The longer he thought, only the more embarrassing grew the stranger’s

situation. Would she not laugh to hear that he had come, when the

summer-time of life was well nigh passed, weary, and worn out with

worldly trials and sorrows and doubts, to simply ask a woman if she

remembered him?

“I do not know that you remember,” he said at last—but having proceeded

thus far he stopped. “Have you ever heard—” he began again, and then he

broke off suddenly, seemingly forgetful of the question he had meant to

ask. But this hesitation would not do—and the man knew it would

not—and so he started up, and, as though the time was short, and they

the last words he ever intended uttering, he approached the lady,

exclaiming,

“Grace Germain, don’t you remember a boy who went to school here long

ago, in the old frame school-house, whose name was Hugh Willson?”

“Yes—yes—I do indeed! How could I have been so stupid! Hugh, I welcome

you back with all my heart,” was the frank and generous answer, and

Grace and the _boy_-lover shook hands heartily.

The Rubicon was fairly passed; he was remembered, he was welcome! and in

his gratitude Hugh forgot to wonder if Grace had a husband living still,

and if he had gone off on a journey! He forgot all, save that the child

had grown to be a woman he could both love and honor—and for a moment

so complete was his happiness, that the words would not have been an

empty sound from his lips, “Lord, now let thy servant depart in peace!”

And what thought Grace as she looked upon the face of which but one

feature, the dark and thoughtful eyes, seemed familiar? _She_ thought,

“Does he remember the letter he wrote me from Arabia—and was it truth

he wrote?”

The Sabbath bell rung vainly in the ears of the long parted boy and girl

that afternoon, but at night-fall the wife of Clarence Lovering led the

way to the old burial-ground, and showed Hugh Willson the graves of her

parents and of her husband. And he on whose arm she leaned then, felt no

pang of jealousy when her lip faltered and her eyes wet, as she spoke of

the bridegroom of her youth—for Grace had not listened coldly or

carelessly to her companion as he had spoken to her such words as

these—

“Grace, we are neither of us young any longer. I have grown gray in my

hard struggle with life—but there is nothing gray or dead about our

hearts. I know that by the strong and joyous beating of my own, I know

it by the heavenly peace that marks your life, surrounding you as it

were with a very halo of glory. But the passionate glow of feeling is, I

am equally confident, with neither of us any more. The noise of the

bounding brooks has gone—like the quiet, deep flow of the river is the

course of our existence now. The waves leap not so brightly in the

sunlight, but still the broad beams of the sun fall down as warmly and

as cheerily upon us. And is it too late, because I am old, for me to

find a realization of that dream which has haunted me so long? I have

been wild and fickle in the eyes of men; perhaps my way of life, could

you know it all, has not been such as you would look approvingly upon;

but, in the midst of all worldly excitements, I have always borne a

talisman in my heart that has preserved me honorable and true—the

thought of you, Grace! I have come here, not expecting to find the

little girl I left, neither altogether a woman who has known nothing of

sorrow and care; I have come to pray that I may, even at this late hour,

become your husband, your life-companion. My prayer is fraught with no

ordinary hope—it is not the bewildering dream of youth I am now

indulging—it is the highest, strongest, noblest desire of my manhood!

Have I sought in vain, or must I go forth once more a wanderer, and

friendless, with another and dearer image than has heretofore been

impressed on my life, the image of the matchless woman I have lost—or

rather cannot win?”

And Grace had listened to his words with tears of gratitude; she had

given him her hand, and nobly said,

“You have not sought in vain, dear Hugh. I thank God that you are here,

and if you again become a wanderer, a pilgrim, ready to give up all but

you in this life, will tread beside you! Henceforth, there are no

mountains, nor deserts, nor oceans that can divide us—the lengthening

shades of years falling around us are grateful and pleasant—the quiet

paths of life we will pursue together. Thank God that you are here!”

Grace Lovering was not, it is true, a very youthful bride when she was

made Hugh Willson’s wife, but had she been more beautiful than “Grace

Greenwood’s” most exquisite dream of womanly loveliness, she had not

proved more lovable to the wanderer, who, when the shadows of years were

folding round him, found in her a friend, and a wife, and a worshiped

ideal!

There were some who laughed, to be sure—there are always some that

laugh and poh! at romances in real life—and some there were who said it

was all fal de ral, the idea of a man and woman of _such_ an age

marrying for _love_. I only wish in its marvelous “progress” the world

had not journeyed up to that icy peak whence all human love, and love

matches among humans, is to be regarded as the folly of fools, and the

madness of delusion!

Let the miserable woman now reading this page, who in her girlhood

wedded wealth—or the wretched man who in his youth was led captive by

the deceitful smiles of beauty—let these, if there be any such—and I

know very well there are multitudes—look for once within the peaceful

cottage where our hero and the dear heroine live, and if they do not

speedily begin to think with amaze on their own paltry lives, and wonder

when their romance is to begin, then—why then—I will not strive any

more to teach the people!

Look you, reader, and more especially if you be young and beautiful, do

not sell your birthright for a tasteless mess of pottage—ah, in that

case you may as well begin to look for a tragedy, and a fearful kind of

denouement, instead of a romance and a pleasant closing of the scene!

And furthermore the Wayside Voice saith not.

* * * * *

THE PILGRIM’S FAST.[1]

BY MRS. MARY G. HORSFORD.

’Twas early morn, the low night-wind

Had fled the sun’s fierce ray,

And sluggishly the leaden waves

Rolled over Plymouth bay.

No mist was on the mountain-top,

No dew-drop in the vale,

The thirsting summer-flowers had died,

Unknelled by autumn’s wale.

The giant woods with yellow leaves

The blighted turf had paved,

And o’er the brown and arid fields

No golden harvest waved.

And calm and blue the cloudless sky

Arched over earth and sea,

As in their humble house of prayer

The Pilgrims bowed the knee.

The gray-haired ministers of God

In supplication bent,

And artless words from childhood’s lips

Sought the Omnipotent.

And many a brave and manly heart,

And woman’s gentle eye,

Inured by discipline to wo,

Were raised in suppliance high.

No wild bird’s joyous song was heard,

No sound from shore or height,

With mute but mighty eloquence

Had Nature joined that rite:

The drooping corn and withering grass

Upon the hot earth lay:

The lofty forest-trees had stooped

Their aged heads to pray.

The sultry noontide came and went

With steady, fervid glare;

“Oh! God, our God, be merciful,”

Was still the Pilgrims’ prayer.

They prayed, as erst Elijah prayed

Before the sons of Baal,

When on the waiting sacrifice

He called the fiery hail.

They prayed, as prayed the prophet seer

On Carmel’s summit high,

When the little cloud rose from the sea

And blackened all the sky.

And when around the spireless church

Night’s length’ning shadows fell,

The customary song went up

With clear and rapturous swell:

And as each heart was thrilling to

That simple chant sublime,

The rude, brown rafters of the roof

Woke to a joyous chime.

The rain! the rain! the blessed rain!

It came like Hemnon’s dew,

And watered every field and wood,

And kissed the surges blue.

Oh! when that Pilgrim band came forth

And pressed the humid sod,

Shone not each face as Moses’ shone

When “face to face” with God?

-----

[1] For the narrative of the historical fact related in this poem, the

reader is referred to “Cheever’s Journal of the Pilgrims.”

* * * * *

TO MY MOTHER IN HEAVEN.

BY THOMAS FIZGERALD, EDITOR CITY ITEM.

Dear mother, in the silent hours of night,

When stars around me shed their chastened light,

I think of thee, and mourn thou art not here,

With smile to bless, and kindly word to cheer.

Ah, mother, life is but a thorny way;

When longest, ’tis at best a little day;

A gleam of sunshine, and anon a cloud,

The bridal robe, soon followed by the shroud.

Dear mother, sadness fills my sleepless eye,

And tears fast follow the unconscious sigh,

But still the heart, o’erwhelmed with heavy grief,

In thought of thee, dear mother, finds relief.

Dear mother, be thou still the watchful guide,

In honor’s path, of him who was thy pride;

So shall my feet, from snares of error free,

Tread only paths of truth, toward Heaven and thee.

* * * * *

THE DREAM OF MEHEMET.

AN APOLOGUE.

BY RICHARD PENN SMITH.

Thus spoke the gray-haired dervise. Selim was left to my care; his dying

parents bequeathed him an ample fortune, and their example of virtue and

affection. Such was his inheritance.

He was a dreamy boy, in whose soul the opposite passions reveled. Gentle

as the dove, yet, under aggression, fierce as the tiger. He loved as

angels love; hated as fiends hate. Framed as delicately as the gazelle,

yet every sinew was endowed with the tenacity of steel. At the age of

manhood, I, his old preceptor, bowed to the superior endowments of my

pupil, but knew not the fountain of his knowledge.

I have said he was a dreamy boy, yet he had made the broad pages of

nature his book of knowledge, even while dreaming. The fertile earth

presented her abundant lap overflowing with fruit to delight his palate;

the flowers peered in his face with their variegated eyes, and sent

forth their incense, even while he trod upon them. The cadence of the

waterfall, the low twittering of the wearied bird as it flitted to its

fledglings in the nest, and the murmuring of the passing breeze as it

struggled through the grove, were to him a lullaby that charmed to sleep

as the angels sleep. Nature was his mother, and she nursed him with

play-things as her child.

I have seen him by the small streams composing songs to the music that

the dimpled waters babbled, until his rosy cheeks dimpled and laughed in

concert with the rippling brook, as if it were a thing of life,

rejoicing in its existence, as his own pure heart rejoiced. They laughed

and babbled together.

On the wood-clad mountains, at midnight, when the elements battled, I

have seen him straining his feeble voice to sound the master-key that

attunes to universal harmony; and having caught it, he would spring like

the antelope to a lofty waterfall to discover the same note there; and

then turn up his bright face to the stars that smiled upon him, and

laugh, expecting to hear them respond to his note as they revolved on

their eternal axes. His dark eyes smiled, and the conscious stars smiled

back in the heaven of his dark eyes, which danced with delight in the

diamond rays of the stars.

Flowers were books to him, and from every leaf he read wisdom fragrant

with truth. He cultivated them as a father would his last child. The

little birds were his companions, and every morning he joined their

concert until the tiny minstrels seemed to imagine that he was the

leader of their orchestra. All nature was to him one mighty minister,

bestowing all, while he asked from nature no more than the blessed

privilege of imitating her, by bestowing on his fellow man all in

return. He had a dog, whose former owner had thrown into a stream to

drown as worthless. Selim swam and saved the ill-looking cur, who

followed him ever after until it appeared that instinct trod close upon

the heel of reason. Selim in his turn, while bathing, became exhausted,

and sinking beneath the stream, the dog plunged in and saved his dying

master. Was this instinct or reason? It matters not, but Selim perceived

that the Prophet had made his humanity toward a friendless dog the means

of prolonging his own existence here. Despise not little things, cried

Mehemet, for the smallest is of magnitude in the sight of the Prophet. A

straw may break the back of the overburthened; one word may consign a

man to poverty or prosperity, one deed to hell or heaven.

Selim’s wants were few, his fortune ample, which he bestowed upon the

deserving with as liberal a hand as it had been bestowed upon himself.

Still he labored in the pursuit he had adopted, not for

self-aggrandizement, but to assist others; and he knew not why man

should be a sluggard while all nature is incessantly at work. The bee

and ant work in their season—and even the spider too.

His garden blossomed as Eden, and the flowers offered up their grateful

incense even as they faded and died upon the universal altar of Nature’s

God. His aviary from morn until night was vocal, and when the flaming

chariot of the bright eye of day was whirled by fiery-footed steeds over

the eastern hills, I have seen him with his flute, surrounded by

nature’s tiny choristers pouring forth their matins until some note in

the universal harmony touched the heart of his poor shaggy cur who

sported around and tried to bark in unison. Then Selim laughed outright,

and the birds stopped their hymns, and seemed to laugh with Selim, and

the poor dog slunk away abashed, and slyly laughed at his miserable

failure.

He married the dark-eyed Biribi. Selim was a poet; his soul reveled

alike in tempest or sunshine, and his voice was as musical as the wings

of the bee when he distills honey. He possessed the sweets of the bee,

and his sting also. Biribi was abjectly poor, but in Selim’s eyes as

full of truth and as beautiful as the houries. He exclaimed, I will

raise poverty above oppression, and place virtue where all her handmaids

may minister to her enjoyment. Alas! it was but a young poet’s

dream—and such dreams are too frequently disturbed by palpable agony.

Thus spoke Mehemet.

