Chapter IV.

The Grave Yard.

Let us wander by this winding road to the place of graves, the great

charnel house where so many, who were formerly actors on life's busy

stage, have laid them down in the sleep of death. Many are the changes

that meet the eye as we pass along, but there are many traces left

that awaken memories of past friends and past years. Here are the dear

old trees under which we have played; the rocks upon which we have

sat, and the stream on which we have sailed; but which now is greatly

augmented in size, as it is now an outlet to the large reservoir of

water, into which the meadow above has been converted.

Crossing the bridge and ascending the hill, let us enter the grave

yard, and contemplate the change that rolling years have made in this

spot;

"Our fathers, where are they?"

Methinks the stones at our feet cry out--"All flesh is grass."

This is an ancient burial place; and as we look upon the dates of the

headstones, how forcibly do we feel "one generation passeth away and

another generation cometh." Many of the monuments have ceased to be a

memorial; having crumbled away, and the inscriptions become entirely

obliterated by the thick covering of green moss that has gathered upon

them. Is not this a lesson that is calculated to humble the pride of

man? But we will pause by the graves of the dear uncle and aunt, whose

remains we saw deposited here many years ago, when our young footsteps

bounded with all the elasticity of childhood. But though sweeping

years have borne away the halcyon days of childhood, the golden days

of youth, and the sobered and subdued period of middle life, and

our sun has passed its meridian and is verging rapidly towards

its setting, still this grief comes back again with all its first

freshness. Here for the first time these eyes looked into an

untenanted grave; for the first time saw the coffin let down into the

"dark and narrow house," and heard the hollow sound as the earth fell

upon it--and deep was the impression that was made upon the childish

memory, and so faithful is she to her trust that at this moment, when

standing upon this spot, she brings it back again, untarnished by the

long years that have passed away. The little heaped up mound that

covered their remains has sunk to a level with its kindred dust,

and the inscriptions upon the headstones, though legible, are much

defaced. Can it be that here are the dear forms whose voices I heard,

upon whose knees I sat, and who led me by the hand, day after day?

Even so. Were it not for revelation, "that light and immortality are

brought to light" by the gospel, how dark would be the grave; who

could fathom its mysterious confines, or penetrate its darkness? But

the Saviour has shed a radiance around it, and assured us "the graves

shall give up their dead; that we shall all come forth and be judged

according to the deeds done in the body." Happy they, who learn

this most important lesson, and live up to the great principles it

inculcates.

Methinks the murmur of the summer breeze, as it sighs through the

waving branches of the weeping willow, as it stands drooping over an

adjoining grave, seems the gentle whisper of departed spirits, wooing

us to the skies. As we glance far off in the distance from this

elevated spot, we see the toil and turmoil of life--its struggles,

cares and disappointments, and then contemplating the scene around us,

we feel that, this must be the end of all who live. Here lie those for

whom we sought in vain in the places where we formerly knew them. Here

repose the remains of our family physician, who, for many years, was

called in all cases of sickness, and was like a brother in the family.

By his side sleeps his amiable wife; as we look upon their graves for

the first time, we remember them as they were in life, and heave a

sigh to their memory.

Here lies a school companion who died at a very early age; we had

won prizes and received our little books from the hands of our dear

teacher, and that is my only recollection of him. His seat was vacant,

and they told me he was dead; but then I knew nothing of death.

Here, too, are the graves of Elizabeth Ann Prince, Julia Balcolm, the

poor cripple, and many others, who have sat with me in the dear

old school house. One in particular strikes the mind with peculiar

solemnity. It is the grave of Edward Davis; he was a young man of

superior talents, uncommon beauty and prepossessing manners. He was

rich in this world's goods, and married an amiable young lady, in all

respects his equal; they lived happily together several years, and had

several children, but sickness came like a blight upon him, and he was

soon conveyed to the silent tomb, leaving his wife and children to

mourn his loss.

Here, side by side, are the graves of an entire household, consisting

of the maternal grandmother, two sisters of the father, the father

and mother, and seven children, with the wife of one of the sons. Not

twelve rods from their own door they sleep side by side--that many

voiced household, in the silence of death. No voice breaks the

stillness; no words of love are interchanged; but their dust shall

mingle together till the morning of the resurrection, teaching an

impressive lesson to those that stand by their graves and read the

inscriptions upon their tombstones.

Here is buried the dear old deacon and his wife, by whose bedside we

stood when his forehead was wet with the damp dews of death, and his

eye lighted up by faith, seemed to scan the glories of the upper

world, and he felt it was "far better to depart and be with Christ."

And even then came, "let me die the death of the righteous, and let my

last end be like his." His devoted, pious wife soon followed him, and

we feel, as we look upon their graves, there is rest in Heaven. At

their feet lie children, grand-children and great-grand-children.

Clara Everett was a promising young girl, cut down at the early age of

nineteen. She was left an orphan at the age of nine months, her father

dying suddenly, and her mother a few weeks after, with consumption.

She was tenderly cared for by her maternal grand-parents and a maiden

aunt, well educated and had commenced teaching, when she was seized

suddenly with an alarming fever, which in a few short days, was

terminated by death. They bore her to the resting place with many

tears, and placed her beside those dear parents from whom she was so

early separated. Many here, that lived a life of dissipation, have

gone down to fill a drunkard's grave;

"But we'll tread lightly on the ashes of the dead."

Why should we uncover the frailties of poor mortality, unless to

hold them up as beacon lights to the rising generation? and for this

purpose we would take the living example.

Here is buried an aged woman, who lived in poverty. She had the

shaking palsy, and it was with great difficulty she could perform

any labor; she was assisted by the town and the charities of the

neighborhood. She had one daughter, who was an invalid many years,

and dependant upon the care of the feeble mother. The children of

the village were the willing bearers of many comforts to these poor

people; and even now seems to come the well remembered "tell your

mother I am much obliged to her," from the pale lips that lie buried

beneath the sod. The daughter is buried by her side, and methinks they

sleep as sweetly as the more wealthy citizen, beneath a more splendid

monument. All here meet upon a common level--the old, the young,

the rich, the poor, the bond and free, for death is no respecter of

persons.

Here, too, rests a young physician, who supplied the place of the old

one. His career was like the meteor flash, emitting its brilliant rays

for a season, and then was shrouded in death's dark night.

As we stand upon this spot and contemplate it as it was when we last

stood upon it, we feel that here has been the greatest change of any

place yet visited. Here we meet many a name familiar to the ear, and a

form familiar to the eye starts into life, and treads again its mazy

scenes. Many monuments are erected to entire strangers, and this

is our first meeting with them. Here the infant of a few days lies

buried, just tasting the cup of life, he turned sickening away, and

yielding it up, soared away with the angel band to the realms of

bliss.

But ere we leave the yard, let us visit the resting place of the

beautiful Clarinda Robinson, who died at the early age of nineteen.

She had ever enjoyed undiminished health. But soon, oh, how soon,

the rose of health faded upon her cheek; her sparkling eye lost its

lustre, and the animated form, stiffened in death, was laid away in

its silent chamber. At her feet lie two beautiful nieces, called, too,

in the morning of their days to go and make their beds with her. Sadly

did the bereaved mother mourn their loss; but the pale messenger came

for her too, in a few weary years, and she joined them in the pale

realms of shade.

Here, too, sleeps the young wife, called soon away from the husband of

her youth. Consumption, like a worm in the bud, preyed upon the

damask of her cheek, dried up the fountain of her life, and bore her

triumphantly, another victim of his power. The old sexton, too, who

from time immemorial, had been

"The maker of the dead man's bed,"

has laid down his mattock and his spade, and filled a grave prepared

by other hands. At his feet lies a lovely daughter, snatched suddenly

away, ere the bloom of youth had passed, and almost without a moment's

warning, leaving a husband and a dear little child, too young to feel

its loss.

But while we have yet lingered, the sun has finished his journey, and

hid his bright beams behind the curtain of the west, and already have

the shadows of coming twilight gathered around us, and the white

marble slabs, dimly seen in its shadows, assume strange, mysterious

shapes, and seem almost like moving things of life, while the darker

slate are lost to view.

We will sit a moment on the grave of our dear old aunt. This was the

spot designated for our family burying place; but it is now filled

with strangers. We will now leave this spot, to toss again upon the

waves of time; but may the lesson here learned go with us, and prepare

us for the day when the heart and flesh shall fail, and we must change

this for another life, ever remembering,

"That life is long that answers life's great end."

Midnight Scenes

Or, Pictures of Human Life.

Picture No. I.

The midnight moon shone drear and cold,

Upon a stately tow'r;

Whose ramparts high and turrets bold

Bespoke a lordly pow'r.

The dancing waters flash'd and gleam'd

Beneath her silver ray;

And gently fell her placid beam,

On tower and turret gray.

And softly came the silent dew,

And fell with gentle pow'r,

Sparkling like gems, or diamonds fair,

On trembling leaf and flow'r.

Fair night hung out her golden lamps,

In her blue chambers high;

And earth, all gemmed, in their pure light,

Lay lovely to the eye.

But look within those costly halls,

Where waxen tapers gleam,

And crimson curtains' silken folds

Exclude the moon's bright beams.

A queenly matron mournful sits,

In all her jewelled pride;

The costly diamond on her breast,

Its anguish cannot hide.

The angel of the raven wing

His sable plume waves there,

And writhing on his silken couch,

Lies stretch'd the only heir.

She feels how vain a thing is wealth,

To ease that lab'ring breath,--

Or bribe, in his resistless course,

The tyrant monster, death.

The hours of night passed slow away,

When brightly rose the sun;

The boy in quiet beauty lay--

The fearful work was done.

The angel had performed his part,

And back to heav'n had flown;

The mother with a bursting heart,

Sat weeping now, alone.

She rising, smoothed his golden hair,

One ringlet gently shred;

And then, within a costly shroud,

She wrapped her silent dead.

And folded light the snowy screen,

That hid from every eye

Those features, beautiful in death,

And marble forehead high.

But hark! she hears a prancing hoof,

And sees a horseman come;

Soon the proud charger reached her side,

Cover'd with dust and foam.

Her husband from the saddle springs,

And clasps her to his breast;

And on her icy lip and brow

The kiss of love was pressed.

"How is our son?" the father cried;

In his, her hand she placed,

And through their gorgeous, darkened halls,

Their silent way they traced.

Nor stopped, until they reached his side,

Who yesterday, in health,--

The mother's joy, the father's pride,--

Was heir to all their wealth.

The mother folded back the screen,

And said, "There lays our child;"

Then overcome with bursting grief,

They wept in accents wild.

They laid him in a marble tomb,

With all that wealth could show;

But deeply in their castled home

Dark rolled the tide of woe.

Picture No. II.

The midnight moon, with pallid beams,

From eastern sky again

Look'd forth, and shed her fitful gleams

On mountain, hill and plain.

And far upon the moaning sea,

She threw her mellow light;

And tossing waves, and heaving spray,

Were gemm'd with diamonds bright.

But oft a fitful shadow came,

And rested like a shroud;

For, o'er her bright and tranquil face;

Stole many a passing cloud.

The night winds moan'd, and plaintive sigh'd,

O'er mountain, sea and vale,

And whistled round a lowly cot,

Where sat a mother, pale.

Her raven hair was parted smooth

Upon her forehead high;

And though her face was pale with care,

Yet mildly beamed her eye.

And beauty left a ling'ring trace,

Upon each feature there;

Which, with sweet dignity and grace,

Blended with ev'ry air.

A feeble taper dimly burn'd,

As swift her task she plied,

And oft her anxious gaze was turn'd

Where, nestled by her side,--

On a low pallet, sleeping lay

A darling, cherub boy,

With curling hair and azure eyes,

His mother's only joy.

