there be light," Reversed its mandate, and eternal night Spread its black wing before my trembling sight. » « ♦ » ♦ POWER OF CONSISTENCY Mr. Innes, in his work on Domestic Religion, mentions a fact strikingly illustrative of the power of consistent conduct. A young man, when about to be ordained as a Christian minister, stated that at one period of his life he had been nearly betrayed into the prin- ciples of infidelity; "But," he added, 'Hhere was one argument in favor of Christianity, which I could never refute — the consistent conduct of my own father !" THE PAINTER AND THE MADONNA. BY W. S. SOUTHGATE. Long and wearily had the painter hibored npon a Madonna, but yet another day left it unfinished. The first ray of the morning sun Vd found him sitting with folded hands before the half-finished pic- tuie, nor had he gone from it when the last ray of the setting sun came in at the opposite window. Thus, day after day, he had sought in vain after that divine ex- pression of the Virgin Mother, which his soul "had often seen in his dreams, but could not now recall. Sometimes, when his soul forgot its earthly dwelling place, and all its sorrows went joyously back to revel among the joys of its own home, it would bring to the painter on its return, as it were, pictures of heavenly loveliness, which he too easily forgets. The birds sung sweetly in the gr --e near by, and gladdened the painter's hea/t with their cheerfulness, for the song of a happy bird was one of the greatest joys of his life. The summer air came in at the open window, laden with the per- fume of the wild flowers, and with the musical hum of the bees ; the happy kids frisked by the side of their feeding dams afar off on the mountain slope, seeming to play close against the clear blue sky. Every thing looked pleasant in the clear bright sunshine, and every thing that felt it seemed to rejoice in it. The painter's courage revived. He could not yet despair, for all these glories of nature gave him new hope. Once more he took his pencil, and labored on with a light heart. Once again the Madonna was finished. He gazed upon it long and earnestly, but yet was not satisfied. '- Alas !" he cried, " it is not the Virgin Mother that I have painted; 'tis only a smiling goddess of summer, toying with a child." And again he wiped away his work, almost despairing in his heart. Not long after, the painter sat at his window, watching the sha- dows, as they played to and fro over the bosom of the neighboring 128 THE fAlNTER AND TIIE MADONNA., lake, and listening to the joyful melody witli wliich the whole forest rang. He dreamed that while he was lying in the shade of the wood, looking upon the beautiful flowers around hhn, a female form rose up from out the bosom of a tulip, and stood before him. At first she seemed shrouded with a thick mist, but it cleared away before the painter's gaze, and revealed to him the bright vision. And never before, in all his dreams of beauty, had he beheld so lovely an embodiment of graces and beauties. Her flowing robe glistened with its own whiteness as she walked in the light. The Blender violets were hardly bent under her feet, and every thing she passed was covered in beauty. In every flower he beheld a reflected image of the lovely vision, as if each one carried a mirror in its own bosom. She came near to the astonished painter, and said, in a cheerful tone : — '' Behold me whom thou hast long sought in vain. I am the Spirit of Beauty. I was born in heaven, but I have long dwelt on earth, that I might cheer the hearts of men. But they do not look for me here, though I am always near them. They search the skies, thinkinof that I never come down from heaven. But thou at last has sought me aright, and so have found me in my grove, not away in heaven. Sol am every where ; in the forest and the field ; on the mountain and in the lake ; in every lofty tree, in every humble flower. Here I gladly abide, wishing for man to see and love me, that I may dwell in his heart and bless him. Yet he passes along in the path of life, so dreary without me, not thinking that I am in the flowers under his feet, as well as in the stars above his head. Did he mind more the flowers which lie in his path, he would mind less the thorns there. Now I am thy companion, and I will work with thee till men see me in thy works." The spirit ceased, and the painter awoke. The moon was shining in his face, and it seemed to him as if she had flown up to it, and. was looking down upon him. "0 glorious vision," he cried, ''thou art in heaven, on earth, and in my soul; leave me not, I pray, though thou shouldst leave heaven and earth." Thenceforth the painter lived as it were in a new world. He saw new beauties, and each added to the joys of his life. Again the Madonna was finished. And now the canvass glowed THE PAINTER AND THE MADONNA. 129 witli a life and beauty, more noble and affecting than tlie summer- like freshness and youth of the last Madonna, but yet not divine. It seemed as if he had painted a grace as a mother. There was in her face that expression of joy and contentment, where lurks some anxiety, which you have seen upon a mother when holding in her arms the sleeping babe. And in the child, you might read his gentleness and meekness, but you could not see there his divinity. It was a perfect picture of motherly love and childish affection, but all in it was human. The painter felt that there was something wanting in it, and he knew that it was the I10I3" expression which he had so long and earnestly sought. And still unsatisfied, he laid away the picture, hardly expecting that he should ever better it. One summer evening, when the fields and the groves were all so quiet in the moonlight, that it seemed like Nature's hour of prayer, the bell of the church, which stood alone in the valley, began to call the villagers to vespers. And when the painter heard it, and saw how happy they all seemed who were hastening to the church, he went and joined with them. As he sat in the dimly-lighted church, and looked up amongst the dark overhanging beams of the roof, feelings of awe came over him. And all the while the priest and the people were praying, the painter was lost in holy meditation. Soon the organist began the noble symphonies of the " Stabat Mater," filling the church with its sweet music. And after the organ had ceased, the echoes played it over and over again up among the lofty arches, till the painter's heart was filled with love and peace. He went home from church to his lonely room, and taking the long-n^eglected Madonna from the corner, once more put it upon his easel. While he sat before it he fell asleep. And again the Spirit of Beauty appeared to him, and there was with her another noble spirit, whose face shone so with the brightness of her divinity, that he could not bear the sight. But soon it beau- tified on him with a gentler sight, and changed his fear to love. The two spirits stood before him, holding each other by the hand. And the face of the Spirit of Beauty was turned toward heaven, but the other spirit looked upon the earth. Then the Spirit of Beauty said : " Man, I have been with thy heart ever since I first met with thee in the grove. Thou hast done all that we can do. Thy works are beautiful — I cannot make them more. But listen to my sister spirit, for she would make you her own." Then the other said : l30 THE PAINTER AND THE MADONNA. " I am the Spirit of Religion. I would dwell with thee and be thy companion. Thou hast never found me in the grove, nor canst thou find me there. Only my foot-prints are in the woodland and on the lake. If thou wilt open thy heart to me, I will bless thee.'* Then the Spirit of Religion raised her finger toward heaven, saying— " I will lead thee there, wilt thou go ?" And the painter gladly received the other spirit, for her loveliness had drawn him towards her. He awoke. The sister spirits dwelt together in his heart. And now the twin spirits which were dwelling in his dreams, came and dwelt with him in reality. And when again the pious painter heard the mournful "Stabat Mater," echoing through the lofty church, his whole heart was filled with its music, for now he felt more than its beauty — he felt its religion. Long ago, this happy painter died, but his immortal works are with us yet, ministers of purity and holiness, teaching us beau- tiful lessons. Chief among them all is Madonna, the noblest glory of his country, and joy to the world. The mild countenance of the Virgin Mother is truly wonderful ; words can never half describe it. There repose both humanity and divinity, joy and anxiety, and over all it spreads with the blissful expression of a young mother's love. And the holy child, half down from his mother's knee, looks earnestly into her face, as if he were saying, " Mother, I would be saving unhappy men, can I not go ?" This is what the twin sisters, Beauty and Religion, did for the painter. If we listen, with our whole hearts, to the silent preachings of Nature and Art, they may teach us where we also may find the heavenly companions. » > ♦ < A MAN, whose life was immoral, urged his sister to go with him to hear his minister, but she smartly replied, " Brother, what are you the better for his preaching ?" This fact shows how fruitless are the attempts of inconsistent professors in doing good, but it furnishes no reason why any should aeglect religion. MY WIFE IS THE CAUSE OF IT. It is now more than forty years ago, that Mr. L called at the house of Dr. B , one very cold morning, on his way to H . ''Sir," said the Doctor, ''the weather is very frosty — will you not 'take something to drink,' before you start ?" In that early day, ardent spirits were deemed indispensable to warmth in winter. When commencing a journey, and at every stopping place along the road, the traveler always used intoxicating drinks to keep him warm. "]So," said Mr. L , '-I never touch anything of that' kind; and I will tell you the reason : my icife is the cause of it. I had been in the habit of meeting some of our neighbors every evening, for the purpose of playing cards. We assembled at each other'? shop, and liquors were introduced. After a while we met not s( much for playing as drinking, and I used to return home late in th( evening, more or less intoxicated. My wife always met me at th( door affectionately, and when I chided her for sitting up so late foi me, she kindly replied, ' I prefer doing so, for I cannot sleep when you are out.' " This always troubled me. I wished in my heart that she would only begin to scold me, for then I could have retorted, and relieved my conscience. But she always met me with the same gentle and loving spirit. "Things passed on thus for months, when I at last resolved that I would, by remaining very late, and returning much intoxicated, provoke her displeasure so much as to cause her to lecture me, when I meant to answer her with severity, and thus, by creating another issue between us, unburthen my bosom of its present trouble. " I returned in such a plight about four o'clock in the morning. She met me at the door with her usual tenderness, and said, ' Come in, husband; I have just been making a warm fire for you, because I knew you would be cold. Take off your boots and warm your feet, and here is a cup of hot coffee.' "Doctor, that was too much. I could not endure it any longer, 132 MAKE ONE IIArPY HEART. and I resolved, that moment, that I would never touch another drop ■while I lived, and I never will." He never did. lie lived and died practising total abstinence from all intoxicating drinks, in a village where intemperance has ravaged as much as any other in this State. That man was my father, and that woman my mother. The fact above related I received from the Doctor himself when on a visit to my native village, not long since. May we not safel}^ assert, that, were there more wives like my blessed mother, there would be fewer confirmed drunkards ? » e » » ♦ MAKE ONE HAPPY HEART. Have you made one happy heart to-day ? How calmly can you seek your pillow ? how sweetly sleep. In all this world, there is nothing so sweet as giving comfort to the distressed — as getting a sun ray into a gloomy heart. Children of sorrow meet us wherever we turn. There is no moment that tears are not shed and sighs uttered. Yet how man}' of those sighs, those tears, are caused by our own thoughtlessness ? How man}^ a daughter wrings the soul of a fond mother by acts of unkindness and ingratitude ? How many hus- bands, by one little word, make a whole day of sad hours and unkind thoughts ? How many wives, by angry accriminations, estrange and embitter loving hearts ? How many brothers and sisters meet but to vex each other, making wounds that no human heart can ever heal ? And if each one worked upon this maxim day by day — striving to make some happy heart — jealousy, revenge, madness, hate, with their kindred evil associates, would forever leave the earth. Our minds would be so occupied in the contemplation of adding to the pleasure of others, that there would be no room for the ugly fiends of discord. Try it, disconnected devotees of sorrow self-caused; it makes that little world in which you move an Eden. UNCLE ZIM AND DEACON PETTIBONE. " Open your cars : for wliicli of you will stop The vent of hearing, when loud Rumor speaks V — Skakspeare. In one of those pleasant rural villages wliicli chequer the coast of Long Island Sound with their white houses and green window blinds, not more than twenty miles east of New-Haven, lived my highly respected uncle, Zimri Bladley, Esq. He was a man of • some consequence in his day, having successively filled the offices of ty thing-man, grand-juryman, selectman, and sometime justice of the quorum. He would have continued to enforce a wholesome moral discipline among the unruly boys of the congregation, as a tything-man, longer, probably, than he did, were it not that there was always a sly laughing devil lurking in his eye ; so that when, with his mace of office, he rapped the head of one mischievous urchin, or attempted to gather a frown as he shook his wig at ano- ther — for tittering when aunt Deborah Hornblower started from her sleep, as she tuned her nasal organ too high for the voice of the Rev. ^Ir. Wakeman — instead of checking the one, or intimidating the other into a seemly and reverent silence, he invariably had the ill fortune to set a dozen more into a giggling titillation. As a select- man, uncle Zim was kind to the poor ; and, as in duty bound, he more than once had several common drunkards exhibited in the stocks. As justice of the quorum, he held the scales with a steady and impartial hand, though he was not much of a lawyer. Indeed, the public would not so soon have lost the benefit of his services on the bench, had he not fallen into an unlucky mistake, in attempt- ing to use technical language. It devolved upon him, on some ordinary occasion, to charge the jury, in an action on a promissory note, to which the defence set up was a want of consideration. Uncle Zim advised to find for the defendant, '' as the alibi was clearly made out." He was, in this instance, as unfortunate as the pedant, whose whole stock of Latin was, '•'- qiddhorae^ est domineV* of * What o'clock is it, sir 1 ^^4 UNCLE ZIM AND DEACON PETTIEONE. which he was SO proud, that he was continually putting the question to all whom he met ; till, one day, a stranger upon whom he inflicted it, after looking ut his watch, replied— "^y/«;-r/ manualls mei motus turbatur, domine:'* The pedant turned away in a great haste, profanely saying, " Bless my soul ! I didn't think it was so late," —much to the amusement of the young freshmen, who heard of it soon afterwards. Uncle Zim. however, would have encountered no such rebuff from any of the "gentlemen of the jury;" for his alibi sounded as sweetly in their ears, as Mesopotamia in those of the old lady, who could give no other reason for crying at a sermon, but "that blessed word Mesopotamia, which continued to ring so sweetly in her ears." But lawyer Daggett and lawyer Wagstaff took occasion to make themselves merry at the expense of his wor- ship. Uncle Zim was a man of spirit, and some pride withal ; and no sooner had he heard of his error, and that the wags were laugh- ing about the "alibi," when his back was turned, than he threw his commission into the fire, declaring that after all, it was a wise say- ing, that "a cobbler should stick to his last." The village above mentioned, which we shall call Aj^plebury, was a quiet sort of a place, where the people, to this day, walk in the ways of their fathers, queue their hair with eel-skins, and go to and from meeting "decently and in order," in accordance with the injunction of the Saybrook Platform, and as all honest people should do. The names, titles, and biographers of their ances- tors, since the days of governor Leete to the present, curiously carved in immortal freestone, may be found in the old grave- yard, each inscription being surmounted either by a death's head and cross-bones, grinning in relief, in a style that would make the grisly messenger himself rattle his joints for very laughter; or the head of a cherub, with wings stuck on where the ears should be, shaped more like a pair of bellows handles than the pinions of one of Tom Moore's angels. But to return from our digression ; the folks of Applebury are an exceedingly clever peo- ple, in the Yankee sense of the term — most of them attend to their own business, and all of them know the business of every body else. Here, then — for we find we shall have to begin our story again — here, then, lived our worthy uncle Zimri Bradley. Uncle Zim, as we ased to call him, was as full of fun and mis- * My watch has stopped. UNCLE ZIM AND DEACON rETTIlJOA'E. 135 chief as any urcliin in the village. Near hy his domicil, sojourned Malaehi Fowler, who married the accomplished Miss Abigail Petti- bone, of Hazlewood, the adjoining town, whose brother, Eliakim Pettibono, in process of time, became a deacon of the church in that parish. The distance was only about twenty miles, and deacon Petti- bone used to keep every thanksgiving with his brother Fowler uncle Zim not unfrequently making one of the family party. But thouo-h uncle Zim was himself a Christian professor, according to the Plat- form, and in the main, walked according to the vows he had made yet he was not altogether free from carnal ways. He was never at a loss for a fact, and was fond of telling ludicrous stories, which, in his hands, were seldom diminished by repetition. He could not, for the soul of him, suppress a joke when it came upon his tongue, cut where it would. On one of these occasions, he had the good, or the ill for- tune, to keep the pious deacon Pettibone roaring with laughter, until his very ribs cracked again. Much, however, it grieved the good man afterwards, that he had yielded to the temptation of mirth, which he was half-persuaded had been excited as a snare by the evil one, and it preyed upon his spirits the whole of the following day, on his return to Hazlewood. This impression, however, soon wore away, and he lost all unpleasant recollections in the warm and affec- tionate smiles with which he was welcomed to the little famil}- circle of his happy and peaceful abode. Soon after this convivial occurrence, which had, for the moment, disturbed the quiet of the conscientious deacon Pettibone's inner man, uncle Zim made a journey to Hazlewood to purchase a yoke of oxen of Mr. Ishmael Crane, nephew of Ichabod Crane, the cele- brated schoolmaster, for which he vras to pay in " West India goods," after the return of the last cargo of mules and whitefish, shipped bv him to Jamaica. Uncle Zim's wits were as bright as a dollar : he talked as slick as a whistle ; and he was a cute chap at a bargain, as Mr. Ishmael Crane soon found out. Mr. Crane took three-quarters of an hour to consider, before he would conclude the bargain, and as it was just twelve o'clock by the conch-shell, uncle Zim thought he would go and take pot-luck with deacon Pettibone, who lived near the sch aol-house hard by. By the way, uncle Zim once drove a barter with the deacon for some mules, for which the deacon always thought he could have got more, if he had known what they were bringing at the time ; though, as uncle Zim only took him at his word in the price of tlie cattle, he had nothing to complain of. But that is not to the purpose. ^36 UNCLE ZOr AXD DEACON PETTIBONE. While at dinner, Mr. Tslimael Crane came and called the deacon out, to inquire something about the character of my Uncle Zim- whereupon the following dialogue took place : " What sort of a man," asked Mr. Crane, " is this 'squire Brad- ley ?" Deacon Pettibone had not forgotten the sale of his mules, nor Uncle Zim's fat stories, and his merry jokes, over Beacon Fowler's pumpkin-pies and cider-brandy ; nor his own supposed delinquency in his late unseemly merriment. '' What sort of a man ?" said the deacon, repeating his words : "Why, he is a member of good Dr. Wakeman's church, in Apple- bury, I reckon." " Well ; do you know him ?" " Know him ! I guess I do ! He lives next door to brother Fowler's ; and I tell you he is a member of Dr. Wakeman's church. But I guess " " Guess ! guess what ? Don't you think he is good enough for my brindle four-year-olds ?" '' Why— yes— I 'spose so— but I guess, to be candid " " Zounds, deacon ! what do you mean by vour guesses and your buts ?" '' Why, if I must say, I guess that God-icard he means to do the thing that's right, but man-ivard I reckon he is a little tivisti- ^.al or so." Mr. Ishmael Crane went away, and Deacon Pettibone returned and finished his dinner with Uncle Zim. When deacon Pettibone stepped out, however, he had unconsciously left the door ajar, and the consequence was, that uncle Zim had very innocently heard most of the conversation. But he knew that the deacon had no malice in his heart, and he knew also the cause of his scruples in qualifying his recommendation. He therefore took no notice at that time of what had been said ; but determined, in his own mind, to seek some innocent and characteristic mode of revenge. Mean- time, he completed his bargain in the afternoon, and drove the bul- locks home. Two or three years rolled away, and as his sister Abigail pre- sented his brother-in-law with so many young Fowlers, that she had little time for going abroad herself, deacon Pettibone's visits to Applebury were continued as usual ; on which occasions he always passed an evening or so in uncle Zim's company, either at his own UNCLE ZIM AND DEACON TETTIBONE. 137 or his brother's house. Uncle Zim'S bosom vras filled with the milk of human kindness. Though like an oA^er-ripe melon, rough on the outside, as the poet says, there was much sweetness under it ; and his winning ways were such, that the good deacon had long since dismissed the afi'air of the mules, and the temporary trials to which he had been subjected by his irresistible drollery. They therefore continued the best friends in the world ; — still uncle Zim never lost sight of his project in some way of avenging himself for having been represented as being " man-ward rather twistical or so." One morning, bright and early, as deacon Fowler came out pick- ing his teeth from breakfast, while the dew-drops were yet spang- liiig the meadows, he saw uncle Zim just preparing to mount the old dapple mare, with his butternut-colored coat strapped on behind the saddle. " Good morning, 'squire," said deacon Fowler ; " you seem to be stirring arly this morning. ' " Yes," said uncle Zim; "in the hot season, the morning is the best part of the day — Gad, my son, mind that you keep the cattle out of the clover patch to-day" " A very beautiful day to-day, as I was saying, 'squire" " And send Jehiel to mill this afternoon. — Yes, deacon, a fine beautiful day. The air is as sweet as a new hay-stack this morn- mg." " You are going to take a ride to-day, I guess, 'squire. Pray which way are you journeying, if I may be so bold ?" " Oh, I'm only going to Haddam, to speak for the grave-stones for good old aunt Wealthy Crookshanks." " You'll go through Hazlewood, I guess ? So, I wish you'd give brother Pettibone a call, and see how thej^'re all dewing there. Tell them that Nabby's got another nice boy, with eyes as bright as a weasel's." " Yes, I think it's like enough that I shall stop and give Dapple a bait there on my return." " D'ye think it's going to rain to-day, 'squire ? I see you've got your great-coat with you, and if I thought 'twould rain, I'd tell the boys to get the rest of the hay in." " Don't know, don't know, deacon ; they say a fool knows enough to take a great-coat when it storms ; and every body knows that 138 UNCLE ZIM AND DEACON PETTIBONE. folks must make hay while the sun shiues." And oflf rode undo Ziiii, and into the orchard went deacon Fowler. Uncle Zini came back in the evening, and overtook deacon Fowler, returning from the meadow, just as he had descended to the foot of Clapboard hill. "Ah! is that you, 'squire?" said deacon Fowler; "you are home arly to-night, I calculate." " Yes," replied uncle Zim ; " old Dapple will carry me along at the rate of seven miles an hour, day in and day out, w^ithout put- ting on the long oats neither." " A faithful beast, I vow. You saw brother Pettibone, I hope." " Yes — I saw him" — replied uncle Zim, with a grave, mysterious air, such as deacon Fowler had never seen before, upon his neigh- bor's lively countenance. " Saw him ! — he was well, I hope ?" " Why — yes — he was — pretty well, I believe." " Nothing unusual was the matter, I hope, 'squire ?" " No — I — I can't say that there was any thing unusual^'' replied uncle Zim, with a peculiar emphasis upon the last word. " And how were his family ?" " All very well ; save the youngest child, Habakuk, which has the measles." " And brother Pettibone himself, is he ailing in any way ?" " I can't say that he was much ailing. Perhaps, moreover, I was mista — no, I can't be mistaken either." " Why, 'squire, you frighten me. For goodness' sake, what was the matter ? You're sure you saw him ?" "Yes; — I — I met him," replied uncle Zim, with the same as- sumed air of mystery. " And how was he ? do speak out and let me know the worst on't, 'squire." " Why, then — if I must say" — replied uncle Zim — " I should think when I met him, he was about — ^yes, just about half shaved?^ " Impossible ! you must be joking, 'squire." " It's true, joke or no joke," said uncle Zim. By this time the parties had reached the green. The two last sentences of uncle Zim's had fallen upon the worthy deacon Fowler like a pail of ice water ; and he went to his house with a heavy heart. He did not sleep a wink all that night, and the humiliating fact pressed so heavily upon his mind — though it was his first inten- UNCLE ZIM AND DEACON PETTIBONE. 139 tion to liave kept it a profound secret, until he could have inquired into the particulars of his brother's being overcome with li'^uor, — that he was even constrained lo communicate the dismal tidings to his faithful Abigail. It was indeed planting a pang in her breast, without extracting the barb which rankled in his own bleeding bosom. But truly hath the poet said of woman, "When pain and anguish -wring the brow, A ministering angel thou; — " and Abigail, after the first gush of feeling had subsided, half forgot her own sorrow in her endeavors to soothe that of her husband. A thousand little comforting hopes, excuses, and palliating circum- stances came into her mind. Her brother might not have been so badly off as the 'squire supposed. He might have been unwell ; or perhaps he had been overcome by drinking ever so little on an empty stomach. The deacon folded his faithful spouse closer to his heart, and both determined that nothing should be said about the circumstance, even in their ovm family, for the present. And between haying time and harvest, it was agreed that deacon Fowler should go up to Hazlewood, and commune with his brother Petti- bone, privately, upon the subject. But Mrs. Abigail Fowler, notwithstanding her many fine tiuali- ties, was not entirely free from the frailties of the other daughters of Eve ; and while alone on the ensuing day, her husband being engaged w^ith his workmen in the fields, the secret became so bur- densome that she wanted somebody to help her keep it. Per- haps, also, in her affliction, she thought she needed the sympa- thies of one, at least, of her most confidential female friends, who might, in turn, soothe her sorrows, and pour a few drops of balsam into her wounded heart. In an evil hour, therefore, she revealed the tale of woe to Mrs. Aimwell, who kindly spent the whole after- noon in comforting the afflicted woman, by telling over how many others were suffering under still greater calamities. Temperance societies had not then been invented. Mrs. Aimwell left the deacon's after tea, promising not to whis- per a breath about it. ' You know, my dear Mrs. Fowler,' said she, ' that I wouldn't do no such thing for the world.' But she, too, wanted some one to help her keep the secret, and so she hinted it to Mrs. Sly. This was enough. It was on Thursday ; and it was no longer than the afternoon of the next day, at a meeting of the frag- 110 UNCLE ZIM AND DEACON PETTIBONE. • ment .-society, tluit the members were startled by the exclamation of Mrs. Doolittle, preceded by a deep-drawn sigh, to the following efleet : — *' Dear me ! wlioVI have thought it ! Well, I don't know who will fall next, for my part. Now, justice to Mrs. Doolittle requires mc to say in this place, that she was no mischief maker ; and, that, next to a witch, she held a slanderer as an utter abomination. She was a very tidy body, and the worthy helpmate of my venerated great uncle, Capt. Jasper Doolittle, of Cohabit. There was no more notable housewife in all the parish. She used to begin her washing on Sabbath-day nights, as soon as three stars could be seen, in order to have her ample stores of linen, white as the driven snow, streaming in triumph upon the clothes-line, like the lily-flag of the fallen Bourbons, at an earlier hour than her neighbors on Mondays. And ber quince- and-apple saace, and boiled cider, were exactly the best to be found bet^reen Branford and Pettypaug. But, rest her good soul ! her benevolent heart occasionally felt too deeply for others' woes, to enable her always to hide the faults she saw or heard of. Not but that she meant to do it. But as in the instance before us, there were some- times secrets actually too great to be concealed within the narrow casement of her noble soul, and then it was impossible to prevent their breaking forth in exclamations full of meaning, as we have seen. ' Dear me ! who'd have thought it !' &c. ' Why, what do you mean ?' exclaimed a dozen voices at once. ' I hope,' continued Miss Tabitha Tattler, a lady of no particular age, ' that the stocking story about Miss Prim is not true. But I've heard as much ever since Ned Bramble came home from thc south. She's kept company with him ever since last thanksgiving.' ' No ;' said Mrs. Doolittle, with a melancholy shake of the head. * That's like-enough, too. But havn't you heard of the fall of good deacon Pettibone ?' ' Of Hazlewood ? He hain't hurt himself much, I hope ?' ' I don't mean a fall from a barn or a hay-stack, child,' said Mrs. Doolittle. ' But havn't you heard on't V ' No !' replied sixteen voices in a breath. ' Do let us hear all about it.' ' Why,' said Mrs. Doolittle, ' you must know it's a great secret yet ; and one doesn't want to expose a body's failings, you know. But I'll tell you, thougb it must not go from me, for I wouldn't in- UNCLE ZIM AND DEACON PETTIEONE. 141 jure the hair of any mortal being's head. You know I cannot en- dure scandal ! And all I can now say, is, that Mrs. Crampton told me, that she heard Mr. Wilcox's wife say, that Mrs. Munger's aunt mentioned to her, that Mrs. Graves was present, when the widow Blatchley said, that Ick. Scran's wife thought Captain Evett's sister believed, that old Mrs. Willard reckoned, that Ephraim Stanard's better half had told Mrs. Hand, that she heard Mrs. Sly say, that deacon Fowler's wife had told Mrs. Aimwell, as a great secret, that the deacon had told her, that 'squire Bradley had seen deacon Petti- bone dead drunk, after an ordination dinner.' ' Do tell !' was the brief and emphatic exclamation of the benevo- lent coterie. This, as we have before remarked, was on Friday, and the subtle electrical fluid could scarcely have traveled faster than didthestorjr of the deacon's failing. From mouth to mouth — " The flying rumor jrathered as it roll'd, And scarce the tale was sooner heard than tokl; And all who told it added something new — And all who heard it made enlargement too — In every ear it spread, on every tongue it grew'' — so that, before Saturday night, the fatal account had reached Hazle- wood, enlarged and improved, until the story of the three black crows was nothing to it. Nor did it hesitate to travel Saturday night, although the blue laws were then yet in force. The conse- quence was, that before the cows were all milked on Sunday morn- ing, every body, out of the deacon's unsuspecting family, w^as ac- quainted with the melancholy catastrophe supposed to have over- taken that truly excellent man. ^ Of course the painful news was the general theme of conversation among the groups which collected around the portals of the sanc- tuary, while the bell was tolling for the minister, the late excellent and reverend Mr. Gamaliel Holdfast. The deacon presently ap- proached : but never before was he so coldly greeted by his friends. And as for enemies, it is believed that he never had one. Every countenance seemed looking darkly upon, or averted from him. P&ople even seemed to shrink from the proffered grasp of his friendly hand. But the good deacon, iji the unsuspecting simplicity of his innocence, did not observe the change, and as the minister came along, all gathered into the venerable meeting-house. Every body cast a searching eye — ' a furtive glance,' our- friend Cooper w^ould J4'2 uxcLE znr axd deacon pettibone. say — upon the deacon; while he was engaged, as others should have been, in searching his own heart. The services proceeded as usual : hut at the close the minister gave out a notice for a special meeting of the ciders and deacons of the church, to be held on Wednesda}", upon busincps of great im- portance. And after exhorting his little flock so to conduct them- selves as to show, that though in the world, thc}^ were not of the worlil, and suitably admonishing the officers, as assistant shepherds, to make themselves patterns in good works — not forgetting to re- mind them of the passage, ' Let him that standeth take heed lest he fair — (upon which stolen glances were again cast at the good deacon Pettibone) — the benediction was pronounced. The deacon, how- ever, did not observe and never once thought, that he was the sole object of this special exhortation, or of the dark and suspicious gaze of the congregation. His heart was right, and his eyes had been closed in the attitude of deep and heartfelt adoration. Thus he who was most interested in the dark givings out, was the least conscious of their existence. The story, as we have already seen, had grown in its travels, like that of the boy who saw a thousand cats in the cellar; and for 'the three subsequent days, the deacon's house was shunned as though it had been the seat of the plague. Meantime, as uncle Zim's name was somehow connected with the tale, one of the elders was des- patched to Applebury, to incjuire into the real facts of the state- ment which had brought such heavy and unexpected scandal upon the little Zion of Hazlewood. On his arrival, he immediately had an interview with uncle Zim, and commenced an inquiry into the facts of i^ case which had brought him to Applebur}^ ' 'Squire Bradley,' said Mr. Elnathan Cook — for such was the cognomen of this important messenger — ' it is rumored up our way, that you have said, that you met deacon Pettibone last week, drunk.' ' Then I guess rumor lies,' replied Uncle Zim, ' for I hain't said no such thing.' ' But pray, 'squire, what did you say, if I may be so bold ?' ' Why,' replied uncle Zim, ' I only said that I met him about Jialf shaved.' The result was, that although Mr. Elnathan Cook was one of the cutest chaps in those parts at a cross-examination, he having for- merly been an unlicensed practitioner of the law in a justice's court, he obtained just so much information from uncle Zim, and no more UNCLE ZIM AND DEACON PETTIBONE. 