profound secret till I had arranged my plans; and as Mrs. Tonic had in a
remarkable degree that propensity which distinguishes woman--I was under
the necessity of making her privy to the whole transaction; trusting
that the probable ruin to my reputation consequent on an exposure would
effectually bridle her unruly member. My venerable friend too, I invited
for a few days to my own mansion lest the bruises he received during his
_exodus_ from the dissecting room might have deprived him of his
customary caution. The last and most difficult step was to prepare the
mind of Mrs. Sykes, who was yet _in nubibus_ as to her new location.
With great caution I gradually unfolded the strange event that had just
transpired,--her sudden apparent death, the alarm of the village
touching the _miasma_, and the consequent sudden interment. 'Your exit,
my dear Mrs. Sykes,' I continued, 'seemed like a dream--I could not
realize it. Such an irreparable loss! I thought of all the remedies that
had been applied in such cases. Had any thing been omitted that had a
tendency to increase the circulation of the radical fluid! There was the
Galvanic battery,--it had been entirely overlooked, and yet what wonders
it had performed! No sooner had this occurred to my mind than I was
impressed with the conviction that you were to revisit this mundane
sphere, and that I was the chosen instrument to enkindle the vital
spark. No time was lost in obeying this mysterious impulse. The grave
was opened, the battery was applied _secundem artem_--and the result is
the restoration to society of our beloved Mrs. Sykes.' In proportion to
her horror at the idea, that she must have rested from her labors but
for my skill, was her gratitude for this timely rescue. She fell on my
neck and clung like one demented, till a gathering frown on the face of
my spouse warned me of the necessity of repelling her embraces. Mrs.
Sykes was now desirous of returning immediately home, to restore as it
were to life her bereaved consort, who was no doubt mourning at his
desolation, and refusing to be comforted. But here I felt it my duty to
interpose. 'My dear Mrs. Sykes,' said I, 'your return at this moment
would overwhelm him. The sudden change from the lowest depths of woe to
a state of ecstacy, would consign him to the tenement you have just
quitted. No! this extraordinary Providence must be gradually unfolded.'
She yielded at last to my sage councils and consented to wait till the
violence of his grief had somewhat abated, and his mind had become
sufficiently tranquil to hear that tale which I was cautiously to
relate. On the following day however, her anxiety to return had risen to
a high pitch, and truly by evening it was beyond my control. She was
firm in the belief that I could make the disclosure without essential
injury to the Deacon; 'besides,' as she remarked, 'there was no knowing
how much waste there had been in the kitchen.' It was settled at last
that I should immediately walk over to the Deacon's, and by a judicious
train of reflection, for which I was admirably fitted, prepare the way
for this joyous meeting. When I arrived at the house of mourning, though
perhaps the last person in the world entitled to the name of
evesdropper, yet as my eye was somewhat askance as I passed the window,
I observed a spectacle that for a time arrested my footsteps. There sat
the Deacon, recounting probably the virtues of the deceased partner, and
there, not far apart, sat the widow Dobble sympathizing in his sorrows.
It struck me that Deacon Sykes was not ungrateful for her consolatory
efforts; for he took her hand with a gentle pressure and held it to his
bosom. Perhaps it was the unusual mode of dress now exhibited by the
widow Dobble, that led him to this act; for she was decked out in Mrs.
Sykes's best frilled cap, and such is the waywardness of fancy, he might
for the moment have imagined that his help-mate was beside him. Be that
as it may, while I was thus complacently regarding this interchange of
friendly feelings, the cry of '_you vile hussy_' suddenly rang in my
very ear, and the next instant, the door having been burst open, who
should stand before the astonished couple but the veritable Mrs. Sykes.
