"True, he is not rich, but he is industrious, and with his excellent

habits I have no fears on that account."

"Oh, you have not, have you," said her father, almost fiercely, "but I

tell you Miss, it will never do, so you may think the matter over

at your leisure, and settle the affair, I hope, without any farther

interference on my part."

She raised her eyes timidly to her father's and said,

"I think, sir, you will be obliged to finish the work if it is ever

done; my faith is plighted to William, and you know, father, I cannot

break my word."

This candid avowal but added "fuel to the flame" of the enraged

father, and he sternly said,

"My commands are upon you, and I expect you to obey me."

"But father," began the trembling girl,

"There is no but in the case. But I will leave you now, for I see your

milk and water looking gentleman is coming, and I expect, Hannah, it

will be the last time his shadow will ever darken my doors."

As he passed out at one door the young man entered at the opposite,

and fixed his handsome eyes, with a searching glance, upon Hannah, as

he gave her his cordial greeting, saying,

"Are you ill?"

"O no, William, I am not ill, but let us walk out into the garden;

perhaps the cool winds of heaven will cool the fever upon my brow."

And so they wandered forth among the flowers, to breathe the air that

comes alike to the children of affluence and pinching want. They

reached a seat where they had spent many happy hours, over which

climbing honeysuckles shed their perfume, and many bright flowers

danced in the wind, or drank the pure dews of night as the pitying

angel wept upon their bosoms. Hannah was upon her accustomed seat, and

the eyes of her lover were fixed upon her with that fond expression

she so well understood, and which found a ready response in her

youthful heart. Now that heart was almost bursting with its agony of

grief; but William was beside her, whispered words of tenderness and

hope were murmured in her ear, and how could she break the spell? how

could she speak of the gathering storm? The commands of a stern father

were upon her, and she knew his indomitable spirit would never swerve

one inch from his determination.

They sat till the family clock struck nine ere Hannah could

muster courage to announce her father's decision, and related the

conversation that had just occurred. William was perfectly astonished,

as he replied,

"You certainly cannot yield to his commands? Hannah, the happiness of

my life depends upon our union."

"Well, we will keep quiet a while and see what further light we can

get upon the subject. I have a fearful foreboding that the haughty,

stern looking stranger who has been here so much of late, has

something to do with it. He has been officious in his attention to me,

and I have trembled when I have seen his savage eyes fixed upon, me

with such a peculiar expression. And so we will be quiet and wait the

moving of the waters."

The following afternoon Captain Currier called his daughter into the

parlor, and closing the door, said abruptly,

"Well, Hannah, I 'spose you have squared up accounts with William, and

are now ready to enter a new firm. There is a noble chance for you my

gal. The rich Mr. Benson has offered his hand to you in marriage."

"Impossible! Why, father, is not he an Indian?"

"No more of an Indian than you are; to be sure he is not quite as

white as your milk and water Billy."

"I should think he was milk and molasses, at least, and the largest

part molasses, but without its sweetness."

"Well, be that as it may, I'm thinking his thousands will make the

dose quite palatable at any rate. You must know, Miss, my affairs at

present are in an embarrassed state, and he proposes taking that large

tract of land adjoining mine, and giving me a generous price upon it,

provided you will become his wife. He is going to lay out the ground

like a garden, build a princely mansion, and you are to be its

mistress."

"O father, would you have me fall down and worship the golden calf?"

"But you must obey me; I cannot, I must not be frustrated in this

arrangement."

"But why, father, cannot you and he complete your bargain without

sacrificing my happiness on the shrine of Mammon?"

"No, he will leave the country immediately unless you consent to marry

him, and this, with my other property, is mortgaged, and cannot be

redeemed, and beggary stares me in the face. This step, and this

only, can save me. I told William the arrangement as he was marching

hurriedly away this morning with Colonel Somer's regiment, who were

ordered to reach the eastern border of the State as quick as possible,

as they fear an attack from the French and Indians in that quarter.

Mr. Benson is eager to have the marriage take place as soon as

possible."

Hannah sat like one in a dream for a moment, when she said,

"Father, has nature no voice to plead for me?"

"Child, it is your good I am seeking. How can you ever expect

happiness with William? It takes all he can earn to support his sick

mother, and let me tell you your chance will be a small one. Mr.

Benson's pockets are lined with gold, and he rides the best horse that

the country can produce; and let me tell you, your love, as you call

it, never yet put anything into the pot or kept it boiling, and it is

well said, 'when poverty stalks in at the door love creeps out at the

key hole.'"

"Well, father," said Hannah, rising up at her full height, "if I am

any judge in the case, that man is unprincipled, remorseless, and a

villian."

"I think you are no judge. What can you know about it?

"Well, you chose to put the business in my hands, and I have arranged

it to my own liking. Now you must be prepared by one week from this

day to become Mrs. Benson."

So saying he left the room, to bluster about Capulet like, to hurry

the coming event.

It was soon known by every member of the family, that great

preparations were expected for the coming wedding. Deeds were

drawn up, the land transferred into the hands of Mr. Benson at an

extravagant price, a large house erected upon it, and many carpenters

employed to finish one room, and a bed-room, so that they could occupy

it till the rest could be completed.

And so the shuttle was played to weave the woof into the meshy warp

that had thus been spread.

Hannah wept long after her father left her. She felt convinced it was

through his means William was pressed to go with Colonel Somers, and

her heart rebelled against his tyranny; and nothing would have induced

her to yield but her father's assurance that that alone could save

him from beggary. And she felt she would make the sacrifice for her

father's sake.

As she entered the kitchen, Sarah, the black slave, met her with,

"Why, Miss Hanner, 'pears to me I should not like to swap Mr. Lawrence

for Mr. Benson; 'pears he aint haff so perticler like."

"It is my father's wish, and I suppose it must be complied with," and

she passed out of the room to bury her feelings in her own bosom, and

nerve herself for the coming trial.

"Massa is doing good business, Sambo," said Sarah to a black man that

sat preparing some peas to plant, "he selling tu gals at once."

"Yes, yes; but I guess Miss Hanner hab no choice," and he rolled up

the whites of his eyes, and fetched a pompous nod of the head, as he

glanced at his sable companion.

"That does make some differ; now tree year don't seem bery long when

we bese so much wid one tother."

"The tree year most out now, white man buy his gal wid gold; but poor

nigger hab to work hard for his'n. Well, we be free then."

The conversation was closed by Capt. Currier's sharp voice calling

Sambo to bring the peas. He hastily obeyed the summons, as he did so

displaying by his open smile his ivory teeth to Sarah, who returned

the compliment in a very satisfactory manner.

All was bustle, stir, and preparation during the week. Dress makers,

milliners, and almost all classes of people were called into

requisition.

Mr. Benson strove hard to play the agreeable; but Hannah could

scarcely endure him. And the week passed away, as all weeks will pass,

whether laden with joy or sorrow; and the pale bride stood trembling

by the altar of Hymen, and the solemn words were passed that united

the destinies of two immortal spirits, and the recording angel

registered them in heaven.

After partaking of a sumptuous dinner, according to the custom of

those days, they entered a splendid carriage Mr. Benson had purchased

for the occasion, and with Sambo for a driver and Sarah for a waiting

maid, set out upon their wedding tour. But we will not accompany them.

Suffice it to say, it was productive of little happiness to the new

married pair. Sambo and Sarah enjoyed it very well, as she often rode

with him upon the driver's box, and they thus had a delightful view of

the country.

On their return, their house was ready for their reception, or at

least so that they could live in it while the other part was finished.

Hannah had frequently been surprised by her husband's frequent

potations of brandy during their journey, and his whole bearing had

been haughty and reserved.

They had been at home but a short time, when, after being absent one

night and day, Mr. Benson returned home with a dark frown resting upon

his countenance; he slammed the door, kicked every chair that came in

his way, and stamping about, went and dismissed all his hands, took

another dram from his brandy bottle, and sat moodily down by the fire,

grumbling because supper was not on the table.

Poor Hannah pressed her hand upon her throbbing heart, and struggled

with the tears that rose to her eyes and seemed scalding her very eye

balls with their burning heat. There was a choking sensation in her

throat, but she swallowed it back, and prepared supper in the best

manner she was capable. Her husband seated himself at the table, took

a biscuit, looked at it, flung it back upon the plate, called his tea

dish water, and throwing back his chair hastily, left the table.

But why dwell upon the sorrowful years they spent together? He ever

came like a dark shadow upon the sunlight of home. Children gathered

around their fire side, but there was no gentle corner for them in his

heart.

His only son was ever with him like his shadow, drinking in his

precepts, practising his examples, breathing his oaths, domineering

over his mother and sisters, and a terror to the neighborhood.

His father telling him, he was in hopes to see the time he would dance

on Dr. Somers' grave, as he hated him with a perfect hatred, because

he had been his wife's attending physician, when she had been sick

during the years they had lived together.

James, for such was the name of the son, was instructed to hate

everybody that came in his way, and, of course, was hated by every

one.

The money that came by gambling, went in the same way, and

poverty--abject poverty--was now an inmate of their dwelling.

The house remained unfinished; the frame, which had never been

clap-boarded, had gone to decay in a great measure; and when one meal

was obtained, they scarcely knew where another would come from.

Discord reigned among them. Hannah was a wreck of her former self. She

had strung up her patience to its utmost tension, and would often bear

the scorn and abuse of her husband in sorrowful silence.

But this state of things passed away, and when her children shared

in her sufferings, the bitter waters were stirred in their deep

fountains, and she became a worn woman, with a hasty spirit. The

biting retort was now often upon her lips, and she became in a true

sense of the word, what might well be called a scold.

One gloomy fall day, when the sighing winds shook the mellow apples

from the trees in the large thrifty orchard, that stood before the

house, casting so deep a shade that the rays of the sun could scarcely

penetrate it, and the old house looked blacker for the rain that had

fallen upon it, Mr. Benson was seized for debt, and, conveyed to jail.

During his absence Mrs. Benson purchased some apples of the man that

then owned the orchard, and dried them, hoping to obtain some

needful clothing for herself and children. She cleaned her ceiling,

whitewashed the plastering, and made everything about the house look

as comfortable as possible, and enjoyed the privilege, at least, of

doing as she pleased, without being found fault with, which was to her

a great luxury, as her expressed wishes were generally vetoed at once.

She was a true mother, and strove to bring her children up in the

paths of truth and honesty. But there was such an opposing current,

and such frequent bickerings between herself and husband, that they

caught the infection, and seemed to live only to torment each other.

"O," said Mrs. Benson one day, to her sister Sarah, who was spending

a, day with her, "this is the princely mansion father promised me, as

a reward for giving up all my cherished hopes. Poor William has lost

his dear mother, I hear."

"Yes, she died one day last week; she liked much where they lived, and

after William came into possession of his uncle's princely fortune,

her life was spent in ease and affluence. He is likely to become one

of the richest men in the country, and he is loved for his kindness

and respected for his virtues. Your marriage doomed him to celibacy."

A shade rested for a moment upon Mrs. Benson's brow, as she said,

"O, these dark brown years have brought no joy to me in their course.

How I have lived I scarcely know. How dim-sighted is human reason? The

poor William is now the rich man, and the rich Benson is the poor one.

Could father know the misery I have undergone, he would think his

comforts dearly purchased; but he is gone from earth, and I will not

reproache his memory; but, oh, it has been hard--very hard."

"But come, Sarah, come into this old room with me, and help me pack my

dried apple for market. Is'nt it nice? I took great pains with it, as

I wished it to fetch the first price in the market. I am going to get

me a new cheap calico dress. This old patched faded thing is the only

one I have.

"I have wove a great deal this fall, and I think what I shall get for

that and the apple, will fix the children and me up quite comfortably.

The children paid for these apples, by picking up apples for Mr.

Lambert, and he says he shall want them again. I don't know as I care

much how long Benson stays in jail, for I enjoy myself much better

than I did when he was at home, scolding round all the time. And it

has made a perfect vixen of me, and I scold almost as bad as he does;

and the children catch it, and we have a little bedlam here all the

time; O, I wish it were not so, I cannot lie down quietly and sleep at

night, and I know something fearful will come of it."

"O, sister, I hope nothing worse than has come. I am glad to hear your

prospects look more favorable, and wish it were in my power to help

you. If you get a dress I will help you make it, and the children's

clothing. But I forgot to tell you Sarah is dead, and Sambo has got a

cancer, and it is thought he will survive her but a short time."

