CHAPTER IV.

And how were passed the flying hours of that last day, granted to the

young and the beloved, on earth? In desperate and wild, but vain

appeals, to her love of life—in still more mournful entreaties by her

devotion to them who were the joy of her existence, that she would

suffer them to bear her confession of penitence and faith to the pasha.

It was pitiful to see the gray-haired father at one moment pleading her

by every consideration, to take the words of the Mussulman upon her

lips, even if her heart rebelled, and the next, when her gentle, but

firmly expressed determination was reiterated, thanking God that He gave

to her strength to remain firm in the face of every temptation. It was

pitiful to see the hopeless, almost sullen agony of the younger man, as

he sat beside the condemned all these wretched hours, clasping her hands

within his own, and folding her so often to his bosom in a wordless

embrace.

Such tears were shed within that dismal cell as have no other source but

broken hearts; such sighs were breathed as only the autumn breeze gives

utterance to when the joy and the glory of earth is departing; such

prayers ascended, as the heart of man can alone conceive when every

earthly hope has failed, when the terrors of death, and the more

terrible agonies of life surround the helpless soul!

Once, when a chance word had called to mind the now almost forgotten,

but despised and hated Orien Fez, Myrrah was on the point of revealing

to Othniel the only cause she could conceive of his malice against her.

But the reflection that such knowledge would only spur her beloved on to

the committal of deeds which would end fatally to him, while it could

not possibly avail even if made known to the prejudiced mind of the

pasha, in securing her pardon and liberation—made her hesitate, and

finally resolve in carrying that slight clue to the cause of her arrest,

into the silence and oblivion of the grave.

Only once did she take the name of the accuser on her lips, and then it

was to implore Othniel to forgive him his part in their calamity, and to

leave him to the mercy of God.

And the fiery youth promised it—revenge and hate—all the evil passions

which have to do with life, died that day within him—the future time,

after that woful night on which he thought with agony, heaven with

Myrrah was all he dared to hope or think of—it was a thought of

blessedness—a dream, a hope which the merciful spirit of God breathed

into his soul when it laid in the dust of despair.

The hours of daylight waned, night was fast approaching—then came forth

from the prison cell Othniel, and on his arm was leaning the stricken

father, Raguel. The old man’s eyes had looked their last upon the fair

young idol which he worshiped with a reverence approaching that which he

held for his Maker.

He wept not as the guard turned the key behind him on the iron door,

which would open again ere long that _she_ might be led forth to—death.

He made no resistance as they went with him to his deserted dwelling. A

sense of the awful bereavement seemed to have passed away—he even

smiled as they led him through the cheerful rooms of the home that was

always made blessed by her presence—and said how pleasant it was to be

in one’s home again, away from the dark and frightful prison. There was

a bird of splendid plumage caged in the old man’s parlor, (every portion

of which bore evidence of a woman’s frequent presence and exquisite

taste,) it was the young girl’s pet—the gift of Othniel in days long

since gone by. The noise of the intruders on the silence of the house,

startled the little warbler, and he poured forth the most delicious

flood of melody; the sound aroused the old man, with an exclamation of

delight he threw himself upon the couch near by, and listened in rapt

astonishment and joy to the exquisite songster.

Filled with gloomy foreboding as he noticed this sudden and total change

in the old Jew, Othniel left him in the care of gentle friends, and

hastened away in the direction of the prison once more.

The sun was setting as he neared the great walls, and the youth saw a

procession moving from the gates, and a band of soldiers was guarding

the death-doomed prisoner! The crowd gathered and increased with every

step of the slowly moving procession—in solemn silence Jew and

Mahommedan strode together, for the moment forgetful of all save the

mournful cause which brought them there.

A moment Othniel moved on hastily, he would rejoin Myrrah, would be with

her to the last—then a remembrance of his own weakness, and of the

effect his sorrow might produce upon her, stayed him—and apart from the

crowd he walked or crept, slowly and heavily, for the burden of his

unutterable sorrow was too great to bear.

Afar in the distance, beyond the confines of the town, the funeral pile

was to be made—the sacrifice pure and innocent as was ever brought to

the altar, was to be offered up.

Alone, deprived of her comforting words, and removed from the

restraining presence of the old man, Othniel thought on all that she had

been to him in the happy past, of all that she might have been in that

future to which they were wont to look with so much hope. He called to

mind her beauty, her youth, and her innocence; the love which she

cherished for all that was good, and pure, and true; for her aged

father, and for his unworthy self.

And as he thought, darker and darker grew the cloud that swept over his

mind; the lightning of hope one second blazed athwart it, but was close

followed by the heavy pealing thunder of despair. His step grew feeble

and slow. The crowd was fast passing by him, soon they were all gone,

and the youth still tried to totter on, as a feeble little child—for

what? to look once more, but once on her beloved face—but not to

witness her agony, he could not endure that. Faintness crept over his

limbs—his eyes became dim—slower and slower was his step, but still he

strove desperately to move on in that direction in which the multitude

had gone.

At last he was forced to pause—his strength had all deserted him. There

were trees growing by the wayside, and a little spring wound through the

pleasant grove. Othniel reached the shade, and half-fainting, flung

himself upon the ground. He bathed his burning brow in the cool stream,

he drank of the reviving waters, but though by degrees strength came

again to his limbs, there was a faintness in his heart that would not

pass.

Soon impelled irresistibly to the road-side again, Othniel looked toward

the north—there whither the crowd had gone. Great Heaven! the black,

hateful smoke already was staining the pure air! and a murmur that arose

from the great mass of people, a faint sound of wo, was wafted to his

ear on the soft breath of evening. Inspired with new life and strength,

he moved again swiftly on. He must see indeed if it were indeed a

reality that they would sacrifice his bride, his worshiped Myrrah, to

that hellish lie the Moor had conceived. The weakness of limb was gone

with that thought. Forward he rushed as borne on the eagle’s wings,

until he stood with the great multitude.

For a moment his heart failed him, and Othniel stood gazing on the armed

guard who were ranged about the prisoner, on the blazing faggots, on the

weeping men and women—on the pallid and sorrowful countenance of the

pasha, on the motionless Orien Fez where he proudly stood with his

powerful relatives, and on her, his beloved, adored Myrrah, who stood so

calm, so brave before the kindled fire, that was kindled to consume

_her_. Looking upon her as she stood thus, alone and unsupported, save

by the inward sustaining consciousness of right and innocence, his

resolve to only look and then depart, was broken; he lost all

self-control, and with the force of a whirlwind rushed through the

dense, astonished mass, that gave way right and left before him; past

the ranks of vigilant soldiery with maniac speed, until in the centre of

the awfully charmed circle, he flung himself before the pale, loving,

and forgiving idol, about to be crushed and destroyed by the hand of

power.

In those past moments, so fraught with horror to all about her, Othniel

had been in all her thoughts—but she had hoped to never see his face on

earth again—she had hoped that his dear voice might not come, drowning

the voice of the angel God had sent to comfort and to strengthen her.

“Othniel!”

“Myrrah!”

None strove to separate them, as they stood clasped thus in a last, fond

embrace. Only one whispered word of deathless love was

interchanged—only one silent prayer that moment heard in Heaven for

each other’s peace, and their arms unclasped; they stood pale and

trembling, gazing on one another, and then Othniel was gone.

A deep-drawn sigh escaped the awe-struck crowd as that last evidence of

human love had passed, and the poor girl lifted her eyes to heaven,

knowing that consolation and strength could alone come from thence.

The sun had quite sunk, and the long twilight began.

There was not a fragment of cloud in all the clear, calm sky—there was

a stillness, holy, soul-elevating on the earth—and the brightness of

the Father’s glory seemed alone waiting the frail child of earth, as she

stood there to offer life and all its blessedness and joy, to a higher

love, a loftier and purer faith.

They bound her to the stake; the flames—the hot and angry flames

pressed closely on her lovely form, which _he_ had but now clasped to

his breaking heart. And when the stars came out in heaven, and a

horrible loneliness crept over that deserted place—where a dense black

cloud ascended, and the flames had died away, there was another saint in

heaven worthy to rest in Abraham’s bosom!

* * * * *

There was silence that night in Myrrah’s earthly home—an old man slept

upon the couch her fairy form had ofttimes pressed—slept, but he

dreamed not. His eyes were closed—she was not there to watch his quiet

slumber—there was a sign of such deep peace laid upon his brow as

Myrrah never saw there; Raguel’s heart had ceased its pulsations—the

father was sleeping the eternal sleep!

The calmness and the smiles which the amazed friends beheld in him as he

came from that last parting with his child, were but the presage of the

everlasting calmness, the unfading smile, for the old man’s spirit had

sought the distant land ere another morning dawned—called home by the

merciful and loving Father of the Gentile and the Jew.

* * * * *

And Othniel again became a wanderer. Not a murderer, for Myrrah’s

parting counsel and entreaty had saved him from blood-guiltiness—and

the life of Orien Fez was never required at _his_ hands. But Othniel

died young, when his heart had learned to say, “God is merciful—His

will is best,” and the sands of the desert were his resting-place.

* * * * *

NIGHT THOUGHTS.

BY GIFTIE.

DARKNESS is on the wave,

The night wind hummeth low,

And through the soft bright air the gleams

Of moonlight come and go,

And all is hushed to rest

Upon Sleep’s quiet breast,

All save the human heart, that sighing waketh still—

The heart, that never sleeping—

Its lonely vigil keeping—

Findeth still naught on earth its depths to fill.

Thou art like Sleep, oh, Night!

Thou hast a thrilling power,

To awe, e’en with thy loveliest things,

The heart in this still hour.

Thou bringest up the past—

All bright things we have lost—

The dead whom we have loved look on us from the skies,

Yet naught of fear or wo,

That cloud man’s life below,

Is in the gaze of their calm spiritual eyes.

Ay—faces of the dead

Look downward from the sky.

They wear the same loved look and mien

They wore in days gone by,

Yet something dimly there.

Though cheek and brow be fair,

Says chillingly that human love hath passed away.

They care for us no more—

Those dwellers on the shore

Where night is lost in heaven’s effulgent day.

Still—all is still around;

I hear the sound of streams,

That through the long grass singing flow

Beneath the starlight beams

Thus let my soul repose,

Serene ’mid earthly woes,

Till death shall come and bid its longings cease,

Till I quench this weary thirst,

Where immortal fountains burst,

And heavenly voices welcome me to peace.

* * * * *

BALLADS OF THE CAMPAIGN IN MEXICO.

BY HENRY KIRBY BENNER, U. S. A.

[Illustration: PALO ALTO.]