He had a friend who was his fellow-student while under my charge. Selim

loved him as a brother, and when he married he requested Zadak to dwell

with him. Neither house, garden, nor fields could be more beautiful,

while his flocks and herds were nature’s ornaments. Such was Selim’s

Eden.

Zadak borrowed a portion of his fortune, which he squandered; but the

poor boy simply replied, “no matter, we require but little, and enough

still remains to make us happy. Thank the Prophet for that which we

still possess, and repine not for that which we have lost. We can labor

with our fellow-men.”

Biribi became estranged from the pure being who fancied he had made in

her bosom a nest for his dove-like heart to sing in. He awoke from a

dream of repose to battle with the tempest. Zadak had betrayed him, and

the gentle spirit of my boy was crushed between the sledge and the

anvil; but the eternal fire that burnt within him, burst forth in one

mighty blaze as the sledge fell; and even the sledge and the anvil

rejoiced at the fire they had elicited from his heart’s blood.

What was to be done? The question was soon settled. The dove had winged

its way to heaven, but left the tiger on earth to punish the injuries

done to the dove. Selim slew Zadak, and then walked to the tribunal to

receive his sentence, knowing that an act that was approved by the

immutable principle of eternal justice in heaven, would be pronounced a

damning crime by drones who are fed to dole out punishment for breaking

the conventional rules by which fools and knaves are linked together on

earth. He confessed all before man as he had already confessed before

God. Ignominious death was his sentence in the eye of his

fellow-creature; but God changed his sentence to that of eternal life;

he died of a broken-heart, and escaped man’s justice, tempered with

degradation, and flew to the limpid and overflowing fountain—the bosom

of his Creator for justice—knowing it to be a principle of eternity,

and not of time.

I buried him beneath a cluster of trees, where he had pursued his

studies. He had no mourners except myself and his dog. The grave of the

rich man is seldom bedewed by the tears of his heirs; while the poor

hard-working man may have many sincere mourners, provided they depended

upon his daily labor for their bread. It was spring-time; I planted

flowers from his garden over his grave, and placed his aviary among the

trees. The birds sang and the flowers smiled as if he were still with

them. One morning I missed his dog, and searched for him until the

impulse of nature guided my footsteps to the boy’s grave. The dog was

there, pillowed on a cluster of fragrant flowers—dying; big tears stood

in his leadened eyes, while the little birds from the blooming trees,

warbled his requiem. They knew the dog, and he knew the birds even while

dying. The flowers were bedewed with his tears, and I buried him beside

his master, beneath the flowers.

Autumn came; the little birds had taken wing; the grove was no longer

vocal; the flowers had faded, and their fragrance had passed away. Well,

I exclaimed, the rosy-fingered spring will return, leading the birds

back to warble as usual, and the flowers will revive with their former

fragrance and beauty? “And is my boy dead?” my soul shrieked. “No!”

replied a voice, kindly, and it seemed to me as if the lips were smiling

as the judgment passed the lips, “the boy is not dead, but sleepeth,

awaiting his spring-time, when the birds will sing, and the flowers

bloom for him again, and bloom for eternity.” Thus spoke the dervise,

and his old frame chuckled with delight, for he was confident of the

fulfillment of the promise.

I reposed by his grave, said Mehemet, and had a vision, which was this.

His grave opened, and he arose more beautiful than when in the bloom of

manhood. There was a bright star just over his heart, and methought it

was composed of the tears his dying dog had shed upon his grave, and I

smiled in my sleep at the fantastic thought. The flowers sent forth

their incense, and myriads of birds, as he ascended from his tomb,

fluttered about him, leading the way, warbling their anthems; the gay

flowers smiled at heaven, as if they were the eyes of the teeming earth,

laughing their gratitude. The features of Selim became more benign as he

ascended; the songs of the birds more seraphic, and the fragrance of the

flowers more refreshing.

Suddenly a cloud of inky darkness covered the face of the earth. Two

ghastly figures emerged from it, with uplifted eyes, that were rayless,

and supplicating hands that trembled with terror. Oh! what must that man

be, exclaimed Mehemet, who trembles before the All-merciful, even while

supplicating mercy! Selim cast a look of compassion upon the guilty

pair, and tried to tear the star from his bosom to throw to them, but

the more he strove, the brighter the star became—it illuminated his

ascending spirit—and finding his efforts fruitless, he raised his

radiant face toward the boundless blue canopy, cheered onward by the

hymns of his little choristers through regions of light, and the teeming

earth smiled as she poured forth her grateful incense, as if jealous

that the disembodied spirit might forget the fragrance of this world

while reveling in the atmosphere of heaven.

I heard a shriek of despair, and turning to the sea of darkness which

was fearfully troubled, I beheld the guilty pair, desperately struggling

in their agony against the angry billows. They struggled in vain. With a

fiendlike shriek they disappeared, and sunk through a rayless abyss of

doom, without even the tear of a dog to bewail their destiny. Selim

soared upward, and still more effulgent became the heavens as he

ascended. There was one mighty strain of seraphic music that filled the

universe; the blue arch opened, from which issued a stream of light

strong enough to restore vision to the rayless eyes of the ancient dead;

then I awoke as I beheld Selim enter the eternal portals.

This, continued the old man, may be but a dream at present, but the time

will come when it must be verified. He then slowly tottered to his cell

to dream out the remnant of his existence.

* * * * *

WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.

BY PROFESSOR FROST.

[Illustration]

THE BLUE-BIRD.

The Blue-Bird is a great favorite with the farmer. Its principal food

being beetles, spiders, grasshoppers, caterpillars, and other insects,

he affords great assistance to the fruit-trees, and vegetables of all

kinds. He is one of the earliest spring visiters, appearing in

Pennsylvania in the latter end of February, and trilling forth his

feeble though pleasing song more than a week before the other early

visiters. The species ranges over a large extent of latitude, being

found in the forty-eighth parallel, and southward to the tropics. They

probably also migrate to the Bermudas and West Indies, and certainly

pass the winter in our Southern States and Mexico. The common belief

that this bird remains dormant during the winter in Pennsylvania,

appears to be ill-founded; since the few who do not migrate, no doubt

seek out some warmer shelter near man than is afforded by the bleakness

of nature.

The early song of the Blue-Bird announces to the farmer the approach of

spring. So gladdening is this to the rustic villager, that he generally

takes every method to accommodate his familiar little companion,

building boxes for him, exposing materials, and imitating his plaintive

whistle as he hops along the furrow of the plough. The affection of the

male bird for his mate is remarkable. “When he first begins his amours,”

says an accurate observer, “it is pleasing to behold his courtship; his

solicitude to please and to secure the favor of his beloved female. He

uses the tenderest expressions, sits close by her, caresses, and sings

to her his most endearing warblings. When seated together, if he espies

an insect delicious to her taste he takes it up, flies with it to her,

spreads his wings over her and puts it in her mouth.” On such occasions,

should a rival stray within the hallowed limits he is treated without

mercy, and the victor returns to warble out his strain of exultation.

The nest of the Blue-Bird is generally made in the hollow of an old

tree, or in the free quarters provided by man. The female lays five or

six eggs, of a pale blue color, and raises two broods in a season. Their

affection for their young is fully equal to that of the male for his

mate, and when the hen is sitting the second time, the former brood is

cherished and reared by the other parent. In the fall, when insect food

becomes scarce, they eat berries, seeds, persimmons and other fruit.

Their song is a soft and agreeable warble, uttered with open quivering

wings. “In his motions and general character,” says Wilson, “he has

great resemblance to the Robin Redbreast of Britain; and had he the

brown olive of that bird, instead of his own blue, could scarcely be

distinguished from him. Like him he is known to almost every child; and

shows as much confidence in man, by associating with him in summer, as

the other by his familiarity in winter. He is also of a mild and

peaceful disposition, seldom fighting or quarreling with other birds.

His society is courted by the inhabitants of the country, and few

farmers neglect to provide for him in some suitable place a snug little

summer-house, ready fitted and rent free. For this he more than

sufficiently repays them by the cheerfulness of his song, and the

multitude of injurious insects which he daily destroys. Toward fall,

that is in the month of October, his song changes to a single plaintive

note, as he passes over the yellow many-colored woods; and its

melancholy air recalls to our minds the approaching decay of the face of

nature. Even after the trees are stripped of their leaves, he still

lingers over his native fields, as if loath to leave them.”

The Blue-Bird is nearly seven inches in length, with the wings

remarkably full and broad. The upper part of the body, neck and head are

sky-blue, inclining to purple. The under parts are chestnut, the bill

and legs black, with portions of the same color about the wings, tail

and sides. In the female the colors are less bright. The young are

hardy, strong, and highly teachable. The Blue-Bird is not often

subjected to the confinement of the cage.

[Illustration]

THE GROUND-ROBIN.

This bird is also known as the Towee-finch, the Tshe-wink and Pee-wink,

names derived from its favorite notes. It is found in great numbers in

woods and overgrown meadows, and sometimes along the banks of streams,

and is both familiar and playful. A pair will sometimes roam for a great

distance along a water-course, scratching for insects, worms or seeds,

and encouraging each other by their simple cry of tow-wee, tow-wee. They

sometimes forage along gardens or pea-patches. On such occasions, they

behold the approach of man with but little concern, and fly off only

when in danger of being taken. The species is found in Canada, and

probably farther north among the Rocky Mountains, and southward

throughout the United States. They are, however, more abundant east of

the Alleghanies than to the west. Sometimes, but not often, they pass

the winter in Pennsylvania, but are constantly in the milder States

during that season.

Their manner of building is rather peculiar; the nest being fixed on the

ground, below the surface, and covered with leaves, or the shelter of an

adjoining bush. It is rarely raised above the ground. The materials are

fine bark, leaves, moss, dried grass and down. Sometimes part of the

adjoining herbage is employed. The eggs are four or five in number,

white, with a flesh color tint, and spotted with brown. In New England

they raise but one brood, but in warm States two, the first in June, and

the second during the following month. During this period they artfully

draw the intruder from their charge, by pretending lameness, and feebly

retreating as he pursues.

The Ground-Robin is about eight inches long, and eleven across the

wings. The throat, neck, and whole upper part of the body is black, with

feathers of the same color, interspersed with white, in the wings and

tail. The belly is white, with bay thighs. In the female and young the

black of the male is changed for olive brown, and there is less pure

white in the tail and wings.

* * * * *

THE FORTIETH SONNET OF PETRARCA.

If honest love e’er merited reward,

If worship win the meed of yore it won,

I should be blest, since purer than the sun

The love my sighs and poesy record;

Yet ’tis not so: unwillingly are heard

My vows, and all regardlessly are flung

Her eyes o’er burning lines wherein is sung

Her matchless beauty, and my grief is bared.

But yet I hope that some day she may deign

To hearken to the tribute I have brought

And smile at least return for all my tears.

Still it may be I’ll languish here in vain

Until that dread catastrophe is wrought,

When time shall harvest all its sheaf of years.

* * * * *

[Illustration: CROSS PURPOSES.]

* * * * *

CROSS PURPOSES.

BY KATE.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

It is rather a dangerous experiment, this sporting with the feelings of

a sweetheart, as many a loving swain has found; as Andy Bell and Harry

Lee found, when they indulged in a walk home from church with Lilly

James and Aggy Moore, to the neglect of two sweet sisters, Jane and

Florence May.

Jane and Florence were the real sweethearts. Of the moonlight rambles

they had enjoyed together; of the loving words whispered in the maidens’

ears; of the kisses beneath the shadows of old trees, stolen from half

shrinking lips, we will say nothing. But such things had been. And even

more. Mutual pledges of love had passed. Harry had vowed to Jane that,

as she was the sweetest maiden in all the village, so she was to him the

dearest; and Jane had drooped her eyes, and leaned closer to him, thus

silently responding to the declaration of love; and when he took her

hand, she let it linger in his warm clasp as if he had a right to its

possession. And the same thing, slightly varied according to

temperament, had happened with Andy and Florence. For months, the two

young men were untiring in their attention to the sisters. Invariably,

when the little congregation that worshiped in the village church on

Sundays was dismissed, Andy and Harry were at the door, waiting for the

expectant maidens, whom they as invariably attended home, lingering

always by the way, to make the distance longer. And when the evening

shadows fell in the winter, or the sun sunk low toward the western hills

in the spring and summer time, at the waning of the Sabbath, the young

men were sure to make their appearance at the quiet cottage home of the

happy sisters.