143 Uncle Zim was requested to go up to Hazlewood, and attend tlie council as a witness ; but this he declined peremptorily, as he was busily engaged in making up a cargo of mules for the West Indies. He assured the zealous Elnathan, however, that deacon Pettibone's neorro man, Camillus, or Cam, as he was called for the sake of brevity, knew as much as he did, and could tell them all about it. As Cam was known to be a very honest fellow, this assurance gave the messenger much satisfaction ; so he clambered into his ' one horse shay,' and got him back to Hazlewood. The wheels of time rapidly brought Wednesday along, when the church council assembled, and the yet unsuspecting deacon Petti- bone, expecting to hear the names of some reclaimed sinners pro- pounded for membership, came among them. The Rev. Mr. Hold- fast was appointed moderator. An unusual air of solemnity per- vaded the council, and in imploring the direction and blessing of heaven upon their proceedings, the moderator was peculiarly earnest, and much affected. Indeed the half suppressed sighs from various bosoms, plainly indicated that they had business in their hands, which went home to their hearts. At length the momentous subject of their meeting was opened^ and the charge of intemperance formally preferred against no less a. master in Israel, than deacon Eliakim Pettibone, then and there present. Had a bolt from heaven fallen at his feet, he could not have been more astonished or confounded. For a while, his hand pressed upon his temple — he remained dumb with amazement — then raising his eyes to heaven, he solemnly protested his innocence — but in vain ; and in vain did he tax his memory to recall any circum- stance in his life, that could have given rise to such an unlooked for scandal. In vain, likewise, did he demand the name of the in- former upon whose testimony the accusation was preferred ; for ancle Zim had stipulated that his name was not to' be used, save in the very last resort. Finally, the witness, Camillus, was sent for. Camillus soon arrived, and came grinning into the conference room, exhibiting the whole treasury of his ivory ; but he immedi- ately saw that his kind master was in deep affliction, and his own heart soon yearned with compassion. There the good deacon sat, his head bowed down, and supported by his hands : he raised it not, but hid nis tears in his bandanna, and smothered the sighs heaving up and struggling to escape his throbbing bosom. MODESTY. Cam," said the uiodorator, with solemn gravity, " we have sev4 for you because we want you to tell the truth." " Yes, niassa minister, me always tell de troot to shame a debble. " Well, Cam, we believe you wdll. Now tell us, Cam, did you ever see your master intoxicated ?" " Me ebber see massa tosticatcd ! golly, ony tink o' dat !" '' But, Cam, you must tell us the truth; now didn't you ever see your master when he was intoxicated — when he had drunk too much." " Golly, no, massa minister." [Here a consultation took place, among a few of the members of ihe council, in an under tone.] '' Don't you remember that 'squire Bradley, who lives in tlie second house beyond the stocks and whipping-post, north of the meeting house in Applebury, came up to see your master last Wed- nesday ?" " Yes, massa, me know dat berry well." "■ Well, that's very good now. Cam : and when 'squire Bradky met your master, was he not about ha(f shaved V " yes, massa : when 'squire Brabley ride by ee window, massa Pettibone was juss shaving heself, I guess; but den he so grad to see de squire, he run out door to shak'ee hand, wid ee lather all on one side he face !' Here the mighty mystery was solved. All knew the droll mischiev- ous character of uncle Zim, and the truth flashed upon their minds in an instant. A bitter smile played across the features of the good deacon, as he meekly raised his dark hazle eyes, glistening with tears, and in his heart returned thanks for his deliverance. The council was broken up— a thousand sincere apologies were tendered to the good man — and the parties all set their faces towards their respective homes— the worthy deacon being more strongly than ever convinced, that '■ man-ward, uncle Zim was rathep^ twistical or so." -♦ ■ ^ ■ » Modesty, if it were to be recommended for nothing else, this is enough, that pretending to little leaves a man at ease, whereas boasting requires perpetual labor to appear what he is not. If wo have sense, modesty best proves it to others ; if we have none, it best hides our want of it. CAPTAIN SMITH AND POCAHONTAS. Everybody knows the history of these personages; everybody • believes it as firmly as though it had appeared for the first time yes- terday in a newspaper. But is it a true story after all ? The pro- gress of historical science, or rather historical inquiry, is continually depriving us of beautiful legends in which our childhood delighted, which poets and painters were interested with the additional charms of song and pictorial grace, and to which we have clung through life with the most undoubting faith. Who has not felt his blood tingle and his heart beat high in reading the tale of the Swiss patriot's unerring arrow and the cleft apple ? Who has not believed, with all his soul, that Geisler and William Tell were as historically real as Washington and George the Third ? Yet, now we are assured "by the best authority," that the spirit-stirring narrative is a mere fiction ; that the plumed hat planted on high for the reverence of the indignant Switzers, the second arrow hidden beneath the coat of the dauntless archer, the apple on the boy's head, all are no better than figments — creations of some lively fancy, having no substantial relations of time and place of which authentic record can be found. Less universal, but held of equally firm credence is the story of the faithful dog on which Sir Walter built his ballad of Beth Gelert. In Welsh tradition, in Scottish and Irish, the fidelity of the noble hound is immortalized, with the erring wrath of the stout baron. Gentle eyes have wept as they hurried adown the page and read how the faithful dog was left to watch by the cradle of the sleeping heir — how the parents, on their return, found the cradle empty and Beth Gelert with bloody jaws — how the father, in his anguish and fury,, believing that the dog had slain and devoured the child, with hasty hand smote him to death — and how, on looking more clos^y into the case, as they should have done at first, they discovered that the child was safe and sound, hidden away somewhere under a table or a sofa, and that the ensanguined stain of the good dog's jaws was caused by the blood of a huge wolf which had approached the cradle 148 CAPTAIN SMITH AND POCAHONTAS, with felonious intent, and wliicli he had slain after a desperate hat- tie. Childhood and manhood have believed this legend ; hut Col. Fitzgerald showed me its original, years ago, in the library of the Royal Asiatic Society ; showed me that it was an oriental story, current in the literature of the Hindoos long before the llomans made their first visit to the half-naked barbarians of the British island; the only difference being that in the oriental tale the faithful animal was an ichneumon and the invader of the cradle a deadly serpent. I remember reading, in my younger days, a very ingenious argu- ment to prove that there never was such a man as Napoleon Bonaparte; or I should rather say to prove that the evidence en which we believe in his existence, and in all the wonderful events that make up history, is not sufficient to command belief. The pamphlet was written to meet the objections of infidels who cavil at the divine narratives of the New Testament, by showing that the same objections might be urged, with equal force, against the truth of events so recent as those forming the career of the French Em- peror. The same course of argumentation might be employed, with even greater plausibility, against the verity of the story in which Pocahontas figures to such advantage. In fact, it would puzzle the most ingenious dialectician to prove that there was a Pocahontas, a Powhattan, or even a Captain Smith. We have only to set out with the determination to believe nothing except on the testimony of our own eyes and ears — which is the method of those who seek to impeach the New Testament, and we have a position more impreg- nable than Gibraltar. We need not even go so far as this ; it will be enough to insist on the evidence of credible witnesses whom we may cross-examine, as they do in the courts of justice. Books may bo false — we know that they are often false. Printers can make their types say what they please — why should we give more belief to the story of Captain Smith, because we find it in sundry books, than we do to the story of Captain Grulliver ? Bring us somebody who has seen the lovely Indian princess — in the engraving. I re- gret to say, her loveliness is a thing to dream of, not to see — bring us Captain Smith himself, for, after all, we have only his eviofence for the truth of the story which the engraving was designed to illus- trate. Admitting that divers of his companions certify to the exist- ence of Pocahontas and Powhattan ; that books and manuscripts, alleged to be contero.poraneous records, speak of her being in Eng- CAPTAIN SMITH AND POCAHONTAS. 149 land, of lier marriage to Mr. Rolfe, of her presentation at Court and of lier early death ; admitting all this, we still have only Cfjp- tain John Smith's word for the murderous intentions of Powhattan, and for the heroic interposition of Powhattan's gentle and copper- colored daughter. The captain professes to have been alone in that adventure ; the tale rests on his veracity alone ; was he a man of unquestionable veracity ? I do not say that he was not, but who can say that he was ? Who can give assurance that in this particu- lar matter he did not draw upon his imagination, to magnify his peril in the service of the colony? 31 en will do such things, some- times. Perhaps the story is an allegory — a myth — like the Pilgrim's Progress of excellent old John Bunyan. Captain Smith, for exam- ple, may be taken as a representation, or image, or embodiment, of European civilization struggling for the mastery with the power of barbarism, shadowed forth in the person of the Indian monarch. Pocahontas may represent the latent virtues of barbarism, coming to the aid and rescue of civilization in the contest ; or she may stand for the intelligence of the red people, opposing itself to then- ferocity. The capture of Smith and his condemnation to death may signify generally the perils incident to the establishment of white men among savages; and under this supposition, Pocahontas may be conceived to represent the interposition of Providence. An in- genious person, now, might build up a very pretty theory of this kind ; bringing in all the details of the narrative and making a plausible application of them to the purposes of such a myth as is here suggested. But cui bono ? Suppose we prove Captain Smith to be a Ferdi- nand Mendez Pinto or a John Bunyan, to what extent are we pro- fited by the operation ? The story as it stands is a beautiful and touching story; one very worthy of belief ; and for the sake of Pocahontas I would not have it disproved if I could. I say for the sake of Pocahontas, not of Captain Smith, for in truth I have no great opinion of that renowned adventurer. Whatever noble qualities he may have had, whatever noble deed he may have done, I have no love for him ; I can never forgive his after conduct to the Princess who saved his life ; conduct which all accounts ajree in representing as cruel and heartless, and of which there is too much reason to believe that it was even worse. For her sake, then, let us believe the story ; let it be sacred in 150 A sister's value. our memories and our faitli. Another and most beautiful illustra- tion added to the long and illusti-ious catalogue of those in which the tenderness and truth and fortitude of woman, are recorded for the admiration and the shame of man — admiration for her noble ■jualities, shame for the cruel injustice and wrong of which even those qualities are too often made at once the instrument and the victi)u. » ■ ♦ A SISTER'S VALUE. Have you a sister ? Then love and cherish her with all that pure and holy friendship, which renders a brother so worthy and noble. Learn to appreciate her sweet influence, as portrayed in the following words : — He who has never known a sister's kind ministration, nor felt his heart warming beneath her enduring smile and love-beaming eye, has been unfortunate indeed. It is not to be wondered at, if the fountain of pure feeling flows in his bosom but sluggishly, or if the gentle emotions of his nature be lost in the sterner attributes of mankind. 'That man has grown up among affectionate sisters," I once heard a lady of much observation and experience remark. " And why do you think so ?" said I. " Because of the rich development of all the tender feelings of the heart." A sister's influence is felt in manhood's riper years; and the heart of him who has grown cold in contact with the world will warm and thrill with pure enjoyment as some accident awakens within him the soft tones, the glad melodies of his sister's voice ; and he will turn from purposes which a wrapped and false philosophy had reasoned into expediency, and even weep for the gentle influence which moved him in earlier years. « ♦ ■ » The world is a great book, of which they that never stir from home, read only the title page. THE UTILITARIAN. We were walking together in a "broad, unfrequented street of Philadelphia. All at once we heard a strange uproar a great way off, growing louder and louder every moment ; and before we could imagine the cause, a boy at the head of the street cried out, " Here they come ! here they come !" The people rushed out of their houses, another and another took up tlie cry, and it flew by us like the signal of a telegraph. And then all was still as death, frightfully still, and the next moment a pair of large, powerful horses came plunging round the corner at full speed, with the frag- ments of a carriage rattling and ringing after them. " The child ! the child! oh ! my God, the poor child !" shrieked a woman at a window near me ; and on looking that way I saw a child in the street, holding out its arms to a female who was flying towards it, her eyes dilated with horror, her garments flying loose, and her cry such as I never heard issue from mortal lips. I sprang forward to save the child — the little creature was right in the way of the horses — and I should have succeeded but for a strong hand that arrested me and pulled me back by main force, at the very instant the carriage bounded by in a whirlwind of dust, overthrowing mother and child in its career. " The woman ! the woman !" shrieked the people, far and wide, " save her, save her !" At this new cry, the man who had held me back with the hand of a giant, flung away from my grasp, and pursuing the furious animals round the next corner, where they had been partially stopped by a wagon loaded with flour, and stood leaping and plunging in their harness, and trying to disengage themselves from what I now per- ceived to be a human being, a female who had been caught by her clothes in the whirling mass— leaped upon them with the activity and strength of one who might grapple with centaurs in such a cause ; and before I could get near enough to help him, plucked one of the hot and furious animals to the earth, first ujoon his knees, and then over upon his side, in such a manner as to deprive the other of all power. 152 THE UTiLlTARIAN The nest moment I was at his side, leaving the poor child I had enatched up k) be taken care of by a stranger, and lifting the mo- ther of the child from the midst of danger so appalling, that but for the example set me by my companion, I never should have had the courage to interfere even to save what now appeared to be one of tlie lovliest women I had ever seen. The multitude were aghast with fear ; but as for the extraordinary man who had thrown him- self head foremost upon what was regarded, by everybody there, as no better than certain death, he got up, after I had liberated the woman, brushed off the dust from his clothes, and would have walked away, as if nothing had happened, I do believe, had I not begged him to go with me where we might see after the child, and examine its hurts ; for the horses appeared to me to touch the body with their hoofs, and I was quite sure that a wheel struck it as it bounded by, the lire flashing from the rocky pavement at every blow. The child was very much hurt, and the mother delirious, though in every other respect unharmed. A wheel had. passed over the little creature's body in such a way as to leave no hope of its re- covery, though I instantly bled it myself, and determined to watch by it to the last ; and the mother had escaped as by a miracle, with but two or three slight lacerations, though it appeared upon fuller inquiry, that she had run directly before the horses with a view to turn them aside, there being no other hope, and that she had been caught by the projecting shaft and lifted along at the risk, every moment, as she clung by the bridle, of being trampled to death. Bat she escaped and recovered; and the poor child, who was just beginning to speak plain, was now the sole object of solicitude with me. " Chamber, George muss die, George want to die," said the poor little patient thing, after it had lain about twenty-four hours without speaking above its breath, almost without moving The nurse, who sat near him, burst into tears ; and I, even I, though accustomed to every shape of trial and horror, was obliged to go to the window. Her name was Chambers, and the child had been to her from the day of its birth even to that day as her own child. " Chamber, Gleorge muss dit up," said the dear little creature again, as the hour drew nigh which I had felt it my duty to pre- pare the mother for. " George muss die, George want to die." THE UTILITARIAN. 153 i'or the first time, 1 saw a tear in the eye of that imperturbable stranger who had saved the mother's life. He turned away from the bed with a shiver, and going to the door, spoke to the nurse in a tone of considerable emotion, bidding her make ready for the worst, though to be sure he had still some hope. A word now of the character and behavior of this man, before I proceed further with my little story. I had met him about a month before in a dissecting room, where a question arose about the struc- ture and purpose of a part of the eye. The class were all talking together ; and for myself, though I paid great attention to the sub- ject, I confess I was never so bewildered in m-y life. In the midst of the uproar, a tall, bony, hard visaged man, with a stoop in the shoulders, and the largest hand I ever saw, whipped out a small pen-knife, and, taking up the eye of a fish that lay near, proceeded to demonstrate with astonishing clearness and beauty of language. While occupied in this way, with our whole class gathered round him, and listening to him open-mouthed, the professor entered with- out being observed, and coming softly before the new lecturer, stood there, with a look of growing delight and amazement spreading it- self over his features and agitating his whole body, as the awkward beinc- before us proceeded with what was indeed a demonstration. After he had got through, and I need not stop here to describe the scene that followed, the explanation or the issue, "tve were all inquiring of each other who he was, and where he had come from. But all we could hear amounted to nothing. He had been at Phila- delphia about six months. He had travelled much, read much, and thought more ; he was learned in a way peculiarly his own ; he was indefatigable, he had given his body by will to be dissected after death, and he was a Utilitariari. But what a Utilitarian was, no- bodody knew. Some believed it to be a new religious faith, whose followers bore that name ; others that it meant either a sort of free- masonry or infidelity. But he, when he was asked, told them it was nothing but Jeremy Bennthamism. But wKc; was Jeremy Ben- tham ? Nobody knew, at least, nobody knew with any degree of certainty. " Why did you stop me," said I to him, as we sat together by an open window, looking out upon the sky and window of the Jersey shore, the green trees and the far hills, and wondering about the cause of that peculiarity in the atmosphere which attends our In- dian summer; the little boy on a bed near us, breathing though 154 * THE UTILITARIAN. awake, as cliildren breathe, when they are asleep, and the mother — it made me a better man to look at this woman, so meek, so fair, with such a calm, beautiful propriety in whatever she did ; so sin- cere withal, and so affectionate with her boy. "Why did you stop me," said I, looking at her as she sat afar off with her large hazel eyes fixed on the little sufferer, and a drop of unquenchable brightness gathering in each, " Why did you stop me, I say ?" addressing myself to Abijah Ware. " Because," quoth Abijah, in a deep, low, monotonous whine, " because I am a Utilitarian." " A what ?" " A U-til-i-ta-ri-an," repeated Abijah. The woman stared, and I asked what he meant. " I mean," said Abijah, " a follower of the principle of utility. I look to the greatest good of the greatest number." " I am all in the dark," said I ; " please to explain. What had utility, or the greatest good of the greatest number to do with your stopping me, when, but for you, I might have — a — a — " " Speak out sir, what are you afraid of?" " I'd rather not," said I, "if it's all the same to you, at least, not now, not here," glancing at the poor mother. [N. B. She was a widow.] " I insist upon it," said Abijah." " Well, but for you, I might have rescued the child." " Perhaps, and you might have thrown away another life to no purpose." " Well, and so might you, when you risked yours." " Fiddle-faddle — one case at a time. How old are you ?" " How old am I ?" " Yes, out with it." I made no reply. " About five and twenty I suppose ; are you ?' " Well, what if I am ? What has that to do with my saving or not saving the child ?" " Much. I am a Utilitarian, I say. You are grown up ; your life is worth more to society than — much more, I say — " The mother stooped to kiss the forehead of her litle one. " More than forty such lives." " How so ?" " How so ! It has cost some thousands to raise you." THE UTILITARIAjS". 165 I looked up. The man was perfectly serious. He had a pencil in his hand, a bit of paper on the table, and was ciphering away at full speed. " Yes, sir," continued he; "the risk was out of all proportion to the probable advantage or profit ; and therefore I stopped you." God forgive the Utilitarians, thought I, if they are capable of such things before they put forth a hand to save a fellow creature — a babe in the path of wild horses. For my own part, I should as soon think of stopping to do the case in double fellowship, as to calculate the proportion of the risk to the hope of profit here. He understood me, I dare say ; for he shifted his endless legs one over the other, drew a long breath and quietly laughed in my face, " You acted like a boy," said he; " the chance — I know how to calculate such chances to a single hair — was fifty to one against your saving the child." " Well, sir—" " And fifty to one, perhaps more, against your saving yourself; and so I concluded to save you in spite of your teeth." Here a low hysterical sobbing was heard from the pillow where the mother lay, with her head resting by that of her child, and her mouth pressed to his cheek. But my imperturbable companion proceeded : " The truth is, my dear sir, that you were never made for a hero ; you are not strong enough, nor" I might say," leaning forward, to peep either into the widow's eyes, or into a dressing glass, that stood near, I don't know which, '' nor, ugly enough. Had you not kept me employed in holding you, I might have saved the child — poor boy, and I should." " But your life is far more valuable than mine," said I with a flourish of my right hand, expecting of course to be contradicted. " True, but I am unfashionably put together; I am older than you, and my name is Abijah." This was said with invincible gravity, though followed by an- other glance at the beautiful widow. " And what is more, the risk would have been little or nothing for me ; to you it would have been a matter of life and death. I am what may be called a strong man." " A hero, therefore," said I, referring to his remark of a moment "before. 156 THE UTILITARIAN. '' I miglit liavc been a hero, perhaps, for my hrothcr Ezra and I, we are twins, and he is decidedly a hero." I could not help saying, " Do you resemble each other ?" " Very much, though Ezra is the handsomer of the two. By the by, I must give you a little anecdote of brother Ezra. One day, as he turned a corner in Baltimore, I think it was, a man met him, who made a full stop in the highway, threw up his hands with af- fected amazement at the ungainly creature before him — brother Ezra, by the by, is not the handsomest man that ever was — and cried out : ' AYell, by George ! if you arn't the ugliest feller ever I clapped eyes on !' At which our Ezra, instead of knocking him head over heels, as any body but a hero with such strength, would have done, merely said to him, ' I guess you never saw brother 'Bijah.'" I laughed heartily at the story : and yet more heartily at the look of Brother 'Bijah as he told it. And as for the widow, she appeared for a moment to forget her boy, her poor and helpless boy, in her anxiety to avoid laughing with me. "■ But you risked your life, sir," said I, '' in a case ten thousand times more dangerous, the very next moment after you had inter- fered to stop me." " True. But it was to save the life of a woman." " Well, but why a woman, if you would not suffer me to save a child." " Because I was a Utilitarian " " Well, but what does that prove ?" " You shall see. Suppose the perfection of the species to de- pend upon a certain union of physical and intellectual properties which may be represented by x — ," *' Nonsense ! what have we to do with algebra here." " By X I say, or if you please, if you prefer arithmetic, by the num- ber 100. Now youth may go for so much," making a mark on the paper before him ; health for so much, making another ; beauty for — let me see, widow, I begin to have some hope of your child." The woman started upon her feet and stood, with her eyes lighted up, her cheek flushed, hands locked and lifted, waiting for him to finish ; but he only looked at her and proceeded with the calcula- tion. " Beauty for so much, maturity for so much ; and valor, wisdom, THE UTILITARIAN. 157 courage, virtue,— widow, you may sit down— for all the rest say 85. Now when I see such a being, whether male or female, though sex may be put down for something here, about to throw herself or him- self away, I instantly subtract the sum at which I have estimated myself, tliat is, between 63 and G4, as you may see by this paper," handing me his pocket book, where the calculation stood on the first page, " from the sum of one hundred or less, according to the value of the object, and if I am satisfied that the risk is a fair one, the probabilities not more than enough to outweigh the certain^ profit of saving a life so much more valuable than my own, I save it." " I understand nothing of your theory," said I, " and as little of your calculation. But this I do understand, this I know, that you have encountered a risk for the safety of that woman there which I never saw, never hope to see, voluntarily encountered by any human being for the safety of another." " That will depend upon the progress of our faith. If Utilita- rians multiply, such things will be common." I was just going to cry, Pho ! but I forbore, and at the cost of a sore lip for a week. *' And now," said he, getting up and going to the child which had just waked from a sweet sleep, and feeling its pulse, " I think I may say to you now, widow Roberts— I think, I say, but I would not have you too sure— I think your child is safe." The woman caught his huge hand up to her mouth before he could prevent it, and fell upon her knees and wept and sobbed as if her heart would break ; and the child, putting out both its little fat hands, kept patting her on the head, and saying, " Poor mutter ky ; George moss well now, tonny ky, mutter.' My hero withdrew his hand, I thought with considerable emo- tion, kissed the child, made a sweep at me, in the form of a bow, and 'walked straightway out of the room without opening his mouth. He was no sooner off than the nurse entered, and we exammed the child. There was, to be sure, a surprising alteration for the better. He breathed freely, the stupor had passed off, and his eyes were clear as crystal. But then-who should say ?~death might be at work in them nevertheless. Let me pass over the following four weeks, at the end of which period I thought proper to hold counsel with my friend theLtilita- rian, about the safety and propriety of marrying a ^i^^^^' - " You merely suppose the case for argument sake ?" said he. 158 THE UTILITARIAN. ''To be sure," said I. " AVhat if you suppose a cliild or so into the bargain ?" said be. '' "Why, as to that," said I, with somewhat of a sheepish look I fear, " as to that now, I should'nt care much if— " A boy ?" said he interrupting me. '' I wish the brat was out of the way," said I, with a fling. " No you don't," said he; " it would be a dead loss to you." I pretended to be in a huff. " Come, come Joseph, let us cut the matter short. Away with all your pros and cons^ your theories and supposable cases. You love the widow, don't you." " I do." " Do you know anything of her history ?" '< Not a syllable." " Of her situation and character ? " " Nothing — perhaps you do." " I do, enough to satisfy me. She is young, healthy, virtuous and beautiful, with one child — " " Hang the child, Abijah." " Joseph, you are wrong, that child would be a comfort to you." " To me." " Yes, to you, if you marry the widow. What are you rubbing your hands for ?" " Marry the widow, what on earth do you mean ?" cried I with a flutter of joy and a thrill at the very idea, which I cannot attempt to describe. " Hear me through, Joseph. You have come to ask me what I would do in your case." " You are right, X have." "Well, were I you, I would marry her." " But why don't you marry her yourself?" '' I ! For three reasons." " What are they." " In the first place, I am not you." ii Good—the next ? " In the next place, she would not have me." " Pho !" said I ; though to tell you the truth, reader, I thought as he did, notwithstanding the beautiful widow was forever sounding iRg his praises to me whenever we were alone together. But I could always see a good way into a mill-stone ; and whether she romped with THE UTILITARIAN. 