//^t.7-^ k/A^'--^'^ / ■/^Pu^t-y^t dzM- . J Book aL£^3- POEMS AND SKETCHES. CINCINNATT : PMMED BY B. FRANKIANB, 127 MAIN STREET. I TJiriuttk Forhrjier . lilh. Cmcinnaii.O. POEMS AND SKETCHES, ELEANOR DUCKWORTH, OF EDINBXJRGH, SCOTLAND, MILLY WEJSTTWORTH, OF NEW ORLEANS. JULY. PUBLISHED QUARTERLY CINCINNATI: WENTWORTH & CO., PUBLISHERS. MDCCCLVn. ^^A>^ Entered according to Act of Congress, by Wentworth & Co., in the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of Ohio, in the year 1857. ■• ciiraiiEo Preface, ... vii Fear Him, 9 . "Let's go Out and Walk Together," ... 13 Sky Watchers, ... 16 Why Not? ... 19 The Born-Poet, ... 22 My Mission, ... 26 My Western Home, ... 28 Live it Down, ... 30 My Lost Sister, ... 32 Hope out of Sorrow, ... 34 A Memory, ... 36 Leaving Home, ... 39 " Dimly through the Mist of Years," ... 42 Our Liltle Lilly's Death, ... 44 Lament of the Bereaved, ... 46 Eloquence, ... 48 Misericordia, ... 50 A Fragment, ... 52 Immoral Poetry, ... 53 The Dream of Yesterday, ... 57 Keminiscences, 60 Thou art Beloved, 63 There is no Sin in Loving Thee, 66 Prayer of the Neglected Wife, 69 To a Star-Dreamer, 72 Sad Memories, 76 Thou hast Fled, Bright and Glorious Vision 78 The Lover to his Lady, 80 A Sketch from Real Life, 82 Woman's Rights, 86 A Mother's Tears, 90 Harmless Gossip, 92 American Young Ladies, 94 The Christian Merchant, 98 Immortality, 101 Stanzas, 103 S'lPiSi'ff 2&, The Authoress has been encoui-aged to this undertaking by the solicitation of many friends, who have expressed a desire that some of her poems which have appeared in the columns of the EDiNBUEaH Waveeley Joxirnal, should be published in a more collected form. The following pages comprise, therefore, a few stray waifs which have been for some time floating upon the sea of periodical literature. They are now for the first time collected and given to the American public, with many others which have never before appeared in print. This work was originally published in Edinburgh, Scotland, and its success throughout Great Britain has been unprecedented. We anticipated issuing the present number in June, but unfore- seen events have delayed its publication for one month. We trust, however, it will be none the less acceptable. To our friends throughout the entire Union, for their liberal encourage- ment, we are truly grateful. MiLLY WeNTWORTH. um^ aitb ear mxm. "But I will forewarn you whom ye shall fear; Fear Him, which, after He hath killed, hath power to cast into hell ; yea, I say unto you, fear Him." — Luke xii. 5. I. Fear Him, fair children ! fear the great All-Seeing, Ere your young souls can fully comprehend, Their strange connection with that -wondrous Being Who is at once Creator, Father, Friend ! He speaks to you ere ye have ceased to wonder At the broad earth, and bright, o'er-arching sky, While yet ye tremble at the loud-voiced thunder, And the bright lightning as it flashes by. Through these He bids you fear Him, yet confiding In His deep love, to do His holy will. And wheresoever His tender hand is guiding. With childlike confidence to follow still; 10 . POEMS AND SKETCHES. And if your hearts, that high command obeying, Devote to Him life's first, fresh, stainless hours, So shall the pathways where your feet are straying, Be fragrant with the breath of sweetest flowers. So shall your souls be spared the touch of sorrow. The bitter chastenings of affliction's rod, If ye from gentler things will learn to borrow Your lesson of obedience to God. II. Fear Him, youth ! for ye have many teachings That in your earlier guidance had no part. Ye hear far less of Nature's silent preachings — Far more the whisperings of the wayward heart. Life's shallow stream is now a rapid river, Which in its turn shall soon become a sea — ■ For its great circle deepens, broadens ever, And knows no limit save eternity. Fear Him ! not Mindly^ slavishly^ but rather With mingled love, and tenderness, and awe, As ye would fear the kindest earthly father. And dread to disobey his slightest law. Fear Him ! but let your holy fear be spoken In works of gentleness, and words of love — In striving e're to keep the link unbroken That binds your spirit to the realms above. So shall His kind, protecting presence guide you Through light and joy — through darkness and dismay, And whatsoever earthly ills betide yon, His loving smile shall light you on your Wivy. FEAR HIM, 1 1 III. Fear Him ! Ye, upon wliose life-trees blushing. Ripen tlie fruitage of your Autumn days — But in wliose path Fate's cruel hand is crushing Flowers, that in Spring unfolded to your gaze. Fear Him ! and use the talents he has given, Truth's golden sunlight o'er the world to spread; To hearts despairing give the hope of Heaven — For souls that famish, scatter living bread. Fear Him ! and fling upon His holy altar The highest aims, the dearest Jiopes of life, And then, re-nerved with faith that cannot falter, Go forth to mingle in the great world's strife ; — Go forth to aid your weaker friends and brothers, "Who struggle wearily, and faint and fall, Freely impart your soul's deep strength to others, That they, too, may be free from error's thrall; So shall your father heed each weak endeavour That ye shall make to tread temptation down; And each shall win at last, and wear for ever. The victor's spotless robe and golden crown. IV. Fear Him ! Ye, whose paths are growing dreary With shadows gathering from the vale of gloom. Whose feet, from life's rough march, are sore and weary. And tremble feebly as they near the tomb. Fear Him ! and let your last declining hours Be given as nobly to the cause of truth. 12 POEMS AND SKETCHES. As though ye still were strong with Manhood's powers, Or the fresh courage of impulsive youth.^^ So shall the long day find at last a closing, And ye shall have a better home than this, Where, in the light of boundless love reposing, Ye shall enjoy an endless age of bliss. Oh ! God ! teach all mankind Thy loving kindness, Thy mighty power to shield the cause of right, Until, returning trom its wilful blindness, Each human soul shall seek Thy wondrous light. Until before Thy throne in praise low-bending, A ransomed world shall lift its songs for aye ; And there, in gratitude that knows no ending. Shall fear Thee still, but love Thee, and obey. let's go out and walk together. 13 let's fio ®ut anb Wafli TojetKer, T. Let's go out and walk together, Down among the leafy trees, While the tender twilight listens To the whispers of the breeze; And the misty mountain sleepetb, Pillow' d on the hazy night, And the face of heaven glowetli With the evening's mellow light. II. Let's go out and walk together, Where the wildflower makes its bed; And from starry eyes are falling Dew-tears on its drooping head. And the gentle woodbine clingeth To the old oak's rugged feet — Where, among its giant branches Gay birds sing themselves to sleep. 14 POEMS AND SKETCHES. III. Let's go out and walk together Where the tall spire points above, And the solemn evening vespers Seem to whisper, "God is Love!" — Where the sighing brooklet gushes Music from its pebbly brink — On its verdant banks we'll linger, We will sit us down and think. IV. Let's sit down and think together, Here beside this little mound — How the tender vine doth clasp it. Still half-hidden in the ground — While the lowly tendrils linger, Heavenward turns its violet eyes — Here the weary body sleepeth. There the blissful spirit flies. V. Let's sit down and think together Of those voyagers of life — They who, fighting Time's fierce battles, Fell and perished in the strife. They were strong and brave, yet feeble — Bursting through life's prison bars, They came forth from tribulation, Mounting up beyond the stars! let's go out and walk together. 15 VI. Let's sit down and think togetlier, How the loved who passed away, Dying, cast their mantles o'er us, Bidding us be firm as they ; Bidding us be strong and fearless ! — Of the bright and glorious few, Bold in thought, and bold in action, Bold to speak, and bold to do ! 16 POEMS AND SKETCHES. Skg Watclier^. I. The stars, the glorious stars, In heaven's immensity, Are gazing fondly down With eyes of love on me. Oh that my soul might hold Companionship with them, Far from the woes of earth, Far from the haunts of men! II. Those orbs are angel's eyes — Ah! beam they brightly now! Shed the celestial light Of Heaven upon my brow; Each zephyr's moaning breath Is e'en an angel's sigh; Each dew-gem is a tear Dropt from an angel's eye! SKY WATCHERS. 1 7 III. Say, beauteous spirits, say, What message do ye bring For us, poor sons of clay, To which our hopes may cling? Among the blissful throng Of ransomed ones above, Are any dear to us Whom we were wont to love? IV. Perchance they bade thee come Upon the lambent air And urge our spirits home, To greet the loved ones there; Perchance, bright stars, to thee The glorious mission's given To light the shadowy gulf Betwixt our souls and heaven. V. Say, heavenly watchers, when Thy silent vigils o'er — Is thine the holy light That shines for evermoi'e? Is thine the gentle voice That speaks the soul forgiven, And points the erring up. In confidence, to heaven? 