THE 
 
 LADIES' COMPANION. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 WITH NUMEROUS 
 
 STEEL ENGKAVINGS. 
 
 AND 
 
 COLORED FLOWER PLATES. 
 
THE SISTEES. 
 
 A LEAF FROM THE JOURNAL OF AN ANTIQUARIAN. 
 
 The old manor house of Folkstone has little to attract the 
 notice of the passing wayfarer, for its fine park is now con- 
 verted into a sheep pasture, its flower garden is planted with 
 turnips, and its noble woods have long since been felled to enable 
 its owner to enrich and embellish some fairer domain. The 
 house has suffered comparatively little from time, but a fiercer 
 enemy has been at work within its walls, and in its finest apart- 
 ments are still visible the traces of that devouring' fire which 
 has reduced it almost to ruin. Strange stories are abroad con- 
 cerning the origin of that fire. The present owner, a wild and 
 dissolute youth, came down to visit it, with a party of gay 
 revellers, soon after it fell into his possession. Five more stately 
 and better appointed mansions were already his, for he was one 
 of the wealthiest of England's peers, and when he beheld the 
 worm-eaten tapestries and mouldering furniture, he was heard 
 to exclaim, with a loud oath — 
 
 " I would that my mad cousin of Folkstone had set fire to 
 the old nest ; it will cost more in taxes than the lands will yield 
 in revenue." 
 
 His steward, a keen-eyed, iron-faced man, heard his master's 
 words, and on the very night after the young lord's departure, 
 the building was discovered to be in flames. Some said it was 
 a judgment from Heaven — others shook their heads, and whis- 
 pered that the agency of man was visible in a fire which had 
 broken out from four different points at the same moment, and 
 certain it is that no money was ever spent upon the repair of 
 the once noble structure. I had been told that the staircase 
 was still decorated with some remains of the magnificent oaken 
 carvings which had once adorned many of the rooms, and I 
 
JO 
 
 THE SISTERS. 
 
 was therefore induced to visit the almost roofless mansion, which 
 certainly promised little to reward my search. I had wandered 
 for some time through the empty apartments, which were nearly 
 stripped of every vestige of furniture, when, upon opening the 
 door of a small chamber that seemed originally designed for an 
 oratory, I found myself suddenly in the presence of a picture, 
 whose tints were so unfaded and life like, that, for a moment, I 
 started as if the actual beings had suddenly risen before me. 
 
 The picture represented two young girls, with the arm of 
 one resting on the neck of the other. Perhaps, had I seen the 
 picture elsewhere, it might not have offered such powerful 
 attraction, although it was as exquisite in its execution as in its 
 design. But the faces of those beautiful girls, gleaming out 
 from the dark oaken panel in which the picture was deeply 
 inserted — this painted semblance of life, active and joyous life, 
 in the midst of utter desolation — this solitary vestige of a race 
 now passed forever from the earth — this single record of the 
 past, which had escaped the destruction to which its stranger 
 lord had doomed the home of an ancient family, awakened a 
 feeling of awe for which I could scarcely account, even to 
 myself. I gazed upon those bright faces, until imagination 
 began to weave many a dream of the fortunes of those lovely 
 children. I pictured them the idol of their stately parents, the 
 pride of the family, the darlings of their dependents. I had 
 been struck with their wonderful similarity of feature, and I 
 fancied theYair sisters had been as much assimilated in charac- 
 ter, while I endeavored to sketch some probable view of their 
 course through life. The setting sun, which, beaming through 
 the single window, suddenly lighted up the lonely picture with a 
 halo of departing glory, recalled me to myself, and, as I turned 
 my back upon the little chamber, I felt the folly of my own 
 imaginings. Why should I seek to penetrate the veil of 
 years? They had lived, and probably loved, and certainly 
 suffered, and doubtless their ashes were now mingling with 
 those of their forefathers in the family vault of the neighboring 
 chapel. They had but shared the common lot of all mankind, 
 and why should I be so strangely interested in two fair faces on 
 which the worm had long since feasted in the silent tomb ? Yet 
 those beautiful children seemed to me like a bright vision, seen 
 amid the blackness of darkness, long after I had returned to 
 
THE SISTERS. 
 
 II 
 
 my solitary room, and I determined to make some inquiries 
 respecting them ere I left the neighborhood. There are always 
 some old retainers of a noble house, or at least some descendants 
 of such, who haunt the scenes of ancient splendor ; and from 
 an aged crone, whose mother had been the nurse of the beau- 
 tiful girls whose portraits I had seen, I learned the tale which 
 proved how false had been my own imaginings. 
 
 The ladies Charlotte and Grace were the only children of the 
 proud old marquis whose ancestors had for centuries ruled over 
 the domain of Folkstone. Born after a childless marriage of 
 many years, perhaps both parents would have been better 
 pleased if one fair son had been given to them instead of the 
 two fragile daughters who were now destined to inherit the 
 estates, and extinguish the name of their ancient family. But 
 parental affection silenced, if it could not subdue, their regrets, 
 and ere long the girls were the idols of both father and mother. 
 
 Entitled by their birth to rank and affluence, gifted by nature 
 with exceeding beauty, and almost worshipped by parents who 
 had long despaired of beholding the renewal of their youth in 
 their own offspring, they early learned their own importance in 
 the eyes of the whole household. Their will became a law to 
 all, from the proud old lord down to his humblest servant, and 
 it is not surprising that they soon acquired a full portion of the 
 waywardness which is ever the result of unlimited indulgence. 
 Many a dispute which has separated those whom God himself 
 had united — many a family feud which has left its inheritance 
 of hatred in the second and third generations — many a bitter 
 jealousy — many an evil passion which curdles the milk of human 
 kindness in the hearts of men, and makes the bond of kindred 
 only a fetter which is gladly broken — may be traced to the 
 petty bickerings and still renewed quarrels which disturbed the 
 days of infancy. The misfortunes which befel the beautiful sis- 
 ters, if traced to their first cause, will be found to have arisen 
 in that disunion of feeling, and selfishness which characterized 
 their childhood, while the wonderful similarity which distin- 
 guished their moral as well as their physical nature, and which 
 should have bound them by the closest ties, became only an 
 unfailing source of discord and dislike. 
 
 As nothing is more unlovely than childhood without its inno- 
 cent attributes, its frankness, its overflowing affections, its utter 
 
12 
 
 THE SISTERS. 
 
 unselfishness, its purity of feeling — we will pass over the events 
 of the sisters' early life ; events which, though of trifling import 
 in themselves, were of no little consequence to the formation 
 of character. In their teens, the ladies Charlotte and Grace 
 were known to all the country around as the Beauties of Folk- 
 stone ; and the rare spectacle of two young females so exqui- 
 sitely lovely, drew around them a crowd of admirers. It 
 required an intimate acquaintance with both to discover the 
 points of difference which existed between them, yet these 
 differences were of the most decided and definite kind. Pos- 
 sessed of equally violent passions, equally self-willed and reso- 
 lute of purpose, they yet were most unlike in talent and power 
 of self-possession. Charlotte, with far more real strength of 
 mind than her sister, had far less control over her wayward 
 impulses. Her acuteness of perception and brilliant wit gave 
 point and poignancy to her conversation, which too frequently 
 degenerated into severity and sarcasm, while the least irritation 
 of temper produced such cutting and violent invectives against 
 the offender that few were found willing to brave her anger 
 more than once. But with all these defects she yet possessed 
 a degree of generous frankness, and magnanimity in acknow- 
 ledging her errors, which gave promise of many noble qualities 
 hidden beneath the waywardness of her temper. Grace, on the 
 contrary, was one of those sensitive, morbid creatures, who 
 delight in cherishing every sentiment into a passion ; romance 
 was the atmosphere in which she sought to dwell, and, failing 
 to find its subtle essence pervading the grosser elements of 
 every-day life, she was ever fretful, repining, and discontented. 
 But Grace was, also, a profound and skillful dissembler. Though 
 guided ever by the impulses of a headstrong will, she yet man- 
 aged to appear one of the most refined and delicate and gentle 
 of women. Though resolute of purpose, and defying all hin 
 drances when her passions were excited, she seemed only one 
 of those frail, dependent, timid creatures who attach themselves 
 to the hearts of men by their very helplessness. "While the 
 dark eyes of Charlotte flashed with the fires of intellect, those 
 of Grace were full of liquid light, as if a tear were ever ready to 
 soften their rich lustre. While the chiselled lips of the franker 
 sister were sometimes wreathed with merry smiles, sometimes 
 curved in bitter scorn, the rose-bud mouth of the gentle Grace 
 
THE SISTERS. 
 
 13 
 
 never expressed a ruder emotion than quiet pleasure or placid 
 pensiveness. While the lithe figure of one was seen in all the 
 unstudied grace of attitude, which might beseem a wood-nymph, 
 the drooping form and equally picturesque but more artificial 
 postures of the other would have afforded a model to the sculp- 
 tor who vainly sought to image the statue of modesty. 
 
 Scarcely had the beautiful sisters attained the age of woman- 
 hood, when death deprived them of their mother, whose weak 
 indulgence had fostered the growth of those errors in her chil- 
 dren of which she was keenly sensible ere she was removed 
 from them forever. They felt little respect for the parent who 
 had early submitted her better judgment to their infantine 
 caprices, and, like all spoiled children, they made a most ungrate- 
 ful return for her unlimited affection. She was allowed to 
 minister to their pleasures, but when, excited by their wilfulness, 
 she attempted to act the mentor, or to assert her long dormant 
 authority, she was met by utter contempt for her counsels, 
 and disregard of her commands. Her last days were embit- 
 tered by their disobedience, and the children who had been 
 bestowed as blessings, were, by her own excess of affection, 
 made her most bitter scourges. Their father, a weak, silly, 
 proud old man, who fancied that every thing which appertained 
 to him was beyond^ censure or criticism, and who allowed his 
 daughters to act precisely as they pleased, so long as they did 
 not controvert his peculiar prejudices, was little calculated to 
 be their guide during the perilous period of life which they had 
 just entered. Thus left to follow the dictates of their own will, 
 they could scarcely fail of laying up a store of future suffering. 
 
 Among their numerous admirers was one who mingled timidly 
 with the throng of the noble and gifted that surrounded the 
 lovely heiresses of Folkstone, as if conscious of his feeble claims 
 upon their notice or regard. Herbert Bellenden was a younger 
 son, who, from his boyhood, had been destined to the church, 
 because a valuable living was in the gift of his family. His 
 rectory was but a short distance from Folkstone, and the large 
 estates of his elder brother lay contiguous to those which were 
 the future inheritance of the lovely sisters. Shy and retiring 
 in his manner, a student in the fullest sense of the word, he 
 avoided society with an almost morbid feeling of self-distrust 
 and false pride ; while his keen sense of the beautiful, and his 
 
II 
 
 THE SISTERS. 
 
 ardent admiration of feminine loveliness, led him to find his 
 chief delight in the continuance of his boyish intimacy with the 
 ladies of Folkstone. He had mastered much of the lore of 
 books, and had not altogether neglected the study of human 
 nature, though his reserved manners gave him little facility in 
 this pursuit — but of that strangest of all strange volumes — the 
 heart of woman — he was profoundly and hopelessly ignorant 
 Considering the sex as vastly inferior to men in intellectual 
 strength, he looked upon them as fair and gentle beings, sent to 
 soften man's rugged nature, and embellish life's dreary scenes ? 
 but the idea that they had characters which might be studied, 
 and faculties which might be developed, never once occurred to 
 him. 
 
 To a man of secluded habits and timid nature, the bold, 
 frank, fearless bearing of Charlotte was far more attractive than 
 the sensitive and relying temper of Grace. He had not the 
 decision of character and firmness of purpose which is sufficient 
 for itself, and can, therefore, afford to offer its support to the 
 feebler nature of woman. Charlotte's self-reliance, though 
 generally the least attractive of all feminine traits, seemed 
 peculiarly calculated to please one who was conscious of his 
 own weakness ; and Herbert Bellenden was not long in discov- 
 ering that his affections were no longer in his own keeping. 
 That his fine talents, his poetic temperament, his enthusiasm, 
 and his romance of feeling should have given him an interest in 
 the heart of the morbidly sensitive Grace, was by no means 
 extraordinary; but that the high-spirited and joyous-hearted 
 Charlotte — she who shared her father's pride, and looked with 
 scorn upon all who trod a lowlier path through life than that 
 which she pursued — she who mocked at the name of love, and 
 despised the thought of being humbled to the condition of a 
 loving and submissive woman — she who had heretofore fancied 
 that a paladin of the olden time, a knight ready to do his devoir 
 to the death, or at least a noble gentleman, skilled in all manly 
 and daring exercises, could alone fix her wandering fancy — that 
 she should have loved the shy and vacillating student, was one 
 of those marvels for which philosophy has no explanation. 
 Alas ! were " human love the growth of human will," how much 
 of the suffering which belongs to its full and perfect develop- 
 ment, would the hearts of men, and more especially of women. 
 
THE SISTERS. 
 
 15 
 
 be spared. Herbert loved the high-souled Charlotte ; and the 
 lofty Charlotte, as well as the romantic Grace, had yielded up 
 their hearts to him. Both, turning from the advantages which 
 were offered them by wealth and rank, had bestowed their 
 affections on the youthful rector. But while Charlotte proudly 
 and sternly struggled against the love which was daily gaining 
 new vigor in her heart, Grace, ever attracted by those incon- 
 gruities of life which give a tincture of romance to the dull 
 realities of this working-day world, cherished the feeble senti- 
 ment of preference into a deep and absorbing passion. 
 
 It would be useless to attempt describing the progress of 
 those events which gradually tended to compass the scheme of 
 the romantic but self-willed Grace. She had early discovered 
 Herbert Bellenden's preference for Charlotte — she had almost 
 as soon detected her proud sister's mental struggles against 
 reciprocal affection, and yet, in despite of these things, she 
 resolved to win the object of her love, even if her path to the 
 altar led over her sister's crushed and bleeding heart. All the 
 powerful machinery of a woman's wiliness was put in motion to 
 secure the prize. All that she could devise of boldness or of 
 stratagem was exercised upon the unsuspecting lovers. By cun- 
 ningly constructed tales of Herbert's presumption, Charlotte was 
 instigated to treat him with a degree of proud coldness, almost 
 amounting to contempt, while the downcast eye of Grace, her 
 quivering lip, her trembling voice, her agitated manner when in 
 his presence, were all made to bear palpable witness to the 
 depth of her own fervent tenderness. A woman's cunning is 
 almost sure of success, because men rarely suspect the sex 
 until they have had some experience of their falsehood, and 
 even if once deceived, personal vanity is usually a most powerful 
 auxiliary on the side of the weaker, but more subtle adversary. 
 Herbert Bellenden was entirely deceived by the devices of 
 Grace. He fancied that the sensitive girl was cherishing a 
 hopeless passion which she vainly struggled to hide, and when 
 he compared her ill-concealed agitation of manner with the 
 stern, cold indifference of her sister, he could not but wonder 
 at his own waywardness in thus humbling himself before the 
 contemner, while he turned from the worshipper. 
 
 One evening— it was the dusk hour of twilight, and the sha- 
 dow of the broad and gnarled oaks threw a deeper gloom over 
 
16 
 
 THE SISTERS. 
 
 the pathway, as Herbert encountered the lady of his love. 
 She was treading with quick step a narrow walk which traversed 
 the lawn, and lost itself in the darkest woodland. A closed 
 bonnet partly hid her features, but the proud curve of those 
 smiling lips, the stately tread of that tall form was not to be 
 mistaken. He little knew what thoughts of coming triumph 
 had lent that haughty look and that proud step to the maiden 
 who now stood beside him. Day after day had he brooded 
 over his preference for the cold beauty, and pondered on the 
 belief that he was the object of her sister's love. Sometimes 
 he was tempted to banish himself from the presence of both — 
 sometimes he was upon the point of devoting himself to the 
 gentle and loving Grace — yet his vacillating temper led him 
 still to defer the moment of explanation. Now, however, he 
 was nerved by a courage heretofore unknown to him. They 
 were alone — no witnesses but the silent stars could behold his 
 agitation — his voice would reach no ears save hers — and yield- 
 ing to an impulse which he could neither understand nor con- 
 trol, he poured forth the long repressed tide of deep affection. 
 Silently did the lady listen to the burning words of passion — 
 silently did she suffer him to draw her toward him — silently did 
 she hide her face upon his bosom, as he prayed her to forget 
 rank and fortune, and parental anger, for the strong and abiding 
 love of a husband's heart. Did no misgiving seize him when 
 he found the haughty and frank Charlotte listening calmly to 
 such a proposition ? Did he believe that passion had so sub- 
 dued her proud temper that she would not only wed the unti- 
 tled younger son, but even degrade herself by a clandestine 
 marriage ! 
 
 On the night following this unlooked for interview, a veiled 
 and muffled figure stole silently from a postern gate, which 
 opened upon a by-path through Folkstone park. The clock 
 was striking midnight as the disguised lady approached the 
 trysting place. Herbert Bellenden was already there — the car- 
 riage was in waiting, and, with a silent embrace, the lovers 
 hurried to enter it. Ere the next day's sun had set, the whole 
 neighborhood knew that Herbert Bellenden had robbed Folk- 
 stone of one of its fairest ornaments. The story was widely 
 diffused, but, strange to say, half the world made Charlotte the 
 partner of his flight, while others said that Grace was the bride. 
 
THE SISTERS. 
 
 17 
 
 The gossips were only satisfied when Charlotte, looking pale 
 and sorrowful, but still as proud and queenly as ever, was seen 
 accompanying her father in his daily rides. It was strange, 
 passing strange. 
 
 Time passed on, and wrought his usual changes as he winged 
 his silent way. Five years had elapsed since the eventful night 
 which had thus far decided the fate of the sisters. The old 
 lord of Folkstone was gathered to his fathers — the stately and 
 beautiful Charlotte dwelt alone in the ancient hall, for, except- 
 ing her sister, there were none of her near kindred left upon 
 earth. Herbert Bellenden had inherited the title and fortune 
 which had once belonged to his elder brother, who had recently 
 died childless, and the beautiful Grace, who, to the eyes of the 
 world, had sacrificed ambition to love when she wedded, now 
 reaped her reward in her newly acquired rank and wealth. At 
 the death-bed of their aged father, a reconciliation had taken 
 place between the estranged family. The old man, who could 
 not forgive his daughter's marriage with a younger son, was 
 induced to bestow his blessing on the richly dowered countess, 
 and Charlotte, whose cold, proud demeanor had now become 
 habitual, did not refuse to accede to the proffered peace. But 
 though there might be peace between them, there could be no 
 affection. Charlotte's heart had received a wound which was 
 yet unhealed, and Grace was hiding within her bosom a secret 
 which she dreaded lest her very thoughts should reveal. Jeal- 
 ous of every look and word which her husband bestowed upon 
 another, pining for the kindness and affection which Herbert 
 neither would nor could bestow, and continually trembling lest 
 something should occur to break the frail bonds which seemed 
 to hold her husband to her side, she had indeed reaped her 
 reward in utter disappointment and misery. 
 
 But her punishment was not yet come. Grace was preparing 
 for her first winter in London, where she had resolved to appear 
 in all the splendors of her beauty and her fortune, when a fear- 
 ful accident overthrew all her hopes. "While in the act of step- 
 ping out of her carriage, the horses took fright, and the fair 
 countess was thrown violently to the ground, while her dress 
 becoming entangled in the steps, she was dragged some distance 
 over the rugged road before assistance could be afforded. She 
 was taken up apparently lifeless, and so frightfully disfigured 
 
18 
 
 THE SISTERS. 
 
 that she was scarcely to be recognized. Medical skill was 
 immediately procured, but for many hours she lay between life 
 and death, and it was not until the second day that the doctor 
 pronounced the crisis to be past. 
 
 " Everything depends upon care now," said the man of wis- 
 dom ; " the slightest change may prove fatal to her ; the most 
 trivial neglect is death." 
 
 Then leaving a draught, to be taken at regular intervals, the 
 doctor sought the repose which, during her most imminent 
 danger, he had denied himself. 
 
 That very night, as Charlotte watched beside the bed of her 
 unconscious sister — in the very presence of the helpless sufferer 
 who knew not of what was passing around her — that very night, 
 from the lips of him whom she still loved better than aught else 
 on earth, did Charlotte listen to a tale which almost maddened 
 her. It was her love that Herbert Bellenden had sought — it 
 was her hand he had tried to win — it was her whom he fancied 
 he was bearing to a clandestine, marriage, and not until the hur- 
 ried and confused ceremony was over — not until the veil was 
 removed from the face of her whom he claimed as his wife, did 
 he learn that Grace, and not Charlotte, was his companion. 
 
 " From that hour, Charlotte," said he, " I have loathed the 
 very air she breathed, and the very earth she trod. She has 
 been as a serpent in my path, and yet her tears, her agony, her 
 blandishments, have won me to treat her sometimes with a ten- 
 derness that has seemed almost like love. Yes," he added, 
 bitterly, " she has been as a serpent in my path, as a deadly 
 adder whose sting I feel in my very heart of hearts ; and now 
 she lies like a crushed worm before me — thus to drag out per- 
 haps years of misery — a fearful and humble sight to all — a 
 heavy and wretched burden to my existence." 
 
 What were the feelings of Charlotte when she listened to 
 this strange tale ? The flood-gates of passion were thrown 
 down — the barriers of pride and principle gave way, and in 
 that fearful hour the secret of her long hoarded passion was 
 revealed to the weak and vacillating husband of another. From 
 that moment Charlotte never re-entered her sister's apartment, 
 and never again met Herbert Bellenden save in the presence 
 of others of the household. But it was observed, and men- 
 tioned long afterwards, when circumstances awakened fearful 
 
THE SISTERS. 
 
 10 
 
 suspicions, that the charge of the helpless sufferer now devolved 
 entirely on a superannuated old woman who had long been 
 regarded with an evil eye for her malice and ill-omened power 
 of mischief. 
 
 Though crushed nearly out of all semblance to humanity, 
 Grace seemed to cling to life with wonderful tenacity, and the 
 physician reiterated his opinion that care alone was necessary 
 to restore her to comparative health. 
 
 " She will never walk again, poor thing," said he, gravely, 
 " and she will scarcely be able to recover the use of her hands ; 
 her features, too, must always be terribly distorted, and I doubt 
 whether her eye-sight will be fully restored — but no vital func- 
 tion is seriously injured, and she may yet live many years." 
 
 That very night, or rather at dawn of the following day, 
 Grace was found stark and stiff in death, while the old woman, 
 whose business it was to watch the sufferer, lay in a deep sleep 
 on the floor beside her. The physician seemed thunderstruck 
 when he beheld the lifeless body of her whom he had left but 
 a few hours before in comparative safety, but he could not take 
 it upon himself to assert that some sudden change had not 
 occurred, some rapid and violent attack of disease whose symp- 
 toms were unmarked, and the general disorganization of her 
 whole frame. In consequence of her disfigured appearance, 
 her body was not allowed to lie in state, although a pompous 
 funeral graced the obsequies of the once beautiful Countess of 
 Moreland. The Earl wore the semblance of decent sorrow — 
 the lady Charlotte assumed the dusky habiliments of w t o — and 
 yet, it was observed that the old watcher, whose carelessness 
 had, in all probability, shortened the days of the unhappy 
 countess, was taken into the household, and honored with the> 
 confidence of the lady of Folkstone. 
 
 Three months had scarcely elapsed, after the frightful events 
 just narrated, when a marriage was solemnized secretly and by 
 torch-light, in the chapel of Folkstone. The bride was the 
 beautiful Charlotte, and her voice rang out through the dark 
 aisles of the lonely church with almost unnatural clearness as 
 she uttered the solemn responses. But the tones of the bride- 
 groom were hollow and low, and his frame quivered with strong 
 emotion, for his weak and timid nature shrunk from the thought 
 of that which he had done, and that which he was now doing. 
 
20 
 
 THE SISTERS. 
 
 He had yielded to the bolder wickedness of the woman at his 
 side. But he was appalled by the shadows which conscience 
 called up before his bewildered sight. Charlotte was revenged, 
 alike upon the sister who had wronged, and the dastard lover 
 who had wavered, when decision would have afforded hap- 
 piness to both. Grace was laid in an unhonored grave, Her- 
 bert Bellenden was her wedded husband, and the long cher- 
 ished bitterness of her wayward heart had at last poured out 
 its venom, and was relieved. 
 
 Did she not fear the anger of an avenging Providence ? Did 
 she not know that retributive justice, sooner or later, must over- 
 take the guilty ? She was allowed just time enough to learn 
 that the husband for whom she had perilled her soul was ren- 
 dered utterly contemptible by his vacillating character and his 
 low vices — and then the hour of reckoning came. A child was 
 born to the earldom of Moreland — a son to inherit the name 
 and honors of an ancient race — but a cry of inexpressible hor- 
 ror from all who looked upon him was his only welcome to a 
 world of suffering. 
 
 For twenty years Charlotte was manacled and bound like a 
 wild beast, chained to the walls of her own apartment, an object 
 of terror and pity to all who looked upon her raving madness, 
 or listened to the wild howlings of her insanity. The child, a 
 helpless, crippled idiot, outlived its miserable parents, and, by 
 its death in 17 — , the line of tw T o of England's noblest families 
 became extinct, while the estates fell to distant collateral heirs. 
 
 Such was the real history of those fair children whose pic- 
 tured semblance had so fascinated my gaze in that lonely cham- 
 ber — such were the fortunes of those for v» 7 hom I had fancied 
 a destiny of innocent happiness. 
 
 A supreme fondness for any creature presumes that we do 
 not perceive any worthier object ; or, perceiving it, do not relish 
 it ; and w T e need not go further for proof of our utter incapacity 
 for advancing in excellence, till we see and relish something 
 higher and better. 
 
FLOWERS. 
 
 "What a surprising variety is observable among the flowery 
 fribes. How has the bountiful hand of Providence diversified 
 these nicest pieces of his workmanship ; added the charms of an 
 endless novelty to all their other perfections ! A constant uni- 
 formity would soon render the entertainment tiresome or insipid ; 
 therefore every species is formed on a separate plan, and exhibits 
 something entirely new. The fashion spreads not from family 
 to family; but every one has a mode of its own, which is truly 
 original. The most cursory glance perceives an apparent dif- 
 ference, as well as a peculiar delicacy, in the airs and habits, 
 the attitude and lineaments, of every distinct class. 
 
 Some rear their heads with a majestic mien, and overlook, 
 like sovereigns or nobles, the whole parterre. Others seem 
 more moderate in their aims, and advance only to the middle sta- 
 tions ; a genius turned for heraldry might term them the gentry 
 of the border. While others, free from all aspiring views, creep 
 uuambitiously on the ground, and look like the commonality of 
 the kind. Some are intersected with elegant stripes or studded 
 with radiant spots. Some affect to be genteelly powdered or 
 neatly fringed : while others are plain in their aspect, unaffected 
 in their dress, and content to please with a naked simplicity. 
 Some assume the monarch's purple : some look most becoming 
 in the virgin's white. Here stands a warrior clad with crimson ; 
 there sits a magistrate robed in scarlet ; and yonder struts a 
 pretty fellow, that seems to have dipped his plumes in the rain- 
 bow, and glitters in all the gay colors of that resplendent arch. 
 Some rise into a curious cup, or fall into a set of beautiful bells. 
 Some spread, themselves in a swelling tuft, or crowd into a 
 delicious cluster. In some the predominant stain softens, by 
 the gentlest diminutions, till it has even stolen away from itself. 
 
22 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 The eye is amused at the agreeable delusion; and we wonder 
 to find ourselves insensibly decoyed into quite a different lustre. 
 In others you would think the fine tinges were emulous of pre- 
 eminence. Disdaining to mingle, they confront one another 
 with the resolution of rivals, determined to dispute the prize of 
 beauty, while each is improved by the opposition into the high- 
 est vivacity of complexion. 
 
 Nor is the simplicity of the operation less astonishing than 
 the accuracy of the workmanship or the infinitude of the effects- 
 Should you ask, " "Where and what are the materials which 
 beautify the blooming world? What rich tints, what splendid 
 dyes, what stores of shining crayons stand by the Heavenly 
 Limner when he paints the robe of nature ?" 'Tis answered, 
 His powerful pencil needs no such costly apparatus. A single 
 principle, under his conducting hand, branches out into an im- 
 mensity of the most varied and most finished forms. The 
 moisture of the earth and of the circumambient air, passed 
 through proper strainers, and disposed in a range of pellucid 
 tubes ; this performs all the wonders, and produces all the beau- 
 ties of vegetation. This creeps along the fibres of the low- 
 spread moss, and climbs to the very tops of the lofly -waving 
 cedars. This, attracted by the root, and circulating through 
 invisible canals — this bursts into gems, expands itself into leaves, 
 and clothes the forest with all its verdant honors. This one 
 plain and simple cause gives birth to all the charms which deck 
 the youth and maturity of the year. 
 
 By looking at the sun, we lose the power of seeing other 
 objects. It was, I conceive, one design of God, in hiding him- 
 self so far from us, in throwing around himself the veil of his 
 works, to prevent this very evil. He intended that our faculties 
 should be left at liberty to act upon other things beside him- 
 self; that the will should not be crushed by his overpowering 
 greatness ; that we should be free agents ; that we should 
 recognize rights in ourselves and in others, as well as in the 
 Creator, and thus be introduced into a wide and ever-enlarging 
 sphere of action and duty. 
 
THE SPIEIT OF SONG 
 
 BY ANNIE DANE. 
 
 Oh ! Spirit of Song, sweet Spirit divine, 
 Thou hast left unblest this heart of mine ; 
 From the tiny throat of the warbling bird, 
 Thy thrilling and cheering tones are heard ; 
 From the rosy lips of the laughing child, 
 Thy notes come gushing merrily and wild. 
 
 Oh ! Spirit of Song, sweet Spirit divine, 
 Thou hast left unblest this heart of mine. 
 "Was it nursed so darkly in sin and gloom, 
 With crushing doubts for a life-long doom, 
 That, bending its cradled infancy o'er, 
 Thou wast haunted afar forever more 1 
 
 Oh ! Spirit of Song, sweet Spirit divine, 
 Thou hast left unblest this heart of mine ; 
 And can any one love it, so cold and drear, 
 With no soft musical strains to cheer — 
 With no lay to pour when the moon gleams bri 
 And no flute-like voice for the still twilight 1 
 
 Oh ! Spirit of Song, sweet Spirit divine, 
 Thou hast left unblest this heart of mine ; 
 And yet it has melodies all unheard — 
 Though sadder than those of a prisoned bird— 
 And fountains of joy that sparkle and play, 
 But whose gushing waters are pent alway. 
 
 Oh ! Spirit of Song, sweet Spirit divine, 
 Thou hast left unblest this heart of mine ; 
 And when love shall come, with its wild unrest 
 To make a home in my feeble breast, 
 I weep to think that the new-born prayer 
 Must seek in vain for utterance there. 
 
 Oh ! Spirit of Song, sweet Spirit divine, 
 Thou hast left unblest this heart of mine ; 
 And when I would join the chant of praise. 
 My feeble lips can no offering raise— 
 
s 
 
 24 VIRTUES. 
 
 # - 
 
 Can never their hymn of devotion pour, 
 At His holy shrine, whom, unseen, I adore. 
 
 Oh ! Spirit of Song, sweet Spirit divine, 
 Thou hast left unhlest this heart of mine ; 
 Yet Hope, sweet angel, is hovering near, 
 On a radiant wing, all spotless and clear ; 
 And she points afar to a sunny land, 
 The birth-place of song, with its angel band. 
 
 Oh ! Spirit of Song, sweet Spirit divine, 
 Thou hast left unblest this heart of mine ; 
 Yet there I shall languish and roam no more, 
 With the chalice of tenderness brimming o'er: 
 But no words to express, and no sounds to reveal 
 The full strength of affection that now I conceal. 
 
 Oh ! Spirit of Song, sweet Spirit divine, 
 
 Thou hast left unblest this heart of mine ; 
 
 Yet there I shall wait, with a thrilling lyre, 
 
 And a soul unburdened with vain desire, 
 
 And sing a glad welcome to all I love, 
 
 As they raise their bright pinions to hasten above. 
 
 VIETUES . 
 
 Great virtues are rare ; the occasions for them are rarer ; and 
 when they do occur we are prepared for them. We are excited 
 by the grandeur of the sacrifices. We are supported either by 
 the splendor of the deed in the eyes of the world, or by the 
 self complacency that we experience from the performance of an 
 uncommon action. Thus the hero perishes on the field of battle, 
 and the martyr at the stake. Little things are unforeseen ; they 
 return every moment ; they come in contact with our pride, our 
 indolence, our haughtiness, our readiness to take offence ; they 
 contradict our inclinations perpetually. Hence we regard not 
 as heroes those who fail not in the smallest duties of life ; nor 
 as martyrs those who sacrifice themselves to minuter virtues. It 
 is, however, only by fidelity in little things that a true and con- 
 stant love of right and virtues can be distinguished from a 
 passing fervor of spirit — an enthusiasm of the moment. 
 
THE SOMNAMBULE. 
 
 BY ADOLPH. 
 
 The phantoms of night had fled. The light of tne morning was 
 around me. Over hill and dale went forth the golden beams, 
 till the carol of birds rang merrily, and the minute features of 
 the dreamiest landscape that ever zoned a dear home passed 
 into full exhibition. 
 
 No disease illuded the senses, or disturbed the operations of the 
 understanding. The dew of my youth and strength was upon»me, 
 and the visions of the night had refreshed me I had dreamed of 
 usefulness — I had dreamed of renown — I had dreamed of love. 
 One by one the visions departed to the low tones of music, and the 
 glances of affection, and all within me was placid as the lake 
 which has just mirrored the bright hues and gay forms of a 
 summer sunset. 
 
 A sound was upon the breeze, and a voice was in my ear. I 
 raised my eyes from the classic page on which they were resting, 
 and lo ! Mercury, the herald-god, stood before me. I knew him 
 by the winged helmet upon his head, the winged sandals upon 
 his feet, and the wand of office in his hand — just as he was in 
 the days of the bard of Mantua, and of the blind old man of 
 Scio. Addressing me in the very best of modern Greek, he 
 summoned me in the name of cloud-compelling Jupiter, king 
 of gods and men, to be present without delay at a grand council 
 of the Olympian Deities. I was about inviting him to take a 
 seat by the fire, and wait for some ambrosial refreshments, when 
 he suddenly took me by the hand, and at once we were in mid- 
 heaven, and posting to the Orient with the speed of thought. 
 
 Hail, F ! lovely home of the lovely and true ! Hail 
 
 mighty Ocean ! thy bosom peopled with isles, and dotted with 
 sails; bearing on thy breast the navies and argosies of the 
 world, and untold wealth of bold and free hearts. Hail to the 
 land of the renowned Cid ! the land of the tourney and ballad — 
 
26 
 
 THE SOMNAMBULE. 
 
 of chivalry and romance ! Yonder, in the Sierra Nevada, the 
 Campeador and Himena plighted their early troth. There, at 
 the lists of Seville, Kodrigo broke his hundred lances -for his 
 lady-love. There, from the tower of the Alhambra, watched the 
 tearful Moorish maiden as the white plume of her chieftain 
 floated long over the surge of battle and sank — and Granada 
 was lost and won. And thou, Hesperia, hail ! And hail, thou 
 land of Dido ! hapless, forsaken Dido — the pitied of all hearts. 
 
 The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece ! 
 
 Where burning Sappho loved and sung ! 
 
 And away in the distance the Troad of Helen, and the storied 
 straits of Leander. 
 
 At this moment a dense cloud poured around us. With the 
 rapidity of thought we darted upward for a moment, and then 
 stood. The cloud slowly rolled away. My journey was finished. 
 Olympus was reached — the assembly of the gods was before me. 
 
 Truly an august assembly ! All riches of nature and art, 
 all beauty and majesty, were there. There sat the Thunderer, 
 whose nod shakes the world, and queenly Juno by his side. 
 There sat Neptune with his trident, Pluto with his keys, Apollo 
 with his bags and lyre, Venus, radiant queen of beauty and 
 love, with her sisters, and on her knee the mischief-loving boy 
 of the laughing eye and the rattling quiver. In a word, every 
 deity was present, and every countenance was grave. Surely 
 the business is weighty which checks the mirth of the Thyrsian 
 god, and crowds the morning Divan of. Olympus. 
 
 Let no one doubt the reality of the facts I shall relate, or 
 question my right to relate thorn. They are as true as Jupiter 
 himself, and I hold my commission to divulge them under the 
 broad seal of Olympus. 
 
 The Council opened. Jupiter nodded — the world shook, and 
 Mercury came forward. Hark to the silver-voiced herald! 
 " Jupiter wills the plaintiff to appear and state bis complaints; 
 the will of Jupiter be done !" In an instant the rattling of a 
 quiver was heard, and, at a bound, Cupid appeared on the 
 rostrum, and, with lifted hands, frowning brow, and trumpet- 
 voice, thus addressed the assembly : — 
 
 " Paternal Jove, and ye sons and daughters of Olympus ! 
 My power is scorned ! My arrows are derided ! My throne 
 is in danger ! What to me are the trophies of the past ? What 
 
THE SOMNAMBULE. 
 
 27 
 
 to me the pledges of the future ? Example spreads like the 
 miasm of the desert. Alas ! for the halcyon hours of the dim 
 past. Alas ! for the days of the old renown. Then the heart 
 was tender, the age golden, and Arcadia universal. Then 
 maidens welcomed me with smiles, and I had an altar in every 
 home, and an arrow in every heart. But gone forever are the 
 days of my power, and gone the days of love. 
 
 Wonder, not, most mighty father, at the strength of my lan- 
 guage, or the vehemence of my manner. My provocation is 
 great. 1 1 have had wrongs which might stir a fever in the 
 blood of age,. and make the infant sinew strong as steel. 1 Is it 
 nothing that there is a conspiracy on foot against me ? Is it 
 nothing that the flowers have determined to remain in their 
 native bowers, and the gems on their native bed, and never to 
 bloom or sparkle but for themselves alone ? Profound is my 
 sorrow, and vast my indignation. Listen, ye gods and god- 
 desses, while I unfold the causes of my grief; the efforts I have 
 made to remove them, and urge you, with the cogency of argu- 
 ment and expostulation, to aid me by your counsels, and sustain 
 me by your power. 
 
 Far away are the pillars of Hercules, and distant is 1 Ultima 
 Thule.' More distant than all, and where the sun sinks to his 
 rest, lies the home of the lovely and true. Visit it, all ye who 
 love fair fields, bright eyes, and cold hearts. Here lies the 
 cause of my grief. Here rebellion is rife — organized, consoli- 
 dated rebellion. Here a society has been formed against me, 
 and officers chosen, and the nymphs, Amazon-like, with panoply 
 and championess, are now marching against me under the waving 
 standards of defiance. Full many a shaft have I launched; full 
 many a knight have I sent against them. With lance in rest, 
 and in full career, dashed my crested champions to the shock ; 
 but, 
 
 1 Heu pietas ! heu prisca fides ! invicta que bello dextra.' 
 
 Crested helm has fallen, and rider and steed have bit the dust. 
 Pierced through and through, sank to their rest the noble and 
 the brave. ' They have slept their last sleep, they have fought 
 their last battle,' and no bard celebrates their deeds, and no 
 requiem is chanted over them as they lie all cold on the bed 
 of honor. Peace to the shades of the mighty departed 1 
 
28 
 
 THE SOMNAMBULE. 
 
 Time would fail me to tell all the measures I have taken 
 against my enemies. I have become Protean-formed. I have 
 gone against them in many a legend, and ballad, and lay of the 
 gifted minstrel, and tale of the olden time. Eomance kindle3 
 the imagination, and poetry softens the soul to love. I have 
 gone in dreams and visions of the night. Then, from the dim 
 dream-land came to the maiden fairy forms of grace and fascina- 
 tion, and poured the gush of music, and breathed the air of Araby 
 the blessed. There were lovers wandering in the pale moonlight, 
 and ' soft eyes that looked love to eyes that spake again,' and the 
 trembling utterances of a full and deathless affection, and cheeks 
 that touched, and hands that clasped, and vows of eternal con- 
 stancy, and moments big with the very ' life of life ' of young 
 hearts, and sad partings, and a meeting never to part again, 
 and long bright day of wedded happiness such as the gods 
 award to beauty and to virtue. The morning dawned, the 
 visions fled, and the maiden awoke. The maiden awoke ' with 
 the rose in her cheek, and the dew in her eye;' but still the 
 championess is leading, and the nymphs are marching, and the 
 standards are floating in the 1 home of the beautiful and true/ 
 
 All, all is in vain. I have tried the combat and have fallen. 
 I have tried stratagem and have failed. And never more on 
 field or flood, in hall or lady's bower, shall I lift the foot or 
 shake the wing till Olympus rises to my aid, and Jupiter thun- 
 ders before me the mandate of dispersion. 
 
 But I must close. Brief has been my statement of facts, 
 and brief must be my appeal for aid. Oh ! many and strong 
 are my claims upon you. Celestial is my birth and lineage. 
 From age to age I have dwelt among you. Not a god or god- 
 dess but will testify that my sceptre is of the olive branch, and 
 my chains of roses. I am the parent of beautiful smiles and 
 blushes, of gentle tones and furtive glances, of electric thrills of 
 pleasure, and the sweet charities of home. I give to flowers 
 their language, and fill the forest glade with the 1 sweet wood- 
 notes wild.' I give to dress its elegance, to manners their polish, 
 to society its refinement. I give to beauty a protector, to weak- 
 ness a strong arm on which to lean, to the flower the stem 
 around which it may entwine itself, and the wind of heaven dare 
 not visit it too roughly, or slander speak against it, when I am 
 by. I preside over joyous youth, and the eye sparkles, and the 
 
THE SOMNAMBULE. 
 
 29 
 
 blood dances at my presence. I am the nurse of chivalry — I 
 am the very fountain and life of belles lettres. Poets pour 
 libations to me, and genius offers whole hecatombs upon my 
 altar. Grave philosophy, too, sooner or later, acknowledges my 
 merit, and bows at my shrine. I spread the sails of enterprise 
 — I prompt the scholar to his deeds of deathless fame. He 
 seeks to deck the jewel of his heart with jewels of the mind, 
 and pants for glory and the laurel that he may lay them at the 
 feet of her he loves. 
 
 In a word, sixty hoar centuries send up their testimony from 
 the abyss of the past, and, with mighty and emphatic voice, 
 appeal to you in my behalf, as they attest the blessings of my 
 reign. The sands are wasting, the moments are flying, and the 
 council will soon be over. I read your countenances, and I 
 anticipate your decision. 1 Coming events cast their shadows 
 before.' Eebellion is crushed, and vindicated is the glory of 
 my ancient monarchy. 
 
 * lam redit et virgo ; redeunt Saturnia regna.' " 
 
 The orator ceased. Profound silence reigned in the assembly. 
 It was the silence of a few moments only. A low murmur 
 arose, and spread itself gradually into a universal din of voices. 
 Then came a lull. Again swelled the chorus of confusion — 
 louder and louder — obstreperous Mars leading off with brazen 
 throat and clanging shield — louder and louder — fiercer and 
 fiercer — what a tempest ! Can none constrain to order the toss- 
 ing conclave ! I raised my eye timidly to the seat of Jupiter, 
 and lo ! the Thunderer, with flushed face and straining muscle, 
 poising a bolt for the far Occident. My eyes instinctively closed 
 as they caught the incipient flash — a stunning roar as of a 
 mighty park of artillery succeeded, and 
 
 I awoke. The last echoes of thunder were dying in my ear. 
 The rain pattered against the window, and the winds shrieked 
 around the angles and shutters and giant elms of the old dwell- 
 ing. On my table lay an open Odyssey, and between its leaves 
 a narrative of the progress of the order of the Sisters of Charity 
 in the United States. My right hand held a pen over a sheet 
 of freshly written manuscript. Then I knew myself a Somnam- 
 
 BULE. 
 
THE DISH OF MUSHEOOMS. 
 
 [FROM THE FRENCH OF MARIE AYCARD.] 
 
 BY MRS. ST. SIMON. 
 
 During the latter days of the carnival, M. Aubertin, a rich 
 banker, who had long since retired from business, was seated 
 at his fireside with his friend, M. de Marans. It was near mid- 
 night. They had left a gay company in the saloon, where much 
 had been said of the ball at the opera, and it was supposed 
 that they were preparing to go and spend an hour there. The 
 conversation soon grew animated between the two old men. 
 
 " My dear Aubertin," said M. de Marans, " I cannot under- 
 stand the obstinacy with which you oppose your son's marriage 
 with Mademoiselle de Moeris ; she is an admirable young girl, 
 she has a considerable fortune, and, on the score of family, there 
 is nothing to be desired. They love each other, and " 
 
 " It is not I, my friend, who oppose this marriage ; it is 
 Madame Aubertin." 
 
 " I know it ; but what are her reasons ?" 
 
 " Ah, ha !" said the husband, " reasons ! reasons ! Why, you 
 know very well that she will give none." 
 
 " Listen to me, Aubertin ; you are a prudent and reasonable 
 man ; you have always been so. I have never observed but 
 one fault in you ; a fault, it is true, which has often obscured 
 your good qualities, and one which, at our age, ought to have 
 disappeared — I mean jealousy." 
 
 " Ah, jealous ! I am no longer so. Why, you see, my wife 
 is preparing to go to the ball at the opera, and I do not think 
 of accompanying her." 
 
 " I should hope so, indeed ; why, she is fifty years of age ; I 
 do not think you still jealous. I am ready to acknowledge that 
 you have corrected this folly. I would merely remind you that 
 
THE DISH OF MUSHROOMS. 
 
 31 
 
 you have harbored it for twenty years, at least, and that this 
 protracted jealousy has been a proof of your love." 
 
 " Yes, I have been very fond of my wife." 
 
 " This fondness," replied M. de Marans, " which I am far 
 from finding fault with, has permitted Madame Aubertin to 
 acquire great influence over you, and at this present moment 
 she abuses it," 
 
 u You think me very weak, then cried M. Aubertin. 
 
 " So weak," replied his friend, M that you do not even know 
 the motive of your wife's refusal." 
 
 " Who has told you so ?" 
 
 " You, yourself; but if you do know it, let me hear it, and 
 
 if it is reasonable " 
 
 " It is very reasonable." 
 " Let us hear." 
 
 "You will laugh, still you will see that she could not act 
 otherwise than she does, and that I, for my part, have not the 
 slightest word to say in the matter." 
 
 " What is it then, if you please ? wherefore this aversion 
 which nothing seems to justify ?" 
 
 " It is on account of a dish of mushrooms." 
 
 M. de Marans pushed back his chair ; he gazed at his friend 
 attentively, as if he were seeking in his eyes for some tokens 
 of mental derangement. M. Aubertin's glance was mild and 
 tranquil, although somewhat embarrassed. 
 
 " A dish of mushrooms ?" said M. de Marans, in extreme 
 astonishment. 
 
 "Yes, a dish of mushrooms." 
 
 " Come, come," said M. de Marans, " let us speak seriously. 
 You are jesting." 
 
 " By no means. You know that it is my favorite dish, and 
 that it is not only disagreeable to my wife's palate, but injurious 
 to her stomach ; she can scarcely bear to see it on the table, and 
 she would die of hunger rather than touch it." 
 
 "I know that, but I do not see what connection " 
 
 " It was necessary to remind you of this, before relating, as 
 I am about to do, that which occurred in my family nearly 
 twenty-two years ago." 
 
 " At the time when you were jealous ?" 
 
 " Precisely. My wife was then twenty years of age, and I 
 
32 
 
 THE DISH OF MUSHROOMS. 
 
 was still in business. "We received much company; M. de 
 
 Moeris came very often " 
 
 "The father of the young girl whom your son wishes to 
 espouse ?" 
 
 " The same. If you knew him at that time, you must re- 
 member that he was a handsome fellow, agreeable, intelligent, 
 and one whose attentions were well calculated to excite jealousy. 
 So I was jealous !" 
 
 "Yes, yes!" said M. de Marans; "I recognise you there, 
 my friend ; I would wager that this jealousy had no reasonable 
 foundation, and that you took the phantoms of your disordered 
 brain for realities." 
 
 " You would lose, my dear friend, if you made such a wager." 
 
 " I defy you to prove it." 
 
 " Nothing is easier." 
 
 M. Aubertin rose, and approaching the wall of the apart- 
 ment, struck it with the back of his hand ; it sounded hollow. 
 
 " You know," he said, " that there was a certain Dionysius 
 at Syracuse, who resorted to a similar means to learn his friends' 
 secrets ; a king of England has imitated his example, and this 
 hiding-place was called the king's ears ; I have copied after these 
 two personages ; I have had my ears." 
 
 " Indeed !" 
 
 " Yes, some time ago, during the first years of my marriage, 
 I caused a small closet to be made yonder, the existence of 
 which was suspected by no one, and in which all that is said in 
 this chamber can be heard with the utmost distinctness. A 
 secret door, carefully concealed from view, gave me admission, 
 and when they thought me at a distance, I was near." 
 
 " What indelicacy ! Aubertin, I did not think you capable 
 of it." 
 
 " You are right ; I do not seek to excuse it. But remember 
 that I had a pretty wife — that I was jealous — and that I am 
 relating to you the story of a dish of mushrooms. Besides, I 
 assure you, it is now more than ten years since I have set foot 
 in that closet ; of late, indeed, I perceive that I have lost the 
 key to it; how long I do not know. "Well, I could thus watch, 
 at my pleasure, the progress of M. de Moeris' passion, and of 
 his success with my wife. Day by day, I heard the lover grow 
 more tender — my wife oppose — at first, her love for me ; then, 
 
THE DISH OF MUSHROOMS. 
 
 33 
 
 her duties, her affection for her son — the same one whose mar- 
 riage with Mademoiselle de Moeris she opposes so violently to- 
 day. Madame Aubertin spoke of her reputation, which would 
 be blasted by a fault, of the regret, the agitation, the remorse 
 which follows the slightest deviation from the path of duty, 
 while M. de Moeris vowed eternal love ; he offered her his for- 
 tune, his life ; he wished to elope with her — to take her to the 
 world's end — and swore that he would love her as devotedly 
 in old age as he did at that very moment. One day, at last, his 
 passion knew no bounds ; it broke out in reproaches against 
 her insensibility ; and Madame Aubertin told him, in a voice 
 interrupted by sobs, that she could not reveal to him the secrets 
 of her heart, but that perhaps he had little reason for complaint, 
 and that it was possible he was not the only unhappy one ; in a 
 word, she gave him to understand that I was the sole obstacle 
 to her happiness, and that but for me, she would be well pleased 
 to reward so much love and devotion.' 
 u Indeed !" cried M. de Marans. 
 
 u It was thus, at least, that M. de Moeris understood her," 
 continued M. Aubertin. " He then exclaimed that I had been 
 created to render him the most wretched of mankind ; that, but 
 for me, his life would glide on sweetly and happily, and, although 
 he did not venture, doubtless, to express all the hatred which 
 he felt towards me, nor to utter, in precise terms, the charitable 
 wish to see my widow wear mourning, yet he said so much, that 
 Madame Aubertin checked him by reminding him that I was 
 her husband, and that these were words and wishes to wmich 
 she could not listen. The two separated in sadness, and I left 
 my hiding place. What was to be done ? My rival was beloved, 
 or at least, on the point of being so. Never did a jealous hus- 
 band find himself in a position so annoying as mine ; informed 
 of all, yet the manner in which I had surprised the secret pre- 
 vented me from speaking. I cursed my stratagem ; I would 
 have thrown my key into the river, but alas! I knew too much 
 not to be sure that I would have ordered another to be made 
 on the morrow ! I thought of challenging M. de Moeris ; 
 then I rejected this idea, and, fearful that my wife might 
 yield, I resolved to quit Paris — to carry her off from him 
 before he carried her off from me. I passed the rest of the 
 day, and the following night, in a most deplorable condition. 
 
34 
 
 THE DISH OF MUSHROOMS. 
 
 I formed a thousand projects, without being able to decide 
 upon a single one, and in the morning, with a face calm in 
 appearance, and with a constrained smile upon my lips, I met 
 my wife." 
 
 " And you did not tell her " 
 
 " I did not say a word to her ; you will hear what passed. 
 A domestic knocked at the door. 
 
 1 "What is it ? What do you want V I asked 
 
 * The cook, sir, wishes to speak with you,' said the domestic. 
 
 1 The cook ! what can he want of me ? It is not my business 
 to inspect his accounts." 
 
 { He has some favor to ask of you, perhaps,' said my wife. 
 ' Go into your own apartment, and admit him.' 
 
 ( I have no secrets from you,' I replied to Madame Aubertin, 
 £ above all, with my domestics ; besides, if the cook has a favor 
 to ask, he will prefer, doubtless, to receive it at your hands 
 rather than at mine. Send him up.' 
 
 The cook entered, pale, trembling, and with that air of mys- 
 tery which announces some terrible accident. 
 
 £ What has happened, Eigaucl ?' said my wife, alarmed at the 
 agitation of his features. 
 
 1 Ah, madame,' replied Eigaud, with his cotton cap in his 
 hand, ' if you knew ' 
 
 1 Speak, Rigaud !' 
 
 Rigaud had received an anonymous letter, in which he had 
 found a bank note for a thousand francs, and the promise of a 
 second note of the same amount, if he would pour into a dish 
 of mushrooms — a dish that he prepared for me alone — the con- 
 tents of a small phial which was attached to the letter. He 
 was assured that it would add greatly to the flavor of the mush- 
 rooms, and would be followed by no inconvenience either to 
 himself or to any one else. The honest fellow gave me the 
 letter, and drew the phial from his pocket. He was well satis- 
 fied that the request could not be an innocent one, since it had 
 been made with such mystery, and accompanied with such s? 
 sum of money. I took the phial, examined its contents, and 
 having poured a few drops upon a lump of sugar, I gave it tc 
 a small dog, of w 7 hich my wife was very fond. Scarcely had 
 the poor animal swallowed the poisonous morsel, when his limbs 
 
THE DISH OF MUSHROOMS. 
 
 35 
 
 stiffened, his eyes rolled in his head, and he fell dead upon the 
 carpet. 
 
 1 Oh, heavens ! it is poison !' exclaimed my wife, and, throwing 
 herself into my arms, she deluged my face with tears. 
 
 The cook, motionless with fright, implored me to accompany 
 him to a commissary of the police, that he might make his 
 deposition. I, calm and quiet, applauded Bigaud's fidelity, 
 acknowledged that I owed my life to him. and, placing in his 
 hands a note for a thousand francs, to make up for that which 
 had been promised him, I admonished him to be very careful 
 of my dish of mushrooms, which I expected to eat with more 
 than usual satisfaction, leaving him at liberty to seek out a 
 magistrate, and make such a deposition as he chose. When 
 I was alone with my wife, she wept, she sobbed, she over- 
 whelmed me with marks of attachment and of love. . I sim- 
 ply told her it appeared that I had a mortal enemy, but that 
 with a loving wife, and surrounded by faithful domestics, I had 
 nothing to fear, and I left her to her reflections. Another, in 
 my place, would have been curious to overhear the conversation 
 which would take place at the next interview between M. de 
 Moeris and my wife. For my part, I knew Madame Aubertin 
 so well, I had so plainly seen the horror with which the intended 
 crime had inspired her, that I was certain that this interview 
 would not take place. In truth, Madame Aubertin, terrified 
 at a passion so violent and unscrupulous, arranged matters in 
 such a way as to let M. de Moeris understand that he would 
 not be admitted to her presence. The latter, piqued at this 
 conduct, grew weary of a passion so poorly recompensed, and 
 soon after married." 
 
 "Ha!" cried M. de Marans, "you have related a horrible 
 story; this M. de Moeris must be a monster, and I am no 
 longer astonished that Madame Aubertin is unwilling to ally 
 herself with a man who could have meditated such a crime. 
 But I am surprised that you do not share in her aversion and 
 contempt for M. de Moeris." 
 
 " For M. de Moeris !" replied Aubertin : " What ! do you 
 think that it was he who tried to poison me ?" 
 
 " And who, then, could it be ?" 
 
 " Why, I myself." 
 
 « How, you ?" 
 
36 
 
 THE DISH OF MUSHROOMS. 
 
 u Yes, it was I who wrote the anonymous letter to my cook, 
 and who sent him the poison." 
 " You ! you, Aubertin ?" 
 
 " Certainly. I was jealous, and I knew what reason I had 
 to be so ; M. de Moeris, by regarding me as the sole obstacle 
 to his happiness, by wishing for my death, suggested to me an 
 idea, which I at once put into execution, and which delivered 
 me from a dangerous rival. My wife's dog was killed by it, 
 and it cost me two thousand francs. I do not think that was 
 paying too much to recover my lost tranquillity." 
 
 " But you have calumniated an honest man." 
 
 " I ! have I ever said a word ? Has my mouth ever opened 
 to accuse him ?" 
 
 " You well knew that your wife would suspect M. de Moeris, 
 and look upon him as a poisoner." 
 
 " That is true, and it was to produce this result that I acted 
 as I did, for what more agreeable news could M. de Moeris 
 hear than that of my death ? Had he not openly desired it ? 
 and was not my wife obliged to interrupt him in the midst of 
 his homicidal wishss ?" 
 
 " True," replied M. de Marans ; " but do you believe him 
 capable of putting so base a design into execution ? Because 
 he was in love to become a poisoner ! Do you not think that 
 he is an honest, an honorable man ?" 
 
 •' c Without doubt." 
 
 " Why then brand him with the opprobrium of a crime ?" 
 
 " Because I was jealous, and because this passion, as violent 
 as love itself, is also as blind. Now, after the lapse of twenty 
 years, when I no longer see with the same eyes as then, I blush 
 at my conduct — I blame myself as you blame me ;. but it is only 
 of late that I have thought thus ; so long as I was jealous, I 
 approved of what I had done ; now, the veil has fallen from 
 my eyes, still you will comprehend that I can neither inform 
 my wife, nor disapprove of her views in reference to this mar- 
 riage." 
 
 " And your son will be unhappy, Mademoiselle de Moeris 
 will not espouse the man she loves," said M. de Marans, " be- 
 cause, twenty years ago, you calumniated M. de Moeris." 
 
 " But confess, my friend," replied M. Aubertin, " that this 
 calumny, if it were one, was the most innocent imaginable ; it 
 
THE DISH OF MUSHROOMS. 
 
 37 
 
 was restricted to a single person ; then, it has prevented me 
 from being " 
 
 "Come, come, I know your wife; there was no danger " 
 
 At this moment the door of the apartment was opened, and 
 Madame Aubertin entered. 
 
 " Ah ! you here, madame ?" said her husband, glancing at 
 the clock, which was upon the point of striking one. " I thought 
 that you were at the ball" 
 
 " No, sA*," she replied, " I begged my son to escort thither 
 the ladies who passed the evening with us, and I have employed 
 the time in reflecting upon this marriage which is proposed to 
 us. I have changed my opinion, sir; I give my consent to this 
 union; I cease to oppose it." 
 
 "Indeed, madame!" 
 
 "Yes, sir," replied Madame Aubertin. " By the bye, here is 
 a little key which 1 chanced to find some days ago — is it not 
 yours ?" 
 
 M. Aubertin took the key, cast a stealthy glance upon it, 
 blushed, and thrust it into his pocket. 
 
 " My friend," said M. de Marans, " the ears of Dionysius of 
 Syracuse, and of James of England, have just been turned 
 against you." 
 
 The husband hung his head ; after twenty years he was 
 caught in the snare which he had spread for others. 
 
 Fifteen days afterward the son of M. Aubertin was married 
 to Mademoiselle de Moeris. 
 
 The brave only know how to forgive. It is the most refined 
 and generous pitch of virtue human nature can arrive at. 
 Cowards have done good and kind actions — cowards have even 
 fought, nay, sometimes even conquered, but a coward never 
 forgave. It is not in his nature ; the power of doing it flows 
 only from a strength and greatness of soul, conscious of its own 
 force and security, and above the little temptations of resenting 
 every fruitless attempt to interrupt its happiness. 
 
THE LUXURY OF DEEP SORROW. 
 
 Montgomery once wrote a poem which he denominated "The 
 Joy of Grief," if we mistake not its title, and a very touching 
 thing it was, if we have not entirely forgotten the impression it 
 made upon us some twenty years ago, when we read it for the 
 first and last time. "We thought it excellent ; but, subsequent 
 experience has taught us that it by no means reached the reali- 
 ty of the subject. True and touching as it was, as far as it 
 went, even Montgomery's poetry fell short — very far short — of 
 describing the feeling which is in our mind's eye. There may 
 be "joy in grief common sorrow may contain a mixture of 
 solace — detached portions of counteracting consolations which 
 may not only blunt the edge of affliction, — but even furnish ma- 
 terial for happiness — such happiness, at least, as Montgomery 
 contemplated. The bee extracts very sweet honey from the 
 most unpromising materials, and the poet and the moralist have 
 the same right, if they have not the same skill. They may, if 
 they can, make sorrow and sadness subservient to their mental 
 alchymy, and cause even despondency itself to yield a partial 
 harvest of pleasure ! In the sense, however, in which the Eng- 
 lish poet considered this matter, there may be very grave doubts. 
 He was a poet merely — very little of a philosopher. "We are 
 philosophers, and we intend to give an opinion on this subject 
 that will prove us so. Sorrow has its luxury. The man who 
 has struggled, for years, with the adverse currents of human 
 life, who has breasted the billows of misfortune, and met the 
 stormiest times which life's navigator is fated to encounter, 
 knows as we know, that even misery, itself, has its store-house 
 of comforts. He whose struggles have finally succumbed to 
 the resistlessness of ill fortune, can bear us witness that there 
 is luxury left to despondency ! There is enjoyment, even in 
 retiring into the concentration of the heart's last and lowliest 
 abyss of bitterness ! When a man can no longer remain cheer- 
 ful upon his bright prospects, it is a blessed portion of his des- 
 tiny that he may gather comforts from the mere intensity of 
 those that are blighted ! He may retire into himself, and luxurate 
 upon the miseries which, being impossible to become worse, 
 
THE LUXURY OF DEEP SORROW. 
 
 39 
 
 ought, by all means, to become better ; if it be true, as we be- 
 lieve it is, that fate is always locomotive, and never stands still. 
 He who has satisfied himself that his fortune is at zero, may 
 rationally enough make up his mind that there is little use in 
 caring for it when it goes below. After freezing to death amid 
 the snows and frosts of life, who would care much about the 
 posthumous freaks of Fahrenheit? Who will give himself 
 much trouble as to the temperature, after it has made an icicle 
 of him ? A frozen heart is precisely upon a par with a frozen 
 potato, and one is worth just as much as the other. 
 
 But, we repeat, that there is a point in human feeling — and 
 the heart reaches it before its throbbings are quite congealed — 
 in which even its very woes assume the office of the soother ! — 
 Their intensity reacts upon itself, and while the demon of dis- 
 traction seems to revel in the belief that he has utterly pros- 
 trated his victim, the victim rises superior to his inflictions, and 
 gathers consolation from them ! There is " luxury in deep sor- 
 row" — there is happiness even amidst the heapings up of calami- 
 ty. Let Misfortune do her worst ; if she bring not the con- 
 sciousness of crime or dishonor to her aid, her victim may defy 
 her ! "Who has ever looked into himself during the season of 
 deep depression, studied the causes of it, and studying them, 
 been able to absolve himself from blame that they have come 
 upon him, without finding a feeling worth all the self-compla- 
 cency of the fortunate, the proud and the rich ? Who, in such 
 a scene buries himself in the contemplation of those he loves, 
 and of the unremitted exertions he has made to deserve that 
 love, but finds a loftier and holier feeling than wealth or pride 
 or prosperity ever yet could bring him ? That fate is unpro- 
 pitious he knows — that he has done all in his power to deserve 
 a better fate, he knows also, and in that lies the secret of the 
 luxury which even grief can pluck from its direst visitations. 
 There is the heart furnished with rays of sunshine from the 
 sombre atmosphere with which its own misfortunes have sur- 
 rounded it. There rises the rainbow of hope over the horizon 
 of despair, and there, are dispensed the ministrations of conso- 
 lation wnich the good angels of man's destiny throw through 
 the gloom with which the bad have overshadowed it. In one 
 word, when the heart feels itself verging fastest towards utter 
 despondency, let it take courage ; it will soon find itself at the 
 point where there is " Luxury in deep Sorrow.' 1 '' c. f. d. 
 
CHERISHED TOKENS. 
 
 CHEEISHED TOKENS. 
 
 1 have a bird — a lovely bird, 
 
 With saffron color'd wings, 
 And when the blessed morning breaks, 
 
 Ah, me ! how sweet it sings ! 
 He perches on the window, where 
 
 It looks upon the sea, 
 And oh ! his every note is soft 
 
 As melody can be. 
 
 I have a tree — a scented tree, 
 
 Brought from far southern bowers ; 
 And every month it bears for me 
 
 A coronal of flowers. 
 Though fragile be that wreath it weaves, 
 
 And soon its bloom be past, 
 'Tis sweet to watch the opening leaves, 
 
 And love them while they last. 
 
 I have a lute — a deep-toned lute, 
 
 With chords of magic thrill ; 
 And when at night the birds are mute, 
 
 And winis and waves are still, 
 (Sometimes even by daylight's hour,) 
 
 It sings, or seems to sing 
 Such wild sad strains, I've almost though 
 
 An angel touch'd its string. 
 
 I have a braid — a silken braid 
 
 Of softest flaxen hair, 
 With clasp, which part of gold is made, 
 
 And part a jewel rare. 
 They say the gold is thrice refined, 
 
 And costlier far the gem, 
 And yet the simple lock they bind, 
 
 I value more than them. 
 
 And I have— ah, me !— how little priz'd 
 
 Of all my cherished things — 
 Hid in my bosom's deepest nook, 
 
 A heart of passion's strings. 
 I have — no, no, I have it not — 
 
 It once was in that cell — 
 But now I fear, 'tis flown away, 
 
 Whither — I may not tell. 
 
MARTHA WASHINGTON. 
 
 BY GRACE GRAFTON. 
 
 In the bright galaxy of female worthies, there is one name 
 to which every American woman turns with even more of 
 fond affection than of respectful admiration. It is the name 
 of Martha Washington— the beloved and honored wife of 
 the Father of his country ; of him who was "first in war, 
 first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen." 
 The distinction was an enviable one which made her the 
 chosen of his heart and the sharer of his fame ; but it was 
 w T ell-merited by personal excellencies on her part, which 
 have seldom been equalled. 
 
 Eminently beautiful in form and features — descended 
 from one of the noblest families in the Old Dominion — and 
 allied by both her marriages to others not less distinguish- 
 ed — this illustrious woman might seem to have formed a 
 shining mark for the shafts of envy and detraction ; but she 
 bore her honors so meekly — her native firmness and dignity 
 were so tempered with winning softness and feminine deli- 
 cacy, and her refinement of manners with unaffected bene- 
 volence — that envy stood abashed in her presence, and de- 
 traction turned away from the sight of excellencies it could 
 not depreciate. Her character was one of deep sensibility 
 and strong passions, but it was sensibility guided by judg- 
 ment, and passion controlled by reason and religion. In her, 
 the sorrowful, the timid, and the erring, found a sympa- 
 thizing friend and a judicious counsellor — for she felt that 
 her " mission on earth was to pity and to heal, and believed 
 that the strongest and purest have within them the germs 
 of those frailties which conquer the weak." The heart of 
 her husband safely trusted in her — and, amid all the cares 
 
42 
 
 MARTHA WASHINGTON. 
 
 and trials of public life, never, during his whole eventful 
 career, was he disappointed in his reliance on her wisdom, 
 her prudence, or her affection. 
 
 But it is not as the high-born and courtly belle of the 
 drawing-room — not as the admired and envied wife of the 
 hero and the statesman, that I wish to present Martha 
 Washington to the attention of my young countrywomen. 
 It was the crowning excellence of her character as a woman, 
 that she possessed, in rare perfection, those domestic virtues 
 which render home an earthly paradise. She was formed 
 to be the ornament of society — but at an early age, she 
 retired from its noise and glitter, into the calm privacy of 
 domestic life, and there, as the idolized mistress, the tender 
 mother, and the fond and faithful wife, her days were filled 
 up with duty and usefulness. In all the details of household 
 economy she was an adept ; and if she was, beyond dispute, 
 a lady in the parlor, she was equally so in that terra incog- 
 nita to most fashionable ladies — the kitchen. Her skilful 
 management and efficient control were felt throughout 
 every part of her extensive establishment ; and during the 
 long absences from home which her husband's public station 
 rendered necessary, she sustained the additional load of care 
 thus thrown upon her, with an ease and cheerfulness that 
 knew no variation and no abatement. The accomplish- 
 ments of Martha Washington were not, like those of too 
 many at the present day, " kept for show," and worn only 
 in the presence of company. They were made to contribute 
 to the happiness of all around her, and, like the rich setting 
 of a diamond, only gave additional beauty to a character 
 whose sterling value they could not materially enhance. 
 
 There are comparatively few who possess the proud but 
 dangerous gift of genius — and to the multitudes wljo have 
 no such distinction, I would say, Martha Washington was 
 not "a genius;" but she possessed what is in reality more 
 valuable — good common sense, and intellect sufficient to 
 direct it in the very best manner to all the practical purposes 
 of life ; reasoning powers, strengthened by a thorough course 
 ,of mental discipline; and, above all, that genuine piety 
 
MARTHA WASHINGTON. 
 
 43 
 
 which led her to forget herself, in seeking the glory of God 
 and the happiness of her fellow-beings. Her own character 
 was one of transparent simplicity, and truth and candor 
 were impressed on every line of her speaking countenance. 
 Hers, in an eminent degree, was that charity which " think- 
 eth no evil," for though she usually read character accurate- 
 ly, it was strictly true in her case, that — 
 
 " Oft though Wisdom wake, Suspicion sleeps 
 At Wisdom's gate, and to Simplicity 
 Resigns her charge ; while Goodness thinks no ill, 
 Where no ill seems." 
 
 Is the character I have faintly and imperfectly sketched, 
 winning and attractive to my youthful readers ? It is indeed 
 one of rare symmetry, but there are about it no points of 
 unattainable excellence to discourage all attempts at imi- 
 tation. The guileless simplicity, the warm and generous 
 sympathies, the untiring energy, the lofty purpose, and the 
 consistent piety of Martha Washington, are virtues that may 
 be cultivated by the humblest daughter of the land which 
 gave her birth. Let woman be but true to herself — to her 
 nature and her destinies ; let her dare to break away from 
 the slavery of fashion and the allurements of pleasure, and 
 seek her happiness in the path of duty alone — then would 
 every household be blessed with a presiding spirit such as 
 Martha Washington, and the purifying influences of home 
 flow out in streams of life and blessing through the land. 
 
 " After the death of her illustrious companion, which oc« 
 curred in December, 1799, she remained at Mount Vernon, 
 where she spent seventeen months mourning her loss, receiv- 
 ing the visits of the great from all parts of our land and 
 from various parts of the earth ; attending, as heretofore, 
 to her domestic concerns, perfecting in the Christian graces, 
 and ripening for the joys of a holier state of being. On the 
 22d of May, 1801, she who, while on earth, could be placed 
 in no station which she did not dignify and honor, was wel- 
 comed to the glories of another world." 
 
 " She healed the hearts of the sorrowful, while living, 
 and broke them when she died !" 
 
A WORD FITLY SPOKEN, HOW GOOD IT IS! 
 
 Little things make up the sum of human existence. 
 In the natural world, objects, animate and inanimate, are 
 composed of particles. Innumerable shining sands form the 
 barrier against which old Ocean loves to fret. Crystal drops 
 compose the vast extent of water which covers nearly three- 
 fourths of our globe. The " blessed light,"' which cheers us 
 day by day, may be separated into an infinite number of 
 rays, each blending with its neighbor while faithfully per- 
 forming its work. And the rich odors, so grateful to the 
 senses, which float in our atmosphere, are actually tiny atoms, 
 escaping from the dewy petals of the rose or lily, which 
 blossoms at our feet. Meet emblems are those odors — float- 
 ing round us all unseen — of the influence of "fitly spoken" 
 words. 
 
 Words are among the "little things" which determine 
 our influence for good or ill. 
 
 Speak they of sympathy, or encouragement, or reproof? 
 If so be they are spoken kindly, they are like "apples of gold 
 in pictures of silver." 
 
 Would you have influence with those who look to you 
 for guidance and instruction ? Bear with you the law of 
 kindness. Would you command their respect? Let your 
 words, though they inflict pain for the time, drop kindly 
 from your lips. 
 
 The youthful heart, however hopeful, will sometimes be 
 depressed, discouraged. Then a single word, if it be " fitly 
 spoken," will, like the magician's wand, work wonders. The 
 child has his troubles as well as the man, and they are as 
 hard for him to bear, therefore he needs words of sympathy ; 
 for it is the wonderful virtue of sympathy to lessen grief — 
 and the troubled spirit soothed, will rouse again its energies, 
 and toil on as before. 
 
LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 "Into ray heart a silent look 
 
 Flashed from thy careless eyes — 
 And what before was shadow, took 
 
 The light of summer skies. 
 The first-born love was in that look; 
 The Venus rose from out the deep ; 
 
 Of those inspiring eyes!" 
 
 FLORENCE WARNER. 
 
 A story of Light and Darkness, for these are life ; and 
 they change in the heaven of the human heart when we 
 least expect it and are least prepared for it. But there are 
 stars for the sudden darkness, although many perceive them 
 not — stars, which bring warmth and light and beauty back 
 to us again ; and he who finds them does not heed the 
 gloom, for they burn in the inner chamber of the soul — 
 those stars of hope and faith ! 
 
 " Are you going to the Burkes to-night?" inquired Tom 
 Marchmont of Cecil Grey. 
 
 " No," said Cecil, " I am tired of parties, with their rows 
 of young ladies and their files of young gentlemen — their 
 thirteen cotillions and two waltzes — their liquid ice-creams 
 and their flat champagne. I'll have none of them !" 
 
 "But you must go to this affair. You'll see Florence 
 Warner." 
 
 "And who may Florence Warner be? — a sweetly-spoken, 
 prettily-behaved inanity like the rest of them ? — fair and 
 insipid as the blanc-mange she eats ?" 
 
 " Do you remember the eyes you praised en-passant yes- 
 terday?" 
 
 " With refreshing distinctness," said Cecil. 
 " Well, they belong to Miss Warner. 
 
46 
 
 LTGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 " Ah ! I'll go to the Burke concern. Call for me at nine.* 
 
 " That I won't ! I go with Miss Warner." 
 
 "You do! I wish that I did; but good bye! I'll find 
 the way myself." 
 
 So at nine o'clock Grey presented himself at the residence 
 of the Burkes, who, being merely good people — neither ad- 
 mirable nor ridiculous — will fill but little of our story. And 
 there he saw, oh ! what rows of nice young women, sitting 
 on a sofa or a line of chairs, chattering most volubly — and 
 whenever a male creature approached, drawing up primly, 
 and saying " Yes, sir," and " No, sir," with intense gravity ! 
 And there were groups of young men, talking of horses and 
 dogs and themselves. And there were one or two sensible 
 people, amusing themselves and each other. 
 
 Grey saluted his host and hostess, and then strolled through 
 the rooms. A knot of young men were lounging near the 
 fireplace. " Good evening, Mr. Grey," and " Good evening, 
 gentlemen," drew Cecil within their circle. 
 
 " Very pleasant here to-night," suggested Mr. Joseph Berg ; 
 " such an array of beauty — quite a galaxy !" and he smiled 
 at the fearful attempt, for he had very white teeth. 
 
 "Q,uite brilliant," said Cecil; "and where we find people 
 like Mr. Berg, it must always be pleasant." 
 
 "Thank you," said Joseph ; "but I see Miss Warner has 
 dropped a glove ; I must go and pick it up for her ;" and 
 away he darted. 
 
 "I wish supper were ready," said Mr. Staples — the first 
 time he had opened his mouth, which he seldom did, except 
 to put something in it ! 
 
 But Cecil had turned to look at Miss Warner. Her dress 
 was simple, but every fold spoke of taste. The rich chestnut 
 hair was swept from a spiritual forehead, and a single ringlet 
 curled behind the small ear. Her eyes, such as few could 
 look upon without loving. To what shall 1 liken those eyes — 
 so full of beauty, of intellect, and love — so large, so dark, 
 so lustrous ! Just such a pair haunts all my dreams Grey 
 kept his gaze closely fixed upon her as she conversed gaily 
 with the gentleman on whose arm she leaned. 
 
LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 47 
 
 As Mr. Berg presented the glove, she thanked him with 
 a smile ; whereupon he ventured to make a remark, but she 
 drew herself up, looked at him magnificently, and continued 
 her conversation. Cecil's lip curled. 
 
 " Well, what think you of our beauty ?" asked Marchmont. 
 joining him. 
 
 "She seems made to be admired, but never to be loved," 
 said Cecil ; " she seems to me to have that most contemptible 
 of all ambitions, the desire of being the 'ball-room belle, 5 
 and queening it sublimely over empty fools." 
 
 In an instant he saw that she had overheard him, for the 
 blood rushed over her face and neck, and her large eyes flash- 
 ed steadily upon him. Marchmont saw the look, and with 
 his usual recklessness exclaimed, " Miss Warner, Mr. Grey ! 
 the loveliest face that ever yet upon the world hath shone, 
 and the greatest genius, and all that sort of thing." 
 
 And thus the introduction was completed. Cecil exhibited 
 his best politeness, and the lady, haughtily, moved to another 
 room. Afterward, in the dance, or wherever she moved, 
 Cecil would detect himself following her steps. He could 
 not keep his eyes from her. 
 
 And so, at length, the dancing was over ; and the signal 
 for supper — so longed for by Mr. Staples — was given, and 
 great was the rush to the supper-room. Alas for the oysters 
 and champagne ! alas for the creams and the charlotte russe! 
 alas for the chicken salad and the fruit ! — the time of their 
 destruction was at hand ! 
 
 Cecil turned from the omnivorous crowd, and, left alone, 
 went to look at some prints which lay on a table near him. 
 He heard a step beside him, and turning, saw Florence 
 Warner. 
 
 " And so," she said abruptly, " Mr. Grey's loftiness scorns 
 the 1 queen of the ball-room.' " 
 
 "I hope that Miss Warner will pardon my rudeness. Let 
 her remember that I had not then spoken to her." 
 
 "Yes," she said, bitterly, "yes, you are a true man, and 
 think that a woman may always be soothed by a little flat- 
 tery." 
 
48 
 
 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 " You will not, then, forgive my rudeness ?" 
 
 " I do not care for the rudeness, Mr. Grey, but for the 
 injustice. And yet, why is it so contemptible to aspire to 
 rule — even in a ball-room? Is it not all that you allow us? 
 I am convinced that you would be the first to sneer down 
 her who sought a higher ambition." 
 
 "It is your turn to judge harshly now, Miss Warner. 
 None assign to woman loftier or better aims than I. To her 
 is given up the best of ambitions, the ambition of affection." 
 
 "And who, sir, has taken from her the right to rule? 
 Hitherto in the history of the world, have the days of her 
 empire over men been unfortunate? Semiramis, Zenobia, 
 Catherine di Medicis, and Elizabeth — did they govern less 
 worthily than men have done?" 
 
 " Add to your list," said Cecil, " Cleopatra, Joanna of Na 
 pies, and Mary of Scotland, and see that queens have woman- 
 hearts." 
 
 " The heart, the heart !" she said ; " better, far better for 
 a woman to forget that she has a heart ! The mind's king- 
 dom is serener and happier than affection's." 
 
 " You talk strangely for one so young, so beautiful, and 
 so idolized." 
 
 " Youth and beauty ! — and what can they do for a wo- 
 man ? Nothing more than to make her the ' idol of the 
 ball-room ' and the scorn of such as Cecil Grey !" 
 
 Cecil began to feel hurt. 
 
 " Miss Warner," he said, " you do not treat me fairly. 1 
 thought the desire contemptible, and, ignorant of yourself, 
 expressed my opinion. But in justice to you, I must furnish 
 you with power to forget it. I belong to a class of men 
 whose opinions are to be unnoticed, whose remarks met with 
 contempt. I am poor, lady, and therefore unworthy of far- 
 ther thought from you." 
 
 "Ah! the scholar's pride is galled !" she said. "I would 
 not have noticed your remark, Mr. Grey, had I not heard 
 much and often of you. But why should poverty be con- 
 temptible? God did not make the poor for scorn. And you, 
 with the spell of genius glowing on your brow, and living 
 
LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 49 
 
 beautiful in your mind — you, with gifts of song and eloquence, 
 I wonder that you dare say it ! It is impious to say that 
 you are poor ! Have you no high desires, no fame dreams, 
 no hopes ?" 
 
 He looked upon her face so filled with the beauty of her 
 soul, and thrilled. But, as he thought of her question, his 
 heart died within him, and he answered sadly — 
 
 "No — I have thought all dreams away. I have suffered 
 too much to hope, and I can only echo Byron's wish — 
 
 1 'Tis vain to struggle — let me perish young — 
 Live as I lived, and love as I have loved : 
 To dust if I return — from dust I sprung — 
 
 And then at least my heart shall ne'er be moved.' 
 
 No, lady, I am too poor to hope, to dream, or to aspire ; and 
 I presume not when I say so, for the poor have at least the 
 privilege of being sad." 
 
 When he raised his eyes, he saw that hers were full of 
 tears. The sight was too much for him — he lost his free- 
 dom — his breath ceased — his hands trembled — and he felt 
 that the poison of human love was in his heart ! 
 
 "Ah!" cried Tom Marchmont, coming into the room, 
 " you two all alone ! Pray, Miss Warner, what have you 
 been saying to my friend Cecil ?" 
 
 " Giving him a lecture on politeness," said Florence, blush- 
 ing a little. 
 
 " But you, Mr. Marchmont, how have you amused your- 
 self?" 
 
 " Oh !" replied Tom, " in a great variety of ways. First, 
 in watching the road down Mr. Staples' throat. Queer com- 
 panionships the travelers that way have I* 
 
 "How so?" queried the lady. 
 
 " Why," continued Tom, " first, I saw two oysters go down 
 with one swallow ; then followed an ice, and a bit of chicken 
 slipped down on that. I stumbled over Berg's foot — and 
 when he said I was heavy, I said I could not help it, for 
 I had been eating pound cake. And finally, when some 
 wicked body asked me to say grace, I thought of you, and 
 murmured — ' Florence Warner !' " 
 
50 
 
 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 " But fir9t the signal-pass they claim ; 
 Ask who they were, and whence they came — 
 Their home — their purpose — and their name." 
 
 Florence Warner was an orphan. She had seen her pa- 
 rents dying with the broken hearts of poverty ; and Florence 
 had resolved to crush the woman in her heart, and be any- 
 thing, no matter what ; cold — heartless — the coquette — the 
 wife without love — anything, rather than be poor. 
 
 Her mother's only sister — long resident in Europe — had 
 returned home in time to gaze upon the last struggle and 
 to save the orphan. With this aunt (Mrs. Langley) Florence 
 now lived, and, to the time of our history, believed that she 
 had forgotten to be a woman, and fancied that she would 
 escape a woman's destiny — to love and to suffer. 
 
 And Grey, too, was alone in the world. One by one 
 
 " the gems from his household crown, 
 
 To the grave had dropp'd away." 
 
 He was a man whose intellectual power, although of the 
 loftiest order, was surpassed by his feelings. The heart in 
 him was stronger than the mind. There is but one way of 
 guiding this kind of constitution. Affection, passion, and 
 feeling must become enslaved by one object ; and it. by its 
 mastery over these, has power to incite and direct the intel- 
 lect. And now his heart was filled by an abiding love for 
 Florence Warner. They had met very frequently since their 
 introduction, and Cecil Grey had become her slave; but he 
 dared not ask her to love him ; the darkness of love without 
 hope was upon him — the darkness of poverty was upon him — 
 and, turn which way he would, there was no light ! 
 
 And Tom Marchmont, there was no harm in him. He 
 was 
 
 " One of those light hearts whose glee 
 
 Is never chill'd ; whose life-streams glide 
 Bright from their fountain to the sea, 
 With sunshine always on their tide : 
 
LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 51 
 
 Hearts whose light hopes burn on the same, 
 And quenchless as the Grecian flame, 
 Though winds may rise, or storms may fall, 
 Glow on still joyously through all." 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 " 'Twas not in cold and measured phrase : 
 We gave our passion name : 
 Scorning such tedious eloquence, 
 
 Our hearts' fond flame, 
 And long-imprisoned feelings, fast 
 In deep sobs came." 
 
 " Her arm is round her lover now — 
 His livid cheek to hers she presses." 
 
 DARKNESS. 
 
 A summer party were gathered at Mrs. Langley's co antry 
 seat a few miles up the Hudson, and Cecil Grey was among 
 them. Here he wandered through the old woods and thought 
 on Florence Warner — carved her name upon the trees — and 
 dreamed himself to madness for her ! 
 
 One morning a riding party had been formed, and Cecil, 
 sad and spiritless, pleaded head-ache, and was permitted to 
 stay at home. When they had left the house and all had 
 become quiet again, he went down to the library, and, for 
 lack of better employment, arranged his thoughts into a 
 story — a story in which he strove to show the necessity and 
 uses of a wife to the author — in which he tried to prove that 
 energy is best incited by love, and the mind best guided 
 through the heart. Yet his hero died — for in his own sad- 
 ness he could not give the creature of his fancy a happy lot. 
 
 Just as he finished, the door opened, and Florence Warner 
 entered. 
 
 "Mr. Grey!" she said, stopping, and growing crimson, 
 and then very pale; "I thought you had joined the riding 
 party." 
 
 t£ I had imagined the same of you," replied Cecil. " But 
 your cheek is pale ; are you not well ?" and he set a chair 
 for her. 
 
52 
 
 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 "No — I have some head-ache. But what excuse have 
 you ?" 
 
 " None, save a woman's — caprice. I did not feel in the 
 mood for gaiety, and I did not wish to cloud the mirth of 
 others." 
 
 " Perhaps I disturbed you," said Florence, glancing at his 
 papers. 
 
 " Oh, no, I had finished — and it would have borne inter- 
 ruption." 
 
 "You know," she said, "the foible of our sex — curiosity. 
 May I be pardoned for feeling it, and asking the nature of 
 your employment?" 
 
 " Truly a fit employment for an idle man — the framing 
 of an idle tale." 
 
 " One more request, Mr. Grey. Read it to me ; come," 
 she added, as she marked his hesitation, " I will make all 
 due allowance for modesty and imperfection. But we have 
 all the morning before us, and I am sure cannot find a 
 pleasanter employment." 
 
 Cecil bowed to the compliment, and read the story. 
 
 " And such," was the comment of Florence, " such is the 
 effect of a poor man's marriage !" 
 
 "Ah ! your comment proves little for my authorcraft! I 
 meant to show the necessity of a wife to the student." 
 
 "Would you advocate the marriage of the poor?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "That must depend on the man's nature," he replied. 
 " With some, it destroys energy and power ; but there are 
 others — and so I feel would it be with me — whom a wife, 
 and nothing else, would drive to energy. Give me but the 
 love I desire, and earth can show no obstacle insuperable 
 by me. Let me but know that my labor is for her, and 
 nothing could tire me. But now I sicken at toil ; I have 
 none to sympathize with me — none to whom I can show 
 the reward of my labors and ask her to be proud in mc ; 
 and I cannot work." 
 
 " You speak feelingly, Mr. Grey. Can it be possible that 
 you, the ever gay, ever smiling, have this darkness of lovo 
 
LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 53 
 
 at your heart ?" And that question awoke all the passion 
 of his nature. 
 
 "Trust not the face !" he said. "Trust not the smile, of 
 all things ! Even the poet draws his simily for a smile from 
 the sparkling water, and forgets its icy depths ; from the 
 glowing flame, and thinks not of the ashes beneath ; from 
 the beauty of the sunset, and chills not to think of the com- 
 ing night. Love ! you ask me. Perhaps you think that 
 the penniless have no right to such a luxury. But I do 
 love, with all my power — fervently — hopelessly ! You, Flor- 
 ence Warner — you, whom I scorned as the ball-room belle 
 when I first saw you— whom I soon learned to respect — 
 whom I now live to love — your beauty allured me — your 
 intellect fascinated me — your kindness and gentleness won 
 me. And now, Florence, I love yon ! — not with the heart 
 only, not merely with affection and passion, but with mind 
 and soul, with intellect and thought ! Thus have I — the 
 poor scholar, loved by none — dared to love you, the idol of 
 all. Florence, the heart has had its way. I have told you 
 that I love you ; and now, farewell for ever !" As he arose 
 to his feet and turned away, her cheek grew crimson and 
 then pallid as death. 
 
 "Cecil," she murmured. He turned in astonishment. 
 She placed her hands upon his shoulders, and fixed her dark, 
 fervent eyes upon his. " Cecil Grey !" she repeated ; and 
 with a low cry of joy he pressed her to his heart. 
 
 " See, Florence," and from his bosom he drew a small 
 locket. " Your hair is in that with my mother's. It was 
 to be my idol — my memory of the dream of you ; but you 
 have loved me." 
 
 An hour passed on, as with hands clasped together they 
 gave themselves up to their young happiness. Suddenly, 
 impelled by a quick thought, Florence put his arm from 
 about her waist, drew her hand from his, and said as she 
 arose to her feet, " Cecil, this must end now." 
 
 " Florence ! what can you mean ?" 
 
 " I can never marry you, Cecil !" 
 
 " What ails you, dearest?" he asked fondly, fearing that 
 
54 
 
 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 she was ill, so pale she grew and trembled so constantly. 
 And he would have wound his arm about her, but she put it 
 aside with a shudder. 
 
 " Cecil Grey, I too have a story to tell — listen to me f 
 and she told him the sorrows, sufferings, and death of her 
 parents — the miseries of want as she had seen them — and 
 her own resolve. 
 
 " My mother died almost of starvation ; died in a garret, 
 Cecil." And her voice grew passionate, and the uncontrol- 
 lable tears burst from her eyes. " Do not, do not speak to 
 me of love !" and she knelt down before him. " Do not ask 
 me to marry you ! Could you bring me to this, Cecil ? 
 Could you see me die of want, and know that you had 
 done it?" 
 
 He sunk back, stunned and half senseless. It needed the 
 strong heart of a woman to bear the agony of that hour. 
 
 "Poor Cecil!" she said, as she looked upon him. "If it 
 will comfort you to know how truly, how devotedly I love 
 you ; if to know that my happiness is gone for ever ; that 
 the light has left my heart ; that my life must be sorrow — 
 know it ! Farewell !" and she stooped down and kissed his 
 forehead. 
 
 As she left the room, he half recovered. " Florence !" he 
 murmured — "Florence !" 
 
 " Farewell, Cecil !" she said. One look, one long, long 
 look on die pale, beautiful face he loved so well, and then 
 the door closed. 
 
 It was midnight darkness with them both — silent, rayless, 
 and profound. 
 
 " The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars 
 Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 
 Rayless and pathless ; and the icy earth 
 Swung, blind and blackening, in the moonless air." 
 
 ********* 
 
 " Darkness had no need 
 Of aid from them. She was the universe." 
 
LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 55 
 
 LIGHT. 
 
 Alone in her room, Florence Warner flung herself upon 
 the bed and wept long" and bitterly. Sternly had she be- 
 come the iconoclast of her own idols ; and she looked now 
 into her desolate heart, and saw that nothing but love would 
 fill it. Then she thought of what he had said. He could 
 conquer poverty and all other obstacles, if she would love 
 him. 
 
 " I cannot lose him !" she cried. " I will go to him, and 
 ask to share his lot wherever and however God may cast 
 it !" 
 
 Grey, as soon as he recovered, went to his own room. 
 
 "Well," he thought, "it is over now, and the beggar 
 has wakened from his dream ! What right had I to love? 
 How dared I? What has the poor man to do with passions 
 and feelings ? God did not make love for him ! No — let 
 him crawl through the bye-ways of life with an humble 
 heart, and hail with a smile the common grave of the Pot- 
 ter's Field ; but let him not presume to love !**♦** 
 Oblivion ! oblivion !" he shouted ; " they cannot take that 
 from the poor !" and as he spoke, he dashed from the room. 
 As he left the house, Florence saw him, and watched him 
 till his form was lost among the trees. 
 
 The breeze increased, the day darkened, and the signs 
 of the summer storm were around him. He did not notice 
 them, but flung himself at the foot of an old tree on which 
 he had carved her initials. He leaned back his head, and 
 closed his eyes. Then to him came visions from the spirit- 
 land of dreams — and, in those visions, all was beautiful. 
 The air was fragrance — delicate, but all-pervading ; the breeze 
 was music ; and there were cool sounds of waterfall and 
 brook, and songs of birds and rustling of leaves. Through 
 them moved the form of Florence — her voice enriching the 
 music and her smile the beauty of the day. He spoke of 
 love to her, and she listened with a blush, and rested her 
 hand in his, and leaned her beautiful head upon his shoulder. 
 
56 
 
 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 He heard not the low muttering of the thunder and the plash 
 of the first rain-drops — 
 
 " For far and wide there glitter'd to his eye 
 Life's only fairy land — the days to come." 
 