Thus it had been for months, and all the village knew that they were

sweethearts; and it was even said—how the intelligence was gained we

know not—that, at the next Christmas, there would be a double wedding

in Heathdale. Thus it was, when, one bright Sunday morning, as Andy Bell

and Harry Lee were on their way to church, the former, who was in a

gayer humor than usual, said, laughing as he spoke—

“Suppose we plague the girls a little after meeting?”

“How?” asked Harry.

“If you’ll walk home with Aggy Moore, I’ll play the gallant to Lilly

James.”

“Agreed,” was the thoughtless reply.

“And yet,” said Andy, “I wouldn’t give the little finger of Florence for

Lilly’s whole body.”

“Nor would I give Jane’s little finger for a dozen Aggy Moores.”

Even at this early stage of the affair, both parties half repented; but

neither felt like proposing to give up the little frolick agreed upon.

During the service the young lovers found their eyes meeting those of

their sweethearts with accustomed frequency. But neither Andy nor Harry

felt as comfortable as usual. Besides being about to deprive themselves

of a long enjoyed pleasure, both felt misgivings as to the effect of

their temporary desertion and disappointment of the expectant maidens.

At last the benediction was said, and the congregation began moving

toward the door. Andy and Harry were out before the girls.

“Shall we do it?” asked the former.

“Oh, certainly,” replied Harry. And yet this was not said with the best

grace in the world.

“There’s Aggy,” whispered Andy.

“I see,” returned Harry, moving forward, as Aggy stepped from the

church-door. Just behind her was Jane, with her bright, dancing eyes,

and lips just parting in a smile, as she caught sight of her lover. She

moved forward more quickly, but stopped suddenly. Harry had spoken to

Aggy, and was now walking away by her side. Just then Lilly James came

forth, and Andy, crossing before Florence, who appeared at the same

time, bowed to the maiden, and seeming not to see Florence, moved away

from the church-door, smiling and chatting with a free and careless air.

Neither of the young men looked behind to see the effect of all this

upon the two young girls. But, to some extent, they imagined their

feelings, and the picture fancy presented was not the most agreeable to

contemplate.

It required an effort on the part of both Andy and Harry to continue to

play the agreeable to the two young ladies they had substituted thus

temporarily, and in sport, for their sweethearts, long enough to see

them fairly home. They did not meet again until toward evening, and then

each was on his way to seek the cottage-home of the one loved most

dearly of any thing in the wide world.

“I wonder what they will say?” was uttered by Andy, in a doubting tone,

as they moved along.

“Goodness knows! I’m afraid Jane took it hard,” remarked Harry. “I saw

her countenance change as I turned to walk with Aggy.”

“It was a foolish prank, to make the best of it. But we must laugh it

off with them.”

“I rather think we shall be paid back in our own coin,” said Harry.

“Jane, I know, has a little spice about her.”

And Harry was not far wrong. When the two young men arrived at the

cottage, and entered in their usual familiar way, the room where the

maidens sat, they were received in a manner not in the least agreeable

to their feelings. Both Jane and Florence had been deeply hurt by the

conduct of their lovers; and both had indulged freely during the

afternoon in the luxury of tears. The meaning of what had happened, they

couldn’t tell. Had all this appearance of affection been a mere

counterfeit? Were they the victims of a heartless coquetry? Or had Lilly

and Aggy, through some strange influence, won the hearts of their

lovers?

Great was the relief experienced by the troubled sisters when, on the

waning of the Sabbath, they saw their truant swains approaching as

usual. But, with this sense of relief, came a maidenly indignation, and

a determination to resent the wanton slight that had been put upon them.

Clouds were on the faces once so smiling and happy, when the young men

entered, and their presence, so far from dispersing these clouds, only

caused them to grow darker. It was in vain that every effort was made to

remove them; not a sun-ray came to dispel their gloomy shadows.

Explanations were made. The apparent slight was acknowledged as only a

merry jest. However this relieved the oppressed hearts of the maidens,

it did not lighten up their sober faces. Forgiveness and smiles were not

to come so easily.

Andy affected to treat the whole matter lightly, and rather jested with

Florence; but Harry’s sweetheart seemed so deeply grieved and wounded,

that he had little to say after the first few efforts at reconciliation.

Finally, the young men went away, apparently unforgiven; and all

parties, for the next week, were unhappy enough. Sunday came again; and

now the doubt in the minds of the young men was, whether, if they

offered to go home as usual with Jane and Florence, they would be

permitted by the offended maidens to do so. This doubt was, in a

measure, dispelled during the morning service, for more than a dozen

times did Andy catch a stealthy glance from Florence, in which was a

beam of forgiveness; and the same thing happened to Harry as he turned

his eyes frequently upon Jane. At last the service ended; and, as the

young girls passed from the door, their lovers were beside them as

usual. There was no repulse. The maidens were too glad to have them

there once more. But, the feelings of each were sobered. Evening came,

and they met as before. Their intercourse was tender but not joyous as

it had been. And thus it was for weeks ere their hearts lost a sense of

oppression. The reader may be sure that there were no more games at

cross purposes after this. The lovers were cured of all inclination to

indulge further in that species of pastime.

* * * * *

LINES

ON BURNING SOME OLD JOURNALS AND LETTERS.

BY THE LATE WALTER HERRIES, ESQ.

Ay, let them perish—why recall

Dreams of a by-gone day?

Why lift Oblivion’s funeral pall

Only to find decay?

The heart of youth lies buried there,

With all its hopes and fears,

Its burning joys, its wild despair,

Its agonies and tears.

A light has vanished from the earth,

A glory left the sky,

Since first within my soul had birth

Those visions pure and high;

Or is it that mine eye, grown dim,

Hath lost the power to trace

The glory of the Seraphim

Within life’s holy place?

Methinks I stand midway between

The future and the past,

The onward path is dimly seen,

Behind me clouds are cast;

Why should I seek to pierce that gloom

And call the buried host

Of haunting memories from the tomb—

Each one a tortured ghost?

I could not look upon the page,

With eloquence o’erfraught,

Where, ere my head had grown so sage,

My heart its wild will wrought;

I could not—would not—ponder now

O’er my youth’s wayward madness,

Which left no stain on soul or brow,

Yet shrouded life in sadness.

Ay, let them perish!—from the dream

Of Passion’s wasted hour

There comes no retrospective gleam,

No spectre of the flower:

The treasured wealth of Eastern kings

Enriched their burial fire,

And thus my heart’s most precious things

Shall build its funeral pyre.

* * * * *

UNCLE TOM.

BY “SIMON.”

CHAPTER I.

A strange old man was my Uncle Tom. He was my father’s only and elder

brother, and more than all, he was a bachelor; not one of those sour

specimens of humanity who are continually railing at everybody and every

thing—more especially “the sex”—but a hearty, hale, good-natured

gentleman of the old school, straight as a poplar, and his heart had as

many green leaves withal. He was still a boy in feeling, though winter

had begun to spread its snows over his head. He was far from hating

women, though when he talked of them, or thought of them, a look of

sadness would sometimes overspread his countenance; and when he saw some

fairy phantom that had not yet escaped her “teens,” in the full flush of

maiden grace and beauty, old recollections seemed to come over him with

a deep and maddening influence.

No one ever told me the cause of this temporary dejection, and Uncle Tom

seemed unwilling to be questioned concerning it. There needed no

questioning. From our cottage, a smooth-worn path led across the fields

to the village church-yard, which lay at about a quarter of a mile

distant. Passing through a gap in the wall, it wound among the

grass-grown hillocks, and stopped abruptly before a small, gray stone,

which stood in the corner nearest the church, and on which this simple

epitaph was engraved: Mary, æt. 18. This told his whole story; for the

small, gray stone was overgrown with lichens and mosses, and I remember

the solitary pathway when but a child.

Uncle Tom was not rich, but he had enough to satisfy all his wants. He

had always lived with us since my remembrance, and we all had a

mysterious love and veneration for him, which we could but half explain.

His little room on the south-west corner of the house we never entered

without a special invitation; not because we stood in any fear of him,

but because we respected his quiet, half-eccentric manner, and were not

willing to disturb his solitary studies and meditations. We were often

invited there of an evening, for Uncle Tom liked to have young, happy

people around him. He used to say it made him young again, and caused

his silver hairs to hide themselves; and he thought a man should always

have the heart of a child, no matter how much experience and life-labor

had whitened his head.

During our visits to his study, we were at liberty to handle every thing

which came within our reach, and the room was generally in a sweet

confusion when we left it. Yet this did not trouble him, it rather

pleased him the more. In truth he was so good-natured that nothing could

vex him; and I remember one evening when he pulled sister Ruth’s doll

out of his great horn inkstand, where it stood, heels upward, like a

pearl-diver, his only exclamation was, “Just as I used to be—children

all over!”

Directly opposite the great arm-chair, where he usually sat during the

day, hung a picture; yet it was not for us to see. A plain blue curtain

was always drawn over it, which hung as silently, and always in the same

folds, as if it had not been withdrawn for many years. I knew it was the

portrait of a young girl, and very beautiful; for one evening, when,

according to invitation, we were in the study playing the mischief with

every thing that came under our hands, a slight breeze from the west

window fluttered and raised the curtain, and revealed the picture to me

by the dim light of the study-lamp. I, of course, did not know who it

was intended to represent, but it was always connected in my mind with

the solitary path to the church-yard; and I always thought of her as the

Mary of the little gray stone; yet I never spoke of it to any one, not

even sister Ruth. It seemed something sacred, something which I ought

not to know, and that the knowledge thus accidentally acquired ought not

to be divulged by me.

But the pleasantest thing of all was, when Uncle Tom came down into the

kitchen of a winter’s evening, and told one of the beautiful stories

which he could relate so well. Ah! no one could tell stories like Uncle

Tom. He would enter into the subject so earnestly, that we took every

thing for truth, and laughed or cried, as the nature of the case

demanded; and many a time in the midst of a sad passage, my father has

let the fire go out of his pipe before it was half smoked, and I have

seen the tears stream down sister Ruth’s cheek, and heard her sob as if

some great misfortune were hanging over some one of us; and I have known

Uncle Tom’s voice to grow tremulous; and his lip quiver, as if something

in the narrative lay near his heart, but by a powerful effort he would

always master his feelings and go calmly on with his story.

I shall try to report some of these stories at second hand, narrating

carefully as my memory serves, always in Uncle Tom’s words; but they

will be nothing so good as when he, with his low musical voice and

earnest manner, related them to our little family, who, in likening

silence formed a half circle around the huge walnut logs that blazed and

simmered on the kitchen hearth.

It was the last night of December, and the north wind howled around the

chimney, and the icicles clattered on the eaves and dropped against the

casement with a tip-tap, like wayfarers asking admittance. A great fire

of logs was blazing on the hearth, and the half circle was almost

formed. On one side of the fire-place sat father, double-shotting his

black tobacco-pipe. Next him was mother, just turning the heel of a

stocking. Sister Ruth occupied the next chair, and she was very busy

working a wash-woman’s register on the top of a bachelor’s pincushion;

beside her sat the bachelor for whom this piece of domestic goods was

working. He was a cousin, and bore the family name—Charley, we called

him. He and Ruth seemed to enjoy each other’s society very much, and

passed the greater part of their leisure time together. My place was

next to Cousin Charley, and on my left hand the vacant arm-chair was

waiting for Uncle Tom—to complete the family circle.

At length the door opened, and the pleasant old man appeared. He entered

rubbing his hands and smiling most benignantly. Every chair moved about

an inch, as if to make room for him, though each one knew there was room

enough already. Father lighted his pipe, and mother turned the heel;

sister Ruth left off her embroidery in the middle of “shirts,” and

Cousin Charley gave his chair a hitch nearer to her, while I sat quite

still. Even the blazing logs on the fire gave an extra hiss and flare,

as if they, too, were making preparations to listen attentively. Uncle

Tom, with a few pleasant words, and a great many pleasant smiles, took

his accustomed seat and commenced the evening entertainment in these

words:

About five miles from Boston, on one of the great thoroughfares leading

to the city, there used to stand an old-fashioned country-seat. It was

placed somewhat back from the road, and screened from the dust by a

thick-set hawthorn-hedge, which grew as straight and regular as

brick-work. The walks within were laid out with the same regularity and

neatness, and lead with many a labyrinthine turn through the whole

premises. Now it took you by an oval pond, where the bright scales of

gold fish glanced in the sun; now among flower-beds formed into

Catharine-wheels and gothic crosses; then away among groves and

trellises almost impervious to the sun. There were a great many

beautiful things that I shall not attempt to tell you of. Every thing

was beautiful, and proclaimed a wealthy proprietor, even to the silver

plate on the front door, bearing in bold writing-hand, the name, “John

Maynard.” He was rich—John Maynard was a retired merchant. In the full

flush of commercial prosperity, his beloved wife had fallen into the

quiet sleep of death. After that, business grew irksome to him; he could

not bear the busy hum of the city; the home where he had been happy, was

so no more to him; and taking with him his oldest and most trusty clerk,

he, with his only child, Alice, removed to this quiet spot. The care of

his property was left almost entirely to his tried and honest clerk,

David Deans; his own time was occupied either in his study or in the

society of his daughter, who, being an only child, was, of course,

indulged in all her little whims and fancies, until she had assumed the

reins of government, and was nearly spoiled.