18 POEMS AND SKETCHES. VI. Not till each pang is o'er, Each tear-drop wiped away, Shall those celestial lights Withdraw one pitying ray ; Ah! not while sorrow floats On every passing breath, And Youth and Love are chilled By the bleak blast of death ! c-jp WHY NOT? 19 Wlig Not? I. If some simple-hearted brother Thinks the world all kind and true, Human nature nearly perfect, And himself as — good as you; — And believes an humble station Better than a dangerous height, Where the ones beneath will taunt him With their words of envious spite: If he seems with these staid notions Quite contented with his lot. Why not leave him unenlightened? For his happiness — "why not?" II. If the poor, with "pale, pinched faces," Linger in the path you tread. And with thin, white hands extended. Cry to you for daily bread — 20 POEMS AXD SKETCHES. Shall the prayers ascending upwards From each vainly pleading lip, Set God's seal of condemnation On your faithless stewardship? Food and clothing for the needy — Shall they be in A-ain besought? Why not give them of your plenty? Conscience whispers it — "why not?' III. If the friend you fondly cherish, Fondness with contempt repays, And when most you love and trust him, With a traitor's kiss betrays: As the angry blood is mounting Burningly to brow and cheek, And upon your lips are trembling Words you hardly dare to speak — Why not let forgiving feelings Mingle with your surging thought? Think — the dying prayer of Jesus For bis cruel foes, — "why not?" IV. Brother, sister, warring ever On the battle plains of life, Why not struggle on more bravely In the hot continued strife? WHY NOT? 21 Why not point the weary pilgrim Oftener to his glorious goal? Why not fold your arms of pity Round the sorrow-stricken soul? From the voice of God within us, From the precepts Jesus taught, Like accusing angels whispers. Come the echoed words — "why 22 POEMS AND SKETCHES. Ihe Boru-3?oet. Start not, thou collegian ! Seek not to discover the secret charm that thrills the Born-Poet, within the shades of collegiate lore, or in the atmosphere of professorship. It is not there! ^Esthetics is but a meagre dish— an artificial flower, with but a borrowed fragrance. The Born-Poet asks not refinement, {fashion- able refinement) nor rows of books and high-sounding Avords. All these are but daubs of the painter's brush upon a cloud at sunset; and he who trusts to these alone, but apes the beautiful, and babbles at the best. I once knew one, for whom I may claim the appellation of Born-Poet. And yet he never penned a song. Poetry was his divinity — he lived in her light, and bowed to her in complete devotion. And was he happy ? Not as the gross, grovelling world esteem happiness ; yet his soul drank in such glorious fountains of joy fi'om every up-springing flower, and blade of grass, and dew-drop, that his was the happiness of the ethereal rather than the earthly. The gnarled oak, with its siu«wy arms stretching out into the dark forest — the twittering bird, the whispering zephyr, the solemn silence of midnight- these wore THE BORN POET. 23 his deities. He worshipped them, communed with them, and was far happier than if his companions had been more communi- cative and less true. But I set out to say something of his trials, and I find myself at once flying off to the balm, the restorative, the com- forter. He had sorrows — not every-day, common-place sorrows ; and if you could have seen him — his dark, flashing eye, his pale, thoughtful brow, you would say, perhaps, that a too-killing sorrow had sought him out, and that he had accepted it, and cherished it, and received it gladly into his bosom. Well, it is true ; and in that very truth is another truth accounted for. He was happy in stretching his heart-strings to their utmost tension, to see how much they would bear without breaking. His was a sad, but not the less exquisite pleasure ; he joyed in the very grief that was wearing him out; he communed with the spirit of loneliness ; and when it came knocking at his heart, he would open wide the door of his soul and invite it to enter. Circumstances had strangely conspired to make him what he was. His father passed away before he saw the light, and his mind could but faintly grasp the recollection of a sainted mother, who was also sleeping the sleep of forgetfulness. He had been nurtured by strange, unsympathising ones, whose duty was paid for with a price, and whose instructions and promptings came not from the heart. But he was a connoisseur, and knew how to detect the empty phrase, and the unmeaning word, and so his own heart would suggest to him that true affection vaunteth not itself, and seeketh no inspiration from the tinselled treasm-e or flattering song. And when fairy forms fluttered around him, and the hum of vain voices fell on his ear, he would smile a smile of disdain, and an emotion of disgust and pity, for human passion and human weakness, would bubble up from his heart, and tremble on his tongue. Yet there was one with whom the Born-Poet felt he might commune. She was not of the throng of fashion — she was a 24 POEMS AND SKETCHES. pensive, quiet creature, unskilled in art and accomplishment, unused to fashionable folly. But he thought he could discover beneath her calm, quiet exterior, a soul that could partake largely of the noble and the aspiring — a soul even like his own. And so he came to sympathize with her, to love her, and to live for her. It was strange how these two beings came to know each other. The one proud, (as the world said) calm, cold, passion- less — the other meek, quiet, and retiring, weak in all save love. The one with a placid face, on which a smile of joy or a cloud of grief never came — the other poor, plain and pensive. The one a forest oak, defying the whirlwind and the tempest — the other a weak vine, unable to brave a single harsh breath. The one a mighty rock, lifting it^ bold peak high above the clouds, and against which the waves of ocean dash in vain — the other a poor, modest violet, which the first billow might sweep away and destroy. But the oak and the vine — the rock and the violet — the strong man and the weak girl — were one in heart, in affection, in soul — and when soul meets soul, the thrill of recognition instinctively comes. Their loves had never been breathed in words. Hearts have no lip-language ; and they trusted to the holy promptings of their own souls, rather than to the foolish forms of arbitrary phrase. And for many mouths these two spirits lived with and for each other, till at last, a whisper, a breath parted them. It was like tearing the heart out — each suffered alike. The strong oak shook like a reed — the weak violet drooped and withered. A serpent sprang up in their path, and both recoiled from it. It was the Slander-serpent ; and as it passed between them, they only once gazed lovingly upon each other, only onco blessed each other, and then turned away for ever. The slander-spirit moved on, but a wreck marked the spot. A blight had come. It had fallen upon their hearts and homes. The stricken girl turned back to her own heart for support. THE BORN POET. 25 Its mate was gone. It was lonely — lonely. The hectic came to her cheek, and the glare to her eye. They blushed and burned for a season, and then passed away. The cheek became sunken, and the eye lustreless. The serpent-tongue of slander cannot blast the green turf that thrives over her tomb. The Born-Poet changed not, save that his cheek became a shade paler, his countenance more stem. True, that frown which before was only transient, now became fixed and frigid; but none knew whether his was a grief which was comfortless, or an apathy which could be shaken off never more ! 26 POEMS AND SKETCHES. M^ Mission* With thoughts that burn and thrill, Nor by anathemas to stem The tide of human ill ; Not mine to bask in suns of fame, Nor revel on a deathless name, By mighty wonders won — A holier work is near my heart — To heal a pang, to soothe a smart — To raise a fallen one! II. My Mission ! it is not to dream Of flattery and power, Nor feast and banquet as a Queen, A mistress of an hour; — Nor mine to revel with the throng That wing the jest, or swell the song. MY MISSION. 27 jLnd scorn the chast'ning rod ; — Ah no! with eye of faith, I trust, To lift some sister from the dust. • And point her up to God ! III. My Mission 1 'tis a holier one Than mighty monarchs know, — Wrapped in the war-cloud's sable dun, They steep the world in woe ; The heavy roar of mortal strife, The shudders of expiring life, Their horrid anthems raise ; I'd change the solemn dirge of death, — The voice of grief — the stifling breath. To songs of love and praise 1 IV. I envy not the lordly chief, 1 Wrapped in his robe of state — | To dry a tear — to soften grief, Is tD be truly great ! To raise some mourner from the tomb, And point him upward, through the gloom That rests upon the grave; — A glorious work is left for me — To set some struggling captive free — Some precious soul to save! 28 POEMS AND SKETCHES. M5 Western Mome. My Western home! ray western home Still lingers in my spirits view, Though freighted years of grief have flown Since it receiyed my last adieu; The rugged rocks and trellis vine, That fondly clasped its craggy brow — The wild-rose and the eglantine — 0, do they bloom as sweetly now? II, I long to see the dimpled wave That never ceased its gentle flow, Where oft at eve I used to lave In the unrippled depths below; It seemed that music fresh from heaven Was wafted on each zephyr there — Alas ! the moaning winds of even, Chime wildly now with my despair! MY WESTERN HOME. 29 III. I long to see those blooming hills, And fields of rich and yellow corn And feel again the joyous thrills Awakened by the hunter's horn; I long to taste the golden peach, That blushed upon its tiny stem — But still I know 1 ne'er may reach The pleasures that I tasted then ! IV. Behind a labyrinth of flowers, Our peaceful homestead sweetly slept; It sheltered me in brighter hours, There I have smiled and I have wept ! Those flowers by other hands are reared, Those fields by other feet are trod; Those halls to others are endeared — My tears have drenched each friendly sod ! My kindred sleep beside the wave, 0, angels! guard that sacred spot. For though their quiet, moss-grown grave Is lone, it ne'er can be forgot; And if a home remains for me When sins and sorrows are forgiven, 0, let that Western cottage be My home, I ask no better heaven ! 30 POEMS AND SKETCHES. ILwz it ©own. I. Live it down! — the tongue will tire Ere its slanderous hiss o'ercome thee; Purified within the fire, Truth's bright mantle shines upon thee. Bear the blight, endure the shock, Hoping for a bright to-morrow; Thou art safe upon the rock, Fear not thou the poisoned arrow ! II. Live it down! — there is a voice That can stem the conflict's raging; It shall bid thy soul rejoice, Midst the war thy foes are waging! Aye, the venomed tongue shall hush; Truth and right need no dissembling; Face the world without a blush — Face it without fear or trembling ! LIVE IT DOWN. 31 III. Live it down! — 'twill not be long; Study meekness and contentment, Time, be sure, will right thy wrong — Time extinguishes resentment. Be thou resolute and firm, E'en thy grief might still be greater; When the clouds are darkest turn — Turn for help to thy Creator! IV. Live it down! — the bruised reed Clasps the oak when frail and slender; So, when comes thy hour of need, Cling unto the Great Defender. Spurn the prison, rack, and rod — Spurn each semblance of temptation ; Leaning on the arm of God, Come forth fi-om thy tribulation. 32 POEMS AND SKETCHES. Mv IcObI Sister. I. I am all alone in my chamber now, And the hours are flying fast; My soul, with a listless, aching sigh, Goes back to the misty past; It dwells on the days when hope was young, And the heart beat fresh and free, When it throbbed with a fond and trusting one, Heaven's choicest gift to me! 11. She was all holy and innocent, And her fringed eye's lustrous hue Shone out from the depths of a faithful heart, All tender, and kind, and true ; E'en now when the azure skies are bright, And the night-orbs glisten fair; My straining eyes look up to them, And I see her spirit there! MY LOST SISTER. 