 But the scene began to change. The forest, the flowers, 
 and the birds passed away, and he saw nothing but a cloud 
 before him ; and from it looked the face of his mother, with 
 a sweet but sad and mysterious smile upon her lips. She 
 was looking from heaven upon her son. He gazed upon the 
 still face, and, as he gazed, a change passed over it ; the 
 smile faded ; the features grew rigid and sharp, an expression 
 of great pain covered them ; the eyes were glazing ; and the 
 quick, gasping breath was there, and the white foam upon 
 the lips; and the face was as that which he had watched 
 when he kneeled at her death-bed. He strove to raise his 
 arms and to murmur, "Mother!" He knew that he stood 
 in the forest, but the rain was falling fiercely. Again the 
 living thunder of God shook the sky, and the lightning struck 
 an oak directly in front of him. He saw the huge tree 
 shiver and bend ; he heard the crash as it fell through the 
 air; then covered his eyes, groaned deeply, and fell. 
 
 And there Florence Warner found him ; and there she 
 called God to witness that she would never forsake him ! 
 
 He opened his eyes, and saw her bending over him. 
 
 "Ah !" he shuddered, "I am dreaming yet !" 
 
 "Not dreaming, dear Cecil — not dreaming. It is I." 
 Then the star-beams broke upon his heart — beams of hope 
 and faith. 
 
 "And you will love me then for ever?" And for answer 
 she laid her face upon his heart ! 
 
 "And you will inspire me to labor, and be glad in my 
 fame ; you will soothe me when I need it ; you will sorrow 
 in my sadness, rejoice in my pleasure, and be proud in my 
 pride ? When I can justly claim you, you will be my own, 
 my wife?" 
 
 He bound her by no vow. He asked no promise — for poor 
 is the love that cannot trust ! He was exultant, for he had 
 
TRIFLES. 
 
 57 
 
 faith in her. Once, one instant, she raised her trembling 
 lids, and the large eyes dwelt upon his. And the smile came 
 to his lip. 
 
 Then the sun broke forth, and the rain-drops sparkled 
 like diamonds, and the damp leaves glittered in the sheen. 
 The birds carolled gaily, and the butterfly crept from beneath 
 the mullen leaf, and dried his wings in the sun. And the 
 south wind whispered ; and the rivulet sung ; and the world 
 was Eden once more ; for light was in heaven — light was 
 on earth — and light (God's light) was in their hearts ! 
 
 TRIFLES. 
 
 A cloud may intercept the sun ; 
 A web, by insect-workers spun, 
 Preserve the life within the frame — 
 Or vipers take away the same. 
 A grain of sand upon the sight, 
 May rob a giant of his might ! 
 Or needle-point let out his breath, 
 And make a banquet-meal for Death! 
 
 How often, at a single word, 
 
 The heart with agony is stirred, 
 
 And ties that years could not have riven, 
 
 Are scatter'd to the winds of heaven ! 
 
 A glance, that looks what lips would speak, 
 
 Will speed the pulse and blanch the cheek; 
 
 And thoughts, not looked nor yet express'd, 
 
 Create a chaos in the breast. 
 
 A smile of hope from those we love, 
 May be an angel from above; 
 A whisper'd welcome in our ears, 
 Be as the music of the spheres ; 
 The pressure of a gentle hand, 
 Worth all that glitters in the land. 
 Oh ! trifles are not what they are, 
 But fortune ruling voice and star ! 
 
F L W E K S. 
 
 BY C. D. STUART. 
 
 Children of the summer, smiling 
 Out from green and odorous dells, 
 Where the soft wind gently swells 
 
 O'er your lips, with fond beguiling ; 
 Are ye not, O, bright evangels, 
 Foot-prints of the hovering angels ? 
 
 Tear-drops your mild eyes suffusing, 
 
 Turning ever to the sun; 
 
 And, o'er all the paths we run, 
 Fragrance from your life diffusing; 
 
 Are ye not from God sent to us, ; 
 
 By your gentle smiles to woo us! 
 
 O, I see the lingering traces 
 Of your high and holier birth, 
 When the twilight stars the earth, 
 
 And the dew-drops on your faces 
 Twinkle upward, through the even, 
 To their kindred lights in heaven. 
 
 And, with near and dearer teaching 
 Than all human tongues, ye come, 
 Of our bright and griefless home, 
 
 With your spirit-voices, preaching, 
 In that low and gentle strain 
 Like our childhood's tone, again. 
 
 Smile ye on ! as fair forever, 
 With your faces turn'd above ; 
 Let your eyes, so full of love, 
 
 All our thoughts from evil sever ; 
 Lead us up, and, O. restore us 
 To the brightness still before us! 
 
THE PAST YEAR. 
 
 From " Musings of an Invalid." 
 
 A few short hours since, and the eighteen hundred and 
 fifty-first volume of the new series of Time's Earthly Works 
 was finished, and deposited by the Recording Angel in the 
 archives of Heaven. And already is that most diligent, 
 most truthful of historians hard at work upon the next. 
 Oh ! what endless, yet what vain and idle speculations are 
 suggested to the imagination by this thought! Who is this 
 heavenJy compiler ? What associates hath he, in his un- 
 ceasing labors? From what point of space doth he survey 
 this restless ball of ours? On what mysterious leaves, with 
 what magic pen, in what unknown language, are his records 
 inscribed? Where is the celestial library, whose alcoves 
 contain these innumerable, these all-revealing histories? 
 And are all the transactions of Earth here faithfully depicted, 
 be they great or small, public or private, Christian or Pagan ? 
 Does the same volume that recites the virtues of a Washing- 
 ton, take note of the humble, unlettered goodness that lies 
 hid in some secluded mountain dell, or that praises God in 
 some far-off log-house of the wilderness? The same his- 
 torian that lays bare the deep, the Titanic wickedness of a 
 Napoleon, does he also duly mark and brand the petty vil- 
 lanies of every low-browed scoundrel of St. Giles's? Is the 
 same page, perhaps, whereon are inscribed the sweet hymns 
 and prayers of childhood, stained with the ribald blasphemies 
 of some foul nest of pirates ? Is nothing lost, then ? What ! 
 are all the burning words of orators, the passionate outpour- 
 ings of lovers, the brilliant sallies of wits, the drowsy speeches 
 of legislators, the quibbles of special pleaders, the mocks of 
 wicked and the groans of dying men — are they all treasured 
 
60 
 
 THE PAST YEAR. 
 
 up in these authentic histories? Is it to no purpose, then, 
 that we destroy our ill-considered writings, take back our 
 hasty words, suppress our evil thoughts ? Do they still live, 
 and are they to be published against us? Horrible! hor- 
 rible ! When, then, oh ! when are these mysterious, these 
 terrible details to be disclosed ? Is it to be on some grand 
 day of audience and of judgment, before all the assembled 
 souls of the children of men ? or does each one of us, imme- 
 diately on leaving earth, hear and receive, according to the 
 deeds done in the body ? And oh ! what is be our portion, 
 when confronted with and judged by these not-to-be-ques- 
 tioned records ? Where is this heaven, or this hell, that 
 awaits us ? In what part of the boundless realms of space ? 
 These other planets of our system, too, are they also inhabit- 
 ed by moral and accountable beings, whose daily thoughts, 
 words, and deeds are thus transcribed for purposes of judg- 
 ment? Are all these systems of the universe but so many 
 expansions of the same great scheme of discipline? or, are 
 certain portions of creation set apart as theatres where the 
 great drama of probation is for ever enacted, and others 
 selected for the wonderful realities of retribution ? Which 
 of those two sparkling stars, then, is the abode of the just 
 made perfect, and which the eternal residence of the lost? 
 Or. is there no eternal residence for the soul? and are all 
 these worlds so many points at which we commence, or 
 stages through which we pass, in the progress of a journey 
 that knows no end ? Ah, dear ! who hath not asked, who 
 is not continually asking these questions? — so natural, and 
 at the same time so terrible ; so familiar to the mind, and 
 yet so utterly inexplicable ? Revelation certainly does not 
 condescend to answer them, save in the merest generalities, 
 and Nature's voice returns but vague and indistinct mutter- 
 ings ; the hints that Science furnishes, sublime as they may 
 be, yet are they not far more calculated to bewilder, appal, 
 overwhelm us, than to inspire or yield us comfort? What a 
 withering, blighting sense of insignificance seems to attach 
 to earth and earthly things ! Virtue itself loses heart, and 
 is afraid, lest, in the mysterious arrangements of God, it 
 
THE PAST YEAR. 
 
 61 
 
 should be overlooked — cheated out of its futuie existence. 
 Vice becomes more hardened and reckless than ever, as if 
 it felt sure, through its very littleness, of slipping through 
 the fingers of Almighty Justice. Reputation hardly rises 
 to the dignity of a bubble ; and Fame, alas ! the loudest 
 blast of her trumpet sinks into the faintest echo of the 
 feeblest whisper : " the great globe itself, yea, all which it 
 inherit," scarcely seems to be an appreciable quantity in the 
 universe, and no more to be missed, were it suddenly plucked 
 out of creation, than a berry would be from a bush, an apple 
 from a crowded tree. But, oh ! can this be the true view of 
 ourselves, or of our position in the vast scale of being? No, 
 no — we are not such obscure, such insignificant creatures 
 in God's eyes. This dear earth of ours — has not Heavenly 
 Wisdom contrived it, planted and watered it, filled it with 
 life and beauty, endowed it with light and motion, subjected 
 it to wondrous laws, prescribed for it a glorious pathway in 
 the skies, entrusted it to guardian angels, nay, assigned to it 
 this same celestial overseer and historian, whose labors know 
 no pause, whose records cannot err ? Surely some great end 
 is contemplated in all these wondrous plans. Can that be 
 so very paltry and worthless an object, on which so much 
 thought and care and kindness have been expended ? Not 
 only do mortified pride and alarmed vanity, but reason and 
 good sense also, remonstrate, protest against this belittling 
 view of man, and his relations to his Maker ; this view, 
 which so discourages all that is excellent, and arouses all 
 that is diabolical within us. But, oh ! how much more po- 
 tent and triumphant is the voice of Christianity on this sub- 
 ject ! " What, they of no account in his eyes, to whom God 
 has given not only so many good things and noble faculties, 
 but so many special messengers also, fraught with glad 
 tidings and solemn warnings and precious promises? — nay, 
 who hath himself come down from heaven to visit and en- 
 lighten and redeem them VI Happy the man who can ask 
 this question in good faith — who is not shamming in this 
 matter, who is not merely acquiescing in these truths, but 
 in his very heart and soul adopts them, and manfully acts 
 
62 
 
 THE PAST YEAR. 
 
 up to them. If these things be so, indeed,' what a delightful 
 position he occupies ! If they should turn out to be an illu- 
 sion, still what a charming, glorious illusion ! An illusion 
 that tends alike to cheer the heart and mend the life — to 
 make a man a blessing to those about him, an ornament to 
 his race, who wouldn't cherish it? But, to look at this mat- 
 ter again, as a poor natural man — is there, after all, in the 
 phenomena which science discloses or suggests, anything 
 to force us to take such frightfully humble ground, and to 
 make us out such a contemptible portion of creation? If 
 mere bulk, indeed, is to be the measure of value, our little 
 planet must certainly cut a pretty sorry figure in the skies, 
 alongside of its unwieldy brethren Jupiter and Saturn, for 
 instance. But may we not have the advantage of them 
 both, in matters of far more consequence? As in the earth 
 itself, there are favored tracts, alike removed from the heat 
 of the equator and the polar cold, in which alone are to be 
 found the highest manifestations of beauty, the rarest exhi- 
 bitions of intellect, may it not be the same thing in the sys- 
 tem ? may we not have a far more felicitous position in that 
 system, for the development of physical and intellectual 
 excellence, than either the inhabitants of Mars or Venus, 
 or than those of the greater and more distant planets? may 
 not our little orb, after all, then, be far more precious in the 
 eyes of its Maker than its huge brethren ? may not our little 
 selves, with all our crimes and follies, be far nobler products 
 of Divine Wisdom, than their inhabitants — a race, for aught 
 we know, of clumsy, feeble-witted, malignant giants? Why 
 not take comfort in that thought, as w T ell as be cowed down 
 by the opposite ? May not conjecture — poor, wandering 
 child of ignorance ! — be allowed to stray in one direction 
 as well as another? But, after all, why indulge at all in 
 such vain and unprofitable conjectures? Are they not quite 
 too much, even for the strongest nerves, the clearest heads, 
 the purest hearts? What right, then, have I — poor, frail, 
 feeble, ignorant sinner that I am— to try to fathom these 
 awful depths, to puzzle my poor brains with these bewilder- 
 ing speculations ? Better, far better, confine myself to the 
 
WEDDED LOVE. 
 
 63 
 
 humble sphere of duty assigned me— to do all I can, in my 
 small way, towards making this earth of ours, or at least the 
 little corner of it in which I am called to act, more worthy 
 of the Great Founder — more comfortable, and beautiful, and 
 enlightened, and happy — the home of peace and good will — 
 and to leave it, at last, not in a murmuring, struggling, rebel- 
 lious spirit, but calmly and hopefully awaiting the great 
 mysteries of the future. 
 
 u Hope humbly, then — on trembling pinions soar ; 
 Wait the great teacher, Death — and God adore." 
 
 WEDDED LOVE. 
 
 There is a love so fond, so true, 
 No art the magic tie can sever ; 
 
 Tis ever beauteous, ever new — 
 Its chain once linked, is linked for ever. 
 
 There is a love whose feeling rolls 
 In pure, unruffled calmness on — 
 
 The meeting of congenial souls — 
 Of hearts whose currents flow in one. 
 
 It is a blessing that is felt 
 
 But by united minds that flow — 
 
 As sunbeams into sunbeams melt, 
 To light a frozen world below. 
 
 There is a love that o'er the war 
 Of jarring passions pours its light, 
 
 And sheds its influence like a star 
 
 That brightest burns in darkest night. 
 
 It is so true, so fix'd, so strong, 
 
 It parts not with the parting breath; 
 
 In the soul's flight 'tis borne along, 
 
 And holds the heart-strings e'en in death. 
 
 'Tis never quench'd by sorrow's tide ; 
 
 No, 'tis a flame caught from above — 
 A tie that death cannot divide ; — 
 
 'Tis the bright torch of wedded love. 
 
OH, SPEAK NOT HARSHLY! 
 
 To Youth not harshly ! — since the wound 
 
 Upon the sapling green 
 Still scars the ancient oak, which hath 
 
 Its fourscore winters seen. 
 
 Oh ! soon, full soon doth sorrow chill — 
 Full soon the dark clouds lower; 
 
 Why shouldst thou tear thus ruthlessly 
 The petals of the flower 1 ? 
 
 To Age not harshly ! Age hath had 
 
 A weary weight to bear — 
 Troubles that well might pale the cheek, 
 
 And mark the brow with care. 
 
 Not harshly ! She is hearing now 
 Sweet household tones again ; 
 
 Why shouldst thou rudely break upon 
 The dear, familiar strain ? 
 
 Why shouldst thou wake her to the thought 
 
 That love and joy are fled? 
 Why dost thou make her long to share 
 
 The quiet of her dead ? 
 
 Not harshly ! He hath erred, indeed ; 
 
 And yet thou dost not know 
 The wearing strife, the tempter's power, 
 
 The bitterness of woe. 
 
 And when he fell, thou wast not there 
 
 To mark his agony ; 
 Thou couldst not hear the frenzied prayer, 
 
 The wild, remorseful cry. 
 
 Oh, speak not harshly ! The dark clouds 
 
 Have but just rolled away, 
 And let a gleam of sunlight down 
 
 To gild her changing day. 
 
 Why sternly check her passing mirth, 
 When, ere to-morrow's morn, 
 
 The golden ray will fade away, 
 Like those of April born ? 
 
 Not harshly ! Thou art mortal too, 
 As those thou dost condemn ; 
 
 And wouldst thou God should deal with thee 
 As thou dost deal with them 1 
 
 Then speak not harshly! — since a time 
 
 May be in store for thee, 
 When thou for some kind word wouldst give 
 
 Treasures of land or sea. 
 
A LIFE PICTURE. 
 
 BY C. D. STUART. 
 
 There are pictures in life, as on canvass, which once seen 
 are never forgotten. I remember one such. It was years 
 ago, on a hot afternoon, that I saw an old man leaning 
 against a lamp-post, which he left in a few moments, evi- 
 dently wearied out, for an iron hydrant, on whose square top 
 he sat himself down to rest. There was something so mourn- 
 ful in his look, that I threw open the blinds of the window 
 where I had been sitting, and, leaning over the casement, 
 watched him with an intensity of feeling akin to anguish 
 and tears. Over a brow, on which I should judge not less 
 than seventy winters had pressed their feet, and as many 
 summers their parching hands, and down the sides of which 
 struggled a few white hairs, was drawn a faded hat, scarce 
 # shading his hollow cheeks, while his body was garbed in a 
 covering which, though cleanly-looking, bore unmistakable 
 marks of a past age. His feet were cased in a poor apology 
 for shoes ; and thus accoutred, with "silvery beard unshorn," 
 in the very sun's eye, sad, yet vacant-looking, as though no 
 bond of earth claimed, and no mortal friend cared for him, 
 he sat silent, immovable as the seat on which he rested. 
 
 There is to me no sight more tenderly touching than that 
 of old age. I reverence the Chinese, in that they reverence 
 old age. Even though comfort and happiness surround it, 
 and youth and childhood smile lovingly upon it, it suggests 
 to me more than the ripest joy of earth. So near the verge 
 of life, it seems to me only so much nearer to heaven, and 
 the great mysteries of the grave, and it fills me with solemnly 
 tender thoughts. Stranger though it may be, I see my kin, 
 my nearest and dearest, and even my own self imaged in it, 
 and I could no more treat it irreverently than I could mock 
 at immediate death. But old age in want, suffering by the 
 way-side, what so touching as that? It might be my father, 
 
A LIFE PICTURE. 
 
 01 my mother ; a wife, brother, or sister : if one suffer thus, 
 may not all? And what if one's mother were shivering 
 with cold, or dying with hunger, or suffering from pain, 
 with no heart to beat tenderly toward her, and no hand to 
 shield her grey hairs ; can a sight more touching appear 
 upon earth ? Not to me ! 
 
 I watched the old man for an hour, full of reflections like 
 the above, when I ventured out to speak a word with him, 
 to inquire into his histoiy, and, if he had them, his sorrows 
 and griefs. If youth is reverent, old age seldom repulses it. 
 There is a childhood at either end of life, and the two mingle 
 when they meet. So I found it. Freely to my question, 
 "Friend, are you in want?" he replied that he was way- 
 worn, and tired, and nigh starved ; an out-cast or cast-out 
 from his own home ; a home which, in other years, he had 
 reared to shelter and make happy those images of himself 
 who now had so foully turned him forth to, beggary and 
 death. I was poor enough in this world's goods, but infi- 
 nitely rich, I trust, in the sympathy that divides what it has 
 with the suffering, and I gave him that which I had. It 
 was but little, yet I have a thousand times felt, and now 
 feel, the tearful gratitude of that old man, for so small a 
 kindness, sw 7 eeter to me than " strained honey." The me- 
 mory of it flows into my heart like a rich odor. 
 
 Could I have done less for him, though I could do no 
 more? Could 1 have passed by such sorrow and suffering, 
 without dropping if only one consoling word ? The breath 
 of kindness is sometimes both the bread and water of life. 
 Nay, I could not have done less. Within me arose the sug- 
 gestion, yet a little while, O, child, now blest with sufficiency, 
 and thy head will be silvered, and may be as poorly sheltered 
 as this old man's. Thou, too, mayst have children who 
 will turn thee from thy home. It was a reciprocity founded 
 on the possibility of events far off, swelling within me, that 
 would not be repressed ; a sentiment of compassion, not alto- 
 gether unselfish, which, as with God's voice, bade me do as 
 I did ; a duty, whose omission w T ould have pained my heart 
 forever after — whose fulfilment, brought its great reward. 
 
A LIFE PICTURE. 
 
 07 
 
 I looked not upon that old man as a beggar : No, he had 
 been a happy boy, had felt the spring breezes kiss his spotless 
 cheek and toss up his glossy bright hair. He had been a 
 light-hearted youth, had touched his lips to the fountain of 
 life when it was clear and sweet, and had been happy with 
 high aspirations, and dreams of faithful love. Finally, he 
 had grown to manhood, passed the rubicon, and seen in the 
 distance before him, transcendently beautiful, the Mecca of 
 life. Around him clustered his flock, beaming their bright 
 eyes upon his sobered face, shedding a halo over his home. 
 Happy man ! a child, a youth, a man and a father, blessed 
 in affections that refined and purified him, and with affluence 
 sufficient for all the desires of life, could he ask for more? 
 Could he say to felicity, " Come nearer to my soul ?" 
 
 But hold ! change and blight hang upon the issue of an 
 hour. The wife of the happy man died, misfortune came 
 upon him, and before the storm, passed away much that 
 was bright. The old oak, shorn of the protecting forest, 
 caught the lightning, and stood charred and blasted against 
 the sky. The stout heart palsied and the hand withered at 
 its task. 
 
 Did the fond, beaming eyes of children then smile upon 
 the old man — the father? Nay ! but with bitterness and 
 reproach, his own blood thrust him forth, alone, into the 
 world ! He went forth, he knew not whith'er ; not a beggar, 
 out a venerable old man, cursed by the sting that is "sharper 
 than a serpent's tooth." He was Lear, without the memo- 
 ries of a king. And this was not among savages, but in a 
 Christian land ! 
 
 There are souls rude enough to mock at old age like 
 this. Who can ridicule even grey hairs? I cannot. Men- 
 dicity nor crime could stay in my heart the rise of a tender 
 feeling toward one so clad in livery for the grave. Old age 
 has my sympathy and my alms, wherever I see the silvery 
 signet on its brow. On earth, save God, I reverence nothing 
 more. I never see it, but I think of the children who mock 
 ed at Elijah, and against whom God sent a vengeance. 
 
TO MY MOTHEB 
 
 I've wander'd far from thee, mother — 
 
 Far from our happy home ; 
 I've left the land that gave me birth, 
 
 In other climes to roam : 
 And Time, since then, has rolled his years, 
 
 And mark'd them on my brow ; 
 Yet still, I've often thought of thee— 
 
 I'm thinking of thee now! 
 
 I'm thinking of those days, mother, 
 
 When, with such earnest pride, 
 You watch'd the dawnings of my youth, 
 
 And press'd me to your side ; 
 Then love had fiJl'd my trusting heart 
 
 With hopes of future joy, 
 And thy bright fancy honors wove, 
 
 To deck thy " darling boy." 
 
 I'm thinking on the day, mother, 
 
 I left thy watchful care, 
 When thy fond heart was lifted up 
 
 To Heaven — thy trust was there: 
 And memory brings thy parting words, 
 
 When tears fell o'er thy cheek ; 
 But thy last loving, anxious look, 
 
 Told more than words could speak. 
 
 I'm far away from thee, mother, 
 
 No friend is near me now, 
 To soothe me with a tender word, 
 
 Or cool my burning brow ; 
 The dearest ties affection wove, 
 
 Are all now torn from me ; 
 They left me when the trouble came— 
 
 They did not love like thee ! 
 
ABOU BEN ADHEM. 
 
 I'm lonely and forsaken now, 
 
 Unpitied and unblest ; 
 Yet still, I would not have thee know 
 
 How sorely I'm distress'd : 
 1 know thou wouldst not chide, mother, 
 
 Thou wouldst not give me pain, 
 But cheer me with thy softest words, 
 
 And bid me hope again. 
 
 But, ah ! there is a thought, mother, 
 
 Pervades my beating breast — 
 That thy freed spirit may have flown 
 
 To its eternal rest ; 
 And as I wipe the tear away, 
 
 There whispers in mine ear 
 A voice, that speaks of Heaven and thee, 
 
 And bids me seek thee there. 
 
 ABOU BEN ADHEM. 
 
 Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) 
 
 Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace ; 
 
 And saw, within the moonlight in his room, 
 
 (Making it rich like a lily in bloom,) 
 
 An angel writing in a book of gold. 
 
 Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold 
 
 And to the presence in the room he said — 
 
 " What writest thou ?" The angel raised his head, 
 
 And, with a look made all of sweet accord, 
 
 Answered — " The names of those who love the Lord." 
 
 " And is mine one V said Adhem. " Nay, not so," 
 
 Replied the angel. Adhem spoke more low, 
 
 But cheerily still, and said — " I pray thee, then, 
 
 Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 
 
 The angel wrote and vanished The next night 
 
 He came again, with a great wakening light, 
 
 And showed the names the love of God had blest — 
 
 And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest ! 
 
SALANDER AND THE DRAGON. 
 
 This ingenious and beautiful allegory illustrates, in a 
 very powerful manner, the danger of "uttering, or of lending 
 ear to the unkind word or insinuation," which is unhappily 
 so near to being a universal fault, that few are exempt from 
 its unlovely, mischievous, and wicked influence. 
 
 Poor Goodman, the keeper of the Hartz Prison, is per- 
 suaded by a person of gentlemanly address and insinuating 
 manners, to admit within his walls a hideous dwarf, named 
 Salander, at the same time being warned in a solemn man- 
 ner not to Jet him escape — though he had something more 
 than a hint that it would be extremely difficult to detain 
 him. The keeper's wife discovers that something of a pri- 
 vate nature is going on ; and she continually tantalizes her 
 husband with entreaties to see the monster — to which he 
 consents, though it is entirely contrary to orders. At length 
 she is permitted to look upon the hideous prisoner with her 
 own eyes, when, wonderful to say, she is seized with a strange 
 fancy for him, petting him, as it would seem, for his very 
 ugliness. She communicates the secret to a neighbor. Un- 
 pleasant and disgraceful things begin to be whispered abroad ; 
 and finally the poor keeper,, intolerably annoyed, turns the 
 prisoner loose. 
 
 The career of Salander is delineated with a most graphic 
 power. Every step is marked by disgrace, misery and death. 
 Conscienza, the Lord of the Castle, having been entranced 
 by a potent drug, administered by Goodman and his wife, 
 that he might not know, and punish them for their mischief, 
 suddenly rises from his sleep ; and the poor Keeper of the 
 Prison is overwhelmed by his terrible anger. As a punish- 
 ment he is sent forth to re-capture and bring back Salander. 
 
 * A Romance of the Hartz Prison."— By Rev. Frederick W. Shelton.— Published 
 by John S. Taylor, 143 Nassau-Street, New-York. 250 pp. 12rno. 
 
KIND WORDS USE THEM. 
 
 7 J 
 
 He treads paths which are bordered by his ruins ; but the 
 dwarfish monster, mounted on his Dragon, is going wide 
 in the world. He is at large ; and no human power can 
 arrest his progress. 
 
 But it is impossible to give even an outline of the story. 
 In the catastrophe and some of its results, it rises into the 
 splendor and majesty of a true poem — now grand and power- 
 ful, in the imagery of the battle, now sinking into the sweet 
 and mournful numbers of a wailing sorrow for the lovely 
 and noble, who frave fallen victims to the escaped demon. 
 Nothing could be more beautiful than the dying man's dream 
 of finding the Lost Jewel. 
 
 The volume is beautifully illustrated with fine etchings, 
 some of which have in themselves much merit. Let story- 
 readers read this story of truth, and profit thereby ; and let 
 none venture to pass it over, lest, peradventure, he should 
 lose something of which society had better pay the price 
 than that it should not go where it is so much needed — 
 that is, everywhere. A person of even common good feeling, 
 after having read this book, would be apt to think twice, 
 before giving either utterance or ear to a single detracting 
 word. F. H. G. 
 
 Kind Words — Use them. — Because they fall pleasantly 
 on the ears of all to whom they are addressed, and it is 
 therefore one of the ways of promoting human happiness. — 
 Because they give an expression in your favor, and thus 
 prepare the way for your greater influence over others for 
 good. — Because your kind words powerfully contribute to 
 soothe and quiet your own spirit, when ruffled by the un- 
 kind ness of others. — Because they show the difference be- 
 tween you and the rude, malicious, or revengeful, and are 
 suited to show them their wrong. — Because they are suited 
 to stir up the kind affections of your own heart. There is 
 sweet music in such voices rightly to affect the heart. — Be- 
 cause they are so uncommon, use them, that there may be 
 more of such bright stars in our dark firmanent. — Because 
 they aid in carrying out the Divine injunction — "Be cour 
 teous," " Be kindly affectioned one to another." 
 
TO MY WIFE. 
 
 BY LINDLEY MURRAY. 
 
 When on thy bosom I recline, 
 Enraptur'd still to call thee mine, 
 
 To call thee mine for life, 
 I glory in the sacred ties, 
 (Which modern wits and fools despise,) 
 
 Of Husband and of Wife. 
 
 One mutual flame inspires our bliss ; 
 The tender look, the melting kiss, 
 
 Even years have not destroy'd ; 
 Some sweet sensation, ever new, 
 Springs up, and proves the maxim true, 
 
 That love can ne'er be cloy'd. 
 
 Have J a wish ? — 'tis all for thee ; 
 Hast thou a wish ? — 'tis all for me : 
 
 So soft our moments move, 
 That angels look with ardent gaze, 
 Well pleas'd to see our happy days, 
 
 And bid us live — and love. 
 
 If cares arise — and cares will come — 
 Thy bosom is my softest home — 
 
 I'll lull me there to rest: 
 And is there aught disturbs my fair? 
 I'll bid her sigh out every care, 
 
 And lose it in my breast. 
 
 Have I a wish ? — 'tis all her own ; 
 All her's and mine are roll'd in one : 
 
 Our hearts are so entwined, 
 That, like the ivy round the tree, 
 Bound up in closest amity, 
 
 'Tis death to be disjoined. 
 
FELIX, THE STUDENT. 
 
 65 
 
 class had procured, as he said, "a fine subject," and we only- 
 awaited the arrival of the Professor before it was produced. 
 Felix — who was the pupil appointed to demonstrate on that 
 evening — was busy in preparing his instruments for opera- 
 tion. Never can the scene be effaced from my memory. 
 Custom had banished all feeling of sympathy, and the laugh 
 and gibe went merrily around. At length the Professor 
 arrived. The body was placed upon the table, and each 
 student, with his knife in hand, stood ready to assist. 
 
 " Mr. D ," said the Professor, " are you ready to pro- 
 ceed ?» 
 
 " I am, sir," replied D ; and, removing the oil-cloth 
 
 which had been carefully thrown over the subject, he was 
 about to plunge his knife into the body, when he uttered a 
 wild, unearthly shriek, and fell senseless on the floor. 
 
 "What can this mean?" said the Professor : " raise him." 
 Quick as lightning we did so, and, applying some remedies, 
 restored him once more to reason. 
 
 "Take me hence — take me hence," he feebly uttered. 
 "Touch her not — she is mine. Emily! — poor Emily ! do 
 not mutilate that breast on which I have a thousand times 
 reposed ! Take me hence — I am dying !" and he sunk 
 exhausted into our arms, and was borne from the room. A 
 carriage having been procured. I attended him home, and 
 saw him committed to the care of his young and affectionate 
 wife, but he shrunk from her presence as from the glance 
 of a basalisk. " Leave me," he said to her, " for a few mo- 
 ments ; I have some instructions to give to my friend here ; 
 I shall send for you shortly." She fondly kissed his pallid 
 brow, and with the tears streaming from her eyes, unwil- 
 lingly obeyed him. 
 
 As soon as we were alone, "Crime," said he, "you per- 
 ceive, cannot be concealed. You have twice beheld my 
 strange conduct ; I will no longer deny the cause of it. The 
 young female whose body this evening was to have served 
 for our operations, is one of my victims. She it was, on that 
 evening when you were first a witness to my wildness, sought 
 charity at my hand. From the hour that I had betrayed 
 
FELIX, THE STUDENT. 
 
 her up to that night, I had lost all trace of her ; and although 
 I have since been untiring in my search, yet have I been 
 unsuccessful. Save the body, I beseech you, from the knife ; 
 let it rest in peace ; it is the only atonement I now can make. 
 Promise me this ere reason leaves me, fori feel that madness 
 is weaving her spell about my brain." 
 
 " Compose yourself," I said : " since you have erred, repent- 
 ance yet may bring you peace." 
 
 " Never ! never ! Peace only is for me in the grave. Fly, 
 
 my dear R ! for the love of heaven, secure the body from 
 
 desecration, and consign it to the dust ; that done, return 
 and tell me all. Emily ! poor blighted blossom ! curses, 
 curses on yo.ur seducer !" and he frantically tore his hair 
 and wept. 
 
 Finding that neither consolation or advice was of avail, 
 I left him, and, having procured a coffin at the nearest un- 
 dertaker's, had the corse placed within it. But, judge of my 
 astonishment, when I recognized the features to be those of 
 the young girl whom, with the doctor, I had a fortnight before 
 visited. My curiosity was aroused, and I immediately repair- 
 ed to the wretched hovel, where from the old woman I learned 
 that poor Emily had two days before been by death released 
 from her sufferings. As an outcast from society, an " unfor- 
 tunate woman" as the delicate phraseology of the world 
 terms it, she had been buried without a friend to weep a tear 
 upon her ashes, and now from the grave had the body been 
 torn to supply the dissecting-room. On the following morn- 
 ing I saw it again committed to the dust. 
 
 Of Felix what shall I say ? Alas, his prediction was truly 
 and fearfully fulfilled ! Madness did indeed claim him for 
 its victim. He yet lives. I saw him last summer the 
 inmate of a mad-house. He did not remember me. The 
 walls were scrawled over with the name of Emily — a name 
 which the keeper told me was the only sound that ever passed 
 his lips. Poor Felix ! how dearly hast thou expiated thy 
 error ! How true are the words of the poet. — 
 
 "Though the betrayer deems himself secure, 
 Yet God's revenge, though slow, is ever sure." 
 
FEMALE KINDNESS. 
 
 BY ISAAC M'LELLAN, JR. 
 
 "I have observed among all nations, that the women are ever the same 
 kind, civil, obliging-, humane, tender beings; that they are ever inclined 
 to be gay, timorous, and modest. I never addressed myself in the lan- 
 guage of decency and friendship to a woman, whether civilized or savage, 
 without receiving a decent and friendly answer. In wandering over the 
 plains of inhospitable Denmark, through honest Sweden, frozen Lapland, 
 rude and churlish Finland, unprincipled Russia, and the wide-spread 
 regions of the wandering Tartar, if hungry, dry, cold, wet, or sick, woman 
 has ever been friendly to me, nnd uniformly so ; and to add to this virtue 
 so worthy of the application of benevolence, these actions have been per- 
 formed in so free and kind a manner, that if I was dry, I drank the sweet 
 draught, and if hungry, ate the coarse morsel, with a double relish." — 
 Ledyard. 
 
 Beyond the ever-rocking deep, 
 O'er deserts bleak, and regions green, 
 
 From month to month, from year to year, 
 Unwearied still my way hath been. 
 
 My pilgrim staff hath cross'd the snows 
 
 O'er frozen Labrador that roll, 
 And scaled the icy pinnacles 
 
 Far up the wintry northern pole. 
 Upon the iceberg's glassy top, 
 
 Upon the glacier's crystal crest, 
 Oft times my tempest-beaten head 
 
 Has found a 'pillow for its rest. 
 Along the bare and sandy waste 
 
 That border's Afric's yellow shore, 
 These limbs, from dawn of day till eve, 
 
 Have oft their weary burden bore. 
 
 On every shore, in every clime, 
 
 In tropic or in frigid zone, 
 Wearied and fainting by the way, 
 
 Famished, athirst, and sick, and lone, 
 
FEMALE KINDNESS. 
 
 In woman's soft and melting heart 
 A sympathetic balm I've found — 
 
 A spirit ever prompt to heal 
 The smarting pang and galling wound. 
 
 The wintry day was chill and bleak, 
 
 And to its setting sank the sun, 
 When worn with travel, faint and weak, 
 
 I faltered o'er the dreary waste. 
 Across the wide champaign of France 
 
 My toilsome way all day had led, 
 And long the heavy road did seem 
 
 To lengthen to my weary tread. 
 At length, exhausted, I reposed 
 
 Where fast a little hamlet stood, 
 By many a flowering hedge enclosed, 
 
 E'en bosomed in a drooping wood. 
 Nor long upon the cheerless sod 
 
 The stranger's fainting form reclined 
 For forth from an old cottage grey, 
 
 (Its lattice with green vines entwined,) 
 A dark-eyed damsel of the land 
 
 Came with a light and dancing step, 
 And soon with hospitable hand 
 
 The humble door was open thrown; 
 And all my freezing veins revived, 
 
 As high the genial blaze arose ; 
 And soon the snow-white board was spread, 
 
 And the soft pillow of repose. 
 And long that cottage, neat though poor, 
 Oped to my friendless frame its door; 
 Nor other guerdon was bestowed, 
 Save thanks from a full heart that flowed. 
 
 Among the wild majestic cliffs 
 
 That tower above the Svvitzer's home, 
 Far 'mid the everlasting Alps, 
 
 With restless feet I've loved to roam. 
 Oft met the glorious sun advance 
 
 O'er regal Alps with burning brow — 
 Oft seen him down bleak Wetterhorn — 
 
 At twilight tinge the roseate snow — 
 
FEMALE KINDNESS. 
 
 Oft gild the Eigher's frosty peak, 
 
 And Finster Aar-horn's silver crown ; 
 And paint with daylight's latest streak 
 
 The Jura chain with golden brown. 
 Oft with the mountaineer's long staff, 
 
 Have I white Bosson's glacier scaled ; 
 And on the gleaming Mer-de-glace, 
 
 Roamed where the mountain eagle sailed 
 And even 'mid that airy world, 
 
 In shepherd's chalet, chieftain's hold, 
 Shelter and rest were ne'er denied 
 
 In summer's heat or winter's cold. 
 And ever was the female heart 
 
 The first to melt at my distress. 
 And prompt the gentle female hand 
 
 The door to ope, the wound to dress, 
 And cheer with many a friendly deed 
 The pilgrim, at his utmost need. 
 
 Far have I roamed by tumbling Po, 
 And where the Tiber's waters flow, 
 Laving old Rome's imperial feet, 
 
 As proudly as in Ccesar's day ; 
 And in each swarming land and street, 
 
 Amid the princely Corso's crowd; 
 Toil-worn, and travel-stained, I found 
 
 In woman balm for every wound — 
 A smile angelic did I find, 
 To heal the body and the mind. 
 
 - And where the broad and lordly Rhine 
 Sweeps by wild cliff and mountain tall, 
 Crowned with the olive and the vine, 
 
 And many a grey baronial hall, 
 Thy weary- wandering frame hath shared 
 The poor man's feast, howe'er he fared. 
 From matron old and maiden sweet 
 The self-same succor did I meet ; 
 Nor e'er unwelcom'd turned away 
 From mossy hut or cottage grey. 
 
 And where the rapid Danube pours 
 His rolling current to the sea, 
 
 Kind-hearted woman still hath been 
 A benefactor unto me. 
 
SOMETHING WORSE THAN DEATH. 
 
 In crowded Moscow's noisy street, 
 
 Or bleak Siberia's dreary sand, 
 The cup and bread were still supplied 
 
 Unasked for, by her generous hand. 
 For me the blazing faggot threw 
 
 A ruddier flame athwart the gloom — 
 The fading Jamp was trimmed anew — 
 
 The couch spread in the choicest room — 
 And the poor pilgrim of the road 
 Freed from soiled garb and weary load. 
 
 Sweet woman ! when the hour of pain, 
 And when the hour of death doth come, 
 
 What hand so ready to sustain 
 
 The heavy brow, and wipe the foam 
 
 That on the dying lip doth lay, 
 
 Or wipe the dews of death away ? 
 
 What voice so sweet to soothe the ear, 
 When all things else sound harsh and cold? 
 
 What smile so sweet the soul to cheer ? 
 What arms so tender to enfold? 
 
 SOMETHING WORSE THAN DEATH. 
 
 'Tis bitter to endure the wrong 
 
 Which evil hands and tongues commit, 
 
 The bold encroachments of the strong, 
 The shafts of calumny and wit ; 
 
 The scornful bearing of the proud, 
 
 The sneers and laughter of the crowd. 
 
 The harder still it is to bear 
 The censure of the good and wise, 
 
 Who, ignorant of what you are, 
 Or blinded by the slanderer's lies, 
 
 Look boldly on, or pass you by 
 
 In silence, with averted eye. 
 
"I AM NOT MAD, MOST NOBLE FESTUS." 
 
 St. Paul 
 
 If 'tis madness, when cast on the waves of the ocean, 
 And toss'd by the rage of its surging commotion, 
 To catch at the spar that will buoy you up, 
 While the heart tells the dying pulsations of Hope; 
 'Neath the load of despair, with a fire at the brain, 
 Your eyes, almost bursting, you anxiously strain 
 To behold the bright sail of some ship on the foam, 
 To restore you once more to your lov'd ones at home, — 
 Then the Christian is mad ! 
 
 When you gaze at the things your heart has long cherish'd. 
 And behold them all scatter'd, and wither'd, and perish'd ; 
 If 'tis madness to wish for the power to give 
 Those lov'd things in beauty for ever to live ; 
 If, when friends have departed, and hopes are all dead, 
 And the lights of life's pathway for ever have fled, 
 'Tis madness to look through the gloom of earth's night 
 To the rise of a morning eternally bright, — 
 Then the Christian is mad ! 
 
 If 'tis madness to love what is lovely and bright, 
 And hate the dark things of pollution and night; 
 To fly from the pit where lost spirits are riven, 
 And long for the beauty, bliss, glory of heaven ; 
 To enjoy the rapture which swells the loud hymn 
 Of the blest ones, and angels, and high cherubim ; 
 To follow the footsteps of Him who has trod 
 O'er earth's pains to the throne of our Father and God, — 
 Then the Christian is mad ! 
 
 c. M. F. D 
 
 If there were no opposition between inclination and good- 
 ness, men would follow what is good ; for they never sink 
 so low as to piefer evil because it is evil. 
 
THEM ATOPSIS. 
 
 BY MISS A. L. FRASER. 
 
 " When we watch long by the sick bed where a loved one pines slowlv 
 in her beauty at the approach of death, and see the roses one by one 
 fade and go out, the smiles and the loves remain about the pale lips, 
 we soon become almost content to bid the young spirit God speed 
 to the land where she shall mix freely with kindred souls in empyrean 
 act, and behold unveiled, with joy, her native skies." 
 
 How beautiful she lay 
 
 Upon the bed of death, 
 Ere from the lovely clay 
 
 Parted the fleeting breath ! 
 Could one so loved be dying, 
 
 Whose gentle voice we've heard, 
 Sweetly to ours replying, 
 
 In many a tender word ? 
 
 Like sculpture fair her brow 
 
 Gleamed thro' her sunny hair; 
 How rich her cheeks' warm glow ! — 
 
 The hectic rose was there! 
 Oh, bright, deceitful blossom ! 
 
 Flower of the fatal breath ! 
 To th' eye thou'rt life and beauty — 
 
 But to the wearer, death ! 
 
 Bright shone her eye, and clear 
 
 As the cloudless blue of heaven ; 
 Its spirit light, how dear — 
 
 How soon to darkness given! 
 Now she has pass'd the shadow ; 
 
 Ours is the void — the gloom : 
 She bathes in love's pure ocean, 
 
 Far, far beyond the tomb. 
 
 Sweetly the morning star, 
 
 Fading, is lost in light ; 
 So fled the maid afar, 
 
 Forever from our sight. 
 Weep not : she dwelt among us, 
 
 A bird of brighter skies ; 
 Whose song is sweet when fettered, 
 
 But sweeter when she flies. 
 
Uto%rs anir SDaugljters of % Bible 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 BY REV. S. D. BURCHARD. 
 
 A celebrated English author once proposed to a com- 
 pany of British lords and ladies to entertain them, by read- 
 ing a story of pastoral life — a production, as he intimated, of 
 rare merit. They met ; the Book of Ruth was read, simply 
 substituting different names. The party were delighted, 
 charmed, with the simple and truthful narrative. The 
 most extravagant encomiums were passed upon the heroine 
 of the tale Her decision, her fortitude, her affection, her 
 modesty, her uncompromising integrity, and piety, were pro- 
 nounced to be above all praise. All, of course, were anxious 
 to know the author of this rare and romantic story, as one 
 who might grace the circles of literature and fashion. They 
 were referred to the Bible, as containing this remarkable nar- 
 rative. They were confounded and amazed, not knowing 
 that it contained a gem of such surprising beauty and 
 interest. 
 
 The Bible is really a wonderful book, containing poetry 
 more fascinating than any production of uninspired genius — 
 " truth, stranger than fiction." 
 
 Much as we admire the poets of Pagan antiquity, we do 
 affirm that Homer has been excelled in his battle-scenes 
 by Miriam and Deborah. The Grecian drama rises not to 
 the sublimity of Job ; and where shall we find any thing, 
 even in the Orphic hymns, to compare with the richness, the 
 sweetness, the melody of David? Who has ever sung, like 
 Jeremiah, the dirge of a fallen nation ? and what has ever 
 
74 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 fallen from the pen of the novelist so poetic and pure, so 
 strange and spirit-stirring, as the simple delineations contain- 
 ed in the Books of Esther and Ruth ? We yield to the poets 
 and writers of fiction, who have charmed the world by the 
 magic of their genius, all their laurels. We shan not dispute 
 their greatness, or the splendor of their execution. They 
 have written for time ; they have delineated, with graphic 
 beauty, to chain the gay devotees of earth and sense. But, 
 for the Bible, we put in a prouder claim : it delineates the 
 character of the Universal Father ; it throws jout its simple 
 verities, so as to afTect the character and destiny of earth's 
 population. " Search the scriptures, for in them ye think ye 
 have eternal life ; and they are they which testify of me."' 
 
 The Book of Ruth is supposed to have been written by 
 Samuel, as the connecting link between Judges and the 
 books bearing his name ; and for truthful simplicity and 
 poetic beauty, it has no rival either in ancient or modern 
 literature. No more graphic history ever has or ever can be 
 written of Ruth, than is found in the scriptural record. We 
 can add no lights or shadows to the picture, which are not 
 found in beautiful harmony there. We cannot improve upon 
 the word of God. All we propose, is to present to the mind 
 of the reader a brief analysis of the character of the artless 
 heroine of our story. Of her young life we know but little, 
 save that she was educated to the service of idolatry; she 
 had often danced around its altars, and worshipped at its 
 shrine. Doubtless she was sincere — earnest — devout; but 
 her religion was vague — misty — shadowy — and illy adapted 
 'to develope those lofty traits of character which afterwards 
 distinguished her history and rendered her name immortal. 
 There was one family in that idolatrous land that shone 
 like a lamp in a sepulchre of gloom and darkness. It was 
 the house and family of Elimelech. He had lied from the 
 altars and temple of his own highly-favored country, to avoid 
 the pinching effects of a wide-spread and desolating famine. 
 We do not justify the course of the pious Elimelech. We 
 think he erred in leaving the land of his fathers, with ail its 
 hallowed associations — its beautiful temple of worship — its 
 
RUTH. 
 
 75 
 
 high privileges and blessings — and going to a land of spiritual 
 darkness, and exposing his family to the corrupting influence 
 of a false and fascinating religion. There seems to have 
 been no necessity, in his circumstances, for such a removal. 
 He was a man of means, of influence, and of honorable con- 
 nections in the Hebrew commonwealth. A partial distrust 
 of God, and a secret love of gain, must have led him to take 
 a false step, which resulted fatally, in the over-rulings of 
 Providence, to the forfeiture of his own life and the fall of 
 his family. 
 
 His two sons became interested in the daughters of Moab ; 
 and, in violation of the Divine law, they were subsequently 
 married : but their union was short ; death entered that 
 family circle, where all was now happy and hopeful as the 
 young innocence of childhood, and, despite the pleadings of 
 true-hearted affection, made the young and beautiful wives 
 widows, and their home desolate. 
 
 Now that the mother was bereft of her earthly all — of her 
 husband and her two sons — she began to think of returning to 
 the land and grave of her fathers. Her two daughters-in-law, 
 Orpha and Ruth, proposed to accompany her; but, grasping 
 in her mind the distance and dangers of the journey, her im- 
 poverished circumstances, and the doubtful manner of her 
 reception by her kindred and former friends, she frankly, 
 yet with trembling solicitude, advised each to return to her 
 mother's house, imploring upon them the benedictions of the 
 God of Israel. She could hold out to them no inducements 
 to share her poverty or be identified with her doubtful and 
 subsequent history ; and, with true, disinterested affection, 
 she said, " ' Turn again, my daughters ; go your way ; the 
 Lord deal kindly with you, as ye have dealt with the dead 
 and with me.' Then she kissed them, and they lifted up 
 their voice and wept." Poor stricken and broken-hearted 
 widow ! — she preferred to bear her calamities alone, rather 
 than accept the offered sacrifice of her children ! It was a 
 moment of deep trial and painful and conflicting emotions — 
 a crisis well adapted to try and develope the character of 
 each. Orpha reented, and returned to her home, her kin- 
 
76 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 died, and the altars of Pagan idolatry. She had not the 
 strength of character or the piety of Ruth, who, in a strain 
 of lofty and impassioned eloquence, replied to the appeal of 
 Naomi, " 'Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from 
 following after thee ; for whither thou goest, I will go, and 
 where thou lodgest, I will lodge : thy people shall be my 
 people, and thy God, my God : where thou diest, will I die, 
 and there will 1 be buried. The Lord do so to me and more 
 also, if aught but death part thee and me !"' This response 
 of the Moabitess was effectual, and brings out in bold and 
 beautiful relief the striking and attractive features of her 
 character. 
 
 Observe her heroic decision blended with becoming diffi- 
 dence and respect. Decision is an element of character 
 which we all admire. It is a gem that adds beauty to him 
 who possesses it, and is the more precious in this world, be- 
 cause its exhibition is comparatively rare. A man who can 
 face sarcasm and scorn without relenting, or stand firm in 
 his integrity amid the seductions of vice and the fascinations 
 of pleasure — who pursues the right, through persecution and 
 trial, with unfaltering step — is truly a moral hero, and merits 
 the regards and high admiration of his fellow men. Such 
 a character has solidity and strength, and, when discovered 
 in woman, blended with appropriate modesty and grace, it 
 is a most rare and precious jewel. And was not this one 
 of the crowning characteristics of the amiable and devoted 
 Ruth ? She had deliberately come to the conclusion to for- 
 sake the land of her nativity, and identify her fortunes with 
 the widowed and afflicted Naomi — and nothing, it would 
 seem, could turn her from her purpose. On the one hand 
 were the associations of her young girlhood, the friends of 
 her youth, the grave of her companion, and the prospect of 
 an honorable competency, in the land of Moab — all pleading 
 with her to remain. On the other, toil and exposure, danger 
 and trial, perhaps desertion and perpetual widowhood, seem- 
 ed to forbid her journey to Canaan. But, in view of all this, 
 she was firm in her resolve, that her home, her country, her 
 people, her God, her grave, should be the home, the country, 
 
RUTH. 
 
 77 
 
 the people, the God, and the grave of her bereaved and 
 stricken mother. You will perceive that her purpose was 
 both filial and religious. She had formed, during" the short 
 period of her residence in her family, an unconquerable 
 attachment to Naomi. They had wept and worshipped 
 together — they had been mutually and deeply afflicted — they 
 had stood in pensive grief over the grave of the loved and 
 the lost — their hearts had been cemented by discipline and 
 trial — and no considerations of worldly gain or chilling poverty 
 could separate them. Besides, her young heart had been 
 warmed by a live coal from off the Hebrew altar. She had 
 witnessed the living and radiant piety of Naomi, amid a 
 region of extended gloom and darkness. She had seen her 
 meek patience and heroic fortitude under the most crushing 
 and accumulated misfortunes ; and she was persuaded that 
 an invisible and Divine arm must have been her solace and 
 support. She had been impressed by the example of the 
 living, and by the calm and triumphant faith of the dying, 
 with the superior excellence of the religion of the Hebrews 
 to the religion which cast its dark and lengthened shadows 
 over the land of Moab. She had never indeed seen the 
 Tabernacle, with its solemn rites and awful mysteries. She 
 had never beheld the shekinah resting upon the mercy-seat, 
 and shadowing forth the presence of the Infinite. She had 
 never listened to those deep and organ-like tones which 
 thrilled the hearts of the hosts of Israel, as they congregated 
 for worship beneath the solemn dome and around the sacred 
 altars of their venerated temple. But she had, doubtless, 
 heard from the lips of her sainted husband the story of 
 God's wonders in Egypt — his miraculous deliverance of 
 Israel — his protection and providence amid the perils and 
 privations of the wilderness — his sublime manifestations upon 
 the awful mount — his formal delivery of the law to the awe- 
 stricken multitudes — their subsequent introduction and set- 
 tlement in the land of Canaan. All this may have operated 
 fowerfully upon her sensitive nature, to strengthen her 
 decision, and prefer the God of Israel to the gods of Moab. 
 
78 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 She had become convinced that the religion of the Hebrews 
 was the true religion, and that their God was the only living 
 and true God. She had lost confidence in heathenism. It 
 was dark, cold, and cruel — affording no solace in trouble, 
 and shedding no light over the gloom of the shadow of death, 
 and she had made up her mind to abandon it for ever : and 
 no solicitations of friendship, no appeals of worldly policy, 
 no threatening obstacles or frowning poverty, could shake 
 her high resolve, or intimidate her in the path of duty. She 
 would be identified with the bereaved Naomi, and her God 
 and people should be hers, come what would ! 
 
 We scarcely know which to admire most — her deep devo- 
 tion to her mother-in-law, or her unbending purpose to yield 
 to the convictions of duty. Both are beautiful, and both 
 have helped to embalm her name in the grateful remem- 
 brances of posterity. 
 
 She was advised by Naomi to return — to go back to her 
 kindred and her father's house. Perhaps she thought she 
 would be happier, so far as personal comfort and worldly 
 advantage are concerned, to return to the land of Moab ; or 
 perhaps she wished to test the sincerity and strength of her 
 affection. She was now a widow — poor, heart-stricken, and 
 lonely ; and she well knew that many who make high pro- 
 fessions of love — who flatter and fawn in times of prosperity — 
 disappear like snow-flakes, when sorrow or adversity comes ; 
 and she desired proof of Ruth's devotion, in view of the most 
 frowning and adverse circumstances. And did her plea to 
 return, prevail? No; the very reasons that she had urged 
 for her return, awoke the strong wotrianly affection of her 
 nature, and she would not desert her mother-in-law in the 
 time of her deep poverty. She would help her, lighten her 
 sorrows, and bear the burdens of her crushed heart. With 
 her warm and sensitive heart, all throbbing and alive to the 
 interest of her mother, she felt prepared for any emergency. 
 Let storms and trials flood her way to Canaan, and the wa- 
 ters of affliction drench her shivering form, still her language 
 to Naomi is, " ' Whither thou goest, I will go, and where 
 
RUTH. 
 
 79 
 
 thou lodges!, I will lodge : thy people shall be my people, 
 and thy God, my God : where thou diest, will I die, and there 
 will I be buried!''"' 
 
 Can we conceive of anything more beautiful or sublime 
 in woman's character ? But how the firmness of her resolute 
 and heroic nature rises in our estimation, at beholding her 
 cleaving to Naomi, not merely to perform offices of dutiful 
 affection, but that she might stand with her in the same 
 covenant relations to the God of Israel, and share his bene- 
 dictions and smiles. Her new faith imparted a sublimity 
 to her character, and, like the morning star glittering above 
 the horizon, announces a day of gladness succeeding the 
 night of her deep gloom. Sustained by this faith, she was 
 enabled to resist every solicitation of flesh and sense, and 
 pursue the path of duty, although it might lead to hardship, 
 contempt, and poverty. 
 
 In language similar to the prophetic declaration of her 
 royal descendant, did the voice of Heaven speak to her heart : 
 "Hearken, O daughter, and consider, and incline thine ear; 
 forget also thine own people and thy father's house : so shall 
 the King greatly desire thy beauty, for he is thy Lord, and 
 worship thou him." — Ps. xlv. 10, 11. 
 
 To this voice she heartily responded, and they both pur- 
 sued their long and weary way to Bethlehem. Many, doubt- 
 less, were their surmises, fears, and deep anxieties, about the 
 future; but, faith was triumphant — their journey is ended — 
 and the young Moabitess is a gleaner in the rich fields of 
 Boaz. Here another admired trait appears in the character 
 of Ruth. She submits her hands, unused to toil, to the hard 
 drudgery of the harvest-field. She had been delicately 
 trained in the land of Moab ; she had moved in the gay 
 saloons of pleasure ; she had been admired and caressed for 
 her beauty and virtue, and was illy prepared for so hard a 
 lot ; but unmurmuringly she submits, and, prompted by 
 affection, and with a happy heart, she says to Naomi, "'Let 
 me now go to the field, and glean ears of corn :' and she said 
 unto her, ' Go, my daughter :' and she went and gleaned 
 in .he field after the reapers." And the God " under whose 
 
80 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 wings she had come to trust," favored her, and at nightfall 
 she returned to her mother, laden with the precious fruits 
 of her labor. Her strange beauty, her unaffected modesty, 
 and respectful address, had attracted the attention of Boaz, 
 and he had directed the reapers to treat her kindly, and to 
 let fall handfulls of grain on purpose for her. In this direc- 
 tion he had respect not only to the beautiful stranger, but 
 to the law of Moses — forbidding to reap wholly the corners 
 of the field, or to gather the gleanings of the harvest, but 
 commanding to leave them for the poor and the stranger. 
 Ruth acknowledged the favor, and with artless simplicity 
 said, " ' Why have I found grace in thine eyes, that thou 
 shouldest take knowledge of me, seeing I am a stranger ?' 
 And Boaz answered and said unto her, 'It hath fully been 
 showed me all that thou hast done unto thy mother-in-law 
 since the death of thine husband, and how thou hast left 
 thy father and thy mother, and the land of thy nativity, 
 and art come unto a people which thou knewest not hereto- 
 fore. The Lord recompense thy work.' " This address of 
 Boaz was peculiarly grateful to the heart of the young 
 maiden. He intimates, that he had heard of her devotion 
 to her afflicted mother-in-law — the noble sacrifice she had 
 made for the truth's sake — her decided preference for the 
 people of God to her idolatrous kindred. 
 
 It seems that the arrival of Naomi with the beautiful 
 stranger had produced no little sensation in the quiet town 
 of Bethlehem. Her changed appearance, her unprotected 
 and prostrate condition, excited the deep sympathy of the 
 people, and " all the city was moved about them, and they 
 said, 'Is this Naomi?' And she said unto them, 'Call me 
 not Naomi ; call me Mara — for the Almighty hath dealt 
 very bitterly with me. I went out full, and the Lord hath 
 brought me home again empty : why then call ye me Naomi, 
 seeing the Lord hath testified against me, and the Almighty 
 hath afflicted me?'" Her original name was in keeping 
 with her circumstances — affluent, pleasant ; but now that 
 the Almighty had "dealt bitterly" with her, she preferred 
 to be called Mara — which signifies bitter. Boaz had not 
 
GENERAL WARREN. 
 
 One of the consequences of the singularly rapid growth 
 of America, is, that life-remembered things have become 
 already matters of history. The mighty convulsion which 
 shook the strong fabric of European society to its very centre, 
 subverted the domination of centuries, and, as it were, with 
 a touch of the enchanter's wand, changed the destinies of 
 millions of lives, even within the memory of some of the 
 very men through whose agency Almighty wisdom worked 
 out its decree. 
 
 Inasmuch as no human prescience could have pointed out 
 the means to achieve this wondrous end, so no human saga- 
 city could have imagined aught to avert its consummation. 
 "It was written in the book of destiny." The same Holy 
 voice that from conflicting atoms called the universe into 
 existence, bade the sun of freedom rise 3 and it was obeyed — 
 it was accomplished ! 
 
 At the close of a raw, comfortless day, in the early part 
 of the eventful year 1775, a group of young men were col- 
 lected together in a small but neat and comfortable house 
 in the little village of Lexington. They were in whispered 
 but earnest conversation, and, from the stern determination 
 pictured in each countenance, it was evident that no trivial 
 matter had drawn them together. 
 
 " More news,*' said one, under his compressed teeth : " they 
 have determined that Boston must suffer. The 'rebels* 
 must be stoned into subjection, it appears." 
 
 "Well, they're right," said another, "if they can do it. 
 The only means by which they can get the Yankees to suc- 
 cumb will be to kill them outright, if they let them; but 
 every life now lost, will be a thousand gained to us : the 
 
74 
 
 GENERAL WARREN. 
 
 crisis has arrived at last, roused by continued acts of injus- 
 tice and oppression. The people — not a few factious indi- 
 viduals, who, for personal aggrandizement, would feign an 
 ardor which they did not feel — but the bone, muscle, and 
 sinew of the country — the people begin to feel, to know, and 
 to deliberate. Oh ! with what an inward thrill of joy I gaze 
 upon determined faces as I pass along — look into eyes whose 
 purpose shows itself, though yet unspoken — meet the stern 
 grasp instead of the easy, careless salutation ! — proofs that 
 one secret but o'ervvhelming thought pervades all hearts." 
 
 " True, Russell," replied the other, " the people are pre- 
 pared ; but, to act in general concert, it will be necessary to 
 discover one man whose evident and unquestionable fitness 
 would declare him fated to direct the whole." 
 
 " And so we shall : that Providence which has so surely 
 decreed the evil, will not deny us the means. I myself 
 know one who, if his present promise be but an earnest of 
 his future greatness, will achieve a name whose glories will 
 o'ershadow e'en the brightest : modest in deportment, reserved 
 in manner, an enemy to ambition, uniting in a curious de- 
 gree the opposites of caution and energy. Prudent in de- 
 ciding, but firm and prompt in action, I am much mistaken 
 or his deeds will keep his memory fresh in the hearts of his 
 countrymen from age to age, till ( time beholds the wreck 
 of all.' " 
 
 "His name?" 
 
 "George Washington." 
 
 And that undying name which, uttered since, has made 
 the hearts of millions swell with rapturous thrill, was listen- 
 ed to without one quickened pulse. 
 
 " But what of Warren ?" resumed Russell. " Has he been 
 sounded ?" 
 
 "No need of sounding, when every feeling of his honest, 
 manly heart, is indexed in his face." 
 
 " How is it that we never see him ?" 
 
 " His home is now his sole consideration. I know him 
 well : the universal thought which fills all hearts, his is not 
 exempt from. But his young wife and infant make him 
 
GENERAL WARREN. 
 
 75 
 
 cling to home as to a paradise : to lose them, would be to him 
 perdition." 
 
 "I think you misjudge him," said one of the group. 
 "There's more of the stern sacrificing virtue of the Roman 
 character in Warren than you give him credit for. But see, 
 he is here." 
 
 It was thus unexpectedly that Warren appeared for the 
 first time among the confederated patriots. 
 
 Many months had they mett together for the purpose of 
 deliberating on the present aspect of affairs, and never before 
 had he taken any part in their proceedings. It is not to be 
 wondered at then that he was accused of at least lukewarm- 
 ness by the ardent partizans who had embarked in the (as 
 yet hardly defined) enterprize, hand and heart, body and 
 soul ! 
 
 Delighted at this spontaneous evidence of his willingness 
 to join in their deliberations, they welcomed Warren with 
 enthusiasm. He was looked upon as the first man in the 
 place, and consequently his countenance and support would 
 bring fresh converts to the cause, cheer its supporters, and 
 make the wavering decide. 
 
 The appearance of Warren was striking in the extreme. 
 Young, tall, and of elegant proportions, he possessed that 
 indefinable aspect of superiority to which men in their own 
 despite pay homage — the nobility of nature, stamped by 
 Heaven's own hand upon his brow. 
 
 The first cordial salutation over, there was a pause, and 
 slight embarrassment crept over the features of all, but it 
 was dissipated in an instant by Warren's frank and noble 
 words : — 
 
 " My friends," said he, " why dissimulation — why the 
 semblance of restraint, when this nervous grasp, like an 
 electric touch, declares our hearts to beat in unison — our 
 country's cause ?" 
 
 To the death !" they all cried, simultaneously, catching 
 the enthusiasm of the speaker. 
 
 * Aye, to the death !" replied Warren, with flashing eye 
 and startling emphasis — "to the death! What luxury of 
 
76 
 
 GENERAL WARREN. 
 
 life compares with such a glorious destiny, to die for liberty ! 
 Heaven grant it may be mine ! To my beloved country 
 I have dedicated every thought : let me but seal the freedom 
 with my blood, and 'twill be happiness to die.'' 
 
 The animated discussion that followed was suddenly in- 
 terrupted by the appearance of an individual who, breathless 
 with impetuous haste, burst upon the assembly. 
 
 " Men of Lexington !" said he, " it behooves you to be 
 prepared ! Have your nerves up for the coming conflict ! — 
 the thunder-cloud grows darker !" 
 
 " The news from Concord ?" demanded Warren, to whom 
 the speaker was known. 
 
 "News," said the comer, " which I know will stir up the 
 best blood within each heart here. It has come to the know- 
 ledge of the British general that we have been for some time 
 past collecting arms and ammunition : and he is determined 
 that, cost what it may, they shall be seized ; and a strong 
 detachment is even on its road from Boston. In a day or 
 two it will pass through the village." 
 
 "Brave news!" cried Russell, impetuously; "now is the 
 time to strike !" 
 
 " Hold ! — let us not lose sight of prudence in our impetu- 
 osity," replied Warren. " It will be difficult to let our foes 
 pass without some demonstration of opposal — but pass they 
 must. 'Twill take many days ere they can retrace their 
 steps — and then, if I augur rightly, we shall be enabled to 
 collect sufficient friends to make their return more difficult 
 than they imagine." 
 
 " But why not assemble at Concord '/" said one ; "the arms 
 and ammunition there collected will be useful in our hands, 
 and a heavy loss, if seized." 
 
 "Take no heed for that," replied Warren; "they have 
 been dispersed long ago — some , in our very neighborhood. 
 No, no — the time, the time is all we want now. Let it be 
 understood by all, that our enemies may pass unmolested — 
 but every inch of their return must be disputed." 
 
 Concurring in the views of their leader — for such was 
 W arren conceded to be — the small knot of patriots, soon to 
 be swollen into a mass, separated for the night. 
 
GENERAL WARREN. 
 
 77 
 
 In a few days after, a strong detachment of military did 
 pass through Lexington ; and the quiet, of its inhabitants 
 and apparently deserted state of their houses, had an ominous 
 look to some of the most thinking. It is matter of history 
 that in a conversation respecting it between two officers, 
 one said — 
 
 "See, I knew they dared not oppose us: the houses are 
 shut up, the windows closed." 
 
 " Depend upon it," said the other, " toe shall be fired at 
 from, these very windows on our return." 
 
 A week passed rapidly over, and, by dint of extraordinary 
 exertion, the dozen or two patriots had increased their 
 strength to hundreds. The British detachment seized the 
 few useless arms found at Concord ; and the officer in com- 
 mand either deeming the information to be overdrawn, or, 
 as had often been the case, wholly fabricated, prepared to 
 return to Boston, then their head-quarters. 
 
 It is now the close of the day. Warren is seated in his 
 chamber, his wife opposite, and their sole hope, their infant 
 child, sleeping in his cradle. Not unconscious of the high 
 aspirations that fill his soul is she, the sharer of every thought, 
 the soother of every sorrow, the stimulator, the adviser ; and 
 does she entertain one selfish feeling? No. Knowing the 
 power that woman always has to shape the thought and to 
 direct the energy even now, when every moment threatened 
 instant parting, did she smother her almost devotion, and, 
 with a kindling eye and cheerful look, belying the woman's 
 heart that trembled in her bosom, smile an approval on the 
 glorious cause he had undertaken. 
 
 "The moment approaches, wife of my heart," said he, 
 " when you must yield up every domestic, gentle thought, 
 and cheerfully bear the cross which the need of our country 
 imposes. Heaven knows how tenderly, how truly do I love 
 thee ; and may the sacrifice I make in leaving this my happy 
 home, be the best proof of devotedness, and prove propitious 
 to our great cause !" 
 
 "Go, Warren- -go!" said the heroic wife, the fire of pat- 
 riotism beaming in her eye. "Tome you owe but iove, 
 
78 
 
 GENERAL WARREN. 
 
 which you have paid to the uttermost ; but to your country, 
 if need be, you owe a life ! and though in that life is mine 
 entwined, yet would I give up all to ensure my country's 
 weal !" 
 
 "Fit wife for a patriot!" said the lofty Warren ; "the 
 thought of thee and thy heart's desolation was the only 
 obstacle that intervened 'twixt me and my soul-cherished 
 hopes : nobly have you answered me. Now, my oppressed, 
 beloved country, I am all thine own !" 
 
 This heart-uttered aspiration was fitly answered by a 
 distant shout. 
 
 " Ha ! they come so soon ! — 'tis well. My arms, my he- 
 roine — my arms! -One kiss, my child," cried Warren, "and 
 then for a name that must endure ! No drop of blood shed 
 in this glorious effort, but will be honored by a nation's tears, 
 remembered in a people's gratitude." Snatching a kiss from 
 his sleeping infant, he hastily armed himself, and, embracing 
 his tearless but fearfully excited wife, cried, " Wife of my 
 bosom, let me have thy benediction upon my work, or I shall 
 go but with half a heart !" 
 
 " Bless thee — bless thee and thy cause !" she replied. 
 " Bear witness, Heaven, I would rather live upon the thoughts 
 of thy renown with but the remembrance of thy love buried 
 in my heart, than share a palace with an enemy to freedom. 
 Here, from my own hands, take this instrument of war ! 
 Far better thus, than live to see thy child a slave ! Fare- 
 well ! May the God of battles protect thee !" 
 
 Not many hours after, the first conflict which opened the 
 road to freedom took place. Most obstinately was every foot 
 of ground contested through the village. At last, nearly cut 
 to pieces, the residue of the detachment fled like frightened 
 sheep before the victorious army of patriots, and the Battle 
 of Lexington was inscribed with a pen of adamant on the 
 imperishable records of fame. 
 
 From that day the career of Warren was one continued 
 succession of victories ; but never did he see his smiling, 
 happy home again ! The destiny which he had so ardently 
 desired, awaited him. Almost in sight of the Canaan of 
 
THE AMERICAN FLAG. 
 
 79 
 
 Freedom, he ratified his devotion to his country by his blood. 
 On the very threshold of his hope's consummation, with the 
 shout of triumph in his ears, he yielded up his life, encou- 
 ragement on his lip. 
 
 "Be firm," he cried — "flinch not! behold your banners ! 
 stand fast ! Ye battle for the right !" and thus the heroic 
 Warren — his eye flashing defiance even in the moment of 
 death — by his glorious example, stimulated his living com- 
 panions to a fresh exertion, and he closed his eyes upon 
 that ground which is now hailed as the landmark of liberty. 
 His last fight had settled the destinies of his country, and 
 gave freedom to a world. 
 
 THE AMERICAN FLAG. 
 
 BY J. It. DRAKE. 
 
 When Freedom from her mountain height 
 Unfurled her standard to the air, 
 
 She tore the azure robe of night, 
 And set the stars of glory there. 
 
 She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
 
 The milky baldric of the skies, 
 
 And striped its pure celestial white 
 
 With streakings of the morning light; 
 
 Then from his mansion in the sun 
 
 She called her eagle-bearer down, 
 
 And gave into his mighty hand 
 
 The symbol of her chosen land. 
 
 Majestic monarch of the cloud, 
 
 Who renr'st aloft thy regal form, 
 To hear the tempest trumpings loud, 
 
 And see the lightning lances driven, 
 When strive the warriors of the storm, 
 
 And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven- 
 Child of the sun ! to thee 'tis given 
 
 To guard the banner of the free, 
 
THE AMERICAN FLAG. 
 
 To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
 To ward away the battle stroke, 
 And bid its blendings shine afar, 
 Like rainbows on the cloud of war — 
 The harbingers of victory ! 
 
 Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly 
 The sign of hope and triumph high, 
 When speaks the signal trumpet tone, 
 And the long line comes gleaming on. 
 Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 
 Has dimm'd the glistening bayonet, 
 Each soldier-eye shall brightly turn 
 To where thy sky-born glories burn ; 
 And as his springing steps advance, 
 Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
 And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
 Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, 
 And gory sabres rise and fall 
 Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall; 
 
 Then shall thy meteor glances glow, 
 And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 
 
 Each gallant arm that strikes below 
 That lovely messenger of death. 
 
 Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
 Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; 
 When death, careering on the gale, 
 Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 
 And frighted waves rush wildly back 
 Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
 Each dying wanderer of the sea 
 Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
 And smile to see thy splendors fly 
 In triumph o'er his closing eye. 
 
 Flag of the free heart's hope and home, 
 
 By angel hands to valor given! 
 Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 
 
 And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
 For ever float that standard sheet ! 
 
 Where breathes the foe but falls before 
 With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 
 
 And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us 
 
WASHINGTON. 
 
 BY THE LATE JOHN INMAN. 
 
 The name of our great patriot — of the only man to 
 whom the world renders its tribute of undivided, unqualified 
 homage— has been frequently mentioned of late in the poli- 
 tical journals; naturally called up by the occurrence of 
 events and the inception of designs in regard to which 
 opinions are greatly at issue. The enquiry has been. — 
 What course would Washington have taken under circum- 
 stances like these ? and it is a striking acknowledgment of 
 his wisdom and virtue, that the presumption of what his 
 conduct would have been, has been put forward as an un- 
 answerable argument. It is well for us to keep ever before 
 our eyes the nobleness and purity of his character, as a fit- 
 ting subject of imitation. 
 
 He was indeed a man — filled to overflowing with all the 
 elements of greatness, and working out, with a loftiness of 
 aspiration and a constancy of purpose that by man have 
 never been exceeded, the god-like capacities and purposes 
 of his existence. Occupying, as he did, a position which 
 exposed him to the gaze and scrutiny of all men, all ages, 
 and all nations, and scanned as his character and actions 
 have been, with eager solicitude, for nearly half a century 
 since he passed away from the world in which he filled a 
 station so great and so imposing, not a solitary act or trait 
 has been brought to light that can diminish the reverence 
 with which he was in life regarded ; but ever, as the space 
 between him and those who gaze upon him expands with 
 the lapse of years, the height to which we must raise our 
 eyes becomes loftier and loftier, and still his awful form 
 stands out in proportions more colossal and majestic. 
 
82 
 
 WASHINGTON. 
 
 His duties were indeed arduous and multiform — and were 
 they not all fulfilled with as much exactitude as other and 
 lesser men exhibit in the performance of such as are least 
 and easiest? High and noble was his perception of the 
 great object for which he was created — and did he not 
 achieve it? Just, and grand, and glorious were his views 
 of human capacity — and did he not act up to them ? Weak- 
 nesses we know that he must have had, for they are among 
 the constituents of humanity — but he knew where to find 
 the strength that should replace them. Tendencies to evil 
 we know that he must have had, for they belong to all the 
 posterity of Adam — but he had the power and the will to 
 strive against and overcome them ; and so perfect was his 
 victory, so absolutely was he master of himself, so trium- 
 phant was the might with which he subdued and kept down 
 the appetites and passions which must at times have risen 
 in rebellion against the better elements of his immortal be- 
 ing, that to no other eye but that of God was the struggle 
 even visible. No man ever saw him hesitating between 
 good and evil. Tempted he might be, and doubtless was, 
 like other men — but so little power had temptation to move 
 him, that it could not gain even the poor triumph of a doubt- 
 ful conquest. 
 
 Alike calm, dignified, and self-possessed amid the excite- 
 ment of enterprize and danger, and the relaxing tranquillity 
 of familiar social intercourse — never elated by prosperity 
 or depressed by ill-fortune — filling stations of most opposing 
 character, and equally great in all — performing high and 
 trying duties, and those of the most ordinary grade, with 
 the same scrupulous fidelity— ever keeping his eye fixed 
 steadfastly upon the highest aim of a being created for im- 
 mortality, and ever advancing toward it with a constancy 
 that no inducement could turn aside, as with a vigor of pro- 
 gress that no obstacle could for a moment check — in him 
 we see exemplified the dignity of man. as he was designed 
 to be when the Almighty said, " Let us make man in our 
 image, after our likeness ;" and there is scarcely a suspicion 
 of extravagance in the idea that he was called into being 
 
HEART WISHES. 83 
 
 not only as a special instrument under the power of God 
 to achieve the deliverance of an oppressed people, and to 
 proclaim and establish before all nations the eternal prin- 
 ciples of freedom, but also as a demonstration to all man- 
 kind, of the glory and brightness and majesty that reside 
 in the soul of man, and that may be brought forth to shine 
 as the stars of heaven, if man will but rightfully employ 
 the gifts with which he has been endowed by his benevo- 
 lent and omnipotent Creator. 
 
 HEART WISHES. 
 
 I would not wear a golden crown, 
 
 Nor reign upon a throne ; 
 But o'er one true and loving heart 
 
 I would be queen alone. 
 
 I would not have a servile throng 
 
 Press round to bow the knee; 
 But one light, free, and eager step, 
 
 Haste homeward unto me. 
 
 I would not hear the stirring shout 
 
 Of plaudits far and wide— 
 But list a soft voice gently speak 
 
 My name at eventide. 
 
 I would not have a sumptuous couch, 
 
 When pain had laid me low — 
 But one dear arm to fold my form, 
 
 One hand to press my brow. 
 
 I would not have proud marble piled 
 
 Upon my lowly head — 
 But simple stone, and grassy mound, 
 
 And one to weep me dead. 
 
 I would not have the breath of fame 
 
 Attempt my worth to prove — 
 But I would have one warm heart keep 
 
 The memory of my love. 
 
 I would, belov'd, to thee and me, 
 
 The priceless pearl be given, 
 That thy true heart may meet mine own, 
 
 And each love each in heaven. s. c. c. 
 
JUDICIAL MURDER. 
 
 BY THE LATE JOHN INMAN 
 
 Many wise and good men contend earnestly, and no 
 doubt conscientiously, for the right as well as the expe- 
 diency of putting their fellow-men to death in a legal way ; 
 but I must confess that I can see neither the right nor the 
 expediency. In fact, I am glad of this opportunity to put 
 on record, for such good end as the testimony of an indi- 
 vidual may achieve, my firm conviction that the taking 
 of life deliberately, and with all the sanctions that law and 
 legal forms can give, is not only inexpedient, but a crime. 
 There is something inexpressibly horrible in the thought of 
 going coolly, gravely, dispassionately to work for the Strang 
 ling of a fellow-creature. The victim is so helpless — he 
 stands so utterly alone, not in a contest with, but in the 
 irresistible grasp of a mighty power. If he could even seem 
 to have a chance of escape, by strength, or swiftness, or 
 cunning — but no ; the banded might of a whole nation, of 
 millions, is concentrated in the hands of the officials who 
 are to deal with him ; all the appliances and enginery that 
 the united power of millions can create, are about him ; he 
 cannot so much as struggle. In the plenitude of life and 
 health and vigor, he must count the minutes at the end of 
 which he shall die. A tremendous spell is on him ; at the 
 appointed time he must walk to his place of doom ; silent, 
 unresisting, hopeless, without an effort, he must stretch forth 
 his hands for binding — submit his neck to the deadly rope. 
 His free agency is gone — his will is annihilated — he is a 
 machine in the hands of the constructor, moving, not by 
 the impulse of his own volition, but in a defined track, the 
 ghastly end of which, glaring hideously upon him, is de- 
 
» 
 
 JUDICIAL MURDER. 85 
 
 struction : and it is always possible that he has not deserved 
 the doom awarded to him — possible that he dies to expiate, 
 as it is called, the crime of another. How agonizing must 
 be, in such a case, the sense of wrong and injustice in his 
 bosom! What deadly cruelty must he perceive in the fiat 
 that cuts him off from life and all its blessings — that widows 
 his wife and orphans his children — stamps his name with 
 infamy, and bequeaths that infamy as his legacy to them 
 upon whose infancy he had smiled, for whose advancing 
 years he had cared and toiled and hoped ! 
 
 A poor colored girl was executed in New-Jerse3 r , not long 
 ago, for the murder of her master. After her death, the 
 papers said that she was scarcely a responsible being ; her 
 intellect was of the lowest grade — but little removed from 
 idiocy. And she was but sixteen years of age ! If all this 
 was true, how dreadful the consummation ! Not for her 
 sake so much — not in regard to her — but as a deed for 
 society to commit. Her life was of little value, perhaps, 
 even to herself ; it was but the life of a poor, ignorant, half- 
 witted, friendless creature ; its circle of enjoyments was 
 very limited ; the mental pangs that heralded its close were 
 not keenly felt ; and when once the silver cord was broken, 
 philosophy might calmly say that the difference was but 
 slight between death then and death after the lapse of ten 
 or twenty or thirty years. But to think that the tremendous 
 might of a whole people was arrayed against this feeble 
 creature ! That the terrible machinery of penal law was 
 set in motion to extinguish the miserable spark that glim- 
 mered in that poor frame ! If her death could have restored 
 the life she took, it would have been something. But so- 
 ciety could gain nothing by wreaking its revenge on her 
 for the evil she had done ; means of preventing her from 
 doing more evil were easy, though she were allowed to live ; 
 and experience has proved, that the strangling of the crimi- 
 nal is less efficacious than other means, to deter others from 
 the commission of the same offence. 
 
 But even a worse case has recently occurred in England. 
 A woman was convicted and condemned to death for the 
 
86 
 
 JUDICIAL MURDER 
 
 murder of her child. She was poor and friendless — and at 
 the trial she had no professional defender. In the proof for 
 the prosecution, however, it came out that she had been an 
 inmate of a work-house, where ker sufferings were extreme ; 
 that in the desperate hope of faring better by her own exer- 
 tions, she left the house and wandered about for several 
 days, seeking employment, but in vain : starving, cold, 
 heart-broken, she carried her child from street to street — 
 was heard to utter expressions of despair — and at last was 
 rescued, by the cruel humanity of a boatman, from the wa- 
 ters of a canal. Life was all but extinct in her — in the child 
 it was extinct. She was resuscitated — imprisoned — tried — 
 condemned. When asked what she had to say why sen- 
 tence of death should not be pronounced upon her, she an- 
 swered feebly, hut with the touching eloquence of a crushed 
 spirit, that she was miserable, oppressed, tortured ; that she 
 passed days without food, agonized by the wailings of her 
 starving child ; that she knew not what she did, or how she 
 got into the water — whether she fell in through weakness, 
 or threw herself in while destitute of reason. Was there 
 anything improbable in this? was it inconsistent with the 
 proved facts ? might not humanity rejoice to believe it ? Yet 
 the judge pronounced sentence of death jupon her — the jury 
 did not even recommend her to mercy ; and she was left 
 for execution. The bloodthirsty benevolence of law spared 
 no pains or expense to recall the fleeting breath to her almost 
 drowned body, only that it might be taken a few days after- 
 ward by strangulation. But, happily, the ultimate power 
 of life and death was in a woman's hands — and Victoria 
 saved the victim from the rope. All honor to her for the 
 kindly deed t 
 
 A pebble in the streamlet scant 
 
 Has turn'd the course of many a river, 
 
 A dew-drop on the baby plant 
 Has warp'd the giant oak for ever. 
 
THE EXACTING LOVER. 
 
 " First catch your fish." 
 
 " Upon my word, Howard, I don't know whether to con- 
 sider you a rascal, or only a simpleton," exclaimed a young 
 man to his companion, as, at a late hour in the evening, 
 they descended the steps of a handsome house in Broad- 
 way. 
 
 " You do me too much honor in allowing me the alter- 
 native," was the laughing reply ; " indeed, if your polite 
 remark had been uttered by anybody but my own good 
 cousin, it would probably have been met by a knock-down 
 argument." 
 
 "You deserve far more severe reprehension, Howard, 
 than I am either able or willing to inflict upon you. It 
 seems to me that you are wantonly trifling with the affec- 
 tions of a young and artless girl who loves you, and is too 
 guileless to conceal her attachment." 
 
 " If such is your opinion, Tom, I shall certainly make no 
 attempt to change it." 
 
 " Why do you act a part so inconsistent with your usual 
 mode of thinking ?" 
 
 " My dear fellow, my conduct is perfectly consistent. 
 I have a certain theory about women — a certain system in 
 my manners towards them — and to that system I mean to 
 adhere rigidly, even in despite of my own impulses." 
 
 " For heaven's sake, Howard, do not attempt to weave 
 your fragile, fine-spun theories into the web of actual life : 
 you have been a dreamer of dreams, and a projector of 
 schemes all your life, yet what have you gained by them 
 all T 
 
 "I have gained, as Byron says, 'a deal of judgment. , 
 I am no longer a passionate boy, looking upon woman as 
 
88 THE EXACTING LOVER. 
 
 a being of a higher sphere, whose image is to be { ensky'd. 
 ensainted, worshipped.' I have been in too many love- 
 affairs — have knelt too often before an idol like the image 
 seen in the prophet's vision, whose head was of fine gold, 
 bnt whose feet were of clay. I look upon woman now 
 as only a gentle and loving minister to man's happiness : 
 inferior to us in mind and in vigor of character, she is our 
 superior in passion, fortitude, and devoted tenderness ; the 
 very creature, in short, of whom a slave, not a queen, is 
 made. We spoil women by our blind homage, and unfit 
 them for the station they were sent to occupy, while all our 
 efforts to elevate them to the position which our youthful 
 fancy allots them, must be vain and useless." 
 
 " This is quite a new idea, is it not, Howard ?" Less 
 than a twelvemonth ago you were au deses])oir for the 
 brilliant and witty Azuretta Folatre, and then you main- 
 tained a Vontrance the superiority — mental, moral, and per- 
 sonal — of the feminine creation." 
 
 " You are right, Tom — but Azuretta cured me of all such 
 foolish fancies : she had been so spoiled by flattery, that she 
 was fit for nothing but to occupy the throne of that tyrannical 
 old Indian, Begum, we were reading about yesterday. Her 
 whims and caprices led me to reflect upon the causes which 
 could thus transform a being whom nature had made timid 
 and gentle, into such a proud, exacting, haughty, domineer- 
 ing creature ; and I became convinced that the evil might 
 be traced to man's mistaken homage. Henceforth I mean 
 to treat, women as we do children ; to regard them as beings 
 capable of reason, but utterly unfit to be left to their own 
 guidance, and who, in place of being deified, require to be 
 influenced." 
 
 "And pray how are you to obtain the opportunity of in- 
 fluencing them, except by interesting the affections?" 
 
 "Itisbythe affections only that they are to be ruled, 
 Tom." 
 
 " Then there must yet be a season of homage, Howard, 
 for women are not to be won unsought." 
 
 " That is true— but neither are they to be wooed by such 
 
THE EXACTING LOVER. 
 
 89 
 
 blind and humble devotion as we usually pay. Byron knew 
 the female heart well, and I am convinced his rule is the 
 true one — ' Pique them and soothe by tarns.' " 
 
 " Ay, Byron knew the heart of woman as it exists in the 
 tainted atmosphere of fashionable life, where the weeds of 
 passion grow the more rankly because nurtured by luxu- 
 rious self-indulgence ; but you would not surely follow 
 Byron's rule in your choice of a wife ?" 
 
 " Indeed I should. What would a man gain by humbling 
 himself before a woman during courtship, when he knew 
 that his future happiness depended upon her slavish sub- 
 mission to him after marriage ? I mean to marry a delicate, 
 refined, and gentle woman, who will love me earnestly and 
 devotedly — to whom my slightest wish will be law — who 
 shall have no wish but to please me — no pleasure unshared 
 by me — no enjoyments save such as are directly derived 
 from my will ; a woman, in short, who shall be all that a 
 wife was first designed — ' a helpmate — subject to her hus- 
 band, and patient under his will.'" 
 
 " You are as despotic as a Turk, Howard : where do 
 you expect to find such a modern Griselda ?" 
 
 " I have found her already, Tom." 
 
 " You do not, certainly, expect to train Isabel Forrester 
 to such submission ?" 
 
 " Indeed I do — and, what is more, I have no doubt I shall 
 succeed. I love her better than I ever did any other wo- 
 man, but I mean to try her to the utmost, before I place my 
 happiness in her keeping." 
 
 " And I suppose this new system of yours will account 
 for your violent flirtation with the new belle, this evening, 
 while Isabel sat neglected in a corner." 
 
 " You have guessed right : I met Isabel in the street, this 
 morning, and I managed to insinuate a wish that she would 
 refrain from dancing at Mrs. Anson's party, to-night. It 
 was a first experiment in testing my power, but it succeeded 
 perfectly : she is passionately fond of dancing, but she steadily 
 refused all solicitations on the subject." 
 
 " And you rewarded her attention to your wishes by almost 
 total neglect." 
 
90 
 
 THE EXACTING LOVER. 
 
 " That was part of my policy ; she doubtless expected to 
 be rewarded for her self-denial by a double portion of my 
 attention — and, had I been weak enough to bestow it, her 
 forbearance would have been no sacrifice. As matters now 
 stand, she has learned that I have power to afflict her, and 
 that is a great point gained." 
 
 " So you expect to win her by wounding her : this might 
 do in buffalo-hunting, but will scarcely succeed in love- 
 making." 
 
 " Don't you see that I excite a new interest by awaken- 
 ing her apprehensions ? She probably felt sure of my pre- 
 ference for her until this evening, and the doubts which 
 my conduct has excited, will make her think of me until 
 we meet again. A woman is easily managed by one who 
 is allowed to engross her thoughts." 
 
 " Will you allow me to give you my candid opinion of 
 your scheme, Howard V 
 
 " Certainly, my dear fellow." 
 
 " I think it a most selfish, cold-hearted, rascally method 
 of trifling with a woman's feelings." 
 
 " You are complimentary ; but ?i' imjwrte ; you are in 
 the toils of a pretty girl who tyrannizes over you without 
 mercy, Tom, and I cannot hope to bring you to my way 
 of thinking at present." 
 
 " Nor in future, I trust, Howard : it seems to me unprin- 
 cipled." 
 
 " You are wrong, Tom. I mean to marry Isabel as soon 
 as she is perfectly broken in." 
 
 " And suppose she proves intractable ?" / 
 
 " That will be a sufficient proof of want of affection on 
 her part, and of course I shall be the only sufferer." 
 
 " Well, you certainly have a cool and comfortable way 
 of discussing affairs of the heart ; but I do not envy you 
 the power. When the feelings are seared as yours seem to 
 be, they must have suffered frequent scathing, and I would 
 not go through such an ordeal of fire, even to obtain the 
 prize of insensibility." 
 
 With these words the young men parted — one to dream 
 
THE EXACTING LOVER. 
 
 91 
 
 of his beautiful but coquetish lady-love, the other to specu- 
 late upon the effect which his unkindness had produced 
 upon a gentle and loving heart. 
 
 Wilmarth was one of those " men about town." who are 
 always to be met in gay society. He began his career by 
 falling in love at twelve years of age. with his cousin of 
 twenty ; and from that time until he had counted his thir- 
 tieth summer, he had been continually under the influence 
 of some fever dream. A bright smile, a soft eye, a sweet 
 voice, a delicate form, a pretty foot, were each in turn suffi- 
 cient to bewitch him for the time ; and the ease with which 
 he became enchanted and disenchanted, seemed to him less 
 the effect of his own fickleness than the result of his over- 
 estimation of the power of woman's spells. His handsome 
 person and elegant manners made him always welcome 
 in the circles of fashion, while his lucrative profession and 
 rising reputation gave him interest in the eyes of prudent 
 parents. He had met with so much success in society, that 
 he had learned to think too highly of himself, as well as 
 too humbly of his neighbors; and his opinion of women 
 had become more degrading and unjust in proportion as he 
 had received new proofs of their refined susceptibility of 
 feeling. He had been loved fondly and truly by more than 
 one noble-hearted woman ; but these things occurred at a 
 period when he could not summon courage enough to resign 
 his brilliant position for the comparatively uninteresting 
 character of the married man, and he had' coolly extricated 
 himself from such dilemmas without difficulty. He had 
 no faith in the stability of woman's feelings, and could not 
 be made to believe that the agreeable flirtations which were 
 so pleasant while they lasted, and occasioned so little pain 
 to him in their termination, were productive of more serious 
 srief to the belle than to the beau. But he had now be- 
 
 o 
 
 come wearied of this aimless and roving life. He wanted 
 some one to minister to his whims, to study his comforts, 
 to wait upon him more faithfully than a hireling, and ho 
 therefore decided to marry. 
 
 Isabel Forrester was no heroine of romance — no creature 
 
92 
 
 THE EXACTING LOVER. 
 
 of improbable perfection. She was a meek, quiet, tender 
 girl, with faculties yet to be developed by circumstances, 
 and warm affections, which, from childhood, had been 
 lavished upon every thing and every body around her. 
 She was perfectly unsophisticated in feeling, and. the idea 
 of saying or doing anything merely for effect, never entered 
 her mind. Wilmarth's experience in the world had made 
 him master of the arts of pleasing, and it is not surprising 
 that he should soon have excited an interest in the bosom 
 of the artless girl. She did not begin to speculate upon his 
 motives for distinguishing her by his attentions ; no true- 
 hearted woman ever thinks of such things till they are sug- 
 gested by some officious friend ; nor did she at once calcu- 
 late her chances of matrimony : she w 7 as influenced too much 
 by the impulses of feeling to be so fully awake to selfish 
 interest. She liked Wilmarth, and was charmed with his 
 adroit adaptation of himself to suit her tastes. She loved 
 poetry — and he was an admirable reciter ; she was a fine 
 musician — and he had a decided taste if not a talent for 
 u sweet sounds ;" she was fond of reading — and his choice 
 of books was excellent : in short, he left no means untried 
 to convince her of the congeniality which existed between 
 their minds. As soon as he was assured of her preference 
 for him, (and a man of the world soon discovers this) he 
 commenced his system of training. He did not at once pre- 
 sume to censure her, for this might have aroused her pride ; 
 but he insinuated his wishes — and Isabel, with the devoted- 
 ness of a true woman, endeavored to mould herself to his 
 will. He at first undertook to correct her taste in books — 
 and to this Isabel submitted with the meek humility of one 
 who was conscious of her mental inferiority. He then scru- 
 tinized, with a critical eye, her style of dress, and lauded 
 a severe simplicity of attire, until Isabel banished gay colors, 
 ribbons, and jewels, and assumed a garb of almost Quaker 
 neatness. Her rich curls were braided back from her brow, 
 her dresses were all selected from those grave, sombre tints 
 always so unbecoming in fresh youth ; and an embroidered 
 handkerchief, which she ventured to exhibit, after having 
 
THE EXACTING LOVER. 
 
