“How did it happen?” said I, rising and putting on my bonnet as I spoke.

“Are you going over there? I will go with you, and tell you about it on

the way,” replied Fred, throwing my shawl around me, and giving me his

arm. The story was soon told. The loss of a ship which was wrecked

without insurance some months before, had somewhat embarrassed him, and

the sudden failure of two large mercantile firms in Boston, with whom he

was connected had completed the ruin.

As we approached the house through the garden, I proposed that we should

go in through one of the parlor windows, which opened upon a grass-plot,

and formed a convenient entrance in that direction, of which we had

frequently availed ourselves. Never shall I forget the sight which

presented itself as we stood before the window. Mrs. Atherton was

reclining on the sofa, sobbing bitterly. Mr. Atherton was seated in an

arm-chair, his face buried in his hands, and his whole frame shrunk and

collapsed, as if beneath a weight of shame and agony. Harriet stood

beside him, bathing his head and raising with her smooth, white fingers,

the gray locks he had pulled over his brow. The light which fell full on

her face, showed that she had been weeping violently; but now there was

a faint smile on her trembling lips, and she was talking earnestly. We

could not hear what she said, but the tones were full of encouragement,

and her attitude and expression betokened firmness and hope. As we

gazed, the old man suddenly uncovered his face, and throwing his arms

around her neck, drew her mouth down to his, and kissed her fervently.

“We will not intrude here,” said my brother. There was a strange

huskiness in his voice, and I felt his whole frame tremble as it did

when he was strongly moved.

We walked slowly home again and talked sadly of the misfortune that had

befallen our friends—of their plans of quiet happiness that must be

given up—of their munificent charities that must be now contracted, and

of the anxieties and embarrassments which would harass that honorable

old man, but when I said that Lizzy must come home from school, and

George must discontinue his studies, Fred replied resolutely that “It

must not be;” and when we entered the house, he seated himself before

the writing-desk and commenced a letter. Having occasion to cross the

room as he was closing it, I took a sister’s liberty to peep over his

shoulder, and saw—“So, my dear fellow, do not think of leaving, but

draw on me for whatever funds you may require.”

A fortnight elapsed, during which I saw little of Harriet. In his

professional capacity, as a lawyer, Fred was busy most of the time with

Mr. Atherton, canvassing the business—settling accounts and making

assignments; and it was a season of mental torture to the ruined father

which could hardly have been borne had it not been for the gentle

ministrations of his daughter. She it was who nerved her invalid mother

to meet calmly their change of circumstances, and to aid her in

consoling the care-worn, haggard man, whose sorrow they so deeply

shared. The sight of her lovely face beaming with cheerfulness and

affection, the sound of her low musical voice, as she sung the songs he

loved, or repeated to him words of religious faith and consolation,

seemed to operate like a charm in driving away the cares that haunted

him, and gradually her firmness and courage were imparted to him, and he

was enabled to lift up his head once more and hope for better days.

Early one morning Hattie entered the room where we were sitting at

breakfast, with a face so much more joyful than she had for some time

worn, that I knew she must have some good news to communicate.

“It is, indeed, so,” said she, in reply to my inquiry. “I came to tell

some news, and also to beg your assistance for to-day.”

“I am at your service,” I answered; “but first tell me what has happened

to please you so much?”

“I must premise,” replied she, “what you already know, that on settling

up his affairs, father has found that he can pay every cent he owes, and

we shall have our dear old house and garden left; and as father has a

thousand dollars a year from his land agency, we shall be able to get

along quite comfortably. But in order to do so, Lizzy must leave school

and George must help support himself for the next eighteen months which

elapse before his studies are finished. Now you know he inherits

mother’s delicate constitution, and his health is too feeble to allow

him to apply himself as closely as will be necessary if he is to earn

his own support. Father has a sort of nervous horror of his getting into

debt, (and George is as particular as father is on that point,) so, to

make my story short,” she added, hesitating a little, while a bright

blush suddenly suffused her face, “_I_ am going to support them, and

father can keep the old homestead—”

“You support them—how?” we both exclaimed.

“Through the kindness of my old teacher, Miss W——. Lizzy mentioned in

her last letter that Miss Foster, who has so long taught drawing and

music at the Seminary, had left to be married, and their present teacher

was not considered competent. So I wrote the day after our misfortune

came, without saying any thing to father, and applied for the situation,

and this morning I received an answer, filled with the most flattering

expressions of kindness, and offering very liberal terms.”

“You do not seriously mean that you intend teaching?” said my brother,

in a tone that deepened the flush on Hattie’s cheek.

“Certainly I do. Why should I not make my acquirements available. I

intend to ‘_improve my talents_,’ and as that old-fashioned Jewish coin

is not current in this country, I must exchange it for something that

will pass more readily. I am quite delighted, too, with the terms Miss

W—— offers me, though I fear I shall not be worth so much money. She

says, if I will let part of the salary go to pay Lizzy’s school-bills,

she will give me five hundred dollars a year, on condition that I engage

to remain two years.”

“That will be about four hundred dollars in money,” said I, musingly;

“yes, that is quite good pay, to be sure; but, then, what will your

father and mother do without you for two years—have they consented to

your plans?”

“They have, after some opposition. They will be very much alone, but I

shall depend upon your kindness to cheer their lonely hours, and your

brother will perhaps spend an evening with father occasionally,” added

she, glancing timidly at Fred, who was drumming on the table with a very

dissatisfied air.

“When do you leave?” asked my mother.

“To-morrow,” she answered, rising; “and that reminds me that I have not

yet told you, Mary, that I came to request your assistance to-day in

making my final preparations. I did not expect to go so soon, and have

many little things to arrange before I leave.”

“Why do you go to-morrow?”

“In order to be there at the commencement of the next term—you will

come, wont you?”

I promised to be with her in a short time, and she departed; and Fred,

after putting salt into his coffee, and mustard on his bread, in a vain

attempt to finish his breakfast, took his hat in desperation, and went

out after her.

“Miss Atherton,” said he earnestly, as he overtook her, “let me persuade

you to give up this scheme—we can’t spare you for two years.”

“I am quite astonished at opposition from you, Mr. Stanley,” said

Hattie, in some confusion at his earnest manner. “It is but a few weeks

since we had that long talk about woman’s duties and powers of

usefulness. You remember what you said then?”

“Yes; but with you,” replied Fred, in a low tone, “with you it is ‘to

gild refined gold, to paint the lily.’”

A long silence followed, for both were too much agitated to speak, when

Fred repeated, “Do give up this plan—there is no need of it. I have

written your brother to draw on me for any amount he may need to

complete his education.”

“You are very kind,” said Hattie, tremulously, and her soft eyes were

filled with a dewy light, as for a moment they met his impassioned gaze.

Just then they reached the garden-gate, and in attempting to unlatch it

at the same time, their hands met. The touch thrilled through each frame

like an electric shock. Fred took her hand and drew it within his arm as

they proceeded up the walk.

“If I could only persuade you,” said he, “how gratified I am to be of

service to you. If you could have the faintest adequate idea how

necessary is your presence to my happiness—how I have lived for weeks,

months, only in the hope that I might one day tell you how fervently my

whole soul loves you. Oh, dear Miss Atherton, is it all in vain?”

There was no reply, but the small, trembling hand that rested on his

arm, placed itself in the hand that lay near it, and nestled there, as

if it would cling forever. A glad, hopeful smile sprung to his lips.

“Harriet—dear Harriet, you will let me love you?”

Again those expressive eyes were raised to his, and her heart spoke

through them, as her low dear tones answered, “I will love you.”

“And you will not leave me—you will be my wife—you will give me the

right to assist your brother?”

“Some time hence, but not now. You must not strive to break my

resolution. I trust in you fully, and the words you have just spoken,

are to me like sunshine breaking through the clouds that have enveloped

my life; but for Lizzy’s sake, and for George’s, it is best that I

should not relinquish my purpose.”

They entered the house and sat down together. All the barriers of doubt

and distrust that had separated them were removed, and these two full,

strong hearts, were revealed to each other. With all the eloquence of

affection, Fred endeavored to convince her that it was not her duty to

leave the home that was now more than ever dear to her; but the gentle

girl was firm in her noble resolve, and at length her pleadings won from

him a reluctant consent to its fulfillment.

The two years, which had seemed so long in the prospective, passed

rapidly away, as time always does when one is in the steady performance

of duty. Hattie’s visits at home were short and unfrequent, but she won

the admiration of her pupils. Lizzy was at school with her, and Fred

found so much business to compel him to visit the city, that he was

considered quite a public benefactor by certain postage-saving

acquaintances, who besieged our door with inquiries when Mr. Stanley

would go to B——, and would he take a package?

* * * * *

It was the evening before the wedding-day. The sisters had returned

three months before, and George had been some time at home, and was soon

to be ordained as pastor over the church where for generations his

fathers had worshiped. Having assisted Lizzy in arranging the bridal

paraphernalia for to-morrow morning’s ceremony, I went down stairs to

bid Hattie good-night before I went home. She was standing by the

window, with her head leaning on Fred’s shoulder. One of his arms was

around her, and with the other he was holding back the curtain that the

brilliant moonlight might fall full on the beautiful face that was

raised to his with an expression of confiding affection. A sudden

recollection flashed upon my mind, and crossing the room, I threw my

arms around them as they stood together, and said to my brother, “Fred,

_have you_ found out what there is to like in Hattie Atherton?”

“I have found,” replied Fred, drawing her fondly to his heart, “that

there is every thing in her to like except her name; she will change

that to-morrow, and then she will be perfect.”

* * * * *

TO MARY.

BY LUCY CABELL.

’Twere vain, dear Mary, to attempt

To sound your praise in rhyme;

Though oft I’ve gazed upon your face,

You’re fairer every time.

The stars are bright—but your sweet eyes,

Are lovelier far than they,

And diamonds, were they half as sweet,

Have scarce a brighter ray.

And, oh, such winning fondness lies,

In your gay, gladsome smile,

I scarce can look on you, and think

I do not dream the while.

And then your form—light as the air,

And perfect as a fairy;

Though many strive for beauty’s prize,

None can compare with Mary.

Oh, Mary, may thy future life,

Be bright, as thou art now,

And not a shade of sorrow rest,

Upon thy snow-white brow.

And when thy gentle spirit soars,

From its abode of love,

Oh, may it leave this world of cares,

To dwell with God above.

* * * * *

LITTLE WILLIE.

BY MRS. H. MARION STEPHENS.

My beautiful—my beautiful,

Upon thy baby brow,

The stern, relentless hand of death

Has placed his signet now!

The golden threads that span thy life,

Are breaking, one by one;

Let me not hold his spirit back—

Oh, God! thy will be done!