One evening Mr. Maynard, or Old John, as he was familiarly called, sat

on the western piazza as the sun was setting. He looked the hale and

hearty old gentleman, one before whom care and trouble would vanish like

the thin spiral clouds of cigar smoke, which ever and anon he puffed

from between his lips. Yet withal he had a look of determination,

something which said he would have things his own way when he desired

it; and yet he had a way of gaining his ends so pleasantly and adroitly,

that no one knew his intentions until they were accomplished.

Puff, puff, there he sat smoking away and thinking of something very

pleasant, no doubt, for a smile would occasionally play round the

corners of his mouth, and he would rub his hands together with infinite

satisfaction.

Soon a light step was heard in the hall, and his daughter, Alice,

appeared.

Everybody said Alice was a beauty; and so far everybody told the truth.

Her dark hair and dark eyes, and delicate complexion would win many a

heart that had sworn eternal hostility to her sex. And then she was as

full of life as of beauty, and had such winning ways, that nothing could

resist her. She inherited from her father a slight vein of willfulness,

and it was really a pleasure to see them contending together, Old John

in his humorous, quiet way, bringing up irresistible arguments, and she,

dashing them all to pieces by the most illogical processes imaginable;

and he would generally laugh and let her have her own way.

“Papa,” said she, “why did you send David Deans away? I’m sure it was

very cruel of you. He has lived with us so long, and is so quiet and

industrious! I’m sure it will break his heart. And then, besides, his

poor sister will have to go into service again. It is too bad, I

declare—”

“Now don’t, Ally,” said Old John, passing his arm quietly around his

daughter’s waist, and talking in the best humor imaginable, “don’t

trouble yourself about David. What do you know about business? You take

care of the women-servants, and see that we have tea on the table by

seven o’clock exactly, for I expect the new clerk every minute. I’ll

take care of David—”

“I know I shan’t like the new clerk,” said she, pouting.

“Well, who wants you to like him, little minx?” said Old John, at the

same time drawing her closer to him, and giving her a hearty kiss.

“But I shall hate him,” continued she, determined to be obstinate.

“Well, hate him if you will,” replied her father, not in the least

angry; “but I can tell you he is a very lively fellow, and not

accustomed to be hated by the ladies. However, you had better hate him.

You must reserve all your love for Harry Wilson, you know.”

“Oh, that dreadful Harry Wilson,” exclaimed Alice, struggling to throw

off her father’s arm, by which he still held her in close confinement.

“Pray don’t talk of him again.”

“And why not?” said Old John; “he is to be your husband, you know.” And

a smile, half merry, half serious, played over his features as he said

this. “His father and I were old schoolmates, and he would die of grief

if he thought we were not to be brothers after all.”

“His son and I were never old schoolmates, at all events,” exclaimed

Alice, still struggling, but in vain. Old John held her fast, and his

merry face settled into a serious, earnest expression as he added,

“Besides, he once saved my life.”

Alice answered nothing. There was something in the manner in which he

said these words, as well as in the meaning of the words themselves,

which completely subdued her. The tears beamed in her beautiful dark

eyes; she threw her arms round his neck and rested her head on his

shoulder; her long, black locks streamed over his bosom—yet she said

nothing.

Old John drew her closer to him and kissed her tenderly.

“There, Ally, dear,” he said, “we wont talk any more about it now. I

know you will do all you can to make your old father happy.”

Still she said nothing, but clung very close to him.

She was a good girl, was Alice, only a little willful.

A servant entered, announcing Mr. Davis. This was the new clerk.

“Conduct him this way,” said Mr. Maynard. “Come, Ally, don’t let him

surprise us in a family quarrel. We must make his first impressions good

ones.”

Things were put to rights in less time than it takes to tell of it, and

the new clerk approached them.

“Glad to see you, Walter,” exclaimed Old John, grasping the new comer’s

hand, and looking a cordial welcome. “Ally, this is Walter Davis, the

new clerk.”

Notwithstanding her determination to hate him, she smiled very

pleasantly as he took her hand, and her welcome word was said with a

very good grace.

The new clerk was apparently about twenty-two years of age, rather tall,

but well formed; he was dressed in a very plain suit—becoming his

situation; and yet there was something noble about him for all that. You

could see it in the firmly compressed lips, the deep, thoughtful eye,

and the easy, manly bearing. He certainly was not the person one would

choose to hate.

Alice was much surprised at his general personal appearance and

demeanor. Her ideas of a clerk were all formed from the quiet,

unpretending David Deans, who had almost grown old in their service. She

forgot that the new comer was at present a visiter, not yet having

entered upon his clerkship. At the tea-table, too, she observed how

perfectly easy and composed he seemed. He could answer questions without

blushing, and ask others without stammering. There was a

straightforwardness about him, which seemed to win upon her father

wonderfully, and he never seemed in a more pleasant mood than then.

There was something in his manner so dignified and gentlemanly that she,

too, could not help reacting him, although in her good-night to her

father, she added, “I’m sure I shall hate him for taking poor David’s

place.”

“Wait a bit, Brother Tom,” interrupted father—“pipe’s out.”

“Well,” said Uncle Tom, “while Brother Bill is lighting his pipe, we

will glide over two months and make ready for a new chapter.”

CHAPTER II.

Two months had passed away, and affairs went on swimmingly at the

country-seat. Old John seemed to find his new clerk a remarkably

pleasant companion, and passed much of his time in the little

counting-room. He was fast growing into the good graces of Miss Alice

too; for true manliness will always find its way into every heart. She

began to like him very much, and seemed pleased to have him near her;

and indeed would sometimes meet his advances more than half way.

Perhaps, like a dutiful daughter, she followed her father’s example, and

liked the clerk because he did, or perhaps she thought he must be very

lonely, and took compassion on him: How this may be I cannot tell; but I

do know that she liked him, and liked him very well too, as might be

seen by any one who observed her. She often walked in the direction of

the counting-room, which stood at some little distance from the house,

and frequently sat with her embroidery in the trellised arbor that

overlooked it. The flowers, too, which always ornamented her

parlor-mantle, were generally gathered from the beds in this part of the

garden, although they were not half so fragrant or pretty as those which

grew nearer the house. Indeed, she had found it necessary once or twice

to open the counting-room, and actually go in when no one but the young

clerk was there; and at such times he received her with such a frank,

cordial greeting, and talked so pleasantly to her, that she would gladly

have changed her arbor boudoir for this little room, crowded with

business and ponderous ledgers as it was. And once, when the clerk left

her for a moment, she actually climbed upon the long-legged desk-stool,

to see if it were really as uncomfortable as it looked to be; at least

so she said, when he, returning suddenly, surprised her on that high

perch. But he helped her down so gently, and gallantly, that she would

have been willing to try the experiment often, even if it were as

uncomfortable as it looked.

She was always delighted whenever Walter requested the pleasure of her

company through the grounds. She would take his arm without any

unnecessary coquetry, and full of life and love they would thread every

walk of the labyrinth, not excepting the Catharine-wheels and the gothic

arches. In the grove they would listen to the songs of the birds, and

together wonder what they were saying to each other, and invent many

strange translations, interesting to none but themselves. They would

stand long on the edge of the pond, and Alice leaned heavily on the

clerk’s arm, you may be sure, as they watched the gold-fish darting

across the little basin so rapidly that the whole surface of the water

seemed marked with red lines. He gathered flowers for her, too, as they

walked leisurely along, and each bouquet thus formed was, to her, a

whole book of love, each flower telling its own particular tale. As the

sun touched the horizon they would climb up to the arbor, while the

birds sung their “good-night,” and watch the bright colors grow and fade

upon the western sky, and build landscapes and cathedrals and cottages

of the ever-changing clouds.

Yet in his conversations with her, Walter was never sickly sentimental

or flattering. He always spoke just what he felt; and sometimes a plump,

downright honest thought would find itself clothed in words, which many

would call coarse and ill-bred; but from him they came so frankly that

she never thought of such a thing, but liked him the more for them. He

never flattered her, never told her how beautiful she was, but his whole

manner was a tacit acknowledgment of her beauty, truer and plainer than

words could express it. And Alice was as simple, and talked as plainly

to him as if he had been a brother.

O, those evening walks were beautiful to both, but they were laying a

foundation for something deeper and more lasting than common friendship,

notwithstanding Harry Wilson and the two good fathers. Their natures

were gradually blending into each other like two neighboring colors of

the rainbow, and the line between them would soon become extinct, and a

separation must be the destruction of both. It was very strange that Old

John, with his brotherly intentions toward Harry Wilson’s father, didn’t

observe this, for he often surprised them earnestly conversing in the

sunset arbor, long after the dews had begun to fall and the birds had

ceased their evening song.

He must indeed have been very dull and stupid, not to observe that

something was going on between the two young people, that would play the

deuce with his darling project. But no, he didn’t seem to; for he was

never in better spirits than then, never half so talkative or playful.

He evidently did not think his cherished scheme was about to miscarry.

One evening he and the clerk sat on the piazza together. The parlor

windows were open, and Alice sat at the piano and played to them. Old

John began to talk about the business transactions of the day, and

seemed particularly delighted at certain good news which he had heard,

and which he had just finished relating to the clerk.

“Remarkable, isn’t it?” he exclaimed.

But he might as well have talked to the plaster statue of Neptune which

stood on the green before him, as to the young clerk. He was either

listening attentively to the music, or else his thoughts were far away,

for he took no notice of what Old John said to him, but sat silent, his

head leaning upon his hand and his eyes fixed upon vacancy.

“Hey! what’s all this?” exclaimed Old John, starting up and shaking the

clerk’s arm. “What! dreaming by moonlight! A bad sign—very bad

sign—too romantic by half! Here, Ally—Ally! come here directly,” he

continued, shouting to his daughter.

Walter started up and would have prevented him, but he continued to

call, and soon the piano ceased to sound, and Alice made her appearance.

“What do you want, papa?” she asked.

“Here is this fellow,” he answered, “falling asleep in the midst of our

conversation; dreaming by moonlight! I want you to keep him awake.”

“I beg pardon, sir,” said the clerk, attempting an excuse, “but I was

thinking—”

“O, but that wont do,” said Old John, “I was talking. However, I will

tell you how we will make it up. You shall sing that duet with Alice;

the one you sung last night, and mind you don’t go to sleep before it is

finished, or—” and he finished the sentence with a shake of the finger.

“I will undertake it willingly,” said the clerk.

Walter moved his chair closer by the side of Alice, and took his seat.

But there was still a difficulty; neither of them could determine on the

right pitch. Alice ran and struck a note on the piano, and returned

sounding it all the way. She sat down, and her hand involuntarily fell

upon Walter’s; he pressed it in his own, and the duet commenced.

Both the words and the music were very simple; they were the expression

of love, pure and holy; and never did they sing better. Walter’s whole

soul was thrown into the words, and his heart beat to the sounds his

lips uttered. A slight pressure of her hand expressed to Alice how

truly, how deeply he felt the beauty of love, and her voice trembled as

she sung, adding still more to the music.

There was silence for a short time after the sound of their voices had

ceased. It seemed Old John’s turn to dream now. The beautiful music had

called up old, happy scenes to his mind; perhaps the thoughts of his

youth and first-love were leading him far away; for he sat silently,

with his hand drawn across his eyes, as if to shade them from the

moonlight.

Alice approached him, and drew her arm around his neck. He started as if

from a trance, and said—“That was well, very well. I like that music.

There, now, Ally, you and Walter take a walk through the grounds. I’ll

light a cigar, and sit here by myself, and—And dream! hey, Walter!”

Alice left him with a kiss, and taking Walter’s arm they disappeared

round an angle of the building, and walked onward toward their favorite

arbor. Every thing was silent around them; the glowing leaves hanging

motionless upon the trees, and the many-colored flowers, all seemed

listening, as if to some revelation of the night. The fish-pond was one

entire sheet of silver; not a ripple disturbed its peaceful surface; and

the soft moonlight streamed through the chinks of the vines and gothic

trees, and checkered the pathway and the floor of the arbor, as the

sunbeams shining through stained cathedral windows rest on the pavement.