1^^ her boy before me, lia'f smotbering bim witb kisses, or talked of ber preserver, tbat beroic man— tbat beroic Abijab, I longed to say, but I was afraid, tbere was no laugbing at sucb a man before sucba woman — I could see tbrougb tbe wbole. " But in tbe tbird place ?" continued I. " ^Yell, in tbe tbird place, I am not wortby of ber." <' How so ?" ^' But you are, my friend"— bis ricb, bold voice quivered bere, and I began to feerratber dismal— " y^i^ are; and my advice to you is— but stop. Are you not already married ?" I lauebed and sbook my bead. " Very well, tben I advise you to lose no time in securing tbat woman. You deserve ber; you are young and bandsome, bealtby and ricb. Take ber and save ber." "Save ber ! wbat do you mean ?" " Save ber from growing old, wbere it is not safe— I speak freely to you— for any sucb woman to live. Sbe is poor, sbe is proud, Bbe is far away from all tbat know her." <' Wby ! you appear to be acquainted with ber history." » No, I am ignorant of ber history ; I know nothing of her be- yond wbat you and I have gathered from our five or six weeks' ac- quaintance with ber at the bedside of her boy." " But you know my family ; and tbat, as a prudent man, it will be my duty to inquire into her history ; tbat is— you understand me— provided such a thing should ever enter my bead as to—" " Fiddle de dee ! Go to her and ask wbat she is good for, and whether sbe is any better than she should be." "Sir ?) " There now ! that's the way with all you sentimentalists. You talk, and you talk, and you talk, without ever coming to tbe point. You deceive yourselves and others by the most roundabout and beautiful language in the world ; but the moment you have it trans- lated for you, put into your mother tongue by a thorougbred L'tili- tarian, your blood is up, and your sensibilities, as you call them, are outraged. I have only said, what you meant." « I understand you. Let us deal plainly with each other. ^ bat would you have me do ?" " I would have you behave like a man. I would have you go to tbe beautiful widow, and offer yourself to ber; and if she is the woman I take her to be, that will be enough to bring out as much IGO TUE UTILITARIAN. of her hibtory and cliaractcr as you will have any desire to know. There, there — go and heaven speed you." I went. I offered myself to the widow, and was flatly, though kindly, refused. That was about as much as I could well stomach, and I do not know that I should have ever got over it, but for a little gratuitous intelligence of a nature to make me almost thank- ful for my disappointment. The widow was no widow. The child was a thing, with all its beauty for the mother to be ashamed of. I went straightway to my hero. " Abijah Ware," said I, " such and such are the facts," relating the whole. " And how did you learn all this ?" asked Abijah. "Out of her own mouth," said I. " And what have you concluded to do, Joseph ?" " To give her up." " You are a fool, Joseph." " How so? you would not have me — " '' Yes, I would," interrupting me. " Where will you find such another woman ? a woman of such exalted virtue ?" " Virtue !" said I. " Was that a sneer?" said Abijah, and his lips opened and shut like those of children who are learning to say apple-pie, papa, or puppy. " It was," I cried, lifting my voice and braving the look with which the inquiry was made, as if what I felt, were a thing to brag of. " Then," said Abijah, " then you never loved her. You would weep sooner than sneer at such virtue, if you ever had." " But I did love her." " You did? then there is but one other hypothesis for me." " Well, out with it." " She has refused you." I fell back abashed ; I dropped my eyes ; I could not bear the solemn, overpowering reproach of his. " Very true," said I. " One word more. Did you offer yourself to her after she told you this ?" " Why do you ask ?" " I ask it for your sake ; for yours, my dear friend. I long to have you one of us ; but I fear you want the courage. It requires prodigious manhood to be a Uti] tarian." THE UTILITARIAN. 151 " AYeil, be it so, I did not offer myself after this ; but I did be- fore." '' I pity you. How you have rewarded her candor, how gloriously you have repaid her truth ! She might have deceived you, but she forbore; she told you the truth, and you forsook her. She proved herself worthy of you, and you abandoned her accordingly.' His emotion surprised me. He got up, and walked the floor with a tread that shook the whole house. " You do not understand the matter," said I. " She refused me before I knew this, and told me her story afterwards, not so much as a reason for it, I do believe, as to convince me of what she called her good faith, respect, and gratitude." " Young man," said Abijah Ware, " you are throwing away that which would be of more worth to me, and to you, if you were a Utilitarian instead of a sentimentalist, than the great globe itself, though it were a solid chrysolite. I beseech you, once for all, I pray you, I implore you to reconsider this matter." " Impossible," said I. " Think of the usages of the world." " What have you to do with the usages of the world ?" " Ay, but the prejudices of society." " True, prejudices and usages are all to be weighed. Look to what you gain, as well as what you lose, by running counter to them, and whatever they are, and whether well or ill-founded, act ac- cordingly. That is the part of a wise man. But enough, will you think better of this ? Will you not try to recover that woman ?" " I dare not. We should be miserable. Hereafter, were we thrown abroad into society, every little neglect, every trifle, which if her history were untainted, would be laughed at, or pitied, or overlooked, would be to her peace and to mine like the bite of a rattlesnake." " Very true, but still, still, my friend — " "Why do you urge me? Even you yourself, were you in my case, would not be able to throw off the prejudice you complain of.* '• We shall see. Do you give her up ?" " I do." " You will not marry her ?" " Never." " Then, by Heaven, I will !" " You !" said I, with what I meant for a most withering sneer though to tell the truth, I could not help thinking of her praises, 162 THE UTILITARIAN. and of tliat summer afternoon at the bedside of her boy — the little wretch, he is alive now — when she dropped upon her knees, and wept upon his great ugly three-decker of a; hand. " At least," cried he, " I will offer myself to her before I sleep* and if she refuses me — " <'If! said I." " I will make her independent for life." '' I congratulate her," said I. " Her wealth may hereafter make her a desirable match." He growled, and I — I out and run. P. S. He kept his word. He offered himself and the great steam engine of a fellow is now the husband of the fair widow. I often see him lumbering along to church with the beautiful Mary Koberts — I never mean to call her Mary Ware while I breathe — dangling at his elbow, like a — like a — like a rose on a patch of thistle and furze — adrift. » > ♦ • ♦ THE WIFE How sweet to the soul of man (says Hieroeles) is the society of a beloved wife,when wearied and broken down by the labors of the day, her endearments soothe, her tender cares restore him. The solicitude and the anxieties, and the heaviest misfortunes of life are hardly to be borne by him who has the weight of business and do- mestic cares at the same time to contend with. But how much lighter do they seem, when after his necessary avocations are over, he returns to his home, and finds there a partner of all his griefi and troubles, who takes for his sake her share of domestic labors upon her, and soothes the anguish of his anticipation. A wife is not as she is falsely represented and esteemed by some, a burden or a sorrow to man. No ; she shares his burdens, and she alle- viates his sorrows ; for there is no difficulty so heavy or insupport- able in life, but it may be surmounted by the mutual labors and the affectionate concord of that holy partnership. THE CHANaES OF LIFE. BY MRS. EMELINE S. SMITH. *^ Mutability " is written with the iron pen of Fate upon all the joys of human life. We revel for a time in the frolic pleasures of childhood, and pluck with wasteful hands the beautiful blossoms of that bright season of existence. We range the garden of life, free and happy as the butterfly of summer, basking in every sunbeam, and sipping fragrance from every flower. We think not of change, we dream not that the light will ever grow dim, or the flowers fade. "We are only conscious of the glory of the present, and breathe the atmosphere of unalloyed delight. • But soon we enter upon the fairy land of youth, and every sur- rounding object wears an altered aspect. The sunbeams and the flowers have yet their earlier brightness, but there is a dream-like beauty, a mystic loveliness upon the landscape that seems to fore- toll a change. The siren Hope still, attends us, her whispers of the future and her promises of bliss are more dear to the heart than ever. By her side is a being of surpassing beauty, who was a stran- ger to us in the days of childhood, but who becomes a constant companion in the season of youth. Her name is Love. Her face is radiant with an indescribable and peculiar charm, and her form is clothed in the wild and witching garb of romance. She fascinates the heart with the mysterious melody of her voice, and stirs in the inmost recesses of the soul, feelings of delight unknown before. She awakens in the mind fairy dreams and visions, which partake of the brightness of heaven, and lend existence attributes that make it appear a paradise. Thus with Hope and Love on either hand, showering their pre- cious gifts profusely upon our pathway, need we marvel that the beautiful spring-time of youth is past long ere we are prepared for its departure ? The change comes upon us like the sudden burst of a tempest upon the beauties of a summer landscape. We are startled from the reveries of bliss by a sudden gloom. The 164 THE CHANGES OF LIFE. storm-cloud of grief is above us, darlmess gatliering around, and ^ye await, in trembling anxiety, the approach of wo. ^Ye have en- tered upon the region of middle life, and what a change is here • The sunbeams are cold and dim. The flowers have lost their fra- grance ; Hope has hushed her heaven-bom minstrelsy for ever ; and Love, the beautiful enchantress of the scene, has fled, or stands be- side us, so changed that we know her not ! Yet the sober season of middle life is not without its charms, though the eye, yet dazzled by the brightness of by-gone joys, is lonf in discovering their existence. The dewy freshness and un- clouded brilliancy of morning have vanished forever from the land- scape, yet some of its beauties still remain. A few frail, delicate blossoms of happiness linger here and there, like pale, sweet autumn flowers surviving the genial days of summer to cheer the heart amid the gloom and desolation of decay. How fondly the spirit clings to these last lingering relics of departed joy ! As a fond mother, who has watched one by one the passing away of her children, bends at length in timid hope and trembling idolization over the sole re- maining object of her love, so does the human heart bend over the last dear remnants of its earlier treasures. But these too must pass away. Time sweeps by in his rapid march, and crushes under his mighty footstep the last, the frailest and most foudly cherished blossoms of human joy. Then we look around and find our trembling footsteps treading the dreary pathway of age. All the light, and warmth, and beauty of life's summer morning has fled. Cold and keen is the blast of disappointment that sweeps around our path ; dark and threatening the clouds of care that frown upon our way. We are like way-worn and weary travelers, who, after toiling through a long pilgrimage, find themselves at last in a barren desert, where desolation frowns on either hand, and destruction awaits them at every step. We turn our gaze back upon the past to look for the pleasant land of youth ; but it is far, far away in the distance, with the shadowy mist of years veiling it for ever from our tearful eyes. We look forward to the future, but all is a wide waste of dreary monotony. We desire not to travel farther, the footstep falters, the spirit faints, ■and the pilgrim of life awaits the coming of death, and hails him as a friend who is to relieve him from a burden that he is unable longer to support. MARY WARREN. " A thing of feelings." "A GOOD matcli!" — There is no term in our language I dislike more than this — its obvious meaning is so foreign to the reality. It is mere prejudice, and, like most prejudices, founded on associa- tion, that mysterious chain which connects scenes the most various and objects the most unlike. This term, so often used and so little understood, ever brings to my mind the sweet form and the sad fate of Mary Warren. We were friends — yes, truly friends — for it was before the period of life when friendships were formed from motives of interest, and before the period, too, when envy, rivalry and deception — those serpent-like intruders, steal in upon the Eden of social union and mar with their secret whispers the last, the only Paradise on earth. How deeply is her form impressed on my memory. I see her now as she looked the first day she joined our school, when a mere child. Her light brown hair parted so smoothly on her forehead, her blue eyes bent constantly on her book, — more from timidity than love of study — the plain pink gingham frock and white sun-bonnet she wore, making her the very picture of neatness and innocence. She was a stranger in the school, and I shall never forget her countenance, as, during recess, she timidly joined my side, and placed her hand in mine. The expression of her eye was so full of innocent eloquence, there was something so confiding in this trifling act, that I loved her from that moment. Often, when my childish imagination has wandered to the realms of the blest, has it pictured a land where all would take me by the hand, like Mary, and where I should feel toward all, that immediate affection I then, did to her. And oh ! how often, in later years, have I wished that I could cast aside the warnings of suspicious Experience, and the cold-hearted reasonings of Philosophy, and once more look on any being with the undistrusting confidence I did on her at that moment. It is rare that friendships formed thus early, continue beyond childhood. They are spring flowers, that bloom in our path, are 1G6 MARY WARREN. supplanted by others, or wither beneath the summer's sun. But when they do, there is a confidence — a disinterestedness we seldom feel towards those we meet in after days. It was thus with ours. Though time brought changes to the person and prospects of each, it brought none to our hearts. Mary Warren seemed formed of nature's porcelain ; yet few would have called her beautiful. Hers was not the beauty to arrest the passing eye by its splendor, or attract admiration by its spright- liness. Like the lowly pink of her little garden, you might pass her by, among far more common, though gayer flowers; yet when you did perceive her, you wondered that her modest loveliness had escaped your eye. She was one of those beings we seldom meet, and seldom forget — one of those, that, by a melancholy association, ever reminds me of consumption. In her heart, Love, Friendship, and Religion dwelt with the purity of Heaven — like rainbow hues, blended, yet unmingled with any darker shades of earthly passion. She looked on the earth — she saw that it was good, and she loved everything that belonged to it. Not a bird breathed his notes on her ear unheeded, — not a flower bloomed unnoticed in her path, for her spirit had communion with every sweet sound and every fair sight in creation. In the solitude of Nature there was a sympathy with her deep and quiet feelings, and how often when the hearts of our lighter companions were bounding beneath the exhilarating influence of spring, their merriment bursting forth in the light frolic, and the merry laugh, till the woods and hills echoed back the sound, have I found her withdrawn from among them, in some lonely spot, gazing into the depths of the passing stream and listening to the gushing melody of spring, till her tears mingled with the waters, and her very eyes spoke poetry. This was ever her happiness, and she sought these scenes — not as the gloomy misanthrope flies from his hated kind, to nurse in solitude his wrath against human frailty; but as one gazes on the countenance of an infant — to behold how fair is nature in her innocence, ere the hand of cultivation has made or marred a single beauty. The retirement of a home situated in one of the loveliest spots I ever knew, gave birth to a thousand enthusiastic dreams ; books, selected more from a refined, romantic taste, than a cool, judging reason, fostered the illusions, and her imagination dwelt on them until they became realities, and she a pure, though fond enthusiast — with as little true knowledge of this every-day world of ours, as an inhabitant of the stars she adored, MARY WARREN. 167 and as little fitted to live in it, as the exotic of tlie tropics to bear the cold storms of the North. Time passed on, and it would have been strange indeed, if a heart like hers had not found an object more worthy its affection than inanimate creation. It did — and her love for "Wcntworth Eldridge was the same deep, chaste affection she had hitherto lavished on the world at large, now concentrated on one object. He was calculated to make an impression on a mind like hers. A student at the neighboring Theological Seminary at Andover — pleasing, amiable and talented — and preparing to leave home, friends and kin- dred, and devote his education and talents to spreading glad tidings of Religion iu the wilderness of the west. He proffered her his hand, his heart — but a home wherever a guiding Providence should direct — a resting place among the wild natives of the forest. Duty to her parents, and the thousand ties that bound her to her child- hood's home, urged her to remain — and should she leav^ all these for a stranger and a strange land ? "A wilderness and thee," were the words she would have spoken, but friends, cool, considerate friends, interposed. "With no treasure but his education, no ambi- tion but to serve the good cause to which he had pledged himself, no hope of wordly reward or applause, he had few recommendations in their eyes. It was not " a good match." They counselled, they reasoned, they entreated — passiveness was the foible of her charac- ter — she saw him depart alone and forever. Forever ! how much agony does that one word add to the parting hour of those who love. It is the knell of departed happiness — the word that brings to death its most poignant pang, and to young life its bitterest anguish. Let there be but a period to meet again — however distant it may be — that moment becomes a definite something to which to look for- ward — a guiding star to hope. This forever, is the "gloomy mid- night of despair," which has wrecked many a fair bark, and much did I fear for Mary. Wentworth Eldridge had been to her quiet existence, what the rising sun is to the landscape of a calm summer morning — the light that was life and animation — and that moment of passionate parting came like the tempest, blasting all the opening flowers of hope. Hers was disappointed love, but it had not that bitter repining, that humiliating sorrovv, which corrodes the heart whose best affections have been sported with, made the amusement of a brief hour, and then rejected as worthless. Their parting had been in a degree voluntary. She knew that his love had been 168 MARY WARREN. sincere, and there was a pleasure in knowing thit that softened the anguish of separation. Still — still, they had loved — they had anticipated — they had parted, and though the tempest v/as past, despondency still hung like a lingering cloud over her. The scenes that had ever been as companions to her were now doubly dear — his presence had consecrated them — and in them, alone, but not lonely, was it a relief to indulge in the undisturbed luxury of ten- der recollections — ^to dwell upon each treasured word of love and kindness — to live for awhile in the dreams of memory, and wake from them to weep o'er the fond illusion. But the sorrow which ca7i find relief in the beautiful things of creation, is not the sorrow which burns in the heart, a living fire, withering joy and consuming life. Hers was that which tears quench and time soothes, till by degrees it ceases to be ever present, and is numbered with the past. Memory blends it with the shades of previous darkness — ^but be- comes a mingled light and shadow, melting insensibly to each other, till both ''Hopes and sorrows seem, But as tlie moonlight pictures of a dream." This is not a change to be wrought by a moment. Seek quick for- getfulness in the splendid amusements of the world — in the accumu- lated treasures of knowledge — ask it of the beings of earth, or like Manfred, of the spirits of the air, and your search is fruitless as the visionary alchymist ; but trust to time, and the changing ele- ments of mind soon bestow what you so vainly sought. She sought it not — but ere many months had passed, I saw in her placid eye that the very indulgence of grief had blunted its keenness, and that time had already begun its healing work. At this period, circumstances forced me to leave her. A twelve- month passed before I returned. My first enquiries were for her, and I learned that she was married to one of the wealthiest and most respectable young men in the county, " well and happily." How strangely did those words strike my ear ! The romance of her own character had doubtless influenced my opinion, for I always looked on her as a creature of holier feelings than the rest of the world, and that she could have married Marcus Porter seemed im- possible. She could not love him — and had she, the child of purity, entered the holy bonds of matrimony for his wealth! At that mcment, I would have classed the whole world under one head and MARY WAPwREN. 169 exclaimed, "there is not one among this mass of animated claj, that is not ruled by the dross gathered from the same earth from which he springs, and to which he returns !" I had known Marcus Porter from mv childhood, as one of those persons exactly fitted by mind and education, to guide his bark peaceably through this tumultuous ocean of life. Honest to the very letter of the law, rigidly strict with regard to morals — when they interfered not with his more wordly interests, too prudent in conduct to afford calumny even a fastening whereby to weave her web of wiles ; too cool and considerate to be blown about by the gales of passion, his course had been as direct and steady as the passage of a canal boat. He excited no man's envy by his superior talents or acquirements ; he called no man master ; he flattered no man for popularity; he gained his wealth by means which the most scrupulous could not censure, and he preserved it by an econ- omy er|ually removed from liberal extravagance and miserly niggard- ness. Without one shining virtue or one startling vice, he was, at thirty-five, a man whom all, as by universal consent, agreed in com- mendino-. At this age, as his affairs began to assume a settled, good appearance, and his comforts to increase around him, he looked about, for the first time in his life, to obtain the crown of Solomon,, "a virtuous woman." The fear of being governed, or in any way " managed " by a wife, made him turn from many a lively form and sparkling eye, as too spirited, till at last Mary, with her quiet, unas- suminor manners, fixed his attention. After due consideration of the subject in all its various bearings, he offered her his hand. Love or even esteem he did not excite ; nor did he particularly ask it. He made her a proposal, and if she accepted it, it was well — if not, it was well, Unimpassioned respect was the most she could feel for him, and her feelings revolted at the thought of uniting herself for- ever to one so different from the ideal perfection of her fancy. But again the passiveness of her disposition yielded to the urgent wishes of friends; she could object to nothing in his character, and she consented, as too, too many have done, because friends and the world pronounced it " a good match." They see the gay uniting with the gloomy, the giddy with the grave, virtue with vice, and age with youth, and they pronounce it, at once, an unsuitable con- nection. But can the world look through these seeming discrepan- cies, and trace the secret bonds of sympathy, which link one heart to another ? No ! it is an intellijjfence between the?}i, and them 170 MARY WARREN. only. We sec its power, as we do that in Nature, every where evi- dent, yet every where mysterious — acknowledged by all, yet by all undefinable. And where was there one connecting bond of sympathy between them ? He valued the rain and the sunshine as they fos- tered his grain, and ripened his fruits. The tempest rose in the west, and if his crops remained uninjured, it sank in the east with- out raising a single emotion in his bosom. The singing of the birds, that boded no change in ;he weather, was totally unheeded, and the l^eauty of any scene was in exact proportion to its utility. Such was what the world called "a good match." In their view she had married well, therefore happily. They knew her not; but to me it seemed Milton's II Penseroso beside an Agricultural Address. She had moved to his paternal dwelling, a few miles from our village, and I was soon on my way thither. I have ever thought, (and why not with reason ?) that the appearance of a man's dwelling discovers the cardinal traits of his character; and never was I more firmly convinced of the truth of my theory than while approaching the plain, prim built house, with its sedate yellow front and red porch, its rail-fenced garden, and its two barns standing out in bold relief, flanked by out-houses of every size and description, I con- trasted it with her former home, hung like a bird-cage in the midst of trees and shrubbery, its garden displaying, even in its plainest part, the hand of taste. Abundant wealth and substantial comfort looked forth from every thing round the one — usefulness and the most scrupulous order was the evident and only object in its arrange- ment — while in the other, taste had so mingled use with ornament, that, without the least pretension to opulence, it spoke at once refinement and elegance. I could not help comparing each to the difierent characters of the dwellers, and wondering which, in truth, had the greatest share of happiness, the beings of romance or reality — those of exquisite sensibilities, who enjoy the pleasures and feel the sorrows of life to the most acute degree, or those whom joy cannot elevate, nor sorrow depress, beyond a certain degree of cool and placid equanimity. Ere I had decided, our chaise was at the door; and how quickly feeling puts reasoning to flight. I then thought, that for the bliss of that warm-hearted meeting with Mary, would I willingly bear its corresponding portion of pain. She showed me her household establishment, and pointed out all the comforts with which it abounded. The orchard, the fields, and the garden, rich with the ripened fruit and grain, were all subjects MARY WAPvREN. 171 of commendation. Of her husband she spoke with respect and kindness, and seemed to interest herself in the cares of her house with a cheerful contentment that might have made a passing observer believe her happy. But to the scrutinizing glance of friendship there was something no effort could hide, an expression of weariness in her eye, that spoke too plainly of a sickening heart. Her efforts to conceal it fi'om me, forbade my speaking, and there was a kind of restraint, which was painful to both, but which neither could break through ; till, as she was one day explaining some intended alteration in the garden, her eye rested on a rose tree she had trans- planted from her own, now leafless and withered : " My poor rose tree!" she exclaimed: "when I took it from its shady nook, last spring, it was green and budding in all its beauty, and now it will never bloom again — a change of soil has ill suited either of us." Her eyes, filled with tears, met mine, and casting herself on my bosom, she wept with the unrestrained sorrow of a breaking heart. The restraint she had, from a sense of her sacred duty as a wife, imposed on herself, was at an end, and with all the soul-uniting confidence of our early intercourse did she give vent to the feelings she had hitherto endeavored to smother and conceal. She had looked on the world, colored by her own imagination, as an admiring child views the scene in its air-blown bubble, reflected in a thousand lovely tints ; the bubble burst, and the objects stood around her in their own plain reality. The earth still was beautiful to her, but the few months since her marriage had shown her how great was the contrast it formed with those who inhabited it — the selfish, the cold hearted, the calculating — and she felt like one awakening from a dream of Arcadia in a Siberian climate. There are some, to whom such a climate is congenial, but Mary was not one of them. Still, could she have turned from the bleak coldness of all around, to the cheering ray of love, all had been well. But oh ! Sympathy ! with- out thee, what is Love ? — a heavenly name for an earthly passion — and without thee, what is wedded life ? — a scene of gloomy clouds and wearying cares — a bondage that degrades every higher feeling of the soul. Thou art the light and the consolation, the spark which kindles the purest flame in the human bosom. Of this there was nothing in their union, and I soon saw that " The vile daily drop on drop, which wears The soul out, like the stone, with petty cares^ ' had began its work. The excitement of meeting passed away, and 172 MARY WARREN. with it tlio energy of feeling wliicli had ever so strikingly character- ized her. Listless and wear}', she seemed to wait the coming of the destroyer, and her pale brow and the fitful line of her cheek told tliat his hand had already marked her for his own. What was once pensiveness had deepened into melancholy, sad, silent and settled ; that twilight shade which I ever look on as the sure precursor of night. Though her health was so evidently declining, she spoke not of it, and I sometimes thought she perceived it not. It was one evening in late autumn. The harvest was gathered from the fields around us — the last leaves were trembling on the branches above us, or circling slowly and silentl}^ to the ground at the slightest breath of air. It was Mary's favorite season, and she gazed on the scene with an earnestness and expression of intense feelings, that forcibly reminded me of her early days. I have sometimes fancied, that, in such moments of excitement, the spirit can look into futurit}^, and there in dim-written, yet indel- ible characters, trace out the line of its destiny. Was it this pro- phetic vision that dictated these few lines I found written, a few days after, bearing the date of that evening, or was it merely the consciousness of ebbing life ? I know not. The trembling of the hand that traced the lines was evident, and betrayed both the pro- gress of disease and the agitation of her mind. Now autumn's faded mantle Is cast o'er flower and tree, And smiling summer's beauty Is fading silently. I would not weep — but there's a voice In nature's sad decay, That boding whispers to mine ear — " Thou, too, wilt pass away." It sighs through every leafless tree — It comes in each wild blast — It speaks from every dying flower — " Thy spring, thy life is past." I see it in my wasting form, And read it on my brow — I feel upon my sinking heart Death's icy chill, e'en now. A shadowy form seems following me, With silent, stealthy tread. Pointing with pale and withered hand To earth, my destined bed. A BIBLICAL CRITIC. 1/3 The pleasant earth !— I Avould not mourn Nor muraiur at my lot, But oh ! to pass so soon away — And be so soon forgot ! The bh-ds I've loved so well will sing, The new sprung grass will wave, And spring's sweet flowers will bloom again O'er my forgotten grave. How true was her propliecy, a new raised stone to her memory, in our village church-yard, can tell » t » « » A BIBLICAL CKITIC. The best specimen of original criticism we ever heard was in a stage coach ride to Berry Edge. Three of us were talking about Adlm and his fall. The point of discussion was the^ apparent im- possibility that a perfect man like Adam could commit sin. "But he wasnH perfect," ejaculated one of the three. ''' Wasn't perfect!" we ejaculated, with amazement. " No, sir, he wasn't perfect," repeated the commentator. " What do you mean ?" we asked. "Well," answered the authority, "he was made perfect, I admit, but he didn't stay perfect." "How?" "Why, was not one of his ribs removed? If he was perfect with alfhis ribs, he was not perfect after losing one, was he, say ?" Our say was silence. We were convinced, then, that woman was the cause of man's original im^QTiQGi\on.—E7iglish paper. ♦ ■ <> »» A Greek maid being asked what fortune she would bring her husband, answered : " I will bring him what is more valuable than any treasure— the heart unspotted, and that virtue, without a stam, which was all that descended to me from my parents." XJ^AIININGS OF THE SPIRIT. BY ANNIE DANE. I STOOD beside the dark blue sea, and watched its waters roll, And listened to its music wild that thrilled ray inmost soul ; From her pure throne on high the moon poured forth her silvery beams, Cresting each wave that proudly rose with bright and fitful gleams ; And on my ear wind-spirits rung their strangely joyous lay, While angel voices from afar seemed calling me away. My sad response they heeded not, on fleet wing hasting by. They gave to me no power to soar with them so free and high. And then my burning, restless soul, with yearnings deep was fraught, Yearnings for what it could not find, and oft in vain had sought, 'Till all its fires were gathered on ambition's dazzling shrine. And fame was dreamed of with delight and worshipped as divine. I sought a name whose echo should be heard in distant years. When, in the silence of the grave, were hushed all hopes and fears. I cared not for the sparkling gems within the earth enshrined, But those whose home is in the soul, the bright gems of the mind ! •I worshipped Genius, and strange thoughts came o'er me at its name, I longed to kindle in my breast its pure undying flame, To trace in words that should endure upon Time's living scroll, The powerful and the soaring thought, born of the mighty soul. I would have known if this might be or was a vision vain. That would pass by and leave the soul as passes some wild strain : I gazed upon the stars that shone unnumbered in the sky. And as the eastern sages, sought to read my destiny ; But mystery veiled their beaming words, their characters of light, I watched and spoke to them in vain through all the still, dark night; I listened for some oracle borne on the slumbering air, But the sweet sound that met my ear but filled me with despair. It was a language far too pure for me to comprehend. It could not bid one ray of peace into my heart descend ; My longings could not be appeased, I felt I was not blest, That nought on earth had power to give my wayward spirit rest. I stood by my low casement, while the night shades fell around, I heard the rustling of the leaves, the streamlet's murmuring sound, My fevered brov/ was gently fanned by the cool summer air. And the breezes wafted tremblingly the light curls of my hair ; YEARNINGS OF THE SPIRIT. 