The Deacon leaped as if touched in the _pericardium_, and essayed to
gain the door; but in his transit his knees denied their office, and he
sank gibbering as his hand was upon the latch. As to the terrified widow
Dobble, I might say with Virgilius, _steteruntque comae_, her _combs_
stood up; for the frilled cap was displaced with no little violence, and
with an agonizing shriek she fell, apparently _in articulo mortis_, on
the body of the Deacon. What a lamentable scene! and all in consequence
of the rashness and imprudence of Mrs. Sykes. No sooner had I left my
own domicil than Mrs. Sykes, regardless of my admonitions, resolved on
following my steps, and was actually peeping over my shoulder at the
moment the Deacon's hand came in contact with the widow Dobble's. It was
truly fortunate for all concerned that a distinguished member of the
faculty was near at this dreadful crisis. In ordinary hands nothing
could have prevented a quietus. Their spirits were taking wing, and it
was only by extraordinary skill that I effected what lawyer Snoodles
said was a complete 'stoppage _in transitu_.' I regret to state that
this was my last visit to Deacon Sykes's. Unmindful of my services in
resuscitating Mrs. Sykes, he remarked that my neglect to prepare him for
the exceeding joy that was in store, had so far shattered his nervous
system that his usefulness was over; and in fine, had built up between
us a wall of separation not to be broken down. I always opined, however,
and of this opinion was Mrs. Tonic, that the Deacon's coldness arose in
part from an incipient warmth for Mrs. Dobble, which was thus checked in
its first stages. It was even hinted that on her departure, which took
place immediately, he manifested less of resignation than at the burial
of Mrs. Sykes. The coldness of the widow Dobble towards me, certainly
unmerited, was also no less apparent, till I brought about what I had
much at heart, viz: a match between her and Major Popkin. He was a
discreet, forehanded man, a Representative to our General Court, and
kept the Variety Store in that part of our town that was named in honor
of him, 'Popkins's Corner.'[3]
FOOTNOTE:
[3] From the papers of Dr. Tonic, recently brought to light.
OLD AND YOUNG.
By James Furbish.
Give me ripe fruit with the green--
Fresh leaves mingling with the sear;
As in tropic climes are seen
Blending through the deathless year.
I am alarmed at the changes which are taking place in society. While
many are lauding the _spirit of the age_ and holding up to my gaze the
picture of forth-coming improvements--opening broad and charming vistas
into the almost _present future_ of mental and moral perfection, I
cannot help casting a lingering look upon the past. Time was when old
age and infancy, manhood and youth, walked the path of life together;
when the strength of young limbs aided the feebleness of the old, and
the joyousness of youth enlivened the gravity of age. But the son has
now left the father to totter on alone, and the daughter has outstripped
the mother in the race. Beauty and strength have separated from
decrepitude and weakness. The vine has uncoiled from its natural
support, and the ivy has ceased to entwine the oak.
There is an increasing disposition on the part of the young and the old
to classify their pleasures according to their age. Those pastimes which
used to be enjoyed by both together, are now separated. This is an evil
of too serious a character to pass unfelt, unlamented or unrebuked. It
is easy to refer back to days when parents were more happy with their
children, and children more honorable and useful to parents than at
present. It is not long since the old and the young were to be seen
together in the blithesome dance and the merry play. And why this
change? Why do we find that, within a few years, the old have abandoned
amusements to the young? Is it that they think their children can profit
more by their amusements than if they were present? If this be the
impression it is to be regretted. No course could they possibly adopt so
injurious to the character of their children. For youth need the
direction and the advice of age, and age requires the exhilaration and
cheerfulness of youth. How many lonely evenings would be enlivened--how
many dark visions of the future would be dissipated, and how many hours
of gloom and despondency would be put to flight, if fathers would keep
pace with their sons, and mothers with their daughters, in the innocent
pleasures of life. Here, as it appears to me, is the grand secret of
happiness for the young and the old. For the old, who are too apt to
dwell on the glories of the past and to see nothing that is lovely in
the present; and for the young, who throw too strong and gaudy a light
upon the present and the future. Nature did not so intend it. So long as
there is life, she intended we should innocently enjoy it. And the
barrier which has, by some unaccountable mishap, been thrown between the
young and the old is, therefore, greatly to be lamented. But how shall
it be removed? How shall we get back again to the good old times of the
merry husking, the joyous dance, the happy commingling in the same
company, of the priest and his deacon, the father and his child, the
husband and his wife?