The arbor was their chancel, and there the two lovers stood side by side

as if before an altar; and there Walter told Alice how deeply, how truly

he loved her; how often he had sat alone since they had known each

other, and yet not been lonely, for her image had always been present to

comfort and to counsel him; how he had longed for the time to come when

he could make this confession to her, when he could press her to his

bosom as the dearly beloved one.

Alice did not speak. She was always silent when she felt most deeply;

but her silence was singularly eloquent. She did not attempt to withdraw

the little hand which he held so tightly. She did not try to remove the

arm that encircled her waist. Her head lay upon his bosom, and she wept

for very joy.

Now what had become of Old John’s brotherly scheme? The rainbow hues

were now completely blended.

Soon after the two lovers had turned toward the house, Old John came

stealing cautiously through a neighboring path, where he had been an

accidental, though perhaps not an unwilling listener.

“Good!” he exclaimed in a half whisper, rubbing his hands and smiling

most merrily. “I shall hate him, I am sure,” he added, mimicking Alice.

“Good!” And again he rubbed his hands and smiled with infinite

satisfaction.

CHAPTER III.

The summer had passed away, and autumn was spreading its rich mantle of

yellow leaves over the trees and shrubs of the old country-seat. The

birds were collecting together in troops, for their journey to warmer

lands, and their songs above the arbor were sadder than when we last

listened to them. The golden fruit hung temptingly upon the trees, and

on the smooth surface of the fish-pond floated many a withered leaf. The

year was growing old, and its rich covering of foliage was becoming gray

and falling off, yet in the hearts of Walter and Alice love was as green

and as warm as on the bright summer evening when they made their mutual

confessions.

They had not yet made Old John their confidant; they were waiting for a

convenient season. And he, though he must have known something of their

intercourse, never asked any questions, or seemed at all curious about

the matter, but conducted himself in his usual quiet way. Indeed, he did

occasionally speak of their close communion, but always in a merry,

jesting way, and no one could suspect him of knowing how affairs really

stood with them. At least his knowledge did not make him unhappy, for

the merry twinkle was still in his eye, and the smiles still played

round his mouth. In the little walks and excursions which they took

together, Alice was always assigned to the clerk. Old John said he

preferred to walk alone; then he could swing his cane in any direction

without being scolded, and could climb over a fence, instead of going

half a mile to find a place to crawl through, or a stile, for the

convenience of a lady companion. Walter, as may be supposed, was very

willing to free him from this incumbrance, and did not mind the half

mile walks in search of a stile, as long as Alice was hanging on his

arm. They had a great many things to talk about, which was of no

consequence to any but themselves, and were glad of the opportunity to

remove out of earshot, which this stile hunting afforded.

One morning the clerk appeared equipped for traveling. Business of some

kind or other called him, for a short time, to another part of the

country.

He and Alice were alone in the breakfast-room. He explained to her the

necessity of his departure, and consoled her with the assurance that his

absence would not continue more than a week at the most. He had just

time to place a plain ring on her finger, and steal one tender, silent

kiss from her rosy lips, when Old John entered, announcing the coach at

the door.

In a few minutes he was seated in the vehicle. Good-byes were repealed,

and soon he was rolling away on the dusty road toward the city.

Alice stood at the window and watched until the top of the coach had

disappeared behind an angle of the road, and the last sound of the

rumbling wheels had died away. Then the thought and feelings that had

followed him as far as the senses could guide them, seemed to fall back

upon herself, and she felt oppressed by the silence and utter solitude

that reigned around.

That was a weary day to Alice. This was her first love, and their first

separation. Her father was busy with his affairs and could not attend to

her; so she was thrown entirely upon her own resources, and heavily the

hours dragged along in mournful procession.

Often days had passed and she had not seen Walter but for a few moments,

yet then she knew he was near. And now she sat down and tried to fancy

him sitting quietly at his desk; but it wouldn’t do—she knew better.

She walked down by the counting-room and gathered the flowers as she had

often done before, but they had lost their fragrance, and their colors

seemed faded. The gold-fish stood still in the pond, and she mistook

them at times for the leaves that lay in the water; they too had faded.

She sat in the pleasant arbor, and looked westward over the beautiful

landscape, but a veil seemed drawn before it, and the rich and

variegated hues which, dolphin-like, the forest had assumed while dying,

to her eyes, seemed blended into a dead, cold brown. So true it is that

the sense takes its tone from the soul.

So the day passed and the belated evening came slowly on.

“Do, pray, Ally, put off that sad face,” said Old John to her, as they

sat at the tea-table. “Why you look ten times more woful than the

Italian beggars fresh from an eruption of Vesuvius. Do try to smile a

little.”

She did try to look cheerful, but at first it tasked all her powers, yet

her father’s raillery and merry laugh were not to be resisted, and in a

little while the cloud seemed to have passed entirely away, and she was

as cheerful as ever. Sometimes she would fall back into the silent,

thoughtful mood, yet it was only for a moment, and the evening passed

pleasantly. Then came the affectionate kiss, and the kind good-night.

To Alice it was a good-night, indeed. Good angels watched by her pillow,

and her dreams were beautiful. One time she was walking along the garden

paths, and heard the birds singing sweetly above her head, and saw the

flowers in their most beautiful dress. She drew near the pond, and it

was all alive with gold fish; and the whole surface seemed drawn with

red lines; sometimes they formed charming pictures—trees, gardens and

villages seemed to pass over the water like a moving diorama. All the

people she had ever seen seemed to be moving about there, some doing one

thing, and some another, but all happy. As she looked attentively, the

surface seemed to grow mysteriously calm, and the red lines to

disappear. Then as mysteriously it began to grow troubled, circular

waves forming at the centre, and rolling toward the shore in every

direction. Then suddenly from the middle of the pond, a most beautiful

fairy figure arose and beckoned her near. The fairy gave her a plain,

gold ring, and told her never to part with it; for she said it was the

gift of happiness, and while she wore that upon her finger, heavy

misfortunes should never visit her. Then a loud voice under water seemed

to call the fairy a “little minx,” and bid her come down immediately,

for breakfast was waiting. Then she disappeared, the water became calm,

and Alice awoke.

“Was that a dream?” she asked herself, in amazement. There was the ring

on her finger—the fairy’s gift of happiness; and the voice was still

calling some one to breakfast.

It was a long time before she could collect her scattered senses enough

to realize that she had just waked from a strange dream, and the voice

was that of her father calling her. When the truth did dawn upon her,

she laughed immoderately, and could not help saying repeatedly, that “it

was _very_ funny.”

It was much past her usual hour of rising, when in her simple

morning-dress she appeared at the breakfast-table.

“Why, Ally, dear, I thought you never would come down,” said her father.

“I have been waiting this—I don’t know how long, and called you—I

don’t know how many times. The omelet and coffee are both as cold as

Greenland, I’ll be bound.”

“It isn’t so very late, papa, is it?” inquired Alice; “besides, I have

had such a funny dream—O, it was perfectly delightful.”

“Well, never mind, dear, pour out the coffee before it gets later.”

She poured out the coffee, still thinking of her strange dream. It was

so funny that she could not help thinking of it; but her lips would

never have wreathed that happy smile if she could have known the trial

that awaited her.

“Ally, do you know what day to-morrow will be?” he asked, while his face

wore a very doubtful, half merry, half serious expression. It was

something like the sun trying to break through a fog, for he tried to

look cheerful.

Alice paused a moment as if in thought, then suddenly exclaimed, “I

declare, it is my birthday, and I had almost forgotten it. It was very

good of my dear papa to remind me of such good news, after I had kept

him waiting so long for his breakfast,” she added, playfully.

“But do you know who I expect to-morrow?” he continued.

It was her turn now to look doubtful and perplexed.

“Yes, Ally,” he said, “this afternoon Harry Wilson and my old

schoolmate, his father, will be here. You must save all your good looks

for Harry, for I expect you will fall in love with him at first sight.”

It was really with much pain that Old John made this announcement,

though he spoke it in as cheerful a manner as possible, for he knew the

effect it would have on his daughter. He seemed to make it more from a

sense of duty than pleasure, as it were something which must be told

sooner or later; and more clouds gathered about his honest face than had

been seen there since the death of his wife, when he saw the effect it

had upon Alice. The cheerful smiles vanished from her face; the color

came and went, and came and went, and at length left her deadly pale.

Her hand trembled and her voice quivered, as she attempted in vain to

make some cheerful remark.

“At least you will try to like him, for my sake, wont you, Ally, dear?”

said her father.

She uttered a faint “yes”—so faint that it might have been “no,” for

all Old John heard; and pleading some excuse, left the room.

“Bad business, this,” said her father, after he was left alone, and

talking as if to some invisible friend. “Bad business!” and whistling a

doleful strain of a doleful tune, he also left the room.

And Alice, poor Alice, she felt lonely enough as she sat alone in her

little room. Thoughts of the dream that had made her so cheerful but a

short time before, now pressed like an incubus upon her breast. She knew

how much her father was attached to his old schoolmate, Mr. Wilson, and

how much he desired the union of their two families. It had long been

talked of, but always as something which was about to happen at some

distant, indefinite time; and though many years had passed since they

first began to talk of it, it still seemed as indefinite and far from

accomplishment as ever; and she never thought to trouble herself about

it; but now the event seemed to spring up like a phantom directly before

her; and so sudden had been the announcement that she knew not what to

do.

And now the hours seemed to glide by as if they were double-winged. The

old entry clock seemed to her as she sat in her silent chamber, to tick

faster and faster until at last it broke into an actual gallop. If _he_

were only here, she thought, as her eye fell upon the ring which the

clerk had placed on her finger. And more than once she determined to go

down to her father and confess all; then she thought of the old

schoolmate that had saved his life, and her courage failed her.

She started as the clock told eleven.

It was past noon, and Old John was waiting anxiously for her appearance

in the drawing-room; and his heart beat with strange emotions as he

heard her light footfall on the stairs.

She was very pale when she entered the room, and the traces of recent

tears were in her eyes. Yet she had never looked more beautiful, never

more lovely. She was dressed in simple white, and a single white rose

was braided in her dark hair. Old John could not see her thus dejected

without being moved, and the dark cloud spread over his countenance. She

saw it, and assuming a cheerfulness which she did not feel, drew her arm

around his neck, and kissed him affectionately.

“There, Ally, dear,” he said, “don’t be cast down. It will all come

right in the end. I say it shall. Do sit down to the piano and sing a

cheerful song. Yes, sing the one that Walter liked so well.”

It was like asking the Israelites to sing songs of their home, while

captives in Babylon; yet she did sing, though her voice trembled so much

that it was with difficulty she finished the song.

“Don’t take it so much to heart, dear,” said Old John. “I say, if you

don’t like him, he shan’t have you.”

They were interrupted by the sound of wheels rolling up the avenue. How

her little heart beat and fluttered then. A carriage stopped before the

door. Old John’s eye glistened with delight, as if relief had come at

length. A step was heard in the passage. The door opened, and there

stood—Walter.

Alice started to her feet, and stood gazing vacantly at him, uncertain

what to do.

“Wont you speak to Harry Wilson?” shouted Old John, at the top of his

voice, and giving a hysterical kind of laugh.

Then the truth flashed upon her. With a cry of joy she rushed into his

arms, and nestling her head in his bosom, wept like a child—but they

were tears of joy. Her overstrained feelings found a happy relief. The

dark cloud of sorrow passed away and the sun shone in all its glory.

Old John capered round the room like a madman, and declared he had never

seen any thing half so pleasant in all his life.

“But it was very cruel of you, dear papa,” said Alice, kissing him

tenderly, after the first effusions of joy were over.

“I know it was, Ally, dear,” exclaimed Old John, willing to be blamed

for any thing now. “I know it was. But you are such a willful little

thing that I was afraid you wouldn’t like him, and I had set my heart

upon it. I have been tempted more than twenty times to confess the whole

and ask your forgiveness, when I saw you look so miserable. Yes, Ally, I

came very near spoiling the whole this morning at breakfast. But never

mind, it’s all right now; confess, isn’t it?”

Yes, indeed, it was all right! And Alice, in her silent, eloquent way,

soon convinced him that she thought so.

Again the door opened, and Harry Wilson senior entered. He knew the

whole affair, and had only waited on the outside until the first scene

should be over.