175 All but my restless spirit seemed blest with a holy peace, Strange chords were vibrating within, I could not bid them cease. Though Nature long had nursed my soul, as waters wild and deep Nurse the bright sea-shells that within their sparry caverns sleep, Until they learn the thrilling notes of the wildly dashing spray, And echo them when rudely torn far from their depths away. Though I had loved her wildest notes, her whispers sad and low, And ever listened Avith delight to her music's ceaseless flow, When rest as pure as that which reigns above yon azure blue, Had cast o'er all its mystic power to calm and to subdue, "Within my soul was no response, 'twas filled with yearnings still. Such as the sea-bird's, when its notes far o'er the wide sea thrill. Methought it was my bitter curse no rest on earth to find, That all I'd sought, the pure, the good, were phantoms of the mind : I'd sought the true, the beautiful, that may not pass away, As pass the rainbow hues that gild the ocean's glittering spray; I'd sought for purity of soul, for loftiness of heart. For strength of purpose, and a mind beyond the reach ot art; I'd felt the evidence within of an immortal birth. That never could be satisfied with the dull things of earth; But I had lost 'mid clouds my home that brightly gleamed afar, And had forgot while wandering here I had a guiding star ; And while these thoughts stirred every fount within my dreaming breast, As winds that thrill the forest leaves, my spirit found no rest. I had been amid the multitude, the young, the gay, the fair, And on their clear and placid brows had seen no trace of care ; Though I had veiled my heart with smiles, and seemed as light as they, I gladly sought a silent spot, and turned from them away ; For many a thought was in my soul I could not cast aside, As fiery and as uncontrolled as the rolling lava tide ; That gave a deep hue to my cheek, and a brightness to my eye, Though no one dreamed that they were there, and no one heard the sigh, 1 sought amid the heartless world a love that was not here And hoped to find it in a few that to my heart were dear, But oft a cold, indifferent word fell on my listening ear, The glance that once was dear to me I learned to meet with fear : Oh ! had I known the only fount from which deep love doth flow, My spirit had not bowed with grief in its dark home below, Yet still it sought what was not here and still it found no rest, And still I murmured bitterly, " my soul will ne'er be blest." 'Twas midnight, and my spirit felt how holy was the hour, For over it was cast the spell of a mysterious power : I kne:t beside my lowly couch and tears fell from my eye. And often from my heart escaped the*deep-heaved, weary sigh. There was a burden on my soul I fain would cast away. And as I bowed beneath its weight I moved my lips to pray ; 17G xnuE riiiLosoPHY. And soon tliere dawned upon my sight a faintly glimmering ray, It was the star of Hope that shone above Life's troubled vray ; Trembling I ga^^ed with tear dimmed eye, and asked, " beams that for me \ And will it guide my wandering soul home to eternity'?" I heard a sweet and welcome voice, bidding my spirit come, Leaving the things of earth behind, back to its long lost home ; I heard strange music from afar, and ray own mother's voice. Far more than all in that bright choir, seemed o'er me to rejoice. And then my spirit caught a glimpse of the pure, the good, the fair And holy peace filled all ray soul, for I knew my home was there ; I felt that I could linger here on this dull earth no more. But must to my forgiving God and all that's holy soar, And the bright gleams of peace and hope gave my glad spirit rest, And I looked up with clasped hands, and said, " my soul is blest." ♦ 9 » ♦ TEUE PHILOSOPHY. I SAW a pale mourner staud bending over the tomb, and his tears fell fast and often. As he raised his humid eyes to heaven; he cried — " My brother ! 0, my brother !" A sage passed that way and said : "For whom dost thou mourn ?" " One," replied he, "whom I did not sufficiently love while living* but whose inestimable worth I now feel." "What would'st thou do if he were restored to thee?" The mourner replied, that he would never offend him by any unkind word, but he would take every occasion to show his friend- ship, if he could but come back to his fond embrace." " Then waste no time in useless grief," said the sage, "but if thou hast friends, go and cherish the living, remembering that they will die one day also." ♦ • ^ a ♦ A PERSON once observing to an ancient Greek philosopher that it was a great happiness to have what we desire, the sage replied : "But is it not a greater happiness to desire nothing but what we have ?" THAMYRIS. FROM THE GERMAN OF KRUMMACIIEH. BY MRS. ST. SIMON. A YOUTHFUL poet, endowed with creative genius and high capa- bilities, joined himself to the scholars of the divine Plato. His songs were praised by all who knew him, and in him Greece promised herself a second Sophocles and Pindar. But the praise of the crowd bewildered him, and puiFed him up, so that he spoke scornfully of Hesiod and Eschylus, and other masters of song. This grieved the divine sage, and he wished to heal the soul of the vain youth. "I should do a greater service to my country," he said, " than if I should win for her a province ; for the sacred art of song was given to man to elevate him above the earth ; but it was not destined to be the possession of a diseased soul." On an evening in spring the young poet approached Plato, as he was walking alone in the gardens of the Academy. The youth addressed the sage, and said: "I have now almost completed my poem, which is to delight Greece, and gain me eternal laurels." " I wish thee joy, if thou should'st succeed," answered Plato. "And how should I not?" replied the youth, hastily. Then Plato said : " The gift of song, my son, comes from the gods ; from them also comes success ; but thou seemest to think not of them, but of thyself alone." The youth replied : " I feel the divinity within me." "Rather say that thou feel'st thyself in the divinity," replied the sage.. " Are not both one and the same thing ?" asked the youth. " Far from it," answered Plato. " Now thou thiuk'st and speak'st only of thyself, and believest in thyself alone, and in thy powers. In the other case, thy lips would be silent, except in song. Worldly fame and the applause of the multitude, is thy first ambition. The heavenly, my dear son, should precede the earthly." 178 TIIAMYRIS. The youth said; " Plato, I understand thee not." " I will speak to thee in the words of the father of seers and of singers," replied the sage. "Even although thou art inclined to undervalue his excellence, yet he is thine elder, and it is the duty of j'outh to listen to the words of age." ''"Well, be it so," answered the youth, "although I can never consider him a pattern of the highest order. But speak !" "He teaches us many a lesson of wisdom in his old fables, which thou wilt not scorn. Well, listen to one of them." Plato now led the youth into a perfumed grove. They took their seats, and the sage related as follows: "Thamyris, the sweet singer of Thrace, came to king Eurytos, of (Echalia, who rewarded him gloriously for his song, and honored him as a favorite of the Muses. But the king's praise and his rich reward corrupted the excellent singer. For he boasted aloud, in his presumption, of his mastery in song, and of his certainty of victory, even should the Muses themselves contend with him. •' The muses, who, in that age, still appeared, at times, among mortals, met him upon his path, and chastised his presumption. They punished him with blindness, and, alas ! they took from him also the sweet gift of song, and the art of the sounding lyre." " How could the gods," asked the youth, " so inconsistently destroy in him the divine gift which they had bestowed upon him ?" "Not they," answered Plato, "but he himself destroyed it. With his inward darkness, began his blindness and his punishment." "But listen," continued the sage, "to what the old fable adds farther. The Muses did not destroy the divine gift ; they caused the soul of Thamyris to pass into a nightingale. Dost thou not hear it yonder among the palm trees ? Dost thou not know the favorite bird of the Muses ? Its form is most simple and unadorned ; it conceals itself in the dark groves, and loves to utter its melodious song in the silent night. It knows not that it bears the soul of a Thamyris in its tender bosom." Plato was now silent, and listened to the song of the nightingale. The youth left the sage with an embittered heart ; and scorning the teachings of Nature and of wisdom, he never returned to the gardens of the Academy. But the name of that youtK Is not named among the singers of Greece. tn grave a. "bv X L one 3fAF0LEb^''§ FA^"^"^- THE STORY OF NAPOLEON, There is something a little Frencli-tlieatrical in the air and ex« pression of Napoleon ; those upturned eyes of his convey to us an idea rather of what the artist would consider touching than of what the fallen Emperor would be likely to do with his eyes at such a moment. We can more distinctly imagine him clasping the imperial child to his bosom, and gazing with sad fondness in its unconscious, happy face — rivetting his eyes theve^ and keeping them fixed there through all the brief, sorrowful moments of the parting. "VYe are aware that the idea intended to be conveyed may be that of invoking a benediction from on high for the life and happiness of the child- king ; but Napoleon was not addicted to that kind of prayer, or in- deed to prayer of any kind ; and even if he had been, the strength of his love for that fair and unhappy infant — the victim then of his father's errors and of the terror that father had cast upon the souls of all Europe's rulers, and, a few brief years after, the victim of Austrian cold-blooded policy and his own corroding thoughts and aspirations — Napoleon's love for that child, we say, would have in- dulged itself rather in passionate embraces and tender endearments than in artistical positions and pious ejaculations. But this is a question of taste, or rather of fancy. Some may imagine Napoleon standing, doing and looking, on the sad occasion, precisely as the painter has represented him ; and perhaps those some would be quite as near the truth in their opinion as we in ours. More profitable and more to the purpose than such narrow-eyed fault-finding is it to dwell upon the moral accompaniments of the scene. In it we see the downfall of a sovereign — the chief of a mighty empire, on the throne of which he had placed himself by his consummate abilities, his unbounded daring, his wonderful command over the aifections, or rather the enthusiastic devotion of a whole people ; an empire, too, which crumbled to ruins at his falL The engraving tells the story of mere intellectual greatness, ac* complishing wonders in the space of its brilliant career, but crushed at last under the weight of overgrown ambition. In a word, it tells the story of Napoleon. POETRY. ITS PROVINCE, AND INFLUENCE ON 90CIE1T. " Trutlis that wake, To perish never." — Wordsworth. To gather the rays of divinity that are scattered amidst th^ clouds of this world into a pencil, to assist us to read the characters of wisdom that lie about us, is a most charitable and pious work. This is the highest province of poetry, and those poets who have been faithful to their trust, have been both the patrons of sound philosophy, and the guardians of religion. The poet's " chambers of imagery" are furnished with " the substance of things invisible'^ — the shadows of which he casts upon his pages. Homer, Shak- speare, Spenser and Milton, saw " millions of spiritual creatures," which were not palpable to common vision, guarding the inhabi- tants of the globe when asleep, and mingling with, and directing their fiery action when awake. In the mind's eye of Homer, an ex- hibition of prudence or wisdom was the presence of an immortal goddess in celestial panoply. On a gusty night, in the moon and stars, glancing across the clouded heaven, he saw Diana and a train of Oreades sweeping in the storm of chase. In the still soft mur- murings of the wind at noon his ear heard the harmony of the spheres. In the sun wheeling his course around the heavens, he saw a youth of immortal beauty, crowned with bays. But when his rays scorched the earth, and det^eloped the principles of the pes- tilence, he beheld an incensed Deity launching fatal arrows from a silver bow. In the passion of vengeance, pursuing its victim, he beheld a fiend from hell. All passions in his visions were clad in immortal forms. He saw the impassable spirits of Heaven walking about the earth, superintending and controlling the actions of men. They breathed in the winds that filled his sails, and hovered in the foam that followed the passage- of his keel through the waves. Poetic conceptions in his soul seemed the inspirations of a goddess. Deities were the ancestors of his heroes, and piety was the natural prompting of his heart. To him, what glory invested the earth, the air, the sky, the sea, thus instinct with the immortal Presence ! POETRY ITS TROVINCE A^'D INFUEXCE ON SOCIETY. 183 This armor of si^iritual light was proof against the shocks of adver- sity. These invisible substances almost bridged over the awful chasm of dissolution, making it only a simple transition to the fields of Elysium. This reflection of splendid visions from the soul's chambers into the material world, is common to all poetic minds Spenser's soul was a fairy land, over which all the virtues wera coursing — like chivalrous knights in resplendent armor, struggling against oppression, wrong, and outrage, and constantly opposed by vices and passions in the figures of fiends, fairies, giants, monsters, and the whole progeny of a teeming imagination. "What visions poetry is yet to produce from her chambers, it ia impossible to conjecture. She may, in some impassioned moment, rend the dense veil that hides the soul from view, and exhibit the mental eye to its own gaze ! She unquestionably possesses a sort of conservative power in mental developments, which may be likened to the spirit of liberty, developed in the Anglo Saxon race — liberty, in this race, always inspiring some champion to strike the most suc- cessful blows just when oppressive tyranny seemed most threaten- ing ; and thus making each encroachment on Freedom, a point on n-hich to erect the trophy of a victory gained — as the history of England and North America abundantly testify. And poetry always inviting the attention of men to the purest and most spiritual conceptions, when scofiing profanity, or hard, cold, and subtle ra- tionalism seemed hurrying the race into the regions of Atheism. This supposition may seem fanciful, but it is not unsupported by striking examples. Take the instance of Milton. The great master of song retires from scenes in which he had been a conspicuous, and the ablest actor, smitten with blindness ; and instead of arresting the attention of Europe with defences of revolutions and royal murder, dictates the Paradise Lost ! Here is an intellectual barrier against Atheism, that cannot be passed, until all the sweet lights of Heaven are extinguished in the soul, and all taste for spiritual food destroyed. Again, the poetry of our own age is in strange and most honorable contrast with the " prevailing spirit." When old habits and associations are violently sundered by startling innovations— when men drink not deep, but intoxicating draughts at the foun- tains of science — ^when the fountains of honesty are corrupted by sophistry and charlatanry— when a vast portion of the periodical press serves up vile garbage to a diseased appetite, that only be- comes more diseased by the food it craves and devours. In the era 184 rOETRY--ITS TROVIXCE AND INFLUENCE ON SOCIETY. of steam, and iron roads — the poets, to their everlasving honor, with only one or two exceptions — (and even in these, the vicious is the dcca3'ing part !) — liave drawn crystal waters from the streams of Castalia. As the public morals have become loose, their strains have mounted, and become pure and spiritual. They have unfolded a moral creed, which is sound, and sufficiently expansive to include all the virtues. The}" have taken care to advocate intellectual liberty, in communion with the checks and restraints of religion. They have shed an unfading lustre upon a class of subjects, which, until recently, have quite escaped the notice of those who have re- corded their reflections and impressions — subjects that approach the primeval source of our being, and gather up the indications of divine origin, and of immortality from the bright impressions, the joys and sorrows of infancy and childhood, and the catastrophe of early death, around which the rays of divinity so evidently play, that the long, long omission can hardly be accounted for. Homer has sketched only one scene in which infancy forms a figure in the foreground, and although that is worthy a pencil dipped in unfading colors, it is as cold as the star to which the infant prince is likened. Horace^ with his good humored satire and polished lyrics, has plucked no flowers in this field, and though Shakspeare has here and there, in his masterly way sketched a brilliant feature of child- hood, he only seems in very wantonness to have dashed them ofi", to show us that the sun which shone in his soul, irradiated every tinge of colored light that the poetic prism unfolds. There is no triumph in his conceptions, as when Wordsworth exclaims : i' Our birtli is but a sleep and a forgetting : Tlie soul that rises with us, our life's star Hath had elsewhere its setting, And Cometh from afar, Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home : Heaven lies about us in our infancy !" The sentiment that pervades this passage, and the whole of the sublime ode of which it forms a part, is not " horroivecV It burst from the bosom of original genius. It was cast upon the shore by the waters of an unfatliomed ocean, amidst a profusion of inestima- ble pearls. In Sir Thomas Lawrence's picture of innocence, there POETRY ITS PROVINCE AND INFLUENCE ON SC ilETY. 185 is SO much of divinity pla^dug in the infant's smiles, that one is ready to question whether the artist borrowed his conception from the poet, or whether the poet was inspired by the painter's canvas. There is something in this picture so heavenly, that you almost in- voluntarily exclaim as you gaze upon it, " They die young whom the gods love." Strange that its very brightness should reveal a shadowy glimpse of that fell reaper, into whose icy heart comes no tender sentiment ! And yet it is true that it excites in its very joy- ousness a current of emotions of close kindred with those which awake at the sight of a young and tender form, bending before the rough winds of the world, and silently gliding from our embrace, and smiling even in the grasp of death, passes far, far away in its freshness, from all that might shade and sadden a longer resi- dence here. It is a sight almost too sacred to be described with words ; and those fine spirits who have worthily expressed the emotions it excites, which have often struggled in the hearts of those who knew no utterance for them, have, in this superficial, unquiet, and unreflecting age, laid us under deep obligations. There are teachers whose lessons silently mould the character of a whole nation. There are sowers who cast seed into a vegetative soil. There are many passages bright, gleaming along "Wordsworth's pages, and many scenes drawn by the author of the " old curiosity shop," which have made the scales fall from our eyes, and discovered to us angels traversing the haunts of men. Go where you may, you shall find domestic circles bowed in sadness — their hearts almost sundered by the violence of the shock that removed a link from a chain that to them was hallowed. Have you never seen a little boy who looked into your very soul, with eyes that emitted a supernatural splendor ? Who has not felt his whole nature stirred in its inmost depths, as he has looked upon such an one — the impersonation of innocence, over whose breast no wave of passion ever rolled — in whose soul no germ of impurity ever vegetated — supported on pillows — watched over by maternal tenderness, gradually and unconsciously falling into Jds arms whom we are wont to regard as the king of terrors ? The silver cord is loosed so gently — the pulses of life subside so quietly, that it seems not death, but only a transition to the company of those guardian angels who the divine Founder of our religion says, " Do always behold the face of God." But the mother and the affiicted ones ! Upon their ears thrill the words of the prophet — <' It is well with the cltild^'^ and the fountain of grief is sealed up 186 RELIGIOX. in the Holy of Holies of their heart, over -which a veil is drawn that is never lifted but by the hand of God. Go, survey that in- expressibly beautiful scene, the death of the pupil of the day school in the " old curiosity shop," and how manj^ kindred real ones which you have witnessed will it not recall, where a little stainless child has died without a murmur, and in speechless language, so revealed to you the invisible — that you are proof against all the seductions of Atheistic philosophy ? These flowers spring and bloom through the whole spiritual domain. They convey lessons full of moving truth in an universal language. Oh, what a lofty and enviable pre- rogative has he, in whose soul the fires of genius burn so brightly that by their light he can discover, amidst the darkness that en- velopes our mortal nature, the Patriarch's ladder, on which the angels are ascending and descending — " From earth to Heaven, from Heaven to earth." » » ^ » » RELIGION There is religion in every thing around us ; a calm and holy re- ligion in the uubreathing things of nature, which man would do well to imitate. It is a meek and blessed influence, stealing as it were, unawares upon the heart. It comes, it has no terror ; no gloom in its approaches. It has to rouse up the passions ; is untrammelled by the (greeds and unshadowed by the superstitions of man. It is fresh from the hands of the author ; and glowing from the immediate presence of the Great Spirit which pervades and quickens it. It is written on the arched sky. It looks out from every star. It is among the hills and vallies of earth, where the shrubless mountain top pierces the thin atmosphere of eternal winter — or where the mighty forest fluctuates before the strong wind with its dark waves of green foliage. It is spread out like a legible language upon the broad face of the unsleeping ocean. It is the poetry of nature. It is this that uplifts the spirit within us, until it is tall enough to overlook the shadows of our place of probation; which breaks, link after link, the chains that bind us to materiality ; and which opens to imagination a world of spiritual beauty and holiness. — Sir H Davy. REVOLUTIONARY ADVENTURE. The leading events of the "War of Independence are familiar to every American ; but many incidents, full of interest and adventure, yet remain to be disclosed. Tbere are those yet living who remem- ber the folk)wing story. The American authorities found much difficulty in disposing of their prisoners. They had no posts regularly fitted for the purpose ; and they could suggest no better means for securing them, tlian to place them under guard in a thickly settled part of the country, where the inhabitants were most decidedly hostile to the English. The town of Lancaster, in Pennsylvania, was of those selected for this purpose. The prisoners were confined in barracks, enclosed with a stockade and vigilantly guarded. But in spite of all pre- cautions, they often disappeared in an unaccountable manner, and nothing was heard of them till they had resumed their place in the British army. Many and various were the conjectures as to the means of their escape; the officers inquired and investigated in vain ; the country was explored to no purpose ; the soldiers shook their heads, and told of fortune-tellers, pedlers, and such characters, who had been seen at intervals ; and sundry of the more credulous could think of nothing but supernatural agency ; but whether man or spirit was the conspirator, the mystery was unbroken. When this became known to Washington, he sent General Hazen to take this responsible charge. This energetic officer, after exhaust- ino- all resources, resorted to stratagem. He was convinced that, as the nearest British post was more than a hundred miles distant, the prisoners must be aided by Americans, but where the suspicion should fall, he could not even conjecture ; the reproach of Toryism being almost unknown in that region. Having been trained to meet exigen- cies of this kind, in a distinguished career as colonel in the British army, his plan was formed at once, and he communicated it to an officer of bis own, upon whose talent he relied for its successful execution. This was Captain Lee, whose courage and ability fully justified the selection. 188 REVOLUTIONARY ADVEXTURE. The secret plan concerted between them was this. It was to be given out tliat Lee was absent on furlough or command. He, mean- time, was to assume the dress of a British prisoner, and, having provided himself with information and a story of his capture, was to be thrown into the barracks, where he might gain the confidence of the soldiers, and join them in a plan of escape. How well Captain Lee sustained his part may be inferred from the fact that when he had disappeared and placed himself among the prisoners, his own officers and soldiers saw him every day without the least suspicion. The person to whom I am indebted for most of these, particulars was the Intendant of the prisoners, and familiar with Lee; but though compelled to see him often in the discharge of his duty, he never penetrated the disguise. Well it was for Lee that his disguise was so complete. Had his associates suspected his purpose to betray them, his history would have been embraced in the proverb, "dead men tell no tales." For many days he remained in this situation, making no discoveries whatever. He thought he perceived, at different times, signs of intelligence between the prisoners, and an old woman, who was allowed to bring fruit for sale within the enclosure. She was known to be deaf and half-witted, and was therefore no object of suspicion. It was known that her son had been disgraced and punished in the American army, but she had never betrayed any malice on that account, and no one dreamed that she could have had the power to do injury if she possessed the will. Lee watched her closely, but saw nothing to confirm his susj^icions. Her dwelling was about a mile distant, in a wild retreat, where she shared her miserable quar- ters with a dog and cat, the former of which mounted, guard over her mansion, while the latter encouraged superstitious fears which were equally effectual in keeping visiters away. One dark, stormy night in autumn, he was lying awake at mid- night, meditating on the enterprize he had undertaken, which, though in the beginning it had recommended itself to his romantic disposi- tion, had now lost all its charms. It was one of those tempests, which in our climate so often hang upon the path of the departing year. His companions slept soundly, but the wind, which shook the building to its foundation and threw heavy splashes of rain against the window, conspired with the state of his mind, to keep him wakeful. All at once the door was gently opened, and a figure moved silently into the room. It was too dark to observe its REVOLUTIONARY ADVENTURE. 189 motions narrowly, but he could see that it stooped towards one of the sleepers, who immediately rose ; next it approached him and touched him on the shoulder. Lee immediately started up; the figure then allowed a slight gleam from a dark lantern to pass over his face, and as it did so, whispered impatiently, "not the man — but come!" It then occurred to Lee that this was the opportunity ho desired. The unknown whispered to him to keep his place till another man was called ; but just at that moment, some noise disturbed him, and, making a sign to Lee to follow, he moved silently out of the room. They found the door of the house unbarred, and a small part of the fence removed, where they passed out without molestation ; the sentry had retired to a shelter where he thought he could guard his post without suffering from the rain ; but Lee saw that his conduc- tors put themselves in preparation to silence him if he should happen to address them. Just without the fence appeared a stooping figure, wrapped in a red cloak, and supporting itself with a large stick, • which Lee at once perceived could be no other than the old fruit woman. But the most profound silence was observed; a man came out from a thicket at a little distance, and joined them, and the whole party moved onward under the guidance of the old woman. At first they frequently stopped to listen, but having heard the sen- tinel's cry, "all's well," they seemed reassured, and moved with more confidence than before. They soon came near to her cottage, under an overhanging bank, where a bright lio-ht was shinino; out from a little window upon the wet and drooping boughs that hung near it. The dog received them graciously, and they entered. A table was spread, with some coarse provisions upon it, and a large jug, which one of the soldiers was about to seize, when the man who conducted them withheld him. " No," said he, " we must first proceed to business." He then went to a small closet, from which he returned with what seemed to have been, originally, a Bible, though now it was worn to a mahogany color and a spherical form. While they were doing this, Lee had time to examine his companions ; one of whom was a large, quiet looking soldier ; the other, a short, stout man, with much the aspect of a villain. They examined him in turn, and as Lee had been obliged formerly to punish the shortest soldier severely, he felt some misgivings when the fellow's eye rested upon him. Their conductor was a middle-aged, harsh-looking man, whom Lee had never seen before. 100 REVOLUTIONARY ADVENTURE. As no time was to bo lost, their guide explained to them in few •words, that, before he should undertake his dangerous enterprise, he should require of them to swear upon the Scriptures, not to njakc the least attempt to escape, and never to reveal the circum- stances or agents in the proceeding, whatever might befal them. The soldiers, however, insisted on deferring this measure, till they had formed some slight acquaintance with the contents of the jug, and expressed their sentiments on the subject rather by action than words. In this they were joined by Lee, who by this time had beo-un to contemplate the danger of his enterprise in a new and un- pleasant point of view. If he were to be compelled, to accompany his party to New- York, his disguise would at once be detected, and it was certain that he would be hanged as a spy. He had supposed, beforehand, that he should find no difficulty in escaping at any mo- ment ; but he saw that their conductor had prepared arms for them, ■which they were to use in taking the life of any one who should at- tempt to leave them — and then the oath. He might possibly have released himself from its obligations, when it became necessary for the interests of his country ; but no honorable man can well bear to be driven to an emergency, in which he must violate an oath, how- ever reluctantly it was taken. He felt that there was no retreating, when there came a heavy shock, as if something falling against the sides of the house ; their practised ear at once detected the alarm gun ; and their conductor, throwing down the old Bible, which he had held all the while impatiently in his hand, directed the party to follow him in close order, and immediately quitted the house, taking with him his dark lantern. They went on with great despatch, but not without difficulty Sometimes their footing would give way on some sandy bank or slippery field ; and when their path led through the woods, the wet boughs dashed heavily in their faces. Lee felt that he might have deserted his precious companions while they were in this hurry and alarm ; but he felt, that, as yet, he had made no discoveries ; and however dangerous his situation was, he could not bear to confess that he had not nerve to carry it through. On he went, therefore, for two or three hours, and was beginning to sink with fatigue, when the barking of a dog brought the party to a stand. Their conductor gave a low whistle, which was answered at no great distance, and a figure came forward in the darkness, who whispered to their guide, and then led the way up to a building, which seemed by the shadowy RETOLUTIONARY ADVENTURE. 