My beautiful—my beautiful!

Thy life has been a dream;

A moment more, and it has passed,

Like sunshine on a stream;

Or like a bud, whose perfumed leaves

Unfolded for an hour,

To gaze with rapture on its God—

Then droop beneath his power.

My beautiful—my beautiful!

I would not call thee back;

I joy that thou hast fled the storms

That beat upon life’s track;

I love to know thy sinless soul

Has burst its bonds of clay,

And watch thy spirit as it glides

So pleasantly away.

And when I gather up the folds

Around thy pale, cold face,

And when I weep to see thee laid

In thy last resting-place,

I’ll mind me that the fearful storm

By which my soul is riven,

Has borne my dove an olive branch,

And wafted him to Heaven.

* * * * *

MARY WILSON.

BY D. W. BELISLE.

CHAPTER I.

“She never told her love, but deep

Within her heart concealed there lay

The worm that prey’d upon her cheek,

And stole her bloom away.”

Mary Wilson was an only child. Her parents were exceedingly wealthy;

and, though possessing extended landed estates, they were as

parsimonious in hoarding up riches as though they were only in moderate

circumstances. Mr. Wilson was rather aristocratic in his manners, yet,

in many respects, he was quite liberal to those of his neighbors who

were not as fortunate as himself in accumulating property. He was a

gentleman of great influence, around whom gathered the elite of

Cincinnati—whose favor was courted and sought by the wealthy and great.

In his earlier days Mr. Wilson had laid out the rules which were to

govern him through the world, and, in whatever circumstance in life, he

fully resolved to abide by the course he had adopted for his guidance.

He had retired from the active capacity of a business man; and yet,

whenever he found an opportunity for speculating, he was just the man to

engage in it.

About the time our story commences, the fever of speculation in the

Western States raged to a marvelous extent. The excitement was great,

and many had invested their whole patrimony in the speculation, with the

ardent assurance that they would become immensely wealthy. But, alas!

their expectations were but “castles in the air;” for the excitement

soon subsided, and those who had invested their all in purchasing land,

now found, to their great astonishment, that they had lost all they

possessed. Many who were independent one day, and had the brightest

anticipations of the future, the next were penniless and destitute, not

knowing where or how to procure a sustenance for their families.

Among the most unfortunate in this respect was Mr. Wilson. He had

invested all—even to the last dollar—of his immense possessions; he

had bought lands at an exorbitant price; but he was perfectly satisfied

that in the speculation he would make his thousands. His wife and

daughter remonstrated against his entering so largely into the meshes of

the excitement, and of involving himself to so great an extent; but he

was too deeply resolved upon making money to pay the least regard to

their remonstrances. He endorsed largely for others, and appeared lost

in the agitation which existed. Speculation was the all-absorbing

topic—with him it was a sort of magic, which usurped his entire

thoughts, and, to a great degree, restrained his manly virtues. But soon

his dreams and anticipations received a relapse, the effect of which had

a serious impression upon his feelings. The day of speculation had

passed, and the entire capital which Mr. Wilson had invested, was gone!

He had lost all! he was reduced to poverty! Many others shared the same

fate. Wealthy citizens were stripped of all their property; many of

whom, who had not lost all in speculating, were sufferers from the evil

consequences of endorsing for others. In short, a depression of business

ensued seldom witnessed in a commercial city.

Reduced to want, Mr. Wilson’s ambition was gone! his pride preventing

him from engaging in any ordinary business; and his constitution too

feeble for manual labor, he felt keenly sensible of the unpleasantness

of his situation. He knew not what to do! His splendid mansion—the home

of his childhood, whose hallowed associations filled his heart with

happiness—had been given up, to satisfy the demands of the law; his

furniture was sold; and still unliquidated claims pressed daily and

heavily upon him for payment. Friends who, in the days of his

prosperity, flocked to his hospitable board, now shunned him, as one

whom they regarded as their inferior, both in point of wealth and

respectability. Mr. Wilson observed the change with the keenest sense of

injustice, and now felt how painful it was to be _thought_ inferior to

his fellow-man.

Mary was a girl of uncommon pretensions, whose amiable disposition and

beauty attracted to her side a host of admirers, who, in their

prosperous days, sought to rival each other for her hand—among whom was

Charles Tomlinson, the son of a wealthy merchant of Cincinnati. Charles

was a young man of rare talents, prepossessing deportment, and affable

disposition. He possessed all the qualities of a noble, generous-hearted

man; but, notwithstanding the purity of his daily “walk and

conversation,” he had imbibed many vague sentiments in regard to the

Bible and the precepts taught in that holy book. Mary observed this, and

felt pained to see so much talent wasted in useless attempts to prove

the Bible false; but yet she loved him. Their attachment daily grew

stronger, until they were betrothed, and the day appointed for the

consummation of their vows. Before, however, the time for their marriage

arrived, Mr. Wilson’s misfortune came, the tendency of which was an

entire revolution in the feelings of Mr. Tomlinson. He now resolved that

he would _not_ marry her, because her father had failed, and, in all

probability, would never be worth a dollar again. With this resolution

on his mind, he was at a loss in what way to acquaint her of his

determination, or how he could honorably release himself from his

engagement. He had too little fortitude to unmask his change of

sentiment to her, personally; and to do so by letter would betray a want

of manliness, which he had the reputation of possessing. In the midst of

this trying situation, he called to his assistance a friend, in whom he

had placed the utmost confidence, and to whom he had entrusted the

transaction of much important business. To this friend Mr. Tomlinson

gave instructions how to proceed, directing him at the same time to use

the utmost caution in the information he wished to convey. His name was

Samuel Gordon.

CHAPTER II.

“She seldom smiled—and when she did,

It was so sad, subdued, and brief,

As though her mourning heart she’d chide,

And strove to smile away its grief.”

The attachment between Tomlinson and Miss Wilson, thus far, had been

secretly kept from her parents, they preferring to make it known but a

few weeks previously to their marriage-day. But Mrs. Wilson, with the

watchfulness of a mother, perceived their intimacy, and, in a gentle

manner, addressed her thus:

“Mary, for some time past I have noticed rather more than a friendly

intimacy between you and Mr. Tomlinson, and, as a mother, I feel it my

duty to give you advice on the subject. I would not do aught to give you

pain; but I am not favorable to the addresses of Mr. Tomlinson.”

Miss Wilson, deeming it no longer prudent to keep the truth of the

matter concealed from her mother, replied:

“Dear mother, I hope you will forgive my rashness, for we have long

since been engaged. I hope you will overlook my disobedience.”

Their conversation was broken off by a quick ring of the bell, and Mary

hastened to the door to respond to the call.

“I have a message from Mr. Tomlinson, and wish to see Miss Wilson alone

for a few moments,” said the stranger.

“I am Miss Wilson. What is your business with me, sir?” she asked.

“I have,” he continued, “unfortunately to announce to you that Mr.

Tomlinson, since he has lost so much in the misfortunes which have

fallen on so many of the citizens of this city, deems it, at present, a

rash undertaking to marry, while circumstances of such an aggravating

character continue. I think it would be better for you to be as calm as

possible, and wait with due patience until a more favorable turn of

fortune, which I anticipate will not be very long.”

Had an ice-bolt entered the heart of that young girl, it could not have

had a much greater effect. His words fell upon her ears like the solemn

knell of all her hopes; for, since their misfortunes, she had fondly

supposed that her marriage with Mr. Tomlinson would, in a great measure,

retrieve the reputation of her father. She could not believe that Mr.

Tomlinson would be guilty of such duplicity, and thought a stranger had

imposed upon her. But how he, stranger as he was, knew any thing in

regard to their engagement, was something more than she could solve—an

enigma which cost her much anxiety and thought; for even her parents,

until that moment, had not known it. Her mother saw the hectic flush

mantle the cheek of her child, and felt conscious that something serious

would be the consequence. That Mary loved Tomlinson was unmistakable.

She read it in the deep blue of her eyes; she saw it in every lineament

of her features; she discovered it in all her actions; and, with the

sympathy of a mother’s own feelings, she endeavored to console her in

that, her “hour of need.” But the effect was too much for her delicate

constitution to bear. She “loved not wisely, but too well;” and, day

after day, she sat pensively surveying the beautiful scenery before her,

and silently reflecting on her own unhappy condition.

“Her silvery voice was heard no more—

She sang not, and her breathing late,

Which never knew neglect before,

Now lies alone—forgotten, mute!

Or, if a passing strain she rang,

So mournfully its numbers rose,

That those who heard might deem she sang

A lorn soul’s requiem to repose!”

On a lovely autumn evening, just as the sun was shedding its last rosy

beams on the tops of the surrounding hills, Mary looked from her chamber

window, and drank in, at a glance, the golden glories of expiring day,

and thought how calm it would be for her to die as sweetly as the sun

was sinking to rest behind the hills, so that her memory might live,

like the beauteous twilight, long after her frail body had mouldered

again to dust. She called her mother to her side, and told her that she

was dying! At such a beautiful hour, when the day began to close, and

shadows were no longer broad-cast from the clouds, but were stretched

along the surface of the earth by the interception of a tree, or

hill-side, Mary breathed her last!

As these precious but fleeting scenes pass like sober thoughts across

the face of earth, or intermingle side by side with gay and brilliant

passages of light of equal evanescence, making all tender and beautiful,

which otherwise had been lustrous and sparkling, they call up within the

heart the memory of the past; and by an association we can scarcely

trace, characters reappear of friends who have passed away before us.

Thus ended the life of Mary Wilson. Struck down in the vigor and bloom

of youth, this young maiden has left many friends to mourn her loss. She

was much esteemed; so much so, that every personal defect was forgotten

in the charms of her spirit, with which she imparted to her friends a

look of kindness and a blessing.

“Yon willow shades a marble stone,

On which the curious eye can tell

That underneath there lieth one

Who loved not wisely—but too well.”

* * * * *

WORDS OF WAYWARDNESS.

BY PROFESSOR CAMPBELL.

Hah! for the tide of the blood’s hot gush—

Hah! for the throng or proud thoughts that rush,

Reckless and riotous—why should they be

Iced by thy frown, Reality?

Give, give me back the early joy

Of youth’s warm hopes, of vows believed—

Again, again a dreaming boy

Let me be happy—though deceived.

Friendship, they say, is but a name,

And woman’s love a meteor flame,

That feedeth upon fancy’s breath

A little while, then perisheth.

Out, out upon thee—out on thee!

Thou hideous hag, Reality.

Hah! tears again! dost ask me why

The tear upon this burning cheek,

The half repressed, yet bursting sigh?

The tear, the sigh, themselves must speak;

Must tell a tale of by-gone hours,

A vision of all fair and bright—

When my young path was strewn with flowers,

And every throb was of delight.

