So it was, that again his face turns toward the upward path, and for a

season he will continue therein. Thus goes he forth on his mission,

entertaining in his heart two guests, whose hopes and aspirations, whose

every end and aim are totally at variance. Love of the world, of his

former life of careless sin, and of money, that root of all evil, was

there; and there also was a standard bearer from the camp of Heaven, who

came upholding a banner which, at the will of the entertainer, he would

have gladly unfurled upon the highest battlement of the castle of his

soul—against which the powers of sin and darkness were knocking, and

demanding entrance, with voices which reverberated through every secret

corner of the tenement.

That banner once unfurled, the importunate foe would flee in haste—oh,

why was the word not spoken—the word which would so speedily have

scattered those convulsing legions? Because—ponder upon it, thou who

art halting between two opinions—because the master of that castle

faltered at his post through fear and indecision.

He has gone forth now on the path of discipleship, and his works of

miraculous power proclaim him. At his call and command the gates of

oblivion are opened, and the dead come back to life—the sick, laid on

their couches of pain and agony, arise and walk at his word; and the

gospel of mercy and salvation sounds with marvelous success when its

blessings are proclaimed by his eloquent tongue to the weary, and the

poor, and the heavy-laden. The evil spirits suffered to torment them who

would fain tread in the right path are cast forth, and then the

sorrowing repentant goeth on his way rejoicing! But, as he works all

this good for others, his own mind is tormented by the conflicting

voices which are calling to him. He stills the tempests in the minds of

the distressed, and those burdened with cruel doubts, but in his own

breast there is a storm raging continually, which he _cannot_ command to

silence. He holds up to the parched and dying creatures surrounding him

a cup, while he proclaims, “Ho ye that thirst! buy wine, buy milk,

without money and without price!” “Drink, and ye shall not thirst

again!” while he himself is dying of thirst—and ever as he raises to

his own lips the cup which contains the healing for the nations, his

spirit shrinks back from the draught—it will not drink—it is gall and

wormwood to him!

He lifts his voice, and conviction and peace fall upon them who listen

to him. Repentance is hurled to the sinful heart with the words, “His

yoke is easy, and His burden light!” while himself is drooping and

fainting under the weight of deceit which is upon him. Wherever he goes

he proclaims “Peace!” to the children of men—and peace visits all who

will hearken to him. But in his own breast—ah, _there_ is warfare and

strife, the accusings of conscience, the warnings of wrath to come! In

the chambers of sickness, where the dying were restored to health; by

the wayside, where the foully diseased were cleansed—before the opened

tomb, whence at his call the dead came clothed once again with the

garment of life, amid the multitudes who listened with deepest interest

to his most forcible words, alone, in the solitude of his own heart, or

when in holy communion of thought with the faithful brethren, alike at

all times, and in all places, heard he the still small voice of his

accusing spirit.

The outward form of grace was his, but the purification had not

penetrated into the recesses of his heart! The agonizing knowledge that

at each onward step he was plunging deeper and deeper into the sin which

could not be forgiven—the continual remembrance that he was dispensing

to others the mercy of that God who would forget to be gracious to him,

may be easily conjectured; but may Heaven spare us all from such agony

of conflicting thoughts and hopes as must have been the daily and

nightly companion of Judas Iscariot, long before he came out from the

disciples’ ranks to betray his lord into the hands of sinners!

* * * * *

In the magnificent chambers of the High Priest, adorned with so much

costliness and luxury, Caiaphas sat in state. Ushered in by menials, a

young man enters timidly to the presence of the haughty potentate.

The dignity of mien which once distinguished the ambassador of the Lord,

which would not bend to the splendor of court or king, is no longer to

be seen in Judas. The meanness of servility speaks in every motion,

every word of the man—his self-respect is gone, and with it all the

confidence of manhood. But if the craftiness of the stranger’s

appearance struck most unfavorably on the High Priest, how much more

must he have been startled and amazed, as Judas unfolded the reason of

his appearance there; and it was not till his mission was fully revealed

that Caiaphas recognized in the craven supplicant one of those far-famed

Apostles, with whose names he was already familiar.

The proud man must have shrunk back in horror from the revolting

proposal of Judas—for, though it placed within his reach the

accomplishment of one of the highest wishes of his life, (the

deliverance of Christ into his hands,) yet the means by which he was

offered the capture were opposed to all the principles of his creed of

manly honor. Could he in all his high mightiness stoop to receive the

prisoner at the hands of one who had been his friend—his companion and

ministering servant? No—he must certainly at the first have turned away

contemptuously from the detail of such consummate villainy; it must

surely have been more than even he could countenance—for though not

wont to cavil at the means employed, when any wished for end was to be

gained, yet Caiaphas _must_ have wondered, as the question burst from

the covetous impatient heart of Judas, “What will ye give me, and I will

deliver him unto you?” But as the High Priest pondered on that question,

gradually his spirit ceased its noble revolting, he began to lose sight

of the contemptible, horrible treachery of the man on his knees before

his throne, and he felt something like rejoicing in the thought, that

the object he had so longed to accomplish, was within his reach at last.

Therefore it was not long ere he turned with a more readily listening

ear, and began to _bargain_ with the Apostle!

At length the agreement was made—the covenant formed—the price of the

Saviour’s life was set, and the thirty pieces of silver were paid into

the hands of Judas! And then the traitor arose, and went from the

presence-chamber of Caiaphas, but faintness was within his dastard

heart, and the flush of shame upon his forehead, and with downcast eyes,

and hasty step he went, for in his hands he bore the proofs of his

condemning guilt and sordid meanness; knowing also that even the enemies

of Christ, gladly as they would receive Him into their power, had shrunk

from taking the prisoner from an apostle’s hands. But, the contract was

made, the wages of sin were in his hands; for Judas there was no going

back; onward—onward—onward he was impelled by the unchained fiend

within him, to work out his own eternal ruin.

He must know rest neither day nor night—constantly he must be on the

alert, that Jesus should not altogether escape him—and when the

favorable moment arrived, he was to deliver Him up to the rulers!

And with that price of the innocent blood in his hands he dared still to

labor and associate with the holy Apostles, dared to express submission

and reverence for the God who read his every inmost thought. It seems a

thing almost incredible—for the paltry sum of money he had dared

appoint himself the judge to deliver the prisoner into the executioner’s

hands! Already he had been guilty of taking money from the common purse

of the disciples, which was entrusted to him, in order that he might

gratify his selfish desires—and this guilt was known to Jesus, but the

compassionate Saviour had refrained from making it known; it would have

brought down dishonor on the holy cause which Judas at the best served

so unfaithfully, and would have heaped on the sinful man’s own head

shame and condemnation, had the transaction been made known

publicly—thus he was still suffered to retain his post of trust and

honor.

Were we not daily beholding crimes, only less heinous than those of

Judas, it would be difficult indeed for us to conceive his guilt! We

could not believe it possibly within the range of human capability to

sin, that he would sacrifice even his God for money! The Saviour’s

blood—it was indeed a high price to pay for thirty pieces of silver!

But, though his crime was such as has placed the name of Judas the very

first on the long, long list of human guilt—though, from the very

nature, and necessity of things, there never can be another soul stained

with sin so deep and dreadful, though now, when as a completed whole we

survey our blessed Saviour’s life on earth, we stand aghast as we think

on his betrayer, yet, my reader, who among us shall dare to say that had

we lived in those days we surely would have been guiltless of the blood

of that just man? There is nothing easier than to accuse our “first

parents,” Adam and Eve, of an unaccountable transgression—it is very

easy to _say_ that nothing could ever have tempted _us_ to the

commission of a crime so great—I would assuredly be the last to _dare_

uphold Judas in his deadly sin, or to endeavor to cleanse from his name

the terrible blackness of the crime attached to it—it was monstrous

guilt of which he through all the ages has stood convicted, but I

repeat, by no means was it unaccountable!

Think of our world, and of human nature as it is now, after so many

centuries have passed, and the light of knowledge has spread far and

wide. Consider what the covetousness, the folly, the ambition of the

heart work among us now; behold even at this hour, what multitudes are

there among us who are scoffers, and deniers, and mockers of the Lord

who bought them! Ah, were it a veritable truth which the Jews believe

and assert, that the Messiah has not yet come, even now would not be

found wanting the vengeful unbelievers, the betrayer, the judge, the

proud religion, the cross, and the thorny crown, and earth and heaven

would be rent again with that cry which a false-hearted people wrung

from Him who died upon the cross!

The feast of the Passover was at hand, and the little band of apostles

which had been widely dispersed, fulfilling every where they went their

onerous duties, met together once more to celebrate the feast.