"Indeed; well, she was a faithful servant, and has gone to her reward;

and poor Sambo, how patiently he toiled, early and late, to purchase

her freedom, and they were very happy."

"O, yes, because they loved each other, and there was no one to

interfere with them."

They were now startled by hearing Mr. Benson chiding the children in

a loud, angry voice, with many oaths, for leaving the gate open,

and letting a cow into a small yard of shrivelled, stinted looking

cabbages.

The children scampered for the house, with terrified looks,

whispering, "father has come," and crouching down in a heap in one

corner of the room, remained very quiet; the old cow ran for the

street, with Mr. Benson at her heels, storming furiously, and plying a

large stick across her back, which he had picked up in his rage.

The sisters placed the large bundle of dried apple in as secure a

place as possible, and returned to the kitchen.

The door was burst violently open, and Mr. Benson entered the room,

exclaiming, as he did so,

"What in thunder is going on here?"

And he proceeded to disarrange chairs, tables and everything that

came in his way, till the house was all in confusion. He went to the

cupboard, that stood in the corner of the room, to get a large jug he

used to keep brandy in, in his better days, but which now was often

filled with New England rum. Not finding it, he almost screamed,

"Hannah, you Jezebel, where is my jug?"

"I thought I would sell it, as you were boarding out."

"Woman," shouted he, "that shall be a dear jug to you."

"It has been that already."

The enraged husband cast at her the look of a fiend, and passed on to

the adjoining room, which was calculated to be an elegant parlor when

the house was raised, but which was now converted into a store room,

for old barrels, old baskets, old hats and bonnets, and, in fine,

a great variety of old things. In one corner stood a little old

bedstead, with an old flock bed, covered with patched sheets and a

ragged quilt, where James slept. The loom was in that room and the

spinning wheels; an old churn and many other things, too numerous to

mention.

Mr. Benson reached up his hand, to take down a large bunch of woolen

yarn that hung suspended on a nail. His wife sprang forward, saying,

"Do not touch that--it is not mine."

"I don't care whose it is. I must and will have something that will

sell."

At that moment, seeing the package of dried apple, he pounced upon

it, like a tiger upon its prey, and bore it rapidly away, with the

remonstrances of a weeping wife ringing in his ears.

And the traffickers in human souls bought it at a price, paid him in

liquid fire, and he returned to his home, more fiend than when he left

it. The wife's dress was gone; the comfortable things she hoped to

procure for the children were gone. She sat up and toiled late at

night--and all for what? To procure that poison for her husband that

was contaminating his and her own soul, and cast such a blight upon

her home. Was it not enough that their house and land were mortgaged,

their horse and carriage gone? but must she toil with her own hands,

to satisfy that appetite that cries, "give, give?" As these thoughts

passed through Mrs. Benson's mind, she mentally exclaimed,

"O, it is a sad thing to be a drunkard's wife."

A few weeks after she went to an old chest that stood in one corner of

the room, to get a piece of woolen goods she had carefully prepared

for the market, which would bring her several dollars. She had placed

an old band box, quill wheel and some other rubbish upon the chest,

to conceal it from view as much as possible. Upon opening it, she

discovered her treasure was gone, and she knew too well, for what

purpose. The son, too, drank with his father, and got so much the

start of him in brutality, that even he cowered before him, thus

realizing that "He that soweth the wind shall reap the whirlwind." But

those years passed on; the children grew up in their perverseness, a

family that feared neither God or man.

No prayer ever ascended, like sweet incense, from those hearts; no

hymns of praise fell from those lips; but they daily invoked curses

upon each other--and who shall say that the curse causeless came?

The eldest daughter married a miserable drunkard, contrary to the

wishes of her father, threatening to fire the house over their heads,

if they opposed her in the least. The second daughter lived in

disgrace, with a man equally miserable, till the house was demolished

over their heads.

The poor heart-broken wife died, and was borne away to the grave.

The son became of age, took the homestead from his father by making

arrangements to redeem it, and threw his father into the poor house,

where he wore out the remainder of his days in wretchedness and

misery.

The son, by perseverence, won the hand of an amiable young lady, of

an excellent family, and contrary to the expectations of every one,

treated her with the greatest kindness the two years he lived with

her, attending church with her every Sabbath, and evincing a great

change in many other ways.

But the desire of riches urged him, with hundreds of our fellow

citizens, to seek the land of gold, and like many of them too, fell a

prey to his ambition. He died on shipboard, never reaching the place

of his destination.

Dr. Somers died about the same time, and was buried in his own quiet

yard, in the little village that had been the theatre of his life.

That young form that had been educated for the express purpose of

dancing on his grave, was tossing beneath the tumultuous waves of the

briny ocean, never to be at rest.

William Lawrence lived, loved and respected and transferred his

earthly love to God, giving him his supreme affections, thus living to

his honor and his glory while on earth, and meeting death with a calm

resignation, sank peacefully down to slumber in the quiet grave.

All the actors in the little drama have sunk beneath the waves of

death, (but three daughters and the son's wife,) and the dust of ages

is gathering upon them; but their influence still lives and speaks to

the generations of men.

The master and the slave are there. The father and the daughter, the

husband and the wife, and the parents and the son are there, each one

"to answer for himself for the deeds done in the body." Surely, "it is

a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God."

Lines, Written on the Year 1852.

Weary and sad I sit alone,

The storm-god whistles shrill and high,

And piles of sombre clouds are thrown

O'er the blue curtains of the sky.

Mournful I sit, for one by one

Time's golden sands are ebbing fast;

Whispering in low sepulchral tones,

The next, perchance, may be the last.

'Tis midnight's deep and solemn hour,

When visionary forms appear,

And shed their strange, mysterious power

O'er the departure of the year.

The charnel house is opened wide,

And thither's borne with brief adieu,

And slumbering eyes laid beside

Eighteen hundred fifty-two.

Now memory wakes her silent string,

And holds her umpire in the brain;

And brings as she alone can bring,

The image of the past again.

Her golden key, with using bright,

Unlocks the chambers of the soul,

And holds to reason's steady light

The secret records of her scroll.

Back, back she sails, down time's dark stream,

To childhood's bright and sunny hours;

And paints again her fairy dream,

Her sports, her fancies, and her flowers.

Touched by her wand, the sleeping dead

Spring up to active life again:

And in the busy pathway tread,

Mingling in our joy and pain.

She points where many a hope sprang bright,

And plum'd a while her pinions gay:

Then sank in disappointment's night,

And each fair promise died away.

And as I scan her records of the past,

And in succession all their deeds appear,

There's none o'er which so deep a shade is cast

As thine, thou just expiring year.

Thy spring was green, and bright, and gay,

And bloom'd as fair as Eden's bow'rs.

But mil-dew in her sunbeams lay,

And scorpions lurk'd among the flowers.

For when all perfumed seemed thy breath,

And all thy aspect sweet and mild,

It brought contagion, blight and death,

And from us bore a lovely child,

Then Summer came, with ardent glow,--

With burning guns and sultry skies,

Her mantle over Spring to throw,--

Of richer tints and deeper dyes.

Then often, with her fairy train,

Came gnawing Grief and wasting Care,

Sickness, Anxiety and Pain,

Mingling in sad confusion there,

Then Autumn came, with sober mien,

For summer days are always brief;--

And in her pathway soon were seen

The wither'd flow'r, the yellow leaf.

But ere her hollow, chilly breeze,

Scarce spake of nature's sad decay,

Or ting'd the foliage pa the trees,

A gentle brother pass'd away.

Sweet was his passage to the tomb,

Reclining on a Saviour's breast;

He heard the welcome--"Child, come home,"

And enter'd on the promis'd rest.

Then Winter came, with icy breath,

His hoarse winds whistling shrill and loud,

And quickly o'er the frozen earth,

He lightly spread his snowy shroud.

And sorrow, like that snowy pall,

Seemed spread o'er all my prospects bright,

And Health, and Hope, and Joy, and Peace,

Seem verging all to death's dark night.

But hark! I hear a cheering voice,--

And see--those pale, cold lips still move.

Mortal, shrink not; in God rejoice!

He is Wisdom, Power and Love.

'Tis he ordains the rolling year;--

Seasons and changes are his own;

Then, mortal, live in God's own fear;--

One struggle, and the year was gone,

But Peace had stolen o'er my breast;

And as I gazed I shed a tear,--

And grateful for the last behest,

I bless'd the just departed year.

Consumption.

The whirlwind in its fury depopulates a district, or a small tract of

land over which it passes perhaps once in a century--the earthquake

rumbles through the hidden recesses of the earth, and here and there

the yawning cavern swallows the ill-fated inhabitants that dwell upon

its surface; the lightning's stroke blasts in a moment, and cuts the

threads of life without any warning; and the steam engine destroy

their thousands in a year; and the winds and the waves conspire to

people the dark caves of ocean with the dead. These, and a thousand

other avenues, lead to death, bearing terror in their course, and

heralding their approach by terrific sounds.

But there is an insiduous foe, silent in its progress, sapping first

the secret springs of life, but yet diffusing hopefulness, ever

whispering in syren voice, of coming health and happiness, often

adding a deeper crimson to the cheek and a brighter lustre to the eye.

It feeds alike on all; the infant in its innocence; childhood in its

playfulness; youth in its beauty; manhood in his usefulness, and old

age in its decrepitude. All, all fall alike before the withering

breath of consumption.

Glancing back through the long avenue of past years, many a green

mound rises by the pathway over the wasted victims of this fearful

disease.

First upon memory's list, comes up a smiling infant, of rare beauty

and patient mien, that won our love by those little winning ways that

are the prerogatives of that tender age. A slight cough and extreme

weakness, were the only indications of the fearful work that was

progressing within. A bright flush rested upon the lily cheek, and

none who looked upon the unwonted brilliancy of those eyes ever could

forget their lustre. The pure spirit seemed to look forth from their

azure depths. A moan seldom escaped her lips, but she would lay quiet

in her little cradle, looking out unmoved upon the business and stir

of that life, upon which she had so briefly entered, but where she was

to bear so small a part in its fluctuations and concerns.

Anxiously did the fond mother watch over her precious one, and

endeavor by a thousand attentions, to strengthen the feeble tenure

that held her to life. She was the darling, the youngest one of a

numerous family, and all the purest affections of many fond hearts

were offered at her shrine.

But could this bribe death? O no, the destroyer stayed not in his

course, but drew stealthily along, and aimed his dart secretly but

surely, at his victim.

It was a chilly day in early spring; vegetation was just arousing from

winter's sleep, and the spring blossoms were just beginning to peep

from their casing of green, when this little bud of beauty perished

from earth. She lay in the cradle usually, because it wearied her to

be held in the lap.

It was noon, when the mother bent over her to administer some

nourishment, and thought she perceived a change upon her countenance.

The same glad smile rested upon her features, but it was more heavenly

in its expression. She seated herself by the cradle, and raised her

affectionately in her arms, saying as she did so,

"My dear child, I shall not lay you down again till you look better."

She looked at her a few moments, her blue orbs were turned to heaven,

and by their earnest gaze seemed penetrating the glories of the upper

world.

There was soon an effort to vomit, succeeded by the fearful death

rattle that comes but once in human life. It was the struggle that

must come to all, sooner or later. The angel of death was leading this

feeble infant through the valley of the shadow of death, by a gentle

hand; one little struggle, one gentle sigh, one little quiver of the

lip, and the sinless spirit had departed ere the father and brothers,

who had been hastily summoned, reached her side.

Beautiful beyond description was the touch of death as it lingered

upon that marble brow, and rested upon the beautifully chiselled

features of the dear babe.

She was arrayed in a simple white robe, and laid into her cradle,

while a sorrowing angel hovered over the household. An absent son

returned who had been teaching several miles distant, and among other

gifts were some for the little one, but those little eyes were closed,

and those little hands that used to be raised with so much fondness,

were now stiff and cold in death; but how lovely! Her grave was made

in the headland of the garden; a tall lilac stood upon one side of

it, and a fragrant rose bush stood upon the other No stone marked the

spot, but will she be forgotten on the morning of the resurrection?