THE army lay in quiet rest: for many a weary league

Had we marched in battle order, combating with fatigue;

But when Point Isabel arose between us and the sun,

And the evening gun exploded, we felt our toil was done,

And we laid us down in silence, and we slept without alarm,

Each soldier resting on the ground, with his head across his arm.

But when the gray of morning made twilight in the east,

Like shadows, from the prairie arose both man and beast;

And the soldiers stretched their arms, and the steeds with neigh and

stamp,

With the rattling rolling reveillé put motion in the camp;

And the sunrise-gun boomed loudly, when, as its sound declined,

A dull, funereal response rolled heavily down the wind.

The soldiers paused and listened, each with questions in his eyes,

As round and red the tropic sun walked, Mars-like, up the skies;—

It was no echo; never yet made echo sound like that,

For echo lives in the mountain glen, and not on the prairie flat:

We clasped our muskets closer as we hurried to parade,

Our beating hearts replying to the distant cannonade.

Not a word had yet been spoken, though, still, the cumbrous sound

Came rolling, like a tumbril, over the damp and dewy ground;

But beetling brows and heaving breasts and half-suspended sighs

Spoke the anger of the passionate hearts whose lightning lit our eyes;

Then a murmur rose along our ranks no discipline could drown,

And the burthen of the chorus was the syllables—“Fort Brown!”

Just then our gallant general, on his favorite white horse,

Rode slowly and serenely, like a father, through his force;

But as the ranks “presented arms,” another murmur ran—

“God bless old Rough and Ready,” loud and deep, from man to man.

The brave old heart looked gratified, but his eyes sunk slowly down,

For he thought of his companions who were battling at Fort Brown.

But scarcely had they fallen, when the air became so still

We heard the campanero[2] cry a league off, on the hill.

The old man’s gray eyes glistened, and his horse reversed his ears,

And stamped his hoofs, and neighed aloud, as laughing at our fears:

We stood like statues, listening, when TAYLOR made a sign,

And WALKER left his Rangers, riding quickly down the line.

That night the Texan hero was missed by all our men;

But we smiled, for well we knew that he soon would come again,

For a braver, or a better, or a more chivalrous knight

Never put his lance in rest in the days when might was right;

And he had the fox’s cunning, and the eagle’s restless eye,

With his courage, to see danger, and that danger to defy.

Two days passed by, and hour by hour the army moved, with gloom

On heart and soul, as though each man stood gazing on his tomb;

But all at once a sudden cry!—our hearts sprung, like a steed

Who sees the flash and hears the gun, then headlong ploughs the mead—

Then Walker’s name—another shout!—and each one, with content

In breast and brain, accoutred, rushed delighted from his tent.

We all knew what was coming, when at the reveillé,

We saw the Texan head his men, and heard the laugh of MAY,

For all had learned the news, and knew, that ere two suns went down

Our army would be rolling, like a tempest, on Fort Brown;

And that the foe in thousands were gathering in our way—

Human panthers, couched in silence, expectant of their prey.

At last we heard the order, and along the grassy plain

Our army, like a sparkling snake, uncoiled its glittering train,

And silently, but earnestly, we marched from dawn till night,

And then laid down in silence till the breaking of the light:

No fires disturbed the darkness, no sound betrayed our camp,

Save, at intervals the countersign, with the sentinel’s measured

tramp.

Next morning we pursued our march: it was a sultry day;

The sunlight flickered like a flame along our sandy way;

But no one lingered, for we knew our foemen were before,

And, like blood-hounds howling on the scent, we trailed the distant

gore;

For we thought of our associates, and the thought had power to drown

All human feelings, for we heard the cannon at Fort Brown.

For twelve miles unmolested had we marched, when brazen noon

Beheld the enemy deploy along the green lagoon:

Our hearts beat high, for we were few, and scarcely one before

Had fleshed his sword in battle, or had heard the cannon’s roar;

But Lexington and Concord and Bunker-Hill beheld

Just such recruits victorious in the iron days of old.

And now the word was passed—to halt, and each, in turn, was seen

To stoop beside the limpid lake and fill his hot canteen;

And then the order came to march; and now our foemen lay

A musket shot before us, a barrier in our way,

When, like a Paladin of old, BLAKE, brave as brave could be,

Sprung from the lines, and spurred his steed along the grassy lea.

We saw him gallop toward the foe, and our passions thrilled us, when

We viewed him ride along their lines and coolly count their men,

And turn and gallop backward, and grasp our general’s hand,

Then silently resume his place, and head his little band:

We paused, when, rushing, roaring, whirling, whistling, wildly by,

Came the iron rain of Battle, while his thunder shook the sky.

Like a cloud the smoke closed round, and like steeds to frenzy lashed

The black eyes of our batteries their deadly fury flashed:

We were maniacs; we were furies; we were fiends, not mortal men,

And each one fought as if his arm contained the strength of ten;

But the smoke grew denser round us, for, like a funeral pyre,

The prairie blazed before our eyes—a sea of surging fire.

It was a fearful sight, but we fought for life and fame,

And incessantly and dauntlessly we answered flame with flame,

When, breaking from the enemy’s left, a thousand lancers dashed,

A human avalanche, on us; but our batteries fiercely flashed,

And we drove them back like deer; but our brains went round and round,

When RINGOLD, staggering on his steed, fell, dying, to the ground!

But RIDGELY took the hero’s place, and, wheeling to the right,

Plunged with his light artillery in the thickest of the fight;

And DUNCAN, wheeling to the left, poured in his shot like rain,

While our never-ceasing muskets, like a hurricane swept the plain.

One moment, like a herd of wolves, they stood, then broke and fled,

As our army dashed in swift pursuit o’er the dying and the dead!

But the sun was setting fast, and darkness slowly fell,

Like a pall, above the fallen who had fought so long and well;

And we heard our leader’s summons, and our trumpets, call us back,

To refreshment and repose in our lonely bivouac;

And we laid us down in silence, surrounded by the slain,

And slept the sleep of conquerors on Palo Alto’s plain.

-----

[2] The _Campanero_, a Mexican bird: so called from its cry, which

resembles the clang of a bell.

* * * * *

THE WILKINSONS.

A TRUE STORY

BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER.

MORE than fifty years ago, I was wont to sit at the feet of a lady, then

advancing considerably in years, and to listen to her narrative of

Indian wars and French aggressions, until it seemed to me, on closing my

eyes, that I could call before me troops of hostile aborigines dancing,

by the light of a burning dwelling, around prostrate prisoners, and

celebrating their victory with tortures upon the victims of their

vengeance. Or I could discern in the distance the fleets or troops of

the French king, rushing upon some weakly defended colonial settlement,

and sweeping away the inhabitants, as if the full reward of a

Frenchman’s toil was an Englishman’s blood. I cannot say that I had any

very correct view of the geographical limits where such scenes were

enacted; nor am I able now to say that my conceptions of the French or

Indian character were made wholly faultless by the exactness of the

lady’s account. ’Tis marvelous how the minds of some persons become

warped by early prejudices or _fears_, but my instructive female friend,

while she was no exception to the general rule, did not, I imagine,

carry her prejudices much beyond those of persons who would probably

sneer at, if not condemn her, should I tell the tales as she narrated

them to me. But I cannot so tell them. Often indeed have I tried to

recall the story, to give it shape and continuity, but in vain; I can

only recollect some vague fragments of different tales, which she deemed

history, and bring back the impression which her narrative caused upon

my mind. It is certainly a sort of pleasure thus to fish in pools

whither are gathered the currents of other years, and seek to drag to

the shore, for present use, what has so long remained undisturbed

beneath the waters. It is pleasant but profitless, for I cannot succeed;

and even if I could, is it likely that what was so calculated to amuse

me as a child, would be profitable and pleasant with half a century’s

experience on my head since they were made its tenants?

An opportunity occurred last summer to refresh my memory, while I was on

a visit to that part of the country in which I heard the stories. The

good old woman had survived those who started in life with her, had

buried the companions of her children, and witnessed indeed the

sepulture, or mourned the death of most of the children of those who had

been her contemporaries; but she survived, and when I presented myself

before her she was knitting what appeared to be the mate of the same

stocking upon which she was engaged two generations back. Time had done

no more for her locks than he had for mine, and so we met on conditions

as newly equal as were those which distinguished our circumstances fifty

years before. After some conversation, by which I supplied, at her

request, information that served as some required links to the chain of

my own history, I ventured to ask for a repetition of one or two of

those stories which were wont, in olden times, to keep my little feet

from the ice, and my tender hands from the snow-balls.

“Why, don’t you remember them?” said she.

“Not the narrative, but I distinctly recall some incidents, and the

general effect.”

“But you must remember them, for Mr. Wilmer’s daughter has frequently

read to me some of your stories, in which I recognised my own share in

the composition.”

“It may be so. I may have drawn upon memory instead of imagination, and

thus have been retailing your supplies instead of dealing in my own

wares. And to say the truth, Aunt Sarah, I should be very happy now to

owe you credit for a whole story.”

“Alas! I have found so few who would listen to the whole of any story,

that I have forgotten most that I ever knew, and as books have been

greatly multiplied of late, neither I nor those who would have been my

auditors have any thing to regret.”

“Cannot you recall the principal events in the account which you gave me

of the Wilkinson family?”

“If you will have patience with my feeble voice, and assist with your

own recollection my even more feeble memory, I will attempt that story,

especially as certain events have served to keep a portion of it, at

least, fresh in my mind, and especially as the act of narrating it will

call back to my memory the times when I hired you to forbear outdoor

sports, too rude, in the weather too inclement for your tender age. I

have always considered that Providence had much to do with the affairs

of

‘THE WILKINSON FAMILY.’”

The persons concerned in the narrative which I have to repeat, are now

nearly all departed. Some sleep beneath the sod in the rear of the

meeting-house on yonder hill, and some are of the number of those who

wait until the sea shall give up its dead, and like the informant of Job

I may almost say, “that I only have escaped to tell.”

One day the stage which passed between Plymouth and Boston, at stated

periods, and rarely varying in its time of passing any particular point

more than two or three hours, (the whole distance, you know, is now

performed in one hour and a half by rail-road.) One day the stage

stopped at the small house of Mrs. Wendall, near Stony Brook, and a

young, well-dressed lady was seen to alight, with an infant, and enter

the house. A large trunk was deposited, and the stage passed on. It was

soon known throughout the village that a lady with whom Mrs. Wendall had

formed an acquaintance at a boarding-house in Boston, had come to spend

some time with her. Curiosity and courtesy induced several persons to

call on Mrs. W. and her new guest, though little was seen of the latter,

excepting on Sunday, when she was early at meeting, and devout in her

deportment. She was handsome certainly, and much more refined in her

manners than most of our people. She declined entering into much social

intercourse, assigning as a reason that she was in delicate health, and

censure was therefore busy with her name, and the conduct of Mrs. W. for

receiving and entertaining her. But an application having been made,

about this time, to the clergyman to admit her to membership in the

church, certain papers were exhibited _to him_, and his sanction of her

wish, and his introducing her to his family, at once settled the

question of propriety. To a few leading questions, which some of her

more inquisitive female neighbors chose to put, in what they denominated

a spirit of Christian feeling, and which they hoped would be answered

with Christian candor, the lady gave no definite answer, but contented

herself and quieted the guests with the remark, that whatever she had to

say of herself she would make known without interrogation, and whenever

she declined an answer to such questions as had been put, it would be

because such an answer involved the secrets of other persons.