When joys were of each moment’s birth,

Nor care, nor doubt, an instant stole

From days of ever-changeful mirth,

That changeless shone upon the soul.

When hopes, that in mist-distance gleaming,

In promise e’en outvied the past,

Came ever, halcyon heralds seeming,

Of peace and bliss for aye to last.

But where is now the sportive wile

Of youth—so guileless and so gay—

The soul of love, of fire—the smile,

That spoke that soul—oh! where are they?

Of days that could such joys impart

What now remains? Their memory—

A cheerless, blasted youth—a heart

That breaketh fast, though silently.

And those proud hopes so fondly cherished,

Have they too proved, like Friendship, breath?

Ay, one by one, they all have perished—

Yet no—not all—there yet is death!

There yet remains to choose some spot,

Where, far from man and scorn, to lie—

And there, unheeded and forgot,

Alone—oh! God—alone to die.

Who talks of dying, while around

The earth’s so fair, the sky so bright?

With Folly’s wreath let day be crowned,

And Mirth and Music rule the night.

Another chord—the purple hills

Are bowing to the yellow vales—

The vales are smiling to the rills—

The rills make music for the gales,

That with the sunbeams twining hands,

Through groves and meads and streams are glancing

Adown the lanes, and on the sands

Of brave old Ocean madly dancing.

And brave old Ocean roareth so

His honest laugh, to see those Misses,

The pretty flow’rets bending low,

As though to shun the wired-god’s kisses.

Kisses—hah! hah!—around this string

Of other days what memories twine—

Bring, merry comrades, quickly bring

Youth-giving and song-making wine.

Fill, fill—on the faithful brim

Pile up the sparkling flood—

Drink, drink, till the living stream

Run conqueror through the blood.

Drink to the hill, the vale,

The stream and its jeweled brink,

To the warming ray and the cooling gale,

To earth and to ocean drink.

Drink to each thing that seems

Or loving or glad to be—

Nor wait to ask if those joyous beams

Be nature’s hypocrisy.

I’ve quaffed the brimming bowl

In mirth’s and madness’ hours—

And drenched my thirsty soul

In goblets crowned with flowers.

Of draughts so pure as this

’Tis luxury to sip,

But draught of purer bliss

Doth dwell on woman’s lip.

I’ve felt the glowing sun

Steal warmly to my heart’s

Faint throbs, when gazing on

The skies of southern parts.

But oh! a sun more bright,

A purer, warmer sky,

Of joy-embathing light,

Is found in woman’s eye.

’Neath holy Music’s spell

Hath lain each dream-rapt sense,

While on my spirit fell

Its gushing eloquence.

But oh! a spell there is

More potent to rejoice—

The soothing lowliness

Of woman’s whispered voice.

Then wonder not, if now

To her I pledge this cup,

To whom my earliest vow

First sent its incense up—

To her—the soul of verse,

Our hope, when hope-bereft—

Our blessing ’neath the curse—

Our all of Eden left.

Give, give me back the early joy

Of youth’s strong hopes, of vows believed—

Again, again a dreaming boy

Let me be happy, though deceived.

For who hath caught the answering sigh

Heaving sweet woman’s timid breast,

His longing soul fed on her eye,

And learned the rapture to be blest—

In lingering dalliance now to sip,

In boldness now of ardor roving,

To drink from eye, cheek, forehead, lip,

Of one beloved, and seeming loving.

Upon the tell-tale cheek to breathe,

Closer the clasping hands to wreathe,

As if no earthly power could sever

The bosoms met, as met forever—

While each responsive fluttering heart,

Beating as though ’twould gladly break

To tell the joy that tongue ne’er spake,

Longs from its heaving breast to part,

Nearer and nearer still to press

The soul of its soul’s happiness.

Oh! who has felt around his soul

The spells of this idolatry—

And wished not that his days should roll

Thus spell-bound to eternity.

Away with wisdom—’tis a cheat—

Away with truth—’tis all a lie—

Madness alone hath no deceit—

Falsehood alone no mockery.

* * * * *

[Illustration: OLDEN TIMES.]

* * * * *

OLDEN TIMES.

BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

The town or borough of Harrisburg, the political capital of

Pennsylvania, lies on the _bank_ of the Susquehanna, about 107 miles

west of Philadelphia. I say on the _bank_, not the shore; for here a

bold bluff rises a few yards from the northern margin of the river, and

the town is, therefore, from ten to fifteen feet above the stream—a

fact of consequence to the inhabitants; as the Susquehanna, which, in

summer, may be easily forded by children, will frequently, during the

spring freshets, rise from six to eight feet, threatening all upon its

borders. The houses are built only on the north side of this front

street, so as to face the river and leave, besides the beautiful avenue,

a handsome esplanade in front of the town, overlooking the river.

Few places can present a more delightful promenade than this _front_ of

Harrisburg; and the writer hereof has more than once sought to express

his appreciation of the walk and the gorgeousness of the views to be

enjoyed therefrom. The scene is ever fresh—ever delightsome, to one who

has an eye for the beautiful of nature, and a heart to be warmed into

the enjoyment of that beautiful. No frequency of indulgence palls the

appetite here—no change of season diminishes the attraction. Whether

the stream murmurs round the projecting rock and over masses of pebbles

that mark its bed and are visible in summer, or whether the current

dashes deep and bold, fed by the melting snows of the upper mountains,

it is beautiful; beautiful in its simple exhibition—beautiful in its

terrible grandeur. Whether the setting sun steeps the current in liquid,

tremulous light, or the wild, tempestuous blasts of January heap up the

waters in dark and chaffing masses, all is beautiful; and men go forth

to gaze in quiet enjoyment on the peaceful flow of July, or to enrich

and stimulate their feelings with the all-conquering power of the

down-rushing torrent of March.

Indulging in dreamy pleasure one morning late in June, while

contemplating the loveliness of the scene, I cast my eyes away to the

mountains through which the river forces its course a few miles above

the town, and was delighted to see the first evidences of the rising sun

in the yellow light that tinged the topmost peaks of those mighty

promontories, while heavy wreaths of mist, engendered on the ground

below, were rolling upward, like giants anxious to bathe early in the

sunlight—an enjoyment that must have cost them existence, or, perhaps,

only present _visibility_.

I can now recall some of the reflections to which the magnificent scene

gave rise. Those children of the mist, that tended upward, were they

only imaginary beings? only the workmanship of my fancy, upon the crude

materials that sprung up from the fens? or were those misty shapes

indeed the essential forms of spirits, whose tendencies were

upward—who, though dragged downward by the grossness of their outward

covering, which affected its home and would abide in its cold, dark

birth-place, struggled upward to the light and heat, and were released

from the clogging properties of the visible and the impure, while they

put on the invisible and the purified?

I knew the law of physics, by which the ascensive power of matter is

augmented by heat, and consequently felt that some of those who were

sleeping in the vicinity, would have referred all those misty images of

the mountains to well known and always occurring circumstances. I admit

that natural causes produce just such effects as the ascension of these

wreaths of mist. But may not He who enacts the laws by which all these

events occur, connect also the state, habits and tendencies of some

class of beings with the operation of those laws? Because the sun gives

light and heat to the system of which it is the centre, because we know

that it riseth and goeth down, and because we can calculate the

influence of its light and heat upon our planet, does it follow that the

same body may not be the home of millions of rational beings, who would

laugh if told that we, mundane men, thought _that_ luminous body made

for the convenience of the earth?

I was calculating the effect upon one who should, while standing on that

mountain, venture to address these wreathy forms, and find himself

understood and answered, when the presence of a person whom I had once

or twice seen, at the peep of dawn,

“Brushing, with hasty steps, the dew away,”

renewed a resolution of putting to him a question as to the origin of a

certain enclosure in the vicinity. There was, between the upper bank and

the edge of the river, directly in front of the town, a small enclosure,

perhaps fifteen feet square, surrounded by a decaying board fence, and

having in it two miserably looking Lombardy poplars, touched with all

the squalidness of decay which characterizes the _age_ of that

short-lived tree. Brambles, too, had sprung up in the enclosure, and

they covered a small rising of the ground, with some invisible emblems.

My object was to know why such a place was allowed in front of the town;

why it was made, and why thus continued.

“That,” said my friend, “is the grave of old Mr. HARRIS, for whom the

town was named, long before they thought of building the capitol yonder.

But there is a long story connected with the matter, and you can learn

the whole of it if you will call, with proper motives and in a proper

manner, upon a descendant of the old patriarch who resides in the

neighborhood.”

Now, I saw in this man some signals of fancy, and I felt determined to

get the story out of him. But he professed to be in too much haste; he

had his day’s work to perform, and he had almost forgotten the story.

But I persevered with him and obtained some account, which, after eleven

years, I put on paper, not venturing to quote my friend for authority,

telling the story not exactly as ’twas told to me, but as I recollect

and reconstruct the narrative.

Mr. Harris was one of the pioneers of Pennsylvania. He saw the country

rich and beautiful before him, and “went forth and stood and measured

the earth” in and around the place where now stands the borough which

bears his name. The beauty of scenery, the delicate softness of the

valley contrasting with the towering summits of the mountains around,

made the place exceedingly desirable. He, like the men of his times, had

an eye for the beautiful, and a far-reaching ken that took in the future

with the present; and so he sat down on the shores of the Susquehanna,

on what was then perhaps an island, though now a part of the main land.

Mr. Harris was a man of the world—I mean what I say—he was

emphatically a man of the world. Calmly and coolly had he, in his youth,

sat down to reflect upon the policy which would best subserve the

purposes which he had in view; and, after mature deliberation, he came

to the conclusion that the precepts of his mother were well founded, and

that however much the gay might ridicule, or the short-sighted neglect,

the rules which she had prescribed, and which she had made him, in

boyhood, follow—on the whole, “to do justice, to love mercy, and to

walk humbly,” would serve the affairs of a long life as well as they

would produce effects after death. So, Mr. Harris sat down on the banks

of the Susquehanna, an honest man from habit—an honest man from

principle; a Christian by birth—a Christian by all his actions. He had

nothing Utopian in his views, nothing impracticable in his plans. If he

bought or sold, it was with a view to his own advantage in the

transaction, and neither white man nor red man could outbargain him; but

either white man or red man would be welcome to all that his wants

required at his hands; and those who failed to get one quart of meal

more than he would allow in trade, found no difficulty in procuring a

peck whenever their necessities appealed to his feelings of charity

rather than to his rule of business.