Calm was his sleep; but starting once,

Half springing from his bed,

He spake, in accents faint and low,

"O, mother, give me bread."

And then her task she quicker plied,--

The starting tear repressed,

And, "Oh, my God!" she meekly cried,

"Protect the fatherless."

And so she toil'd, till morning spread

Her earliest tints of gray

Across the distant, eastern sky,

Then kneeling down to pray

Beside the little, lowly cot,

Her soul in trust was giv'n,

Unto that kindly Father's care,

Who look'd and heard from Heaven.

And angels came, with silent dew,

Her throbbing brow to lave;

And gentle sleep her spirits steep'd,

Within the Lethean wave.

But with the sun's first golden beams,

She left her lowly bed;

And with her gentle boy, went forth

To seek their daily bread.

Small was the pittance that was giv'n,

By cringing, sordid wealth;

But, with firm confidence in Heav'n,

And thankful for her health,

She took again her weary task,

Through all the lonely day,

Nor sought again her lowly bed,

Till morning dawn'd with gray.

So years pass'd by, the boy grew on

In beauty, day by day;

The mother felt her faithful son

Would all her care repay.

And manhood came, with daring high,

And brought a sweet relief;

Plenty for want, and ease for toil,

And joy for all her grief.

Picture No. III.

Again it was the Noon of Night,

The full orb'd moon her car rolled high,

And fringed with gems of silver light

The azure curtains of the sky.

And all the glittering host of stars,

Stood marshall'd in their bright array,

While, far across the concave blue,

Lay stretched the spangled milky way.

And earth all beautiful and fair,

Lay tranquil as a sleeping child

Beneath a watchful parent's care;

While guardian Heav'n looked down and smiled.

The trees all bathed in tears of Night,

Seemed deck'd with gems of Ophir's gold,

And lilies, in pure vestal white

Their spotless fragrant leaves unfold.

In gentlest breath the night-winds sigh,

While fleecy clouds like Angel's wings,

Light sailing o'er the azure sky,

Their shadows cast o'er earthly things.

O who could deem that aught so fair,

So filled with beauty and perfume:

Was but a mighty sepulchre,

A vast, capacious mould'ring tomb?

Or who could deem that mis'ry dwelt

Within a paradise so fair,

That want and pain and woe and guilt

Mingled as sad companions there?

But see where yonder moonbeams creep

In that lone crevice, low and small,

And throws a struggling, sickly beam

Upon the cold, damp dungeon's wall.

See by that feeble, glimm'ring ray,

Low seated on the damp chill ground

A mother sits, whose tearful eye

Is cast in gloomy sadness round.

Beside her lies her only son:

Her lap the pillow for his head.

That son must meet the convict's doom,

When the brief hours of night have fled.

The mother speaks: "Oh see, my son,

Light breaks upon your dungeon wall!

It is a messenger to thee;

Methinks it is thy Saviour's call.

"Dost thou not feel it on thy soul?

And wilt thou not His call obey?

His blood alone can cleanse from sin,

And wash thy guilty stains away."

"Oh, Mother, yes, I feel His power,

E'en as I see yon gentle ray;

His blessed voice now says 'Thoul't be

In Paradise with me this day.'"

Joy filled this waiting mother's heart;

"Let us to God the glory give."

They knelt in humble, grateful prayer,

For Jesus bade that sinner live.

And Angels hov'ring o'er the scene,

Clapped their glad wings and flew to Heav'n

To strike anew their golden harps,

For peace on earth and sin forgiv'n.

And the rapt seraphs round the throne,

Loud anthems to the Saviour raise;

While cherubims with transport burn,

And Heav'ns high dome resounds with praise.

And when the hangman's task was done,

Joy filled the stricken mother's breast.

She felt her dear misguided son,

Through Jesus' blood, had sunk to rest.

And while she linger'd on the earth,

Glory to God was hourly given,

For that mysterious spirit's birth,

That makes the soul an heir of Heav'n.

Picture No. IV.

In agony a mother knelt

Beside her wasted pulseless child;

"Give, oh, give him back to me,"

She cried, in accents stern and wild.

That prayer was heard, the answer came:

The feeble pulse revived again;

And quick the crimson tide of life

Flowed warmly back through every vein.

Yet, though the mother saw the change,

No praise unto her God was given;

No grateful incense from that heart

Ascended up to pitying heaven.

'Twas midnight's deep and silent hour,

When nature folds her hands to sleep,

And Angels come to bathe the flowers,

With dewy tears they only weep.

She heeded not the pulse of time

That throbb'd the moments of the night,

Nor yet the early morning's dawn,

That ting'd the east with rosy light.

But with a mother's earnest eye,

Watch'd o'er her infant's peaceful rest:

Until his gentle slumber passed,

Then clasp'd him fondly to her breast.

Childhood's brief years in sin were spent;

The stubborn knee ne'er bent in prayer;

Those lips ne'er spake a Saviour's name,

"Our Father" never lingered there.

Youth's golden season, too, was passed

In wanton sports and misspent time;

And soon he stood on manhood's verge,

A hardened wretch, prepared for crime.

Though so forbidding in his mein,

He woo'd and won a gentle bride,

Who but the closer to him clung,

As darker rolled life's heaving tide.

But though an Angel shar'd the place,

There were for him no joys at home;

He left his mother and his wife,

Reckless o'er earth or sea to roar.

He stood upon a sanded deck,

With blood-red pennon floating free,

And with a daring bloody band,

Rode madly o'er the foaming sea.

The waves that lashed the coal-black hull

Were parted oft their dead to hide;

For ocean's surging, billowy foam,

Drank deeply of life's crimson tide.

He tossed a pointed dagger high,

And wore a sabre by his side;

And many a gen'rous noble one,

Beneath his powerful arm had died.

For bloody deeds of daring high,

He had won a deathless fame;

And o'er that reckless, bloody crew,

Had gained a pirate-captain's name.

And though their coffers teem'd with gold,

Their sordid souls still sighed for more:

And to procure the paltry trash

They scour'd the seas from shore to shore.

But Retribution's hour must come;

Vengeance cannot always sleep;

Justice, with her glittering sword,

Pursues them swiftly o'er the deep.

At midnight, in a dungeon lone,

An aged female knelt in prayer;

But oh, her low, sepulchral tone

Seemed fraught with anguish and despair.

"My son," she cried, "to morrow's sun

Must witness your disgraceful death;

O, seek a dying Saviour's love,

E'en with your expiring breath.

The sun of Righteousness has risen,

And o'er my path shed golden light,

And shone upon the narrow way,

That ever followed leads aright.

And I have followed to the cross,

On which a dying Saviour hung,

Bemoaned my sins with weeping eyes,

Besought his grace with suppliant tongue.

He witness'd all my sorrowing tears,

And heard my suppliant prayer in Heaven;

Then sweetly spake with cheering voice,

"Daughter, thy sins are all forgiven."

Prostrate in dust before His throne,

My heart's pure worship then I gave;

Sweetly my ransomed spirit sang,

Jesus Christ has power to save."

Then spake the son:--"Talk not to me,

I heeded not weak woman's tears;

But when I sail'd upon the sea,

I quickly silenc'd all their fears.

Free was my trade, my arm was free,

And human blood I freely spilt;

And many an aged breast like thine,

Has sheath'd my dagger to its hilt.

Our blood-red pennon floated free,

Our blood-stained deck its witness gave;

Blood, human blood, was on our hands,

And mingled oft with ocean's wave."

Shudd'ring, the mother cried: "My son,

Though you are steeped in human gore,

There is a fountain filled with blood,

That can your purity restore.

Your Angel wife bath'd in that flood,

And proved a Saviour's promise true,

And when she gently pass'd from earth

She left her dying love for you;

And bade you seek a Saviour's face,

And by His mercy be forgiven,

And by that new and living way,

Seek an inheritance in Heaven."

"Then she is dead," he mournful cried,

"'Tis better thus, for see the sun

With rosy light now streaks the east:

And ere it sets my race is run.

Firm would I stand upon the drop,

Meet firmly my approaching doom;

But death is not an endless sleep,

And justice lives beyond the tomb.

Yet this conviction comes too late;

My soul is lost,--I cannot pray;

Forget your son--forget my fate,

And walk in wisdom's pleasant way."

In agony the mother pressed

To her sad heart her guilty son;

But yet, like incense from that heart,

Sweetly arose, "thy will be done."

No hands were folded on his breast.

They laid him not within the tomb;

The surgeon took him from the drop,

To meet a more disgraceful doom.

And such is life, whose ebb and flow

Heaves the deep sea of human mind;

True happiness they only know,

Whose every wish's to Heaven resigned.

The History of a Household.

Early in the winter of 18--, there was a heavy rain, accompanied by

high winds, which swelled the waters of the Sandy river to an amazing

height, and every moving thing upon its surface was borne away with

the rapidity of lightning. Standing upon its margin was Frank Somers,

his eyes fixed with intense interest upon a frail raft that was

plunging and heaving among the boiling waves. Upon it stood a man

about the middle of life, with an athletic form and a determined

expression of countenance, his eyes fixed fiercely upon a brace of

logs that had been left reposing on the quiet bosom of the waters,

waiting their turn to be sawed into boards. It was a valuable lot,

and would bring considerable of an income to the owner, therefore he

pursued it over the rapid current, hoping to arrest its course ere

it reached the falls. Beside him stood a young boy on the raft,

his cheeks blanched to marble whiteness, and his dark eyes fixed

imploringly upon his father as they danced along over the furious

wave, every bound conveying them so much nearer the falls that

thundered on like a mighty cataract, heaving up a cloud of spray, then

foaming and dashing off to join the mad waters below. O, it was a

fearful sight. On, on went the logs, and on, on went the raft, the

reckless man exerting himself to his utmost to stop their progress by

endeavoring to reach them with a long pole he held in his hand.

Willie Somers raised his pleading eyes to his face (and many long

years after did their expression haunt him), "O Mr. Lambert, please

don't go any farther, we shall be over the falls."

"Pshaw, child," answered Mr. Lambert, rather sternly, "I must save my

logs at any risk."

The frantic father screamed from the shore,--"Mr. Lambert, save

yourselves and let the logs go.

"You are lost, you are lost!" cried many voices, as a log bounded upon

a giant wave, leaping over the cataract hurrying on through the waters

below. The strong man made a desperate effort and reached the land,

but the poor boy upon the raft was precipitated over the falls into

the gulf below. As the agonized father stood gazing with breathless

horror upon the sight, the form of his dear son arose once more,

standing erect upon the bounding billows, with his arms widely

extended, and his eyes glaring from their sockets. But in, a moment he

was hid from view, beneath the heaving mass of waters. All effort to

find him proved unavailing.

The next spring his body was found thirty miles distant down the

river, having laid in the water over three months. He was sent to his

friends. The father was almost beside himself, although a man slow

to anger; but he turned when his son sank from his sight groaning in

spirit, and shut himself up in his chamber, not daring to see Mr.

Lambert till his wrath was in some degree abated. He secluded himself

in his room four days, suffering intensely, and then went forth among

men an altered man, for the fearful death of his son had made an

impression upon his mind never to be obliterated by time.

He was a man of sorrow, having separated from his family on account of

domestic troubles, and this, his only son, was his greatest comfort.

His eldest daughter Matilda, was married to a man in the same

neighborhood, and had been a witness of her brother's sudden death.

She was young in years, but insidious consumption was sapping the

secret springs of life, and that awful sight gave her a shock from

which she never recovered. The wretched father soon left that part of

the country and journeyed to a far distant southern city, and far, far

away in a land of strangers, they made his grave. No dear child was

near to wipe the dew of death from his noble brow, or to minister to

his necessities, or to close his weary eyes as they cast their sad

glances upon a world that had been to him a world of trial.