Years passed on, many silent years, for we heard no sounds to tell us

that time was threading the mazy thoroughfares of human life, stealing

noiselessly through our dwellings, and pressing his way with us to the

ocean of eternity, hastening on to the period when he shall come to an

end, and the great angel shall swear there shall be time no longer.

But so it was; years had been borne away by his rapid flight, and laid

side by side with those that passed before the flood, and change had

come.

Many voices that lisped their matin and their vesper hymns by one

hearth stone, were now scattered far and wide, and other homes had

sprung up, and the children had become parents, and new duties

devolved upon them. Some had passed the meridian of life, the sun of

some had reached their noon, while others were climbing up the eastern

summit. But as yet death had spared that numerous, household; but now

he was watching for his prey. A son who had reached the meridian of

life, with fair prospects and an unblemished reputation, was selected.

He had consecrated himself to God, had put on Christ by baptism, and

well did he adorn his profession, living a consistent Christian life.

But death marked him for his victim.

It were needless now to tell of all the secret underminings of life's

hidden springs. He was cheerfully, hopefully looking forward to a long

life of usefulness, and striving to attain to greater proficiency in

his profession, for he was a physician. But the strength of manhood,

integrity of principle, nor Christian virtue could shield him from the

stealthy foe that was infusing its poison through the secret avenues

of life.

Strength declined, the cough increased, night sweats came on, and

one occupation after another had to be relinquished, till he was a

confirmed invalid, and when he became next convinced that he must die,

the business of his remaining time upon earth was to make preparation

for that event.

His countenance ever wore a smile, and he conversed cheerfully with

his friends.

He sold his place, which was one he had desired for many years,

and which he had recently purchased, anticipating a long life of

usefulness in the bosom of his family, which consisted of his wife and

one son. But he cheerfully resigned it, and settled all his business

as far as was in his power, made the best possible provision for his

wife and son, and retired with them to her paternal home to prepare

the inner man for the great change that was before him.

His mind was relieved from earthly cares, every thing being arranged

as he desired, and he used to say,

"I have 'set my house in order,' and have nothing to do but die."

The things of eternity occupied his entire thoughts; he seldom spoke

of his sufferings as being great, but expressed thankfulness that he

was passing so easily away. But it appeared different to his friends

that looked upon him. He could lay only upon one side for several

months before he died, and he had painful ulcers upon several parts of

the body, and a constant cough, with laborious breathing and profuse

night sweats, accompanied by great emaciation. These were the most

prominent features in the fearful disease.

But he would allow no one to remain with him during the night,

affirming it was unnecessary for any one to be disturbed, thus

spending his restless, weary nights in communion with his Saviour and

his God.

He made all the arrangements for his funeral, telling his friends not

to weep for him. He hoped as his usefulness on earth was so soon to

end, his death might be sanctified so as to be the means of inducing

his unconverted friends to seek that preparation of heart that is

necessary for entrance into a better life.

He told his wife the manner in which he should probably die, and

endeavored to prepare her mind for it. He had distressing turns of

suffocation, so that they were obliged to open all the windows and

doors for the benefit of the air, and he long expected every turn

would be the last.

A few days before his death, his aged mother and a sister visited

him. He conversed with them cheerfully upon the arrangements of his

funeral; told them he was ready to be offered, and should meet the

appointment as cheerfully as ever he met any in his life. He consulted

them about the propriety of the hour of the funeral, and some other

things in connection with the coming event, as he would were he making

preparations for a journey. When the aged mother pressed the hand of

her son for the last time on earth, she said with a smile,

"I can only wish the presence of your Saviour, to go with you, and

lighten the 'dark valley of the shadow of death.'"

He looked fondly in her face, while a smile of ineffable sweetness

beamed upon his countenance. "You could not wish me a better wish,

mother."

"I shall soon follow you, my son; I do not think I shall live the winter

out," said the mother, as she unclasped her hand from the son's, that

she had taken, for the last time.

That mother's hand had been extended, to guide him through the wayward

paths of childhood and youth, to strengthen and comfort him, and

smooth many rough places in the pathway of manhood; but now it was

withdrawn upon the brink of the grave--it could not assist, could not

support him; but she committed him to that arm that is mighty to save.

It was a mild day in early autumn, when the pale messenger came to

beckon him away. He had tasted of the early autumnal fruits, had drank

the delicious juice from her purple grape, and watched the early

symptoms of decay that were visible in some withering flower or fading

leaf, and felt that "passing away" was legibly written on all earthly

things. Once, and once only, he had prayed, "O, my Father, if it be

possible, let this cup pass from me, but thy will be done."

He failed fast the last few hours of his life, losing all appetite

for nourishment, and having more frequent turns of suffocation, and a

sister was sent for. Scarcely had she arrived, when he remarked to his

wife that he felt very easy; but as it was time, he would take his

medicine. He took out the quantity upon the point of his knife, and

after taking it, lay back upon his pillow, apparently asleep. He

started suddenly, looked wildly up, and told them he was choking

to death. They raised his head, and used their accustomed means to

relieve him, but all to no avail. The death dew stood in large drops

upon his forehead, and the film gathered over the sparkling eye and

shut out the light of earth forever. He stretched out one hand and

placed it upon the head of his son, who came hurriedly to his bedside,

crying out, in piteous accents,

"O, father, father," and stood sobbing beside him.

This was his only recognition of any one. But the struggle was soon

over, and the spirit had burst the barriers that held it to its clay

tenement and passed away to a brighter world.

His sun set at noon; but his memory has left a sweet fragrance behind

it, grateful to the surviving friends, who are called upon to follow

his pious example.

He was borne to the Cemetery, and buried in a spot, which he had

selected a few weeks before, in company with his aged mother, by a

long train of weeping friends, for he had been very dear to us, and

nature would have her tribute, and it filled our hearts with sadness,

when we realized that we should see that loved form on earth no more.

Yet we rejoiced that he had died in the glorious hope of a blessed

immortality, and that we could say, in the impressive language of

the text that was chosen for his funeral sermon, "Our friend Lazarus

sleepeth." Sweet be thy sleep, dear brother, during the night of

death; but the morning will come--the glorious morning of the

resurrection--and unlock the portals of the tomb, and the dead shall

come forth, the righteous clothed in eternal youth, shall never die,

the wicked sinking into the second death that has no end.

Sober autumn perfected his work of decay, and dreary winter spread his

snowy shroud over the barren globe, when the aged mother laid down

upon the bed of death. Her infant had passed away, in the very dawn

of its existence. Her son had sunk down, while his meridian sun was

shining in its noonday splendor; but she had lived till the winter of

life had scattered its snows upon her head, and was now falling, like

a shock of corn, fully ripe. She was ready to be bidden suddenly

away, for she was ever watching for the coming of the bridegroom.

Consumption had long been preying upon her form, and paving her way to

the tomb; but she could look calmly upon the prospect, and contemplate

the struggle of death without shrinking from it.

She had long been an humble follower of the meek and lowly Jesus,

and his religion diffused its divine light over the most trifling

incidents of her life. She ever looked upon the fashions of this world

as passing away, and never conformed to them, or the manners of the

world; but taking the holy word of God for her example, endeavored to

imbibe its precepts, and practice its requirements. In profession of

her faith, she united with the Congregational Church, at the early age

of nineteen, and at the age of seventy-six years, could look back upon

a life spent to the honor and glory of him who had redeemed her with

his precious blood. She offered up her children upon the altar of her

heart's purest affections, consecrating them to God, by having them

publicly dedicated, thus performing what she felt to be an important

duty of a Christian mother.

Many an adverse wind had she encountered--that weary voyager on life's

troubled sea; but Christ had long been her pilot, and now he was about

to moor her frail bark into the haven of peace, and the tumultuous

waves were hushed, while the loving Saviour whispered, "Peace, be

still."

She could converse but little, and was with difficulty understood; but

every word breathed of faith and hope. On the afternoon before her

death, she repeated these beautiful lines, and, apparently, felt their

import:

"Jesus can make a dying bed

Feel soft as downy pillows are,

While on his breast I lean my head,

And breathe my life out sweetly there."

She wished to have her robe and cap prepared so that she might see

them before her death. She expressed anxiety for her aged companion,

to whom she had been united fifty-five years, and who was dangerously

sick at the time, and thought he would never recover; but would soon

drop into a deep stupor, occasioned by ossification of the brain.

During the night her feet and hands grew cold, and the worn spirit

seemed struggling to depart.

She would frequently arouse from her stupor, and speak a word or two

to her attendants, saying to one,

"You did not expect me to be found alone now, did you?"

She repeated, "In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were not

so I would have told you; I go to prepare a place for you."

She lingered till about ten o'clock in the fore-noon, then calling for

the absent members of the family, she desired to be raised up. Her son

supported her in his arms, the feeble lamp of life flickered a moment

in its socket, there was a little struggle, and that pure breast lay

free from the care or burden of life. Those loving eyes had looked

their last upon her dear children, that stood weeping by her bedside,

and the toil worn hands were laid cold and pulseless upon her peaceful

bosom, and she was now at rest with her Saviour, "in the house of many

mansions." Those dear hands that had been so active, administering to

the necessities of her family, had now ceased their labor, and lay

inactive, in their marble whiteness.

How many thoughts come surging up, from the wellspring of memory, as

we looked upon her in her last repose, and glanced retrospectively

upon her useful and exemplary life. Again we heard the rich

instruction that had fallen from those pale lips, and a new-purpose

sprung up in the heart--a new desire to be more entirely consecrated

to God, that our path might be the path of the just, that "grows

brighter and brighter to the perfect day."

Her coffin was carried to the bedside of her husband, who was unable

to rise, and too sick to realize the extent of his sorrow, and so he

looked for the last time upon the countenance of that dear wife, who

had been the partaker in his joys and sorrows, through their long

journey together. It was fifty-five years since their union, and now

the bond was broken. One was an angel of light, the other was left to

drift awhile upon the ocean of life, ere his frail bark sails over

death's sluggish stream.

She, too, was conveyed to the Cemetery, and laid beside her dear son,

who had been deposited there a few month's previous. And they followed

her, slowly and sadly, along the same road she had passed over half a

century before, when she was borne into the neighborhood, a young

and joyous bride, and passed the house that was then built for the

reception of the young mistress.

Here she commenced her first experience in the trials and duties of

house-keeping; and here were opened the deep fountains of a mother's

love. This had been for many years the theatre of her life, where she

had acted a conspicuous part in its changeful drama, and where still

linger many footprints time will never efface, for true it is,

the influence still lives, and will be transmitted to succeeding

generations. The scenes that were so familiar to her eyes, were now

hid from her sight, and she rested in the Cemetery, within a few feet

of the land that was once contained in their own farm.

One son, the eldest of the family, after being absent from home many

years, died in a land of strangers, and little was ever known of his

death or burial. The dear babe was left, far away, and the mother and

son slept side by side, in the Cemetery, waiting the time when other

dear friends shall come and, lay down by their sides in that quiet

resting place.

The tall trees stand waving in the wind, and seem beckoning the weary

ones of earth, to lay down beneath their cooling shades.

The silvery stream dances on, making sweet music in its winding

course, ever murmuring a sweet requiem to the dead. Birds warble their

matin songs in the branches, and the night dew water the graves with

their tears, while the winds sigh over the grassy mounds; and all on

earth must make their bed with them, and every step we take in the

journey of life, is a step towards the tomb, whatever other duty may

be performed. Solemn is the reflection that there is an open grave

before every one that lives, and were we so situated that we could

define our progress, and notice each day's approach to its confines,

we should feel sensibly that we were hastening on to join the pale

nations of the dead, and fill our respective places in the land of

darkness and shadow of death.

But we will leave the dear infant, the brother, and the mother, to

that rest that remains for the people of God; they have fallen victims

to consumption, with the vast multitudes that have fallen a prey to

the ruthless destroyer.

Memory brings up, upon her retentive tablet, the recollection of a

family that fell before its withering blight, ere the elasticity of

youth had passed away.

The first that died was a young wife and mother. She faded like the

early spring flowers, and soon her brothers and sisters younger than

she were laid by her side in the silent chambers of death, all in the

vigor and beauty of youth. The rose faded suddenly upon their cheeks,

and they fell before thee, thou ruthless destroyer of the generations

of men.

The infant of a few days laid down its young life, and joined the

multitude in the place of graves.