This mode of treating the inquisitive was effective if not satisfactory,

and as Mrs. Bertrand did not thrust herself upon any one, and as both

the clergyman and Mrs. W. were satisfied with the lady, things were

allowed to remain. It was supposed that Mrs. Wendall, in her semi-annual

visits to Boston, received some money for Mrs. Bertrand. And at the

death of Mrs. Wendall, Mrs. B. entered upon the possession of her neat

house, and became the head of a little family, consisting of herself,

her daughter Amelia, and one female in the character of assistant.

The education of Amelia was conducted by her mother—we had then no

school in which _education_ could be acquired—and the home lessons, by

precept and example, which Mrs. B. gave to her daughter were effective

in the formation of one of the most lovely characters that ever blessed

our neighborhood. The melancholy, fixed and sometimes communicative, of

the mother had an effect upon the daughter. Not indeed to infuse into

her moral character any morbid sensibility, but to check the exuberance

of youthful feeling, and to chasten and direct a girlish fancy. There

was religion, too, in all her thoughts—religion lying at the foundation

of her character—religion operating upon all her plans and directing

all their execution. There was no time when she seemed without this

power, no time when she came into its possession. She lived in the

atmosphere of her mother; she was from the cradle a child of prayer, and

she participated in thousands of acts of goodness and plans of

beneficence, of which none but herself and mother knew the source, but

which made the heart of the afflicted beat with joy.

While such goodness blessed the dwelling of Mrs. Bertrand, it was

diffused through the neighborhood.

I dwell on these things because I have always thought that the

loveliness of Mrs. B.’s little family circle, though peculiar,

undoubtedly, was imitable, and that the same education in the parent,

and the same care for the child, would result in similar excellencies.

But somehow, I never could make my views understood—and people around

seemed to be impressed with the idea that what they admired in the

mother and daughter was some special endowment by Providence, not

attainable by any others. It is in this matter pretty much as it was

with the minister’s garden—all admired its beauty, and each was willing

to share in the excellence of its produce, but we had few who were

willing to think that its beauty and usefulness resulted from his

culture, and that with the same care their own weedy patch might have

become rich in beauty and profitable in fruits.

Such, however, was the chastened excellence of Mrs. Bertrand’s

character, such the beauty of her life, I might add, indeed, of her

person, and such the sweetness of disposition and almost angelic temper

and devotion of Amelia, that perhaps it was not strange that many should

regard their domestic and social virtues and their Christian graces as

inimitable. Oh, how often have I sat down in my chamber and resolved,

with God’s blessing, to copy into my heart some of the heavenly lessons

of their lives, and to exhibit in my conduct and conversation something

of the lesser graces of this mother and her daughter. Alas! while I feel

much benefit in myself from the examples and excellence with which I was

occasionally associated, I have little hope that I ever made others

sensible of my efforts.

It is certain that our whole town felt and acknowledged the benefit of

Mrs. Bertrand’s residence among us; and, strange as it may appear, I do

not remember that any envious tongues were employed to diminish the

credit of her efforts, or to lessen her power of usefulness. It was a

beautiful homage to female excellence which our neighborhood paid to the

virtues of mother and daughter, and I have often thought that some

credit was due to us all for thus appreciating what was so truly

beautiful, without allowing the disparity between us and them to excite

envy. Perhaps, however, it was the vast difference between us that

served to keep down jealousy.

During a violent gale that followed the vernal equinox, a vessel coming,

I think, from Havana, and bound for Boston, was wrecked on one of the

outer capes of the bay. She strode at some distance from the shore; and

went to pieces in the gale. It was believed that all on board had

perished as several dead bodies washed ashore. One person, however, was

taken up lashed to a spar; he exhibited some evidence of remaining

vitality, and was put into a vessel to be conveyed to Plymouth, but the

tide and wind favored the landing at this end of the bay, and he was

conveyed to a solitary house on the point of land at the mouth of the

river. There medical men ascertained that an arm was broken, and some

injury sustained in one of the sufferer’s legs. Surgical aid was given,

and careful nursing was required. This was most difficult to

procure—money was to be had, for the pockets of the sufferer were

filled with gold coin, and subsequently portions of the ceiling of the

ship’s cabin which washed ashore, were found to be studded with guineas,

driven into the boards that they might drift ashore. As the suffering

man was found to have similar coin with him, it was supposed that these

waifs were his also.

Mrs. Bertrand was at the time quite too unwell to visit the Nook, as the

place was called, where the sick man lay—so Amelia went with such

appliances for the sick chamber as her mother could send, and afterward

she obtained permission of her mother to remain and assist one of the

other persons of the village to take care of the sick man, that the

family whose rooms he occupied, might not be drawn from their necessary

labor.

The shipwrecked person seemed to be about forty years of age; it was

difficult to judge of his person, but his face and head were attractive.

He was rather patient than resigned; and if he forbore to complain of

his suffering, it was evident that the pride of a man habitually

trusting to himself, rather than the Christian submitting to Providence,

restrained his tongue.

There was nothing in the case of the sufferer to render his situation

particularly perilous, unless a fever should supervene, so said the

doctor, but he also confessed that the symptoms indicated more than

ordinary exhaustion of shipwreck and the consequence of broken limbs, so

he advised a disposition of worldly affairs, as one of the best means of

tranquillizing his system.

In the night, while Amelia relieved the watch of the other person, the

sufferer called her to him, and when she had disposed his limbs in a

favorable position, he remarked that during the whole of her kind

attendance on him he had never seen her face—her voice he had heard, it

seemed familiar to him, and the name by which she was called was one

that he could never forget.

Amelia drew the curtain aside, and the light of the night-lamp gave the

patient a full view of her face. He started:

“And that face, too!—looks and name, too! Do I dream, or is it real?”

“What do you see?” said Amelia with kindness. “You seem astonished at my

name—is it so unusual, or so familiar to you?”

“You surely are not of this place? And the name—”

“I _am_ of this place—though I was not born here—and though _Amelia_

is the name of my mother, I have reason to believe that I was named for

the daughter of one of our excellent neighbors.”

“It is so—yes. I must have been dreaming—perhaps I am feverish. Will

you talk a little, however, and let me hear your voice?”

“If you feel able to hear me _talk_, perhaps you would prefer to hear me

read a short passage in the Bible.”

The patient rather _consented_, than desired it.

There was the next day a much longer conversation between the patient

and his young nurse, in which he took occasion to utter opinions upon

religious matters quite heretical.

“I did not come hither, captain,” said Amelia, “to dispute upon

religious subjects with you. I am no disputant. It is my duty, however,

to say distinctly, lest you should mistake my silence, that in my

opinion you are quite wrong, and that your present situation is such as

to render your irreligious impressions the more fearful to me as they

are the more dangerous to you.”

“Why then will you not discuss the question of the truth of Christianity

with me?”

“Simply because I do not think that I am competent to the task; and—but

no.”

“What do you mean by your unassigned second reason?”

“I mean simply that I do not think you wish to be convinced of the truth

of religion.”

“That is hard—but I do wish to believe it if it is true.”

“Captain Wilkinson, if you really wish to believe in the great truths of

Christianity, I will invite the clergyman to come down hither and

converse with you. Tell me—not now, but tell me after thinking maturely

upon it, say this evening, whether you really desire information.”

At night it was again Amelia’s turn to sit with the patient. He

intimated that he continued of the same opinion.

“Then I will send for the minister.”

“Let me, while you remain, talk with you, we will have the parson

afterward.”

Considerable time was spent by the captain in presenting his views of

theology. They were crude and disjointed. He had been poorly instructed,

and having led a life of great freedom he felt it much easier to deny

the existence of any law, than to reconcile his conduct to the

requirements of what was declared to be a divine law. “Nay,” said he,

“truth, honesty, sincerity, sobriety, and all these virtues, are only

the result of long experience, and men willing to enforce them as a sort

of mercantile convenience have declared them to be a part of the

requirements of a divine power. The very fact that they are found to be

convenient to social and public life, proves that they are mere

deductions from general experience, and not the requirements of God.”

“So then you think that a God who is the father as well as the creator

of mankind, would not make the rules which He gave for man’s government

subservient to man’s happiness?”

“Tell me, Amelia, does your happiness result from your obedience?”

“So far as I am obedient I am happy. It is my mortification to believe

that my obedience is too often in the _act_, rather than in the will. It

is easy for me to obey the command of my mother and to have her

satisfied—but God who sees the heart, undoubtedly judges me closer, and

knowing it, I lack the happiness which perfect obedience would insure.”

“Do you see the relation between the actor of a present life and his

happiness or misery?”

“No, I do not. But I believe that such a relation does exist, and though

I may not be able now to show that relation in others, yet I believe it

becomes manifest at some period; certainly where they are not traceable

in this world they become evident in the next.”

“That next world is a sort of safety-valve to those who argue on

religious topics with men like me. But if you could show me the

relations which exist between your conduct and your present situation,

or the dependence of my situation upon my present conduct, I might

believe that there was some law—and when there is a law there must be a

law-giver.”

“Alas, captain, the discussion of causes and effects will not much

benefit you at the present time, especially with such an one as I for an

expounder. What you need is not argument, but reflection. Be assured of

one thing, religion has had stronger antagonists than you, and they have

been defeated, convinced, converted. But what you need—and captain you

do need _that_—is to cease to argue in your own breast, and against

what I perceive to be your own convictions—confess plainly now that you

have made up your scepticism to meet certain circumstances of your own

life, and that you are not prepared to admit of the connection of

revealed religion and the terrible consequences of a neglect of its

requirements.”

“What circumstance of my life,” said the captain, with much emphasis,

“what circumstance of my life has thus induced me to shut my eyes and

heart against truth?”

“That I do not know. But I believe if you will go over in your own mind

candidly the events of your life, you will confess that, if they have

not brought upon you the present fearful visitations, they have at least

served to make you argue yourself into infidelity.”

“Amelia, what you say may be true—I will think of the matter. It would

be curious if I should be brought back to my early belief by one so

young and delicate as you.”