191 outline, to be n large stone barn. They entered it, and were sever- ally placed in small nooks wliere they could feel that the hay was all around them, except on the side of the wall. Shortly after, some provisions were brought to them with the same silence, and it was signified to them that they were to remain concealed through the whole of the conring day. Through a crevice in the wall Lee could discover, as the day came on, that the barn was attached to a small farm-house. He was so near the house that he could overhear the conversation which was carried on about the door. The morning rose clear, and it was evident from the enquiries of horsemen who occasionally gallopped up to the door, that the country was alarmed. The farmer gave short and surly replies, as if unwilling to be taken off from his labor ; but the other inmates of the house were eager in their ques- tions, and, from the answers, Lee gathered that the means by which t.e and his companions had escaped were as mysterious as ever. The next night, when all was quiet, they resumed their march, and explained to Lee that, as he was not with them in their con- spiracy and was accidentally associa'ted with them in their escape, they should take the precaution to keep him before them, just be- hind the guide. He submitted without opposition, though the ar- rangement considerably lessened the chances in favor of his escape. He observed from the direction of the stars, that they did not move in a direct line toward the Delaware, but they changed their coursf so often that he could not conjecture at what point they intended t/. strike the river. He endeavored, whenever any peculiar object ap- peared, to fix it in his memory as well as the darkness would permit, and succeeded better than could have been expected, considering the agitated state in which he traveled. For several nights they went on in this manner, being delivered over to different persons, from time to time; and as Lee could gather from their whispering conversation, they were regularly em- ployed on occasions like the present, and well rewarded by the British for their services. Their employment was full of danger ; and though they seemed like desperate men, he could observe that they never remitted their prec-'aitions. They were concealed by day in barns — cellars — caves i.ade for the purpose, and similar re- treats, and one day was passed in a tomb, the dimensions of which had been enlarged, and the inmates, if there had been any, banished to make room for the living. The burying grounds were a favorite 192 REVOLUTIONARY ADVENTURE, retreat, and on more occasions than one they were obliged to refiort to superstitious alarms to remove intruders upon their path ; their success fully justified the experiment, and, unpleasantly situated as he was, in the prospect of soon being a ghost himself, he could not avoid laughing at the expedition with which old and young fled from the fancied apparitions under clouds of night, wishing to meet such enemies, like Ajax, in the face of day. Though the distance to the Delaware was not great, they had now been twelve days on the road, and such was the vigilance and su- perstition prevailing throughout the country, that they almost des- paired of effecting their object. The conductor grew impatient, and Lee's companions, at least one of them, became ferocious. There was, as we have said, something unpleasant to him in the glances of this fellow toward him, which became more and more fi.erce as they went on ; but it did not appear whether it were owing to circum- stances or actual suspicion. It so happened that, on the twelfth night, Lee was placed in a barn, while the rest of the party shel- tered themselves in the cellar of a little stone church, where they could talk and act with more freedom, both because the solitude of the church was not often disturbed even on the Sabbath — and be- cause even the proprietors did not know that illegal hands had add- ed a cellar to the conveniences of the building. The party were seated here as the day broke, and the light, which struggled in through crevices opened for the purpose, showed a low room about twelve feet square, with a damp floor and large patches of white mould upon the walls. Finding, probably, that the pave- ment afforded no accommodations for sleeping, the worthies were seat- ed each upon a little cask which seemed like those used for gunpowder. Here they were smoking pipes with great diligence, and, at inter- vals not distant, applying a huge canteen to their mouths, from which they drank with upturned faces expressive of solemn satisfac- tion. While they were thus engaged, the short soldier asked them in a careless way, if they knew whom they had in their party. The others started, and took their pipes from their mouths to ask him what he meant. " I mean," said he, " that we are honored with the company of Captain Lee, of the rebel army. The rascal once pun- ished me, and I never mistook my man when I had a debt of that kind to pay. Now I shall have my revenge." The others hastened to express their disgust at his ferocity, say- ing, that if, as he said, their companion was an American officer REVOLUTIONARY ADVENTURE. 193 all they bad to do was to watch him elosel}-. They said that, as he had come among them uninvited, he must go with them to New- York and take the consequences ; but meantime, it was their in terest not to seem to suspect him, otherwise he might give an alarm, whereas it was evidently his intention to go with them till they were ready to embark for New- York. The other persisted in saying that he would have his revenge with his own hand, upon which the con- ductor, drawing a pistol declared to him that if he saw the least at- tempt to injure Captain Lee, or any conduct which would lead him to suspect that his disguise was discovered, he would that moment shoot him through the head. The soldier put his hand upon his knife with au ominous scowl upon his conductor, but seeing that he had to do with one who was likely to be as good as his word, he re- strained himself, and began to arrange some rubbish to serve him for a bed. The other soldier followed his example, and their guide withdrew, locking the door after him. The next night they went on as usual, but the manner of their conductor showed that there was more danger than before; in fact, he explained to the party, that they were now not far from the Dela- ware, and hoped to reach it before midnight. They occasionally heard the report of a musket, which seemed to indicate that some movement was going on in the country. Thus warned, they quick- ened their steps, and it was not long before they saw a gleam of broad clear light before them, such as is reflected from cVm waters even in the darkest night. They moved up to it with deep silence ; there were various emotions in their breasts ; Lee was hoping for an opportunity to escape from an enterprise which was growing too serious, and the principal objects of which were already answered the others were anxious lest some accident might have happened ta the boat on which they depended for crossing the stream. When they came to the bank there were no traces of a boat on the waters. Their conductor stood still for a moment in dismay; but, recollecting himself, he said it was possible it might have been secured lower down the stream, and, forgetting every thing else, ho directed the larger soldier to accompny him, and, giving a pistol to the other, he whispered, " if the rebel officer attempts to betray us, shoot him ; if not, you will not, for your own sake, make any noise to show where we are.'' In the same instant they departed, and Lee was left alone with the ruffian. He had before suspected that the fellow knew him, and now 194 • REVOLUTIONARY ADVENTURE. doubts were changed to certainty at once. Dark as it was, it seemed as if fire flashed from his eye, now he felt that revenge was in his power. Lee was as brave as any officer in the army, but he was unarmed, and though he was strong, his adversary was still more powerful. While he stood, uncertain what to do, the fellow seemed enjoying the prospect of revenge, as he looked upon him with a steady eye. Though the officer stood to appearance un- moved, tlio sweat rolled in heavy drops from his brow. He soon took his resolution, and sprang upon his adversary with the inten- tion of wresting the pistol from his hand ; but the other was upon his guard, and aimed with such precision, that, had the pistol been charged with a bullet, that moment would have been his last. But it seemed that the conductor had trusted to the sight of his weapons to render the use of them unnecessary, and had therefore loaded them only with powder ; as it was, the shock threw Lee to the ground ; but fortunately, as the fellow dropped the pistol, it fell where Lee could reach it, and as his adversary stooped, and was drawing his knife from his bosom, Lee was able to give him a stun- nino- blow. He immediately threw himself upon the assassin, and a long and bloody struggle began ; they were so nearly matched in strength and advantao-e, that neither dared unclench his hold for the sake of grasping the knife ; the blood gushed from their mouths, and the combat would have probably ended in favor of the assassin, when steps and voices were heard advancing, and they found them- selves in the hands of a party of countrymen, who were armed for the occasion, and were scouring the banks of the river. They were forcibly torn apart, but so exhausted and breathless, that neither could make any explanation, and they submitted quietly to the dis- posal of their captors. The party of armed countrymen, though they had succeeded in their attempt, and were sufficiently triumphant on the occasion, were sorely perplexed to determine how to dispose of their prison- ers. After some discussion, one of them proposed to throw the decision upon the wisdom of the nearest magistrate. They accord- ingly proceeded with their prisoners to his mansion, about two miles distant, and called on him to rise and attend to business. A win- dow was hastily thrown up, and the justice put forth his night cap- ped head, and, with more wrath than became his dignity, ordered them off; and, in requital for their calling him out of bed in the cold, generously washed them in the warmest place which then oc- SADNESS. 195 curred to his imagination. However, resistance was vain ; lie was compelled to rise ; and, as soon as the prisoners were brought before him, he ordered them to be taken in irons to the prison at Philadel- phia. Lee improved the opportunity to take the old gentleman aside, and told him who he was and why he was thus disguised ; the justice only interrupted him with the occasional inquiry, *• Most done ?" When he had finished, the magistrate told him that his story was very well made, and told in a manner very cred- itable to his address, and that he should give it all the weight which it seemed to require. All Lee's remonstrances were unavailing. As soon as they were fairly lodged iu prison, Lee prevailed on the jailer to carry a note to Gen. Lincoln, informing him of his condition. The General received it as he was dressing in the morning, and immediately sent one of his aids to the jail. That officer could not believe his eyes when he saw Captain Lee. His imiform, worn out when he assumed it, was now hanging in rags about him, and he had not been shaved for a fortnight ; he wished, very naturally, to improve his appearance before presenting himself before the Secretary of War ; but the orders were peremptory to bring him as he was. The General loved a joke full well ; his laughter was hardly exceeded by the report of his own cannon ; and long and loud did he laugh that day. » ■ ^ B ♦ SADNESS. There is a mysterious feeling that frequently passes like a cloud over the spirit. It comes upon the soul in the busy bustle of life, in the social circle, in the calm and silent retreat of solitude. Its power is alike supreme over the weak and the iron-hearted. At one time it is caused by the flitting of a single thought across the mind. Again, a sound will come, booming across the ocean of memory, gloomy and solemn as the death knell, overshadowing all the bright hopes and sunny feelings of the heart. Who can describe it, and yet who has not felt its bewildering influence ? Still it is a delicious sort of sorrow : and like a cloud dimming the sunshine of the river, although causing a momentary shade of gloom, it enhances the beauty of returning brightness THE BEREAVED SISTER Tn tlie spring of 18 — , I contracted an acquaintance in one of the cities of the South, with a gentleman, who had removed from Eng- land to this country with two small children, the one a boy of ten, and the other a girl of nine years of age. These children were the most lovely beings I ever saw. Their extreme beauty, their deep and artless affection, and their frequent bursts of childish and inno> cent mirth, made them as dear to me as if I had been the companion of their infancy. They were happy in themselves, happy in each other, and in the whole world of life and nature around them. I had known the family but a few months, when my friend was com- pelled to make a sudden and unexpected voyage to South America. His feelings were embittered by the thought of leaving his mother- less children behind him, and as I was on the point of embarking for Liverpool, I promised to take them to their relations. My departure was delayed two weeks. During that period, I lived under the same roof with the little ones that had been con- signed to my charge. For a few days they were pensive, and made frequent enquiries for their absent father, but their sorrows were easily assuaged, and regret for his absence changed into a pleasant anticipation of his return. The ordinary sorrows of childhood are but dews upon the eagle's plumage, which vanish at the moment, when the proud bird springs upward into the air to woo the first beautiful flashes of the morning. The day of our departure at last arrived, and we set sail on a quiet afternoon of summer. It was a scene of beauty, and my heart fluttered as wildly and joyously as the wing of a young bird in spring-time. It seemed in truth as if " man's control had stopped with the shore," that was retreating behind us, and left the world of waters to give back the blue of the upper skies as purely and peacefully as at the first holy sabbath of creation. The distant hillsi bent their pale blue tops to the waters, and, as the great Sun, like the image of his Creator, sunk in the west, successive shadows oi gold, and crimson, and purple, came floating over the wares, like barks from a fairy land. My young companions gazed on these THE BEREAVED SISTER. 197 scenes steadily and silently, and, when the last tints of the dim shore were melting into shadow, they took each other's hands, and a few natural tears gushed forth as an adieu to the land they had loved. Soon after sunset, I persuaded my little friends to let me lead them to the cabin, and then returned to look out again upon the ocean. In about half an hour, as I was standing musingly and apart, I felt my hand gently pressed, and on turning round, saw that the girl had stolen alone to my side. In a few moments, the evening star began to twinkle from the edging of a violet cloud. At first, it gleamed fiiintly and at intervals, but anon it came brightly out, and shone like a holy thing upon the brow of evening. The girl at my side gazed upon it, and hailed it with a tone, which told that a thought of rapture was at her heart. She inquired, with simplicity and eagerness, whether in the far land to which we were going, that same bright star would be visible, and seemed to regard it as another friend, that was to be with her in her long and lonely journey. The first week of our voyage was unattended by any important incident. The sea was at times, wild and stormy, but again it would sink to repose, and spread itself out in beauty to the verge of the distant horizon. On the eighth day the boy arose pale and dejected, and complained of indisposition. On the following morning, he was confined by a fever to his bed, and much doubt was expressed as to his fate, by the physician of the vessel. I can never forget the vis- ible agony, th2 look of utter woe, that appeared upon the face of the little girl when the conviction of her brother's danger came slowly home upon her thoughts. She wept not — she complained not — but, hour after hour, she sat by the bed of the young sufl"erer — an image of grief and beautiful affection. The boy became daily more feeble and emaciated. He could not return the long and burn- ing kisses of his sister, and, at last, a faint heaving of his breast, and the tender eloquence of his half closed eye, and a flush, at in- tervals, upon his wasted cheek like the first violet tint of a morning cloud, were all that told that he had not passed " the first dark day of nothingness." The twelfth evening of our absence from land was the most beau- tiful I had ever known, and I persuaded the girl to go for a short time upon deck, that her own fevered brow might be fanned by the twilight breeze. The sun had gone down in glory, and the traces of 19S THE BEREAVED SISTER, his blood-rcd setting were still visible upon the western waters. Slowly but brilliantly the many stars were gathering themselves together above, and another sky swelled out in softened beauty be- neath, and the foam upon the crests of the waves was lighted up like wreaths of snow. There was music in every wave, and its wild sweet tones came floating down from the fluttering pennon above us, like the sound of a gentle wind amid a cypress grove. But neither music nor beauty had a spell for the heart of my little friend. I talked to her of the glories of the sky and sea — I pointed her to the star, on which she had always loved to look — but her only an- swer was a sigh — and I returned with her to the bedside of her brother. I perceived instantly that he was dying. There was no visible struggle — but a film was creeping over his eye, and the hec- tic flush of his cheek was fast deepening into purple. I know not whether at first his sister perceived the change in his appearance. She took her seat at hiB side, pressed his pale lips to her own, and then, as usual, let her melancholy eye rest fixedly upon his counte- nance. Suddenly his looks brightened for a moment, and he spoke his sister's name. She replied with a passionate caress, and looked up to my face, as if to implore encouragement. I knew that her hopes were but a mockery. A moment more, and a convulsive quiver passed over the lips of the dying boy — a slight shudder ran through his frame— and all was still. The girl kifew, as if intui- tively, that her brother was dead. She sat in tearless silence — but I saw that the waters of bitterness were gathering fearfully at their fountain. At last, she raised her hands with a sudden efi"ort, and pressing them upon her forehead, wept with the uncontrollable agony of despair. On the next day, the corse of the dead boy was to be committed to the ocean. The little girl knew that it must be so, but she strove to drive the thought away, as if it had been an unreal and terrible vision. When the appointed hour was at hand, she came and beffp-ed me, with a tone that seemed less like a human voice than the low cadence of a disembodied spirit, to go and look upon her brother and see if he were indeed dead. I could not resist her entreaties, but went with her to gaze upon the sleeping dust, to which all the tendrils of her life seemed bound. She paused by the bedside, and I almost deemed that her very existence would pass off in that long and fixed gaze. She moved not — spoke not — till the form she loved was taken away to be let down into the ocean. HINTS FOR LOVERS. 199 Then indeed slio arose, and followed her lifeless brother with a calmness that might have been from Heaven. The body sunk slowly and solemnly beneath the waves — a few long, bright ringlets streamed out upon the waters — a single white and beautiful glimpse came dimly up through the glancing billows, and all that had once been joy and beauty, vanished forever. During the short residue of our voyage, the bereaved sister seemed fading away as calmly and beautifully as a cloud in the summer zenith. Her heart had lost its communion with nature, and she would look down into the sea and murmur incoherently of its cold and solitary depths, and call her brother's name, and then weep herself into calmness. Soon afterward I left her with her friends. I know not whether she is still a blossom of the earth, or ■whether she has long since gone to be nurtured in a holier realm. But I love the memory of that beautiful and stricken one. Her loveliness, her innocence, and her deep and holy feelings, still come back to me in their glory and quietude, like a rainbow on a sum- mer cloud, that has showered and passed off forever. . » > < ^ t » HINTS FOR LOVERS If a youth is wooingly disposed towards any damsel, as he values his happiness, let him follow my advice ; call on the lady when she least expects him, and take note of the appearance of all that is under her control. Observe if the shoe fits neatly — if the gloves are clean, and the hair well polished. And I would forgive a man for breaking off an engagement, if he discovered a greasy novel hid away under the cushion of a sofa or a hole in the garniture of the prettiest foot in the world. Slovenliness will ever be avoided by a well regulated mind, as if it were a pestilence, A woman cannot always be what is called dressed, particularly one in middling or humble life, where her duty, and it is consequently to be hoped, her pleasure lies in superintending and assisting in all domestic matters ; but she may be always neat — well appointed. And as certainly as a virtuous woman is a crown of glory to her husband, so surely is a slovenly one a crown of thorns. — Mrs. S. C. Hall. MIDNIGHT MUSINGS. BY WASHINGTON IRVING. I Au now alone in my chamber. The family have long since re« tired. I have heard their steps die away, and the doors clap to after them. The murmur of voices and the peal of remote laughter no lonjier reach the ear. The clock from the church, in which so many of the former inhabitants of this house lie buried, has chimed the awful hour of midnight. I have sat by the window and mused upon the dusky landscape, watching the lights disappearing one by one from the distant village ; and the moon, rising in her silent majesty, and leading up all the silver pomp of heaven. As I have gazed upon these quiet groves and shadowing lawns, silvered over and imperfectly lighted by streaks of dewy moonshine, my mind has been crowded by " thick coming fancies" concerning the spiritual beings which '' Walk the earth Unseen both when we wake and when we sleep." Are there, indeed, such beings ? Is this space between us and the Deity filled up by innumerable orders of spiritual beings, form- ing the same gradations between the human soul and divine per- fection, that we see prevailing from humanity down to the meanest insect ? It is a sublime and beautiful doctrine inculcated by the early fathers that there are guardian angels appointed to watch over cities and nations, to take care of good men, and to guard and guide the steps of helpless infancy. Even the doctrine of departed spirits returiiing to visit the scenes and beings which were dear to them during the bodies' existence, though it has been debased by the absurd superstitions of the vulgar, in itself is awfully solemn and sublime. However lightly it may be ridiculed, yet, the attention involun- tarily yielded to it whenever it is made the subject of serious dis- cussion, and its prevalence in all ages and countries, even among newly discovered nations that have had no previous interchange of thought with other parts of the world, prove it to be one of those MIDNIGHT MUSJNGS. 20 l mysterious and instinctive beliefs to winch, if left to ourselves, we should naturally incline. In spite of all the pride of reason and philosophy, a vague doubt will still lurk in the mind, and perhaps will never be eradicated, ay it is a matter that does not admit of positive demonstration. AVho yet has been able to comprehend and describe the nature of the soul ; its mysterious connexion with the body ; or in what part of the frame it is situated ? We know merely that it does exist ; but whence it came, and when it entered into us, and how it is retained, and where it is seated, and how it operates, are all matters of mere speculation, and contradictory theories. If, then, we are thus Igno- rant of this spiritual essence, even while it forms a part of ourselves and Is continually present to our consciousness, how can we pretend to ascertain or deny its powers and operations, when released from its fleshly prison-house ? Every thing connected with our spiritual nature is full of doubt and difficulty. " We are fearfully and wonderfully made," we are surrounded by mysteries, and we are mysteries even to ourselves. It is more the manner in which this superstition has been degraded, than its intrinsic absurdity, that has brought it into contempt. Raise it above the frivolous purposes to which it has been applied, strip it of the gloom and horror with which it has been enveloped, and there is none, in the whole circle of visionary creeds, that could more delightfully elevate the imagination, or more tenderly affect the heart. It would become a sovereign comfort at the bed of death, soothing the bitter tear wrung from us by the agony of mortal sep- aration. y>liat could be more consoling than the idea that the souls of those we once loved were permitted to return and watch over our welfare ? — that affectionate and guardian spirits sat by our pillow when we slept, keeping a vigil over our most helpless hours ? — that beauty and innocence, which had languished into the tomb, yet smiled unseen around us, revealing themselves in those blest dreams wherein we live over again the hours of past endearments ? A be- lief of this kind would, I should think, be a new incentive to virtue, rendering us circumspect, even in our most secret moments, from the idea that those we once loved and honored were invisible wit- nesses of all our actions. It would take away, too, from that loneliness and destitution, which we are apt to feel more and more as we get on in our pil- 202 MIDNIGHT MUSINGS. grimagc througli the wilderness of this world, and find that those w^ho set forward with us lovingly and cheerfully, on the journey have one by one dropped away from our side. Place the supersti- tion in this light, and I confess I should like to be a believer in it. I see nothing in it that is incompatible with the tender and merciful nature of our religion, or revolting to the wishes and affections of the heart. There arc departed beings that I have loved as I never again shall love in this world ; that have loved me as I never again shall be loved. If such beings do even retain in their blessed spheres the attachments which they felt on earth ; if they take interest in the poor concerns of transient mortality, and are permitted to hold communion with those whom they have loved on earth, I feel as if now, at this deep hour of night, in this silence and solitude, I could receive their visitation with the most solemn but unalloyed delight. In truth, such visitations would be too happy for this world : they would take away from us the bonds and barriers that hem us in and keep us from each other. Our existence is doomed to be made up of transient embraces and long separations. The most in- timate friendship — of what brief and scattered portions of time does it consist ? We take each other by the hand ; and we exchange a few words and looks of kindness; and we rejoice together for a few short moments, and then days, months, years intervene, and we have no intercourse with each other. Or if we dwell together for a season, the grave soon closes its gates and cuts off all further com- munion ; and our spirits must remain in separation and widowhood, until they meet again in that more perfect state of being, where soul shall dwell with soul, and there shall be no such thing as death, or absence, or any other interruption of our union. Nothing is better adapted to give the last polish to the educa- tion of a young man than the conversation of virtuous and accom- i:)lishcd women. Their society serves to smooth the rough edges of our character, and to mellow our tempers. In short, the man who has never been acquainted with females of the better class, is not only deprived of many of the purest pleasures, but also will have little success in social life ; and I should not like to be connected by the bonds of friendship with the man who has a bad opinion and speaks ill of the female sex in general. THE BROKEN VOW. « He will not come to-uiglit," said Emma, as she looked out of the chamber window on the still and depopulated streets, and saw the dark rain clouds gathering in the sky ; '< he will not come to- night — it is past the hour — ha, he did not use to be so careful about the weather. . But I will not indulge in disquietude — he has pro- mised" — the words died upon her lips ; — she recollected her cold- ness — the tone of ambiguity with which that promise had been re- peated, when Theodore last visited her, and in a confused and em- barrassed manner, though with much regret and disappointment, as- sured her it would be impossible for him to conform to his engage- ment, and marry her at the time appointed. She remembered how her heart shrunk within her at the moment, and the strange present- iment that crossed her mind; that then, for the first time, she thought how bitter a thing must be disappointed love — for the first time felt the force of the remark, which she had so often heard : " Men's vows are brittle things." Still, the natural buoyancy of hei- spirits forbade to despond. True, he had broken his first en- gagement, but he had represented to her the imperious necessity of the measure, and she had acquiesced in it. True, he had not fixed the more distant period ; he had left the final hour indefinite — but she had his promise ; she had his oath ; she would not believe him unfaithful ; she could not believe him perjured. At last, after an absence of a week, which seemed to her a year, he visited the house again, he once more mingled with the smiling family circle; he seemed the same he had always been, and she was happy. But he retired before the family ; this cost her a night's rest — it was not his usual manner, and she wondered why, at this particular time, he should have so much more business than usual. Still, she en- deavored to put the most favorable construction upon every thing ; she strove to acquit him in her heart. But love has eagle eyes, and from their piercing vigilance, dupli- city must be coupled with most consummate art, if she would avoid detection. Emma was caressed by a large circle of acquaintance. Theodore was also a favorite ; in parties they frequently met, and there, where the spirits are up, and all reserve thrown ofi", the heart 204 THE BROKEN VOW unmasks itself. There Theodore often forgot his caution, and not only abated his usual display of partiality for Emma, but lavished hia fondness on another. The generous girl forgave him until for- giveness became a crime committed against her own heart. She re- solved to lead a more secluded life, and in prosecuting her resolve, soon found ample evidence of what she most feared. His visits grew less and less frequent, until, at length, they were discontinued altogether. Womanlike in the deepest of her sorrows, she retired as it were, within herself. She nursed her grief in secret, and put on a smile as sweet, if not as gay — before the world. But at length her feelings gradually obtained the victory. The agony which pre3'ed on her spirit became daily more apparent ; the paleness of departed health blanched her cheek; none knew her grief but he who was its cause ; and he shuddered at the ruin he had made. Her friends perceived, with concern, the rapid decay of her health, and as the family had some relatives in Bermuda, they resolved to send her there. The voyage had a salutary effect ; the change of scene and circumstances — new friends and acquaintances, and the kindness she experienced in her new abode, dispelled much of the cherished gloom that pressed upon her heart, and added life to her almost inanimate frame. The flow of health gradually returned, and rihe shone in the maturity of her beauty, a star of no common lustre in the fashionable world of that delightful island. A year had not elapsed before the hand of one of the wealthiest merchants in the Island was offered her. He was all that the maiden heart desires — generous, noble, virtuous — and of years suited to her own. She accepted — and became a happy wife. Having left Philadelphia with the intention of returning, she now waited anxiously for the oppor '■unity — but a variety of causes prevented it, year after year. A beautiful family of children grew around her — her husband was deeply engaged in an extensive and lucrative business, and twelve years passed by before she was enabled to accomplish her wishes, in all which time, she had never made an inquiry about, or once heard from her former lover. Now Mr. Lofere retired from business, and proposed going with their family, to America. They reached Philadelphia in safety, and walked up Walnut-street to the old family mansion. It remained unaltered; her father and mother, the servants, her former friends who remained, all welcomed her to her ancient home. Mr. Lefere took a fine establishment in Chesnut-streetand lived in splendid style. Emma used to ride out daily with her infant family ; and as had THE BROKEN VOW. 205 long been her practice, she carefully sought out such objects of dis- tress, as she deemed it vrould be charitable to relieve. One day, riding in the suburbs of the city, she saw a poor half clothed man, lying on the ground, and a tattered child crying bitterly by his side, to which he paid no attention. She directed the coachman to stop, and calling the man, inquired why he disregarded the child, and whose it was ? '' It is my o\^^l," said he. " I came out hoping to get a place for it in yonder house, and I could not — it is almost starved, and I have not the means to procure food for myself or it. She gave him a small sum, and directed him to call at her house the next day. He received it with tears, and promised compliance. At the hour appointed, the poor man, with his helpless child, waited in the kitchen for the call of his benefactress. Mrs. Lefere sent for them into the breakfast room, as soon as the family had dispersed, and desired to know by what means he had brought himself to poverty and want. The man spoke out honestly. Intemperance, he said, was the great cause, but his troubles had driven him to that — " I was a partner in a mercantile concern ; I married — I was deceived — the mother of this poor child, after in- volving me in ruinous debts, left me with a libertine, whose ad- dresses she had long received ; I drowned my sorrows, and sunk my character in habits of vice and intoxication. I have been twice im- prisoned for crime — I am destitute of friends and emploj'ment." " And what is your name ?" asked Emma. " Theodore W ," lie replied, after a moment's hesitation. The kind lady turned pale and trembled ; she gazed at him — she recognized in him the faith- less Theodore. " At last then," said she, affecting to be calm, " you have learned to keep your promises. You called at the time appointed — I will provide a place for yourself and child." " Oh," said he, " you know me. When you asked me my name, I dared not tell you an untruth ; but I hoped -it had been forever blotted from your memory ; I watched your fortune ; I rejoiced at your prosperity ; — I cursed my own folly, until I had exhausted all my powers. But broken vows come back to their authors in the end, and mine has ruined me forever." He covered his face and wept. She left him, and having consulted with Mr. Lefere, procured him a situation in an honest occupation, and placed the child at school. Thus was the maxim verified, ''all is for the best to the innocent and virtuous," and thus it is that vice works out its own reward at last. LEAVE ME ALONE BY ANNIE DANE. Leave me alone, it is the midnight hour, An hour of wild unrest ; While dews steal softly to each slumbering fiov.'cr, They shun my fevered breast. Leave me alone, throughout my heart all day Hath earthly visions swept ; Floating on wings all glittering and gay, Their bright dominion kept. Leave me alone, these have but feeble sway, They cannot fetter long : Let me breathe freely, let me soar away And find relief in song. Leave me alone, then like a bird set free, Seeking its own blue sky ; Upon the wing of thought afar I'll flee, Cleaving immensity. Leave me alone, those tender beaming eyes, Are of bewitching blue ; But from the depths of yonder starry skies Seraphs are gazing through ! Leave me alone, not that this heart gr«vvs c ^ I, To the glad sounds of mirth ; But melodies of sweetness all untold. Woo me afar from earth. Leave me alone, yet deem not doubt or care Upon this bosom press, So heavily affection cannot share, So deep it cannot bless. Leave me alone, though love hath tones to lur? And pleasure's winning strain To the fond circle of afifection pure, Is calling me again. LEAVE ME ALONE. 