The means of the founder of the settlement had been somewhat diminished

by an act of goodness, which few could appreciate at the time. A stout

black man was about to be torn from his wife to be sent into slavery at

the South. The ability of the slave enhanced his price, while his

goodness of heart made the separation more intolerable to him. The wife

was free—should she go into voluntary slavery in order to follow her

husband? and if she did, who could tell her that the first inducement to

the owner to sell her husband might not result in a separation, which no

sacrifice on her part could prevent, nor could it mitigate the evils

thereof. In this state Pompey appealed to Mr. Harris; he promised

fidelity, industry and gratitude; Mr. Harris saw that he could prevent

misery, and he paid the price of the man, and thus became his _owner_.

“Massa Harris,” said the delighted black, as he saw the accomplishment

of his heart’s desire, “I’ll do something for this by and by.”

“What will you do, Pompey?”

“Don’t know, massa; but guess ’twill come sometime or other.”

Pompey formed a part of Mr. Harris’s establishment in his small

settlement upon the Susquehanna, and by his light heartedness and his

labor, seemed to repay all obligations which his purchase devolved upon

him. He had a song for the youngsters who visited the place, and he

could dance with the Indians that resided a short distance above; and

whether in the field or at the mill, he was trustworthy, active,

industrious, and never for a moment did his worthy master find cause to

regret his purchase.

“Done enough for to-day?” would Pompey inquire.

“You have done more, Pompey, than I directed, and you have done it well;

and excepting your habit of singing foolish songs, and dancing like a

madman among the Indians and squaws that come down from the Juniata, I

have been well compensated for your cost.”

“But I have not done _that_,” said Pompey.

“I tell you, Pompey, that I require only the discharge of ordinary

duties; I do not expect you will meet with any occasion for any

extraordinary effort in my behalf.”

“Well, well, massa—it will come, bym’by, I _tell_ you.”

The peaceful, gentle manners of Mr. Harris had their effect upon

Pompey’s movements, but not to the extent which the master desired. The

servant was honest, industrious, and did all the work that was required

at his hands, but he could not pretermit his sport. The day of gloom

closed with Pompey when Mr. Harris saved him from the sale to the South

and the separation from his wife, and Pompey felt a sort of devotion in

his wild, irregular dances and his loud, shrill singing. His spirits

rose with every recollection of the kindness, and, as he broke into a

verse of some favorite song or shuffled out upon the hard earth with

bare heels the time of a quickly moving tune, he felt that he was only

giving expression to gratitude for his kind master; and who shall say

that the offering of the joyous black was not made acceptable above, by

the sincerity of the feelings in which it was presented?

It was a clear star-light evening of July, the moon had not risen, and

the planetary worlds above seemed to magnify themselves in the absence

of the great source of day; a gentle draft of air down the stream was

felt, and occasionally a rustling among the foliage was caused by the

wind, augmented into a temporary breeze. The whole bank of the river was

covered with tall forest trees, save where Mr. Harris’s little

settlement was placed. On a bold bluff, now washed away, but which then

jutted out into the stream, as if for the site of some defensive works,

stood a female. She had been long looking up into the firmament, and

then casting her eyes around, as if expecting some one to share with her

the “contemplation of the starry heavens.”

The young woman stepped forward and looked down upon the waters below

her for some time, and then murmured: “They are now, as in years past,

above and below—the glorious constellations shining on, and year after

year returning, with all their train rich in their lustre, and surveying

themselves in the waters beneath. But _we_ change. Year after year

passes, and my fathers’ race, if they appear at all, present themselves

in diminished numbers and in wasting forms. The foot of the white man is

on the soil, and he treats us as he does the forest trees. Where he

finds our race convenient, he leaves them to perish for want of

communion with their like; where he needs their lands, he strikes them

down as cumberers of the ground; and I, who love the race—_I_ dwell

among the pale faces, in peace; nay, I dwell among them of choice. I

love their people, and I reverence the precepts by which some of them

are governed—by which all profess to be guided. Oh, spirit of my

fathers! must all pass away like the wreaths of mountain mist, and, as

they fall, shall it be the disgrace of their name that vice, and not

vengeance, swept them from the earth?

“Oh, what is this new principle which the whites have infused into my

soul—the means and condition of future happiness? What is it that bids

me forbear the wish that I was a man—a chief among my fathers’ people,

that I might chase the intruder from our hunting-grounds, and restore to

our nation the land which was purchased by trinkets and baubles,

costless to the whites and useless to the red men? What is that

principle that _bids_ me, nay _makes_ me, pray for the good of the

whites around me, and look to the destruction of my father’s race as a

means of that good?

“I cannot tell. And the teachings of the whites concerning the

requirements of their own religion, become dark and confused when they

attempt to reconcile their practice with their precepts; at least, those

who teach most do most confound. But Father Harris, who has little to

say, how good are all his _deeds_! how like the shining of those stars

upon the water is his benevolence to my race! beautiful in itself, and

reflected in the hearts of the red men with constant lustre. Oh, if all

were like him! but then—”

“Then what, Dahona?”

The interruption was caused by a young man who had followed the speaker

to a place of frequent resort.

“Then what, Dahona?”

“Nay, William, nay, do not call me Dahona; at least, do not call me thus

in _this_ place—do not call me thus when you find me alone—when the

wildness of the scene begets wildness of thought, and the breeze which

comes down from the hunting-grounds of my fathers, seems to fan into a

flame the lingering sparks of native fire which civilization, as yet,

has not quenched. Do not, by such a name, call up my almost buried

thoughts of those who owned these lands when the white men were enjoying

that which they stole from their conquered enemies; do not tell me, in

the midst of these returning pangs of pride and regret—do not by that

name tell me, that I am the daughter of a chief killed upon his own

hills; and when I would calm down those feelings of vengeance, which

come with longer intervals, do not, with the name of Dahona, goad me on

to those wishes which must be sinful, for they are unjust to Father

Harris.”

“Well, then, my dear Rebecca, if all the whites were like Father Harris,

what then?”

“They are not all like him. Those who taught me to read and write, and

who tried to teach me to pray, are not like him. They talked of the

equality of man, and yet treated me as the child of a monster. Father

Harris knows that I am human, like himself, and he treats me as if I was

immortal, as he is.”

“Well, should not the virtues of such a man redeem from censure a

thousand offending whites?”

“Perhaps so, William—I think so now; but there are times—moments like

some which I pass alone on this point of land—in which the virtues of

that good man seem to me a motive for vengeance upon _him_. Were he like

others, the red man could strike; were he like others, _I_ could strike;

if, instead of kindness, which demands gratitude, and constant care and

parental watchfulness, which beget affection, he had treated me as other

whites treat my race, it might be long ere the hunting-fields of the

tribe submitted to the plough. But the virtues of the whites subdue the

feelings of the Indians, and the vices of the whites destroy the race.

And yet, William, Father Harris, with all this virtue, forbids our

union!”

“_Forbids_ it, Rebecca, but does not hinder it.”

“Not hinder it? Does he not hinder it by his refusal to sanction it?”

“May we not go down to the lower settlement and be married, as others

are?”

“Will that procure his consent, William?”

“No; but, of course, it will be followed by his pardon.”

“Alas, William, even the poor theology of my native tribe forbids the

hope of pardon for a sin committed in the hope of pardon.”

“But he has no right, Rebecca, to prevent our happiness by his refusal

to sanction the union.”

“He has over me the right of a father, and shall never complain of a

want of obedience. I may suffer by his refusal, but if he is wrong he

must bear the consequences. No, William, no. I have told you that I

would marry none other than you; but I will not marry you without the

consent of Father Harris while he lives, with power to give or to

withhold that consent.”

“His reasons are insufficient.”

“Nay, William, say not that; though he has not told me his reasons, I

think I comprehend them. In the first place, you are the son of his old

friend and relative; can the strong prejudices of your race be appeased,

if you should marry the daughter of an Indian? It is true that I was a

princess; and the whites whom I met at the school in the city, always

appeared to worship those of royal blood, and I do not know that the

crown of the parent country might not devolve upon the head of a man or

woman as black and as curly as our Pompey, if such an one should, by the

accidents of taste and the favor of the right _creed_, fall into the

channel of succession by an admitted marriage. That strong prejudice, I

am persuaded, influences Father Harris.”

“But it does not influence _me_, Rebecca; and why should it? Associated

with the best of our people in the city, you have acquired their habits;

you have, with all the delicacy of your sex, twice the learning that can

be boasted of by many of ours; and if—”

“Yes, yes, William; you mean by ‘_if_,’ that if I had ceased to feel,

and sometimes act, like an Indian, _then_—But I have not ceased to feel

and to act, _sometimes_, like my father’s child; and all the learning

which the whites have imparted, seems only to enable me to appreciate

more correctly the sufferings and wrongs of my people; and if it were

not for the gentle teaching of that Quaker woman—nay, the teaching

rather of the _spirit_ by which she is influenced—I should, perhaps,

make my knowledge a means of vengeance. But, William, there is another

cause, founded on sound policy, for the refusal of Father Harris.”

“And what is that?”

“I am the daughter of a chief of a tribe that scarcely thinks of peace;

and when my father was tortured by his conquering foes—tortured to

death, but not to a groan—and my mother was struck down by the hatchet

of a warrior of the tribe above us, I was redeemed from captivity by

Father Harris—saved from a miserable death—treated, educated and loved

by him as his child. While I am here, it may be that the warriors of my

tribe will respect his settlement; if I should marry you, the tribe

above, always friendly, might grow jealous of the connection.”

“There is more of worldly policy in that than Mr. Harris is wont to

exercise,” said William.

“Let us be content,” said Rebecca “with his decision for the present. He

who has always intended right, cannot long persist in wrong.”

The dialogue of the lovers became less and less argumentative, and was

soon changed from that of an educated, high-minded woman and a

deferential young man, to the gentle intercourse of two lovers—more

pleasing to themselves, though perhaps less interesting to my readers.

The moon had risen, and the light of its diminished form was dancing on

the ripples of the river, and lay broad and lovely upon the side of the

mountain above.

“What was that sound?” asked Rebecca, with evidence of fear. “Surely

some one is abroad.”

“It was only a deer, or some such animal, on the other side of the

river.”

“But, William, the deer does not move thus by night, unless alarmed by

the hunter or some animal. Let us return; we may be injured, even on

this side the river.”

The pair withdrew to the little settlement; and as they passed one of

the out-houses, they discovered, through the interstices of the logs of

which it was constructed, the white teeth and shining eyes of Pompey,

who, not having any love affair on hand, was very willing to have a

laugh at “Massa William,” or a little knowing wink at Rebecca, the next

day.

Rebecca was soothed to repose by the quiet of her conscience and the

healthful, gentle influence of the prayer with which she sanctified her

little chamber—prayer that included blessings upon the head of her

benefactor, her early friend and father—prayer that expressed

confidence and love for Him who was her “Father in Heaven.” The noise of

the river, hastening downward in its eternal course, was lulling, and in

the strong light which the moon poured through the little window of her

chamber, the enthusiastic girl seemed to find the forms of guardian

angels; and she sunk to sleep in the confidence that she was in the care

of Heaven.