“My youth and ignorance may be altogether in favor of such a result. You

can have little or no pride in a discussion with me, and thus, instead

of seeking to sustain an argument for the sake of a triumph, you might

be willing to listen to the truths which I utter for the sake of the

truth. But you intimated a disposition to review your life, and see

whether you cannot find some relation between your past conduct and your

present scepticism. And permit me to say that your present situation,

though not dangerous perhaps, is one that ought to suggest to you the

inquiry, whether the foundation on which you have placed your future

condition is safe, and the conversation which we have already had is as

much I am sure as the doctor would permit were he here. Sleep will be

advantageous to your physical powers. I am confident that calm

reflection, and honest retrospection must be profitable to your mind.”

“She talks like a parson,” said the captain, as he settled himself for

sleep or for thought.

More than two hours had elapsed before Amelia could discover that her

patient was asleep, though he was perfectly still. At length the heavy,

regular breathing denoted that he had succeeded in his effort to sleep,

or had failed in his efforts to keep awake.

Before Amelia saw the captain again she had visited her mother and made

her acquainted with the state of the patient’s mind. Mrs. B. could

discover in the remarks of the captain which her daughter repeated to

her, little else than the willingness of a sick or lame man to be

courteous and civil to a voluntary nurse, and she expressed such an

opinion to her daughter.

“I think otherwise, mother,” said Amelia, “not so much from the words of

the captain as from his tone, his earnestness of expression, and his

readiness to return to the conversation whenever other persons leave the

room.”

“I have not so much confidence, Amelia, in the re-adoption of early

religious opinions upon a sick bed; as some persons have. I love the

virtue, the piety which extends along from the nursery to the grave,

blessing and sanctifying the whole existence, and forming a complete

chain of moral life, a religious growth.”

“But, dear mother, if that chain has been ruptured by extraordinary

violence, is it not best to connect the links? There may be less of

continued perfection, but the reproduction of a part is worth the

effort.”

“The captain seems to have made a strong impression upon you, and to

have excited unusual interest for a stranger.”

Amelia did not blush, because she did not understand what would

ordinarily be inferred from such a remark as her mother’s.

“I do not know when I have felt a greater interest for one of whom I

know so little. But undoubtedly a part of the interest is mingled with

curiosity. He is a man of some education, of much travel, and of more

observation than masters of ships generally have. But there seems to be

some event in his past life upon which he is strongly sensitive, and to

which he is constantly referring; especially when a little feverish and

in disturbed sleep.”

“I need not say to you, my child, that you will hear as little of such

involuntary talk as possible, and never repeat a word of it unless it be

to _his_ advantage.”

“I understand, mother. But I have already told the captain that I

thought his scepticism was referable to some past event, and he seemed

to be struck by the remark.”

“You will find that you were correct; and you will discern, moreover,

that while he is sceptical from _past_ occurrences, he postpones

investigating the foundation of his opinions, on account of the

interference which a correction of error would have on some _future_

event. Men deceive themselves, or try to, just as much as they try to

deceive others; and the whole course of the immoral man is one of

deception, self-deception, from which rarely any thing but death arouses

him.”

Amelia received some advice with regard to her conduct, and some

instruction relative to her proposed argument, and then took leave of

her mother to enter upon her turn of duty in the chamber of the captain,

promising to return the next morning.

But the next morning Mrs. Bertrand looked in vain for her daughter, and

more than ever regretted that she herself was unable to share in the

duties which Amelia assumed. It was not until evening that a lad came to

the house, and brought a letter from Amelia, addressed to her mother.

This is a copy of the letter hastily, but I believe faithfully made.

_Thursday, Noon._

DEAR MOTHER,—You will wonder at my absence, and still more

that, not returning in the morning, I did not send word to you;

before I conclude this hasty note, you will see not only why I

did not come, but why I now write.

After some arrangements made for the night, the other attendant

left me with the patient, who seemed unusually restless, and

were it not for the large box in which his leg is confined, he

certainly would have left the bed. I sought to soothe him, and

it was only when I reopened the conversation of my former visit,

that he seemed to forget his pain.

“You remarked,” said he, “that scepticism is often referable to

some former error of life, and the sceptic is only seeking to

hide his fears of consequences in another state of existence, by

creating a belief that there is no other state.”

“That was the inference, if not the words of my remarks,” said

I.

“Well, I have thought much of it since you left me, and I have

wished for life to repair if possible some injuries which I have

done to others. The very feverish condition in which I find

myself, and which I heard the doctor say would be dangerous

should it come, leads me to fear that I shall not be able to

accomplish my wish; and struck with the peculiar expression of

your face, and the coincidence of your name—”

“That is my mother’s name,” said I.

“But you were born in this town?”

I gave no answer.

“Nevertheless, I will yield to the suggestion which I have felt,

if you will allow me, and show you that while I have greatly

erred, and may refer my scepticism to my errors, I yet have

sought to repair a part of the injuries I did in my youth.”

“If I heard your statement, should I be at liberty to tell my

mother, because I do not like to hear anything which I may not

communicate to her; and, of course, I could not tell, and she

would not hear what was told to me in strict confidence?”

The captain reached his uninjured arm over the bed-side, and

pressed my hand. I understood it to be a commendation of your

instructions to me, and a consent that I should be at liberty to

repeat what he said. But, oh, what a fever was scorching his

skin.

“I was left with a fortune, a good education, and a knowledge of

mercantile life. Too young to have the guidance of myself—but I

escaped what the world calls gross dissipation.

“At 21 I was married to a poor, friendless girl, whom I had

_injured_. I was married in the morning at 6 o’clock, and in

half an hour left the home of my wife, whom I never saw again.

“I returned from Europe in about a year, having added much to my

knowledge of the world, and to my means of enjoying it. In New

York, I met a young lady, whose excellence in every female

qualification so enraptured me, let me say rather, so awakened

in me the slumbering affection of my heart, that I became

attentive, and found that I had been successful in inducing love

for me in her breast. I will not, for my mind now seems to

waver, I will not attempt to describe the progress of my

courtship. But when I returned from another voyage to England, I

led Amelia to the altar. We were married in Grace Church; and if

mortal ever felt happy, certainly I did, as I handed my wife

into the parlor of her distant relative with whom she

resided—her father and mother having been dead for some years.

“Some time in the course of that day, for we were married early

in the morning, letters were received at the house. One was

addressed to Amelia—of course, with her family name. I remember

now, as she opened it, she turned the letter over, and pointing

to the superscription, which was in a bold, masculine hand,

remarked, that if it was an offer, it came rather late.

“‘Too late for any thing _now_,’ said her relatives.

“My own heart seemed to sink within me.

“Amelia opened the letter. I looked at her as she read it. She

turned pale, and for a moment I thought she would have fainted;

but rallying herself, she placed the letter in my hand, with the

single remark, ‘It is for you to explain this.’

“The letter was from some one in Albany—it contained only these

words:

“‘If the mail is not detained, this will reach you

before you are married. Ask Captain Wilkinson whether he

has not already a wife in Vermont.

‘A FRIEND.’

“For one moment I hesitated whether I would not deny the charge

implied, and take Amelia with me to Europe—her means with my

wealth would have sustained us. But truth is always ready for

utterance—and before the lie could be formed, I was ready to

confess.

“‘Whatever wrong may have been done,’ said Amelia, ‘all I ask is

that it may not be increased.’

“‘The answer to the question in the letter,’ said I ‘is in the

_affirmative_.’ And before explanation could be given, Amelia

had been conducted to her chamber, and I took my hat and left

the house. I have not seen her since, nor have I ever been able

to ascertain her residence. She is probably dead, as is

certainly also the unfortunate woman in Vermont, who died soon

after my exposure. I have been in business, and I have traveled

much; I have wasted much wealth, and acquired much. I have none

to share with me my property, and no one to inherit it when I

depart, which must be soon, as I believe the child born in

Vermont died soon after its mother’s decease. The deep

solicitude which you have manifested for my welfare, temporal

and spiritual, has not been without its effect, and I have

resolved that, whether I recover or not, you shall inherit the

remainder of my fortune, either by right or by bequest;

read—read a little—the Bible, or some from the Prayer Book.”

I did read, and he seemed calmer for a moment, and then he said,

“you now see what are the errors—the sins—and the misery of my

past life; I give up scepticism; I do believe,” and he added,

“‘help thou mine unbelief.’”

The face of Captain W. at this moment appeared inflamed and

swollen, and he became uneasy and quite delirious—and all his

symptoms were aggravated. Early this morning Dr. F. pronounced

the new disease to be the small-pox. Of course, I have been

exposed, and I shall now remain in the house, and while I am

able, shall attend upon the Captain. Let no one else be exposed

to the contagion.

But, dear mother, what is this which I have heard? I know that

you once resided in New York. I have seen in your desk, whither

you had sent me, letters addressed to you in a name different

from that which we both have. I saw also, in the same place, but

never ventured to mention the discovery to you, a miniature

which much resembled Capt. Wilkinson. What am I to think? Is

this your husband—are you the woman whom he deceived—if so,

who and what am _I_? Certainly I cannot be _his_ child. Let me

know—let me know all; but whatever else happen, oh, dear, dear

mother, let me not lose the title of your affectionate

_daughter_.

AMELIA.

The next day Amelia received a note from her mother. It was short and

written under great agitation.

MY DEAR CHILD,—The information which your letter conveyed has

sent me to my bed. You are exposed to the contagion of the

small-pox; may God protect you! I cannot doubt that Capt.

Wilkinson is the person whom you suppose him to be, if so, he is

indeed your father. Be kindly attentive to him, and pray for

Your affectionate mother,

AMELIA BERTRAND.

The information which this note conveyed struck Amelia with painful

surprise; if Capt. Wilkinson was, indeed, the man to whom her mother had

been married—and there seemed to be no reason to doubt it—how could he

be _her_ father? The poor girl sat wrapt in doubt and perplexity. If he

was her father, she knew the duty which she owed to him—and she blessed

God that at any risk she had been allowed to minister to his physical

comforts, and, as she had reason to believe, to his spiritual aid; and

she would renew her devotion to him. But what could she say of her

mother’s conduct—her pure-hearted, her saintly mother? Is there shame

on her name, too? Amelia arose up with firmness, and as she passed to

the sick-chamber of her father, she said to herself, “I never knew her

to say or do aught unbecoming a Christian lady; should not nearly twenty

years experience teach me to trust to her purity and truth, rather than

yield to doubt, which unexplained circumstances suggest. I will have

faith in _her_ who has never deceived nor has ever distrusted me.

_Misfortunes_ are around us—but may God shield us from _shame_!”