33 III. I see her now as she used to sit By the sighing brooklet's shore, And laugh at the tiny waves, that leapt Into spray, as they circled o'er; the flowers smiled, as they bathed their cheeks In the clear pellucid stream — But the scene is changed, and to me is left But the shadow of a dream. IV. She is gone for aye — her ringing laugh Is hushed in silence deep — She sleepeth in the mystic land, And the angels her vigils keep! And now, when the stars are pale and pure, And glitter upon the sea, 1 close my eyes and dream of her — Alas! will she dream of me? 34 POEMS AND SKETCHES. Hope out c{ Sorrow. I. The strong south-west monsoon arose, And its voice was hoarse and bleak, Its gales were wild as the storm is wild, And they blanched a faithful cheek; It bore a freight of grief and pain From beyond the Indian sea — A message of death on the breezes came. But I fonder turned to thee, mother, But I fonder turned to thee ! II. the words it spake were words of gloom; Charged with their freight of woe, The wailing breezes sobbed and sighed An ecstacy of woe! * The father of the authoress died suddenly in India. This little piece was suggested on hearing of his death, and addressed to her widowed mother. HOPE OUT OP SORROW. 35 But Hope kept whispering, "Look up!" Look up ! and thy soul shall see Joy brimming forth from the bitter cup — It shall still find rest in thee, mother, It shall still find rest in thee! III. My heart looked forth from the dreary maze, ArPd wondered why it wept; It turned away from the narrow crypt, Where its perished idol slept — For the winds kept telling o'er and o'er These precious words to me — Weep not for those who have gone before, But live to comfort thee mother, IV. And so the wild south-west monsoon Bore back to that Indian clime, My heart's regrets for the loved and lost, And its faithfulness to thine — And it bore a vow — a holy vow — That wherever I may be, It shall ever throb, as it throbs e'en now. To bless and be blessed by thee mother, To bless and be blessed by thee. 36 POEMS AND SKETCHES. A M ewor^. "All the skill of the great City To save that little life was Tain."— Dickens. A Vision haunts me — from the past upgushing Its pictures come, sad, mournful, yet serene. As with a spell each wayward impulse hushing, The fleet-winged years roll back their shadowy screen. Once more I linger in that realm of beauty. O'er which the Angel-guards of childhood bow. Ere the young soul has learned to shrink from duty, Or sorrow's thorn-crown bound the bleeding brow. A golden head is on my breast reclining ; A child's brown eyes are lifted soft and meek ; White, dimpled arms about my neck are twining, And velvet lips are pressed against my cheek. By the warm love-light rippling o'er each feature, Like morning sunshine through a flowery dell, I know her well, sweet, winsome little creature. My baby-sister, sunny-eyed Estelle ! A MEMORY, 37 The youngest darling of our household treasures, Gladding our home by childhood's winning arts ; The one pure presence heightening all our pleasures, And folding Heaven more closely to our hearts. The scene is changed. I see a tiny coflBn, Swelling to view from many a sable fold, While from within, by muslin shrouds-plaits shaded, Her face gleams up, thin, marble-like, and cold. Spring's palest flowers the blue-veined forehead pressing Lie still and lifeless as the clay beneath, Save when the perfumed wind, in mute caressing, Lifts their pure petals with its silken breath. Bear hence her dust! 'tis but an open prison. An unbarred cage from whence the bird has flown To sunnier climes, on snow-white pinions risen. To warble holier songs before the throne. Estelle, dear lost one ! where the wind's low whispers. In dreamy tones through bending tree-boughs creep, And blue-lipped violets at their silent vespers Shed dewy tears — we laid thee down to sleep. We love to think when earthly cares enthrall us, Thine angel wings flit downward to our side, Thy viewless hands unclasp the chains that gall us, And point us softly to the Crucified. 38 POEMS AND SKETCHES. • Death is no dark, mysterious river, sweeping Through Life's green valleys with a sullen roar, - Across whose waves the sounds of mortal weeping Is borne, and echoed from the further shore ; But a clear stream, whose low-toned music ever, Lulls to repose the weary and oppressed; Athwart whose tide Heaven's glowing sunbeams quiver Till every billow wears a golden crest. Adown that stream, enwrapped in soft, dim shadows, We, too must glide when Earth unbinds its spell, Henceforth to wander through those flower-strewn meadows, Where thou art waiting us, our lost Estelle ! MILLY. LEAVING HOME. 39 iLcavin^ Home. There is a place on earth called "Home." It is bounded by four walls, and its hearth-stone is its altai'-stone. Dear asso- ciations cluster around the chimney-corner; and every niche, and cranny, and broken brick is sanctified — sanctified by some plea- sant memory. The voices of sisters and mothers, fathers and brothers, have consecrated the spot, have resounded in the sacred precincts — the voices of sisters and mothers, dear sisters and dear mothers. "We have wandered from home, but its magnetism is still upon us. It is the center of our mental solar system, and we revolve round its remembrances — are bound forever by its attractions in our life's orbit. John was of age. The spirit of enterprise and restlessness had fastened upon him, and he resolved to buckle on the armour of self-dependence, and go forth to fight with the Goliah of the world — the mighty Goliah, whose spear is like unto a weaver's beam, and who vaunteth himself against beardless Davids, fresh from the herding of cattle. John's last evening at home was a sad and silent one. The family circle gazed mournfully at the fire — looked uneasily at the blazing fire. The preparations had been completed, and they were very simple. There was little sleep that night at the farm- house ; the inmates laid awake, thinking of the young man's departure on the morrow. In the morning all appeared at the breakfast table; but no one felt like eating. The father was grave ; the mother looked often at John. This thought entered her mind : — 40 POEMS AND SKETCHES. "Perhaps John will never be seen at the home-board again." And the tears filled her eyes ; and she tried to press them back with a strong effort of the will. There waa a sorrowful echo in the brain which kept iterating — "Never be seen at the home-board again ! " She could not bear it. She arose and went to the window, as if to observe something that was passing. Sister Mary's eyes were red; and brother Ned wore a dull, dubious expression. John got up from the table and put on his hat, casting a significant glance at his bundle — a small bundle in a chair near the door. " I suppose it is time to be going," he said in a low and leather thick voice. He shook hands with Ned, and Mary kissed him. He attempted to smile and say something encouraging to her, but her warm lips melted down his resolution. He was aware that his father had taken his hand, but his eye-lids were weighing heavily upon his eyes, and he did not attempt to raise them. "John, be just and industrious," he said, in a shaky voice. "If you do not return to us rich, come back honest — come back to your old father and mother honest, John. We have toiled side by side, my son — many years side by side. If I have been harsh to you, or unforgiving, you must forgive me, nor bear away from this paternal roof in your heart aught but kindness and love — kindness and love for your father, John." John tried to say, "Don't, father!" but couldn't. It touched a sensative place to hear the good old man talk so — talk so Christianly. A softer hand grasped his — a very soft hand, full of mother's magnetism — mother's sweet magnetism. John's bosom was swell- ing tumultuously, and he could not summon courage to look into her eyes. "John," said she — the word thrilled him — "Time has been dealing with me for more than half-a-century. I'm getting old — LEAVING HOME. 41 I'm following those who have given dust to dust. The material world is fading, and the fashion thei'eof changing. You arc going out from before my sight, and I may see your face no more. John," — the old lady's voice quivered afifectingly — " a portion of my being lives in you; no other can love you as I do — as your fond old mother loves you. For my sake be careful what you do — be very careful what you do, for you cannot suffer v^ithout my feeling the pain : mothers feel their children's pain, John." The good lady paused, and the tears ran down her cheeks. " I'm afraid I shall never see you again. Perhaps this is the last time I shall ever embrace you. Oh, John, how can I give you up! how can I suffer you to depart I The days and the nights will be long when you have gone. I shall count the days, and lay awake nights — lay awake thinking of and praying for you. There is no selfishness in my love: it is all-sacrificing, all-forgiving, and watchful. Beware of evil infiuences, my son. And whatever your misfortunes or success may be, do not forget those at home ! " John was full and running over at the eyes ; he wanted to sob like a child, How weak he was ; how his strength went away, leaving him subdued and grieving. He had never dreamed that parting was such an ordeal. His mother, like Paul, fell upon his neck and wept. And John gave way and wept too. She said, "God bless you!" and then he departed, tearful and son-owing. Header, did you ever hear a mother's "God bless you?" It is freighted with solemn, thrilling sweetness. I cannot keep back the tears when I think of it. Many lips that have pro- nounced it with the fervor of inexpi-essible love, are ashes to-day ; many hearts that have felt it are crumbling in the narrow crypt ; many souls that are in Heaven have trembled at the pain of its birth. 42 POEMS AND SKETCHES. ''Bxm(i? ilirougli tKe Mi^t of Years. Dimly through the mist of years Beams upon my vision now, Bright eyes brimming o'er with tears- Smiles of joy on many a brow ; Eyes unused to sights of woe, Hearts that never knew a sigh — Far too pure for aught below, Kindred spirits sought on high. II. Flowers decked the streamlet's side, Birds sang blithely all the day — When the flowers drooped and died, Those sweet warblers soared away; Clouds of woe obscured each brow, Till they burst life's prison-bars — We can see them shining now In the palpitating stars. DIMLY THROUGH THE MIST OF YEARS. 43 III. Those pure bosoms heave no more, Rest thej in a dreamless sleep — When the woes of life are o'er We with them may cease to weep; We may meet them with the throng, Never, never more to part, In a greeting fond and long. Lip to lip, and heart to heart ! 