And was she not? What but Heaven provided for her the ample affection of

Harris? What but Heaven made his teachings operative upon her conduct?

What threw across the dark mind of the Indian girl the light of

Christian truth?—a light whose reflection was certainly tinged with a

portion of the hues of the object which it reached, but which still was

Christian light, doing its perfect work and effecting, by constant

operation, the character, condition and habits of Rebecca.

It was but a short time before daylight that the young sleeper, who had

retired to rest in the consciousness of Heaven’s guardianship, was

alarmed by loud cries, and on looking abroad she saw that one building

of the little hamlet was wrapped in flames, while the wild yells of the

savages told the poor girl what was the cause of the danger, and left

little doubt as to its extent; and she knew, too, that the savage

intruders were the people of her own tribe. Scarcely had she thrown a

few clothes around her, and wrapped herself about with a blanket from

her bed, when the voice of Pompey, as he passed her window, was heard.

One sentence only did the poor fellow utter:

“Save all the time you can, Miss Rebecca!”

In two minutes more the little settlement was surrounded by the savages.

William, who had been aroused later than the black, sought to save Mr.

Harris, but failed, and seeing no chance of escaping through the line of

Indians, he rushed into the room of Rebecca, and opening a small door

took refuge in a cellar beneath.

Rebecca, it was known, incurred little personal risk. She was of the

tribe of the invaders; and vengeance upon the whites, and the spoliation

of their goods, were the objects of the attack.

Scarcely had William reached his hiding-place when the chief of the

small tribe of invaders presented himself at the door of Rebecca’s room,

and demanded William.

“He is not in my room. Do you think men are to be found in my

bed-chamber?”

“A white man may be found any where in time of danger,” said the savage.

“But I do not care for the fellow; I want to know where Harris has

hidden his goods—especially where he has concealed the rum.”

“I do not keep his goods nor hide his rum.”

“But you know where he hides them, and you shall tell me, or I—”

“Or you will kill me—kill a woman! Brave chief! Has the influence of

the white man reduced our tribe to that?”

“I did not threaten you, Dahona; but I will strike where you can feel as

keenly as on yourself. Tell me where these goods are secreted.”

“I will not; and you dare not take vengeance on me.”

“Look, Dahona, through yonder window!”

The girl turned her eye to the window, and by the broad blaze of the

burning building she saw a stake erected, near the river, and numerous

savages were heaping around it quantities of wood.

“Is that for me?”

“No—for Harris.”

The young woman checked the exclamation which was rising to her lip:

“And you will release him if I will point out to you the goods; you will

do no personal injury to any one, and spare the rest of the property?”

The Indian hesitated; but the lie which seemed to struggle for

utterance, against the habits of his race, was spoken:

“I will spare all—”

“And the people of the tribe—will they spare?”

Just then a band of savages was seen conveying Mr. Harris down to the

stake.

The spirit of Rebecca was shaken. She did not know, indeed, _where_ any

goods were concealed, and the small amount which had been put aside was

then brought forward by some of the Indians, who were more occupied with

the rum they had secured than with the other articles.

She looked through the window again, and Harris was at the stake, and,

with impatient yells, the savages were making ready for the sacrifice.

“Spare him—only spare the life of Harris, and take all!”

“We _have_ all, and now we will consummate the work. Hark ye, Dahona!

Harris must suffer the torments to which our captives are condemned. We

have been injured by the whites. Your father was our chief—they

destroyed him; and whose blood has flowed in revenge? You, the daughter

of that chief, have been made to despise the people of your tribe, and

to adopt the faith of the whites—a creed that makes one portion

cowards—afraid of the life or the death of a warrior—and leaves the

other portion to commit what crimes they choose upon the red men.

“Now, hear me, Dahona. It is the creed that makes the man, and not the

man the creed; and the influence of your profession of that creed—the

devotion which you pay to that book now lying at your feet—are

weakening the attachment of our people to their chiefs, and giving power

to the whites. Renounce the creed, spurn the book at your feet, and

follow your brethren to their hunting grounds, and we will spare

Harris.”

“I will follow you whither you wish—take me now; but first release that

man.”

“Do you renounce the white man’s creed—will you spurn the Bible in

presence of our men?”

A few hours before, the troubled spirit of Rebecca had been moved almost

to doubt the truth of the religion into which she had been initiated;

but when the question was its renunciation, she felt the hold which it

had upon her mind—she showed the hold which it had upon her heart.

Could she, with some mental reservation, make the renunciation, and thus

save her benefactor’s life? She was not well versed in casuistry, but

she knew that religion was of the heart.

“Speak,” said the chief; “the people are waiting my signal.”

“Give me a moment to think.”

“Take it. I will leave you until the messenger returns twice with new

combustibles for the old man’s fire.”

The chief closed the door, and Rebecca turned to seek guidance in her

troubles.

The savage crew had seized upon the person of Mr. Harris, and dragged

him from the house to the place appointed for his torments. A slow fire

was to be lighted around him, and his dying moments were to be

embittered by their blasphemies, and his pains augmented by the torments

which they would inflict before the flame should have done its work.

The good man looked around. William he had heard in the first of the

attack, and he now believed him dead. He knew that he had little to fear

for Rebecca; her captivity might be irksome, but beyond that they would

not injure her. But Pompey, with all his professions, where was he at

such a time? How useful he might have been—how consoling, even now, to

have seen him near, and to have sent by him messages to his friends. But

he was forsaken of all—of all but his enemies; and so he looked upward,

to ONE that had ever been his friend. Release was not to be expected.

Mercy, fortitude, resignation—and the good man breathed a fervent

prayer.

“The time is up,” said the stern chief, as he opened the door of

Rebecca’s chamber. “What say you—life or death to Harris?”

“Let me see my father, even as he is—let me commune with him for one

moment, and I will answer.”

The chief led forth the girl; and as he passed two of his men he said,

in his own language:

“Watch the house; and when the fire is lighted at the stake, set the

house on fire—both the white and black are in it some where. See that

none escape.”

Rebecca heard and understood the terrible order.

The young woman ascended the pile, and threw her arms around the neck of

Harris.

“My father! my father! must this be?”

“There is no preventive,” said he, “short of a miracle.”

Rebecca sobbed into the ear of her benefactor, the condition of his

release.

“They will never release me,” said he; “they may make you an apostate,

but they will also make me a martyr.”

“My father, they have sworn the oath that has never yet been violated,

when given from Indian to Indian, that they _will_ release you on those

conditions.”

“Has that oath never failed?”

“Never—never, my father.”

“Let me not fall into the hands of man,” said the prisoner; “in this

hour, God, be my guide and counsel.”

“What is the answer, my father? Remember, your life—your precious life,

may be saved, and that of William,” she whispered softly in his ears.

“Do not hesitate.”

“I do not hesitate for myself. How, my child, is thy faith?”

“Firm—fixed, my father.”

“Will you renounce it, if by that you could save the life of William and

become his wife with my consent?”

“I would not renounce that faith to add one moment to _my_ life. Now,

more than ever, do I see and feel its excellency. But you, my father, in

whom it shines, may, by a protracted life, disseminate that faith to

thousands.”

“Shall I insure the faith of others by my own apostacy? You have my

answer.”

Rebecca gave one wild, frantic shriek, and was forced, almost lifeless,

from the embraces of Harris.

“And what says Dahona now?”

“_I will not renounce my faith._”

The signal was given, and the men arranged themselves between the river

and the stake, and two or three sprung forward and applied their torches

to the dry wood; slowly the smoke ascended, and then the blaze crept

upward, while the loud shouts of the exulting savages drowned the prayer

and groans of Harris and the wild shrieks of Rebecca.

“Apply the tortures,” said the chief, and he sprung forward to give the

example; when, suddenly, he pitched forward upon the fire, and the crack

of numerous rifles told whence his death had come.

In one minute the ground was filled with Indians of another tribe, and

the survivors of the invading band ware escaping down the river.

Through the mingled throng of living, and over the bodies of the dead,

sprung one being upon the burning pile, and with a hatchet released the

sufferer from his perilous position, as the fire was doing the work

which the savages had left unaccomplished.

As the rescuer laid Mr. Harris on the ground, he exclaimed:

“_Hi!_ Massa Harris, didn’t I tell you, great while ago, ‘bym by come

sometime or odder?’”

Pompey had escaped before the Indians surrounded the house, and knowing

the attachment to Mr. Harris of a tribe a short distance above, and

their hostility to those who had invaded the settlement, he was sure of

aid if he could summons them in season.

The friendly Indians descended the river rapidly in their canoes, and

were only in season to save the life of the whites.

William was brought forth wounded, but not dangerously, and the family

assembled in prayer and thanksgiving, while their friendly deliverers

were discharging some of the minor offices of their calling and

celebrating their victory by some characteristic attentions to the

wounded whom the enemy had left on the shores of the Susquehanna.

“Did you not hesitate, my child,” said Mr. Harris to Rebecca, “when

death or apostacy was proposed?”

“When _your_ death was the alternative, I did.”

“Where, then, was your faith in Christianity—in its author?”

“Father, I am weak. I owe you obligations—I would sacrifice my life for

your comforts; I knew you good—I knew you would decide correctly. My

faith, then, was in _you_.”

“In me?”

“In _you_—in you, oh, my more than father. You are the embodiment of

that _spirit_ by which I am guided. My faith in you, then—is it not my

faith in the creed which you profess, and by which you live?”

No sooner had William recovered from his wounds, than Mr. Harris called

Rebecca to him and signified his consent to the union between her and

William, and his determination to make their circumstances as

comfortable as the state of the neighborhood would allow.

“It is late, now,” said Rebecca to William; “let us separate. The morrow

will require our early attention, and Father Harris will be astir early

in the morning.”

“And he not the only one,” said William; “for some of us must go down

and bring the magistrate up, to perform the ceremony. We will meet early

to-morrow morning.”

Before the dawn of the day fixed on for her marriage, Rebecca left her

chamber, and hastened along the banks of the river to the jutting

promontory that she so much loved. Leaning there upon the side of a

rock, she gave vent to all those feelings which spring up in the heart

of a girl who stands upon the verge of marriage. Welling up from that

heart were the waters of pure, holy affection for Harris, and of deep,

abiding love for William. There was no want of all true feelings—no

doubt of the high deservings of her lover. But Rebecca’s education was

imperfect; it had never eradicated the strong feelings for her own

people; it had led her to see how rapid must be their decay, but it had

not made her cling with undivided love to those whose superiority in

certain points was exhibiting itself in the destruction of the natives;

for she saw that the friendship of the whites was as fatal to the

Indians as was their enmity. The lands passed as fast by cession as by

conquest, and vices were sent with the wampum of peace as readily as

with the weapon of war. And while she felt that she could apply no

remedy, or _become_ a preventive, she yet felt for those whose blood was

in her veins—whose fathers’ fame had been her glory.