Captain Wilkinson soon passed through the worst stages of the loathsome

disease, but he was still held to his bed by the broken limbs. One

morning he missed his nurse, and on inquiry, learned that she was

confined to her chamber with evident symptoms of the small-pox. This was

most painful to him, as he felt that she had taken the disease by her

attendance on him. “Am I destined,” said he, “to bring distress into

every family I visit, and repay the hospitality of a stranger with

misery, and perhaps death? If she should ever recover it is likely that

the ravages of the disease will destroy the beauty of a face that made

the loveliness of the mind so captivating. Could I roll back twenty

years of my life, could I forget, or could heaven forgive the follies

which have caused so much misery, surely this young woman would, however

disease may mar her beauty, be to me all that I had desired in the

charms of one I ruined and in the mental excellence of her I shamefully

imposed upon. How like the two Amelias is she—the gentle manners of the

first, the mental excellence of the second. How can I compensate her for

the distress which my advent here has wrought? If my life and hers are

spared that must be my study. Heaven helping me, I here dedicate the

remainder of my existence and my wealth to compensate, as far as both

will go, those who have suffered by me, and when the injured individuals

cannot be found, may my efforts for the good of others be accepted

instead of the direct compensation.”

“That is a Christian resolution,” said the physician, who had entered

the room unnoticed by his patient. “And as I have heard your remarks by

mere accident, will you allow me to express my congratulation at what I

regard a much greater change in your mental than in your physical

condition, though the latter is truly hopeful?”

“Where two such physicians as yourself and my late gentle, meek nurse

are employed, we may hope for every thing of which the patient is

capable; but let me add in truth, doctor, that skillful as you have

shown yourself with my broken and bruised limbs, and my painful disease,

I think Amelia has shown no less skill in dealing with an unbalanced

mind and an untoward will.”

“But, captain, neither of us hope for much success without a blessing.”

“Ah! such an attendant as Amelia was in itself a blessing—she treated

the wounds of my mind like those of my body, with perfect gentleness,

but with the same direct application. But what will her aged mother say

to the terrible consequences of her daughter’s kindness to me?”

“She will answer for herself, captain, as she is with us.”

The doctor then mentioned Mrs. Bertrand’s name, and Captain W.

apologized for his inability to recognize her; his lameness prevented

him from moving, and the room was darkened with reference to the

weakness of the eyesight consequent upon the small-pox.

Mrs. B. seated herself by the bed-side, and the physician withdrew.

“Your daughter, madam, is I am afraid, paying a terrible price for

charity to me.”

“My daughter, sir, has been taught to consider it proper to discharge a

duty and leave the consequences to Heaven. But are you aware, captain,

that my daughter felt it a duty to acquaint me with an interesting

account which you gave her of your own life?”

“I gave her full permission to do so.”

“I have come, having had the small-pox, to assist in the care of my

daughter, and as far as possible, to supply her place by your bedside.”

“I have not deserved this from Heaven or of men. Help me only to

understand and do my duty, and you will complete the work which Amelia

began.”

In some conversation which Mrs. Bertrand had with Captain W. the next

day, she alluded to his resolution to make reparation as far as possible

for any injury he had inflicted on others. “Do you,” said she, “continue

of that resolution?”

“Increasingly so. And if now I could find where I might begin the work,

I would divest myself at once, if necessary, of every dollar I possess

to alleviate the suffering I have caused.”

“Such a sacrifice can scarcely be required, it is certainly not

necessary so far as I understand your situation.”

“What then can I do—when shall I begin the _work_ of repentance?”

“It is undoubtedly begun already in the resolve of restitution. I take

that to be the essence of repentance, or rather the evidence of it.”

“Am I then to recover, as the doctor assures me I shall? Am I to sit

down in the enjoyment of my ample means, and in no way minister to the

comfort of those whom my follies made miserable? My wife and child

dead—and she, who should have been my wife, lost to me—dead perhaps

likewise! I have by various means sought to find Amelia. I even put into

a New York and a Boston paper an advertisement, which if it met her eye,

would have assured her of my repentance; but, alas! I might repent, I

might seek now to marry her, with the same selfish views which I had at

first. I might even for _her_ sake now do what would be called justice

by some, but what act of mine, however just, could compensate for the

horrible outrage which I had committed, the gross insult, public,

palpable, unpardonable, which I had offered to her? Yet I loved her,

love her now, have ever loved her, and though I have sought refuge for

my conscience in the clouds of infidelity, I have never ceased to love

_her_ image in my heart, and that has saved me from the follies and

vices to which my state of mind and my profession exposed me.”

The spring with its chill winds had passed, and summer was warming the

earth. It was then, as it is now, delightful to sit and watch the waving

of the long grass on yonder meadows, as the breeze passed over it, or to

see the shadow of the cloud flit over the waters that are rippled with

the west wind. You who have lived in other states, have undoubtedly

found much that you think far more beautiful than this scene, but for me

who have spent childhood and age on the banks of this river and the

shores of the bay, I know of nothing in nature more lovely. It was just

such a morning as this when the invalids were brought from the house, to

taste the fresh air from the bay and to look abroad upon land and water,

and thank God that they had been spared.

The captain walked with a crutch—his fine manly form would have

attracted attention any where.

Poor Amelia sat in her chair, wrapped about with customary garments for

the sick, and her face, then sadly marked with the remains of the

small-pox, was covered with a green veil.

“I hope you enjoy this scene, captain,” said Amelia.

“All of physical enjoyment which a healthful breeze can impart I

certainly have, but I am incapable of mental ease.”

“Is that a fruit of repentance?”

“If repentance is the recognition of errors, surely that repentance,

even which seems the pardon of heaven, must keep alive the grief for the

offence, though it may rather seem joy for the pardon.

“I may say to you, Amelia, that I have hinted to your mother, that while

I shall retain enough of my wealth to sustain myself and do justice to

others, I desire to make you remuneration for the benefits you have

conferred on me, and the terrible suffering you have endured for me, and

for this I shall not wait my own death, but I desire to place you at

once in possession.”

“I am compensated—but here comes my mother.”

Mrs. Bertrand advanced, her face covered with her veil.

“Captain Wilkinson,” she said, “your partial restoration renders

unnecessary any further attendance on my part. You will probably leave

to-morrow, and as I shall remove Amelia immediately to my own house, I

have thought this a good opportunity to take my leave of you. I know you

feel thankful to Amelia—I believe you are grateful to Heaven. I carry

with me the happy reflection, that you will soon be restored to entire

health, and that your moral condition is by the mercy of God infinitely

improved.”

“Am I not to be allowed to pay my respects to you—not again to say

farewell to my beloved nurse, Amelia?”

“We part now—part forever, sir—part with my prayers for your

good—with my—”

Mrs. Bertrand fainted from excessive agitation, the unbroken arm of

Captain Wilkinson prevented her from falling, and Amelia rose with pain

from the chair to remove the veil from the face of her mother, and admit

the fresh wind from the bay to her face. When she recovered she looked

up into the face of the captain; for a moment he seemed to stagger under

the weight that rested upon him.

“Amelia, what is this—what does this mean? Whom do I hold on my arm?”

“It is your Amelia,” said the girl—“Amelia Benton.”

Mrs. Bertrand was placed in the chair which the captain had occupied,

while he kneeling at her side, and Amelia rested her hand upon her

mother’s knees.

“It is Amelia Benton!” cried the captain—“but who are you?”

“I am her daughter.”

“No, no!” exclaimed Mrs. Bertrand, “not my daughter—not _my_ daughter;

your daughter, sir—the child of Amelia Woodstock!”

I saw this scene. I heard the wild burst of grief, of joy, of passion,

of shame from the captain, and the anguished cry of the young Amelia,

but I cannot describe them. She prevailed, nevertheless; and two months

after that, Amelia Benton was again married to William Wilkinson; but

not until she was satisfied that his “repentance was unto life, not to

be repented of.”

They left us, returning only for an occasional visit. Yet one of their

children, and his daughter, Amelia, are buried in this village. She

lived to do good, and to enjoy the blessings she had assisted to

promote. She died with no wish ungratified, and was buried here; strange

as it may seem to you, buried where the sunny hours of childhood had

been spent, and where she had in that childhood selected a spot in which

she desired to await the call at which her mortality should put on

immortality.

* * * * *

A SPANISH ROMANCE.

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

BRIGHT fell thy smiling ray,

Rosy Aurora!

Where Alvarado lay,

Dreaming of Mora!

To the tent stole a youth

Lovely as morning,

Yet was his mien in sooth

Full of proud scorning.

Bright, wavy locks fell o’er

Eyes wildly beaming,

Deep the plumed cap he wore

Shadowed their gleaming.

To his pale cheek there came

Hues like the sunset,

For his light, fragile frame

Thrilled for the onset.

Fiercely his sword he drew,

Bold was his bearing,

While to the knight he threw

Words of wild daring.

Crying—“Thou craven false!”

Dark the knight lowered—

“He who in battle halts

Proves him a coward.”

Long had he calmly heard—

Brave Alvarado—

Deeming each daring word

Boyish bravado;

But as that bitter name

Left the lip curling,

Flashed his swift sword—a flame

Through the air whirling.

Proud as his princely foe,

Dauntless in danger,

Springing to meet the blow

Sprang the bright stranger.

Home struck the steel—and ah!

At his feet lying,

Pale as a waning star—

_Who_ is it dying?

Back fall the cap and plume,

Back the bright tresses—

No more her rosy bloom

Meets his caresses.

Lightly her lovely hair

Floats o’er his shoulder,

To his heart’s mad despair

Soft his arms fold her.

“Wo worth the day,” he cried,

“Sweetest Lenora!

When I left thee, my bride

For the false Mora.”

Then in her wistful eyes,

Blue as yon heaven,

He saw her soul arise,

Sighing “Forgiven!”

But her pale, parted lips

Silently quiver,

And in Death’s dark eclipse

Falls she forever!

Sad fell thy sunny ray,

Rosy Aurora,

Where Alvarado lay

By his Lenora.

* * * * *

TO A. R.

HOW many nights, old friend, in earlier times,

When we were boys, we sat together nights,

Poring on books, with ever-new delights,

Fresh, dewy prose, and sweet and flowery rhymes;

I looked for you, as sure as evening came—

I knew your footstep on the stair, I knew

Your sudden rap, and said it must be you—

For step and rap were evermore the same.

We talked of every thing a little while,

And then I took to writing simple themes,

And you to reading—and I could but smile

(Hunting for rhymes, perplexed and lost in dreams,)

To see you knit your thought-contracted brow,

And when you caught my eye, I wrote again—as now!

R. H. S.

* * * * *

FANNY DAY’S PRESENTIMENT.

BY MARIE ROSEAU.