And at eventide the holy men assembled in the “upper room” of a house to

which Jesus had directed them, wherein they had made ready for the

ceremonial celebration. But it was a new feast, to partake of which the

Saviour had called them together. The forms of the ancient days were

being fast set aside; there was no more need that the lamb should be

slain in commemoration of the mercy of God in a time when his people

were in most dire necessity—soon was a Lamb to be sacrificed whose

efficacious blood was to save, and cleanse from sin all who would have

faith in God and his crucified Son. And it was meet that _that_ night,

when the feast of the Passover was wont to be celebrated, should be

chosen for the superseding of a dead form by a more living faith. The

consecrated bread and wine, the emblems of His sacred body and blood,

these were the symbols to be used—there was not any longer need for the

shedding of the blood of beasts.

The twelve were all together. They had come rejoicing that they might

meet again with their Master in safety and peace, that they might once

more listen to His words and counsel whom they loved so well. In their

short time of separation they had met all of them with wonderful

success, and the scornful, harsh rebukes they had oftentimes been forced

to listen to, they had patiently, ay, gladly endured, for it was all for

Him, and they could not but rejoice that they were counted worthy to

suffer shame for His name. But reproach, and contumely, and condemnation

of the world, was not all that they had met; they had looked on eyes

their words had caused to brighten with joy—they had heard voices, sad

and desponding, raised in hymns of thanksgiving and rejoicing—they had

seen many hopeful manifestations of repentance, had pointed out to many

the straight path and the narrow way leading to eternal life. Well might

they come as faithful stewards with gladness and haste at the call of

their Lord!

Did I say _all_ came with rejoicing to look upon their Master’s face

again? nay, verily, _not all_!

One in their midst whose words had flown far over the land, who had

besought sinners most effectually to repent, who had given to many a

most blessed hope, came among them to partake of the feast of the

Passover, to offer to his brethren the hand of fellowship, wherein he

had so recently clapped with greedy joy the infamous price of the

Redeemer’s blood!

_He_ came with a troubled mind, feeling that he had no right to commune

with the more faithful eleven, and dreading to meet the glance of the

Searcher of Hearts. He knew full well, that though his brethren and

fellow-laborers beheld his successful preaching with gladness, that they

could see no further—they could do no more than judge him by his

outward acts, which had, as far as their knowledge went, been always

blameless—but he also knew that He who had bidden them to the supper

gazed with more than human power of vision into his evil heart, that He

saw and beheld the vile thing which he had done; full well the fearful

sinner knew that the flimsy veil he had been able to fling over his

guilt, was far from being efficient to screen him from the scrutinizing

gaze of his Lord.

Oh, how like the knell of condemnation must those mournful words have

fallen on the ear of Judas:

“Verily I say unto you that one of _you_ shall betray me!”

It was the sudden death of every hope of concealment.

Fear and wonder filled the minds of the faithful eleven. One of _them_

betray their beloved Master? It was a thought inconceivable to them.

With astonished looks they turned from one to another, and with full

confidence in the integrity of their hearts they asked, “Lord, is it I?”

Solemnly upon the stillness broke that answer.

“He that dippeth his hand into the dish with me, the same shall betray

me, and wo unto that man by whom the Son of Man is betrayed, it had been

good for that man had he never been born.”

When these fearful words of warning were pronounced, and every voice was

hushed, and every heart was awe-struck, again was heard the trembling

voice of Judas the guilty, echoing faintly, and as though irresistibly

_compelled_ to utter the words, “Master, is it _I_?”

The sad eyes of the eleven were fixed upon their brother and their Lord,

and oh what a thrill of horror must have run through every heart as the

answer “_Thou hast said_,” was whispered in a tone of sorrowful reproach

by the Saviour, who knew that he was already betrayed!

When Judas saw the reproachful expression that every face wore, and was

thus assured that his treachery was known, he felt his place was no

longer amid the faithful followers and servants of Jesus—he knew well

enough the just horror with which the holy men surrounding him would

look upon his ingratitude and soul-destroying guilt. He had still sense

enough left to feel that he should no longer remain among those who had

such cause to deeply deplore the desecration he had done the service of

Christ; and, too, his inclination for, and pleasure in that service, and

his desire to remain in that holy company was gone. He had chosen

another master, even the Evil One—he must fight under another banner,

even that of the Blackness of Darkness!

Publicly he had parted with his heavenly portion for a mere handful of

silver, and now what part or lot had he in the work, to do which a clean

heart and a right spirit were so pre-eminently required?

Self-forgetfulness, constancy, devotion, truth, he lacked all these! how

then could _he_ further the cause of the Redeemer? Judas must have gone

from that chamber of mournful feasting feeling himself to be a doomed

man, bearing upon himself the full weight of the heavy curse of God!

An impassable barrier, an unfathomable gulf lay now between him and the

works of holiness—a separating wall built even by his own willing hands

up to the portal of heaven, shut him forever from the hope of mercy or

the possibility of repentance!

* * * * *

It is night. Over the Garden of Gethsemane is spread the shadow of a

dark cloud. The moon’s light is obscured; or, where at intervals it

appears between the broken clouds, its dim rays render the sadness and

silence of the place only more mournful still. To the quietness and

retirement of that garden, One has come whose soul is filled with sorrow

even unto death! He has spoken kindly words of love to his disciples, he

has bidden them tarry in the garden to watch with Him; but though Jesus

would fain have them nigh, his agony and suffering were too great for

any but the Father to witness, therefore he went apart from them, and

falling on his face, in the depth of anguish he prayed, “Oh! my Father,

if it be possible, let this cup pass from me—nevertheless not as I

will, but as Thou wilt!”

Bending submissively to the will of that Father in all things, he could

drink even the bitterness of that cup wherein was garnered a whole

world’s sin. Three times was the agonized prayer repeated, and still the

aid from heaven was not sent, nor the bitter cup removed! Oh, reader, by

that night of unexampled agony, by the blood-drops which burst from

_our_ Saviour in the extremity of His anguish, bedewing the ground of

Gethsemane—by the remembrance of the cross-planted Calvary—by the

bitterness of that draught the dregs of which were not spared, how are

we taught, and warned, and implored to consider well the value of that

sacrifice which He has made _for us_! Can’st thou think on that night of

unexampled agony and longer refrain from flinging thyself wholly, with

no reserve, at the foot of the blood-stained cross? Oh never suffer the

remembrance of that night of passion to fade from thy mind or from thy

heart—let it cling to thee continually, inciting to patience, and

courage, and faith, till thou hast learned by them to enter the path

from which His death has taken the sorrow, to which His agony has lent

the glory! Thus shall the cross-crowned Calvary prove to thee a sure

reliable ray that shall guide thee to heaven; thus shall the blood-dew

shed in Gethsemane, spread a reviving freshness over the dying tree of

Faith, which perchance is drooping even at this moment in thy heart!

The Saviour’s last prayer is breathed forth when the sound as of a

multitude breaks on his ear—full well He knoweth who it is that is now

hastening on and entering the Garden sanctified by His presence to take

Him captive. Foremost among the ruthless intruders comes one whose

treacherously smiling face tells of guilt, and ill-concealed shame, and

remorse. He treads through the else silent garden, where the night

blooming flowers are just opening, shedding their rich perfumes abroad;

but Judas heeds not the beauty and tranquillity of that

place—carelessly his feet trample upon the fair blossoms unfolding,

which though crushed still rise again as the weight is removed, and

their perfumes ascend to heaven on the evening air, a living witness

against him.

The multitude come armed as if to the fray—swords and staves are in

their hands, curses and execrations escape their lips, and thoughts of

fiery vengeance and hatred fill their minds. He whom they seek stands

awaiting them. He makes no effort to escape, though had He willed it,

His Father had instantly sent legions of angels to deliver him. No—his

hour was come! the hour for which He left the brightness of the heavenly

kingdom—the hour for which he had put on mortality had arrived—he

would not delay it.

The torches which the arch-traitor and his companions bore fell on the

little group of men they sought—the defiant Apostles, and the calm and

unmoved son of Mary. The multitude faltered in their purpose as they

looked upon these men—the bold, brave-hearted Peter, the loving John,

the humble, faithful, affectionate James, and the man Christ Jesus whom

they came to make captive. Sorrow, such as never beamed from the eyes of

a mortal being, and the consciousness of a power that was able to

scatter at once, as chaff, those who had come out to make Him captive,

spoke from His countenance distinctly and audibly to their sin-hardened

minds.

But Judas—Judas hesitated not. When he saw the Man he was to betray

standing before him, making no effort to escape, he dropped the torch

which had lighted him on his awful mission, and flinging his arms around

the Divinity, _he kissed Him_! and as he embraced with the lips the God

he had offered to betray, Judas cried aloud in a tone of affectionate

and joyful recognition, “Master! Master!”