It would not be difficult to trace directly to the discontinuance of
the practice of joining with the young in their amusements, the great
increase of youthful dissipation of every description. By being removed
from the advice, restraint and example of the old and experienced, they
have, by degrees, fallen into usages which were almost unknown in years
gone by. When accompanied by parents, the hours of pleasure were
seasonable. Daughters were under the inspection of mothers, and sons
were guided by the wisdom of fathers. Homes were happier, the community
more virtuous, and the world at large a gainer by such judicious
customs. We now hear the complaint that sons have gone astray, that
daughters have behaved indiscreetly, and that families have been
disgraced. But can there be a doubt, if the practice were general of
accompanying our children in those pastimes in which they ought to be
reasonably indulged, that many of these evils would be prevented? Here
then must begin the reform. Complain not that your son is out late, if
you might have been with him to bring him to your fire-side at a
seasonable hour. Complain not that your daughter has formed an
unsuitable or untimely connexion, if a mother's care might have avoided
the evil. Youth _will_ go astray without the protection of age. And it
is a crying sin that these old-fashioned moral restraints have been
removed. What, I ask, can be your object in thus leaving your children
to their own direction? Do they love you the better for it? Are their
manners more agreeable--their conduct more respectful while at home? Is
not rather the reverse of this the case? Do they not give you more
trouble at home? Are they not every day incurring new and useless
expenses in consequence of allowing them to legislate and plan for
themselves? Rashness is the characteristic of youth. But allowing them
to be capable of governing themselves, you are a great loser by drawing
this strong division line between their pleasures and your own. Your own
years are less in number and in happiness. Your children are dead to
you, though alive to themselves. Your sympathies are not linked with
theirs step by step in life; and thus, although surrounded by children,
you go childless, unhappy and gloomy to the grave. Reform then, I say,
reform at once. Annihilate this classification of junior and senior
pleasures. Join with your children in the dance, the song and the play.
Enjoy with them every harmless pleasure and sport of life. Encompass
yourself as often as possible with the gay faces of the young. Teach
them by example, to be happy like rational beings, and to enjoy life
without abusing it. Let the ripe fruit be seen with the green--the
blossom with the bud--the green with the fading leaf and the vine with
its natural support:
Show the ripe fruit with the green--
Fresh leaves twining with the sear;
As in tropic climes are seen
Harmonizing through the year.
AUTUMNAL DAYS.
By P. H. Greenleaf.
"The melancholy days are come--the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear;
Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the summer leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying wind, and to the rabbit's tread:
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow, thro' all the gloomy day."
Stern and forbidding as are the general features of our northern
climate--cold and chilling as the gay Southron may deem, even the very
air we breathe,--we have still some characteristics of climate peculiar
to ourselves, and none the less pleasing to us from this fact. Our
hearts must indeed be as hard and as cold as the very granite of our
craggy shores, did they not glow with delight in the possession of that,
(be it what it may) which is peculiar to and markedly characteristic of
our native home. And of all these peculiarities not one is so
delightful--not one finds us so rich in New England feeling, as that
beautiful season called the Indian Summer. It occurs in October, and is
characterized by a soft, hazy atmosphere--by those quiet, and balmy
days, which seem so like the last whisperings of a Spring morning. The
appearance of the landscape is like any thing, but the fresh and lively
scenery of Spring; and yet the delicious softness of the atmosphere is
so like it, that it brings back fresh to the mind all the beautiful
associations connected with a vernal day. Our forests too, at this
season are, for a brief space, clothed in the most gorgeous and
magnificent array; their brilliant and changing hues, and the
magnificence of their whole appearance, almost give their rich and
mellow tint to the atmosphere itself; and render this period unrivalled
in beauty, and unequalled in the more equable climes of our western
neighbors. The calm sobriety of the scenery--the splendid variety of the
forest coloring, from deep scarlet to russet gray, and the quiet and
dreamy expression of the autumnal atmosphere make a deeper impression on
the mind than all the verdant promises of spring, or the luxuriant
possession of summer. The aspen birch in its pallid white--the walnut in
its deep yellow--the brilliant maple in its scarlet drapery--and the
magical colors of the whole vegetable world, from the aster by the brook
to the vine on the trellis, combine to render the autumnal scenery of
New-England the most splendid and magnificent in the world.