44 POEMS AND SKETCHES. ®ur MiU Mk'^ Beart. I. The evening zephyrs sadly swept O'er naany a hill and plain, And from its clear blue home above, The starlight trembling came; Aye, earth was crowned with beauty then. And 'neath the breath of even, Each dear and lovely object seemed Reflected back from Heaven. II. On the still couch the night-orb shed A soft and silvery ray, Where, calm and pure a gentle one In silent slumber lay; On her young brow a sweet, sad smile, Diffused a radiant glow, While two white hands were folded o'er The pulseless heart below. OUR LITTLE LILLY'S DEATH. 45 III. We breathed with low, sad whispers then, Our little lost one's name. But, ah! her gentle voice was hushed, No answering greeting came ! Her gentle bosom heaved no more With life's warm, waving breath. And our loved Lilly calmly slept. The last long sleep of death. 46 POEMS AND SKETCHES. ILawettt of fKe Bcreaveb. I. I hear upon each zephyr's breath, That sweeps across the billowy sea, A soft, sad voice, now hushed in death, In gentle murmurs, whisper me ; And then I think of brighter hours, And memories of bliss and bloom. Of hopes as fleeting as the flowers That grew and perished o'er her tomb. II. No more I see the tender glow That beamed in her eff"ulgent eye ; No more her silvery voice I know. With all its gush of melody ; But only in the orbs, that shed Their cold, calm radiance on the wave I trace the image of the dead — I see the semblance of the grave! LAMENT OF THE BEREAVED. 47 And must I ever hopeless bear This dark, and drear, and gloomy part, Without one kindred soul to share The grief that rends my wretched heart? While that dear idol sweetly rests On some enchanted isle afar — Her form enshrined among the blest — Her features beaming in each star. IV. # Ah, not a minstrel tunes his lyre, But sadly tremble on its strings, And from the souls ethereal fire No beam of true effulgence springs. The earth is sad, and cold, and drear, And hoarsely moans the hoary sea — No spark of hope will linger hear, While memory is left to me. V. 0, let me close these tear-dimned eyes. Since hope is fled, and passion o'er. And dream of her beyond the skies. Who is not lost, but gone before! So may her gentle presence fill My longing soul with light and flame. Till passion's waves are hushed and still. Till life and joy are mine again! 48 POEMS AND SKETCHES. tl oijuence. I- I have seen a bird from its woodland nest, Soar up to the deep blue sky, Till the fading lines of its distant form Were lost to my upturned eye ; I have watched the spot where it disappeared, In its dim and noiseless flight, Until, as returning again to earth, Tt came to my longing sight, — n. And then to my ear have its warblings seemed So holy, and soft, and cleai'. That I almost knew it had learned above, The strains of a brighter sphere, I have turned away to my daily toil — But, thrilled by that simple song, My heart has become, for its melody. More loving, and pure and strong ! ELOQUENCE. 49 III. I have watched the flight of a uoble mind, Through realms of its own high thought, Up, up, till its pinions were bathed in light, From a holier region caught ; I have waited long for its slow descent, That my yearning heart might know The message of hope and love it brought To the weary souls below, — IV. I have turned away to my daily toil. But still have its teachings been, Like a silent and all-resistless power To the whisperings of sin. I have gained new strength from its counselings, And so hath my path been trod. With a deepened love for my fellow-man. And a stronger trust in God. 60 POEMS AND SKETCHES. Mi^iericorbia. Murky night, and speeds the blast, Rushing like a warrior past, Where shall it find rest at last? Where the pang, the grief, the smart. Rankles in the bleeding heart, Pierced by many a fatal dart! Down among its gloomy caves. Restless as the ocean waves. Dark and damp as sinners' graves ! Yet the dreary night- winds moan Round a vacant hearth and home, Bidding her who reft it, come ! Come and visit it again — Come with all thy guilt and stain. While the lonely ones remain. MISERICORDIA. 51 Come and see the vacant chair Drawn up to the hearthstone there — What a teacher for despair ! Thing of wretchedness and sin, Stifle all that feels within, While thine eyes look forth on him\ Stifle each remorseful feeling Every lineament revealing How his woes are with him dealing! Sorrow where all once was fair, Sitting on his brow, despair ! — Wretched one, thj ivork is there! C^f) rOEMS AND SKETCHES. A Fragment. Who has not seen some solitary glen Sleeping in silence far from haunts of men ? Where stately trees in drapery of green, Hunt out the glinting sunshine from the scene ; While, far below, screened from the light of day, A babbling brook pursues its devious way — Now glides as noiseless as the wily snake. Now disappears behind some friendly brake — Now blushes crimson, as the sun's red ray Bursts through the trees to kiss its gloom away ;- Now prattles with the pebbles, telling o'er Some wondrous legend, never heard before ; — Now flowing onward, silent, dark and deep. Now thundering down the bold and rocky steep- As if its sullen waters longed to be Lost in the vastness of the mighty sea ! IMMORAL POETRY. 53 Immoraf Poetry. ' Oh, love, oh, fire ! once he drew With one long kiss, my whole soul through My lips." We have of late seen this "glowing stanza" selected by some of our journalists, from others of the same stamp, as a literary gem of the first water, from the elaborate casket of Tennyson ; but we venture to confess to a difierent judgment upon it, and to pro- nounce it, as we do many of the same collection, to be of false brilliancy, and, though showy, deficient in intrinsic worth— not the diamond, but its counterfeit— which the scrutinizing lapidary would reject, however it might dazzle and deceive the unwary. But, to indulge no longer in metaphor, we contend that propriety of senti- ment is as essential to elevate poetry as elegance of expression, and that, however gorgeous the apparel which excited genius may throw around sensuality, it cannot conceal its deformities, or render it other than revolting to pure minds and refined tastes. What, for instance, should we think of the above gross idea, if stripped of 54 POEMS AND SKETCHES. the magic of a name, and the harmony of verse, and rendered in plain prose, or colloquial English? — as we shall not do by it; for, although the manner would be offensive, the matter would be dis- gusting ; and we have no desire to present our readers a new feature in psychology, which, thoiigh novel, we should hardly con- sider delicate. Ncr can we speak very favorably of Miss Fatima, or of any other Miss, who would own to such invasion of her lips, or such extortion of her inner life, when, to acknowledge she has been kissed at all, requires, from a properly constituted female, the plea of consanguinity, of intimate connection, or the sanction of plighted love, or of wedded privilege, to make it admissible ; and some such palliation to excuse her unblushing avowal of it. And then, oh, Cupid, such a kiss! We think the fiery annals record not the like of it. Why, even that of Bowles, immortalized by Byron, which caused the woods of Madeira to tremble, not so much with delight as with amazement, was as feeble, when com- pared with it, as the cold and formal salutation of Gallic custom, to the hearty smack the clown inflicts on the unctuous lips of his inamorata. If the conceit of Bowles be ridiculous, it is more toler- able than Tennyson's, because more decent. We are not of those who approve the frequent introduction of these physical manifestations of the tender passion in compositions, whether of prose or of verse, and we have remarked in Tennyson a stronger tendency to what we consider a violation of the sweet uses of poetry, in this particular, than in any other of our modern authors, with the exception, perhaps, of Alexander Smith— who is a greater poet than Tennitson. But with both of these celebrities, kissing, embracing, and such like manipulatory demonstrations of attachment, are too often substituted for that more delicate and spiritual commerce between heart and heart, and soul and soul, which, in our opinion, makes love what it should be — a sentiment, rather than a sensuality — a moral, not an animal gratification. We hope man has been taught in a school of purer ethics than to regard our sex as "A toy, for idle play. To use but till the gilding wears away." IMMORAL POETRY. as he would certainly consider us, if he estimated us only by the standard of Mr. Tennyson and his compeers, and looking not beyond mere outward attraction to captivate his affection, or inspire his song. For our own part, we think such heroines as Fatima, should excite abhorence instead of admiration, and such ebullitions of delirious passion as she expresses, be considered better fitted to the mad-house, than to the requirements of rational and decorous life; and while we can readily imagine that no iiseful lesson in natural or human emotion is to be learned from such demoralizing hyperbole, we are equally convinced it may lead to folly, to say the least of it. We desire not to limit Poetry to the actual, for this would be to curtail her of her lawful and most delightful province ; but we would have her to be chaste in her imaginings ; to address herself more to the sensibilities than to the senses ; to teach us to desire thd fellowship of the spirit, more than the charms of the person ; and to represent beauty as but the auxiliary to modesty — as the outer garment of those hidden and superior graces which unfold themselves with diffidence to the respectful advances of the sterner sex — and which, like the exqui- site leaves of that perfect emblem of feminine reserve, the sensitive plant, are rather designed to recoil from the breath of rude and wanton approach, than to encourage it. We have hazarded these observations at the risk of being con- sidered hypercritical, because we love the muse and respect our sex, and regard both as given for nobler purposes than such verse as we have deprecated would imply — the one to inspire the heart of man with chaste and holy ardour; the other to kindle it to fervent but temperate flame. We prefer to eschew Poetry alto- gether, when she parts company with Propriety, because then we could not have Modesty by our side to listen to her outpourings, or ask Innocence to sympathise with us in her communions. When her conceptions raise a blush, or the remotest indication of one, on the cheek that should never glow with other than holy or healthful agitation ; or when her expressions startle the fibres which reach to the citadel where we would have native Purity to sit enshrined and immaculate, — 56 POEMS AND SKETCHES. '* Chaste as the icicle That's curdled by the frost of purest snows, And hangs on Dian's temple" — we have done with her, and abandon her to the licentious of tlie one sex, and the "strong-minded" of the other, to whose less fas- tidious and hardier constitution she may prove a more acceptable and less dangerous teacher and associate. THE DREAM OF YESTERDAY. 