Aside from the horrible, daring guilt of Judas, there is something

humiliating and revolting in the thought of the traitor’s assuming

friendliness, and love even, as the guise under which to make successful

his nefarious scheme. A kiss, the most fond, familiar greeting; by that

Christ was made known to those who came to take Him by violence, as

though He were a thief, or a common offender, or breaker of the laws of

the land!

Of the remainder of that night the Scriptures tell us naught of the

betrayer. We do not hear of his appearing before Caiaphas as a witness

against his Lord—all his part in that most awful transaction seems to

have been fulfilled—the accusation and condemnation were for others to

make. It is no pleasant task to picture to the fancy the manner in which

the remaining hours of Judas’ life must have passed. The torturing of

conscience—the deadly fear—the sting and constant consciousness of

guilt which _must_ have tormented him, is what the mind shrinks from

contemplating, but to which it returns, as if of necessity, again and

again.

The deed was accomplished, there remained nothing further for him to do,

and so he went out from the sacred garden by himself, that he might be

alone, and count over in security and feast his eyes on the fruits of

his guilt. Ah, that shining treasure! those thirty pieces of silver! At

the moment when for the first time a full conviction of the iniquity of

his deed swept over his thought, and could be kept back no longer by his

will, then it was, if ever, that he _needed_ to strengthen his covetous

heart; and how better could he accomplish that than by keeping in

constant sight the much loved riches he had gained?

But while he counted over the glittering heap, how very strange! he did

not rejoice in it as he had thought to! Possession had robbed

anticipation of all allurements and pleasure, and while alone, watched

only by the eye of his God he counted over the riches, constantly

haunted him those words Jesus spoke on the night of the feast of the

Passover, “it were better for that man had he never been born!” Judas

already was accursed—already was given over to the power of the

tormentors; already his terrified mind was conjuring up the death and

sufferings of the Saviour he had betrayed, and that coveted, cherished

silver was as a stone hanging about his neck, dragging him down, down to

the depths of the sea of perdition!

When the first rays of daylight streamed over Jerusalem, might have been

seen, I fancy, the form of Judas Iscariot wandering through the city,

seeking to escape from his condemning thoughts; oh, the accusations, so

fraught with everlasting wo, his heart must have whispered to him, when

the sunlight fell upon him and the fresh breeze of morning fanned his

brow!

Before the palace where the judges still slept, the wretched man paced

to and fro, bearing with him the thrice accursed silver which burned his

bosom—burned his soul. As yet there were few signs of life in the

silent streets. Only the humblest laborers had come forth to begin with

the earliest light their day of toil. Judas gazed on them as they went

calmly and cheerfully about their accustomed tasks, oh, how wistfully!

Could _he_ only once more know that lightness of heart which innocence

alone confers! Could _he_ but look on the glad light of the sun, and see

there no accusing form which now incessantly uprose before his

imagination! Could he but listen to the voice of Nature, without feeling

that for him she sung only a far-resounding chorus of condemnation!

Could he only go forth to his peaceful labor, and forget that fearful

looking for of judgment which now alone awaited him!

As by degrees the streets filled with men, and women, and little

children, how suspiciously and consciously his eyes glanced at all who

passed by him, the greetings of the companions of former days were

unreturned, or misunderstood, for Judas wondered how that _any_ should

speak to _him_! And when the Pharisee went by, folding his robes closely

about him, lest they might come in contact with the garments of the poor

publican, when with a supercilious look which said so plainly, “Stand

back, for I am holier than thou!” he felt the justice of the unspoken

rebuke though it did come from sinful humanity. And when troops of gay

and innocent children passed on, their voices of mirth and gladness

filling the air which was ere long to echo with the dying Saviour’s cry

and the mocking shouts of unbelieving Jews, he crept more closely to the

wall, fearing lest his sin penetrated garments might by a touch convey

contamination!

At last the palace-gates were opened, and breathlessly Judas rushed

within, and entered unbidden, unannounced and alone the presence chamber

of Caiaphas, where he had stood so recently to bargain for the blood of

Jesus Christ!

Already the chief priest, and the scribes and rulers had gathered

together to confer respecting the fate of their prisoner. How astonished

must they have looked upon the haggard, guilt-stricken man who came so

suddenly before them! No wonder if they started in fear as they saw the

despairing look of his blood-shot eyes, for the glare of a maniac was in

them. With outspread hands he held the dear-bought money toward them,

while the wailing of a spirit doomed forever to despair broke forth in

the words, “I have sinned! I have betrayed the innocent blood!”

In fearful mockery and derision came back the answer, “_What is that to

us! See thou to that!_”

Vainly did he look for sympathy there! Hardened, selfish, sinful, they

could not even feel for him who had been all too late aroused by the

tortures of remorse to a sense of his most awful guilt. It was a vain

thing to appeal to them to receive again the silver and let the precious

prisoner go free!

Oh, what marvel that the wretched man should have shrunk from an

existence which he was well assured would never be blessed by one hour

free from the maddening tortures of his conscience? What wonder that he

hastened from the presence of the fiendish Caiaphas to die before the

sentence of condemnation had been passed on the Master whom his

treachery had given to the cross? What wonder, reader, that the wretched

man perished by his own hands? and can the wildest hoper believe that

his was not an eternal death?

* * * * *

THE BRIDE OF BROEK-IN-WATERLAND.

A DUTCH ROMANCE.

BY CHARLES P. SHIRAS.

One night, when skies were bright and calm,

I left my home in Amsterdam;

I cast my schuyt from moorings loose

And steered across to Wilhelm Sluis:

Upon the North Canal I sailed;

The wind was fair and never failed.

Quoth I: “My prow shall kiss no sand

Till I reach Broek-in-Waterland.”

Before an hour I saw the town,

And soon the tapering mast was down;

But ere I left my graceful schuyt

I heard the music of a flute;

And songs of love and shouts of joy

Upon the wind came floating by.

Quoth I: “They seem a happy band

That dwell in Broek-in-Waterland.”

I walked upon a winding street

That seemed too clean for mortal feet,

Ere long a stranger met my gaze—

What joy!—one loved in boyish days!

Quoth he: “We revel here to-night,

That all may share in my delight,

For soon I’ll claim the fairest hand

In happy Broek-in-Waterland.”

As thus he spoke, we walked along,

And soon were mingled in the throng;

He vowed, in all a lover’s pride,

That I should see his chosen bride,

And soon he cried: “Behold her now,

Yon maiden of the peerless brow.

The richest, claims the fairest hand

In happy Broek-in-Waterland!”

I looked, and swift as lightning dart

A hopeless anguish seized my heart!

It once had been my lot to save

A maiden from the Zuyder’s wave;

I bore her to her friends on shore,

And never thought to see her more;

Nor did I, till I saw her stand

Betrothed in Broek-in-Waterland!

But why such grief? for what to me

This maiden saved from Zuyder Zee?

She knew me not before that day,

Scarce saw me ere I turned away.

I heard her voice, I saw her face,

Yet asked nor name nor dwelling place.

Then why this grief to see her stand

Betrothed in Broek-in-Waterland?

Love’s deeds are wild—his power divine!

The maiden’s eye had glanced to mine!

I heard her speak of thanks to me,

My heart was moved and yet was free;

But parting told, and told too late,

That love had mingled with my fate;

And now another claimed her hand

And heart, in Broek-in-Waterland!

Grown sick at heart, I turned to go,

Lest men might see and mock my wo;

But one cried out: “Oh stir not forth,

A storm has risen in the north!”

I looked, the sky, of late so blue,

Was hung in clouds of darkest hue;

An ocean-storm had reached our strand,

And burst on Broek-in-Waterland!

I turned, and heard the maidens shout:

“What reck we for the storm without,

For joy is mistress here within—

Again! again! the dance begin!”

The waltzers float around the floor—

But stay! what means that dreadful roar,

Those shouts of grief or stern command,

In peaceful Broek-in-Waterland?

Alas! the troth too soon was known,

The northern dykes were overthrown;

And far and wide the vengeful waves

Their victims swept to markless graves!

How changed this scene of wild delight!

Some shrieking fled, some swooned in fright;

The bravest hearts were now unmanned

In hapless Broek-in-Waterland!

The bride, who had betrayed no joy,

Yet seemed in truth more sad than coy,

Looked quickly round, with dauntless brow,

And cried: “Come death or freedom now!”

Strange words were these! but marked by none,

For even the lover now had flown,

And I, alone, for her had planned

Escape from Broek-in-Waterland.