 93 
 
 heard a tirade against such follies from the lips of the sage 
 Mr. Wilmarth, cost her a night of sleeplessness and tears. 
 
 So far, Wilmarth's scheme had succeeded perfectly, but 
 he determined to try still more severe experiments. His 
 conduct on the evening before alluded to, was his first 
 attempt, and what it cost Isabel may be best imagined by 
 those who can remember the first awakening of distrust in 
 the youthful and confiding heart. That Wilmarth loved 
 her, she could not doubt, for his looks, his manners, all dis- 
 closed his attachment; but the words which bind heart to 
 heart in that contract which the world holds to be only less 
 irrefragable than the church's bond, had never yet been 
 uttered. They were not affianced lovers, and therefore 
 Isabel, though feeling herself wronged and outraged, knew 
 she had no right to complain. That night, Isabel's head 
 pressed a sleepless pillow, but with the morning came a 
 feeling of pride and a sense of shame such as she had never 
 before experienced. For the first time in her life she had 
 something to conceal, (a)as ! it is too often the first grief 
 which teaches the first deception,) and with a pale cheek 
 but calm brow, she took her accustomed seat in the drawing- 
 room. At an earlier hour than usual, Wilmarth made his 
 appearance. He was prepared for sadness and reproaches, 
 but Isabel's cold, proud demeanor, made him fear he had 
 gone too far. He had no wish to lose his influence over 
 the lady, for Isabel was an heiress, and in his anxiety to 
 regain his power, he uttered those expressions of tenderness 
 and love, which, once spoken, are never to be recalled. 
 They bad met with coldness and distrust, but they parted 
 as betrothed lovers — and thus, in despite of his themes and 
 his systems. Wilmarth found himself, after all, the toy of 
 natural impulses. 
 
 Notwithstanding his pleasure at having secured the lady 
 and her fortune. Wilmarth was seriously alarmed when he 
 reflected upon the consequences of his precipitation. He 
 fancied that Isabel would now assert her sovereignty, and 
 he knew that the opinion of society would uphold her in 
 claiming her right to his attentions. The situation of an 
 
94 THE EXACTING LOVER. 
 
 engaged lover, compelled to dangle for ever at the side of 
 his lady-love — about as useful to her as her reticule, yet as 
 much in demand as if really essential to her hourly exist- 
 ence — had always struck him as supremely ridiculous : 
 and even while secretly rejoicing in his success, he deter- 
 mined to guard against a,ny advantage which Isabel might 
 hope from his weakness. His first step, therefore, was to 
 enjoin the strictest secresy concerning their engagement ; 
 and when Isabel cheerfully acceded to a wish which still 
 seemed to her very unaccountable, he resumed his former 
 habits of dictation and direction. 
 
 A woman will bear much from one she loves, so long as 
 no doubt exists of his affection — so long as she is rewarded 
 by a proper appreciation of her tenderness. Isabel some- 
 times felt a sort of meek wonder at Wilmarth's exactions ; 
 she sometimes caught herself wishing that he was less diffi- 
 cult to please, and less fastidious in his ideas of womanly 
 duties and womanly impulses, but the thought of paying no 
 heed to his suggestions and counsels, never occurred to her 
 as possible. She considered it her duty to begin at once the 
 task of assimilation — to adapt herself immediately to the 
 tastes of him who was to be her future companion through 
 life, but she was scarcely prepared for so much self-denial 
 as she was now called to practise. In the course of a very 
 short time she found herself completely shut out from society, 
 restricted to the coldest and most ceremonious intercourse 
 with former friends — debarred the privilege of walking or 
 talking with whom she pleased — forbidden to mingle in the 
 dance — her modes of thinking and acting marked out for 
 her — and her very impulses restrained or directed by the 
 will of her lover. Yet Isabel bore with all his caprices, 
 for she truly loved him, and considered his whims rather as 
 proofs of the jealous tenderness of his nature, or at the worst, 
 but as slight infirmities of temper. There was no sacrifice, 
 however great, which she would not willingly have made 
 for him ; but it can scarcely be wondered at if the thousand 
 petty exactions which were constantly marring the quiet of 
 her life, should, in the course of time, weary her, and per- 
 
THE EXACTING L0\> ER. 
 
 95 
 
 haps suggest a doubt of the high-minded ne fs of one wliose 
 thoughts dwelt so much in trifling details. 
 
 Isabel had borne for months with Wilmarth's freaks of 
 coldness, his capricious devotion to others, his occasional 
 outbreaks of anger, and his unreasonable control over her 
 actions. But at length, circumstances too trivial to be 
 recorded, yet, taken in connection, forming a chain of con- 
 tinued evidence not to be disputed, led her to suspect that 
 his apparent caprice was the result of a systematic plan. 
 At first the thought was too painful to be indulged for a 
 moment ; but distrust once admitted, was not to be repelled, 
 and in sadness of spirit Isabel was compelled to admit the 
 belief of her lover's selfishness. A conversation which she 
 accidentally overheard between Wilmarth and his cousin, 
 removed all doubts on the subject. She heard Wilmarth 
 congratulate himself on his success in training her; she 
 heard herself spoken of as the tame, subdued, devoted crea- 
 ture, who had nearly attained the requisite point of perfec- 
 tion — and from that moment resentment took the place of 
 her relying love. She felt herself outraged and insulted ; 
 her affections had been used as fetters to bind her to a vic- 
 tor's car of triumph ; she had been made the sport of man's 
 selfishness ; her heart had been as a sweet instrument in the 
 hands of a cunning player, and every stop had been sound- 
 ed, not in response to the voice of love, but in obedience to 
 the will of a cold experimentalist. Isabel was a proud as 
 well as a true-hearted woman. She would not reproach 
 Wilmarth — she would not even ask an explanation— but 
 with that quickness of feeling which is a woman's gravest 
 error as well as her sweetest charm, she concluded that he 
 had never loved her. Once convinced of his object in guard- 
 ing her with such jealous care — once assured that it was 
 less the tender reserve of affection than the selfish wish to 
 rule, and Isabel became again her own mistress. The sub- 
 mission which love might have exacted through a long 
 life of cheerful self-denial, was refused to cold, calculating 
 tyranny. 
 
 Without one word of explanation or deprecation, Isabel 
 
96 
 
 THE EXACTING LOVER. 
 
 returned to society and resumed her former habits. Her 
 voice was again heard in the cheerful song — her step was 
 once more lightest in the dance — her beauty once more 
 dazzled and delighted a circle of admiring worshippers. To 
 Wilmarth's fierce and angry remonstrances she turned a 
 deaf ear — to his earnest professions she replied with a smile 
 of incredulity — to his real anxiety of mind she gave not the 
 slightest credence. Whatever regrets she felt, were hidden 
 beneath a calm demeanor, or dissipated in the gay scenes of 
 busy life ; and Isabel proved, in progress of time, as every 
 proud woman must do when convinced that her heart has 
 been given to one unworthy of its treasures, that she grieved 
 less for the lover than for the love, which had passed away 
 from her as the dew from the early rose. The youth of her 
 heart was gone ; she had learned her first lesson in disap- 
 pointment, and for her the romance of life was past for ever. 
 
 Wilmarth knew not how much he really loved Isabel 
 until she was lost to him. In vain he endeavored to regain 
 his influence over her — in vain he sought to convince her 
 how entirely his happiness depended on her. 
 
 "You deceive yourself, Mr. Wilmarth," was her cold 
 reply : " I am not the person calculated to make you happy. 
 Some Circassian beauty, who would feel honored in being 
 permitted to be your slave, would better suit one who uses 
 affection but as a coil to ensnare the free will Had you 
 given me one honest feeling — had you yielded to one true 
 impulse while I was pouring out the fulness of my heart 
 at your feet — had you been any other than the cold, calcu- 
 lating man of the world, which your conduct has since 
 shown you, I might have forgiven you ; but now, I would 
 rather wed with the merest clod that ever wore human form, 
 than give my hand to one who could offer the spurious coin 
 of false affection in exchange for woman's true and loving 
 heart." 
 
 Wilmarth thought long on Isabel's last words, and he 
 remembered them with deeper bitterness when he afterwards 
 beheld her the honored and apparently happy wife of one 
 who had L ng loved her with a more unselfish and confiding 
 
HEAVEN. 97 
 
 tenderness. Years have passed since then, but he has rjevei 
 yet found the creature worthy or willing to become his wife. 
 He is now fast falling into "the sear and yellow leaf" — the 
 weight of half a century lies heavy upon him, and all the 
 skill of the perruquier, the dentist, and the tailor, cannot 
 conceal the fact that — 
 
 " Time may fly with the wings of the hawk, but his steps 
 Are marked by the feet of the crow." 
 
 A lonely and disappointed bachelor — leading an aimless 
 and joyless life— tolerated in circles where he was wont to 
 be courted — banished to fireside corners with the comely 
 matrons who were his cotemporaries, while those who were 
 unborn in the days of his early triumphs, now elbow him 
 from the course — he has learned to repent his vain attempt 
 to manage a tender and truthful woman by other means 
 than the rule of love. 
 
 HEAVEN. 
 
 BY C. D. STUART. 
 
 As distant lands beyond the sea, 
 When friends go thence, draw nigh, 
 
 So Heaven, when friends have thither gone, 
 Draws nearer from the sky. 
 
 And as those lands the dearer grow 
 
 When friends are long away, 
 So Heaven itself, through loved ones deau, 
 
 Grows dearer day by day. 
 
 Heaven is not far from those who seo 
 
 With the pure spirit's sight ; 
 But near, and in the very hearts, 
 
 Of those who see aright. 
 
HE CAME TOO LATE! 
 
 He came too late ! — Neglect had tried 
 
 Her constancy too long ; 
 Her love had yielded to her pride, 
 
 And the deep sense of wrong. 
 She scorned the offering of a heart 
 
 Which lingered on its way, 
 Till it could no delight impart, 
 
 Nor spread one cheering ray. 
 
 He came too late ! — At once he felt 
 That all his power was o'er ! 
 
 Indifference in her calm smile dwelt — 
 She thought of him no more ! 
 
 Anger and grief had passed away — 
 Her heart and thoughts were free; 
 
 She met him, and her words were gay- 
 No spell had memory. 
 
 He came too late ! — The subtle chords 
 
 Of love were all unbound — 
 Not by offence of spoken words, 
 
 But by the slights that wound ! 
 She knew that life held nothing now 
 
 That could the past repay, 
 Yet she disdained his tardy vow, 
 
 And coldly turned away ! 
 
 He came too late ! — Her countless dreams 
 
 Of hope had long since flown ; 
 No charms dwelt in his chosen themes, 
 
 Nor in his whispered tone. 
 And when, with word and smile, he tried 
 
 Affection still to prove, 
 She nerved her heart with woman's pride, 
 
 And spurned his fickle love ! 
 
 • 
 
ERIS: A SPIRIT RECORD. 
 
 BY WALTER WHITMAN. 
 
 Wno says that there are not angels or invisible spiiits 
 watching around us? The teeming regions of the air 
 swarm with bodiless ghosts — bodiless to human sight, be- 
 cause of their exceeding and too dazzling beauty ! 
 
 And there is one, childlike, with helpless and unsteady 
 movements, but a countenance of immortal bloom, whose 
 long-lashed eyes droop downward. Thejtame of the shape 
 is Dai. When he comes near, the angels are silent, and 
 gaze upon him with pity and affection. And the fair eyes 
 of the shape roll, but fix upon no object : while his lips 
 move, but a plaintive tone only is heard — the speaking of 
 a single name. Wandering in the confines of earth, or rest- 
 lessly amid the streets of the beautiful land, goes Dai, earn- 
 estly calling on one he loves. 
 
 Wherefore is there no response? 
 
 Soft as the feathery leaf of the frailest flower — pure as 
 the heart of flame — of a beauty so lustrous that the sons of 
 Heaven themselves might well be drunken to gaze thereon — 
 with fleecy robes that but half apparel a maddening white- 
 ness and grace — dwells Eris among the creatures beautiful, 
 a chosen and cherished one. And Eris is the name called 
 by the wandering angel — while no answer comes, and the 
 loved flies swiftly away, with a look of sadness and dis- 
 pleasure. 
 
 It had been years before that a maid and her betrothed 
 lived in one of the pleasant places of earth. Their hearts 
 clung to each other with fondness of young life and all its 
 dreamy passion. Each was simple and innocent. Mor- 
 tality might not know a thing better than their love, or more 
 sunny than their happiness. 
 
100 
 
 ERIS : A SPIRIT RECORD. 
 
 In the method of the rule of fate, it was ordered that the 
 maid should sicken, and be drawn nigh to the gates of 
 death— nigh, but not through them. Now, to the young 
 who love purely, High Power commissions to each a gentle 
 guardian, who hovers around unseen day and night. The 
 office of this spirit is to keep a sleepless watch, and fill the 
 heart of his charge with strange and mysterious and lovely 
 thoughts. Over the maid was placed Dai, and through 
 her illness the unknown presence of the youth hung near 
 continually. 
 
 fc To the immortal, days, years, and centuries are the 
 
 same. 
 
 Erewhile, a cloud was seen in Heaven. The delicate 
 ones bent their necks, and shook as if a chill blast had swept 
 by — and white robes were drawn around shivering and ter- 
 rified forms. 
 
 An archangel with veiled cheeks cleaved the air. Silence 
 spread through the hosts of the passed away, who gazed 
 in wonder and fear. And as they gazed, they saw a new 
 companion of wondrous loveliness among them — a strange 
 and timid creature, who, were it not that pain must never 
 enter those borders with innocence, would have been called 
 unhappy. The angels gathered around the late comer 
 with caresses and kisses, and they smiled pleasantly with 
 joy in each other's eyes. 
 
 Then the archangel's voice was heard — and they who 
 heard it. knew that One still mightier spake his will there- 
 in : — 
 
 " The child Dai !" said he. 
 
 A far reply sounded out in tones of trembling and appre- 
 hension — 
 ' ; I am here !" 
 
 And the youth came forth from the distant confines whi- 
 ther he had been in solitude. The placid look of peace no 
 more illumined his brow with silver light, and his unearthly 
 beauty was as a choice statue enveloped in mist and smoke. 
 
 " Oh, w T eak and wicked spirit !" said the archangel, " thou 
 hast been false to thy mission and thy Master !" 
 
ERIS I A SPIRIT RECORD. 
 
 10] 
 
 The quivering limbs of Dai felt weak and cold. He 
 would have made an answer in agony — but at that moment 
 he lifted his eyes and beheld the countenance of Eris, the 
 late comer. 
 
 Love is potent, even in Heaven ! And subtle passion 
 creeps into the hearts of the sons of beauty, who feel the 
 delicious impulse, and know that there is a soft sadness 
 sweeter than aught in the round of their pleasure eternal. 
 
 When the youth saw Eris, he sprang forward with light- 
 ning swiftness to her side. But the late comer turned away 
 with aversion. The band of good-will might not be be- 
 tween them, because of wrongs done, and the planting of 
 despair in two happy human hearts. 
 
 At the same moment, the myriads of interlinked spirits 
 that range step by step from the throne of the Uppermost, 
 (as the power of that light and presence which is unbear- 
 able even to the deathless, must be tempered for the sight 
 of any created thing, however lofty,) were conscious of a 
 motion of the mind of God. Quicker than electric thought 
 the command was accomplished ! The disobedient angel 
 felt himself enveloped in a sudden cloud, impenetrably dark. 
 The face of Eris gladdened and maddened him no more. 
 He turned himself to and fro, and stretched out his arms — 
 but though he knew the nearness of his companions, the 
 light of Heaven, and of the eyes of Eris, was strangely seal- 
 ed to him. The youth was blind forever ! 
 
 So a wandering angel sweeps through space with restless 
 and unsteady movements — and the sound heard from his 
 lips is the calling of a single name. Bat the loved flies 
 swiftly away in sadness, and heeds him not. Onward and 
 onward speeds the angel, amid scenes of ineffable splendor, 
 though to his sight the splendor is darkness. But there is 
 one scene that rests before him alway. It is of a low brown 
 dwelling amo|g the children of men ; and in an inner room 
 a couch, whereon lies a young maid, whose cheeks rival 
 the frailness and paleness of foam. Near by is a youth ; 
 and the filmy eyes of the girl are bent upon him in fond- 
 ness. What dim shape hovers overhead? He is invisible 
 
102 
 
 ERIS : A SPIRIT RECORD, 
 
 to mortals ; but, oh ! well may the blind spirit, by the token 
 of throbs of guilty and fiery love beating through him, know 
 that hovering form ! Thrust forward by such fiery love, 
 the shape dared transcend his duty. Again the youth 
 looked upon the couch, and beheld a lifeless corpse. 
 
 This is the picture upon the vision of Dai. His brethren 
 of the bands of light, as they meet him in his jonrneyings, 
 pause awhile for pity ; yet never do the pangs of their sym- 
 pathy (the only pangs known to those sinless creatures, 
 or arms thrown softly around him, or kisses on his brow,) 
 efface the pale lineaments of the sick girl — the dead. 
 
 In the portals of Heaven stands Eris, oft peering into the 
 outer distance. Nor of the millions of winged messenger? 
 that hourly come and go, does one enter there whose features 
 are not earnestly scanned by the watcher. And the fond 
 joy resides in her soul, that the time is nigh at hand ; for 
 a thread yet binds the angel down to the old abode, and, 
 until the breaking of that bond, Eris keeps vigil in the por- 
 tals of Heaven. 
 
 The limit of the watch comes soon. On earth, a toil- 
 worn man has returned from distant travel, and lays him 
 down, weary and faint at heart, on a floor amid the ruins 
 of that low brown dwelling. The slight echo is heard of 
 moans coming from the breast of one who yearns to die. Life, 
 and rosy light, and the pleasant things of nature, and the 
 voice and sight of his fellows, and the glory of thought — 
 the sun, the flowers, the glittering stars, the soft breeze — 
 have no joy for him. And the coffin and the cold earth 
 have no horror ; they are a path to the unforgotten. 
 
 Thus the tale is told in Heaven, how the pure love of 
 two human beings is a sacred thing, which the immortal 
 themselves must not dare to cross. In pity to the disobe- 
 dient angel he is blind, that he may not gaze ceaselessly 
 on one who returns his love with displeasing. And haply 
 Dai is the spirit of the destiny of those whose selfishness 
 would seek to mar the peace of gentle hearts, by their own 
 unreturned and unhallowed passion. 
 
SLANDER 
 
 How many there are, who can say with almost a broken 
 heart, "Surely the tongue is an unruly evil, full of deadly 
 poison !" How many a ruined character can exclaim, with 
 a bleeding heart, "Behold, how great a matter a little fire 
 kindleth !" Surely, it has crushed a thousand hopes, and 
 sent to the grave of peaceful rest many a fair reputation ! 
 
 Slander is a crying evil. Few there are who possess that 
 fiendish and vampire-like disposition to take that from a per- 
 son which is near to him as the blood of his own heart. But, 
 there are some who can calmly and sedately sap the fair 
 fame, and pluck the laurel of reputation from their brow, 
 and cause them to wither as the rose. 
 
 Behold, for a moment, the Slanderer ! He comes forth 
 with pleasantness and gaiety. He is unassuming in his 
 deportment, and the robe of peace seems to be his mantle. 
 He hails you with joy and congratulation. He begins with 
 vague, insignificant surmise, and small broken hints, or 
 some small detached expression of some child-like story, 
 believing every utterable word, and then marshals or puts 
 them together to his own liking, and at last he puts them 
 afloat in the public ear. 
 
 It then goes on from one tongue to another, concealed like 
 a tiger in a jungle, creeping for his prey ; and the public 
 mind being such, that one whisper is enough to shadow and 
 becloud the brightest and fairest character that has acquired 
 years to establish. It is like breath upon a looking-glass. 
 Thus the whisper or hint goes on from one to another, like 
 the secret leaven, till at last it breaks out, all at once, in 
 words. Then comes the tug of war. Then, there comes 
 a mighty tornado, sweeping and laying in ruins the fail 
 hopes of future anticipations. It falls like the astonished 
 shock of a thunderbolt from a clear sky. 
 
104 
 
 BE KIND. 
 
 In such cases, could the person slandered, but trace it, he 
 would find that it was but a mere dint — a dim or minute 
 germ — having grown out of mere nothing, and by using, 
 and transition from one to another, into a notorious and 
 odious calumny. 
 
 Such is slander in its protean form. The fair, unblemish- 
 ed character, lies bleeding at every pore. What a fine and 
 vital cord do you snap, when you snap the most tiny thread 
 of character .' Deplorable is the man when character is 
 gone ! Truly it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison. It 
 infuses the whole atmosphere of mind with its poisonous 
 effluvia and death. 
 
 Surely, indeed, no man can tame the tongue of others, 
 or can stop the onward move of the Slanderer's tongue. He 
 must stand as the bleeding object of a thousand arrows, with- 
 out a possibility to shield himself. He goes on and down 
 to the grave, or couches through life with life's very essence 
 turned to bitterness and all his hopes withered. Oh ! let us 
 beware of giving birth to slander ! A wound made by the 
 arrow of slander can never be healed. Let us beware of a 
 slanderous tongue — it is full of deadly poison. 
 
 
 
 BE KIND. 
 
 Let us be kind — for who has not 
 Been more or less imperfect here? — 
 
 Who fain would have his sins forgot, 
 Or blotted out by Pity's tear* 
 
 Forgiveness is a gentle word — 
 Upon whose tone how many live! 
 
 And since we all have sinned or erred, 
 Why not each other's faults forgive? 
 
 Oh ! let our hearts be kindly cast, 
 Until we cross the downward tide — 
 
 Like barques that feel a common blast, 
 And haste to anchor side by side. 
 
THE EXACTING LOVER. 
 
 89 
 
 blind and humble devotion as we usually pay. Byron knew 
 the female heart well, and I am convinced his rule is the 
 true one — 1 Pique them and soothe by turns.' " 
 
 " Ay, Byron knew the heart of woman as it exists in the 
 tainted atmosphere of fashionable life, where the weeds of 
 passion grow the more rankly because nurtured by luxu- 
 rious self-indulgence ; but you would not surely follow 
 Byron's rule in your choice of a wife ?" 
 
 " Indeed I should. What would a man gain by humbling 
 himself before a woman during courtship, when he knew 
 that his future happiness depended upon her slavish sub- 
 mission to him after marriage ? I mean to marry a delicate, 
 refined, and gentle woman, who will love me earnestly and 
 devotedly — to whom my slightest wish will be law — who 
 shall have no wish but to please me — no pleasure unshared 
 by me — no enjoyments save such as are directly derived 
 from my will ; a woman, in short, who shall be all that a 
 wife was first designed — c a helpmate — subject to her hus- 
 band, and patient under his will.' " 
 
 " You are as despotic as a Turk, Howard : where do 
 you expect to find such a modern Griselda ?" 
 
 " I have found her already, Tom." 
 
 " You do not, certainly, expect to train Isabel Forrester 
 to such submission V 
 
 " Indeed I do — and, what is more, I have no doubt I shall 
 succeed. I love her better than I ever did any other wo- 
 man, but I mean to try her to the utmost, before I place my 
 happiness in her keeping." 
 
 " And I suppose this new system of yours will account 
 for your violent flirtation with the new belle, this evening, 
 while Isabel sat neglected in a corner." 
 
 " You have guessed right : I met Isabel in the street, this 
 morning, and I managed to insinuate a wish that she would 
 refrain from dancing at Mrs. Anson's party, to-night. It 
 was a first experiment in testing my power, but it succeeded 
 perfectly : she is passionately fond of dancing, but she steadily 
 refused all solicitations on the subject." 
 
 " And you rewarded her attention to your wishes by almost 
 total neglect." 
 
 ♦ 
 
90 
 
 THE EXACTING LOVER. 
 
 " That was part of my policy ; she doubtless expected to 
 be rewarded for her self-denial by a double portion of my 
 attention — and, had I been weak enough to bestow it, her 
 forbearance would have been no sacrifice. As matters now 
 stand, she has learned that I have power to afflict her, and 
 that is a great point gained." 
 
 " So you expect to win her by wounding her : this might 
 do in buffalo-hunting, but will scarcely succeed in love- 
 making." 
 
 " Don't you see that I excite a new interest by awaken- 
 ing her apprehensions? She probably felt sure of my pre- 
 ference for her until this evening, and the doubts which 
 my conduct has excited, will make her think of me untii 
 we meet again. A woman is easily managed by one who 
 is allowed to engross her thoughts." 
 
 " Will you allow me to give you my candid opinion of 
 your scheme, Howard ?" 
 
 " Certainly, my dear fellow." 
 
 " I think it a most selfish, cold-hearted, rascally method 
 of trifling with a woman's feelings." 
 
 " You are complimentary ; but «' importe ; you are in 
 the toils of a pretty girl who tyrannizes over you without 
 mercy, Tom, and I cannot hope to bring you to my way 
 of thinking at present." 
 
 " Nor in future, I trust, Howard : it seems to me unprin- 
 cipled." 
 
 " You are wrong, Tom. I mean to marry Isabel as soon 
 as she is perfectly broken in." 
 
 " And suppose she proves intractable ?" 
 
 " That will be a sufficient proof of want of affection on 
 her part, and of course I shall be the only sufferer." 
 
 " Well, you certainly have a cool and comfortable way 
 of discussing affairs of the heart ; but I do not envy yon 
 the power. When the feelings are seared as yours seem to 
 be, they must have suffered frequent scathing, and I would 
 not go through such an ordeal of fire, even to obtain the 
 prize of insensibility." 
 
 With these words the young men parted — one to dream 
 
THE EXACTING LOVER. 
 
 91 
 
 of his beautiful but coquetish lady-love, the other to specu- 
 late upon the effect which his unkindness had produced 
 upon a gentle and loving heart. 
 
 Wilmarth was one of those " men about town/' who are 
 always to be met in gay society. He began his career by 
 falling in love at twelve years of age. with his cousin of 
 twenty ; and from that time until he had counted his thir- 
 tieth summer, he had been continually under the influence 
 of some fever dream. A bright smile, a soft eye, a sweet 
 voice, a delicate form, a pretty foot, were each in turn suffi- 
 cient to bewitch him for the time ; and the ease with which 
 he became enchanted and disenchanted, seemed to him less 
 the effect of his own fickleness than the result of his over- 
 estimation of the power of woman's spells. His handsome 
 person and elegant manners made him always welcome 
 in the circles of fashion, while his lucrative profession and 
 rising reputation gave him interest in the eyes of prudent 
 parents. He had met with so much success in society, that 
 he had learned to think too highly of himself, as well as 
 too humbly of his neighbors ; and his opinion of women 
 had become more degrading and unjust in proportion as he 
 had received new proofs of their refined susceptibility of 
 feeling. He had been loved fondly and truly by more than 
 one noble-hearted woman ; but these things occurred at a 
 period when he could not summon courage enough to resign 
 his brilliant position for the comparatively uninteresting 
 character of the married man, and he had coolly extricated 
 himself from such dilemmas without difficulty. He had 
 no faith in the stability of woman's feelings, and could not 
 be made to believe that the agreeable flirtations which were 
 so pleasant while they lasted, and occasioned so little pain 
 to him in their termination, were productive of more serious 
 grief to the belle than to the beau. But he had now be- 
 come wearied of this aimless and roving life. He wanted 
 some one to minister to his whims, to study his comforts, 
 to wait upon him more faithfully than a hireling, and \i2 
 therefore decided to marry. 
 
 Isabel Forrester was no heroine of romance — no creature 
 
92 
 
 THE EXACTING LOVER. 
 
 of improbable perfection. She was a meek, quiet, tender 
 girl, with faculties yet to be developed by circumstances, 
 and warm affections, which, from childhood, had been 
 lavished upon every thing and every body around her. 
 She was perfectly unsophisticated in feeling, and the idea 
 of saying or doing anything merely for effect, never entered 
 her mind. Wilmarth's experience in the world had made 
 him master of the arts of pleasing, and it is not surprising 
 that he should soon have excited an interest in the bosom 
 of the artless girl. She did not begin to speculate upon his 
 motives for distinguishing her by his attentions; no true- 
 hearted woman ever thinks of such things till they are sug- 
 gested by some officious friend ; nor did she at once calcu- 
 late her chances of matrimony : she was influenced too much 
 by the impulses of feeling to be so fully awake to selfish 
 interest. She liked Wilmarth, and was charmed with his 
 adroit adaptation of himself to suit her tastes. She loved 
 poetry — and he was an admirable reciter ; she was a fine 
 musician — and he had a decided taste if not a talent for 
 " sweet sounds ;" she was fond of reading — and his choice 
 of books was excellent : in short, he left no means untried 
 to convince her of the congeniality which existed between 
 their minds. As soon as he was assured of her preference 
 for him, (and a man of the world soon discovers this) he 
 commenced his system of training. He did not at once pre- 
 sume to censure her, for this might have aroused her pride ; 
 but he insinuated his wishes- -and Isabel, with the devoted- 
 ness of a true woman, endeavored to mould herself to his 
 will. He at first undertook to correct her taste in books — 
 and to this Isabel submitted with the meek humility of one 
 who was conscious of her mental inferiority. He then scru- 
 tinized, with a critical eye, her style of dress, and lauded 
 a severe simplicity of attire, until Isabel banished gay colors, 
 ribbons, and jewels, and assumed a garb of almost Quaker 
 neatness. Her rich curls were braided back from her brow, 
 her dresses were all selected from those grave, sombre tints 
 always so unbecoming in fresh youth ; and an embroidered 
 handkerchief, which she ventured to exhibit, after having 
 
THE EXACTING LOVER. 
 
 93 
 
 heard a tirade against such follies from the lips of the sage 
 Mr. Wilmarth, cos't her a night of sleeplessness and tears. 
 
 So far, Wilmarth's scheme had succeeded perfectly, but 
 he determined to try still more severe experiments. His 
 conduct on the evening before alluded to, was his first 
 attempt, and what it cost Isabel may be best imagined by 
 those who can remember the first awakening of distrust in 
 the youthful and confiding heart. That Wilmarth loved 
 her, she could not doubt, for his looks, his manners, all dis- 
 closed his attachment ; but the words which bind heart to 
 heart in that contract which the world holds to be only less 
 irrefragable than the church's bond, had never yet been 
 uttered. They were not affianced lovers, and therefore 
 Isabel, though feeling herself wronged and outraged, knew 
 she had no right to complain. That night, Isabel's head 
 pressed a sleepless pillow, but with the morning came a 
 feeling of pride and a sense of shame such as she had never 
 before experienced. For the first time in her life she had 
 something to conceal, (alas ! it is too often the first grief 
 which teaches the first deception,) and with a pale cheek 
 but calm brow, she took her accustomed seat in the drawing- 
 room. At an earlier hour than usual, Wilmarth made his 
 appearance. He was prepared for sadness and reproaches, 
 but Isabel's cold, proud demeanor, made him fear he had 
 gone too far. He had no wish to lose his influence over 
 the lady, for Isabel was an heiress, and in his anxiety to 
 regain his power, he uttered those expressions of tenderness 
 and love, which, once spoken, are never to be recalled. 
 They had met with coldness and distrust, but they parted 
 as betrothed lovers — and thus, in despite of his themes and 
 his systems, Wilmarth found himself, after all, the toy of 
 natural impulses. 
 
 Notwithstanding his pleasure at having secured the lady 
 and her fortune, Wilmarth was seriously alarmed when he 
 reflected upon the consequences of his precipitation. He 
 fancied that Isabel would now assert her sovereignty, and 
 he knew that the opinion of society would uphold her in 
 claiming her right to his attentions. The situation of an 
 
94 
 
 THE EXACTING LOVER. 
 
 engaged lover, compelled to dangle for eyer at the side of 
 his lady-love — ahout as useful to her as her reticule, yet as 
 much in demand as if really essential to her hourly exist- 
 ence — had always struck him as supremely ridiculous ; 
 and even while secretly rejoicing in his success, he deter- 
 mined to guard against any advantage which Isabel might 
 hope from his weakness. His first step, therefore, was to 
 enjoin the strictest secresy concerning their engagement ; 
 and when Isabel cheerfully acceded to a wish which still 
 seemed to her very unaccountable, he resumed his former 
 habits of dictation and direction. 
 
 A woman will bear much from one she loves, so long as 
 no doubt exists of his affection — so long as she is rewarded 
 by a proper appreciation of her tenderness. Isabel some- 
 times felt a sort of meek wonder at Wilmarth's exactions ; 
 she sometimes caught herself wishing that he was less diffi- 
 cult to please, and less fastidious in his ideas of womanly 
 duties and womanly impulses, but the thought of paying no 
 heed to his suggestions and counsels, never occurred to her 
 as possible. She considered it her duty to begin at once the 
 task of assimilation — to adapt herself immediately to the 
 tastes of him who was to be her future companion through 
 life, but she was scarcely prepared for so much self-denial 
 as she was now called to practise. In the course of a very 
 short time she found herself completely shut out from society, 
 restricted to the coldest and most ceremonious intercourse 
 with former friends — debarred the privilege of walking or 
 talking with whom she pleased — forbidden to mingle iu the 
 dance — her modes of thinking and acting marked out for 
 her — and her very impulses restrained or directed by the 
 will of her lover. Yet Isabel bore with all his caprices, 
 for she truly loved him, and considered his whims rather as 
 proofs of the jealous tenderness of his nature, or at the worst, 
 but as slight infirmities of temper. There was no sacrifice, 
 however great, which she would not willingly have made 
 for him ; but it can scarcely be wondered at if the thousand 
 petty exactions which were constantly marring the quiet of 
 her life, should, in the course of time, weary her, and per- 
 
THE EXACTING LOVER. 
 
 95 
 
 haps suggest a doubt of the high-mindedness of one whose 
 thoughts dwelt so much in trifling details. 
 
 Isabel had borne for months with Wilmarth's freaks of 
 coldness, his capricious devotion to others, his occasional 
 outbreaks of anger, and his unreasonable control over her 
 actions. But at length, circumstances too trivial to be 
 recorded, yet, taken in connection, forming a chain of con- 
 tinued evidence not to be disputed, led her to suspect that 
 his apparent caprice was the result of a systematic plan. 
 At first the thought was too painful to be indulged for a 
 moment ; but distrust once admitted, was not to be repelled, 
 and in sadness of spirit Isabel was compelled to admit the 
 belief of her lover's selfishness. A conversation which she 
 accidentally overheard between Wilmarth and his cousin, 
 removed all doubts on the subject. She heard Wilmarth 
 congratulate himself on his success in training her; she 
 heard herself spoken of as the tame, subdued, devoted crea- 
 ture, who had nearly attained the requisite point of perfec- 
 tion — and from that moment resentment took the place of 
 her relying love. She felt herself outraged and insulted ; 
 her affections had been used as fetters to bind her to a vic- 
 tor's car of triumph ; she had been made the sport of man's 
 selfishness ; her heart had been as a sweet instrument in the 
 hands of a cunning player, and every stop had been sound- 
 ed, not in response to the voice of love, but in obedience to 
 the will of a cold experimentalist. Isabel was a proud as 
 well as a true-hearted woman. She would not reproach 
 Wilmarth — she would not even ask an explanation— but 
 with that quickness of feeling which is a woman's gravest 
 error as well as her sweetest charm, she concluded that he 
 had never loved her. Once convinced of his object in guard- 
 ing her with such jealous care — once assured that it was 
 less the tender reserve of affection than the selfish wish to 
 rule, and Isabel became again her own mistress. The sub- 
 mission which love might have exacted through a long 
 life of cheerful self-denial, was refused to cold, calculating 
 tyranny. 
 
 Without one word of explanation or deprecation, Isabel 
 
96 
 
 THE EXACTING LOVER. 
 
 returned to society and resumed her former habits. Her 
 voice was again heard in the cheerful song — her step was 
 once more lightest in the dance — her beauty once more 
 dazzled and delighted a circle of admiring worshippers. To 
 Wilmarth's fierce and angry remonstrances she turned a 
 deaf ear — to his earnest professions she replied with a smile 
 of incredulity — to his real anxiety of mind she gave not the 
 slightest credence. Whatever regrets she felt, were hidden 
 beneath a calm demeanor, or dissipated in the gay scenes of 
 busy life ; and Isabel proved, in progress of time, as every 
 proud woman must do when convinced that her heart has 
 been given to one unworthy of its treasures, that she grieved 
 less for the lover than for the love, which had passed away 
 from her as the dew from the early rose. The youth of her 
 heart was gone ; she had learned her first lesson in disap- 
 pointment, and for her the romance of life was past for ever. 
 
 Wilmarth knew not how much he really loved Isabel 
 until she was lost to him. In vain he endeavored to regain 
 his influence over her — in vain he sought to convince her 
 how entirely his happiness depended on her. 
 
 "You deceive yourself, Mr. Wilmarth," was her cold 
 reply : " I am not the person calculated to make you happy. 
 Some Circassian beauty, who would feel honored in being 
 permitted to be your slave, would better suit one who uses 
 affection but as a coil to ensnare the free will Had you 
 given me one honest feeling — had you yielded to one true 
 impulse while I was pouring out the fulness of my heart 
 at your feet — had you been any other than the cold, calcu- 
 lating man of the world, which your conduct has since 
 shown you, I might have forgiven you ; but now, I would 
 rather wed with the merest clod that ever wore human form, 
 than give my hand to one who could offer the spurious coin 
 of false affection in exchange for woman's true and loving 
 heart." 
 
 Wilmarth thought long on Isabel's last words, and he 
 remembered them with deeper bitterness when he afterwards 
 beheld her the honored and apparently happy wife of one 
 who had long loved her with a more unselfish and confiding 
 
HEAVEN. 
 
 97 
 
 tenderness. Years have passed since then, but he has never 
 yet found the creature worthy or willing to become his wife. 
 He is now fast falling into " the sear and yellow leaf" — the 
 weight of half a century lies heavy upon him, and all the 
 skill of the perruquier, the dentist, and the tailor, cannot 
 conceal the fact that — 
 
 " Time may fly with the wings of the hawk, but his steps 
 Are marked by the feet of the crow." 
 
 A lonely and disappointed bachelor — leading an aimless 
 and joyless life— tolerated in circles where he was wont to 
 be courted — banished to fireside corners with the comely 
 matrons who were his cotemporaries. while those who were 
 unborn in the days of his early triumphs, now elbow him 
 from the course — he has learned to repent his vain attempt 
 to manage a tender and truthful woman by other means 
 than the rule of love. 
 
 HEAVEN. 
 
 BY C. D. STUART. 
 
 As distant lands beyond the sea, 
 When friends go thence, draw nigh, 
 
 So Heaven, when friends have thither gone, 
 Draws nearer from the sky. 
 
 And as those lands the dearer grow 
 
 When friends are long away, 
 So Heaven itself, through loved ones dead, 
 
 Grows dearer day by day. 
 
 Heaven is not far from those who see 
 
 With the pure spirit's sight ; 
 But near, and in the very hearts, 
 
 Of those who see aright. 
 
HE CAME TOO LATE! 
 
 He came too late ! — Neglect had tried 
 
 Her constancy too long ; 
 Her Jove had yielded to her pride, 
 
 And the deep sense of wrong. 
 She scorned the offering of a heart 
 
 Which lingered on its way, 
 Till it could no delight impart, 
 
 Nor spread one cheering ray. 
 
 He came too late ! — At once he felt 
 
 That all his power was o'er! 
 Indifference in her calm smile dwelt — 
 
 She thought of him no more ! 
 Anger and grief had passed away — 
 
 Her heart and thoughts were free ; 
 She met him, and her words were gay — 
 
 No spell had memory. 
 
 He came too late ! — The subtle chords 
 
 Of love were all unbound — 
 Not by offence of spoken words, 
 
 But by the slights that wound ! 
 She knew that life held nothing now 
 
 That could the past repay, 
 Yet she disdained his tardy vow, 
 
 And coldly turned away ! 
 
 He came too late ! — Her countless dreams 
 
 Of hope had long since flown ; 
 No charms dwelt in his chosen themes, 
 
 Nor in his whispered tone. 
 And when, with word and smile, he tried 
 
 Affection still to prove, 
 She nerved her heart with woman's pride, 
 
 And spurned his fickle love ! 
 
ERIS: A SPIRIT RECORD. 
 
 BY WALTER WHITMAN. 
 
 Who says that there are not angels or invisible spirits 
 watching around us? The teeming regions of the air 
 swarm with bodiless ghosts — bodiless to human sight, be- 
 cause of their exceeding and too dazzling beauty ! 
 
 And there is one, childlike, with helpless and unsteady 
 movements, but a countenance of immortal bloom, whose 
 long-lashed eyes droop downward. The name of the shape 
 is Dai. When he comes near, the angels are silent, and 
 gaze upon him with pity and affection. And the fair eyes 
 of the shape roll, but fix upon no object: while his lips 
 move, but a plaintive tone only is heard — the speaking of 
 a single name. Wandering in the confines of earth, or rest- 
 lessly amid the streets of the beautiful land, goes Dai, earn- 
 estly calling on one he loves. 
 
 Wherefore is there no response? 
 
 Soft as the feathery leaf of the frailest flower — pure as 
 the heart of flame — of a beauty so lustrous that the sons of 
 Heaven themselves might well be drunken to gaze thereon — 
 with fleecy robes that but half apparel a maddening white- 
 ness and grace — dwells Eris among the creatures beautiful, 
 a chosen and cherished one. And Eris is the name called 
 by the wandering angel — while no answer comes, and the 
 loved flies swiftly away, with a look of sadness and dis- 
 pleasure. 
 
 It had been years before that a maid and her betrothed 
 lived in one of the pleasant places of earth. Their hearts 
 clung to each other with fondness of young life and all its 
 dreamy passion. Each was simple and innocent. Mor- 
 tality might not know a thing better than their love, or more 
 sunny than their happiness. 
 
100 
 
 ERIS : A SPIRIT RECORD. 
 
 In the method of the rule of fate, it was ordered that the 
 maid should sicken, and be drawn nigh to the gates of 
 death — nigh, but not through them. Now, to the young 
 who love purely, High Power commissions to each a gentle 
 guardian, who hovers around unseen day and night. The 
 office of this spirit is to keep a sleepless watch, and fill the 
 heart of his charge with strange and mysterious and lovely 
 thoughts. Over the maid was placed Dai, and through 
 her illness the unknown presence of the youth hung near 
 continually. 
 
 To the immortal, days, years, and centuries are the 
 same. 
 
 Erewhile, a cloud was seen in Heaven. The delicate 
 ones bent their necks, and shook as if a chill blast had swept 
 by — and white robes were drawn around shivering and ter- 
 rified forms. 
 
 An archangel with veiled cheeks cleaved the air. Silence 
 spread through the hosts of the passed away, who gazed 
 in wonder and fear. And as they gazed, they saw a new 
 companion of wondrous loveliness among them — a strange 
 and timid creature, who, were it not that pain must never 
 enter those borders with innocence, would have been called 
 unhappy. The angels gathered around the late comer 
 with caresses and kisses, and they smiled pleasantly with 
 joy in each other's eyes. 
 
 Then the archangel's voice was heard — and they who 
 heard it, knew that One still mightier spake his will there- 
 in : — 
 
 " The child Dai !" said he. 
 
 A far reply sounded out in tones of trembling and appre- 
 hension — 
 " I am here !" 
 
 And the youth came forth from the distant confines whi- 
 ther he had been in solitude. The placid look of peace no 
 more illumined his brow with silver light, and his unearthly 
 beauty was as a choice statue enveloped in mist and smoke. 
 
 " Oh, weak and wicked spirit !" said the archangel, " thou 
 hast been false to thy mission and thy Master !" 
 
ERIS : A SPIRIT RECORD. 
 
 101 
 
 The quivering limbs of Dai felt weak and cold. He 
 would have made an answer in agony — but at that moment 
 he lifted his eyes and beheld the countenance of Eris, the 
 late comer. 
 
 Love is potent, even in Heaven ! And subtle passion 
 creeps into the hearts of the sons of beauty, who feel the 
 delicious impulse, and know that there is a soft sadness 
 sweeter than aught in the round of their pleasure eternal. 
 
 When the youth saw Eris, he sprang forward with light- 
 ning swiftness to her side. But the late comer turned away 
 with aversion. The band of good-will might not be be- 
 tween them, because of wrongs done, and the planting of 
 despair in two happy human hearts. 
 
 At the same moment, the myriads of interlinked spirits 
 that range step by step from the throne of the Uppermost, 
 (as the power of that light and presence which is unbear- 
 able even to the deathless, must be tempered for the sight 
 of any created thing, however lofty,) were conscious of a 
 motion of the mind of God. Quicker than electric thought 
 the command was accomplished ! The disobedient angel 
 felt himself enveloped in a sudden cloud, impenetrably dark. 
 The face of Eris gladdened and maddened him no more. 
 He turned himself to and fro, and stretched out his arms — 
 but though he knew the nearness of his companions, the 
 light of Heaven, and of the eyes of Eris, was strangely seal- 
 ed to him. The youth was blind forever ! 
 
 So a wandering angel sweeps through space with restless 
 and unsteady movements — and the sound heard from his 
 lips is the calling of a single name. But the loved flies 
 swiftly away in sadness, and heeds him not. Onward and 
 onward speeds the angel, amid scenes of ineffable splendor, 
 though to his sight the splendor is darkness. But there is 
 one scene that rests before him alway. It is of a low brown 
 dwelling among the children of men ; and in an inner room 
 a couch, whereon lies a young maid, whose cheeks rival 
 the frailness and paleness of foam. Near by is a youth ; 
 and the filmy eyes of the girl are bent upon him in fond- 
 ness. What dim shape hovers overhead? He is invisible 
 
102 
 
 ERIS : A SPIRIT RECORD. 
 
 to mortals ; but, oh ! well may the blind spirit, by the token 
 of throbs of guilty and fiery love beating through him, know- 
 that hovering form ! Thrust forward by such fiery love, 
 the shape dared transcend his duty. Again the youth 
 looked upon the couch, and beheld a lifeless corpse. 
 
 This, is the picture upon the vision of Dai. His brethren 
 of the bands of light, as they meet him in his journeyings, 
 pause awhile for pity ; yet never do the pangs of their sym- 
 pathy (the only pangs known to those sinless creatures, 
 or arms thrown softly around him, or kisses on his brow,) 
 efface the pale lineaments of the sick girl — the dead. 
 
 In the portals of Heaven stands Eris. oft peering into the 
 outer distance. Nor of the millions of winged messengers 
 that hourly come and go, does one enter there whose features 
 are not earnestly scanned by the watcher. And the fond 
 joy resides in her soul, that the time is nigh at hand ; for 
 a thread yet binds the angel down to the old abode, and, 
 until the breaking of that bond, Eris keeps vigil in the por- 
 tals of Heaven. 
 
 The limit of the watch comes soon. On earth, a toil- 
 worn man has returned from distant travel, and lays him 
 down, weary and faint at heart, on a floor amid the ruins 
 of that low brown dwelling. The slight echo is heard of 
 moans coming from the breast of one who yearns to die. Life, 
 and rosy light, and the pleasant things of nature, and the 
 voice and sight of his fellows, and the glory of thought — 
 the sun, the flowers, the glittering stars, the soft breeze — 
 have no joy for him. And the coffin and the cold earth 
 have no horror ; they are a path to the unforgotten. 
 
 Thus the tale is told in Heaven, how the pure love of 
 two human beings is a sacred thing, which the immortal 
 themselves must not dare to cross. In pity to the disobe- 
 dient angel he is blind, that he may not gaze ceaselessly 
 on one who returns his love with displeasure. And haply 
 Dai is the spirit of the destiny of those whose selfishness 
 would seek to mar the peace of gentle hearts, by their own 
 unreturned and unhallowed passion. 
 
SLANDER 
 
 How many there are, who can say with almost a broken 
 heart, "Surely the tongue is an unruly evil, full of deadly 
 poison !" How many a ruined character can exclaim, with 
 a bleeding- heart, "Behold, how great a matter a little fire 
 kindleth !" Surely, it has crushed a thousand hopes, and 
 sent to the grave of peaceful rest many a fair reputation ! 
 
 Slander is a crying evil. Few there are who possess that 
 fiendish and vampire-like disposition to take that from a per- 
 son which is near to him as the blood of his own heart. But, 
 there are some who can calmly and sedately sap the fair 
 fame, and pluck the laurel of reputation from their brow, 
 and cause them to wither as the rose. 
 
 Behold, for a moment, the Slanderer ! He comes forth 
 with pleasantness and gaiety. He is unassuming in his 
 deportment, and the robe of peace seems to be his mantle. 
 He hails you with joy and congratulation. He begins with 
 vague, insignificant surmise, and small broken hints, or 
 some small detached expression of some child-like story, 
 believing every utterable word, and then marshals or puts 
 them together to his own liking, and at last he puts them 
 afloat in the public ear. 
 
 It then goes on from one tongue to another, concealed like 
 a tiger in a jungle, creeping for his prey ; and the public 
 mind being such, that one whisper is enough to shadow and 
 becloud the brightest and fairest character that has acquired 
 years to establish. It is like breath upon a looking-glass. 
 Thus the whisper or hint goes on from one to another, like 
 the secret leaven, till at last it breaks out, all at once, in 
 words. Then comes the tug of war. Then, there comes 
 a mighty tornado, sweeping and laying in ruins the fair 
 hopes of future anticipations. It falls like the astonished 
 shock of a thunderbolt from a clear sky. 
 
104 BE KIND. 
 
 In such cases, could the person slandered, but trace it, h< 
 would find that it was but a mere dint — a dim or minute 
 germ — having grown out of mere nothing, and by using, 
 and transition from one to another, into a notorious and 
 odious calumny. 
 
 Such is slander in its protean form. The fair, unblemish- 
 ed character, lies bleeding at every pore. What a fine and 
 vital cord do you snap, when you snap the most tiny thread 
 of character ! Deplorable is the man when character is 
 gone ! Truly it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison. It 
 infuses the whole atmosphere of mind with its poisonous 
 effluvia and death. 
 
 Surely, indeed, no man can tame the tongue of others, 
 or can stop the onward move of the Slanderer's tongue. He 
 must stand as the bleeding object of a thousand arrows, with- 
 out a possibility to shield himself. He goes on and down 
 to the grave, or couches through life with life's very essence 
 turned to bitterness and all his hopes withered. Oh ! let us 
 beware of giving birth to slander ! A wound made by the 
 arrow of slander can never be healed. Let us beware of a 
 slanderous tongue — it is full of deadly poison. 
 
 BE KIND. 
 
 Let us be kind — for who has not 
 Been more or less imperfect here? — 
 
 Who fain would have his sins forgot, 
 Or blotted out by Pity's tear 1 ? 
 
 Forgiveness is a gentle word — 
 Upon whose tone how many live ! 
 
 And since we all have sinned or erred, 
 Why not each other's faults forgive? 
 
 Oh ! let our hearts be kindly cast, 
 Until we cross the downward tide — 
 
 Like barques that feel a common blast, 
 And haste to anchor side by side. 
 
ERAS IN WOMAN'S LIFE. 
 
 93 
 
 could visit Augustina, although I had intended it One morn- 
 ing I received the following note : 
 
 " My dearest Mr. President :— Must your old friend learn first from 
 the papers that you are here ? Under fear of ray displeasure, I command 
 you to come this evening and sup with me, in company with some good 
 friends. Do not fail. Yours attached, A. Von Winter." 
 
 Natural enough 1 who would fail ? But yet the tone in which 
 she asked me, did not exactly please me. I had imagined her 
 first address very differently, for there had come over me a 
 peculiar anxiety and fear, when I on the previous days had 
 thought, " I must go and see her." The separation for so many 
 years, the various succeeding events in this interval of time, the 
 old passion, and since then the changes between us two ; these 
 ideas all filled me with peculiar, and I may say contradictory 
 emotions, which made me dread the first meeting with my 
 former love. 
 
 With a violent heart-beating I entered the coach and alighted 
 before the old Waldern house, now the house of Winter. Over 
 the door I saw the coat of arms of a nobleman cut in the stone. 
 Within, everything was new and elegant, so much so that I 
 hardly knew myself there ; but two quick-footed servants in pale 
 green and gold livery, conducted me in the right direction, up 
 the broad staircase, and into a spacious saloon filled with 
 company. 
 
 The lady of the house, the gracious lady, received me, stand- 
 ing at the entrance of the apartment It was Augustina — yes, 
 it was she ; and yet it was not exactly herself. Certainly not 
 the fresh beauty of a girl of nineteen ; but yet she was charming 
 as a woman of thirty, full, majestic, easy. I could scarcely stam- 
 mer out a word or two, I was so surprised, so bewildered. Her 
 eyes, too, her blushes, told me of her quickened emotions. But 
 she was so entirely her own mistress, so self-possessed, that she 
 saluted me in the most agreeable manner possible, drew me from 
 my embarrassment, reproved me sportively for having neglected 
 an old acquaintance for so long a time, and taking me by the hand, 
 led me to the company, and presented me as a good friend whom 
 she had not seen for ten years. 
 
 I soon recovered myself in the confusion of a general sprightly 
 conversation. The lady of the house must do the honors of the 
 
94 ERAS IN WOMAN'S LIFE. 
 
 house. She was equally kind, pleasant, and amiable to all. A8 
 she came again for a moment near me, she said, 
 
 " How long do we have the pleasure, Mr. President, of keep- 
 ing you in our city ?" , 
 
 And meeting me afterwards again, " Excellent, my dearest, 
 I tell you once for all, I expect you here every day, and appoint 
 you for the whole time of your stay my cavalier e servente." 
 
 I now made my request to her to present me to her husband. 
 " Indeed/' cried she, " I cannot tell you where he is; I believe, 
 however, he is on a party in the country, with the royal master 
 of the hunt. Apropos," added she, " are you married ?" 
 
 The evening passed away. There was no opportunity for 
 any confidential conversation with Augustina. We danced, we 
 feasted ; wit and folly reigned, and pomp and elegance dazzled. 
 
 I had, the next day, the happiness of seeing the husband of 
 Augustina. The Counsellor of Justice was a man over fifty, 
 very fine, very polite, nice, but sickly, feeble and meagre in his 
 appearance. w Not so, my brave sir," said Augustina once in 
 passing me. " You look very proud near my dog of a husband, 
 and think to humble my taste a little, but I assure you, on my 
 honor, he is, after all, a very good sort of person. " 
 
 The tone of the house did not please me, and nothing but the 
 urgency of Augustina that I would be at all her parties, as 
 much as my business would allow me, could have moved me to 
 go there. She did not please me ; and yet I found her so 
 amiable, her lively manner, her grace, her wit, drew me there 
 again, often when old recollections, and a comparison of the pre- 
 sent with the past, would have held me back. I even felt she 
 might be dangerous to me, in spite of her levity and her fashion- 
 able airs. 
 
 " But are you indeed happy, my gracious lady ?" said I to 
 her, one evening, when I at last sat alone with her in her box 
 at the opera. 
 
 " What do you call happy ?" replied she. 
 
 I took her hand, pressed it affectionately, and said, " I call 
 that happiness which you once gave my heart. Are you happy ?" 
 
 " Do you doubt it, Mr. President ?" 
 
 " Then I am happy, if you speak truly," 
 
 " Speak truly ? So, my little President, are you still the 
 same old enthusiast ? It befits you very well. But do not forget 
 
ERAS IN WOMAN'S LIFE, 95 
 
 that an opera box is not a confessional. To tell you what you 
 want to hear, we must be by ourselves. Visit me to-morrow 
 morning, at breakfast." 
 
 I pressed her hand in gratitude. After the opera, we went 
 together to the house of a friend of Augustina, a lady of the 
 court, to join a supper party. 
 
 The next morning I was at her house at eight o'clock. The 
 gracious lady was still asleep. At ten I was admitted. She 
 was in a morning dress, but only the more lovely for that. Now 
 came the confession, as she called it. I learned that when one 
 has passed the sentimental season of girlhood, she must seek 
 her happiness in solid things. She was very well contented with 
 her husband, because he was reasonable enough to leave her un- 
 disturbed to her own occupations. The old-fashioned ideas 
 which we have in our childish years, vanish when our under- 
 standing comes. To be sure, she could not deny that she had 
 not by any means loved her husband as she had loved me ; and 
 she added, with a roguish smile, " old love does not rust. 
 I like you still very well, but believe me, I had rather have you 
 for a lover than a husband." 
 
 I had much to say in contradiction to this, but she answered 
 it all with laughter. Meantime her woman came and announced 
 that breakfast was ready. She took my arm, and we went into 
 the well-known garden. 
 
 Ah, the dear garden, I no longer recognized it. The old 
 flower-beds were gone ; instead of them there were clumps of 
 foreign shrubs and trees arranged after the so-called English 
 taste, between green grass plats, single paths wound about 
 them. The vine-bower was changed into a close Chinese temple, 
 shaded by the two acacias. We entered it. It was the pret- 
 tiest boudoir in the world. Instead of the green wooden bench, 
 a well-stuffed mahogany sofa offered us a seat before a japan 
 table, on which was placed coffee, chocolate, and sweetmeats. 
 
 " Oh, the beautiful holy vine bower, our church, our altar, 
 our childish blessedness, oh, where is it all ?" sighed I, and gave 
 a glance to Augustina, filled with sad reproach. 
 
 " Does happiness, then, depend upon the vine bower ?" said 
 she, smiling. " I suppose for the same reason, I am not half so 
 dear to you as I was ten years ago, because I no longer wear 
 the same dress." 
 
96 
 
 ERAS IN WOMAN'S LIFE. 
 
 " But, Augustina — yes, I must call you so once more, and this 
 place gives me the right— -have not certain memorials of those 
 divine moments always remained with you ? For example, see 
 here your gold ring, which ten years since you placed upon my 
 finger. I have constantly worn it since as a holy treasure." 
 
 " And I, to honor you, also, at least at breakfast to-day, have 
 the well-known pewter ring," said Augustina, and she held her 
 hand before my face. " You see it has turned black, and yet I 
 place it in my jewel case, a jewel among jewels." 
 
 As I looked at the ring, a bitter feeling came over me. I took 
 her beautiful hand, which the ring made more beautiful, and im- 
 pressed upon it a kiss of gratitude. Augustina withdrew her 
 hand and said : 
 
 " Gustavus, you are still the same impatient enthusiast ; it is 
 not well for you to be near me. With you I might, perhaps, 
 have been happier." 
 
 After we had breakfasted, we left the Chinese temple, while 
 she held up her finger with a threatening air and said : 
 
 " Ah, Mr. President, it is not well to confess to you." 
 
 She then resumed her usual sportive manner of conversing, 
 and reminded me of the hour when I should meet her at a ball 
 in the evening. 
 
 Though I remained fourteen days longer in the city, I had no 
 farther opportunity to see Augustina alone, perhaps because I 
 avoided any. Notwithstanding, from the moment I left the 
 Chinese temple, I felt the last spark of love extinguished in my 
 breast. I could not conceal from myself that there might be 
 danger in our meeting in this way. The time of my departure 
 came. Oh, how different the parting from that of ten years ago ! 
 We separated with drums and trumpets at a ridotto, which I 
 left early because I was to set out on my journey the next day. 
 We had waltzed with each other, and said many pretty things. 
 She accompanied me to the door, and called after me an adieu, 
 mon ami, while she was reaching her hand to another partner in 
 the dance. 
 
 I was glad at heart to fly from the wearisome bustle of the 
 great world, and belong again to myself. I mused at my ease 
 over what was to be my future life, as I traveled through fields 
 
ERAS IN WOMAN'S LIFE. 
 
 97 
 
 and forests, through cities and villages. I mused upon the 
 future — the past with Augustina had been painful to me. Oh, 
 how had time changed everything ! My journey — I was four 
 days in reaching my home — was somewhat tedious, for it was 
 without any adventure. The last day I met with one of a very 
 pleasing kind. 
 
 My servant stopped in the morning, in a village, before an 
 inn, to feed his horses. I went into the house, and heard the 
 sound of quarreling. The host and a half-drunken hired coach- 
 man, whose carriage was before the door, were disputing. A 
 young, well-dressed lady, in a riding habit, sat weeping on a 
 seat near the table. The difficulty had arisen because the driver 
 would not carry the lady to the place where she maintained he 
 had agreed to take her, but insisted upon going to a little town 
 away from the principal road, where he had other business. He 
 declared that he had, in the first bargain, agreed to carry her to 
 this place. The host had taken the part of the young, timid 
 beauty. On hearing she was the daughter of the minister of a 
 village an hour's ride from my home, and but little out of my 
 way there, I soon set the matter right. The lady, after some 
 hesitation, (I told her where I was going and w 7 ho I was,) yielded 
 to my request, and became my companion. 
 
 On the way there was much conversation. She had a sweet 
 soft voice, the purest, most angelic innocence in all her looks. 
 In my whole life no ideal pictured beauty had I ever seen with 
 such loving, kind, and trusting eyes. I learnt she was called 
 Adela. Her brother, two weeks before, had carried her to a 
 small town where she had been visiting at the Burgomaster's, 
 her father's brother. A misunderstanding had doubtless arisen 
 in giving the directions to the stage-coachman, to which I was 
 indebted for a very pleasant day. Adela with all her good 
 humor appeared to have much natural wit. She was, however, 
 rather too timid. When I reached her father's village, and I 
 gave her to him, a stout, active old man, with what ecstacy did 
 she throw her arms about his neck. I almost wished myself her 
 father. Then appeared for the first time her natural and true 
 manner. I was not able to stay long, notwithstanding the wor- 
 thy pastor besought me to do so. I promised, however, to re- 
 new my visit ; which, however, I did not very soon. I forgot 
 it between business and amusement. . 
 
r '8 
 
 ERAS IN WOMAN'S LIFE. 
 
 At a ball, about half a year after, I saw among the dancers 
 another lady — for in the thirty-first year of an unmarried man, 
 ladies become of the greatest importance, one trembles more 
 and more at the number of years-— I saw, as I remarked, a dan- 
 cer that might be called incontestably the queen of all the beau- 
 ties present. The young men fluttered like butterflies about 
 her. It warmed my heart, if the eyes of the pretty Sylphide 
 sometimes turned toward me ; and to my astonishment that hap- 
 pened often. But at last it seemed to me as if I had seen this 
 lovely figure in some company before, perhaps in the city, at 
 Augustina's. I asked my neighbor who she was. Heavens ! 
 it was Adela ! very different, certainly, in her ball dress from 
 herself in her riding veil. As she went to rest after the last 
 dance, I, a butterfly of thirty-one, approached the young lady, 
 and she was so kind as to recognize her traveling companion. 
 We danced. I inquired after the .health of her father, regretted 
 that business had prevented me from visiting him— -an exaggera- 
 tion, perhaps, but before such an angel one must wash himself 
 clean. I promised myself soon the pleasure of a visit, with a 
 pleasant freedom. She assured me a visit from me would give 
 her father great pleasure. 
 
 The ball caused a great revolution in me. The President of 
 the criminal Court became again a poet. I could not sleep for 
 the whole night long; I saw nothing but celestial glances, 
 dancing seraphim, and Adela floating between them. I won- 
 dered that so lovely, so amiable, so bewitching a maiden had 
 not yet found a husband, Her father, they say, is as worthy 
 as she is beautiful : but, alas, he has not much wealth ! Oh, the 
 fools ! After a few days I went to visit the minister—repeated 
 the visit from week to week. Soon I was considered as a friend 
 of the family ; Adela would even reproach me if I staid away 
 beyond the usual day, and once the tears came into her eyes 
 when I pretended that she would prefer I should not come so 
 often. We quarreled sometimes for the sake of making up 
 again, and once in the course of the reconciliation I gave her a 
 kiss, which did not renew the quarrel. She was silent and her 
 cheeks glowed with the deepest red. In short I loved and was 
 beloved. The worthy father shrugged his shoulders and said : 
 " You have no treasure with her but love, virtue, and economy ; 
 but he who knows how to value these, has more than a ton of gold." 
 
ERAS IN WOMAN'S LIFE. 
 
 99 
 
 With the first flowers of spring, I wove the bridal wreath for 
 my Adela. Her father himself blessed our union before the 
 altar of his village church. And now by the side of my noble 
 little wife, I was the happiest of the happy. 
 
 In time we saw ourselves surrounded by blooming children— 
 angels of love— -who united us more tenderly to each other. 
 Adela became more and more lovely every day; a young 
 mother is certainly more lovely than the most beautiful girl. 
 The pure soul of Adela elevated my own ideas to a point they 
 had never reached before. Man is never entirely happy, until 
 he has the courage to be virtuous. Before my marriage, I had 
 only thought of saving and amassing wealth ; but when some 
 years of wedded life had passed, Adela's excellent management 
 had made me feel that if I were to lose all I was worth, I could 
 never be unhappy while Adela and my children were left to me. 
 
 I now found that my departed father was entirely right in 
 what he said when dissuading me from my pursuit of Augus- 
 tina, in regard to the relative age of a husband and wife. For, 
 when I had reached my fortieth year, and Adela her thirtieth, 
 and we had children of six and eight years old, frolicking about 
 us, Adela was still a handsome woman, who might have made 
 conquests. Augustina, on the contrary, had arrived at a 
 matronly age. 
 
 I seldom heard from the latter. We ourselves, never wrote 
 to each other. I heard sometimes from strangers, that she was 
 somewhat faded, but that she was surrounded by a coterie of 
 young men, particularly poets and artists, to whom her open 
 table was very agreeable. Then I learned that her husband 
 was dead, and the poets who formed her court, were middle- 
 aged enthusiasts, and mystics, protestant catholics, and that 
 Augustina herself was much given to romancing, and some of 
 her poetical effusions had graced the last Almanac of the Muses. 
 At the same time in which I received a new order from the 
 Minister to visit the court, I also had a letter from Augustina, 
 consulting me on a lawsuit in which she had become involved 
 with some of the relatives of her late husband, and requesting 
 my advice and presence in the affair. I was glad that my ap- 
 proaching visit to the city gave me an opportunity to comply 
 with her request. 
 
 I was forty, Augustina the same. She could not be so dan- 
 
100 
 
 ERAS IN WOMAN'S LIFE. 
 
 gerous to me as she was ten years before. This time I went, 
 the second day after my arrival in the city, without any heart- 
 beating, to her house. I had sent before to know what time 
 she would receive me, because I had been told she was seldom 
 alone, being generally surrounded by fashionable poets, listening 
 to or reading romantic jingle, talking religious mysticism, or at the 
 card table with ancient ladies and gentlemen— -for play had be- 
 come her passion. Her former friends, male and female, whom 
 I had seen about ten years before, had fallen off from her, for 
 they were no longer sufficient for her. She was known through- 
 out the city for her venomous tongue, was at enmity with every- 
 body, and if one wished to know the city news, Madame Von 
 Winter was the person to visit. This I had heard from two of 
 the former friends of Augustina, whom ten years before I used 
 to meet at her house. Hum— -thought I— -but these good friends 
 are also ten years older, and perhaps have themselves some dis- 
 position to slander, or, as they call it in the city, scandal. 
 
 It was a summer evening, and as I entered Augustina's house, 
 the servant told me her lady was with company in the garden. 
 I went ;— -ah ! the well-known garden of my childhood ! For 
 the sake of affording the subject for a little joke with Augus- 
 tina, I wore her gold ring which she had, twenty years before, 
 given me in exchange for the pewter one. Now the garden and 
 the ring, the Chinese temple before me, I could not remain 
 entirely unmoved. " Is your lady alone ?" I said to the servant 
 on the way. 
 
 " No, she has company, only a few persons." 
 
 I entered the temple. There sat at two tables, two parties, 
 engaged so deeply in playing cards, that they hardly saw me. 
 I recognized Augustina. Oh ! all powerful Time ! how changed ! 
 No, there was no danger now. I reflected with delight on my 
 Adela. 
 
 Augustina was so engrossed in play, that she only saluted 
 me, and begged me to excuse her a moment, until she could 
 finish the game. When this was over, she arose, overpowered 
 me with civil speeches and questions, ord3red refreshments for 
 me and offered me cards. I declined this, as I did not under- 
 stand the game. 
 
 " In heaven's name," said she, " then how do you kill time, 
 if you do not play cards? it seems unaccountable in a man of 
 your spirit." 
 
ERAS IN WOMAN'S LIFE. 
 
 101 
 
 She resumed her play ; the game was faro. The banker had 
 great luck ; all the money of the players soon lay before him. 
 Every passion here shone out in the burning cheeks, the piercing 
 eyes, the compressed lips. The banker was radiant with plea- 
 sure. 
 
 " I have stripped you all quickly," said he. " We were speak- 
 ing just now, of my very costly diamond;" and he displayed a 
 ring on his finger. " I will stake it in a lottery against all the 
 rings in the company." 
 
 Eagerly and with longing eyes they all viewed the diamond. 
 They accepted the proposal. Madam Von Winter said : 
 
 " Rings trouble me at cards ; T have none on." But she 
 looked at me, " apropos, my friend, you are very kind, and will 
 lend yours for the moment." 
 
 Surprised at the request, I drew off Augustina's ring, and 
 reached it to her. " You see, my lady, it is yours ; you may 
 remember it." 
 
 She looked hastily at it it, and saying, " So much the better," 
 threw it into the pool with the rest, and fixed her eyes upon the 
 diamond. But the rings were all lost. The banker won. Even 
 the holy ring of our first love was gone, and on the very spot 
 where in tears I had received it. Oh, all powerful Time, how 
 dost thou overturn everything ! 
 
 We went to supper. The guests were in good humor; 
 Augustina forced herself to appear gay, which gave to her fea- 
 tures a disagreeable contortion. The wine was applied to, to 
 raise the tone of conversation ; it became more gay, but not 
 more wise. The news of the city was discussed ; their acquaint- 
 ances and the secret histories of thern passed in review. The 
 conversation did not lack wit so much as charity, and to my 
 great grief, Augustina was the most full in wicked remarks. 
 She did not hesitate, sometimes, to bear hard upon her own 
 guests. Ah, could I have thought the adored, angelic being of 
 fourteen would have reached this point ? I felt weary and dis- 
 gusted ; and when, after supper, the cards were resumed, I took 
 my leave. 
 
 It distressed me to find myself in the city, or rather to have 
 seen Augustina so changed. I visited her once or twice in re- 
 ference to the progress of her lawsuit, but I did not find her 
 more agreeable than at first. In spite of the wrinkles in her 
 
102 ERAS IN WOMAN'S LIFE. 
 
 face, she was not willing to be thought old. She freely applied 
 rouge. I acted as if I did not perceive it. She now and then 
 appeared willing to talk sentimentally of our former tender re- 
 lation to each other, but it was disgusting to me. When I once 
 let fall a word of her being forty years old, she looked at me 
 with astonishment. 
 
 " I believe you are dreaming, Mr. President," said she, 
 " your memory fails before its time. When we were first ac- 
 quainted, you were ten and I five years old. I was still playing 
 with my dolls, I remember it perfectly. A girl of ten years 
 thinks no longer of her dolls, but on more serious matters. 
 Therefore I am now five and thirty ; and, between ourselves, it 
 is not impossible that I should marry again. A very excellent 
 man, one of our first poets, has been long seeking for my hand. 
 All the poems to the Madonna, to the saints — all his holy 
 legends, breathe the sweet fire of pure affection for me." 
 
 I gave my good wishes to the success of " the sweet fire of 
 pure affection," and was glad to leave the neighborhood of the 
 court, and return again to my Adela and her children. 
 
 One does not realize he is old until he sees the ravages of 
 time in the well-known faces of his youthful friends. I returned 
 from the city older than I went there. But as I embraced 
 again my true and faithful Adela, and my children clamoring 
 about me, I unpacked first this thing and then that, which I had 
 brought as presents from the city ; then I grew young again. 
 
 " In the course of time, many go before us into the better and 
 enduring, and higher world of spirits, and our hearts bleed for 
 them. But even these separations make life and the world more 
 important to us ; they join the Here and There more firmly in 
 our minds, and carry something more spiritual, more exalted, 
 in our thoughts, wishes and actions. The child is well pleased 
 with a flower, a colored stone, a narrow play-ground, and grieves 
 himself little about the pursuits of grown-up men. The young 
 man and the young maiden press out into the broad world and 
 the free air. The nursery becomes too narrow for them. They 
 would have something more, they win, they lose, they strive, 
 they never are satisfied. They would gain all the good of the 
 earth ; at last even this is not enough. With years, life grows 
 
ERAS IN WOMAN'S LIFE 
 
 103 
 
 broader, and our views of life. To the child, the flower and the 
 colored stone become too little ; to the man and woman the en- 
 joyment of all honor, all wealth, indifferent ; the earth has too 
 little for the spirit — it stretches out its arms into the universe- 
 it demands and it receives eternity." 
 
 These were the words which the respected father of Adela 
 said to us, on his death-bed. We wept, as we stood over the 
 departed, but we loved him with a still more earnest, holy love, 
 which sanctified ourselves. Adela and I lived a higher life, 
 since there was no barrier between us and eternity, and we had 
 something to love there as here. 
 
 The purest of all joys comes to us from our children. I ac- 
 companied my eldest son to the University ; and it was the most 
 agreeable surprise to Adela and myself, when I received, on my 
 fiftieth birth-day, the royal appointment to the easy and honor- 
 able office which I now hold. This office made it necessary for 
 me to live in the city ; and from there to the University, where 
 my son was pursuing his studies, was only a moderate day's ride. 
 We were together as often as we wished. 
 
 Adela, indeed, left with regret her native city ; but of the 
 court residence she had heard often, and it had a charm for her 
 maternal heart, in its proximity to her first-born son. She was 
 in her fortieth year----no longer the ideal beauty which I thought 
 her, when, at our first meeting, I saw her beside me in the car- 
 riage ; but her features had acquired more exalted charms, her 
 form had added dignity to grace. The heart of Adela had re- 
 tained its youth. I loved her with the first love. Her lovely 
 face, distorted by no passion in her youth, needed no false color- 
 ing to make it charming. 
 
 She knew my early relations with Augustina, and when we 
 came to the city, she was very curious to become acquainted 
 with my first love. 
 
 Three or four months passed away before I visited Madam 
 "Von Winter, for I felt little inclination to do so. We were told 
 she no longer received company, that she lived extremely retired, 
 and had become in her later years as avaricious as she had be- 
 fore been extravagant. This change of feeling might be con- 
 sidered as a consequence of her passion for gaming, to which 
 she gave herself up, when she was no longer young enough for 
 
104 
 
 ERAS IN WOMAN'S LIFE. 
 
 gallantry. She was most frequently found at mass, for, some 
 years before, excited by the romantic poets of the fashionable 
 school, she had thrown herself into the bosom of the only true 
 church, and had become a catholic. 
 
 When I visited her now for the first time, I was conducted 
 again into the garden. As I passed through the house, I had 
 seen pictures of the saints hanging on the dusty walls. The 
 garden was like a wilderness, and thorns grew where Augustina 
 and I once enjoyed the marriage feast. The acacias had been 
 cut down, out of economy, to make firewood. The Chinese 
 temple had lost all its outward ornaments, and was covered with 
 honest Dutch tiles ; little pointed gothic windows of colored 
 glass, like the church windows of the times of romance, and a 
 cross on the top of the roof, made the little house resemble a 
 chapel. 
 
 And so it was. As I entered, I saw an altar, a crucifix, and 
 an eternal lamp. Madame "Winter, fifty years old, clad in a very 
 simple matronly dress, just risen from her devotions, came to 
 meet me, her rosary in her hand, and the murmur of prayer on 
 her lips. 
 
 I stood still before her. She knew me and seemed pleased. 
 I could not conquer my feelings, but without moving I took her 
 hand, and with moistened eyes pointed to the chapel. " Ah, 
 Augustina," cried I, " when the light vine-bower stood here, 
 when we in happy childhood exchanged our pewter rings — 
 when, ten years after, lover and beloved, we gave and received 
 the first kiss of our innocent love, and vowed before heaven — 
 
 " I beseech you think no more of such vain children's play," 
 interrupted she. 
 
 " Ah, Augustina, it was not well to change the simple vine- 
 bower into the splendid boudoir ; still worse that I should see 
 the golden ring of love thrown away at the faro-table ; and now 
 a chapel !" 
 
 " Sir," said Madam Winter, " we are cured at last of the 
 intoxication of the world and its vain pleasures. You wound 
 my heart by such recollections. If your salvation is dear to you, 
 follow my example, learn to forsake a false world, and call upon 
 the saints in heaven for their intercession." 
 
 " When I returned home, I said to Adela : " No, dearest, we 
 will not go to see her. I no longer know her." 
 
THE SLANDERER. 
 
 . " The ignoble mind 
 Loves ever to assail with secret blow, 
 The loftier, purer beings of their kind." 
 
 There is a monitor within every human breast, that teaches 
 our just relation to each other. Though it be drowned at times 
 by the governing propensity to calumniate and vilify, it never- 
 theless had its being there, and in the sober and reflective 
 moments asserts its moral, and calms the raging, riotous pas- 
 sions within. Man's inhumanity to man, is perhaps the most 
 mysterious element of our natural perverseness. Being all alike 
 prone to deviate from the right even when zealously aiming at 
 moral rectitude, it is strange, surpassingly strange, that we are 
 often most deficient in the most essential trait of character — 
 Charity ; but such is the fact. 
 
 When we say that our own experimental knowledge of the 
 weakness of our nature and its liability to error when best 
 guarded, should teach us to deal charitably with our less for- 
 tunate fellows, the sentiment will find a ready response in every 
 rational mind. But how sadly, deplorably deficient in all the 
 nobler impulses of our nature, must they be, who, prompted by 
 malice, or gored by envy, stab at the fair name of the innocent, 
 and delight in poring over the mangled reputations of those 
 whose only crime is that they have been marked as victims by 
 the scandals of the community. How lamentably at variance 
 with all that should characterise weak, sinful, fallen man. How 
 boldly, unblushingly confronting all the heavenly precepts given 
 us to redeem our fatal apostacy ! How insolently defying all 
 motives of right ; how grossly perverting a nature steeped in 
 sin and perverseness since it had a being ! But, strange as it 
 
106 
 
 THE SLANDERER. 
 
 may seem, there's not a community can boast of exemption from 
 the slanderer. 
 
 If there is one crime in the catalogue of human crimes that is 
 wholly without excuse, it is slander. The impetuosity of youth 
 and the ravages of years, alike refuse to plead in extenuation of 
 this blistering stain upon the human character. Even the de- 
 liberate murderer has a plausible motive ; the thief is lured by 
 the hope of ill-gotten gain, and almost every species of human 
 depravity as manifested in unkind actions to our fellows, offer 
 its reward ; but the slanderer, unbidden by necessity, and un- 
 requited save by the keen remorse of a guilty conscience, rushes 
 blindly, madly along in the work of human degradation. There 
 is no character pure enough, there is none degraded enough, to 
 escape the withered blast of slander. There are no virtues can 
 elevate the innocent above its pestilential breath ; there are 
 no vices yet learned that can sink their votaries beneath its gro- 
 veling wanderings — but all, all from the extremes of virtue to 
 the extremes of vice, are embraced in its theatre of operations. 
 
 " Evil for evil," is a ready dictate of our perverted nature. It 
 seems to be an inherent principle implanted within us, that grows 
 with our growth, and ripens with our years, unless subdued by 
 the influence of a proper education. It accords with the impulse^ 
 of our untutored passions, and pleads its right to supremacy, 
 with a boldness and perseverance that but too often prevail. 
 But the human breast in which rankles the elements of slander, 
 and from which its polluted and polluting breath emits, is a 
 stranger even to that poor charity that withholds evil until in- 
 juries call to be avenged. It glories not unless glutted with the 
 anguish of its victims, or crimsoned by the blood of the reputa- 
 tions it has plunged into unmerited obloquy and shame. 
 
 An injury is the most severely felt, when it is received from 
 a person we love. The dagger of Brutus gave the deepest 
 wound to the feelings and to the heart of Caesar. The sight of 
 Brutus unnerved the arm of the Emperor ; and " thou, too, 
 Brutus," were the last words that faltered on his tongue. 
 
THE BIRD MESSENGERS. 
 
 The following lines were suggested by a tradition of the Seneca Indians, 
 who are said to have had a practice of bringing birds to the grave of their dear 
 departed friends, and kissing them many times, release them to fly away, 
 believing that they will not stop till they come to the spirit-home of tbe 
 loved and lost. 
 
 I. 
 
 One fondly loved and dearly cherished, 
 
 Death has removed ; she early perished 
 And passed into the sky of spirit life, — 
 
 There, far from sight of outward vision, 
 
 She dwells in light, on fields elysian, 
 Beyond the touch of pain — above all strife. 
 
 II. 
 
 So pure her bliss,, so sweet her joy, 
 
 Return to this dull world's annoy, 
 Would fill her free and happy soul with pain ; 
 
 Stay, angel one, in holy heaven !— 
 
 When life is done, it may be given 
 To us to rise and dwell with thee again. 
 
 HI. 
 
 We will not call thy spirit back, 
 
 But pray that all may choose the track 
 That thou in humble meekness ever trod, 
 
 That rises still, through faith and love, 
 
 Above all ill— all sin above — 
 And leadeth homeward to our Father, God. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yet will we send love-freighted birds 
 
 With thoughts unpenned, nor shaped to words; 
 Dear birds, half smothered with affection's kisses ; 
 
 And bid them fly, on tireless wing, 
 
 Far up the sky, and sweetly sing, 
 As unto her they bear our love's caresses. 
 
108 
 
 TO AUGUSTA. 
 
 V. 
 
 'They shall not rest, nor fold the wing, 
 
 Till to that blest, dear one, they sing, 
 In the " Great Spirit's," home of endless life ; 
 
 And to her bear the love we keep 
 
 For all who dare the untried deep 
 Of that eternal state with spirit-mystery rife. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then may we soon follow their way, 
 
 And in the noon of God-lit day 
 Forever find a sweet and bird-like rest ; 
 
 Each power awake, each sin-pnlse still, 
 
 Forever take the glad soul's fill 
 Of joy unearthly with the ever blest. 
 
 Weamanset. 
 
 TO AUGUSTA. 
 
 My gentle friend, I love thee well, 
 Far more than idle words can tell ; 
 And I will love thee ever, too, 
 With feelings that are deep and true. 
 
 'Tis true, I have not known thee long, 
 Yet cords of love have bound me strong— 
 'Tis sweet to love one's dearest friend, 
 And feel 'twill last till life shall end. 
 
 And if thy friendship, too, shall last, 
 Though time and years roll slowly past ; 
 One simple boon I'll ask of thee — 
 That thou wilt sometimes think of me. 
 
CRUELTY. Vs. KINDNESS; 
 
 OR, THE KEY FOUND. 
 
 BY THE LATE JOHN JNMAN. 
 
 Yisiting one of the state prisons, a few years since, in 
 company with the governor or superintendent, I was much 
 interested by his remarks upon several of the convicts, their 
 manifestations of character, and the effect upon them of the 
 discipline to which they were subjected. Some were cheer- 
 ful at labor, and appeared to find in it a relief from painful 
 thought ; others submitted to it patiently, but yet with evi- 
 dence that it was irksome to then - feelings or their habits — 
 it was endured only, not, welcomed. Others again were 
 always reluctant, sometimes refractory at their toil ; their 
 faces wore a sullen expression, and they contrived a thou- 
 sand expedients to retard as much as possible the progress 
 of their work, yet without exposing themselves to punish- 
 ment by actual neglect or evidently wilful perversion of 
 duty. The conversation of the governor, suggested by these 
 varieties of conduct and disposition, had an intrinsic inter- 
 est, resulting from the clearness and sagacity of his views 
 in relation to the varying elements with which he had to* 
 deal. I soon discovered that he was a quick and shrewd 
 observer of men's minds ; naturally endowed with a pene- 
 trating glance at the inward, sharpened and perfected by 
 long practice, until it afforded him a knowledge that seemed 
 almost intuitive. I perceived, too, by the demeanor of the 
 convicts in his presence, that he exercised over them that 
 quiet authority which superior power of intellect always'com- 
 mands. Their manner toward him — their very aspect and 
 movement when he was among them — though indicating 
 neither servile fear, nor that, shrinking avoidance which is 
 
124 CRUELTY, VS. KINDNESS. 
 
 generated by habitual harshness and severity — told more 
 plainly than words could do that they knew him as their 
 ruler ; as one whose vigilance they could not elude or his 
 authority resist, while yet theyhad nothing to apprehend 
 from wanton severity or capricious tyranny. He had not 
 been very long in the prison, and report said that his prede- 
 cessor, though an upright and well-meaning man, had been 
 so lacking in decision and tenacity of purpose, that under 
 his control the institution had become very much disorga- 
 nized ; but, whatever the faults of the previous administra- 
 tion had been, and however injurious they had proved to 
 the moral and physical discipline required in such a con- 
 dition of society, I needed not the evidence of general com- 
 mendation to assure me that under its present head the prison 
 was governed and controlled with perhaps as near an ap- 
 proach as is possible to the difficult attainment of the two 
 desired objects in all penal institutions — punishment and 
 reformation — punishment, for the good of the community 
 at large, as a means of deterring others from the commis- 
 sion of crime, and reformation, for the good of the individual 
 criminal. 
 
 In the course of our progress through the various wards 
 and workshops, the governor requested me, as we were 
 approaching one large apartment, to take especial notice of 
 the person whom he should call when we had entered, and 
 from whom he should ask an explanation of the processes 
 carried on in that part of the prison. I of course complied ; 
 and soon found myself listening to the intelligent remarks 
 of a man apparently thirty or thirty-five years old, well 
 made, of middle height, and strongly marked though far 
 from unhandsome features. His eyes, of a rich, bright 
 hazel, were yet singularly soft and mild in their expression, 
 contrasting remarkably enough with that of his mouth, 
 which betokened an uncommon degree of energy and firm- 
 ness ; the lips, though well formed, closing upon each other 
 with a fixedness than which nothing could more plainly 
 indicate strong will and self-reliance. The character of the 
 face and head generally was good — such as to please both 
 
CRUELTY, VS. KINDNESS. 
 
 125 
 
 the physiognomist and the phrenologist, who would respec- 
 tively pronounce the features and the developments at 
 tractive. 
 
 What struck me particularly, however, were the appear- 
 ances of personal attachment to the governor that rather 
 escaped from him occasionally than were exhibited. They 
 were perceptible in the tone of his voice, in his look of affec- 
 tionate respect, in the air of delighted but deferential in- 
 terest with which he listened when the governor addressed 
 him ; perhaps more than all, in the eager alacrity with 
 which he hastened to afford any explanation requested by 
 the latter on my behalf ; for the room in which we were, 
 was occupied by machines of various kinds, employed in 
 the formation or preparation of different fabrics ; and from 
 the tenor of the questions addressed to him, and of his an- 
 swers, I judged that the man of whom I speak was to some 
 extent charged with their management or superintendence. 
 At all events, he appeared to understand them thoroughly, 
 and his explanations of their nature, their construction, and 
 performances, were singularly intelligent and satisfactory, 
 adding much to the interest with which I had been inspired 
 by his appearance and manner. 
 
 It may be supposed that after we had left him and were 
 on our way to another part of the prison, I inquired with 
 some eagerness whether there was anything peculiar or 
 remarkable in his history ; and the answer I received was 
 substantially as follows : — 
 
 '•That man, when I first took charge of the prison, was 
 the veriest black sheep of the whole flock. His sentence 
 was fourteen years, of which three had elapsed ; and my 
 predecessor, when he turned the prisoners over to me, as- 
 sured me that he had less trouble with all the others than 
 with him ; that he was incorrigible and utterly unmanage- 
 able. The utmost severity of punishment had been inflict- 
 ed on him to no purpose ; neither hunger, nor stripes, n<^ 
 the shower, nor solitary confinement, nor kindness, noi 
 expostulation, had any effect upon his indomitable temper. 
 His sentence was for an aggravated and wanton assault. 
 
126 CRUELTY, VS. KINDNESS. 
 
 with intent to kill, which he barely failed to accomplish ; 
 and this was but the last of several, in the perpetration of 
 which he had exhibited a ferocity, a recklessness, and despe- 
 rate courage, that made his name actually a terror to the 
 \ police as well as to the frequenters of the low haunts where 
 he was generally to be found. The same violent and indomi- 
 table spirit he had exhibited ever since his arrival at the 
 prison. Coercion seemed only to harden him, and gentle 
 means were but wasted on his obduracy. Work he would 
 not, except at intervals when he was in the humor. His 
 fellow-prisoners stood in awe of him, and even the keepers 
 were reluctant to meddle with him, three of them having at 
 different times sustained severe personal injury at his hands 
 in attempts to subdue his refractory spirit. In short, accord- 
 ing to the account of my predecessor, Harding — for that 
 is his name — was more like a wild beast than a human 
 being, and, like a wild beast, ought to be shut up in a cage 
 where he could do no mischief ; to use the expression made 
 use of to me, he was untameable as a hyena, and deserved 
 no better than a hyena's treatment. 
 
 " I do not mean to compliment my own sagacity, but 
 I will say that I could not help doubting the entire accuracy 
 of all this. I had had plentiful experience of refractory 
 convicts in other prisons — had had occasion to deal with 
 depraved and brutal men in almost every conceivable va- 
 riety of wickedness — and I had never yet found one for 
 whom there were not some available means of correction 
 and reformation, if we could but find them out. 
 
 " This man, I felt confident, had a heart — a human heart, 
 with true sympathies and right emotions — but it was locked 
 up, and nobody had been able to discover the key that 
 should lay it open. Perhaps, in the course of his short but 
 violent and stormy life — for he was then but a little beyond 
 the age of legal manhood — no one had fallen in his way 
 who would have been willing to apply the key, had it been 
 in his possession. I could easily conceive that a childhood 
 and youth of neglect and hardship, without sympathy, 
 without the softening influence of care or kindness, without 
 
CRUELTY, VS. KINDNESS. 
 
 127 
 
 joys or pleasures except the most sensual and base, might 
 have been the training for this ferocious manhood of brutal 
 and desperate ferocity. You have seen Harding, and can 
 understand me when I say, that his features seemed even 
 then to indicate the existence of better elements within than 
 were believed to form his character. I felt assured, that 
 with a countenance so befitting a man, was not associated 
 the nature of a beast ; and I resolved to spare no pains for 
 the education and development of that nature of a man 
 which I believed to exist beneath his outward show of 
 heartlessness and depravity. 
 
 " My first step was to watch him carefully, yet in such 
 a way as not to excite in him suspicions of my observance. 
 I noted needfully his actions, his manner, his countenance — 
 at work and at meals, in the chapel, and when allowed to 
 exercise in the prison yard ; in every situation which brought 
 him to view, I studied his appearance and bearing with 
 unremitting vigilance. Whether it was that report of my 
 success in governing other prisons had reached him and 
 produced some effect of apprehension even on his obdurate 
 disposition, or that he felt the influence of the quiet but 
 energetic regularity which pervaded the prison, I know not ; 
 but it so happened that for some weeks he was unusually 
 peaceable and diligent, performing his tasks in the work- 
 shop well and cheerfully, and giving no annoyance to his 
 fellow-prisoners ; and the consequence was, that 1 had no 
 occasion to hold direct communication with him. I was 
 not sorry for this, as it gave me ample time for the watchful 
 observance to which I have alluded ; and perhaps all the 
 results I could expect from it had been attained when at 
 length some neglect or violation of duty on his part made it 
 proper for me to notice him personally. I was careful, 
 however, not to engage in conversation with him — to ask 
 no question — for my object was merely, by*a few words of 
 admonition, to suggest rather than announce that the treat- 
 ment he might expect from me was to combine the resolute 
 and undeviating firmness of control with the kindness of 
 sympathizing humanity. I wished him to draw this infer- 
 
128 
 
 CRUELTY, VS. KINDNESS. 
 
 ence from my manner of speaking — grave, earnest, indica- 
 tive not so much of determination to be obeyed as of assu- 
 rance that to be disobeyed was impossible, but carefully 
 divested of harshness or the least appearance of resentment. 
 This was the lesson I wished him to receive and ponder; and 
 I had reason to believe that my object was accomplished. 
 