“Oh, children of the forest,” said she, as she bent her eyes upon

mountains and table lands above, “ye are passing away like the leaves of

autumn. The frosts and the sunshine are alike fatal to you, and ere long

you will be known only by your decay. Men will _tell_ of your

glories—but who shall _see_ them? Dim shadows yet linger on the forest

edge, and I catch the view of half fading forms as I look along the

valley of the stream. Are these the spirits of my fathers come to chide

me, their daughter, for my apostacy? Alas! what an apostacy is that of

their sons, who retain the customs of the tribes, and yet adopt the

vices of the whites.”

“The light of another day is springing up, and a thousand shapes are

visible; are these spirit-hunters of the red men—do they sanctify the

night by their chase? They are not like the red men of those days.

Mighty ones they are, and they pursue the mammoth for their sport. But

how they depart before the coming light, as their descendants waste in

the influence of the arts of the white men!”

“But ought I to wish it otherwise? Will not science make more happy, and

religion repay by its influences all the evil which has been brought on

its name? Has it done it? Alas! I am distressed. What is to be the

effect of all? Are the white men, with their religion, to drive the red

men from their possession only to have more ample scope for vice, only

to waste each other by the fraud with which they, in most places,

overcome the Indians? or is the establishment of both to produce the

happiness to all which is promised by their leaders? And are these

doubts, these apparent difficulties, the result of my inability to judge

of what is to follow, as the vision is now disturbed by the uncertainty

of the dawning light, whose perfection will restore all things to their

proper appearance?”

“Oh, let me yet, as I shall abide with these conquerors of our people,

let me at least acknowledge that it is not they but their religion that

detains me. No, deeply as I reverence my Father Harris, and much as I

love William, I would join the wasting, the decaying remnant of my

tribe; and if I could not revenge their wrongs, I would die with them

undisgraced by treachery. But that religion—ah, they hold me there;

they have driven from my heart most of the creed of my childhood. Only

here and there is found a belief, green, from its association with

infancy, but still beautiful, still cherished. While they have erected

in my heart the form of their own faith, unfinished yet, but still

promising, still sheltering. They have dealt with me as with our

forests, in which our tribes had their home, they cut them down, leaving

here and there a tree to tell of the things that were, and placing

incomplete edifices for their own shelter—edifices that they promise

shall be sufficient and beautiful in time.”

The sun was rising above the horizon, and not a cloud stood in his whole

pathway to the west. The tops of the mountain caught and reflected its

first rays. As the warmth increased, the mists, which had fallen thick

toward the base of the hills, began slowly to rise and roll in massive

columns upward, or to pass off by the _gap_ through which the river

rushes. Rebecca gazed at the scene until her fancy moulded these morning

mists into the forms of cherished beings. The whole energies of her

tribe seemed to revive within her, and all of the wild and the unearthly

that distinguished the dreams of her childhood rushed back upon her

mind.

“I see you all,” said she, “chiefs, warriors and women. I know ye now;

every one has his form, and ye are returning from the hunting-field of

spirits. Ye return mournful, though borne down with game; sad, for ye

cross the fields which the whites have torn from your descendants;

angry, for a child of a warrior is to be of those who are your

enemies—and yonder group of little ones, they are my brothers and

sisters, airy ones now, but happy in the mimic hunt, happy till they

turn their faces on me, the last of all the household. And, father—oh,

my father, the death-wound is yet upon thy breast, as thou movest onward

in the air. Mother! mother! look not thus on thy child! Oh, turn not to

me that breast whence I drew my life-nurture; that breast on which I

rested when the life-drops were oozing forth from the wound which the

enemy inflicted. But they are happy—happy in their union, happy in the

smiles of the Great Spirit whom they adored in their homes and their

hunting-grounds, whom they propitiated by terrible vengeance upon those

who desecrated those homes and destroyed those hunting-grounds. They are

happy, for the mist that gathers round my mother’s brow is resplendent

with rainbow beams, and as she passes upward to the mountain’s summit,

she waves her hand to me in peace. Thy pardon and thy blessing, oh, my

mother—prostrate, I invoke them both.”

William, who had witnessed the last agonizing scene, then stepped

forward and raised the girl from the deep earth. She scarcely noticed

his presence, the wildness of her eye denoted thoughts differently

placed; and it was several minutes before she recovered her usual

self-possession.

“It is passed, William, and we will now return to the house.”

“But, Rebecca, why should you thus have exposed yourself and your health

by such a yielding to the influence of your feelings and your

imagination?”

“William, I am, or I would be, a Christian; and when I have given myself

to _you_ and to God, I would have no reserve in my heart from either,

and therefore, before the sacrifice was made, as the daughter of the

Judge of Israel went forth upon the high-places of her land to mourn, so

I came hither to weep for what I was to leave, and to leave that for

which I wept. The last sacrifice upon the altar of my fathers and my

fathers’ deities has been made. I have torn from my heart the flowers

which grew upon the Indian’s belief, and have prayed that the tree of

life may over-shadow the wild plants, that they blossom not again. I

have taken down from the recesses of my soul, the gods which my mother

enshrined there, and have taken leave of the living and the dead of my

father’s race. And now, William, now my beloved one, I am thine—thine

in all seasons and all changes—thine, loving and loved; but, oh, do not

forget that my mind, though dedicated to Christianity now, has been the

_home_ of the red man’s creed, and may yet while it is sanctified by the

new altar, reflect something of itself, its other self upon the purer

worship, as the temples dedicated to the pagan god seem to cast some air

of their origin upon the new and sanctified rites which they now

enclose; and in moments of feeling, or when some additional wrong to my

fathers’ race is done in the name of our new creed, bear with me, if for

a moment, I forget the blessed teaching of the gospel, and yield to the

earlier influences of blood, of education and patriotism. It shall not

be often, not for the world. Henceforth, my beloved one, I am thine; all

of childhood’s home—all of a people’s wrongs—all of a nation’s faith

and a nation’s gods, are given up—and all of thine adopted. Thy breast

shall be my pillow in trouble, and thy smile my token of joy; thy

welfare shall be my happiness, thy dwelling shall be my home, ‘thy

people shall be my people, and thy God my God.’”

William pressed to his heart the confiding, beautiful girl; and they

turned to leave the eminence upon which they stood, and to join the

family below.

The exceeding beauty of the morning induced them to look once more and

admire the scene. The whole broad river below them seemed one floating

mass of light; and as the current passed on, its surface was disturbed

by the boughs of the overhanging trees that dipped into the water, and

created ripples that reflected all the hues of the moving light. The

mountains in the west seemed clothed in gorgeous sunbeams, and nature

appeared to have assumed her richest garb, to bless the nuptials that

were about to take place.

“I love this scene,” said Rebecca, “it tranquilizes me—it soothes my

spirit, it elevates without agitating my mind—such a morning is a

teacher of religion.”

“The Spirit of God is teaching every where,” said William.

“True, true,” said Rebecca, “but I seem to lack some visible object,

something upon which my eye may rest, something like the ladder of

Jacob, by which I may ascend; the visible is necessary to me, to fix my

thought upon and draw it up to the invisible. Is not your creed

deficient in that?”

“Can there be a better man than Father Harris, and have you ever heard

of one less influenced by the visible and tangible, and more guided by

faith in the unseen?”

“True—but it is his goodness, his attainment in that grace which enable

him to dispense with the visible. You white men cut and blaze the trees

of the forest so that you may recognize the course by which you are to

reach a desired point, but the Indian passes onward through the densest

wood, with no visible sign, no outward evidence of the path.”

“But, Rebecca, the white men find that their cuttings and blazings are

imitated, so that it is difficult to tell in time which is the right

mark, and resort must be had yet to the invisible to correct the

visible. The former deceives us often—the latter never.”

Hand in hand the pair returned to the mansion of Mr. Harris, and the day

thus begun in sacrifice and prayer, was closed in festivity. And William

received to his arms his Indian bride.

The little enclosure at Harrisburg is a frail but eloquent memorial of

the virtue and sufferings of Mr. Harris, and the fidelity of Pompey. The

former handed down his name and his virtues to a numerous posterity.

Pompey, undoubtedly, is represented by some of his own color even in the

present day. The great reward which he claimed for his successful

exertions to save his master’s life, was permission to introduce a

fiddle into the settlement; and for years afterward the banks of the

Susquehanna were made melodious by the joyful notes which Pompey drew

from his favorite instrument, while blithely and strong was heard the

footfall of the young at night, as they danced to the music of the

Orpheus of their time.

William’s descendents are in and around Harrisburg, holding office when

they can get it, and dividing themselves between the two, or

occasionally among the many parties, so that the advantage of ascendency

by either fraction may not be entirely lost by all. These are not the

children of Rebecca; she died young—her frame of mind was not favorable

to long life. She died a Christian, firm, consistent, active, growing

always in faith, and full of good works; and yet it was remarked by the

excellent clergyman whose teaching she followed, that her mind seemed

never to have dismissed entirely the creed of her childhood—and all her

pure faith, all her Christian zeal, all her holy life, appeared to have

some tinge of the creed of her fathers—not to alter the body of her

faith, but merely to give it, at times, a color. “And,” said a successor

of that clergyman, “have not the teachings she adopted, teachings of

Christianity, always been thus affected by the previous character of the

community or individuals by which they have been received?” No

requirement diminished, no duty changed, no obligation dispensed, but a

sort of reservation of a non-essential, which served to reflect a

separate ray upon the admitted and the requisite. Religious truth,

though enforced by divine grace, must in general be conveyed by a human

medium, which will impart a portion of itself or its accidents, as the

color of the atmosphere through which light is conveyed to earth gives

hue and tinge to the rays, without diminishing essentially their powers

to guide by their light, or invigorate by their heat. Nay, when we

concentrate these rays to convey them to particular objects, the light

not only takes the tinge of the medium, but it has also the divergency

and eccentricity consequent upon the inequalities of surface, or the

impurities of the glass through which it comes.

Rebecca lived to bless her husband by her domestic virtues and her

unfailing affection. Her death was mourned wherever her beautiful

example of womanly virtue and Christian integrity was known.

[After the above narrative was prepared for the press, numerous

letters that passed between Rebecca and her school-mates—one or

two to Mr. Harris—and some to her lover, and two to her

husband, near the close of her life, were supplied to the writer

by the same person who furnished the materials for the story.