57 fKe Bream of Yesterba^. I. Delusive dream of yesterday, Why vanish thou so soon away ? The throbbing brain, the moisoned eye, The quivering lip, and heaving sigh, Though wrung from out the spirit's grief, Still, still afford a poor relief. II. But when the tear-drops will not start, And burn and blister on the heart, — When the wild passion darkly roll Their turbid torrents o'er the soul. Who, then, may measure the despair That burns, like a volcano, there ? III. Delusive dream of yesterday, I may not, loill not bid thee stay ; 58 POEMS AND SKETCHES. I scorn the sigh, the briny tear — There is no foolish -weakness here ! Ill wrap me in my robe of gloom, And wait in silence for the torab. IV. What care I for the boisterous throng, The witty word, the merry song, The shining tress, the form of grace, The blazing eye and blushing face ? — All these are false and vain to me — A jest, a hollow mockery ! Delusive dream of yesterday, Thine was a bright and lurid ray, But darkened with the beam of Him* Who'll shine again, though thou art dim! I'd laugh although His morrow's birth Should scatter madness o'er the earth, VI. For why may other hearts still feel Imagined rapture, though unreal. And beat and brighten with a spark Of hope or love, while mine is dark? — The Sun. THE DREAM OP YESTERDAY. 59 Companionship in my despair, Might shed some consolation there ! VII. Though crushed the heart, and seared the brain, Though darkness spreads its pall again — I heed not, in my hour of gloom. The smile of love, or beauty's bloom ; I laugh thy mockery away. Delusive dream of yesterday! C^j^ 60 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 1 emmiscenccs. I. 'Tis but a very little while Since -with my satchel in my hand, And on my face a joyous smile, I roamed amidst the school-girl band, Aye, I was blest and happy then "When laugh and song rang gaily out, Resounding through the forest glen. That echoed with the torrents shout, 11. The old school-house, with moss o'ergrown, That nestled sweetly by the hill, Where erst the youthful look and tone Sent to my heart a holy thrill; — Ah! to my vision now it seems Some lonely and enchanted place. The highwrought image of my dreams. Which time can never quite efface. REMINICENCES. 61 III. blest and lioly is each thought That links my heart with those bright hours, When little gleesome children brought A flower- wreathed vine to deck our bowers', And ever loving, trusting, then, We built our arbours on the stream, Nor thought of sorrow yet to come. But as the shadow of a dream. IV. And as we left the school-room door. When the wild winds blew sharp and keen, Oh, how we danced and gamboled o'er The glittering robe of snow and sheen ! We loved the winters frosty breath, On icy pinions fleeting by ; — Ah ! now it seems the voice of death. And every breeze awakes a sigh. V. Where are those smiling faces now, In school-girl days that beamed so bright ? And where the teacher's noble brow. We gazed upon with pure delight ; Gone, like the flitting, fleecy cloud, That drives along the azure skies ; — Gone, like the bud that bursts in bloom Then bows its head, and droops, and dies. 62 POEMS AND SKETCHES. VI. Some o'er the world's wide desert roam, Some plough the billowy ocean waves ,- But every echo tells of home, Of perished hopes and lonely graves, For not a heart that beats so high, As it were wont in other years ; The cheek is pale, and dim the eye. Beneath a burning weight of tears. VII. Alas ! so false youth's fond hopes prove, So doomed to trial and regret ; The pure, pale, glimmering stars we love. Soonest in silent darkness set. But, like those loved and lost, they rise Brighter and purer than before, And in yon bright, eternal skies, Live in God's love for evermore. THOU ART BELOVED. 63 Thoxt art ©eloveb. Tnotr art beloved ! — I tell it to the breeze, but ah ! from thee I guard it with a mournful secrecy. Breeze that hast roved From early morn through glen and woodland dim, Scattering, like showers of gems, the scented dews From verdurous bough and rainbow-tinted cup, Lifting each dainty leaflet up, To drop sweet notes into thy charmed hymns; To thee, oh breeze, my thoughts I loose. Like severed rose-leaves sweet; Bear thou the broken harmony complete To the fair maid. Leaning from vine-wreathed casement down the glade Listening for coming feet; Paving the path with music of her dreams — The while the ripples of her shining hair Enrich with golden sweep the dusky air — When to thy soft caress the light vine stirs, Whispers, until it seems The echo of the heart that beats with hers — " Thou art beloved." 64 POEMS AND SKETCHES. II. Thou art beloved — I write it on the waves, but not to thee. Heart-idol shrined, adored, unwittingly. There, where the moonlight lies, Silvering the edge of each wave that up-curls Its azure, lined with braided pearls, A light barque flies On wings of white across the moonlit deep. With one, perchance, whom doubt hath robbed of sleep. He dreams of home, Casting swift thoughts, like pearls, into the foam, As part the shining waves. He marvels if fond hearts have changed — If silent absence hath the love estranged ; And thinks if zephyrs pass, Gathering the scent of daisies from the grass On new-made graves! Swift be the pang removed. Of pitiless despair and doubt, waves ! As if an angel were empowered to write In characters of light, This truth, that warm hearts wait him, let him see These words the moonbeams there have traced for me, " Thou art beloyed."' III. Thou art beloved — I breathe it unto God, but not to thee, THOU ART BELOVED. 65 Even to him who reads Our feeble nature's mighty needs, In the grand hush of His eternity. Thy dear name shall not pass my lips, Save in the darkness of the minds eclipse ; When, like the miser at the gate of Death, Dropping his hoarded treasures with his dust, My heart, through weakness treacherous to its trust, Casts down its gems unconsciously. My hopes have proved But Dead-Sea apples crumbling at a touch ! Life's overmuch Of pain intense shall cease alone with breath. Impassable the gulf twixt thee and me — A wild Red Sea with none to part the waves. Thy love my spirit craves. As flowers the sunlight — fails me utterly. Ah! when the eternal morning dawns. And amaranthines shall displace the thorns; When on my brow No roseate blush shall overspread the snow Up-crimsoning from my heart at thought of thee, Revealing secret strife ; And when, all saintly white. With leanings toward God and angel life, I meet thee crowned with light ; — Then shalt thou view within my soul as clear As gems in sun-kissed waves, or stars at night. This truth, sacredly guarded here — Thou art beloved. milly. 66 POEMS AND SKETCHES. Tlierc is no Sin in ILovin^ Tlice. I. There is no sin in loving thee, Since hope denies its gladsome glow, — Since fate has sealed its stern decree, I dream of joys I ne'er may know; — Since thou art all of love and bliss, But from my reach art placed afar, I'll love in plaintive silence — yes, I'll love thee, as I'd love a star ! II. There is no sin in loving thee. Though other ears my vows have known, And other hearts have learned to be Thrilled by my jest — swayed by my tone; There is no wrong in worshiping The bright, the beautiful, the fair. Though to my heart each pulse may bring The silent throbbings of despair. THERE IS NO SIN IN LOVING THEE. 67 III. Though sluggish waters darkly flow Where poisonous vapours float along, They love the fountain's crystal glow, They love the murmuring brooklet's song ! Though fettered in the dungeon's gloom, The prisoned captive clasps his chain, He loves, amidst that darkened room, To dream of liberty again ! IV. Though bound in withes of woe, the soul Grovels and broods o'er things of earth. The free-born spirit spurns control. And mounts to a celestial birth — Though struggling midst the great world's strife, Mortal may burst his prison-bars. And soar to an immortal life. Among the myriads of stars ! There is no sin in loving thee ! E'en from the regions of the air My wandering soul returns to me. And finds no holier spirit there ! Among the vast ideal throng. Whose wafted wings the zephyrs part. No beauties and no bliss belong, Like those that cluster round thy heart ! 68 POEMS AND SKETCHES. VI. Then let my lonely spirit glow, Its idol is of heavenly birth — Why should the immortal only know The faults and follies of the earth ? Like a weak wave, that loves the shore, And springs to greet it from the sea, I hope, I live, I breathe no more, Save in one endless dream of thee ! PRAYER OF THE NEGLECTED WIFE. 69 Prai?cr of tlu Ne^leckc) Wife. I. Teach me, God, to bear With grace, the heavy burden of my woe — Thou only canst remove this weight of care, And dry these tears that flow. II. Pity me, my God ! For I have vowed, beneath this weary load, To tread a path which faltering feet have trod — This dark and thorny roa^. III. And I, whose panting heart So longs for hope, and love, and sympathy, Have bowed beneath the storm — have felt the smart, Chastened, God, by Thee! 70 POEMS AND SKETCHES. IV. ' 0, Father, pity me ! Thou shelterest always in the threat'ning hour — And in my feebleness, I ask from Thee The strength, the mighty power, V. To stand serenely up, Beneath this burning -weight of unshed tears, I stifle back — the bitter, bitter cup. That I must drink for years. VI. Father, my soul is dark ! Light Thou the dreary pathway that I tread — Temper the waves around my fragile bark. The winds above my head. VII. For he, whose manly breast Promised to shelter — but forgets its trust ; He who should fold me in his arms to rest. But bows me in the dust, VIII. My fainting form is weak I My heart is heavy, and mine eyes are dim — For I must bear, when sympathy I seek. Neglect and scorn from him ! PRAYER OF THE NEGLECTED WIFE. Yl IX. Poor woman's heart who knows? Brim-full of tears as ocean of its foam, It weeps, and suffers, bears a weight of woes, And breaking, yet beats on. X. From Thee I crave relief, God — for Thou canst save from all alarms — Then bear my fainting spirit up, beneath Thine everlasting arms. 72 POEMS AND SKETCHES. Ta a Slar-Breamcr. I. Why sing to orbs insensible, When day is done? Be there no hearts to love thee well, Thou lonely one! Be there no sufferings to soothe. No hopes to cheer, no brows to smooth, No souls to bless, no hearts to love. Beneath the sun? II. There be no spirits in the air. Or in the sky. To soothe thy griefs, thy love to share, Thy tears to dry! The night-orbs burn with borrowed blaze, Their lustre dim, and cold their rays — The evening stars but meet thy gaze I "With mocking eye ! TO A STAR-DREAMER. 