Matilda gradually failed. She had given her heart with her hand in

early youth, to a young man of moderate circumstances, but prudent and

industrious; and by these means they procured a comfortable living,

and with this they were contented. She united her industry with that

of her husband, and her good management gave a neat and almost an

elegant appearance to their little cottage home, which peeped out like

a bird's nest from the trees that surrounded it. Charles Abbot was a

happy man, happy in the consciousness of well doing, happy in the love

of his wife, and in the caresses of two little boys, the pledges of

their united love.

They had been married six years when the death of the dear brother

cast so deep a shadow over their hitherto happy home. Matilda's

failing health scarce attracted attention, it was so gradual.

A slight cough, a deeper rose upon the cheek, and a brighter fire in

the eye, were almost its only indications. It was a calm evening in

the early part of June, as Charles and Matilda sauntered forth to

inhale the sweet fragrance of the evening breeze that fanned the

leaves of the trees, and wafted the odors of many flowers upon its

downy pinions, and rippling the now quiet waters of the Sandy river

that lay in peaceful repose, its glassy surface reflecting the mild

radiance of the setting sun.

Before them ran their little children in all their sportive gaiety,

clapping their hands with joyous glee, as they watched the progress of

a little boat that was plying its way across the river, and listening

to the boatman's whistle, and the splashing of the oar as it dipped

the silver waves. The towering mountains rose high above their heads,

and "Father Abraham" looked as though it were about to fall and crush

them as they seated themselves at its base, to gaze upon the prospect

before them. Charles adjusted Matilda's shawl as she seated herself by

his side, with a sharp cough.

He glanced anxiously toward her, but became reassured as the deep

crimson upon her cheek and the bright sparkle of her eye met his gaze.

She sat looking pensively towards the river for some time, with her

cheek resting upon her husband's shoulder, and occasionally watching

the many gambols of her children as they sported at their feet. At

length she said: "Charles, how deceitful to me looks the placid bosom

of yonder rippling stream, as it reposes in quiet beauty, reminding me

of the stream of time, on the ocean of human life when unmoved by the

tumultuous storms of passion that so often agitate the human breast,

and cause the waves to rise and the billows to swell before the

surging storm. Scarce six months have passed since that stream swept

by in giant fury, and poor Willie was buried in its angry bosom. O,

Charles, do you know I cannot look upon that river without hearing

again his last agonizing shriek, and seeing again his pale fearful

gaze as he looked death in the face, for well must the dear boy have

known that his doom was sealed; and oh, what agony must have filled

his breast as he cast his last gaze upon us, imploring our assistance,

and yet feeling it would be vain."

"We will leave this place, as it awakens unpleasant memories."

"It is best so," continued she; "Even now the spirit of my dear

brother seems hovering over me, whispering of the spirit land. But

Charles, I have something to say to you of importance."

The husband looked earnestly and tenderly into the face of his wife,

and she continued,

"Perhaps, my dear husband, you are not aware of my failing health, but

I feel the necessity of having assistance in my household duties, and

have thought perhaps it would be better to send for sister Ellen to

come and stay with me a while."

"Certainly, my dear, certainly; I will go after her to-morrow; forgive

me, Matilda, that I have not thought of this before, but I think if

you are relieved of part of your labor for a while, your health will

improve."

The poor wife smiled sadly, and pulling down a stalk laden with buds

from an adjacent rose bush that stood waving on a flowery bank beside

them, and pointing to a crimson bud enclosed in its casing of green,

she said, "Charles, is not that a beautiful bud?"

He looked at it and answered in the affirmative.

"Do you think it will ever bloom?"

"I see no reason why it should not, it looks as promising as any one

upon the stem."

"But look a little closer, do you see that little worm gnawing at the

very heart and sapping the secret springs of its life?"

Her husband gazed tearfully upon her, and she felt she was understood;

and then pressed her to his heart in a passionate, fond embrace, and

spoke words of comfort, and of hope and of life.

The wife smiled faintly upon him, and replied:

"Even now there is such a weariness in my limbs that I do not feel as

though I scarcely can reach our little cottage home, where we have

spent so many happy hours together."

They called their little Frank, who bore his grandfather's name, and

Willie, for the youngest was named for her dear brother, and

pursued their way silently to the house, each wrapped in their own

meditations.

That night, when Mr. Abbot closed his family Bible, and they all knelt

together to implore God's mercy, fervent was the supplication that

arose from the lips of the husband and father, as he besought grace

for every time of need. The heart of the husband was full as he

prayed our Father to stay the disease of his dear wife, and earnestly

repeated, "if it be possible let this cup pass from me;" but after

wrestling long, that peace came that passeth understanding--that peace

that the God that heareth prayer bestows upon his children when they

bow themselves before Him, and cast their burden upon Him who careth

for us, and ere he arose from his knees he was made to say, "Thy will,

not mine be done;" and they retired to rest beneath the shadow of the

Almighty, and felt that his watchful eye was upon them during the

silent hours of the night.

Early the following morning Mr. Abbot started, to go down the river

(as was the usual phrase) to Matilda's grandfather's, where Annie and

Ellen, the two younger sisters resided, having both left the residence

of their mother some time previous. Annie, then eighteen, had the sole

management of the family, as her grandmother was very feeble, and

unable to assist her at all. She was rather surprised at Mr. Abbot's

arrival, and quite alarmed when she heard the import of it. It was

immediately settled that Ellen should go with him, and preparation

was accordingly made for their departure early the following morning,

every thing being attended to by the careful Annie, who supplied the

place of mother to the younger sister, who was now about sixteen.

Suffice it to say, the assistance was not productive of the

anticipated good; Matilda's health declined rapidly, and it became

evident to all who looked upon her, that she was passing away to the

spirit land. The struggle in her husband's mind was over, and he felt

a pious resignation to the will of God.

Frequently did they converse together upon the joys of the heavenly

world, and select such passages of Scripture as are calculated to

prepare the soul for its upward flight.

"O Charles," said Matilda, one beautiful autumn day, as the yellow sun

shed his mild radiance over the decaying face of nature, "support me

by your strong arm while we pass through the garden to the river by

the nearest way. I feel quite refreshed to-day, and would look once

more upon that restless stream that is ever hurrying on 'to meet old

Ocean.'"

He placed his arm lovingly round her waist, and almost bore her to the

spot, scarcely feeling her weight, so fragile had she become. Frank

and Willie accompanied them with their happy countenances and glad

voices, and plucking a bunch of fading flowers, presented them to

their mother.

She watched them with a tranquil smile, and rewarded them with a kiss

as she took the proffered boquet from the uplifted hands of her dear

children. Frank was a noble boy, with dark brown hair and coal black

eyes, inheriting his mother's beauty. Willie was a feeble child, with

hair of lighter brown and eyes of azure blue, that betrayed a noble

soul in their very depths.

The mother called him to her, and taking his little hand in hers,

pressed them lightly to her forehead and then to her lips: looked

earnestly into his eyes as though she would penetrate their very

depths, then tenderly said:

"Willie, we are very near to heaven here; it is the music of angels

that whispers through the waving trees, and it is the motion of their

wings that sways their branches so gently. O Willie, will you meet me

in heaven?"

"Frank, come and kiss me; we are very near heaven; will you too meet

your mother there? Charles, it does not make me sad now to see the

place where dear brother Willie passed over the falls. It looks

pleasant now, so near heaven, and his gentle spirit says, 'sweet

sister, come;' surely the things of earth are passing away. Charles,

the dear boys will comfort you when I am gone, and perchance my spirit

may meet with yours in sweet communings, and soon we shall meet in

heaven to spend an eternity together. Charles, pray in this beautiful

place. O, those towering mountains apeak the majesty of their Creator."

"Ellen, dear, 'remember your Creator in the days of your youth;' and

oh Charles, pray that we all may meet in heaven."

He knelt and offered up the prayer of faith, but while he concluded,

there was a pressure of the hand he held in his, the white lips

parted, the head fell heavily upon his shoulder; there was a faint

whisper "Jesus, receive my spirit," and the mother was an Angel.

The boys were overcome with grief. Charles and Ellen too, were

awestruck.

He bore his lovely burden back to the house and wrapped her in the

habiliments of the grave.

It was a mournful day in autumn, when a sad procession bore her to her

last resting place, and laid her down by the side of her much lamented

brother. The appropriate text, "He that believeth on me shall never

die," comforted the grief-stricken mourners. She passed away early in

life, ere the sun of twenty-four summers had shone upon her pathway.

Charles mourned his loss, but not as one without hope. And as he

turned from the grave to his home and crushed the blighted leaves

of autumn beneath his feet, he felt that he too, was passing over

withered hopes back to the battle field of human life.

He cast one long, lingering glance upon Matilda's grave, then looked

fervently to heaven, and pressed on to "life and to duty with

undismayed heart."

Ellen soon returned to her grand-parents, and a sister of Mr. Abbot,

losing her husband about the same time his wife died, came to reside

with him, and thus the husband and children were provided for; and

although the shadow of a great grief rested upon them, and there was

a vacancy in their household, they learned to be happy in the present

good, and by living so as to join the dear departed ones in a happier

world.

It was again June--mild, lovely June. The air was filled with the

sweet music of the birds that carolled their evening lay, and seemed

pouring forth a sweet song of gratitude to Heaven, for that delightful

day. Gentle breezes sighed through the leafy trees soft as the first

whispering of young love, giving them a trembling motion, like a

bashful maiden as she blushingly listens to it. Beautiful looked the

little village of W----, as the setting sun cast his slanting rays

upon it, tinging the leaves with deeper green, and burnishing the

little stream with gems of sparkling gold. The tall lilac bushes were

filled with large red and white blossoms, and as they slightly nodded

their graceful heads before the passing zephyr, might have been

fancied to be giving a cold greeting to some humbler flower that grew

by their side.

In a large, square, old fashioned house, encircled by a neat white

fence, which separated it from the street, might be seen a young girl,

occupied in what New England housewives would call setting the house

in order, and very carefully are all things arranged, the crockery

being nicely washed and wiped to a shining brightness, stands neatly

arranged in their proper places, on shelves scoured to a snowy

whiteness. The floor is nicely swept, every chair carefully dusted,

and set back in its proper place, and the broom and the brush hung

back upon their accustomed nail. The young mistress stood looking

round the apartment with the air of one who feels they have

accomplished well the designated task, when she started upon hearing

her own name called, and in a moment Edward Merton stood by her side.

"Annie, come, Annie, just don your sun-bonnet, and walk with us to the

Island."

Suiting the action to the word, he placed her bonnet upon her head,

and drew her willing arm in his, and they soon joined the group of gay

companions that stood chatting and laughing at the door. Well did the

sable dress that Annie wore become her fine complexion, for the rose

blended with the lily upon her cheek, and beauty sat triumphant upon

her ruby lips and sparkled in her dark flashing eyes. But recent

events had cast an expression of melancholy over her countenance,

which for a moment had a sobering influence over her young companions

when she joined them.

Edward and Annie lingered a little behind the rest, talking of their

future prospects, and of the coming separation, as Edward was soon to

leave for Boston, where a more desirable situation was offered him

than could be obtained in the village.

"My increased income, my dear Annie, will enable me the sooner to

claim you for my bride; true, the separation will be painful, but I

am determined never to marry till I can commence house-keeping

genteelly."

She looked earnestly in his face and said, "Edward, it is home where

the heart is, and it seems to me we should not spurn a present for a

future good. This life is short and uncertain, and I feel a gloomy

foreboding when I think of your departure, I have been so accustomed

to seeing you every day, to leaning on your arm in every walk, and

going so constantly with you everywhere, that I shall miss you sadly

when you are away; but," she continued, smiling through her tears, "I

suppose I must turn nun" and live in seclusion during your absence?"