207 Leave me alone, I liear sweet voices far, That will not let me stay ; Swift as tlie rushing of a felling star, Strange spirits throng my way. Leave mo alone, these are the angels bright, The guardians of my life, That point fore'er toward the infinite, And gird our souls for strife : To triumph o'er this mockery and show, The pageantry of time ; That doth delude the imprisoned spirit so, Far from its native clime : To combat with this cold and grovelling: rmZ Which doth our souls enchain ; So that we cannot reach the bright ideal, For which we pant in vain. Leave me alone, to higher, nobler dreams. Than ere have lit my soul ; I fain would bathe where yon celestial gleams, A tide of glory roll. Leave me alone, ye cannot bind me here, When every ray divine, Beams with a language beautiful and clear, Upon this soul of mine. Reveals not what we are, but what should be, And bids us all aspire , To win a goal, which faith alone can sec, Forever leading higher. Leave me alone, I will return again. When from communings bright ; My lips have learned to breathe a holier strain, My heart received now light. Leave me alone, I will return once more, With music soft and low ; The music of a soul that evermore Would walk more pure below. Walk with new aims, earnest of life divine, Beyond this narrow sphere, Forever pressing towards that purest shrine, We cannot gaze on here. THE PATH TO HAPPINESS. " Point me to tbe path of liappiness," said young Eugenio, as ho left the halls of science, graced with literary laurels. Just then, he met the serene, calm eye of Meander. " My son," said he, laying his hand upon the youth's high retreating brow, " 'tis a rare gem you seek — my four-score years experience would deem it unattainable. Think you, that so many years of pleasure would thus have blanched these silvery locks ? My history, Eu- genio, would tell you in what it does not consist. I have ever been the dupe of air-castles, and have sought that bliss from the world, which Heaven alone could proffer. "With eager hand, I grasped Fame's airy phantoms, and thought to be deified by titles — I built vast fabrics of renown, and mounted to the summit of my airy edi- fice — but, Eugenio, may your mirror never reflect so delusive a vision of life as did mine, the moment I reached the acme of my fancied bliss. When my own ambitious aspirations, and the most vivid hopes of my proud relatiTdS were more than realized — when acclamations responded to every literary effort, then I envied the humble reptile I crushed beneath my feet. Blind mortals fancied my cup of pleasure filled to overflowing. But, dear youth, I would not darken your glowing hopes by one shade of future 'evil, or blight the bud of your ambition by one discouraging word. No, my son, pursue the path that leads to greatness, to honor, and re- nown ; but, in enjoying the gifts, forget not to adore the Giver." ^ * 7p ^ ^ ^f* tF Well had it been for the young Eugenio, if this excellent advice had been followed. All his bright dreams of futurity might have been realized, could he then but have lifted the veil which obscured it, and witnessed the effects of an unrestrained intimacy with the dissipated L . But alas ! how soon was he contaminated by the destroying vices of his associate — how soon were parents and friends whose proudest hopes were founded upon his bright career, called to mourn over the lost and fallen ; — and she, the fair maiden, to whom his youthful vows had been plighted — who loved him with a passionate fervency which had entwined her every thought, and hope, THE PATH TO HAPPINESS. 209 and care, witli liIs destiny — bow was her happy spirit bliglited by tbe cbilling intelligence of bis utter degradation and ruin. * * # * A few years passed, and an assembled multitude was seen in tbe bumble cburcb-yard of tbe beautiful village of N . Tbe stamp of sorrow on every countenance, plainly told tbat tbe village mourned tbe deatb of some loved member. Many and true were tbe friends tbat wept for tbe broken-bearted Margaret. Tbe parents' tears flowed fast, as tbey gazed for tbe last time upon tbe beautiful remains of tbeir departed daughter. A sister's bosom seemed burst- ing witb anguish as she kissed the clay-cold lips of one who since life began bad been dearer than self. And a noble brother knelt almost insensible beside tbe bier. Burning tears flowed fast froiii many eyes which bad long forgotten to weep, and nought but sobs and sighs disturbed the silence. My eyes for tbe first time were turned from the corse, and riveted upon a young stranger in a riding dress, who was fast approaching the bier. Apparently unconscious of any one's presence, he knelt silently beside it, and fixed his wild sunken eye upon the beautiful clay, for " all was there of life and beauty" save the bright eye ; — the sweet smile bad not yet departed, and the same auburn ringlets clustered round her pale brow, as in very mockery of life. Ob Margaret ! said Eugenic, will you not speak one forgiving word to me ? Though a parent's or a sister's tears are unheeded, will you not with your sweet voice forgive your murderer ? yes, Margaret, yes, — your murderer — for a consciousness of my ruin first robbed tbe rose from your cheek. Was it neglect or cold in- diiference alone, pride would have surmounted all. But when tbe cursed demon, which was the cause of all, bad changed my athletic frame to a ghostly moving skeleton, and my once elastic step was tottering over tbe drunkard's grave, heaven, in kind compassion, lent thee angel's wings, to soar away from this last disgrace. Oh bow does every act now like poisoned arrows pierce my heart ! And if spirits of heaven are e'er allowed to look upon earth, Margaret, with her sweet smile, will breathe forgiveness. His bead dropped suddenly, and bis whole form seemed for a moment convulsed witb deep and agonizing sobs. It was but a mo- ment, and then his agitated body sank motionless upon tbe earth! — Only the mortal part of tbe erring but repentant Eugenio was be- fore me ! THE OAK AND THE WILLOW. AN ALLEGORY. BY FANNY GREEN. A STORM -was abroad. The liglitping gleamed fearfully, and the cry of the thunder was very loud. The clouds were gathering in the east like heavy dark drapery ; but in the west they were piled together like huge black mountains ; and the vivid flashes went mo- mently searching through their chasms, revealing scenes of pictu* resque but awful grandeur. The whirlwind was awake. Earth heard his wild clarion, and shook fearfully ; and the waters, when they knew his voice, were troubled. The birds were fleeing through the air with strong unnatural cries ; and every animal, true to its instinct, was seeking shelter. A majestic oak, strong in the maturity of years without number^ stood upon the hill-side, looking forth on the storm with an eye oi scorn. " Have I not," said he, " shaken off with my strong arm the thunderbolts of centuries ; standing erect and uninjured amid the shivering lightnings of untold ages ? Have I not battled with the strong hail, and taken the mighty hurricane by the beard ? Behold, am I not the strongest of all things; and can the power of the Eternal, himself, harm me ? The storm is but a recreation — a scene for my amusement ; and the thunder, and lightning, and hail, what are they, but play-things — toys — sent to give me pastime ? What are all these to a creature strong as the unconquered oak ? The tempest itself is but a healthy exercise ; and, even now, I feel the vital current rushing with unwonted energy through all my veins ! The storm that crushes meaner things, is sent but to give me health and strength." Then the oak drew closer his thick mantle of leaves, lifting up his majestic head, and stretching forth his strong arms that were bending to the sway of the tempest proudly, as if it were his own will tliat moved them, and not an exterior force. As he looked forth he beheld a willow shrinking fearfully from the storm. Her THE OAK A^'D THE WILLOW. 211 branches were all prostrate — overj leii5et soeiiied quirering with anguish ; and her meek head was bent low, as if to deprecate the wrath of the elements. "Poor fragile thing!"' said the oak, "Alas! how I pity thee ! Thy tender heart will be torn asunder ! AVliy didst thou not pre- pare foT- liOe storm, and grow large, and strong like me !" Then a voice answered, whose sweetness mingled strangely with the shrieking cry of the whirlwind, and all the crash of the tempest. " Not even in this extiemity does the soul that ever trusteth in the Unseen entirely lose its strength. Bitter, very bitter is our anguish, when the heart is wrung to its minutest fibre ; but our Father Jiuoweth what is best ; and the bruised limbs will lift up and strens-then — and the wounded heart he will heal ao;ain ; for he •aQicteth us in mercy, and chasteneth in love ; so shall the voice of my bitterest sorrow utter praise." There was a sensible sweetness in the air, as the willow dropped her head, and was silent ; and the storm seemed to pause a moment, as if in reverence ; for a gentle word will sometknes subdue the strongest ; and submission will disarm the most inveterate foe. But the oak scoffed. " Poor fool !'' said he, " are not all thy branches prostrate? Is not thy head bent low to the ground, and may not the next moment cause thy death ? Then curse him who hath so cruelly smitten thee ! Curse him who breaketh down the willow — but who shall crush the oak ?" And again he drew baek his haughty head, and tossed abroad his strong arms, as if defying the bolts of heaven The liquid fire was concentrating in one fearful mass ; and down — down it rolled — along the sides of the blackest mountain cloud, and it clave the oak , and his stubborn heart was rent in twain. His beautiful garments were shivered to fragments ; and his pride v/as levelled with the dust. The violence of the storm went by. The sun broke forth, anc* the rainbow was pictured on the retiring clouds. The birds came out from their shelter, and flitting gaily abroad, sang sweet songs of joy. Every creature was glad. A delicious perfume filled the air, and the green leaves glistened through the sunny rain-drops, liko emeralds set in the purest pearls of the Orient. "Beautiful!" said the angel of the trees, as he went forth to bless his children. Then the willow heard, and knew his voice ; and lifting her drooping head, smiled througli her many tears. " Blesse^d •2 1 2 wo 17 AN art tliou, my flaiigliter !" said the angel, as a richer Learn of ligtt fell npoii her L-ilvery leaves — "blessed art thou forever ; for in the trying hour tlio unfailing strength of the Eternal shall sustain thee, and thy heart, c\ ^r trusting in the mercy of its Father, shall find even its afflictions ministers of good. But behold the end of tho proud — the ruin of him that mocketh." -» »>» » ♦ - W OMAN. While we often Una' connected with man mucli that constitutes loveliness, yet it seems to be enshrined chiefly in woman ; so much EC that it appears to form part of her very nature; and while the Gymmetry of her form and the beauty of her features will always fommand our admiration, yet they are far from constituting her only or even her chief excellence ; for she is adorned by other traits, which will remain when her outward beauty shall have faded like the rose of summer^ or passed away like the dew of the morning. She appears most attractive when we consider the sweetness of her disposition, her cheerfulness under trials, and the strength and durability of her attachment to those she loves : for by them man's happiness is increased, his comforts multiplied, and he encouraged to b^ar up amid the perplexities of business and the trials of life. Woman's loveliness makes home a center of peace and pleasure, so- ciety a delight and comfort, and causes the associations of life to be more endearing, and even amid pain and sickness how sweet and comforting is her voice, how consoling her presence, and hovv' cheer- in or the smiles of her countenance. The superior strength and durability of her love can never be doubted, nor can it be too highly appreciated, for often it remains unchanged, though the object on which it is placed becomes un- worthy of sach affections, and it may well be asked — " Of things beneath, around, above, To what shall we Hke woman's love '? The depth of ocean none can sound, But woman's love is more profound; Pure lies the snow on yonder hill. But woman's love is purer still; 'Tis like the rainbow, brightest found When darkest grow the clouds around ; To smiles and tears both own their birth, Aiid so they both like heaven to earth." THIE ^'DUEIMMo '^ (Pd-/'^/ EYELYK EICHMOND; OR THE DISAPPOINTED BRIDE. " The history of a heart that suffered long In patienti sadness and in silence, yet Came forth at last from out the crucible, Refined and purified !" The ancient apothegm, "Eesist the Devil, and he will flee from you," is not the less trne because often reiterated, and it is no -less certain, that in every species of temptation a resolute determination to overcome, and a firm reliance on Divine aid, are sure harbingers of victory. It is even so in a large portion of those disappointments and afflictions over which a majority of mankind and womankind sigh and com- plain in such pathetic terms. When losses and afflictions befall us, if we resolutely look the evil in the face, calmly surveying its magnitude with a firm resolution to overcome, the supposed giant soon dwindles into an insignificant dwarf, and often he is charged with some valuable gift, if we have but the courage to face the pigmy and wrest it from him. We recollect an early friend who was a fine illustration of this sentiment. She was a lineal descendant of the Pil- grim Fathers, and inherited that indomitable spirit which has ever characterized the sons and daughters of i^ew England. Ha*d she lived in the troublous days of her ancestors, she would have been the heroine of many a tale of Indian foray, or, perhaps, the intrepid leader in some marvelous escape from savage captivity ; and yet she had all the soul and ten- derness of a highly intellectual woman. 1 10 THE DISAPPOINTED B K I D K. Old Doctor ElclimonJ had but two cliildren, Alonzo and Evelyn, and being well known as a wealth j man, his chil- dren were naturally regarded as "eligibles'' in the match- making world, especially as their worth consisted not half 60 nnich in their lathers deeds, and bonds, and certificates of stock, as in the nobility of mind and the energy of char- acter they inherited from him. At the age of nineteen Eve- lyn was considered the most accomplished girl for ]uany miles around, while nature had been no nio^o-ard in the bestowal of personal attractions. So that what with her education, her fine person, her amiaole manners, and her prospective inheritance, it is no wonder that she had plenty of wooers, or that she should unconsciously excite some jeal- ousy in her own sex and some rivalry in the other. At length it became evident that James Maynard was the pecu- liar favorite. It is true, Evelyn's friends did not quite ap- prove her choice, but since her election w^as made, con- sent was obtained, and preparations made for the celebration of the nuptials in true Yankee style. It could not be denied that James had been considered a little wild, but a change for the better seemed to have come over him, antl much was confidently hoped from the influence of such an one as Eve- Ivn Richmond. One fine evening, late in the autumn, there were signs of unusual bustle in the doctor's house. Every apartment was lighted up, guests kept arriving, and at length good old Mr. Ewen alighted from the doctor's own carriage, and entered the house. Eor many years he had been the revered and estimable pastor over the flock of which the doctor and his family formed a part, and his presence in any house at this particular period of the day was considered a sure token of a wedding. Within were abundant signs of substantial hos- pitality, and the plentiful cheer which befitted the wedding of an only and beloved daughter. In the reception rooms Inhere was plenty of tittering and half-audible whispers, and stale jokes, still no appearance of bride or bridegroom. The moments stole tardily by, some of the company grew fidgety, old Sally Collins began to wonder at the delay quite audibly, groups of gossips were busy in private dis< THE DISAPPOINTED BRIDE. H cussions, messengers were gliding about from room to room, the doctor himself looked flm-ried, yet still in a remote apartment sat Evelyn and her bridemaids, arrayed in a more than orthodox quantity of laces and white satin, but where was the '^ laggard'' bridegroom ? Where w'as he who before this should have claimed the fair hand which, enveloped in the stainless glove, lay listlessly on the table? At first the gay laugh and the witty rejoinder went merrily round, but as time stole on and no bridegroom appeared, an anxious silenc-e pervaded the room, and in spite of Evelyn's efforts the large drops welled over from her eyes and followed each other quickly over a face lately so radiant with happiness. Just then Alonzo entered the room and hurriedly desired to be left alone with liis sister. "Evelvr," said he, ^'I know you are a true and high-souled woman, but if you find you have been sous^ht unworthilv have vou courasre to be true to yourself? Summon all your womanly dignity now, and silence once and Ibrever every gossip among them all." '^'You speak in riddles," faltered Evelyn. *' "Well, then, sister of mine, listen calmly. I started early to accompany James Maynard to this house as my brother, as the husband elect of my only sister. On passing a drink- ing saloon I was startled by heari'ng your name shouted in a scene of drunken revelrv. A strano^e feelino; came over me, and I went in — there I saw James in the midst of an uprorious, half-drunken group of young men, boasting of his approaching marriage with you with maudlin exultation, and bragging of his anticipated inheritance. Eveljm, even then I pitied him, for I knew these young men had enticed him in, and thought it a good joke to send him drunk to his intended bride ; but I have learned these things are not quite new to James, skillfully as he has concealed it from us — nay, more, that he is involved in debts which he relies on vour inheritance to pay." Evelyn sat like one transfixed, and Alonzo thouglit, irresolute. "One thing more, sister ; when James first sought your hand he was solemnly plighted to another, as young, as affectionate, but not so rich as yourself" "Say no more," said Evelyn ; "I will do whatever yOTr 12 THE D I S A r P C I N T E D B E I D E . direct, only allow me a few moments to collect my tliongiits and regain composure." Hers was a strong mind, but it was likewise full of love and tenderness, and for a moment her feelings were para- lyzed, and she well nigh sunk fainting on the floor ; but this weakness lasted not long — her resolution was taken. Soon, leaning on tlie arm of her brother, she stood amid the crowd of expecting guests, and before the holy man who came to pronounce the bridal benediction, not as the trembling, blushing bride, but with the erect bearing, the serene brow, and tlie flashing eye of the heroine. All eyes were bent curiously on the group, and a murmur of surprise ran round the room ; when Alonzo, making a gesture for silence, thus addressed the company : " Friends and neighbors, you have met to celebrate a wedding ; but instead of a marriage, let us commemorate an escape from a thraldom worse than Egyptian bondage — the union of a pure, high-minded woman with a sot and a reprobate. Circum- stances have this day arisen to show that my sister has been near falling into the power of a worthless deceiver. He has abundantly proved himself unworthy of the sacred name of husband, which to-day should have been his. Evelyn stands before you, heart whole as before. Under the form of one who sought to win her hand, she fancied and loved her own beautiful ideal of human perfection— the mask has fallen off, and she beholds a less than man where she expected the attributes of an immortal. Our venerable friend here, can not pronounce my sister a wife, but he can offer our thanks- giving for a signal deliverance— and you, my friends, will bestow your hearty congratulations on her for her escape, and join us, that our household treasure yet remains to us." Evelyn did not trust herself to speak, but she bowed her head in token of acquiescence, and the minister, seizing the favorable moment, made some appropriate and most forcible remarks on the dangers which beset the path of youth and inexperience— and then, lifting his voice in prayer, he so feelingly commended his youthful charge to the keeping of Omnipotent Wisdom, he so heartily recommended the erring and absent one to the special care of the Almighty, he so THE DISAPPOINTED BRIDE. IS eloquently rendered the tribute of thanksgiving that a dear lamb of his flock was spared that most bitter of all sorrows, an unblessed marriage — that all liearts were moved, and many an eye unused to weep w^as suifused in tears. AYhen he concluded, friends crowded around the heroine with hearty congratulations, for instead of the weeping, fainting, forsaken damsel, there stood the woman of high resolve and calm, un- troubled countenance, that completely baffled the curiosity of more than one gossip then and there present. Supper w^as announced, and mirth and good-humor pro- vailed throughout. While the hospitalities of the doctor's mansion were being discussed, a noise of drunken uproar was heard in the street, and soon after a noisy parley at the door, for Alonzo, anticipating something of the sort, and anxious to spare his sister's feelings, had placed servants at the door to prevent any unwelcome intrusion ; but before any were aware, in staggered the recreant bridegroom, supported between two tipsy companions. He loudly demanded to be admitted to see his intended, who, according to all usage, was now fairly entitled to scream, faint, or indulge in hysterics. She cast one look on his silly, unmeaning face, and it wanted but this to cure any lingering admiration of her former lover. She quietly glided to her own room and bolted the door, while the besotted revelers were sent to their homes. All present wanted but this scene to convince them she had acted wisely, and to acquit her of all capriciousness. But, alone in the solitude of her own chamber the tension of her nerves was loosened, and she indulged in a long and passionate fit of weeping — bitterly she wept, not over the wreck of her own happiness alone, but the unworthiness of one she had lately so esteemed. Yet there was mingled in this, her great Borrow, no pang of self-reproach, no weak misgivings, for between her and James Maynard a great gulf w^as placed now and forever. But, as the fiercest storm soonest subsides, BO tranquillity gradually took possession of her mind, and her usual self-possession returned. Next day a traveling party started from the doctor's, not, indeed, with the '• pomp and circumstance" of a wedding tour, but with preparations for a long absence. When Eve- 14 THE DISArPOINTED BRIDE. lyn returned to her father's house, many months after, she came as the wife of a high-minded and honorable man, who was above disguise, and who was capable of appreciating the true excellence of his Avife. She had no trepidations h^st some disclosures should reach her husband's ear, for she had frankly tokl him the whole truth, and he honored her deci- sion and firmness of character, which could free her at onco and forever from an unworthy attachment. As to James Maynard, his mortification may more easily be imagined than expressed, when waking from the heavy stupor into which he had sunk, the events of the day before gradually came back to his confused mind. He found enough to inform him, even to the minutest detail, of the events of the preceding evening. He had been led on and betrayed, it is true, but through his own weakness ; he knew he had no previous character to fall back upon, for there was only too much he wished to conceal. It had been happy for James if this terrible lesson had taught him wis- dom, and led him to forsake his dangerous companions. But with a strange infatuation, he plunged deeper and deeper into excesses, and his downward course was direct and speedy. We last heard of him as a common sailor on board a ship bound for a distant port, but whether absence and salt water has produced any reform is yet uncertain. The incidents here related are not without a wholesome moral lesson. Had Evelyn possessed less decision, she might have spent her youthful years in vain regrets and un- certain hopes of her lover's reformation, until, worn out with that sickness of the heart which arises from " hope deferred," she had sunk into an early grave. And had James taken half the trouble to be what he wished to appear that he did to deceive, had he avoided entirely the false friends who lured him to ruin, a long career of happiness and prosperity was open before him. Instead of which, he felt the bitter truth, that hard, indeed, is " the way of the transgressor." In aftairs of importance, we ought less to contrive oppor- tunities, than to use them when they offer. ' WxVSHIiJGTON AND N'APOLEON. WASHINGTON AND NAPOLEON. A COMPARISON. 3 Y G . L . C R A >' :M E R . It is proper and expedient that we Blionld often recur to the conduct and characters of great and ilhistrious men, so that we may form a just appreciation of tliem and their deeds. But our purpose now, is not so much to discuss the char- acters of "Washington and Xapoleon, as to institute a com- parison between them. As compared with Xapoleon — a man with whose name the world still rings, and whose actions are still fresh in the memories of some who waded with him through seas of blood and plains of carnage — the glory of "Washington is to that of the other as is the light of the sun to that of the glow-worm. Xapoleon exercised all his powers in the attainment of an object which was as fleeting as the breath of the winds — the other bent all his energies to the attainment of the great- ness and happiness of a future generation. IVapoleon, like the falcon, made one soaring sweep, and returned to earth exhausted. "Washington, like the eagle, soared slowly but steadily, on an untiring wing, and rested in his eyrie on the very highest pinnacle of the Alpine mount of fame. The one captivated the multitude by his brilliant and flashing, but unsubstantial feats. The actions of the other were unorna- mented and unadorned, but substantial and permanent. The one siglied for an ideal world, and endeavored to mold one according to his wishes — the other was content with the one already in being, and strove to develop its good. Xapoleon was ever chasing a phantom, which, like an ignis fatuus^ held out to him tempting flatteries and allurements he could never grasp. Washington directed his ends to the attain- ment of an object which was real and could be gained. The one was ambition personified — the other, a combination of meekness, humility, and contentment. The battle at the Bridge of Lodi was far more brilliant and grand than any which took place in the days of the Hevo- IG WASHINGTON AND NAPOLEON. lution. But tlie surrender at Yorktown gave libert)^ to a peo- ple, and luippiness to a nation. The one was the result of skill, discipline, and power — the other, of patience, perse- verance, and assiduity. The one will shine upon the page of history as a glowing achievement of no great end — the other will appear as the interposition of Divine Providence, in the bringing about of mighty events. Washington has departed, but he has left behind him a goodly heritage of liberty and happiness. Napoleon is no more, and his name is linked only with the things of yesterday, which, like his greatness and glory, are fast departing. The memory of the one is dear to all mankind — that of the other, commands astonishment rather than respect. In hfe, one reposed his confidence and trust in Heaven — the other, upon the power of his own arm, and the might of his own strength. The one died an exile on a sea-girt rock, for from his friends and companions — the other sunk sweetly to rest in the arms of his country, and in the midst of the fruits of his victories. Such are some of the characteristics which distinguished these two great cotemporaries of modern times ; the one in the New "World — the other in the Old. Washington's character, like a bright mirror, will ever reflect its virtues, for time can not dim its brightness, nor can the mold and dust of centuries mar its polish. As he aspired to nothing Avhich he did not gain, nor pretended to that which he did not possess, he excited no hopes which were not fulfilled, nor raised any expectations beyond consummation. There- fore, the past will ever illustrate his judgment and ability, and the future, his greatness and renown. As his deeds and his actions were the offspring of disin- terested motives, his fimie is pure and unalloyed. Time will wTite the epitaphs of both Washington and Naj)oleon. An able man will arrange his interests, and conduct each in its proper order. Our greediness often hurts us, in making us prosecute too many things at once ; by earnestly desiring the less considerable, we lose the more important. ! LIVE TO DIE — I DIE TO LIVE. 17 I LIVE TO DIE. BY L, I L, L A X. I r<^ W O D . -^♦I LIVE to die," said a thoughtful boy, As he lightly spurned each trifling toy ; And his fervent prayer went echoing forth For a holy life, while he lived on earth. '• I live to die," said a pious youth ; "I will seek for peace in the way of truth;'' And he formed, in his leisure, many a plan. To be carried out when he grew a man. " I live to die," said a lover true ; " Oh, gentle maid, be it thus with you ; We shall find, if we leave all earthly fume, That ' to live is Christ, and to die is gain.' " " I live to die," said a happy sire. As his children neured the wintry fire ; And his heart was warmed with holy joy, As he gave to God each darling boy. *'l live to die," said an aged man. Whose hour of life was well-nigh ran ; His mind well stored with precepts mild, With happy thoughts }iis houi-s beguiled. And ever thus, in this fallen world, Where the gospel banner is wide unfurled^ Inspired with the hope of life on high, Are mortals found, who live to die. I DIE TO LIVE. BY LILLA LINWOOD. "I DIE to live," said a dying girl, For faith did a glorious life unfurl; And she gave her parents a parting kiag. As she left this life for a life of bliss. 18 I DIE TO LIVE. *'I die lo jivo," said a maiden fair, As she caught the words of her sister's prayer; "Thoiivrli now we part, we shall hve together, Where death can no more our union sever." **I die to live.'' said a pale young bride To the loved one, weeping by her side ; And lier happy dealli was a precious token Tliat the words were true which her lips had spoken. " I die to live," said a mother kind ; Death called her while training the youthful mind; But the blest example her life had given, Guided her children home to heaven. "I die to live," said a fading form. And her eye was bright, and her cheek grew warm, As she thought, in the blissful woi'ld on high She would live for aye, and never die. May we ever thus, in this lower world, Where the banner of Death is wide unfurled, To our God each passing moment give, And live to die, that we may die to live. Worth Heeding. — If men gave three times as miicli atten tion as tliey now do to ventilation, ablution, and exercise in tlie open air, and only one tliird as mucli to eating, furnish ing, and late hours, the number of doctors, dentists, and apothecaries, and the amount of neuralgia, dyspepsy, gout, fever, and consumption would be changed in a correspond- ing ratio. Mankind would rapidly present the aspect, not only of a far healthier and thriftier, but a far more beauti- ful and more virtuous race. A Lawyer's Opinion of Law. — A learned judge being once asked how he would act if a man owed him ten pounds and refused to pay him, replied, '' Kather than bring an action, with its costs and uncertainty, I would give him a receipt in full of all demands — ^yea, and I would send him, moreover, five pounds to cover all possible costs." THE COUSINS; OR TRUE AND FALSE BEAUT* BY MRS. P. W. LATHAM. "Worse than idle is compassion, If it end in tears and sighs ; Thee from bondage would I rescue And from vile indignities. Nurtured, as thy mien bespeak, in high degree, Look up, and help a hand that longs to set thee itne.