They could not well be introduced with the narrative, but may be

given hereafter, should it appear that they have interest enough

for the pages of this Magazine.]

* * * * *

TRANSLATION

OF A RECENTLY DISCOVERED FRAGMENT[1] OF A POEM BY SAPPHO.

BY G. HILL.

Thou’rt like the apple—maiden young and fair—

That sees its fellows gathered, one by one,

While, on the topmost bough, though ripe and rare,

It unmolested sits and blooms alone:

Forgotten? No—a mark for every eye,

But for the gazer’s longing hand too high.

-----

[1] Published in Walz, Rhetor. Græc. 8. 883.

* * * * *

TWO HOURS OF DOOM.

BY MRS. JULIET H. L. CAMPBELL.

HOUR I.—_A Betrothal._

The princes of the night came, one by one, into the halls of Heaven, and

each, from his refulgent throne, sped far and wide through space his

beams of glory. The earth saw the regal train, and rejoiced, saying, “I

am their sister;” then the shadows passed away from her bosom, and she

stood in radiance amid her starry compeers, sending back ray for ray.

“My Lillian, let us look upon the night,” cried Kenneth—and he led her

forth beneath the stars. They smiled upon the maid, and crowned her

forehead with their beams, and her beauty grew as lofty and mysterious

as their own.

The pair walked in silence, for each bosom throbbed heavily, with its

burden of unspoken love; they walked in silence, for youth was in

flushing, and they heeded not the speeding hours.

First Kenneth spoke, for man must _act_ while woman muses, and the

spells of night oppressed him.

“Look, Lillian, on the shining orbs above us, circling their mysterious

round! Knowest thou, the starry firmament is a vast prophecy of things

to be? Yon burning record of the decrees of fate rolls its stupendous

riddles in mighty round, and mock our earnest inquiry. The learning of

the Magi, the ‘Persians starry wit,’ may catch but faint and far-off

glimpses of the truths they blazon yet conceal. The boasted lore of the

Chaldean, reads but imperfectly their dim revealings, while the Gheber,

wiser in his ignorance than either, bows in worship to the celestial

mysteries he presumeth not to compass or comprehend.”

There was a majesty and gloom in the boy’s conceptions that charmed and

oppressed fair Lillian; and, as woman is prone to do, she turned from

all the rolling worlds of which he spoke, to the deep, silent, and no

less enigmatical world of her own heart.

He looked again upon the heavens on which was written, as he believed,

the fate of nations, while her meek eyes followed his, striving to read

from the jeweled scroll, her own doom.

“Kenneth,” she cried, abruptly, and in awe, “I feel that I am

approaching a crisis in my fate!”

“Thy fate, sweet one, is also written in letters of light above us. I am

not deeply versed in heavenly lore, but from thy presentiment and mine,

I read a crisis is at hand. Seest thou yon pale orb,” he continued,

raising his hand aloft, “my father told me once it shone upon _thy_

birth, and from that hour it has been the object of my vigil and study;

so pale, so pure, it seemeth like thy fair face set in heaven. Of late

methought it shone with sadder beam, and wandered from its track. See!”

he cried with a shout, “it journeys the skies, side by side, with yon

red-eyed planet.”

Lillian raised her soft eyes, and met the lurid glare of the blood-red

star.

“What orb is that?” she inquired, with a shudder, clinging closer to

Kenneth’s side.

“_The star of my nativity!_”

* * * * *

“Lillian! _my_ Lillian! tremble not, beloved! hath not kind Heaven given

thee to me?” He wound his arms around her frail form, and laid her to

his heart.

“Dark youth, I fear thee!” she shrieked, and bursting from his embrace,

fled into the night. Suddenly she paused, and covering her face with her

hands, crushed the big tears that were gushing from their fountains,

“ay!” she murmured, “but I love thee also!”

“Thou dost, my fawn!” said Kenneth, as he regained her side, “swear,

then, to be mine.”

The maiden hesitated, for the angel whose ward she was, whispered a

warning.

“Swear not, for his brow is dark and his heart fierce—his path lieth

through blood, and endeth in blackness!”

Then love lifted up his voice, crying, “What grief so great as parting

from thy beloved! What wo so heavy as a disappointed heart!”

And the maiden said, “I swear! Whether for good or evil, for blessing or

for blight, my doom is sealed, and I am thine.”

“The crisis is past, beloved,” whispered the wooer—“where is now thy

fear?”

The maiden abode in the halls of her sires, while the youth rode forth

intent on valiant deeds, for ’twas in the days when a hero’s laurels

were his bridal gift. But his heart was not strong in hope—neither was

it girt with patience—neither was it seasoned with denial; and

temptation beset him by the way and endurance failed, and when he

returned, his knightly spurs were dimmed, and tarnished his knightly

honor.

“Oh, spurn me not, beloved!” he cried, in agonized abasement.

And the lady answered, “Through glory and shame I will be true to thee.”

Then was Kenneth comforted by her tenderness, and strengthened by her

counsels—and he went forth with hope to retrieve the errors of the

past.

But the glory of his youth had departed, and the fear of God dwelt no

more in his bosom; and his heart was curdled by the scorn of men, and

hardened against his kind; and his right hand became a hand of power,

but it was red with wrath—and injustice, and oppression, and cruelty,

and wrong, and rapine, and murder, stalked in his train. Then he

returned to his lady, and stood before her with a sullen brow, saying,

“By my valor have I won my bride!”

“Ah, Kenneth!” she faltered, “thou hast despised my counsels, thou hast

mocked at my love; thy path hath been a path of blood, and thy crimes

rise mountain-high between thee and thy affianced! Oh, why hast thou

done this?”

The scales fell from his eyes in that pure presence, and looking back

over the guilt of years, he felt appalled by his own sins.

“The stars, in their courses, fought against me,”[2] he answered

gloomily—“it was my destiny.”

“Oh, abandon that fearful error, and cease to burden Fate with thy

misdeeds. Thy destiny hath been of thine own choosing. Didst thou not

turn a deaf ear to the pleadings of all good angels? Didst thou not

yield an easy prey to the devices of thine own heart? For the sake of

the future, look back upon the past, and tell me if thou canst not

recall the hour when two paths were spread before thee, and thou didst

choose thy lot; tell me no more of destiny!”

“My lady hath forgotten her meekness as well as her love.”

“Kenneth, reproach me not! I have wasted my youth in vigils for thee; I

have watched, and wept, and waited, now in hope, and anon in

hopelessness, until sorrow shadowed my father’s halls, and mildew

settled down on my heart. Now in the depths of my despair I love thee

still, but I _dare not_ wed thee! Go in peace; if man may ever meddle

with his fate, mine shall be of my own moulding.”

“Fashion it as thou wilt,” he answered fiercely, “_I will come to claim

thee in the appointed hour!_”

* * * * *

Fair Lillian sitteth in her husband’s home, but a great shadow lieth

athwart the hearth; ’tis the memory of an earlier, wilder, fonder love;

and the fierce fame of her warrior, reacheth her ever, terrible as the

roar of distant battle.

-----

[2]

The stars in their courses fought against Sisera.

JUDGES, chap. v., verse 20.

HOUR II.—_The Consummation._

The princes of the night mounted their flaming steeds and coursed

through heaven. Lillian sat in widow’s weeds, and watched them from her

great round tower. Suddenly the clang of a mailed heel rung on the

winding stair, and her cheek paled—for those halls no longer echoed

with martial sounds since Lord Ulric had been gathered home. Near and

more near, loud and more loud, and a warrior strode into the apartment,

and folded the lady in his embrace!

“_I have come!_”

Those old, familiar, long beloved tones, how they broke upon the

loneliness, thrilling to its centre her sorrow-stricken heart. What

marvel if she wept unresistingly on his broad breast, in her agony of

surprise.

“I have come to claim my bride!”

Then was the spell broken, and her soul awoke to a sense of its stern

resolves. She freed herself from that passionate embrace, saying,

“I may not wed thee, Kenneth.”

“But listen to my pleadings, my long lost one; canst thou not divinely

forgive the past, and be my guardian angel for the future? Hast thou

ceased to love, or hast thou learned to fear me?”

“Kenneth, thou art accursed of God, and abhorred of men, and yet I fear

thee not. Thou wert the lover of my youth, ever fond, ever tender; and

thy name, so dreaded in the land thou hast scourged, is to me but a

talisman of gentle memories. I fear thee not. But I have walked through

life with a strong hand on my heart, curbing its warm impulses, crushing

its fond love. It hath plead passionately for thee, but I hearkened not,

and by this bitter schooling have I learned to resist even _thee_.”

“And I, have I not, ’mid sin and sorrow, ’mid wreck of hopes and ruin of

soul, preserved undimmed my one bright dream of thee? Have I not sat by

a lonely hearth, while thy smile filled the home of my rival with joy?

Have I not forborne to tear thee thence, because I would not offer

violence to thee or thine? And now wilt thou reject the love which youth

hath sanctified, and manhood ripened?”

“Oh, why hast thou not wedded and forgotten me?” she cried, in anguish.

“Because the hope of thy pale waning beauty was dearer to my heart than

all the daughters of bloom. Because I would be ever ready for the hour

when fate should say, ‘arise, make ready thy bower for thy promised

bride;’ _that hour has come_! Mark the heavens where ’tis written, thou

art mine. Once, long ago, we looked upon the night with all its circling

stars; thou seest them now, as then, treading their solemn round,

unchanged, unchangeable. Not one of all the starry hosts may wander from

its appointed pathway; and canst thou, child of destiny, escape thy

fate? The hand that guides _them_, governs _thee_, and the decrees of

the Omnipotent have been, from all eternity, and are immutable.”

“Oh, tell me no more of thy stern, unpitying faith! thou hast imbued my

mind with thy belief, until, like the scorpion girt with fire, I have

almost turned on myself despairing. I would fain believe that the

struggles and strivings of humanity are not without their fruits; that

the fervent prayer, the earnest effort, are heard, and heeded; that man

may wrestle all night with his Maker, and when the morning breaks,

prevail.”[3]

Very touching was the fierce man’s tenderness, but the lady was strong

in her heart’s martyrdom. Then he turned away, saying,

“Thou hast destroyed the hope of a lifetime, and my father’s lore hath

failed me. How could I thus misread the stars!”

From the battlement he looked on heaven thus questioning, and the stars

grew dim beneath his gaze.

The orb that beamed upon his lady’s birth, sent down its calm, cold ray;

his own more fiery planet blazed in lurid light, while an ocean of space

rolled between.

“Lost to me!” he murmured.

As he spoke, the red planet shot madly from its sphere, careering

athwart the concave like a sword of fire, it rushed from being, and

deeper darkness brooded o’er the expanse.