"O, do not do that," he replied, smiling; "It will be but for a short

time, and it is said, 'absence lends enchantment to the view.'"

"O, dear," cried Melinda, a blue eyed beauty, leaning confidently upon

the arm of Theodore Stanley, "I should think Ed and Ann were saying

their parting adieus, they look so sad."

Upon this the eyes of the whole group were turned upon them, and

affecting a gaiety they did not feel, they soon hastened forward and

joined in the general conversation till they came to the place of

their destination.

What was called the Island, was a point of land in the edge of a large

pond, or lake it might be called, as it was six miles long and three

or four wide. It was separated from the main land in low water, by a

small stream that was crossed by a large stone placed in the centre,

for a stepping stone; but in high water it could be reached only with

boats.

The little party crossed this stream, and seated themselves upon the

grassy knolls, beneath the giant oaks that spread their huge branches

around them, for they were the growth of centuries. Loud came the

chorus of the feathered tribe, as they sang their evening hymns before

retiring to their nests, which were very abundant in that shady

retreat, which afforded them protection from the truant school boys.

Annie reclined against the trunk of one of the largest trees, seated

by Edward's side, when suddenly looking up, she said,

"O, Edward, let me have your knife."

He reached it to her, and she immediately commenced carving his name

in the tough bark of the tree, against which she was leaning.

Many followed her example, and many fairy fingers were busy carving

the names of their favorite friend upon the trunks of the aged trees

that surrounded them.

"I shall cut it deep," said Annie, "so that it will live forever; and

I hope there will be neither mould nor moss upon it, to hide it from

view, as I shall love to come and look upon when you are far away."

"Ann," said one, "we will come here in the long summer days, and weave

chaplets of the bright leaves of the old oak, and twine them round our

lord's name."

This occupied their time till the shadows of evening fell around them,

and it was dark when they reached their homes.

It was midnight--dark, dreary midnight. Black clouds hung in huge,

portentous masses over, the vault of heaven. The forky lightning

flashed, and the deep toned thunder reverberated peal on peal, while

the shrieking winds rocked the tree tops, and poured their wild melody

upon the ear. It was nature arrayed in awful sublimity, displaying the

majesty of God.

Seated on a low chair, in the simple little parlor of Annie, sat

Edward, with a pillow upon his breast, supporting the head of the poor

girl, whose breathing was laborious, and her cheeks flushed with an

unusual glow, as she leaned against him for support. This was the only

situation in which she could breathe, as there was an abscess forming

in her throat. Her physician said she must sit bending forward, as

there was great danger of its producing strangulation, should it break

when she was in any other position, which he thought probably it might

do before morning. Edward, therefore, could not think of leaving her;

but kept his patient watch by her side during the night, alleviating

her sufferings by every means in his power, speaking tender words of

constancy and love, and picturing long years of connubial felicity

after he had won a fortune in the distant city.

Suddenly there came a brighter flash, a deeper crash, and it seemed

for the moment that the house was immersed in a lurid glare of light.

Annie, screaming, started to her feet, then fell back, fainting, and

black in the face with suffocation.

Edward thought, as he caught her falling form, that all was over; but

after a short struggle she recovered, and the crisis of her disease

had past, and she could now breathe easier than she done for several

days.

She had taken cold during their stay on the Island, and had been sick

from that time. The storm had spent its fury, and the clouds had

passed away, leaving the blue canopy of heaven studded with golden

stars, and all nature was refreshed by the rain that had fallen during

the shower.

Annie dropped into a sweet slumber, the first that had visited her

eyes for several nights; and Edward revolved many things in his mind,

as he held her to his heart. Would she remain constant during his

absence, and meet him with the same affectionate greeting? What would

be the changes that would take place in that time? for he felt there

must be changes. And, last of all, would his feelings be the same

towards her? truly, of this there was no doubt--was she not his own

sweet Annie, who for three years had been his affianced bride, and,

surely, there could be no change in him. But Edward Merton had not

then explored all the secret chambers of his own heart, and realized

not that it was an unwarranted ambition that, even then, was urging

him to leave the object of his affection, postpone his projected

marriage, and leave the friends of his youth where competence rewarded

his toil, for the purpose of acquiring wealth in a land of strangers.

The golden sun gemmed the drops of the previous night with the

diamond's lustre, and the voice of active life awoke in the village,

ere Annie awoke from her slumber, exclaiming,

"Why, Edward, is it possible I have slept so late? but wearied nature

was quite exhausted."

"You look finely refreshed," said he, giving her the parting kiss;

"but I must away to my shop."

Annie recovered rapidly, and soon the time came for Edward's

departure.

He could only speak of the future, seeming to think little of the past

or present.

"I shall write to you often, Annie, and you are mine till death do us

part, just as much as though Parson Bates had told us so."

A faint smile rested for a moment upon the lip of Annie--then faded

away, leaving a sadder expression than before. There was a melancholy

foreboding at her heart, and she at least did not feel willing to

sacrifice present happiness for future wealth; and she feared the

ambition of Edward would not be easily satisfied. But she strove to

subdue the feeling, and when their lips united in the parting kiss,

a pang shot though her heart, and "it is his last kiss," passed

involuntarily through her thoughts.

She turned hastily away to wipe the tears from her eyes, and bury her

grief in her own bosom.

Edward, after a prosperous journey, arrived safely at his place of

destination, was settled in a lucrative business, even exceeding his

most sanguine expectations, and was constant in his promise of writing

to Annie.

When winter returned with his winds, the aged grandfather was stricken

down by death. He fell like a sturdy oak before the stroke of the

destroyer, for he too had buffetted many a winter's storm, having

lived beyond the age of man. They bore him to his grave, when the

winds of winter blew fiercely round, and the drifting snow almost

obstructed their passage to the grave yard. He was deposited in the

place alotted him, and left to his repose, with the bleak winds of

winter pelting fiercely upon his grave. He heeded them not--that weary

sleeper, tired of looking upon the world, with all its changes.

Capt. Somers settled in that country before the woodman's axe had

felled the forest trees; and when they must pursue their way to

Gardiner by spotted trees, and frequently did herds of Indians wrapped

in their blankets, call at their door and exchange the moose meat

which they had dried, for beef, bread and other eatables.

These were times that tried men's souls, for during the war they were

frequently alarmed by hearing that unfriendly Indians were coming upon

them, which would fill the early settlers with dismay. So it might

well be said, as they laid the aged man to rest, he had seen changes,

for truly, had he seen "the wilderness made to bud and blossom like

the rose," and the temple of the living God supplying the place of the

Indian's wigwam.

The grandson, who had come in possession of the property, decided to

break up house-keeping, and placing his grandmother in the family of

a son, soon accomplished his purpose, leaving Annie and Ellen to look

out for themselves. Ellen went to reside with her mother, who had

erected a little cottage in a distant village.

This was a severe trial to Annie; she scarcely knew what course to

pursue; but, procuring board with an intimate friend, she entered a

cotton factory with a number of her young friends, thinking that would

be a respectable, and an easy way of obtaining her livelihood.

She wrote an affectionate letter to Edward, informing him of the

change in her circumstances and her present occupation, saying she did

not think the occupation would diminish her worth, or tarnish her good

name.

He answered it by requesting her to leave her employment, and

offering to pay her board if she would do so; but she preferred being

independent, and thought she would remain and earn what she could to

help herself; and there the matter dropped, she working on two weary

years. Often did she visit the Island, gaze upon the name of Edward,

and recall the scenes of that and many other evenings.

Many of the companions of that evening had united their destinies

for life--many had left the village, and some had closed their eyes

forever upon the things of earth, and entered upon the untried scenes

of eternity.

It was the close of a dreary autumn day, when the withered leaves

rustled before the cold chilly winds, and the dust was hurried on in

eddying torrents, that there came a whispered report to the ear of

Annie that Edward had returned from Boston. Her heart beat violently,

and she could scarcely stand upon her feet, as she contemplated the

pleasure of seeing him again, after so long an absence. Many were the

cordial greetings she received from her merry companions, upon the

occasion. She hurried home, eager with expectation, wondering, as she

judged him by the tumultuous beatings of her own heart, he did not

seek her sooner. As she passed on to her boarding place, she saw him

standing at a distance, in conversation with his brother, and although

his back was towards her, she mentally exclaimed,

"It is indeed my own Edward."

She made her toilet with great care, and dressed herself in such

colors as were pleasing to him, arranging her hair in the way that

he had so often praised. The fire diffused a cheerful glow round the

comfortable apartment. Annie seated herself by the window, momentarily

expecting his arrival. She took up a book and tried to read. Hour

passed after hour, and still she listened in vain for his well known

footsteps. The clock struck nine; the fire had gone out upon the

hearth, and the autumnal gale whistled mournfully round and swayed the

branches of a leafless tree that stood beneath her window.

Annie arose, extinguished her light, and again seated herself by the

window, leaning her cheek upon her hand, with her elbow resting upon

the window stool, she sat looking back into the silent chambers of the

past.

The wan, declining moon looked coldly down upon her, as it peeped out

behind

--"the broken parted clouds,

Brightening their dark brown sides."

She sat, pale and motionless, till the stars faded from the sky, and

the golden king of day announced his coming, by streaking the east

with his herald beams. She was accosted by her companions, with many

compliments upon her looks, as they joked her upon the return of her

lover, and concluded by sympathising with her in his early departure

for L., the residence of his father. Little thought these careless

ones how deep a wound they were inflicting upon the heart of the

sensitive Annie. She never told her grief, but strove to hide her

feelings in her own bosom. She could not think he had forsaken her,

but often would she think it was indeed his last kiss.

About this time the owners of the factory concluded their profits did

not amount to what they anticipated, and therefore, dismissed their

help and shut up their factory.

The circumstances of Edward and Annie had now become generally known.

She said little, only affirming he should have all the honor there was

to be had, for she had much rather have the name of being deceived,

than keeping company with a man so long she did not love; but every

one, of course, would express their opinion, and so the village talk

went on.

Perhaps it was with less regret upon this account, that Annie prepared

to leave the place, to live with an aunt that resided a few miles

distant. She collected together her little stock of goods, which she

had prepared for house-keeping, consisting of table linen, bedding

and such like things that the careful housewife knows so well how to

appreciate.

Among the many and beautiful bed quilts pieced by her industrious

fingers, was one set together in what is called Job's trouble, with

many a grave warning ringing in her ears, accompanied by an ominous

shake of the head, and an assurance she never would marry Edward if

she pieced her quilt together so. She sighed now as she unfolded it,

and stood for a moment gazing upon its beauty. Then smoothly replacing

the folds, and laying it in a large chest, she sighed as she said,

"Indeed, I shall never marry him."

Years had passed, and many suitors had sighed for the hand of Annie,

and she had consented to become the wife of Alfred Lombard, after

succeeding years should more fully obliterate the remembrance of

past disappointment. He was a young man of good family, and handsome

exterior, and though Annie did not love him with the ardor of a first

love, still she respected his character, and admired his virtues.

His estimable mother too, had shown much affection for the fatherless

Annie, and she had spent many months beneath their hospitable roof,

supplying to them the place of a daughter, while they conferred upon

her all the affection of parents, and looking wishfully forward to the

time when their marriage should take place.

Annie was schooling her heart to forget the past; but some remembered

word, or dearly loved token would awaken the old grief in her bosom,

and bring the scalding tear drops to her eye lids.

It was a bright afternoon in early autumn, that Annie sat sewing by

a window in the luxuriously furnished parlor of Colonel Stuart, her

uncle, who was the practicing physician of the village, that she was

started by a loud ringing of the door bell. Supposing it was some one

after her uncle, she paid little heed till she heard her own name

called, and in a moment after Edward Merton stood before her. He

extended his hand, exclaiming, "My Annie." There was a marble paleness

upon her cheek, and with a trembling voice she saluted him. He said

as he was returning from Augusta he thought he would take that

opportunity to return her letters, and take his, at the same time

drawing a small package from his pocket. She took them with a

trembling hand, but strove to appear calm, for she saw he was watching

her with Argus eyes to fathom the secret recesses of her soul.