—V jrjjswoais . Have you looked upon a bright, young creatuie, peculiar jy tlie child of joy and sunshine, and whose every movement reminded you of ''the poetry of motion?" Snch was Ida Irving, or, as we always called her, the Tulip, for that was her favorite flower. Of her manners or her carriage, or whatever you please call it, to say she was graceful would convey not just the right idea ; for you would rather say she was one of the Graces. And she had such a fond- ness for gorgeous colors, such an admiration for that Ori- ental magnificence of which she had read and dreamed so much ; and they became her so well, admirably harmonizing with her peculiar style of beauty, for there was something almost regal in her tall form, her flashing dark eye, and the heavy, shining braids of silky hair that wreathed her finely formed head like a diadem. She knew what style of dress became her ; she had been educated to it, and if she took pleasure in exhibiting her beauty, whose fault was it ! Her whole teaching from the cradle might be summed up in one little word — Display. That was the goal of her mother's aspirations, the object for which she toiled, and lived, and contrived, as only such ladies can plan and toil, day and night. The spirit they worship is Display. From Ida's earliest recollections, all her teaching, all her aims and par- poses were to "appear well." She sung, played, danced, because she was admired. She was sent to a celebrated school, because it was the "fashion." She was taught to avoid the sunshine and the free breath of heaven as if they 20 ■ THECOUSINS. were contagion, for fear her pure complexion should be tar- nished. She must not run, or walk, or sit as comfort dic- tated, for the sake of appearance ; and she dreaded a torn or soiled garment as the ultimatum of human transgression. It was no wonder, then, if after all tliis toil for display, the better qualities of mind and heart were neglected ; or if in all tlie pains to attract admiration, she was gracefid as the flower wliich was her favorite symbol. Not that her heart was bad, or her mind disqualified by nature for the holiest, loftiest purposes ; it was only like the leaves of her costly album, filled with shov/y and highly-colored i3ictures ; but the fine sentiment, the bright scintillations of genius, the exellent maxims, the outpouring of generous afiection, the glittering gems of thought, were all left out. It has very often been remarked, that beautiful women are rarely intellectual ; and this to some extent may be true, for how can she who from the cradle has been petted and flattered, whose wants are anticipated before they are felt; who sees herself, from childhood to womanhood, the object of unwearied solicitude and care; who finds every silly observation listened to and admired — how can she escape from the enchanted ground, or find out before her beauty wanes, and she is surrounded with cares for which she is wholly unfitted, that the only lasting attraction, a cultivated understanding, has never been hers? And husbands who liave been blinded by mere external grace, who have wor- shiped the shadow regardless of the substance, are not slow to perceive that, when the smooth skin becomes fur- rowed and the rounded form begins to lose its symmetry, that the beauty they adored has departed, leaving nothing but deformity. Happy is that wife or maiden who is arrested before it be too late, and made to commune with her inner self, to store her mind with wholesome aliment, and to cultivate those graces of character which are her only passport to lasting favor. Such were the unheeded teachings of cousin Har- riet Hartley — dear, good, loving Cousin Harriet! and yet she was neither very old nor very plain. She was always a riddle to the Tulip ; so wise, so amiable, so unselfish, so THECOUSINS. 21 / capable of pleasing, and yet caring so little for admiration, 60 fond of domestic enjoyment, and yet avoiding wedlock. Ah, Miss Tulip ! liad Cousin Harriet talked lialf so much of herself or of her own affairs as some you know of, you would have knovsm ere this she had learned wisdom of a stern bnt truthful teacher — affliction; tliat she had sacred and treasured memories ; that she had her hopes and antici- pations of a reunion with the loved and lost which were not of this world. But to return to Ida. Her mother determined that none should outshine her idol at the approaching festival; and the decorations prepared for the occasion were of the most elaborate and costly description. She was attired as a sul- tana, in a most superb manner ; while a troop of attendants, dressed in character, completed the illusion. A general hum of admiring voices at their entrance gratified both mother and daughter. "Who could look upon that bloom ine:, o'litterino;, graceful creature, and not exclaim — beauti- ful ! Did any of that gay company remember and lay to heart how transient is the tulip's glory— how perfumeless and profitless is all that display of rainbow colors ? We are sure one gay cavalier did not, who, as sultan of all Tulip- dom, continually followed Ida's footsteps, his eye ever ex- pressing the most profound admiration, as if he believed, unlike earth's fair blossom, she would retain her freshness and bloom forever 1 *• ^SiG tTmxsit^ " whispered Cousin Harriet, as she sur- veyed the Tulip, all '"' arrayed for conquest." " Xo, not ' sic transit^^ ^'^ laughingly replied the happy girl; ^''-gloria mundV write for me." A few days after, Ida was seized with a sudden faintness, Dot peculiarly alarming at first, but followed by violent fever. A j^hysician was sent for, who shook his head mys- teriously ; and after recommending seclusion and quiet, in- timated that a few hours would probably develop more clearlv the nature of the disease. Alas for short-lived beautv ! The next dav the nature of the disease w\as too plainly apparent : Ida Avas suffering under tlie acutest iorm of a loathsome and pestilent disorder. She was too full of 22 THECOUSINS. \ pain, too ill, to be aware of her own danger ; but her mother realized the full extent of tlie calamity, and knew that even if life were spared, the glory of her beauty was gone forever. For many an anxious day the disease raged, and Ida lay moaning in her helplessness, until at length she was pro- nounced out of danger ; but, oh, what a wreck of loveliness lay in that darkened chamber ! The delicate skin, seamed and spotted even to exceeding repulsiveness ; the bright eyo dimmed and nearly sightless ; and that wealth of bright, silky, wavy hair, had all disappeared, giving place to un- seemly and entire baldness. It w^as well for Ida that she could not as yet see the ruin that disease had wrought. ]S"ot so with her weak and vain mother. The daughter's beauty had been a source of inordinate pride, the one object of su- preme worship ; and now her idol was stripped of its orna- ments, and lay before her a helpless mass of clay. By turns she raved and wept, lamenting the sore bereavement, as if the jewel was of no value now the casket was marred. It was happy for Ida that Cousin Harriet, with her gentle min- istrations, was ever at hand, to prevent her witnessing these childish outbreaks of feeling on the part of her mother. She soothed and amused the sufferer, and spoke words of consolation to the frantic mother. Above all, she impressed on her mind the necessity of cheerfulness in Ida's presence. Ida's father was a man much absorbed in business, never troubling himself about domestic matters, yielding in all things of that sort to the direction of his weak and proud wife, fully satisfied that in supplying all demands for money lie was a good husband and father. He loved his children ; that is, when he had time to remember he had any. He was sorry to find that Ida w^as sick ; bade his wife let her have whatever she wished ; went to his warehouse, and for- got every thing but ships and merchandise. But Cousin Harriet thought of every thing, and what she did was always done judiciously. As Ida grew stronger, the weak and inflamed state of her eyes made it still needful to remain in her darkened room, where few but the mem- bers of the household were permitted to enter. Of Ida's young friends, some were deterred from visiting her from T H E C U S I N JK 23 fear of contagion ; others were denied admittance on one pretext or another. Her mother dreaded to exhibit her char-ged appearance. Cousin Harriet feared some sudden exchamation or look of surprise should reveal to her yet feeble patient the extent of her misfortune. During these long and lonelv days, Ocnisin Harriet never remitted her kindness. She staid bv hr.v, conversed with her, read to hei*, and amused her solitary hours, nntil Ida began to wonder how it was tliat in her darkened chamber, sliut out from all that used to interest her, she was so happy. The truth was, she had just begun to realize the pleasure of thouglit and reflection, apart from that whirl of gayety in which she had lived. No one was better qualified to lecon- cile her to herself, and to commune with her own heart, than Cousin Harriet. She drew from lier own rich store- house treasures of mind and memory, and she taught the newly-awakened mind to unfold its soaring pinions. But there was one source of anxiety to all her friends: Ida had once an accepted lover — she fancied she had still — if one could be called a lover who had been dazzled by mere ex- ternal glitter, who was as gay and inconsiderate as the toy he had hoped to make his own. Ida had been flattered and her vanity gratified by the preference of one who was the heir of considerable wealth, polished in his manners, hand- some in his person, and, in her o])inion, " every inch a gentle- man." He was the idol of that circle sometimes known as Japonicadom ; and so far as her unfuriiislied soul could love, Ida loved him. During her long illness and convalescence, he had often solicited permission to see her, and was as often, on various pretexts, denied. At length, however, he grew importunate, and insisted on seeing his future bride. As he must sooner or later know the truth. Cousin Harriet deemed it best to admit him. She had prepared his mind to see a great alteration in Ida's looks; and tliough she had never beheld her own features since lier severe illness. Cousin Harriet anxiouslv strove to fortifv her mind for the shock she felt sure awaited her. The impatient lover was admitted ; but it was evident his mind was unprepared for the sighc that awaited him, from 24 THECOUSINS. the involiintaiy excamation of surprise and disappoiiitsdient that escaped him. Then Ida realised for the first time tlie full extent of her deformit3^ Her lover made but a brief visit : his conduct was constrained and unnatural ; and when he rose to go, he did not speak of coming again. Ida sum- moned all her womanly pride, and preserved a show of composure until he left her, when, in the depth of her mortifi- cation, she determined to see and know for herself what havoc disease had made ; and seizing the momentary absence of her attendant, she tottered into another room, for thought- ful Cousin Harriet had removed all means of seeing herself; and now, for the first time, the whole truth was revealed to her. When her careful nurse returned, alarmed at her ab- sence, she sought her in an adjoining apartment, and there she found her, cold and senseless, lying on the floor. The shock had been too great for her enfeebled frame, and a severe relapse of fever was the consequence. Perhaps it was well for Ida that debility and delirium for a long time swept from her memory all recollection of that day. When her mind was again clear, her former admirer was in another hemisphere. But health came slowly, and with it some re- mains of her former beauty. Slowly the hair, and eyes, and skin, if less brilliant, yet became agreeable to the sight. She would never again be a belle, but she was not repulsive. And now Cousin Harriet had the most difiicult part of her mission to fulfill. Pity had so long held her by the side of the invalid, that love, such as we may suppose angels can feel for erring and feeble mortals, now filled her heart ; and she determined, as far as lay in her power, to fill up the unwritten pages in the heart's tablet ; to store the mind with treasures which accident should not rob her of or efl:ace. It was no light task, however, to redeem the waste of years, and to overcome the indolence and petulance of a neglected temper. But what will not patient and assiduous love fulfill ? By degrees the mind, suddenly withdrawn from all its for- mer pursuits, began to unfold its nobler powers, and to slake its thirst at the fountain of wisdom ; at the same time its former susceptibilities were drawn out and cultivated. Ida began to look away from the narrow circle of selfish gratifi- THECOUSINS. 25 cation, and to sympatliize with the more ennobling pursuits of others. To pursue the symbol of the casket, it was less brilliant, but the jewel it contained was receiving so beauti- ful a polish, that its surroundings were little heeded. With steady perseverance, Cousin Harriet taught her to find pleas- ure in rational pursuits ; and at length she saw, with emo- tions of thankfulness, that her labors were crowned with abundant success. Ida could now look back with rejoicing on her escape from a premature and ill-starred marriage ; for it could not escape her, that a love which grew cold at her first misfor- tune, must at best have soon merged into indifiJ'erence and neglect. How she loved dear Cousin Harriet, that more than mother, who first taught her the real value of life ! Her friend's character was no longer an unsolved enigma, for she could fully enter into her purposes. She was begin- nino: to live in a new world, and looked back with wonder on the butterfly existence which had so engrossed her time. Her mother never fully comprehended the nature of her daughter's contentment ; but she saw she was happy, and she grew reconciled to what she still considered an irretriev- able misfortune. Ida's father took a more comfortable view of the case ; and remarked, that '* what the girl lacked in looks, she would make up in money !" When she again emerged from her seclusion, she was no longer the gaudy, but perfumeless tulip, but rather a fruit- ful vine, dispensing her bounty and fragrance, and blessed of the many who shared of her munificence. She cared not for the hollow compliments of coxcombs, while the gifted and the good sought her friendship, and listened with re- spect and admiration to her words of wisdom. " But did Ida live and die an old maid ?" Perhaps not ; but we will venture to assert, that a mind 80 well balanced as hers need depend on no external circumstances for enjoyment. A heart overflowing with love to every human creature, has a "well-spring" of joy within itself; and even features much homelier tlian Ida's continued to be, when lit up with kindness and intelligence, could not be otherwise than beautiful. And we know a 2 26 THE MIDNIGHT HOUK. happy and most affectionate family wliose mother is very much like Ida ; and we have seen her lean on the arm of a distimruished statesman with an affectionate freedom which betokened a happy wife. But the moral of our story is soon told: That exceeding beauty is often a dangerous gift ; and that permanent happiness must be based on the qualities of the heart. THE MIDNIGHT HOUR. BY MRS. L. G. ABELL. This lone night-hour, Father Supreme, Is fitting time to think of Thee ; This calm and silent moon-lit hour Brings thy rich attributes to me. The world asleep! and thy kind care Is watching o'er each slumbering one ; Even the guilty in his cell, Can not thy love and presence shun. Were man as free from vn-ong as now, When sleep has locked the tide of sin, How sweet to wake to consciousness — A happier day would then begin. The slumberer, how innocent he lies ! Passion's dark tide is calm and still ; No thought of evil stains his cheek — Like sleeping infant, sleeps his will. His dreams are wreathing round his brow A garland of life's early flowers ; He smiles — he weeps, as fancy now Brings back those long-forgotten hours Oh, that on waking, all might feel That thy mild eye is on them still, And love and gratitude to God From thence each human bosom fill ! THECREDITOE. 27 THE CREDITOR. BY MRS. J, H. HAXAFOKD. Keep thy spirit pure From v.orliliy tuint, by the repellant power Of virtue. — Bailey's '■'^ Festuts." This is the fruit of craa ; Like him that shoots up high, looks for the shaft; And finds it in his forehead. — Middletox. " Well, money I must liave !" soliloquized Harry Wliit- ford, as lie leaned back in liis rocking-cliair beside the tiro of liis fatlier's office. " Debts of honor must be paid," he continued, " and if I can not earn the money, I must borrow it. I was a fool to -be enticed by Whipple into that gam- bling saloon, but since I have been there, and lost money, the best I can do now is to pay it, and then I will leave them forever. Oh, how my angel mother would grieve, if she were on earth, at beholding her child, her beloved son, in such a place, for such a purpose ! And my honored father, why, it would ' bring down his gray hairs in sorrow to the grave' if he dreamed the truth ; but he has all confi- dence in me, and I ought to be noble enough to act worthily in his absence as well as in his presence ! Alas, that I should ever have acted otherwise than he would desire ! I should be happier to-night if I had spent all my evenings with him, or in those haunts so dear to him, where piety and virtue preside. But, at any rate, I must have money now, before I can break away from them. They would think me mean and dishonorable if I left them with any debts of honor unpaid." Harvey arose, and paced the little room which was used by his fattier, an eminent lawyer, as his office. Sometimes his thoughts seemed pleasant, and then, agaiji, dark shadows would thicken upon his fair young brow, as if evil thoughts were reigning in his bosom, or striving for the mastery. Those evil monitors triumphed, and he exclaimed, as he approached liis father's desk : "I must have money, and I will borrow from him. Only ho/Tow it. By industry and economy I can soon repay it, 28 TUE CREDIT OK. aud lie will never know. I would ask liim for it, but lie would wisli to know the use I intended to make of it." Opening tlie desk with his father's keys, which he took from the accustomed place, well known to the son, from whom his father did not dream that there was need to secrete them, he carefully sought for the amount he desired. But it was not there. In vain he looked in drawer, box, and pocket-book. There were not twenty dollars there, and he desired, at tlie very least, a hundred. lie remembered, at last, that he had heard his father speak of having deposited nearly all his money in the bank, and he wxll knew he could not obtain it from thence without his father's knowledge. Then he thought of a broker, of whom his tempter, Whip- ple, had told him ; and as his eye fell on some notes of hand belono^inff to his father, which he had received from some clients, who were not p)rep>ared to remunerate him in cash, the evil spirit, looking, as the German legend saith, over Lis left shoulder, prompted him to take one of them, and seek to negotiate with that broker for a portion of its present v^ortli, leaving the note in pledge. His hand trembled as he took it, for he felt that he was doing an act which in his better moments he should not approve, but the e^dl spirit whispered, " you m^lst have the money," and the note was taken. Harvey was careful to take one which would not become due for six months, and as he intended to redeem at the ex- piration of one month certainly, he thought he should escape detection ; and he argued with himself, or rather silenced the monitions of conscience, ever fiiitliful to her trust in the youthful bosom, by the sophistry which said, "I am only l)orrowing it." CarefuU}^ placing the note in bis pocket- book, he sat down to await his lather's return, when he in- tended to go out himself to the broker's office, and then to meet his gay companions. Soon that father entered, but no smile greeted him from that guilty son. He was so little inured to crime that he could not act with willful wickedness, and yet evince no compunction, but wear a gay and honest exterior. " Harry," said his father, '' I have been so successful in THECREDITOK. 29 business of late that I can afford to give you a greater salary for your services in my office, and I cheerfully do so." The young man felt truly grateful, and from his heart thankfully acknowledged the kindness. Tlie thought came to his mind, that if he waited a short time he would earn the money he was now intending to raise on that stolen note, and he was half inclined to put it back silently in its proper place, and requesting his companions to wait, pay them when he had honestly gained money enough. But then he feared they would think him mean, and, perhaps, even call him so ; and, what young man can calmly bear that cog- nomen of contempt ? He pleased himself, too, with the idea that if he paid them in this way, he would leave them now, and the righteousness of one act would compensate for the wickedness of the other. Parleying with sin frequently leads to the commission of evil, and this young man left his father's house that night intent on the fulfillment of what he deemed a necessary purpose, though it was really a criminal one. He passed hastily along the street, absorbed in thought as to his deeds and designs, until he found himself upon the door-step of the broker's office. A moment's hesitation, as better thoughts came to his mind, and then he entered. The broker knew him very well ; in fact, he had requested Whipple to entice Whitford there, if possible, for reasons which he chose not to communicate. He was careful, how- ever, to play the part of a perfect stranger to his new cus- tomer, and received him with extreme politeness, exhibited in bows and flourishes, which were not very pleasant to the purer taste of the young man, who was for the first time about to be entangled in the net of a crafty and deceitful man. In confused terms Whitford succeeded in informiiio- [Mr. Flint, the broker, that he desired some money on a note of hand, which he also wished to redeem in a short time. '- Step this way," said ^Ir. Flint, and they were both soon seated in an inner room, where were no listeners to disturb them, while the onlv clerk took charo-e of the outer room. " This note is payable to Lawyer Whitford, I perceive," said Mr. Flint ; " may I ask if you are related to him?" "I am his son." 30 THE Cli EDI TOE. '' Oil, all !" said tlie broker, and seemed as if musing a moment. It was bis policy to appear to be unwilling to advance tbe money desired on sucli security, tliougb, for reasons of bis own, be was deligbted witli tbe prospect of getting young AVbitford into bis power. '' Are you of age, Mr. Wbitford? You look young, and, perbape, it would not be safe for me to deal witb a minor." Wbitford bad commenced tbe downward course, and be seemed determined to pursue it ; for be not only revealed by bis earnest manner tbat be needed tbe money, but bis un- guarded words gave tbe sbrewd broker to understand tbat be wislied it in order to settle debts of bonor, and tbat bis fatber was botb ignorant of tbe son's necessity, and of tbe means wbicb be bad taken to obtain tbe desired supply. Witb a malicious twinkle of bis cold, gray eye, tbe broker finally consented to take tbe note as security, and advance tbe required sum to bis new customer, requiring from bim a written promise to redeem tbe note witbin a certain time, or forfeit it. He secretly boped tbat it migbt be forfeited, but in eitber case be boped tbat tbe young man was in bis power. As for "Wbitford, be left tbat office feeling more guilty tlian be ever remembered to bave felt before. He knew tbat be bad abused tbe confidence of bis venerable parent, and was ball-inclined to return tbe money, and carry tbe note to its place again. But worldly wisdom triumpbed again, and be bent bis steps toward a noted saloon, in wbicb be expected to meet bis companions. Advancing witb a firm determination to play no more — not only to abstain on tbat evening, but to leave tbis baunt of iniquit}^ forever — be sbunned tbose wbo would urge bim to play, and baving reacbed tbose to wbom be believed bimself in debt, by tbe false laws of a false bonor, be delivered to tbem tbe money he bad just obtained by tbe sacrifice of bis bonesty, and hastilv left tbe bouse. It was well tbat be bad strengtb to do tbe last act, for, too often, one evil act leads to anotber lower in tbe scale of virtue, and tbe unwary and unwise are lost in tbe vortex of tbeir own folly. Conscience, bowever, bad been true to THE CREDITOR. 31 Harvej Whitford's best interests, and he heeded her voice in this matter. After-life proved abundantly to him, that in forsaking these scenes of vicions indulgence, he acted totli wisely and well. A month passed on. Day after day did Harvey fear that his father would discover that one note was absent, and thiLS his sin be discovered to him, whom, of all others, he desired to keep in ignorance of his transgressions. Contrary to his exjjectations, he did not lind himself in possession of suf- ficient money to redeem his pledge, as the time of settlement drew near. He had endeavored to be economical, and cer- tainly had saved more than u^sual, but not enough. The fear of inability to meet Mr. Flint's demands rested upon his mind, as a mighty incubus, day and night, till appetite van- ished and despondency settled into decided ill-health. All this sufiering as the result of sin ! Truly, " the wages of sin" do not compensate for its committal. The day of settlement came. Harvey knew he must meet the broker, and his restlessness was so evident to his father, that he said, " My son, are you ill, or does something dis- quiet you, and prey upon your spirits ? You were the life of our little circle once, but you are sadly changed. Can we not relieve you ?" His only sister, Lucy, looked up with earnest, loving eyes, and echoed the words, " Can we not relieve you ?" " JSTo, dear ones, do not be so alarmed about me. I shall recover soon," and so saying, he hastily left the room. He walked immediately to the broker's, and was soon seated in confidential communion with Mr. Flint, whose heart seemed as hard as his name mio^ht indicate. " ISTo, I can have no other terms. The money must bo paid to-day, young man, or you must be exposed." Whitford waited to hear no more, but left, promising to call again in the afternoon. " You must call before three o'clock or it will be too late," were the last words of the hard-hearted and unmerciful cred- itor, and Whitford rushed from his presence. "A hundred dollars is all I need now," said he to himself, " why can I not borrow it ? Who shall I ask ? If I ask my 32 THECKEDITOK. old acquaintances, they will woifder why I do not ask my father, or, perhaps, inform him, inadvertently, or otherwise. If I ask my new companions, they will refuse me, because they are incensed, I know, at my forsaking their unprofitable society. In short, I know not what course to pursue ; I have tinned, and sin has always its punishment." Suddenly he thought of a former class-mate, whose means, though somewhat limited, might permit him to render aid, and he resolved to throw himself upon his confidence, relate the whole afiair to him, and trust to his Christian principle and native kindness of heart, for the aid he so much required. His young friend's abode was at the other side of the city, but he hastened onward with more than "American speed," until he reached the place, and to his great joy discovered that his friend was at home, and disposed to aid him. The sad story was soon told. Mr. Dinsmore, the young friend, saw that while Whitford had greatly erred in adopt- ing an evil course, to be delivered from the first difiiculty, he had yet shown a desire to ([o better by leaving those gay resorts, and there was hope for him in the future. He sym- pathized with Whitford, too, in his desire to keep the whole matter a secret from his father, lest he should grieve him by the sad recital of his misdeeds. With a glad heart Harvey Whitford set out on his return to the broker's. Though he had but exchanged one creditor for another, the note would be redeemed, and he would be delivered from an unmerciful creditor, who, for a reason he knew not, seemed to exult in his inability to redeem his pledge. As he reached a bridge, which spanned an arm of the sea that stretched up into the city, he saw by his watch that his time w^as very short. At that moment he heard a loud shriek, and at the same instant saw the waves close over a sinking form, while some little girls upon the bridge were uttering loud and repeated cries for assistance. The noble heart of the young man responded to the ap- peal, and, utterly forgetful of himself and his interests, he leaped into the waters after the drov/ning one. He was suc- cessful. For a few moments he breasted manfully the swell- THECKEDITOE. 33 ing tide, bearing the young girl in liis arms, and soon landed her safely upon the bridge again. Calling some ladies, who had just arrived, to her assistance, after seeing that she was not seriously injured, he rapidly darted away to fultill his engagement. The perspiration rolled from his brow in large drops as he sped onward, while those whom lie met wondered at his wet clothing and great haste ; for oh, how much to him depended on a timely arrival at the office of the broker ! He reached that office exhausted with fatigue and excite- ment, only in time to hear the broker say, "It is too late, but walk into my office." Hoping to persuade Mr. Flint to yield the note, "Whitford followed him ; but how great was his surprise, when in- formed that Flint had long been an enemy to Lawyer Whit- ford, and was rejoiced at this opportunity to be revenged upon him. " Your father, Whitford," said Flint, " will not mind the loss of money in this transaction ; it is the disgraceful con- duct of his son which will wound him most deeply." "Too true! too true!" exclaimed Whitford. " Oh, that I could have reached here in time !" " AVhy did you not, if you were really desirous?" "Why, why," looking down upon his wet clothes, whose appearance he had forgotten, "I stopped to save a young miss from drowning." " Good ! good for me !" said the unmerciful creditor. " I wonder if I should have stopped for such a thing, if my time had been so valuable ! Ha ! ha ! ha !" At the same moment an inner door opened, and Mrs. Flint appeared (for Mr. Flint's office was a part of his dwell- ing), conducting a girl of about fourteen, whose dripping clothes and pallid countenance betokened a recent submer- sion and narrow escape from drowning. Several of her young school-mates followed. " Mr. Flint, we had almost lost our Susan. She has been — " " Mother, tliere he is !" " Mrs. Flint, there is !" exclaimed several voices, while 34 THE CKEDITOE. all the cliiklrcn pointed to Mr. Whitford ; and Mr. Flint soon perceived that his debtor, toward whom he had been so nn- mercifiil, was only in his power from the fact that he had paused on his way, to save the life of his creditor's only daughter. Great, indeed, was the surprise of Mr. Whitford, but no* greater than his joy at receiving the repeated thanks of both parents and daugliter, while the father reached him the note, saying, " Take it, Mr. Whitford. From this day I am your ii'iend, and your father's friend. I will tako no money, for. I can never repay you for your kindness." Whitford at last consented to avail himself of this inter- position, which seemed to him, indeed, providential, and departed for his home with a light and happy heart. He ■was free from debt, and his father 'b note was in his posses- sion, and was speedily returned io its place. The money lent him by his young friend was n^^ longer needed, and was therefore returned. The father and sister could not fail to perceive a great and pleasant change in Harvey, and asked him the cause. He finallv concluded that it was his deity to humble himself, and confess the whole, which he did, causing surprise at the remarkable Providence which ultimately delivered him. He was readily forgiven by his father, who saw that he was truly penitent, and believed him to have been sufficiently punished ; but he could not forbear reminding him that the Scriptures say, " The way of transgressors is hard ;" to which the son agreed, and henceforth followed the path of the just^ which leadeth to eternal life. The Gospel as an Element of Progress. — The sons ol Chinese peasants could read and write, when the princes of England were ignorant of both. China has since made ne7v, dashing awaj^ with all sail, save our close-reefed main-top-sail and fore-top-mast stay-sail close-furled ; fairly hissing on through the flashing brine- — not toward home, for the gale was a(: W. S. lY., and our course dead before it was due E. X. E. ; four points further to the eastvrard than we should have steered in fine weather. But there was a direct Providence in the storm that was hurrvinsc us on, right out into the very heart of the great South Atlantic. We were sitting at breakfast on the morning of the fourth day after the storm came on, when we were suddenly start- led by the cry of '' Yv^reck, ho !" fro"m the second mate, who a moment afterward put his head down the companion-way and said there was a w^reck off our starboard bow. Following m^y husband on deck, we observed the disabled vessel, apparently a medium-sized ship, totally dismasted, and very low in the water, about three miles distant, and some two points off our starboard bow. As soon as lie had assured himself that there were people on the wreck, our captain called all hands aft, and after changing our vessel's course so as to head for the wreck, he inquired of the chief mate if he would volunteer to go in the .boat and try to save the suflerers. " ]Si ot I, sir," replied the ofiicer, half sulkily. '• You might as well ask me to jump overboard Avith three thirty-two pound shot strung about my neck for beads. JSTo, no, cap- tain ; I have no idea of committing suicide," and the heart- less coward walked off forward. " I will go, captain," said a brave, noble-hearted young passenger named George Benner, who, after a residence of six years in Buenos A^a-es, was going home to ISTew England 54 C H A N C E,- R E S C U E D . Avith a fortune, to die and leave it to strangers ; for his health was delicate, and people said 'twas consumption ; but a few of us there Avere who knew that it was not j)hysical ' disease that was killing the joung merchant whom we loved as a brother. There was a story known to a few about his love and betrothal to a beautiful, bright-eyed Spanish maiden, daugh- ter of Buenos Ayres' merchant king; of the old don's opposition, and of his sending Dona Isabelita home to Spain, and a great deal more, unimportant to the reader ; but the event thus far was, that George was going home to die of what people said was consumption ; while the probability was, that Dona Isabelita would ere long wed some super- annuated old hidalgo, and die of a broken heart. " I will go in the boat, captain, if but a single one of these men will go with me," repeated our pale, handsome passen- ger, and he stepped toward the quarterrboat. '' 'No, no, Mr. Benner, you shall not go in the boat, unless these men ail refuse, and then you and I will man the oars, while my wife will take the helm ; for, by Heaven ! I will not pass yonder wreck without