One young man just verging upon manhood, was cut suddenly down with

but little warning. He apparently had a slow fever, and had been

confined a few days at the house of a friend, but had so far recovered

as to anticipate a visit to his family on horseback, as the distance

was short, and the doctor had recommended that exercise. But on the

appointed day, while his horse stood saddled at the door, he came in

from a short walk, and asked a niece to help him off with his coat,

as he wished to lay down. As she did so she perceived the blood was

settled under his nails. He flung himself on the bed; concealing his

hands under his back; his breathing became difficult, and death soon

claimed him for his own.

Sorrow filled the afflicted household when the intelligence reached

them. The father saw the messenger approaching, and informed the

family the son was coming.

A younger sister and brother were lingering in the last stages of

consumption. They were now filled with eager expectancy. The father

soon discovered the horse, but not the rider they were expecting, and

waited the issue with fearful forebodings.

Loud was the burst of grief that rung the air when the stricken family

heard of the death of the absent one in so unexpected a moment; thus

crushing out forever the hope that had sprung up in so many hearts of

returning health and usefulness.

Upon a post mortem examination, it was discovered that the rupture of

a blood vessel was the cause of his death. His lungs were found to

be in a bad condition, betraying that the foe of the family had been

holding secret revel there.

A day or two later, and the sable plumed angel returned again, and

hovered over the gentle sister, casting his shadow upon her brow, and

chilling her with his icy breath. His snowy fingers rested upon her

fluttering pulses; she cast one fond gaze upon the dear brother that

was soon to follow her, bade farewell to her earthly friends, and went

with the angel to the spirit land.

The brother lingered till the remains of his sister were laid in

the grave, then he followed her, to add another to the long row of

headstones that marked the resting place of that stricken family. They

sleep together, side by side, ten in number, the oldest one scarce

twenty-two years old. As we stand by the spot and read the melancholy

tale, we can but exclaim with Ossian, "The flower lifts its green head

to the sun. Why dost thou awake me, O gale," it seems to say, "I am

wet with the dews of heaven." "The time of my fading is near, and the

blast that shall scatter my leaves." "To-morrow shall the traveler

come; he that saw me in my glory shall come; his eye shall search the

field for me but shall not find me."

A youth of great promise next presents; his mother had many years

since fallen a prey to the fatal disease, and although he inherited

from her the fearful malady, "the young disease that must subdue

at length," had not as yet developed itself. Buoyant with hope and

expectation, he was preparing to enter the gospel ministry, having

consecrated himself to God and his service. He had entered the

institution at North Yarmouth, and by his assiduous attention, almost

finished his education. He was expecting soon to launch out upon the

broad ocean of public usefulness, but his heavenly Father bid him

"come up higher," and he passed on into the more expansive ocean of

eternity. The seeds of an inherent disease sprung up and bore early

fruit, and deposited this young man in his grave, far from the home

and the friends of his childhood. The eye of the stranger rests upon

it, the foot of the stranger visits it.

A younger sister too, fell by the same powerful agent far from home,

and is buried in a land of strangers. A brother sleeps by his mother's

side in the family burial ground.

In another family the mother was called first from a family of little

children. She wept in the agonies of death, as she contemplated their

bereavement. She pressed to her heart the infant of a few days, and

prayed fervently to that God that heareth prayer, to be the God of her

dear children, to protect them in their tender age, and lead them in

the narrow way that leads to eternal life. After the sands of life had

ebbed out, and her loving heart had ceased to feel, the tear-drops

that had fallen for her children still lingered upon her cheeks.

A lovely daughter followed her at the early age of sixteen, another

ere she reached the meridian of life, leaving seven children. Another

daughter passed away just as her sun was verging toward the western

hemisphere, leaving a son and daughter. The son soon followed her and

was laid by the side of his mother and grandmother.

The crimson spot upon the daughter's cheek, accompanied by the hacking

cough, seem to denote that the tardy messenger will soon bear another

victim to the mansions of death. Another daughter too is lingering

upon the confines of the grave, while the fatal seeds are taking

deep root in the constitutions of two of the sons, and heralding by

unmistakable evidence the approach of death.

But why particularize? Many, very many who have walked with us side

by side, in the sweet associations of life, are mingled with the long

train that are buried beneath the "clods of the valley," while there

is a long train of living victims marching before the fearful blight

to the open tomb.

No monarch sways his despotic sceptre over so numerous a population as

this fell destroyer, in his unseen lurking places, "drinking up the

very fountains of human life." But when will the sons of men learn to

think? with all the blight of death around, cutting one down upon the

right hand and another upon the left, the thoughtless crowd pass on,

little seeming to heed their own mortality. They look into the open

grave, or watch the passing funeral perhaps with a momentary sadness,

and turns lightly again to the active concerns of life, mingling in

its gaities and dissipation, dancing on to the very whirlpool that is

soon to engulf their frail bark, and bear it away where hope can never

come.

Happy they who receive instruction from the revelations of God's holy

word, and imbibe its precepts into their heart; who, cleansed in a

Saviour's blood, are made recipients of his rich grace, and are thus

prepared to enter that "land where death comes not."

To Mrs. A---- B----,

On the Death of Her Child.

"Are they not all ministering spirits?"

"Mother, do not weep for me,

Shining angels guide my way;

And oft they lead me back to thee,

Through realms of everlasting day.

I may not burst the spirit's tie,

Or lift the dim, mysterious screen,

That hides me from thy mortal eye;

But I may visit thee unseen.

Night comes not here; no evening shade

Ere gathers round the throne of God;

And when your setting sunbeams fade,

I visit then your lone abode.

The twilight hour was dear to me,

With murmur'd tone of evening prayer;

When with hands clasp'd upon your knee,

And learned to lisp "Our Father" there.

There I first caught the notes of praise,

Flowing from a mother's tongue.

Which through eternity shall raise

A holy, high, angelic song.

And then your thoughts are all of me,

So softly nestling by your side;

I wait to hear those trembling tones,

In which you sang the day I died.

Your patient watch beside my couch,

You fain my ev'ry woe beguil'd;

For anxiously, and tenderly,

You ever watch'd your dying child.

But all your efforts were in vain,--

Friends or physicians could not save;

For ghastly death his mandate gave,

To lay me in the silent grave.

And scarce had rosy finger'd morn

Unrolled her earliest tints of gray,

To usher in the peaceful dawn

Of that delightful Sabbath day,--

When, silently, the angel came,

With upraised eye, and beck'ning hand,

And gently folding in his arms,

Bore me to the spirit land.

Where sweet transporting voices stole

On my enraptur'd eye and ear,

That spoke the Sabbath of the soul.

Ceaseless as the eternal year.

Here angel and arch-angel bow

In worship round the great white throne;

And ceaseless hallelujahs rise,

To the Almighty, Three and One.

Each has a mission to perform,

As swift through ambient air they fly;

'Tis mine to minister to thee,

And gently woo thee to the sky.

Mother, there are jewels bright

Graven on your deathless soul,

And brighter shall their radiance glow,

While everlasting ages roll.

Mother, they are pure thoughts of heaven,

Murmur'd oft upon your ear,

Which God to me had kindly given,

Your solitary way to cheer.

Mother, these are memories sweet,

Deeply treasur'd in your heart,

Which time, with his restless change,

May never dare to bid depart.

Sometimes across your lap I lie,

And breathe that evening prayer again,

And looking in your tearful eye,

Again repeat that sweet amen.

Then mother, leave your child of earth

To moulder back to kindred dust,

And trace my new and heav'nly birth,

A ransom'd spirit with the just.

And weep not o'er the casket laid

Beneath this little heaped up mound.

The deathless jewel cannot fade,--

A diamond in a Saviour's crown.

An Evening in Our Village.

Why should we wander in the fields of fiction, to cull fancy's flowers

to feast a morbid imagination, when there are so many thrilling

incidents in the pathway of human life, calculated to awaken the most

refined emotions, and stir the deepest currents of the human soul?

Would the painter, as he raised his brush to give the last finishing

touch to his picture, draw his colors from fancy? Would he not rather

imitate the color of the natural rose, copy the forest green, the

azure of the sky, or the brilliant hues of the rainbow, as it spans

the heavens with its bow of promise?

Fiction may weave her intricate labyrinths and enchain the fancy by

wandering in mazy circuits, and weaving her mystic web; but truth will

stand in all its primitive lustre, when the foundations of this earth

have passed away. Then let me record the truth in preference to

fiction.

The clouds hung in heavy dense masses, during the day, while a damp

chilly wind from the north-east betokened an uncomfortable winter

rain. It was winter, although the bridge of ice that had been formed

over the Blackstone was broken up, and floated on its surface in huge

masses, as it hurried rapidly along, to empty them into the waters of

the Narragansett Bay, reminding the thoughtful observer of the stream

of time, bearing away its vast multitudes to the ocean of eternity.

Here, where now stands our beautiful village, a few short years since

stood the dense forest--the growth of centuries. Here the rude Indian

roamed, in native wildness, hunted his prey, built his council fire,

or smoked his pipe of peace. Here, where now stands the temple of the

living God, with its heaven directed spire, perchance smoked the

blood of some poor victim, as it was offered upon the altar of savage

brutality; or the rude wigwam stood.

But all these things have passed, as a tale that is told. They have

floated down the current of time, even like the broken masses of ice

that are borne so rapidly down our river, and have passed into the

broad ocean of eternity.

On the banks of that stream, where the pale face first crossed to hold

a council with his red brethren, stands a flourishing village, reared

by the hand of civilization, and offering many facilities to the

industry of its virtuous and well disposed inhabitants. It would be

pleasant to tell a tale of the times of old, of the deeds of the days

of other years, of the Indian that paddled his light canoe upon our

river; but this is not the purport of the story.

It is to scan the different scenes as they lay spread out before

us, upon the map of busy life. The day had closed, dark, dreary and

cheerless. The rain and sleet were driven furiously before the wind,

and the child of want shrank from the biting blast, as stern necessity

drove him forth to meet the peltings of the winter storm.

There was a social gathering at a large, elegantly finished and

furnished hall, splendidly illuminated with its brilliant gas lights,

diffusing a lustre upon gorgeous trappings with which they were

surmounted.

The streets resounded with the rattling wheels of omnibusses, cabs and

various vehicles, as they bore the gay and fashionable part of the

village to the splendid hall.

Soft music charmed the ear, and floated in sweet melody through the

apartment. Beauty was there, with rosy cheek and brilliant eye.

Fashion displayed her most tasteful arrangements, and each one seemed

vieing with the other in elegance of costume. All looked like the

enchanting scenes pictured in fairy tales, and one might almost

suppose Alladin's wonderful lamp was still extant, performing its

mysterious spells, and casting a supernatural lustre over the gay

group that assembled, to dissipate the cheerless gloom that reigned

without, by mirth and hilarity. And they joined in the mazy dance, and

spent the hours of night in joyous revelry. A sumptuous entertainment

was prepared, and everything provided to satisfy the votaries of

pleasure.

But as the lively music sounded from that splendid hall, it stole upon

the

"Cold, dull ear of death,"

for, but a few rods distant, lay a female, little passed the meridian

of life (who had lived in the same village, and trod in the pathway of

life with them many years), wrapped in the shroud of death, and next

day to be borne away to the tomb, and shut out forever from all the

scenes where she had once been an actress. But now she would look out

upon the world no more. Her eyes were closed in death, and her ear

heard not the wild music that was stealing through her otherwise

silent chamber.

All of earth had passed from her vision. Life, with its stern, cold

realities, or its light toned revelry, could awaken no response in her

inanimate form.

A brother had been summoned from a distant village to attend her

funeral. He had travelled, notwithstanding the inclemency of the

weather, and when the shades of twilight fell over the earth, he stood

by that dearly loved form. Memory brought back the past. That cold,

pulseless one was a child again, sporting by his side, prattling upon

his knee, and winning attention by the ten thousand witcheries of

childhood.

Then, with the rapidity of thought, blooming youth succeeded this age,

and she stood, blushing in maiden modesty, the gay young sister of

other days; and his heart was filled with sadness as he gazed upon her

stiff in the icy arms of death, and felt that she could no more return

his affection. He was an aged man, and knew much of the sorrow and

the trials of life; he turned, with a tear in his eye, from his loved

sister and passed into the street.