She entered her chamber and took from a small box, which was a gift

from Edward, those dear old letters, over which she had wept so often,

and which breathed tender tones of love and affection, and spoke of

happy wedded days in the perspective.

But now she must part with these too. She pressed them once more to

her heart, and entering the room, presented them to him. He glanced at

her earnestly as he took them from her, saying as he did so,

"You do not look well, Miss Somers."

She colored slightly, and replied,

"O yes sir, I am quite well."

"I suppose," continued he, "you have heard that I was about being

married."

"I have," was her brief answer.

"It is a mistake, I have no idea of it," and wishing her a hasty good

afternoon he took his leave without any reference to or explanation of

past events.

Annie sat like a statue after his departure, crushing the letters in

her hands, gazing upon vacancy. A marble paleness overspread her face,

and she felt now that her cup of misery was indeed full. She laid

aside her work, and locking herself in her chamber gave vent to her

feelings in a passionate flood of tears. She tried to conquer her

feelings and summon her woman's pride to her aid, but it would not

do. "Cruel Edward," she mentally exclaimed, "you might have spared me

this, or told me the cause of this neglect and coldness." And as she

reflected upon the trapping of wealth with which he was surrounded,

and the splendor of his equipage, she asked herself, "can it be that

love of gold is the cause?" Echo answered "can it be?"

As the weary night drew to a close, the tempest in the poor girl's

bosom began to subside. But as the heaving ocean bears upon its waves

plank after plank of the ship-wrecked vessel that has been stranded

upon its tempest tossed bosom, so did the surging waves of memory

bring back one incident after another in her past life, and picture

the tender looks and the tender tones of the unfaithful Edward, during

the many long years she had regarded him as her future husband. To him

she had yielded up her heart's best affections. For his sake she had

rejected many an advantageous offer of marriage.

She met the family in the morning with quite a composed countenance,

but with a sad heart.

In the afternoon she went to her uncle's to visit her grandmother,

thinking, perhaps, change of place might produce some change in her

feelings. It was a delightful afternoon. The sun shed that soft

subdued light so peculiar to the season, over the face of nature,

which seemed rather approximating to maturity than verging to decay.

The trees were robed in their deepest green, while the early ripe

fruit hung temptingly upon their branches, or lay scattered upon the

ground beneath. Scarce a breeze agitated the trembling leaf or cooled

the fever upon her cheek. "O," thought she, as she passed along, "the

howling of the wintry storms would better correspond with my feelings

than this holy calm." She, in her agony, had not yet learned to bathe

her restless spirit in the fountain of Jiving waters, or to listen

to that voice that said, "Peace, be still," and the winds and waves

obeyed; therefore she had no "shelter from the windy storm and

tempest."

She was startled by hearing some one near her repeating in a low,

musical voice,

"Little Hannah Pease, little Hannah Pease; old Ben Thornton, old

Ben Thornton," and looking up, perceived near her a female, loosely

wrapped in a large white woolen blanket, which was her only clothing.

Her head and feet were entirely bare. Her black hair was cut short,

and her weather beaten countenance retained traces of great beauty.

She stood courtesying and smiling to a rock. As Annie reached her

side, she muttered, "Old Ben Thornton, old Ben Thornton, you deceived

poor Betsey Lotrop--you deceived poor Betsey Lotrop."

Annie gazed upon her with pity, saying mentally,

"A poor victim of unfaithful love; I hope the fire that is feeding

upon the springs of my life may never destroy my reason," and at that

moment she seemed to feel the need of seeking aid from a higher power,

and for the first time the prayer for guidance and direction went

up to God, in earnest supplication, and our Father, who pitieth his

children and seeth the returning prodigal afar off, breathed peace

into her troubled spirit, and thus commenced the first dawnings of a

new and better life in the heart of this poor lonely one.

Poor Betsy stood curtesying and talking to the rock, till Annie walked

some distance from her, when gathering her blanket a little more

closely about her, and walking rapidly forward, soon overtook her,

and looking earnestly in her face, with a low, gurgling laugh, she

continued,

"Poor little Hannah Pease, poor little Hannah Pease--perhaps, if you

had married him, you wouldn't been any better off. This face was a

beautiful face once; it was the handsomest face that ever was seen;

look at it now--how would you find it out? Old Ben Thornton, old Ben

Thornton," and fetching another laugh, she sprang over the fence, and

was soon lost from sight among the trees.

Annie soon reached her uncle's, where she met with a cordial

reception, and she felt that she had learned a salutary lesson from

the poor lunatic. The next afternoon, she and her cousin Edith

wandered forth into an adjoining field, to enjoy a stroll beneath the

cloudless sky, and inhale the sweet breath of autumn, which was borne

upon the gentle gales. Nature was at rest. No stormy wind ruffled her

bosom or agitated its surface. Her rich store of fruits lay spread

out in great abundance, and the whitened fields stood ready for the

harvest.

They conversed upon indifferent subjects till they came to a little

silver stream, threading its silent way through the silken grass. They

crossed and seating themselves beneath the shade of a thrifty apple

tree, picked up some of the delicious fruit that lay scattered in rich

profusion around them.

"O, Annie, I forgot to tell you I received a visit from Dora,

yesterday; she is very unhappy on account of Charles Stanley's

conduct. She did not wish to go to the ball, on account of her

father's death, and he waited upon Eveline Houghton--then left for

Turner without calling to see Dora."

"Indeed, I thought they were to be married this fall?"

"Such has been the report; but as she has not seen or heard from him

since, she does not know how to construe his conduct towards her."

"When Orville was returning from his eastern tour, he came across

Charles, in Portland, and rode with him a short distance. He sent Dora

a present by him, but told him nothing of the transaction. She came to

me in hopes of hearing something more definite from him."

"How does the poor girl bear it?"

"She is very unhappy, and says she is not ashamed to have people know

she had been deceived; but many tell her they wouldn't mind anything

about it."

"They may say so," said Annie, raising her dark eyes to Edith, while a

deeper flush suffused her cheek; "but, Edith, I tell you, it will wear

and wear upon the secret springs of life, till it bears its victim to

the grave."

Edith gazed upon her with such an anxious, pitying expression, that

she felt she had betrayed her own secret, and bending her head to hide

her blushes, she picked up the mellow, golden colored fruit that lay

around her, and commenced rolling them down into the stream that

flowed at their feet. At that moment poor crazy Betsey Thornton came

bounding over the stone wall that separated that from an adjoining

enclosure, and gathering her blanket about her, stood curtesying and

laughing before them, repeating as she did so,

"Poor little Hannah Pease, poor little Hannah Pease--old Ben Thornton,

old Ben Thornton."

"Take some apples, Mrs. Thornton," said Edith, as she regarded her

with a sad expression of countenance.

She took them, curtesied, and with her low, gurgling laugh, leaped

over the wall, and went muttering on to rock or tree, or any other

object that came in her way.

"Edith," said Annie, "what poor Blanche is that, for a poor love sick

maiden, I am sure she must be? As she came with her large blanket

fluttering over the wall, it reminded me of Sir Walter Scott's poor

Blanche, that

"Stood hovering o'er the hollow way,

And fluttered wide her mantle gray."

Edith smiled as she replied,

"You are right--and yet you are wrong in your surmises; she is not the

victim of a faithless lover, but the victim of a faithless husband."

"But," replied Annie, "a victim to man's inconstancy, at any rate?"

"Oh, yes, Annie, that is what all the poets sing."

"And with all this before you, Edith, are you not afraid to unite your

destiny with Orville Somerset?"

"I sometimes fear to; but oh, if he is ever to prove untrue, may it be

before we are united by the solemn covenant of marriage."

"Perhaps it would be better, but I think it will never come to you,

Edith."

This conversation led to a full disclosure of Edward's conduct, and

Annie unbosomed herself more fully to her cousin than she had ever

done before. She sympathised with her in her feelings, saying,

"O, Annie, should Orville serve me so, I do not think I could bear it

as well as you do."

Annie, smiling faintly, said,

"But the end is not yet, Edith."

The sun had finished his journey in the sky, and twilight was

gathering around them, when, with arms entwined round each other, they

pursued their way back, conversing upon the disappointments of life,

and the misery that is produced by inconstancy and faithlessness.

"Mrs. Thornton," continued Edith, "was a beauty, as you may even now

perceive by its traces upon her weather beaten countenance, and

her position in society was far above Mr. Thornton; but won by his

addresses, she consented to become his wife. They came to this

country, among strangers, to an humble home, where she suffered many

privations, which she bore with woman's fortitude. But when her

husband became an inebriate, and treated her with moroseness and

brutality, reason forsook its throne, and she became a maniac. Hannah

Pease was an intimate friend of hers, who seems to be ever in her

mind, perhaps because she used her influence to prevent the unhappy

union."

"O," said Annie, "when I reflect upon the misery that sometimes exists

in the married state, I almost feel it is well to be situated as I

am now, as to be united, even to Edward. But then, the cruel

disappointment rankles deep."

"And how many men," said Edith, "make the indifference, the ill

temper, or the untidiness of a wife an excuse for their intemperance,

tavern-haunting, and all their neglect of home. But it does seem to me

that it devolves as much upon a man, to contribute to home happiness

as upon a woman. But many men of my acquaintance seem ever to cast a

shadow upon the sunlight of home, and their wives and children shrink

from their presence. Is this the wife's fault?"

"I think not. If so, I think the stronger yield very readily to the

weaker, and certainly should receive our sympathy."

"But, Annie, how much there is in this little world of ours, that is

mysterious and beyond our comprehension, and nothing so much so as

the want of union in the marriage relation. For there the greatest

fondness is often turned to the greatest inattention. But, oh, may

Heaven save me from such a lot!"

By this time the cousins reached the house, and soon retiring to rest,

Edith was wandering in the land of dreams, while Annie lay busied in

thought, counting the hours of night, and seeking to look "beyond the

narrow bounds of time, and fix her hopes of happiness on heaven."

The rougher blasts of autumn blew more fiercely round, and the dry

and withered leaves fell from the trees, and drifted along before the

chilly winds, while the black passing clouds cast a deep shadow over

the face of decaying nature. Everything bespeaking the return of

dreary, desolating winter.

Annie had faded with the leaves of autumn--she had heard of Edward's

union with a young lady of great wealth and beauty soon after his

visit to her, and she felt grieved, when she reflected upon the

unmanly manner in which he had conducted towards her. She had

conversed freely with Alfred, and laying all the circumstances of the

case before him, told him she should respect him while she lived, but

was fully sensible her blighted heart never could know another earthly

love.

"And while the lamp of life continues to burn," she added, "I wish

to direct my thoughts to Heaven, and prepare for that change that is

before me. Death, Alfred, will soon claim me for his bride; he, at

least, will not prove recreant to his trust."

Alfred kissed her pale cheek, and looked tenderly upon her, feeling

that her presages were indeed too true.

She was soon removed to the home of her mother, whose heart yearned

towards her dying child with the affection of a true mother. As

Annie's health declined rapidly, and the things of earth became more

dim and shadowy, the heavenly became more distinct and glorious.