(MY dear Rose, you ask me to write something which Mr. Graham will

print, for your sake; because it is the best Magazine extant, and

because you subscribe for it. I will try.)

Do you believe in presentiments?

Two summers ago Fanny Day and myself visited Caroline Alden in her

country home, about one hundred miles from Philadelphia.

The morning previous to that fixed upon for our departure, after vainly

using all the ingenuity and strength of which I was capable, to stow

away in the top of my trunk three dresses, one large shawl, nine bound

books, a portfolio, and the four last numbers of “Graham,” I was forced

to the conclusion that one-half the articles named must be left behind.

Then came the serious business of deciding which of them should be

rejected.

“Couldn’t I leave one of the dresses?”

No, that was out of the question. If I meant to ramble over rocks and

hills the five (two were already deposited in the lower part of the

trunk,) would be barely sufficient to last me through the visit.

“Suppose you leave some of the books—those two large ones, for

instance?” suggested one of my sisters, called upon to aid me in the

dilemma.

“Oh no, indeed! I could not think of taking fewer books. Those two

volumes of Waldie in particular must go, for Caroline was so anxious to

read ‘Modern Societies’ and ‘Home.’”

“But the others?”

I picked them up one at a time. There were “The Cricket on the Hearth,

&c.;” “Sketches of Married Life;” Mrs. Stowe’s “May Flower,” Willis and

Longfellow, and three of the Abbott series, for Sunday reading. Each

pleaded so eloquently to be taken, that I thought that to leave either

would be an insult to the author, and so, after a little hesitation, I

felt that _all_ of them must go.

“Couldn’t you do without the portfolio and magazines?” was then asked.

“That would be _impossible_!” I exclaimed.

“Then you must take that small portmantua, too.”

“But I hate to take so much baggage with me,” I said.

“Then I can’t think of any other mode of freeing you from the

difficulty.”

In the midst of this dilemma Fanny Day was announced.

“Tell her to come up here,” I said.

“What, in this disordered room?”

I hastily glanced at the books and dresses strewn around me, and then

replied:

“The room don’t look _very_ well, I know; but I can’t leave my packing

just now: besides Fanny may be able to assist me in this difficulty.”

I had expected to find Fanny full of joy and enthusiasm in the near

prospect of our visit, for so she had always been when we talked about

it previously; but she looked sad and dispirited, and it was not until I

had made many repeated and eloquent exclamations upon the subject, that

she would take any interest in my packing. Then she said quietly—

“Never mind, Marie, there is plenty of room in my trunk for more than

half those things.”

I thanked her with delight; yet could not but be surprised that she

should be satisfied with fewer “_positively necessary_” articles than

myself.

“Now, that you have this matter satisfactorily arranged, will you go out

with me?” she asked.

“Where?” I inquired with slight hesitation, for I had already planned

engagements of some sort for every hour in the day.

“Down Chestnut street,” she replied.

“Will you keep me long?” I asked.

“I will tell you all about it when we get into the street,” she

answered.

I hesitated.

“Come, Marie, do go with me; that’s a dear, good girl,” Fanny continued,

looking coaxingly in my face all the time.

I had not the heart to resist her pleading, and very soon we were on our

way to Chestnut street.

“I am going to Mr. Root’s to have my daguerreotype taken,” Fanny said,

when we were about a square from home.

“But you had three taken last week,” I said.

“Yes, but my mother did not like those very well. They were not taken by

Root, and now I am determined to have a good one for her.”

“Had you not better wait till we return?” I asked.

“No; I cannot,” she replied, in a serious tone.

I looked at her inquiringly.

“I know you will laugh at me, Marie, and think me very foolish,” she

said, “but I have a presentiment that I shall never live to return.”

“I have had a dozen such in my life-time,” I answered, “yet they all

proved untrue; and so may yours, Fanny dear.”

“I fear not,” she replied in a sad tone.

Knowing that all reasoning would be ineffectual in my friend’s present

mood, I simply tried to relieve her sadness by talking upon other

subjects on the way.

The likeness was a perfect one. It might have presented a gloomy

countenance, but fortunately, I whispered to her, as she seated

herself—

“Now, Fanny, do let your mother have a pleasant smile, or she will not

like the picture.”

I wish you could see the likeness; the position was so natural and the

work so beautifully executed! But you cannot—Fanny gave it into my

hands to be faithfully delivered to her mother at some future time; and

now—but my story must develop its present hiding-place.

Shall I tell you of our long rail-road journey, and of the dark tunnels

through which we passed, reminding one of the “valley of death,” where,

as I carelessly alluded to this resemblance, Fanny’s hand grasped, mine

with a touch so cold as to send a sympathetic chill of horror through my

veins? Or shall I tell you of the shorter stage-ride, and the close

companionship of its occupants? No, I will not weary you with either of

these in detail; for there was nothing to vary the usual monotony of

such journeys we being allowed the customary number of crying babies,

and troublesome older children, and the same amount of agreeable and

disagreeable strangers.

We found Caroline delighted to see us, (as who would not be,) and I was

pleased to notice that much of Fanny’s sadness had disappeared during

the first evening. The next morning, however, it was again observable in

a listless demeanor, or deep sigh in the midst of a witty remark, or gay

laugh.

“What is the matter with you, Fanny?” Caroline asked, after some very

marked signs of abstractedness on the part of the former.

“Oh, nothing at all!” Fanny answered quickly, and for a while she

endeavored to take more interest in our conversation, but this soon

subsided.

“Fanny, if you can give no better explanation of your conduct this

morning, I must be under the necessity of attributing it to the usual

cause of sighs and absent-mindedness, and believe you to be in love,”

Caroline said.

Fanny colored, and exclaimed—

“Oh, no indeed, I am not!”

“Then don’t look so confused and mortified, my dear; for even if you

were, you need not be ashamed of it,” Caroline answered composedly.

Fanny left the room soon after this, and I produced the daguerreotype

from a corner in my work-box, and showed it to Caroline. She pronounced

it the very best likeness she had ever seen, and laid it on the

sofa-table. Just then a visiter was announced, proving to be Mr. Harry

Lambert, who had spent the previous winter in Philadelphia.

After a mutual recognition, and a few of the common-place inquiries

usually made upon such occasions, had passed, he carelessly opened the

case containing Fanny’s likeness. As the face met his eye, I thought he

changed color, but this may have been mere fancy; for he said, in a

perfectly calm and indifferent tone,

“This face looks familiar to me. I must certainly have met the original

before.”

“Of course you have, it is Fanny Day. You were quite well acquainted

with her in Philadelphia, and I trust you cannot so soon have forgotten

an old friend,” I said; and scarcely was the remark made, when the

object of it entered the room. This time there was no mistaking the glow

upon the gentleman’s face; but Fanny’s cheek was quite colorless as she

returned his greeting.

Unfortunately for me, on this very evening, a young gentleman of

prepossessing appearance, and a stranger to me, called. Unfortunately in

the _dénouement_, I mean. I was very much pleased with him, and thought

him quite like Harry Lambert; although I wondered in what this likeness

consisted, for there were no general points of resemblance either in

person or manners between them. Very soon, however, I found it to

consist in the fact that _they were both lovers_.

It _is_ unpleasant to find one’s self completely thrown upon the

back-ground. I _know_ that I am not naturally envious; but I could not

help feeling akin to chagrin and disappointment upon perceiving the

state of things; yet it was not _envy_. I am sure I did not care one bit

that Fanny and Caroline should each have some one so completely absorbed

in their interests, as to be indifferent to every thing else, for it

made them happy; and I like to see people enjoy themselves. But I _did_

think it looked stupid, or narrow-minded, or something of the sort, of

any persons to be so intent upon _themselves_, as to take no notice of

others, and so I told the ladies after their visiters were gone, I

said—

“Caroline, are the people here in the habit of giving invitations to

tea?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied; “you will be overwhelmed with them, Marie, in a

little time: but why do you ask?”

“Because I shall be very glad, in the words of the song,

‘——if any one invites me out to tea,

For ’tis very dull to stay at home with no one courting me,’”

I replied, poutingly.

Caroline looked at Fanny, and both laughed.

“Poor Mae,” the former said, in a coaxing tone, putting her arm around

me, “it was _too_ bad of us; but never mind, the next time we will

behave better.”

“I do hope you will,” I answered, “for it is extremely annoying when you

are playing your best pieces, and think you have succeeded in charming

the company, upon taking a sly peep to observe the effect, to find them

coupled off, and each enjoying a quiet _tête-à-tête_; evidently

regarding the music only as a happy means of getting rid of one who

would otherwise be very much in the way.”

“You are not jealous, of course,” said Caroline, with a comic laugh.

“Certainly I am not,” I replied. “I think beaux extremely disagreeable.”

“Messieurs Russell and Lambert particularly so, I presume,” Caroline

remarked.

“Perhaps they may be,” I replied; “but I cannot answer to a certainty,

for my means of ascertaining their endowments were very limited: they

did not either of them direct a half-dozen words to me.”

From this time there was a marked change visible in Fanny. There was no

unusual gayety in her manner, but a habitual look of quiet happiness.

She talked no more of her presentiment, and, though strongly tempted to

do so, I could not bear to annoy her by reminding her of it.

Harry Lambert was our constant visiter. No, not our, for his visits were

evidently only meant for Fanny’s benefit. They walked, and rode, and

played, and sang together; always preferring a duet to a trio, or

quartette.

His appearance in Mr. Alden’s neighborhood was entirely unexpected to

both of us. We did not know where he had settled. During his visit to

Philadelphia he had been very attentive to Fanny; yet we all regarded

this as a mere flirtation, or rather as the attentive kindness of a

friend, who had had no thought of becoming a lover, as he left the city

without having made any profession of attachment to her. This, I

ascertained since, was owing to his having been led to believe, just

before the termination of his visit, that she loved another. Afterward

he learned that these suspicions were unfounded, and deeply regretted

that they had ever existed.

Howard Russell performed the same part toward Caroline that Harry

Lambert did to Fanny, during the remainder of our stay: but after the

few first days had passed, I was not left companionless; for I formed

some pleasant acquaintances there, the thoughts of which will be always

dear to my memory.

Before Fanny returned to Philadelphia, with the full consent of her

parents, she had entered into an engagement with Harry Lambert, and the

daguerreotype was left as her parting gift to him.

Thus ended Fanny Day’s presentiment.

* * * * *

THE PALE THINKER.

BY “ORAN.”

I SAW him, at the dawn of day, come forth to greet the sun,

With salutation not unlike Electra’s orison;

And, as with sad, though manly voice, he breathed his morning prayer,

I knew that, like Electra’s self, he felt the weight of care.

“An idle student,” many said, “who talks to trees and flowers,

And loiters by the running brook, and wastes away his hours.”