Cordial was the greeting between the old schoolmates. Smiles,

congratulations, and merry words passed freely; every eye glistened with

joy, and all went merry as a marriage bell.

“Shall I enter that note at five or six per cents.?” asked some one at

the side-door. There stood David Deans, with a pen behind his ear and

another in his hand—his usual way of ornamenting himself—and looking

as blank and cool as if nothing had happened.

“Don’t enter it with any per cent., you old miser!” said Old John,

patting him familiarly on the back. “We don’t charge interest this

year.”

David walked off with a broad grin operating powerfully upon his

countenance.

He understood the trick, did David.

There was a sweet dream under each pillow that night; and the birth-day

on which Alice thought to be miserable, was the happiest of her life.

“Bless me, Brother Bill!” exclaimed Uncle Tom, “if you aint smoking

nothing but dust and ashes.”

“I declare, I believe you are right,” answered my father, somewhat

confused, and making a careful examination of his pipe.

“Good-nights!” were passed, and we all went to bed with happy hearts.

* * * * *

[Illustration: Painted by Brockdon Engraved by F. Humphreys

NATURE’S TRIUMPH.

Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine]

* * * * *

EDITOR’S TABLE.

NATURE’S TRIUMPH.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

Great men were they of olden time; men with far-reaching and strong,

grasping minds—men, too, of discrimination in what they

gathered—“teach them selection, not collection,” was the word—and they

prepared for us of this distant age monuments to excite admiration and

insure awe; monuments which, while they exhibit what man is capable of

doing, seem, by the perfection of their form and the adaptation of their

parts, to check all spirit of imitation; monuments which denote all

variety of mental exercise and all the adaptation of physical powers. It

is not alone the chisel of Phidias working out the marble in a thousand

forms, more beautiful than the human pattern—it is not alone the pencil

of Zeuxis that fixed on canvas the flitting beauties of the field and

grove—it is not alone the vast machinery that piled stone upon stone to

finish the pyramids. Mind speaking to mind has uttered its powers, and

has claimed of the present, wonder for the past; History and Poetry have

embalmed the actions of the great, or expressed the devotion of the

good, and assured us of the lofty resolves and great deeds of men of

other years. The beauty of the ancient mind, however, is to be detected

by the uses and adaptation of ordinary incidents—bending them to moral

instruction by making them illustrative of some principle—patriotism,

religion, social duty and domestic relations, or some deeply hidden

power, which sudden emotion, strong impulse, or unexpected dilemma, is

to call into action.

Take the following, which is some where extant. We give only the

statement of the asserted fact. We have no copy of the narrative.

Leucippe was gathering the small delicate flowers which blossomed over

the dampness of a rock that beetled far into the sea, and held its cold

brow high above the waves breaking eternally at its base. It was a

lovely spot, cool, fragrant, health-giving, and she took with her her

little child, the only blessing which had been spared. For one moment

the love of the beautiful of nature, the interest of collecting,

triumphed over maternal vigilance. She turned, however, from the little

harvest of sweets, and saw her boy bending over the edge of the rock,

regardless of all danger, hopeful of only a single beautiful flower that

blossomed on the very edge of the steep. One word of fear from the

mother, one sudden movement toward the child would have disturbed his

balance, and he must have toppled down beyond all hope of recovery even

of the lifeless form. No time was left for calculation, no good could

result from active efforts. With unspeakable anguish the mother saw the

danger, with the promptness of woman’s judgment she rejected the

ordinary means of safety; with the instincts of a mother’s heart she

threw herself gently forward, and bared her bosom to the child, and

lured him gently back to nestle on his own home of comfort, and draw

life from the sympathetic founts that gushed to his honeyed lips. It was

the triumph of nature, and the story seems to have inspired the artist

for this month. A beautiful illustration, while the picture itself has

suggested a title happily expressive of the idea conveyed in the

anecdote, “Nature’s Triumph.”

But such a story, so full of instruction, so pregnant with moral hints,

should not be allowed to pass without an improvement, that may make it

more and more beneficial. The experiment and the result may be properly

styled the triumph of nature, for the deep solicitude of the mother, and

especially her prompt expedient, are as much the movement of nature as

is the affection in which they originated; and the attraction of the

exposed bosom for the exposed child, was as much the gift of nature as

was the hidden food which that bosom secreted and stored.

But we love to consider the success of Leucippe as the “Triumph of

_Affection_,” not less than the “Triumph of Nature.” It is _both_, as it

is differently considered; it is either, in many ways regarded.

Would the child, amused as it was with the flowers that jutted out from

the rock’s impending edge, and pleased with the species of independence

which its movements and new position signified, would the child have

been lured by the exhibition of any other bosom than that of its mother?

Had a stranger discovered the little adventurer, and being like

Leucippe, conscious of the danger of calling aloud, of startling the

child by any approach, had she bared her bosom, would not the infant

have turned away without interest from the exhibition, and pursued its

new occupation of flower gathering? Undoubtedly the unknown, who had

from _prudence_ done what _affection_ suggested to Leucippe, would have

seen at once that she lacked the attractive power, that there was no

sympathy between her and the child. She might have felt all that a woman

can feel for the lovely infant of another—thus dangerously

situated—but the infant itself would not have been influenced by a

corresponding sympathy; it would have lacked that affection necessary to

a proper response to the exhibition.

The triumph, then, is one of affection sympathizing with affection;

corresponding love answering with miraculous organ, and instructing the

great and good of all subsequent times by the promptings of a mother’s

instincts, and the sympathies of an infant’s feelings. “Out of the

mouths of babes and sucklings.”

I was struck a few months since with the distress that was bearing down

an intimate friend, and he made me the confidant of his sorrows, and of

their cause. The young offender had forgotten the respect due to his

parents; he had forgotten or disregarded the _respect_ which he owed to

the beautiful fame which had come down to him unsullied through several

generations; family pride, instead of exhibiting itself in supporting

the long-descended credit, was visible in a sort of obstinate adherence

to some misconceived ideas of _self_-importance; he was ruining his own

health, and was fast approaching the precipice over which his passions,

or rather let me say, his _passion_, would soon hurry him. His father

had, at times, severely chid the wayward youth, and the mother had, day

by day, warned him of his danger, so that he had by his false estimate

of filial duties and parental care, rather been accelerated in his

progress toward the line of destruction. A change was suggested in the

mode of dealing—his own danger was not pointed out, but his attention

was attracted back upon those whom he had loved—and had left; he saw

whence he had derived all that delight to childhood, and he turned back

to the fountain of affection which had gushed anew; and the birds of

prey that had been hovering round the precipice where he hung were

disappointed of their quarry. Those, who had wheeled around him with

pliant wing and open beak, hopeful of spoil, screamed their

disappointment in their filthy eyrie, and confessed their defeat in the

triumph of nature and affection.

I know well that the voice of kindness, uttered to the erring, is often

disregarded or despised, but less owing to the want of power in the

instrument, than in the want of preparation in the object. So much of

anger is manifested toward the vicious, that they grow suspicious of

every exhibition of feeling in their behalf. You who would lure them

back to virtue, must not pause at a single token of kind feeling; repeat

the words of consolation; remember that the very fault which you would

correct may have brought a part of the obstinacy which you

deplore—remove the obstinacy by kindness, and thus open a channel to

the source of the fault. He who would reclaim the vicious must lay his

account to find the moral system reached in almost all its parts by

those faults which by their prominency seem to be the only ones that

appeal for remedy; and the failure of one measure must invite to

another; if one experiment lacks effect, strengthen it by another; do

not work with single means—it is false economy. Leucippe bared both

breasts to her wandering infant.

Conjugal affection disturbed by some occurrences which are unbecoming,

and yet seem unavoidable, is not to be lessened by argument to prove

either party right or wrong. These will, much more readily, create

acerbity by wounding pride, than restore the lapsed passion. Affection

has little to do with the logic of an argument—little to derive from

the temper of discussion. When the evil is evident; when the disturbance

is most oppressive, let not the parties imagine that any thing like cool

reflection is to be had, or is to be made available; let the woman look

back beyond the season of disquietude; let her bare her affections as

they were when all was sunshine in the domestic circle; let her appeal

to the undisturbed peace of such a scene, and by her conduct show her

erring husband that it is possible to make the recollection of early

delight stronger than the memory of present bitterness. Men learn this

lesson easily, and practice it willingly. They need a teacher—they need

precept and example; but they are willing to follow the leadings, and

exhibit and rejoice in the triumph of affection. It is so, apparently in

the great things of religion. Awful as are the dangers of neglect, it

would seem that the terrors of the law are less operative than the

persuasions of love. Notwithstanding the momentous question propounded,

and the alternative made manifest, it would seem to an ordinary thinker,

that the best mode of preventing a course that would incur the terrible

penalty, would be to present the consequences of neglect, and to drive

by terrible denunciations the erring one from the path that leads down

to death. But not so argues the inspired Apostle. “Knowing therefore the

terrors of the law,” (how appalling that thought,) “we _persuade_ men,”

(how gentle, how enticing, how successful in such a cause becomes “the

triumph of affection.”)

Whenever a triumph is to be achieved over evil passions or vicious

habits, then the appeal to the affections by the affections must be the

means employed. We may check action or delay execution by fear, but we

produce no change in the sentiment, no correction of the motive. We may

prevent the offending one from injuring others, but we do not by such

means lessen his power or his chance of injuring himself.

Oh, how much of destruction, how much of the waste of human feelings,

human pride, and glorious self-respect are due to the want of care in

attempts to draw offenders from the place of moral danger. Go to the

home of wretchedness and vice, and see how promptly the heart responds

to the voice of kindness, how one touch of nature awakens the memory of

early love, and recalls the hour of peace and virtue, until the heart

aches to contemplate the chasm that vice has placed between the future

and the terrible present.

Sneer at her who, unable yet to appreciate the consequences of error,

treads the path of danger or dallies on the borders to gather flowers

that blossom near destruction. Sneer at her and she falls; call her back

by the remembrance of home and home joys, by the love of father and

friend; recall to her mind the unfailing affection of a mother, and she

will turn willingly from her false position, be saved the crime, and

only know what the consequences might have been, by marking the fate of

those who had none to lure them back.

Our picture it is believed will be suggestive beyond our remarks. It

deserves a careful examination; may we not hope that hundreds who gaze

at the work of art will take up the moral lesson which it conveys, and

resolve that vice shall owe no triumph to their unkindness, and that

virtue shall not lose its followers for a want of the evidences of

affection in their lives and conduct. It is lessons such as these that

make art useful. It is lessons such as these that make the pagans

respected—it is the “triumph of nature” over art, and the prevalence of

affection over error, that make Christianity beloved. We are happy to

make this Magazine the vehicle of moral truth, that takes the best of

ancient sentiment and of modern art for its means, and has for its end

the cultivation and triumph of purest affection.

C.

THE RAINY DAY.

Odd as it may seem, the condition of the atmosphere has a powerful

influence on the animal spirits. It is the mercury in the thermometer of

mind, indicating its buoyancy or depression. Who that is an observer of

human nature under its various peculiarities, has not been forcibly

struck with the vast difference in any one intimate friend, both as to

mental activity and sprightliness, on a beautiful, bright, balmy May

morning, and on a cold, cheerless, comfortless, cloudy, rainy day in the

same “moon”? The whole man is changed—disposition, manner, mind and

temperament have undergone some radical metamorphosis. The very mode of

thought, the sentiments, the opinions even, are inverted. He who was

amiable, instructive, communicative, and lively, is suddenly, by the

veering of the wind, changed into a sullen, sombre, morose cynic,

restless, moody and taciturn. Conversation is abandoned for long sighs,

deep respiration, involuntary growls and lugubrious interjections. The

agreeable companion of a clear atmosphere is the thus altered being on

_a Rainy Day_, and the influence that has wrought a change so inimical

to individual and domestic economy, is that of the atmosphere. To

account for the cause is more the province of a scientific pen. Whether

electricity be most positive or negative in certain conditions of the

barometer, is a subject for professors of the various “’isms” and

“’icities” of the day. The effect is too apparent to doubt the existence

of a cause, and the cause too involved in mystery, to invite discovery

by one unlearned in the theories of Royal “Societies” or Republican

“Schools.” “The Atmosphere: _Its Ingredients and Influences_,” by John

Smith, Fellow of the Royal Society: London 8vo. “Electricity: _Its

Cause, Combinations and Effects_,” by Charles Jones, M. D., Professor of

Natural Science in the Kainbridge University—New York: Harper &

Brothers. “Animal Magnetism Investigated,” by Edward Brown, Member of

the United States Philosophical Society, Late Professor in the

Philadelphia Flight School—Philadelphia: Carey & Hart. “The Analogy

between Mind and Matter, _considered in relation to the Doctrine of

Transubstantiation and Revealed Religion_,” by the Right Rev. Bishop

Berdott—Universal Christian Publication Association, Boston: Complete

in One Volume—Second Edition. These, and the like publications, issuing

almost daily, lasting monuments of the power of the steam-press, are far

too repulsive food for the uninitiated in the art of philosophical

digestion. We leave them to the student, who, with fortitude sufficient

for the effort, will undertake the study of them on _a Rainy Day_.