"O, Ellen," she would say, "how precious at such a time as this, is

the presence of the Saviour, who condescends to minister to us in our

necessities. O, Ellen, do seek an interest in his dying love. You will

be the only remaining one, soon. Father, Matilda, and Willie have long

since passed from earth, and soon--very soon, I must join them in the

spirit land. Oh, mother, do try by repentance and faith, to meet us

there, so that we may be a united family in heaven, though we have

been divided upon earth. As I now stand upon the brink of the grave,

looking back upon life, and forward to the future life, I feel like

the shipwrecked mariner, who has entered the haven of peace, after the

winds and the storms have subsided, and the tumultuous tossings of

the waves have ceased. For, oh, this poor heart has been wrung by

disappointments, but I see now it was all for the best; my Heavenly

Father would have all my heart, and so he, in his infinite wisdom,

separated me from my idol, and now my affections, separated from

earthly love, are fixed upon him, he is my rock, and my stay. No

earthly friend could go with me 'through the valley and shadow of

death,' but Christ can go with me, and open wide the gates of heaven,

and usher my willing spirit into the presence of the happy throng that

worship before the throne of God."

It was a dreary day in mid-winter. The wind howled in fitful gusts,

and the falling snow was piled in huge drifts before it. Annie, pale

and laboring for breath, was bolstered up, in bed, for the angel

of death was visiting the poor girl. His icy fingers were upon her

fluttering pulses, and the feeble current of life stood still.

"O," said she, "the winds, in their wild fury, seem singing praises to

God. My heart is so attuned to praise, that all things seem to unite

in the universal hymn of thanksgiving to our Saviour and our God. O,

Ellen, is there no music in those words, to your young heart? And,

mother, does it not come to you, in your declining age, and bid your

wearied spirit seek that rest that remains for the people of God?"

She ceased to speak: the breath became shorter and shorter, till it

only came with convulsive gasps. She once again opened her weary eyes,

looked earnestly upon the face of her mother and her sister, then

glancing round the apartment, seemed as though she were bidding a last

adieu to all it contained--then closing them forever upon earthly

things, without a struggle or a groan, the spirit of Annie Somers

passed gently away.

The storm continued its violence, and desolate indeed, was the cottage

home of the mother and the sister, where lay the lifeless form of

Annie, reposing in the long deep sleep of death.

It was Sabbath day--a stormy Sabbath day, when the coffin of Annie was

borne upon the shoulders of four men to its last resting place.

It was covered with a neat black velvet pall, at each corner of which

hung suspended a heavy black silk tassel, which waved in the wind as

it came careering on, in fitful gusts, one blast scattering a shower

of snow upon the velvet pall, and the next, sweeping it away, and so

they laid her in her grave, amid the howling of the wintry storm; but

it disturbed not her repose.

Willie and Matilda sleep upon the banks of the Sandy river. The

father's grave was made upon the banks of the far off Mississippi, and

Annie rests by the side of the winding Androscoggin; her mother, too,

is by her side; for she soon followed to the land of shadows.

Ellen has entered upon the responsible duties of wife and mother, and

is acting well her part in the drama of life. Her usually volatile

spirit is chastened and subdued by the sorrows that have passed

over it, and it is her earnest endeavor so to live, as to meet the

approbation of God, and her own conscience and train her dear children

for that better life that is promised to the pure in heart.

Were I weaving a tale of fiction, the reason of Edward's conduct would

be required to complete the work; but it has been said

"Truth is stranger than fiction,"

and Annie died without ever receiving any explanation. Thus we will

leave them, with the assurance that they shall again be united,

although their remains are now so widely separated.

Lines, Written during Convalescence from Brain Fever

Sing on, sweet bird, thy gentle strain

"Can't cool my brow, or cool my brain;"

But yet, thou hast a magic pow'r

To lull me in a fev'rish hour;

Thy pleasant notes, so sweet and clear,

Come soft and mellow'd to my ear.

And when my head is rack'd with pain,

Burning my brow, throbbing my brain,--

When all's tumultuous, toss'd, and wild,

And frantic as a wayward child;

Roaring as if old ocean's waves

Were bursting from their coral caves;

Tossing as if old ocean's foam

Were rocking to its highest home;

Moaning as if the sea bird's wail

Were screaming o'er the tattered sail;

And ev'ry ship were tempest toss'd,--

Its rudder gone,--its pilot lost;

And no kind ray of light were giv'n,

To cheer them, from the vault of heav'n,

Save the vivid lightning's flash,--

Pealing the deep ton'd thunder crash,

Glancing upon the tow'ring wave,

Above the seaman's yawning grave;--

Glaring into that dark abyss,

Where hideous monsters dart and hiss,

And ship wreck'd seamen, far from home.

Toss amid the briny foam;

Till the proud wave, with one stern sweep,

Buries the secrets of the deep;

Revealing far, on upper land,

A lawless bandits' wand'ring band,

With sword and rapier, stain'd with blood,

Still thirsting for the crimson flood;

They show no mercy on their kind,

But kill or plunder all they find.

Then dies the flash, as ocean's moan

Sends back a low, sepulchral groan,

Leaving all nature dark and still,

As midnight sleeping on the hill,

While all around unearthly seems,

As frightened Hecate's spectral dreams;

Till bubbling, gushing through each vein,

The frenzied current turns again,--

My hurrying pulses faster play,

And conjure up the dread array,--

Glaring spectres, side by side,

In mould'ring shrouds around me glide;

Death's damp wreaths are round their hair,

And coffin worms hold revel there.

Gibb'ring, they come from ancient tombs,

Stealing from low sepulchral glooms,

From vault and charnel house they rise,

With bloodless cheek, and hollow eyes,

They point the finger,--shake the head,

And hold strange converse round my bed;

Together there, in council meet,

With coffin, pall and winding sheet,--

Seem waiting, with their dread array,

To bear my lifeless form away.

They stand with mattock, and with spade,--

On me their icy hands are laid,

While noisome vapors round me spread,

Bespeak the precincts of the dead.

E'en then, sweet bird, at such an hour,

When reason almost resigns her power;

Thy pleasant notes have magic art,

To soothe my palpitating heart;

They come as wild, as free, as clear,

As though no pain or woe were near.

'Tis true, that friendship's hand is kind,

My aching brow and heart to bind;

Beside my bed a husband stands,

And anxious children press my hands;

A gentle mother acts her part,

And sisters, with each winning art;

Father and brothers waiting still,

The slightest mandate of my will;

Each anxious, who shall earliest prove,

The tender gushings of their love.

Sometimes there comes a vision fair,

Of waving groves, and balmy air,

Of placid skies, serene and mild,

As slumber stealing o'er a child;

Where breezes hushed to deep repose,

Sleep in the bosom of the rose,

And scarcely lift their fragile wing,

One dew-drop from the flower to fling;

But leave it for the sun's warm ray,

To kiss the pearly tear away.

Pleasant sounds the gushing rill,

That bubbles down the verdant hill,

Murmuring along ifs native glen,

Far from the fev'rish haunts of men,--

Till kissing soft its pebbly shore,

It dies, nor ever murmurs more.

And fairy forms around me dance,--

Now they retreat, and now advance;

Bright wreaths around their heads they wear,

And lutes in their fair hands they bear,

Each warbling forth, in cadence low,

Their pleasant number, as they go,

And music floats high in mid air,

As bands of angels hover'd there;

Four massive chains of purest gold,

A chrystal island seem to hold,

Gently waving it in air,

As angel spirits lingered there.

Like ocean, in a summer day,

When gentlest zephyrs with him play.--

Just curl the ripples on his breast,

Then sighing, sink with him to rest.

Beside the streams are pleasant bowers

Adorned with ever-greens and flowers,

Where insects float with gayest wing,

And birds with sweetest voices sing,

And happy spirits, free from care,

Pluck the wild flowers that blossom there;

Their forms are beauteous to behold,

White silken wings, spangled with gold,

Help them with easy grace to rise

From this fair world to yonder skies.

They come and go at even tide,

And sometimes on the sunbeams ride;

And when they wish for railroad cars.

They ride upon the shooting stars:

Firmly unite them in a train,

And skim along the aerial plain;

No locomotive do they need,

For their own will propels their speed.

The Aeolian harp, with plaintive wail,

Sighs responsive to each gale;

Its chords are strung 'mid branching trees,

And echo to ev'ry passing breeze;

Gently they vibrate through the grove,

Touching the chords of life and love,

Mixed with the sounds that round me float.

I hear, sweet bird, thy mellow note;

For as in sunshine, as in rain,

Thou comest to cheer me with thy strain.

Few friends so kind to come each day,

To sing the tedious hours away.

But pleasant visions vanish soon,

And the bright sun grows dim at noon.

The pleasant gales forget to play,

And dark and fearful grows the day.

The waving island takes its flight,

Far from the stretch of human sight;

High in 'mid air it seems to rise,

Dissolving, mixing with the skies.

But ah, it leaves no vacant place,

For grisly phantoms take its place.

Thus ever varying all things seem

"Fickle as a changeful dream;"

And naught is left of that gay train,

My gentle bird, but thy sweet strain.

O who can tell in hours of ease,

Of fancies wild, and strange as these?

When health gushes through each vein,

Who paint the fever of the brain?

Who picture half the grief and pain

That follows pale sickness in her train?

With bitterest dregs she fills her cup,

And makes her victims drink them up:

Binds them to thorny pillows down,

And frightens sleep with her stern frown;

Or if perchance the eyelids close,

She gives her victim no repose,

But hurries round and madly screams,

And conjures up her wildest dreams,

Binds reason in her iron chains,

To fancy gives her longest reins,

And whips and spurs it, through the brain,

Till startling nature wakes again.

She flings the rose from beauty's cheek,

And on it paints her hectic streak;

Takes rosy childhood from his play,

And gives grim death the beauteous prey;

For ever round her footsteps steal

To pick for him his glutton meal;

And still she keeps her promise good.

To pamper him with hourly food;

But yet they stand there, side by side,

Death and the grave, unsatisfied.

For should a million hourly die,

Twould not their appetites supply.

But what seem curses to our eyes

Are nought but blessings in disguise;

And sickness is in mercy given

To wean the soul from earth to heaven;

For were all bright and joyous here.

Who would think on yon, bright sphere?

But pleasure pinioned to this sod,

Our thoughts would never rise to God.

And death's the passage to the skies,

Through which our ransom'd souls must rise,

To yonder blissful, bright abode,

Where dwells our Father and our God.

But now, sweet bird, I miss thy tone,

And feel at least one pleasure gone;

A prowling cat, foe to thy kind,

Thus wrought the evil she designed.

Thy life and songs forever o'er,

Thou wilt charm my ear no more.

Thus in life's uncertain day,

The singing birds oft snatch'd away:

And they who linger long in pain

Suffered to linger and remain.

But God is just in his decrees,

And wisely orders things like these.

The Angel Cousin.

Our little Mary was dying. The film had gathered over those deep blue

orbs, and her emaciated form lay white as polished marble stretched

out on her little cradle, around which were gathered sympathizing

friends, watching the feeble lamp of life as it burned flickering

in its socket. The grandmother and aunt had been summoned from an

adjoining village, where they had gone upon a visit the previous

morning; and Emma, a sweet cousin not two years old, stood wondering

why little Mary did not smile upon her, as she usually did, for she

had never looked upon death.

Mary had ever been a fragile child. But her mother had clung to her

with all the devotion of a mother's love. Anxiously did she watch that

little pale form, pressing it to her heart, and gazing upon it with

fond maternal pride, day by day, and night after night, unmindful of

food or sleep, so that she might relieve the suffering of her precious

babe; and ever would she say it will soon be better. One week

succeeded another, and still there was no change for the better. But

oh, how deep was the fountain of that mother's love, and the feeble

wailing of that dear infant moved all its secret springs.

A physician was consulted, who spoke hopefully, but nothing seemed to

help her.