Thus far, it seemed she knew me not;

I turned to draw her from the spot;

But long before I reached her side,

She saw—she knew me! and she cried:

“The guardian of my life restored!

My own, though seeming lost! adored!

With thee I dare all storms withstand,

Come! fly from Broek-in-Waterland!”

Around my neck her arms were prest,

She laid her cheek upon my breast,

Then, yielding, swooned, as if no harm

Could pass the shelter of my arm!

An age of thought swept through my brain,

And joy that rose to fearful pain:

“All mad!” I shrieked, “some demon’s wand

Is held o’er Broek-in-Waterland!”

’Twas but a moment! then I knew

A chance with every moment flew;

For as I bear her through the street

The waves come dashing round my feet.

My schuyt floats on the deepening tide;

By struggling long I reach her side.

With oar and sail at my command,

We’re saved from Broek-in-Waterland!

An hour has past—in Wester Dock

The maid recovers from the shock;

But, danger past, deep blushes rise,

Hot tears of shame start from her eyes;

She feels that fear hath made her bold,

That all her secret love is told

For one who, calmly, saw her stand

Betrothed in Broek-in-Waterland!

But love hath power, and bears the will

To clear all doubts with matchless skill!

Before the weeping maid I kneel,

My own long cherished love reveal;

Believing all, she checks her sighs,

And, smiling, gently lifts her eyes,

To tell me why I saw her stand

Betrothed in Broek-in-Waterland.

“With strangers I have dwelt,” she said,

“For I’m a lonely orphan maid.

They loved me not, and would have sold

My hand to one who offered gold.

I scorned him, for I knew his soul

Was lost to virtue’s safe control.

He was a stranger—born in Gand—

No son of Broek-in-Waterland!”

“Yet hold! he was my friend,” said I;

“I loved him well in days gone by.”

She answered: “But your friend in youth,

In manhood left the paths of truth.

For wealth, how steeped his soul in sin!

How basely sought my hand to win!

And vainly hoped to see me stand

His bride in Broek-in-Waterland!”

“Why _vainly_ hoped?” I quickly cried.

“I scorned their power,” the maid replied—

“I loved”—she paused—I knew the rest,

And clasped her closely to my breast.

I felt that she was truly mine,

By honor’s law, by law divine,

That none with shame our flight could brand,

From hapless Broek-in-Waterland.

We never thought of storm or calm,

But held our course to Rotterdam.

The gale had fallen to a breeze,

And sails were spread to greet the seas.

We bade our native land adieu,

And o’er the waste of waters flew;

And soon we touched a foreign strand

Far, far from Broek-in-Waterland!

And there, in lawful marriage rite,

We claimed the triumph of our flight;

But many a year had passed before

We touched again our native shore.

No traces of the storm were seen,

The meadows waved in brightest green!

We wept with joy once more to stand

In happy Broek-in-Waterland!

* * * * *

MINNIE CLIFTON.

A HEART-HISTORY.

BY EMMA C. EMBURY.

“I wish that those whose vocation it is to tell stories would

deal less in the details of human events, and give us a glimpse,

sometimes, of the hidden springs which move the human machine,

and influence its volition.”

In these stirring times of revolution and anarchy, of experiment and

discovery, of mighty changes and astounding vicissitudes, it would seem

as if a story so simple and uneventful as that I am about to relate,

ought to be prefaced by an apology for its very simplicity. But let the

world wag as it may there will ever be a few dwellers by the woodland

brook, a few sojourners at the cottage door, a few wayfarers along the

by-paths and green lanes of quiet life who will like to listen to the

“still small voice,” that counts the throbbings of a single human heart

amid all this sounding tramp of nations. The tale of wild adventure and

startling incident charms us by its very wildness and improbability—the

story of life’s many-colored changes draws us from our own commonplace

cares—the glowing record of passionate love comes to us like a

realization of our own early ideal, and for all these narratives there

are many readers. But who will ponder over the quiet domestic details of

a life which wasted slowly away, unmarked even by the ordinary events

which checker woman’s tranquil existence, and colored with so sober a

gray that even the rose-tint of love’s romance scarce brightened its

dull hue? Who will read such a record save those whose own life presents

to their remembrance the same sober volume of tear-blurred pages? Earth

holds too many such, but the world knows not of them. Life has been to

them a monotonous round of anxiety and care—a November day of clouds

unbroken by a single sunbeam, and thus youth passes away, and hope dies

out, and in time they forget their own identity, living on to old age

with their souls dead within them and their hearts dry as dust. “The

heart may break yet brokenly live on,” but even this is happiness

compared to the slow, _chronic_ heart-withering, which in its dull but

certain progress, leaves no remembrance of any healthier or more vivid

existence in the past.

The father of Minnie Clifton was one of those gifted and graceful (too

often also GRACELESS) persons on whom society generally bestows the

mysteriously comprehensive epithet of “_fascinating_.” He was

exceedingly handsome, possessed many of those superficial

accomplishments which the indiscriminating and good-natured world

regards as the blossomings of genius, and was master of the most perfect

tact in the display of his various gifts. It is in no wise extraordinary

therefore that the elegant Charles Clifton should have been one of the

most consummate “_lady-killers_” of his time, and that the innumerable

hearts he was said to have broken, or at least cracked, during his

fashionable career should have won for him, among graver people, the

despicable title of a “_male flirt_.” At the age of forty-five, when his

credit with his tailor was utterly exhausted, and when his too faithful

mirror convinced him that—

“Years may fly with the _wings_ of the _hawk_; but, alas!

They are marked by the _feet_ of the _crow_,”

he condescended to bestow himself upon a young and pretty heiress, who

eloped with him from boarding-school. Fortunately for him, his wife

proved to be one of those tender, devoted, womanly creatures, who never

call in the aid of the head to destroy the illusions of the heart. Her

love for her husband long outlived the qualities, real or imaginary,

which had first called it into being, and in the dull selfish egotist of

the fireside she could still see the brilliant and attractive man of

fashion who had won her gratitude by deigning to accept her fortune and

affection. When a woman is won unsought, in other words, when she loves

_first_, she is always doubly enslaved by her affections, and this was

decidedly the case with Mrs. Clifton. She fancied she could never do

enough for her selfish husband, and he soon showed himself the despot

when he found himself possessed of a slave. As he grew older he became a

martyr to gout, and in the slovenly, plethoric, testy-looking, elderly

man, who swore at his pale wife fifty times a day, and kept his only

child in bodily fear by his fierce threats—none of his former friends

would have recognized the “_model man of fashion_.”

In the atmosphere of such a home, Minnie imbibed her first ideas of

womanly duties and womanly rewards. She idolized her gentle mother, and

that mother’s idea of home duties and virtues was condensed into one

single article of faith—perfect submission to the will of a husband and

father. Mrs. Clifton’s mind was too feeble, her experience too limited,

and her affection to her husband too extravagant to allow her to

entertain the slightest doubt of his wisdom or his virtue. She honestly

believed woman to be the inferior creation, and her ideal of a wife was

the patient Grizzel of the old Fabliaux—a creature whose will, whose

wishes, whose very sense of duty was to be placed at a husband’s mercy.

That men might be found whose noble, generous, self-forgetting affection

would place woman like a queen upon the throne of their hearts, asking

nothing in return but the enlightened and true devotion of a loving

nature, was an idea that never had been presented to her imagination.

She fancied that hers was but a common lot, and therefore she early

trained Minnie to the servitude which she supposed would accomplish her

destiny.

Minnie inherited none of the rare beauty which had been her father’s

greatest charm. She had the soft dove-like eyes, the pale clear

complexion, and the peculiar delicacy, almost fragility of frame which

she derived from her mother. These personal traits, combined with her

timid, gentle manner, her perfect good temper, and quiet undemonstrative

tenderness of nature, made her seem merely one of those commonplace

children whom old ladies are apt to praise as good quiet little girls.

Yet Minnie had a fund of practical good sense, together with a certain

playfulness of fancy, and a quick perception of the beautiful as well as

the good in life, which if properly trained and cultivated might have

made her a very superior woman. But in her early home patience, good

temper, and industry were the only qualities called into exercise, and

neither her father nor her mother knew or cared for any thing beyond the

useful attributes in her character. As she emerged from infancy, she

gradually became the little domestic drudge, for the rapid waste of her

mother’s fortune soon reduced them to the narrowest mode of life, and

when her father came home from the club, where he could still keep up

appearances, to the small, ill-furnished house where his extravagance

had imprisoned his wife, it was Minnie who waited on his caprices and

ran at his call like a servant. As he became diseased and still more

reduced, matters grew worse, and poor Minnie’s home became the scene of

discord and discomfort, as well as the abode of positive want. Mr.