Again his eye sought the milder light of the star he worshiped, when lo!

_it had been swept from the face of heaven_.

“Be it so, lost Pleiad!” cried the lover, and folding in his arms the

pallid lady, leaped from the turret, into the abyss below.

-----

[3] Exodus, chapter xxxii.

* * * * *

ERMENGARDE’S AWAKENING.

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

Dear God and must we see

All blissful things depart from _us_, or ere we go to THEE?

E. B. BARRETT.

It was an altar worthy of a god!

All of pure gold, in furnace fire refined;

And never foot profane had near it trod,

And never image had been there enshrined;

But now a radiant idol claimed the place,

And took it with a rare and royal grace.

And the proud woman thrilled to its false glory,

And when the murmur of her own true soul

Told in low, lute-tones Love’s impassioned story,

She dreamed the music from that statue stole,

And knelt adoring at the silent shrine

Her own divinity had mode divine.

And with a halo from her heart she crowned it,

That shed a spirit-light upon its face,

And garlands hung of soul-flowers fondly round it,

Wreathing its beauty with immortal grace,

And so she felt not, as she gazed, how cold

And calm that Eidolon of marble mould.

Like Egypt’s queen in her imperial play,

She, in abandonment more wildly sweet,

Melted the pearl of her pure _Life_ away,

And poured the rich libation at its feet,

And in exulting rapture _dreamed_ the smile

That should have answered in its eyes the while.

And all rare gifts she lavished on that altar,

Treasures the mines of India could not buy,

Nor did her foot-fall for a moment falter,

Though the world watched her with an evil eye,

And sad friends whispered “Soon she’ll wake to weep,

For lo! she walks in an enchanted sleep.”

Oh! glorious dreamer! with dark eyes upturned

In wondering worship to that godlike brow,

How the rare beauty of thy spirit burned

In the rapt gaze and in the glowing vow,

How didst thou waste on one thy soul should scorn

The glory of a blush that mocked the _Morn_!

She turned from all—from friendship and the world—

Only _Love_ knew the way to that dim glade,

And calm her sweet, yet queenly lip had curled

Had the world’s whisper reached her in that shade,

But she was deaf and dumb and blind to all,

Save to the charm that held her heart in thrall.

And Love, who loved her, flew at her sweet will,

Bringing all gems that hoard the rainbow’s splendor,

And singing-birds with magic in their trill,

And what wild-flowers fairy-land could lend her,

And flower and bird and jewel all were laid

To grace that golden altar in the Shade.

Fair was that sylvan solitude I ween—

The lady’s charmed and trancéd spirit lent

The starlight of its beauty to the scene,

And joy and music with the fountain went,

While in a still enchantment on its throne

The lucid statue cold and stately shone.

Love lent her, too, th’ enchanted lute he played

And she would let her light hand float at will

Across its chords of silver, half afraid,

Like a white lily on a murmuring rill,

Till Music’s soul, waked by that touch, took wing,

And mingling with it hers would soar and sing—

“Dost thou see—dost thou feel—oh, mine idol divine,

How I’ve yielded the soul of my soul for thy shrine?

Dost thou thrill to the tones of my melody sweet?

Does it glide to thy _heart_ on its musical feet?

Dost thou love the light touch of my hand as I twine

My passion-flower wreath for thy beauty benign?

“Dost thou know how I’ve gathered all gifts that I own

To bless and to brighten the place of thy throne,

How my thoughts like young singing-birds flutter and fly

With a song for thine ear and a gleam for thine eye,

How Truth’s precious gems, that drink sunbeams for wine,

Are wreathed into chaplets of light for thy shrine?

“How Fancy has woven her fairy-land flowers

To garland with odor and beauty thine hours,

While Feeling’s pure fountains play softly and free,

And chant in their falling ‘For thee! for thee!’

Dost thou feel—dost thou see—oh! mine idol divine,

How I’ve yielded the soul of my soul for thy shrine.”

Thus sang the lady, but her waking hour

Drew near; for when her passionate song was mute,

And no fond answer thrilled through that hushed bower

Into her listening heart, she laid the lute

Within her loved one’s clasp and prayed him play

Some idyl sweet to wile the hours away.

From his cold hand the lute dropped idly down

And broke in music at the false god’s feet;

Love’s lute! ah Heaven! how paled the peerless crown

Above that brow when with a quick wild beat

Of fear and shame and sorrow at her heart,

The lady from her dazzling dream did start.

And the dream fell beside the broken lute,

And the flowers faded in their fairy grace

And the fount stopped its glorious play, and mute

The birds their light wings shut in that sweet place,

While the deep night that veiled the woman’s soul

O’er shrine and idol cold and starless stole.

And in her desolate agony she cast

Her form beside Love’s shivered treasure there,

And cried, “Oh, God! my life of life is past!

And I am left alone with my despair.”

Hark! from the lute one low, melodious sigh

Thrilled to her heart a sad yet sweet reply.

Then through the darkness rose a voice in prayer,

“My Father! I have sinned ’gainst Thine and Thee.

The idol, whom I deemed so grandly fair

That its proud presence hid thy heaven from me,

Shorn of his glory, shrunk to common clay,

Behold for him and for my heart I pray.

“Take _Thou_ the lute—the shattered lute of love—

And teach my faltering hand to tune it right

To some dear, holy hymn—which, like a dove,

From silver fetters freed, may cleave the night,

And fluttering upward to thy starlit throne

Die at _Thy_ heart with blissful music moan.”

* * * * *

THE CAPTIVE OF YORK.

BY STELLA MARTIN.

The winter of 1692 was no mild specimen of the climate of the New

England wilds. The settlers on the inhospitable coast of Maine found its

severity to exceed all their apprehensions. The few comforts which they

had as yet been able to gather around them, were inadequate to the wants

of that long and dreary season. Many fell victims of hardships and

despondency; while not a few toiled on, cheerful and uncomplaining

examples of endurance and suffering. It was perhaps more fortunate for

the northern settlements than their pioneers, that they were commenced

in summer, for the cold and inclemency of their early winters were

enough to sadden the heart, and blast the hopes of the most visionary

dreamer. The stranger who built his rude open hut in pleasant June,

fanned by cool breezes during his summer toil, wot not that a few months

would bring a bleakness of which he had little conception. The

settlements on the Piscataqua are among the oldest in Maine; and to

those who first selected the romantic site of the now beautiful village

of York, it seemed enchanted land. Primeval forests covered the whole

country through which the Piscataqua and its Naiad Sisters wound their

way to the sea. The delicate foliage of the beech and poplar, the deep

sombre green of the hemlock and fir, the pale, graceful willow, and the

bright emerald maple, all blended to form a perfect forest robe, as yet

untouched by the devastating hand of man. Bald peaks lent wildness to

the scene, already diversified by the commanding banks of the rivers

which lay calmly mirrored in their deep, clear waters. No wonder the

early adventurers looked with rapturous delight upon the broad bays

studded with islands, the green promontories and quiet harbors into

which the streams widening their channels, gradually lost themselves in

the Atlantic. The sea-fowl bathed its drooping plumage unmolested on the

shores, the wild-cat ran at will, guided only by the impulses of its

savage nature, and the graceful deer proudly reared its antlered head,

and bounded away, the undisturbed inhabitant of the mighty wilderness.

To him who, tired with the bondage of the old world, sought refuge in

the new, these were glowing emblems of that liberty he so earnestly

longed for. He hailed the land spread out before him, in all the

magnificence of nature, as that which would realize his most chimerical

ideas of happiness. Imagination added to its charms, and converted what

was truly wild and beautiful into a paradise. The toils and dangers of

the frontier life vanished away; and with a buoyant heart the wanderer

adopted the unknown soil, alike ignorant and unmindful of the ills that

would cluster around his future path. When want shall have been

encountered in every form, sickness endured, famine driven from the

door, and “hope, the star that leads the weary on,” delusive hope, shall

whisper of bliss to come, he is destined to find in the savage tribes of

the country, enemies more formidable than the evils of his condition.

Hard fate! to survive the strife of the elements, to escape pestilence

and danger only to perish by a relentless _human_ foe.

The settlement of York had enjoyed several years of prosperity, the

effects of which were perceptible in a considerable degree of neatness

and comfort about its dwellings. This appearance of thrift made it a

surer mark for destruction. In January, 1692, a band of Abenakis and

French burst upon this defenseless village, “offering its inhabitants

captivity or death.” A terrible storm had just covered the earth with

snow, to a depth which would have proved a barrier to any but these

intrepid barbarians. They had walked on snow-shoes, the long distance

from the basin of the St. John’s, the difficulties of the way only

serving to increase their insatiable thirst for bloodshed. It was a

serene winter’s evening, when the Abenaki braves surrounded their

council-fire, a few miles from the doomed village, to determine upon

their mode of assault. The purity of nature in these snowy solitudes

strangely contrasted with the sanguinary deeds plotted there. She

witnesses in silence the offences of her children. She beholds the

members of the great brotherhood of man rise up and destroy each other,

yet thunders no warning to the victim, nor hurls the fire of heaven upon

the destroyer.

Stealthily advanced the murderers, while the peaceful inhabitants of

York were gathered around their happy firesides. Ah, never more will

those family groups meet around the altar of prayer, never again

together join the festive dance. That ringing war-whoop which strikes

the ear is the death-knell of the unsuspecting villagers. Mother, take a

last look at thy darling, ere its baby face is snatched forever from

you. Husband, clasp thy wife to thy bosom, for that fond embrace shall

be the last. Lover, thou art vainly striving to wrest thy cherished one

from the barbarian’s grasp—thy agonizing efforts to save her, make her

a prize in those savage eyes; and, unfortunate girl, instead of mingling

thy blood with thy kindred, a captivity awaits thee a thousand times

more horrible death.

This lot befell Amy Wakefield. She saw her mother fall lifeless from the

first blow of the tomahawk. Her father, with the fury of a madman,

sprung upon the assassin, and proved the avenger of his wife. Swift as

thought, however, he was overborne by the comrades of the dead Indian,

and he lay a mangled corse beside his beloved companion; one son and a

servant girl shared the same fate. Poor, gentle, timid Amy! there she

stood petrified by the awful sight before her, but she made no effort to

escape. Vain indeed would have been the attempt; her nonresistance saved

her life, and prolonged her sufferings. No scalping-knife was uplifted

over her head, but as if her sentence was written on her brow, they

proceeded without a moment’s hesitation to bind her hands behind her.

Richard Russel rushed into the street at the first alarm, and ye who

know a lover’s heart can tell why he flew with the speed of lightning,

to seek Amy Wakefield—his betrothed bride. He entered the dwelling

where he knew carnage and death were doing their dreadful work; but what

was danger to him, with such an object at stake!