The storm was increasing, but he heeded not the peltings of the wintry

wind, or the wild music that mingled with its mournful wail, as he

passed the luxurious hall, where

"Fashion's gay tapers were lighted."

Other thoughts occupied his mind.

He soon stood by the bedside of a dear daughter, who was passing away

from earth, while yet in the bloom and the beauty of youth. She was a

wife, and a mother of two sweet children, whose tender age required a

mother's watchfulness--a mother's care. But with childlike trust, she

had given them back to that God, who had given them to her. Her trust

was in him, and now she was ready to follow her dear Saviour into the

cold dark grave, with the assurance that she should have a part in the

first resurrection. Melancholy sounded the music from that distant

ball room, as it stole upon the wings of the winter wind, into the

chamber of the dying one. Her ear was listening to catch the notes

of angel harps before the throne of God, and her passing spirit was

attuned to their melodies. The beauties of the upper world transfixed

her rapt vision, and no earthly object stood between her soul and God.

And so she passed away, and left to her earthly friends but the frail

casket, while the priceless jewel had soared to brighter regions, to

glitter in a Saviour's crown.

The father had come just in time to take the last look of his living

child, to hear her last words, to witness her last struggle, as the

pure spirit departed from earth, to join her sainted mother in the

spirit land. He was taking another portion from the cup of affliction,

which however bitter to the taste, often sweetens the journey of human

life, preparing the recipient better to perform its duties, and bear

its trials.

As the stricken father retired to bed, the sound of revelry fell

heavily upon an almost bursting heart.

And the dear children, could they listen to its glad strain? O, no;

they had seen death cast his marble paleness upon their mother's face;

had felt the icy coldness of her pulseness limbs; had called her by

the endearing name of mother, and her pale lips answered not, and they

had retired with eyes red with weeping; they as yet knew nothing

of the extent of their bereavement. The husband, too, had lost the

companion of his youth, the mother of his children, and although he

possessed like precious faith with her, and kissed the rod with pious

resignation; still they were a grief-stricken household, and presented

a striking contrast to the gay group that were dancing thoughtlessly

away the hours of that solemn night, while the recording angel was

taking note of all that was passing beneath his all-seeing eye, in

that book that shall be opened when we shall all stand before God, to

be judged according to the deeds done in the body.

The music floated on and reached the ear of a poor maniac as he sat by

his comfortable fire, listening to the monotonous roar of the distant

water fall, and the howling of the wintry winds, as it came surging

on, waving the leafless tree and pelting the falling rain against the

windows.

"Hark!" said he, springing up, "the bees are swarming; I shall be

stung to death," and out he rushed, with a brighter fire in his eye

and a more intense one in his brain. Descending the hill, he watched

the sylph like forms as they floated on in the mazy dance, declaring

the bees were in terrible commotion, and he should be stung to death.

With difficulty he was prevailed upon to return to his house, and ever

and anon, as the sound of the music reached his ear, he would start

and affirm that the bees surely were swarming.

Such is man, the noblest work of God, when bereft of reason to guide

and direct him.

Still farther on were young parents keeping anxious watch over a sick

infant, whose feeble thread of life seemed trembling upon a very hair.

The doctor had said there was no hope; kind, sympathizing friends, as

they looked on the sufferings of the dear babe with tearful eyes, had

said, there is no hope; and the agonized hearts of the parents echoed

back, no hope. But still they did hope. The breath came heavily from

the heaving chest, and the blue orbs looked dimly from their half

closed lids, while the little sufferer, with burning hand and parched

lip, seemed struggling for that life that it had enjoyed but for so

brief a space. The parents were young in years and unacquainted with

sorrow, and very dear to their loving hearts was the sick infant. They

felt they could not part with the dear one. Carefully they nursed the

flickering lamp of life: through that dreary winter night, lest some

ruder blast should extinguish it forever. Wished they to join the

thoughtless throng in the tinselled hall of fashion? O, no, they had

rather count the fluttering pulses of their dear boy, cool his fevered

brow, and administer the reviving cordial through the weary hours of

the night, than to listen to sweetest strains of Orpheus' harp, or

thread the winding mazes of the giddy dance.

And so with them the night wore away, the long dark night of suffering

to the babe, and watchful anxiety to the parents. But the angel of

death that had hovered so long over the darling babe, unfurled his

sable pinions and flew away in search of another victim, and he is

spared yet a little longer.

Pursuing the way a little farther in another direction, you find

another weary watcher by the midnight lamp. An aged woman, who has

lived her three score years and ten, sits bolstered up in her chair,

toiling for her little remaining sum of existence, which nature seems

unwilling to relinquish, although subsisting now upon borrowed time.

From an adjoining room comes a frequent hollow cough, and the sunken

eye and emaciated frame of the poor girl betray the secret foe,

lurking in the hidden springs of life.

Death is no stranger beneath this roof. He has borne away one after

another from this numerous household, and laid them down side by side

in the silent grave. And now his darts seem aimed at the two only ones

of that household, the mother and her daughter. The sons are married

and have families of their own, but the mother and this daughter live

alone in the home of her youth, the very place, perchance, where she

was brought a gay and expecting bride by that husband she is expecting

now to follow so soon to the spirit world. Could the pleasures or the

gaities of the world cast one cheering beam upon their lonely home? O,

no, the religion of Jesus alone can illuminate their benighted hearts,

and in "this light they see light," and feel prepared to go when the

summons comes.

Following the street, you pass the door of a daughter who is weeping

for the recent loss of a mother, who passes suddenly away without

a moment's warning, and a widow who mourns a husband, cut off by

lingering disease.

A few steps and we reach a cottage, where other parents were watching

over a little son of five years, who is wasting away with consumption.

His attenuated limbs bear his little frame but feebly, and he often

talks of death, for he has recently seen a little sister younger than

himself fall a prey to the fearful malady. A burning fever is raging

in his veins, and lights up his eye with unwonted brilliancy, as he

tossed restlessly from side to side upon his pillow. His silken hair

of beautiful brown is brushed smoothly back from his high, marble

forehead, while gentle hands apply the cooling bath, to still if

possible, its tumultuous throbbings, and he murmurs of sweet sister

and of heaven. Soft words of love are whispered in his ear, and he is

told of the Lamb of God that bids little children to come unto him.

And thought not these weary watchers of that lonely night, of the

revellers in that distant hall? Methinks their hearts went up in

fervent prayer to God that he would spare them yet a little longer,

for there were immortal souls there, for whom he labored and prayed,

who entered the sanctuary and heard the word of God as it fell from

his lips, Sabbath after Sabbath, and he felt sensibly that the

midnight revel would not prepare the heart to seek God, or make the

necessary preparation for death. Towards morning the eyes of the

little sufferer closed in uneasy slumber, and the parents too, were

refreshed by a short interval of sleep.

Passing yet in another direction was a tall youth, with a subdued

expression of countenance, hurrying on, in spite of wind and rain, to

the doctor's office, to procure assistance for a sick mother, who was

tossing in all the agony of brain fever. The doctor had been called

away to visit a little child that had a sudden attack of the croup,

that fearful disease that bears so many children to the tomb. He

returned again with a sorrowing heart. Heeded he the sweet tones of

music that fell upon his youthful ear? wished he to join the gay group

as they flitted before the brilliantly lighted, window, and the fairy

forms of the fashionable, and the pleasure-seeking met his eye? O,

no; there was sorrow in his young heart, and sorrow brooded over the

household. Towards midnight the doctor came, and a young daughter,

younger than many who graced the festive ball, following his

directions, alleviated the sufferings of a sick mother, and wore the

weary night away in anxious watchings.

Not till another day dawned, did the rumbling of the carriages cease,

that were conveying home the sons and daughters of dissipation. And

thus passed the night, leaving no trace upon earth, for the waves of

time have obliterated all its footprints. But its record is on

high, and it will never be forgotten by the Eternal One, whose eye

slumbereth not.

Such is human life, and such is the race of man. Although we are all

bound together by one common brotherhood, the song of the gay is ever

the funeral dirge to the sorrowing.

Perchance that night might have disclosed still darker pictures in

the hidden recesses of our village, for, oh, there are dens of foul

pollution, that send their infectious taint over the pure air of

our community, calling the blush of shame to the cheek of conscious

virtue, and creating an ardent desire in the breast of the

philanthropist, to go forth and labor in the vineyard of the Lord,

that these foul spots may be washed in his precious blood, and made

clean.

O, could all the misery that was extant in the village have been

presented to the thoughtless revellers, could they have danced on?

Would not the tear of sympathy have moistened the cheek, and the still

small voice whispered of a solemn time that must come to them? O, it

is wise to receive the admonition, "Be ye also ready, for in such an

hour as ye think not, the Son of Man cometh."

Faint, indeed, are the delineations from Memory's tablet, upon this

little map, but enough, perchance, to lead the contemplative mind to

reflect upon the vicissitudes and changes of its little day, and teach

us to prepare for a better world, "where change comes not."

Contemplations in a Grave Yard.

'Twas on one pensive even tide,

When restless toil and day had fled;

I laid all airy scenes aside,

To wander o'er the silent dead.

The rising moon from eastern sky,

O'er the lone heath shed languid light,

And boding owls with fearful cry

Heightened the solemn gloom of night.

With pensive steps I reach'd the pile,

Where well wrought limbs return to clay;

And tow'ring marble's pompous style

Points out the great, the rich, the gay.

But where's ambition's piercing eye,

His restless look, his haughty air?

They're vanish'd all, and near him lie

Frames that once fed on black despair.

What though the marble's rais'd o'er one,

To tell his former wealth or worth,

While a green turf, or mossy stone,

Denote the man of humbler birth.

Yet all in silence mould'ring lie

In the cold grave where vapors glide,

The beggar here's as fair as he

Who rolled in wealth, or swam in pride.

'Neath a green mound there slept a youth,

Whose form in life in beauty bloom'd:

His manner sweet, his speech was truth,

But nought could save him from the tomb.

At little distance from his side,

A wild rose shed a pearly tear

O'er her who would have been his bride,

Had not dread death been thus severe.

I mus'd in silence on their fate,

And watch'd the graves where low they lie,

Reflecting on their altered state.

From nuptial bliss to mould'ring clay,

And such, methinks, the lot of all;

We picture joys with eager eye,

'Till death's damp curtains round us fall,

And silent in his arms we lie.

Beneath a verdant, grassy mound,

Where gemmed with dew the daisy weeps;

In death's cold slumber wrapped profound,

A gentle mother peaceful sleeps.

No storied urn bespeaks her worth.

No epitaph or stone is near;

But the wild flow'rs that strew the earth,

Are watered oft by many a tear.

And oh, such tribute is more dear--

Warm gushing from affection's eye,

Than the cold marble's senseless praise,

That sheds no tear--that heaves no sigh.

A little path is closely worn,

Where prattling children often stray,

And o'er their sainted mother mourn,

To shield her memory from decay.

And hoary age has sunk to rest,

Deep buried 'neath the crumbling sod;

No anxious cares disturb his breast,--

His ransom'd soul has flown to God.

Weary and sad, he struggled on

Life's rugged pathway, till its close;

And then, in death, lay calmly down,

To slumber in its deep repose.

I turn'd to view a little grave,

Where infant sweetness silent slept;

There the tall myrtle mournful way'd,--

The willow there in sorrow slept.

"Sleep on," I cried, "thy little breast

Ne'er knew the heartfelt woes of men;

No pain or care disturb thy rest,

Or jarring scenes obstruct thy ken.

"Happy, like thee, might I resign

This life in Virtue's purest ray,

And spring to life and joy divine,

Free from this cumbrous load of clay.

But hark! I hear the boding owl,

With fearful screams at distance cry;

The evening breezes mournful howl,

And bats their nightly circles ply.

Thick, sombre clouds obscur'd the sky,

And hid the moon's refulgent light--

No sparkling star shed cheerful ray.

To light the lonely shades of night.

I grop'd my way with careful tread,

To shun the cold, unconscious urn,

And left the mansions of the dead,

Where soon or late I must return.

For I must sleep with ages past,

And ages yet to come,

Till the last trump of God shall wake

Each tenant of the tomb.

A Scene on the Kennebec River.

It was a beautiful morning in early June, and nature was dressed in

her beautiful robes of pale green, as the leaves had not yet assumed

that deeper hue that the mature rays of a summer sun impart to them.