Through the summer months, the salubrity of the air revived her some,

and the mother would wander with her round the garden, placing the

sweetest flowers in her hand, or sitting beneath the shade of trees,

she would listen for hours to the murmur of the summer breeze that

sighed among the branches, or the humming of the bee as it sipped the

sweets from surrounding flowers, delighted that her darling Mary might

thus inhale the pure breath of heaven. And when those large, soul lit

orbs were closed in sweet slumber, and the little fragile form could

rest for a short time, the mother would lift her heart to God in

gratitude and thanksgiving.

Summer passed with its weary watching, and her disease assumed a more

deffinite appearance, and the mother felt that Mary must die.

'Twas early autumn; the mother purchased some flannel and prepared a

robe for her darling, with a mother's pride, believing that that would

be beneficial to her. It was late in the evening when the task was

completed, and a neat white apron was hung upon the nail over it, and

the impatient mother waited the approach of day that she might place

it upon her little form. O how strongly did the bright red robe

contrast with the lily whiteness of that lovely babe. The tiny hands,

as they peeped from beneath their long sleeves, looked like two white

lilies intermingled with the thick clustering blossoms of the running

rose. The mother looked upon her with pleasure as she saw her so

comfortably clad, and hoped the increased warmth would improve her

health, but when she bore her to her father, saying, "here is our

doll;" he turned away his dewy eyes, for he saw that she was fading

away from earth.

"O Albert," said Carrie, "does she not look now as though she might

live?"

He could not bear to crush the last hope in the heart of his young

wife, and remained silent.

She continued,

"No one gives me any encouragement, but I do feel more hopeful about

her this morning, for she rested better through the night than she has

done for several nights."

While she was yet speaking, a piercing shriek broke from the lips of

the child, every feature expressed extreme agony, and the last ray of

hope in the heart of that young mother went out forever.

From that time, her precious one failed fast. Vomiting succeeded, and

the little fountain of strength was ebbing fast away. Little did

the poor mother think, when she arrayed her little infant in her

comfortable flannel robe, it would be the last time she would be

dressed till she was wrapped in her shroud for the silent grave.

During the night her feeble frame was attacked by severe spasms, and

shriek after shriek filled the heart of the mother with unutterable

anguish. When that subsided she lay cold and pulseless, with the damp

dews of death upon her marble forehead. Little hope was entertained of

her surviving till morning. But the grim messenger delayed his work,

and morning again awoke all nature to life and beauty.

It was a cool day, and the running rose bush that clambered over the

door, was laden with withered flowers that had lived their little day

and faded before the early autumn winds. Many a hardier flower was

blooming brightly, and lifting their heads seemingly in proud defiance

of the chilling winds that were blowing round them. One little bud

enveloped in its casing of green that hung waving over the door, was

perishing in its beauty, even like the little cradled innocent, that

even then was passing away before the icy breath of the dark plumed

angel. A hasty despatch was sent for the maternal grandmother and

aunt, and the grandmother upon the father's side was present, and

together we watched the failing breath of the dying child. Six brief

months only had she lingered upon earth, and now she was to depart

forever. Many, as they sat in that chamber of death, felt how

mysterious are the Providences of God. The dried and the withered

leaf, the full blown flower, and the opening bud were there, and all

were spared, while the youngest one of the group was passing away and

teaching the one great lesson, "All flesh is grass, and the goodliness

thereof as the flower of the field."

Little Emma stood gazing upon her with an expression of wonder, and

when told little Mary would soon be an angel, she raised her blue eyes

and smilingly said, "O Emma will have an angel cousin;" thus teaching

a lesson of faith and trust.

When the shadows of evening gathered around us, the doctor came in

and was surprised to find her still living. As she had not swallowed

during the day, he was surprised upon applying a sponge wet in water

to her lips to find that she swallowed rather eagerly and without any

difficulty until she had taken several drops. He told the mother she

had better prepare some warm milk and water, and drop a little of it

into her mouth as long as she continued to swallow. Hope sprung up

in her heart, perhaps she might yet live, and quick as lightning the

recollection of many children who had been snatched from the very jaws

of death, passed through her memory. But while she was making the

preparation, the little bosom heaved one gentle sigh, and we felt that

Mary was an angel. One glance, one wild scream, and the mother fell

almost fainting into the arms of her husband.

The crimson robe that was placed upon her with so many hopes by the

fond hands of a mother, was removed by other hands, and the little

body was prepared for the tomb. The mother gazed upon her with tearful

eyes and an aching heart.

It was a mild, peaceful Sabbath day when they bore her to the tomb.

The mother placed a robe of white flannel upon her, imprinting as she

did so, many kisses on the lily arms she had kissed so many times in

all their warmth of living loveliness, when, with a smile upon her

lips, and gladness in her eye, she raised them to her mother's lips to

receive the proffered tokens of affection.

And so they placed her in her coffin, with a tiny rosebud in either

hand (for she would ever hold flowers longer than any thing else), to

wither in their beauty with her, the pale perishing one. And the holy

man read from the word of God the impressive lesson, "Behold thou hast

made my days as a hand's breadth, and my age is as nothing before

thee;" and offered up fervent prayer in behalf of the afflicted

mourners, and little Mary was borne to the silent tomb.

O, who that listened to that gentle autumn breeze that so softly

sighed among the trees, and fanned the flower that bent slightly

before it, but must feel that there is a God that orders the winds and

the sea, and rules over the destinies of men.

Sad were the hearts of the stricken parents as they returned to their

little cottage, where everything reminded them of their dear lost

child.

Emma stood beside the vacant cradle, and asked many questions about

the departed cousin.

"Why did they take her from her cradle and put her in that little

box?" But was ever comforted by calling her her angel cousin.

But time passed on, and other changes came. They left their cottage

home where this great grief had rested upon them. Another darling

Mary was given them, and found a warm place in their affections. The

husband soon left his wife and child, and sought to build up his

fortune in a distant land, while the wife and mother dedicates her

time to the care of the dearly loved treasure her heavenly Father has

committed to her trust.

One brief year sped rapidly away, and winter again returned with his

winds. It was a wild night, the wintry winds howled fiercely round

the dwelling, and pelted the snow and sleet furiously against the

casement, when Mrs. Barlow, after attending to those duties that make

a New England home so comfortable, dropped her crimson curtains, and

seating herself by a comfortable coal fire, commenced preparing her

little Emma for bed.

"Oh," said she, "how the wind blows, mamma; what do poor little

children do that have no home?"

Said her mother, "God tempers the wind, my dear, to the shorn lamb."

"Mamma, do you know I am going to have a party and go to heaven and

invite my angel cousin?"

"Are you, indeed."

"But mamma, it is time to say our Father now," and the happy mother

listened to her dear child as she clasped her hands and lisped the

Lord's prayer, and the appropriate "now I lay me," after which she

soon dropped into a peaceful slumber.

Thus evening was spent after evening with the mother and her dear

child, happy in each other's love.

Winter passed, and genial spring came forth in infantile beauty,

unbending the streamlets from their icy fetters, and swelling the buds

upon the trees, thus making her early preparation for future beauty

and usefulness.

Emma awoke early one Sabbath morning, and leaving her little crib,

nestled down beside her mother. After laying quiet some time, she

asked suddenly,

"Is it Sunday, mamma?"

Being answered in the affirmative, she said,

"It would be a beautiful day to die. Less die to-day, papa, mamma, and

Emma, and go to heaven, and get our golden harps; you have a great

one, you and papa, and Emma will have a little one like my little

angel cousin."

A shade of sadness passed over the mother's face, but rested not upon

it. The form of her darling child was in her arms, her downy cheek

resting against her own, and the bright blue eyes gazing earnestly

into hers with a volume of meaning in their azure depths.

"But you must get up now, for it is a beautiful Sabbath day, and we

shall go to meeting to-day, and the minister will pray for us to God.

O how glad I am," and the dear child clapped her dimpled hands with

delight.

And so they went to church Sabbath after Sabbath, while Emma ever

seemed to enjoy the services, often making observations upon what

she heard. She inquired every day if it were Sunday; and Saturday

evenings her play things were all carefully laid aside, and she

expressed great sympathy for poor little children that played upon

that day.

The story of the cross would affect her to tears, and yet she loved

to dwell upon it, and it was with great effort her attention could be

withdrawn from it.

One rosy twilight hour, when the departed beams of the sun still

lingered, tinging the curtains of the west with those bright and

gorgeous hues that so frequently surround him at his setting. Emma and

her mother sat down to spend that happy hour together, and gaze upon

the scene.

Spring was rapidly advancing, and the face of nature was lovely to the

eye. The half open buds upon the trees shed sweet perfume, and birds

carolled their evening songs on every spray.

But the things of earth, beautiful though they were, could not satisfy

the mind of the child, and when the golden stars spangled the blue

canopy above, she talked of golden harps, of her angel cousin, and the

mysteries of that unseen world,

"Beyond planets, suns, and adamantine spheres."

Suddenly assuming a more thoughtful expression, she said,

"O mamma, what would you do if Emma should die? You would have to

carry away my crib and little chair, and put all my play things away,

and you would have no little Emma. O mamma, how lonesome you would

be;" and bursting into a convulsive fit of sobbing she flung her arms

around her mother's neck and wept upon her bosom. Tears too, dimmed

the mother's eyes as she pressed her fondly to her heart, and kissed

away her tears, while a painful thought went through her heart, "can

it be her conversation is prophetic?"

She soothed her troubled spirit, spoke of the joys of heaven, and

after listening to her childish prayer, laid her in her little crib

with a sweet good night murmured in her ear. Returning to her sitting

room, long and sadly she reflected upon the words of her darling

child, and tried to fathom their import, and earnestly did she pray

that night, "Our Father, prepare me for whatsoever thou art preparing

for me, and enable me ever to say, 'thy will be done;'" and she

retired to rest with a subdued spirit, feeling an indefinable

presentiment of coming sorrow.

The glad light of morning in a measure dissipated the shadows of the

previous evening, and the mother and daughter met with a pleasant

greeting,--the little girl busied about her play, while her mother

attended to her domestic duties. They frequently interchanged cheerful

words. Emma would sometimes personate a house-maid, and assist her

mother in dusting and arranging the furniture. But suddenly dropping

all, she stood by her side, and looking earnestly up into her face,

said,

"O mamma, you may have all my clothes next summer."

"Why, Emma," replied her mother, "you will want them yourself."

"O no, mamma, I shall not want them; you may have my little brella,

and all."

The mother's cheek blanched, and a fearful pang again shot through her

heart.

"O Emma, don't talk so, you will wear them all yourself."

"O no, mamma, you may have them;" and seating herself in her little

chair, she sat long, looking thoughtful and serious.

It was morning, bright beautiful morning. The swelling buds had burst

their confines, and the apple, pear, peach, cherry, and plum trees

that surrounded the house, were thickly covered with sweet scented,

many colored blossoms, that gave promise of a rich harvest of

delicious fruit. The birds warbled their matin songs in sweet melody;

the honey bees with drowsy hum, were sipping sweets to horde their

winter's store; and every thing seemed rejoicing in the light of that

glad morning. Even Crib, the great house dog, lay sunning himself on

the door step with a satisfied look, snapping at the flies that buzzed

around him.

But Emma could not arise to look out upon the joyful face of nature.

She lay pale and languid upon the bed, telling her mother she was too

sick to get up, that she could stay alone while she ironed her clothes

which she had starched the night before: but wished her to shut the

door to keep out the light and noise.

The mother pursued her task with a sad heart, but often would she

unclose the door and look in upon the pale child, and show her some

article of dress she had been preparing for her. She would look up

with a smile and say,

"O good mamma, how nice they look;" then closing her eyes drop into a

deep, heavy sleep.

She grew rapidly worse, and the doctor who was called to visit her,

pronounced it scarlet fever, that fearful malady among children, but

thought her symptoms favorable.

Every attention was bestowed upon her that affection could give; but

the disease rapidly increased.