 " But I will not take up your time by going into the 
 detail of my various experiments upon Harding, and their 
 results. Suffice it to say, that in the course of five or six 
 months I became convinced of the truth of my original im- 
 pression, that there was something more and better in him 
 than had been supposed ; but as yet this conviction was 
 the only good fruit of my endeavors. He was still wilful, 
 intractable, and sometimes fearfully violent. Punishment 
 was still thrown away upon him — and so sure was I that 
 it even aggravated his faults of temper, that I regretted the 
 necessity of inflicting it for the sake of maintaining the 
 general discipline of the prison. I made some important 
 discoveries, however, in relation to the course of early life, 
 which, as I had from the first suspected, had been largely 
 instrumental in the formation of his character. In his fu- 
 rious moods he would often let fall expressions, disjointed 
 indeed, but capable of being put together and wrought into 
 a connexion full of significance. They generally took the 
 form of maledictions and reproaches upon society — upon 
 mankind at large — for cruelty and injustice of which he 
 had been the victim ; and from them, as reported to me by 
 the keepers, I gathered that his father, an Englishman, had 
 been transported for a crime of which, after his death at 
 Van Dieman's Land, he had been ascertained to be innocent ; 
 that his mother, coming to America, had died in prison, of 
 a jail fever, while detained as a witness merely ; and that 
 himself, thus left an orphan when little more than a child, 
 had struggled on to manhood through penury, and suffering, 
 and evil companionship, and temptations of the coarsest 
 and most debasing kind, such as are but too much incident 
 to the career of indigent and neglected orphanhood in the 
 squalid haunts of large cities. 
 
CRUELTY, VSi KJ&J)tf£HS. 129 
 
 " I ascertained, moreover, by inquiries of the police in the 
 city where his life had been passed, that no crime had ever 
 been alleged against him except those acts of violence which 
 at last had brought him to the prison. He had figured 
 repeatedly in the annals of the criminal department as a 
 rowdy, a ruffian, a leader in riots and aggravated breaches 
 of the peace — but never as a thief, a shop-lifter, a burglar, 
 or in any other grade of felonious rascality. This was 
 encouraging ; and still more so were accounts that reached 
 me of several instances in which Harding had been known 
 to exhibit a sort of rude and reckless generosity, not out of 
 keeping with the darker features of his character. I felt 
 more and more assured that there must be a way of reclaim- 
 ing him ; but I was still forced to acknowledge that as yet 
 I had made little or no substantial progress toward the dis- 
 covery of that way. 
 
 " At length, however, a fortunate accident befriended me. 
 1 had conceived the idea, and was strongly impressed with 
 its truth, that if Harding could be made to feel himself 
 useful, a great step would be gained. My theory was, that 
 want of self-respect — the failing of a generous nature, per- 
 verted by circumstances — was the root of his depravity ; 
 and that if he could be induced to believe that there was 
 good in him, capable of being called into action profitable 
 to his fellow-men, this belief might without much difficulty 
 be nurtured so as to bring forth abundant fruit. 
 
 " It happened, one day, that he was called in to assist, 
 with others, under the direction of the engineer, in putting 
 together a new piece of machinery ; that is, he and the 
 other convicts, three or four of them, were required to lift 
 and place in certain positions various parts of the engine, 
 while the constructor adjusted them and applied the fasten- 
 ings. I observed that Harding — who had been for some 
 days in a remarkably good humor — bestowed much atten^ 
 tion upon the putting together of the machinery, and seemed 
 to be interested in its construction and object, as one who 
 understood them. While the others merely did what was 
 required of them, with careless indifference, his eyes closely 
 
130 
 
 CRUELTY, VS. KINDNESS. 
 
 followed the movement of the engineer ; and I noticed that 
 when the latter two or three times made a trial movement 
 of a principal wheel, Harding quickly turned his attention 
 to another part of the machine, where the effect was to be 
 looked for ; showing that he comprehended the principle of 
 its action. 
 
 u My plan was quickly formed ; and circumstances took 
 just the turn most favorable to its application. There was 
 something wrong in the engine ; something had been omit- 
 ted or misplaced in its construction, and it did not work to 
 the satisfaction of the engineer. Repeated trials were made 
 to remedy the defect, whatever it was, but still the same 
 check occurred when the wheels were put in motion. You 
 may suppose that I watched Harding more vigilantly than 
 I did the machine, and I was delighted at perceiving that 
 he seemed to be as deeply interested in the matter as the 
 professional machinist. His eyes followed every movement 
 of the latter, and it was evident from the intent expression 
 of his countenance, that everything but the engine and the 
 difficulty was forgotten. At length there was a flash of 
 the eye — a lighting up of all the features — succeeded in a 
 moment by an earnest and thoughtful gaze at one part of 
 the engine, whence I inferred, and rightly, that Harding 
 had conjectured the cause of the failure, and was seeking 
 to verify his idea. Stepping to his side quietly, and looking 
 for a few moments at the spot on which his attention was 
 fixed, I said, in a kind of abstracted way, and rather as if 
 thinking aloud than addressing myself purposely to him, 
 ' What can be the matter with this thing ? Can't you find it 
 out, Harding? I dare say it is some very slight defect, 
 which could be remedied in ten minutes.' If I had spoken 
 in any other way, it is probable that his thoughts would 
 have been recalled to our relative positions ; but my remark 
 had so casual and matter-of-course an air — conveyed so 
 perfectly the idea that I was thinking only of the machine, 
 and chimed in so well with his own similar pre-occupation, 
 that he continued to forget the prison, the governor, and his 
 own position as convict ; and he proceeded at once to point 
 
CRUELTY, VS. KINDNESS. 
 
 131 
 
 out what he supposed to be the cause of the difficulty. He 
 was right ; the engineer saw in a moment what was want- 
 ed, and. again most fortunately for the success of my effort, 
 acknowledged the fact with a brief but hearty expression 
 of thanks to Harding for the discovery. Sir, the key was 
 found to the true and better nature of the man. The grati- 
 fication he felt at that moment in the consciousness of hav- 
 ing rendered a valuable service — aided, no doubt, by some 
 up-rising of self-esteem at his sagacity and success where 
 a skilful mechanician had been baffled — afforded all that 
 I wanted for his'regeneration, as I may call it. My course 
 with him henceforth was clear, though requiring much cau- 
 tion and skilful management. I had but to encourage and 
 develop to full action his feeling of self-respect, perhaps now 
 called into existence, but certainly for the first time fostered 
 and rightly guided. By slight occasional allusions to his 
 acuteness, made incidentally and as if merely suggested 
 by some occurrence of the moment, I not only kept alive 
 in his mind the recollection of the pleasant feeling he had 
 experienced, but at length induced him to express a wish 
 for employment in the machine department — for which he 
 had evidently a natural aptitude ; and the promptness with 
 with I acceded to his wish, aided by an encouraging, half- 
 jocular remark upon the certainty of his becoming a skilful 
 engineer, put him in precisely the right frame of mind for 
 working out all the good which I had hoped and expected. 
 Henceforth his progress was rapid and scarcely interrupted. 
 You have seen him the foreman of the machine department, 
 in which he has introduced several very ingenious and valu- 
 able improvements ; you have seen him grateful, gentle, 
 assiduous, and self-respecting ; and I have only to add, that 
 when he receives the pardon which I have solicited for him, 
 though society will gain a useful member, I shall lose my 
 most excellent and esteemed assistant." 
 
 Such was the story related to me by the humane and 
 judicious governor of a state prison — a man who had saga- 
 city to perceive and a heart to feel that even in the most 
 perverted nature there might be a germ of good still subsist- 
 
132 
 
 CRUELTY, VS. KINDNESS. 
 
 ing, which needed only gentle and wise culture to quicken 
 and expand and ultimately bring forth golden fruit. I am 
 not of those who believe that evil is the constituent of man's 
 nature^ that its tendencies are all downward, its impulses 
 all demoralizing, its elements all corrupt. On the contrary, 
 it is my faith, that on the whole, good largely predominates ; 
 that the majority of men are chiefly susceptible of generous 
 and kindly emotions ; and that there is no man — never has 
 been a man, so utterly depraved as to be incapable of rescue 
 from the dominion of sin, and its invariable companion, sor- 
 row. The veriest wretch who squanders £fe and intellect 
 in the continual indulgence of his basest appetite — the mur- 
 derer, whose hands are red with the blood of many victims — 
 the most hardened and daring violator of every law, divine 
 or human — if he has within him one spark of affection, one 
 pure feeling, aye, or even one perception, however feeble, 
 of his own guilt and degradation — is not wholly depraved, 
 not wholly destitute of good. There yet lingers around his 
 iron and gloomy heart some ray of the divine effulgence 
 by which the most exalted spirits are illuminated ; and faint 
 and glimmering though it be, there are moments when it 
 may be seen struggling out from among the darkness by 
 which it is encompassed, even as the bright sunbeams will 
 at times burst through the gathered clouds of a stormy day 
 in winter. 
 
 Is it to be believed that a human being exists, in the pos- 
 session of his faculties, whose bosom never swelled with 
 indignation at the sight of injustice or tyranny? Who 
 never paid willing homage at the shrine of intellectual or 
 moral greatness? I say, then, those emotions were the 
 working of the better part within ; and so is every conscious- 
 ness of joy that is felt after the performance of a good action, 
 every satisfaction derived from the resistance of temptation, 
 every gush of love that pours out, warm and glowing from 
 the heart, toward a fellow-being. Can a human creature 
 be imagined so destitute of humanity as to be capable of 
 looking upon the gladsome features of a child, sporting and 
 gamboling in its joyous innocence, without an impulse to 
 
SPRING IS COMING. 
 
 133 
 
 bless it — or of beholding the sorrow of a child's young heart, 
 without desiring to wipe away the tears in sympathy and 
 love? In that loving sympathy with joy or grief, the better 
 portion of our nature is displayed ; and were it seen even 
 in the greatest of offenders, we might be sure that amid the 
 blackness of the soul within there were yet some sparkles 
 of the ray divine, from which hope might anticipate, at 
 some happy and appointed time, expansion to the radiance 
 of full and perfect day. 
 
 SPRING IS COMING-. 
 
 Spring is coming-, Spring is coming, 
 Birds are chirping, insects humming ! 
 Flowers are peeping from their sleeping, 
 Streams escaped from winter's keeping. 
 In delighted freedom rushing, 
 Dance along in music gushing, 
 Scenes of late in deadness saddened, 
 Smile in animation gladdened ; 
 All is beauty, all is mirth, 
 All is glory upon earth. 
 Shout we then with Nature's voice, 
 Welcome, Spring ! — rejoice ! rejoice ! 
 
 Spring is coming : come, my brother, 
 Let us rove with one another, 
 To our well-remembered wild wood, 
 Flourishing in nature's childhood ; 
 Where a thousand flowers are springing, 
 And a thousand birds are singing;" 
 Where the golden sunbeams quiver 
 On the verdure-girdled river ; 
 Let our youth of feeling out, 
 To the youth of nature shout, 
 While the waves repeat our voice, 
 Welcome, Spring ! — rejoice ! rejoice I 
 
LOOK ALOFT. 
 
 BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN. 
 
 [The following lines were suggested by an anecdote said to have been related 
 by the late Dr. Godman, of the ship-boy who was about to fall from the rigging, 
 and was only saved by the mate's characteristic exclamation, (: Look aloft, you 
 lubber !"] 
 
 Tn the tempest of life when the wave and the gale 
 Are around and above, if thy footing 1 should fail — 
 If thine eye should grow dim and thy caution depart — 
 "Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart. 
 
 If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow, 
 With a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe. 
 Should betray thee, when sorrow like clouds are arrayed, 
 "Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade. 
 
 Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye, 
 Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, 
 Then turn, and through tears of repentant regret, 
 "Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set. 
 
 Should they who are dearest — (the son of thy heart — 
 The wife of thy bosom) — in sorrow depart, 
 "Look aloft," from the darkness and dust of the tomb, 
 To that soil where "affection is ever in bloom." 
 
 And, oh ! when death comes in terrors, to cast 
 His fears on the future, his pall on the past, 
 In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart, 
 And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft," and depart! 
 
BEAUTY COMETH FROM DARKNESS 
 A FABLE. 
 
 BY C. D. STUART. 
 
 A fair, white lily, sat upon its throne in a summer bower. 
 When the morning came, in her golden chariot, the lily 
 saluted her brightness with the divinest odors. The lily 
 was beautiful to behold — it seemed the spirit of a saintly 
 meekness and purity. The proud and the humble of earth, 
 looked upon it with equal delight, and to all it wore a 
 tender blush, suffused with rarest fragrance. It was called 
 the type of innocence, virtue, and humility. It was a blos- 
 som of light. But, in the heart of this fair, white lily, was 
 a seed of pride. The homage paid to its beauty made it 
 vain among the flowers. It tossed its head, with scorn, 
 above the gentle daisies and violets, and said to the red- 
 lipped, virgin rose, " I am more beautiful than thou." The 
 soft, shining dew, crept into its heart, at night, thinking it 
 sweet to sleep and dream on such a couch ; but the lily 
 cast it rudely aside, "I am of the day," it said, "and will 
 have nought to do with darkness." On the reeds and grass 
 the drops of shaken dew lay quivering, under the lily's 
 scornful glance. In the morning, the sun's rays caught 
 them up to heaven, and they said, " We will not visit the 
 proud lily again." The days were beautiful. The skies, 
 without cloud, poured a fiery glow over the earth. The 
 nights were beautiful. Moon and stars went on their shi- 
 ning courses. But where the lily sat upon its throne, the 
 air was dry and hard. The dew had forsaken the lily. 
 Its lips grew parched, its cheeks shriveled, and it wept, 
 not in sorrow, but for vexation. " My beauty is fading," 
 was its cry. "I am athirst — the day blinds me, and the 
 
136 
 
 JOY AND SORROW. 
 
 sun drinks up my life." Then the lily saw the rose it had 
 disdained, dewy in the morning, and fresh, and beautiful. 
 And the violets and daisies, sleeping in the grass, were lovely 
 as ever. Then the lily saw its punishment, and besought 
 the dew to return. But it was too late. In the darkness, 
 as it gasped for life, the lily saw on rose and violet, soft, 
 shining eyes ; eyes of the spirits of the night, which bring 
 the nectar of heaven to the hearts of fainting flowers. They 
 were dew-drops, and it heard the zephyrs singing above 
 them, " Behold these, too, are ministers and messengers of 
 God, without which the flowers cannot live." Then remorse 
 shook the heart of the lily, and, falling upon its throne, 
 it murmured, with the voice of death, " Accursed be the 
 pride which knew not that, often, * Beauty cometh from 
 darkness !' " 
 
 JOY AND SORROW, 
 
 BY J. G . BROOKS. 
 
 Joy kneels at morning's rosy prime, 
 
 In worship to the rising sun ; 
 But sorrow loves the calmer time, 
 
 When the day-god his course hath run; 
 When night is on her shadowy car, 
 
 Pale Sorrow wakes, while Joy doth sleep; 
 And, guided by the evening star, 
 
 She wanders forth to muse and weep. 
 
 Joy loves to cull the summer flower, 
 
 And wreath it round his happy brow ; 
 And when the dark autumnal hour 
 
 Hath laid the leaf and blossoms low — 
 When the frail bud hath lost its worth, 
 
 And Joy hath dash'd it from his crest — 
 Then Sorrow takes it from the earth, 
 
 To wither on her wither'd breast. 
 
JHotljOT anir SDaugljtars of % Bible. 
 
 BATHSHEBA. 
 
 BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 Long and dreadful have been the wars of Palestine. On 
 the one side, there is the youthful nation of Israel to contend 
 for its birthright in the land sworn to them by the God of 
 heaven from the days of Noah. Upon the other side, we 
 have a multitude of petty nations to contend for their fire- 
 sides and altars against the invaders of the land where their 
 fathers have lived and died since the division of the earth 
 among the sons of Noah. Both contend for their very exist- 
 ence, through centuries of battles and sieges that have 
 thrown an eclipse over the wars of the cotemporary nations 
 about Ilium or Thebes. Nor should those days have been 
 judged unworthy of an epic more lofty than those that cele- 
 brate the wrath of Achilles or the sufferings of iEneeas, but 
 that the spirit of the Hebrew bards was averse to dwelling 
 upon battles and wounds and heroes ; and all that are most 
 capable among Christians, prefer other themes for song. 
 
 The streams of Jordan part before the sons of Israel; and 
 next, the walls of Jericho ruin upon the dusty plain. The 
 hosts of Midian flee before a blast of horns by night, and 
 leave Jerubbaal lord of the battle-field through the cowardice 
 of his foes. The stars grow red with wrath above the doom- 
 ed hosts of Sisera — and, amid a night of clouds unseen of 
 men, the Almighty shakes his blackening thunders. The 
 hordes of Ammon flee before the phalanx of Jephthah, and 
 obscene Chemosh shames his worshippers overthrown in 
 
138 
 
 BATHSHEBA. 
 
 battle. The invincible Danite with his single arm drives 
 before him the chosen heroes of Philistine armies, and earns 
 his meed of immortal glory by delivering his betrayers from 
 the dread of their tyrants. With feats of arms the whole 
 land resounds, and Saul with his chosen heroes makes long 
 amends for the partial enslavement of Israel among bar- 
 barian foes. 
 
 At length the predestined hour approaches when the young 
 son of Jesse shall begin to grow famous in battle. The city 
 gates pour forth their multitudes in arms, as when winds 
 above the sea pile clouds on clouds, and pour down storms 
 of wreathed hail ; or as when millions of migratory fowl for- 
 sake their haunts by the shores of the northern sea, and 
 drive before the autumnal year to far-off lands. From Gaza's 
 watery bounds, by Besor's stream — from Ascalon. or Acca- 
 ron, or Ashdod, the house of Dagon — and from the giant 
 towers of Gath, the Philistine youth crowd eagerly to join 
 the standard of their lords, and signalize their bravery in 
 war ; forgetful all how costly a victory brought them the 
 insupportable ark of the Almighty's covenant, when Hophni 
 and Phinehas fell at the head of their heroes in Ebenezer. 
 
 The sons of Israel, also, at the call of their king, come 
 trooping by myriads from Paneas and the snowy ridges of 
 Hermon or Lebanon rough with cedars and rocks of ice— 
 from the wild glades of the south by Beersheba and the As- 
 phaltic lake — from Gilead and the borders of Moab or Am- 
 nion, or from the sea shore ; and to the sound of the trumpet 
 respond hosannas as the voice of the sea. 
 
 On opposing hills the foes spread their phalanx with moon- 
 ed wings, and pitch their covered camps. Long time delay- 
 ing to strike, they stand surveying each the other with hostile 
 eyes — and Goliath each day presents his mighty stature. 
 At length the son of Jesse, in his ruddy youth, advances, 
 and, with a sling and a stone, fells the blasphemer to the 
 earth at a blow. The spouting blood pours forth to stain 
 all his armor, erewhile so bright when he stood towering 
 before the hosts in brass and steel and burnished gold, and 
 from his nodding plume, as from a comet flaming in the sky 
 
BATHSHEBA. 
 
 139 
 
 of the north, scattered terror and flight among his foes. 
 The giant falls — yet he stands again, and, with lifted arm, 
 shakes his terrible lance at large. His sightless orbs suf- 
 fused, flash fire mingled with blood. Again he falls to the 
 earth ; but, reluctant to die, attempts once more to stand, 
 and, half raised on his bended knees, he invokes his Gods 
 with a curse, and calls his armed heroes to avenge his dis- 
 grace upon the circumcised crew. Again he sinks upon the 
 earth, and with deep groans yields up his fierce and bloody 
 soul to the angels to death. 
 
 The ruddy youth stands upon his dead body, and, drawing 
 from the scabbard his keenly flashing sabre, with a blow cuts 
 off his head, and bears it to the king. The multitude, with 
 joy and shouts, gaze on the grim features scarcely less terrible 
 even in death than those of Geryon or Cacus. The Most High 
 approving, gives his signal of thunder in a clear sky, and the 
 uncircumcised nations turn their backs to flee from the hos- 
 tile plain, where their champion lies headless and despoiled 
 of all his armor — a prey to jackals. But, vainly will they 
 flee, for the anointed armies sing "Hosanna to the Highest!" 
 and hang like a tempest upon the retreating foe with terror 
 and infinite slaughter. The fields redden and the rivers 
 choke with multitudes of slain, while they roll bloody to the 
 sea with the gore of heroes. The infernal seats are stirred, 
 and all their kings rise up to meet the pale and sighing 
 ghosts fallen by doom of battle. 
 
 Then returning from conquest, they come to their native 
 cities, where Peace now shall long wave her olive branch ; 
 and the young-eyed damsels of their tribes come forth to 
 meet them, singing, "Saul hath slain his thousands, but 
 David his ten thousands !" At the head of her companions, 
 the youthful Bathsheba leads the dance, and holds in her 
 fair hands garlands of fragrant flowers, wherewith they strew 
 the path of the heroes, and crown the brows of the brave 
 with victorious boughs. Unrivalled in beauty and grace, 
 the daughter of Eliam is crowned with flowers by her maids 
 as they dance and sing, " Blest be the mother of the hero, 
 and blest be his father; blest be his sister that shall be 
 
140 
 
 BATHSHABA. 
 
 spouse to the kingdom's heir ; and blest be the maiden in 
 her royal harem that shall call him her lord !" The queenly 
 daughter of Saul joins in the giddy dance before her father 
 and his heroes, and counts herself happiest among women, 
 that she may now become the spouse of the youthful shep- 
 herd that has come to excel the giants of the earth in feats 
 of arms. 
 
 Alas, that so fair a morning cannot be without clouds ! 
 that such unquestioned joy should not for once be left un- 
 mingled with sorrow ! The malignant spirit of Saul is rous- 
 ed to hate the deliverer of his empire, and he is driven into 
 exile, with a price set upon his head, although he is the 
 king's son-in-law, and anointed by Divine command as the 
 future king of Israel, that there may be at least one king on 
 the earth that can himself excel in statesmanship and feats 
 of arms, and live without jealousy of such as rival him in 
 either. Saul proves himself unfit to reign, by his hatred of 
 the loftiest virtue ; while David shall show all kings unwor- 
 thy of comparison with him, for his magnanimity in sparing 
 his deadliest foe, and treating with distinguished regard the 
 poor remains of his family after he has fallen upon his own 
 sword in the rout of his army. 
 
 Years pass, and the ruddy swain, whose harp has proved 
 too charming for one of hell's blackest spirits, as his arm 
 has been shown too strong for the mightiest among the sons 
 of Anak, sits in an uncontested throne, surrounded by his 
 millions of heroes, and too powerful for the mightiest tyran- 
 nies of the earth. The exile of Ram ah, and Nob, and Gath, 
 and Keilah, and En-gaddi, and Hachilah, and Maon, and 
 Ziglag, is now the king of Israel and the head of a dynasty 
 that shall rule all lands and all ages from the throne of God. 
 Yet is David a man of sorrowful spirit, and his noblest 
 triumphs cost him woe. He is afflicted beyond measure at 
 the death of Saul, his mortal foe, and breaks his mighty 
 heart at the assassination of that foe's worthless son, after 
 he has wept behind the funeral of the mighty son of Neri. 
 The strongholds of the mountain fortress of Sion yield to 
 his arms, and he makes Jerusalem the seat of his empire. 
 
BATHSHEBA. 
 
 141 
 
 The Tynans become his allies, and send him trees of cedar 
 from Lebanon, to rear him a palace worthy of his state, 
 \ under the direction of their noblest architects. Then he 
 resolves to rear a magnificent temple to Jehovah that shall 
 be the glory of his reign and the wonder of the world ; but 
 this is denied him, and referred to a son not yet born. The 
 Philistines and Moabites, and the men of Rehob and Da- 
 mascus, the sons of Edom and Amalek, with the Ammonites, 
 everywhere fall before his arms, and leave him master of all 
 the regions sworn to the sons of Israel, from the river of Egypt 
 to the fountains of upper Lebanon, and from the sea to the 
 river of Babylon. 
 
 Alas ! that prosperity should be able to take in its deceitful 
 snare such as the storms of adverse fortune cannot bend ! 
 While his invincible general (red with the blood of Abner, 
 but reprieved till he can be better spared,) is besieging Rab- 
 bah, and reducing the myrmidons of impudent Hanun to 
 the last straits, the son of Jesse becomes ensnared with the 
 fair looks of Eliam's daughter, now the spouse of the bra^e 
 Uriah, and joins murder to adultery, that she may add her 
 charms to his harem, already overstocked, and encumbered 
 with a multitude of wives and concubines, with their lawless 
 brood of sons and daughters ready to raise seditions against 
 their father while he lives, and to murder each the other, 
 without remorse, when he is dead. Such is the fortune of 
 exalted state. The children of the poor dread the loss of 
 their father ; and his single wife, humble and laborious and 
 unknown to the world, will watch the stars out by the side 
 of his couch of pain, and weep inconsolable at his grave. 
 But the sons and daughters of the rich desire his death, that 
 without hindrance they may first contend like wolves for 
 the remains of his estate, and then spend his dearly-earned 
 wealth in riotous living ; nor will his widow long weep 
 after the weary pageantry of his funeral is over, and the 
 tomb has shut upon his mortal corse her gloomy doors. 
 
 Thus he that never wronged a rival, and never envied 
 one of his most renowmed heroes his well-earned fame — he 
 who wept when his bitterest foes perished, and vexed his 
 
142 
 
 BATHSHEBA. 
 
 soul for the distress of the most ungrateful wretches that 
 ever dishonored the human form — is found, when left to 
 himself, what the best man now living would be in like cir- 
 cumstances, a miserable criminal, too frail to resist the most 
 ordinary temptation, and too callous to regret the wrongs 
 he has inflicted upon his most faithful servants and the 
 world, or the insults wherewith he has offended the injured 
 majesty of Heaven. 
 
 The widow's tears are few and brief, and she hastens to 
 Jay aside her weeds for the robes of the favorite sultana, to- 
 blaze in diamonds and gold and gems, and exercise capri- 
 cious tyranny in the harem of the mightiest monarch in the 
 world. But, short and partial shall prove her triumph — 
 the triumph of beauty and pride. The alliance begun in 
 adultery and consummated by murder, is odious to men and 
 cursed of God. The slighted wives of her lord and their 
 children will abhor her intrusion, and rejoice in whatever 
 calamity may befal her or whatever sons and daughters may 
 call her mother. The insulted angels of her nuptial chamber 
 have gone away, shamed and covered with blushes, to accuse 
 her before Heaven's Chancery, that writes its decrees in 
 tables of brass, and not in rose-leaves ; but they shall soon 
 return, with commission to call her sin to remembrance, by 
 slaying her first-born. Bathsheba, however, thinks little of 
 the woes that await her, and what more may befall her sons 
 long after she is dead, through her fault ; but gives herself 
 up to the intoxications of her new splendors, and deems a 
 court the happiest place this side of heaven — a court where 
 all faces wear forced smiles, and all words are chosen to flatter 
 the great, while they are envied and waylaid with poisons 
 and poniards in every path where they may walk, whether 
 in public or in their most secret retirements, by night or by 
 day. What to her is the evident murder of her husband ? 
 what are the secret execrations of all mothers, and the real 
 contempt of every father in Israel? She sits a queen, and 
 her spouse is the hero whose deeds she sung long ago among 
 the damsels of her train, when he bore in his hand the head 
 of the giant, the terror and scourge of the most powerful 
 
BATHSHEBA. 
 
 143 
 
 princes of Asia. 0! with what sharpness and desire has 
 she envied the women that have filled his harem even when 
 he was in exile and danger ! With what exultation has she 
 come to be their superior now that he sits upon an insuper- 
 able throne, and all his enemies have come to lick the dust 
 of his feet ! 
 
 But, if neither Bathsheba nor her kingly paramour will 
 look into the consequences of their actions, there is One that 
 sees far down the path of future ages, and notes all the 
 crimes and calamities of her race. A bald and stern old 
 minstrel is at hand, that can make the running brooks delay 
 to the sound of his harmonious strings, and the kid will 
 leave her uncropped twigs to listen, when he trills his sub- 
 lime madrigal, and sings of the stars and the winds and the 
 sun's unwearied course, the glory of kings, and the judg- 
 ments of Heaven against the godless, that disdain to live 
 according to just and equitable laws, or the glorious meeds 
 that await ^he just in the resurrection world. Ever welcome 
 and honored as a sacred character at the courts of kings and 
 the palaces of the great, either in Palestine or in other lands, 
 he goes and comes at his will, and is everywhere alike at 
 home. Such were the bards of ancient times, before prophecy 
 became mercenary, and gold could ennoble things by nature 
 mean and low — when a mule had not become the " illustrious 
 foal of steeds whose feet are winds," and when a man was 
 better in prison and chains than a horse contending for the 
 prize of swiftness and strength at Olympic games. Often 
 has he sung before the king of Israel, who acknowledges 
 there is at least one prophet that can warble extemporaneous 
 hymns to rival his own. 
 
 There is a sound of revelry by night in the house of the 
 forest of Lebanon, and the beauty and bravery of Israel are 
 gathered in the presence of their lord, to congratulate him 
 upon the birth of a son that they name the future heir to 
 his throne. Softly, as from a sky, a thousand lamps are 
 shining from urns of alabaster or shaded hyaline, from cups 
 of amethyst and orbs of chrysolite or carbuncle. Music is 
 there with her voluptuous swell, from harps and charming 
 
144 
 
 BATHSHEBA. 
 
 pipes, and every instrument of breath or fret of golden wires. 
 The dance whirls of innumerable feet in maze upon maze, 
 like the whirl of stars about the pale-eyed moon in a sum- 
 mer's night ; and the voice of song ascends pure and sweet, 
 like a stream of rich distilled perfumes from beds of roses 
 and islands of cinnamon in the sea of Araby the blest. The 
 wine-cup too is there, and the jocund laugh, and the lively 
 jest, where wit and music, mirth and delicious cates, are 
 mingled in a sea of delight, till the stars fade and the grey 
 dawn begins to streak the east with first rays of approaching 
 morn. Pale as the Damascene rose, and beautiful as the 
 large-eyed Houris, sits the newly-wedded bride and mother 
 upon an equal throne at the right hand of her lord, and 
 receives the courtly homage of a thousand lords with their 
 princely dames. With late night comes the venerable seer, 
 unbidden but ever welcome, into the crowded hall. At his 
 presence the sounds of revelry are hushed — for great is the 
 love and the veneration of Nathan among all that throng 
 the court of Sion, and he has been always old in the memory 
 of grey-haired men, always beloved alike by the young and 
 the aged for his gentle spirit and divine songs. 
 
 With prelusive touch he runs his skilful fingers over the 
 chords of his seven-stringed lyre ; then sings of battles and 
 miracles in " parables and dark sayings of old ;" the punish- 
 ments of Egypt, the passage of the sea, the march through 
 the desert, with clouds of fire, and manna, and miraculous 
 waters flowing from burning rocks, and all the way whereby 
 the Most High led their fathers until the day when he chose 
 the son of Jesse, and brought him forth from following the 
 pasturage of flocks to be the shepherd of Israel, that he might 
 " feed them according to the integrity of his heart, and guide 
 them by the skilfulness of his hands." 
 
 The song changes to a solemn and troubled air, as some 
 grand heroic symphony, when Beethoven plays, gives place 
 to a funereal march and the sight of a newly-made grave. 
 He sings of a lowly thatched cottage under the shade of an 
 ancient olive, in a lonely field by the side of a forest far from 
 cities and the crowded ways of public resort. A purling 
 
BATHSHEBA. 
 
 145 
 
 brook runs by from its crystal spring, and winds among 
 slender grass through the distant vales. The chaste wife, 
 brown with toil beneath the hot sun, prepares a frugal meal 
 of bread and flesh and savory herbs for her husband, against 
 his return from the field at noon, when his playful children 
 come about him with mirth and laughter, and climb his 
 knees or hang upon his lips. A pet lamb is his earthly all ; 
 that follows him wherever he goes, or runs with joy to meet 
 him at his return to his humble home. She has grown up 
 with his children ; she eats of his own food and drinks from 
 his own cup : and when he lies down to sleep on his pallet 
 of straw, she comes to nestle in his bosom like a daughter, 
 and sleeps in his arms like an affectionate child. 
 
 Alas ! oppression finds its way to that peaceful retreat ! 
 A certain rich man sits first in the gate of judgment and 
 highest in the synagogue of worship, pays ample tithes of 
 abundant flocks and herds and fruits of his spacious fields, 
 and thrice yearly comes to the Tabernacle of Sion with 
 choice offerings for the altar, and, standing before the whole 
 multitude, returns thanks to God that he is not like other 
 men — extortioners, unjust, unholy, or profane. But, when 
 a stranger comes to ask his hospitality for a night, he will 
 take nothing of his own abundance for his entertainment, 
 and the poor man's lamb is haled away by force, to be served 
 up in a banquet to the wayfarer, without pity and without 
 recompense ; and it is well if the sorrowing cottager escapes 
 without blows and wounds to the hazarding of his life. 
 
 The experienced old minstrel notes with what passions 
 his song affects his auditory, and perceives how many eyes 
 grow moist and how many bosoms swell with uncontrolled 
 pity as his strain proceeds. The king, more than all others, 
 shows with what interest he regards the narrative, (for he con- 
 ceals more ill than others what emotions rise in his manly 
 soul.) and how he sets himself to ward off the application that 
 he suspects to lie at the bottom of this plaintive allegory — 
 exclaiming, with ready and half-feigned anger, that he would 
 have to prove his own exemption from a like charge : " As 
 the Lord liveth, the man that hath done this thing shall 
 
1'46 BATHSHEBA. 
 
 surely die ; and he shall restore the lamb fourfold, because 
 he did this thing and because he showed no pity !" 
 
 But, the covering is too flimsy to delude the most super- 
 ficial, and his beautiful Bathsheba can scarcely refrain from 
 sinking into a swoon under the terrible qualms that begin to 
 come over her spirit like avenging ghosts; and she finds that 
 sin, though it may be sweet to a depraved taste in its com- 
 mission, yet in the end will "bite like a serpent and sting 
 like an adder." The prophet, now that he has drawn from 
 the royal offender his own sentence, drops the allegory, and 
 continues the sad improvisation in plain words, — " Thou 
 art the man ! Thus saith the Lord God of Israel, ' I anoint- 
 ed thee king over Israel, and I delivered thee out of the 
 hand of Saul ; and. I gave thee thy master's house, and thy 
 master's wives into thy bosom, and gave thee the house of 
 Israel and of Judah ; and if that had been too little, I would 
 moreover have given unto thee such and such things. Where- 
 fore hast thou despised the commandment of the Lord, to do 
 evil in his sight? Thou hast killed Uriah the Hittite with 
 the sword, and hast taken his wife to be thy wife, and hast 
 slain him with the sword of the children of Ammon. Now 
 therefore the sword shall never depart from thine house ; 
 because thou hast despised me, and hast taken the wife of 
 Uriah the Hittite to be thy wife. Thus saith the Lord, Be- 
 hold, I will raise up evil against thee out of thine own house, 
 and I will take thy wives before thine eyes, and give them 
 unto thy neighbor, and he shall lie with thy wives in the 
 sight of this sun : for thou didst it secretly ; but I will do 
 this thing before all Israel, and before the sun.' " 
 
 The monarch is struck dumb and not angry at this ter- 
 rible rebuke. He can only exclaim, " I have sinned against 
 the Lord." But the Gospel is preached not to torment men 
 before their time, nor to reproach them for their misdeeds, 
 but to declare sin forgiven to all that receive it in its fine- 
 ness ; leaving the incorrigible and perverse to rue their con- 
 tempt in another world, when they will revile themselves 
 far beyond the worst that man or angel can do in the dialect 
 of men. God has sent his prophet to move the king to 
 
BATHSHEBA. 
 
 147 
 
 repentance — and when this is effected, he has only to say, 
 " Jehovah hath also put away thy sin ; thou shalt not die." 
 David now commands his "Miserere" to be sung — and it 
 will be sung till the end of time. He is forgiven, and he 
 may sing also, " Blessed is the man whose sin is covered." 
 But though this be so, there may be direful consequences 
 to be rued by the offender during the present life ; and David 
 must not hope entirely to escape. The prophet therefore 
 proceeds and adds, " Howbeit because by this deed thou hast 
 given great occasion to the enemies of Jehovah to blaspheme, 
 the child also that is born to thee shall surely die." The 
 offspring of his crime cannot become his heir, but must be 
 removed. " Ah ! vainly may the too fond father now fast 
 and pray, and afflict his soul with -weeping ; for the decree 
 cannot change. His child is taken away from the evil to 
 come, and is in peace among the countless multitudes of his 
 equals that God has loved and removed out of this dangerous 
 life, to make them heirs of infinite grace ; saved from the 
 penal consequences of their fathers' offences, and reserved to 
 the joys of the beatific vision. Hence the afflicted father 
 consoles himself in his loss, because the time is not far when 
 he shall find him again in the spirit-world, and nothing shall 
 separate them to all eternity. " I shall go to him, but he 
 shall not return to me." 
 
 Now too may the penitent queen receive comfort and 
 forgiveness, and become the mother to her Solomon — that 
 paragon of wisdom and of weakness that the world still ad- 
 mire and despise beyond aught else that ever was great 
 in the midst of enormous errors. Now also shall Bathsheba 
 learn what dangers and what miseries attend the state of 
 royalty, and what those terrible words import when it is said, 
 "The sword shall never depart from thine house." The 
 soul sickens at the recital of what follows. Tamar the 
 beautiful is outraged, violated, and openly disgraced, by her 
 half-brother, whose death soon pays the forfeit of his crimes. 
 Absalom, resolved to be beforehand with the young heir, and 
 set up the superior claims of the son of a princess and grand- 
 son of a king against the pretences of this plebeian stock, 
 
148 
 
 BATHSHEBA. 
 
 raises a rebellion against his father, and draws all Israel 
 after him in a war of parricide. 
 
 Ah ! now may Bathsheba rue her dangerous elevation, 
 when she must seek safety for her infant son in flight and 
 exile, whose end no mortal sagacity can foresee ! The king 
 will not risk the defences of the city against superior num- 
 bers, nor peril the lives of its inhabitants by remaining within 
 the walls he has reared for himself. With a handful of faith- 
 ful retainers he leaves his palace and all his wealth for a 
 home in the desert. Down the steep descent of Sion they 
 move with hasty steps ; cross over the stream of gulfy Ke- 
 dron ; and sweep, as they ascend with bare feet, the steeps 
 of Olivet by Gethsemane. Upon the shaded summit stands 
 an altar, and they rest until they offer there a bullock whole 
 in the flames. Thence they hold on their painful way, and 
 come to Bahurim, where a fanatic of Saul's descent shows his 
 magnanimity by cursing the royal exile — who will not stop 
 to behold his insolence punished with stripes or a just death. 
 In haste they pass over Jordan while it is* night, and they 
 hear deep call to deep at the noise of his cataracts ; then 
 they hasten to find refuge in " the land of Jordan and of the 
 Hermonites, and the hill-fortress of Mizar." 
 
 Now indeed may a sword enter into their souls when they 
 bear the curses of their foes and the reproaches of fools ; but 
 the king is also a prophet, and sings, " Whence art thou cast 
 down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? 
 Hope thou in God ; for I will ever praise him, who is the 
 health of my countenance and my God." Ahitophel, his 
 old and tried counsellor, devises ruin against him ; but the 
 young Oriental is so taken up with the magnificence of the 
 Archite's project, that he waits to gather all Israel together, 
 for the sake of crushing the handful of heroes and veterans 
 still remaining faithful about their lawful king, and thus 
 gives him time to rally his exhausted forces for battle where 
 skill and bravery may outdo mere force and numbers. Ahi- 
 tophel is wise to hang himself, for he knows all is lost before 
 the war is fairly begun. 
 
 Myriads upon myriads come pouring in from all the land, 
 
BATHSHEBA. 
 
 149 
 
 and Absalom soon finds himself at the head of armies out- 
 numbering those that fell before Gibeon when "the sun 
 and moon stood still in their habitation," and could not set 
 from the sight of slaughter for the space of a whole day. 
 They gather in the forest of Ephraim, and draw up their 
 unwieldy phalanx in order of battle, showing their files im- 
 mense in depth, and spread from sky to sky, bristling of arms 
 that, cowards only fear ; while nigh at hand the royal forces 
 form in triple phalanx and spread over the plain, few in 
 number but skilful in war, and courageous as lions. Not 
 long they stand and gaze, but with outrageous noise and 
 shouts that rend heaven's concave, come to battle, where 
 no quarter is asked or given. Earth trembles beneath their 
 tread. As a storm of whirlwinds and mingled thunder rages 
 to uproot the mountain oaks and rend both rocks and hills — 
 as flames of fire that roll over city and tower and forest— 
 or as a thousand waves that foam upon the shore, to pass 
 their sandy barrier and lay waste the land of some sea-girt 
 isle — so loud, so vast, so threatening the hosts of the rebel 
 prince come to battle with the armory of David, that stand 
 immutable as rocks or the everlasting hills. Myriads of 
 swords clash upon the bossy shields, and over their heads 
 a storm of winged arrows darkens the sun, that either host 
 contends beneath a hazardous shade. A thousand chariots 
 of hooks, with a sound like the sea, roll upon their dreadful 
 axles. Ten thousand war-steeds neigh defiance to the 
 trumpet, and trample whole squadrons upon the dusty plain. 
 Blood flows in rivers, and the carcasses of men and steeds 
 mingle with the wrecks of chariots and shivered arms strew- 
 ed over the fields. 
 
 At length the regicidal crew, wearied with slaughter, turn 
 their backs cowardly to flight. Now rise tumults and hor- 
 rors and panic fears, and utter confusion among them, and 
 the sword of every man is against his fellow. Over heaps 
 of shields and helms and helmed heads, over horses and 
 chariots piled in disarray, their pale and doomed hosts roll 
 in vain. Their arrows fall from their hands with their 
 bows and spears, and their shields are thrown away. With 
 
150 
 
 BATHSHEBA. 
 
 clamors and curses and mutual wounds, they climb Orf« 
 heaps of slain, and wade through seas of blood. 
 
 The sun is ready to sink below the sea, hastening to 
 escape the sight of blood ; and the moist-eyed moon looks 
 forth from the east, half-robed in clouds, and pale as if with 
 approaching death. But no less terrible upon the broken 
 rear of their foes the faithful armies hang, and their shouts 
 of insult and victory rend the sky. At length they cease 
 with the approach of night, and leave large space between 
 their phalanx and the fainting bands of the fugitives. The 
 Most High bares his red arm from heaven, and hurls down 
 amain his thunders and blasting hail in a whirlwind that 
 uproots the ancient oaks, and prostrates with a crash whole 
 forests at once upon the foe. In hosts they perish, and en- 
 cumber hill and plain with their multitudes, now left to be 
 torn by wild beasts and all birds of rapine. The rivers swell 
 and choke with their dead bodies, that scarcely they find 
 their way to pass into the sea, and Jordan rolls above his 
 tallest banks with blood and water, or foams gory down his 
 thousand cataracts to redden the Asphaltic pool with heaps 
 of slaughter upon his dangerous shores. 
 
 The miserable parricide is caught by his dainty hair in 
 the boughs of a spreading oak, and hangs like another Judas 
 suspended betwixt the heavens and the earth, ready to be 
 slain by any one that shall find him ; nor shall it be long 
 ere Zeruiah's son shall transfix the traitor through his im- 
 pious heart. 
 
 But, the troubles of David's house are not ended. Scarcely 
 has he returned to Sion and restored his contested throne in 
 its ancient place, when a sedition arises concerning the peace, 
 and another civil war rages through the land ; but it is soon 
 quelled in the death of its leader at Abel. Three years of 
 famine come over the nation for the murder of the men of 
 Gibeon by Saul, and seven of his sons must bleed under the 
 hands of the executioner before it can cease. The Philistine 
 impudence raises new wars fatal to the remnant of the 
 giants, and well nigh fatal to Jesse's son. Then follows the 
 census of the tribes — for which seventy thousand of the sons 
 
BATHSHEBA. 
 
 151 
 
 of Israel must perish beneath the blows of a destroying angel. 
 Alas! poor Bathsheba, shall there be no end? Hard is her 
 lot, that, like another Helen, by her fatal charms, has in- 
 volved the nation in a labyrinth of woes. Scarce has the 
 smoke of fed beasts dispersed from the altar in Moriah, before 
 another sedition arises in her own family, and the son of 
 Haggith lifts up a standard against her Solomon. The 
 high- priest and many of the great lords, whom the intrigues 
 of Absalom could not move, are in the plot, and nothing 
 remains but the executioner's block and the gibbet for her- 
 self and her son, with all his adherents. 
 
 But this storm shall blow over also, and carry with it the 
 confederates of the usurper. Zadok the priest and Nathan 
 the prophet, and Benaiah the son of Jehoiada, with the men 
 of war, anoint Solomon king ; and long- afflicted Bathsheba 
 finds in her latter days the quiet that she has sought in vain 
 since she relinquished the retirement of her private mansion 
 to be the star of the royal harem. She lives to behold her 
 son the most magnificent and glorious monarch that ever 
 sat upon a throne ; and at last, full of years and of honors, 
 lays down her beautiful form to rest in the quiet of the 
 grave. 
 
 Ah ! who shall relate what kings shall rise and fall, what 
 virtues or what crimes shall mark their lives, and what glory 
 or infamy awaits them in the opinion of mankind, as they 
 live their brief day, and each come in turn to lie down and 
 sleep by her side as the mother of all? Her son shall turn 
 idolist and her grandson prove a fool — under whose stupid 
 misrule Jeroboam shall draw away ten tribes from the house 
 of David, and set up their golden calves in Bethel and in 
 Dan, until the Assyrians lead them away to a returnless 
 captivity beyond Euphrates. The terrible Sesonchis shall 
 come also to avenge the wrong of his sister, the imperial 
 daughter of Pharaoh, against the son of Naamah, the Am- 
 monitish devotee to absurd Chemosh, §md plunder the trea- 
 sures of Sion and the Temple, for the honor of the brutish 
 Gods by the Nile. Few indeed shall be the heirs of her line 
 hat will fear God, though they shall know when Elias 
 
152 
 
 TRUE STANDARD OF MORALITY. 
 
 ascends the heavens in a whirlwind, and a lawless match 
 with the daughter of Jezebel shall make the streets of Je- 
 rusalem run with blood through centuries of tyranny. But 
 none of these things move the daughter of Eliam. Herself 
 repentant and forgiven, and filled with joy of the beatific 
 vision, she sits innocent of their wrongs, and congratulates 
 the race that shall live when Messiah comes to quiet the 
 earth in the last days. 
 
 TRUE STANDARD OP MORALITY. 
 
 A man's moral worth is not to be graduated by his nega- 
 tive virtues — the evil he merely refrains from doing — but 
 by the amount of temptation he overcomes. He is not to 
 be judged by his defeats alone, but also by his victories. 
 Many a man passes through life without a spot on his charac- 
 ter, who, notwithstanding, never struggled so bravely as he 
 who fell and was disgraced. The latter may have called 
 to his aid more principle, overcome more evil, before he 
 yielded, than the former, either from circumstances or his 
 physical constitution, was ever called to do. It would be 
 as unnatural, it would require as great an effort for the cold, 
 phlegmatic, and passionless being to be vehement, wild, and 
 headlong, as for the fiery and tempestuous man to be quiet 
 and emotionless. 
 
 Victory is nothing: it depends upon the nature of the 
 conflict and the odds overcome. Greater generalship, cooler 
 bravery, and loftier effort may be shown in one defeat, than 
 in a hundred victories. 
 
gossiping; or, the new cashier. 
 
 153 
 
 " It was the same story ; it all came from Mrs. Lindsey," 
 answered her friend. "She told Mrs. Allan, who told 
 Mrs. Johnson, who told Mrs. White, who told Mrs. Davis, 
 and she told me." 
 
 " Indeed ! r ' said Mrs. Wells, with an astonished expression 
 of countenance peculiar to herself; "indeed !" 
 
 What a racing and chasing was there that live-long after^ 
 noon about " that affair " of Mr. Frank Williams ! What 
 a commotion in eight or ten feminine hearts (married ones, 
 too !) of which he was unwittingly the cause ! Purple, 
 brown, and stone-colored cloaks were dodging each other 
 in all directions ; and, after explanations and re-explanations 
 by scores, everybody shook their hands free of the matter, 
 voting that Mrs. Lindsey was the guilty person, on whom 
 retribution should fall. She (unfortunate woman !) was 
 sitting quietly at home in pleasing ignorance of all this 
 commotion, when Mrs. Vernon, with a peculiarly pursed-up 
 expression of countenance, came in. Never since the memory 
 of man, or woman either, had her friend and neighbor looked 
 so awfully solemn and rigidly severe. Mrs. Lindsey had 
 not heart or voice enough to bid her " good evening ;" she 
 merely motioned her to a seat, and, gazing steadfastly at 
 her, waited for her to begin. 
 
 " I am surprised, Mrs. Lindsey," at length said the lady, 
 " at your attacking me with making public that story about 
 Mr. Williams, when you have informed everybody else of it 
 as well as myself." Still, Mrs. Lindsey said nothing ; she 
 merely looked for a further explanation. 
 
 " You told Mrs. Allan," said her companion, in reply to 
 the look, "and she told Mrs. Johnson, and " 
 
 "I told Mrs. Allan?" gasped Mrs. Lindsey, at length; 
 "I never told any one but you." 
 
 "What ! not one Sunday, coming from church?" 
 
 A sudden light glanced upon poor Mrs. Lindsey. 
 
 "But I did not tell her anything," answered she; "1 
 merely hinted at something." 
 
 "Well, that is the amount of it," said her friend; "it is 
 a hint at something with all of us, and none of us know 
 
154 gossiping; or, the new cashier. 
 
 i 
 
 what it means ; and I, for my part, am inclined to think 
 the whole affair is but a child's nonsense, magnified by a 
 very timid, nervous woman." 
 
 And with this neighborly speech upon her lips, Mrs. Ver- 
 non departed. This was by no means the last of Mrs. Lind- 
 sey's troubles that evening, for her lord and master came 
 home at nine o'clock, in a towering passion about the same 
 matter. It appeared that on being interrogated by Mr. Frank 
 Williams as to the cause and occasion of the offence he ap- 
 peared to have given people in general, his friend, Mr. Max- 
 well, had told him honestly that it was something which 
 came through Mrs. Lindsey, which she had heard, she be- 
 lieved, from her husband ; and what the "something" was, 
 she nor nobody else knew. Convinced that there was some 
 mistake — for Mr. Williams was not apt to suspect his friends, 
 and Mr. Lindsey he knew was his friend — he hastened to 
 that gentleman, and asked an explanation. For a moment 
 Mr. Lindsey was bewildered ; he was as ignorant as Wil- 
 liams himself; but a thought of Maggie and his wife's sus- 
 picions on that evening flashed across him. 
 
 " My dear fellow," he exclaimed, " I am distressed to death 
 that this has happened. I understand perfectly what it is ; 
 all nonsense — silly women, silly women." 
 
 And he raced home, leaving his auditor, if possible, more 
 astonished than he had found him. Mr. Lindsey was really 
 furious, and his meditations on the way home as to all Wil- 
 liams had suffered in consequence of his wife's gossip, did 
 not serve to calm his feelings. 
 
 " And so, my dear," said he, as he dashed into the room, 
 : ' you've been making a pretty dish for yourself !" 
 
 Mrs. Lindsey heard in silence, while her spouse walked 
 up and down the room, wondering how women came to be 
 such fools, and his wife such a particular one, wishing their 
 tongues were in the charge of a personage not to be named 
 ' : to ears polite," and concluded by striding up to his terrified 
 nelpmate, and asking her " what he was to say to Mr. Wil- 
 liams, for all her confounded nonsense ?" 
 
gossiping; or, the new cashier. 
 
 155 
 
 "But he has done something dreadful — you know he 
 Jias," she sobbed, at length, by way of palliation. 
 
 " What do you mean ?" said her husband, sternly. 
 
 " You told Mr. Day yourself," she continued, in an agony 
 of tears. 
 
 " Yes. I told him," replied her husband, " that Mr. Ben- 
 nett's silly daughter chose to fall in love with Williams, 
 and, as her flame evidently was not returned, her father 
 was very glad of an opportunity of getting him out of the 
 way, before the girl made a fool of herself. This was con- 
 fided to me as a secret, which, was the reason I did not 
 tell you at the time, for I know very well what a secret is 
 in the hands of a woman ; the whole race — even my little 
 Maggie — can keep nothing to herself." 
 
 In spite of this taunting speech, his tone softened, and 
 Mrs. Lindsey gained courage. 
 
 " I am very sorry, my dear," said she, " that I have made 
 so much mischief, but there is no use groaning over it now. 
 I'll endeavor to mend it as far as possible. I'll tell every- 
 body that it was a mistake of mine, and take the blame on 
 my own unfortunate shoulders ; besides saying everything 
 necessary and appropriate to Mr. Williams himself." 
 
 A week from that night did Mrs. Lindsey make as many 
 graceful and apologetic remarks as she could well muster to 
 Mr. Frank Williams, and little Maggie showered down kisses 
 and tears innumerable on his cheeks. He went from there 
 to a party, where all the young ladies in town lavished on 
 him their brightest smiles and most particular attentions ; 
 not omitting even Miss Gertrude Vernon, whose lovely blue 
 eyes followed him with such a bewitching and bewildering 
 interest that he could not forbear whispering — 
 
 " You'll not refuse to permit me to escort you home?" 
 
 " Certainly not, Mr. Williams," she replied, with a blush 
 and a smile. 
 
 "Never, never will I repeat anything that I hear again," 
 was Mrs. Lindsey's concluding exclamation that evening — 
 "particularly to that good-for-nothing Mrs. Vernon," she 
 added, mentally. 
 
N G- OF SPRING-TIME. 
 
 BY C. F. HOFFMAN. 
 
 Where dost thou loiter, Spring, 
 
 While it behoveth 
 Thee to cease wandering 
 
 Where'er thou roveth, 
 And to my lady bring 
 
 The flowers she loveth. 
 
 Come with thy melting skies, 
 Like her cheek, blushing ; 
 
 Come with thy dewy eyes 
 Where founts are gushing; 
 
 Come where the wild bee hies 
 When dawn is flushing. 
 
 Lead her where by the brook 
 The first blossom keepeth ; 
 
 Where, in the sheltered nook, 4 
 The callow bud sleepeth, 
 
 Or, with a timid look, 
 
 Through its leaves peepeth. 
 
 Lead her where on the spray, 
 
 Blithely carolling, 
 First birds their roundelay 
 
 For my lady sing — 
 But keep, where'er she stray, 
 
 True love blossoming. 
 
"LIFE IS SWEET." 
 
 BY CATHARINE M. SEDGWICK. 
 
 It was a summer's morning. I was awakened by the 
 rushing of a distant engine, bearing along a tide of men 
 to their busy day in a great city. Cool sea-breezes stole 
 through the pine-tree embowering my dwelling ; the aro- 
 matic pines breathed out their reedy music ; the humming- 
 bird was fluttering over the honeysuckle at my window; 
 the grass glittered with-dew-drops. A maiden was coming 
 from the dairy across the lawn, with a silver mug of new 
 milk in her hand ; by the hand she led a child. The 
 young woman was in the full beauty of ripened and perfect 
 womanhood. Her step was elastic and vigorous; moderate 
 labor had developed without impairing her fine person. 
 Her face beamed with intelligent life, conscious power, calm 
 dignity, and sweet temper. 
 
 "How sweet is life to this girl !" I thought, "as, respect- 
 ed and respecting, she sustains her place in domestic life, dis- 
 tilling her pure influences into the little creature she holds 
 by the hand !" And how sweet then was life to that child ! 
 Her little form was so erect and strong — so firmly knit to 
 outward life — her step so free and joyous — her fair, bright 
 hair, so bright, that it seemed as if a sunbeam came from it*: 
 it lay parted on that brow, where an infinite capacity had 
 set its seal. And that spiritual eye— so quickly perceiving — 
 so eagerly exploring ! and those sweet, red lips — love, and 
 laughter, and beauty, are there. Now she snatches a tuft 
 of flowers from the grass — now she springs to meet her 
 playmate, the young, frisky dog — and now she is shouting 
 playfully : he has knocked her over, and they are rolling 
 on the turf together ! 
 
158 LIFE IS SWEET. 
 
 Before three months passed away, she had lain down the 
 beautiful garments of her mortality: she had entered the 
 gates of immortal life ; and those who followed her to its 
 threshold, felt that, to the end, and in the end, her ministry 
 had been most sweet. " Life is sweet " to the young, with 
 their unfathomable hopes, their unlimited imaginings. It 
 is sweeter still with the varied realization. Heaven has 
 provided the ever-changing loveliness and mysterious pro- 
 cess of the outward world in the inspirations of art — in the 
 excitement of magnanimous deeds — in the close knitting of 
 affections — in the joys of the mother — the toils and harvest 
 of the father — in the countless blessings of hallowed do- 
 mestic life. 
 
 " Life is sweet " to the seeker of wisdom, and to the lover 
 of science ; and all progress, and each discovery, is a joy to 
 them. 
 
 " Life is sweet " to the true lovers of their race ; and the 
 unknown and unpraised good they do by word, or look, or 
 deed, is joy ineffable. 
 
 But not alone to the wise, to the learned, to the young, 
 to the healthful, to the gifted, to the happy, to the vigorous 
 doer of good, is life sweet : for the patient sufferer it has a 
 divine sweetness. 
 
 "What," I asked a friend, who had been on a delicious 
 country excursion, " did you see that best pleased you ?" 
 
 My friend has cultivated her love of moral, more than 
 her perception of physical beauty ; and I was not surprised 
 when, after replying, with a smile, that she would tell me 
 honestly, she went on to say — 
 
 > " My cousin took me to see a man who had been a clergy- 
 man in the Methodist connection. He had suffered from 
 a nervous rheumatism, and from a complication of diseases, 
 aggravated by ignorant drugging. Every muscle in his 
 body, excepting those which move his eyes and tongue, 
 is paralyzed. His body has become as rigid as iron. His 
 limbs have lost the human form. He has not been lain 
 on a bed for seven years. He suffers acute pain. He has 
 invented a chair which affords him some alleviation. His 
 
FORBEAR THAT UNKIND WORD. 
 
 159 
 
 feelings are fresh and kindly, and his mind is unimpaired. 
 He reads constantly. His book is fixed in a frame before 
 him, and he manages to turn the leaves by an instrument 
 which he moves with his tongue. He has an income of 
 thirty dollars ! This pittance, by the vigilant economy of 
 his wife, and some aid from kind, rustic neighbors, bring 
 the year round. His wife is the most gentle, patient, and 
 devoted of loving nurses. She never has too much to do. 
 to do all well ; no wish or thought goes beyond the unvary- 
 ing circle of her conjugal duty. Her love is as abounding 
 as his wants — her cheerfulness as sure as the rising of the 
 sun. She has not for years slept two hours consecutively. 
 
 "1 did not know which most to reverence, his patience, 
 or hers — and so I said to them. ' Ah !' said the good man, 
 with a most serene smile, £ life is still sweet to me : how 
 can it but be so with such a wife V " 
 
 And surely life is sweet to her, who feels every hour of 
 the day the truth of this gracious acknowledgment. 
 
 Oh, ye, who live amidst alternate sunshine and showers 
 of plenty, to whom night brings sleep, and daylight fresh- 
 ness — ye murmurers and complainers, who fret in the har- 
 ness of life, till it gall you to the bone — who recoil at the 
 lightest burden, and shrink from a passing cloud — consider 
 the magnanimous sufferer, my friend described, and learn 
 the divine art that can distil sweetness from the bitterest 
 cup ! 
 
 FORBEAR THAT UNKIND WORD 
 
 Forbear ! — breathe not that unkind word, 
 
 That trembles on thy thoughtless tongue ; 
 Know'st thou how many a faithful heart 
 
 To sudden anger it hath stung? 
 Hast thou a care save for thyself? 
 
 Hast thou a thought of pity born? 
 Then check thy own rebellious heart — 
 
 Plant thou the rose, and stay the thorn. 
 
THE WAY TO BE BRAVE. 
 
 Speak kindly to that poor old man — 
 
 Pick up his fallen cane, 
 And place it gently in his hand, 
 
 That he may walk again. 
 His bundle, too, replace with care 
 
 Beneath his trembling arm ; 
 Brave all the taunts that you may hear, 
 
 To give his life a charm. 
 
 A braver deed than scorners boast 
 
 Will be your triumph then — 
 A braver deed than annals tell, 
 
 Of some distinguished men. 
 Yes, leave that thoughtless, sneering crowd; 
 
 Dare to be good and kind ; 
 Then let them laugh, as laugh they may, 
 
 Pass on, but never mind. 
 
 Pass on ; but think once more of him, „ 
 
 The wreck that you have seen, 
 How once a happy child like you 
 
 He sported on the green ; 
 A cloudless sky above his head, 
 
 The future bright and fair, 
 And friends all watching o'er his couch, 
 
 To breathe affection's prayer. 
 
 But, ah, the change ! He wanders now, 
 
 Forsaken, lone, and sad — 
 Thrice blessed is the task of those 
 
 Who strive to make him glad. 
 Speak kindly to that poor old man — 
 
 Pick up his fallen cane, 
 For that will ease his burdened heart, 
 
 And make him smile again. 
 
FUGITIVE THOUGHTS. 
 
 From " Fancies of a Whimsical 3Ian." 
 
 Ah, dear ! The last leaf of the last rose of that sweet 
 bouquet, that my sweeter little coz gave me, has fallen ; 
 and nought remains hut a shrivelled and discolored mass, 
 which is only fit to be thrown into the highway, there to 
 be trampled under the hoofs of horses, or ransacked by the 
 snouts of filthy swine ! 
 
 Well, is it not all right? Poor things, they had their 
 day — their little day of beauty and of fragrance, and they 
 are off. They fulfilled their destiny. They delighted the 
 eye. They regaled the nose. They told their story pret- 
 tily. They conveyed their sentiment charmingly. They 
 had their moral uses, too, for they helped strengthen that 
 bond of love which should ever bind kindred together. Ah, 
 if we all played our parts as faithfully in this world, what 
 a happy one it would be ! 
 
 But to think that the' fair eyes that gazed upon them, the 
 fair hands that gathered them, have got to take the same 
 dreary road ! And that I, the whimsical, irritable recipient 
 of them, must do likewise ; and that all who are now mo- 
 ving about the earth, be they creeping babes., or romping 
 children, or gliding maidens, or tottering old men, are on 
 the same sad way to dusty death ! Oh, is it not frightful 
 to think of the incessant, the infinitely varied dishes, that 
 are thus eternally served up at the ever-spread table of those 
 grim gourmands, those merciless epicures, the worms ! 
 
 But why take this gloomy view of the subject? Would 
 you have it otherwise ? Isn't this the best arrangement, 
 after all, for our own happiness ? Who would be willing 
 to see out his second century on earth, if he could, even, 
 
162 FUGITIVE THOUGHTS. 
 
 with all his faculties unimpaired, the comforts of life all 
 secured to him, and an unfailing circle of friends, into the 
 bargain. No man. Long before his time came, he would be 
 eager, anxious, crazy to be off. Why shouldn't he ? What 
 should keep him? The only decent excuse for staying, 
 would be a wish to continue his labors of love to his brethren. 
 And when has the man appeared on the planet, so righteous 
 that he could honestly urge such a plea ? or the hypocrite, 
 so unblushing, that he would have the face to allege it ? 
 And as to the other inducements — the pleasures, pomps, 
 and vanities of life — one century is quite enough to sift them 
 in; and to feel their unsatisfactory hollowness. The toys 
 of ambition, what are they, after all, but a mere folio edition, 
 as it were, of those of the nursery ? Knowledge, to be sure, 
 remains ; but its treasures, so far as they are within mortal 
 grasp, would have been secured long ere then ; while those 
 others, of which Death keeps the keys, would have been 
 teazing, more and more, each day, our impatient curiosity. 
 Who will deny this? Surely, a hundred years' faithful 
 study would bring all earth's sciences at our feet. As with 
 the languages, so with them ; the thorough knowledge of 
 some three or four, would make the subjugation of all the 
 rest, comparative child's play ; and thus, our very acqui- 
 sitions would, long ere our lease had expired, have made us 
 all the more restless, and impatient for our flight. 
 
 This is all very well, you say ; and a delightful thing 
 it would be, if we could take that same flight, bodily, to 
 some other planet. But as for that horrible under-land 
 journey, ugh ! there's no getting reconciled to it ! This 
 being boxed up, and nailed down, and put away, with the 
 comfortable conviction that the invading worms are sure to 
 overhaul you at last — you, and your kindred ; to think that 
 the eyes you have so loved to gaze on, the lips upon whose 
 accents you have hung so fondly, should be thus desecrated, 
 thus brutally devoured ; there is no getting over it, or round 
 it. These are the things that make us shudder so. and 
 shiver, that make us hang on so tenaciously to "earth, and 
 earth-born jars !" 
 
FUGITIVE THOUGHTS. 
 
 163 
 
 You are wrong again, my dear boy. You have no right 
 to talk or feel thus. What, take the body with us to the 
 other world ? Oh, no. We want something a great deal 
 better in every way, and more worthy of the glorious sphere 
 of action that awaits us ; a vision more telescopic, hearing 
 more acute ; all our faculties more penetrating, and more 
 serviceable. This inefficient, unseemly, unsavory old body, 
 why it would be as much out of place in the new and lofty 
 scenes in which we are to appear, as Cinderella's old kitchen 
 dress would have been at the ball. No, no. Depend upon 
 it, the present arrangements are altogether the wisest and 
 the kindest for us, and the sooner we are reconciled to them 
 the better. 
 
 It is this very perishableness, indeed, that gives half their 
 zest to the joys of earth. The wife of one's bosom, the chil- 
 dren that frolic about one's fireside, could we love them as 
 we do, but for the fear and dread that are forever mingling 
 with that love ; the ever-present sense of the frail nature of 
 the tie that holds us together, that any moment, any paltry 
 casualty, may snap asunder? Were it otherwise, where 
 would all these happy couples, these fond parents, these 
 good children be, at the end of a little twelvemonth ? Alas, 
 for poor human nature, who does not feel that love would 
 be a sad loser, by any change of dispensation? Were an 
 angel to appear to-morrow, and announce, by authority from 
 Heaven, that for the next five years there should be no 
 separations whatever in the existing families of earth, what 
 would be the result ? Unwise and wicked as such conduct 
 would be, yet dare any candid man or woman deny that 
 we should have a hundred-fold greater amount of heart- 
 burnings, jarrings, bickerings, wranglings, than will probably 
 come off under the present arrangements ? 
 
 Those same flowers, too, that I was so disposed to bewail, 
 and grow sentimental over ; suppose they had been of wax, 
 or of feathers — gifts that they were — would they not soon 
 have degenerated into downright impertinences ? Would I 
 not have been compelled, in mere self-defense, to have stow- 
 ed them away in some dark corner or other? To be sure, 
 
J 64 
 
 FUGITIVE THOUGHTS. 
 
 there might have been other reasons for such a course. 
 There is an intrinsic atrocity about all wax-work. There 
 is no living with it, either in the shape of flower, fruit, or 
 hero. It makes me shudder, even now, to think of a waxen 
 libel on Zachary Taylor, that I saw in a menagerie yester- 
 day ! Pretty notions of art, and of * patriotism, must the 
 wretch have had who perpetrated it ! Were I its proprietor, 
 it should see the bottom of our noble bay before sunset. 
 I dare say, the very sturgeons themselves would put to sea 
 in their fright ! That hideous Witch of Endor, too, in the 
 Museum ! How many sleepless nights did that infamous 
 hag of wax cost me, when a child ! Out upon it. in all its 
 manifestations ! It is only fit to be banged about in dolls 
 by naughty girls. 
 
 But had this love-token, this pretty mingling of buds and 
 roses, been an imitation of any kind, the result would have 
 been the same. The eye would soon have wearied of them. 
 The fraud would have been resented, and the miserable 
 pretenders would have been brushed aside in disgust. But 
 the sweet, fugitive, perishing originals, be they flowers, or 
 their fair gatherers, they know too well, alas, the way to 
 these same wayward hearts of ours ! 
 
 The very Constitution of our country — could we love it, 
 could we fight for it. but for the continually recurring feeling 
 of its frail, perishing nature? What man would raise a 
 finger in its defense, did he not know, ay, and take comfort 
 in the knowledge, that it must be overtaken, at last, by 
 decay and dissolution ? Esto perpetua is a mere rhetorical 
 embellishment, not the language of the heart. Let it have 
 a thousand years, if you will, of wise and beneficent action, 
 but let it not fondly seek to escape those elements of corrup- 
 tion and of death, that must and will inhere in all human 
 things. 
 
 That miniature cobweb, hung with dew-drops, that look- 
 ed so beautifully as it lay spread out upon the boxen bor- 
 der, in the garden, this morning, with its strings of fairy 
 pearls and diamonds ; where would its beauty have been, 
 had it remained there all day? Was it not the very feeling 
 
FUGITIVE THOUGHTS. 165 
 
 that the first warm glance of the sun would melt it into air, 
 that gave it half its lustre? 
 
 And so with all other things under that sun, be they pas- 
 sions or the objects of them. Eternal love, unfading joy, 
 unalterable constancy ! These phrases sound charmingly, 
 do they not, from the lips of Romeo and Juliet ; but suppose 
 these same devoted lovers had been spared to a good old 
 age — had kept company together for half a century or so — 
 how would matters have probably stood with them then? 
 With those ardent Italian temperaments of theirs — with that 
 liquid language, too, which affords such amazing facilities 
 for scolding and objurgation, as well as for love-prattle — 
 with those unpleasant reminiscences of hereditary feuds, 
 that wilty nilly would come up occasionally to annoy them ; 
 can there be any doubt, that, had they lived, they would 
 have had their full proportion of family jars? Oh, it was 
 far better for all parties that things turned out just as they 
 did, for the lovers, poet, readers. To be sure, Juliet was 
 cheated out of a baker's dozen or so, of little Montagues, 
 and the name of Romeo is not to be found in the pages of 
 the Yerona Directory of that period ; but, oh, will it not live 
 in endless glory on the unfading page of Shakspeare ? 
 
 The more one dwells upon it, the more anomalous, the 
 more monstrous does this idea of running away from death 
 appear. Who, indeed, would give up the glorious privilege 
 of dying? Who would consent to remain here, a perpetual 
 prisoner in this insignificant corner of the universe ? What 
 would you think of a man who should wilfully persist in 
 locking himself up all his days in Berghen or Communipaw, 
 without paying a solitary visit, nay, without casting a single 
 glance across the bay at this great metropolis of ours ? It 
 is, indeed, difficult to conceive of a being so unenterprising. 
 But, to take a case a little more within the compass of pro- 
 bability — what sort of respect could you have for the indi- 
 vidual, who, having means and leisure, and a lurking desire 
 withal, to visit the Old World, should yet allow himself to 
 be cheated out of the privilege by the paltry dread of sea- 
 sickness ? And are we not just as pusillanimous, whom 
 
166 
 
 UNDYING LOVE. 
 
 the miserable fear of death makes hug our chains, and cling 
 to earth as we do, and ignobly turn our backs upon the 
 "all hail, hereafter?" 
 
 No, no. Defraud me not of my mortality. Let me go 
 through the regular course prescribed for man. Let me 
 welcome, as they come, the grey hairs and the advancing 
 years. Let my eyes grow dim, and my knees fail me. Let 
 me totter, and fall, at last, and go down to my grave. Let 
 my flesh become a banquet for worms, and my bones sub- 
 side into the dust from which they sprang. Let me play 
 out the play, epilogue and all, to the very letter. Let me 
 not be cheated out of any of the genuine, legitimate expe- 
 riences of life. 
 
 Or, if Death come somewhat out of season — if he antici- 
 pate his mission by a few years — if he surprise me in the 
 noontide of life, in the midst of all its busy plans, and high 
 hopes, and warm affections, — still let me not wilfully mis- 
 interpret and pervert the spirit of that mission. Why treat 
 the gracious messenger as if he were some paltry bailiff? 
 Why dress him up in grotesque terrors ? Why, why make 
 a scarecrow, bugbear, enemy of him, whom God designed 
 as, at once, our teacher, guide, and friend ? 
 
 UNDYING LOVE. 
 
 I have stood upon the mountain's brow, 
 
 And lingered in the vale, 
 And heard the balmy zephyr's sigh, 
 
 And roarings of 'the gale ; 
 Yet still one image filled my mind, 
 
 And blends with all I see ; 
 And truth compels that heart to say, 
 
 That image is of thee. 
 
 And in my heart's remotest cell, 
 
 Despite of grief or care, 
 Though sorrow's storms against me beat, 
 
 Affection will be there ! 
 Or, if in utter sorrow bowed, 
 
 By fate's unkind decree, 
 I, in a fond and hopeful faith, 
 
 Shall ever think on thee. 
 
TO MAY. 
 
 Come, gentle May ! 
 Come with thy robe of flowers, 
 Come with thy sun and sky, thy clouds and showers; 
 
 Come, and bring forth unto the eye of day, 
 From their imprisoning and mysterious night, 
 The buds of many hues, the children of thy light. 
 
 Come, wondrous May ! 
 For, at the bidding of thy magic wand, 
 Quick from the caverns of the breathing land, 
 
 In all their green and glorious array 
 They spring, as spring the Persian maids, to hail 
 Thy flushing footsteps in Cashmerian vale. 
 
 Come, vocal May ! 
 Come with thy train, that high 
 On some fresh branch pour out their melody ; 
 
 Or, carolling thy praise the live-long day, 
 Sit perched in some lone glen, on echo calling, 
 'Mid murmuring woods and musical waters falling. 
 
 Come, sunny May ! 
 Come with thy laughing beam, 
 What time the lazy mist melts on the stream, 
 Or seeks the mountain-top to meet thy ray, 
 Ere yet the dew-drop on thine own soft flower 
 Hath lost its light, or died beneath his power. 
 
 Come, holy May ! 
 When sunk behind the cold and western hill, 
 His light hath ceased to play on leaf and rill, 
 And twilight's footsteps hasten his decay; 
 Come with thy musings, and my heart shall be 
 Like a pure temple, consecrate to thee. 
 
THE THREE CALLERS. 
 
 Come, beautiful May ! 
 Like youth and loveliness, 
 Like her I love ; oh, come in thy full dress — 
 
 The drapery of dark winter cast away 
 To the bright eye and the glad heart appear, 
 Queen of the spring, and mistress of the year ! 
 
 Yet, lovely May ! 
 Teach her whose eye shall rest upon this rhyme, 
 To spurn the gilded mockeries of time, 
 
 The heartless pomp that beckons to betray, 
 And keep, as thou wilt find, that heart each year, 
 Pure as thy dawn, and as thy sunset clear. 
 
 And let me too, sweet May ! 
 Let thy fond votary see, 
 As fa } e thy beauties, all the vanity 
 
 Of this world's pomp ; then teach, that though decay 
 In his short winter, bury beauty's frame, 
 
 In fairer worlds the soul shall break his sway — 
 Another spring shall bloom eternal and the same. 
 
 THE THREE CALLERS. 
 
 Morn calleth fondly to a fair boy straying 
 'Mid golden meadows, rich with clover dew: 
 
 She calls — but he still thinks of nought, save playing; 
 And so she smiles, and waves him an adieu! 
 
 Whilst he, still merry with his flowery store, 
 
 Dreams not that Morn, sweet Morn, returns no more ! 
 
 Noon cometh — but the boy, to manhood growing, 
 Heeds not the time ; he sees but one sweet form — 
 
 One young, fair face, from bower of jessamine flowing, 
 And all his loving heart with bliss is warm. 
 
 So Noon, unnoticed, seeks the western shore, 
 
 And man forgets that Noon returns no more ! 
 
 Night tappeth gently at a casement gleaming 
 With the thin fire-light, flickering faint and low; 
 
 By which a grav-haired man is sadly dreaming 
 O'er pleasures gone — as all life's pleasures go. 
 
 Night calls him to her — and he leaves his door 
 
 Silent and dark- — and he returns no more ! 
 
THE VOYAGE OF LIFE. 
 
 A DRAMA, IN FOUR PARTS. 
 
 BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 PART I INFANCY. 
 
 CHORUS OF SPIRITS. 
 
 He comes, the beautiful stranger, 
 
 From life's soft rosy cave, 
 To a contest full of danger, 
 
 That ends but with the grave. 
 Joys and hopes shall invite him, 
 
 That smile but to betray ; 
 Griefs and woes shall affright him 
 
 Along his dubious way. 
 God and good angels shall shield him 
 
 From perils else too strong, 
 That danger and sorrow may yield him 
 
 A never-ending song. 
 Strew ye the way with roses and every sweetest bloom, 
 For short shall prove his passage from the cradle to the tomb. 
 
 The seal of heaven is on his brow, 
 And sprinkled waters — emblem of pure life above — 
 
 Have touched his forehead now ; 
 So shall he joy forever in the realms of peace and love. 
 But first must be past 
 The sharp temptations of this earthly life, 
 
 Till Death's iron gates at last 
 Receive him victor in the dubious strife. 
 Then strew the way with roses and every sweetest bloom, 
 For short shall prove his passage from the cradle to the tomb. 
 
 Fiends shall weave snares about him, 
 And the false world set forth her lures ; 
 
 Wars and hatreds rage without him, 
 And fears within, that scarce endures 
 
154 
 
 THE VOYAGE OF LIFE. 
 
 The mightiest, tho' aided of supernal power ; 
 But vain shall pleasure lure him — in vain shall sorrow lower, 
 For strong shall be his Helper in each distressful hour. 
 Then strew the way with roses and every sweetest bloom, 
 For short shall prove his passage from the cradle to the tomb. 
 
 PART II. — YOUTH. 
 
 SOLO. 
 
 O what ecstacy ! what joy ! 
 
 Spirits of earth, and spirits of air, 
 Revel in bliss without alloy ; 
 
 Dance we and sing, dissolved from care. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Have a care, O precious child ! 
 
 Earthly bliss — deceitful shows; 
 Morn may break serene and mild, 
 
 But grief may shade it ere it close. 
 
 SOLO. 
 
 O what bliss is everywhere ! 
 Trees are blossoming, founts are flowing, 
 Skies are smiling, Spring is blowing, 
 
 Fragrance breathes thro' all the air. 
 Lambs are frolicking, doves are cooing, 
 Nymphs are smiling, swains are wooing, 
 
 Birds are singing o'er field and spray, 
 Flocks are gamboling, herds are dancing, 
 Bees are honeying, streams are glancing : 
 
 Come to the fields away ! away ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 May has flowers, but serpents hide them 
 
 Under sweetest blooms of Spring; 
 Summer has fruits — but woe betide them 
 Who forget that honey has a sting ! 
 Have a care, O precious child ! 
 And look beyond the things of sense and time ; 
 
 For truest bliss, where angel virtues mild 
 Beckon to choose a fairer, happier clime. 
 
THE VOYAGE OF LIFE- 
 
 SOLO. 
 
 Still let me love the sweets of earth. 
 
 And gather roses in their prime ; 
 For this becomes our heavenly birth, 
 
 To taste all pleasures in their time. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Beware, lest joying in the things of earth, 
 The heart grown hard, forget its heavenly birth, 
 And then — too late — thou rue the days of mirth. 
 
 SOLO. 
 
 Bring roses and myrtles and every sweet bloom, 
 
 For short is our pathway that leads to the tomb. 
 
 Leave sad thoughts to greybeards! — Away! friends, away ! 
 
 Let us joy while we live — for our life 's but a day ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Ah ! fond youth, our life shall not end with the tomb, 
 But springs up beyond, there eternal to bloom ; 
 Nor dies in heaven's pure light or hell's deepest gloom. 
 This only is life, to rejoice in our time, 
 And ever remember our soul's native clime. 
 Earth's fairest delights will but pall on our taste, 
 And what seem'd an Eden, is found but a waste. 
 For bliss never failing we look to the skies — 
 There, child of a short day, to glory arise ! 
 
 SOLO. 
 
 O twine me a wreath of fair posies, 
 Of violets, and pinks, and red roses : 
 So bright and so sweet, but so transient and frail, 
 Let us joy in their light, and their fragrance inhale, 
 Ere this fair-waking dream of life closes ! 
 
 SOLO. 
 
 Let us haste to the cavy mountains ! 
 Let us drink from the sparkling fountains ! 
 Let us rove o'er hill and field and grove ! 
 Let us drink our fill of joy and love ! 
 Mirth wakes, music swells, hearts are bounding, 
 Fair eyes laugh, flowers breathe, leaves in sunlight are glancing, 
 Streams murmur, with songs earth is sounding, 
 Birds carol, bees hum, trees are dancing. 
 
156 
 
 THE VOYAGE OP LIFE. 
 
 SOLO. 
 
 Come o'er the sea and land, 
 And dance on the sand, 
 Ye fairies of my vision true, 
 The mermaid trills her song for you. 
 O what ecstacy ! O what joy ! 
 
 Spirits of earth and spirits of air, 
 Revel in bliss without alloy; 
 Dance we and sing, dissolved from care 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 O thou Most Holy One, 
 
 That heaven hast for thy throne, 
 
 Thou that for man hast won 
 
 Life from the grave ! 
 
 Guard thou this precious youth ! 
 Let angels full of ruth 
 Guide him to paths of truth ! 
 
 Listen, and save ! 
 
 Vain is all help of man. 
 Whose life is but a span ; 
 None but Man's Maker can 
 
 Ransom the slave ! 
 
 Draw him from earth's false charm, 
 Nor let hell's spirits harm 
 This child of thy right arm : 
 
 Listen, and save ! 
 
 So will we praise and sing 
 Thee, Everlasting King, 
 And costliest tribute bring 
 
 To thy blest shrine. 
 
 Ancient of endless days, 
 That dwell'st in sightless blaze, 
 Hear the low songs we raise, 
 Saviour divine ! 
 
THE VOYAGE OF LIFE. 
 
 PART III. — MANHOOD. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Hark ! the solemn bell is tolling 
 
 O'er the grave of those we love ! 
 Voices from the dead are calling — 
 
 " Mortals ! seek your rest above !" 
 Earth affords no bliss unfailing, 
 
 Tho' we seek it all our days; 
 Mirth shall end in tears and wailing : 
 
 Heav'n to life our souls can raise. 
 
 SOLO. 
 
 Why should the thought of death alarm us, 
 
 In life's full day and manhood's prime? 
 Nay, 'gainst all fear young Hope shall arm us, 
 While cowards die oft before their time. 
 Let greybeards muse on Acheron's dark waves, 
 And count the ghosts glide, round their several graves. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! 'tis the signal horn ! 
 
 Uprouse ye, huntsmen, merry and free ! 
 When breaks the first dawning of morn, 
 To the chase, to the chase away ! 
 Hark! hark! the hollow woods are sounding! 
 O'er hill, o'er dale, o'er stream, o'er lake, 
 The voice of the huntsman makes Echo awake, 
 And the wild stag is joyously bounding ! 
 Tally-ho! Tally-ho! 
 Our steeds smell the strife from afar, 
 And the deep-mouthed bay of the rushing hounds 
 From the thicket's green mazes resounds : 
 Tally-ho! Tally-ho! 
 To the horn's joyous call loud and clear ! 
 
 Some love o'er wavy seas to roam ; 
 
 Some dig for gold in Peruvian mines ; 
 Some call the hot. crowded city their home ; 
 
 Some lie stretch'd in shade of mantling vines. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Tally-ho! Tally-ho! 
 
THE VOYAGE OF LIFE. 
 
 SOLO. 
 
 But the life of a hunter bold, boundless, and free, 
 And a home in the woods, my brave comrades, for me 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 O the life of a hunter, bold, boundless, and free, 
 And a home in the woods ! jolly comrades are we ! 
 
 CHORUS OF GUARDIAN SPIRITS. 
 
 Ah ! what shall guide his wayward feet 
 To lay hold of the paths of peace ? 
 
 To shield his soul from hell's deceit, 
 And bring him joys that never cease ? 
 
 SOLO. 
 
 Heroes and arms my soul inspire ! 
 My frame consumes with martial fire ! 
 Rush on, ye nobly brave, 
 To glory or the grave ! 
 Raise high the battle cry, 
 To rend the earth and sky ! 
 Man against man they set in thousand rows, 
 Each both in rage and valor equal sharing. 
 Hark ! with what sounds of war the legions close 
 In fight blood red — all peril nobly daring! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Helms are gleaming, 
 Banners are streaming, 
 Plumes are shaking, 
 Earth is quaking, 
 Swords are clashing, 
 Spears are flashing, 
 Wheels are crashing, 
 Steeds are neighing, 
 Clarions are braying, 
 Drums are rolling, fifes are screaming, 
 Cannon are booming, bayonets are gleaming, 
 Shells are bursting, rockets are blazing, 
 Heroes are shouting, and steeds are crazing 
 To bear their riders thro' the thickest fight, 
 While all are wrapt in smoke and gloomy night ! 
 Rush on ! rush on ! ye nobly brave ! 
 Rush on to glory, or the grave ! 
 
THE VOYAGE OF LIFE. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 O Father, attend us ! on thee we call, 
 While he stands 'mid tho smoke and the cannon's loud boom 
 And lightnings are glancing dim thro' the gloom 
 Thou Ruler of battles, thou Lord of all, 
 Listen, and save 
 His life from the jaws of grim Death and the grave ! 
 
 SOLO. 
 
 Far, far in southern mountains, 
 
 A thousand crystal fountains 
 Roll over rocks of gold ; 
 
 And precious gems are there, 
 
 Of colors rich and rare, 
 
 And treasured wealth untold ; 
 The diamond and the sapphire starry blue, 
 The topaz and the chrysolite's pale hue, 
 The sea-green beryl and the chrysoprase, 
 The amethyst and hyacinth's purple face, 
 The chalcedony and jasper's paley sheen, 
 The sardonyx and emerald's living green. 
 Away, away to the halls of light, 
 To mountains with mines and gems bedight ! 
 Away to the lands of eternal spring ! 
 We'll delve, and dig, and laugh, and sing, 
 And rob old Plutus of half his stores, 
 Then turn with revel and joy to our native shores. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Where the gold flames there burns the pestilent sun : 
 
 Ah ! riches oft are but too costly won ! 
 
 Short is our life — but wealth, more fleeting still, 
 
 Deludes, and leaves us ere we take our fill 
 
 Of earthly bliss ; then man can only mourn, 
 
 'Till last we reach that land whence there is no return. 
 
THE VOYAGE OF LIFE. 
 
 PART IV, — OLD AGE. 
 
 Hark ! the long silence ! 
 Silence and darkness o'er us close, 
 
 And from the hollow tomb 
 
 (The dim and shadowy home 
 Of mortals) come the voices of the dead. 
 
 Sadness and wailing, 
 Sorrow and mourning, is the song, 
 
 For shapeless tongues of air 
 
 With harp and voice prepare 
 The slow, soft anthem of the sleeping dead. 
 
 Pale shades and silence 
 Solemnly list to the hollow sound ; 
 
 All dim and gliding ghosts 
 
 Thro' all the infernal coasts 
 Move in just number to the choral swell. 
 
 Listen, ye living, 
 Listen and come, behold your end ; 
 
 Listen, ye thoughtless ones, 
 
 Listen, ye sorrowful, 
 For all are held beneath the power of death. 
 
 Dim ghosts and shadows 
 Hold now the dear one's lovely form 
 
 Dark-eyed Euphemia 
 
 Shall smile no more on thee, 
 But thou shalt go to her amid the hollow ground. 
 
 SOLO. 
 
 Ah ! whither now are fled 
 The joys and smiles that beckoned from afar? 
 
 Childhood and youth are dead, 
 And manhood's thoughts are dreams more thin than air. 
 
HYMN TO SOLITUDE. 
 
 Thro' what vain shadows all 
 Move the gay tribes of this terrestrial ball ! 
 
 Wealth, honor, power, and fame, 
 Each proves a dubious good but real ill : 
 
 Fame is an empty name, 
 And power's a bubble burst before its fill. 
 
 And love, too, ah ! how frail 
 Its liveliest joys ! How soon its rose grows pale ! 
 
 Alas ! how vain is man, 
 That frets upon this stage his little hour, 
 
 And counts this fleeting span 
 Eternal age — his frailty, unfailing power ! 
 
 Short joys and lasting pains 
 Alone, thro' time, his utmost care obtains. 
 
 Farewell, then, earthly joys ! 
 My soul shall find her rest above the skies, 
 
 (Far from this pomp and noise,) 
 In those fair courts where endless pleasures rise : 
 
 There her fair mansion stands, 
 Unfailing — rear'd by God's eternal hands ! 
 
 HYMN TO SOLITUDE. 
 
 BY D. THOMPSON. 
 
 Thou who lovest the desert wild, 
 
 Far from Folly's noisy train, 
 'Mid thy haunts serene and mild 
 
 Let me woo thy gentle reign, 
 Where the harebell blooms unknown 
 
 Thro' her silent summer days ; 
 Where the slim deer stalks alone 
 
 O'er his pathless ferny maze. 
 Sweet will be my morning dreams 
 
 'Mid thy forest's shelter'd glade 
 Bright as ere its opening gleams, 
 
 Peaceful as its holiest shade. 
 
ANGELS OF THE PAST. 
 
 BY E. G. BARBER. 
 "Teach, oh, teach me to forget!" 
 
 A sorrowful heart and lonely, 
 
 Must have breathed that mournful strain, 
 But give me sweet memories only, 
 
 And the bygone hours again ; 
 For sunshine, gentle and golden, 
 
 Seems hovering round the past, 
 And over these memories olden 
 
 Its holiest beauty has cast. 
 
 Sweet hours of my childhood's gladness ! 
 
 Bright hours so free from care ! 
 If ever a shade of sadness 
 
 Stole over your beauty there, 
 'Twas but as the clouds of evening, 
 
 That gleam in the western skies — 
 Made beautiful by the sunlight 
 
 That just beneath them lies. 
 
 Bright hours of the past ! ye meet me, 
 
 A gentle and solemn band ; 
 Like spirits of old ye greet me 
 
 From the bowers of memory's land, 
 Some stand where light is falling, 
 
 And their white wings brightly shine; 
 And their smiling lips are calling 
 
 " Come back !" to this heart of mine. 
 
 And some are sorrowful minions, 
 
 That stand where sunbeams fade, 
 And the gleam of their motionless pinions 
 
 Has a darker and deeper shade ; 
 For these were hours less cheerful 
 
 Than memory loves to recall — 
 And the glances so mild and tearful, 
 
 Too sad on my spirit fall. 
 
 But hush ! what whisper these angels 
 With their mystical, solemn speech 1 
 
 What holy and sweet evangels 
 Do the bygone moments teach ? 
 
 " So live, that a spirit immortal 
 
 That has trod life's path of years, 
 May never look back from the portal, 
 
 On its farthermost verge, with tears. 
 But may see the future all glorious, 
 
 And the past undimmed by regret — 
 No deed that the sorrowful spirit 
 
 May sigh in its grief, " to forget" 
 
ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE. 
 
 Counts Hadick and Ameady, both belonging to old fami- 
 lies of Hungary, were on terms of intimate friendship, which 
 their long and important services had cemented. They 
 resolved to superadd the stronger ties of relationship by 
 uniting their children, who were then of about the same age. 
 Therefore Hadick, the sole heir to his illustrious house, was 
 brought up with young Constance, who, from her childhood, 
 displayed as much beauty as goodness. At the age of fif- 
 teen, the feelings of those two young persons were already 
 what they were to be throughout their lives. The estates 
 of the two magnates were in the same neighborhood. Con- 
 stance, in attending the lessons of her young friend, easily 
 learned ail those exercises which develop the graces without 
 detriment to beauty. They had also the same passion for 
 music — a passion natural to the Hungarians. Throughout 
 the country they were extolled as patterns of virtue ; already 
 did their parents think of fixing the period of their marriage, 
 when war broke out. 
 
 The laws of Hungary, as you are aware, oblige every noble 
 to combat in person in the defense of his native land ; and 
 at critical junctures, when the whole nation arises, the mag- 
 nates with their banners march at the head of their vassals. 
 Count Hadick, with due regard to the honor of his house, 
 wished his son to take a part in the impending operations. 
 Young Constance beheld with courage the preparations for 
 the departure of her friend, whose absence the chances of war 
 might render a very long, and perhaps an eternal one. 
 
 The day before the departure the betrothing took place, 
 and it was with the certainty of possessing the hand of Con- 
 stance that the young count set out, at the head of his vas- 
 sals, to join the Hungarian army at Pesth. The issue of 
 that war is well known. The Hungarians sustained in it 
 
164 
 
 ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE. 
 
 their reputation of valor. Theodore, for several actions of 
 eclat, obtained the cross of Maria Theresa — one of the most 
 honorable military distinctions. 
 
 But whilst the youth was winning these laurels, Constance 
 was suffering from a cruel disease. Attacked with the small- 
 pox, she long lingered between life and death. At length 
 she recovered, but the efforts of her physicians could not save 
 her charming face from havoc — it became almost hideous. 
 She was not permitted to see herself in a mirror before her 
 complete convalescence. On beholding herself, she was 
 seized with despair, and, persuaded that Theodore could love 
 her no more, she wished for death. In vain did her father 
 and Count Hadick strive to comfort her : harassed by the 
 dread of being no longer worthy of her futur, she rejected 
 all consolation, and was rapidly withering. 
 
 She was in this melancholy condition when one morning 
 a servant, who had accompanied Theodore de Hadick to the 
 army, hastily entered the apartment in which she was with 
 her father, and announced that his young master was follow- 
 ing him. He was soon heard advancing and crying, " Con- 
 stance, where art thou ?" 
 