No cloud floated over the blue vault of heaven. The golden sun

diffused a radiant light, and shed a sparkling lustre upon the deep,

black water of the mighty river, that rolled on in gentle undulating

waves, as it was tossed lightly by the sighing breeze that floated

over its surface.

Far as the eye could scan were seen the snowy sails, as the mariners

pursued their way over the black bosom of the waters to enter the

briny Atlantic, that received the waters of the rolling river and

mingled them with its own foaming wave. The smaller sail boats were

flying before the wind, while innumerable ships lay at rest in the

harbor, with snowy sails unfurled, while the rough cry of the sailors

broke boisterously upon the morning air.

At the wharf, before the flourishing village that lay reposing on the

banks of the river, lay a ferry-boat, impatient to launch away upon

the restless waters.

There was hurry and bustle as the time for the boat's departure had

arrive, and many wished to be borne to the opposite shore.

Among the rest came a gay group of laughing school girls. Their joyous

faces were lit up with bright smiles, and they were chatting gaily of

the afternoon's party, and the anticipated evening's walk, heedless

of the care worn man of business that shuffled in by their side, or

prudent ladies who looked upon the gay party as pert or presuming.

They were, many of them, the children of wealth, and waved in their

hands rich boquets of beautiful and rare exotics, while others were

equally satisfied with more simple flowers. They advanced to the head

of the boat, and stood with their hands placed upon its edge, looking

over into the deep waters. One beautiful form attracted the attention

of all who looked upon her. Her form was slight and delicate. Her

complexion was transparent, but a slight tinge of pink rested upon

her cheek. Her azure eyes beamed with a sweet expression from their

soul-lit depths, while her dark brown hair floated in heavy masses of

glossy curls over her ivory neck and shoulders, waving gently in the

morning breeze, as it floated lightly around her. She was dressed in a

simple white robe, and in her hand held the richest boquet. Her snowy

arms were bare almost to the shoulder, and as she stood looking

out upon the far off sail, or watching the entrance of her fellow

passengers, as they took their respective places in the boat; no eye

that looked upon her but lingered in its gaze to admire her beauty.

Then came a rich man and his lady, and there must be room in the boat

for their splendid equipage, and so his gay horse stood champing his

bitts and curbing his proud head, as his fiery eyes glanced over the

glassy surface of the restless waters.

All was ready, the signal was given, and the boat ploughed her way

like a thing of life, leaving a long path of white foam in her wake.

Men talked of business, of the prospect of the advancing season, the

pressure in the money market, or the perfidy of the opposing political

party.

Women talked about their cross children, unfaithful servants, and

various domestic trials.

The young girls talked of their school, their boquets, and the many

little events in which they were interested, while a group of school

boys, who had entered last, and were obliged to stand in the rear of

the boat, declared they had never seen the fair queen of that party

looking so lovely.

But suddenly there was a jar, a scream, a plunge, and that fairy form

was precipitated into the foaming waters beneath, and the boat was

gliding on with such rapidity that no arm could reach her. She sank

slowly from sight, as her spreading robe buoyed her up for a moment on

the waves. Her long curls lay spread out, tossing upon the surface

by the motion of the waves, then as they sank slowly from sight,

one snowy hand was raised, clutching the boquet with a tenacity so

proverbial to the drowning. She then sank to sleep beneath the surging

waves that danced lightly on over her death cold bosom.

None could tell exactly how the accident happened. The horse, unused

to that mode of conveyance, became restive, and in his plungings to

liberate himself precipitated the unfortunate girl, with all her gay

dreams of life and pleasure, into a watery grave.

The tide was going out, and she fell into the rapid current, and when

her body was recovered no traces of beauty rested upon her marble

features, and none who looked upon the black, bloated face and lips

of the poor girl could recognize the bright beauty of that joyous

morning. The withered boquet was covered with green slime, and like

the hand that held it, bore no resemblance to its former self. "Surely

in the midst of life we are in death."

To Miss H---- B----,

These Lines Are Affectionately Dedicated By ----.

Maiden, for thee I'd tune the lyre;

Might minstrelsy my song inspire;

Could I a gifted offering bring,

I'd boldly sweep each silken string,

And wake a sweet and thrilling strain,

Thy heart would echo back again.

But though so feebly sings my muse,

I trust her song thou'lt not refuse;

But all unaided by the Nine,

Accept the boon from friendship's shrine.

Youth round thee her garland weaves,

Of varied flow'rs and verdant leaves,

And leads thee forth in gardens fair,

To cull exotics rich and rare.

And knowledge bids thy youthful mind,

Wisdom, in her choice fruits to find.

But sober age holds stern control

O'er the deep currents of my soul;

I may not pause to cull the flow'rs,

That bloom in fancy's fairy bow'rs,

But onward press, from day to day,

In duty's stern and rugged way;

Yet ever upward may I rise,

To yon bright world beyond the skies.

Your cheek is ting'd with youthful bloom,

While mine is faded for the tomb,

And blended time with anxious care,

Have left their deep impressions there.

In graceful curls your ringlets stray,

While mingle mine with mournful gray.

Hope spreads gay roses in your way,

And points to many a future day,--

And flinging wild her scented flow'rs,

Beckons to her rosy bow'rs;

But I have seen such hopes decay,

And each fair promise fade away;

Have seen the syren beckon on:--

And spread new charms when one had flown,

Till ev'ry blooming flow'ret died,

And wither'd leaves hung by my side.

Then, maiden, do not cling to earth,

Whose hopes are of so little worth,

But now in youth thy heart be given,

In childlike confidence, to heav'n;

Then hope within your breast shall rise,

Ever to bloom in paradise;

And you, an angel bright, shall stand,

To sing and shine at God's right hand.

Maiden, this is my prayer for thee--

Far reaching to eternity;

And when, like mine, your setting sun

Proclaims life's journey almost run,

O, may his last--his sinking ray,

Beam on a brighter, happier day.

Forgive, dear maid, my truthful strain--

Say not, such reas'ning is in vain;

Say not that age is ever blind,

And disappointment sours the mind;

But, oh! the voice of warning heed--

And quickly to the Saviour speed;

For Jesus tells you "there is room,"

And to the weary soul says, "Come;"

Then lean your head upon his breast.

And you shall have the promised rest.

When you shall touch your gifted lyre,

Glowing with sweet, seraphic fire,

O then, remember me again,

And wake for me one pleasing strain.

Lines, Written in an Album.

"Then Jesus said unto her, Mary."

"Mary," the ris'n Saviour said,

In accents sweet and low;

"Mary:" she rais'd her drooping head,

The form she sought to know.

Mary had lingered by the cross,

To see her Saviour die;

Had seen him wrapp'd in linen fine,

In Joseph's tomb to lie.

Now she had come at early dawn,

Laden with rich perfume,

To shed her tears beside his form--

Her fragrance round his tomb.

But, lo! he lives; O, glad surprise!

Has ris'n from the grave;

And now, before her ravish'd eyes,

Proclaims his power to save.

May you, who bear that gentle name,

This Saviour's call obey;

And he will lead you by his grace,

To realms of endless day.

Mary had followed to the cross--

Had sought him at the tomb;

So may you follow, seek and find;

He calls--"there still is room."

A Long Night in the Eighteenth Century.

The hardy and enterprising inhabitants, who first penetrated the

eastern forests, to fell their hardy oaks, and build up settlements,

in the then remote east, had many difficulties to encounter, which

later generations know nothing of. In the latter part of the

eighteenth century, two families lived in their log cabins, in the

interior of the forest. They had each a small cleared spot of land,

that amply repaid their labor, by its rich productions. The morning

sun, as he shed his rising beams over the long range of forest trees,

glanced smilingly upon their little cultivated spot,

"That bloomed like Eden, in the world's first spring;"

and they were contented and happy. The dense forest trees, waving

in the blast, or gently bowing their lofty heads before the milder

breeze, made music not unlike the dash of Ocean on his winding shore.

They were far from the abodes of men. The fashions, the vanities and

the pleasures of life, held no despotic sway in their breasts. They

pursued "the even tenor of their ways," rising before the sun, and

retiring almost with his sinking beams.

The cows and sheep went forth to crop the green herbage and luxurious

grass, heralding their approach by tinkling bells.

No roads were made, and the citizens pursued their way by trees,

stripped of little pieces of bark, by friendly Indians, who went

as guides to the pale faces, that had come into their territories,

purchased their lands, and distributed the deadly fire-water among

them, thus adding fury to their already ferocious natures.

The men were both house carpenters, and one of them a wheelwright; so

they were frequently called upon to leave their homes, and go to some

distant part, where a new settlement was springing up, to fill the

place of the forest trees, that had fallen before the woodman's axe.

In the spring of 1773, the settlement upon the banks of the Kennebec

river, now called Gardiner (but then bearing the Indian name of

Cobbessy), was progressing rapidly. A saw mill was to be erected upon

this rapid stream, that had rolled on for centuries, through the

towering forest, only bearing the Indian's light canoe, as it floated

over its glassy surface, and the dipping of the paddle, in the dark

rolling stream, awoke an answering echo in her wild forest haunts.

And so these men, Mr. Fuller and Capt. Somers, shouldered their tools,

and pursued their way by the spotted trees, to the far off settlement,

leaving their families in the bosom of the forest, unprotected and

alone. Not infrequently did the crackling brush denote the near

approach of the sulky bear, or some other wild beast that had

heretofore roamed the woods at large, undisturbed, save by the

swift-winged arrow of the Indian, as he pursued his prey over the

dense forest, but little tamer than the hunted beast. A discharge

of the rifle, which they were ever obliged to carry with them, soon

caused the enemy to retreat, and leave them to pursue their solitary

walk unmolested.

Often would the Indians come along in droves, their small dogs

indicating their approach. The chief of one tribe was called Sousup.

His wife was a woman of pleasant countenance, and was usually very

neatly dressed, having her blanket of snowy whiteness, while her

moccasins were of the nicest material. She was covered with wampum,

and wore large jewels in her ears and nose, and large silver brooches

on different parts of her dress. She never drank the fire-water, and

used to trade with the pale faces, as she was so gentle in her manners

that she easily won her way into their houses and hearts.

It was sunset, when Mrs. Fuller had milked her cows, and performed the

domestic duties that devolved upon her during her husband's absence.

She had laid her sleeping infant from her arms, and her other children

were placed snugly in bed, when she was startled by seeing an Indian's

dog emerging from a clump of bushes that stood a few yards from the

house, and come bounding towards the door.

Her heart palpitated violently, for frequent reports reached their

ears, of whole families falling a fearful prey to savage brutality.

Soon she heard the Indian dialect vociferated in loud voices, while

occasionally a loud savage yell rang fearfully through the air,

blending a wild chorus with the strains of the warbling birds, as they

carolled their vesper hymns upon the neighboring branches, before

retiring to their nests. Hastily she closed her doors, and skulked

away in a secret corner, hoping they would pass on, and not disturb

her. She soon became aware, by their fierce words, that there were

many of them in a state of intoxication.

The heart of the lonely woman almost died within her, as she heard

their heavy tramp before the door. She had taken the precaution to

draw in the leather string that was attached to the wooden latch, to

raise it, thus betraying her own secret. After pounding upon the door

for some time, and threatening to break it down if it was not opened,

the storm subsided, and she hoped, by the sound of retreating

footsteps, they were pursuing their journey.

She was soon undeceived, by hearing her own name called, by the gentle

voice of Sousup's wife, or "squaw," as he called her.

She stepped forward and opened the door, and discovered a large horde

of red men, wrapped in dirty blankets, reeling under the influence of

the fire-water. The squaws were in a squalid condition, and equally

drunk with the men, while the papooses, that were placed in sacks upon

their backs, peeping up, with their bare heads and dirty faces, added

to the wretchedness of the scene, and the sight of them blanched the

cheek of the poor woman, as she tremblingly looked upon them.

Dove Eye marked her fear, and informed her, in broken English, that

the Penobscot tribe had joined with them, and they were going towards

the rising sun, to hunt moose and deer, and make mats and baskets, to

carry to Boston.

"But," added she, "Sousup drink fire-water and git much drunk; me feel

bad, but Dove Eye no help it."

She told her they were going to have a pow-wow, and wished to go into

a little cleared spot, in the edge of the forest, near her dwelling.