Clifton grew into a sick savage, Mrs. Clifton sunk into querulous

discontent, and Minnie was little more than the recipient of the

ill-humor of both.

Yet Minnie loved her parents dearly, and not a murmur ever escaped her

lips, however unreasonable might be the demands upon her childish

patience or her limited time. But she was destined to a heavier thraldom

than that which nature had imposed. One of those local epidemics which

sometimes devastate a neighborhood broke out near them, and both her

parents fell victims to it while she lay in a state between life and

death. When she recovered her consciousness she learned that her father

and mother had been buried a week before, and she was now a poor

friendless orphan. The tidings, uncautiously communicated, caused a

relapse which brought her a second time to the brink of the grave. But

the principle of life is wonderfully strong in youth, and after many

weeks of suffering Minnie was restored to health. During her

convalescence she gradually learned all the circumstances of her

bereavement from a kind and careful nurse, in whose neat and pleasant

apartment she found herself domiciled.

“But how came I here?” asked the bewildered child, as she looked out

upon the green fields that surrounded her present abode.

“Let me answer you, my little cousin,” said a strange but pleasant

voice, as a tall young stripling entered the room.

The explanation was soon given. There was a certain Mrs. Woodley, the

maternal aunt of Mrs. Clifton, who, offended at her imprudent marriage,

had refused to hold any intercourse with her. This lady had a son

pursuing his studies in the metropolis, who had accidentally heard

Minnie’s story told by a benevolent physician. To Hubert Woodley such a

story would have been felt as a call upon his sympathies under any

circumstances, but when he found upon inquiry that the child was his own

blood relation, he acted promptly and decidedly. Minnie was removed to

healthy country lodgings, and when all danger was over he wrote to his

mother requesting her to give Minnie a home with her for the future. To

his doting parents Hubert’s will was law, and he was fully authorized to

bring his little cousin home as soon as her health would bear the

journey.

How many people there are in the world who perform all the duties of

life, and apparently enjoy a fair proportion of its pleasures, yet are

as utterly deficient in all that goes to constitute a warm, generous,

sympathizing heart, as if they had been mere animals! They are like

machines, moving with clock-like regularity in their own narrow circle,

doing exactly what their “hands find to do,” but never seeming to

suspect that the head might suggest, or the heart might impel to higher

duties or broader responsibilities. Such were the new friends who now

came forward to claim the friendless orphan.

Mr. and Mrs. Woodley were dull, plodding, commonplace people, who had

begun life in a very small way, and by close attention to the “day of

small things,” had grown moderately rich, exceedingly selfish, and

tolerably fat. Mr. Woodley had made his fortune by such minute

accumulations that he might perhaps be pardoned for literally believing

that

“Trifles make the sum of human things.”

And to those who hold the belief in “predestinate missions,” Mrs.

Woodley’s taste for watching over the trivialities of existence proved

that she was born “to look after candle-ends and cheese-parings.” As

soon as they had collected what they considered a competent fortune they

had retired to a country town, where the attractions of a new

brick-house, planted in the midst of a broad and treeless meadow, proved

irresistible to the utilitarian tastes of both, especially as it could

be purchased at a low price. In this new home the good couple had ample

opportunity to gratify their peculiar tastes. Mr. Woodley raised his own

vegetables, and occasionally was not above selling any surplus produce

of his land to a neighbor, while his wife succeeded in making her house

the very pattern of cold formal neatness, merely at the expense of

hospitality, good-humor, cheerfulness, and everything like rational or

intellectual occupation. She scrubbed, and scoured, and scolded, until

she drove her single servant to desperation, when a new one was found to

go through the same ordeal for awhile. She saw no company, because it

was expensive and troublesome—she went no where because she was too

busy at home—she enjoyed nothing, not even her own neatness, because

there was always some mote in the sunbeam, or some grain of dust in the

air which either had, or would, or might fall somewhere in the midst of

her cleanliness.

One only feeling seemed to have lived and thrived in the stiff hard soil

of these people’s hearts, and this was their love for their only son. It

is true it had required the death of eight other children to concentrate

and condense parental affection into any thing like a sentiment upon the

remaining one, but all there was of love in their natures was

unreservedly bestowed upon Hubert.

To such parents and in such a home Hubert might well seem like a human

sunbeam. He was one of those light-hearted, merry-tempered, affectionate

boys, who are always such loveable creatures in early youth, and whose

characters are in after life entirely formed by the mould and pressure

of circumstances. The only strong quality in his whole nature was

ambition, but this ambition was without fixed aim or purpose. To go

beyond his companions in whatever they chose to undertake was his usual

object, but he never struck out a path for himself. His earliest friends

had become students, and therefore Hubert was a student with them; his

versatility and quickness of mind enabling him to keep pace with

plodding industry, and sometimes even to emulate genius. He was tall,

well-made, and handsome, but a physiognomist might have detected

infirmity of purpose in his flexible, loosely-cut lips, and phrenology

would have turned in despair from a head which exhibited such a

deplorable want of balance. But at eighteen Hubert was handsome enough

to satisfy a mother’s pride, and warm-hearted enough to be agreeable to

every one.

Hubert’s kind feelings had been especially called forth by the desolate

child whom he had rescued from distress, perhaps from death. He looked

upon her as his especial charge, and the gratified self-love which is

apt to mingle with all our better feelings, made him cherish her with

unusual tenderness. But Minnie had been so unused to kindness that she

shrunk almost in dismay from her cousin’s boyish gayety and boisterous

attentions. Disappointed by her cold quiet manner and unconquerable

sadness, Hubert soon ceased all attempt to call her out from her shy

reserve, and as he soon returned to the city to resume his studies,

Minnie was left to learn the routine of daily duties by which she was

expected to repay her debt of gratitude to Mrs. Woodley.

Minnie was twelve years old when she entered the dull and quiet home in

which she was thereafter to dwell, apart from all companionship with

youth, and chained by the strong fetter of gratitude to the most

exacting of domestic despots. Timid, submissive in temper, and meek,

both from natural temperament and from early experience of suffering,

she was precisely the docile, uncomplaining, unresisting slave that

realized Mrs. Woodley’s ideal of a poor relation. Of course she was

thoroughly and severely drilled into an intimate knowledge of all the

important minor duties of life. Her early taste for books was diligently

repressed, her delicate perceptions of every thing good and beautiful

were sadly confounded by Mrs. Woodley’s practical views of life, and

from a child of great intellectual promise, she was gradually

transformed into a faithful, unwearied, and industrious upper servant,

in a household where eating and drinking and house-cleaning were such

important objects of existence, that the whole soul must be devoted to

them.

And thus passed on the sunny years of childhood and the beautiful days

of early girlhood, while not one ray of the sunshine, nor one gleam of

the beauty ever blessed the eyes and heart of poor Minnie. A dull calm

stole over all her faculties, and in time she might have become the mere

machine which her benefactress could best appreciate, had it not been

for the occasional visits which Hubert Woodley paid to his quiet home.

Hubert was one of those restless versatile beings who in early life

often exhibit something so resembling genius that they are allowed to

indulge a sort of dreamy indolence, which their friends mistake for the

waywardness of superior powers. He was something of an artist, a little

of a poet, an easy conversationist, and, as he had really studied much,

was certainly superior to most youths of his age. But whether he would

concentrate himself upon any one pursuit, or whether he would remain an

idle dreamer, or whether, as his father secretly hoped, he would finally

centre his ambition upon the rewards of wealth and become a man of

business, was yet doubtful. He deferred a decision as long as possible,

and it was rather to put off the necessity of choosing a course of life

than from any other motive, that he determined to make the tour of

Europe.

For more than four years Hubert wandered about the world with a vague

purpose and aimless projects, happy only in escaping from the dull

monotony of home, until a long-continued illness, contracted by

imprudent exposure in the Campagna de Roma, at length sent him to

England in the hope of benefiting by the skill of a celebrated physician

there. During his stay in that land of wealth and comfort, Hubert found

himself surrounded by new and powerful influences. He had learned that

he was not born to “build the lofty rhyme,” and as he walked through the

rich galleries of art in Italy, he had discovered that he was not a

painter. What then was his destiny? He still had his old restlessness of

ambition, and felt that he must be something in order to satisfy his own

cravings. As he stood on the quay at Liverpool, and looked abroad upon

the winged ships and crowded storehouses, the mystery of his being was

suddenly solved. Commerce was the most liberal of deities to her true

votaries, and riches would command rank and control talent. The same

sudden impulse which had formerly made him fancy he would be an artist,

now decided him to become a merchant and a man of fortune. He determined

to return to his native land and devote himself to business. His next

letter to his father made known his present views, and while his father

gladly made all necessary arrangements for his new pursuit, Hubert

hastened his preparations for revisiting his long deserted home.