 On hearing this beloved voice, the poor girl had not courage 
 enough to flee : she covered her face with her hands and 
 her handkerchief, and implored her lover not to look at her. 
 " Her beauty was gone," she said, " and she had now but 
 her heart to offer him." Theodore begged her to look at 
 him, observing that it mattered not whether she were more 
 or less handsome, since he could no longer see her. She 
 looked at him — he was blind — a shot he had received having 
 destroyed his sight ! 
 
 They were soon after married — and never, perhaps, did 
 a couple so worthy of being happy, prove more so. The 
 countess conducts her husband everywhere, without quitting 
 him for a single moment. She lavishes on him the most 
 affectionate attentions ; and, if you always see her with a 
 veil, it is not because she fears to show her disfigured fea- 
 tures, but because she dreads some remarks upon the loss 
 of her beauty which may be overheard by Count Hadick, 
 and sadden a husband whom she adores. 
 
PUT UP A PICTURE IN YOUR ROOM. 
 
 BY LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 May we exhort such of our readers as have no pictures 
 hanging in their room, to put one up immediately 7 we mean 
 in their principal sitting-room ; in all their rooms, if possible, 
 but, at all events, in that one. No matter how costly, or the 
 reverse, provided they see something in it, and it gives them 
 a profitable or pleasant thought. Some may allege that 
 they have " no taste for pictures ;" but they have a taste for 
 objects to be found in pictures — for trees, for landscapes, for 
 human beauty, for scenes of life ; or, if not for all these, yet 
 surely for some one of them ; and it is highly useful for the 
 human mind to give itself helps towards taking an interest 
 in things apart from its immediate cares or desires. They 
 serve to refresh us for their better conquest or endurance ; 
 to render sorrow unselfish ; to remind us that we ourselves, 
 or our own personal wishes, are not the only objects in the 
 world ; to instruct and elevate us, and put us in a fairer way 
 of realizing the good opinions which we would all fain enter- 
 tain of ourselves, and in some measure do ; to make us com- 
 pare notes with other individuals, and with nature at large, 
 and correct our infirmities at their minor by modesty and 
 reflection ; in short, even the admiration of a picture is a kind 
 of religion, or additional tie on our consciences, and re-bind- 
 ing of us, (for such is the meaning of the word religion.) 
 to the greatness and goodness of nature. 
 
 Mr. Hazlitt has said somewhere, of the portrait of a beau- 
 tiful female with a noble countenance, that it seems as if 
 an unhandsome action would be impossible in its presence. 
 It is not so much for restraint's sake, as for the sake of diffu- 
 
166 PUT UP A PICTURE IN YOUR ROOM. 
 
 siveness of heart, or the going out of ourselves, that we would 
 recommend pictures ; but, among other advantages, this also, 
 of reminding us of our duties, would doubtless be one ; and 
 if reminded with charity, the effect, though perhaps small 
 in most instances, would still be something. We have read 
 of a Catholic money-lender, who when he was going to 
 cheat a customer, always drew a veil over the portrait of his 
 favorite saint. Here was a favorite vice, far more influential 
 than the favorite saint ; and yet we are of opinion that the 
 money-lender was better for the saint than he would have 
 been without him. It left him faith in something ; he was 
 better for it in the intervals ; he would have treated his 
 daughter the better for it, or his servant, or his dog. There 
 was a bit of heaven in his room — a sunbeam to shine into 
 a corner of his heart — however he may have shut the win- 
 dow against it when heaven was not to look on. 
 
 The companionship of anything greater or better than 
 ourselves must do us good, unless we are destitute of all 
 modesty or patience : and a picture is a companion, and the 
 next thing to the presence of what it represents. We may 
 live in the thick of a city, for instance, and can seldom go 
 out and " feed " ourselves — 
 
 " With pleasure of the breathing fields f 
 
 but we can put up a picture of the fields before us, and as 
 we get used to it, we shall find it the next thing to seeing 
 the fields at a distance — for every picture is a kind of win- 
 dow, which supplies us with a fine sight ; and many a thick, 
 unpierced wall, thus lets us into the studies of the greatest 
 men and the most beautiful scenes of nature. By living 
 with pictures we learn to "read" them — to see into every 
 nook and corner of a landscape, and every feature of the 
 mind ; and it is impossible to be in the habit of these perusals, 
 or even of being vaguely conscious of the presence of the 
 good and beautiful, and considering them as belonging to us, 
 or forming a part of our common-places, without being, at 
 the very least, less subject to the disadvantages arising from 
 having no such thoughts at all. 
 
PUT UP A PICTURE IN YOUR ROOM. 
 
 167 
 
 And it is so easy to square the picture to one's aspirations, 
 or professions, or the powers of one's pocket. For, as to 
 resolving to have no picture at all in one's room, unless we 
 could have it costly and finely painted, and finely framed, 
 that would be a mistake so vulgar, that we trust no reader 
 of any decent publication now-a-days could fall into it. The 
 greatest knave or simpleton in the land, provided he is rich, 
 can procure one of the finest paintings in the world to-mor- 
 row, and know nothing about it when he has got it ; but to 
 feel the beauties of a work of art, or to be capable of being 
 led to feel them, is a gift which often falls to the lot of the 
 poorest ; and this is what Raphael or Titian desired in those 
 who looked upon their pictures. All the rest is taking the 
 clothes for the man. Now it so happens that the cheapest 
 engravings, though they cannot come up to the merits of the 
 originals, often contain no mean portion or shadow of them ; 
 and when we speak of putting pictures up in a room, we use 
 the word " picture " in the child's sense, meaning any kind of 
 graphic representation — oil, water-color, copper-plate drawing, 
 or wood-cut. And any one of these is worth putting up in 
 your room, provided you have mind enough to get a pleasure 
 from it. Even a frame is not necessary, if you cannot afford 
 it. Better put up a rough, varnished engraving, than none 
 at all ; or pin, or stick up, any engraving whatsoever, at the 
 hazard of its growing never so dirty. You will keep it as 
 clean as you can, and for as long a time ; and as for the 
 rest, it is better to have a good memorandum before you, 
 and get a fresh one when you are able, than to have none 
 at all, or even to keep it clean in a portfolio. How should 
 you like to keep your own heart in a portfolio, or lock up 
 your friend in another room 7 We are no friends to port- 
 folios, except where they contain more prints than can be 
 hung up. The more, in that case, the better. 
 
 Wisdom. — True wisdom is to know what is best worth 
 knowing, and to do that which is best worth doing. 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL BLONDE. 
 
 BY W. K. COLE. 
 
 She has locks that are golden, and eyes that are bright, 
 Yet as calm in their sparkle as gems of the night. 
 She has lips roundly chisell'd — more luscious each one 
 Than the rare-ripe that catches its blush from the sun. 
 She has cheeks on whose soft lily surface are born, 
 With each passing emotion, the tinges of morn. 
 Oh, 'twere well worth a kingdom, one love-glance so fond, 
 When won from the eye of the beautiful blonde. 
 
 Yes, the beautiful blonde, in that passionless eye 
 Has no love-speaking glance, and no amorous sigh ; 
 Yet heaves the soft bosom, she seemeth as cold 
 In her modest reserve, as the goddess of old. 
 Fame courts her and riches — yet, turning aside, 
 She spurns all their proffers with maidenly pride : 
 Even spirits most sanguine and daring despond 
 Of winning the heart of the beautiful blonde. 
 
 Fame courts her and riches — love-suitors appear; 
 She is proof to ambition, the sigh, and the tear. 
 Now Genius, scarce hoping, the argument tries, 
 With an effort well worthy himself and the prize. 
 Oh, his are the treasures bequeathed from above — 
 More precious than riches, aye, even than love — 
 Tho' the wealth were of Croesus, the love deep and fond 
 As that he would claim for the beautiful blonde. 
 
 Why falters the beauty ? why spreads the rich glow 
 Where of late all was pale and as cold as the snow ? 
 What magic-like power can Genius thus find ] 
 This the key to the riddle — mind speaketh to mind. 
 The soul is awakened — love follows esteem — 
 Love deeper and richer than passion's warm dream ; 
 And Genius exults in the love-glance so fond, 
 Now won from the eye of the beautiful blonde. 
 
SARAH. 
 
 177 
 
 of Faunus or paternal Sylvan through Hesperian groves, 
 "Abraham! Abraham! take now thy son, thine only son 
 Isaac, whom thou lovest, and get thee into the land of Mo- 
 rial), and offer him there for a burnt-offering upon one of the 
 mountains which I will tell thee of." 
 
 Nothing is more sad in the gloomy and licentious My- 
 thology of the heathen world, than the sight of Gods who 
 delight in the immolation of human beings by hecatombs 
 upon their altars in every land. And now shall the race of 
 Abraham fall into the same snare ; and shall he that has 
 passed unharmed through the Baal fires in "Ur of the Chal- 
 dees," when the lawless violence of Nimrod exposed the just 
 man to perish for his faith, become an example to all ages, 
 of one highly favored by God, and yet bound by an inex- 
 orable and bloody superstition ? 
 
 Alas ! could Sarah find how she might penetrate the veil 
 that for the first time covers the heart of Abraham from all 
 search of his beloved spouse ! She knows there is some 
 dreadful calamity impending. His altered visage, the tears 
 frequently starting unbid, the convulsive shudderings that 
 spare not the patriarchal limbs and countenance, the un- 
 wonted fervency and strangeness of his invocations when 
 the sacrifice bleeds by the altar, and a thousand other signs 
 of distress, show but too well what he would fain conceal — - 
 that a fire consumes his vitals, and some desperate, enor- 
 mous grief is breaking his noble and trus heart. But im- 
 penetrable his thoughts are locked up in the secret sanctuary 
 of his own bosom and the counsel of God ; nor prying man 
 nor angel can wring from the patriarch the unknown mystery 
 of his faithful soul. Hard indeed is that lot, inexpressible 
 is the sorrow that a devoted wife must not share, and is not 
 permitted by a look or a word to alleviate. But Sarah must 
 not be told the reality. Better far for her is the worst she 
 can imagine; for the truth she will never suspect, nor believe, 
 until her son himself returns, and, burying his sweet head 
 in her maternal bosom, covered again with kisses and en- 
 compassed with her fond and inviolable embraces, relates all 
 that has befallen them in their seven days' journey ; how 
 
178 
 
 SARAH. 
 
 they left the grassy fields of Beersheba, and saw afar off the 
 thyme-covered hiils by Hebron, with their zones of unfading 
 forests ; the rocky steeps around Tekoah, thinly sprinkled 
 over with oaks and gloomy firs; the chalky ridges by Eshte-* 
 moa, grown over with glades of olive and rich pasturage 
 for flocks ; the vine-clad vales of Bethlehem, with their gar- 
 dens of figs and fields of yellow grain, and crystal wells that 
 kings may desire to cool their thirst in battle ; the heights 
 of Adullam, cut beneath into inextricable labyrinths — a 
 mountain sanctuary moulded in living stone ; the hollow 
 rocks of Makkedah ; the gigantic wiliows that droop their 
 leaves above clear wells by Bethhoglah ; the snow-white 
 steeps of Rimmon in the wilderness ; and Hai, with her de- 
 fence of verdant rocks amid fields of olives, figs, and waving 
 grain ; the steeps of Gibeon or Bethhoron, and the vales of 
 Bethel or Aialon, where the sun and moon shall stand still 
 at the voice of a man ; the cany fields by Jericho, where 
 grows the sweet lotus among palms, and gardens of roses, 
 or fields of balsam and figs, and the bee banquets on through 
 a whole year of flowers ; until they come to drink the waters 
 of Siloah's fountain, or Kedron flowing softly through the 
 horrid vale afterwards named from Hinnom's son, and climb 
 the dark cliffs of Salem and Moriah, grown over with an- 
 cient olives. Then the piled altar, and the wood borne upon 
 his own shoulders, the awful solitude, the fire, the glistening 
 knife, the binding, the cheerful resignation of the victim, 
 the dreadful steadfastness of the father, his hand uplifted 
 to strike with his keenly flashing steel the son of his old age, 
 the parting of the clouds, the sudden flash of lightning, the 
 voice of the Angel-God forbidding the sacrifice of a man, 
 and substituting a lamb caught in a thicket by his horns, 
 as an expiatory victim, whereby the patriarch in a figure 
 received again his son from the dead, and became once more 
 confirmed in his trust as heir to the righteousness that is by 
 faith. 
 
 But our secular arrangements must be all broken up; 
 the tenderest relationships are severed like flax in the fire, 
 and families are scattered abroad over the face of the earth 
 
SARAH. 
 
 179 
 
 like leaves when the autumnal air has reddened the forests, 
 and the first winds of winter begin to howl through the 
 fruitless branches. Happy, oh ! thrice happy are they that 
 "close a long and sorely-tried life with a cheerful and trusting 
 exit for the Spirit Land ! Sarah, the mother of kings and 
 prophets, and the Son of God their Paramount — Sarah, that 
 all nations shall call blessed forever, and whom millions 
 upon millions regard with eternal veneration as the head 
 of their race and the fountain of their mightiest youth — - 
 Sarah, that all the holy women of future times shall glory 
 in naming Mother, and a blessed example to faith under 
 ineffable trials, when they are exposed to racks and wheels, 
 and fires, and dungeons, and the rage of wild beasts in 
 theatres over the globe — Sarah, whose memory shall be 
 more fragrant than a chaplet of roses to the Maccabean 
 mother in her dry pan and to the Marys at the cross ; to Blan- 
 dina in her red-hot iron chair ; to Chione and Agape and 
 Prosperia and thousands more, in their torments ; to the 
 Vaudois wife, fainting in the arms of her husband as the 
 blood wells from her death wound, or rolling down the snowy 
 Alps to be dashed upon the rocks, with her children, before 
 the bloody spears of her Popish enemies ; to the Puritan 
 mother, as she stands with her children to see her husband 
 consume in the flames of Smithfield, or makes her grave 
 by his side upon the frozen coast of New England ; to the 
 female missionary, as she breathes her last sigh to the lips of 
 strangers ; and to the Hindoo widow, who hast first learned 
 that she has a separate soul and personal rights, and higher 
 duties than to burn upon the funereal pile of her husband, 
 or fling her helpless, confiding babes into the Ganges to be 
 devoured of sharks and crocodiles — even she, in her green 
 old age, must at last lie down upon the bed of death and 
 yield up her spirit to God who gave it and tried it with a 
 trial more precious than that of perishable gold, and made it 
 worthy of himself. 
 
 Pale as the snow, yet beautiful as morning, she lies in 
 robes of white. The busy maids scatter flowers and fragrant 
 perfumes about her bier, and the low, sad dirge is wailed slow 
 
180 
 
 SARAH. 
 
 from no mercenary lips as she reposes in eternal silence and 
 peace. The afflicted patriarch is bowed to the earth with 
 grief, and refuses to be comforted for the departed idol of his 
 youth. But the dead must find sepulture ; and he rises 
 from the ground, where he has lain prostrate by her side 
 for three days and nights, to go forth once more and stand 
 before the. princes of Canaan to purchase a tomb with the 
 weight of marked silver in the land sworn to his race for an 
 eternal inheritance. With princely funereal pomps and the 
 voice of lamentation from a thousand voices at once, the 
 cave of MachpeJah is consecrated for a family burying-place, 
 and Sarah reposes where only the last trumpet shall awaken 
 her from sleep, unless the cry of the Son of God from the 
 cross recall to their bodies the parents of mankind, when the 
 cave of Machpelah shall open her gloomy doors, that her 
 sleeping saints may go forth to triumph with their Lord over 
 rebellious principalities and powers at his ascension. 
 
 Alas ! Nature has her tears even for the blessed saints 
 when they leave us ; and though we rejoice in their eternity, 
 we must bewail our own deprivation of their loved society 
 here. Wail then the dead, O father of nations, and ye that 
 stand round the bier of Sarah ; for she shall consort with 
 you no more upon the earth. Her voice may come low and 
 sweet with the breath of the south wind ; her smile may 
 glance with the light of the Pleiades or the moist-eyed Kids 
 over the new earth of spring, but none shall know whence 
 it comes. Her sweet breath may murmur about the couch 
 of her husband or the son of her old age, and breathe quiet 
 and repose and the assurance of peace into the souls of the 
 loved ones she has left. She may sit by the cradle of the 
 new-born babe and whisper consolation to the mother that 
 bewails the death of her only child. She may visit the kin? 
 in his power or the captive in his dungeon j she may speak 
 peace to the dying or terror to those who are about to sin ; 
 she may dry the bloody sweat from the brow of the martyr 
 on his rack, or warble a charm to soothe his nerves against 
 the tortures of the stake or the dry pan j but she is seen no- 
 more among the living, and tears must flow by night and 
 day for her departure out of our sight. 
 
SARAH. 
 
 181 
 
 The patriarch may wed again to abate the loneliness of 
 age and sorrow; but no other spouse is a Sarah. A multi- 
 tude of sons may call him father, but they are not the chil- 
 dren of promise ; and he must send them away with portions 
 towards the east, where they shall come to a long renown, 
 and grow powerful by the shores of the ocean, among the 
 sons of Joktan or the Arabian Cuthim. 
 
 And her son too, the quiet and devout Isaac, shall bring 
 to her tent the lovely daughter of Bethuel, and be comforted 
 In his youthful spouse when his mother is no more. 
 
 Almost forty years pass, and another race have sprung up 
 around the hospitable board of Abraham. Far removed in 
 the wilds of Paran, the brood of Ishmael are numbered by 
 their thousands, and the children of Lot are grown to na- 
 tions, while the sons of Isaac are but two only ; the one heir 
 to the promises, the other his mortal foe, whose race shall 
 become mighty, while the sons of Jacob shall come late from 
 poor estate to powerful empire, and their Messiah shall judge 
 the world he shall first die to redeem. 
 
 At length the old patriarch, satiated with years and honors, 
 like a shock of corn fully ripe, lays down his venerable head 
 upon the bed of death, and is gathered to his people in the 
 holy mount of God. In a princely funereal train the race 
 of Ishmael come from the south, and with the heirs of promise 
 gather about his lamentable bier. In the cave of Machpelah 
 beside his lovely consort he sleeps in peace ; but far off be- 
 yond the boundaries of time their spirits renew the nuptial 
 league, and rejoice in the repose of heaven that shall never 
 end. Together they may watch the life of their sons and 
 daughters upon earth through every trial, and rejoice when 
 they overcome the foes that lay snares in their path, or 
 mitigate the pressure of calamity when it falls upon the just ; 
 and at the end receive each with an individual kiss, when 
 the pains of this mortal state end in a universe of pure bliss. 
 Prophets and kings from age to age among their posterity- 
 shall pass before their eyes, for whose sake the great empires 
 of the world rise and fall ; and Messiah, with his infinite 
 train of apostles and martyrs, shall come later to fill the 
 
182 
 
 HATH NOT THY ROSE A CANKER? 
 
 whole earth with the faith no less than the fame, the glory 
 no less than the trials, of Abraham and Sarah, and all nations 
 of them that are saved shall call them blessed throughout 
 eternity. 
 
 "HATH NOT THY ROSE A CANKER?" 
 
 Pressed with the weight of morning dews, 
 
 Its slender stalk the rose was bending, 
 And red and white in changing hues 
 Upon its cheek were sweetly blending: 
 But underneath the leaflets bright, 
 By blushing beauty hid from sight. 
 Enamored with its fragrance rare, 
 The canker-worm was feasting there. 
 
 O thou, who in thy youthful dnys 
 
 Ambition's wreaths art proudly twining, 
 And fondly hoping- worldly praise 
 
 Will cheer thine after years declining — 
 Beware, lest every tempting rose 
 That in Ambition's pathway grows, 
 Conceal beneath its semblance fair 
 The lurking canker of despair ! 
 
 And thou who in thine early morn 
 
 For sin the paths of truth art leaving, 
 Remember, though no pointed thorn 
 
 May pierce the garland thou art weaving, 
 Yet every bud whence flowrets bloom 
 Shall its own living sweets entomb ; 
 For deep the canker-worm of care 
 Is feasting on its vitals there. 
 
 Thou too, the beautiful and bright, 
 
 At Pleasure's shrine devoutly kneeling, 
 Dost thou not see the fatal blight 
 Across thy roseate chnplet stealing'? 
 
 Time hath not touched with fingers eold 
 Those glossy leaves of beauty's mould; 
 And vet each bud and blossom gay 
 Is marked for slow but sure decay. 
 
 O ye who sigh for flowers that bloom 
 
 In one eternal spring of gladness, 
 Where beauty finds no darkened tomb, 
 And joy hath never dreamed of sadness ; 
 Elysian fields are yours to roam, 
 Where groves of fadeless pleasures bloom ; 
 Oh, linger not where sorrow's tears 
 May blight the cherished hopes of years. 
 
I 
 
 THE GIRDLE OF FIRE. 
 
 The lower counties of New Jersey are proverbially bar- 
 ren, being covered with immense forests of pine, interspersed 
 with cedar swamps. During the dry summer months, these 
 latter become parched to an extent that is incredible, and 
 the accidental contagion of a fire-brand often wraps immense 
 tracks of country in flames. The rapidity with which the 
 conflagration, when once kindled, spreads through these 
 swamps, can scarcely be credited except by those who know 
 how thoroughly the moss and twigs are dried up by the heat 
 of an August sun Indeed, scarcely a spot can be pointed 
 out in West Jersey, which has not, at one time or another, 
 been ravaged by conflagration. It was but a few years since 
 that an immense tract of these pine barrens was on fire, and 
 the citizens of Philadelphia can recollect the lurid appear- 
 ance of the sky at night, seen at the distance of thirty or 
 even forty miles from the scene of the conflagration. The 
 legendary history of these wild counties is full of daring 
 deeds and hair-breadth escapes which have been witnessed 
 during such times of peril. One of these traditionary stories 
 it is our purpose to relate. The period of our tale dates far 
 back into the early history of the sister state, when the coun- 
 try was even more thinly settled than at present. 
 
 It was a sunny morning in midsummer, when a gay party 
 was assembled at the door of a neat house in one of the 
 lower counties of New Jersey, foremost in the group stood 
 a tall manly youth, whose frank countenance at once at- 
 tracted the eye. By his side was a bright young creature, 
 apparently about eighteen years of age, whose golden tresses 
 were a fit type of the sunny beauty of her countenance : but 
 
1S4 
 
 THE GIRDLE OF FIRE. 
 
 now her soft blue eyes were dim with tears, and she leaned 
 on the shoulder of her mother, who was apparently equally 
 nffected. The dress of the daughter, and her attitude of 
 leave-taking, told that she was a bride, going forth from the 
 home of her childhood, to enter on a new and untried sphere 
 of life. The other members of the group were composed of 
 her father, her brothers and sisters, and the bridemen and 
 bridemaids. 
 
 " God bless you, my daughter, and have you in his holy 
 keeping," said the father, as he gave her his last embrace — 
 -and now farewell !" 
 
 The last kiss was given, the last parting word was said, 
 the last long look had been taken, and now the bridal party 
 was being whirled through the forest on one of the sweetest 
 mornings of the sweet month of July. 
 
 It was indeed a lovely day. Their way lay through an 
 old road which was so rarely traveled that it had become 
 overgrown with grass, among which the thick dew-drops, 
 glittering in the morning sun, were scattered like jewels on 
 a monarch's mantle. The birds sang merrily in the trees, 
 or skipped gaily from branch to branch, while the gentle 
 sighing of the wind, and the occasional murmur of a brook 
 crossing the road, added to the exhilarating influences of 
 the hour. The travelers were all young and happy, and 
 so they gradually forgot the sadness of the parting hour, 
 and ere they had traversed many miles, the green arcades 
 of that lovely old forest were ringing with merry laughter. 
 Suddenly, however, the bride paused in her innocent mirth, 
 and, while a shade of paleness overspread her cheek, called 
 the attention of her husband to a dark black cloud, far off 
 on the horizon, and yet gloomier and denser than the dark- 
 est thunder-cloud. 
 
 "The forest is on fire.!" was his instant ejaculation; 
 " think you not so, Charnley ?" and he turned to his grooms- 
 man. 
 
 " Yes — but the wind is not towards us, and the fire must 
 be miles from our course. There is no need for alarm, El- 
 len," said he, turning to the bride, his sister. 
 
THE GIRDLK OF FIRE. 
 
 185 
 
 "But our road lies altogether through the forest," she 
 timidly rejoined, "and you know there isn't a house or clear- 
 ed space for miles." 
 
 "Yes — but my dear sis, so long as the fire keeps its dis- 
 tance, it matters not whether our road is through the forest 
 or the fields. We will drive on briskly, and, before noon, 
 you will laugh at your fears. Your parting from home has 
 weakened your nerves." 
 
 No more was said, and for some time the carriage pro- 
 ceeded in silence. Meantime the conflagration was evidently 
 spreading with great rapidity. The dark, dense clouds of 
 smoke, which had at first been seen hanging only in one 
 spot, had now extended in a line along the horizon, gradu- 
 ally edging around so as to head-off the travelers. But this 
 was done so imperceptibly, that, for a long time, they were 
 not aware of it, and they had journeyed at least half an hour 
 before they saw their danger. At length the bride spoke 
 again : 
 
 "Surely, dear Edward," she said, addressing her husband, 
 » "the fire is sweeping around a-head of us: I have been 
 watching it by yonder blasted pine, and can see it slowly 
 creeping across the trunk." 
 
 Every eye was instantly turned in the direction in which 
 she pointed — and her brother, who was driving, involuntarily 
 checked the horses. A look of dismay was on each counte- 
 nance as they saw the words of the bride verified. There 
 could be no doubt that the fire had materially changed its 
 bearing since they last spoke, and now threatened to cut off 
 their escape altogether. 
 
 "I wish. Ellen, we had listened to your fears, and turned 
 back half an hour ago," said the brother ; " we had better 
 do it at once." 
 
 "God help us — that is impossible!" said the husband, 
 looking backwards ; " the fire has cut off our retreat !" 
 
 It was as he said. The flames, which at first had started 
 at a point several miles distant and at right angles to the 
 road the party was traveling, had spread out in every 
 direction, and, finding the swamp in the rear of the travelers 
 
186 
 
 THE GIRDLK OF FIRE. 
 
 parched almost to tinder by the drought, had extended with 
 inconceivable velocity in that quarter, so that a dense cloud 
 of smoke, beneath which a dark lurid veil of fire surged and 
 rolled, completely cut off any retrograde movement on the 
 part of the travelers. This volume of flame, moreover, was 
 evidently moving rapidly in pursuit. The cheeks, even of 
 the male members of the bridal party, turned ashy pale at 
 the sight. 
 
 " There is nothing to do but to push on," said the brother ; 
 " we will yet clear the road before the fire reaches it." 
 
 "And if I remember," said the husband, "there is a road 
 branching off to the right, scarce half a mile a-head : we can 
 gain that easily, when we shall be safe. Cheer up, Ellen — 
 there is no danger. This is our wedding morn — let me not 
 see you sad." 
 
 The horses were now urged forward at a brisk pace, and 
 in a few minutes the bridal party reached the cross-road. 
 Their progress was now directly from the fire ; all peril 
 seemed at an end ; and the spirits of the group rose in pro- 
 portion to their late depression. Once more the merry laugh 
 was heard, and the song rose up gaily on the morning ait. 
 The conflagration still raged behind ; but at a distance that 
 placed all fear at defiance ; while in front, the fire, although 
 edging down towards them, approached at a pace so slow 
 that they knew it would not reach the road until perhaps 
 hours after they had attained their journey's end. At length 
 the party subsided again into silence, occupying themselves 
 in gazing on the magnificent spectacle presented by the lurid 
 flames, as, rolling their huge volumes of smoke above them, 
 they roared down towards the travelers. 
 
 '•The forest is as dry as powder," said the husband; "I 
 never saw a conflagration travel so rapidly. The fire can- 
 not have been kindled many hours, and it has already spread 
 for miles. Little did you think, Ellen," he said, turning 
 fondly to his bride, "when we started this morning, that 
 you should so narrowly escape such a peril." 
 
 "And. as 1 live, the peril is not yet over !" suddenly ex- 
 ilaimed the brother. "See — see — afire has broke out ou 
 
THE GIRDLE OF FIRE. 
 
 187 
 
 our right, and is coming down on to us like a whirlwind ! 
 God have mercy on us !" 
 
 He spoke with an energy that would have startled his 
 hearers without the fearful words he uttered. But when 
 they followed the direction of his quivering finger, a shriek 
 burst from the two females, while the usually collected hus- 
 band turned ashy pale, not for himself, but for her who was 
 dearer to him than his own life. A fire, during the last few 
 minutes, had started to life in the forest to their right, and, 
 as the wind was from that quarter, the flames were seen 
 a-head shooting down towards the road which the bridal 
 party was' traversing, roaring, hissing, and thundering as 
 they drew -near. 
 
 " Drive faster, for heaven's sake ! — on the gallop !" ex- 
 claimed the husband, as he comprehended the imminency 
 of their danger. 
 
 The brother made no answer, for he well knew their fear- 
 ful situation, but whipped the horses into a run. The chaise 
 flew along the narrow forest-road with a rapidity that nei- 
 ther of the party had ever before witnessed ; for even the 
 animals themselves seemed aware of their peril, and strained 
 every sinew to escape from the fiery death which threatened 
 them. 
 
 Their situation was indeed terrible, and momentarily be- 
 coming more precarious. The fire, when first seen, was, at 
 least, a mile off, but nearly equi-distant from a point in the 
 road the bridal party was traversing ; and, as the conflagra- 
 tion swept down towards the road with a velocity equal to 
 that of the travelers, it soon became evident tnat they would 
 have barely time to pass the fire ere it swept across the road, 
 thus cutting off all escape ! Each saw this ; but the females 
 were now paralyzed with fear. Only the husband spoke 
 
 u Faster ! — for God's sake, faster !" he hoarsely cried : "see 
 you not that the fire is making for yonder tall pine ? We 
 shall not be able to reach the tree first, unless we go faster." 
 
 " I will do my best," said the brother, lashing still more 
 furiously the foaming horses. "Oh, God ! that I had turned 
 ba:k when Ellen wished me !" 
 
188 
 
 THE GIRDLE OF FIRE. 
 
 Oft came the roaring fire— on in one mass of flame — on 
 with a velocity that seemed only equalled by that of the 
 flying hurricane. Now the flames caught the lower limbs 
 of a tall tree, and in an instant had hissed to its top — now 
 they shot out their forky tongues from one huge pine to 
 another far across the intermediate space — and now the 
 whirling fire whistled along the dry grass and moss of the 
 swamp with a rapidity which the eye could scarcely follow. 
 Already the fierce heat of the conflagration began to be felt 
 by the travelers, while the horses, feeling the increase of 
 warmth, grew restive and terrified. The peril momentarily 
 increased. Hope grew fainter. Behind and on either side 
 the conflagration roared in pursuit, while the advancing 
 flame in front was cutting oflf their only avenue of escape 
 They were girdled by fire ! Faster and quicker roared the 
 flames towards the devoted party, until at length despair 
 seized on the hearts of the travelers. Pale, paralyzed, silent, 
 inanimate as statues, sat the females; while the husband 
 and brother, leaning forward in the carriage and urging the 
 horses to their utmost speed, gazed speechlessly on the 
 approaching flames. Already the fire was within a hundred 
 yards of the road a-head, and it seemed beyond human pro- 
 bability that the travelers could pass it in time. The hus- 
 band gave one last agonizing glance at his inanimate wife. 
 When again he looked at the approaching flames, he saw 
 that during that momentary glimpse they had lessened their 
 distance one-half. He could already feel the hot breath of 
 the fire on his cheek. The wind, too, suddenly whirled 
 down with fiercer fury, and in an instant the forky tongues 
 of the advancing conflagration had shot across the road, and 
 entwined themselves around the tall pine which had been 
 the goal of the travelers' hopes. He sank back with a groan ; 
 but the brother's eye gleamed wildly at the sight, and. 
 gathering the reins tighter around his hand, he made one 
 last desperate effort to force the horses onward ; and with 
 one mad leap, they lifted the carriage from the ground as if 
 it had been a plaything, plunged into the fiery furnace, and 
 the next instant had shot through the pass. 
 
ALONE. 
 
 189 
 
 Charnley gave one look backwards, as if to assure himself 
 that they had indeed escaped. He saw the lurid mass of fire 
 roaring" and whirling across the spot through which they had 
 darted but a moment before ; and, overcome with mingled 
 gratitude and awe, he bowed his head on his breast, and 
 poured out an oversowing soul in thanksgivings to the Power 
 which had saved them from the most dreadful of deaths. 
 And long afterwards, men who t raveled through that charred 
 and blackened forest, pointed to the memorable scene where 
 these events occurred, and rehearsed the thrilling feelings of 
 those who had been encompassed by the Girdlk of Fire. 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 Alone — upon the wide, wide world! 
 
 'Tis hard to dwell alone — 
 To catch no look of human love, 
 
 To list no gentle tone, 
 But wander through life's busy crowd, 
 " Lone as the corpse within its shroud," 
 
 Alone — 'tis hard to sit and weep 
 
 In some untrodden shade. 
 O'er all the wrecks of life and joy 
 
 A few bright years have made ; 
 To trace the links of that bright chaiu 
 Which time will ne'er unite again. 
 
 Alone — 'tis agony for one 
 Of spirit proud and strong, 
 
 To feel life's pulses ebbing fast 
 Before the world's cold wrong; 
 
 And sternly bide each pang of fate 
 
 That leaves the heart so desolate. 
 
THE USE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 BY MART HOWITT. 
 
 God might have bade the earth bring forth 
 
 Enough for great and small — 
 The oak-tree and the cedar-tree, 
 
 Without a flower at all. 
 
 He might have made enough, enough 
 
 For every want of ours — 
 For luxury, medicine, and toil, 
 
 And yet have made no flowers. 
 
 The ore within the mountain-mine 
 
 Requireth none to grow ; 
 Nor doth it need the lotus-flower 
 
 To make the river flow. 
 
 The clouds might give abundant rain — 
 
 The nightly dews might fall— . 
 And the herb that keepeth life in man 
 
 Might yet have drunk them all. 
 
 Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, 
 
 All dyed with rainbow-light; 
 All fashioned with supremest grace, 
 
 Upspringing day and night: 
 
 Springing in valleys green and low, 
 
 And on the mountains high, 
 And in the silent wilderness, 
 
 Where no man passes by ? 
 
 Our outward life requires them not- 
 Then wherefore had they birth? 
 
 To minister delight to man — 
 To beautify the earth ; 
 
 To comfort man — to whisper hope, 
 
 Whene'er his faith is dim ; 
 For whoso careth for the flowers, 
 
 Will much more care for him. 
 
FANNY RICHMOND. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 " 1 am g( ing to New- York to-morrow," said Fanny Rich- 
 mood to Aidison Parker, as he entered, just at nightfall, 
 the parlor where he was accustomed daily to spend the only 
 half-hour which he could spare from his professional studies. 
 
 "Indeed ! How long do you remain there?" said Parker. 
 
 "I cannot tell. My friends wish me to spend the winter 
 there." 
 
 "Has not the plan been very suddenly formed ?" The 
 tone in which these words were uttered fell very unpleasantly 
 on Fanny's ear. She could not determine whether it was 
 indicative of the sadness which so often oppressed his spirits, 
 ©r of disapprobation of her intended journey. " May I in- 
 quire," continued he,- "what has led to so sudden a resolu- 
 tion ?" This question was asked in a milder tone, as though 
 he would fain remove the chill which the former one had 
 thrown over his auditor. 
 
 "I have just received a letter from my cousin, giving me 
 a pressing invitation to spend the winter with her ; and " 
 
 " And you anticipate a great deal of pleasure in so do- 
 ing ?" 
 
 There was to Fanny's quick ear something of reproach 
 and bitterness in the tone of this remark. Appearing not to 
 notice it, or rather hoping that her ear had deceived her, 
 she replied, — 
 
 "I certainly anticipate some pleasure and improvement, 
 or I should not think of going." 
 
 " How can your friends at home do without you !" This 
 was spoken in a soft and serious manner. 
 
192 
 
 FANNY RICHMOND. 
 
 ,; Oh, they can spare me. Very possibly they may be glad 
 to have me out of the way for a time." This was spoken in 
 a sprightly tone, assumed to assist her in struggling against 
 the oppressive feeling which was stealing over her. 
 
 " Do you mean what you say V* said Parker, with mingled 
 sadness and severity. 
 
 "Why not V said Fanny, still struggling against the fee!- 
 ing just noticed : "there are few so interesting as to render 
 their presence always desirable." It was with difficulty that 
 she retained her lively manner ; and her heart sunk deeper 
 within her when she saw the construction which might be 
 put on the words last uttered. 
 
 "It is well," said Parker, coldly, "when those who do not 
 belong to that interesting class, have the independence to 
 absent themselves when their presence is not desired. Good 
 night, Miss Richmond : may you have a pleasant visit to 
 New-York, and may you find there new friends more worthy 
 of your regard." 
 
 "Good night, Mr. Parker," said Fanny, in a firm tone, 
 her indignation being roused by his injustice. In an instant, 
 however, this feeling had passed away. She arose, and 
 went to the door, hoping that in the quick transitions of feel- 
 ing of which he was susceptible, a softer one would come 
 over him which would lead him to return, and spend his 
 accustomed half-hour in a manner befitting their expected 
 separation. But he passed on without a reverted look until 
 his form was no longer visible in the gathering darkness. 
 Fanny then retired to her chamber, and wept long and 
 bitterly. 
 
 Parker had become acquainted with Miss Richmond du- 
 ring the last vacation of his collegiate course. It was while 
 she was spending a few days with a relative at a distance 
 from her home. From the moment of his introduction to 
 her, his attentions were as unremitting as his intense devo- 
 tion to his studies would allow. He selected her native vil- 
 lage as the scene of his professional studies, solely on her 
 account. Ambition burned in his bosom with fierce inten- 
 sity, and yet the aspiration of his heart exerted over him a 
 
FOR AN ALBUM. 
 
 I9. r ) 
 
 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, 
 
 IN APOLOGY FOR AN EXCESSIVELY LATE CALL- 
 
 Too late I staid— forgive the crime — 
 
 Unheeded flew the hours ; 
 For noiseless falls the foot of time, 
 
 That only treads on flowers. 
 
 What eye with clear account 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 1 
 
 o 
 
 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. 
 
TEANSIENT 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 ecstacy,. 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 faded and drooping, its fragrance had fled away 
 in the air, and its beauty gone 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. 
 
 197 
 
 that could not be assuaged, for her whole 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 his 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 all in the race. But his joy, too, was destined to be short- 
 lived. 
 
 One bright day, a pet of nature, that inspired every living 
 thing with gaiety, the horses running in playful mood in the 
 field, 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 century'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 affluence, 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 every luxury were at 
 his bidding ; and to share all this was one whose beauty at- 
 tracted every 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 affability 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 
 her. 
 
 The elegance of her attire well became her symmetrical form ; 
 
198 
 
 OUR COMMON JOYS 
 
 and, while all admired, the eye 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. 
 All that could be said — and it was the feeling of every soul — 
 was, 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 ? 
 
 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 t 
 The 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 they ? 
 
 The priceless pearls and gold, 
 Which 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 WIT OF THE FAMILY. 
 
 " Are his wits safe 1 Is he not light of brain 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 conciliated 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 terribly severe. He considers fault-finding 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, cram 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 
 with laughter whenever he retails them. If a stranger happen 
 in at dinner, or for the evening, he at first finds it difficult 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 mystery 
 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 was 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 Brindley Sheridan. 
 Great archetypes these for dolts and dunces at school. The 
 
200 
 
 THE WIT OF THE FAMILY. 
 
 example was appropriate, the parallel perfect, so long as Bob 
 was a boy ; but from the very moment he emergeci 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 years 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 happens 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 eye — and was, and is, and will be, so long as that 
 household lasts, the Wit of the Famity. 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. 
 
 201 
 
 anything; itia 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 always 
 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 Family." 
 
 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 insufferable bore. There are 
 few inflictions more tedious than the company of one who is 
 making perpetual efforts to astonish you. I always 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 
 delight more in extolling 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 qualities 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 
 
202 
 
 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 they 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 are 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 
 Family." 
 
 SIN NO MORE. 
 
 BY SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 
 
 A bong 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 " sin no more." 
 Dear Lord, is this condition all, 
 To fight the foes that wrought our fall 1 
 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 NATURALIST: 
 
 OR, BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 
 
 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 familiar cognomen of " Buzzards." Those who notice their 
 habits, know that they soar in the air with a watchful but slug- 
 gish movement, over forest and Held, passing without observing 
 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 decaying animal, when 
 they quickly alight upon the carrion and engorge their depraved 
 appetites upon the revolting morsel. The fowling-piece seldom 
 disturbs them, for they are utterly worthless, except for the 
 filthy office which they occupy. They are Nature's feathered 
 scavengers. 
 
 Analogous to this unlovely bird, is a character unong 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 only to hideous sounds, his olfactories 
 perceive nothing but the inodorous. "Y^hen a person of distin- 
 guished merit passes by, whose virtues obtrude themselves upon 
 his consideration, he either detects something to find fault with, 
 
204 
 
 THE NATURALIST ! 
 
 or he allows Envy (which is rottenness to the bones,) to dispos- 
 sess 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 uncharitable 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 Humming-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 little peas of eggs. "We 
 wonder how she hides her precious treasure from curious eyes, 
 and from the crushing hand of wanton boys ! But when 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 siveets that this world 
 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. 
 
 205 
 
 and slips of his fellow-mortals. He takes pleasure 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 like fallen nature, he 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 bis friend the 
 forgiveness of a long-suffering God. Reader, it is a trite old 
 adage, " Birds of a feather flock together." 
 
 And where shall we find our companionship ? With the 
 Buzzard or the Humming-bird ? — with the Censorious or the 
 Charitable ? 
 
 EVERY-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 V opera della vita is entirely unsupported,) many 
 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 TREE. 
 
 BY MBS. ANN S. STEPHENS. 
 
 I am thinking of the homestead 
 
 With its low and sloping roof, 
 And the maple boughs that shadowed it, 
 
 With a green 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 butter- cups 
 
 A pleasant carpet made. 
 
THE OLD APPLE TREE. 
 
 'Twas a rough old tree in spring-time, 
 
 When with a blustering sound, 
 The wind came hoarsely sweeping 
 
 Along the frosty ground. 
 But when 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 heavily, 
 
 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 ; 
 
THE OLD APPLE TREE, 
 
 And in its fitful brilliancy, 
 
 Hung quivering 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 hand, 
 
 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 dying 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 spirit-birth, 
 And I've almost heard their harp-strings 
 
 Reverberate on earth. 
 
THE SLANDERER. 
 
 Of all the ills, and maladies, and distempers, which " flesh is 
 heir to," few indeed are so dangerous and deadly, and none so 
 insidious as slander. The dark insinuation, the equivocal ex- 
 pression, the half-suppressed sentence, the low whisper — these, 
 with their appropriate accompaniments of looks, winks, 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, with all its snow-ball-like accumulation, and all the 
 way along the blasting secret has traveled under the protection 
 of confidential 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 
 who seeks your life there is a gallows prepared, and standing up 
 in terorem ; for the thief who robs you of your property, a prison, 
 a penitentiary , and the just execration of society ; but the black- 
 hearted moral cannibal who secretly blasts your reputation, the 
 fabric 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; 
 
210 
 
 A HIDEOUS MONSTER. 
 
 That vilest of demons smiles at the desolation wrought by the 
 venom of his tongue, retains his 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 MONSTER. 
 
 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 know 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 brilliant, so much 
 admired — do you know her ?' 
 
 " No. They say it is not difficult 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 he 
 has." 
 
 11 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. 
 
RAHAB. 
 
 209 
 
 At length the foe turn to flight, with honor and amaze- 
 ment and panic fears, and mutual slaughter ; wading through 
 rivers of blood, and stumbling upon heaps of slain. Upon 
 their broken rear, avenging Joshua hangs as a lion upon a 
 retreating flock, and the shout of victory mingles with the 
 screams of the vanquished, that roll headlong over hill and 
 valley in a rout more dreadful and full of horror than when 
 Napoleon fled from the Beresina, and left his famished myr- 
 midons to perish in her icy waves or congeal to stone upon 
 her marshy shores. 
 
 And now for a moment the hero pauses, while with hands 
 lifted up to heaven he commands — "Sun ! stand thou still 
 on Gibeon, and thou moon in the vale of Aijalon !'' The 
 vanities of the heathen cannot hear them in the day of their 
 calamity, but the worshipped orbs of heaven that they name 
 Baal and Astarte, hear the voice of Jehovah's minister, and 
 stand still for a whole day above the slaughter of their wor- 
 shippers. Again the faithful armies sing "Hosannah to the 
 Most High sacred inviolable Trinity !" and rush upon their 
 foes to pile mountains of their slain around their gigantic 
 leaders. From his holy place in the Shechinah's intolerable 
 cloud above the Ark the Most High bares his red arm, and 
 sends forth his thunderbolts in a storm of hail above the 
 accursed fugitives. A tempest uproots the ancient oaks and 
 rends both rocks and hills. The nations melt like wax be- 
 fore the fiery scourge, and encumber both hill and plain with 
 the multitude of their slain. Earth reddens the white hail- 
 stones in her ooze of bloody water, and the rivers run purple 
 between their banks to the sea, bearing along heaps of shields 
 and heroes, and horses and chariots without number, upon 
 their swollen floods. 
 
 Rahab now once more beholds with her own eyes how 
 terrible is the Arm she has trusted, and that can never fail 
 her in life or death. If a stain rests upon her former life, 
 it is remembered no more. As the waters of her baptism 
 before the Trinal Unity of Israel have wet her fair and honest 
 brow, so the interior waters of regeneration have cleansed 
 her spirit from all that can defile and delude her free soul 
 
210 
 
 RAHAB. 
 
 to all eternity! Become the spouse of Judah's mightiest and 
 holiest patriarch, she beholds new signs and wonders wrought 
 by faith against the foes of Israel. When the chosen armies 
 cried out with defeat and dishonest wounds before Ai, she 
 was there ; and when Achan, with his whole race, perished 
 for sacrilege in the valley of Achor, she was there. She 
 beheld with fear when Victory returned to perch again upon 
 their standard, and the devoted city blazed to heaven like 
 a volcano from the sea. She heard with contempt when 
 a hundred kings leagued to defend their towers from the 
 insupportable advance of Israel; and now she exults over 
 the bleeding remains of their once terrible array in Gibeon. 
 She is present when the smoke of a hundred cities goes up 
 to heaven, and the hosts of the confederate kings that remain 
 melt like clouds over the land, at Makkedah, and Libnah, 
 and Lachish, and Eglon, and Hebron, and Debir and Hazor 
 by the waters of Merom, and over the whole land from 
 Lebanon and Hermon, hoary with snow and ice in the midst 
 of summer, to Beersheba and the river of Egypt, where cara- 
 vans faint beneath the parching air, and from Gilead east- 
 ward beyond Jordan to the sea-shore, where the Philistine 
 or the Sidonian towers hold the last remnant of the giant 
 race reserved to shame when Samson with his single arm 
 shall defy them all, and when Jesse's son shall give their 
 flesh to be a prey for the devouring of ravenous birds. 
 
 Rahab has become the spouse of a prince, and sits honor- 
 ed among women, through the power of her faith and pious 
 trust in the God of a foreign covenant. The poor inn-keeper 
 of Jericho is become a princess, and her maternal arms em- 
 brace the heir of promise, whose future, race shall "sit on 
 thrones to judge the twelve tribes of Israel and last, Mes- 
 siah shall come to fulfil in himself all the glory of the ancient 
 covenant and the hope of the world. 
 
 But time spares not the venerable locks of the aged more 
 than the purple bloom of the young. The longest and most 
 honoied life must come to a close; and the spirit of the just 
 must rise in her brightness from the earth, smoking with 
 blood, and change to a star in the firmament of God. Rahab 
 
THE TWILIGHT HOUR. 
 
 211 
 
 has lived to see what few have seen, and to rejoice with a 
 joy experienced by but few among the most favored of our 
 race. She has lived and acted in the midst of scenes that 
 will never be repeated or forgotten, and shines as the fairest 
 and brightest star of her time. But Rahab has not only 
 lived by faith, for faith shall guide her beyond the grave. 
 She too must depart, and men in their harsh dialect will call 
 this death ; though she will find it the only true life to leave 
 this wearisome and pained flesh to sleep a long night in the 
 grave, that her freed spirit may mix without reproof among 
 the firstborn spirits of the world before the throne, and from 
 the smile of Him who shall become God-Man from her race, 
 drink everlasting joy. 
 
 THE TWILIGHT HOUR. 
 
 BY FRANCIS C. WOODWORTH. 
 
 The twilight hour ! I love it well, 
 
 When golden clouds enrobe the west; 
 It sheds around a holy spell, 
 
 And lulls the care- Worn soul to rest. 
 As fades the sunlight from the hill, 
 
 When sleep steals o'er the eye of day, 
 So, at this tranquil hour and still, 
 
 So fade my gloomy thoughts away. 
 
 Oft as returns the twilight time, 
 
 And stars beam faintly in the sky, 
 A spirit from a fairer clime — 
 
 A loved and lost one hovers nigh. 
 That angel form, I see it then, 
 
 T listen to her hallowed prayer, 
 And all her words of love again 
 
 Fall softly on the evening air. 
 
 When blends the night with fading day, 
 
 How sweet the twilight's soothing power! 
 Ye sunlit hours, glide, glide away, 
 
 And bring that happier, holier hour. 
 The twilight hour! 1 love it well, 
 
 When painted clouds enrobe the west 
 It sheds around a holy spell, 
 
 And bids the care-worn spirit rest. 
 
THE WIDOW'S DREAM. 
 
 L had a dream, a pleasant dream, for thou vvert by my side, 
 In the flush of manly beauty, and in all thy strength and pride : 
 A healthy bloom was on thy cheek, a brightness in thine eye, 
 And I heard thy voice of melody come trembling softly by. 
 
 It was a dream — and yet methought I felt upon my brow 
 The pressure of thy gentle hand — I feel that pressure now ; 
 But when I start with wild delight to fall upon they neck, 
 I stand all lone and desolate — to misery awake ! 
 
 It seems but yesterday ! stood a blest and happy bride, 
 And fondly gazed into thine eyes, and saw thy glance of pride. 
 We little thought how deep a night would close that cloudless day, 
 How soon thy gentle spirit, love, would rise and soar away ! 
 
 I saw thee falling -mdderiiy — they told me thou must die ; 
 A death-like chill was on my heart, a tear within mine eye ; 
 I bent above thy marble brow, and saw the paleness there, 
 And put the clustering ringlets back, in mute and dark despair. 
 
 Oh ! none may know the agony that tore my bleeding heart, 
 When I pressed thy white and icy cheek, and saw thy life depart: 
 One look of love unspeakable beamed from thy dying eyes, 
 And then thy spirit freed from earth, had soared beyond the skies. 
 
 Oh ! would that I might pierce the veil that hides the spirit-land, 
 And listen to the heavenly strains that flow beneath thy hand ! 
 Oh ! would that I might gaze upon the crown that gilds thy brow, 
 And see thy face all radiant with smiles of rapture now. 
 
 Within the green and silent grave they've laid thee down to rest, 
 With thy cold and marble fingers folded lightly on thy breast: 
 But thou ne'er shalt see the springing buds that blossom o'er thy brow, 
 For the flowers which never, never fade, are blooming round thee now 
 
ELEANOR NORWOOD. 
 
 BY MRS. E. C. EMBURY, AUTHOR OF " CONSTANCE LATIMER," ETC 
 
 " Pause, heedless mortal, and reflect ! This day — 
 This very hour — nay, yesterday, mayhap, 
 Thou mayst have done what cannot be recalled, 
 And steeped thy future years in darkest night 
 Some trivial act or word, now quite forgot, 
 May have impelled the iron wheels of fate, 
 Which onward roll to crush thee in their course." 
 
 One of the most beautiful of the many lovely villages 
 which lie within the foldings of the Connecticut river, is 
 Elmsdale. Occupying a small peninsula, around which the 
 ' stream winds so closely that at the first view it seems entirely 
 separated from the main land, and lying aside from the high- 
 road which traverses the valley of the Connecticut, Elmsdale 
 is one of the most quiet and sequestered spots to be found 
 in New-England. Like most places which offer no induce- 
 ment to the spirit of speculation, the village is inhabited 
 chiefly by the descendants of those who had first settled 
 there. The old men have been companions in boyhood, and 
 have sported in the same fields which now echo to the merry 
 shouts of their grandchildren. The most of them still culti- 
 vate the farms which belonged to their forefathers, and even 
 the adventurous few who have been tempted to go out into 
 the world beyond, usually return to finish their days on their 
 native soil. 
 
 The arrival of a stranger in a retired village is always a 
 subject of curiosity and interest ; but in a place like Elms- 
 dale, where everybody knew his neighbor, such an unusual 
 event excited special attention. When, therefore, it was 
 known throughout the hamlet that a strange lady had come 
 to pass the summer with old farmer Moody, all the gossips 
 
214 ELEANOR NORWOOD. 
 
 .were on the alert to find out who she could be. But they 
 derived little satisfaction from their skilful questioning of the 
 farmer; all he knew was soon told. The lady was traveling 
 for health, and having been pleased with the situation of his 
 comfortable abode, had applied to be received as a boarder 
 during the summer months, offering to pay liberally in ad- 
 vance. Her evident ill-health, her gentle manners, and the 
 temptation of her ready gold, prevailed on the thrifty farmer 
 to assent, and the stranger took possession of a neat chamber 
 in his pleasant cottage. 
 
 Close to the bank of the river, on a little eminence com- 
 manding a view of the country around Elmsdale, stood a 
 singularly constructed stone building which had long been 
 unoccupied and deserted. Its original owner and projector 
 was a man of singular habits, whose eccentricity had been 
 universally regarded as a species of harmless insanity. Rich 
 and childless, he had erected this mansion according to his 
 own ideas of Gothic architecture, and nothing could be more 
 grotesque than its whole appearance. It soon obtained the 
 appellation of " Hopeton's Folly and though he whose name 
 it bore had long since occupied a narrower house in the silent 
 land, and the property had passed into other hands, the 
 deserted mansion was still known by the same title. Great 
 was the surprise of the villagers when it was known that 
 the strange lady had become the purchaser of Hopeton's 
 Folly, and that in future she would reside permanently in 
 Elmsdale. Curiosity was newly awakened, and every body 
 was desirous to know something about one who seemed so 
 unprotected and solitary. But there was a quiet dignity in 
 her manners which rebuked and disconcerted impertinent 
 inquiry, while all efforts to draw some information from her 
 single attendant — an elderly sedate woman, who seemed to 
 hold a middle rank between companion and servant — were 
 equally unsuccessful. 
 
 " Has Mrs. Norwood been long a widow?" asked a perti- 
 nacious newsmonger, who kept the only thread and needle 
 shop in the place, and therefore had a fine opportunity of 
 gratifying her gossipping propensities. 
 
ELEANOR AOllWOOD. 
 
 215 
 
 "It is now nearly two years since she lost her husband," 
 was the reply of the discreet woman, who was busily em- 
 ployed in selecting" some tape and pins. 
 
 "Only two years, and she has already laid aside hei 
 mourning !" exclaimed the shopkeeper ; " but 1 suppose that 
 is an English fashion ?" 
 
 The woman made no reply, and, consequently, the next 
 day, all the village was given to understand that Mrs. Nor- 
 wood's help had told Miss Debby Tattle that Mrs. Norwood 
 was a very rich widow who had just arrived from England. 
 This was all that Miss Debby's ingenuity could make out 
 of the scanty materials which she had been able to obtain, 
 and w T ith this meagre account people were obliged to be 
 satisfied. 
 
 Mrs. Norwood was one of those quiet, gentle beings, who, 
 though little calculated to excite a sudden prepossession, 
 always awakened a deep and lasting interest. Her age 
 might have been about eight and twenty ; but the ravages 
 of illness, and, perhaps, the touch of a still more cruel de- 
 stroyer, had given a melancholy expression to her counte- 
 nance, and a degree of gravity to her manners, which made 
 her seem older. Her features, still classically beautiful, were 
 attenuated and sharpened, her complexion was pale almost 
 to ghastliness, and her thin, flexible lips were perfectly color- 
 less. But she possessed one charm which neither time nor 
 disease could spoil. Her eyes — those dark, soft, lustrous eyes, 
 with their veined and fringed lids, beautiful alike when the 
 full orbs were veiled beneath their shadowy lashes, or when 
 their beaming light turned full upon an object of regard — 
 were the most distinguishing trait in Mrs. Norwood's counte- 
 nance. No one dreamed of calling her beautiful, but all 
 noticed the grace of her tall and slightly bending figure, her 
 courteous and lad^ >d manners, her low, sweet voice, and 
 the touching air of melancholy which seemed to characterize 
 her every movement. 
 
 Under the direction of its new mistress, Hopeton's Folly 
 was now fitted up w T ith a degree of neatness and comfort 
 which it had seemed scarcely capable of assuming. Furni- 
 
216 
 
 ELEANOR NORWOOD. 
 
 ture, plain but cosily, was brought from a distant town; the 
 grounds were laid out with a view to elegance rather than 
 mere usefulness ; and, in short, money and good taste soon 
 converted the desolate spot into a little paradise of beauty. 
 The neighbors, who, with the kindness which generally pre- 
 vails in every place where fashion has not destroyed social 
 feeling, had been ready to afford Mrs. Norwood every assist- 
 ance in the completion of her plans, became now equally 
 ready to share her hospitality — and, for a time, the newly- 
 arranged mansion was always full of well-disposed but ill- 
 judging visiters. But Mrs. Norwood's health was soon made 
 the plea for discountenancing all such attentions on the part 
 of the village gossips. Always courteous and hospitable, she 
 yet declined all visitations to the frequent "hot water con- 
 ventions," or "tea drinkings," which constituted the chief 
 amusement of the place, while she managed to keep alive 
 the good feelings of her new associates by many acts of un- 
 ostentatious charity. Simple in her daily habits, benevolent 
 in her impulses, yet retiring and reserved in her manners, 
 Mrs. Norwood made her faithful old servant the almoner of 
 her bounties, while the poor, the sick, and the sorrowful were 
 never refused admission to her presence. Her regular at- 
 tendance on the public duties of religion, in the only church 
 which Elmsdale could then boast, had tended to establish 
 her character for respectability in a community so eminently 
 moral and pious ; and when it w r as known that the pastor—, 
 whose rigid ideas of propriety were no secret — had become 
 a frequent visiter at Hopeton's Folly, no doubt remained 
 as (o Mrs. Norwood's virtues and claims upon general sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 Mr. Allston, who for some ten years had presided over the 
 single church in a place which had fortunately escaped the 
 curse of sectarianism, was a man as remarkable in character 
 as he w r as peculiar in habit. A close and unwearied stu- 
 dent, ascetic in his daily life, and an enthusiast in his pro- 
 fession, he was almost idolized by his people, who regarded 
 him as a being of the most saint-like character. Indeed, if 
 self-denial could afford a title to canonization, he was fully 
 
ELEANOR NORWOOD. 
 
 217 
 
 competent, to sustain the claim ; but such is the inconsistency 
 of human judgment, that Mr. Ailston owed his high repu- 
 tation to a belief in his stoical indifference to earthly temp- 
 tations ; and much of his influence would have been dimin- 
 ished, if it had been suspected that resistance to evil ever 
 cost him a single effort. The truth was, that, nature had 
 made Ailston a voluptuary, but religion had transformed him 
 into an ascetic. He had set out in life with an eager thirst 
 after all its pleasures, but he had been stayed in the very 
 outset of his career by the reproaches of an awakened con- 
 science. Violent in ali his impulses, and ever in extremes, 
 he had devoted himself to the gospel ministry because the 
 keen goadings of repentance urged him to offer the greatest 
 sacrifice in his power as atonement, for past sins. But he 
 had experienced all the trials which await those who, when 
 gathering the manna from heaven, still remember the savory 
 fleshpots of Egypt. His life was a perpetual conflict between 
 passion and principle, and though his earthly nature rarely 
 obtained the mastery, yet the necessity for such unwearied 
 watchfulness had given a peculiar tone of severity to his 
 manners. Like many persons of similar zeal, Ailston had 
 committed the error of confounding the affections with the 
 passions of human nature, and believing all earthly ties to 
 be but fetters on the wings of the soul, he carefully avoided 
 all temptation to assume such bonds. His religion was one 
 of fear rather than of love, and, forgetting that He who placed 
 man in a world of beauty and delight has said, "I will have 
 mercy and not sacrifice," he made existence only a protracted 
 scene of self-devotion and privation. A superstitious dread 
 of yielding even to the most, innocent impulses had induced 
 him to suppress every feeling of his ardent and excitable 
 nature. He had turned from the face of beauty and the 
 voice of love with the same dread as would have induced 
 him to eschew the temptation of the gambling-table and the 
 wine-cup; and his thirtieth summer found him still a solitary 
 student, by tne fireside of his widowed mother. His fine 
 talents as a preacher, his powers of persuasion, his thrilling 
 eloquence, aided by the example of his own habits of life, 
 
218 
 
 ELEANOR NORWOOD. 
 
 had produced a great effect in the community where he had 
 been called to minister in holy things. The church was in 
 a most flourishing condition ; numbers had been united to it, 
 and the influence of the pastor over the minds of all, but 
 especially those of the young, was almost unbounded. Is it 
 strange, therefore, that spiritual pride should have grown up 
 in the heart of the isolated student, and twined its parasitic 
 foliage around many a hardy plant of grace and goodness? 
 Is it to be wondered at if Charles Allston at length indulged 
 the fancy that he had been set apart as one chosen for a 
 high and holy work — that he was destined to be one of the 
 "vessels of honor," of whom St. Paul has spoken — and that 
 nothing now could sully the spotless garments in which his 
 self-denial had clothed him ? 
 
 Mrs. Allston had been among the first to welcome the sick 
 stranger to Elmsdale ; and, pleased with the gentle grace 
 which characterized her manners, had lavished upon her 
 every kindness. Mrs. Norwood was grateful for her atten- 
 tions, and seemed happy to find a friend whose mature age 
 and experience could afford her counsel and sympathy. This 
 feeling of child-like dependence on the one hand, and ma- 
 tronly affection on the other, was growing up between them, 
 and served to establish a closer intimacy than at first might 
 have appeared natural to persons so entirely unlike in charac- 
 ter. Mrs. Allston was a woman of unpretending good sense 
 and plain education, whose rustic habits and utter indiffer- 
 ence to etiquette made her appear very different from (he 
 languid invalid whose elegant manners and refined language 
 marked her cultivation rather than her strength of mind. 
 But "accident," and "the strong necessity of loving," may 
 often account for friendships as well as loves, and this world 
 would be a sad desert of lonely hearts, if we could only 
 attach ourselves to our own counterparts. No one could 
 know Mrs. Norwood intimately, without being irresistibly 
 attracted towards a character of such singular sensitiveness 
 and amiability. She seemed like one in whom the elements 
 of strength had been slowly and gradually evolved by cir- 
 cumstances — for. though her disposition was by nature yield- 
 
ELEANOR NORWOOD. 
 
 219 
 
 ing and dependent, yet her habits of thought and action were 
 full of decision and firmness. Gentle and feminine in her 
 j feelings, reserved and quiet in her demeanor, she appeared 
 to a careless observer merely as the dignified and discreet, 
 because unprotected woman. But one who looked beneath 
 the calm surface, might have found a deep, strong under- 
 current of feeling. Heart-sickness, rather than bodily disease, 
 had been at work with her, and the blight which had passed 
 over her young beauty, was but a type of that which had 
 checked the growth of her warm affections. 
 
 Whatever might have been Mrs. Norwood's feelings when 
 she first took possession of her new abode, she certainly 
 seemed both healthier and happier after a year's sojourn in 
 Elmsdale. A faint color returned to her thin cheek, a smile, 
 bright and transient as an April sunbeam, often lit up her 
 line face, her features lost much of their sharpness of outline, 
 and gradually, almost imperceptibly, the feeble, drooping 
 invalid was transformed by the renovating touch of health 
 into the lovely and elegant woman. Yet the same pensive- 
 ness characterized her usual manner — the same reluctance 
 to mingle in society was evident in her daily intercourse with 
 her neighbors ; and to a stranger she might still seem to be 
 mourning over the memory of a buried affection. But Mrs. 
 Allston and her son alone knew better. They alone knew 
 that affection had been crushed in its very bud by unkind- 
 ness and neglect ; they alone believed that the widow had 
 found death one of the best of friends, when he relieved her 
 from the intolerable bondage of domestic tyranny. Not that 
 Mrs. Norwood had ever confided to them her former history ; 
 for the slightest question which had reference to the past, 
 always seemed to give her exquisite pain; but a casual re- 
 mark, a trifling hint, a passing allusion, uttered in the confi- 
 dence of friendship, had led them to form such conclusions. 
 
 Allston had at first regarded the stranger .merely as another 
 nember added to his flock — another soul for which he must 
 hereafter be responsible : but a closer acquaintance with her, 
 iwakened a much stronger interest in his mind. He fancied 
 hat her character boi e a wonderful resemblance to his own. 
 
220 
 
 ELEANOR NORWOOD. 
 
 He thought he beheld in her the same secret control over 
 strong emotions, the same silent devotion to deep-felt duties, 
 the same earnest enthusiasm in religion, the same abstrac- 
 tion from worldly pleasures, as had long been the leading 
 traits in his character. He believed that the difference of 
 sex and her early sorrow might account for the diversities 
 which existed between them ; and, actuated by the belief 
 that he was an instrument in the hands of a higher Power, 
 who had destined him for some great and glorious work, he 
 persuaded himself that Providence had placed her in his path, 
 and pointed her out to him, by a mysterious sympathy, as 
 his companion and fellow-laborer in his future duties. Had 
 he not been blinded by the self-reliance which had taken the 
 place of his wonted watchfulness, the very strength of his 
 feelings would have led him to distrust their propriety. But 
 habit had rendered all his ordinary practise of self-denial 
 so easy to him, that he fancied himself quite superior to mere 
 earthly temptation, and therefore he was disposed to regard 
 his present excitement rather as a manifestation of the will 
 of Heaven than as an impulse of natural affection. It cost 
 him much thought and many severe conflicts with his doubts 
 and his zeal, ere he could decide upon the course he should 
 pursue. Determined not to listen to the voice of passion, 
 but to be governed entirely by a sense of duty, he condemned 
 himself to a rigorous fast of three days, in the firm belief that 
 he should receive some expression of the Divine Will. In the 
 deep sleep of exhaustion which fell upon him during the third 
 night, Mrs. Norwood appeared before him in a dream, wear- 
 ing shining garments, and smiling with an expression of 
 perfect beatitude. This was enough for the wild enthusiast. 
 From that moment he placed no restraint upon the prompt- 
 ings of his heart, but, considering her as one peculiarly mark- 
 ed out for the same high destiny as himself, he poured out 
 all the fulness of his long-hoarded affections at her feet 
 
 Lonely, desolate and sorrowful, Mrs. Norwood was almost 
 bewildered by the sudden light which seemed to break in 
 upon her when she thus found herself the object of true 
 tenderness. She had long admired the genius of Mr. Aliston, 
 
ELEANOR NORWOOD. 
 
 221 
 
 and her romantic temperament peculiarly fitted her to appre- 
 ciate the peculiarities of his enthusiastic zeal. She had 
 , looked up to him as one as far above her in his unworldly 
 sanctity, as in his gifted intellect — and thus to find herself 
 the chosen of a heart which had heretofore rejected earth's 
 sweetest gifts of tenderness, was most unlooked-for happiness. 
 She soon learned to love him with a depth and fervor which 
 surprised even herself; yet she had suffered so much in early 
 life, that the presence of hope was now welcomed with tear- 
 ful distrust. She dreaded rather than anticipated the future, 
 and while listening to the wrapt eloquence of her lover, who 
 seemed to spiritualize the impassioned language of affection, 
 she could not but tremble to think what a blank life would 
 be, if this new-found bliss were suddenly extinguished. The 
 peculiar tone of Allston's mind was never more distinctly 
 displayed than in his courtship. Of love he never spoke, 
 but he dwelt on the high and mystical dreams which had 
 charmed his solitude ; he pictured passion under the garb 
 of pure devotion, and attired human affections in the robes 
 of immaculate purity, until he had completely bewildered 
 himself in the mazes of his own labyrinth of fancies. At 
 length the decisive moment came — and. in a manner equally 
 characteristic and unusual, Allston asked Mrs. Norwood to 
 become his wife. He was scarcely prepared for her excessive 
 agitation, and still less for her indefinite reply. 
 
 " It shall be for you to decide, Mr. Allston," said the gentle 
 widow, as she struggled with her tears: "I will not pretend 
 to have misunderstood your feelings towards me, nor will I 
 attempt to conceal the fact that to your proffered affection 
 I owe the first gleam of happiness which has visited my 
 weary heart since the days of childhood. But I have de- 
 ceived you — and I cannot accept your hand while you re- 
 main ignorant of the events of my early life. Some months 
 since, I wrote what I cannot bring my lips to utter, and you 
 will find in this manuscript all you ought to know. Judge 
 not too hardly of my concealment: my only error has been 
 silence on a subject with which the world had nought to do, 
 and this, I trust, your heart will not visit with too severe a 
 punishment." 
 
222 
 
 ELEANOR NORWOOD. 
 
 Allston took the papers, and, silent and dismayed, hurried 
 to the seclusion of his study. Dreading some evil, though 
 he knew not what shape it might assume, he broke the seal, 
 and read as follows : 
 
 " Left an orphan at a very early age, my first recollections 
 are those of school life. My parents, who were residents 
 though not natives of the Island of Jamaica, sent nte to 
 England for my education, and, dying soon after my depar- 
 ture, I became the ward of my mother's cousin, a gay and 
 dissipated bachelor, whose house offered not a proper home 
 to a young girl. I was the heiress to great wealth, but was, 
 at the same time, a homeless and desolate chil'd, who might 
 well have envied the privileges of domestic affection which 
 are enjoyed by the offspring of poverty. My wealth procured 
 me respect and consideration among my teachers and a few 
 interested school-fellows, while it purchased for me exemp- 
 tion from much of the discipline of the school, as well as from 
 many of the studies which I wished to avoid. I was there- 
 fore little likely to profit by the advantages of my position 
 in life, while its disadvantages were in my case greatly mul- 
 tiplied I was a wayward, wilful, warm-hearted child, full 
 of impulsive affections, but irritable in temper, and. though 
 perfectly docile to the law of kindness, utterly beyond the 
 subjugation of severity. Frank and confiding in my dispo- 
 iition, I was easily led to place confidence in those who 
 treated me with a semblance of affection ; and the sense of 
 loneliness which oppressed my heart, even in childhood, led 
 me rather to seek for the friendship of those by whom I was 
 surrounded, while the romance which shows itself in a greater 
 or less degree in the developing character of every school- 
 girl, assumed in me the form of a morbid desire to inspire 
 affection in those whom Providence had placed around me, 
 to fill the places of parents, and brothers and sisters, to my 
 desolate life. 
 
 " I was in my fifteenth year, full of exaggerated sensibility, 
 and just beginning to model my dreams of future happiness 
 after the standard afforded by my favorite novels, when 3 
 circumstance, apparently of trivial moment, occurred to sha 
 
ELEANOR NORWOOD. 
 
 223 
 
 dow my whole life with sorrow. The only accomplishment 
 in which I made any decided progress was that of drawing, 
 and in this I had early exhibited both taste and skill. Our 
 drawing-master — an old and wily Italian — requested per- 
 mission to introduce his nephew, who could materially aid 
 him in instructing us to sketch from nature ; and, as it in- 
 volved our schoolmistress in no additional expense, she readily 
 assented. Our new teacher was accordingly introduced to us 
 under the name of Signior Baldini, but it needed scarcely 
 one look to make us doubt his relationship to the old man, 
 for his florid complexion, blond hair, and blue eyes bore little 
 resemblance to the dark countenance and classical features 
 of the fine Italian face. Those of us who were novel read- 
 ers immediately fancied that we could detect beneath this 
 humble disguise some noble heir or enamored youth who 
 sought to obtain access to a ladye-iove immured within the 
 walls of our school. Our young and glowing hearts, full of 
 passions whicn had been prematurely developed by the mis- 
 chievous tenor of our stolen reading, and ready to welcome 
 any thing which might give occupation to their restlessness, 
 were quickly excited in favor of the new comer. Our sketch- 
 ing from natuie required us to take many walks in the vi- 
 cinity, and, though we were never unaccompanied by one 
 of the female teachers, yet a thousand opportunities for form- 
 ing an imprudent intimacy occurred during these excursions. 
 I soon found, however, that the attentions of Signior Baldini 
 were especially directed to me ; and the vanity of my sex, 
 as well as my own excited fancy, led me to encourage rather 
 than repulse his proffered advances. I cannot recall all the 
 details of the vile conspiracy to which I fell a victim. Ima- 
 gine a child of fifteen summers subjected to the arts of a man 
 more than twice her age — a man who had studied human 
 nature in its worst forms, and therefore well knew how to 
 take advantage of its slightest tendency to error — a man 
 whose talents enabled him to conceal the heart of a demon 
 beneath the features of a dernigod. Imagine the effect of 
 these arts upon a sensitive and romantic girl, a lonely and 
 orphaned creature who was yearning for the voice of affec- 
 
224 
 
 ELEANOR NORWOOD. 
 
 tion, and weaving many a beautiful fancy of future happi- 
 ness, to be found only in reciprocal affection, and you will 
 anticipate the result. 
 
 l - A well-invented story of high birth, unmerited misfor- 
 tunes, and a long-cherished passion for me, awakened my 
 sympathy, and I soon imagined that nothing could repay 
 my lover's tenderness but the bestowal of my hand and for- 
 tune. I fancied myself deeply and devotedly attached to 
 one who had submitted to the degradation of disguise for 
 my sake; and, on the day when I attained my sixteenth 
 year, I eloped with my lover, who now dropped his assumed 
 title and adopted his true name of Wallingford. As my 
 guardian was at that time in Paris, we met with no moles- 
 tation, and were privately married in London, where we had 
 decided to take up our abode. I afterwards learned that 
 those of my teachers who had been parties to the plot were 
 well paid for their services, while the only real sufferer was 
 the principal of the establishment, who had been kept in 
 total ignorance of the scheme, and whose dignified sense of 
 propriety was shocked at having such a stigma affixed to 
 her school. When my guardian returned, he read me a lec- 
 ture on my imprudence, and tried to satisfy his conscience 
 for past neglect, by refusing to allow me more than a mere 
 maintenance until I should attain my majority. To this, 
 however, I refused submission, and the matter was finally 
 compromised in a manner quite satisfactory to both parties. 
 Mr. Wallingford immediately engaged elegant lodgings, and 
 we commenced living in a style better suited to my future 
 fortune than to my actual income. 
 
 "My heart sickens when I look back to the weary years 
 which succeeded my imprudent marriage. As time matured 
 my judgment, I was pained by the discovery of many weak- 
 nesses and faults in my husband, to which I would willingly 
 have remained blind. Yet the discovery of these did not 
 impair the simple, child-like affection with which I regarded 
 the only being on earth to whom I was bound by any ties. 
 I clung to him as the only one in the wide world whom I 
 was permitted to love ; and it required but little effort on his 
 
ELEANOR NORWOOD. 
 
 225 
 
 part to have strengthened my girlish fondness into the last- 
 ing fervor of womanly tenderness. While yet I remained 
 in my minority, Mr. Wallingford treated me with some show 
 of consideration. Fitful gleams of kindness, transient visit 
 ings of former fondness, glimpses of the better nature which 
 had been so perverted by evil habits, and endearments still 
 bestowed in moments of persuasion, linked my heart to the 
 ideal which I had enshrined in his image. But no sooner 
 was I put in possession of my fortune, than he threw off the 
 mask entirely. I was too much in his power to render any 
 further concealment necessary, and he now appeared before 
 me in all the true deformity of his character. Dissipated 
 in his habits, coarse in his feelings, low in his pursuits and 
 pleasures, he had only sought me for the wealth which could 
 minister to his depravity. 
 
 "I will not pain you by a detail of the petty tyranny to 
 which I was now subjected. My impetuous temper was at 
 first aroused, but, alas ! it was soon subdued by frightful se- 
 verity. Indifference, neglect, intemperance, infidelity, nay, 
 even personal ill-treatment, which left the discolored badge 
 of slavery upon my flesh for days and weeks, were now my 
 only portion. Broken in health and in spirit, I prayed for 
 death to release me from my sufferings, and I verily believe 
 my husband sought to aid my wishes by his cruel conduct. 
 But the crushed worm was at length compelled to turn upon 
 the foot which trampled it. I was driven from my home — 
 a home which my wealth had furnished with all the appli- 
 ances of taste and elegance — and placed in a farm-house at 
 some distance from London, while a vile woman, whose 
 name was but another word for pollution, ruled over my 
 house. To increase the horrors of my situation, I learned 
 that Wallingford was taking measures to prove me insane, 
 and thus rid himself of my presence, while he secured the 
 guardianship of my person and property. This last injury 
 aroused all the latent strength of my nature. Hitherto I 
 had been like a child brought up in servitude and crouching 
 beneath the master's blow, but T was now suddenly trans- 
 formed into the indignant and energetic woman. 
 
226 
 
 ELEANOR NORWOOD. 
 
 "Alone and unaided I determined to appeal to the taws 
 of the land for redress — and prudence directed me to men as 
 wise as they were virtuous, who readily undertook my cause. 
 Wallirigford was startled at my sudden rebellion, but he was 
 never unprepared for deeds of evil. My servants were su- 
 borned, papers were forged, falsehoods were blazoned abroad, 
 all the idle gossip which had floated for its passing moment 
 on the breath of scandal, like the winged seed of some 
 noxious plant on the summer breeze, was carefully treasur- 
 ed ; and every thing that power could effect, was tried, to 
 make me appear degraded in character and imbecile in mind. 
 The circumstances attending my marriage — my first fatal 
 error, committed at the suggestion and under the influence 
 of him who now adduced it as proof of my weakness — was 
 one of the evidences of my un worthiness, while the utterings 
 of a goaded spirit and the wild anguish of a breaking heart 
 were repeated as the language of insanity. But for once 
 justice and equity triumphed over the quibbles of the law. 
 The decree of the highest court in the realm released me 
 from my heavy bondage. A conditional divorce, which 
 allowed me full power to marry again, but restrained my 
 husband from such a privilege, in consequence of his well- 
 attested cruelty and ill-treatment, was the result of our pro- 
 tracted and painful law-suit. My fortune — sadly wasted 
 and diminished — was placed in the hands of trustees for my 
 sole benefit, and I immediately settled upon Wallingford a 
 sum sufficient to place him far above want, upon the sole con- 
 dition that he never intruded himself into my presence. 
 
 " After these arrangements were completed, I determined 
 to put the ocean between me and my persecutor. On my 
 twenty-sixth birthday — just ten years from the day which 
 saw me a bride — I landed in America. Alas ! how changed 
 were all my prospects, how altered all my feelings ! 1 was 
 still in the prime of life, but hope and joy and all the sweet 
 influences of affection were lost to me forever ; and, after 
 wandering from place to place, I finally took up my abode 
 in Elmsdale. rather from a sense of utter weariness than 
 from any anticipation of peace. I little knew that Providence 
 
ELEANOR NORWOOD. 
 
 22? 
 
 had prepared for me so sweet a rest after all my sufferings. 
 I little knew that peace and hope, aye, and even happiness, 
 were yet in store for me. Resigning a name to which 1 had 
 no longer any claim, I resumed my family name of Norwood, 
 and sought to appear in society as the widowed rather than 
 as the divorced wife. I have thus avoided painful remarks 
 and impertinent questionings, while I was enabled to secure 
 for myself a quiet retreat from the turmoil of the world. 
 Perhaps to you, Charles Allston, I ought to have been more 
 frank — but surely you cannot blame me from shrinking from 
 the disclosure of such bitter and degrading memories. You 
 have now learned all my early history — you have seen my 
 error, and you have traced its punishment — let me now un- 
 fold the page which can reveal the present. 
 
 "A fancy, light as the gossamer which the wind drives 
 on its wing, first led to my marriage. I was a child in heart 
 and mind and person, when I became the victim of arts 
 which might have misled a wiser head and a less susceptible 
 heart. Left to myself, I should probably have forgotten my 
 first love fancy even as one of the thousand dreams which 
 haunt the brain of youth. But if, after my marriage, I had 
 experienced kindness and tenderness from my husband, the 
 feeling would have deepened into earnest and life-long affec- 
 tion, instead of curdling into hatred and contempt within 
 my bosom. The love of my girlhood was blighted even as 
 a flower which blossoms out of time, and loneliness has 
 hitherto been my lot through life. Will you deem me too 
 bold, my friend, if I tell you that from you I have learned 
 my first lesson in womanly duty ? Till I knew you, I dream- 
 ed not of the power of a fervent and true passion — till I be- 
 held you, I believed my heart was cold and dead to all such 
 gentle impulses. You have taught me that happiness may 
 yet be found even for me. In loving you, I am but doing 
 homage to virtue and wisdom and piety — in bowing down 
 before your image, I am but worshipping the noblest attri- 
 butes of human nature enshrined within your heart. I 
 dared not pour out the fullness of my joy until I had told 
 you my sad tale ; but now that you know all — now that no 
 
228 
 
 KLE4N0R NORWOOD. 
 
 shadow of distrust can fall upon the sunshine of the future, 
 come to me, and assure me with your own dear voice that 
 my troubled dream is now forever past, and that the dawn 
 of happiness is breaking upon my weary heart !" 
 
 To comprehend the full effect of this letter on Charles 
 Allston — the peculiarity of his character — his strict ideas of 
 duty — his devotion to his holy calling — his shrinking dread 
 of anything which could, by any possibility, tend to diminish 
 his influence over the consciences of his flock — and his long- 
 cherished dread of self-indulgence — must ever be borne in 
 mind. He had loved Eleanor Norwood with a fervor start- 
 ling even to himself, and, according to his usual distrustful 
 habits of thought, he had feared lest the very intensity of 
 his feelings was a proof of their sinfulness. Accustomed to 
 consider every thing as wrong which was peculiarly gratify- 
 ing to himself— measuring by the amount of every enjoy- 
 ment the extent of its wickedness— restraining the most 
 innocent impulses because he conceived heaven could only 
 be won by continual sacrifices — he had shrunk in fear and 
 trembling at his own temerity when his overmastering pas- 
 sion led him to pour forth his feelings to the object of his love. 
 He had retired to his apartment in a state of pitiable agi- 
 tation, and, while he awaited Mrs. Norwood's reply with 
 hope, he yet half repented of his proffered suit, lest there 
 should have been too much of the leaven of mere earthly 
 tenderness in the bosom which had vowed to forsake all its 
 idols. This letter therefore produced a terrible revulsion in 
 his feelings. His rigid sense of duty, and his adherence to 
 divine rather than to human laws, compelled him to behold 
 in Eleanor Norwood only the wife of another. Vile and 
 unworthy as Wallingford might be, he was to Allston's view 
 still the husband ; and though the tie might be loosened by 
 the hand of man, it could only be entirely severed by the 
 will of God. All the sternness of that long-practiced asceti- 
 cism which had given Allston such a twofold character, was 
 called forth by the thought of the sin he had so nearly com- 
 mitted. The wild enthusiasm of his nature led him to re- 
 
ELEANOR NORWOOD. 
 
 229 
 
 gard Mrs. Norwood as a temptress sent to try the strength 
 of his self-denying piety. He remembered the tale of the 
 hermit, who for forty years abode in the wilderness, sinless 
 in thought and in deed, while he kept his eye ever fixed 
 upon the cross; but the moment of wavering came — the 
 holy eremite turned his gaze for one single instant from the 
 symbol, and Satan, who had long watched in vain, obtained 
 the mastery over him whose life-long piety had not availed 
 against a moment's weakness. Allston shuddered as his 
 busy fancy suggested the parallel between the monkish le- 
 gend and his own present feelings. The thought of the 
 disgrace which would attend him who, while reproving sin 
 in others, could be accused of cherishing it in his own house- 
 hold — of the judgment which would fall upon him who 
 should dare to minister to the people in holy things, while 
 he bore the marks of a deadly leprosy within his own bosom, 
 until at length the spiritual pride, which was in truth his 
 besetting sin, subdued all lighter emotions. 
 
 That evening Mrs. Norwood sat in her quiet room, with 
 the light of a shaded lamp falling upon the gentle beauty 
 of a face now lighted up with hope, and which, but for the 
 restless and hurried glance which was occasionally turned 
 upon the quaintly-fashioned clock, might have seemed the 
 picture of placid happiness. A soft glow flushed her cheek, 
 her eyes were full of radiance, and, as she raised her head 
 in the attitude of a listener, a smile of almost child-like joy- 
 ousness parted her flexible lips. A step resounded on the 
 gravel-walk without. Her first impulse led her to spring 
 forward to welcome the expected visitant, but womanly pride 
 checked her in mid-career, and she yet stood in half uncer- 
 tainty, when the door opened to admit a servant, who hand- 
 ed her a small parcel. Her cheek grew ashy pale as she 
 broke the seal. A paper dropped from the envelope — it was 
 her own letter to Allston ; and she sank into a chair as she 
 unfolded the note which accompanied it. Written in All- 
 ston's hand, yet so blotted, and traced in such irregular char- 
 acters, that the agitation of the writer might well be divined, 
 were these words: 
 
230 
 
 ELEANOR NORWOOD. 
 
 "I will not express the agony of mind with which I have 
 perused the enclosed papers. I have been tried almost be- 
 yond my strength, but I have been mercifully spared the 
 commission of a crime at which my soul shudders. I will 
 not upbraid you, madam, for your cruel concealment ; your 
 own conscience will be your accuser, and it will not fail to 
 remind you that your deception has nearly hurled me from 
 an eminence which it has been the labor of my life to reach. 
 But you have been only an instrument in the hands of a 
 higher Power. I fancied myself superior to temptation, and 
 God has sent you to leach me the necessity of closer watch- 
 fulness over my still frail nature. Eleanor Norwood, I have 
 loved you as I never loved earthly creature before, but sooner 
 w r ould I suffer the keenest pangs of that chronic heartbreak, 
 to which the martyrdom of the pile and faggot is but pas- 
 time, than take to my arms the wife of a living husband. 
 You have made me wretched, but you cannot make me 
 criminal. Henceforth we meet no more on earth, for I have 
 vowed to tear your image from my heart, though even now 
 every fibre bleeds at the rude sundering of such close-knit 
 ties. Receive my forgiveness and my farewell." 
 
 When Mrs. Norwood's faithful old servant entered the 
 room, about an hour after the receipt of this letter, she found 
 her mistress lying senseless on the floor. Suspecting some- 
 thing like the truth, the woman prudently gathered up the 
 papers from view, and then summoned assistance. Mrs. Nor- 
 wood was carried to her apartment, and medical aid was 
 immediately procured. The physician pronounced her to be 
 suffering from strong nervous excitement; and, after giving 
 her a sleeping-draught, prescribed perfect quiet for the next 
 few days. But ere morning she was in a state of delirium, 
 and fears were entertained for her intellect if not for her life. 
 Several days passed in great uncertainty, but at length hope 
 revived, and Mrs. Norwood once more awoke to conscious- 
 ness. Feeble as an infant, however, she required great care 
 to raise her from the brink of the grave ; and the springs of 
 life, so sadly shattered by long-continued sorrow, were now 
 
ELEANOR NORWOOD. 
 
 231 
 
 in danger of being broken by a single stroke. Disease seem- 
 ed undetermined in its final attack, and at length assumed 
 the form under which it most frequently assists the insidious 
 labors of secret sorrow. A hectic cough now racked her 
 feeble frame, and it was evident that consumption would 
 soon claim another victim. Just at this time, a letter, sealed 
 with black, was forwarded to Mrs. Norwood's address ; and, 
 after being withheld from her several weeks, by advice of 
 her physician, was finally given to her, because all hope of 
 prolonging her life was at an end. The perusal of this letter 
 seemed rather to soothe than to excite the sinking invalid. 
 "It comes too late," was her only exclamation as she de- 
 posited it in a little cabinet which stood beside her bed — and 
 from that moment she made no allusion to its contents. 
 
 It was remarked in the village, that Mr. Allston had be- 
 come excessively severe in his denunciations of error, while 
 his habits had become more rigid and reserved than ever. 
 His former persuasive eloquence had given place to violent 
 and bitter revilings of sin, while those who applied to him 
 for religious consolation were terrified rather than attracted 
 by the threatenings of the fiery zealot. Once only did he 
 seem moved by gentler feelings. An aged clergyman, who 
 occasionally visited him from a distant town, was summoned 
 to the bedside of Mrs. Norwood ; and, when he returned to 
 Mr. Allston's study, he feelingly described the bodily pangs 
 and angelic patience of the gentle sufferer. The frame of 
 the stern man shook as he listened, and tears — such tears 
 as sear rather than elevate the heart— fell from his eyes. It 
 was one of the last struggles of human feeling in the breast, 
 of one who vainly fancied himself marked out for a higher 
 than human destiny ; one more was yet to come, and then 
 earth held no claim upon his heart. 
 
 It was not long delayed, for the time soon arrived when 
 the bell tolled for her whose sorrowful life and early death 
 had been the penalty of a single error. Allston stood beside 
 the coffin, and saw within its deep shadow the pale and stony 
 features of the being whom he had loved ; and even while 
 his heart smote him as the shortener of her brief and melan- 
 
232 
 
 ELEANOR NORWOOD. 
 
 choiy span of life, he yet nerved himself with the high, stem 
 resolve of one who suffers in the cause of duty. With that 
 cold brow beneath his gaze, he poured forth, from the depths 
 of an agonized heart, a prayer whose solemn eloquence 
 thrilled every listener like a voice from the grave. No sound 
 escaped his lips as the clods of the valley fell rattling on the 
 coffin-lid which shrouded the heart so sorely tried in life; 
 but. in the deep midnight, groans and bitter cries, which 
 rived his stern bosom, were heard issuing from the pastor's 
 lonely closet. 
 
 Mrs. Norwood's old servant inherited the property in Elms- 
 dale ; and one of her first duties was to place in Mr. Allston's 
 hands the cabinet which she said her mistress had requested 
 might be given him after her death. It contained only Mrs. 
 Norwood's letter and her lover's reply, together with a third, 
 in an unknown hand, bearing a black seal. This last was 
 dated some months earlier than the others, and contained 
 the tidings of Mr. Wallingford's death ! He had fallen a vic- 
 tim to his own misdeeds in Italy ; and at the moment when 
 Allston had considered himself the subject of a temptation 
 intended to try his strength, the divorced wife was in reality 
 free from every shadow of a tie. 
 
 Why had she not disclosed these tidings to her scrupulous 
 lover? Ask, rather, why she who had twice suffered from 
 man's wayward nature, and who had escaped from the vices 
 of one only to perish by the too rigid virtues of another, 
 should place trust in any earthly affection ? Sick of life, 
 hopeless of future peace, sinking under a fatal disease, she 
 had taken a lesson from the inferior creation : 
 
 " Mute 
 
 The camel labors with the heaviest load, 
 And the wolf dies in silence." 
 
 We conquer difficulties by daring to attempt them, and 
 our cowardice makes most of the impossibilities we fear. 
 
TBanmater 
 
 J] QJ ® D IT ffil a 
 
Motljcrs anb SDangljters of tlje Bible. 
 
 JUDITH. 
 
 BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 For two hundred and forty years has the kingdom of 
 Judah been tottering to its fall since the infatuated son of 
 Johosaphat wedded the daughter of Jezebel, and thus accele- 
 rated the downfall of Sion's glory ; commencing indeed w r hen 
 the son of Bathsheba reared altars to the Gods of his alien 
 wives in Jerusalem, while centuries must pass ere the Divine 
 Mercy grow weary and give over the people of his choice 
 to captivity and chains. Vain has been proved the expur- 
 gating sword of Nimshi's son, or the guards of the temple, 
 when Ahaziah and his detested mother fell ; vain the pious 
 and paternal care of Jehoiada, as Pontiff, over the youthful 
 grandson of Athaliah ; vain also has proved the righteous 
 rule of Amaziah and his son ; vain also the piety of Heze- 
 kiah, for whose sake the stars have once rolled backward 
 in heaven, and avenging angels have arrayed themselves in 
 the simoon's blast to destroy the presumptuous armory of 
 Sennacherib. Manasseh has caused the idols of heathen 
 superstition to stand again even in the temple itself, and the 
 streets of the holy city have run down with the blood of 
 saints and prophets through twenty years. The princely son 
 of Amoz they have sawed asunder with a saw of wood ; and 
 there has been nothing but violence, outrage, pollution, and 
 murder, where of old time gathered the myriads of Israel 
 to their solemn feasts, and rejoiced in peace and plenty before 
 the God of their covenant in his temple. At length the 
 Assyrians receive permission to scourge once more the son? 
 
234 
 
 JUDITH. 
 
 of Abraham, and the holy city is given up to pillage and 
 slaughter from her foes. The royal debauchee that has 
 renewed the murderous frenzy of the house of Ahab against 
 the saints, has also fallen into a miserable captivity, and at 
 length returned, upon his repentance, to amend his wrongs 
 and purify the holy places from all the abominations of his 
 idols. But his heathenish son again overturns his reforms, 
 and renews the corruptions of Gods worse than they that 
 received homage in Gomorrah and Zeboim. Then his two 
 years of misrule end in assassination ; and the minority of 
 his pious son leaves the kingdom enfeebled, to be the prey 
 alike of domestic factions and external violence, while no 
 strong hand is stretched out over the land to compel obe- 
 dience to the laws, and affray afar off the insolence of foreign 
 powers. 
 