But we cannot forget, if we would, that this beautiful magnificence of
the forests is but the livery of death; and the changing hues of the
leaves, beautiful though they are, still are but indications of the
sure, but gradual progress of decay.
'Lightly falls the foot of death
Whene'er he treads on flowers:'
and though he has breathed beauty on the clustered trees of the
forest--it is to them the breath of the Sirocco.
We have in the wasting consumption a parallel to this splendid decay of
the leaves and flowers of Summer. Day by day we see its victim with the
seal of death upon him--failing and decaying in strength--increasing in
beauty. While the brilliant and intellectual glances of the eye speak,
in language too plain for the sceptic's denial, the immortality of the
soul. The changing and brilliant hues of the forest trees give to us the
most lively type of the frailty of beauty and the brevity of human
existence, while their death and burial during the winter and their
resurrection in the springtime, are almost an assured pledge of our own
immortality and resurrection to an eternity.
Truly 'the melancholy days are come'--Death annually lifts up his solemn
hymn, and the rustling of the dying leaves and the certainty of their
speedy death afford to us all 'eloquent teachings.' The gay and
exhilarating spring has long since passed away--the genial and joyous
warmth of summer is no more; and the grateful abundance and varied
scenes of Autumn are about yielding to the inclemency of hoary winter.
The gay variety of nature has at length departed--the countless throng
of the gaudy flowerets of summer are all returned to their native
dust--the light of the sun himself is often veiled; and the bright
livery of earth is hidden from our sight by the gray mantle of the
iron-bound surface, or the unbroken whiteness of a snowy covering.
Reading thus the language of decay written by the finger of God upon all
the works of nature--reminded too of the rapid flight of time by the
ceaseless revolution of seasons, we naturally turn our thoughts from the
contemplation of external objects to that of the soul, and of unseen
worlds. The appearances of other seasons lead our thoughts to the world
we inhabit, and by the variety of objects presented to our view rather
confine them to sensible things, and matters immediately connected with
them. But the buried flowers and the eddying leaves of this season teach
us nobler lessons; and the mind expands, while it loses itself in the
infinity of being; and the gloom of the natural world shows us the
splendors of other worlds, and other states of being;
'As darkness shows us worlds of light
We never saw by day.'
They tell us, that in the magnificent system of the government of God
there exists no evil; and the mighty resurrections annually accomplished
in the multitude of by gone years assure us, that the gloom of the night
is but the prelude to the brightness of the day--that the funeral pall
of autumnal and wintry days is the harbinger of a glorious, joyous and
life-giving spring; and to that man the gates of the dark valley of the
shadow of death are designed as the crystal portals of an eternity of
bliss.
'Of the innumerable eyes, that open upon nature, none but those of man,
see its author and its end.' This solemn privilege is the birth-right of
the beings of immortality--of those, who perish not in time, but were
formed, in some greater hour, to be companions in eternity. The mighty
Being, who watches the revolutions of the material world, opens in this
manner to our eyes the laws of his government; and tells us, that it is
not the momentary state, but the final issue, which is to disclose its
eternal design. Indeed the whole volume of nature is a natural
revelation to man, often overlooked--often misused--seldom
understood--but plain and solemn in its language, and full of the
wisdom, justice and mercy of its author.
While, then, all inferior nature shrinks instinctively from the winds of
Autumn and the storms of winter, to the high intellect of man they teach
ennobling lessons. To him the inclemency of winter is no less eloquent
than the abundance of Autumn, or the joyous promise of Spring. He knows,
that the fair and beautiful of nature now buried in an icy covering,
have still a principle of life within them; and that the gay tendrils of
the vine and the blushing buds of the rose will soon be put forth in the
breath of summer. The stiffened earth, he knows, will soon send forth
her children in renewed beauty, and he believes, that he himself,
leaving the chrysalis form of earthly clay will wing his flight in the
regions of eternity.
THE PLAGUE.
By Charles P. Ilsley.