It is an old proverb that “opportunity makes thieves,” and I once heard

an old maid say that “opportunity makes wives;” one thing is most

certain—that _propinquity often makes lovers_. When Hubert returned he

found Minnie wonderfully developed in her personal appearance. She was

now nineteen, with a graceful figure, a face combining delicacy of

feature with great sweetness of expression, and manners of the most

winning softness. Yet she was not one calculated to excite admiration,

still less was she a person to be fallen in love with suddenly, but

there never was a creature so eminently fitted to glide quietly into

one’s heart of hearts as gentle Minnie Clifton. Hubert had seen much of

women while abroad, but a creature so like “the angel of one’s home,”

had never before crossed his path. Had he met her in society she would

have been like a lovely picture placed in a wrong light, but in the

narrow circle of home every trait in her exquisitely feminine character

was unconsciously displayed to the best advantage.

Mrs. Woodley, like all selfishly affectionate mothers, had long dreaded

the time when her influence over Hubert would be superseded by that of a

wife. Unwilling to have him leave her for another home, she was quite as

unwilling to resign her authority, and sink into merely the dowager

dignity of “old Mrs. Woodley,” yet her good sense told that she could

scarcely hope to retain the sceptre of power for many years longer.

Nothing could have happened so effectually to disappoint her fears and

brighten her hopes, as this dawning affection of Hubert for his “little

cousin,” as he still called her. With a daughter-in-law so thoroughly

trained to submission, so docile, so perfectly good-tempered, so exactly

moulded after Mrs. Woodley’s own model, she could have nothing to fear

either for herself or for Hubert. As for Mr. Woodley he had become

really attached to the quiet girl who aired his shirts, mended his

stockings, brought him his slippers, and always made his second cup of

tea quite as good as the first. He wanted Hubert to marry and settle

down to business, but he hated change of all sorts, and if Minnie became

Hubert’s wife the whole affair could be settled without either expense

or trouble; therefore, after talking the matter over with his good lady,

it was decided that nothing could have turned out better for all

parties.

Minnie was the only one who was ignorant of these new plans and

projects. From the time when Hubert had entered her sick-room, and

uttered his kindly greeting at the moment when she felt herself the most

desolate of human beings, she had regarded him as something more than

mere mortal. But when he returned from Europe, so much improved in

person, so polished by society, and with a mind enlarged by travel, she

looked upon him almost with awe as well as admiration. Unaccustomed as

she was to kindness or appreciation, it is not strange that she should

have been entirely unaware of Hubert’s growing attachment to her. She

felt that the atmosphere of her home had become a more congenial

one—she was conscious that every thing had grown brighter even to her

sad and serious eyes, since he had taken up his abode among them, but

she did not dream of the individual influences which were about to waken

her to a new perception of life and its enjoyments.

But the chief defect in Hubert’s early character was indecision. He

loved his cousin Minnie, but, somehow or other, he hated to put it out

of his power to change if he pleased. He wanted to be unshackled by any

bond except his own inclinations, and feeling very sure that no rivals

could ever interfere with his plans, he made no open avowal of his love

for the present. He devoted himself to business with an ardor that

showed he had at last found his true bent, and that money was actually

the true aim of his ambition. He lived a lonely retired sort of life,

being only one of the “singles” in a large private boarding-house, and

as he never gave suppers, or went to parties, not even the servants were

interested in him. Once a month the stage set him down within a quarter

of a mile of his father’s door, and then he found himself in the

enjoyment of all the attentions that could be lavished upon him for the

few days of his stay. To say that he beguiled the time during his visits

by making love to his cousin, would be hardly fair, but he certainly

said and did things which a woman of the world, without any great

stretch of vanity might have understood as love-making.

Thus passed on month after month, and Minnie was unconsciously drinking

deep from that fountain of freshness which had so lately sprung up in

her lonely path, while Hubert lived in the full enjoyment of all that

sweet unconsciousness, which lent such a charm to her manners, such new

loveliness to her gentle face. It was not until more than two years had

passed that, in an unguarded moment, he was led into such a warm

expression of his feelings as to require some decided explanation. He

then spoke out plainly and manfully, avowed his love and asked Minnie to

become his wife. Terrified at the excess of her own emotions, shocked at

her own apparent ingratitude toward her benefactors in being thus made

happy by what she could not hope they would approve, Minnie could only

weep. But when Hubert assured her that his parents would willingly

receive her as a daughter, she gave her whole soul up to the enjoyment

of such unlooked for bliss. Yet, even in that moment of full

unrestrained affection, why did Hubert counsel silence for the present,

and secrecy until he should fix the moment for frank disclosure?

Convinced that matters were going on as they wished, the old people

asked no questions. Perhaps Mrs. Woodley was not sorry to defer the

period which would elevate Minnie from the humble position of a poor

relation into the condition of an equal, so Hubert was allowed to manage

matters in his own way, and a stranger would have seen nothing in the

manner of the quiet family which portended any change among them. Indeed

to no one but Minnie herself had this new state of affairs made any

difference. To her, the sad and lonely and unloved orphan, the

consciousness of being at last beloved for her own sake, lent a charm to

every thing in life. But her heart had been too early crushed to regain

the elasticity and buoyancy which ought to have belonged to her youth.

She was happy, deeply, entirely happy, but no one could have suspected

the fervid thankfulness of her prayerful happiness, beneath the quiet

demeanor which had now become so habitual to her. It was when alone, in

the solitude of her own chamber, that she gave way to the emotions which

almost overpowered her. It was on her knees that she poured out the

fullness of her joy to Heaven—it was only for the eye of her Heavenly

Father to see the swelling surges of that sea of happy emotion, which

she was too timid, too self-distrustful to exhibit to her lover.

Perhaps there are no people so completely enslaved by habit as those who

are only moved by impulse. Persons who have fixed principles of action

govern their lives by those principles, and habits are only the

secondary forms which those motives assume. But when a man is thoroughly

impulsive, and only to be stirred through some strong emotion, a large

part of his life must be controlled through the unconscious agency of

circumstance and habit, unless, indeed, he should be one of those human

volcanoes, occasionally to be met with, who are never in repose except

the moment after an explosion. Hubert Woodley was a perfect

exemplification of the apparently anomalous fact that a man may have

noble and generous impulses yet be involved in a net-work of selfish

habits. The selfishness which he had inherited from both parents was

overlaid by so much that seemed good and beautiful in his nature, that

its existence was utterly unsuspected by every one, and certainly

unknown to himself. Yet it was this very quality which had made him

ambitious at first of the renown of the scholar, and afterward of the

fame of the painter, and now actuated him to seek after great wealth.

Self was the soil in which every thing grew, even the herbs of grace,

which embellished and concealed the base source from whence they sprung.

Hubert loved Minnie as well as he could love any one beside himself, but

he knew nothing of that affection which makes self a forgotten idea, and

concentrates the whole being upon another. His love had been a fancy

growing out of the novelty of finding so sweet a flower in such an

ungenial spot. Then the desire of approbation, which had always been a

latent propensity with him, stimulated him to make love to her. The

vague stirrings of passion, the necessity of some habitual stimulus to

make home endurable, and the cravings of an unoccupied heart made up the

rest of those mixed motives which led him first to stir the quiet depths

of Minnie’s half-frozen soul. He enjoyed the excitement of her feelings,

just as one might enjoy their first glass of champagne. His brain was

not in the least bewildered, but the effervescence gave him a new and

pleasurable sensation. He liked to hear the hurrying of her quiet

footsteps as she came forward to meet him at the door; he loved to see

the flitting blush come over her pale face when he took her hand in his;

and it was with a sort of epicurean pleasure he felt the trembling of

her shrinking frame as with an excess of maiden reserve she would glide

from his encircling arm in some moment of endearment.

But never once did Hubert reflect on the rights which all these things

were gradually giving her over him. Never did he consider that those

quiet depths of affection which but for him would have been sealed

forever, were now destined to become a fountain of sweetness, or a pool

of bitter waters, according as he directed their flow.

Months had now become years, and yet the relations between the cousins

remained unchanged. Living amid all the gentle ministry of affection,

Hubert scarcely felt the want of any thing beyond what he had already

won. Minnie was tender, gentle and affectionate, ever meeting him with a

smile of welcome, ever studying all his humors, never thwarting his

moods, never exacting any return except such as his own whim might

dictate; content if he was cold and absorbed, grateful and happy if he

was affectionate in his manner; and Hubert certainly enjoyed some of the

pleasantest privileges of married life, without any of its attendant

evils, and therefore he was content to go on year after year, heaping up

money, of which he had become exceedingly careful, and growing richer

every day, while his marriage seemed just as much hidden in the mists of

the distant future as it had been years before.