 It is in such a time as this that the tyrannies of the earth 
 earn eternal renown by subduing nations rendered cowardly 
 by vice. And now one more of those purple absurdities that 
 men name heroes comes to signalize his valor by warring 
 upon the distracted state of Judah with all the forces of the 
 east. He has made war upon Lydian Phraortes, lately ren- 
 dered famous for the magnificence of his defences in Ecba- 
 tana ; and, with the usual pride of eastern kings, sent requi- 
 sitions for help over the whole world, that all men may know 
 how great is " the great king, the king of Assyria." Treated 
 on all hands with contempt, he resolves upon revenge ; and 
 no sooner has the Lydian fallen by doom of battle on the 
 plains of Ragau, than he sends infinite hosts under his inso- 
 lent leader Holofernes to depopulate all lands, and earn him 
 a name among the chief pests that have ever laid waste the 
 earth with fire and sword. 
 
 It is a time of anarchy and misrule in Judah, and the 
 people of each city are left as best they may to provide them- 
 selves with defences against overwhelming force. The enemy 
 must first pass through the hill-country by Jordan before he 
 can lay waste the west and the south from Tyre to Gaza, 
 or hope to lay his hand upon the treasures of Egypt in Pe- 
 lusium or Memphis, and render once more tributary the race 
 
jur. ITFT. 
 
 235 
 
 of Mesraim to the children of the east. But the strength of 
 Judah lies not in numbers, but in the care of God, who can 
 make ''one to chase a thousand, and two put ten thousand 
 to flight." With the bravery of a Palafox at Saragossa, 
 a Tell in Switzerland, or a Renaud among the Waldenses 
 by the springs of the Po, when they will repel with a handful 
 the mightiest of the earth, or find honorable graves around 
 the altars of their fathers, the scattered people fly to arms 
 against the myriads of Assyrian invaders. The narrow and 
 dangerous passes are secured, and the enemy must cut his 
 way through mountains, or retire. But the Assyrians are 
 not used to retreat, and they lay seige to the nearest towns ; 
 not doubting they can force them, through famine, to sur- 
 render, and thus open their way to the wealthy tracts be- 
 yond. The hill-fortress of Bethulia becomes invested, and 
 their supply of water is cut ofT. Exposed to the extremities 
 of hunger and thirst, the inhabitants see nothing before them 
 but submission or certain death. In the midst of their per- 
 plexity, however, the noble daughter of Merari appears, like 
 another Maid of Orleans, to find means whereby the foe 
 may be humbled and the people delivered from their fears. 
 
 Proposing to accomplish by artifice what is impracticable 
 to force, she receives the blessing of her townsmen ; and, 
 with a single attendant, this daughter of Israel proves herself 
 no less brave in her weakness than the mightiest heroes of 
 David in their strength. It is but a little way, and she 
 comes to the city gates, where she may pause to reflect on 
 the hazards of her undertaking. Over hill and valley, far 
 as the eye can reach, lies outspread the host of the invader, 
 in multitude more dense and various of color, dress, and arms, 
 than that when the invincible Sesonchis led against the son 
 of Solomon his infinite hosts of Egyptians and Ethiopians, 
 with their allies the Lubim and Sukkim from the springs of 
 Nile and the coasts of the Red Sea. With early dawn the 
 blameless sacrifice smokes in Sion ; and at early dawn go 
 forth the devoted pair, the mistress and her maid, that have 
 vowed to find deliverance for their city in the slaughter of 
 ner foe. or perish themselves in the attempt. 
 
236 JUDITH. 
 
 Three days she passes in the camp of her foe. The luxu- 
 rious and effeminate commander is smitten with her fair 
 looks, and presses her to name the day when he may add 
 her to the fair multitude of his former wives, and thus place 
 her at the head of his princely harem, where the dark-eyed 
 girls of Circassia and Media and Persia and Assyria and the 
 whole east are blazing in silk and purple and fine linen, in 
 gold and diamonds and pearls and precious gems, and all 
 shall envy the new comer her superior charms. Scrupulous 
 in the observance of laws old almost as the world, she goes 
 forth each day at will from the camp to perform her ablu- 
 tions, and carries her own consecrated food by herself, because 
 she is forbidden to eat with a Gentile what is to him a feast 
 upon a sacrifice to idols. Having thus established free in- 
 gress and egress, and secured their final exit from all ques- 
 tion of watchful sentries along their accustomed way, she 
 fixes the time when she will become the Pearl of the Harem 
 to the chief captain of the Assyrian army. Overjoyed at her 
 consent, he gives himself up to excess of wine ; and, when 
 the shades of the fouith evening come over the earth, lies 
 down upon his couch of purple, too satiated with the deceit- 
 ful draught of his cups to enjoy his imaginary triumph, or 
 once to suspect that his new flame may play the game of 
 Jael to Sisera, and leave him a headless trunk to bleed upon 
 the ground. 
 
 The attendants are all retired. Even Bagoas, the favorite 
 minister to his master's pleasures, has gone forth, pleased 
 that the fair stranger is closeted with his Most Serene High- 
 ness Holofernes, chief butcher of the world — that knows no 
 God but Baal, and no king but him who bears the mark of 
 queenly Nebo, and is called her Nazarite. Now is the hour 
 to strike for her laws and native land. Her beastly lover 
 lies stupified beneath a canopy of purple flashing with gems 
 and gold in the taper's uncertain light. They are alone. 
 Only her maid is near at her call, and none others dare 
 approach. It is but a blow, and all is over. With steady 
 hand she draws the glittering sabre from its sheath, and 
 prays — "Strengthen me, O Jehovah, for the appointed ven- 
 
JUDITH. 
 
 237 
 
 geance !" At a single blow she severs his grisly head from 
 the neck, and Holofernes dies almost without a struggle, 
 
 She has all night to retire with her prize. She has only 
 to conceal the head in her sack of food, and gather some 
 few trophies besides of her prowess in the camp of the aliens. 
 Her faithful maid will bear the whole away before her, and 
 site may go forth again to her ablutions without question 
 from any, and come at her leisure to the city gates, where 
 her anxious friends await her return, half in fear, half in 
 hope. With early morning a shout raises like that upon the 
 shore of (he Red Sea, from the ransomed people that have 
 escaped, and are now safe in the death of their foe, whose 
 head now shall adorn, as a trophy, their city gates ; but in 
 the camp of the foes all is wailing and dismay and panic 
 fear, when they find their chief headless in his tent, the wo- 
 men gone, and the whole surface of the heights above them 
 and the city walls bristling with arms. Each tree and shrub , 
 seems a hero in complete steel ; each crag and cliff grows 
 to a phalanx or a battalion ; and the whole air burns above 
 them as in Samarian fields, with the sight of flaming chariots 
 and steeds and heroes, whose shields are like the sun and 
 their spears and swords are like lightnings. Thunder, ye 
 cherubim above them, and scatter down upon the foe, as in 
 the day of Gibeon, hailstones and coals of fire, and hot thun- 
 derbolts ! "Awake, awake, put on strength, O arm of Je- 
 hovah ! Awake, as in the ancient days, in the generations 
 of old ! Art thou not it that hath cut Rahab and wounded 
 the Dragon? Art thou not it which hath dried the sea, the 
 waters of the great deep; that hath made the depths of the 
 sea a way for the ransomed to pass over? Therefore the 
 redeemed of Jehovah shall return and come with singing 
 unto Sion ; and everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; 
 they shall obtain gladness and joy ; and sorrow and mourn- 
 ing shall flee away." 
 
 Such is the song of the disenthralled as they stand by their 
 city gates and behold melt away the multitudes of their foes 
 like clouds before the rising of the sun. Headlong on all 
 sides the Assyrians flee, and every man's sword is turned 
 
238 
 
 LINES FOR LIZZY'S ALBUM. 
 
 against his fellow. The hawks of heaven rejoice, and feed 
 themselves fat with the flesh of heroes, and the wild beasts 
 of the desert keep Carnival with them for a whole month, 
 till not the smell of an Assyrian is left over the whole land, 
 now whitened with the bones of heroes and their steeds, 
 inextricably mingled in one vast burial. 
 
 Thus triumphs the widow of Manasses, over the fall of 
 her country's foes. Then tuning anew her long-neglected 
 harp, she sings a victorious hymn like Miriam or Deborah, 
 to celebrate the Divine power and providence shewn over 
 Israel, and sits honored as a mother to her country through 
 coming times ; not, like a Thalestris, a Penthesilea, or a 
 Semiramis, by making war upon foreign states, but like a 
 Jael or a Boadicea, by working deliverance at home from 
 the oppressions of alien powers, and destroying the destroyers 
 of the earth. 
 
 LINES FOR LIZZY'S ALBUM. 
 
 BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 O rosy-bosom'd Hours, 
 That sit beyond the sphery chime 
 
 To watch o'er men and spirits, and ope the doors 
 Whence the sun goes forth to climb 
 
 The steep of heaven supreme, and pours 
 His living light o'er lands. 
 Here come, O loose-robed of all dyes, 
 
 That Jris loves, and where a sylph commands, 
 Bear all of sweet-enamell'd eyes 
 The Graces tend of snowy hands 
 
 In gardens and in fields 
 Where the red star looks kindly down, 
 
 And the green lands all smiling florets yield 
 Of wings fann'd o'er; wherewith they crown 
 The brow of beauty, and love hath seal'd 
 
 His own thro' changing years. 
 And last, when bound with Asphodel, 
 
 A pious race shall stand about our biers, 
 Then crown us by Life's crystal well, 
 With amaranth dissolved from fears. 
 
THE ALL-SEEING EYE. 
 
 BY J. K- PAULDING. 
 
 It is a mistaken idea that the guilty ever escape punish- 
 ment in this world. They are punished here as well as 
 hereafter. The outward gilding of wealth and prosperity 
 may impose on the rest of mankind, but in the dark closet 
 which every man carries within his bosom, the spectres of 
 remorse and fear work in the silence of night like sheeted 
 ghosts, unseen except by Him to whom their special mission 
 is directed— shrieking in the ear, and pointing the skinny 
 finger of scorn or denunciation. The guilty live in perpetual 
 fear — and a life of fear is a life of misery. What though 
 their crime had no witness but the eye of Omnipotence, 
 which penetrates the inscrutable obscurity of midnight dark- 
 ness — what though years of impunity may have stilled the 
 voice of conscience, blunted the sting of remorse, and ren- 
 dered detection every day more improbable — still there exists 
 One who knows it all, and that One is omnipotent. He can 
 at any time draw the secret crime from the bottom of the 
 deep, and. when least expected, unfold the dark mystery that 
 , has so long been hidden from the eyes of men. There is a 
 dread* consciousness of this power haunting the imagination 
 of guilt and preying on its vitals. To the eye of the world 
 it may seem prosperous and happy. It may acquire wealth 
 and honors ; it may be possessed of the very fullness of out- 
 ward prosperity ; but there is a worm in the bud — a disease 
 of the heart lurking unseen by mortal eyes, unknown and 
 unsuspected except by the guilty wretch and Him who sees 
 and knows all things. In this world we see nothing but the 
 outside ; we cannot unfold the secrets of the hearts of others, 
 
240 
 
 THE ALL-SEEING EYE. 
 
 and enter into those dread mysteries which baffle human 
 investigation. Hence it is that we are beyond doubt per- 
 petually making erroneous estimates of human enjoyment, 
 and not unfrequently becoming guilty of the presumption 
 of questioning the justice of Heaven for having apparently 
 made such a strange, unequal distribution of happiness in 
 this world. Nothing but the recognition of a future state of 
 reward and punishment, it would seem, could have possibly 
 reconciled the superficial view we have of those secrets with 
 the attributes of the Supreme Being. The following tale, 
 founded on fact, will illustrate this brief introduction : — 
 
 More than forty years ago, a traveler journeying in haste, 
 and on an occasion of great interest, found himself one sum- 
 mer evening — himself and his horse equally weary — coursing 
 slowly along the bank of a river by a road equally solitary 
 and wild. On the side he traveled, the country was rough, 
 rocky, and barren, without a habitation for many miles; 
 while the opposite shore exhibited a succession of cultivated 
 fields, beautifully variegated with waving woods and farm- 
 houses, almost aspiring to the dignity of gentlemen's seats. 
 One at a distance especially caught his attention, as exhibit- 
 ing evidences of superior taste, in the arrangement of the 
 grounds and the architecture of the building, which was 
 much more expensive than any other within sight. 
 
 The night came on apace, and with it increasing dark- 
 ness, caused by a vast mass of gathering clouds that ever 
 and anon were lighted up by flashes of lightning too distant 
 to illuminate the obscurity of his way. As he proceeded on 
 slowly and wearily, the thunder, muttering afar off in whis- 
 pered murmurings, foreboded a coming storm, and the traveler 
 pricked his worn-out steed to a quicker motion in vain, for 
 he was quite tired out. By-and-bye, a black, condensed 
 cloud, with ragged edges, suddenly appeared above the high 
 hills that ranged along the river, about two miles from its 
 banks, chequered at almost every moment by zig-zag light- 
 ning that leaped athwart its gloomy face; and that freezing 
 pause of nature which so frequently immediately precedes 
 the tempest and the rain, announced its speedy coming. 
 
fflotijtvs ani Wau%\)kxs of % Bible. 
 
 JUDITH. 
 
 BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 For two hundred and forty years has the kingdom of 
 Judah been tottering to its fall since the infatuated son of 
 Johosaphat wedded the daughter of Jezebel, and thus accele- 
 rated the downfall of Sion's glory ; commencing indeed when 
 the son of Bathsheba reared altars to the Gods of his alien 
 wives in Jerusalem, while centuries must pass ere the Divine 
 Mercy grow weary and give over the people of his choice 
 to captivity and chains. Yain has been proved the expur- 
 gating sword of Nimshi's son, or the guards of the temple, 
 when Ahaziah and his detested mother fell ; vain the pious 
 and paternal care of Jehoiada, as Pontiff, over the youthful 
 grandson of Athaliah ; vain also has proved the righteous 
 rule of Amaziah and his son ; vain also the piety of Heze- 
 kiah, for whose sake the stars have once rolled backward 
 in heaven, and avenging angels have arrayed themselves in 
 the simoon's blast to destroy the presumptuous armory of 
 Sennacherib. Manasseh has caused the idols of heathen 
 superstition to stand again even in the temple itself, and the 
 streets of the holy city have run down with the blood of 
 saints and prophets through twenty years. The princely son 
 of Amoz they have sawed asunder with a saw of wood ; and 
 there has been nothing but violence, outrage, pollution, and 
 murder, where of old time gathered the myriads of Israel 
 to their solemn feasts, and rejoiced in peace and plenty before 
 the God of their covenant in his temple. At length the 
 Assyrians receive permission to scourge once more the sons 
 
234 JUDITH. 
 
 of Abraham, and the holy city is given up to pillage and 
 slaughter from her foes. The royal debauchee that has 
 renewed the murderous frenzy of the house of Ahab against 
 the saints, has also fallen into a miserable captivity, and at 
 length returned, upon his repentance, to amend his wrongs 
 and purify the holy places from all the abominations of his 
 idols. But his heathenish son again overturns his reforms, 
 and renews the corruptions of Gods worse than they that 
 received homage in Gomorrah and Zeboim. Then his two 
 years of misrule end in assassination ; and the minority of 
 his pious son leaves the kingdom enfeebled, to be the prey 
 alike of domestic factions and external violence, while no 
 strong hand is stretched out over the land to compel obe- 
 dience to the laws, and affray afar off the insolence of foreign 
 powers. 
 
 It is in such a time as this that the tyrannies of the earth 
 earn eternal renown by subduing nations rendered cowardly 
 by vice. And now one more of those purple absurdities that 
 men name heroes comes to signalize his valor by warring 
 upon the distracted state of Judah with all the forces of the 
 east. He has made war upon Lydian Phraortes, lately ren- 
 dered famous for the magnificence of his defences in Ecba- 
 tana ; and, with the usual pride of eastern kings, sent requi- 
 sitions for help over the whole world, that all men may know 
 how great is " the great king, the king of Assyria." Treated 
 on all hands with contempt, he resolves upon revenge ; and 
 no sooner has the Lydian fallen by doom of battle on the 
 plains of Ragau, than he sends infinite hosts under his inso- 
 lent leader Holofernes to depopulate all lands, and earn him 
 a name among the chief pests that have ever laid waste the 
 earth with fire and sword. 
 
 It is a time of anarchy and misrule in Judah, and the 
 people of each city are left as best they may to provide them- 
 selves with defences against overwhelming force. The enemy 
 must first pass through the hill-country by Jordan before he 
 can lay waste the west and the south from Tyre to Gaza, 
 or hope to lay his hand upon the treasures of Egypt in Pe- 
 lusium or Memphis, and render once more tributary the race 
 
JUDITR. 235 
 
 of Mesraim to the children of the east. But the strength of 
 Judah lies not in numbers, but in the care of God, who can 
 make "one to chase a thousand, and two put ten thousand 
 to flight." With the bravery of a Palafox at Saragossa, 
 a Tell in Switzerland, or a Renaud among the Waldenses 
 by the springs of the Po, when they will repel with a handful 
 the mightiest of the earth, or find honorable graves around 
 the altars of their fathers, the scattered people fly to arms 
 against the myriads of Assyrian invaders. The narrow and 
 dangerous passes are secured, and the enemy must cut his 
 way through mountains, or retire. But the Assyrians are 
 not used to retreat, and they lay seige to the nearest towns ; 
 not doubting they can force them, through famine, to sur- 
 render, and thus open their way to the wealthy tracts be- 
 yond. The hill-fortress of Bethulia becomes invested, and 
 their supply of water is cut off. Exposed to the extremities 
 of hunger and thirst, the inhabitants see nothing before them 
 but submission or certain death. In the midst of their per- 
 plexity, however, the noble daughter of Merari appears, like 
 another Maid of Orleans, to find means whereby the foe 
 may be humbled and the people delivered from their fears. 
 
 Proposing to accomplish by artifice what is impracticable 
 to force, she receives the blessing of her townsmen ; and, 
 with a single attendant, this daughter of Israel proves herself 
 no less brave in her weakness than the mightiest heroes of 
 David in their strength. It is but a little way, and she 
 comes to the city gates, where she may pause to reflect on 
 the hazards of her undertaking. Over hill and valley, far 
 as the eye can reach, lies outspread the host of the invader, 
 in multitude more dense and various of color, dress, and arms, 
 than that when the invincible Sesonchis led against the son 
 of Solomon his infinite hosts of Egyptians and Ethiopians, 
 with their allies the Lubim and Sukkim from the springs of 
 Nile and the coasts of the Red Sea. With early dawn the 
 blameless sacrifice smokes in Sion ; and at early dawn go 
 forth the devoted pair, the mistress and her maid, that have 
 vowed to find deliverance for their city in the slaughter of 
 her foe, or perish themselves in the attempt. 
 
236 
 
 JUDITH. 
 
 Three days she passes in the camp of her foe. The luxu- 
 rious and effeminate commander is smitten with her fair 
 looks, and presses her to name the day when he may add 
 her to the fair multitude of his former wives, and thus place 
 her at the head of his princely harem, where the dark-eyed 
 girls of Circassia and Media and Persia and Assyria and the 
 whole east are blazing in silk and purple and fine linen, in 
 gold and diamonds and pearls and precious gems, and all 
 shall envy the new comer her superior charms. Scrupulous 
 in the observance of laws old almost as the world, she goes 
 forth each day at will from the camp to perform her ablu- 
 tions, and carries her own consecrated food by herself, because 
 she is forbidden to eat with a Gentile what is to him a feast 
 upon a sacrifice to idols. Having thus established free in- 
 gress and egress, and secured their final exit from all ques- 
 tion of watchful sentries along their accustomed way, she 
 fixes the time when she will become the Pearl of the Harem 
 to the chief captain of the Assyrian army. Overjoyed at her 
 consent, he gives himself up to excess of wine ; and, when 
 the shades of the fouith evening come over the earth, lies 
 down upon his couch of purple, too satiated with the deceit- 
 ful draught of his cups to enjoy his imaginary triumph, or 
 once to suspect that his new flame may play the game of 
 Jael to Sisera, and leave him a headless trunk to bleed upon 
 the ground. 
 
 The attendants are all retired. Even Bagoas, the favorite 
 minister to his master's pleasures, has gone forth, pleased 
 that the fair stranger is closeted with his Most Serene High- 
 ness Holofernes, chief butcher of the world — that knows no 
 God but Baal, and no king but him who bears the mark of 
 queenly Nebo, and is called her Nazarite. Now is the hour 
 to strike for her laws and native land. Her beastly lover 
 lies stupified beneath a canopy of purple flashing with gems 
 and gold in the taper's uncertain light. They are alone. 
 Only her maid is near at her call, and none others dare 
 approach. It is but a blow, and all is over. With steady 
 hand she draws the glittering sabre from its sheath, and 
 prays — " Strengthen me, O Jehovah, for the appointed ven- 
 
JUDITH. 
 
 237 
 
 geance !" At a single blow she severs his grisly head from 
 the neck, and Holofernes dies almost without a struggle. 
 
 She has all night to retire with her prize. She has only 
 to conceal the head in her sack of food, and gather some 
 few trophies besides of her prowess in the camp of the aliens. 
 Her faithful maid will bear the whole away before her, and 
 she may go forth again to her ablutions without question 
 from any, and come at her leisure to the city gates, where 
 her anxious friends await her return, half in fear, half in 
 hope. With early morning a shout raises like that upon the 
 shore of the Red Sea, from the ransomed people that have 
 escaped, and are now safe in the death of their foe, whose 
 head now shall adorn, as a trophy, their city gates ; but in 
 the camp of the foes all is wailing and dismay and panic 
 fear, when they find their chief headless in his tent, the wo- 
 men gone, and the whole surface of the heights above them 
 and the city walls bristling with arms. Each tree and shrub 
 seems a hero in complete steel ; each crag and cliff grows 
 to a phalanx or a battalion ; and the whole air burns above 
 them as in Samarian fields, with the sight of flaming chariots 
 and steeds and heroes, whose shields are like the sun and 
 their spears and swords are like lightnings. Thunder, ye 
 cherubim above them, and scatter down upon the foe, as in 
 the day of Gibeon, hailstones and coals of fire, and hot thun- 
 derbolts ! " Awake, awake, put on strength, O arm of Je- 
 hovah ! Awake, as in the ancient days, in the generations 
 of old ! Art thou not it that hath cut Rahab and wounded 
 the Dragon? Art thou not it which hath dried the sea, the 
 waters of the great deep ; that hath made the depths of the 
 sea a way for the ransomed to pass over? Therefore the 
 redeemed of Jehovah shall return and come with singing 
 unto Sion ; and everlasting joy shall be upon their heads ; 
 they shall obtain gladness and joy; and sorrow and mourn- 
 ing shall flee away." 
 
 Such is the song of the disenthralled as they stand by their 
 city gates and behold melt away the multitudes of their foes 
 like clouds before the rising of the sun. Headlong on all 
 sides the Assyrians flee, and every man's sword is turned 
 
I 
 
 238 lines for lizzy's album. 
 
 against his fellow. The hawks of heaven rejoice, and feed 
 themselves fat with the flesh of heroes, and the wild beasts 
 of the desert keep Carnival with them for a whole month, 
 till not the smell of an Assyrian is left over the whole land, 
 now whitened with the bones of heroes and their steeds, 
 inextricably mingled in one vast burial. 
 
 Thus triumphs the widow of Manasses, over the fall of 
 her country's foes. Then tuning anew her long-neglected 
 harp, she sings a victorious hymn like Miriam or Deborah, 
 to celebrate the Divine power and providence shewn over 
 Israel, and sits honored as a mother to her country through 
 coming times ; not, like a Thalestris, a Penthesilea, or a 
 Semiramis, by making war upon foreign states, but like a 
 Jael or a Boadicea, by working deliverance at home from 
 the oppressions of alien powers, and destroying the destroyers 
 of the earth. 
 
 LINES FOR LIZZY'S ALBUM. 
 
 BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 O rosy-bosom'd Hours, 
 That sit beyond the sphery chime 
 
 To watch o'er men and spirits, and ope the doors 
 Whence the sun goes forth to climb 
 
 The steep of heaven supreme, and pours 
 His living light o'er lands. 
 Here come, O loose-robed of all dyes, 
 
 That Iris loves, and where a sylph commands, 
 Bear all of sweet-enamell'd eyes 
 The Graces tend of snowy hands 
 
 In gardens and in fields 
 Where the red star looks kindly down, ■ 
 
 And the green lands all smiling florets yield 
 Of wings fann'd o'er; wherewith they crown 
 The brow of beauty, and love hath seal'd 
 
 His own thro' changing years. 
 And last, when bound with Asphodel, 
 
 A pious race shall stand about our biers, 
 Then crown us by Life's crystal well, 
 With amaranth dissolved from fears. 
 
THE ALL-SEEING EYE 
 
 BY J. K, PAULDING. 
 
 It is a mistaken idea that the guilty ever escape punish- 
 ment in this world. They are punished here as well as 
 hereafter. The outward gilding of wealth and prosperity 
 may impose on the rest of mankind, but in the dark closet 
 which every man carries within his bosom, the spectres of 
 remorse and fear work in the silence of night like sheeted 
 ghosts, unseen except by Him to whom their special mission 
 is directed — shrieking in the ear, and pointing the skinny 
 finger of scorn or denunciation. The guilty live in perpetual 
 fear — and a life of fear is a life of misery. What though 
 their crime had no witness but the eye of Omnipotence, 
 which penetrates the inscrutable obscurity of midnight dark- 
 ness — what though years of impunity may have stilled the 
 voice of conscience, blunted the sting of remorse, and ren- 
 dered detection every day more improbable — still there exists 
 One who knows it all, and that One is omnipotent. He can 
 at any time draw the secret crime from the bottom of the 
 deep, and, when least expected, unfold the dark mystery that 
 has so long been hidden from the eyes of men. There is a 
 dread consciousness of this power haunting the imagination 
 of guilt and preying on its vitals. To the eye of the world 
 it may seem prosperous and happy. It may acquire wealth 
 and honors ; it may be possessed of the very fullness of out- 
 ward prosperity ; but there is a worm in the bud — a disease 
 of the heart lurking unseen by mortal eyes, unknown and 
 unsuspected except by the guilty wretch and Him who sees 
 and knows all things. In this world we see nothing but the 
 outside ; we cannot unfold the secrets of the hearts of others, 
 
240 
 
 THE ALL-SEEING EYE. 
 
 and enter into those dread mysteries which baffle human 
 investigation. Hence it is that we are beyond doubt per- 
 petually making erroneous estimates of human enjoyment, 
 and not unfrequently becoming guilty of the presumption 
 of questioning the justice of Heaven for having apparently 
 made such a strange, unequal distribution of happiness in 
 this world. Nothing but the recognition of a future state of 
 reward and punishment, it would seem, could have possibly 
 reconciled the superficial view we have of those secrets with 
 the attributes of the Supreme Being. The following tale, 
 founded on fact, will illustrate this brief introduction : — 
 
 More than forty years ago, a traveler journeying in haste, 
 and on an occasion of great interest, found himself one sum- 
 mer evening — himself and his horse equally weary — coursing 
 slowly along the bank of a river by a road equally solitary 
 and wild. On the side he traveled, the country was rough, 
 rocky, and barren, without a habitation for many miles; 
 while the opposite shore exhibited a succession of cultivated 
 fields, beautifully variegated with waving woods and farm- 
 houses, almost aspiring to the dignity of gentlemen's seats. 
 One at a distance especially caught his attention, as exhibit- 
 ing evidences of superior taste, in the arrangement of the 
 grounds and the architecture of the building, which was 
 much more expensive than any other within sight. 
 
 The night came on apace, and with it increasing dark- 
 ness, caused by a vast mass of gathering clouds that ever 
 and anon were lighted up by flashes of lightning too distant 
 to illuminate the obscurity of his way. As he proceeded on 
 slowly and wearily, the thunder, muttering afar off in whis- 
 pered nmrmurings, foreboded a coming storm, and the traveler 
 pricked his worn-out steed to a quicker motion in vain, for 
 he was quite tired out. By-and-bye, a black, condensed 
 cloud, with ragged edges, suddenly appeared above the high 
 hills that ranged along the river, about two miles from its 
 banks, chequered at almost every moment by zig-zag light- 
 ning that leaped athwart its gloomy face; and that freezing 
 pause of nature which so frequently immediately precedes 
 the tempest and the rain, announced its speedy coming. 
 
THE ALL-SEEING EYE. 
 
 241 
 
 The traveler gazed anxiously around, but the incessant 
 flashes disclosed no place of refuge as he plodded along 
 slowly, close to the margin of the river. At length, turning 
 a point of land, he was enabled to perceive, by the aid of a 
 bright flash of lightning, whose radiance seemed to linger for 
 almost half a minute in the pitchy sky, a little cove skirted 
 by a border of white sand, in the centre of which he thought 
 he perceived a building of some kind or other. Descending 
 the bank, which was low, and skirted with water- willows, 
 he peered anxiously around, and, by the aid of another 
 flash, discovered a rude fishing-house, which had been hastily 
 put up for the shad season, but was now abandoned. He 
 could hear the roaring of the storm across the river, which 
 was nearly a quarter of a mile wide; and there was no time 
 to be lost, nor any other shelter nigh. The door had been 
 broken down, and the traveler, warned by the drops of rain 
 that heralded the coming torrent, without asking leave or 
 knocking for admission, entered the hut, leading his horse 
 after him. He presently discovered that the floor was car- 
 peted with straw, and, groping about, lighted on a rude sort 
 of bedstead, formed of rough boards, containing a bed of 
 straw T without any ticking. The wind whistled, or rather 
 shrieked, along the solitary shore ; the waves dashed in 
 quick succession on the pebbly sand ; the rain fell in tor- 
 rents; the thunder pealed incessantly ; and the sky seemed 
 one sheet of living fire. After a while, the traveler, finding 
 himself weary, unsaddled his steed, placed the saddle at the 
 head of his bed for a pillow, and, instead of lamenting his 
 hard fate, or uttering peevish complaints, thanked Heaven 
 for a dry skin, and speedily sank into a profound sleep — 
 the blessing of a quiet conscience and a wearied frame. 
 
 He slept for several hours, and, in all probability, would 
 not have waked till morning, had not his horse, which was 
 equally tired, hungry, and, above all, athirst, at length taken 
 a fancy to step out of the hut to the river side, where he 
 regaled himself with a temperance draught, and signalized 
 his contentment by a long, loud, shrill neigh, which roused 
 his master, who jumped up, wide awake, to see w 7 hat was 
 
THE ALL-SEEING EYE. 
 
 the matter. He found the scene totally changed. The 
 .storm had passed away, and a night of surpassing beauty 
 had succeeded. The moon, almost as round as young Nov- 
 vai's shield, was a little declining toward the western horizon 
 of stately hills, giving lustre to the lonely scene, and silver- 
 ing the quiet woods and equally quiet waves. Nothing 
 seemed to live, to move, or have a being on earth, but him- 
 self and his horse. In such an hour and such a scene, if a 
 man has any latent spark of poetical temperament in his 
 mind, it will, peradventure, be awakened to light and life ; 
 and our traveler, after gazing awhile at the enchanting har- 
 monies of nature spread out before him, became gradually 
 bewildered in the mazes of memory or imagination. For 
 awhile he became insensible to the realities before him 
 which had awakened his latent enthusiasm; and their place 
 was supplied by a train of feelings, a succession of airy 
 sprites of memory or hope, that danced before him like the 
 moonbeams on the rippling waters, whose agitation had 
 subsided into a waveless mirror, unruffled by a single zephyr, 
 though not motionless, as appeared from the trembling of 
 the moonbeams as they sported on the surface. 
 
 As the traveler thus stood in a state of luxurious abstrac- 
 tion, forgetting himself, his hunger, and his pressing errand, 
 which called for his utmost exertion of speed, his attention 
 was accidentally attracted by a boat which shot out suddenly 
 from behind a high projecting point on the opposite shore, 
 a little higher up the river, whose dark brow, covered with 
 hemlocks and pines, contrasted gloomily with the shining 
 river. As he watched the little white boat, which passed 
 noiselessly yet rapidly toward the middle of the river, he 
 could perceive that it contained only two persons, one plying 
 a pair of oars, the other sitting at the stern. All on a sudden 
 it stopped. The man in the stern — for he could see it was 
 a man — rose and approached him at the oars ; the traveler 
 heard a single w T ild, shrill shriek — a single dull, heavy plunge, 
 and all was still on earth, in the waters beneath, and the 
 heavens above. The boatman at the instant resumed his 
 oars; and the boat, now carrying but one person, darted 
 
THE ALL-SEEING EYE. 
 
 213 
 
 rapidly behind the high wooded bluff, and disappeared, but 
 not before the traveler had involuntarily cried out, " The 
 All-seeing Eye is upon you !" 
 
 All was again quiet and still, and the scene was as lovely 
 as ever. But the traveler relished it no more, and all his 
 visions fled before the stern reality which had just passed 
 before him. He did not doubt for a moment that some 
 horrible crime had been thus perpetrated in the silence of 
 night, of which he alone was a witness ; and his first deter 
 mination was to stay his journey, cross the river in the morn- 
 ing, and enter on an investigation of this mysterious midnight 
 outrage. Waiting impatiently for the dawn, he mounted 
 his horse, and proceeded onward as speedily as the hungry, 
 jaded animal could travel. 
 
 He had not ridden more than three miles at farthest before 
 he came to a rustic inn, at which he was glad to put up, 
 for the purpose of resting and refreshing man and beast. 
 Here, while awaiting breakfast, he reflected deeply on the 
 scene he had beheld the preceding night, and the course it 
 best became him to pursue. He recollected that he was a 
 stranger, and with neither time to loiter on his way, nor mo- 
 ney to expend in the punishment of the guilty. He had not 
 been able to distinguish the air or features of the person who 
 rowed the boat ; he only knew it was a man, and was sen- 
 sible he never could identify him. It was possible, that, by 
 patient inquiry and investigation, a chain of circumstances 
 might lead to the detection of the criminal ; but this would 
 be a work of time — and his time was precious, for he was 
 nastening to the bedside of a dying parent. Accordingly, 
 after refreshing himself and his horse, and making some 
 inquiries of the landlord respecting the occupant of the fine 
 house he trad seen the evening before on the opposite side 
 of the river, he proceeded on his journey, without detailing 
 to the landlord, or any one of his family, the events of the 
 preceding night, lest it might cause a detention — leaving the 
 supposed murderer to the vengeance of heaven. If, under 
 these circumstances, our traveler requires any justification, 
 it may be here stated, that he settled it finally in his mind, 
 
244 
 
 THE ALL-SEEING EYE. 
 
 whenever circumstances would permit, to return to this part 
 of the country, and, if possible, ferret out the secret murder. 
 But of all things in this life, man is the least master of the 
 future. He imagines himself the sole director of his own 
 conduct, though nine times in ten his fate is at the mercy 
 of events which he can neither foresee nor control ; and 
 nothing is more common in the experience of mankind, than 
 success which eventually leads to misery and ruin, or disap- 
 pointments which conduct to happiness in the end. 
 
 The traveler, after a long, tedious journey, arrived at its 
 end only to see his father die, and to find himself the heir 
 of one who left nothing behind him but debts which his 
 estate was insufficient to pay. He had gone the way, 1 will 
 not say of all flesh, but of thousands, yea, hundreds of thou- 
 sands, of his sanguine countrymen, who, greedy of gain 
 without being misers, so often play double or quits, and, in 
 attempting to grow suddenly rich, lose all at a single throw. 
 He was utterly ruined by improving his estate with the 
 money and labor of other people instead of his own ; and 
 the traveler, finding the case desperate — having declined 
 the heirship of debts which he could not pay — the entire 
 property was sold to the highest bidder. He had to begin 
 the world anew, with no other capital than his own exer- 
 tions — a position which carries with it this advantage, that 
 a man has nothing to lose, and everything to gain. How 
 he buffetted with the strong sea of life, alternately rising and 
 sinking — how he labored and struggled in distant lands for 
 that which is considered the great, if not the sole end of 
 human existence, it is not our purpose to relate. Suffice it 
 to say, that he returned home after an exile of many years, 
 with a full purse and a shattered constitution, purchased his 
 patrimonial property, and set himself down to enjoy the fruits 
 of his sacrifices and exertions, on the spot of his nativity, 
 among the surviving friends of his youth. 
 
 Immured in the cares and turmoils of active life, and at a 
 distance from all his former associations, he had long since 
 forgotten the adventure of the old fishing-house, or if he ever 
 recalled it to mind, it was more as a dim, distant vision, than 
 
THE ALL-SEEING EYE. 
 
 245 
 
 as an actual occurrence. He no longer cherished the deter- 
 mination to investigate the mysterious midnight murder, but 
 contented himself with following his own pursuits, and occa- 
 sionally meddling with those of his neighbors, among whom 
 his opinions carried great weight, for he was a rich man, 
 and had seen much of the world, in countries so entirely 
 different in all respects from his own, that his experience 
 abroad could have no practical application whatever at 
 home. 
 
 Among the changes which had taken place in this topsy-, 
 turvy New World of ours, during the absence of the traveler, 
 was the appearance of a very splendid mansion placed in a 
 fine situation about half a mile from the village, which it 
 overlooked, together with an extensive range of country pre- 
 senting a variety of beautiful scenery. On inquiring, as 
 people naturally do, into such matters, he was told that it 
 belonged to a gentleman who had erected it several years 
 after he left home to seek his fortune, and had resided there 
 ever since. Everybody had something to say of the gentle- 
 man, as he was called by way of distinction, for he was 
 reported to be immensely rich, lived in great splendor, and, 
 as is universally the case, was envied by all his neighbors. 
 Among other particulars, he learned that th i owner of the 
 splendid mansion was a bachelor, or at least had neither 
 wife nor children ; that he had a numerous family of men 
 servants and maid servants, the former of whom wore liveries ; 
 that he " fared sumptuously every day ;" had a service of 
 plate, drove a coach and four, and attended very regularly 
 at church. Those who pretended to know most of him, 
 however, thought, though they could not exactly tell why, 
 that there was something odd or particular about him — they 
 ^ould not exactly tell what, but supposed it originated in his 
 being a bachelor, with no onelo control him, and rich enough 
 to do as he pleased. All, however, pronounced him a happy 
 man, for he had wherewithal to buy everything he wanted, 
 and all wished themselves in his place. The only dissen- 
 tient was a sage old lady of the village, who could take a 
 pinch of snuff, look wise, shake her head, and exclaim — 
 
246 
 
 THE ALL-SEEING EYE. 
 
 " "Well, I don't know. I see him every Sunday at church, 
 but somehow he looks to me as if he didn't like to hear the 
 Ten Commandments read ; and I noticed — for he sits right 
 opposite me — that he never makes any response to that 
 which says, ' Thou shalt do no murder.' " 
 
 This excited strange suspicions among her auditors, who 
 thereupon watched the rich gentleman at church — and sure 
 enough it was as the old woman said ! There is a magnetic 
 telegraph in every country village — a pulsation of news, 
 which at the same instant seems to pervade the entire body 
 politic ; and from this time the eyes of the whole congrega- 
 tion were fixed on the gentleman, instead of the parson. On 
 one occasion the pastor chose this commandment as his text, 
 and dwelt with eloquent fervor on the enormity of the crime 
 as well as the guilty horror of the perpetrator. In the course 
 of his sermon he happened to fix his eye on the gentleman, 
 and was struck with the paleness of his countenance, which 
 at the same time exhibited an expression of the deepest emo- 
 tion. He attempted to rise, as if to leave the church, but sat 
 down again, leaned his head on his hands against the pew, 
 and did not look up again till the service was concluded. 
 The preacher being a simple, kind-hearted, benevolent man, 
 as became his calling, no shadow of suspicion crossed his 
 mind ; and when next day he heard that the gentleman had 
 been seized with a sudden indisposition at church, he thought 
 no more of the matter 
 
 Our traveler, who had seen so much of the world and its 
 inhabitants that he was not anxious to extend his acquaint- 
 ance, neither sought nor was sought by the owner of the 
 splendid mansion on the hill. It was some time before they 
 met, and then accidentally. He had, without exactly know- 
 ing why or wherefore, set him down in his own mind as a 
 purse-proud, ostentatious upstart ; but found to his surprise, 
 and, it may be added, to his mortification, that his conver- 
 sation was agreeable and unaffected, and his deportment 
 that of humility rather than pride. By degrees an intimacy 
 took place between them, and they were much together, 
 insomuch that something approaching to a friendship gra- 
 
THE ALL-SEEING EYE. 
 
 247 
 
 dually grew up between the in. At first the traveller saw 
 nothing particular in the conduct and deportment of his new 
 acquaintance ; but, as their intimacy increased, he came at 
 length to notice that he would sometimes, nay often, in the 
 midst of a conversation on ordinary subjects, give a sudden 
 start, gaze with a look of deep apprehension on vacancy, 
 and appear greatly agitated. If he saw himself observed, 
 he would ascribe it to a nervous affection which sometimes 
 came over him suddenly, and was the consequence of a fright 
 in his youth. 
 
 The intimacy continued and the friendly feeling increased, 
 when one day it so happened that the traveler called at 
 the splendid mansion, and entering, as was now his custom, 
 without ceremony, found the gentleman was not in his usual 
 sitting-room. Supposing he would soon return, he took up 
 a newspaper, and falling on the catalogue of accidents, crimes 
 and wonders, with which it is customary to regale the ama- 
 teur, his attention was arrested by the details of the discovery 
 of a murder perpetrated many years ago, and now brought 
 to light by a chain of extraordinary circumstances. Some 
 of these details once more recalled to his recollection the 
 night scene at the old fishing-house, to which they bore a 
 striking resemblance in more than one particular ; and he 
 sat with the paper in his hand, pondering on the subject, 
 when the gentleman came in, looking much disturbed and 
 giving a sudden start as he saw him thus employed. 
 
 After the usual salutations, the traveler took occasion to 
 refer to the article in the newspaper he held in his hand, 
 and to state its singular coincidence with an adventure 
 which had happened to him many years ago, of which he 
 related the particulars, omitting, among other things he had 
 forgotten, his warning exclamation. As he proceeded, the 
 gentleman became greatly agitated, and, ere he had conclu- 
 ded, after a succession of ineffectual efforts to control his 
 emotions, fell back in his chair, exclaiming in agony, "There 
 was another witness besides the All-seeing Eye, and that 
 witness has come !" The traveler shuddered with a newly 
 awakened conviction, and, ringing for a servant, took his 
 
248 
 
 THE ALL-SEEING EYE. 
 
 departure, almost as much agitated as his friend. All that 
 day, and almost all the succeeding night, he pondered on 
 the subject — tossed with conflicting feelings, and doubting 
 as to the course it became him to pursue toward a man 
 whom he had cherished as a friend, but who he was now 
 convinced was stained with a deep, long-concealed crime 
 He could not doubt for a moment that this wretched man — 
 the envy of all his neighbors — was the guilty actor of the 
 mysterious scene at the old fishing-house ; and that, judging 
 from the uncontrollable emotions he had exhibited on the 
 relation of the story, if publicly charged with his crime, he 
 would render all other testimony unnecessary, by betraying 
 himself. If, however, he should be mistaken in this antici- 
 pation, he would be placed in a position equally painful and 
 degrading, in coming forward with an accusation he could 
 not substantiate. 
 
 The next morning he learned that the gentleman had 
 been suddenly taken ill of a return of the nervous disorder 
 to which his servants now said he had been long subjected ; 
 that at times he exhibited symptoms of mental derange- 
 ment ; and occasionally uttered strange exclamations which 
 nobody could comprehend, but which seemed to refer to some 
 painful circumstance of his former life. His most usual cry 
 was, that " The All-seeing Eye was upon him, and the wit- 
 ness had come !" Day after day it was reported he was 
 growing worse, and that his agonies increased. The phy- 
 sician visited him often, and came forth shaking his head; 
 the good pastor called too, but came forth with clasped hands 
 and eyes cast upward ; and the neighbors began to pity the 
 man they had envied so long. Thus matters went on, until 
 at the expiration of a fortnight, the traveler received a mes- 
 sage, purporting that the gentleman desired to see him that 
 evening on business of importance, and that he must not 
 fail to come, as it was the last time they would ever meet. 
 Thus urged, he determined to comply — and, accordingly, 
 when the evening came, he took his way toward the splendid 
 mansion on the hilt. 
 
 He found the gentleman sitting up in his bed, supported 
 
ft 
 
GENERAL SCOTT AND JOHN BRANT 
 
 The incident which forms the subject of the picture, oc- 
 curred at Niagara, in Canada, after the unfortunate battle of 
 Queenston. The battle was fought on the 13th of October, 
 1812, and was one of the most sharply contested in the 
 whole war, though the force engaged on either side was in- 
 considerable. The object of the general in command, Van 
 Rensselaer, was specifically to gain possession of the heights 
 at Queenston, thence to move upon Fort George, at Niagara, 
 and there take up quarters for the winter, in the enemy's 
 country ; but a more important general purpose was to efface, 
 by some brilliant exploit, the recollection of the disaster that 
 had befallen the American arms in the inglorious surrender 
 of General Hull, at Detroit. 
 
 The British force at Queenston was under the command 
 of General Brock ; the command of the expedition against 
 it was given to Colonel Solomon Van Rensselaer ; and his 
 force consisted chiefly of militia, supported by two corps of 
 regulars, each three hundred and fifty strong, under Lieut. 
 Colonels Chrystie and Fenwick. General Scott, then a 
 lieutenant colonel, in command of a regiment of artillery 
 stationed at Schlosser, near Buffalo, was a volunteer in the 
 expedition ; but as he would not consent to waive his rank, 
 which would entitle him to the command over Colonel Van 
 Rensselaer, who held a commission only in the militia, it was 
 arranged that he should not cross the river, but remain at 
 Lewiston and there use his artillery to such advantage as 
 might be practicable. 
 
 The expedition was unfortunate in its outset. Erroneous 
 information had been received of General Brock's departure 
 
266 
 
 GENERAL SCOTT AND JOHN BRANT. 
 
 for Detroit — the intention to surprise the enemy was frus- 
 trated — and in the very beginning of the conflict, after the 
 landing, Colonels Van Rensselaer, Fenwick, and Chrystie, 
 and Captains Armstrong, Malcolm, and Wool, were wounded. 
 The British troops were driven from the ground, at the point 
 of the bayonet, but at the close of the first brush it was found 
 that Captain Wool, whose wound was slight, was the senior 
 officer capable of duty. Colonel Van Rensselaer had received 
 no less than six wounds, three of which were very severe. 
 
 Intelligence of this ravage among the officers being received 
 on the American side, Colonel Scott was gratified in his 
 ardent desire to take an active part in the conflict ; he hurried 
 across the river and assumed the command. On his arrival 
 he found that the heights had been cleared of the enemy and 
 a battery which crowned them taken, by a gallant charge 
 under Captain Wool ; but the Americans had been assailed 
 in turn by General Brock in person, and driven to the 
 edge of the heights ; whence, however, they returned by a 
 successful rally, in which General Brock was killed, and his 
 troops thereupon dispersed in confusion. It was just after 
 this repulse of the British that Colonel Scott arrived upon the 
 ground. 
 
 His first effort was to collect the force and bring it into 
 order ; in doing which he found that it consisted of three 
 hundred and fifty regulars, and two hundred and fifty-seven 
 volunteers. Turning his attention next to a piece of cannon 
 which had been spiked by the British before their flight, and 
 which he hoped to make available, his momentary absence 
 was taken advantage of by a large body of Indians, who 
 rushed suddenly upon the American troops, and were upon 
 the point of scattering them in wild disorder, when Colonel 
 Scott arrived just in season to keep them steady and repulse 
 the savages. The leader of this band was a young Indian, 
 richly attired in the war-costume of the red men, and re- 
 markable as well for his daring as his activity. His name 
 was John Brant, otherwise called Ahyouwaighs — the young- 
 est son and successor of the famous Mohawk chief Joseph 
 Brant, the formidable partizan of the war of the revolution. 
 
GENERAL SCOTT AND JOHN BRANT. 267 
 
 That celebrated personage had died in 1807, when John 
 Brant was thirteen years of age ; he was therefore but just 
 eighteen when he led his warriors to the battle at the heights 
 of Q,ueenston. 
 
 The field was held by the Americans several hours, while 
 the British waited for reinforcements ; but they were per- 
 petually harrassed by the Indians, who made repeated fly- 
 ing attacks upon them, in which numbers both of militia 
 and regulars, were killed or wounded. At length General 
 Sheaffe, on whom the command devolved after the death of 
 General Brock, was seen advancing from Niagara, at the 
 head of eight hundred men. General Van Rensselaer, who 
 had crossed to the Canada side after the battle, hastened 
 back on ascertaining the approach of General Sheaffe, and 
 exerted all his eloquence and authority in endeavoring to 
 prevail on the militia under his command to push across and 
 rescue the gallant band of their countrymen, now in such 
 pressing danger ; but in vain. They were not bound to 
 leave their own country ; and for two hours Colonel Scott 
 and his men looked down upon the steady approach of an 
 opposing force sufficient to crush them at a blow, while also 
 within sight were fifteen hundred Americans who might 
 easily have joined them in season to repel, if not to annihi- 
 late the enemy. 
 
 But there was no wavering in the little company thus 
 abandoned to their fate. A retreat in the face of the Indians 
 was more perilous even than the attempt to maintain the 
 heights, and they resolved to stand their ground as long as 
 possible. This they did for some time, until actually dis- 
 lodged by the bayonet, when they scrambled down as best 
 they might to the water's edge, by the aid of shrubs and 
 bushes, closely pursued by the Indians. 
 
 There were no boats to carry them off; farther resistance 
 was hopeless, and it was agreed to surrender. Three flags 
 of truce were sent out in succession, but never returned, hav- 
 ing been shot by the Indians. Colonel Scott then resolved 
 to go himself, bearing a white cravat fastened to his sword ; 
 he was accompanied by Towson and Chrystie. They 
 
268 GENERAL SCOTT AND JOHN BRANT. 
 
 were repeatedly fired on by the Indians, but escaped 
 unhurt. They were encountered and attacked, hand to hand, 
 by two of the red men, in one of whom they recognized the 
 youthful and agile leader in the conflicts of the morning, but 
 just as the struggle was at the hottest, a British sergeant in- 
 terposed, the combatants were separated, and Colonel Scott 
 was led to the presence of General Sheaffe. The terms of 
 surrender were quickly agreed upon ; and as soon as the 
 Indians could be controlled by their British allies and em- 
 ployers the firing ceased. The men who were made prison- 
 ers with Scott were a hundred and thirty-nine regulars, and 
 a hundred and fifty-four volunteers. They were marched 
 the same evening to Niagara, where Scott, Towson, and 
 Chrystie were quartered at a small tavern, having invitations 
 immediately on their arrival, to dine with General Sheaffe. 
 Here the incident occurred which is represented in the en- 
 graving, and a full account of which is given in Scone's 
 " Life of Brant," as follows : — 
 
 " Just at twilight a little girl entered the parlor, with a 
 message that somebody in the hall desired to see the ' tall 
 officer.' Colonel Scott thereupon stepped out of the parlor, 
 unarmed, of course, into the hall, which was dark and nar- 
 row, and withal incommoded by a stairway ; but what was 
 his astonishment on again meeting, face to face, his evil gen- 
 iuses, the brawny Captain Jacobs and the light-limbed chief. 
 The colonel had shut the door behind him as he left the par- 
 lor ; but there was a sentinel standing at the outer door, who 
 improperly allowed the Indians to pass in. The dusky visi- 
 tors stepped up to the colonel without ceremony, aud the 
 younger, who alone spoke English, made a brief inquiry as 
 to the number of balls which had cut through his clothes, 
 intimating with astonishment that they had both been firing 
 at him almost the whole day, without effect But while the 
 young Indian was thus speaking, or rather beginning thus 
 to speak — for such, subsequently, seemed to be the import 
 of what he meant to say — Jacobs rudely seized the colonel 
 by the arm, attempted to whirl him round, exclaiming in 
 broken English, ' Me shoot so often, me sure to have hit 
 
GENERAL SCOTT AND JOHN BRANT. 269 
 
 somewhere.' 1 Hands off, you scoundrel,' cried Scott, indig- 
 nant at such freedom with his person, and adding a scornful 
 expression reflecting on the Indian's skill as a marksman, 
 as he flung him from him. 
 
 " The Indians drew instantly both dirk and tomahawk, 
 when, with the rapidity of lightning, Scott, who had for- 
 tunately espied a number of swords standing at the end of 
 the passage, seized one from its iron sheath and placed him- 
 self in a posture of defence against the menacing Indians. 
 As they stood in this picturesque attitude, Scott with his 
 sword ready to strike, and the Indians with their tomahawks 
 and dirks in the air, frowning defiance upon each other — 
 Colonel Coffin, who had been sent with a guard to conduct 
 Scott to the General's quarters to dinner, sprang into the pas- 
 sage and cried 4 Hold !' Comprehending at a glance the 
 dangerous position of Scott, he interfered at once, by sharp 
 remonstrance, and also by weapon, in his defence. Jacobs, 
 exasperated, turned upon Colonel Coffin, and uttering a men- 
 ace, his companion also unguardedly turned to observe the 
 issue of the new combat. The scene was of the most excit- 
 ing and earnest character. The Indians having thus turned 
 upon Coffin, one of them explained, 1 kill you !' Scott in- 
 stantly raised his sabre, which was heavy and substantial, 
 so that a descending blow would have fallen upon both the 
 savages at once, and called out. " If you strike I will kill 
 you both !" For a moment they stood frowning, the pierc- 
 ing eyes of the Indians gleaming with wild and savage fury, 
 while Scott and Coffin alike looked upon both with angry 
 defiance, all with upraised arms and glittering steel. Recov- 
 ering somewhat from the gust of passion into which they had 
 been thrown, the Indians then slowly dropped their arms 
 and retired. The officer who thus came to the rescue was 
 the aid of General Sheaffe, whose errand was to conduct the 
 colonel to dinner, and who, by this timely arrival, probably 
 saved his life. Beyond doubt it was no part of the young 
 chiefs design to inflict injury upon the captive American 
 commander. His whole character forbids the idea, for he 
 was as generous and benevolent in his feelings as he was 
 
270 
 
 PRAYER. 
 
 brave. Having been exhausting much ammunition upon 
 the colonel during the day, this visit was one of curiosity, to 
 ascertain how near they had come to the accomplishment ot 
 their object. Like Cassius, the Indian bears anger as the 
 flint does fire, though not always cold again so soon. It was 
 the same with Scott. Neither would allow of personal free- 
 dom ; the colonel did not fully comprehend the object of their 
 visit, and a sudden encounter, that had well nigh proved 
 fatal, was the consequence." 
 
 PRAYER 
 
 BY MRS. LOUISE WORTHEN. 
 
 Prayer is the incense of the soul, 
 
 The odor of the flower, 
 And rises as the waters roll 
 
 To God's controlling power! 
 Within the soul there would not be 
 
 This infinite desire, 
 To whisper thoughts in prayer to Thee. 
 
 Hadst Thou not lit the tire. 
 
 Prayer is the spirit speaking truth 
 
 To Thee, whose love divine 
 Steals gently down like dew to soothe, 
 
 Or like the sunbeams shine ; 
 For in the humblest soul that lives, 
 
 As in the lowliest flower, 
 The dew-drop back his image gives, 
 
 The soul reflects His power ! 
 
 At night, when all is hushed and still 
 
 And e'en soft echo sleeps, 
 A still small voice doth o'er me thrill. 
 
 And to each heart-throb leaps: 
 It is the spirit-pulse which beats, 
 
 Forever deep and true ; 
 The atom with its author meets, 
 
 As sunlight greets the dew! 
 
LUCY MAYNARD. 
 
 u A lily fair which God did bless, 
 And which from Nature's heart did draw 
 Love, wisdom, peace, and heaven's perfect law." 
 
 Reader, have you ever traveled in Connecticut, over that 
 part of New-Haven county which lies west of the fair city 
 of that name ? I say traveled — but in another sense than 
 that which the word seems to have with that class of blank 
 neutralities who appear to feel that they must traverse the 
 country every season, from Maine to Louisiana, and exclaim, 
 " Oh, beautiful !" " Ah, exquisite !" as often as their guide- 
 book says it is proper. For this class of persons the Word 
 has no other than literally the definition of Webster : " Travel 
 — to journey ;" " Journey — to travel." Alas ! for them ! 
 This world, in which the true soul walks, seeing God and 
 listening to the universe, " the great iEolian harp," with its 
 solemn and mysterious music sounding from its countless 
 strings, to them appears spread out in its glory only to serve 
 as a race-ground for fashion, and what Carlyle so express- 
 ively denominates H gigmanity." There is another class of 
 travelers who, from defect of vision, caused not by sun-spots 
 but by dollar-spots, see before their eyes, in the most beauti- 
 ful landscapes, nothing but mill-seats, timber-lots, railroad 
 tracks, choice situations for manufacturing establishments ; 
 and were it practicable, would sell the blessed sunlight which 
 brightens the flowers on their father's graves, for "a hand- 
 some consideration." Heaven defend us from all such trav- 
 elers ! 
 
 But you, gentle reader, have you ever stood on any of 
 those broken chains of hills in the region I refer to. and gazed 
 over the rich landscapes, the sunny valleys and fair villages, 
 and felt how much unwritten scripture there is on earth to 
 
272 
 
 LUCY MAYNARD. 
 
 gladden and elevate the heart of man ? Whoever is familiar 
 with this region cannot fail to remember the little village ot 
 Liston, with its white cottages nestling on the hill-side, and 
 scattered through the valley. 
 
 In the scenery around it, the hills, or as the inhabitants 
 call them, the mountains, in some places rise in isolated 
 peaks ; but to the northwest they sweep far away in an un- 
 broken chain, here bare as the heath where Fingal and 
 Ossian fought, and there grey old rocks, cliffs piled upon 
 cliffs, " here dark with the thick moss of ages, and there of 
 chalky whiteness where the thunderbolt has splintered them." 
 Then again, for miles the range presents a continued sea of 
 green, wave upon wave, up to the very summits. At inter- 
 vals, in the most precipitous places, are the " sliding-paths." 
 These are spaces, some yards in width, where brushwood 
 and soil are worn away by the furious descent of logs, which 
 in winter the farmer, after having freed them from branches, 
 precipitates from the summits, to the no small content of his 
 boasted Bent and Bright, these finding it far more satisfactory 
 to stand quietly chewing their cuds below, waiting to drag 
 the loaded sled over the smooth road to their master's door, 
 than to be breaking snow-paths up the almost impassable 
 side of the mountain. 
 
 The village is entirely enclosed by these hills, except on 
 the south-western side, where a noble tract of land is dis- 
 played to view, stretching away until its borders are lovingly 
 embraced by the blue waves of Long Island Sound. The 
 village, with its well-kept plot of grass, proudly called 
 a green ; the neat church and school-house gleaming forth 
 from among the trees ; the little river which hies its winding 
 way, like a happy child, gaily singing to each flower on its 
 banks ; and, above all. that gateway which leads from the 
 transient to the eternal — that portal through which so many 
 of earth's weary children long to enter and be at rest — the 
 grave-yard — that place so dear to glorified spirits — not merely 
 because through this gate they expect to receive those deal 
 ones whom they left on earth, but also because there lie 
 those mouldering bodies in which, when on earth, they joyed. 
 
LUCY MAYNARD. 
 
 273 
 
 sorrowed, loved and were beloved, and which they know 
 they shall receive again, purified and beautified by the lov- 
 ing-kindness of God ; the grave-yard, here so appropriately 
 situated and adorned, that nothing is allowed to profane its 
 spirit or wear away its " monitory virtue these, and all 
 things that unite with them to make the scenery around Lis- 
 ten so beautiful to the soul, speak emphatically to the heart 
 of the traveler that great watchword of Christianity — Peace ; 
 and few can resist the influence, whatever may have been 
 their experience in life. Oh ! how many such scenes there 
 are in this beautiful world of ours, speaking, like him of 
 Bethlehem, " Peace and good will to men !" 
 
 In one of these fair valleys there is a nook which, for its 
 retirement and singular beauty, well deserves the name of 
 Fairy Glen. Here, one beautiful day in the spring of 18 — , 
 sat a young maiden under the shade of a large oak, which 
 mother-like, spread out its branches to screen the bubbling 
 spring near its foot. Her apron was filled with flowers, of 
 which she was twining a wreath to adorn a pet lamb that 
 stood gravely gazing at the reflection of his own face in the 
 pure waters of the spring. She was one of those who, in a 
 crowded saloon or on a fashionable promenade, would be 
 passed by unnoticed, but who reveal a beauty that at once 
 surprises and gladdens us when met in situations adapted to 
 their character, so that we wonder at our own stupidity in 
 not discovering it before. And surely no scene could furnish 
 a finer setting for the beauty of Lucy Maynard than that 
 around her. No circumstances could be more finely adapted 
 to call forth those quick changes of expression in which her 
 beauty consisted, than those under which she appeared now. 
 The dell and the mountain side displayed every variety of 
 green, from the pale yellowish hue of the aspen to the dark 
 green of the cedar. The deep blue sky, spotted with light, 
 fleecy clouds, which, like wanton children, chased each other 
 to the southwest, was in perfect keeping with the changeful 
 beauty of the maiden's face. Had you seen her as she sat 
 there, now bent over her pet to ascertain if the wreath had 
 reached the required length, now suddenly pausing and lay- 
 
274 
 
 LUCY MAYNARD. 
 
 ing her wreath on her knee, seeming not so much to think as 
 dream, with an expression in her deep blue eye. that was 
 pensive and yet too clear and serene for sadness, and now 
 again, shaking back from her face the profusion of bright 
 hair, which in hue was 
 
 " Like the waterfall, leaf-tinged with brown, 
 And lit with the sunrise," 
 
 while a roguish smile, awakened by some wayward fancy, 
 flitted across her face, you would have said that her heart 
 was a dwelling-place for nothing but joy. 
 
 At length, in answer to a bird in the branches overhead, 
 she sang — 
 
 I. 
 
 Gaze round thee and listen! sweet spring is returning! 
 
 A chorus of welcome bursts forth from each spray— 
 With offerings of flowers, see, the fruit trees are bending, 
 
 While shiny young leaves with a freshening life play. 
 II. 
 
 The tint on the cheek of the floweret is deepening, 
 The hoar-frost has hied to his caverns away — 
 
 A life-giving impulse all Nature is moving, 
 
 As thrills in her bosom the spring's loving ray. 
 
 nr. 
 
 Down the mount to the valley, the brooklet comes dancing, 
 And gaily it sings to each flower on its way, 
 
 While deep in the wood sits the nightingale singing, 
 
 Where, through the close leaves, peeps the soft light of day. 
 IV. 
 
 O'er Nature's new glories the sunbeams are streaming — 
 
 All sisterly graces the gardens display, 
 And thousands of blossoms their tints are commingling, 
 
 Whose young dewy dyes spread the rainbow's array. 
 
 As the last murmur of her song died away in the air, she 
 placed the last wild honeysuckle in her wreath. Her work 
 was completed. She sat for some moments gazing earnestly 
 down the path that led to the village, until her attention was 
 suddenly drawn to the opposite direction by the sound ot 
 approaching footsteps. She had scarcely sprung to her feet, 
 when a youth in a hunting dress, clearing the head of the 
 
LUCY MAYNARD. 
 
 275 
 
 spring at a bound, deposited his gun and game at her side, 
 exclaiming — 
 
 " Ah ! Lucy, dear, I thought you would be here ! So I 
 have come round by the mountain path, to bring you some 
 of your favorite flowers, these wild violets and blood-root 
 blossoms." 
 
 " Thanks, Charles. Now, if you had brought them before 
 I had finished Daisy's wreath, how beautifully the blue vio- 
 lets would have contrasted with the white-thorn and wild 
 honeysuckle !" 
 
 " Ah ! Lucy, what a serious misfortune ! But they shall 
 have the honor of being worn by Daisy's mistress, my own 
 pet, Lucy," said the youth, laughing as he twined them in 
 her hair. 
 
 "Lucy," said he, suddedly pausing in his graceful em- 
 ployment, " do you remember the day when you and little 
 Alice Granger, in spite of aunt Esther's commands, ran 
 away and followed me to Green's Pond, to see father and 
 Mr. Granger wash sheep ?" 
 
 " And what a ducking I got, as Alice tumbled over me in 
 our haste to escape from the big water-snake that lay asleep 
 on the rock ; and how you dragged me out, and wrapped me 
 in your jacket, and carried me home ; and the doses of 
 motherwort tea aunt Esther forced me to swallow ? Oh ! 
 yes, I remember it all I have detested the very sight of 
 motherwort ever since." 
 
 " Ah ! little Alice !" said Charles, " I wonder if she is as 
 happy at the far west, as she was in those days when her 
 brother Fred and I drew you and her back and forth to 
 school, on our sleds." 
 
 " Yes, and turned us over into the snow-drifts, why don't 
 you add?" said the laughing girl. "But come, Daisy, you 
 and I must go home, or aunt Esther will rally the neighbor- 
 hood to seek us." 
 
 " Stay one moment, Lucy ;" said the young man, while 
 his face expressed the working of some painful emotion. 
 " Stay one moment. This talk of our school-days has well- 
 nigh made me forget that we are not. children. You know 
 
276 
 
 LUCY MAYNARD. 
 
 that my mother's death has left me almost isolated in the 
 world. My step-father is a kind, well-meaning man, but he 
 cannot understand me. He cannot appreciate my plans, and 
 thinks it folly for me to pursue my studies. Besides, if he 
 were willing to aid me, he has a large family of his own chil- 
 dren to care for. There is a brother of my mother who is a 
 merchant in Cincinnati. He went there many years ago, and 
 has recently written for me to come to him. Mr. Clayton, 
 who has always been kind to me, and has advanced me in 
 my studies by every means in his power, advises me to go. 
 But it pains me, Lucy, to leave a place associated with so 
 many sweet remembrances — the place of my mother's grave. 
 And you, Lucy, you will not forget me !" 
 
 " Charles ! Charles !" was the answer, and those deep eyes 
 filled with tears. 
 
 " Forgive me, if I have pained you, Lucy," he continued, 
 " but it is so sad to be alone in the world ! With a heart full 
 of kind thoughts and feelings, to feel that no one understands 
 you, and that your existence is necessary to no one's happi- 
 ness. Oh ! Lucy, if you knew how deeply I have felt this, 
 you would forgive me." 
 
 But while we leave Charles to detail his future plans to 
 his gentle listener, as they slowly wend their way home, we 
 will look a little into their earlier history. 
 
 Charles Stanton, who now at the age of eighteen, stood 
 almost penniless in the world, at his birth was the sole pros- 
 pective heir of the great Stanton estate, situated in one of 
 the most thriving towns in eastern Massachusetts. His 
 father was one of those pleasant, genial souls, whom every- 
 body calls " good-fellows." Born to vast wealth, and unac- 
 customed to labor, it never occurred to him that he or his 
 family could by any possibility become poor ; or that there 
 was anything in life for him to do but live as a " good fel- 
 low," and make the world a pasture for his self-indulgence. 
 He kept horses and dogs. He hunted, drove, and fished ; 
 always sure of finding companions in abundance. Among 
 
 the humbler shops which surrounded the green of S , 
 
 stood that of Messrs. Gresham and Bartlett, which was de- 
 
LUCY MAYNARD. 
 
 277 
 
 nominated " the store," par excellence. This was his favor- 
 ite lounging place, where he took precedence as king of the 
 idlers, and paid the bill. Henry Stanton was not then what 
 was called a drunkard. In common parlance he was termed 
 a " high fellow," one who liked a " good spree." Alas ! the 
 gentle attentions of his wife could not win him from the 
 love of strong drink. He went on spending, and never so 
 much as dreaming that the condition of his property might 
 require examination. His estate was left to the careless care 
 of others. Therefore it was not mysterious to any one but 
 himself, when, after a few years, the funds necessary to sup- 
 port his mode of life were not forthcoming. He looked grave. 
 But his credit was good ; he could raise money without diffi- 
 culty. He borrowed ; mortgages followed ; and on each new 
 mortgage he doubled his drams, until at length a violent fever, 
 the consequence of one of his " high sprees," laid him in his 
 grave. His sorrowful widow and little boy were left with 
 nothing save a small pittance, the proceeds of her claims on 
 the estate, which was paid annually by the new owner. 
 
 Ellen Stanton, wishing to avoid a place which could only . 
 remind her of the past, and influenced perhaps by some 
 movement of wounded pride, accepted the invitation of an 
 early and beloved frieud, who offered her a share of her 
 humble home, and, what was still better, one of the warmest 
 places in her noble heart. This friend was no other than 
 Lucy Maynard's aunt Esther. She was one of that class of 
 " us women," who, as some one has said, or if it has not been 
 said, we say it now, are born to keep the world in equilibrium. 
 She was an old maid ; and God bless all such, we say, for 
 we do not see how the world could well get on without them. 
 Lucy was the rich legacy left her by an only sister, the 
 widow of a sea-captain, whose last resting-place was beneath 
 the blue waves he had loved so well His wife, a part of 
 whose very existence he was, seemed no longer a creature' 
 .of earth after the news of his death reached her. She grew 
 paler and paler, her eye brighter and brighter, as the hour 
 drew near when she felt assured she should again meet him 
 who had been her life on earth, until at last her wish was 
 
278 
 
 LUCY MAYNARD. 
 
 realized, and she slept in the grave, and awoke in heaven. 
 At the time of her mother's death, Lucy was about five years 
 old. A few hours before she died, the mother called the 
 little girl to her side, and imprinting a last kiss on her lips, 
 said to her sister, in the low, husky tones of death, " Esther \ 
 Esther ! make her a true-hearted woman !" Nobly did aunt 
 Esther fulfil the dying injunction of her sister. To this end 
 she directed all her efforts. Her true heart, superior mind, 
 experience and strong good sense, counterbalanced the want 
 of education ; but she was not wholly deficient in this, as 
 she had received the benefit of the schools, such as they 
 were, for persons in her circumstances, fifty years ago. With 
 rare tact she united the qualities of companion and mother ; 
 and while she taught her adopted daughter all the myste- 
 ries of pastry, soup, and soap, she could also sing with her 
 " old songs, the music of the heart," and sympathize with 
 her admiration of the beautiful, whether in nature or in 
 books, if not always with equal enthusiasm, at least with a 
 hearty good will. When Charles Stanton and his mother 
 came to reside with her, aunt Esther's heart, which before 
 seemed to be wholly occupied by Lucy, immediately ex- 
 panded to make room for Charles. He was two years older 
 than Lucy, and became her protector in all the civil wars of 
 the village school, participated in all her studies and amuse- 
 ments, and was the companion of her visits to the old pas- 
 tor, Mr. Clayton. 
 
 The old man dearly loved the child, as he always called 
 Lucy, and would even lay aside his favorite volume of Jer- 
 emy Taylor, when her light knock was heard at the study 
 door. Charles soon became almost as dear to him as Lucy ; 
 and it was pleasant to see the old man, with Charles and 
 Lucy seated by him, alternately reading aloud some of his 
 favorite volumes of history, poetry, or romance, or listening 
 intently as he pointed out some new beauty of the author, or 
 attempted to satisfy their craving for knowledge from the 
 rich and varied lore of his own mind. 
 
 At length his mother's second marriage, which by the 
 way was a marriage of expediency, brought another change 
 
LUCY MAYNARD. 
 
 279 
 
 for Charles. She accepted the hand of a worthy farmer, and 
 took Charles to reside with her. But he still continued to 
 call aunt Esther's cottage " home ;" and every leisure moment 
 was passed either there or at the parsonage. His mind be- 
 gan to advance into that world where all is so much brighter 
 than the "light of common day ;" but his admiration of 
 nature and passionate love of books often made him the butt 
 of his step-father's good-natured ridicule. The honest man 
 would say, " he did not see what good there was in so much 
 laming. It neither helped hoe the corn nor plant the pota- 
 toes ; and as for 1 landskips/ as Charles calls them, he had 
 rather see the deep red, shining sides of his four years olds, than 
 all the skips in the world." But Charles found a dear and 
 appreciating friend in Mr. Clayton. The old pastor, delighted 
 with the boy's quickness of perception and eagerness to ac- 
 quire knowledge, willingly retraced with him the studies of 
 his earlier years. In the interest he felt for the boy, and the 
 delight he found in superintending his studies, he seemed to 
 find again some of the long-lost pleasures of his boyhood and 
 youth. Charles's mental life advanced rapidly. As he 
 grew older he became different from the young people around 
 him in the village. He no longer took the same interest in 
 their pleasures, though he sometimes mingled with them, 
 and listened kindly to their plans of amusement. He was 
 respected by them, yet like all those who live more from 
 within than from without, he was neither understood nor 
 appreciated. After the death of his mother he felt more alone 
 than ever. He had indeed nothing left, save the love of Mr. 
 Clayton, aunt Esther, and Lucy. But this was a priceless 
 possession. Its inspiration made his soul strong and buoy- 
 ant. He saw a struggle before him as he looked into the 
 future, but his eye grew clear, and his heart swelled with 
 gladness aud courage. One week after his interview with 
 Lucy at the spring, he was on his way to the West. 
 
 We must now be allowed to transport our readers to the 
 
 good town of S . It is no longer the same as when Mrs. 
 
 Stanton left it to reside with aunt Esther in Liston. The 
 spirit of " the times" has been there. The erection of facto- 
 
r <80 
 
 LUCY MAYNARD. 
 
 ries, and its proximity to the Boston and Providence railroad, 
 have greatly swelled its importance. Now it not only boasts 
 of three lawyers' offices, and four physicians, but " the store" 
 has grown to twice its former size. Messrs. Gresham and 
 Bartlett have been compelled to enlarge it, in order to com- 
 pete successfully with numerous rivals round the green, who 
 threatened to annihilate them by the superior splendor of 
 their sign-boards and extent of their buildings. That large 
 white house on the south corner of the green is the residence 
 of Squire Benson, attorney -and-counsellor-at-law, as he styles 
 himself. That lady who is peeping from behind the curtain 
 of the parlor window, and, with an expression of displeasure 
 on her face, watching the two young ladies who stand chat- 
 ting on the sidewalk, is Mrs. Benson, his wife. That young 
 lady who has now left her companion and is coming toward 
 the house, is Miss Julia Esther Benson, his daughter, the 
 would be belle of the town. 
 
 " Julia, my dear," says Mrs. Benson, as her daughter en- 
 ters the room, " was not that Caroline Hawley with whom 
 you spoke just now ?" 
 
 " Yes, ma ; I met her as she was going to the shop, and 
 stopped her to ask if Mrs. Shirley had yet received the latest 
 fashions from Boston." / 
 
 " But I should think your own sense of propriety would 
 teach you that it is not fitting for Julia Benson to be seen 
 speaking familiarly to a milliner's apprentice in the public 
 street, directly in front of Doctor Seward's too ; and Mrs. 
 Weldon, his wife's cousin, the senator's lady and her daugh- 
 ters, who are so exclusive, now visiting there !" 
 
 11 Why, ma, I am sure the Weldon's did not see me. Be- 
 sides, Caroline Hawley dresses very genteely. Only last 
 year you were so anxious to have me intimate with her that 
 you gave your great Christmas party, merely to secure me 
 the right of entree to her father's brilliant parties." 
 
 " True, Julia, but there is some difference between Cathe- 
 rine Hawley, the reputed heiress of a hundred thousand dol- 
 lars, and Catherine Hawley the milliner's apprentice. Really 
 
LUC/ MAYNARD. 281 
 
 failures are so frequent that it is necessary for pec pie of rank 
 and fashion to be exclusive." 
 
 "Well, ma, I suppose you know best. But Caroline was 
 always so pleasant ; I liked her very much," said Julia, as 
 she left the room. 
 
 This short conversation will enable the reader to gain 
 some glimpses of the ruling spirit of lawyer Benson's house. 
 Striving, ever striving ! but alas ! not for the imperishable, 
 the eternal ; not to realize the truth by which the pure in 
 heart see God — but for the glitter, the glare, the pretension 
 of that contemptible thing called fashion. 
 
 Under a soft, complaisant, and insinuating manner, Mrs. 
 Benson concealed the most inflexible will — a will that yielded 
 to no obstacles, and scrupled at no means in attaining her 
 ends, so long as she could conceal them from the eyes of the 
 world. She was ever ready and first, to subscribe to all the 
 fashionable charities and popular societies of the day ; to do 
 anything, in short, that could tend to place her and her 
 daughter in the first rank of gigmanity ; while all her house- 
 hold operations which lay behind the curtain, were conducted 
 with all the stint of the most penurious retrenchment. In 
 his family Mr. Benson was a complete nonentity. In 
 more ways than one, his wife made him feel that she was 
 indeed his better half. Julia was a pretty, good-natured girl, 
 with a fair share of intelligence. She would have made an 
 interesting woman if her mother had not been constantly in- 
 stilling into her mind the lessons of vanity and pride. In this 
 family — a lonely pupil of that stern teacher, poverty — lived 
 Lucy Maynard. Ay, lived — in the fullest sense of the word 
 — for the pure heart and earnest soul, like a fair flower strug 
 gling for the blessed sunlight, amid the weeds which sur 
 round it, will ever stretch upward toward the great Father 
 of Light, even when crushed beneath those rank weeds, pride 
 and disdain. Yes ! even in the family of lawyer Benson, 
 Lucy lived. Two years after Charles Stanton's departure 
 for the West, she was rendered doubly an orphan by the 
 death of aunt Esther. Before her death, aunt Esther made 
 
282 
 
 LUCY MAYNARD. 
 
 every provision in her power to screen her beloved charge 
 from want : and. after commending her warmly to the care 
 of her uncle, a brother of Captain Maynard, who resided in 
 
 D , Massachusetts, and much more strongly, and with 
 
 far firmer faith, to the care of the Father of the fatherless, 
 she slept the last sleep, and was laid to rest by the side of 
 her sister. 
 
 That was a sorrowful day for poor Lucy when the earth 
 closed over that dear face and kind heart with which had 
 been her home so long, when she found herself alone ! She 
 heeded not the setting sun that night, as in her utter loneli- 
 ness she knelt between the two graves, and passionately 
 wept. At length a hand was laid gently on her shoulder — 
 "the old pastor stood by her. He assisted her to rise, and led 
 her quietly, without speaking, to his own house. The first 
 burst of grief was over, and she grew calm, for her soul w r as 
 too clear and strong for despair. 
 
 Her uncle, John Maynard, received the orphan kindly ; 
 and both he and his wife employed all kind and gentle atten- 
 tions to render her happy. And she was happy— happy to 
 repay their kindness, in some measure, by her care for their 
 young children. If, when busy with memories of her dear 
 aunt Esther, and the days of her childhood and early youth, 
 thought, wandering to Charles Stanton, would sometimes 
 cause the work to drop from her hand, and the tear to fill 
 her eyes ; she was not unhappy, but fervently thanked God 
 that the bright beams of his mercy still rested on her path. 
 She had resided with her uncle about a year, when sudden 
 reverses reduced him from comparative affluence to poverty. 
 But John Maynard was not of a disposition to sit down in 
 despair without an effort, or appeal to the sympathy of others, 
 or complain of fate. Nor did his family hang upon him like 
 a mill-stone. With sunny faces and theerful hearts, from 
 the oldest down to wee Jamie, the youngest, each felt strong 
 to aid in retrieving their father's fallen fortunes, Lucy, un- 
 willing to remain dependent on her friends in this change of 
 circumstances, entreated permission to leave them and learn 
 some trade, by which she might gain a livelihood. But her 
 
LUCY MAYNARD. 
 
 283 
 
 gentle manners and kind heart had won their warmest affec- 
 tion. They were not willing to part with her, and gladly 
 would have persuaded her to share their humble fortunes in 
 the western world, to which they had decided to remove. 
 But Lucy, aware of the rigid economy they would be com- 
 pelled to practise, persisted in her entreaties until at last they 
 consented, and procured her a situation with Mrs. Shirley, 
 the most fashionable milliner in S . 
 
 And now poor Lucy is indeed left alone, wearing away 
 her life as a milliner's apprentice, with not one kind familiar 
 face near her. Every day she must devote the usual num- 
 ber of hours to her trade ; and besides this, like many a poor 
 girl, she must work for her board, and this is her position in 
 lawyer Benson's family. Mrs. Benson was very willing to 
 give her board for her services when she was not in the shop, 
 as it saved the expense of one servant. She was a consum- 
 mate mistress of the art of getting the greatest possible amount 
 of work out of all those who had the fortune or misfortune 
 to serve her. Poor Lucy bitterly felt the difference between 
 the kindness of her relatives, and the cold, unsympathizing 
 manners of the Bensons. Uncomplaining, she ministered to 
 the wants of the thoughtless, though not unreally kind Julia. 
 With unwearied diligence she performed all those duties 
 of the household which it pleased Mrs. Benson to term 
 " chores ;" and many a poor girl will bear witness to our 
 truth when we say that these " chores" include much of the 
 heaviest and most laborious portion of the housework. 
 
 Nor was this all. Mrs. Benson had one child, a son, 
 many years younger than Julia, who was afflicted with a 
 disease of the spine, and to whom Lucy's sweet voice and 
 winning manners were peculiarly attractive. An invalid 
 almost from his birth, Edward was peevish and fretful ; but 
 his eye always brightened when he heard her step on the 
 stairs which led to his room, as, weary with the labors of 
 the day, she came to bring his supper and prepare his drink 
 for the night. Lucy soon began to feel that here was some- 
 thing to love ; and when her mistress reminded her. as she 
 not unfrequently did, of her dependent situation, and talked 
 
284 
 
 LUCY MAYNARD. 
 
 of her great benevolence in keeping her merel / for doing a 
 " few chores," though her heart swelled and her eyes filled, 
 she felt that there was one whose joyous childhood was ren- 
 dered brighter and happier by her existence, and her heart 
 grew strong. Yet Lucy was not without her moments of — 
 we were about to say unalloyed happiness. The apprentice 
 girl had not forgotten the lessons of the old pastor ; and it 
 was a joyful moment for her when, after the last chore of 
 the day was done, her mistress bade her go and sit by Ed- 
 ward until he fell asleep. Then, though the boy would 
 sometimes insist on having the story of Little Red Riding- 
 Hood related twice over, and be more than usually anxious 
 to know how a wolf could talk — yet he was usually reason- 
 able, and many sweet hours did Lucy spend with her books, 
 with which, thanks to Caroline Hawley and her father, she 
 was well-supplied — storing her mind with rich lessons, freely 
 communing with the noblest and best of earth. 
 
 One morning, as Lucy was removing the breakfast things 
 from the table, Mrs. Benson and Julia were discussing a 
 brilliant party which they had attended the evening previous, 
 at the house of 'Squire Lee, a rival attorney. 
 
 " Was there anything equal to the pride and vanity of 
 the Lees ?" exclaimed Mrs. Benson. "Their French China ! 
 nothing but earthen, I dare say." 
 
 " But, ma, their dessert service is really silver. I heard 
 Mrs. Seward say so." 
 
 " Yes ! child, as 1 said before, there is nothing like their 
 extravagance. But Mrs. Lee, with all her silver plate, will 
 never be anything more than Fanny Dagget, the dress-maker. 
 She retains even now, the habit of feeling for her scissors 
 when talking. But, Julia, who was that handsome young 
 man that came in so late with Dr. Seward? He must be 
 somebody, if one may judge from the attentions shown him 
 by Mrs. Weldon and the Sewards." 
 
 " O ! that was Dr. Stanton. He and his uncle arrived 
 at the hotel yesterday from New- York. Mary Seward told 
 me that her family and the Lees are old friends of his father, 
 and that this is his native place." 
 
\ 
 
 LUCY MAYNARD. 285 
 
 "Why it mast be Charles Stanton, the son of Henry Stan- 
 ton, who died but heaven help the girl," she cried, spring- 
 ing to the table in time to catch part of the dishes which 
 the sound of that long-cherished name had caused Lucy to 
 drop, as she was about to place them on the waiter — " was 
 there ever such carelessness ? Two plates and three cups 
 broken ! my new breakfast set entirely ruined ! I don't be- 
 lieve there is another as careless girl in town. There, take 
 the fragments and waiter, and see if you can carry them to 
 the kitchen without dropping them." 
 
 "Mother !" said Julia, as the frightened girl left the room, 
 "Lucy is very pale ; I don't think she is well." 
 
 "She ought to look pale. Three of my new cofFee-pots 
 and two plates broken into inch pieces ! How many more 
 cracked I don't know." 
 
 "Bat you know, ma. since Edward has been worse she is 
 often obliged to get up in the night, to wait on him. He told 
 me this morning that she was up with him the greater part 
 of last night." 
 
 " He told me the same. But I keep her to wait on him. 
 Edward has taken a great fancy to her ; and after all, she 
 is as good as most girls. Servants are always more plague 
 than profit. Bat who did you say accompanied Charles 
 Stanton ?" 
 
 " His uncle, Mr. Gordon, from the West." 
 
 " Ah, now I remember, his mother was a Gordon, and had 
 a Gordon at the West, whose brother is said to be wealthy. 
 We must pay them some attention. If Edward gets no bet- 
 ter I will ask Dr. Seward to call in his young friend to con- 
 sult withfhim." 
 
 " Do, ma, I should like very much to be acquainted with 
 him." 
 
 Bat let us look into the kitchen, where poor Lucy is almost 
 breathless with delight at the thought of Charles Stanton's 
 return. It has brought back to the care-worn face mach of 
 the changeful beauty of earlier days, and she sits forgetful 
 of the broken China— of her mistress's displeasure — of all 
 save the happy days passed in her own sweet home at Lis- 
 
286 
 
 LUCY MAYNARD. 
 
 ton. " He has returned ! I knew he would come back !" 
 she murmured to herself, when the well known step of Mrs. 
 Benson roused her to a consciousness of her situation. In 
 that short, sweet dream, she had forgotten all but the past. 
 She took no account of the change in their relative positions 
 in society. For the moment she even forgot that, as she had 
 reason to suppose, Charles himself no longer thought of her 
 as formerly. But now her cheek blanched and her lip 
 quivered with sudden thoughts of the vast distance by which 
 the forms of society separated them. 
 
 Once Lucy's mind could not have entertained such 
 thoughts ; but she had. of late, heard the subject so often 
 discussed — had heard Mrs. Benson and her friends too often 
 speak of rank in society, and of the exclusiveness of " their 
 circle," not to be aware that she, Mrs. Benson's servant, was 
 too far from Dr. Stanton to think of intercourse with him. 
 
 True, Charles's letters, which had never failed during 
 aunt Esther's life, were full of kind remembrances of her, in 
 which she was always connected with his plans for the 
 future. And even during her residence with her uncle, their 
 correspondence had continued. But a short time after her 
 uncle's failure she had written to Charles, informing him of 
 her design to learn a trade. To this letter she received no 
 reply. Anxiously had she hoped and waited for an answer, 
 but none came. Slowly and painfully the conviction forced 
 itself on her mind that he wished to forget her. Charles had 
 been the ideal of all her dreams. Unconsciously his name 
 ever trembled on her lips, when, in the moment devoted to 
 her books, some new thought, beautiful in its purity and 
 truth, gladdened her heart and shed light over the dim vista 
 of the future. Unconsciously the thought of Charles's ap- 
 probation had stimulated her to improve every moment, to 
 make every possible exertion for a high degree of cultivation. 
 And now he had returned — the beautiful dream had vanished 
 — faded before the cold, false, heartless forms of society ! 
 
 Oh ! those only who have dreamed, hoped, longed, and 
 lived for such an ideal can understand the bitterness of the 
 
LUCY MAYNARD. 287 
 
 disappointment when, just at the moment of realization, we 
 find ourselves separated from it by the inexorable hand of 
 destiny ! 
 
 But Lucy's experience had taught her more than one ot 
 the great lessons of life. She now strove to school herself to 
 submission, and to fulfil with patient endurance all the 
 duties of her station. Early in the ensuing spring the term 
 of her apprenticeship would expire ; and as Mrs. Shirley 
 wished to retain her in her employment, she looked forward 
 with pleasure to the time when the avails of her labor would 
 render her independent, at least, of Mrs. Benson. 
 
 A few days after this, lawyer Benson informed his wife 
 that Mr. Gordon had purchased part of the old Stanton 
 estate, and that he was now busy furnishing the new cottage 
 on the hill. This was true. Mr. Gordon, wishing to gratify 
 his nephew / and disliking the noise and bustle of a hotel, on 
 finding part of the paternal estate for sale, immediately be- 
 came the purchaser, and in a few weeks they were enjoying 
 all the quiet and comfort of a New-England home. 
 
 As rumor had represented Mr. Gordon to be far more 
 wealthy than he really was, their establishment in the place 
 was an event of the first importance to the i: exclusives." 
 They immediately received all sorts of attention from the 
 many, and more gradually found some who could appreciate 
 their worth and become sincerely their friends. Mrs. Ben- 
 son was not the only managing mamma to whom Charles, 
 especially, became an object of the highest consideration. 
 
 The warm recommendations of Dr. Seward soon procured 
 for Charles quite an extensive practice. Little Edward, who 
 daily grew worse, was almost entirely given over to his care, 
 Dr. Seward only looking in occasionally. As Charles's calls 
 were always made during those hours when Lucy was at 
 the shop, she never met him ; and although she frequently 
 heard Mrs. Benson and her daughter mention his name, and 
 sound his praises, yet with the sensitiveness of one who 
 keenly felt the injustice and falseness of those conventional 
 laws of society which oppressed her, and which now regu- 
 
288 
 
 LUCY MAYNARD. 
 
 lated the character of Charles, as she had such painful reason 
 to believe, she avoided all that could lead to a discovery of 
 her early connection with him. 
 
 Meanwhile rumor began to prophecy, in whispers, that the 
 beautiful cottage on the hill would soon have a mistress in 
 Miss Julia. Mrs. Benson managed — Charles paid Julia 
 some attentions, which gave rise to banter on the part of her 
 young friends ; and the manner in which Mrs. Benson re- 
 plied to such remarks certainly was not calculated to silence 
 them. Rumor continued to whisper, louder and louder, un- 
 til the matter was spoken of as a thing probably settled. 
 Lucy heard all this in silence, and sought refuge from all 
 painful thoughts in her ministry of love to Edward. 
 
 As he grew worse he clung to her with increasing fond- 
 ness, and at length Mrs. Benson procured another to take 
 her place in the kitchen, that all her moments of leisure from 
 the shop might be devoted exclusively to the little sufferer 
 who was evidently near death. One day, toward the lasf 
 of February, Dr. Stanton was detained from calling at his 
 ordinary hour, and drove to the door much later than 
 usual. Finding Mrs. Benson engaged with company, he 
 followed the servant directly to Edward's room. He found 
 his patient asleep. After feeling his pulse and arranging 
 some powders, he turned to the nurse, who sat at the foot of 
 the bed, almost wholly concealed by its ample drapery, and 
 commenced giving directions. But suddenly interrupting 
 himself, he inquired how long the boy had slept. The answej 
 was inaudible. 
 
 " How long did you say, nurse ?" he asked again. 
 
 " About half an hour," was the answer, in low, tremulous 
 tones, which thrilled through his own soul. 
 
 Charles sprang to her side, and grasping her arm, drew 
 her to the light, exclaiming — " It is ! it must be Lucy May- 
 nard — my own Lucy ! Speak again ! For God's sake, speak 
 again !" 
 
 Oh ! there are moments when the whole soul comes forth 
 to brood on the face ! Words could not have brought so 
 sweet an assurance to his heart as did one glance of those 
 
LUCY MAYNARD. 
 
 289 
 
 deep blue eyes, as he pressed her half-fainting to his bosom. 
 
 "And you have been near me so long," he continued — 
 : ' even in this house, and I have not known it ! Lucy ! was 
 this quite right?" 
 
 " I have wronged you, Charles. As you did not answer 
 my letter, informing you of the change in my circumstances. 
 I thought you had changed. Forgive me, Charles, but I 
 have been made to feel, somewhat keenly, the disdain which 
 those of your social rank and advantages feel authorized to 
 bestow on such as occupy my position. Oh ! if you only 
 knew what I have suffered, in thinking that you, too, were 
 influenced by this falseness of society — that you, too, could 
 neglect me, because of my friendless poverty — you would 
 forgive me." 
 
 I changed ! I disdain you ! Society create a distance 
 between you and me ! Oh ! how could you mistake me 
 thus? You must indeed have learned some bitter lessons, 
 my poor Lucy, or you could not have wronged me so !" 
 
 11 But my letter, Charles, why did you not answer my let- 
 ter?" 
 
 " Because, dearest Lucy, I never received it. I was a long 
 time traveling with my uncle, in various parts of the country, 
 before we came here, and must have left Cincinnati before it 
 arrived there. Before I came here, I visited Liston. Our 
 kind friend, the old pastor, had been dead nearly a year. In 
 answer to my inquiries I was informed that you still resided 
 
 in D , with your uncle. I hastened to D , and was 
 
 there told, that you accompanied your uncle's family to Iowa. 
 Wearied and dispirited, I rejoined my uncle, whose business 
 had detained him in New- York. We came here, as it was 
 a favorite plan of my uncle to re-purchase, if possible, a part 
 of my father's estate. But I had resolved to visit Iowa in 
 the spring, to find you if possible, and ascertain whether the 
 sweet play-mate of my youth would not sustain to me a still 
 nearer and dearer relation." 
 