Mrs. Fuller dared not refuse, and so she tremblingly consented.

She told her tribe the result of their confab, and they came forward,

to a man, and laid down their rifles, tomahawks and scalping knives at

her feet, saying,

"Me no hurt white squaw."

They collected a large pile of brush, kindled their fire, lit their

pipes, and prepared their evening meal, after which they commenced

their savage revelry.

They daubed their faces with red paint, while their greasy black hair

hung in dishevelled masses down their backs, and waved to and fro as

they jumped or ran, and performed the various evolutions of their mazy

dance.

Mrs. Fuller lit no candle during that fearful night. She watched their

dusky forms, as they flitted by, dimly seen through the trees, by the

glaring blaze of the fire, that crackled up, throwing a flickering

light upon the majestic forest trees that waved in solemn grandeur

above their heads, and sighed mournfully as the night winds floated

among their branches. The Indians formed a circle round the fire, by

joining hands, and their frantic gestures were teriffic to behold, and

their wild shrieks rent the air. Twice, and twice only, the fearful

war-whoop resounded, filling the heart of that lonely watcher with

indescribable fear.

It was past midnight; the moon had passed her zenith in the sky,

and the swarthy band seemed frantic with their wild orgies and

intoxication.

Many had fallen, beastly drunk, while others swayed like the forest

trees, rocked by the wintry whirlwind.

Dove Eye sat on a mossy rock looking upon the scene with a melancholy

expression of countenance. Near her lay stretched upon the bare

ground, Eagle Eye, the wife of the swarthy chief, who had joined their

tribe in their hunting excursions.

Suddenly a furious din arose, and it was evident that anger was added

to the other debasing passions that were holding control over their

benighted souls. Furious was the strife of words, and fearful menaces

and threats fell from brutal, savage lips.

Suddenly the stranger chief seized a burning torch, and accompanied by

a fierce looking companion, strode hastily toward the house. Dove Eye

saw their movements and sprang hurriedly to their side, endeavoring

to stop their progress; but they pushed her aside and proceeded. Mrs.

Fuller, too, saw them through the small pane of glass that was placed

in her board window, and hope almost forsook her. They passed on: the

light gleamed through the pane and flickered upon the face of her

sleeping infant. She heard distinctly their voices in low, guttural

tones, and their heavy tread fell painfully upon her ear. They passed

round the corner of the house, and she lost sight and sound of them.

She opened the door into an adjoining apartment, and the light burst

upon her with such intense brightness that she thought at first they

had fired the house. Upon approaching the window, she again discovered

them by the wood pile searching for the axe, which they soon raised,

and cutting several sticks of wood, bore it away to replenish their

fire.

In a short time their dusky forms wrapped in their dirty blankets,

were stretched upon the damp ground, with their greasy heads turned

towards the fire, and sleep descended upon their weary lids, and

silence once more reigned round that forest home.

Dove Eye still reclined upon the rock, watching the moon as it hid

its silver beams behind a dark mountain, whose eternal summit lay

stretched along the western horizon.

Mrs. Fuller, too, kept anxious watch. She knew from many of them she

had nothing to fear; they had often warmed themselves by her fire,

had eaten of her bread, and in many ways been partakers of her

hospitality, and she knew the Indian never forgets a kindness.

She gently hushed the feeble wailings of her infant, lest it should

awaken them to savage rage. She almost resolved to take her children

and leave the house while that savage band were weighed down by sleep

and intoxication. But she feared it might exasperate them if they

found her gone, and so she waited the event, lifting her heart to God

in prayer, for he was the refuge of that christian woman, in every

hour of trial.

The sun came up at length, and shed his glorious beams over the face

of rejoicing nature. The birds sang their matin hymns of praise. The

dew drops glittered upon the green grass and tender herbage, and the

restless cows lowed, impatient to wander forth at their accustomed

hour. The children arose, refreshed by their slumber, and as they

looked out upon the dusky sons of the forest, their hearts quaked

within them, and stealing silently into a corner, they awaited their

fate with pale faces.

Dove Eye stole quietly from the rock, and kindling the almost

extinguished fire, hastily prepared their simple morning meal. She

took from a deer skin knapsack, which she carried upon her back, a

neat white cloth, and repaired to the house of Mrs. Fuller, wishing

to exchange some nice dried moose meat for some new milk. Mrs. Fuller

hastily milked, and filling a large pail, Dove Eye bore it to their

place of rendezvous, and the cows went forth to crop the dewy grass.

She then awoke her husband, and soon the dusky group were partaking of

their morning repast, with evident satisfaction, after which they made

preparations to depart. They came, one after another, to get their

hunting utensils and their implements of war, from Mrs. Fuller,

telling her,

"Me no forget white squaw--me bring moose meat for white squaw."

Soon they marched away, in Indian file, and as their dusky forms

disappeared, one after another, behind the forest trees, her heart

rose in thanksgiving to God, for her preservation. Dove Eye lingered

till the rest of her tribe vanished from sight; there was sadness in

her countenance, and sadness in her voice, as she said,

"Dove Eye see white squaw no more. Dove Eye go toward the rising sun,

but Dove Eye come no more."

Mrs. Fuller pressed her hand affectionately, and commending her to the

Great Spirit, she departed to overtake her companions. The children

emerged from their hiding places, a cheerful fire burned upon the

hearth, and the weary mother prepared the morning meal for herself and

her children, with a grateful heart.

When the wandering tribe returned again towards the setting sun, Dove

Eye was not with them--she had "gone to the land where her fathers had

gone."

Years passed on--years of trial, of anxiety, and of change. The tall

forest trees gave place to cultivated fields and blooming orchards.

Roads traversed the vast country in every direction. Numerous villages

rose up, on the flourishing banks of the winding Kennebec, and its

proud waters bore many a whitened sail upon its surface.

The red men of the forest have passed away, like the withered leaves

before the autumnal gale, and the wild bear and deer are now strangers

in their secluded haunts.

The young wife and mother passed from the sober matron to mature age,

and there were deep furrows upon her cheek, and the frosts of many

winters whitened her hair; but when she related the events of that

night to her grand-children, or great-grand-children, she ever spoke

with trembling voice, and called it the "long fearful night."

On Hearing a Bird Sing,

December, 1826.

Cease, little warbler, cease thy lay,

For summer, with her sunny day,

Far to the south has fled away;

And autumn's chilly finger

Has touch'd the leaf on ev'ry tree,--

And blighted everything we see;

Then, warbler, do not linger.

Fly where groves of citron bloom,

And orange orchards shed perfume,

And birds of ev'ry varied plume

With music charm thee:

Fly, little warbler, quickly fly,

Far, far away to southern sky,

Where nought can harm thee.

For, oh, it is no careless voice--

That bids thee fly and seek for joys,

And shun the rushing whirlwind's noise,

That soon will pass before thee.

But one, whose bosom knows full well,

The heartless scene, the winter spell,

That soon will hover o'er thee.

Variety.

Variety is sweet to me

As many blossoms to the bee;

And I will roam from flower to flower,

Sipping honey ev'ry hour;

I will wander with the bee,

And drink thy sweets, variety.

But if I idly flit away,

All my sunny summer day,

Dancing round from flow'r to flow'r;

What shall grace my winter bow'r?

No, I'll not wander with the bee,

So tempt me not, variety.

But I will prune my myrtle tree,

That in winter green will be,

When other flow'rs are pale and dead:

Their color gone, their beauty fled,

No, I'll not wander with the bee;

So away, variety.

My myrtle then shall be my care,

That's green and fragrant all the year;

I will not spend the fleeting hours

Flitting round more fragrant flow'rs.

I'll not wander with the bee,

So begone, variety.

This in youth should be our care,

To improve for future years;

For if we flit from toy to toy,

Chasing the painted bubble, joy,

No real substance shall we find

To nourish or improve the mind.

Then I'll not wander with the bee

Since it leads to misery.

And youth's fair morn will vanish soon,

And the bright sun grow dim at noon;

Trials will rise along the way,

To cloud the dreary winter day;

Then I'll not wander with the bee,

So farewell, variety.

Henriette Clinton;

Or,

Reverses of Fortune.

At the foot of the Alleghany Mountains stands the flourishing village

of Hollidaysburg. On the banks of the blue Juniata, that winds on till

it buries its waters in the rolling Susquehannah, stood the elegant

mansion of Esquire Clinton, the village lawyer. He had lost his young

wife many years since, and Henriette, his only child, shared largely

in the affection of her father. Her every wish was gratified, and she

was educated in the fashionable etiquette of the place. She was the

guiding star in the fashionable circle in which she moved, and a

general favorite.

But there came a change. The father was seized with sudden illness,

and in a few short hours was no more. The grief-stricken Henriette

had watched with an agonized heart the progress of the disease, had

attended to his wants, and supplied his necessities with her own

hands. A skillful physician had done all that medical aid could do,

but nothing could avail. The grim messenger lingered not, and the

beautiful Henriette was left sole mistress of the splendid mansion.

But Frederic Clinton had made preparation for that event, and his lamp

was trimmed and burning when the Master came.

Henriette, too, had given her heart to God, while the freshness of

youth was yet upon it, and now he supported her in her hour of trial.

Her father was borne to the grave, with all the splendor of wealth, a

long train of sympathizing friends following in the procession, and

showing every attention to the bereaved orphan, who was the only

mourner.

Henriette returned with an aching heart, to the home of her childhood,

and seated herself in her father's library, overwhelmed with grief.

It was a cheerless autumn day, and nature seemed sympathizing in her

sorrow. The fitful gusts of wind came sighing down the mountains, and

sweeping over the usually placid waters of the Juniata, tossed its

waves into tumultuous motion, and drove it more rapidly on in its

serpentine course. The beautiful magnolia that stood before the

window, was filled with its second crop of yellow flowers, that were

faded and ready to pass away, and the surging blasts swept them

unceremoniously from the branches, as it came sighing down the

mountains, and sweeping along the valley. The sun had long since hid

himself behind the summit of the eternal hills, that she had loved to

watch with her father, from that window, while learning lessons

from his lips, of the grandeur and sublimity of God, who spake that

stupendous chain of mountains into existence. And her thought was

turned to that God, who has promised to be "the father of the

fatherless." To him she knelt--to him she prayed. Soothed and

comforted, she arose and entered the parlor. Sympathizing domestics

awaited her pleasure, and obeyed her commands.

Proper measures were taken for an investigation of Mr. Clinton's

affairs, and the estate was pronounced insolvent, and all was offered

for sale. At first Henriette could scarcely believe the assertion, but

when she became convinced of its truth, she nerved her mind to meet

the trial, relying upon that God "who tempers the wind to the shorn

lamb."

She immediately dismissed her domestics, who had been faithful so

long to the family, watching over their young mistress, during her

childhood and early youth, and now they felt grieved to leave her. She

gave each one a present from her own treasures, procured good places

for them, retaining only the dear old nurse in her service, for a few

days, till the auction had taken place.

Henriette had never been accustomed to labor, and old Mary was

surprised upon seeing her enter the dining room, with her glossy brown

hair parted neatly over her high marble forehead, clad in a simple

gingham, which she had prepared for a morning dress, with a brown

linen apron, to assist her in making the necessary arrangements for

her removal and the coming sale.

The rooms were put in the best possible order, and the luxurious

furniture arranged with great care, that everything might show to the

best advantage. She selected a few choice volumes from the library,

and placed them in a large trunk, which was to contain her own

wardrobe, and which she had decided upon keeping, if circumstances

would permit.

This had been her favorite room; one window looked out upon the

mountains, that lifted their heads in majestic grandeur, and seemed

supporting the very clouds upon their lofty summits, while their

jagged sides looked as though they would drop upon the valley below.

But they had stood for ages the same, braving the fury of the wintry

storm as its surging blasts swept over them, or parched by the burning

rays of the noonday sun, as he poured his fierce scorching beams upon

them. She had looked upon them too in the twilight hour, when the

coming darkness would present strange, mysterious shadows, and the

craggy rocks would assume the forms of men, and fancy would conjure up

a lawless band of midnight plunderers emerging from their dark caves,

upon the mountain side.