73 III. But there be human hearts that thrill "With sympathy, And know no thought, in good or ill. But truth to thee ! Their love will shine with constant ray, To gild thy dark and lonely way! — Why dost inconstant turn away From them and me? IV. The tinted fields are rich with flowers. With dew-drops bright; The weeping clouds refresh with showers, Or smile in light; The breezes waft from summer skies A thousand tints of golden dyes, And every spray delights the eyesi And glads the sight. The modest violet, lowly, meek. From the sun's ray — A thousand blushes on its cheek — Shrinking away; It bows its head beneath the storm. Sweet emblem of life's early morn. Of innocence and beauty born — Happy and gay. 74 POEMS AND SKETCHES. • VI. The giant forest waves its arms, And points to heaven — Now fanned by zephyrs, lashed by storms. By tempests riven, The blooming vales, the flower-crowned hills. The cooling springs, and gushing rills- The very heart of nature thrills — As if from heaven. t VII. The wavea of ocean kiss the shore In dalliance gay, Glowing and sparkling evermore, Bright as the day; They rise in clouds, dissolve in rain. Now sigh with joy, or shriek with pain. And dash against the rocks in vain, Then melt in spray. VIII. The bird that seeks the summer sky, Bright plumed and fair, Sing 3 its sweet song, but knows not why. And cleaves the air; Its life the loving hand bestows, Who rules the seas, who paints the rose; And e'en the little warbler knows That God is there! TO A STAR-DREAMER. 75 IX. All things are joyous — God is good — Enthroned above, He stills the tempest, stays the flood; The fountains move! Then lift thy dim and weary eyes. And let thy heart like incense rise To praise the Ruler of the skies — The Source of Love ! 76 POEMS AND SKETCHES. Saci Memories* I. When tlie low, mournful echoes of the past, Send sighing sadly back their dirge-like strain, And chaunt of joys too precious far to last — And hours of bliss I ne'er may know again — Ah ! then the aching heart feels sad and lone, And broods with miser care o'er pleasures fled ; And mourns with bitter grief for loved ones gone Down to the silent chambers, of the dead I II. Ah I not one hand in this world's wilderness, Can smooth care's furrow's on my saddened brow, And not a heart can feel for the distress That preys upon my icebound heart-strings now I Ah, no! each hand has other brows to smooth. Without whose charm would clouds of woe o'ercast, And each fond heart has other hearts to love, Without whose love would break 'neath sorrow's blast I SAD MEMORIES. T7 III. 0, bruised and shattered heart, why wert thou left To beat alone on this bleak, desert shore. Without one spot where thou could'st safely rest ; When passion's weaves around thy pathway roar ? And why did not this care-rent bosom cease To feel, ere it had known the weight of care. And this poor pulse be still, ere woe and grief Had taught the soul its lesson of despair I IV. From thy pure, blissful home, oh loved and lost, Come to the heart that throbs so lonely now. And warm the bosom, chilled by winds and frost. That pale the cheek, and furrow o'er the brow; — And when on earth its sighs and dreams are o'er. And it shall sink, with keenest anguish riven. When sorrow's surges shall be heard no more, 0, let it throb with joy again — in heayen ! •78 POEMS AND SKETCHES. ^^Tliou liast Uch, IbricjKt anb glorious Yision. I. Thou Last fled, bright and glorious vision, From my heart thou hast fled but too soon. And has changed its enchanted Elysian, To a lone waste of sorrow and gloom ; As a sunbeam thy beauty has vanished, And the clouds of despair have come o'er; For the joy of life's morning is banished — Hope sleepeth to wake nevermore. II. As a statue of sorrow and sadness, I gaze on the beauty of earth ; For the dawn of a young spirits gladness, Fades e'en as it springs into birth ; My sad heart is desolate, dreary. And troubled by storm and by wave — But the lone, and the weak, and the weary. Shall rest in the calm of the grave ! THOU HAST FLED, BRIGHT AND GLORIOUS VISION. 79 III. Is there aught in the bright world above us, When tlie storms of affliction arise. To fondly bend o'er us and love us, And guide our frail bark to the skies? Ah ! yes — when the tempest-tost ocean. To the breakers our vessel hast driven, It whispers that storm and commotion, Shall hasten our spirits to heaven ! r '3^^. 80 POEMS AND SKETCHES. The Iropcr to lib Hab^, 0, Lady, sing tliat song again ! For never did the listening air Upon its lambent bosom bear So wild, so soft, so sweet a strain! Like rain-drops on the thirsty plant. It falls upon the thirsty soul, Till all the quivering pulses pant, And through the heart like lava roll Emotions, surging, free — Till thought and feeling spurn control, And lips are eloquent of thee! If there be shadowy forms, that fly On unseen wings, with plumage bright. In realms of beauty and of light. Beyond the scope of mortal eye — If there be voices in the air That gush in song, or thrill io" speech. May not our longing spirits hear The lesson that they teach ? THE LOVER TO HIS LADY. 0, lady, in this 'woodland shade, Where lovers meet to whisper o'er Vows made a thousand times before, Though sweet as when the first were made. Will breathe our loves in passioned phrase— We'll tell the stars our tales of bliss ; They'll smile on us their brightest rays, And they will be our witnesses. We'll share our rapture with the birds, That twitter joy on every tree; In songs they'll speak the fondest words. That I would speak to thee ! 82 POEMS AND SKETCHES. A Sliefcli from Scat Life. KoT many montlis ago, when we lived in the conntrj', a man in middle life came to our door, enqiiiring if we could direct him to the house of the "minister," remarking that he had lost his mother, and as this place used to be her home, and his father was buried here, he had come to lay her beside him. Our heart rose in sympathy, and we said, "You have met with a great loss. " " Well — yes, " replied the strong man, with hesitancy, " a mother is a great loss in general ; but our mother has outlived her use- fulness ; she was in her second childhood and her mind was grown as weak as her body, so that she was no comfort to. herself and was a burden to everybody. There were seven of us, sons and daugh- ters; and as we could not find anybody who was willing to board her, we agreed to keep her among us a year about. But I've had more than my share of her, for she was too feeble to be moved when my time was out ; and that was more than three months before her death. But then, she was a good mother in her day, and toiled very hard to bring us all up. " A SKETCU PROM REAL LIFE. 83 "She Avas a good mother in her day, aud toiled hard to bring us all up— she was no comfort to herself, and a burden to everybody else!" These cruel, heartless words rang in our ears as we saw the coffin borne up the street. The bell tolled long and loud, until its iron tongue had chronicled the years of the toil-worn mother. One — two — three — ^four — five. How clearly and almost merrily each stroke told of her once peaceful slumber on her mothers bosom, and of her seat at nightfall on her weary father's knees. Six — seven — eight — nine — ten — rang out the tale of her sports upon the green sward, in the meadow, and by the brook. Eleven — twelve — thir- teen—fourteen — fifteen — spoke more gravely of school days, and little household joys and cares. Sixteen — seventeen — eighteen, — sounded out the enraptured visions of maidenhood, and the dream of early love. Nineteen brought before us the happy bride. Twenty spoke of the young mother whose hea.rt was full to bursting with the new, strong love which God had awakened in her bosom. And then stroke after sti'oko told of lier early womanhood — of the love, and cares, and hopes, and fears, and toils, through which she passed during these long years — till fifty rang out harsh and loud. From that to sixty each stroke told of the warm-hearted mother and grandmoHier, living over again her own joys and sorrows in those of her children and children's children. Every family of all the group wanted grandmother then, and the only strife was, who should secure the prize ; but hark ! the bell tolls on ? Seventy — seventy-one — two — three — four. She begins to grow feeble, requires some care, is not always patient or satisfied ; she goes from one child's house to another, so that no one place seems like home. She murmurs ia plaintive tones, and after all her toil and wea- riness, it is hard she cannot be allowed a home to die in ; that she must be sent, rather than invited from house to house. Eighty — eighty -one — two — throe — four — ah ! she is now a second child — now '"she has outlived her usefulness, she has now ceased to be a com- fort to herself or anybody;" that is, she has ceased to be pi-ofitable to her earth-craving and money-grasping children. Now sounds out, reverberating through our lovely forest, and echoing liack from our " hill of the dead, " eighty-nine ! there she 84 POEMS AND SKETCHES. now lies in the coffin, cold and still — she makes no trouble now, demands no love, no soft words, no tender little offices. A look of patient endurance, we fancied also an expression of grief for unre- quited love, sat on lier marble features. Her children were there, clad in weeds of woe, and in an irony we remember the strong man's words, "She was a good mother in her day!" When the bell ceased tolling, the strange minister rose in the pulpit. His form was very erect, and his voice strong, but his hair was silvery white. He read several passages of Scripture expressive of God's compassion to feeble man, and especially of his tenderness when grey hairs are on him, and his strength faileth. He then made some touching remarks on human frailty and of dependence on God, urging all present to make their peace with their Maker when in health, that they might claim his promises, when heart and flesh should fail them. " Then, " he said, " the eternal God shall be thy refuge, and beneath thee shall be the ever- lasting arms. " Leaning over the desk, and gazing intently on the coffined form before him, he said, reverently, "from a little child I have honored the aged; but never till grey hairs covered my own head, did I know truly how much love and sympathy this class have a right to demand of their fellow-creatures. Our mother, " he added most tenderly, " who now lies in death before us, was a stranger to me, as are all these her descendants. All I know of her is what her