I saw him in the maple wood, beside that murmuring stream,

Stoop, gazing downward thoughtfully, as in a pleasant dream;

And as he gazed thus often spoke—“O stream, away, away,

To some far-off and unknown sea thou hastenest every day!

And trees and flowers and stars and clouds are mirrored on thy breast,

They cheer thee on with greetings kind thou smilest, but dost not

rest.

So to its far eternity the longing spirit goes—

This stream of life—away—away—O God, how fast it flows!”

I saw him, like a cloistered monk, at night, among his books,

He read and mused and wrote, with troubled, earnest looks;

Then late and weary sought his couch—I could not turn away,

For still with earnest, troubled looks the restless sleeper lay.

Then Fancy, by some magic art, the sleeper’s brain laid bare,

O Heaven, it seemed a universe had been concentred there!

The semblance of all outer things in miniature was there,

And, working each a wondrous art, all spirits, foul and fair.

Uncertain forms traversed a plain, far-reaching as the sight,

Whereon, what seemed a “mount of pain,” uprose in misty light.

“The flaming forge of life” glowed red, as burning fire could be,

And restless workmen toiled to forge an immortality.

Like beating surf on rocky shore, the sea of passion roared,

Like meteor on a dusky sky Ambition flashed and soared.

Far out imagination flew, on restless wings of light,

And myriad strangest forms of thought glimmered in reason’s sight.

Religion and her goddess train their golden offerings poor,

The spirit of the wondrous past unfolds her wondrous store.

And fast and fierce the work goes on, furnace and forge and fire,

And busy hands, which ply the loom and weave the golden wire.

In glee the shadowy workmen toil, and this the song they sing—

“In deepest shade of destiny lies hid what man would know,

And useful thought comes but by pain, drawn up from down below.

He surely is a child of heaven who brings new truth to man,

To whom ’tis given, with vision clear, the inner world to scan,

’Tis ours to work behind the veil, thanks to this earnest soul,

Soon from these varied gems of thought shall rise a beauteous whole,

Adown the aisles of distant time our thinker’s voice shall sound,

Inspiring hope and life and joy to souls in darkness bound.

To write a book inspired of heaven, O, ’tis a glorious task!

Pale thinker, though thy brain run wild, what higher boon couldst

ask?”

And, Genius, by such toil as this thy fairest gifts are bought!

And he’s a child of pain, though blest, whose life is earnest thought.

Ye who, with careless eye, peruse the page ye’ve bought for gold,

Ye little know the cost of that to you so cheaply sold.

* * * * *

GEMS FROM MOORE’S IRISH MELODIES.

NO. II.—THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

THE simple, yet exquisitely touching air to which Moore wrote the words

of this song, is now one of the most familiar that we hear. Yet,

familiar as it is, it never falls upon the sense without awakening in

the heart the most tender, and even sad emotions. The song itself is in

fine keeping with the melody.

’Tis the last rose of summer,

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone:

No flower of her kindred,

No rose-bud is nigh,

To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!

To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o’er the bed,

Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

So, soon may _I_ follow,

When friendships decay,

And from Love’s shining circle

The gems drop away;

When true hearts lie withered,

And fond ones are flown,

Oh! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone?

Although in private fashionable circles, like the “Meeting of the

Waters,” this song is rarely heard yet now and then the air, or the

words and the air united, break unexpectedly upon us in public, and the

effect is almost electric. Well do we remember, on the first appearance

of Herz, the effect produced on a crowded assembly, combining nearly all

the musical taste and talent of our city, when, after a rapturous

_encore_, he let his fingers fall with the exquisite grace that marked

his playing on the keys of the piano, and “The Last Rose of Summer”

trembled upon the hushed air. Literally, a pin might have been heard

falling upon the floor. There was not a heart there that did not respond

to the melody as an outburst of true emotion. The same effect was

produced, not long since, when this air came thrilling over a large

audience in the Musical Fund Hall, from the violincello of Knoop, and,

soon after, from the warbling throat of Madame Bishop. Not to the

players nor singer was this effect wholly to be ascribed. The power lay

in the melody itself, to which they gave a full expression.

So long as there is an ear that can appreciate nature’s own music, and a

heart to be touched by genuine emotion, “The Last Rose of Summer” will

continue to be a favorite.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.]

* * * * *

THE EVIL EYE.

BY MARY L. LAWSON.

PAST from my heart the place and hour

When first I met and owned thy power—

To shadow life with vain regret,

And clouds that darkened when we met—

But still through changing years I see

The lengthened gaze then fixed on me,

As, thrilling with a strange surprise,

I trembled ’neath those earnest eyes.

I know not whence their lustre came—

They quiver with a living flame;

Their liquid light, like diamonds beam,

Through ebon lashes darkly gleam,

Or softly melt with passion’s ray,

That chase their baleful shades away,

Or with a hidden power control

The strongest impulse of the soul.

Those eyes have bent their glance on mine,

Each hidden feeling to divine

’Mid love’s first dream—and love’s decay—

Though from their gaze I turned away;

Read every hope and timid fear,

And smiled away the doubting tear;

Knew all I strove not to impart—

The weakness of my woman’s heart.

In parting once they met mine own,

And cold in stern reproach they shone,

And lost the anguish of the hour

Beneath their dark and withering power—

The blighting sting no words can tell—

That lurked beneath that calm farewell,

The silent glance that left behind

The fevered pulse and wasted mind.

Since then, through thoughts of joy and pain.

Those haunting eyes their spell retain,

And silently they’ve watched me weep

O’er lonely graves where dear ones sleep;

But in my deepest wo’s increase

Their beams have never whispered peace,

Though kindly words were breathed again,

I sought those speaking eyes in vain.

When steeped in wo, or wild with mirth,

The fickle, fleeting joy of earth,

Bound to the world with reckless thrall,

Those fated eyes have marked it all,

And taught the lip with mocking art

To act the tempter’s wily part,

The soul with dreams of bliss to fill

And gently veil the lurking ill.

Alone!—by life’s rough storms distressed,

Unprized, uncared for and oppressed,

Still wert thou near with tender tone,

That spoke of days forever gone,

Till softened memory made thee dear,

And half dispelled each chilling fear—

But starting from my heart’s warm sighs

I marked the gleaming of those eyes.

Some demon power thy soul must bear,

Though angel guise thy features wear,

Arrayed in love alluring mien

To stand my better thoughts between,

Sin imaged form to tempt away—

The holier hopes for which I pray—

A watch above my heart to keep

Till it has sunk to dreamless sleep.

* * * * *

THE REVEALINGS OF A HEART.

BY D. T. KILBOURN.

(_Concluded from page 75._)

AS Arthur approached the city, the sun was sinking behind the snowy

clouds, wreathing its trail of gorgeous light around their fleecy

summits, then stretching along the blue horizon, until its brilliant

folds, resting upon the leafless trees, swept o’er the barren earth,

bathing field, mountain, air, sky and water, in one flood of golden

light. A fitting robe to herald forth the natal dawn of man’s Redeemer.

As Arthur gazed upon the beauteous scene, enhanced by the music of the

merry sleigh-bells as they glided past, and the hurrying to and fro of

gladsome faces, his heart leapt for joy, and he bounded along,

forgetting his fatigue as the sweet face of the little Amy rose before

him, radiant with smiles, at his return. He felt her little arms fondly

clinging about his neck, and her warm caress upon his cheek; and oh, how

distant seemed that pile before him, as his yearning heart leapt to her

embrace.

And then came the time when he would come to take her away. And the past

year, too, rose before him—his struggles mid scorn and reproach, to be

a man, that he might take her to his own home, and be always near her.

What cared he if they did laugh, and call him a poor _alms-house_ boy,

if one day he might always have his loved sister near him? That sister

who looked so much like their dear, dead mother. He wondered if she had

grown—and how she looked; and thus his happy heart glowed with fond

anticipations of the future.

Entering the gate, and passing rapidly round the main building, with a

beating heart, he rapped at the door of that part occupied by the

children.

A stranger ushered him in, but in a few moments Mrs. Williams stood

before him. In his joy he sprung to meet her.

“Why, Arthur, is this you? How you’ve grown! and so altered, I scarcely

know you! But who would have thought of you?”

Without noticing the last part of her speech, he cried, “Where is sister

Amy—can’t I see her?”

“Amy!—why Amy has been dead this long time!”

“Dead! dead!” cried he, grasping her hands, while from his eyes gleamed

a look of intense, imploring agony. “Oh, dear Mrs. Williams, don’t,

don’t say that Amy is dead! She’s not dead! I know she would not die and

leave me alone!”

Trying to release her hands from his tightening grasp, she cried, “Boy,

you don’t know what you’re saying! She is dead, and no fault of mine;

for, after you went away, she grieved so after you, poor thing! I tried

to do every thing I could for her, and told her you would come back. But

nothing would do—she would not eat, and looked so pitiful, that we were

all glad when she died. And you ought to be glad too, for she is much

better off. She was such a poor little delicate creature, she wasn’t fit

to be in this cold world without a mother.”

Arthur slowly relaxed his grasp, as a consciousness of his utter

loneliness came over him. Not a cry escaped his lips—not a sigh. There

he stood—his wild, tearless eyes fixed on vacancy.

“Arthur, don’t take on so, child!” said Mrs. Williams, forcing back her

tears. “She’s better off; come and see the boys”—taking his hand to

lead him away.

Again turning his fearful eyes upon her, he said, “Wont you tell me

where they have put her?”

“Oh, the snow has covered all the graves—you can’t tell hers from any

other.”

“Oh do! Mrs Williams; do, only show me where they have laid her. Lead me

to the spot, and I will never trouble you again!”

Now really affected, Mrs. Williams, after wiping her eyes, took Arthur’s

hand, and led him to the humble resting-place of the poor. Not a stone

marked the spot of their repose.

Long did Arthur gaze with that same look of wild, unutterable agony,

upon the spot which contained all to which his young heart had clung

with such fond adoration; all for which he had borne mockery and insult;

all that to him was fair, or beautiful, or loved on earth.

Turning to Mrs. Williams, in a hollow voice, he asked, “Why has God

taken my sister from me?”

“Because she would be better off, Arthur.”

“Why did he not take me, too? _I_ would be better off in the still

grave.”

“It is wicked to say such things, Arthur.”

“Why wicked?” asked he, with an inquiring look.

“Because, God will be angry with you.”

“He is angry with me already,” murmured he, turning from the spot.