But now she was looking out of that window perhaps for the last time,

and the unbidden tear would spring to her eye. The books were nicely

dusted, the comfortable stuffed rocking chair stood in its usual place

where her father used to love to sit so well, and a splendid ottoman

stood before it, which was usually her seat. Her elegant little chair

covered with crimson velvet, stood by the window, where she ever loved

to linger to look out upon the mountains, always finding some new

trace of beauty, as she gazed upon their cloud capped summits. But now

she must linger no longer; the rich covering was placed exactly square

upon the elegant little table, and every particle of dust was banished

from the room, and there were duties elsewhere that demanded her

attention. As she turned to leave the room, she raised her eyes to the

portraits of her parents that hung suspended on the wall opposite her,

in heavy gilt frames. The likenesses were very natural, and now seemed

smiling upon her with life-like affection. At this time the man

entered with whom she had procured board, and who had kindly offered

to assist in removing any articles she might wish to convey to his

house. The dear resemblances of her idolized parents were removed

from the spot they had occupied so many years, to be carried to a

stranger's home. Henriette felt less regret at parting from the place

now those loved faces were removed. There were many little treasures

associated with dear memories she would gladly have taken, but a

strict sense of honor forbade her. She turned away, locking the door,

but leaving the key in it, to be turned next by a stranger's hand. She

drew up her music stool, and seating herself upon it touched the keys

of her piano with a skillful hand, and sang with a trembling voice,

"Farewell, farewell, is a lonely sound."

She closed the instrument as she finished the pieced saying,

"It is the last time."

There was one hour before the auction, and already were curious eyes

peering round the premises. Every thing being arranged to their minds,

Henriette dismissed the dear old nurse with many tears and a generous

reward. She would live near by and would see her every day, and this

was a source of great comfort to both.

Henriette now ran down the beautiful terraced walk, through her

father's garden, till she reached a beautiful arbor on the brink of

the river, where she had spent so many happy hours. Here was her

guitar, her father's flute, and the book they had last read together.

She seated herself upon the richly cushioned seat, and looked upon

the winding waters that seemed mocking her sad heart as they danced

sparkling on beneath the mellow rays of the autumnal sun, its bosom

ruffled by the autumnal breeze. At the foot of the terrace her fairy

skiff lay moored, which used to dance upon the wave by moonlight,

while she and her father made the air resound with the melody of their

music; but there was little time to linger here.

She put the little arbor in order, and repaired next to her

conservatory, filled with rich and rare exotics, took a hasty glance,

moving the choice plants into the position that best suited her good

taste, and wiping the dust from its polished shelves. Her father's

chair occupied its place by his favorite window that looked out upon

the Juniata that was indistinctly seen, peeping its little spots of

blue through the thick leaves of the plants that almost hid it from

view. She took a last look, passing on to the aviary, where a choice

collection of birds filled the ear with their melody. Old nurse had

attended to this department, and she caressed her pets, and smoothed

their feathers, and breathing a sad adieu, turned to take a last look

at her favorite Sullensifadda, as she had named her noble steed. She

patted his neck, told him coaxingly he would never again climb the

mountain pass with her upon his back; took a last look of her father's

splendid saddle horse of dapple grey, and his jet black span of

carriage horses, and passed round through the richly cultivated

grounds, and gardens where every thing that wealth could procure lay

spread out before the eye. She took a hasty look, a hasty leave of all

and felt that sense of desolation known to almost every human heart,

when called upon to part from dear familiar objects. She looked at her

elegant gold watch, and finding her time had expired, returned to

the house. Already there had many arrived who wished to attend the

auction. Henriette entered a small apartment, seated herself upon a

low stool, and wept as she heard the unfeeling remarks and low jests,

as the vulgar crowd pulled about the furniture, turning it from side

to side, declaring they had no idea Esq. Clinton's mansion was so

meanly furnished. But we will not dwell upon this painful scene.

Mr. Charles Norcross purchased the house with all its appurtenances.

The furniture was distributed about here and there among the

wealthy citizens, who wished to add some article of luxury to their

establishment. And all was gone. Sold for less than half its value,

and poor Henriette had the mortification of hearing that the debts

were not cancelled. So she disposed of her gold watch and pencil, her

father's watch, a box of rich jewelry, and every available article in

her possession to contribute her mite to keep dishonor from resting

upon her father's name. She then went forth penniless upon the world.

But there was a light in her eye and firmness in her step that told of

a "will to do, a soul to dare." She had been educated in the customs

of the village, and had been an aristocrat. Now she had another lesson

to learn, a sad lesson speaking of the depravity of the human heart,

and now she must learn all the cold heartlessness of that world that

had heretofore shone so brightly upon her pathway. She did not once

think in her grief that her change in fortune would make any change in

friendship's tone, but alas! the society in which she had moved was

very, very exclusive, and to labor with the hands was to bar the door

of that society forever against one.

Henriette at first did not realize this, and when she met her former

gay companions, was surprised when they passed her with an averted

eye, or a slight nod of recognition. Frequently was she called upon to

meet that sudden death chill that falls so often upon the human heart,

when the fond affections of many years gush warmly up to the eye and

lip, as we meet some long cherished friend who passes us by with a

cold, scornful glance. O this is poverty's bitterest curse, and this

too must be met. Those who might have removed many a sharp thorn from

the pathway of the lonely Henriette, but added sharpness to their

point, and made her feel and deeply feel,

"Man's inhumanity to man,

Makes countless thousands mourn."

The poor girl felt there was no time to sit still, for she was a

destitute orphan, and she must try to help herself, and so she

repaired to Mrs. Cobb, the most fashionable dress maker in the

village, to see if she could learn her trade.

Matters were satisfactorily arranged, and she commenced immediately.

A willing hand and active mind made the task easier than she had

anticipated. It was soon a matter of conversation through all the

village, when it became known that the haughty Henriette Clinton was

going to be a dress maker, and many were the remarks that were made

upon her everlasting gingham dress, for her nice sense of propriety

prevented her from wearing the rich articles of apparel contained in

her wardrobe; and at present she could procure no other. She formed

the resolution sometimes of disposing of some of her costly garments

to relieve her present necessity, but they had been selected by her

dear father, and were all that remained to her as a link of her past

intercourse with him, and so she clung to them as dear remembrances of

the past, the happy past.

She sat through the long weary hours with her eyes bent upon her work,

and made rapid proficiency in the art she was acquiring.

Mr. Norcross, who purchased the Clinton estate, was a man of a low

sordid mind not at all calculated to appreciate the elegance of his

domicile. He was a merchant, and had rapidly come into possession of

great wealth, and wishing to climb a little higher upon the ladder

of aristocracy, he thought a purchase of the lawyer's splendid

establishment would forward his progress. Therefore, selling his own

place at a very high price, and purchasing that at an equally low one,

did not much diminish his hoarded gold. But after all they were not

the Clintons. It was only Mr. Norcross the store-keeper, and they had

many steps to climb before they could reach that position in society

they were so desirous of attaining. They bowed to one, scraped to

another, parties were made, and many means devised, all of which were

accompanied with disappointment, as the least desired would come, and

those for whom the party was made would just as surely stay away.

Mrs. Norcross was a large coarse woman, with red hair, light blue

eyes, and freckled face, but with a good humored expression of

countenance. Her two daughters, Araminta and Clarinda, were not very

refined in their manners, owing to a deficiency in their education,

but were good hearted, cheerful girls. Araminta was much pleased with

Henriette's horse, but did not appreciate the name, and declared he

should be called Selim, for she knew she had read of some great

man who had a horse by that name, and who ever heard of one named

Sullensifadda, ugly name. She mounted him one day, gaily caparisoned,

but he being equally unaccostomed to his new name and rider, soon

convinced her he had a light pair of heels.

Henriette sat busily at work by the window, when the clatter of the

well known hoofs sounded upon her ear, and she raised her eyes just in

time to see her well remembered steed flying toward the mountain

pass with the speed of lightning, while the frightened Araminta was

clinging to his mane to prevent falling to the ground, her long riding

dress and veil were streaming behind her their full length in the

wind, which was blowing pretty briskly, and her small riding-cap was

drawn a little farther upon one side than the rules of gentility

seemed to require. Henriette pitied the poor girl, but she could not

help smiling at her ludicrous appearance. She turned pale when she

saw the horse turn suddenly down a narrow path that led to the river,

plunge into its dashing waves, and swimming round a circuitous route,

spring back upon the shore, and setting his face towards home, bore

back the mortified girl all wet and dripping through the streets at

too rapid a rate for any one to interfere with his arrangements,

arriving at home apparently well satisfied with his performance.

Months passed away, such months as Henriette had never known before.

She could have borne her toil, her simple fare, and the ten thousand

deprivations she was subjected to, had this been all; but the averted

looks of her friends were more than all these. She used to sit a

little while in the twilight hour upon her parents' graves, and recall

their loved forms and tender words, and people her imagination with

by-gone scenes, and then, as she contrasted the present, her cherished

text would come to illuminate her mind and calm her troubled spirit,

"all things work together for good to them that fear God," and she was

comforted and strengthened to go on her weary way, for this took in

life with all its little incidents, its every day trials, and she

returned to the active duties of life, realizing that "this is not our

home."

Ere the spring returned she had accomplished her wish, and entered

into many families as dress maker where she used to be admitted as an

equal, if not superior. She maintained her dignity of deportment, for

now she well knew poverty did not deteriorate from worth, a

lesson perhaps she too might have been slow to learn under some

circumstances, but which now had been taught her by stern necessity,

and her rigid lessons are never soon forgotten.

She had taken the rich trimming from some of her plainest dresses, and

wore them when she could not possibly avoid it. She did her work with

great neatness and dispatch, and was supplied with all she could

possibly do, so that she remunerated the kind hearted woman who had

boarded her through her apprenticeship, and been very attentive to her

in many ways, for she truly pitied the poor orphan.

In the spring Mr. Clinton's vacant office was again occupied by a

young lawyer, who came into the village, from New York, named Henry

Lorton, and half the young ladies' heads were turned, by the beauty

and elegance of the young northerner. Parties were formed, walks

projected up the mountains, moonlight sails upon the silvery bosom of

the Juniata, and every means devised to draw the young lawyer into

company, and love with the southern beauties; but they declared his

heart was as cold as the region he came from.

All these things Henriette heard, as she sat plying her needle, or

stood fitting a dress to the forms of some of her gay companions;

but now her interests were separate from theirs, and she toiled on,

through the weary day. There were some who appreciated her motives,

and spoke kindly to the poor orphan, and the sweet consciousness of

well doing sweetened her cup of toil.

Henry Lorton was educated upon liberal New England principles, and

his mother was a dress-maker before her marriage with his father, and

besides, he had ever been taught to respect the industrious part

of the community, and his high minded principles revolted from the

overbearing aristocracy of the place, and therefore, he appeared

reserved to those with whom he associated.

Henriette felt grieved as she visited her father's grave; there was no

monument erected at his head, while at her mother's stood an elegant

polished marble one, of great value, having a female bearing an infant

in her arms, chiselled upon it, and this one thought occupied her

mind; she would rise early and eat the bread of carefulness, might she

but erect a monument to her father's grave; and often she burned the

midnight lamp, and rose before the stars had faded from the sky, to

accomplish her holy purpose.

A young lady, who was married about that time, saw and wished to

purchase an elegantly trimmed satin dress, and Henriette assented,

thinking the value of it would be more sacred to her eyes, in her

father's monument, than elsewhere. The young lady paid her the full

value of this and several other articles of clothing, and she soon had

the pleasure of seeing the splendid monument reared over her father's

grave.

Ellen Horton had ever met Henriette with a cordial greeting, and she

did not feel the same shrinking when she was requested to spend a few

days at the residence of the wealthy Edward Horton that she did in

going to many other places, and she went with a cheerful heart to

prepare the splendid bridal dress for Ellen.

Next day, Charles Hunter, the future bridegroom, arrived from

Providence, the future home of the fair Ellen, and the young ladies

and gentlemen of the place were invited to spend the evening.

Mr. Horton was formerly from Philadelphia, and an intimate friend of

Charles Hunter's father, who was a sea captain, and being shipwrecked

during one of his voyages, was conveyed in a pitiful condition to the

house of Mr. Horton, and thus commenced an ardent friendship, to be

ended only by death.

The nuptials of Charles and Ellen were looked forward to with great

interest, by both families. Especially, was Mrs. Hunter, much pleased,

as she was an invalid, and had no daughter.