But changes will occur in human life, not withstanding all our efforts

to prevent them. The Woodleys had a sort of morbid dread of a wedding,

but they did not seem to remember that there might be such a thing as a

funeral to alter the aspect of affairs, until one fine morning, just as

Mrs. Woodley had succeeded in turning the whole house out of the

windows, preparatory to what she called her “spring cleaning,” she was

struck with apoplexy, and died in a few hours. The shock was a terrible

one to the family, and in addition to the grief of such a loss, the

fearful quiet of the house, now that the voice of the restless mistress

was silenced forever, pressed with overpowering weight upon the spirits

of the survivors. But there was little of the sentiment of affection to

embalm the memory of the dead. Mrs. Woodley was buried, and under the

direction of Minnie the house cleaning was completed, after which

matters seemed to resume their old course. Mr. Woodley said something to

Hubert about “settling himself,” and giving the house a mistress, now

that his poor mother was gone. But Hubert looked down at his deep

mourning dress, and seemed shocked at his father’s irreverent haste in

suggesting such ideas, at such a moment. So nothing more was said on the

subject.

In the meantime, what thought, and what felt, and what said Minnie? She

_said_ nothing—she _thought_ she was most unreasonable and ungrateful

not to be perfectly contented—she _felt_ as if the best years of her

life were gliding away, and bearing with them the youth, and freshness

and cheerfulness which were her chief claims upon Hubert’s affection.

Ten years had passed away since the quiet, half-acknowledged engagement

which bound the cousins to each other, and opened for Minnie a vista of

happiness which seemed ever receding as life advanced. Ten years had

passed and Minnie was certainly changed. The unsatisfied yearnings of

affection, the wearing anxiety of hope deferred, the dull stagnation of

a life whose destiny seemed decided, yet never fulfilled, all aided the

work of time, and the thin, pale, careful-looking woman of

nine-and-twenty was only the shadow of the quiet, gentle, graceful

creature of nineteen. Busied in accumulating wealth, Hubert had scarcely

noticed these gradual changes, but when the shock of his mother’s death

awakened his faculties, and startled up his home feelings, _then_ he

beheld Minnie’s faded face in the mirror of his own altered heart. At

thirty-four he was as handsome as ever, notwithstanding the lines of

care which Mammon had stamped on his brow. He was rich, too—rich even

beyond his hopes; he felt full of the energy of animal life, for his

health was perfect, and he began to fancy that he had made a mistake in

confining himself to so monotonous a kind of existence. There was an

uncomfortable routing of conscience whenever he caught himself thinking

of Minnie’s faded looks, so, with his usual palliating policy, he

resolved to settle up his business, spend a winter in Washington, and

marry Minnie the following spring.

His business was soon arranged, he retained a special partnership in the

lucrative concern, leaving all responsibility in the hands of trusty

persons, and, without informing Minnie of his _final_ intentions, set

off on his winter’s pleasuring. It was just as well that he was silent

on the subject, for it would only have increased the turpitude of his

conduct. His good looks, pleasant manners, and great wealth, made him a

favorite in that emporium of speculation. His vanity, which had been

kept so long in abeyance by his love of money, was called forth by the

flatteries and attentions of society. He was surrounded by beautiful and

gifted women; he lived in a constant whirl of excitement, and the

remembrance of his home, haunted by the sad-eyed spectre of the woman he

had once loved, became utterly disgusting to him.

The end of all this may easily be guessed. One night Hubert sat until

dawn, pondering over a letter which he wanted to write, which he felt he

must write, yet which he knew not how to shape into words without

branding himself as a villain. At last the letter was written and

dispatched; he had not quite satisfied himself, but it read thus:

“I write to you, my dear cousin, because I want you to inform my father

of an event which may not be altogether pleasing to him, but which you

can soften away so as to quiet any irritation he may feel. You perhaps

know, Minnie, that he has always wished _you_ to become my wife, indeed

I partly made him a promise to that effect, ages ago, at the time when

you and I had some boy-and-girl love-passages—do you remember them, my

little cousin? or have you forgotten our moonlight rambles, and all our

juvenile love-making when I first returned from Europe. It seems to me

like a far-off dream, and yet it was only ten or twelve years ago.

Well—I was a romantic boy then, and you as romantic a little girl—my

father always liked you, and fearing I might be led into bondage by some

strange Delilah, he wanted to make a match between us. My mother, poor

soul, liked your housewifery, and so she joined in the plot. Had we been

married _then_, Minnie, we might have been a quiet, comfortable couple,

treading in the footsteps of my honored parents; I, daily growing pursy

and plethoric, you a matron, in all the dignity of lace-caps, growing

more learned every year in the management of children and the making up

of baby-linen. When I look back at the past, Minnie, I can almost find

it in my heart to wish it had been so. But perhaps it is best as it is.

If under the excitement of my boyish passion I ever said any thing to

you, Minnie, which could involve any bond between us, I pray you to

forgive me, and to attribute it entirely to my ignorance of my own

nature. We have lived on terms of the closest intimacy ever since I

found you, a little sick and suffering child, without a friend or

protector in the wide world. It has been a bond closer than that of

brother and sister, because it had much of the peculiar piquancy which

belongs only to that sweetest of all relationships, which early entitled

me to call you my little cousin. But I am dallying with old

recollections, when I should be telling you of coming events. I am going

to be married, Minnie; you will wonder when I tell you that my bride has

not yet counted her eighteenth summer. She is the prettiest little fairy

in the world, and as artless as a child, indeed she has not been _out_

in society, so I have plucked the flower with the morning dew yet fresh

upon it. My father will object to her youth, and will conjure up the

image of my mother, armed with her bunch of keys, the insignia of her

old-fashioned housekeeping. But you must make my peace with him, Minnie.

My intention at present is to take furnished lodgings in New York, where

I can be near my business, which I mean to resume as soon as this affair

is settled. You will of course remain with my father and watch over his

declining years, unless you should marry, when I shall take care that a

suitable provision be made for you. And now, my dear cousin, having

wearied you, doubtless, as well as myself, with this long epistle, I bid

you adieu; trusting that my father may not be inexorable under your kind

ministry, I shall wait with some impatience for your reply.”

Such was the heartless, yet craftily worded letter which was put into

Minnie’s hands, as she sat watching beside the sick-bed of poor Mr.

Woodley, who had been stricken with paralysis, and now lay between life

and death. It would require a colder heart and more graphic pen than

mine to describe her feelings. Fortunately for her Mr. Woodley was

utterly insensible, and there was no one to witness her emotion. When

the doctor came to visit the patient at evening, he looked amazed at the

change which he saw, not in the sick man, but in the gentle nurse.

“You are ill, Miss Clifton, suffer me to send a nurse for Mr. Woodley,

and let me persuade you to go to bed.”

“If I am not better tomorrow, doctor, I will accept your kind offer, but

I would rather watch him to-night!”

The next morning the good doctor found Minnie looking as pallid as a

corpse, though she had now obtained more control over her nerves. She

refused to give up her charge, but she requested the doctor to write to

Mr. Hubert Woodley and inform him of the event which had befallen his

father. In the course of the following day came a Washington paper. With

trembling hands Minnie unfolded it and looked at the list of marriages.

She had conjectured truly; Hubert had been married the day after he

wrote the letter which had crushed that gentle and loving heart.

The doctor’s letter did not reach Hubert until his return from his

bridal tour. Leaving his wife among her relatives to lament over the

interruption which this untoward event would necessarily make in her

wedding festivities, he hastened to his father’s bedside. But Mr.

Woodley had lost the use of every faculty. He did not know his son—he

could not lift his hand to welcome him—all that remained to him of life

was the merest animal existence; he could take food and sleep, but all

hope of restoration to reason and the use of his limbs was out of the

question.

“He may linger thus for years,” said the doctor, in reply to Hubert’s

questioning.

Hubert could ill bear to see his father’s distorted visage, but it was

worse, far worse, for him to look upon the ghastly pallor which had

settled on the face of Minnie. She scarcely raised her eyes to his face,

and the hand she extended toward his proffered grasp was cold and

nerveless. He could not stand it. In three days he was again in

Washington, and as his father was so accommodating as to live on, the

round of projected gayeties was not interrupted. Hubert daily received

tidings from the doctor respecting his father, until it was decided that

death was yet far distant, and this living death might be dragged out

through many months, when all present anxiety ceased.

His first care was to secure a provision for Minnie, hoping in this way

to relieve his conscience of the terrible load which weighed upon it.