But cause undoubtedly there is, existing somewhere; for so powerful an

agent, revolutionizing our very nature, must surely have “a local

habitation and a name.” Do not let us suppose that because the various

Sir John Rosses and Sir John Franklins have failed in their researches

after this _primum mobile_, that it is hidden from the eyes of science.

One of these seasons we shall be delighted by an advertisement in all

the daily papers announcing thus: “Wonderful Discovery! Astounding

Developments!! Thousands unable to obtain Admission!!! The Reverend

Neophyte Frisky will deliver a Lecture at the Great Saloon of the

Chinese Museum. Subject—Atmospheric Influence on Human-Natureology,

showing its Cause and Effects. Experiments will be made after the

Lecture. The Secret will be communicated to classes composed of

Gentlemen and Ladies, at Ten Dollars a ticket. For notice of the hours

of each class see small bills. Admission (so as to bring it within the

reach of all) Five Cents—Children half price—Unbelievers admitted

Free.” Thus faith in the hidden things of science will be made clear to

the eyes of the million, and the singular phenomenon, exhibiting itself

in its manifest effects from a hitherto undiscovered cause, will become

as familiar to men as the horrors of _a Rainy Day_.

We fear that some will naturally regard these remarks as intended to

cast reproach on scientific investigation, and research into the wide

fields of pathological—naturo-philosophical—moral-philosophical love.

Far from it. We beg to invite volunteers to unite in an overland

expedition after the philosopher’s stone. Let a company be formed on

shares, armed and equipped with revolvers and rifles of the latest

theory, to shoot opposition on the way for food for the

Association—with India Rubber life-boats to cross the streams, and

Gutta Percha tents to repose in on the march—secure a flying-machine on

the last model, to transport the enthusiasts over mountains, and stock

enough at $5 a share to start the _enterprise_, if not the _expedition_.

We would not only invite the formation of such Associations in all the

Atlantic cities, but suggest to rural scientificators to leave the

plough of successful homebred labor, sell out their little all, and

invest at once. Why drudge longer, alone and single-handed, when these

combinations and associations insure the journey to be made in six weeks

from the “Independence” of the first start. But, reader, let us advise

you, if you are seriously impressed with the propriety of the

undertaking and its certain success, don’t dwell on the results to be

attained on _a Rainy Day_.

Suggestions of unbelief in any novelty are more common than should be. A

course of opposition to the march of mind, camping in its progress at

startling or astounding discoveries, is detrimental to the developments

of science, applied to every day use. We do not desire to be regarded as

cynical or infidel, and therefore avow an attachment to these novelties

_ex limine_. The utter incomprehensibility of any scheme is no objection

to its feasibility. Far from it. On the contrary, the less it is

understood the more it is applauded. Once announced for the

investigation of the masses, a public meeting is called, as follows:

“TOWN MEETING. The citizens of the village of Love-Your-Enemies will

assemble in the Hall where ‘justice is judicially administered,’ on

Saturday evening next, at 6 o’clock, to consider the propriety of

memorializing Congress to grant 100,000 acres of the public domain, for

the purpose of raising a fund to be invested in the capital stock of a

company about to be formed, to construct an Electro-Magnetic Wire

Suspension Bridge from the Narrows, at New York, to Tusca Light-House,

on the English coast. Mr. Amasa Foresight Marblehead, the discoverer of

this wonderful invention for the benefit of mankind, and patent

pacification of nations, will be present and explain its principal

features.” Signed by Hon. Col. Maj. M.D. Rev. Esq. The meeting convenes

at the appointed time. Speeches are made. Diagrams, models, drawings,

lithographs, sections are exhibited. The audience are delighted,

mystified, gratified, magnified, humbuggified, and somnambulified.

Resolutions are offered. A disciple of Roger Sherman objects, and

sonorously desires the _Cui Bono_ in facts and figures. Question!

Question! is shouted by the Esquire who signed the call, the brother of

the chairman, and the gentleman who organized the meeting. These vocular

demonstrations become public opinion, and under its supreme potent

influence the resolutions are adopted, and the assembly adjourns. All is

wonder, amazement and vacuity. One doubts. He is beleaguered by the

President, Vice-President and Secretaries of the meeting, and silenced

with “specific gravity,” “conic sections,” “capillary attraction,”

“latent pressure,” “malleability of metals,” “attraction of cohesion,”

“sinuosity of fluxions,” and the superior capacity of the arch over the

horizontal, to bear weight. The object is accomplished—the probability

assumes the shape of certainty—the unsophisticated are converted—the

community is alive to the absolute necessity of the project—the most

flattering prospects are in the future. The bridge is built on paper,

and on this mid-air viaduct is represented flour and corn pouring into

England, and emigrants and their progeny pouring out. How delightful!

Well, “probably the humbug of the thing” would never have been made

known, had it not been for the morbid disposition of some skeptic,

exaggerated by the atmospheric influence of _a Rainy Day_.

The atmospheric influence, then, is savagely detrimental to the mature

development of extraordinary discoveries. In this it is

auti-practico-scientific, and will, ere long, be driven from scholastic

favoritism. Unwelcome as we have shown it to be in individual and

scientific economy, we trust our researches into the economy of politics

will prove more favorable.

The State is a comprehensive word, meaning a conglomeration of voters.

Voters are men presumed to be aged one-and-twenty each—that is, every

voter must be, by law, in a majority before an election at which he

votes, but it is not unlawful for him to be in a minority after he has

voted. At this maturity they are infected with the frailties of

humanity, consequently they agree and disagree with each other. Thus

parties are formed on the basis of “principles, not men,” for the one,

and “men, not principles,” for the other. On the supremacy of one of

these combinations the safety of the State depends—so each

conscientiously believes. To test the question, elections have been

established—a modern republican invention, instead of the old “wager of

battle.” The note of preparation is sounded. Martial music echoes in

city, village, town and valley, in token of the peaceful nature of the

coming contest. The voters of each party are gathered under banners

inscribed with the poetry of politics Speeches are made by the humble

aspirant after public fame in the shape of “spoils,” a figurative

designation for the reward of patriotism. The taverns are filled;

disquisitions on political principles, qualifications for public

servants, the past history of nominees, and the future prospects of the

faithful, are discussed with the blandness and courtesy which mark all

polemic controversies. In order to purify the political atmosphere of

such assemblies in those party craniums called “Head Quarters,” the

fumes of tobacco, flavored with the insensible distillations of “old

rye” or “Monongahela,” are used _ad libitum_. This, by the aid of music,

speeches, rum and tobacco, “the great principles of the party” are

preserved from decay, and made palatable to “generations yet unborn.” As

the contest progresses, it is more and more marked by enthusiasm,

sincerity, patriotism, self-devotedness to those abstractions born in

“’98,” and destined to a green old age, or their immemorial antagonistic

dogmas of a more northern extraction. Music, meetings, speeches and

speculations, banners and bantering, polemics and pyrotechnics, rum and

rows, fights and fabrications, placards and publications, advocates and

anathemas, multiply in proportion to the chances of success. Committees

of vigilance are active—window-committees impatient—voters are

volatile and vicarious—candidates are cajoling, cabaling, convivial,

cautious, curious and concerned. Thus progresses the campaign. The day

arrives—Election Day—big with the fate of patronage and place. “To the

Polls, Freemen, to the Polls!” is conspicuous at every turn, reminding

those who have just awoke to the objects of the day, after weeks spent

in fruitless attempts to convince them of the importance of the “Second

Tuesday” in the political Almanac. Voting is this absorbing business.

“Vote early,” is announced as of the utmost consequence. “Vote for John

Smith,” is pronounced the only miracle by which liberty can be

guaranteed to the nation. Workingmen are informed that John Brown is

alone advised of the most salutary remedy for all their evils. Business

men are warned that prosperity will abound under a Tariff, with the

cabalistic addition of “’42,” and that ruin belongs to that of “’46.”

The timid are startled by the announcement that the “country is ruined,”

and the “constitution has been violated,” while anon is proclaimed that

“the dearest rights of freemen are in jeopardy.” So passes the “Second

Tuesday”—voting, voting, voting, “on age,” “on papers,” “on tax

receipts,” and “on principle.” There must be an end to all things. So

with Election Day. The polls are closed. The counting begins. Majorities

and victories are cheered as published. One party claims success from

figures, the other from numbers. One calculates success, the other votes

it. It is decided, at last, by the indisputable returns. The victors

attribute their triumph to the people; the defeated find consolation in

the fact that they would have been triumphant, had it not been—_a Rainy

Day_.

Atmospheric influences are suicidal, it seems, in politics. And as it

may seem, the character of the atmosphere has a powerful influence on

other things beside animal spirits. Reader, pause—our task is done. Of

a highly mercurial temperament, affected with despondency or hilarity,

as the sky is cloudy or clear, we were forced to get rid of ourself on

one of those pluvious phenomena in the temperate zone, and hence we

wasted our own time and yours by dedicating our reflections to _The

Rainy Day_.

* * * * *

Our New Volume.—We do not think our patrons can fail to be pleased with

this the first number of a new volume of “Graham’s Magazine.” We confess

to feeling proud of it ourselves, and think we fully redeem the promise

we made to increase the claims of our periodical upon popular favor. No

similar publication, it may be confidently asserted, ever presented an

equal array of merits and attractions, whether the artistic

embellishments or literary contents be considered, and we know that our

good friends, the public, will award to us the meed of superiority over

all others, _nem. con._ But excellent as the opening number of the

volume is, the rest shall fully equal if not surpass it in beauty. We

have always held our position in advance of all competition, and the

ground shall be maintained. Let others do as they may, the subscribers

to “Graham’s Magazine” may rest assured that their favorite publication

will never degenerate or forfeit the proud distinction long ago

conferred upon it of being “The Gem of the Monthlies, and the Leading

Periodical in America.”

Our subscription list is rapidly increasing; new friends sending in

their names every day. This is an appropriate season to commence taking

the Magazine, and the novelties and new beauties we have in preparation

will render the current volume one well worthy of careful preservation.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_H. Kavanagh. A Tale. By H. W. Longfellow. Boston: Wm. D.

Ticknor & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This volume has been very extensively read, has delighted almost every

reader, and yet has left on the minds of many a feeling of

disappointment. Considered as a novel, it must be admitted that the

story is but slight, the characters hinted rather than developed, and

the whole frame-work fragile; but it would perhaps be more fair to judge

it according to the purpose the author had in view in writing it, and

this purpose was evidently not the production of a consistent novel, but

the illustration of an idea through the forms of a tale. Mr. Churchill,

who is always meditating a romance and never producing one, and while

musing over the idea is unconscious of the romance developing under his

very eyes, is a good illustration of the motto of the work—

“The flighty purpose never is o’ertook,

Unless the deed go with it.”

The romance present to Mr. Churchill’s vision, but which he does not

perceive, is, to be sure, a common one, but none the less affecting

because it is common. It is a simple but quietly intense representation

of love in its two great expressions in life—the love which imparadises

and the love which breaks hearts; and it has no reference at all to

time, but is the universal fact of all ages.

In addition to his lovers, Mr. Longfellow has sketched with much

beautiful humor, the characters and characteristics of a country town.

His mirth is the very poetry of mirth, sly, genial, fanciful, reminding

the reader of Dickens without suggesting the thought of imitation. All

the incidents and emotions of the book are enveloped in an atmosphere of

poetry. It is this magical charm of the poet, investing the commonest

materials with a drapery of imagination, and sending a rich and golden

flush through the whole expression, which constitutes the merit of the

volume. An ideal sweetness, sometimes felt in the music of the words,

sometimes in the fine felicity of the imagery, and sometimes in the

“soft, Ausonion air,” breathed upon the characters, pervades equally the

author’s humor, pathos, sentiment, passion and reflection. The effect of

the whole is not to thrill or exalt the reader, not to inspire terror or

awaken thoughts “beyond the reaches of his soul,” but to fill him with

the highest possible degree of intellectual and moral comfort. There are

no stings in the author’s mind, and he plants none in the minds of

others. He is a mortal enemy to unrest, to all haggard and unhandsome

thoughts and sensibilities, and fuses matter and spirit into a sensuous

compound, calculated to give poetic pleasure rather than to inspire

poetic action.