son told me to-day— that she w^as brought to this town sixty-nine j^ears ago, a happy bride — that here she has passed most of her life, toiling as only mothers have strength to toil, until she had reared a large family of sons and daughters— that she left her home here, clad in the weeds of widowhood, to dwell among her children ; and that, till health and vigour left her, she lived for you, her descendants. You, who together have shared her love and her care, know how well you have requited her, God for- bid that conscience should accuse any of you of ingratitude or mur- muring on account of the care she has been to you of late. When you go back to your homes, be careful of your words and your example before your own children, for the fruit of your own doing you will surely reap from them when you yourselves totter on the A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE. 85 brink of the grave. I entreat you as a friend, as one -who has himself ' entered the evening of life, ' that you may never say, in the presence of your families nor of heaven, ' Our mother has outlived her usefulness — she was a burden to us.' " Never, never ! a mother cannot live so long as that ! No ; when she can no longer labour for her children, nor yet care for herself, she can fall like a precious weight on their bosoms, and call forth by her helpless- ness all the noble, generous feelings of their natures. Adieu, then, poor, toil-worn mother; there are no more sleepless nights, no more days of pain for thee. Undying vigour and ever- lasting usefulness are part of the inheritance of the redeemed. Feeble as thou wert on earth, thou wilt be no burden on the bosom of Infinite Love, but there shalt thou find thy longed-for rest, and receive glorious sympathy from Jesus and his ransomed POEMS AND SKETCHES. Woman's jBigliis. It must be a grief to every true -woman, that in whatever assemblage she may chance to be — from a dinner -with the literati, down to a social evening party — the term "Woman's Eights" is no sooner uttered, than straightway, like a bolt of iron, it strikes upon the timid ears of the other sex, turning the sweetest smile of the mustachoed lip into the most ferocious curl imaginable ; giving to the most amiable countenance an expression of derision, which says, as clearly as words can speak it, that woman has no "rights "at all, except those which freakish man, in his various humors, may concede her. Now, dear gentleman reader, this is not policy. If you wish to keep your wife free from the mania, appear to her perfectly indif- ferent in regard to it. Allow her to do and say what she may please, without opposition. Let her think for herself! This at least is woman's right. If you differ with her, let it be by reason- ing, as with your equal. Eeceive her opinions with the same deference you would if she were a man. Do not think that because 'tis a woman who speaks, there can be no weight in her words. Do not suppose that by listening to her arguments, you lose dig- nity, or that she gains ascendancy over you. Far from it. Any true woman will bo all the more true and womanly, if she be treated as a rational, reasoning being. woman's rights. Consult her upon important things. Discuss with her the great public movements. No matter if they be political. Woman should understand politics. Give her the papers to read. If she have not time to read them, on account of a " little baby," or a little sewing, or any other little cares, read them to her, not forgeting even the underhand trickeries of politicians ! The more she knows of their intricate windings, the more fondly she will cling to her own sphere, blessing her stars that she is not a politician. 'Tis yet almost an universal creed, that woman need not meddle with, or understand great matters. It is a great wrong to her. It leads to rebellion. We believe that many a woman, now discontented with her destiny, and determined to fight her way on, through " law " and politics— throwing off her dependence and delicacy afe the same time, and standing forth for "Woman's Rights,"— has been driven little by little to that extremity, by the petty grievances of the course of treatment she has received in this particular. Women should understand matters outside the nursery and domes- tic circle. She pines for something beyond her own little limits, to dwell upon in her hours alone, when shut iu from the great world- something to keep the mind vigorous, and the thoughts active. Why should she not be grasping and aspiring, as well as man? Why should she not thirst for a knowledge of human events ? Give her knowledge, give her education ! Let her range in the fields of litera- ture, of science ! Let her dive into the study of human nature ! Let her explore the depths of mind! The jewels she may bring you may be priceless. That we are more ignorant than we need bo we must confess. We do not inform ourselves as we might. Yet even the folly of our own remissness, we can trace somewhat to man. For example :— A gentle- man calls on a lady. They pass the compliments of the day ; they discuss with animation the pleasures and annoyances of the last season at the Springs, hint at the oddities of the last fashion, look over the engravings and sketches, read or quote a little poetry, — and the visit is over. The lady thinks she did wonders in entertaining her guest ; POEMS AND SKETCHES. and the gentleman thinks he must have been a very agreeable visitor. They were both right, doubtless. They have entertained, but not benefitted each other. The gentleman would laugh at the absurdity of introducing any subject of importance ; of course, he takes for granted it would embarras her ; and thus he treats her nearly as if he considered her his inferior. The lady naturally enough sees the safety of ignorance. She knows she will not be expected to speak upon any topic beyond the school-girl catalogue. Therefore, her only induce- ment to labor is her natural thirst for information. "With others, one severe mortification, such as that of finding themselves in the middle of a conversation for which they are unfitted, would awaken their sluggish energies far more speedily. Throw upon woman the responsibility of thinking and speaking for herself, according to her abilities and advantages. She will not only be happier, and far more useful, but she will be a companion for the intelligent and intellectual man, in his hours of research and investigation ; while now, she is companionable only in hours of leisure and diversion. Few women think for themselves. Speak to them of any event in the political world, and see if they do not tell you that " husband thinks this, and says that." And see if, in a conversation of ten minutes, however round about it may be, you do not come to the one momentous fact — that they have not one thought drawn from their own abundant mines of intellect, but have simply adopted their husband's opinions. Now this is all beautiful enough, and surely it is a good way to get over present difficulties. Yet it is not right. It gives to man that superiority that nature did not give him. It renders woman helpless and weak, where nature made her strong. The man studies, reads and soars, while the woman looks after the household, the fashions, and — grovels. Her intelligence does not increase with years, and con- sequently, she finds herself at last but a very simple old lady ; while her husband's mind is stored with the gems he has picked up by the wayside, all to himself, being blinded by the foolish belief that they Avere beyond the sphere and comprehension of woman. Shame, .LofC. WOMA\ S RIGHTS. 89 shame to that old man ! Let him sit in silence for long hours, because the partner of his life cannot meet him in pleasant and intel- ligent converse. She has no stores, no chambers filled with rich treasures of intellect. No cultivated tastes, no flowers of imagination, to strew along the " down hill of life." She must grovel on to the end. The " mistake of a life-time " is seen but too late ! [ We cannot endorse this article. There is something so horrible to us in the mere words, " Woman's rights," that we shudder at the sound. What ! throw aside our dependence on " lordly man," — cease to be his Pet ! or by our own acts deprive ourselves of any portion of his tender regard ? 0, no, no, no ! decidedly not ! Let those who wish live for ambition, we confess a gentler sentiment is the charm which sweetens our existence. Nor do we think that a knowledge of " politics," or any other '* men " matters, can in any manner enlarge the female intellect. We have in our library, books suflBcient to employ our leisure time in study, till the hair shall have become white with age, and not one treats of " politics," but pleasant, amusing, intellectual works, from authors of true merit, and the reading and study of which cannot fail to fill the mind brim full of useful informa- tion, and render the " ignorant " female not only capable to entertain agreeably, the man of "knowledge," but perhaps teach even him! We confess we were somewhat surprised ■ that Miss Duckwoeth should write such an article, as we remember her a mild, quiet creature, and far from "strong-minded." Perhaps experience has changed her sen- timents. If so, may we ever remain " sixteen and simple." — Milly.] 90 POEMS AKD SKETCHES. A Mother's Tears* History records no more suggestive incident than the memorable termination of the siege of Rome by Coriolanus. No child ever perused the narative without extraordinary emotion. There is some- thing in it which appeals with an effect that may not he resisted, to the heart and consciousness of all. Who has not in imagination dwelt upon the scene ? A stout and sturdy warrior, steeled by years of active military service against the pitiful appeals of suffering humanity — the victim of fierce and ungovernaljle passions — smarting under a keen sense of accumulated wrong — consecrates the energies of his life to the avenging of his injury, and, exiled from the city whose annals his military prowess had adorned, sallies forth, the infuriated minister of wrath. Sacrificing all higher and more ennobling aspirations — sullying for ever the hard-earned laurels of the victor of Corioli — he seeks, even at the price of a traitor's fame, to purchase a satisfying vengeance. Rallying round him an army of the enemy he had prostrated for her, he throws himself with an exulting legion upon the offending city, and thunders at her gates. Appalled and prostrated at the realization of her seemingly A mother's tkars. 