 " But Julia " 
 
 " Julia neither is, has been, nor can be to me anything 
 more than a lively, good-tempered girl, spoiled by the over- 
 
I 
 
 290 LUCY MAYNARD. 
 
 management of her mother. But first of all— even before 
 you answer the question which interests me so deeply — 
 allow me to provide you a more suitable home." 
 
 Lucy pointed to the sleeping boy. " No ! Charles," she 
 said, " 1 cannot leave him now. He will allow no one else 
 to wait on him. You say he has but a few days to live. 
 Let me, at least, soothe his last hours, for he has ever loved 
 me." 
 
 " Let it be so, then ; and now good night." 
 
 Lucy's unwearied ministry of love was soon over. One 
 week after this meeting, Edward was in his grave. 
 
 "But were they married ? were they married?" the fair 
 girls ask. Indeed they were. And, if one may judge from 
 the animated conversation going on in Mrs. Benson's parlor, 
 their marriage has caused no small stir among the exclusives. 
 
 " An old acquaintance, did you say, Mrs. Benson ?" ex- 
 claims Mrs. Eliott, her most intimate friend ; old acquaint- 
 ances are they ? And did you never suspect it ? Did the 
 girl never mention it ?" 
 
 " I am not accustomed to make myself either the compan- 
 ion or confidant of my servants, Mrs. Elliott," was the digni- 
 fied answer. 
 
 " But do tell us, Julia, what sort of creature is this new 
 edition of Cinderella ? Is she beautiful V' 
 
 " Oh ! pray don't come to me for a catalogue of her charms ! 
 I really cannot tell whether her eyes are blue, black, or 
 grey. You have seen her a thousand times." 
 
 " Yes, no doubt ; — but one never thinks of looking at a 
 servant. Still, she must be superior to most of her class, for 
 she has interested Dr. Stanton, and it is acknowledged that 
 he is a man of taste." 
 
 il Yes, yes," says Mrs. Benson, in reply to the last part of 
 Mrs. Elliott's remark, " and it is to be regrettedthatone with 
 his talents and refinement, should contract such a mesalliance. 
 Of course, he cannot retain his position in society — at least 
 not here. We, who have shown him some attention as the 
 descendant of the old Stanton family, shall now be obliged 
 
LUCY MAYNARD. 
 
 291 
 
 to drop him. I wonder how he will bear tl ie changed man- 
 ners of Mrs. Weldon and the Sewards." 
 
 " Then you will not call on the bride ?" 
 
 " No, indeed. I shall not do myself that honor, unless it be 
 to order a new bonnet." 
 
 " Why, where can the Seward's be going ?" ex< laims Julia, 
 from the window—" there are Mrs. Seward, Mary, and the 
 Weldons, in the carriage." 
 
 " They are probably going to talk over this queer affair 
 with the Lees," replied her mother. 
 
 The two elder ladies continued their discussion of this 
 " queer affair," finding no terms adequate to express their 
 wonder at the infatuation of Charles Stanton, until another 
 exclamation from Julia, who had remained at the window, 
 watching the carriage, drew them both to her side. 
 
 " Look, ma ! look, Mrs. Elliott I The carriage has stopped 
 at the cottage." 
 
 " Sure enough, Mrs. Benson," adds her friend, i: and there- 
 is Dr. Stanton receiving them from the carriage. Well, this 
 is a strange movement ! But if the Weldons condescend to 
 call on them, no one else can refuse." 
 
 " Certainly, this alters the case," replies Mrs. Benson. 
 " And now I think of it, perhaps it is better that Julia and I 
 should call likewise, as there has been some little talk about 
 some slight attentions Dr. Stanton paid her. If we refuse to 
 call, people may indulge themselves in ill-natured remarks." 
 
 That afternoon the bridal pair received the congratulations 
 of Mrs. Benson and Miss Julia. These visitors felt some 
 awkward embarrassment on the way, which Lucy's calm 
 and dignified self-respect, blended, as it was, with the most 
 graceful politeness, did not contribute to lessen on their arri- 
 val. But the Seward's have returned ; let us step over, for 
 a moment, and hear them." 
 
 "Believe me, my dear Mrs. Seward." says Mrs. Weldon, 
 ' I never in my life paid my congratulations, on an occasion 
 like this, with such heart-felt pleasure. I feared, indeed, that 
 our young friend's mind had been misled by some romantic 
 
292 
 
 LUCY MAYNARD. 
 
 idea of obligation to one who stood in such close connection 
 with his boyish associations. But she is indeed worthy of 
 him. She is a delightful creature. I could hardly refrain 
 from calling her an angel myself." 
 
 " No," replied Mrs. Seward, " he was not one to deceive 
 himself in such a matter. His mind is too clear ; — his ideal 
 too pure, too perfect, to allow any false views to guide his 
 conduct in so important an affair as this. The question with 
 him was, not whether she had wealth, station, or beauty, but 
 whether she could speak to his heart, sympathize with his 
 life of thought, and sustain to his soul that beautiful relation. 
 I cannot sufficiently admire his independence of mind, in fol- 
 lowing out his own convictions in this case, though some of 
 his acquaintance will censure him severely." 
 
 " But, aunt Seward," exclaims Grace Weldon, " his wife 
 is beautiful, and her manners altogether charming and lady- 
 like. How quietly and gracefully she received our congratu- 
 lations. She was really beautiful in her simple, white dress 
 — was she not, Mary !" 
 
 ' : Oh, yes! Grace, and the strangest thing of all is, that 
 we have never noticed her before, when she has lived so 
 long with Mrs. Benson, only just across the way." 
 
 "Ah! my daughter, I fear that we. and a great many 
 others in the world, are ever looking too much abroad or 
 above us, for the good and beautiful ; and in so doing miss 
 diamonds that lie in the dust at her feet — neglect many of 
 the noblest and best of earth, leaving them to be crushed be- 
 neath the stern hand of poverty — or, what is worse, to pass 
 through life without kindness or sympathy. The pride of 
 fashionable life makes us too blind and cold to see and love 
 others as we ought." 
 
 And now, dear reader, if you are still anxious or curious, 
 walk with me, in this soft June moonlight, to the beautiful 
 cottage on the hill, and we will see them in their home. We 
 know all about them. They have no secrets from us. There- 
 fore we may be as lawless as fairies, and peep in at the win- 
 dow. Take care ! Do not be so hasty, and mind where you 
 step, or you will crush all the violets and sweet clover. Now 
 
LUCY MAYNARD. 
 
 293 
 
 push away this honey-suckle, and look into the room. " How 
 happy she seems !" did you say? Ay, she is indeed happy ! 
 See that white-headed old man ! It is Mr. Gordon. 
 
 How he raises his eyes from the book, and gazes at her 
 through the open door of the library, with an expression that 
 seems to say, t: God bless her !" Hark ! there are footsteps 
 in the passage ! How eagerly she starts and springs to the 
 door, just in time to be caught in the arms of her husband, 
 
 " I have not forgotten that it is your birth-day, Lucy," he 
 says. " In the happy days at Liston, aunt Esther used to 
 give us a kiss and a whipping. Which do you think you 
 deserve V 
 
 « Why, Charles, if I remember rightly, it was I who re- 
 ceived the kiss, and you the whipping." 
 
 " Ah ! yes, I believe you are half right. But I have brought 
 you something surpassingly beautiful : the poems of one 
 whose poetic vision of divine things, and whose deep, serene, 
 entrancing utterance of what is granted to that vision, are 
 unrivalled among the rising generation of poets — one who, if 
 his mature years do not belie his early promise, will become 
 the poet and prophet of his age. Read me one of those son- 
 nets, dearest." 
 
 Lucy took the book, and began, in an exquisitely modu- 
 lated voice, one of those beautiful sonnets. 
 ' As she read the closing lines, 
 
 "I dare not say how much thou art to me, 
 Even to myself — and, oh ! much less to thee !" 
 
 there was so much earnest truth and deep tenderness in the 
 glance with which she met his eye, that Charles felt assured, 
 as he involuntarily caught her to his bosom, that he held in 
 his embrace 
 
 " Earth's noblest thing, 
 A woman perfected." 
 
 The sweetest of all life is that which we live in the good 
 f others. 
 
TO MY SPIRIT LOVE. 
 
 I love you — 'tis the simplest way 
 
 The thing I feel to tell ; 
 Yet if I told it all the day, 
 
 You'd never guess how well. 
 You are my comfort and my light — 
 
 My very life you seem ; 
 I think of you all day ; all night 
 
 'Tis but of you I dream. 
 
 There's pleasure in the lightest word 
 
 That you can speak to me ; 
 My soul is like the iEolian's chord, 
 
 And vibrates still to thee. 
 I never read the love-song yet, 
 
 So thrilling, fond, or true, 
 But in my own heart 1 have met 
 
 Some kinder thought for you. 
 
 I bless the shadows of your face, 
 
 The light upon your hair — 
 I like for hours to sit and trace 
 
 The passing changes there : 
 I love to hear your voice's tone, 
 
 Although you should not say 
 A single word to dream upon 
 
 When that has died away. 
 
 Oh ! you are kindly as the beam 
 That warms where'er it plays, 
 
 And you are gentle as a dream 
 Of happy future days — 
 
 And you are strong to do the right, 
 And swift the wrong to flee — 
 
 And if you were not half so bright, 
 You're all the world to me 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER. 
 
 Say, shall I never see thy face, my child ? 
 My heart is full of feelings strange and wild : 
 A mother's hopes and heartfelt joys are mine, 
 My soul is filled with gushings half divine ; 
 And never more, my child, am I alone, 
 Since thy young heart doth echo to mine own. 
 
 But J shall never see thee ? can it be, 
 That all may gaze, my precious hoy, on thee, 
 And yet the heart that loves thee most, forego 
 The dearest pleasure other mother's know 1 
 This, this is an anguish — agony refined ! 
 Oh ! God, forgive me ! — Baby, I am blind ! 
 
 Yes, yes — I never, never knew before, 
 The depth of my affliction — oh, for power, 
 For one short thrilling moment, child, to gaze 
 On thy sweet tiny face, that others praise ; 
 And yet I must not murmur — God is kind — 
 But this is darkness — now I feel I'm blind ! 
 
 Nay, do not start, my child, it was a tear 
 That wet thy brow ; thy mother, boy, is here ; 
 And though I may not see thee, yet I feel 
 Thy velvet cheek against my bosom steal ; 
 And none can harm thee there, nor hand unkind 
 Shall touch my darling, even though I'm blind ! 
 
 List — list — it is thy father's step I hear; 
 
 Now let me smooth thy brow ; press back the tear, 
 
 He shall not find me weeping, when so bless'd 
 
 With thee, my darling, cradled on my breast; 
 
 But, could I only see thee ! Yet, God's will 
 
 Be done ! Peace, throbbing heart, be still ! 
 
296 
 
 SPIRITUAL LOVE. 
 
 We are alone again, he never guessed 
 What yearning anguish filled thy mother's breast, 
 When he did praise thy features half defined, 
 He quite forgot that his young wife was blind ! 
 And yet, when his fond arm was round us thrown, 
 His lip half trembled when it met my own. 
 
 Oh, should he e'er repent him he hath wed 
 A being burthened with a woe so dread : 
 Should he grow tired of one so frail and weak, 
 My heart, in that dark hour, would joy to break; 
 Or should his lip grow cold, his hand unkind, 
 God help me, baby, then indeed I'm blind ! 
 
 But shall I never see thee? Yes, my boy, 
 Some future hour my heart shall know that joy; 
 It may not be on earth, but in the skies, 
 I yet shall gaze, my darling, in thine eyes; 
 So will I patient be, for God is kind, 
 For in yon Heaven there are no blind ! 
 
 SPIRITUAL LOVE. 
 
 There is a love! 'tis not the wandering fire 
 
 That must be fed on folly, or expire ; 
 
 Gleam of polluted hearts, the meteor ray 
 
 That fades as rises Reason's nobler day ; 
 
 But passion made essential, holy, bright, 
 
 Like the raised dead, our dust transformed to light 
 
 'Tis not the cold Romance's ecstacy, 
 
 The flame new-lit at every passing eye: 
 
 But the high impulse that the stately soul 
 
 Feels slow engross it, but engross it whole ; 
 
 Yet seeks it not, nay turns with stern disdain 
 
 On its own weakness that can wear a chain ; 
 
 Still wrestling with the angel, till its pride 
 
 Feels all the strength departed from its side. 
 
Ban-mateT 
 
JHotI)*r0 cmtr HDaugljters of % Bible. 
 
 MARTHA. 
 
 BY REV. S. D. BURCHARD. 
 
 The mention of places hallowed in Scripture by the 
 miracles or presence of the Son of God, calls up a rush of 
 old and pleasant memories. The little town of Bethlehem, 
 the brook Kedron, the waters of the Jordan, the lake of Gen- 
 nesaret, the mount of Olives, the garden of Gethsemane, 
 the hill of Calvary, can never fade from the memory of man ; 
 and many a pilgrim will visit these places, not because they 
 are the home of genius and art, not that they surpass all 
 others in beauty of scenery, but that his affections may be 
 softened and hallowed by the associations of the past. Jesus 
 was born there, lived there, prayed there, suffered there, 
 died there. This gives them their chief interest and impor- 
 tance. The obscure town of Bethany has been rescued 
 from oblivion, because it is associated with the social kind- 
 ness of Jesus, with one of his most stupendous miracles, and 
 with his ascent to glory. It was situated on the eastern 
 slope of the Mount of Olives, about two miles from the city 
 of Jerusalem, and was the home of Martha, Mary, and Laza- 
 rus. It was a beautiful and retired spot, to which the Sa- 
 viour, in the pauses of labor and oppressed with fatigue, was 
 wont to repair. Here his wearied human nature sought 
 repose ; here his social feelings met a kindly response ; here 
 he found the home and the heart of friendship — a green 
 spot recovered from the selfishness of the great, wide world. 
 Grieved, as he often must have been, at the stern opposition 
 of the men he came to save — worn with the toils and fatigues 
 
298 
 
 MARTHA. 
 
 of his arduous mission — weary with the sights and sounds 
 of a pleasure-loving city, it is no wonder that, at nightfall, 
 he sought rest amid the more rural scenes and social sym- 
 pathies of Bethany. Here he always found a welcome, and, 
 if anywhere on earth, he may be said to have had a home, 
 it was in the family of Martha, Mary, and Lazarus. These 
 three constituted the family group. They had tasted of 
 sorrow — they had mourned over the grave of the loved and 
 the lost ; they were orphans ; and now their hearts were 
 linked to each other in beautiful sympathy and affection. 
 Though Jews by birth and education, and strongly attached 
 to Moses and the prophets, their hearts had been opened to 
 u the truth as it is in Jesus." They saw that the dispen- 
 sation of rites and ceremonies was to give way to a sublimer 
 dispensation ; that Moses was to be superseded by Jesus — 
 that the type was realized in the presence of the great and 
 blessed Antitype. It was therefore a pious family in full 
 sympathy with the mission of Jesus. Their whole history, 
 as recorded by the different Evangelists, is full proof of this. 
 Many and touching are the incidents illustrative of their love 
 for the Son of God. Mary anointed his head with precious 
 ointment, bathed his feet with her tears, and listened, with 
 meekness and docility, to his instructions. Martha remem- 
 bered his wants, as a man, and honored him by more active 
 and wearisome service. Lazarus was midway between the 
 two — the conservative party ; he both sat at the feet of Jesus, 
 and served. He aided his sister Martha in her toils, and 
 sympathized in the quiet love and docility of Mary. These 
 different developments of character were the result of natu- 
 rally different temperaments, yet neither proving the lack, of 
 devoted attachment. Martha, the senior of the family, was 
 earnest and resolute, doing with her might what her hands 
 found to do ; a careful provider, looking well to the ways of 
 her household ; sometimes chafed with cares, and " cumbered 
 with much serving." She may not have possessed the ami- 
 able sweetness or patient meekness of her sister ; but in heroic 
 fortitude, in womanly courage, in the elements of endurance, 
 she may have surpassed her. Mary was a gentle creature, 
 
MARTHA. 
 
 299 
 
 full of love and tenderness, whose heart was unused lo care, 
 who would rather throw off the toils and responsibilities of 
 life, and make duty consist in repose, in a quiet and medi- 
 tative life. Had she lived in the days of the church's apos 
 tacy, she would not indeed have relinquished her faith in 
 Jesus, but she would have made a beautiful recluse — a quiet, 
 and submissive nun — charmed with the solitudes of a clois- 
 ter, and absorbed in the deep meditations of a devoutly 
 religious life. Martha would have been the true sister of 
 charity — active in relieving the wants of the needy, preparing 
 bread for the hungry and clothing for the naked ; cumbered 
 still with much serving, but none the less a Christian. Her 
 Christian character would have developed itself in this way, 
 rather than in a passive sentimentalism, which is more beau- 
 tiful than useful, more poetic than pious. Piety, in its out- 
 ward developments, takes its shape and stamp somewhat 
 from the characteristics nature has given us. Sometimes 
 it is bold and active ; then again it is timid and retiring : 
 sometimes it assumes the aggressive and reformatory aspect ; 
 then again it clings, with a loving tenacity, to the present 
 and the past. It cannot endure the conflict and commotion 
 incident to revolution or change. It sees no good in it, but 
 rather hazard, weariness, and unnecessary labor. These 
 various manifestations may arise, not so much from different 
 degrees of piety, as from a difference of original temperament. 
 Some men are naturally fond of stir and excitement ; they 
 desire to be in motion and to see everything moving around 
 them. Monotony — quietism — is positively onerous to them. 
 They have no patience with a drone or a dreamy sentimen- 
 talist. If such persons are converted, they will make a stir ; 
 there is no danger of a stagnation of the waters agitated by 
 their movements. But who will say that they are altogether 
 indebted to religion for their zeal and activity ? They may 
 have no more moral principle than the man who cultivates 
 more the interior life — who is meditative and modest — who 
 acts less and thinks the more — who tills noiselessly the field, 
 for which nature, as well as grace, has fitted him. Who 
 will venture to say that Peter was more pious than John 1 
 
300 
 
 MARTHA. 
 
 yet he was more active — apparently more zealous. The 
 fact is, they were naturally different men, and grace did not 
 annihilate their idiosyncracies of temperament or character. 
 Their piety may have been equal, for aught we know — but 
 Peter, from his natural temperament, was more subject to 
 temptation than John. It may have cost him a greater 
 struggle, more self-denial, to be a Christian, than it did 
 the beloved disciple. John's temperament and character 
 more readily harmonized with the principles and spirit of the 
 gospel. He may not have had a quick and irascible temper 
 to be overcome, or strong passions to be subdued, or peculiar 
 susceptibilities to which temptation might powerfully appeal ; 
 and hence his love and gentleness may not all have been 
 moral virtue, but an amiable goodness. Virtue, to be known, 
 must be tried— it must come into conflict with temptation 
 and vice ; it must enter the arena of a moral encounter be- 
 fore we can certainly pronounce it genuine. We can con- 
 ceive that a naturally irritable and fretful man, who even at 
 times hurts his profession by occasional ebullitions of passion, 
 may really have more piety than one who is always meek 
 and gentle. He may have more encounters with temptation 
 and manifest more resistance in a single day, than another 
 may have occasion to do in a year. There is really no virtue 
 in being or doing that which costs us nothing. The life of 
 a Christian is represented in Scripture as a warfare— an 
 encounter with u principalities and powers " — an earnest 
 wrestling with the unseen enemies that war against the 
 soul even until the mastery is gained. He who does battle 
 against an evil temper, and conquers it, has done a noble 
 service. " He that is slow to anger, is better than the mighty ; 
 and he that ruleth his spirit, than he who taketh a city." 
 He who has no spirit to overcome, no violent passion to con- 
 quer — who is naturally amiable and gentle — is not as much 
 entitled to this high encomium as he who " finds in him a 
 law warring against the law of his mind," and yet who keeps 
 his body under, and suffers not his inferior nature to gain 
 the ascendency. 
 
 We may not be sufficiently lenient in our indiscriminate 
 
MARTHA. 
 
 301 
 
 censures, or cautious in our unqualified praise, not under- 
 standing the different temperaments and ruling" passions of 
 different men. Thus we apprehend that the religious world 
 have not been sufficiently charitable to Martha, forgetting 
 the natural bent of her disposition ; and she has been cen- 
 sured as worldly, selfish, and irritable. Mary, on the con- 
 trary, has been cherished as a model of perfection — the gem 
 of that beloved family. We would be the last to detract 
 from her excellence. She also did the Saviour honor ; she 
 exhibited the true heart of woman — her whole nature was 
 turned to the melodies of love ; she made choice of that 
 "good part" which shall never be taken from her. But is 
 there any evidence that Martha had not chosen the same 
 "good part?" There is abundant proof to the contrary. 
 Her love and piety were manifested in receiving Jesus to 
 her house, and in aiming to provide suitable entertainment 
 for so distinguished a Guest. It was an exhibition of her 
 faith and obedience in the mode most agreeable to her active 
 and industrious temperament. The bent of Mary's mind 
 led her in a different direction. But had both been of the 
 same mind, there would have been a fast in the house of 
 Bethany, rather than a feast, and Jesus would have hun- 
 gered in the family of his friends. He accepts the free-wiil 
 offering of both, and it was only when Martha suffered her 
 anxiety, for a moment, to get the better of her charity, 
 that she erred, and received that gentle rebuke, — " Martha, 
 Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things." 
 This does not imply any lack of confidence in Martha, any 
 distrust of her piety. A written testimonial is given of his 
 affection for her, as well as for the other members of the 
 family, — " Now Jesus loved Martha, and her sister, and La- 
 zarus." Behold again their different traits of character when 
 sorrow enters their dwelling. Both are anxious, both watch 
 beside the patient sufferer, and listen with troubled hope 
 to his labored breathing. The thoughts of both are turned 
 to Jesus ; but he is away — far beyond Jerusalem. He returns 
 not with the messenger, who had been sent to inform him 
 that his friend Lazarus was sick. " Why does he not come V 
 
302 
 
 MARTHA. 
 
 inquire the anxious sisters. "If he were here, our brother 
 would not die." The cloud deepens — the dreaded calamity- 
 hastens — the awful crisis has come — and the beloved Lazarus 
 is dead ! And will not Jesus be there to attend the rites of 
 sepulture, and mourn with the bereaved sisters of Bethany 1 
 He is not there, and the blow has fallen, like a thunderbolt, 
 upon their crushed hearts. Mary, that delicate and loving 
 creature, who had sat at the feet of Jesus, is stricken like a 
 defenceless thing to the earth. The blow was too much for 
 her. She sits now in her disconsolate dwelling, like a motion- 
 less statue, dumb with grief. Her heart is breaking with 
 sorrow. Martha also is sad — feels deeply her loss ; but her 
 lofty faith is turned to Jesus, and patiently does she wait 
 his coming. She turns her anxious eye to Jericho, and then 
 she looks with a steadfast gaze over the Mount of Olives, 
 that she may recognize, amid the numerous passers-by, the 
 well-known form of Jesus. At length she beholds, through 
 the dim and early twilight, the form of a man. She is told 
 that it is Jesus who is coming ; and as soon as she heard 
 that, she ran and met him — " but Mary sat still in the house." 
 Whose heart is now responsive to the coming of her Lord, 
 and hastens to express her sublime faith in Him who is the 
 resurrection and the life? "Lord," says she, "if thou hadst 
 been here, my brother had not died. But I know, that even 
 now, whatsoever thou wilt ask of God, God will give it thee." 
 Jesus saith unto her, — " Thy brother shall rise again." She 
 doubts not, but says, — " Yea, Lord, I believe that thou art 
 the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the 
 world." The intimation that her brother should rise again — 
 that he should come back from the land of darkness and 
 corruption, and move again in this living world — was too 
 strange and joyful news to be kept for a moment in her own 
 heart, and she hastens to her disconsolate sister, and says, — 
 " The Master is come, and calleth for thee." At this an- 
 nouncement, Mary awakes from her delirium of grief, arises 
 quickly, and comes to Jesus. The Jews, who supposed that 
 she was going to the grave to yield to the uncontrollable 
 passion of grief, followed her. She falls at the feet of Jesus, 
 
THE PROGRESS OF LIFE. 
 
 303 
 
 and says, in the language of Martha, — " Lord, if thou hadst 
 been here, my brother had not died." Mary, Martha, and 
 their Jewish friends were all assembled, and weeping with 
 inconsolable sorrow. At this sublime spectacle of mingled 
 grief and affection, " Jesus wept," and said, — " Where have 
 ye laid him ?" He is directed to the mouth of the cave. He 
 prays; earnest and tremulous were the tones of his voice. 
 
 "He ceased — 
 And for a minute's space there was a hush, 
 As if the angelic watchers of the world 
 Had stayed the pulses of all breathing things. 
 To listen to that prayer." 
 
 "Take ye away the stone," said Jesus. For a moment, 
 doubt and faith alternate in the bosom of the anxious Mar- 
 tha — but faith, at length, triumphs. "And Jesus cried with 
 a loud voice, — 1 Lazarus, come forth !' " 
 
 "O God ! what means that strange and sudden sound 
 That murmurs from the tomb — that ghastly head, 
 With funeral fillets bound ? 
 It is a living form ! 
 The loved — the lost — the won — 
 Won from the grave, corruption, and the worm ! 
 « And is this the Son of God V 
 They whispered ; while the sisters poured 
 Their gratitude in tears — for they had known the Lord." 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF LIFE. 
 
 I dreamed — I saw a little rosy child, 
 With flaxen ringlets, in a garden playing; 
 Now stopping here, and then afar off straying, 
 
 As flower or butterfly his feet beguiled. 
 'Twas changed. One summer's day I stepped aside, 
 
 To let him pass; his face had manhood's seeming, 
 
 And that full eye of blue was fondly beaming 
 On a fair maiden whom he called "his Bride." 
 
 Once more : 'twas autumn, and the cheerful fire 
 I saw a group of youthful forms surrounding, 
 The room with harmless pleasantry resounding, 
 
 And in the midst I marked the smiling Sire. 
 The heavens were clouded : — and I heard the tone 
 Of a slow-moving bell: the white-haired man was gone! 
 
THE FEMALE CONVICT TO HER INFANT. 
 
 Oh, sleep not, my babe — for the morn of to-morrow 
 Will hush me to slumbers more tranquil than thine ; 
 
 The dark grave will shield me from shame and from sorrow, 
 Though the deeds and the doom of the guilty are mine. 
 
 Not long shall the arm of affection enfold thee — 
 Not long shalt thou hang on thy mother's fond breast; 
 
 And who with the eye of delight shall behold thee, 
 Who watch thee, and guard thee, when I am at rest? 
 
 And yet doth it grieve me to wake thee, my dearest, 
 
 The pangs of thy desolate parent to see : 
 Thou wilt weep when the clank of my fetters thou hearest, 
 
 And none but the guilty should mourn over me. 
 
 And yet must I wake thee — for while thou art weeping, 
 
 To calm thee, I stifle my tears for awhile ; 
 But thou smil'st in thy dreams while thus placidly sleeping, 
 
 And, oh, how it wounds me to gaze on thy smile ! 
 
 Alas, my sweet babe ! with what pride had I press'd thee 
 To the bosom that now throbs with terror and shame, 
 
 If the pure tie of virtuous affection had bless'd thee, 
 And hail'd thee the heir of thy father's high name ! 
 
 But now, with remorse that avails not, I mourn thee, 
 Forsaken and friendless as soon thou wilt be ; 
 
 In a world, if it cannot betray, that will scorn thee — 
 Avenging the guilt of thy mother on thee. 
 
 And when the dark thought of thy fate shall awaken 
 The deep blush of shame on thy innocent cheek ; 
 
 When by all, but the God of the orphan, forsaken, 
 A home and a father in vain thou shalt seek. 
 
 I know that the base world will strive to deceive thee, 
 With falsehood like that which thy mother beguil'd ; 
 
 Deserted and helpless, to whom can I leave thee ! — 
 Oh, God of the fatherless, pity my child ! 
 
THE DOUBLE LOVE 
 
 A FACT. 
 
 Grace, harmony, and elegance were raying" forth their 
 splendors for the delight of a nation — for Elssler was on the 
 stage. The ballet of the evening was Le Dieu et la Bay- 
 adere. Perhaps the world does not afford a finer or, more 
 appropriate plot ; and rarely has a beautiful story been mar- 
 ried to sweeter music. It does not, to be sure, admit those 
 wild, those bewitching flights that make the peculiar magic 
 of this surpassing creature ; but still it affords a fine display 
 of the powers of the most wonderful pantome that ever 
 acted eloquence. Mark how every limb of this airy being 
 waves to the melodious music, as if the life that gives them 
 motion had its origin and centre in those sounds — as if the 
 music were an inspiration, that, like a transfusing deity, 
 charged her whole frame with buoyant power. If you saw 
 not the orchestra, you might suppose that her limbs gave off 
 the music. One skilful to translate into sound these hiero- 
 glyphics of motion, might write the opera by the eye. She 
 sinks, as evening declines along the valleys ; she rises upon 
 the sight, like morning dawning on the hills. As she throws 
 forth her arms or feet, they seem to melt away into light, 
 and to leave behind them a kind of flash. 
 
 But from the dancing — even from such dancing — my 
 attention was diverted towards a young actress who sang 
 in one of the chorusses. It was a new face, and surprisingly 
 beautiful, and of a most original and engaging style of beau- 
 ty, that lay rather in a flashing and sensitive expression 
 than in the contour of the features. Her restless, glancing, 
 dark eye, and the delicate impatience of her lip, indicated 
 a genius that was little in keeping with the commonplace 
 creatures around her. Her voice, too, though repressed by a 
 
306 
 
 THE DOUBLE LOVE. 
 
 painful timidity, was infinitely superior to every other in the 
 company, in a wild, enchanting sweetness. She seemed a 
 mere child, but one could augur the most brilliant achieve- 
 ments for such powers in the future. 
 
 While I was wondering who it could be, and how she had 
 got into such an insignificant position, I saw my tall friend 
 Granville making his way through the pit to get at me, as 
 I sat in the centre of it. He had been dining out, and his 
 intellects, never of the clearest, were now in a state of the 
 most charming confusion. Whether he was diverted at my 
 sitting in the pit, or what other inexplicable jest had gotten 
 into his head, he was no sooner seated than he began to 
 giggle at me, and, holding down his head, laughed sans 
 intermission: He presently looked up at the stage, and 
 made all sorts of ridiculous remarks about the performers. 
 There was a fellow with long hair who played Bramah, 
 and sang vilely. 
 
 "Bramah's locks," said Granville, with a titter, "are 
 in great order to-night: I wish his key was half as good." 
 Then fixing on my little Malibran, who broke forth at that 
 minute, "Hiss her off!" he stuttered out : " her voice is as 
 cracked as her reputation !" 
 
 " But not quite so false," said a clear voice behind, " as 
 your pretensions to the character of a gentleman !" 
 
 I looked round, and saw the person from whom the voice 
 proceeded. He was plainly a gentleman. Granville rose 
 in his majesty to such a height, that I thought he was going 
 to put his head out of the ventilator to call a constable. 
 In a few moments the house was in an uproar — and " Turn 
 them out !" resounded from every quarter. Both were ac- 
 cordingly handed across the benches, and ejected from the 
 door with the most satisfactory expedition. 
 
 Such was my first acquaintance with two persons in 
 whom I became afterwards a good deal interested. 
 
 The next morning I went round among my friends, and 
 found that the little singer had produced on others the im- 
 pression she had made on me; the manager also seemed to 
 have become aware of her merits, for in an opera that was 
 
I 
 
 THE DOUBLE LOVE. 
 
 307 
 
 announced for the end of the week, the second part was 
 given to her. 
 
 I was at a musical party at Mrs. B.'s the following even- 
 ing ; and at a late hour this person — whose name I now 
 learned was Clara Carelli — came in. Her figure was slight, 
 but perfectly well made, and her movements graceful to 
 enchantment. Her complexion, which was of a bright ro- 
 seate hue, formed a striking contrast with her large and flash- 
 ing black eye. Her light hair, which curled naturally, was 
 done up in a manner perfectly novel, but very tasteful. 
 You would, perhaps, have called her appearance outre, had 
 it not been for the refined beauty and faultless delicacy that 
 reigned throughout ; as it was, she seemed a romantic thing, 
 and illustrated Bacon's remark, that the beauty that has in it 
 some strangeness and irregularity, is ever the most fasci- 
 nating. She tripped towards the piano, and played a few 
 popular pieces with great expression and finish. I understood 
 Mrs. B. then to ask her if she would not play something of 
 her own. Her fingers ran hurriedly over the keys for a few 
 moments, and her voice then broke out into one of the wild- 
 est and most exquisite melodies I ever listened to in my life. 
 Both the words and the air were wholly new, and seemed 
 the very breathings of an impassioned spirit. The burden 
 of it was the utterance of a boundless, infinite love, that 
 soared purposeless ; its exalted object unknowing of the ardor, 
 and incapable of being made to know. It was an air of 
 melting plaint and pathos, mingled with thrilling ecstasy 
 and rapturous delight. I never heard such power of voice 
 nor such exhaustless gushing forth of sensibility. The most 
 piteous, still-deepening melancholy, pressed upon the chords, 
 like the shrill wind moaning keenly through the leafless 
 woods ; and then, though it yielded not nor changed, it be- 
 came charged with a delicious transport of happiness, and 
 the united but not blended emotions rolled on together till 
 it seemed as if the heart of the performer must be crazed by 
 the excitement. Her notes sometimes pierced the ear like 
 the tones of the nightingale, and then melted away into 
 breathings as " gentle as the morning light " It seemed as 
 
308 THE DOUBLE LOVE. 
 
 if her soul had become vocal in a harmony as various as its 
 
 faculties. 
 
 While the air proceeded, I saw the person whom I had 
 encountered the night before at the ballet, come forward 
 from the other room. He approached the instrument and 
 looked at her for a minute or two, and then turned on his 
 heel and went back. When she saw him, an immediate 
 change took place in her manner : her voice trembled — 
 broke : she finished the piece in a hurried, defective manner, 
 then glided away from the piano, and threw herself in a 
 large chair near to me in a state of mingled excitement and 
 exhaustion. I approached her. 
 
 " The possession of so rich a talent," said I, " must confer 
 upon you a happiness that common persons cannot conceive 
 of." 
 
 "I am most unhappy," she replied. 
 
 "It is strange," said I, " if one who can confer such delight 
 on others, does not enjoy it herself." 
 
 " The misery of the heart," said she, " is the inspiration 
 of genius. Art is the monument of man's discontent." 
 
 "Ah !" said I, U I gather from your song that you are in 
 love." 
 
 " I know not what is love. To have lost your soul in the 
 being of another — to have your spirit kindled into a wild and 
 infinite craving, and become a ship that sails an unknown 
 sea without a rudder, a bird that soars without a home — 
 this is not love ; it is anguish — it is rapture." 
 
 Mrs. B. brought up the gentleman I have spoken of be- 
 fore, and introduced him to her as Mr. Beaumont. As he 
 approached, her face was suffused with blushes and her 
 head bent down upon her bosom. He conversed with her 
 a little while very civilly, but perhaps a little coolly, and then 
 withdrew, I spoke to her, but received no answer — and, 
 looking at her, saw the tears silently gushing from her closed 
 eves. I tried to rouse her, but she seemed lost in gloom and 
 hopeless dejection. I walked away, and spoke to Mr. Beau- 
 mont. He was very gentlemanly, and impressed me so 
 agreeably, I determined to cultivate him. 
 
THE DOUBLE LOVE. 
 
 309 
 
 When Clara appeared in the opera, she displayed a splen- 
 dor of voice and a delicacy and precision of execution which 
 raised her at one step to the highest eminence of admiration. 
 She was under the highest excitement until she had distinct 
 tokens of complete and unquestionable triumph ; her manner 
 then rose to a calm dignity and a more exalted grace. The 
 prima donna was totally eclipsed, and towards the close 
 seemed content to play the second part. The town was 
 taken as it were by storm ; everybody hastened to heap up 
 honor and praises at her feet, and a career was opened which 
 promised to outstrip even Malibran's. Her proud, ambitious, 
 sensitive spirit seemed not to be satisfied with even these 
 tributes ; and however high the homage of society rose, her 
 mind seemed still above it. • 
 
 There was a mystery about her character which interested 
 me. I could see at once from her action and her singing 
 that she possessed intense and fiery susceptibilities, and a 
 heart that experience must have sounded to the depths. Yet 
 was she the tenderest youth ; her manner and powers had 
 the maturity of a woman, but her light, glancing, unsteady 
 countenance was that of childhood. I determined to go 
 and see her ; and as I know there is always one way to 
 the female heart, I took with me some chains and rings as 
 presents. I found her alone at her lodgings. I expressed 
 the interest I felt in her, and assured her of the real friendli- 
 ness of my wishes ; but it was in vain until I produced the 
 gifts : her heart then opened itself, and we became very inti- 
 mate and confidential. I told her of my sincere disposition 
 to serve her, and that any communication she honored me 
 with should be sacredly kept. I at last prevailed on her to 
 give me a little sketch of her history. 
 
 " My father," said she, " was a native of Italy, and a 
 person of rank. He forfeited his estate for opposition to the 
 Austrian tyranny, and came to this country poor. He mar- 
 ried, and my mother died soon after my birth. We lived 
 alone in the country. My father conceived that I showed 
 extraordinary capacity for music ; and being himself pro- 
 foundly instructed in that art, he spent most of his time in 
 
310 
 
 THE DOUBLE LOVE. 
 
 developing the powers of my hand and voice. His pride cut 
 him off from associates on the one hand, and his poverty 
 on the other ; and we lived therefore wholly alone. One 
 day — it was one of those bright deep days in June when 
 heaven seems to be descended on the earth and to encom- 
 pass it — I walked out into the woods along the great road 
 that passed near our house. A little brook crossed the way, 
 and passed under a small stone arch. I sat down beside it, 
 and leaned over the water to pluck some flowers that grew 
 in it. I presently heard a noise above me, and, looking up, 
 I saw standing on the arched bridge the most splendid being 
 I ever beheld." She turned her head aside, and continued 
 her story with her eyes fixed on the ground. " His beaming 
 countenance, <*ith his golden locks curling around it, made 
 him glorious as the sun. I was dazzled and awed by his 
 beauty as if it had been a terror. My eye shrank from the 
 lustre of his gaze, and I was ready to sink into the earth 
 before him. He spoke to me, and his voice seemed to pierce 
 to my heart and to subdue it: I could not resist it. He ask- 
 ed me where I was going ; and I told him I was going into 
 the forest to sing. He asked me to sing to him — and I tried, 
 but could not, for my voice was wholly gone, and I said that 
 T could not sing without my piano. He made me show him 
 where I lived, and promised to see me again, for he was then 
 hurried. He then left me, and I sat down as one in a dream. 
 It was an exquisite and perfect delight, as if a pure and un- 
 fading sunlight shone upon my being. 1 sat there almost 
 unconscious, I know not how long ; and it has seemed to me 
 that I should not since have been so enslaved to his spirit, if 
 I had not then, by meditating so long, imbibed that enchant- 
 ment so deeply, and admitted it to the recesses of my bosom, 
 and imbued my soul with it. The next afternoon, a carriage 
 came down from the house of a rich lady who lived at a 
 little distance, to bring me up there with some of my music; 
 and when 1 reached the place, I found that he was there, 
 and it was he that had told the lady of me, and caused her 
 to send for me. There was a small party of young ladies 
 in the parlor, and I went to the piano and played, and none 
 
THE DOUBLE LOVE. 
 
 311 
 
 of them came near me ; but he came to me, and spoke in so 
 soft a voice, and turned over the leaves for me ; and I touch- 
 ed his hand, and felt his fragrant breath upon my cheek ; 
 and I was so happy that I would gladly have died in that 
 moment. After a little while, the company went in to tea 
 in another room, and I came away : and when I had left the 
 house, I became so much afraid that I should not see him 
 again, that I turned back to speak to him. A servant called 
 him into the entry — but when he came, my voice was gone ; 
 and when he asked me what I wanted, I could not speak ; 
 but I pointed to a little girl that was with me, and she told 
 him I had come back to tell him that if he would come to 
 my house the next day, I would play a particular piece he 
 had asked for. And he thanked me kindly, and shook hands 
 with me, and promised to come. What a flash of joy darted 
 through me when I saw him, through the window, coming 
 in the next day ! I thought I was happy in expecting him, 
 but the thrill of rapture that my frame then trembled with, 
 told me how dull and miserable my life had been before. 1 
 wanted to rush to his arms ; but though he was very kind 
 and friendly, he was so cold, so frigid. T played, and as he 
 sat beside me, that visit was a long ecstasy. I played on 
 and on, that he might have no opportunity of going away ; 
 but at last he rose, and said that he must leave me : and I 
 remained, exhausted and wretched. I went to my room and 
 wept : it was ominous of my fate, for I never saw him again. 
 In after days it was my satisfaction to note all the places 
 where he had sat, and I marked the leaves of my music-books 
 which he had touched, that I might never forget them ; and 
 I tried to find if he had not left something behind him, if it 
 were only a straw or a leaf. And often and often did I sit 
 beside the brook where I had met him, and picture him 
 standing on the bridge ; and it seems to me that then I was 
 not wholly waking, but wrapped in a vision, dream being 
 mingled into my life. But I was rudely awakened by the 
 sudden death of my father. That event, which in other cir- 
 cumstances might have prostrated me, roused and strength- 
 ened my energies. I at first sank in despair, then my spirit 
 
312 
 
 THE DOUBLE LOVE. 
 
 rose against the oppression of misery, and I braved and 
 triumphed over it. My soul was absorbed in one resolution 
 to find the person who had produced upon my feelings so 
 ineffaceable an impression. I said to myself, 1 He loves me 
 not, because I am poor and obscure ; I will go forth into the 
 world ; I have genius, I can toil ; I will grow rich — I will be 
 famous — I will subdue the world — I will win his affection.' 
 I sold all the furniture except the piano ; I moved to the capi- 
 tal, and I devoted my days and my nights for three years 
 to the ardent prosecution of music. I was resolute, daring, 
 determined to succeed. I was intolerant of failure j I was 
 incapable of it. I offered my services at last to the manager 
 of the theatre ; and fearing lest I might be embarrassed, 
 I appeared first in an obscure piece, unannounced. Since 
 then, I have gained all the applause I could have wished for. 
 I am famous. But, can I win his love? I thought not of 
 that defeat. If I cannot, I am wretched in the midst of my 
 fame — I am overwhelmed in the pride of my triumph." 
 
 I listened with deep interest to the wild and strange nar- 
 ration of this child of passion. As she concluded her narra- 
 tive, her manner became inexpressibly saddened ; the color 
 left her cheek ; and she hung down her head as if in lifeless 
 woe. I asked her if she had seen the person that she spoke 
 of, since her appearance in public. 
 
 " I have," she said, gloomily. 
 
 " Have I your permission to guess who it is?" said I. 
 
 " Oh, no, no, no !" she cried, stretching out her arms : 
 "you do not know, and cannot possibly conjecture. You 
 would certainly be mistaken." 
 
 I had however no great difficulty in satisfying my own 
 mind as to who the person was. I left this ardent and en- 
 gaging female, greatly interested in her. 
 
 I subsequently saw a good deal of Beaumont. Our tastes 
 and pursuits were much alike, and we took to one another 
 a good deal. He spoke of Clara with admiration of her 
 genius, but with indifference of feeling. He did not appear 
 to remember having seen her before. His affairs afterwards 
 fell into some embarrassments. His debts were not large, 
 
THE DOUBLE LOVE. 
 
 313 
 
 and would have been perfectly insignificant at another time 
 than one of universal commercial distress. He possessed 
 a handsome real estate, but it was one of those seasons of 
 prostrated values, when, as the Quarterly Review once said, 
 a tailor might cheapen Carlton House. Some difficulty 
 about trustees or outstanding titles rendered it impossible 
 to mortgage. His creditors were pressing, and his property 
 was on the point of being sold, and undoubtedly the state of 
 the currency and the confusion of the title would cause it to 
 be sacrificed for a song. I heard these things with regret — 
 for it struck me that December was not a very agreeable pe- 
 riod of the year in which to be turned out into the street. 
 
 I was sitting alone in my room on a bleak, tempestuous 
 night, when I heard a hurried tap at the door, which was 
 opened immediately, and a person wrapped in a black cloak, 
 dripping wet, came in. The cloak was thrown aside, and 
 revealed the person of Clara Carelli. Her flushed counte- 
 nance showed her high excitement. She threw a packet 
 upon the table. 
 
 " I have heard," said she, breathlessly, " that Mr. Beau- 
 mont has been arrested for debt. The amount of his debts 
 is in money in that parcel. I beg of you that you will at 
 once see it applied to the satisfying his creditors and pro- 
 curing his release. But I enjoin upon you on no account 
 to let him know from whom it comes." 
 
 I was astonished at this sincere and affecting display of 
 romantic attachment, and gazed for a moment in silence 
 upon the beautiful and beaming countenance before me. 
 
 "Do not delay," she cried ; "I ask you as a friend He 
 may be at this moment in a noisome prison." 
 
 I groaned inwardly as I listened to the hail driving against 
 the windows, and I thought that the storm had never been 
 so violent as it was at that moment. Though passion might 
 render one indifferent to the elements, yet I reflected / was 
 not in love with Mr. Beaumont. I was sure that she was 
 mistaken in supposing that he had been arrested — for I knew 
 that no man can be arrested who has property. I was going 
 to tell her this, and to suggest that it would be more humane 
 
314 
 
 THE DOUBLE LOVE. 
 
 to leave a man in prison than to bring him out of it on such 
 a night : but when I looked on the exalted ardor that blazed 
 in her animated features, I thought it would be cruel to 
 dash her enthusiasm by showing that it was needless, or to 
 diminish the glorious satisfaction she must feel in the con- 
 sciousness of such a deed. I accordingly ordered a hackney- 
 coach, and, having set her down at home, drove to Beau- 
 mont's. Her last injunction to me was, not to disclose the 
 person from whom the money came. When I reached his 
 house, it was as I suspected ; he had not been arrested. 
 However, I found that I had come very opportunely. His 
 creditors were then with him, and they w T ere arranging for 
 the sale of his property. I called him aside, and put the 
 money in his hands, with such information as to its source 
 as I was permitted to give. He hesitated a long time about 
 accepting it, but finally acquiesced. The men were paid 
 on the spot, and I had the satisfaction before I left him of 
 shaking hands with him as a free man. I drove of course 
 at once to Clara's to inform her of the result. Beaumont 
 was penetrated with gratitude for an act which prevented 
 the sacrifice of his property ; and the next day lodged in my 
 hands security for re-payment. 
 
 Beaumont and myself had once or twice called on Clara. 
 On the occasion of his visits, her manner was generally 
 depressed and silent. We called a day or two after this 
 occurrence. 
 
 " Ha !" said he, as we entered, " I want you to sing for us 
 that charming little air you gave us last night. But — Made- 
 moiselle Carelli — your piano is gone ; how is that V 
 
 She hesitated a moment, and then said, with some con- 
 fusion, " It is sold." 
 
 " Sold ! — why it is indispensable to you ! Ah ! ha ! I see ! 
 Mademoiselle, you have been extravagant; you have got in 
 debt. You have been obliged to sell it." 
 
 Her face was turned from him as she sat, and was deadly 
 pale. She breathed hard. " No, no," said she. 
 
 " Ah ! it is sold for somebody else, then ; you have some 
 lover, perhaps, who is in difficulty." 
 
THE DOUBLE LOVE. 
 
 315 
 
 u It was sold for you," she said, scarce articulately : then 
 bursting into a passion of tears, added, " I know not what 
 I say." 
 
 I came forward. I saw that her feelings had made her 
 speak against her intention ; but I deemed that an explana- 
 tion was indispensable. 
 
 "It is to this admirable person," said I, '-'that you are be- 
 holden for the money you received through me. I myself 
 am aware for the first time that the sale of her piano fur- 
 nished part of the amount." 
 
 Beaumont fell upon his knee, and pressed her hand to his 
 lips. 
 
 " How can I express my obligation for such transcendent 
 goodness? In uttering my gratitude, let me add to it my 
 unfeigned love. It has always been the passionate wish of 
 my heart to be loved sincerely and ardently. I was inter- 
 ested in you from the moment I saw you ; and I should have 
 expressed my feelings, had it not been " 
 
 " I understand you," said she, interrupting him : " you 
 thought me too humble — too base. I am unworthy of you, 
 who are so noble." 
 
 "Not so — not so," said he. "But I will be frank with 
 you, Clara. Years ago, it was my fortune to meet with a 
 young person whose beauty and genius captivated my heart. 
 It was in the country ; I told not my love, but left her till 
 I could see if such arrangements could be made as would 
 permit me to declare myself. When I returned, she was 
 gone ; and I have never seen her since. For her sake, I 
 would not woo another ; but I am now certain of never find- 
 ing her — and you alone are worthy to take that place of 
 empire in my affections." 
 
 It would be impossible to describe the fire of delight, and 
 surprise, and pride that kindled her countenance as he pro- 
 ceeded. When he had ended, she threw herself into his 
 
 arms, and cried, " I am she — I am she ! You remember " 
 
 but her voice failed. She had fainted. 
 
 When her senses were restored, I took my leave of a scene 
 so hallowed to these parties as the mutual expression of a 
 passion so profound, so delicious. 
 
316 to ****** 
 
 Beaumont often labored subsequently to account for his 
 not having recognized her. The change of name, of posi- 
 tion, of dress, and the great difference which three years, 
 and the development of a mind so ardent and mature had 
 wrought, seemed to him to explain the mystery. But Clara, 
 satisfied with his later affection, often rallied him on the 
 want of depth in his first love. 
 
 T 
 
 T ask not if the world unfold 
 
 A fairer form than thine — 
 Tresses more rich in glowing gold, 
 
 And eyes of sweeter shine. 
 
 It is enough for me to know 
 
 That thou art fair to sight ; 
 That thou hast locks of golden flow, 
 
 And eyes of playful light. 
 
 I ask not if there beat on earth 
 A warmer heart than thine — 
 
 A soul more rich in simple worth — 
 A genius more divine. 
 
 It is enough for me to prove 
 
 Thou hast a soul sincere — 
 A heart well made for quiet love — 
 
 A fancy rich and clear. 
 
 Already by kind heav'n, so far 
 
 Beyond my wishes blest, 
 I would not, with presumptuous pray'r, 
 
 Petition for the best. 
 
 While thou art wise, and good, and fair, 
 
 Thou art that best to me ; 
 Nor would I, might I choose, prefer 
 
 A lovelier still to thee. 
 
THE REFORMED INEBRIATE. 
 
 It is many years since I was in a certain neighborhood 
 among the mountains of New Jersey, where the richest culti- 
 vation enhances the beauty of scenery unusually fine, though 
 not wild or bold enough for sublimity. It was a valley 
 somewhat extensive, bordered on the south by abrupt and 
 very high hills, wooded to their summit, except a small strip 
 of cultivated land near their base, and terminating on the 
 north side in sloping uplands covered with the wealth of 
 harvest. A quiet stream murmured through the meadows, 
 now narrowed between high banks, now expanding into a 
 lakelet, near which stood a flour-mill. The house where 
 I passed some days at this time, had lawns sloping down 
 to the stream ; and I remember there flourished three large 
 drooping willows, which I hoped might always escape the 
 axe and grow old, as guardians of the crystal water. Their 
 exact locality was fixed in my memory by the circumstance, 
 that over their tops might be seen a cottage, situated on the 
 side of the mountain, just in the verge of the woods and 
 about half a mile distant. The loneliness of its situation 
 gave it something of romance, and I observed then that what 
 had once been a garden was choked with tall weeds and 
 briers, and that a rude screen of boards had been built di- 
 rectly in front of the cottage, so as to shut out all view of 
 the neighboring dwellings. This strange precaution seemed 
 misanthropical ; or, was it adopted for the purpose of con- 
 cealing from curious eyes what might pass within doors 7 
 To my inquiry who occupied that hermit's hut, the reply 
 was, "Walter B ." 
 
 " The B who married Jane « ?" 
 
 " The same." 
 
318 
 
 THE REFORMED INEBRIATE. 
 
 Her name called up distant recollections. I had seen 
 Miss S. once at a rustic ball. She was a country beauty, 
 rather better educated than most of the damsels who were 
 her companions. Indeed, her father used to complain that 
 she spent too much time in reading. His idea was, that 
 after a girl had left school and completed her education, she 
 had nothing more to do with books. But he rarely inter- 
 fered except by a little grumbling with her pursuits, espe- 
 cially as his house was always in the best order and his 
 dinners excellent. Jane was a choice housekeeper, and her 
 leisure hours she spent as pleased herself — not heeding her 
 father's ominous shake of the head, when he saw her earn- 
 estly devouring a book, or noticed the shelves filled with 
 books in her little chamber. " She will leave off such follies 
 when she marries," was his consolatory remark ; and in truth, 
 when the indulged girl did marry, whether she gave up her 
 reading or not, she did not suffer it to interfere with her 
 household duties. She was the most exemplary wife and 
 mother in the country ; and all her neighbors predicted hap- 
 piness from her union with young B . His father had 
 
 left him a small farm well stocked, with a house large enough 
 for comfort and even elegance ; and few men began life with 
 better prospects of contentment. Walter was active and 
 ambitious, and wanted to secure something more than a 
 competence for old age. My acquaintance with the young 
 couple had left them thus, and I was naturally somewhat 
 surprised to find them living in a home of so little pre- 
 tension. 
 
 "The only marvel about it," said the friend to whom 
 I expressed my wonder, " is. that they have a home at all. 
 When. Walter took to drink, his stock went first, and then 
 his farm was neglected, till at last when sold to pay his debts, 
 it brought less than half its value." 
 
 Alas! it was the common story of the intemperate man: 
 first, moderate indulgence in frequent convivial meetings 
 with his friends ; then, occasional excesses that unfitted him 
 for work for days, during which time he would vow and 
 resolve and pledge his word to his wife that each should be 
 
THE REFORMED INEBRIATE. 
 
 319 
 
 the last — followed by more frequent returnings to the same 
 excess, till the doom of the victim was sealed, and the very 
 friends who had led him into the vice, abandoned him in 
 disgust. 
 
 Since the desertion of his boon companions, Walter had 
 become gloomy and sullen — a mood which, under the ex- 
 citement he now daily sought, gave place to wild and savage 
 ferocity. The little children ran from him if they saw him 
 on the road ; and it was rumored that his wretched home 
 too frequently witnessed his cruel brutality towards his un- 
 offending wife. But he soon removed to his retired cottage 
 on the mountain ; and the screen of boards he built, effec- 
 tually excluded all observation. 
 
 I listened to this melancholy history with the deepest sym- 
 pathy for the unfortunate girl, now a helpless mother. She 
 had sought no assistance from the neighbors, and few visited 
 her, partly because they dreaded her husband, and partly 
 because she herself did not encourage them. But some com- 
 passionate persons sent her provisions from time to time. 
 
 While I looked at the little dwelling which was now the 
 scene of so much misery, with an aching heart for the count- 
 less victims of this dreadful vice, a bright flash suddenly 
 shot up from the roof of the hut, while at the same time a 
 volume of smoke poured from the chimney and upper win- 
 dows. At the same moment a female figure rushed from 
 behind the screen before mentioned, clasping an infant to 
 her breast, and dragging along a child of about four years 
 of age, and rapidly descended the slope of the mountain. 
 Not many paces behind, her husband followed, calling upon 
 her with shouts and execrations to return ; but his evident 
 intoxication rendered it impossible for him to equal the speed 
 of his flying wife ; and well was it for her, for a large knife 
 was in his hand, which he brandished with frightful mena- 
 ces. In less time than it would take to narrate what passed, 
 several of the neighbors had run to meet her. Just as she 
 reached the stream, through which she rushed with both 
 children in her arms, then sank exhausted on the bank, they 
 crowded round her with eager offers of assistance. 
 
120 
 
 THE REFORMED INEBRIATE. 
 
 B. now came up, heedless of the men and women, who 
 regarded him with looks of fear and horror. He had drop- 
 ped the knife, but had not changed his threatening tone ; 
 and with shocking imprecations re-ordered his wife to "get 
 up, and come home this instant !" 
 
 The poor woman uttered no reply — indeed she was hardly- 
 capable of speech ; but the miller, a sturdy man, answered 
 for her that she should go no more to the home of a villain 
 who had nearly killed her. These words provoked B. to 
 unbounded fury ; he rushed upon the man who had spoken 
 them with such violence as to throw him off his guard, and 
 would have strangled him but for the interference of others. 
 When he found himself overpowered by superior strength, 
 he revenged himself by the most fearful curses, vented espe- 
 cially on his poor wife, whom again, with abusive epithets, 
 he ordered to "go home, and not expose herself in this ridi- 
 culous manner !" 
 
 " No, Walter," said his wife, rising at last, and confronting 
 him with pale but determined face : " no — I will not return 
 to you. I could have borne, as I have long done, your harsh- 
 ness and violence towards me ; but you have this night raised 
 your hand against the lives of these children ; and, as it is 
 my duty before God to protect them, I leave you forever !" 
 
 Whatever reply the drunkard might have made, it was 
 drowned in the indignant clamors of the bystanders, and he 
 was hurried off to jail. His wife was cared for by her sym- 
 pathising female acquaintance, and soon provided with a 
 permanent situation, where by the labor of her hands she 
 could support herself and her little ones. And soon, very 
 soon, did her changed appearance bear witness to the im- 
 provement. She became contented and even cheerful ; and 
 the playful caresses of her children beguiled her of many sad 
 thoughts. 
 
 When B. awoke from his intoxication in prison, the recol- 
 lection of what he had done, overwhelmed him with shame 
 and remorse. He sent for one of his neighbors, and entreated 
 him to go on his part to his injured wife, supplicate her for- 
 giveness, and pledge the most solemn promises of future 
 
THE REFORMED INEBRIATE. 
 
 321 
 
 amendment. Jane wept much ; she forgave him from her 
 heart, as she prayed God he might be forgiven ; but she could 
 not, dared not trust his oft-violated word, and sacrifice her 
 children. Her determination was fixed ; and for weeks to- 
 gether, though with a bleeding heart, she returned the same 
 answer to the entreaties of her repentant husband. She dared 
 not even see him, lest her resolution might be shaken. 
 
 When at last B, was discharged from jail, full of indig- 
 nation at what he termed the cruel obstinacy of his wife, he 
 made no effort to see her or the children ; but — after shutting 
 himself up a month or two in the cottage, which had been 
 saved, by timely attention, from being burned on the night 
 of Jane's escape — he departed, no one knew whither. He 
 left a reproachful letter to his wife, professing himself driven 
 to desperation, and laying on her the blame of his future 
 crimes. No furniture of any value was found in the house, 
 the greater part having been disposed of to procure food 
 and — liquor* 
 
 Two years after this occurrence, (I have the particulars 
 from a friend,) a crowd was assembled round the jail in the 
 
 little town of . A murder, under the most appalling 
 
 circumstances, had been committed in the neighborhood : 
 a man to whom suspicion attached had been arrested, and, 
 after strict examination, committed for trial. Particulars 
 that had transpired left no doubt of his guilt on the minds 
 of the people ; and it was with suppressed execrations that 
 the multitude followed the suspected felon to prison. When 
 he disappeared from their sight within the gloomy walls, the 
 popular rage broke out in groans and murmurs. One wo- 
 man, young and interesting in appearance, who had listened 
 with undisguised eagerness to a knot of idlers discussing the 
 case, walked away when they ended their conference, and, 
 presenting herself at the door of the magistrate who had 
 conducted the examination, asked leave to speak with him. 
 It was the wife of B. She had seen her husband led to jail, 
 loaded with the most terrible suspicions, and she came to 
 have her worst fears allayed or confirmed. The magistrate 
 soothed her by assuring her that the evidence against B., 
 
322 
 
 THE REFORMED INEBRIATE. 
 
 though strong, was only circumstantial, and by no means 
 absolutely proved his guilt. It was impossible to say what 
 might be the event of the trial ; but there was ground for 
 hope. Poor Jane clung to this hope : " Oh, sir," sobbed she, 
 " if he is guilty, and must die, it is I who have murdered him ' 
 I deserted him, when all the world cast him out !" 
 
 When the unhappy wife returned home, it was to give way 
 to the bitter anguish of remorse — to weep and sob all night 
 as if her heart would break. " How have I been able to kneel 
 night and morning to ask pardon of God," she cried to her- 
 self, " when I refuse my aid to save a fellow being from de- 
 struction ? And yet — these little ones," and she hung over 
 her sleeping children — the fair boy, with bright cheek shaded 
 by his clustering curls ; and the sweet dark-eyed girl, so like 
 him before excess had marred his manly beauty ! Could 
 she have brought these innocent ones into wretchedness — 
 perhaps guilt? Had she not done right to snatch them 
 from ruin, even by abandoning their father? She knelt once 
 more, and prayed for guidance, for discernment of the right ; 
 and her mind was calmed. 
 
 Before noon the next day, the jail was again visited by 
 groups of idlers, gazing into the window of B.'s cell, which 
 looked upon the street. It might be that the prisoner was 
 maddened by their taunts and derision ; he was leaping about 
 with frantic gestures, clapping his hands and laughing im- 
 moderately, or thrusting his face between the bars to grin 
 defiance at his tormentors. Suddenly a woman — her face 
 concealed by a drooping bonnet and thick veil — glided through 
 the crowd, and, reaching up to the window, offered a parcel 
 to the prisoner. He grasped it eagerly, with a wistful look, 
 but the woman did not stay to be recognized. It was ob- 
 served, as she hastened away, that her steps tottered, and 
 she held down her head, apparently overcome by emotion. 
 Well might the fearfully changed countenance of the accused 
 appal one who had known him in better days ! 
 
 The parcel contained a portion of food more palatable than 
 is usually allowed to prisoners, and a small pocket Bible — 
 the book B. had once prized — the gift of his dying mother. 
 
THE REFORMED INEBRIATE. 
 
 323 
 
 His name was written on the first page in her hand. Many 
 times in the week, always at dusk, did the same compas- 
 sionate visitor stand at the grated window, and offer food or 
 books to the prisoner, who was evidently affected by the kind 
 attention. He ceased his idiotic dancing and laughing ; he 
 answered nothing more to the upbraidicgs of vagrants with- 
 out ; and those who looked into his window, saw him most 
 frequently seated quietly at the table, reading, or with his 
 head on his hand in deep thought. With thankfulness un- 
 speakable Jane saw the change ; but her joy was dashed 
 with sadness, when on one of her visits the prisoner besought 
 her, with piteous entreaty, to bring him a bottle of brandy. 
 
 It now occurred to the wife to do what she had never 
 dared when B. was at home — to force on his perusal some 
 tracts containing the most awful warnings against intemper- 
 ance, and encouragements to the victim to struggle for re- 
 covery. He had no other books to beguile the time ; he 
 could not now, as formerly, rail at, or punish her, even had 
 he any suspicion who she was : what might ensue if he read 
 them ? Her effort was crowned with success. Not a week 
 had passed, when the abject entreaty for liquor — which had 
 been urged night after night — was dropped, to be renewed 
 no more. Jane's heart throbbed when she thought of this ; 
 but, alas ! even if he were really reformed, would he live to 
 prove himself so? 
 
 Thus days rolled on, and the time for the trial arrived. 
 The prisoner had communicated with his counsel ; witnesses 
 had been sent for ; the principal lawyer engaged in the pro- 
 secution had unfolded the chain of evidence by which his 
 guilt was to be proved ; the court was to open next morning. 
 The accused had received some of his former acquaintance 
 during the day — and as night drew near, he was alone. On 
 his table lay a letter he had just written. He was pacing the 
 room, tranquil, but with a mind filled with painful thoughts. 
 The jailer opened the door, announced a name, received 
 the prisoner's startled assent ; and the next moment the long 
 estranged husband and wife were together. B. did not stir ; 
 he was petrified by surprise ; but Jane rushed to him ; her 
 
324 
 
 THE REFORMED INEBRIATE. 
 
 arms were round his neck, and she wept aloud. Her hus- 
 band was moved, but struggled apparently with his pride : 
 he unclasped her arms, stepped back a little, and looked 
 earnestly at her. 
 
 Sad indeed the contrast between the two : the man almost 
 spectral in aspect, haggard, wan, emaciated — not even the 
 shadow of his former self ; the woman blooming in the fresh- 
 ness of almost maiden beauty ! No unhallowed vigils, or 
 excess, or evil passions, had stamped their traces on her brow, 
 or marred the symmetry of her form ; and the very purity 
 and tenderness that shone in her expression rebuked the 
 conscious sinner as loudly as if an angel's tongue had pro- 
 claimed his degradation ! As he shrank back and stood thus 
 silent, Jane stretched out her hands beseechingly — "Oh, 
 Walter !" she cried, " have you not yet forgiven me ?" 
 
 " Forgiven you, Jane ? Oh, Heaven, what a wretch am I P 
 
 " I was wrong, Walter, to desert you, even at the worst ; 
 but oh, say you do not bear hard thoughts toward me !" 
 
 "Tell me, Jane — is it you who brought me these?" — 
 pointing to the books. 
 
 " Yes, Walter — for I thought you would read them now ; 
 and » 
 
 She was interrupted by the sobs of her husband : he sank 
 on his knees as if to thank her ; but to prevent that, she 
 knelt with him, and prayed for him in the deep emotion of 
 her heart. 
 
 When B. was sufficiently calm he asked after his children, 
 and, pointing to the table, said — "There, Jane, is a letter 
 I had written you, in a better spirit, I trust, than the last. 
 If it were God's will I should live longer, I might make a 
 better husband and father ; but I dare not think of that 
 now." 
 
 Jane longed to ask one question, but her tongue refused 
 to utter the words. Her husband seemed to read the mean- 
 ing of her anxious look. 
 
 " Before high Heaven," said he, " I declare to you that 
 T am innocent of the crime for which I shall be tried to-mor- 
 row !" 
 
THE REFORMED INEBRIATE. 
 
 325 
 
 A shriek of joy, scarce suppressed, burst from the wife : 
 she clasped her hands and raised them upwards ; gratitude 
 denied her speech. 
 
 "Then you will live !" she gasped at length. 
 
 " No, Jane, I dare not hope it : and I deserve to die. I am 
 guiltless of murder — but what have I been to you and my 
 children ? What have I been these last years ? — a reckless 
 outcast — my own destroyer — the enemy of God ! I tell you, 
 Jane — I have long looked to the gallows as the end of my 
 career, and I have come to it at last ! But I have mastered 
 the tyrant that brought me to this — yes, I have !" He 
 laughed convulsively as he said this — and his wife turned 
 pale. " Look here, Jane — look here !" — and, lifting up the 
 coverlit of his bed, he produced several bottles of brandy and 
 whiskey. They were full ! 
 
 "I asked you to give me liquor," he continued, "and you 
 would not ; but others, less merciful, brought these to me ! 
 Do not shudder, and grow so pale, Jane. I swear to you, 
 I have not tasted one drop, though I have had them a fort- 
 night ! Those books saved me, for I read of even worse cases 
 than mine. I took an oath, Jane, on the Bible you brought 
 me the first night — my mother's Bible — that I would never 
 taste liquor again : and I kept these, to try if I could keep 
 my resolution." 
 
 " Oh, Walter !" was all the sobbing wife could say — but 
 her tears were those of joy. 
 
 " You know, Jane, I was always fond of books ; and if I 
 had not been a slave to drink, I might have been fit society 
 even for the judges who are to try me to-morrow. Oh, if 
 I could only live my life over ! But it is too late now ; yet 
 it is something, is it not,"— and his pale face kindled — " to 
 think that I can, that I have overcome the fiend at last ? — 
 that I shall not die a drunkard ! Remember that, and let 
 everybody know it. I have it written here in your letter, 
 God will remember it, will he not, when my soul stands be- 
 fore him in judgment?" 
 
 " Oh, my husband, you shall not die !" cried the wife, as 
 with streaming tears she clasped him again to her arms 
 
326 
 
 THE REFORMED INEBRIATE. 
 
 "The will, of God be done — and that I can say now sin- 
 cerely : I am willing to go. The Bible says, no drunkard 
 shall enter his kingdom ; but I am not a drunkard. I am a 
 degraded wretch — an outcast of men — about to die a felon's 
 death ; but I feel a triumph, Jane — a joy unspeakable — that 
 I have conquered my worst enemy. I thank God that he 
 has supported me through the struggle. It was a terrible 
 one !" 
 
 I need not at length record this interview. I need say 
 no more than that, after weeks of the most agonizing sus- 
 pense and anxiety, Jane had the happiness to hear that her 
 husband was fully acquitted of the crime laid to his charge — 
 to receive him once more, and welcome him to a home. For 
 months he lay helpless, the victim of a wasting sickness ; 
 but his wife worked day and night to procure him comforts, 
 and her children played round his bed; and in her heart 
 was what the poet sweetly terms "a hymn of thankfulness" 
 never silent. When he recovered, he found it not hard to 
 bear her company in her cheerful toil ; and never would he 
 suffer himself to be persuaded to touch what once had proved 
 his bane, and so nearly brought him to an ignominious end. 
 
 It is not long since I heard an address of touching elo- 
 quence, on the subject of Temperance, delivered by Walter 
 
 B . There was truth in every word of it, for he deeply 
 
 felt what he uttered ; and it came home to many a heart, 
 and drew tears from many an eye. He told his own history, 
 and described himself as once the most wretched and lost 
 among the victims of that vice ; and yet there had been 
 others more lost than he, who recovered. It was this, he 
 said, that first inspired him with hope for himself. 
 
 " Never give up," is an excellent maxim ; but it means 
 not that we should always hold on in the same way, as the 
 many take it, but in some way : in the same, if we can, and 
 find it good ; but. in some other, if we cannot, and find it better. 
 
TO ONE I LOVE. 
 
 When the fair sun his smile displays, 
 And gilds the earth with gladd'ning rays; 
 When Nature wakes, and sweet birds sing 
 Their softest praises to the spring — 
 
 I think on thee ! 
 
 Or, standing 'midst the glitt'ring crowd, 
 Where mirth and revelry are loud ; 
 And hearts are lost in pleasure's maze, 
 Or 'midst the spell of beauty's gaze — 
 
 I think on thee ! 
 
 Or, when the pensive moon's pale beam 
 Show'rs silver lustre o'er the stream, 
 And thoughts of former days arise * 
 Beneath the silent, starry skies — 
 
 I think on thee ! 
 
 When music bids her 'witching note 
 From some lone harp in sadness float, 
 And wakes the soul's soft pulses then 
 To bliss no tongue can tell again, 
 
 I think on thee ! 
 
 Or, in the gloom of midnight's hour, 
 When all is hush'd, and fancy's power, 
 (Whose dictates we can ne'er control,) 
 Sheds thoughts of terror o'er the soul — 
 
 I think on thee ! 
 
 That blessed thought, where'er I go, 
 'Midst bale or bliss, or joy or woe, 
 Pursues me still, and soothes the smart 
 That passing sorrow will impart — 
 
 To think on thee ! 
 
THE DREAMS OF LIFE. 
 
 All men are dreamers : from the hour 
 When reason first exerts its power, 
 Unmindful of its bitter sting, 
 To some deceiving hope we cling — 
 
 That hope 's a dream ! 
 
 The brazen trumpet's clangor gives 
 The joy on which the warrior lives; 
 And at his injured country's call, 
 He leaves his home, his friends, his all — 
 For glory's dream ! 
 
 The lover hangs on some bright eye, 
 And dreams of bliss in every sigh ; 
 But brightest eyes are deep in guile — 
 And he who trusts their fickle smile, 
 
 Trusts in a dream ! 
 
 The poet — nature's darling child — 
 By fame's all-dazzling star beguiled, 
 Sings love's alternate hope and fear — 
 Paints visions which his heart holds dear — 
 And thus he dreams ! 
 
 And there are those who build their joys 
 On proud ambition's gilded toys, 
 Who feign would climb the craggy height 
 Whose power displays its splendid light — 
 But dreaming, fall ! 
 
 Whilst others, 'midst the giddy throng 
 Of pleasure's victims, sweep along ; 
 Till feelings damp'ti and satiate hearts, 
 Too worn to feel when bliss departs — 
 Prove all a dream ! 
 
 And when that chilly call of fear, 
 Death's mandate hurtles in the ear, 
 We find, would we retrace the past, 
 E'en life at best now fading fast — 
 Is all a dream ! 
 
Jtlotfjers avto Daughters of tl)e Bible. 
 
 THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA. 
 
 BY REV. S. D. BURCHARD. 
 
 It is high noon — and a traveler, care-worn and weary, 
 is seated beside an ancient well of Samaria. He has been 
 expelled from Jerusalem and from its gorgeous temple, where 
 bleeding sacrifices had been offered and costly rites celebra- 
 ted — all typical of himself. But when he came, as predicted, 
 in the form of a man, and in the garb of poverty, and not, 
 as expected by the Jews, in the pomp and splendor of the 
 world, they rejected both his person and his mission. He 
 had healed their sick, he had entered their abodes -of poverty 
 with the words of blessing, he had raised the dead, he had 
 pointed to his works, as the undeniable proofs of his divine 
 mission ; but all this failed to convince them, and they were 
 determined to drive him from their city and countiy. He 
 was not afraid of the terrors of men, but his hour had not 
 yet come ; " and he left Judea, and departed again into 
 Galilee, and he must needs pass through Samaria." This 
 was a region of country lying between Jerusalem and Gali- 
 lee ; so that in passing from one to the other, the direct course 
 was to go through Samaria. The capital of the country 
 was Samaria, formerly a large and opulent city. It was 
 situated about fifteen miles to the north-west of the city of 
 Shechem, or Sychar, and about forty miles to the north of 
 Jerusalem. Samaria is distinguished in Biblical history as 
 the chosen abode of the ten tribes, who revolted, and formed 
 a separate kingdom under Jeroboam. This people soon 
 degenerated into idolatry, retaining some forms of the temple 
 
330 
 
 THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA. 
 
 worship, blended with the rites of heathenism. They pro- 
 fessed great reverence for the five books of Moses, but reject 
 ed the Prophets ; and their religion therefore was a mixture 
 of perverted Judaism and idolatry. 
 
 As Jesus " sat thus on the well," a stranger, covered with 
 the dust, and weary with the toils of travel, " there cometh 
 a woman of Samaria to draw water." Cherishing the anti- 
 pathies and the prejudices of her people, and perceiving from 
 the appearance of the stranger that he was a Jew, she cast 
 upon him a suspicious and scornful look, and was about to 
 accomplish her task and retire, when Jesus ventured to ad- 
 dress her and to say, " Give me to drink." She had not 
 learned that a cup of cold water given in the name of a dis- 
 ciple would secure a reward ; and she immediately commenced 
 an attack upon his peculiarities as a Jew, and expressed her 
 marvel that he should ask a favor of her, being a Samaritan. 
 Political causes first, and religious differences afterward, 
 had conspired to produce a deep and bitter animosity between 
 the two nations. The Jews were accustomed to regard the 
 Samaritans as more hopeless even than the heathen, and 
 refused them the courtesies and common civilities of life. 
 But Jesus, though a Jew, had no prejudices to gratify and 
 no animosities to express. He loved, with equal warmth, 
 the race, irrespective of national or social distinctions. He 
 came to break down the division-walls, and unite the human 
 family in the bonds of a loving brotherhood. He perceived 
 that there was an opportunity, through the instrumentality 
 of this degenerate daughter of an apostate people, of forward- 
 ing the designs of his mission. She was a humble woman, 
 and, as the sequel of her history shows, a bad woman ; but 
 still, she needed what she had no intention of receiving — she 
 needed water, not from Jacob's well, but from the well-springs 
 of eternal life. At this juncture, Jesus gives her some inti- 
 mation of the nature of his person and the design of his 
 mission ; " and said unto her, 1 If thou knewest the gift of 
 God, and who it is that saith to thee, Give me to drink, thou 
 wouldest have asked of him, and he would have given thee 
 living water.' " He employed the beautiful and expressive 
 
THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA. 
 
 331 
 
 figure of water to represent the purity, the freeness, the 
 refreshing and purifying influence of the blessing he was 
 able to confer. But the saying of Jesus was dark to her ; 
 she had no conception of better water than could be drawn 
 from Jacob's well ; he himself had drank there, his children, 
 and his cattle. She prided herself upon being a descendant 
 of Jacob ; and this well had come down, through thronging 
 and cherished associations, as a gift and a blessing from the 
 venerable patriarch to the Samaritans. She felt almost 
 indignant at the suggestion, that he, a wayfarer and a Jew, 
 should presume to furnish water purer and fresher than that 
 which she was accustomed to draw. And besides, if he 
 thought to draw from this well, he was destitute of the neces- 
 sary means : " Whence, then," says she, " hast thou that 
 living water?" Jesus now introduces a beautiful contrast 
 between the water of Jacob's well and that which he was 
 able to furnish : "Whosoever drinketh of this water, shall 
 thirst again." It only affords a temporary relief — a momen- 
 tary gratification. It is neither a satisfying nor a permanent 
 good. "But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall 
 give him, shall never thirst ; but the water that I shall give 
 him, shall be in him a well of water springing up into ever- 
 lasting life." Here there is a real good, a permanent bless- 
 ing. The selfish desires of the woman are excited, but still 
 she has no conception of the rich bestowment. Her mind 
 is carnal, her thoughts are groveling and earthly, and she 
 saith unto him, "Sir, give me this water, that I thirst not, 
 neither come hither to draw " This language implies, that 
 she had no just apprehension of the meaning of the Saviour's 
 words, and no preparation of heart for the reception of the 
 blessing which he came to bestow. She would like to be 
 relieved from the fatigues of her daily toil. She would like 
 a water possessing such remarkable qualities as to supersede 
 the annoyance of thirst, and the necessity of repairing to 
 the well for the purpose of meeting her urgent and every-day 
 wants. But we doubt whether she had any confidence in 
 Jesus, as being able to furnish such water, and her request 
 was probably the language of irony rather than the simple 
 
332 
 
 THE WOMAN OP SAMARIA. 
 
 and earnest desire of her heart. Jesus now with the most 
 consummate skill, and without any apparent design, proceeds 
 to expose her guilt, and her manner of life. " Go," says he, 
 "call thy husband, and come hither." With a careless 
 indifference she replied, " I have no husband." Jesus said 
 unto her, "Thou hast well said, C I have no husband ;' for 
 thou hast had five husbands, and he whom thou now hast 
 is not thy husband ; in that saidst thou truly." The woman 
 is startled at this announcement ; not that it is strange or 
 new to her, but that a stranger, whom she had casually met, 
 who had no intercourse with her countrymen, and conse- 
 quently could not have been informed of the facts of her 
 previous history, should thus be able to mirror forth the char- 
 acteristic features of her life. Though he was gentle and 
 unostentatious, yet there was an earnest and quiet dignity 
 in his manner which gave tremendous power to this reve- 
 lation of her guilt. She felt condemned for her sin, and 
 overwhelmed with the conviction that she was in the presence 
 of One who knew her whole life. She could not deny the 
 allegation touching her present criminal connection, or her 
 past irregular conduct ; and hence, with troubled emotions, 
 she replied, " Sir, I perceive that thou art a prophet," — a per- 
 son gifted with superior knowledge, and favored with secret 
 revelations from the Most High. Stung by self-mortification 
 and reproach, she desired to divert the mind of the Saviour 
 from conversation so painful as that touching her personal 
 guilt, and endeavored to draw him into a controversy as to 
 the appropriate place of worship. "Our fathers worshipped 
 in this mountain ; and ye say, that in Jerusalem is the place 
 where men ought to worship." This had long been a vexed 
 question between the Jews and Samaritans — the former 
 maintaining that Mount Zion was the spot on which the 
 temple was to be erected. Accordingly, after their return 
 from their captivity in Babylon, and by the authority of God, 
 they set about the work. The Samaritans, at first, proposed 
 . to assist them ; but the Jews, perceiving that they were 
 actuated by political motives rather than from any love for 
 true religion, declined their offer. This greatly exasperated 
 
THE WOMAN OP SAMARIA. 
 
 333 
 
 the Samaritans, and, with Sanballat at their head, endeavor- 
 ed to defeat the efforts of Nehemiah in building the walls. 
 Foiled in this, they at length obtained leave of the Persian 
 monarch to build a temple for themslves. This was erected 
 on Mount Gerisim, a short distance from Sychar ; and they 
 strenuously Contended, that that was the spot designated by 
 Moses as the place where the nation should worship. Priests 
 were selected irrespective of the Levitical order, rites were 
 celebrated, and thus the religion of the Samaritans was per- 
 petuated, and became, of course, a constant source of quarrel 
 and alienation between the two nations. The Saviour, how- 
 ever, was not to be drawn into an unimportant matter in 
 relation to the place or the formalities of worship. His aim 
 was to impress the mind of the woman with the importance 
 of personal religion — spiritual worship — superior to any 
 which consists in mere outward form or ceremony. Hence 
 his reply : " Woman, believe me, the hour cometh, when ye 
 shall neither in this mountain, nor yet at Jerusalem, worship 
 the Father." The dispensation of forms and onerous services 
 is about to close — a new and better one is about to commence, 
 when li the true worshippers will worship the Father in spirit 
 and in truth ; for the Father seeketh such to worship him." 
 He needs no ecclesiastical pomp of pillars and fretted roof as 
 the place, or golden censers and gorgeous vestments as the 
 means of acceptable worship. He demands the worship of 
 the inner man ; and he is the most acceptable worshipper 
 who presents to him " the offering of a broken heart and a 
 contrite spirit ; for with such sacrifices God is well pleased." 
 The broad, all-brilliant arch of heaven, or the quiet grove, 
 vocal with the carol of bird-voices, or even the humble cot- 
 tage, may be the temple where such sacrifices are offered. 
 In addressing the true worshippers, the apostle says, " Know 
 ye not that ye are the temple of God, and that the Spirit of 
 God dvvelleth in you ? For the temple of God is holy, which 
 temple ye are." There were those in the days of our Saviour 
 who were continually chanting the praises of the temple ; • 
 whose religion consisted in a heartless observance of forms 
 and outward display ; and there are those in these latter days 
 
334 
 
 THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA. 
 
 who are ever speaking of the church — the beauty of its wor- 
 ship and the regular succession of its priesthood. Now, Je- 
 sus, by his reply to the woman of Samaria, would teach us, 
 that forms and chants and regular successions are of vastly 
 less importance than the worship of the heart. Not that he 
 was indifferent to an appropriate form ; for everything in his 
 kingdom must be done decently and in order. He recognized 
 the Hebrew ritual as of Divine appointment — as adapted 
 to facilitate the purposes of worship, and through which, a 
 knowledge of God could be secured and retained. The form 
 of the Samaritan worship had never received the Divine 
 sanction, and its tendency was only in the direction of dark- 
 ness and error. Hence he says to the woman, " Ye worship 
 ye know not what : we know what we worship ; for salvation 
 is of the Jews." God had selected them out of all the nations 
 of the earth as the depositories of his word, as the honored 
 agency for preserving and perpetuating the knowledge of 
 himself in a dark and degenerate world. The Samaritans, 
 on the contrary, had received no such honor, but were aliens 
 from the truth, and had built a temple, and adopted a cor- 
 rupted form of worship, without Divine authority. Our Sa- 
 viour, therefore, indirectly though really, settled the question 
 at issue as to the place of worsnip ; yet so settled it, as to 
 leave the impression that place and form were of less conse- 
 quence than the moral state of the affections. 
 
 The woman, though she recognized the weary traveler 
 before her as a prophet, seems not to have been satisfied with 
 his exposition, and said unto him, " I know that Messias 
 cometh, which is called Christ ; when he is come, he will 
 tell us all things." The Samaritans receiving, as they did, 
 the Pentateuch, cherished the expectation of a coming Mes- 
 siah. They believed that he would instruct them more per- 
 fectly as to the manner of their faith and worship. The 
 conversation had now reached that point when a sublime 
 and startling announcement might be made. The mind of 
 the woman had become interested ; she had acknowledged 
 that the Person speaking to her was a prophet, and hence 
 truthful and worthy of confidence \ she had confessed her 
 
THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA. 
 
 belief in the Messiah ; and Jesus could say to her what he 
 could not say to the Jews, for they were not able to bear it, 
 " I that speak unto thee am he." The truth flashed upon 
 her mind as from a thousand mirrors. She bowed to his 
 Divine authority, and believed ; and, forgetful of everything 
 else, and in an ecstasy of joy, " she left her water-pot, and 
 went away into the city, and saith to the men, 'Come, see 
 a man that told me all things that ever I did ! Is not this 
 the Christ V n She was doubtless converted to the faith of 
 Jesus ; yet she states her faith modestly, in the form of an 
 inquiry, lest she should appear to dictate in a matter, of all 
 others the most important, and deserving the highest con- 
 sideration. In the streets of the city she boldly declared, 
 that— 
 
 " He told me of things that I deemed were unknown 
 Save unto myself and my chosen alone; 
 And all that I knew he perused in my soul, 
 As it bowed to his will, and confessed his control. 
 
 " ' A Prophet ! a Prophet !' I uttered, amazed ; 
 ' Our God for his people a Prophet hath raised I 
 An Angel hath come from the light of his throne, 
 The Messiah at last to the world to make known !' 
 
 "O'erawed by his words, from his presence I turned, 
 With my heart full of thought, as it flutter'd and burned 
 With the weight of the marvels I heard and I saw, 
 By that fountain whose water I wandered to draw. 
 
 "Thus, thus have I told what so lately befel 
 My wondering soul at the Patriarch's well; 
 Where the waters, though sweet, as the wayfarer sips, 
 Yet sweeter the words of that bright Stranger's lips." 
 
 This simple testimony of the woman produced no little 
 excitement in the city of Sychar. She preached Christ unto 
 the people, and their hearts seemed to have been opened to 
 receive the truth ; for they assembled in multitudes at Jacob's 
 well, and heard from the lips of Jesus himself the wonderful 
 works of God ; and many believed on him, not from the say- 
 ing of the woman merely, but they heard for themselves, 
 and knew that he was indeed the Christ, the Saviour of the 
 world. 
 
336 
 
 THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA. 
 
 From this instructive narrative some important lessons 
 may be learned. 
 
 We see manifested the two natures of Jesus of Nazareth. 
 He appeared, as he sat weary upon the well, as a man. As 
 such, he was subject to human infirmities. He wearied as 
 a man ; he thirsted as a man ; he hungered as a man, "for 
 his disciples were gone away into the city to buy meat ;" he 
 possessed social sympathies as a man. If we pass beyond 
 the simple record of the narrative, we find the proofs of his 
 humanity scattered all along his history, from his birth to his 
 death. He increased in knowledge and wisdom and stature 
 as a man ; he toiled and was tempted and suffered and died 
 as a man. But he was, not merely a man. He was "God 
 manifest in the flesh." He knew the character of the woman 
 of Samaria, as God ; he knew the thoughts of men, as God ; 
 he cast out devils, he healed the sick, and raised the dead, 
 as a Divine Being. He confidently pointed to his works, 
 and said to his accusers, " These are my witnesses," and they 
 bore ample proof of the divinity of his mission. And when 
 the woman of Samaria expressed her belief in a coming Mes- 
 siah, he positively declared, " I that speak unto thee am he." 
 Could he have been mistaken ? Did he not know his own 
 nature, offices, and work ? He then, who sat on the well 
 and talked thus with the woman, was God-man — "the 
 Christ, the Saviour of the world." 
 
 We see the nature of true religion. It is not a mere form, 
 or outward ceremony. It is represented under the figure of 
 water — " a well of water, springing up into everlasting life."" 
 It is a purifying principle — it makes men better, holier, 
 cleansing them of the impurities of an unholy life. It is an 
 open and ample fountain, in which all may wash and be 
 clean. It is a satisfying principle — " Whosoever drinketh 
 of the water that I shall give him, shall never thirst." Men 
 drink at other fountains — the fountain of sensual pleasure — 
 the fountain of earthly abundance and popular applause — 
 and thirst again. They are not satisfied with temporal good ; 
 it does not make them happy. Give them all that their 
 greedy imaginations may have coveted — wealth, fame, and 
 
WHAT THOUGH ILL BETIDE US. 
 
 337 
 
 sensual gratification — and they are continually thirsting for 
 more. Nothing short of true religion caa meet the deep, 
 strong, earnest desires of the human soul. This too is an 
 active principle ; this well of water is continually " spring- 
 ing up into everlasting life." The water never becomes stag- 
 nant and still, and consequently impure and unhealthy. It 
 is a living- fountain — making verdant and fruitful every- 
 thing around it. 
 
 WHAT THOUGH ILL BETIDE US. 
 
 BY C. D. STUART. 
 
 O! what though ill betide us, 
 
 If those we love are nigh, 
 To soothe the brow of sorrow, 
 
 And calm the heaving sigh? 
 One loving smile will banish 
 
 The clouds of care and pain; 
 One loving word will bring us 
 
 Joy's sunshine back again. 
 
 The darkest storm that sadness 
 
 E'er cast upon the heart, 
 Is but a fleeting shadow, 
 
 Which love can bid depart: 
 No weight of wo can 'thrall us, 
 
 If those we love are near, 
 To soothe the drooping spirit, 
 
 And dry the falling tear. 
 
 Our best and brightest treasure, 
 
 Our balm for every pain, 
 Is in the hearts that love us — 
 
 A linked and golden chain. 
 And with that chain to guard us— 
 
 A charmed and shining mail — 
 O! what though ill betide us, 
 
 It cannot long prevail. 
 
HOME AND WOMEN. 
 
 Our homes — what is their corner-stone but the virtue of 
 women ? And on what does social well-being rest, but on 
 our homes ? Must we not trace all other blessings of civilized 
 life to the door of our private dwellings ? Are not our hearth- 
 stones — guarded by the holy forms of conjugal, filial, and 
 parental love, (the corner-stones of church and state) — 
 more sacred than either — more necessary than both ? Let 
 our temples crumble, and our academies decay — let every 
 public edifice, our halls of justice, and our capitols of state, 
 be leveled with the dust — but spare our homes. Man did 
 not invent, and he cannot improve or abrogate them. A 
 private shelter to cover in two hearts dearer to each other 
 than all the world — high walls to seclude the profane eyes 
 of every human being — seclusion enough for children to feel 
 that mother is a peculiar name — this is home, and here is 
 the birthplace of every virtuous impulse, of every sacred 
 thought. Here the church and the state must come for their 
 origin and support. Oh, spare our homes ! The love we 
 experience there, gives us our faith in an Infinite Goodness ; 
 the purity and disinterested tenderness of home is our fore- 
 taste and our earnest of a better world. In the relations 
 there established and fostered, do we find through life the 
 chief solace and joy of existence. What friends deserve the 
 name compared with those whom a birthright gave us? 
 One mother is worth a thousand friends — one sister, dearer 
 and truer than twenty intimate companions. We who have 
 played on the same hearth under the light of smiles — who 
 date back to the same season of innocence and hope — in 
 whose veins runs the same blood — do we not find that years 
 only make more sacred and important the tie that binds us? 
 Coldness may spring up — distance may separate — different 
 spheres may divide ; but those who can love anything, who 
 continue to love at all, must find that the friends who God 
 himself gave are wholly unlike any we can choose for our- 
 selves, and that the yearning for these is the strongest spark 
 in our expiring affection. 
 
ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 BY L. MARIA CHILD. 
 
 [The following story is founded upon facts which occurred during 
 the latter part of the eighteenth century. The leading incidents are 
 still in the memory of many of the inhabitants of Chester county, Penn- 
 sylvania.] 
 
 Elizabeth Wilson was of humble though respectable 
 parentage. From infancy she was remarked for beauty and 
 a delicate nervous organization. Her brother William, two 
 years older, was likewise a handsome child, with a more 
 sturdy and vigorous frame. He had a gentle, loving heart, 
 which expended its affections most lavishly on his mother 
 and little sister. In their early years Lizzy was his constant 
 shadow. If he went to the barn to hunt for eggs, the little 
 one was sure to run prattling along with him, hand in hand. 
 If he pelted walnuts from the tree, she was sure to be there 
 with her little basket, to pick them up. They sat on the 
 same blue bench to eat their bread and milk ; and with the 
 first jack-knife he ever owned, the affectionate boy carved 
 on it the letters W. and E. for William and Elizabeth. The 
 sister lavishly returned his love. If a pie was baked for her, 
 she would never break it till Willie came to share ; and she 
 would never go to sleep unless her arms were about his 
 neck. 
 
 Their mother, a woman of tender heart and yielding tern 
 per, took great delight in her handsome children. Often 
 when she went out to gather chips or brush, she stopped tc 
 look in upon them, as they sat on the blue bench, feeding 
 each other from their little porringers of bread and milk 
 The cross-lights from a side-window threw on them a reflec- 
 tion of the lilac bushes, so that they seemed seated in a flow- 
 
340 
 
 ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 ering-grove. It was the only picture the poor woman had • 
 but none of the old masters could have equalled its beauty. 
 