There is one fault to the book more serious, perhaps, than any other,

and that is its shortness. The characters are well conceived, but

imperfectly developed. The premises of Kavanagh’s character are

excellent, but no conclusion is drawn from them except his marriage, and

that is something of a _non-sequitur_. The ground is fairly broken for a

long work, for a sort of American Wilhelm Meister, and though the

author’s plan hardly demands its cultivation to the extent of its

capacity, we feel rather provoked that he did not make his plan

commensurate with the elements of his characters. In Kavanagh we have a

reformer who blends cultivated and sensitive tastes with great

aspirations, and to have fully developed such a person, by representing

the modifications of his mind through its contact with the reformers and

conservatives of New England, would have enabled Mr. Longfellow to

produce the most original and striking novel of the day, and one which

would have been a mirror of New England life in its present

manifestations. The ideas and purposes of Kavanagh alone are given, and

he, rather than Mr. Churchill spreads a gulf between intentions and

deeds. To have made the woman he loved non-sympathetic with him as a

reformer, and the woman he did not love his adherent in that capacity,

would have finely complicated the matter, and resulted in many original

agonies, ecstasies, mental struggles, and thrilling situations. Such a

novel, even if, like Goethe’s, it had cost ten years’ labor, would, as

treated by Mr. Longfellow, have obtained an instantaneous and enduring

popularity.

* * * * *

_My Uncle the Curate. A Novel. By the Author of “The Bachelor of

the Albany” etc. New York: Harper & Brothers._

The mere announcement of any thing from the sparkling brain of the

Bachelor of the Albany, is sufficient to raise anticipations of brisk

and business-like satire, of felicitous expression, and of good-natured

representation of the follies of conventional life. The present work

evinces more of the novelist, and less of the wit-snapper, than any

thing the author has previously written. The story and the characters,

though plentifully bespangled with epigrams, are still not immersed and

lost in them; and there is not that incessant effort after smartness and

point which at one period seemed to be the law of the writer’s mind. Mr.

Woodward, the Curate, has some capital traits of character felicitously

developed, and his wife, belonging to that kind of women known as

everybody’s mother, is drawn to the life. In Mrs. Spenser we have one of

those plagues of mankind, who cause more misery than pestilence and

war—a nervous, fretful, peevish, unsatisfied, vinegar-souled wife,

engaged in slaughtering her husband with pins, and making up for the

weakness of her instruments by the continuity of her attacks. Lucy

McCracken appears to have been suggested by Thackeray’s Becky Sharp, and

she is in every way inferior to the latter in the logic of her

artfulness. Dawson, Sidney Spenser, Markham and Vivyan, are all well

discriminated delineations of young men, though the lover is the least

interesting. The author is something of a bungler in handling the

passions and affections, and considered as a man of wit, is singularly

blind to the ludicrous effect which his serious scenes often produce. He

is a capital laugher at the sentimentalities and agonies of other

novelists, but when he ventures into their region he is as far from

common sense and natural feeling as any of the dabblers in broken hearts

and crushed affections whom he ridicules.

* * * * *

_The Personal History and Experience of David Copperfield the

Younger. By Charles Dickens. Illustrated by H. K Browne. New

York: John Wiley. Part I._

The announcement of a new work by the most popular novelist of the day,

is quite an event to the famished lovers of his genius. It is difficult

to judge from the first number whether it will be worthy of the author’s

fame, but it promises well both in respect to originality and interest.

With the characteristic traits of Dickens’s style and mode of

delineating characters and narrating events, it starts a new society of

individuals, who may rival the old familiar names in popularity. The

peculiar humor, fancy, sweetness, and verbal felicity, which have

already delighted so many thousands, appear in this work with their old

power, and give no signs of decay. For knowledge of the heart we would

allude to the scene in which Mrs. Copperfield questions Davy as to the

exact words the gentleman at Lowestoft used in speaking of her beauty,

as pre-eminently excellent. For quaint humor, bordering continually on

pathos, the life which Davy led in the queer house on Yarmouth beach,

with Peggotty’s relations, might be triumphantly quoted to silence all

doubts of Dickens’s continued fertility. The knowledge evinced

throughout of the interior workings and external expression of a child’s

mind, is quite remarkable. Indeed, if the author proceeds as he has

commenced, there can be little fear of his success. It remains, however,

to be seen, whether or not his characters will please through twenty

numbers.

* * * * *

_Holydays Abroad; or Europe from the West. By Mrs. Kirkland. New

York: Baker & Scribner. 2 vols. 12mo._

The accomplished authoress of these elegant volumes has established so

good a reputation by her previous writings, that we opened her present

book with some reluctance, fearing that the subject would be too

threadbare even for her powers to make interesting. Indeed records of

tours in Europe have become so common, so natural an employment of

aspiring mediocrity, that to read them is an exercise in yawning, and to

criticise them an assumption of the office of executioner. We prefer

dullness in almost any other form. It is due to Mrs. Kirkland, however,

to acknowledge that she has triumphed over the disadvantages of her

subject, and produced a really interesting work, avoiding all the

wearisome topographical inanities and stereotyped opinions of most

tourists, and giving a new and vivid glimpse of foreign life. She

appears to understand the wants of her readers, and she tells them the

very things they most desire to know. Her passage on St. Peter’s is one

instance among many which the book affords, of her knowledge of the

ignorance of her readers, and her felicity in suggesting a view of a

whole subject by fixing on a few important details. She generally

succeeds in conveying so warm an impression of the objects she

describes, as to make her readers the companions in the journey.

* * * * *

_The Adirondack; or Life in the Woods. By J. T. Headley, Author

of Washington and his Generals, etc. New York: Baker & Scribner.

1 vol. 12mo._

In this volume the dashing and brilliant author of Napoleon and his

Marshals has occupied a new ground. The northern section of the state of

New York, comprising nearly eight counties, is still an unsubdued

forest, “crossed by no road, enlivened by no cultivation, not a keel

disturbing its waters, while bears, panthers, wolves, moose and deer,

are the only lords of the soil.” Into this region Mr. Headley conducts

his readers, and certainly few subjects could be better fitted for his

picturesque pen. The magnificent scenery of the region he has described

with great force, freshness and pictorial effect, and the various

adventures incident to a life in the woods, are narrated with the

author’s accustomed vigor and raciness. The work being in the form of

familiar letters, admits of every style of verbal expression which truly

reflects the feeling of the moment, and the reader is therefore not

troubled by the presence of those occasional audacities of diction

which, in Mr. Headley’s more elaborate works, sometimes offend a pure

taste.

* * * * *

_Analogy of the Ancient Craft, Masonry, to Revealed Religion.

Gregg & Elliott._

This is the title of a beautifully printed octavo volume, from the pen,

and evidently from the heart, of Charles Scott, A. M., Grand Master of

the Grand Lodge of the State of Mississippi. The literature of the Order

of Masonry is not extensive, for reasons that the members of the Order

probably fully comprehend. It is confined to a few volumes of addresses,

and to some liturgies and handbooks; all, of course, useful to the

craft, but not all interesting to the world. The volume before us is the

result of much deep feeling, which manifested and employed itself in

careful research, close reading, sustained reflection, and an able

exposition of the results of all those processes.

The Analogy is ably made, and though the uninitiated may not feel the

same interest as do the “craftsmen” in the Analogy, yet many readers

will find on its pages much to admire, much that will instruct, much

that will lead him to reflect and inquire.

The initiated who sits down to the book with a love of the institution,

will find that love augmented, his respect increased, and his views

greatly enlarged by the developments of the able author of the volume.

We commend the work to the attention of general readers, but especially

to those who share membership with Mr. Scott.

* * * * *

_Last Leaves of American History: Comprising Histories of the

Mexican War and California. By Emma Willard. New York: Geo. P.

Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

Commencing with the inauguration of General Harrison, Mrs. Willard

presents us with a clear and condensed account of the events which

followed to the close of the Mexican war. Although most of them are

familiar to the readers of the newspapers, we suppose that few minds

possess them in their order and connection, stripped of all exaggeration

and telegraphic inaccuracies. Mrs. Willard writes in a bold, decisive

style, without any apparent partisan object, and with no other purpose

to serve than to glorify the country as far as it can be done without

any sacrifice of truth. We have found the volume interesting and

accurate.

* * * * *

_The Genius of Italy: being Sketches of Italian Life, Literature

and Religion. By Rev. Robert Turnbull, Author of Genius of

Scotland, etc. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is an exceedingly interesting and well-written volume, full at once

of discernment and enthusiasm, exhibiting considerable knowledge of

Italian literature, scenery, manners and character, and showing a true

Anglo-Saxon sagacity in its views of the present state of Italy. The

work is both descriptive and critical, and many passages have a

pictorial distinctness which prove that the objects described were

visibly mirrored on the writer’s imagination as he wrote. The sketches

of Dante, Tasso, Ariosto, Petrarch, contain many correct opinions, and

are well calculated to convey information as well as to inspire

enthusiasm for the genius of Italy.

* * * * *

_History of King Charles the Second of England. By Jacob Abbott.

With Engravings. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 16mo._

This is a most useful and entertaining biography of a regal roué, whose

reign is the scoff and jeer of history. Charles was a good-natured

rascal, whose destitution of principle and indifference to shame,

approached the marvelous. The record of his reign is full of matter for

reflection, and Mr. Abbott has presented it with more than his

accustomed felicity in the selection of events, and graceful simplicity

of style.

* * * * *

[Illustration:

Anaïs Toudouze

LE FOLLET

PARIS, _Boulevart_ S^{t}. Martin, 61

_Robes de_ Camille

_Dentelles de_ Violard, _r. Choiseul, 2^{bis}—Fleurs de_ Chagot ainé, _r.

Richelieu, 81_;

_Eventail de_ Vagneur Dupré, _r. de la Paix, 19_.

Graham’s Magazine]

* * * * *

WHAT’S A TEAR?

A BALLAD.

SUNG BY MRS. SEGUIN,

COMPOSED BY

M. W. BALFE.

Presented By GEORGE WILLIG, No. 171 Chestnut St., Philadelphia.

[Illustration]

What’s a tear? Mother dear!

Look not thou in sorrow!

As at dawn, from the thorn,

Falls the dew my Mother,

[Illustration]

Let this grief find relief,

I’ll not weep tomorrow!

His I’ll be, none shall see

How I love another,

How I love,—love another!

SECOND VERSE.

As the rose, while it blows,

Hidden canker weareth;

Sigh shall ne’er whisper here,

How this heart despaireth:

What’s a tear? Mother dear!

His I’ll be, Oh Mother!

Though I die, since on high

I may love another.

How I love another.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained as well as some

spellings peculiar to Graham’s. Punctuation has been corrected without

note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For

illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to

condition of the originals used for preparation of the ebook.

page iii, Story. Lydia Jane ==> Story. By Lydia Jane

page 1, Rensellaer who commanded, ==> Rensselaer who commanded,

page 2, Coffin, an aid of ==> Coffin, an aide of

page 2, escape occured to ==> escape occurred to

page 2, promoted) and a gallant ==> promoted) a gallant

page 2, serve as marines. ==> serve as marine.

page 4, proceeded to Fort Levenworth ==> proceeded to Fort Leavenworth

page 6, accompanied the cortegé ==> accompanied the cortège

page 15, his griping fingers, ==> his gripping fingers,

page 24, them pleasant excursions ==> them on pleasant excursions

page 29, blood tinging its ==> blood tingeing its

page 35, my tiny bark, unguided ==> my tiny barque, unguided

page 41, varient circumstances ==> variant circumstances

page 43, desire ought but that ==> desire aught but that

page 45, sort of wrapt awe ==> sort of rapt awe

page 51, wordly prosperity could ==> worldly prosperity could

page 60, heartless coquetery? Or ==> heartless coquetry? Or

page 61, concering it. There ==> concerning it. There

page 65, John their confident ==> John their confidant

page 65, irruption of Vesuvius ==> eruption of Vesuvius

page 66, kissed him affectionatly ==> kissed him affectionately

page 68, confident of his sorrows ==> confidant of his sorrows

page 68, by some occurences ==> by some occurrences

page 68, (how appaling that ==> (how appalling that

page 70, “mallability of metals,” ==> “malleability of metals,”

page 70, propotion to the chances ==> proportion to the chances