91 inevitable doom, Eome trembles before him. Witli liumbled pride her haughty senators, in solemn procession, come to sue for mercy. Disdainfully repulsed, they despatch the ministers of their religion to woo with the hopes of bliss, and intimidate with the prospect of a coming retribution. But all in vain. Unrelenting and unmoved by every appeal, the stern veteran relaxes not his purpose. Then come the mother's tears ! Bending under the weight of years, sus- tained only by a holy hope, the aged matron sallies forth. Who can paint the scene ? Who may realize the meeting ? In the most insensate soul there are treasured associations and memories, which forgotten amid the wild tumult of angry passion awaken at the whisper of a mother's name, to beat in every pulsation of the heart, and thrill through every fiber of the frame. There is a sentiment of holy veneration in the soul of the child to its mother, which he must sound the lowest depths of infamy who may forget or disre- gard. With streaming eyes and anguished heart, the Roman mother kneels to plead with her traitor son. Appealing to him by all the hallowed memories of his uncorrupted boyhood, and chiding with the affectionate rebuke and tenderness that well up from a mother's soul towards an erring child, she conjures him to relinquish his cherished purpose. The warrior is unmanned. "Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men. " Fearful, but of brief duration, is the struggle of contending emotions. Instinct tri- umphs — the cup of vengeance is dashed untasted from the lips. Eome is safe again . A mother's tears have changed the destiny of the world ! 92 POEMS AND SKETCHES, Sann(c5S Gossii A cuEiors idea prevails pretty generally tliafc it is not altogether right for people to indulge in a little quiet gossip about the charac- ter, the actions, or even the business of their acquaintances or neighbors, as though we were not all fully entitled to enjoy the right of free speech ! The monstrosity of such an idea is so great as to exite contempt, so strong that language cannot be found to express the virtuous indignation that swells so many bosoms. A pretty idea, truly ! And yet it is a singular fact that such an idea has always prevailed ; but the belief has not been of any great moment, inasmuch as it is so rarely reduced to practice. Occa- sionally some one will be so strangely eccentric as even to rebuke the indulgence of a little cosy gossip about the private character and affairs of peoide. It is refreshing to know that such rebukes do not have a lasting effect, and generally cause a further unlim- bering of the tongue, as a practical manifestation of the most absolute indtqiendence. The anti-gossip theory sounds very nice, but the idea is simply preposterous that such a plan could be prac- tically carried into effect. Why the wheels of society would at once be "scotched;" tea-parties would be deprived of their cream, club-rooms of their soothing tobacco, women would sink into their HARMLESS GOSSIP. 93 family circle, and meu would find themselves forced to be content to spend their evenings at home. Not gossip, indeed. What an absurdity in this enlightened and independent age. Mrs. A. appears in costly garments ;— certainly Mrs. B. has a right to whisper to her neighbour that she is ruinously extravagant, and that her husband owes for them, and cannet pay his debts, though probably she only surmises such to be the fact. Mrs. C. gives a large party; — of course, Mrs. D. did not wish to be invited, and she declaims against such entertainments from a sense of duty, and not because she was neglected. Mrs. E.'s husband keeps his carriage ;— and certainly Mrs. F. is privileged in circulating the fact that his great-grandfather worked for his daily bread. Mrs. I. has moved into a new house, thoughtless of the fact that Mrs. J. is confiding to others a startling narration of the days when her needle was her only support. Mrs. K. wears that old-fashioned bonnet, which Mrs. L. is confident is caused by meanness. Mrs. M. has got that cloak which Mrs. N. is sure her grandmother wore. But Mrs. 0. made the discovery of the season ; Mrs. P. and her hus- band quarrel dreadfully — she passed their house and heard them — not knowing that the wife was in the best of humor at the time, trying to get a favorite look from her husband. But we will not continue the record of these little eccentricities of society ; enough is here stated for illustration. We feel bound to say that the meu are not in the slightest degree exempt from the peculiarities of our own sex. There is often this diflerencc: the ready words of men sometimes directly undermine the credit of neighbors, and weaken what otherwise would stand firm and weather a business storm. Probably there arc those who would consider the above nothing better than slander on the part of the persons indulging in such remarks. They are mistaken ; it is only a skeleton of ordinary gossip, frequently uttered to while away time, and not always with a deliberate intention to do serious injury to others ; and any attempt to restrain the custom might be treated as an infringement upon the " manners and customs " of society. 94 POEMS AND SKETCHES. A mencan Y ounc) tables. The American youug lady is of a species peculiarly tmique. There is nothing like her. In all civilized nations, young ladies are most carefully secluded, watched over, and deprived in a measure of personal liberty. The Spanish duenna is a character known in hlstca-y ; the seclusion of an English school-girl is proverbial ; while the Trench demoiselle is as carefully watched as her sister beyond the Pyrenees, Still less, finding no prototype to the American young lady in civilization, can we compare her to a Hottentot, or a savage of any kind ; therefore we return to our original starting-point, and pronounce her peculiar. She is like necessity, and " knows no law." She is generally dutiful, rnd obeys her parents as far as they require, but they do not require very stringent obedience. On her return home from school, she has her own ideas on the subject of dress, whether she will go into " society," or whether she will be quiet and studious at home. Mamma suits herself to either humor. Sometimes mamma keeps about, and has an eye to windward, but not always. She feels a great respect for Jane's own sagacity and good sense, perfect confidence in her prudence ; and, if somewhat out of society ways, as American mammas are apt to be, she allows her precious treasure to go to the Springs wilh a friend ; hears complacently of AMERICAN YOUNG LADIES. 95 her flirtation with young Eapid ; asks her when she gets home if she is " engaged ; " and listens very quietly to the good sense and prudence which characterize the young lady's own opinion of young Eapid's fortune and expectations. In the Northern States of America, particularly New England, the young lady has the mantle of many Puritan grandmothers hanging about her; her face wears over all its innate coquetry, a soft veil of reserve ; she is a little distant and prudish ; her manners are slightly wanting in grace, that sweetest grace of all, affability, she is " highly intellectual," and reads Goethe, and has, as Hawthorne expresses it, "an instinct to attend lectures." Above all, she has a high sense of duty, so long and so rigidly inculcated by her Puritan surroundings, that it has almost extinguished her natural instincts — did not nature occasionally assert itself. If the Yankee young lady have a fault, it is in being too good, too learned, and too faultless. She is very pretty — beautiful when very young. There are no complexions which compare with the delicate blooms of the American sea-coast. Perhaps a shadow more — what shall we say — a trifle more fullness of figure, would bo an improvement ; a little relaxing of the muscles, a less stern view of life, would impz'ove the New England lady. When she gets a little advanced in life, she is in terrible danger of growing " strong- minded." But we approach the shadowy limits of our subject — we were speaking of young ladies. As we always want to get out when we have affixed a limit to our meditations, we are irresistibly compelled to contemplate the New England young lady when she ceases to bo a young ladj', and barters her incomparable independence " for a name and for a ring." As a wife she is perfect. To her, her husband is the "rose and the expectancy of the fair estate," and she likes to have him write some initial of honor before or after his name. LL. D. and D. D, fill her with complacency. All her ambition is for him. She is quite content to grow pale and thin under her many domestic cares, thinking always of duty, and of her home and its treasures. 96 POEMS AND SKETCHES. Our New England young lady reads very good books. She has a horror of flashy novels — she knows Shakspeare well, and all his glorious company. As Charles Lamb delightfully says of his sister, " she has browsed at will upon the fair and wholesome pasturage of old English reading." She reads history, and has no shabby amount of Science. She knows Latin better than French, although she has read the classics of the latter tongue. Accomplishments of the lighter character are not much cultivated. She prefers hearing one of Ralph Waldo Emerson's lectures read aloud, to the music of the most bewitching waltz — not that she does not like a dance now and then — but all her profound emotions and sjmapathies are of the {esthetic. She likes whatever is obscure and dreamy; is i^rofoundly metaphysical in mind, while remarkably straightforward in prac- tice. She is the flower of the Northern tree, which, though torn up and planted anew, has not changed its growth, but perhaps modified its development. The American young lady is a sad flirt. She is somewhat inconstant in love, and considers herself doing a small business when only engaged to three men at once. However, the fortunate man who at length carries oif the prize, finds generally that his bride settles down into an excellent wife and mother, discharging with great propriety the onerous duties of domestic life. Let us imagine the horror of an English, a Ei-ench, or a Spanish mamma, if it should be proposed to them that Lady Geraldiue, the fair Matilda, and the dark -eyed Inez, should go travelling about the country alone ! — take young men to parties, dance with whom they please, conduct their own matrimonial arrangements, and enjoy nearly the liberty which falls to the lot of the elderly and married. The English mamma would quietly retire to her inmost closet, and thank heaven she is not an American ; the French mamma would shrug her shoulders very significantly; and the Spanish lady would double-lock her daughter's room, and substitute an uglier and more severe duenna than ever. And yet no ladies command more uni- versal respect — none, we believe, deserve it more — than the ladies of America. ■vl^- } '■ 1904