The fire of a terrible fever was raging in her veins, and drying up

the fountain of her young life. In the wildness of delirium she would

start suddenly from the arms of her mother, and pierce her heart by

begging to be carried to her own dear mother.

The fifth day of her disease it assumed a more alarming appearance,

her extremities becoming cold, and a deathlike palor overspreading her

countenance, accompanied by a stupid, dozing state. While laying thus,

she started up, exclaiming,

"Mamma, if I die, shall I go heaven?"

"O, yes, my dear," said her mother.

"Papa said. I should."

Then falling into a deep stupor, she noticed nothing for about two

hours, when looking up bright and wishfully, turning her body towards

her mother, she said, earnestly,

"Pray."

Her mother commenced the sweet prayer, so familiar to her,

"Now, I lay me."

She joined her trembling voice with hers, and lisped again the words

she had loved so well. She appeared exhausted with the effort,

and turning away her little head, and closing her weary eyes, lay

apparently asleep about five minutes, when arousing herself, with a

sweet expression of countenance, she gently murmured,

"Amen."

"O," said the mother, "perhaps that is Emma's last prayer."

"It may be," said the grandmother; "and how vividly we should remember

it, if it should be."

Even so--that was the last note of praise that fell from those infant

lips upon earth. But often does it start upon memory's ear, during the

silence of the midnight hour, and seem like gentle whisperings from

the spirit land, and bring back recollections at once painful and

pleasant to the soul.

She slept till the twilight hour, when she wished her mother to carry

her to the window. Oh, happily were those hours usually spent, when

the duties of the day had all been performed, and the quiet shades of

evening gathered round their dwelling. Often was their talk of heaven.

O, they were happy hours! but they flew by upon golden wings, leaving

their deep impress on that fond mother's heart.

As she sat with her that evening, looking upon the varied prospect

that was spread out before them, no word passed her lips. Her mother

pointed to the green grass, the trees covered with clustering

blossoms, the river, hurrying on to join old Ocean, reflecting the

mild radiance of the setting sun on its placid surface; and to the

busy hum of life, as people hurried to and fro in the village that lay

distinctly spread out before them; but nothing could elicit a word

from her, till turning her head wearily, and closing her eyes for the

last time upon the beautiful world, with its deep blue sky, and its

rich sunset dyes, she said,

"O, mamma, lay me in my little bed;" and after noticing apparently

every object in the room, she closed her eyes and lay in a deep stupor

for four successive days and nights. Her face was pale as marble, and

incoherent words escaped her lips. Sometimes she would murmur,

"Oh, carry me home--carry me home." When she revived from the stupor,

at times it was agonizing to witness her suffering. But no word

escaped her lips.

Everything that medical aid could do was done, and every attention

was paid to the suffering child by her parents and friends, and every

effort used to stay the disease. But "he who seeth not as man seeth,"

willed it otherwise, and all proved unavailing. On the fifteenth day

the rash came on again; the throat swelled badly, and the sufferings

of the dear little one were extreme. Even then, it was evident she

knew her friends, and many were the tokens of affection bestowed

upon them as they watched beside her couch, and ministered to her

necessities.

Often would she reach up her little emaciated hands, and placing them

upon her mother's cheeks, press them tenderly. It seemed to soothe

her, when her mother would lay her head upon her pillow beside her,

and take her little wasted hand in hers. And when she sang to her, in

a low, trembling voice, her little favorite hymn,

"There is a happy land, far; far away,"

she lay quiet, and seemed listening with much attention, raising one

little hand three times, then laying it fondly round her mother's

neck. Long, during that day, did the grief-stricken mother breathe

sad, melancholy music into the ears of her dying child.

Towards evening that restless state, so common in cholera infantum,

came on, accompanied at every breath by a groan, which the doctor said

must soon wear her out.

He gave her an opiate, hoping to relieve the distress.

Towards midnight she dropped into a little slumber, and the mother,

weary with watching, retired, leaving the father and a sister, to take

care of her.

It was Sabbath morning; the gray dawn was just streaking the east with

the earliest beams of day, when the father, who sat a little distance

from his child, thought he saw her gasp for breath. He sprang to her

side, and saw too truly, that that pale visitant from the spirit land,

that comes to us but once, was dealing with his child. The mother and

grandmother, who had watched over her so unweariedly, soon reached the

bed; but the brittle thread of life was snapped, and the pure spirit

had passed away, with the pale messenger, to the spirit land. There

were no loud lamentations. The mother pressed her cheeks between her

hands, exclaiming,

"Oh, Emma."

Then taking her little pulseless hand in her own, seated herself

beside her on the bed, calm and tearless.

The father, with his face buried in his hands, sat motionless; but no

murmur escaped his lips. He had learned submission to the divine will,

and was comforted in his hour of need.

And brighter, and brighter grew the beams of that holy Sabbath day.

That day the dear child had loved so well. She had loved to enter the

earthly temple, and join in the hymns of thanksgiving and praise that

arose, like sweet incense, upon their sacred altars. And now, with the

early dawning of that sacred day, she had passed forever from earth,

to join the pure throng of worshippers before the throne of God. The

smile of heaven was upon her face, as though the light of the happy

spirit still irradiated it.

Loving hands placed her gently in the shroud and prepared her for the

tomb.

As that quiet twilight hour came on, who can picture the agony of the

bereaved mother's heart? She stole softly into the chamber of death,

and taking the little cold waxen hand in hers, bent fondly over, and

kissed the marble forehead. It was their favorite hour--the one they

ever spent together, and those blue eyes were ever then fixed upon

her, as she read the word of God, repeated infantile hymns, or

murmured the evening prayer. But now those dear eyes were forever shut

on earth, but open to the more exalted beauties of heaven.

As she recalled the past, in that solemn place, she weighed well her

conduct towards her child, and asked herself if there had been aught

to tarnish the purity of that spirit that had just entered the portals

of heaven; and earnestly did she beseech her Heavenly Father to

forgive all that was amiss, and cleanse her from all sin, that she

might be prepared for a reunion in a better world.

It was autumn, when little Mary was placed in the tomb, and all things

spoke of death and decay. It was now the last days of spring, when the

trees had put on their robes of deeper green, and all nature spoke of

a resurrection from the dead, when her little coffin was taken from

the tomb and placed in the hearse, to be buried in the same grave with

her cousin Emma. Emma lay beautiful in death, looking almost like a

thing of life, with a smile still lingering upon her lips, while fresh

half-blown flowers were placed in her icy fingers, and strewed around

the coffin, soon to wither and fade, with that frail child of clay.

Mary had decayed with the pure buds she held in her hands, and "dust

thou art and unto dust thou must return," was legibly written on both.

The same mourning circle convened, and bore their loved ones to the

place of graves. The sisters stood side by side, as the coffins were

let down into the earth, and mingled their tears together. It was a

melancholy sight, and spoke loudly of the uncertainty of human life.

The man of hoary hairs stood over the graves of the tender infant, and

felt sensibly, that while the "young may die, the old must die."

The parents cast a long lingering look into the greedy grave that was

forever to hide their treasure from their sight, then turned sadly

away to walk again the pathway of human life, and receive the portion

their heavenly Father may see fit to meet out to them.

Sweet is their place of rest. A weeping willow droops over their

grave, and the flowers of summer shed their perfume and scatter their

leaves around. Night winds sigh a mournful requiem, and gentle zephyrs

fan the leaves of the weeping willow, and murmur among its branches..

Two white marble slabs stand at the head of the little heaped up

mound, and point to the traveller's eye the place where rest the

remains of the angel cousins.

Lines, Written at the Close of 1842.

Hark! I hear the midnight bell,

Pealing forth its funeral knell;

Now its tones sound loud and clear--

Now low and dirge-like, strike the ear,

Solemn and slow, they seem to fall,

Upon the listening ear of all.

And lo! extended on the 'bier,

The form of the departed year

Closely wrapt, in snowy shroud,

Hastening to join the sable crowd

Of years--that passed before the flood,

And left their pathway stained with blood;

For oh, what horrors must appear,

Written on each departed year?

The fearful tales each will disclose,

The God of Heaven only knows.

Ardent and bright this year arose,--

Pictured its joys and hid its woes,

Painted gay paths bestrown with flowers,

And balmy skies, and sunny hours,

Promised some pleasures, ever new,

If pleasures' path we would pursue.

But soon the path became uptorn,

Instead of flowers we find the thorn:

And yonder sky, so blue and deep,

Where golden stars their vigils keep,--

Was soon by frowning clouds concealed;

And lightnings flash'd, and thunders peal'd

The golden sun soon sank to rest,

Behind the curtains of the west,

And left to darkness his domain,

With midnight howling o'er the plain;

And those who followed her gay train,

Found pleasure's path to end in pain.

For who e'er drank without alloy,

From the painted cup of joy?

Just as we seize some radiant prize,

That long has danc'd before our eyes,

And raise the goblet to our lip,

Its honied promises to sip.

Some lurking scorpion's venom'd dart

Sends poison rankling to the heart.

But now the year its race has run,

Its promises and labors done;

The grave has closed o'er its remains,

'Till the last trumpet breaks its chains;

Then must its mysteries be unroll'd,

And all its hidden deeds be told.

How many hail'd last New Year's day,

That slumber now in fellow clay.

This too, perhaps, may be our doom

Before another year shall come.

The things of earth may fade away,

And we be turned to lifeless clay;

The roving eye forget the light,

And dreamless sleep in death's dark night.

The pallid lips may cease to speak:

The coffin worm feed on the cheek;

The grassy turf o'er us be spread,

While earth's cold lap supports the head:

And heav'ns own dews the hillock lave,

And night winds sigh around our grave.

That narrow house may be our home,

Whose only mark is one grey stone.

But Christ by entering in the tomb,

Has dissipated all its gloom,

And shed a bright, benignant ray,

That opens on eternal day;

And those that sleep in His embrace,

Among the just shall find a place.

Lines, on the New Year, 1853.

Hark! I hear the clarion shrill

Winding up the icy hill,

And aloud the bugle horn

Proclaims another year is born.

Merry voices in the train,

Loudly sound it o'er the plain,

And the joyful notes I hear,

Are wishes for a happy year.

All come with faces bright and gay.

None seem to think of yesterday;

None seem to hear the passing bell,

That bade the dying year farewell.

None seem to think this infant year,

Which now so gay and bright appears,

Will soon by dark oblivion's wave

Be chas'd into the silent grave.

But all seem forming airy dreams

On future hopes and future schemes,

Though other years have prov'd untrue:

It will not be so with the new.

Joy beams upon the face of all;

Some meet within the festive hall,

Where music trills her gayest note;

And fairy forms in circles float,

And all seem feasting with delight

Upon the pleasures of the night,

None thinks upon the grief or pain,

That soon must follow in their train,--

The coffin shroud, and death's cold pall,

That must so soon be flung o'er all;

But yet, in that gay circle there,

We can detect corroding care,

Can plainly see, in sparkling eyes,

Sorrow, clad in gay disguise,--

Trying happy to appear,

To usher in another year.

Tis ever thus, the heedless throng,

That meet in revelry and song,--

Must ever feel within the breast

An aching void; while those possessed

Of pure Religion, may enjoy

Joys nothing earthly can destroy

The Unhappy Marriage.

"Hannah, it will not do," said Captain Currier to his eldest daughter,

a neat, quiet looking girl about eighteen, who sat sewing by a window.

"I say Hannah," continued he sternly, as her eyes met his, "it will

never do for you to throw yourself away upon that miserable scapegrace

that has visited you so often of late."

The blood mounted in torrents to her cheeks as she replied,

"Why, father, you surely cannot mean William Lawrence?"

"And who else should I mean? He is not worth a single iota, and what

is more, he is never like to be."