* * * * *

The heavy clock told the hour of midnight; silence hung heavily over the

slumbering earth. In a small room sat Arthur. The look of agony had

settled down into one of calm, hopeless misery. And as he gazed upon the

stars, his guardian angel hovered near—no smile played round its

radiant face, but tear-drops sparkled in its eyes. Around his brow

glowed the beings of intellect; some, in their flight, mounted toward

those shining orbs, while others floated near to earth, as if in search

of something, they knew not what. Love, too, was there, followed by the

bright beings of adoration. To and fro they moved, apparently without an

aim; while the ministers of flesh poured incense on unhallowed altars,

to obscure their vision and lure them to earth.

A hand was laid upon his shoulder—he started.

“Come, Arthur, come to bed. I cannot sleep while you sit here,” was said

by a boy, apparently several years his senior, who had arisen from a bed

in the room. But finding Arthur still immovable, he continued, “Don’t

mind them, Arthur—I would not mind what they say. The whole crew have

about as much sense as their _Poodle_, on which the entire stock of

their susceptibilities seems expended. And to hear the rascally old

fellow threaten to flog you, after making such a fuss to get you back.

But that’s the old woman’s fault, because the poor old gentleman, in his

perturbation at your disappearance, sat down on her ‘sweet Adonis’s

paw!’ Why, Arthur, you would have died laughing, (for I did nearly,) if

you could have heard the fuss that was raised over that miserable little

dog. But we were all glad that you had spunk enough to go to see your

sister.”

“I was not thinking of them,” interrupted Arthur—“I don’t care what

they say or do to me now.”

“Then, Arthur, wont you come and lie down?” laying his arm coaxingly

upon his shoulder.

Arthur suffered himself passively to be led to bed, after which, Dick

continued. “I suppose, when the old woman broke her word with you, after

you had saved the life of her child, she thought _she_ had a particular

license to lie! And the old man, too, when he tells me to say that I am

selling things ‘under cost,’ while he is getting a good profit on them.

So I thought, as _they_ are good _church-going_ people, there could be

no possible harm, in a poor _dog_ like myself, following their example.

And when they asked me where you were gone, I would not say what you had

told me to, for I thought it better you should get the start of them; so

I told them I did not know,” and with this Dick fell asleep, leaving

Arthur to his own melancholy reflections.

* * * * *

Spring again appeared in all her loveliness. The full-orbed moon rode

above on her chariot of clouds, now smiling upon the tranquil earth, now

veiling her face in their misty folds. And as her smiles beamed forth,

they shone through a window upon a bunch of drooping violets.

The little flower-spirit awakened, beheld before it the child of yore;

but oh, how changed! That brow, though still so beautifully fair, had

lost the halo of its purity. The brilliant beings of the mind, pluming

their pinions to the distant spheres, were dragged to earth. Love, too,

with the bright beings that adore, was bound, but a rosy light played

round its fetters, while ministers of flesh were tracing, with barbed

arrows, dark, fearful characters upon the throbbing heart. The angel’s

face was veiled, but sorrowful supplications still went up to heaven.

The boy started from his feverish slumbers, and looked fearfully around.

Awakening his companion, he cried, “Dick! Dick! do wake up! Oh, I have

had such horrible dreams I cannot sleep! Oh, this weight upon my heart

will kill me! I cannot deceive Mr. Buckler any longer—I must go tell

him all, or my heart will break.”

“Go, and be kicked away as a _poor alms-house boy_ for your pains.”

“I cannot help it, Dick. I’d rather be called any thing, bear any thing,

than feel this weight upon my heart. Before this I could feel that my

mother and sister were near me; but now that I am guilty of wrong, they

are gone, and every thing is so awful!”

“Oh, Arthur, you have had the _nightmare_, and are frightened.”

“There was a time, Dick, that I knew not fear. I was a very small boy,

then. But if there were nothing else, Dick, to meet Mr. Buckler and

_feel_ that I have deceived him, when he has reposed so much confidence

in me!”

“Arthur, if you _peach_, you know that I shall be sent away in disgrace,

and it would break my poor father’s heart—that father who was so kind

to you; who took you home and saved you from perishing of cold. ’Twas

but little, ’tis true, that he did, but that little was much to you.”

Arthur groaned. After a few moments, he continued, “Dick, do you never

feel unhappy when you have done wrong?”

“Yes, I used to be as chicken-hearted as you when I first came here; but

now that I see that every one’s for himself, and that a man is respected

for his _cloth_, not his worth, I try to shake off such feelings. But I

cannot always banish them when I think of my father and mother.”

“Let us go to Mr. Buckler, Dick, and tell him all—I know that he will

forgive us.”

“The old flint! I know him too well for that. But, Arthur, if you want

to _peach_, you may.”

“On no, Dick, you know I would not do that; but, if you will only

consent.”

“But what have I done, after all, only taken a little of my own!”

“Your own, Dick—how so?”

“Why, don’t we do as much as the old man; and if right’s right, is it

not as much ours as his?”

“Oh no, Dick—not as long as we gain it for him and not for ourselves.”

“But what have you done, Arthur? Why you only saw me go to the

money-drawer, and said you knew nothing about it. That’s no deception,

Arthur.”

“But it is, Dick.”

“Well, if that will satisfy you, I will promise not to be guilty of the

like again.”

“But will you likewise promise not to go into that company again? I went

with you, because I was so unhappy at home. And you were the son of one

who had been kind to me, and I loved you for it; and after Amy died, I

no longer felt a motive for wishing to become a great or a good man; but

I feel to-night as if I should have been happier if I had never gone

with you.”

Dick was asleep. He knew that Arthur would not expose him. His parent’s

kindness sunk so deeply into his grateful heart, that it seemed to give

their son a talismanic power over the unhappy boy, to govern him at

will.

Again ’twas evening, and the little flower-spirit, cradled in the pearly

folds of a pure snow-drop, looked from its lovely bed. There sat Arthur.

Beside him glimmered the midnight lamp; his dark, full eyes were fixed

intently upon the pages of a book, on which, spread by the ministers of

earth, shone a glittering banquet. The _name_ of Love was there—aye,

and the counterfeit of its bright plumage, too, which threw a hue of

beauty o’er the scene. This, the master of the feast, (to fix its spell

on the unwary reader,) had deified as the radiant vision sent from high

Heaven. And the bright beings of his soul caught greedily the tempting

viands, as the food for which they sighed. But, as the poison mingled

through their veins, their pinions flagged—the Passions threw their

hateful coils around, binding them closer, tighter still to earth. And

yet, upon that _title-page_ there shone the name of one called _great_

on earth.

And the little flower-spirit asked the weeping guardian, why he was

called great! since the sole object for which he had labored, was to

subject the bright beings of the soul to the groveling ones of flesh.

“He is great and god-like in his _powers_,” replied the angel. “This,

men see—and as he garnishes his viands with the counterfeit of love,

their dazzled vision penetrates not the indignity he offers. And, oh,

when a being thus armed with the panoply of the archangel, sent forth

with powers to unseal the book of knowledge to the starving spirits of

the mind, that they, gazing upon its effulgent pages, may drink in the

glory, light and love of Deity! When such a being not only immolates

this power-divine upon earth’s altars, but, seizing thence unhallowed

incense, wafts it forth, a _poison_ to the young, confiding soul—a cry

of agony mounts up to heaven, that echoes through the mazes of

eternity.”

The door opened, and Dick entered. “What, Arthur, you up still! Why do

you shut yourself up in this confined room, poring over books, while

there is so much fun in life! You don’t know how much you’ve lost. There

was a splendid party at Mrs. M.’s this evening, and the ladies were

really quite displeased with me for not bringing you along. Why, Arthur,

you are getting to be quite a _Lion_! To tell the truth, I am jealous of

you; and yet I shall not, after this, dare to show my face any where,

unaccompanied by your beautiful self, for fear of getting no reception

at all. I’m half sorry that I persuaded you to go to Mrs. Bailey’s ball,

since you seem destined to eclipse me every where. Still, I could not

bear to see you sit here moping, night after night, and month after

month, all alone. But, ah, ha! Mr. Arthur! I see your time’s not all

spent in dreaming, either! May I ask, of what fair damsel that is a

memento?” pointing to the snow-drop.

Arthur had raised his eyes from his book, and was listening with pleased

attention to the rattle of his friend; but at the mention of the

snow-drop, the smile fled from his parted lips. Taking the little flower

and gazing upon it, in melancholy accents, he said, “’Twas Amy’s

favorite—and it is so like her sweet self, that I love to have it near

me. The violet, too, I never meet one but I pluck it; to me it is as if

her own blue eyes were mirrored in its little petals.”

“Oh, Arthur, you must not think of her—it always makes you melancholy;

and she has been dead now so long.”

“The thoughts of my mother and sister, Dick, are the only things that

really give me any pleasure; and could I once believe that their sweet

spirits could die, I would, without hesitation, subscribe to the

opinions of Voltaire.”

“Well, Arthur, I don’t trouble myself about any thing of the kind, as

you well know—and you must not. Live and enjoy life while you can, is

my motto. I have promised to take you to Mrs. G.’s, and you must go—so

come, let’s to bed.”

* * * * *

Time sped. The sun had sunk to its ocean-bed; the dark clouds, one by

one, rode forth, until their threatening hosts o’erspread the vault of

heaven. And the sullen murmur of the ebon deep, as it heaved to and fro

its struggling waters, all bespoke the coming strife of elements.

Upon the bosom of that troubled deep, there rode a frail, lone vessel,

with white sails furled, like the wild bird of storm. And as the heavy

thunder boomed o’er the mighty sea, and lurid lightnings, darting from

cloud to cloud, lit up the awful scene, there stood upon that vessel’s

deck, a human form. His arms were folded on his breast—his head bared

to the blast that whistled through his massy locks—his dark eyes fixed,

without dismay, upon the forms of wrath, as they contended in their

mortal hate. And as the winds swept by, making the light vessel leap and

plunge upon its foamy bed, while the bursting din and scathing glare,

made the heart of the rude sailor quake with fear; and as the ghastly

hue spread o’er his pallid face, he murmured, “On, on, ye raging

elements! ye ne’er can equal the war within this heart. I love your

horrid music, ’tis soothing to my reeling brain! Once I feared you.

Then, oh then, this heart was like the summer-lake—but that is long,

long past. Oh, visions of happiness, why will ye rise before me, in

mockery of my wo! Then, there was a heart to love me—to counsel me when

I was wrong! but now, a wretch, a lone outcast, and stained with vile

ingratitude—a forger! Accursed beauty! fatal friendship! How have the

powers of Hell been leagued against me since that fatal night, when she,

my mother, died of cold and want! Tell me of a God—there is no God! Yet

why this bitter, burning, deep remorse! If there’s a God—then I’m an

outcast, and have been from my infancy. But oh, what were the pains I

suffered then, of separation, loneliness, contempt, to those which now

devour my heart! And if there is a hell—its pains were bliss to these!”