"And they that took the disease died suddenly; and
immediately their bodies became covered with spots; and they
were hurried away to the grave without delay: And the men who
bore the corpse, as they went their way, cried with a loud
voice, "_Room for the dead!_" and whosoever heard the cry,
fled from the sound thereof with great fear and trembling."
_Anon._
"Room for the dead!"--a cry went forth--
"A grave--a grave prepare!"
The solemn words rose fearfully
Up through the stilly air:
"Room for the dead!"--and a corse was borne
And laid within the pit;
But a mother's voice was sadly heard--
And a breaking heart was in each word--
"Oh, bury him not yet!"
The mother knelt beside the grave,
And prayed to see her son;
'Twas death to stop--but by her prayers
The wretched boon was won,
And they raised the coffin from the pit,
And then afar they fled--
For the once fair face was spotted now--
But the mother pressed her dead child's brow,
And in a faint voice said--
"Nor plague nor spots shall hinder me
From kissing thee, lost one!
For what, alas! is life or death
Since thou art gone, my son!"
And she bent and kissed the livid brow,
While tearless was her eye;
Then her voice rang wildly in the air--
"Widow and childless!--God, is there
Aught left me but--to die!"
The words were said, and there uprose
A low and stifled moan--
Then all was still--The spirit of
That stricken one had flown!
* * * * *
They widened the pit, and side by side
Mother and son were laid;
No mourning train to the grave went forth,
Nor prayer was said as they heaped the earth
Above the plague-struck dead!
"OH, THIS IS NOT MY HOME!"
By Charles P. Ilsley.
Oh, this is not my home--
I miss the glorious sea,
Its white and sparkling foam,
And lofty melody.
All things seem strange to me--
I miss the rocky shore,
Where broke so sullenly
The waves with deaf'ning roar:
The sands that shone like gold
Beneath the blazing sun,
O'er which the waters roll'd,
Soft chanting as they run:
And oh, the glorious sight!
Ships moving to and fro,
Like birds upon their flight,
So silently they go!
I climb the mountain's height,
And sadly gaze around,
No waters meet my sight,
I hear no rushing sound.
Oh, would I were at home,
Beside the glorious sea,
To bathe within its foam
And list its melody!
THE VILLAGE PRIZE.
By Joseph Ingraham.
In one of the loveliest villages of old Virginia there lived, in the
year 175- and odd, an old man, whose daughter was declared, by
universal consent, to be the loveliest maiden in all the country round.
The veteran, in his youth, had been athletic and muscular above all his
fellows; and his breast, where he always wore them, could show the
adornment of three medals, received for his victories in gymnastic feats
when a young man. His daughter was now eighteen, and had been sought in
marriage by many suitors. One brought wealth--another, a fine
person--another, industry--another, military talents--another this, and
another that. But they were all refused by the old man, who became at
last a by-word for his obstinacy among the young men of the village and
neighborhood. At length, the nineteenth birthday of Annette, his
charming daughter, who was as amiable and modest as she was beautiful,
arrived. The morning of that day, her father invited all the youth of
the country to a hay-making frolic. Seventeen handsome and industrious
young men assembled. They came not only to make hay, but also to make
love to the fair Annette. In three hours they had filled the father's
barns with the newly dried grass, and their own hearts with love.
Annette, by her father's command, had brought them malt liquor of her
own brewing, which she presented to each enamored swain with her own
fair hands.
"Now my boys," said the old keeper of the jewel they all coveted, as
leaning on their pitch-forks they assembled around his door in the cool
of the evening--"Now my lads, you have nearly all of you made proposals
for my Annette. Now you see, I don't care any thing about money nor
talents, book larning nor soldier larning--I can do as well by my gal as
any man in the county. But I want her to marry a man of my own grit.
Now, you know, or ought to know, when I was a youngster, I could beat
any thing in all Virginny in the way o' leaping. I got my old woman by
beating the smartest man on the Eastern Shore, and I have took the oath
and sworn it, that no man shall marry my daughter without jumping for
it. You understand me boys. There's the green, and here's Annette," he
added, taking his daughter, who stood timidly behind him, by the hand,
"Now the one that jumps the furthest on a 'dead level,' shall marry
Annette this very night."