doing all that man can do to save the miserable wretches upon her deck." Three right hearty cheers from the live stout fellow^s com- posing the crew, headed by the young second mate, drowned the last words of my husband's speech, and told in most emphatic language that the coward mate was the only craven spirit upon our decks. Twenty minutes later the Madonna lay hove to, a few hundred yards to leeward of the ship, and then for a whole long half hour, my heart almost stood still, as I watched the superhuman efforts of those six red-shirted heroes ; and our- captain standing erect there bare-headed, with his long hair streaming out on the gale, as the brave fellows sent the little craft up to windward by inches, gaining every foot by the outlay of all their united strength. Oh, how my heart leaped again as I saw the successful boat range up on the ship's lee cpiarter, and t eard the almost exultino: hurrahs which came from her victorious crew! A few moments more, and the captain was seen on the C H A N C E - E E S C U E D . QO ship's deck, passing the exhausted sufferers down into his boat. One after another, to the number of eight, Avere safely deposited in the little craft, and then back toward the bark, like an arrow's flight, she came before the quick, heaving sea, and screaming gale. Passing under the stern, the boat ranged up to the bark's lee o-ano-wav, and almost before you could count ten, the captain was passing in over the side the rescued passengers. The ladies vrere passed up first, and two of them our young friend George had taken from the captain and placed on deck ; when^ as h« extended his arms to receive the third one, a sweet, angelic, and most familiar face was upturned toward his. " George I dear George !" and '* Merciful God! Isabelita I" were the two quick-uttered exclamations of the long-separated and chance-united lovers, as George Benner folded to his heart the beautiful Isabelita Xoraza. After another desperate struggle v/ith the wind and waves, our captain and his six noble fellows succeeded in rescuing the other seven sufferers ; and within fifteen minutes after the Madonna squared away before the gale again, the doomed wreck went down ; so that another hour's delay would have been fatal. We learned from Dona Isabelita, that having escaped from the strict guardianship of her uncle in Spain, she found her way to Gibraltar, v\'here she embarked in the English ship which had just foundered, with the intention of returning to Buenos Ayres. and joining her lover at all risks. They had been dismasted at the commencement of the gale which had carried us so far out of our course, and but for our timely appearance, and my husband's daring resolu- tion, thc)' would all have perished. By the time we reached Boston, sixty days after the inci- dent above narrated, there was not a heartier, healthier- looking man in the bark than George Benner; and by the time we had been a week in Boston, there was not a happier man in the world, or a happier woman either, than iMrs. Isabelita Benner,. ! A SEA VOYAGE. BY D. S, M. O, I have climbed the mountain pile Whose towering summits reached the sky, And wandered many a weary mile Through the vast wilds that westward lie; And coursed along the billowy deep, Through those broad inland oceans, all, And erst beheld Niagara sweep In awful grandeur down his fall. Deep in that dreadful gulf below,. While o'er him hung that radiant bow. But I have seen — yes, I have seen Far richer sights than all of these. That broad expanse, th' acknowledged queen, The mistress of the briny seas ; She soars aloft as mountains high, Or sinks in one vast liquid plain ; Above, there's nought but sun and sky, Below, the watery world amain. Her voice exceeds Niagara's roar, A thousand thousand times, or more. Tha't little bark — though small it be Beneath our feet — in which we sail, Is our LIFE BOAT — our ALL at sea — Our ALL is lost if she but fail ; With her we climb the mountain's height, Then down again securely glide. Swift through the wave she speeds her flight, Her motions rapid as the tide ; There's nought so grand, or so sublime. As this upon the shores of time. Apart from all the world below. Afar from home — remote from shore — We upward look, and seek to know What arm controls the ocean's roar. We ask the billows, who .'s He, The tempest, lightning, and the storm, That lifts aloft the raging sea, Or smooths the ocean's angry form ? AVe ask — and oft repeat it too — But echo only answers — w^ho ? REVOLUTIONARY SKETCH. BY MRS. WILLIAMS, MaPwY Sheeman, a poor but very beautiful girl, and from an honest and respectable family, was married, when about sixteen, to Captain Oliver Eead, of Newport, about 1770, and went to reside at a small liouse on the hill fronting the beach, near the windmills, which, with the house, had for- merly been in the possession of Captain Eead's father. Here they lived five years in quiet, until the breaking out of the war. It is known that the squadron under the com- mand of Wallace, was lying off Newport before the com- mencement of hostilities, and immediately commenced har- assing the inhabitants of the island. • The residence of Mrs. Eead was peculiarly exposed, on a lonely street in the neighborhood of the beach, with no male in her family but an aged relative of her husband, Eosanna Ilicks, another heroine, and three little children, besides the widowed mother of her husband. Captain Eead, who was then at sea, and for whom his wife felt the greatest anxiety, supposing he would inevitably be captured on his return, for, as he was expected in hourly, with a valuable cargo", the enemy were on the watch for him. Meantime, favored by the treacherous Tories, frequent atrocities were committed on the island, commencing with robbing barns and hen- roosts, and ending by openly insulting their owners and plundering their houses, whenever chance favored them. The friends of Mrs. Eeid strenuously advised her removal from such an exposed situation, advice which Mrs. Eead, being a woman of singular courage, rejected with scorn, saying, "She was prepared to defend their little property, and she should do so ;" and so well knc^ was her determined spirit and fearless disposition, that among all the petty robberies in the outskirts of Kewport, her property remained safe. ^ Expecting an early descent upon the island, the ship- owners of i^ewport tried to convey intelligence to Captain Eead, but without success, to land the cargo at another 58 REVOLUTIONARr SKETCH. place, and not venture into I*Tewport. However, witli an in- tuitive perception of what would be prudent, wliicli never eeemed to desert tliis remarkable man, lie managed, by a series of maneuvers, to escape the squadron of Wallace, and run the ship up Karraganset Bay to Providence, about the time that Commodore Whipple, Captain Ezek Hopkins, and John Paul Jones performed the same exploit. Having discharged liis cargo, and linding the Americans were as- sembling at Roxbur}^, Captain Read got discharged from his ship, and returned to IN'ewport on a flying visit to his family, previous to enterhig the army. The burning of Cannonticut, directly opposite Newport, and the atrocities at Prudence Island, the fires of which had been distinctly seen, he supposed might have alarmed the family, and he might And them ready for a removal ; but no such thing. Hary Read still maintained her ground, and, enthusiastic in her patriotism, hastened her husband to the service of the distressed Americans, where he arrived just in time to give liis assistance as a volunteer in the battle of Bunker Hill. At this time families were continually flocking up thfi river to Providence, and a sister of Captain Read, becoming nmch alarmed for his family, made several unsuccessful at- tempts to get them off the island, as W^allace grew^ very loth to give passports, and had at length utterly refused to sign any more. In tnls dilemma, her husband absent, and hav- ing no male friend to send, Rosanna Hicks, who was a coufein of Captain Read's, and had resided many years in the family, offered to go in a row-galley, commanded hj Captain Eleazer Hill, of Greenwich, which, at great risk. was about to attempt a communication with the island. Nothing could dissuade her, although her friends endeavor- ed to arouse her fears by prognosticating " they would all be blown to the bottom." They proceeded to Greenwich to take in their complement of men, as, after touching at the island in the night, they were to privately pass out of the harbor and put to sea. They liad not proceeded many miles from Greenwich, however, ]>efore a vessel of superior force liove in sight, which Ca])tain Hill pronounced English, and a hasty council was called to decide on what to do. " Eight KEVOLUTIOXAEY SKETCH. 59 her ! fight her !" was the cry on every side, and the decks were immediately cleared for action. Hosanna entreated the captain to "let her do something," and fiually she was placed at the head of the companion-way, to hand cartridges, etc., to the gunners. The vessel still neared them with the English flag flying, and was about to receive a broadside, when she hauled down her colors, and announced herself a prize, going to Provi- dence. The galley then fired a salute, and the prize-master, a Mr. Lancher, who w^as a relative of Rosanna, was much diverted when he descried Eosanna standing between two guns, clapping her hands, and joining the cheers of the crew. Favored by the increasing darkness, they managed to reach the island at the place of assignation, where, landing Ro- sanna, and taking oflf a number of men, they got out of the harbor undiscovered, while the fearless woman proceeded to cross the island alone in the night, to get to the beach ; this she accomplished safely by daybreak, and the rising sun saw her an inmate of their dwelling. Here she found Captain Eead, on a furlough, come to remove his family ; but Mrs. Eead would not abandon the house, but advised the removal of the old lady his mother, and their eldest child, a daughter, and insisted upon accomj^anying them to see them sale up. Captain Eead procured a j)as5port to carry them to Taunton, for a feint, for "Wallace would permit no communication with Providence. In a small oj)en sail-boat, with only one (the captain) to manage, these fearless women embarked, Mrs. Read, Rosanna, tlie aged grandmother, and one child, for a voyage of thirty miles, through rough waters ; and go- ing round Coarse Harbor, they passed one of the English ships of war, which sto2:)ped them to examine their ^^assport, saying, ^' If they had been going to Providence he would have sunk them." They proceeded to a rocky shore, called Coddington Cove, on the north side of the island, where, secreted in one of the caverns worn into the rock by ilie action of the tide, they had directed two American oflicers, who were trying to get away, to await them ; they stopped and took them in, and then making a feint for Taunton, for some little distance, sud- GO REVOLUTIONAIIT SKETCH. denlv altered their course, and steered for Providence. Tliev liad not proceeded many miles, when they found themselves chased by a cutter. Captain Read feared all was lost, as he had no doubt it belonged to the enemy, and saw no way of escape ; but his courageous helpmate entreated him to crowd all sail, while she, putting the officers in the bottom of the boat, covered them with the cloaks, and shawls, and bag- gage they had with them. The tide was against them, and their bowsprit, part of the time, under water ; they were completely drenched by the spray, and had once or twice came near upsetting by a flaw of wind. Captain Eead pro- tested he would proceed no longer at such a rate, at the manifest danger of their lives ; and, to the regret of the fear- less Rosanna and his wife, slackened sail, and permitted the cutter to come up, when it proved to belong to an American vessel. Tliere w^as much merriment about concealing the officers, who were dragged out amid the shouts, and jokes, and hearty cheers of the cutter. They arrived safely about eight o'clock that evening, and after an hour or two spent on shore. Captain Read and wife departed for IN'ewport, where they arrived next morning and found all safe. With some misgivings about the safety of his family. Cap- tain Read rejoined the army next day, his wife refusing to flee ; for well did she suppose that the property of such a known patriot as her husband would not be safe. She was in the habit of frequently reconnoitering the entrance to the harbor wdth a spy-glass, and it was said was the first person who saw the disjDatch sent to demand the surrender of the town. By the articles of capitulation, the enemy were not to land their troops in the harbor, or on the seaward side of the island, but on the north side, at a place called "Brown's Shore ;" and Mrs. Read, to the surprise of her neighbors, took her children some distance from home, to the top of Tamminy Hill, to witness the debarkation. Her object, it seems, was to point out to them the uniform of the foes of their country, and to impress on their infant minds the object of their unwelcome visit — something that they never after- ward forgot. The next day the troops entered the town, and the desire REVOLUTIONARY SKETCH. 61 to see every thing new, as well as to pillage, soon drove them in every direction. Mrs. Read soon found her habita- tion beset by strolling parties of English and Hessian sol- diers, who, thongh they dared not ofier her any real injury, would often call, asking for a glass of water, and tell Mrs. Read how handsome she was, much to her annoyance ; in particular, a German officer, whose glances had the honor of frightening one whose courage had been hitherto deemed invincible. As the soldiers were all beat to quarters at an early hour, no fears were entertained after dark, and the family reposed at that season in perfect security. It was therefore without any apprehension that she opened the door one evening, to the tap of what she supposed was some neighbor, and to her great terror discovered the German officer, who, without any ceremony, walked in, and took a seat beside the fire, next to the old man, who had fallen asleep. Mrs. Read placed herself in the opposite corner, making herself busy with the fire, while she politely inquired his business. "Had he got lost? could she direct him the nearest way to quarters ?" All this time the fellow sat with his eyes fastened on her, without uttering a word. But the time had sufficed for her purpose ; she had heated the jDoker red hot, and springing fiercely at him, attemjDted to beat him out of the house. He caught at the iron, and burned his hand badly. While in the contest, he naturally retreat- ed toward the door, which, opening on the outside, gave ■way as he staggered against it, and she succeeded in push- ing him out, and fastening the door. He made no attempt to foi\Q an entrance ; had he done so, she would probably have shot him, as she was well acquainted with the use of arms, and fearless to use them. However, he went off, swearing vengeance as hard as the English swore in Flan- ders. The next day, several of the gentlemen of the place waited on the general, complaining of the unofficer-like conduct of the German, and soliciting a passport to convey Mrs. Read and children ofi' the island. This the general would not grant, saying, "He should not let the wife of such a noto- rious enemy to the government escajje ; besides, he would 4 62 KEVOLUTIONARY SKETCH. keep her there to catch her husband." He, however, agreed to provide for her safety by stationing a sentry near hei house. But Mrs. Head, whose lieahh began to fail, now judged it best to remove, and sent again a formal request for a passport. It was positively refused. When once con vinced of the propriety of any measure, she was not a person to give it up, and she then decided to apply in person, ac* cepting of the offer of a gentleman well known as one of the most influential and respectable in the place, to drive her to the general's quarters. She wisely took the happiest period of the general's life — • the hour succeeding dinner — to call on him. Tlie general and his suite were yet at their wine when the lady was an- nounced, and they doubtless expected some sj^ort in admit- ting her ; but the wassail roar was hushed at her entrance, and they involuntarily rose and presented her a chair, which she accepted, and modestly stated her request for a passport, (m account of the defenseless state of her family, and the lawlessness of the times. The general (Prescott) repeated his objection: "He should keep her there until he caught her husband," and retreated to the other side of the room. " That you will not do ; I shall take care he does not come here on my account," said the fearless wife, rising, and walking lip to the general. It seems as though we now be- held her. We have many reasons to remember her, one of which is, she was our maternal grandmother ; and though the stately form and perfect features have long since molder- ed into dust, yet is every lineament deeply engraven on the tablet of memory. Her figure was somewhat above the middling height, and of faultless proportions ; her raven locks shaded a forehead of dazzling whiteness, iinely con- trasted by the beautiful bloom of her complexion. Even at the age of forty-eight, when we can recollect her, her beauty was striking ; she had a remarkably handsome mouth, and regular teeth, and her fine black eyes, when cast down, had an expression of much sweetness, but when raised in anger, there was a look so stern as to awe the boldest. There was a dignity in her deportment which would not disgrace arx empress, and we have no doubt her request had more the E E V L U T I K A E Y S K E T C H . 63 | air of a command ; but she obtained the passport, the gen- 1 oral observing, " If yon go to Providence to get out of my way, Mrs. Read, yon will lose your labor, as I shall be there {•.Imost as soon as yon are." Memorable words ! He did not then expect to be carried there a prisoner, in I a few short months, instead of marching at the head of a j victorious army. Mrs. R. left in high spirits, but they w^ere soon lowered by the difficulty of getting away ; there was I no family coming ; all that proposed leaving, had left. The I general had grudgingly bestowed the passport, but he had provided no facility for her conveyance, and none could be i procured. All day her friends v/ere busy, on the one sue- , eeeding the interview with the general, and night closed in ' without a ray of hope. It was not until midnight that she retired to snatch a few moments' rest with her sleeping babes, and with a depression of spirits she had never felt . 1 before, when suddenly she was startled by a rap at the door ; ' ! it was repeated ; and on demanding who vras there, the w^ell- j known accents of Rosanna Hicks answered, "It is I, Mary, i come for you ;" and in a moment she w-as folded in the arms of that faithful and courageous w^oman, who, having learned accidentally of her perilous situation, had again ventured in an open boat with a com2:)any of strange men to reach the island, where it was bound, to carry supplies to the quarters ; of Colonel Barton {the one w^ho captured Prescott a few ] months after). She was out all night, and arrived just as they were breakfasting next morning, when Rosanna was compelled to breakfast w^tli them, and, receiving every kind- ness and attention, the gentlemen fitted her out with a chaise ] and attendant. Their passport extended only to tlie lines, { and they could only obtain one through ^Newport on condi- ' tion tlie man should put her down at the house of Mrs. i Read, and return immediately. General Prescott meaning, doubtless, to prevent Mrs. Read's departure by sujh a ma- { neuver. But the indefati«:able Rosanna w^as not to be baf- fled : she procured a guide and conveyance of a neigh])oring farmer before light ; liaving the watchword of the night, she j passed and repassed without dit^culty. The journey of i twelve miles to Tiverton Ferry was soon accomplished ; but | G-i R E V L U TI O N A ii Y SKETCH. alas! the boat on wliicli they relied had been obliged to re- turn with dispatches, and they were without means to reach Providence until another should an'ive. Tliey took shelter in the house of a poor widow, named Thankful Irish, avIio, with her three children, occuj^ied one room of a miserable cottao'e near the fort. The boat did not return under tJn-ee days ; and here Oliver Head, second son and fourth child of Captain Read, was born on the third day of their arrival ; and here the heroic matron, worn out with toil, anxiety, and excitement, came near losing her life. Although nothing could exceed the kind attentions of the neighboring matrons, and of their humble hostess, she w^as near death's door Avhen her husband, at the summons of Colonel Barton, came on a furlough to remove her. They procured passage on a small Greenw^ich sloop, and into the confined hole of a cabin Mrs. Read was conveyed on her bed; and after being out all night in a storm, arrived at Pawtucket on the day her son was a fortnight old. Tliere Vas not a carriage in the place, and she had to be removed to the house of Benoni Lock- wood, a cousin of Captain Read's, in an ox wagon. Here she remained until the re-establishment of her health, her husband being obliged to return to the army. Rosanna had been sent away with the children before they left the island ; she was out all day and night, and the next day at night they arrived at Providence, having been obliged to skulk, to keep clear of the British cruisers. At Providence, Mrs. Read once more embraced her children and mother-in-law ; and here they resided until the evacuation of Newport, wdien Captain Read, having quit the army to follow the sea, w^ent out in command of a privateer. Two more great trials awaited her ere the close of the war, and two in which her courage w^as severely tried. On one occasion the alarm-guns were tired, and there w\^s great commotion on account of a privateer being chased into the harbor by three English ships. The fight w^as seen distinctly from the hill and the different eminences at the south part of the town. Two of the English ships had become crip- pled, and the third was maneuvering to intercept the entrance of the privateer, which was soon recognized as the R E V L U T I X A E Y SKETCH. 65 *' Rocliambeau." Signals were made for men, wliicli was proof there had been g-reat slanghter on board. What were the feelings of Mrs. Read, who knew the danger, and felt the awfnl responsibility of her hnsband's position, we know not ; but they must haye been keen. It was some hours before the whale-boats, loaded with men, were fitted out, and new assistance began to pour from all (piarters, that the harbor was aliye. Bristol heard the alarm almost as soon as New- port, though fifteen miles distant, and sent several hundred men : the Legislature being in session there, dispatched them, breaking up in haste, and many of their members em- barking in the cause. The English ship was obliged to shift her ground, when Captain Read managed to tack and enter the harbor, when the Englishmen made all sail and bore off. I^ever has more tumultuous applause greeted the arrival of a vessel in port ; she came ofi:' victorious, indeed, but with great slaughter, and there was much mourning, with great rejoicing. The visits of Captain Read at his home were very short, often returning but to convoy a prize into port, and off again. Several of the owners resided in Boston, and the valuable property often brought into port, was usually con- veyed there. Mrs. Read had been often warned of the dan- ger of treasure in her house, but as there was then no suit- able places of deposit, it was frequently left in her care for a day or two. On one occasion a very valuable box of spe- cie, mostly in gold, was left in her care, and having from some circumstance been led to fear an attempt at robbery, she took unusual precautions in fastening her house, and having left a lamp on the table, with a drawn sword beside it, without undressing, threw herself upon the bed. She had just fallen asleep, when her little daughter, who slept in the room above her, touched her shoulder, saying, "Mother, somebody is trying to get in the back window ; he is prying the shutter open." Mrs. Read sprang upon her feet, seized the lamp in one hand and the sword in the other, and gliding down the stairs, arrived just as the robber had thrust his liead and shoulders into the window. She stabbed him, but she never knew where. There was a terrible scampering, 6G REVOLUTIONARY SKETCH. and bcloro slie could secure tlie window and alarm tlie neighbors, lie was oli", although the blood showed the sword Lad done execution. Peace at length gave rest to the harassed inhabitants of ^Newport, and Mary Read lived many years to enjoy the prosperity of her husband ; but the etfect of her overtaxed energies was apparent in the decay of mind several years before her death, which domestic afflictions hastened. The death of three of her children preceded her own, and lastly, of her renowned husband. Captain Oliver Eead died at Point Petre, Guadaloupe, in 1803. He was then in com- mand of a fine ship, belonging to the once celebrated firm of Murray & Mumford, of Kew York, in whose employ he had sailed many years. He died at the age of sixty. Mary Pead lived to about the year 1810, and Posanna, for many years the respected widow of Thomas Eddy, of Johnston, P. L, died in 1827. The whole life of Mary Pead was one of active benevolence ; amid trials which one would su]3pose must have engrossed her every thought, she had yet time for the exercise of her charities, and many were the suffer- ing families that her bounty relieved. Her confiding hus- band trusted entirely to her management in his absence, and never found fault with her liberality to the poor. Her greatest enjoyment, indeed, appeared to consist in acts of beneficence. A large field opened on her return to the des- olated hearths of I^ewpOrt ; the number of impoverished families was terrible, and to them Mary Pead was a minis- tering angel. Isor was she brave or good alone ; the his- tory of the patriotic women of JSTewport, during the " time that tried men's souls," would be a j^roud one if it could all be written. (The life of Captain Oliver Pead, my bravo and lamented grandfather, has once been published in a series of Pevolutionary Tales, and more recently by Henry Bull, Esq., of Newport, in his History of Phode Island.) Mary Pead left no descendants, except the family of Gap- tain Thomas Wilcox, of Phode Island, and of Captain Alfred Arnold, who married her two eldest daughters. Of the latter family, the writer of this sketch is the only sur- vivor. EVENTIDE. BY HORACE DRESSER, ESQ., LL.D. I The day's bright orb but just in sight remains Above the hills that seem to meet and prop ' The clear and dazzling Occidental skies. ■ The trees and towering spires that glitter in ' The sun's last parting rays now cast their shades At greatest length. A beam yet lingers here, I And shines upon the ceiling of my room — j An emanation from the setting sun, ] Now bearing on his light to other lands; This moment he has disappeared and gone ! Those cheering beams that lightly played and shone Across the hillock's gently sloping side, And run in zigzag courses o'er the snow. Bright gleaming with the clearest, purest white — ' Have fled, and dusky shades their places take. The vale that winds along the wood}- ridge, \ That intercepts the closing liglit of day, ] Puts on the darksome cast of coming night — i ****** I The woodlands, fields, and all are now obscured — ' Umbrageous Night involves the whole in dark, j And ends the tiresome labor of the day ! ! Seeks man a time for calling up his thoughts — J A time for self-abstraction from the world ? Such time he finds in evening's silent hours, ; When noisy tumults of the day have ceased, j And stillness seems to hallow every thought, And elevate the soul above the earth. With peaceful minds its calmness well accords, J And gives to them a turn to ruminate On life thick set with trouble, cares, and pains. , Asks he a time to view the twinkling stars, ; And wisdom learn from those far distant spheres, j That bright illume the welkin's spacious bounds ? The tranquil evening hours present this time. Let him now cast his eyes around on heaven, And watch the starry hosts that sparkle there — i A latent awe he feels his soul pervade, And owns that chance could ne'er direct their course. 68 GEOKGE SINCLAIR; OK, At this calm hour his impotence he learns, And cries as he of olden time once cried, Lord, what is man that thou dost visit him? How dull and undevout must be the man. Who learns not that there is a Great First Cause ! GEORGE SINCLAIR; OR, THE STUDENT'S NOBLE RESOLVE. BY MRS. J. H. HANAFORD. *' Father, George has arrived," said a young girl in a subdued tone, to a noble-looking elderly gentleman, who opened the chamber door at which she had lightly knocked, " and he is now in the parlor, waiting anxiously to be ad- mitted." '^ I will go to him immediately," replied her father, in the same low tone, " and he can return with me. You may re- main, Sarah, but be careful not to disturb her slumbers." Tlie daughter stepped to the bedside, and gazed upon the Bleeping one. "Mother, dear mother," she murmured, as she looked upon the beloved features of the sick one, who bore that relation to her, and her tears fell fast as she thoudit of what would be her brother's emotions on behold- ing her whom he left in health and strength, so changed. The door opened, and her father entered, with the young man whom she had left in the parlor. They approached the bedside, and the trio stood silently gazing on the sleeping mother. The frame of the young man shook convulsively, and the tears coursed down his cheeks, while it was with violent effort that he refrained from sobbing audibly, as he looked upon the pale, tliin features of his beloved mother, and remembered how well she was when he was with her in the recent vacation. He had hastened from college to his home, immediatelv on receivinc: intelligence of her sickness, fearing, all the way, that he should not arrive in time to re- ceive her last advice. In a few moments after his entrance, the mother moved, and with a low moan awoke. As she opened her eyes and saw her husband and daughter (for George had stepped THE STUDENT S NOBLE RESOLVE. 69 aside, fearing the eiFect of a surprise in her present weak- ness)' she beckoned to Sarah, and, in a feeble voice, asked if George had arrived. '' He is here, mother," said Sarah, " will you see him now ?" " Oh, yes ! thank God, my son has come !" George approached, and the eye of the mother liglited up, as he bent over her couch to imprint a kiss upon her now flushed cheek, though his tears fell fast upon her pil- low. "Weep not, dear George, weep nut, my son; do not re- pine at God's wdll. Remember ' whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth,' " said the mother. George sat down by her bedside, and in a low tone con- versed with her, now and then weeping, while again the eyes of both ^would brighten, as they spoke of the better land, where there is no sorrow, nor sigliing, nor any pain. Soon the physician entered, and as he prohibited conversa- tion for the rest of the night, which was fast approaching, George retired to his chamber, fatigued both in body and mind, by his long journey, and his deep anxiety. The morning again dawned, and the mother still continued to grow worse, till, on the evening of the fourth day after George's arrival, she revived, and hopes were once more entertained of her recovery. As George had been by her side almost constantly for the preceding day and night, it was thought best that he should retire to his chamber and endeavor to obtain some repose, which he did, having re- ceived from his father a promise that he should be imme- diately called if his mother should become worse. He slept for several hours, and busy fancy pictured to him in dreams, his early days, and again he listened to his kind mother's voice as she was accustomed to speak to him of heaven and the holy angels ; again he knelt by her side to offer up his evening prayer, and anon heard her sweet voice singing the familiar hymn with which she often lulled him to sleep. Often during ihe time he had been at college had he thought of these things, and longed to be with the mother who was thus associated with all the purest enjoy- 70 GEORGE Sinclair; OR ) inents of liis cliildliood, but never had tliey been so vividl} presented to his mind as on this occasion. Suddenly he awoke, for the light of a lamp held by his father shone upon him, and he inquired anxiously after her Avho had been the companion of his sleeping moments. "She is worse, dear George; she is dying ^ come," said his father. George arose instantly, and was soon in his mother's chamber. By the side of the bed stood Sarah, the nurse, and Mr. Sin- clair, the father, and soon after his entrance, the physician arrived, and from his manner, and the few words he uttei-ed, they all knew that their loved one was soon to depart. When George entered, she w^as conversing with Sarah, and in a calm, though feeble voice, she bade her be of good cheer, for they should meet again. And then she turned to George. " My son, I am about to leave you," said she, while the tears fell fast from her children's eyes ; " but ere I go, I wish to impress a last injunction upon you, and I Vvdsh you to obey it as your dying mother's request. I wish you to live so as to glorify God on earthy and meet me^ at last, in heanienP She ceased, for her extreme weakness prevented her from speaking long at a time, and George leaned over the bed, and received her last kiss. The clergyman then entered, and after a few words, in a low tone, to her husband, she requested the clergyman to pray, and clasj^ing her attenu- ated hands upon her breast, she raised her eyes heavenward, while all in the room knelt, and amid the solemn silence of the chamber of death, arose the clear, calm voice of the minister to the Most High. He prayed for all who were there assembled, and for her who was so soon to cross the Jordan stream of death, and earnestly asked that tliey might all at last meet in that hap23ier land, where •' Sickness and sorrow, pain and death. Are felt and feared no more." As the prayer closed, the mother responded "Amen," and as the rest arose from their kneeling posture, they looked to- 'o •WrvTJTTTi •C>-t7