 The earliest and strongest development of Lizzy's charac- 
 ter was love. She was always caressing her kitten, or twi- 
 ning her arms about Willie's neck, or leaning on her mother's 
 lap, begging for a kiss. A dozen times a day she would look 
 earnestly into her mother's eyes, and inquire, most beseech- 
 ingly, " Does you love your little Lizzy ?" And if the fond 
 answer did not come as promptly as usual, her beautiful eyes, 
 always plaintive in their expression, would begin to swim 
 w T ith tears. This "strong necessity of loving," which so per- 
 vades the nature of woman, the fair child inherited from her 
 gentle mother; and from her, too, inherited a deficiency of 
 firmness, of which such natures have double need. To be 
 every thing, and do every thing, for those she loved, was the 
 paramount law of her existence. 
 
 Such a being was of course born for sorrow. Even in 
 infancy, the discerning eye might already see its prophetic 
 shadow resting on her expressive countenance. The first 
 great affliction of her life was the death of her mother, when 
 she was ten years old. Her delicate nerves were shattered 
 by the blow, and were never afterwards fully restored to 
 health. The dead body of her beloved mother, with large 
 coins on the eye-lids, was so awfully impressed on her ima- 
 gination, that the image followed her everywhere, even into 
 her dreams. As she slept, tears often dropped from her 
 tremulous eye-lashes, and nightmare visions made her start 
 and scream. There was no gentle voice near to soothe her 
 perturbed spirit ; none to throw an angel's shining robe over 
 the hideous spectre that lay so cold and stiff in the halls of 
 memory. Her father fed and clothed his children, and caused 
 them to be taught to read and write. It did not occur to him 
 that any thing more was included in parental duty. Of 
 clothing for the mind, or food for the heart, he knew nothing, 
 for his own had never been clothed and fed. He came weary 
 from daily toil, ate his supper, dozed in his chair awhile, and 
 then sent the children to bed. A few times after the death 
 of his wife, he kissed his daughter ; but she never ventured 
 
ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 341 
 
 to look into his eyes, and ask, " Does you love your little 
 Lizzy?" Willie was her only consolation ; and all he could 
 do was to weep passionately with her, at everything which 
 reminded them of their mother. 
 
 Nature, as usual, reflected back the image of the soul that 
 gazed upon her. To Lizzy's excited mind, everything ap- 
 peared mysterious and awful, and all sounds seemed to wail 
 and sigh. The rustling of the trees in the evening wind 
 went through her, like the voice of a spirit ; and when the 
 nights were bright, she would hide her head in her brother's 
 bosom, and whisper, " Willie, dear, I wish the moon would 
 not keep looking at me. She seems to say something to me, 
 and it makes me afraid." 
 
 All susceptible souls have felt thus, particularly when un- 
 der the influence of grief : 
 
 " The snow of deepest silence 
 O'er everything doth fall ; 
 So beautiful and quiet, 
 
 And yet so like a pall — ' 
 As if all life were ended, 
 And rest were come to all." 
 
 Such a state of feeling, long indulged, could not be otherwise 
 than injurious to a bodily frame originally delicate. The 
 sensitive child soon became subject to fits, the severity of 
 which at times threatened her life. On coming out of these 
 spasms, with piteous tones and bewildered looks she would 
 ask, " Where is my mother V 
 
 At the end of a year an important change came over the 
 lonely household. A strong, active step-mother was intro- 
 duced. Her loud voice and energetic tread, so different from 
 her own quiet and timid mother's, frightened poor Lizzy. 
 Her heart more than ever turned back upon itself, and listen- 
 ed to the echoes of its own yearnings. Willie, being old 
 enough to work on the farm, was now absent most of the 
 day ; and the fair girl, so richly endowed by nature with a! 1 
 deep feelings and beautiful capacities, so lavish of her affec 
 tions, so accustomed to free outpourings of love, became 
 reserved, and apparently cold and stupid. When the step- 
 
312 
 
 ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 mother gave birth to an infant, the fountains of feeling were 
 again unsealed. It was her delight to watch the babe, and 
 minister to its wants. But this development of the affections 
 was likewise destined to be nipped in the bud. The step- 
 mother, though by no means hard-hearted, was economical 
 and worldly-wise. She deemed it most profitable to employ 
 a healthy, stout niece of her own, somewhat older than Eliza- 
 beth, and to have her step-daughter bound out in some family 
 where she could do light labor. It was also determined that 
 William should go to service ; and his place of destination 
 was fifty miles from that of his sister. 
 
 The news of this arrangement was very bitter to the chil- 
 dren. Both answered their father, very meekly, that they 
 were willing to go ; but their voices were deep, sad, and 
 almost inaudible. Without saying another word, the boy 
 put on his hat, and the girl her sun-bonnet, and taking each 
 other by the hand, they went forth, and roamed silently to 
 their mother's grave. There they stood for a long time, 
 still — still — and their tears dropped fast on the green sod. 
 At last, Elizabeth sobbed out, " Ob, if dear mother was alive, 
 Willie, we should not have to go away from home." But 
 Willie could only answer by a fresh outburst of grief. A 
 little clump of wild flowers nodded over the edge of the 
 mound. The affectionate boy cut two of them, and said, 
 " Let us keep these, Lizzy, to remember mother by." 
 
 The flowers were carefully pressed between the leaves of 
 Lizzy's Testament, and when the sorrowful day of parting 
 came, one was nicely folded in a paper for Willie. "Now, 
 dear sis, give me that nice little curl," said he, putting his 
 finger on a soft, golden-brown ringlet, that nestled close to 
 her ear, and lay caressingly on her downy cheek. She glanced 
 in the fragment of a glass that served them for a mirror, and 
 with eyes brimful of tears, she answered, " Oh, Willie, I can- 
 not give you that. Don't you remember how dear mother 
 used to wet my head all over with cold water, to make my 
 hair curl? She used to laugh when I shook my head, and 
 made the curls go all over my forehead ; and she would 
 kiss that little curl in particular. She said it was such a 
 
ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 343 
 
 darling little curl." Thus childishly did the innocent ones 
 speak together. The brother twisted the favorite curl round 
 his finger, and kissed it too ; and a bright tear fell on it, and 
 glittered in the sunshine. 
 
 William left home a few days earlier than his sister, and 
 bitterly did the lonely one sob herself to sleep that night. 
 She shuddered in the dark, and when the moon looked in 
 at the window, its glance seemed more mournful than ever. 
 The next morning, she fell from the breakfast-table in a fit 
 more severe than usual. But as she soon recovered, and 
 as these spasms now occurred only at distant intervals, her 
 step-mother thought she had better be in readiness to depart 
 at the appointed time. 
 
 The wagon was brought to the door, and the father said 
 to her, " Lizzy, put on your bonnet, and bring your bundle. 
 It is time to go." Oh, how the poor child lingered in her 
 little bed-room, where she and Willie slept in their infant 
 days, and where the mother used to hear them say their 
 prayers, and kiss them both, as they lay folded in each 
 others arms. To the strong step-mother she easily said 
 good bye ; but she paused long over the cradle of .the babe, 
 and kissed each of his little fingers, and fondly turned a little 
 wave of sunny hair on his pure white forehead. Her heart 
 swelled, and she had to swallow hard to keep down the sobs ; 
 for it was her cradle, and she was thinking how her mother 
 used to sing her to sleep. Her father spoke to her in a tone 
 of unusual tenderness, as if he too remembered her infancy, 
 and the gentle one who used to rock her in that cradle. 
 " Come, Lizzy," said he, " it is time to go. You shall come 
 back and see the baby before long." With blinded eyes she 
 stumbled into the wagon, and turned and looked back as 
 long as she could see the old elm-tree by her bed-room win- 
 dow, where all the summers of her young life she had watch- 
 ed the swallows come and go. 
 
 It is a dreary fate for a loving and sensitive child to be 
 bound out at service among strangers, even if they are kind- 
 hearted. The good woman of the house received Lizzy in 
 a very friendly manner, and told her to make herself at home. 
 
344 
 
 i 
 
 ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 But the word only sent a mournful echo through her heart. 
 For a few days, she went about in a state of abstraction that 
 seemed like absolute stupidity. Her step-mother had pre- 
 pared them for this, by telling them there was something 
 strange about Lizzy, and that many people thought her fits 
 had affected her mind. Being of coarser and stronger na- 
 tures, they could none of them imagine that the slow stag- 
 nation of the heart might easily dim the light of intellect 
 in a creature so keenly susceptible. But by degrees, the 
 duties required of her roused her faculties into greater activi- 
 ty ; and when night came, she was fortunately too weary 
 to lie awake and weep. Sometimes she dreamed of Willie, 
 and her dreams of him were always bright and pleasant ; 
 but her mother sometimes fondled her with looks of love, 
 and sometimes came as the pale cold spectre. Thus the 
 months passed slowly away. Her father came to see her at 
 distant intervals, and once in a great while a letter came 
 from Willie, in a large stiff hand. Unaccustomed to writing, 
 he could not through that medium tell much that was pass- 
 ing in his heart. That he wanted badly to see his sister, 
 and often kissed the flower they plucked from the dear mo- 
 ther's grave, was the substance of all his epistles. 
 
 In the mean time, Lizzy was passing into womanhood. 
 Childhood and youth kissed each other, with new and glow- 
 ing beauty. Her delicate cheeks mantled with a richer color, 
 and her deep blue eyes, shaded with long fringes of the 
 darkest brown, looked out upon life with a more earnest and 
 expressive longing. Plain and scanty garments could not 
 conceal the graceful outline of her flexile figure, and her mo- 
 tions were like those of some pretty timid animal, that has 
 always stepped to sylvan sounds. She was not aware of her 
 uncommon loveliness, though she found it pleasant to look 
 in the glass, and had sometimes heard strangers say to each 
 other, " See that pretty girl !" 
 
 There were no young men in the immediate neighborhood, 
 and she had not been invited to any of the rustic dances or 
 quilting frolics. One bashful lad in the vicinity always con- 
 trived to drive his cows past the house where she lived, and 
 
ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 345 
 
 eagerly kept watch for a glimpse of her, as she went to the 
 barn with her milking-pails. But if she happened to pass 
 near enough to nod and smile, his cheeks grew red, and his 
 voice forsook ; and she could not know or guess that he 
 would lie awake long that night, and dream of her smile, 
 and resolve that some time or other he would have courage 
 to tell her how handsome she was, and how the sight of her 
 made his heart throb. She did not yet know that she could 
 love anybody better than she had loved Willie. She had 
 seen her darling brother but twice during their three years 
 of separation ; but his image was ever fresh and bright in 
 her memory. When he came to see her she felt completely 
 happy. While he gazed upon her with delighted eyes, her 
 affectionate nature was satisfied with love ; for it had not 
 yet been revealed to her in the melting glance of passion. 
 Yet the insidious and unquiet power already began to fore- 
 shadow itself in vague restlessness and romantic musings ; 
 for she was at an age — 
 
 " To feel a want, yet scarce know what it is ; 
 To seek one nature that is always new, 
 Whose glance is warmer than another's kiss : 
 Such longing instinct fills the mighty scope 
 Of the young heart with one mysterious hope." 
 
 At last, an important event occurred in Lizzy's monotonous 
 existence. A young girl in the village was to be married, 
 and she was invited to the quilting party. It was the first 
 invitation of the kind she had ever received, and of course 
 it occupied her thoughts day and night. Could she have 
 foreseen how this simple occurrence would affect her whole 
 future destiny, she would have pondered over it still more 
 deeply. The bridegroom brought a friend with him to the 
 party — a handsome dark-eyed young man, clerk of a store 
 in a neighboring town. Aware of his personal attractions, 
 he dressed himself with peculiar care. Elizabeth had never 
 seen anything so elegant ; and the moment his eye glanced 
 upon her, he decided that he had never seen anything half 
 so beautiful. He devoted himself to her in a manner suffix 
 ciently marked to excite envy ; and some of the rich farmers' 
 
346 
 
 ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 daughters made critical remarks about her dress, which they 
 concluded was passably genteel, for a girl that lived out at 
 service. However, Lizzy was queen of the evening, by vir- 
 tue of nature's own impress of royalty. When the quilt was 
 finished, romping games were introduced, according to the 
 fashion of the times ; and the young men took care that the 
 forfeits paid by the pretty girls should generally involve kiss- 
 ing some of their own number. Among the forfeits required 
 of the dark-eyed stranger, he was ordered to beg on his knees 
 for the identical little curl that Willie had asked of his sister. 
 In the midst of her mirthfulness, this brought a shadow over 
 her countenance, and she could not answer playfully. How- 
 ever, this emotion passed away with the moment, and she 
 became the gayest of the gay. Never before had she been 
 half so handsome, for never before had she been half so 
 happy. The joyful consciousness of pleasing everybody, and 
 the attractive young stranger in particular, made her eyes 
 sparkle, and her whole countenance absolutely radiant with 
 beauty. 
 
 When the party were about to separate, the young man 
 was very assiduous about placing her shawl, and begged 
 permission to accompany her home. But little was said du- 
 ring this walk ; yet enough to afford entrance into both hearts 
 for that insidious and unquiet passion, which tangles the 
 web of human life more than all the other sentiments and 
 instincts of our mysterious being. At parting he took her 
 hand, to say good night; but he continued to hold it, and, 
 leaning against the gate, they both stood, for a few moments, 
 gazing at the clear, silvery orb of night. Ah, how different 
 the moon seemed to Lizzy now ! Earth's spectral robe had 
 changed to a veil of glory. Her bonnet had fallen back, 
 and the evening breeze played gently with her ringlets. In 
 soft, insinuating tones, the young man said, "Will you not 
 give me that little curl I asked you for ?" She blushed 
 deeply, and answered, in her child-like way, " I cannot give 
 you that, because my mother used to kiss it so often." " No 
 wonder she kissed it," he replied ; " it looks so roguish, lying 
 there on the pretty cheek " And before she was aware of it, 
 
ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 347 
 
 he had kissed it too ! Trembling and confused, she turned 
 to open the gate, but he held it fast, until she had promised 
 that the next time he came she would give him one of her 
 curls. 
 
 Poor Lizzy went to bed at night with an intoxicated 
 heart. When she twisted her hair at the glass, next morn- 
 ing, she smiled and blushed, as she twined the favorite ring- 
 let more carefully than ever. She was so childishly happy 
 w r ith her pretty little curl ! The next Sunday evening, as 
 she sat at the window, she heard the sound of a flute. He 
 had promised to bring his flute ; and he had not forgotten 
 her. She listened — it came nearer and nearer through the 
 wood. Her heart beat audibly, for i was indeed the hand- 
 some dark-eyed stranger. 
 
 All summer long, he came every Sunday afternoon ; and 
 with him came moonlight walks and flute — warblings, and 
 tender whisperings, and glances, such as steal away a wo- 
 man's heart. This was the fairy-land of her young life. She 
 had somebody now into whose eyes she could gaze, with 
 all the deep tenderness of her soul, and ask, " Do you love 
 your own Lizzy ?" 
 
 The young man did love, but not as she loved him ; for 
 tier's was a richer nature, and gave more than he could 
 return. He accompanied her to her father's, and they were 
 generally understood to be betrothed. He had not seen her 
 brother William, but he was told a thousand affectionate 
 anecdotes of his kind and good heart. When they returned 
 from the visit to the homestead, they brought with them the 
 little blue bench marked W. and E. Lizzy was proud of 
 her genteel lover ; and the only drop which it now seemed 
 possible to add to her cup of happiness, was to introduce him 
 to William. But her brother was far off ; and when the au- 
 tumn came, her betrothed announced the necessity of going 
 to a distant city, to establish himself in business. It was a 
 bitter, bitter parting to both. The warmest letters were but 
 a cold substitute for those happy hours of mutual confidence ; 
 and after awhile, his letters became more brief and cool. 
 The fact was, the young man was too vain to feel deeply ; 
 
348 
 
 ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 and among his new acquaintance in the city, was a young 
 good-looking widow, with a small fortune, who early evinced 
 a preference for him. To be obviously and at the same time 
 modestly preferred, by a woman of any agreeable qualities, 
 is what few men, even of the strongest character, can with- 
 stand. It is the knowledge of this fact, and experience with 
 regard to the most delicate and acceptable modes of express- 
 ing preference, which, as Samuel Weller expresses it, makes 
 " a widow equal to twenty-five other women." Lizzy's lover 
 was not a strong character, and he was vain and selfish. It 
 is no wonder, therefore, that his letters to the pretty girl who 
 lived out at service, should become more cool and infrequent. 
 She was very slow to believe it thus ; and when, at last, 
 news reached her that he was positively engaged to be mar- 
 ried to another, she refused to listen to it. But he came not 
 to vindicate himself, and he ceased to answer her letters. 
 The poor deluded girl awoke to a full consciousness of her 
 misery, and suffered such intensity of wretchedness as only 
 keenly sensive natures can suffer. William had promised to 
 come and see her the latter part of the winter, and her heart 
 had been filled with pleasant and triumphant anticipations 
 of introducing to him her handsome lover. But now the 
 pride of her heart was humbled, and its joy turned into 
 mourning. She was cast off, forsaken ; and, alas, that was 
 not the worst. As she sobbed on the neck of her faithful 
 brother, she felt, for the first time, that there was something 
 she could not tell him. The keenest of her wretched feel- 
 ings she dared not avow. He pitied and consoled her as well 
 as he could ; but to her, it seemed as if there was no conso- 
 lation but in death. Most earnestly did he wish that he had 
 a home to shelter her, where he could fold her round with 
 the soft wings of brotherly love. But they were both poor, 
 and poverty fetters the impulses of the heart. And so they 
 must part again, he guessing but half of her great sorrow. 
 If the farewell was sad to him, what must it have been to 
 her, who now felt so utterly alone in the wide world 7 Her 
 health sunk under the conflict, and the fits returned upon 
 her with increased violence. In her state of gloomy abstrac- 
 
ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 349 
 
 % tion and indifference, she hardly noticed the significant 
 glances and busy whispers of neighbors and acquaintance. 
 With her, the agony of death was past. The world seemed 
 to her too spectral for her to dread its censures. At last, she 
 gave birth to a dead infant, and for a long time her own life 
 trembled in the balance. She recovered, in a state of con- 
 firmed melancholy, and with occasional indications of im- 
 paired intellect. 
 
 " A shadow seemed to rise 
 From out her thoughts, and turn to dreariness 
 All blissful hopes and sunny memories." 
 
 She was no longer invited to visit with the young people 
 of the neighborhood ; and the envy excited by her uncom- 
 mon beauty, showed itself in triumph over her blighted repu- 
 tation. Her father thought it a duty to reprove her for sin, 
 and her step-mother said some cutting words about the dis- 
 grace her conduct had brought upon the family. But no 
 kind Christian heart reminded her that weakness is not 
 always crime, or strengthened her with the assurance that 
 one false step in life might be retrieved. Thus was the lily 
 broken in its budding beauty, and its delicate petals blighted 
 by harsh winds. 
 
 Poor Lizzy felt this depressing atmosphere of neglect and 
 scorn ; but fortunately with less keenness than she would 
 have done, before the brain was stultified and heart congealed 
 by shame and sorrow. She no longer showed much feeling 
 about anything, except the little blue bench marked W. 
 and E. Every moment that she could steal from household 
 duties, she would retire to her little room, and, seated on 
 this bench, would read over William's letters, and those 
 other letters which had crushed her loving heart. She would 
 not allow any person to remove the bench from her bedside, 
 or to place a foot upon it. To such inanimate objects does 
 the poor human heart cling in its desolation. 
 
 Years passed away monotonously with Elizabeth ; years 
 of loneliness and labor. Some young men, attracted by her 
 beauty, and emboldened by knowledge of her weakness, 
 approached her with a familiarity which they intended for 
 
350 
 
 ELIZABETH WILSON". 
 
 flattery. But their profligacy was too thinly disguised to 
 be dangerous to a nature like hers. She turned coldly from 
 them all, with feelings of disgust and weariness. 
 
 When she was about twenty-three years old. she went to 
 Philadelphia, to do household work for a family that wished 
 to hire her. Important events followed this change, but a 
 veil of obscurity rests over the causes that produced them. 
 After some months' residence in the city, her health failed 
 more and more, and she returned to the country. She was 
 still competent to discharge the lighter duties of household 
 labor, but she seemed to perform them all mechanically, and 
 with a dull stupor. After a time, it became obvious that 
 she would again be a mother. When questioned, her an- 
 swers were incoherent and contradictory. At last she gave 
 birth to twins. She wept when she saw them ; but they 
 seemed to have no power to withdraw her mind from its 
 disconsolate wanderings. When they were a few months 
 old, she expressed a wish to see Philadelphia ; and a lad 
 belonging to the family where she had remained during her 
 illness, agreed to convey her part of the way in a wagon. 
 When they came into the public road, she told him she could 
 walk the rest of the way, and begged him to return. He 
 left her seated on a rock near a thick grove, nursing her 
 babes. She was calm and gentle, but sad and abstracted 
 as usual. That was in the morning. Where or how she 
 spent the day was never known. Toward night she arrived 
 in Philadelphia, at the house where she had formerly lived. 
 She seemed very haggard and miserable : what few words 
 she said were abrupt and unmeaning ; and her attitudes and 
 motions had the sluggish apathy of an insane person. 
 
 The next day there was a rumor afloat that two strangled 
 infants had been found in a grove on the road from Chester. 
 Of course this circumstance soon became connected with her 
 name. When she was arrested, she gave herself up with 
 the same gloomy indifference that marked all her actions. 
 She denied having committed the murder ; but when asked 
 who she supposed had done it, she sometimes shuddered and 
 said nothing, sometimes said she did not know, and some 
 
ELIZABETH WILSON. 351 
 
 times answered that the children were still living. When 
 conveyed to prison, she asked for pen and ink ; and in a short 
 letter, rudely penned, she begged William to come to her, 
 and to bring from her bed-room the little blue bench they 
 used to sit upon in the happy days of childhood. He came 
 at once, and long did the affectionate couple stand locked in 
 each others arms, sobbing, and without the power to speak. 
 It was not until the second interview that her brother could 
 summon courage to ask whether she really committed the 
 crime of which she was accused. 
 
 "Oh no, William," she replied, "you could not suppose 
 I did." 
 
 "You must indeed have been dreadfully changed, dear 
 Lizzy," said he ; " for you used to have a heart that could 
 not hurt a kitten." 
 
 " I am dreadfully changed," she answered, " but I never 
 wanted to harm anything." 
 
 He took her hand, played sadly with the emaciated fin- 
 gers, and after a strong effort to control his emotions, he said, 
 in a subdued voice, " Lizzy, dear, can you tell me who did 
 do it?" 
 
 She stared at him with a wild, intense gaze, that made 
 him shudder. Then looking fearfully toward the door, she 
 said, in a strange muffled whisper, "Did whatT Poor Wil- 
 liam bowed his head over the hand that he held in his own, 
 and wept like a child. 
 
 During various successive interviews, he could obtain no 
 satisfactory answer to the important question. Sometimes 
 she merely gazed at him with a vacant, insane expression ; 
 sometimes she faintly answered that she did not know ; and 
 sometimes she said she believed the babes were still alive. 
 She gradually became more quiet and rational under her 
 brother's soothing influence ; and one- day, when he had 
 repeatedly assured her that she could safely trust her secrets 
 to his faithful heart, she said, with a suppressed whisper, as 
 if she feared the sound of her own voice, " He did it." 
 
 " Who is he ?" asked the brother, gently. 
 
 * The father," she replied. 
 
352 ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 u Did you know he meant to do it ?" 
 
 " No. He told me he would meet me and give me some 
 money. But when I asked him for something to support the 
 children, he was angry, and choked them. I was frightened, 
 and fell faint. I don't know what I did. I awoke up, 
 and found myself on the ground alone, and the babies lying 
 among the bushes." 
 
 " What is his name, and where does he live?" inquired the 
 brother. She gave him a wild look of distress, and said — 
 
 " Oh, don't ask me. I ought not to have done so. I am 
 a poor sinner — a poor sinner. But everybody deserted me ; 
 the world was very cold ; I had nobody to love ; and he was 
 very kind to me." 
 
 " But tell me his name," urged the brother. She burst 
 into a strange, mad laugh, picked nervously at the handker- 
 chief she held in her hand, and repeated, idiotically, "Name? 
 name ? 1 guess the babies are alive now. I don't know — 
 I don't know — but I guess they are." 
 
 To the lawyer she would say nothing except to deny that 
 she committed the murder. All their exertions could wring 
 from her nothing more distinct than the story she had briefly 
 told her brother. During her trial, the expression of her 
 countenance was stupid and vacant. At times she would 
 drum on the railing before her, and stare round on the crowd 
 with a bewildered look, as if unconscious where she was. 
 The deranged state of her mind was strongly urged by her 
 lawyer ; but his opponent replied that all this might be as- 
 sumed. To the story she had told in prison, it was answer- 
 ed, that her not telling of the murder at the time, made her 
 an accomplice. After the usual display of legal ingenuity 
 on both sides, the jury brought her in guilty of murder, 
 and the poor forlorn creature was sentenced to be hung at 
 Chester. 
 
 The wretched brother was so stunned by the blow, that 
 at first he could not collect his thoughts. But it soon oc- 
 curred to him, that the terrible doom might still be arrested, 
 if the case could be brought suitably before the governor. 
 A petition was accordingly drawn up, setting forth the alien- 
 
ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 353 
 
 ation of mind to which she had been subjected, in conse- 
 quence of fits, and the extreme doubtfulness whether she 
 committed the murder. Her youth, her beauty, the severe 
 sorrows of her life, and the obviously impaired state of her 
 reason, touched many hearts, and the petition was rapidly 
 signed. When William went to her cell to bid her adieu, 
 he tried to cheer her with the hope of pardon. She listened 
 with listless apathy. But when he pressed her hand, and 
 with a mournful smile said, " Good bye, dear Lizzy ; I shall 
 come back soon, and I hope with good news," she pointed 
 tearfully to the little blue bench, and said, " Let what will 
 happen, Willie, take care of that, for my sake." He an- 
 swered with a choked voice ; and as he turned away, the 
 tears flowed fast down his manly cheeks. She listened to 
 the echoes of his steps, and when she could hear them no 
 longer, she threw herself on the floor, laid her head down 
 on the little blue bench, kissed the letters curved upon it, 
 and sobbed as she had not sobbed since she was first deserted 
 by her false lover. When the jailor went in to carry her 
 supper, he found her asleep thus : rich masses of her glossy 
 brown hair fell over her pale but still lovely face, on which 
 rested a serene smile, as if she were happy in her dreams. 
 He stood and gazed upon her, and his hard hand brushed 
 away a tear. Some motion that he made disturbed her 
 slumber. She opened her eyes, from which there beamed 
 for a moment a rational and happy expression, as she said, 
 "I was out in the woods behind the house, holding my little 
 apron to catch the nuts that Willie threw down. Mother 
 smiled at me from a blue place between two clouds, and 
 said, ' Come to me, my child.' " 
 
 The next day a clergyman came to see her. He spoke 
 of the penalty for sin, and the duty of being resigned to the 
 demands of justice. She heard his words as a mother hears 
 street sounds when she is watching a dying babe. They 
 conveyed to her no import. When asked if she repented of 
 her sins, she said she had been a weak, erring creature, and 
 she hoped that she was penitent ; but that she never com- 
 mitted the murder. 
 
354 
 
 ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 " Are you resigned to die, if a pardon should not be ob- 
 tained ?" he asked. 
 
 " Oh, yes," she replied, " I want to die." 
 
 He prayed with her in the spirit of real human love ; and 
 this soothed her heart. She spoke seldom after her brother's 
 departure ; and often she did not appear to hear when she 
 was spoken to. She sat on the little blue bench, gazing 
 vacantly on the floor, like one already out of the body. 
 
 In those days there was a briefer interval between sentence 
 and execution than at present. The fatal day and hour 
 soon arrived, and still no tidings from the governor. Men 
 came to lead her to the gallows. She seemed to understand 
 what they said to her, and turned meekly to obey their 
 orders. But she stopped suddenly, gazed on the little blue 
 bench, and said, in a gasping tone, "Has William come?" 
 When they told her no, a shudder seemed to go over her, 
 and her pale face became still paler. A bit of looking-glass 
 hung on the wall in front of her ; and as she raised her 
 head, she saw the little curl that had received her mother's 
 caresses and the first kiss of love. With a look of the most 
 intense agony, she gave a loud groan, and burying her face 
 in her hands, fell forward on the shoulder of the sheriff. 
 ##**##* 
 
 Poor William had worked with the desperate energy of 
 despair; and the governor, after a brief delay, granted a 
 pardon. But in those days the facilities for traveling were 
 few ; and it happened that the country was inundated with 
 heavy rains, which everywhere impeded his progress. He 
 stopped neither for food nor rest ; but everywhere the floods 
 and broken roads hindered his progress. When he came to 
 Darby Creek — which was usually fordable — it was swollen 
 too high to be crossed, and it was some time before a boat 
 could be obtained. In an agony of mind he pressed onward, 
 till his horse fell dead under him. Half frantic, he begged 
 for another at any price — mounted, and rode furiously. From 
 the top of a hill he saw a crowd assembled round the place 
 of execution. He waved his handkerchief — he shouted — 
 he screamed ; but, in the excitement of the moment, he was 
 
ELIZABETH WILSON. 
 
 355 
 
 not heard or noticed. All eyes were fastened on the gallows ; 
 and soon the awful object came within his own vision. Fa- 
 ther of mercies ! there are women's garments floating in the 
 air ! There is a struggling, a quivering — and all is still. 
 
 With a shriek that pierced the ears of the multitude, the 
 desperate rider plunged forward. His horse fell under him, 
 and, shouting " A pardon ! — a pardon !" he rolled senseless 
 on the ground. He came too late. The unhappy Elizabeth 
 was dead. She had gone to 
 
 " Him who made the heart, 
 And who alone decidedly can try it; 
 Then at the balance let's be mute — 
 We never can adjust it. 
 What's done, we partly may compute, 
 But know not what's resisted" 
 
 Pale as a ghost, with hair suddenly whitened by excess 
 of anguish, the wretched brother bent over the corpse of that 
 beautiful sister whom he had loved so well. They spoke to 
 him of resignation to God's will. He answered not — for it 
 was not clear to him that the cruelty of man is the will of 
 God. Reverently and tenderly he cut from that fair brow 
 the favorite little curl, twined about with so many sacred 
 memories, and once a source of girlish, innocent joy to the 
 yearning heart that slept so calmly now. He took the little 
 bench from its cold corner in the prison, and, gathering to- 
 gether his small personal property, he retired to a lonely cave 
 in Dauphin county. He shunned all intercourse with his 
 fellow-men, and, when spoken to, answered briefly and 
 solemnly. There he died, a few years ago, at an advanced 
 age. He is well remembered in the region round about, as 
 William, the Hermit. 
 
 The more honesty a man has, the less he affects the air 
 of a saint. The affectation of sanctity is a blotch on the 
 face of piety. 
 
EMBALMING AMONG THE EGYPTIANS. 
 
 The Egyptians, of all nations of antiquity, are most de 
 serving of our attention. To this wise and ingenious people, 
 who made such advances in arts and science, in commerce 
 and legislation, succeeding nations have been indebted for 
 whatever institutions civilize mankind and embellish human 
 life. The priesthood of this very religious people — to whom 
 knowledge was exclusively confined, being wholly free from 
 anxiety about secular matters, as they were provided for 
 by the state — devoted themselves to the service of the com- 
 munity. Their time was divided between the performance 
 of their sacred duties and the improvement of the mind. 
 Study was their business, the good of the people was their 
 sole object, and whatever could contribute to the political 
 or moral welfare of their country, was pursued with a zeal 
 worthy of imitation in Christian societies. It is not then 
 surprising that they made such amazing progress in physic 
 and other occult sciences. And though the art of embalm- 
 ing, as practised by them, is now obsolete, and the medicated 
 herbs which they used, may not now be ascertained, yet we 
 may gather from the custom what study and attention they 
 employed in discovering the virtues of simples, though the 
 science of medical chemistry was probably unknown at that 
 early period. The art of embalming the dead was peculiar 
 to the Egyptians ; they alone knew the secret of preserving 
 the body from decay. In the Pentateuch, we find that when 
 Abraham and Isaac died, they were simply buried ; but Ja- 
 cob, and afterwards Joseph, were embalmed, because those 
 two patriarchs died in Egypt. This mysterious trade de- 
 scended from father to son, as an hereditary and sacred 
 privilege. The embalmers were held in high repute, con- 
 
EMBALMING AMONG THE EGYPTIANS. 
 
 357 
 
 rersed with the priests, and were by them admitted into the 
 inner parts of the temples. Embalming may have been 
 practised in Asia, but as there is not any authority for this 
 presumption, it may be inferred that the custom prevailed 
 among the Chaldeans, on account of the proximity of their 
 country to Egypt, and the similarity of pursuits and doc- 
 trines : an intercourse no doubt subsisted between these two 
 philosophical nations from the earliest ages. After the 
 death of Alexander the Great, the Egyptians and Chaldeans 
 were ordered to dress the body in their own way ; but this 
 event was many hundred years after the times when Egypt 
 flourished under the Pharaohs. The washing and dressing 
 of the bodies, alluded to by Greek and Roman writers, was 
 merely an external application of unguents, performed with 
 facility and dispatch, not for the purpose of preserving the 
 corpse, but in honor of the deceased. The ceremony among 
 the Egyptians was sacred and solemn, and the process te- 
 dious, intricate, and expensive. In the patriarchal history, 
 the sacred writer tells us that forty days were employed in 
 preparing the body of Jacob for sepulture. "And Joseph com- 
 manded his servants the physicians to embalm his father : 
 and the physicians embalmed Israel." — Gen. ch. 50, v. 2. 
 And here it is to be observed, that the officers called phy- 
 sicians did not profess the art of curing ; for physic, as it is 
 now called, was not at that time a professional pursuit : not 
 a word is said of physicians being called in during Jacob's 
 sickness. Besides, the Hebrew word is rendered in the Sep- 
 tuagint, by those who prepare the body for burial. It is true, 
 the author of the Pentateuch does not particularize this 
 ceremony ; but Herodotus and Diodorus are clear and diffuse 
 in everything relative to this interesting country. The Egyp- 
 tians believed that the soul was immortal, or rather, that it 
 was eternal : they imagined that it not only was not subject 
 to death, but that it had existed from all eternity, having 
 neither beginning nor end. They thought that as it was 
 immaterial, it was increate ; and as it was increate, that it 
 was a part of the Divine Spirit, and co-existent with that 
 Being from whom it emanated. In order to substantiate this 
 
358 
 
 EMBALMING AMONG THE EGYPTIANS. 
 
 doctrine, they asserted that the soul had been in a state of 
 pre-existence, and at the dissolution of the outward man, it 
 passed into various states; and, after a circuit of three thou- 
 sand years, it returned to reanimate the human body. Pytha- 
 gorus first transplanted this dogma from Egypt into Greece , 
 and, though no works of that philosopher are now extant, yet 
 we may gather from later writers the essential tenets of the 
 Pythagorean sect. Plato, after the death of Socrates, incul- 
 cated the same principle, in order to validate the primary 
 tenet of the Socratic school — the immortality of the soul. 
 Virgil has shown himself very sedulous in propagating the 
 same doctrine among the Romans. These two nations were 
 of opinion that death separated the soul from the body ; 
 they were therefore no longer concerned about the perishable 
 part of man ; and being enlightened by the rays of rational 
 philosophy, through the mists of error and superstition, they 
 looked forward to a future state as a reward for the virtuous 
 and a punishment for the wicked. The Egyptians, on the 
 contrary, were more solicitous to preserve the material part 
 from putrefaction and injury, conceiving that the soul was 
 inseparable from its body, so long as the latter was free from 
 corruption. Inspired by this superstition, they studied and 
 put in practice every means of preserving the human frame : 
 they applied to the study of natural history to discover the 
 virtues of simples, and provided buildings of the greatest 
 magnitude and durability, as depositories for the dead, which 
 still remain the most stupendous monuments of human labor 
 in the world. That the pyramids were built as sepulchres 
 for the kings, there appears no reason to doubt ; this is fully 
 testified by modern travelers. Besides, Diodorus says ex- 
 pressly, that Chemnis and Cephron constructed them for this 
 purpose. The principal care of the Egyptians was turned 
 to the preserving the dead ; they looked upon their houses 
 as temporary dwellings, but to their cemeteries they gave 
 the name of the eternal mansions. 
 
 Among the three modes of embalming, that adopted by 
 the rich was very tedious in its process, and expensive in its 
 preparation. As soon as a man of any consideration died, 
 
EMBALMING AMONG THE EGYPTIANS. 359 
 
 the relations of the deceased, after the most violent expres- 
 sions of grief, sent for the embalmer, who carried away the 
 corpse. The first part of the operation was to extract the 
 brains through the nostrils, with a crooked instrument of 
 iron ; for the more ready performance of which, the medium 
 . septum of the nose was cut away ; the vacuities were then 
 filled up w T ith perfumes and aromatic composition. After 
 this, the body was opened with much ceremony ; for this pur- 
 pose the priest made a mark on the left side, just above the 
 hip, to show how far the incision was to be made. A par- 
 ticular officer made an opening with a very sharp Ethiopian 
 stone. As soon as the people saw this, they pelted him with 
 stones, and pursued him with maledictions — for the Egyp- 
 tians looked with abhorrence upon any one who offered vio- 
 lence to a human body, either dead or alive, The embalmer 
 then inserted his hand, and drew out all the viscera, except 
 the heart and kidneys, while the bowels were washed with 
 odors. The entrails were not restored to the abdomen, 
 but, from a religious motive, they were thrown in the Nile. 
 Afterwards the belly was filled with cinnamon, myrrh, and 
 other odoriferous drugs; and then the orifice of the wound 
 was closed. The body outwardly was anointed with the 
 oil of cedar, and other preservatives, for thirty days. This 
 length of time was necessary to administer the preparations 
 for drying it and preventing its putrefaction. At the expi- 
 ration of this term the corpse was again washed, and wrap- 
 ped up in many folds of linen, painted with sacred charac- 
 ters, and seasoned with gums and other glutinous matter. 
 This renders the cloth so durable, that it has preserved its 
 consistence even to the present day, as* specimens exhibited 
 in this country and in England fully testify. These swathes 
 of cere-cloth were so manifold, that there are seldom less 
 than a thousand yards of filleting about one body ; and so 
 ingeniously were the wrappings managed, that the linea- 
 ments of the deceased were easily discernible, even though 
 the face was covered with a kind of mask filled with mastic. 
 On the breast was spread a broader piece of cere-cloth, on 
 which was inscribed some memorable sentiment ; but, for 
 
360 
 
 SUMMER EVENING. 
 
 the most part, having a figure of a woman with expanded 
 arms. The embalmer having done his duty, the mummy 
 was sent back to the kindred of the defunct, who deposited it 
 in a wooden coffin made of a species of sycamore, called 
 in Egypt, Pharaoh's fig-tree. Some few coffins have been 
 found of solid stone. The top of the wooden coffin, or mum- 
 my chest, was carved in the shape of a woman's head ; the 
 face had been richly painted ; the rest of the trunk was 
 adorned with hieroglyphics, and the lower end was broad 
 and flat like a pedestal, on which the coffin was placed erect 
 in the place designed for its reception. 
 
 SUMMER EVENING: 
 
 It is the stilly hour of eve, 
 
 When all the blossoms seem to grieve, 
 
 And mourn in tears the day's decline, 
 
 While on their petals dew-drops shine. 
 
 Each setting sun that fades away, 
 
 But warns them of their own decay. 
 
 Alas ! when some few suns are o'er, 
 
 They'll revel in the beam no more— ■ 
 
 But wither on their lowly bed, 
 
 Like some lone maid whose beauty's fled. 
 
 The breeze that slumber'd through the day, 
 
 Now whispering, kisses every spray 
 
 In yonder fragrant jasmine bower, 
 
 And fans to health each languid flower. 
 
 The nightingale is warbling now 
 Responses to the lover's vow. 
 There's music in the grove, the brake ; 
 Nay, music in the sleeping lake ; 
 For every zephyr's wanton sigh 
 Fills the air with melody ; 
 And every sound 
 
 At eve like this, 
 That floats around, 
 
 Breathes balmy bliss. 
 
HARVEY BIRCH AND THE SKINNERS. 
 
 Thirty years ago, or thereabout, it would scarcely have been 
 needful to provide any reader in this country with an explanation 
 of the scene represented in this picture. The fame of the first 
 great American novelist was then rife throughout the land : and 
 " Have you read ' The Spy ?' " was a question almost as univer- 
 sal and matter of course as at any subsequent time has been 
 the like query having for its subject a production of Buiwer, 
 Dickens, or Eugene Sue. Mr. Cooper was then giving to the 
 world the freshness not only of his intellect, but of his feelings. 
 Perhaps his later works have been greater in intellect, and im- 
 
 ed with a loftier purpose, but those which appeared at the 
 
 i referred to had by far the greatest number of readers. 
 
 Thirty years ago, or thereabout, as we have said, it would 
 have been unnecessary to inform the reader that Harvey Birch 
 was the hero, or at least the principal character, of Mr. Cooper's 
 " Spy." Now we will not undertake to say that the name may 
 not be strange to the ears or eyes of thousands. A new genera- 
 tion has come into the reading market, having no acquaintance 
 with Captain Wharton, and Harper, and Jack Lawton, and Dr. 
 Sitgreaves; and for the benefit of such, we extract from " The 
 Spy," (by permission of the publisher,) the history of the seene 
 presented in the picture : — 
 
 " ( On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
 Some pious drops the closing eye requires, 
 
 E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 
 E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.' 
 
 Gray. 
 
 11 The possessions of Mr. Wharton extended to some distance 
 on each side of the house in which he dwelt, and most of his 
 land was unoccupied. A few scattering dwellings were to be 
 
384 
 
 HARVEY BIRCH AND THE SKINNERS. 
 
 seen in different parts of his domains, but they were fast falling 
 to decay, and were untenanted. The proximity of the country 
 to the contending armies had nearly banished the pursuits of 
 agriculture from the land. It was useless for the husbandman 
 to devote his time, and the labor of his hands, to obtain over- 
 flowing garners, that the first foraging party would empty. 
 None tilled the earth with any other view than to provide the 
 scanty means of subsistence, except those who were placed so 
 near to one of the adverse parties as to be safe from the inroads 
 of the light troops of the other. To these the war offered a 
 golden harvest, more especially to such as enjoyed the benefits 
 of an access to the Eoyal army. Mr. "Wharton did not require 
 the use of his lands for the purposes of subsistence, and will- 
 ingly adopted the guarded practice of the day, and limited his 
 attention to such articles as were soon to be consumed within 
 his own walls, or could be easily secreted from the prying looks 
 of the foragers. In consequence, the ground on which the ac- 
 tion was fought, had not a single inhabited building, besides the 
 one belonging to the father of Harvey Birch. This stood be- 
 tween the places where the cavalry had met, and the charge had 
 been made on the party of Wellmere. 
 
 To Katy Haynes, it had been a day fruitful in incidents to 
 furnish an inexhaustible theme to her after life. The prudent 
 housekeeper had kept her political feelings in a state of rigid 
 neutrality ; her own friends had espoused the cause of the coun- 
 try, but the maiden never lost sight of the moment when she 
 herself was to be espoused to Harvey Birch. She did not wish 
 to fetter the bonds of Hymen with any other clogs than those 
 with which nature had already so amply provided them. Katy 
 could always see enough to embitter the marriage bed, without 
 calling in the aid of political contention ; and yet, at times, the 
 prying spinster had her doubts of which side she should be, to 
 escape this dreaded evil. There was so much of practised de- 
 ception in the conduct of the pedler, that the housekeeper fre- 
 quently arrested her own words when most wishing to manifest 
 her sympathy. His lengthened absences from home had com- 
 menced immediately after the hostile armies had made their 
 appearance in the county ; previously to that event, his returns 
 had been regular and frequent. 
 
 The battle of the Plains had taught the cautious Washington. 
 
Harvey birch and the skinners. 
 
 385 
 
 the advantages possessed by his enemy, in organization, arms, 
 and discipline. These were difficulties to be mastered by his 
 own vigilance and care. Drawing off his troops to the heights, 
 in the northern part of the county, he bid defiance to the at- 
 tacks of the royal army, and Sir William Howe fell back to the 
 enjoyments of his barren conquests, a deserted city and the ad- 
 jacent islands. Never afterwards did the opposing armies make 
 the trial for success within the limits of West-Chester; yet 
 hardly a day passed, that the partisans did not make their in- 
 roads; or a sunrise, that the inhabitants were spared the rela- 
 tion of the excesses that the preceding darkness had served to 
 conceal. Most of the movements of the pedler through the 
 country were made at the hours which others allotted to 
 repose. The evening sun would frequently leave him at one 
 extremity of the district, and the morning find him at the other. 
 His pack was his never-failing companion, and there were those 
 who closely studied him in his moments of traffic, who thought 
 his only purpose was the accumulation of gold. He would be 
 often seen near the Highlands, with a body bending under the 
 weight it carried; and again near the Harlaem river, traveling, 
 with lighter steps, with his face toward the setting sun. But 
 these glances at him were uncertain and fleeting. The inter- 
 mediate time no eye could penetrate. For months he disap- 
 peared, and no traces of his course were ever known. 
 
 Strong parties held the heights of Harlaem, and the northern 
 end of Manhattan Island was bristled with the bayonets of the 
 English sentinels, yet the pedler glided among them unnoticed 
 and uninjured. His approaches to the American lines were 
 also frequent ; but generally so conducted as to baffle pursuit. 
 Many a sentinel, placed in the gorges of the mountains, spoke 
 of a strange figure that had been seen gliding by them in the 
 mists of the evening. The stories reached the ears of the offi- 
 cers, and, as we have related, in two instances, the trader fell 
 into the hands of the Americans. The first time he escaped 
 from Lawton, shortly after his arrest ; but the second he was 
 condemned to die. On the morning of his intended execution, 
 the cage was opened, but the bird had flown. This extraordi- 
 nary escape had been made from the custody of a favorite offi- 
 cer of Washington, and sentinels who had been thought worthy 
 to guard the person of the Commander-in-chief. Bribery and 
 
386 
 
 HARVEY BIRCH AND THE SKINNERS. 
 
 treason could not approach the characters of men so well es- 
 teemed, and the opinion gained ground among the common sol 
 diery, that the pedler had dealings with the dark one. Katy, 
 however, always repelled this opinion with indignation; for, 
 within the recesses of her own bosom, the housekeeper, in rumi- 
 nating on the events, concluded that the evil spirit did not pay 
 in gold. Nor, continues the wary spinster in her cogitations,, 
 does Washington ; paper and promises were all that the leader 
 of the American troops could dispense to his servants, until 
 after the receipt of supplies from France ; and even then, al- 
 though the scrutinizing eyes of Katy never let any opportunity 
 of examining into the deer-skin purse pass unimproved, she 
 was never able to detect the image of Louis, intruding into the 
 presence of the well known countenance of George III. 
 
 The house of Harvey had been watched at different times 
 by the Americans, with a view to his arrest, but never with sue* 
 cess ; the reputed spy possessed a secret means of intelligence, 
 that invariably defeated their schemes. Once, when a strong 
 body of the Continental army held the Four Corners for a whole 
 summer, orders had been received from Washington himself, 
 never to leave the door of Harvey Birch unwatched ; the com- 
 mand was rigidly obeyed, and during this long period the pedler 
 was unseen ; the detachment was withdrawn, and the next night 
 Birch re entered his dwelling. The father of Harvey had been 
 greatly molested, in consequence of the suspicious character of 
 the son. But, notwithstanding the most minute scrutiny into 
 the conduct of the old man, no fact could be substantiated 
 against him to his injury, and his property was too small to 
 keep alive the zeal of professed patriots ; its confiscation and 
 purchase would not reward them for their trouble. Age and 
 sorrow were now about to spare him from further molesta- 
 tion, for the lamp of life had begun to be drained of its oil. 
 The separation of the father and son had been painful, but in 
 obedience to what both thought a duty. The old man had 
 kept his situation a secret from the neighborhood, in order that 
 he might have the company of his child in his last moments. 
 The confusion of the past day, and the dread that Harvey 
 might be too late, helped to hasten the event he would fain ar- 
 rest for yet a little while. As night set in, his illness increased 
 to such a degree, that the dismayed housekeeper had ser 4 " a 
 
HARVEY BIRCH AND THE SKINNERS. 
 
 387 
 
 truant boy, who had been shut up with them for the day rather 
 than trust himself in the presence of the combatants, to the 
 Locusts, in quest of a companion to cheer her desolate situation. 
 Caesar was the only one who could be spared, and, loaded with 
 eatables and cordials by the kind hearted Miss Peyton, the black 
 had been despatched on this duty. The dying man was past 
 the use of such articles, and his chief anxiety seemed to centre 
 in a meeting with his absent child. 
 
 The noise of the chase had been heard by the group in the 
 house, but its cause not understood ; and as both the black and 
 Katy were apprised of the detachment of American horse being 
 below them, with its discontinuance all apprehension from this 
 disturbance ceased. They heard the dragoons, as they moved 
 slowly by the building, but in compliance with the prudent in- 
 junction of the black, the housekeeper forbore to indulge her 
 curiosity by taking a view of the pageant. The old man had 
 closed his eyes, and his attendants supposed him to be asleep. 
 The house contained two large rooms, and as many small ones. 
 One of the former served for kitchen and parlor; in the other 
 lay the father of Birch ; of the latter, one was the sanctuary 
 of the vestal, and the other contained the provisions for sub- 
 sistence. A huge chimney of stone rose in the centre of the 
 building, serving, of itself, for a partition between the larger 
 rooms; and fire-places of corresponding dimensions were in 
 each apartment. A bright fire was burning in that of the com- 
 raon room, and, within the very jambs of its monstrous jaws 
 sat Caesar and Katy, at the time of which we write. The Afri- 
 can was impressing his caution on the housekeeper to suppress 
 an idle curiosity that might prove dangerous. 
 
 " Best nebber tempt a Satan," said Caesar, rolling up his eyes 
 significantly, till the whites glistened by the glare of the fire ; 
 " I like to lose an ear, only for carrying a little bit of a letter ; 
 but I wish Harvey get back." 
 
 " It is very disregardful in him to be away at such times,' 
 said Katy imposingly. " Suppose now his father wanted to 
 make his last will in the testament, who is there to do such a 
 thing for him ? Harvey is a very wasteful and a very disre- 
 gardful man." 
 
 " Perhaps he make him afore ?" said the black, inquiringly. 
 
388 
 
 HARVEY BIRCH AND THE SKINNERS. 
 
 " It would not be a wonderment if he had," returned the 
 housekeeper ; he is whole days looking into the Bible." 
 
 "Then he read a good book," said the black, solemnly. 
 " Miss Fanny read him to DiDah berry often." 
 
 "Yes," continued the inquisitive spinster; "but he would 
 not be forever studying it, if it didn't hold something more as 
 common." 
 
 She rose from her seat, and stealing softly to a chest of 
 drawers in the room where lay the sick, took from it a large 
 Bible, heavily bound, and secured with strong clasps of brass, 
 with which she returned to the expecting African. The volume 
 was opened, and she proceeded instantly to the inquiry. Katy 
 was far from- an expert scholar, and to Caesar the characters 
 were absolutely strangers. For some time the housekeeper was 
 occupied with finding out the word Matthew, which she at last 
 saw in large Roman letters crowning one of the pages, and in- 
 stantly announced her discovery to the attentive Caesar. 
 
 " Berry well, now look him all through," said the black, peep- 
 ing over the damsel's shoulder, as he held a long, lank candle 
 of yellow tallow in his hand, in such a manner as to throw its 
 feeble light on the volume. 
 
 " Yes, but I must begin with the book," replied the other, 
 turning the leaves carefully back, until, moving two at once, she 
 lighted upon, a page covered with the labors of a pen. " Here," 
 said the housekeeper with impatience, and shaking with the 
 eagerness of expectation, " here is the very words themselves ; 
 now I would give the w 7 orld to know who he has left them big 
 silver shoe buckles to." 
 
 " Read 'em," said Caesar, laconically. 
 
 " And the black walnut drawers ; for Harvey could never 
 want them." 
 
 " Why no want 'em as well as he fader ?" asked the black, 
 dryly. 
 
 " And the six silver table spoons : for Harvey always uses 
 the iron." 
 
 " I guess he say," continued the African, pointing significantly 
 to the writing, and listening eagerly, as the other thus opened 
 the store of the elder Birch's wealth. 
 
 Thus repeatedly advised, and impelled by her own curiosity, 
 Katy commenced her task. Anxious to come to the part which 
 
HARVEY BIRCH AND THE SKINNERS. 
 
 389 
 
 most interested herself, she dipped at once into the centre of 
 the subject. 
 
 "Chester Birch, born September 1st, 1775 read the spinster, 
 with great deliberation. 
 
 " Well, 1 ' cried the impatient Csesar, " what he give him ?" 
 
 "Abigail Birch, born July \2th, 1757;" continued the house 
 keeper, in the same tone. 
 
 " I guess he give her a spoons," interrupted the black. 
 
 "June 1st, 1760. On this awful day, the judgment of an 
 offended God lighted on my house " — a heavy groan from the 
 adjoining room made the spinster instinctively close the book, 
 and Csesar, for a moment, shook with fear. Neither possessed 
 sufficient resolution to go and examine the condition of the suf- 
 ferer, but his heavy breathing continued as usual. Katy dared 
 not, however, re-open the Bible, and carefully securing its clasps, 
 it was laid on the table in silence. Caesar took his chair again, 
 and after looking timidly round the room, remarked — 
 
 " I tought he 'bout to go." 
 
 " No," said Katy, solemnly, " he will live till the tide is out, 
 or the first cock crows in the morning." 
 
 " Poor man !" continued the black, nestling still farther into 
 the chimney corner; U I hope he lay quiet after he die." 
 
 " 'Twould be no astonishment to me if he didn't," returned 
 Katy, glancing her eyes round the room, and speaking in an 
 under voice ; <; for they say an unquiet life makes an uneasy 
 grave." 
 
 " Johnny Birch a berry good man," said the black, quite posi- 
 tively. 
 
 " Ah ! Csesar," said the housekeeper, in the same voice, " he 
 is good, only, who does good — can you tell me, Caesar, why 
 honestly gotten gold should be hidden in the bowels of the 
 earth?" 
 
 " If he know where he be, why don't he dig him up ?" asked 
 the black, promptly. 
 
 " There may be reasons not comprehendible to you," said 
 Katy, moving her chair so that her clothes covered the charmed 
 stone, underneath which lay the secret treasures of the pedler, 
 unable to refrain speaking of that which she would have been 
 very unwilling to reveal ; " but a rough outside often holds a 
 smooth inside." Cresar stared around the building, unable to 
 
390 HARVEY BIRCH AND THE SKINNERS. 
 
 fathom the hidden meaning of the damsel, when his roving eyes 
 suddenly became fixed, and his teeth chattered with affright. 
 The change in the countenance of the black was instantly per- 
 ceived by Katy, and turning her face, she saw the pedler him- 
 self, standing within the door of the room. 
 
 "Is he alive?" asked Birch, tremulously, and seemingly 
 afraid to receive an answer to his own question. 
 
 " Surely," said the maiden, rising hastily and officiously offer- 
 ing her chair to the pedler, " he must live till day or the tide 
 is down." 
 
 Disregarding all but her assurance, the pedler stole gently to 
 the room of his dying parent. The tie which bound this father 
 and son together was one of no ordinary kind. In the wide 
 world they were all to each other. Had Katy but read a few lines 
 farther in the record, she would have seen the sad tale of their 
 misfortunes. At one blow competence and kindred had been 
 swept from before them, and from that day to the present hour, 
 persecution and distress had followed their wandering steps. 
 Approaching the bedside, Harvey leaned his body forward, and 
 said, in a voice nearly choked by his feelings — . 
 
 " Father, do you know me ?" 
 
 The parent slowly opened his eyes, and a smile of satisfaction 
 passed over his pallid features, leaving behind it the impression 
 of death in still greater force, by the contrast. The pedler gave 
 a restorative he had brought with him to the parched lips of 
 the sick man, and for a few minutes new vigor seemed to be 
 imparted to his frame. He spoke, but slowly and with difficulty. 
 Curiosity kept Katy silent; awe had the same effect on Caesar; 
 and Harvey seemed hardly to breathe, as he listened to the lan- 
 guage of the departing spirit. 
 
 " My son," said the father in a hollow voice, " God is as mer- 
 ciful as he is just; if I threw the cup of salvation from my lips 
 when a youth, he graciously offers it to me in mine age. He 
 chastiseth to purify, and I go to join the spirits of our lost 
 family. In a little while, my child, you will be alone. I know 
 you too well not to foresee you will be a lone pilgrim through 
 life. The bruised reed may endure, but it will never rise. You 
 have that within you, Harvey, that will guide you aright; per- 
 severe as you have begun, for the duties of life are never to be 
 neglected — and — " 
 
HARVEY BIRCH AND THE SKINNERS. 
 
 391 
 
 A noise in the adjoining room interrupted the dying man, 
 and the impatient pedler hastened to learn the cause, followed 
 by Katy and the black. The first glance of his eye on the 
 figure in the door-way told the trader but too well, both his 
 errand, and the fate that probably awaited himself. The 
 intruder was a man still young in years, but his lineaments 
 bespoke a mind long agitated by evil passions. His dress was 
 of the meanest materials, and so ragged and unseemly, as to 
 give him the appearance of studied poverty. His hair was pre- 
 maturely whitened, and his sunken, lowering eye, avoided the 
 bold, forward look of innocence. There was a restlessness in 
 his movements, and an agitation in his manner, that proceeded 
 from the workings of the foul spirit within him, and which was 
 not less offensive to others than distressing to himself. This 
 man was a well known leader of one of those gangs of maraud- 
 ers who infested the county, with a semblance of patriotism, 
 and were guilty of every grade of offence, from simple theft up 
 to murder. Behind him stood several other figures, clad in a 
 similar manner, but whose countenances expressed nothing more 
 than the callous indifference of brutal insensibility. They were 
 all well armed with muskets and bayonets, and provided with 
 the usual implements of foot soldiers. Harvey knew resistance 
 to be vain, and quietly submitted to their directions. In the 
 twinkling of an eye both he and Caesar were stripped of their 
 decent garments, and made to exchange clothes with two of the 
 filthiest of the band. They were then placed in separate corners 
 of the room, and, under the muzzles of the muskets, required 
 faithfully to answer such interrogatories as were put to them. 
 
 " Where is your pack ?" was the first question to the pedler. 
 
 11 Hear me," said Birch, trembling with agitation; " in the 
 next room is my father, now in the agonies of death ; let me 
 go to him, receive his blessing, close his eyes, and you shall 
 have all — ay, all !" 
 
 " Answer me as I put the questions, or this musket shall send 
 you to keep the old driveller company; where is your pack ?" 
 
 " I will tell you nothing, unless you let me go to m}' father," 
 said the pedler, resolutely. 
 
 His persecutor raised his arm with a malicious sneer, and was 
 about to execute his threat, when one of his companions checked 
 him, and cried — 
 
392 
 
 HARVEY BIR€H AND THE SKINNERS. 
 
 " What would you do ? you surely forget the reward. Tell 
 us where are your goods, and you shall go to your father." 
 
 Birch complied instantly, and a man was despatched in quest 
 of the booty. He soon returned, throwing the bundle on the 
 floor, swearing it was as light as feathers. 
 
 " Ay," cried their leader, " there must be gold somewhere for 
 what it did contain; give us your gold, Mr. Birch; we know 
 you have it; you will not take continental, not you.' 
 
 " You break your faith," said Harvey, sullenly. 
 
 " Give us your gold," exclaimed the other, furiously, pricking 
 the pedler with his bayonet until the blood followed his pushes 
 in streams. At this instant a slight movement was heard in the 
 adjoining room, and Plarvey cried imploringly — 
 
 " Let me — let me go to my father, and you shall have all." 
 
 " I swear you shall go then," said the skinner. 
 
 u Here, take the trash," cried Birch, as he threw aside the 
 purse, which he had contrived to conceal, notwithstanding the 
 change in his garments. 
 
 The robber raised it from the floor with a hellish laugh, as 
 he said coolly — 
 
 " Ay, but it shall be to your Father in heaven.' 
 
 " Monster !" exclaimed Birch, " have you no feeling, no faith, 
 no honesty ?" 
 
 " Why, to hear him, one would think there was not a rope 
 around his neck already," said the other malignantly. u There 
 is no necessity of your being uneasy, Mr. Birch ; if the old 
 man gets a few hours the start of you in the journey, you will 
 be sure to follow him before noon to morrow." 
 
 This unfeeling communication had no effect on the pedler, 
 who listened with gasping breath to every sound from the room 
 of his parent, until he heard his own name spoken in the hollow, 
 sepulchral tones of death. Birch could endure no more, but 
 shrieking out — 
 
 " Father, hush — father, I come — I come !" he darted by his 
 keeper, and was the next moment pinned to the wall by the 
 bayonet of another. Fortunately, his quick motion had caused 
 him to escape a thrust aimed at his life, and it was by his clothes 
 only that he was confined. 
 
 " No, Mr. Birch," said the skinner, 11 we know you too well 
 
HARVEY BIRCH AND THE SKINNERS. 
 
 393 
 
 for a slippery rascal, to trust you out of sight — your gold, your 
 gold." 
 
 " You have it," said the pedler, writhing in the agony of his 
 situation. 
 
 " Ay, we have the purse ; but you have more purses. King 
 George is a prompt paymaster, and you have done him many 
 a piece of good service. Where is your hoard ? without it you 
 will never see your father." 
 
 " Remove the stone underneath the woman," cried the pedler, 
 eagerly — " remove the stone." 
 
 " He raves, he raves," said Katy, instinctively moving her 
 position to another stone than the one on which she had been 
 standing. In a moment it was torn from its bed, and nothing 
 but earth was seen under it. 
 
 'f He raves; you have driven him from his right mind," con- 
 tinued the trembling spinster ; " would any man in his senses 
 think of keeping gold under a hearth-stone ?" 
 
 " Peace, babbling fool," cried Harvey. " Lift the corner 
 stone, and you will find what will make you rich, and me a 
 beggar." 
 
 " And then you will be despiseable," said the housekeeper, 
 bitterly. " A pedler without goods and without money is sure 
 to be despiseable." 
 
 " There will be enough left to pay for his halter," cried the 
 skinner, as he opened upon a store of English guineas. These 
 were quickly transferred to a bag, notwithstanding the declara- 
 tions of the spinster, that her dues were unsatisfied, and that, of 
 right, ten of the guineas should be her property. 
 
 Delighted with a prize that greatly exceeded their expectations, 
 the band prepared to depart, intending to take the pedler with 
 them, in order to give him up to some of the American troops 
 above, and claim the reward offered for his apprehension. 
 Everything was ready, and they were about to lift Birch in 
 their arms, for he refused to move an inch, when a figure entered 
 the room that appalled the group : around his body was thrown 
 a sheet of the bed from which he had just risen, and his fixed 
 eye and haggard face gave him the appearance of a being from 
 another world. Even Katy and Caesar thought it was the spirit 
 of the elder Birch, and they both fled the house, followed by 
 the alarmed skinners. 
 
394 
 
 HARVEY BIRCH AND THE SKINNERS. 
 
 The excitement, which had given the sick man strength, s 
 vanished, and the pedler. lifting him in his arms, re-conveyc. 
 him to his bed. The reaction of the system which followed 
 hastened to close the scene. 
 
 The glazed eye of the father was fixed upon the son; his lips 
 moved, but his voice was unheard. Harvey bent down, and, 
 with his parting breath, received the dying benediction of his 
 parent. A life of privation, of care, and of wrongs, embittered 
 most of the future hours of the pedler. But under no sufferings, 
 in no misfortunes, the subject of poverty and biting obloquy, the 
 remembrance of that blessing never left him ; it constantly -gleam- 
 ed over the images of the past, shedding a holy radiance around 
 his saddest hours of despondency ; it cheered the prospect of 
 the future with the prayers of a pious spirit for his well-being ; 
 and it brought assurance to his soul, of having discharged faith- 
 fully and truly the sacred offices of filial love. 
 
 The retreat of Csesar and the spinster had been too precipi- 
 tate to admit of much calculation ; yet had the former instinct- 
 ively separated himself from the skinners. After fleeing a short 
 distance they paused from fatigue, and the maiden commenced 
 in a solemn voice — 
 
 " Oh ! Csesar, 'twas dreadful to walk before he had been laid 
 in his grave ; but it must have been the money that disturbed 
 him ; they say Captain Kidd walks where he buried gold in the 
 old war." 
 
 " I neber tink Johnny Birch had such big eye," said the 
 African, his teeth yet chattering with the fright. 
 
 " I'm sure 'twould be a botherment to a living soul, to lose 
 so much money, and all for nothing," continued Katy, disre- 
 garding the other's remark. " Harvey will be nothing but a 
 despiseable, poverty-stricken wretch. I wonder who he thinks 
 would marry him now !" 
 
 " Maybe a spooke take away Harvey too," observed Caesar, 
 moving still nearer to the side of the maiden. But a new idea 
 had seized the imagination of the spinster: she thought it not 
 improbable that the prize had been forsaken in the confusion 
 of the retreat ; and after deliberating and reasoning for some 
 time with Csesar, they both determined to venture back, and 
 ascertain this important fact, and, if possible, learn what had 
 been the fate of the pedler. Much time was spent in cautiously 
 
HARVEY BIRCH AND THE SKINNERS. 
 
 395 
 
 approaching the dreaded spot ; and as the spinster had saga- 
 ciously placed herself in the line of the retreat of the skinners, 
 every stone was examined in the progress, to see if it was not 
 the abandoned gold. -But, although the suddenness of the 
 alarm, and the cry of Caesar, had impelled the freebooters to so 
 hasty a retreat, they grasped the hoard with an instinctive hold 
 that death itself would not have loosened. Perceiving every 
 thing to be quiet within, Katy at length mustered resolution 
 enough to enter the dwelling, where she found the pedler, with 
 a heavy heart, performing the last sad offices for the dead. A 
 few words sufficed to explain to Katy the nature of her mistake ; 
 but Csesar continued till his dying day to astonish the sable 
 inmates of the kitchen with learned dissertations on spookes, 
 and to relate how direful was the appearance of Johnny Birch. 
 
 The danger to himself compelled the pedler to abridge even 
 the short period that American custom leaves the deceased with 
 us ; and, aided by the black and Katy, his painful task was soon 
 ended. Caesar volunteered to walk a couple of miles with 
 orders to a carpenter, and the body, being habited in its ordi- 
 nary attire, was left, with a sheet laid over it with great decency, 
 to await the return of the messenger. 
 
 The skinners had fled precipitately to the wood, which was 
 but a short distance from the house of Birch, and once safely 
 sheltered within its shades, they halted, and mustered their 
 panic-stricken forces. 
 
 ' What in the name of fury seized on your coward hearts V 
 cried the dissatisfied leader, drawing his breath heavily. 
 
 'The same question might be asked yourself,' returned one 
 of the band, sullenly. 
 
 1 From your fright, I thought a party of De Lancy's men 
 were upon us. Oh I you are brave gentlemen at a race,' con- 
 tinued the leader, bitterly. 
 
 1 We follow our Captain.' 
 
 ' Then follow me back, and let us secure the scoundrel, and 
 receive the reward.' 
 
 1 Yes ; and by the time we reach the house, that black rascal 
 will have the mad Virginian upon us; by my soul, I would 
 rather meet fifty Cow-Boys, than that single man.' 
 
 1 Fool,' cried the enraged leader, ' don't you know Dunwoodie'fl 
 horses arc at the Corners, full two-miles from here ?' 
 
396 
 
 LOVE AND KINDNESS. 
 
 1 1 care not where the dragoons are, but I will swear that I 
 saw Captain Lawton enter the house of old Wharton, while I 
 lay watching an opportunity of getting the British Colonel's 
 horse from the stable.' 
 
 1 And if he does come, won't a bullet silence a dragoon from 
 the south as well as one from old England V 
 
 1 Ay, but I don't choose a hornets' nest about my ears ; raise 
 the skin of one of that corps, and you will never see another 
 peaceable night's foraging again.' 
 
 1 Well,' muttered the leader, as they retired deeper into the 
 wood, ' this sottish pedler will stay to see the old devil buried, 
 and though we mustn't touch him at the funeral, he'll wait to 
 look after the moveables, and to-morrow night shall wind up his 
 concerns.' 
 
 With this threat they withdrew to one of their usual places 
 of resort, until darkness should again give them an opportunity 
 of marauding on the community without danger of detection." 
 
 LOVE AND KINDNESS. 
 
 Angry looks can do no good, 
 
 And blows are dealt in blindness ; 
 
 Words are better understood, 
 If spoken but in kindness. 
 
 Simple love far more hath wrought, 
 Although by childhood mutter'd, 
 
 Than all the battles ever fought, 
 Or oaths that men have utter'd. 
 
 Friendship oft would longer last, 
 And quarrels be prevented, 
 
 If little words were let go past — 
 Forgiven— not resented. 
 
 Foolish things are frowns and sneers, 
 For angry thoughts reveal them ; 
 
 Rather drown them all in tears, 
 Than let another feel them. 
 
GOSSIP ABOUT CHILDREN. 
 
 BY LEWIS GAYLOItD CLARK. 
 
 I love children. I used to think, when I was a bachelor, (it 
 is a good many years ago now,) that there wa3 something rather 
 presuming in the manner in which doting fathers and mothers 
 would bring their " wee things " around them, and, for the 
 especial edification of us single fellows, cause them to " mis- 
 speak half uttered words," and to go through with divers little 
 lessons in manners and elocution. But both parents and chil- 
 dren were made so apparently happy by it, that I never could 
 think, as certain of my irreverent companions were wont to 
 think, and to say, that it was " a bore." No, I never thought 
 or said that ; but I did think, and I remember, as I have said, 
 that there was a little bad taste, and not a little presumption in 
 such a course. 
 
 I don't think so now. 
 
 When a father, and how much more a mother— sees for the 
 first time the gleam of affection illuminating, with what the 
 Germans call an " interior light," the eyes and features of his 
 infant child ; when that innocent soul, fresh from heaven, looks 
 for the first time into yours, and you feel that yours is an an- 
 swering look to that new-born intelligence — then, I say, will you 
 experience a sensation which is not " of the earth, earthy," but 
 belongs to the " correspondence " of a higher and holier sphere. 
 
 I wish to gossip a little with you concerning children. You 
 are a full-grown man now, friend Go.dey, quite full-grown; yet 
 you were once a boy ; and I am well assured that you will feel 
 interested in a few incidents which I am going to relate in illus- 
 tration of my theme — incidents which I hope you will judge to 
 be not unfruitful of monitory lessons to " children of larger 
 growth " than mere girls and boys. 
 
398 
 
 GOSSIP ABOUT CHILDREN. 
 
 Don't you think that we parents, sometimes, in moments of 
 annoyance, through pressure of business or other circumstances, 
 forbid that which was but innocent and reasonable, and per- 
 fectly natural to be asked for ? and do not the best of parents 
 frequently multiply prohibitions until obedience to them becomes 
 impossible ? 
 
 Excuse me; but all your readers have been children ; many 
 of them are happy mothers ; many more that are not will be 
 in God's good time ; and I cannot but believe that many who 
 shall peruse these sentences will find something in them which 
 they will remember hereafter. 
 
 " The sorrows and tears of youth," says Washington Irving, 
 " are as bitter as those of age ;" and he is right. They are sooner 
 washed away, it is true ; but oh ! how keen is the 'present sensi- 
 bility, how acute the passing mental agony ! 
 
 My twin brother AYillis — may his ashes repose in peace in 
 his early, his untimely grave ! — and myself, when we were very 
 little boys, in the country, saw, one bright June day, far up in 
 the blue sky, a paper kite, swaying to and fro, rising and sink- 
 ing, diving and curveting, and flashing back the sunlight in a 
 manner that was wonderful to behold. AYe left our little tin 
 vessels in the meadow where we were picking strawberries, and 
 ran into a neighboring field to get beneath it ; and, keeping our 
 eyes continually upon it, " gazing steadfastly toward heaven," 
 we presently found ourselves by the side of the architect of 
 that magnificent creation, and saw the line which held it reach- 
 ing into the skies, and little white paper messengers gliding along 
 upon it, as if to hold communion with the graceful artificial 
 " bird of the air " at the upper end. 
 
 I am describing this to you as a boy, and I wish you to think 
 of it as a boy. 
 
 Well, many days afterward, and after various unsuccessful 
 attempts, which not a little discomfited us — for we thought we 
 had obtained the " principle " of the kite — we succeeded in ma- 
 king one which we thought would fly. The air was too still, 
 however, for several days; and never did a becalmed navigator 
 i wait more impatiently for a breeze to speed his vessel on her 
 voyage than did we for a wind that should send our paper mes- 
 senger, bedizened with stars of red and yellow paper, dancing 
 up the sky. 
 
GOSSIP ABOUT CHILDREN. 
 
 399 
 
 At last it pleased the " gentle and voluble spirit of the air " 
 to favor us. A mild south wind sprang up, and so deftly did 
 we manage our machine, that it was presently reduced to a 
 mere miniature kite in the blue ether above us. Such a triumph ! 
 Fulton, when he essayed his first experiments, felt no more 
 exultant than did we when that great event was achieved ! We 
 kept it up until " 'twixt the gloaming and the mirk," when we 
 drew it down and deposited it in the barn — hesitating long 
 where to place it, out of several localities that seemed safe and 
 eligible, but finally deciding to stand it endwise in a barrel, in 
 an unfrequented corner of the barn. 
 
 I am coming now to a specimen of the " sorrows and tears 
 of youth," of which Geoffrey Crayon speaks. We dreamed of 
 that kite in the night ; and, far up in the heaven of our sleeping 
 vision, we saw it flashing and gleaming opaquely in the twilight 
 air. In the morning, we repaired betimes to the barn, ap- 
 proached the barrel with eagerness, as if it were possible for 
 the kite to have taken the wings of the evening and flown 
 away ; and, on looking down into the receptacle, we saw our 
 cherished, our beloved kite broken into twenty pieces ! 
 
 It was our man Thomas who did it, climbing up on the hay- 
 mow. 
 
 We both of us " hated with a perfect hatred," for five years 
 afterward, the cruel neighbor who laughed at us for our deep 
 six months' sorrow at that great loss — a loss in comparison with 
 which the loss of a fortune at the period of manhood sinks into 
 insignificance. Other kites, indeed, we constructed ; but that 
 was the kite " you read of," at " this present." 
 
 Think, therefore, ye parents ! always think of the acuteness 
 of a child's sense of childish grief. 
 
 I once saw an elder brother, the son of a metropolitan neigh- 
 bor, a romping, roystering blade, in the merest "devilment," 
 cut off" the foot of a little doll with which his infantine sister 
 was amusing herself. A mutilation of living flesh and blood, 
 of bone and sinew, in a beloved playmate, could scarcely have 
 affected the poor child more painfully. It was to her the vital 
 current of a beautiful babe which oozed from the bran leg of 
 that stuffed eflSgy of an infant ; and the mental sufferings of the 
 child were based upon the innocent faith which it held, that all 
 things were really what they seemed. 
 
100 
 
 GOSSIP ABOUT CHILDREN. 
 
 Grown people should have more faith in, and more appre 
 ciation of, the statements and feelings of children. When I 
 read, some months since, in a telegraphic dispatch to one of 
 our morning journals, from Baltimore, if I remember rightly, 
 of a mother who, in punishing a little boy for telling a lie — 
 which, after all, it subsequently transpired that he did not tell — 
 hit him with a slight switch over his temple and killed him in- 
 stantly — a mere accident, of course, but yet a dreadful casualty, 
 which drove reason from the throne of the unhappy mother — 
 when I read this I thought of what had occurred ki my own 
 sanctum only a week or two before; and the lesson which ] 
 received was a good one, and will remain with me. 
 
 My little boy, a dark eyed, ingenuous, and frank-hearted child 
 as ever breathed — though, perhaps, "I say it who ought not to 
 say it " — still. I do say it — had been playing about nry table, 
 on leaving which, for a moment, I found, on my return, that my 
 long porcupine-quill handled pen was gone. I asked the little 
 fellow what he had done with it. He answered at once that he 
 had not seen it. After a renewed search for it, I charged him, 
 in the face of his declaration, with having taken and mislaid or 
 lost it. He looked me earnestly in the face and said — 
 
 " No, I didn't take it, father." 
 
 I then took him in my lap, enlarged upon the heinousness of 
 telling an untruth, told him that I did not care so much about 
 the pen, and in short, by the manner in which I reasoned with 
 him, almost offered him a reward for confession — the reward, 
 be it understood (a dear one to him), of standing firm in his 
 father's love and regard. The tears had swelled up into his 
 eyes, and he seemed about to " tell me the whole truth," when 
 my eye caught the end of the pen protruding from a portfolio, 
 where I myself had placed it, in returning a sheet of manu- 
 script to one of the compartments. All this may seem a trifle 
 to you — -and perhaps it is — yet I shall remember it for a long 
 time. 
 
 But I desire now to narrate to you a circumstance which hap- 
 pened in the family of a friend and correspondent of mine in 
 the city of Boston, some ten years ago, the history of which 
 will commend itself to the heart of every father and mother 
 who have any sympathy with, or affection for, their children. — 
 That it is entirely true, you may be well assured. I was con- 
 
GOSSIP ABOUT CHILDREN. 
 
 401 
 
 vineed of this when I opened the letter from L. H. B , 
 
 which announced it, and in the detail of the event which was 
 subsequently furnished me. 
 
 A few weeks before he wrote, he had buried his eldest son, a 
 fine, manly little fellow, of some eight years of age, who had 
 never, he said, known a day's illness until that which finally re> 
 moved him hence to be here no more. His death occurred 
 under circumstances which were peculiarly painful to his pa- 
 rents. A younger brother, a delicate, sickly child from his 
 birth, the next in age to him, had been down for nearly a fort- 
 night with an epidemic fever. In consequence of the nature of 
 the disease, every precaution had been adopted that prudence 
 suggested to guard the other members of the family against it. 
 But of this one, the father's eldest, he said he had little to fear, 
 so rugged was he, and so generally healthy. Still, however, he 
 kept a vigilant eye upon him, and especially forbade his going 
 into the pools and docks near his school, which it was his cus- 
 tom sometimes to visit ; for he was but a boy, and " boys will 
 be boys," and we ought more frequently to think that it is their 
 nature to be. Of all unnatural things, a reproach almost to 
 childish frankness and innocence, save me from a " hoy-man /" 
 But to the story — 
 
 One evening this unhappy father came home, wearied with a 
 long day^s hard labor, and vexed at some little disappointment 
 which had soured his naturally kind disposition, and rendered 
 him peculiarly susceptible to the smallest annoyance. While he 
 was sitting by the fire in this unhappy mood of mind, his wife 
 entered the apartment, and said : 
 
 "Henry has just come in, and he is a perfect fright; he is 
 covered from head to foot with dock mud, and is as wet as a 
 drowned rat." 
 
 " Where is he ?" asked the father sternly. 
 
 "He is shivering over the kitchen fire. He was afraid to 
 come up when the girl told him you had come home." 
 
 "Tell Jane to tell him to come here this instant!" was the 
 brief reply to this information. 
 
 Presently the poor boy entered, half perished with affright 
 and cold. His father glanced at his sad plight, reproached him 
 bitterly with his disobedience, spoke of the punishment which 
 
GOSSIP ABOtJT CHILDREN c 
 
 awaited him in the morning as the penalty for his offence, and, 
 in a harsh tone, concluded with — 
 " Now, sir, go to your bed V* 
 
 " But, father," said the little fellow, a I want to tell you 19 
 
 " Not a word, sir ; go to bed!" 11 
 
 H I only wanted to say, father, that ' f 
 
 With a peremptory stamp, an imperative wave of his hand 
 toward the door, and a frown upon his brow, did that father, 
 without other speech, again close the door of explanation or 
 expostulation. 
 
 When his boy had gone supperless and sad to his bed, the 
 father sat restless and uneasy, while supper was being prepared ; 
 and, at tea-table, ate but little. His wife saw the real cause, 
 or the additional cause of his emotion, and interposed the re- 
 mark— 
 
 " I think, my dear, you ought at least to have heard what 
 Henry had to say. My heart ached for him, when he turned 
 away, with his eyes full of tears* Henry is a good boy, after 
 all, if he does sometimes do wrong. He is a tender-hearted, 
 affectionate boy. He always was." 
 
 And therewithal the water stood in the eyes of that forgiving 
 mother, even as it stood in the eyes of Mercy, in " the house 
 of the Interpreter," as recorded by Bunyan. 
 
 After tea, the evening paper was taken up ; but there was no 
 news and nothing of interest for that father in the journal of 
 that evening. He sat for some time in an evidently painful 
 revery, and then rose and repaired to his bed-chamber. As he 
 passed the bed room where his little boy slept, he thought he 
 would look in upon him before retiring to rest. He crept to 
 his low cot and bent over him. A big tear had stolen down the 
 boy's cheek, and rested upon it ; but he was sleeping calmly 
 and sweetly. The father deeply regretted his harshness as he 
 gazed upon his son } he felt also the "sense of duty;" yet in 
 the night, talking the matter over with the lad's mother, he re- 
 solved and promised, instead of punishing, as he had threatened, 
 to make amends to the boy's aggravated spirit in the morning, 
 for the manner in which he had repelled all explanation of his 
 offence. 
 
 But that morning never came to that poor boy in health. 
 He awoke the next morning with a raging fever on his br*in, 
 
GOSSIP ABOUT CHILDREN. 403 
 
 and wild with delirium. In forty-eight hours he was in his 
 shroud. He knew neither his father nor his mother, when they 
 were first called to his bedside, nor at any moment afterward. 
 Waiting, watching for one token of recognition, hour after 
 hour, in speechless agony, did that unhappy father bend over 
 the couch of his dying son. Once, indeed, he thought he saw 
 a smile of recognition light up his dying eye, and he leaned 
 eagerly forward, for he would have given worlds to have whis- 
 pered one kind word in his ear, and have been answered ; but 
 that gleam of apparent intelligence passed quickly away, and 
 was succeeded by the cold, unmeaning glare, and the wild toss- 
 ing of the fevered limbs, which lasted until death eame to his 
 relief. 
 
 Two days afterwards the undertaker came with the little 
 coffin, and his son, a playmate of the deceased boy, bringing 
 the low stools on which it was to stand in the entry -hall. 
 
 il I was with Henry," said the lad, F? when he got into the 
 water. We were playing down at the Long Wharf, Henry, 
 and Charles Munford, and I; and the tide was out very low; 
 and there was a beam run out from the wharf ; and Charles 
 got out on it to get a fish line and hook that was hung over where 
 the water was deep; and the first thing we saw, he had slipped 
 off, and was struggling in the water ! Henry threw off his cap, 
 and jumped clear from the wharf into the water, and, after a 
 great deal of hard work, got Charles out ; and they waded up 
 through the mud to where the wharf was not so wet and slip- 
 pery ; and then I helped them to climb up the side. Charles 
 told Henry not to say anything about, it, for, if he did, his father 
 would never let him go near the water again. Henry was very 
 sorry; and, all the way going home, he kept saying: 
 
 " 1 What will father say when he sees me to-night ? I wish 
 we had not gone to the wharf!' " 
 
 "Dear, brave boy!" exclaimed the bereaved father; "and 
 this was the explanation which I cruelly refused to hear I" and 
 hot and bitter tears rolled down his cheeks. 
 
 Yes, that stern father now learned, and for the first time, that 
 what he had treated with unwonted severity as a fault, was but 
 the impulse of a generous nature, which, forgetful of self, had 
 hazarded life for another. It was but the quick prompting of 
 that manly spirit which he himself had always endeavored to 
 
404 
 
 GOSSIP ABOUT CHILDREN". 
 
 graft upon his susceptible mind, and which, young" as he was, 
 had always manifested itself on more than one occasion. 
 
 Let me close this story in the very words of that father, and 
 let the lesson sink deep into the hearts of every parent who 
 shall peruse this sketch. 
 
 " Everything that I now see, that ever belonged to him, re- 
 minds me of my lost boy. — Yesterday, I found some rude pen- 
 cil-sketches, which it was his delight to make for the amusement 
 of his younger brother. To-day, in rumaging an old closet, I 
 came across his boots, still covered with dock-mud, as when he 
 last wore them. (You may think it strange, but that which is 
 usually so unsightly an object, is now 'most precious to me.') 
 And every morning and evening I pass the ground where my 
 son's voice rang the merriest among his playmates. 
 
 " All these things speak to me vividly of his active life j 
 but I cannot — though I have often tried — I cannot recall any 
 other expression of the dear boy's face than that mute, mourn- 
 ful one with which he turned from me on the night I so harshly 
 repulsed him. Then my heart bleeds afresh ! 
 
 M Oh, how careful should we all be that, in our daily conduct 
 toward those little beings, sent us by a kind Providence, we are 
 not laying up for ourselves the sources of many a future bitter 
 tear ! How cautious that, neither by inconsiderate nor cruel 
 word or look, we unjustly grieve their generous feeling ! — And 
 how gradually ought we to weigh every action against its mo- 
 tive, lest, in a moment of excitement, we be led to mete out to 
 the venial errors of the heart the punishment due only to wilful 
 crime ! 
 
 " Alas ! perhaps few parents suspect how often the fierce re- 
 buke, the sudden blow, is answered in their children by the 
 tears, not of passion, nor of physical or mental pain, but of a 
 loving yet grieved or outraged nature." 
 
 I will add no word to reflections so true ; no correlative inci- 
 dent to an experience so touching. 
 
 As our shadows follow us in the clearest sunlight, so will the 
 shades of our sins in our calmest and best hours. 
 
F L E I N E . 
 
 " Oh ! desolate is now the home thy beauty made so fair, 
 And cheerless is the lonely heart which mourns thine absence there; 
 Yet, though unknown its sorrows be, its sufferings unseen, 
 The hope, the light of life are gone ; they died with thee, Florine." 
 
 In the cemetery of Pere la Chaise, in an obscure corner, 
 there stands a plain monument surmounted by an urn, on 
 which is inscribed the name Florine. Every morning, on my 
 accustomed visit to this beautiful dwelling of the dead, I was 
 certain to find a fresh garland of immortelle wreathed around 
 the urn, and the choicest flowers of the season scattered upon 
 the turf; yet, early as my visit might be, I could never encoun- 
 ter the individual who so faithfully performed this act of devo- 
 tion. One day I happened to fall in company with one of the 
 keepers of the cemetery, and in the course of our conversation 
 inquired of him who was the tenant of that tomb. " Alas ! 
 sir," said he — " there is a melancholy story connected with those 
 ashes, and but that I fear I would be tedious, I would willingly 
 narrate it to you." 
 
 " By no means," said I — " I am fond of melancholy stories — 
 you will greatly oblige me by your recital." 
 
 " Come this way, then," said he — " where we may not be 
 interrupted," — and leading me a little distance from the path, 
 he spoke nearly as follows : 
 
 " On the entry of the Allied forces into Paris, in 1815, a ) r oung 
 English lady arrived at the Hotel Delorme. She was without 
 any attendant — could scarcely speak a word of French, and 
 appeared to be suffering from great mental agitation. From 
 her singular appearance, and being alone, some delicacy was 
 felt at receiving her. But having sent for the Maitresse d 1 
 Hotel, and explained to her the purport of the business which 
 had brought her to Paris, namely, to endeavor to discover her 
 lover and betrothed, a young officer in the 12th Hussars, of 
 whom she had heard no tidings since his departure to join the 
 army. The good lady at once entered into her feelings, listened 
 with kindness to her story, and promised her every assistance 
 within her power ; in short, their interview ended with an agree- 
 ment that on the following day they should together endeavor 
 to obtain some clue to the object of the young lady's affections. 
 
.106 
 
 PLOR1NE. 
 
 As early as decorum would admit of on the following morning, 
 they accordingly sallied forth. Those who have never beheld 
 a city in the hands of a triumphant enemy, can conjecture noth- 
 ing so singularly exciting and picturesque, and perhaps never 
 was the strength and brilliancy of war more gorgeously dis- 
 played than when the Parisian capital was in the possession of 
 the Allied Powers. Warriors of every nation were there assem- 
 bled, the bold and ferocious looking Cossack — the hardy Rus- 
 sian — the warlike Austrian — the gay and gallant Italian — the 
 proud and fearless Prussian — the stern and thoughtful German 
 — the frank Swede and Norwegian — the dogged Dane, and the 
 victorious and unconquerable Englishman ; all were promiscu- 
 ously scattered throughout the city, guarding it with lynx-eyed 
 vigilance, lest the Usurper might disavow his abdication, and, 
 by some sudden ruse, again bid defiance to his conquerors. 
 
 Through the greater part of these warlike bodies had the 
 two females passed, when suddenly the brilliant costume of the 
 12th Hussars caught the eye of the young lady. 1 Ah!' she 
 exclaimed, 1 he is not there,' and fell almost fainting upon the 
 shoulder of her companion. 
 
 1 Who is not there ?' inquired the matron. 
 
 1 He that I told you of last evening — my betrothed, Augustus 
 De Euthven,' — at the same time a soldier of the troop galloped 
 past them. He was instantly recognized by her. ' Hector !' 
 she ejaculated. In a moment he brought his courser to a stand. 
 
 The soldier appeared paralyzed at her presence. He raised 
 his helmet deferentially, and in a voice of astonishment exclaimed, 
 4 Miss De Vere !' 
 
 1 Yes, yes,' she replied, 1 my good Hector, where is Augustus?' 
 
 The soldier's head sunk upon his breast, and he drew his 
 hand across his eyes. 
 
 1 Killed ?' said the female. 
 
 'It is but too true, madam, on the field of Mont St. Jean.' 
 
 1 Take me hence ! Take me hence !' said she, in a deep and 
 solemn voice. At the same moment a wild and rigid look set- 
 tled on her countenance, and a laugh of thrilling sound burst 
 from her bosom. 
 
 The Maitresse (V Hotel complied with her request ; but from 
 that moment reason had fled its empire. All that humanity 
 could effect to recover her was resorted to, but in vain ; in three 
 
BIRTH-DAY LINES. 
 
 407 
 
 days from this occurrence, she had ceased to exist, and was 
 borne to the grave by the hands of strangers." 
 
 "And was naught ever heard of Augustus?" asked I. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, sir," said my informant, " it happened that he had 
 been but severely wounded when left for dead upon the field. 
 By those employed tp bury the slain, he was discovered, and 
 carried to a neighboring house, where, by degrees, he recovered, 
 and returned to Paris, to learn the fatal tidings of his love; and 
 it is he who at the earliest dawn of every day, comes thus, to 
 offer his devotions and scatter flowers upon her grave." 
 
 On further inquiry, I learned that Augustus, after the resto- 
 ration of peace, had retired from the service and settled in the 
 precincts of Paris, a broken-hearted, melancholy man. The 
 tomb he had erected to the memory of Florine, as well- as to 
 cover his own ashes, when it should please the Almighty to 
 call him hence. 
 
 " 1 cannot tell how the truth may be : 
 I say the tale as 'twas said to me." 
 
 BIETH - DAY LINES. 
 
 BY ANNIE DANE. 
 
 What shall I sing thee, sister dear 
 
 On this thy natal day 1 
 Why dost thou bid me breathe again 
 
 For thee my careless lay 1 
 
 In thine own heart is gushing now 
 A lighter, gladder song, 
 
 Than e'er can flow from lip of mine, 
 Which has not sung so long. 
 
 Methought that in the silent hall, 
 Where mem'ry loves to weep, 
 
 With the dear visions of the past 
 I'd laid my lyre to sleep. 
 
 But thy sweet voice hath woke again 
 The chords that cannot rest, 
 
 As sunlight's touch awoke the lamp, 
 In Memnon's silent breast. 
 
BIRTH-DAY LINES. 
 
 The summer hours have sped away, 
 
 Upon a radiant wing ; 
 But, round our daily paths, thy smile 
 
 Did'st brightest sunshine fling. 
 
 And we are joined by mutual ties — 
 So closely, naught can sever; 
 
 When fondest hearts surround thy shrine, 
 Thou'lt turn from mine not ever. 
 
 Oh ! wheresoe'er thy footsteps lead, 
 Throughout the coming year, 
 
 My fervent prayer shall go with thee, 
 Unshadowed by a fear. 
 
 Ah ! would that like a silver cloud, 
 It might around thee glide, 
 
 Impervious to wind and storm — 
 A shield on every side. 
 
 But there's a love— more pure than mine 
 Will light around thee throw, 
 
 That, if thy faith be firm and true, 
 Will ever constant glow. 
 
 Look up with smiles, if doubt assail, 
 
 And trust His holy care, 
 And know, whatever be His will, 
 
 : Tis best for thee to bear. 
 
 Then light will every burden seem, 
 
 And, with prophetic eye, 
 Hope will discern some ray of joy 
 
 In every darkened sky. 
 
 If some strange cloud should fall upon 
 That happy brow of thine, 
 
 Oh! may it, passing, leave a beam, 
 That shall intenser shine. 
 
 If ever tear should stain thine eye, 
 Or dim its gladsome light, 
 
 Oh ! softly may it melt away, 
 
 As dew from floweret bright ! 
 
 Now, joy go with thee, sister dear, 
 
 And hope attend thy way, 
 And may thy heart be light as now, 
 
 Upon thy next birth day ! 
 
m