The house where she had so long resided with his parents was secured to

her for life, together with a small annuity, to commence at his father’s

death, _on condition that she remained with his father during the

remainder of his existence_. It was a cruel precaution, for Minnie would

never have dreamed of deserting her benefactor. To look upon the

ghastliness of death for the rest of her life—to humor the caprices and

minister to the diseased appetite of a gibbering and restless corpse

(for such seemed the stricken man) was the fulfillment of her destiny.

For five years Minnie lived on in this dreary and solitary manner, the

helpless invalid and a single servant forming the whole household. But

it mattered little to her now. A dull torpor had gradually crept over

her feelings. She was like an automaton, moved by some other mechanism

than that of her own volition. Long ere Mr. Woodley dropped into the

grave, she had grown gray, and wrinkled, and bent, like one in extreme

old age. At length the end came. The last spark of life went out, and

Mr. Woodley was consigned to darkness and the worm. Again Hubert came to

look upon the wreck he had made. She made a feeble attempt to tell him

her future plans. She wished to enter a recently established charity for

“poor gentlewomen,” but the pride of the man of wealth revolted at such

a scheme. He refused to permit her to depend on any other than himself

for a support, and Minnie felt that the time was past when she could

have earned her own maintenance. The last remnant of her womanly pride

was crushed by the strong hand of him who had ruled her whole life with

a rod of iron. She lived a dependent on the bounty of Hubert Woodley,

dwelling in the house where he had wooed her in her days of girlish

loveliness, and fed by the dole with which he had silenced his remorse,

until she had counted her half century of sorrow; then, weary and worn

out in mind and body, she sunk into the grave, with none to mourn over

her, none to treasure any memorial of her existence. Hubert, of course,

took possession of her few effects. He found among her papers a lock of

sunny brown hair, which he well remembered to have given her, and the

cruel letter which had announced his marriage. There were no

love-gifts—he had been too cautious to commit himself by such trifles.

As he sat alone in that dreary old parlor, with its sombre paper, its

dark carpet, its high-backed perpendicular chairs, and that dreadfully

monotonous clock ticking as loudly as if it would fain awaken the

conscience of the solitary occupant of that melancholy apartment, he

felt a superstitious awe steal over him which he could not overcome. He

threw the letter and the lock of hair into the smouldering embers of the

wood fire upon the hearth, and as the flame leaped up to consume those

remnants of the past, the drooping figure of Minnie Clifton stood

between him and the sudden blaze. A wild cry broke from his lips, he

started from his seat, and at that moment a servant unclosed the door.

To the day of his death Hubert Woodley believed that by the mysterious

agency of fire, burning as it did into the very soul of that mystery

which involved the happiness of a human being, he had called up the

spectre of the wronged and joyless object of his early love—the victim

of his selfishness—whose whole life had been like a dull and dreary

dream.

* * * * *

SONG.

BY THOMAS FITZGERALD, EDITOR CITY ITEM.

Ah! do not speak so coldly,

Cold words my heart will chill;

If I have loved too boldly,

Oh, let me worship still.

The pure heart loves forever,

To its own likeness true,

And though fate bids us sever,

I’ll love, I’ll love but you!

The heart will throb in sorrow

If from its idol torn,

Nor elsewhere joy will borrow

If love’s return be scorn.

Then do not speak so coldly,

Cold words my heart will chill;

E’en if I’ve loved too boldly,

Oh, let me worship still.

* * * * *

IBAD’S VISION.

BY RICHARD PENN SMITH.

Ibad the Dervise, instead of feeling proud in the right of the Source of

All Good, shrunk from his sight as if unworthy of the hand that had

fashioned him. He did not worship as the birds and children worship,

with songs and joy, but he built himself a cell, and there, in solitude,

worshiped his God, amidst groans and torture screaming—“Yahu, ya allah!

I am not a Naeshbendee, and live not among sinful men.” The birds and

the children in their simplicity thank the Prophet, and even while dying

sing their gratitude. Ibad worshiped in suffering, believing that

temporal torment, self-inflicted, would be acceptable in the sight of

him who gave all to render man happy. The children and the birds

understand God’s dispensations better than did Ibad the dervise.

Ibad slept and had a vision. He beheld a broad and extended path over a

verdant meadow, where balmy breezes sported in the sunbeams. A stalwort

figure suddenly appeared, with head erect, front of pride, and with eyes

that quailed not while staring at the eye of day. Onward he strode, and

seemed to spurn even the path he trod, and as he gazed at the sun, his

shadow that dogged his heels was tenfold his colossal stature; yet the

shadow was willing to follow, without an attempt to lead the way. The

figure was Ambition; the shadow Dependence, hunting in his trail.

Onward they strode. The pathway was strewed with flowers and tempting

fruit, when suddenly a fascinating figure stept beside Ambition—it was

Friendship, and Friendship cast his shadow also—a shadow as substantial

as the substance.

The four marched proudly on, Ambition, Friendship and their shadows, and

as they traversed the level pathway they mutually laughed,

self-satisfied—Friendship smiled and simpered, while Ambition chuckled

in his sleeve.

A change came over Ibad’s vision. The sun was overshadowed, murky clouds

hung over their path, and Ambition entered a wilderness where no light

glimmered to guide him; he knew that Death had spread a snare before

every footstep; but he knew not where the pitfall had been spread.

Ambition, as he entered this dark passage, looked up to the heavens for

light, but the sun was sleeping; he turned to his gay companion

Friendship who had prattled over the flowery meadows in the sunshine,

but Friendship was not there; he looked behind him—all was darkness,

and even the sycophantic shadow that had crawled at his kibes had

deserted him. Ambition exclaimed in bitter irony—“Can I not, in the

dark day of my progress leave even a shadow behind me! Have both

Friendship and my shadow vanished together because a cloud is upon me!

Forward; emerge from the present gloom, and the sun will laugh in your

eye to-morrow, and then you will find Friendship with his cheerful face,

simpering beside you, and your shadow will assume ten fold its former

dimensions, will mimick more accurately every motion of your body, and

stick more closely to your heel while you walk in the sunshine.”

The morning sun arose, and as Ambition emerged from his dark and thorny

pathway, his road became light, broad and fragrant. The fresh breeze was

as wine to his wearied spirit, and he winked and smiled at the sun in

the pride of his manhood. Friendship came up smiling beside him, and as

they again walked together, their tall dark shadows followed closely

upon their heels, fantastically mimicking their motions, as if even

their shadows were endeavoring to deceive each other.

They now approached a precipice. Their path became narrow, and still

more narrow as they ascended, until finally Friendship jostled Ambition

in endeavoring to maintain his foothold, at the same time striving to

take the lead. Even their unsubstantial shadows jostled each other in

like manner. “The path hath become too narrow for us two,” cried

Ambition, as he coolly hurled Friendship headlong down the precipice,

without even casting a glance upon his destruction.

He was now alone, without even the shadow of Friendship to sustain him;

still onward he strode up the dizzy height, while his own shadow, at

every step, diminished in its immense proportions. At length his course

was intercepted by a perpendicular barrier, upon which there was no safe

foothold. He looked behind him and discovered that his shadow had

departed; he looked down upon his feet to ascertain upon what safe

pedestal he stood, and lo! there was nothing more substantial than the

heels of his shadow to sustain him; its gigantic outline had dwindled to

a pigmy. He raised his proud head and exclaimed exultingly—“but one

daring leap is required to surmount this obstruction, and then all will

be sunshine!” He made the leap; he touched the rocking pinnacle where

all his hopes were perched; his shadow, true to him in sunshine

followed, but he found no foothold there, for in an instant he

overtoppled and fell on the other side, and he and his shadow

disappeared forever.

“And is it so?” cried Ibad as he awoke. “Is the path of life too narrow

to admit of Friendship without being jostled, and too dangerous for

Ambition to tread in safety; and must that proud being disappear as a

meteor, without leaving behind even a shadow of his existence! Yahu, ya

allah! Praise to thee! I am no Naeshbendee, and live not among sinful

men!”

Ibad retired to his solitary cell, where he feared not the selfish

duplicity of Friendship, and as his sole ambition was to worship the

Prophet, he apprehended no barrier in his pathway; and though he might

disappear from the eye of man as a shadow, he felt that the shadow he

had cast in this world would be gathered up, and become substance in the

sight of God through eternity in the next.

* * * * *

A HARMLESS GLASS OF WINE.

BY KATE SUTHERLAND.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

“Rose, dear,” said Mrs. Carleton to her daughter, whom she met at the

door of the dining-room, with a decanter of wine and glasses on a

waiter, “who is in the parlor?”

“Mr. Newton,” replied the young girl.

“The young man from New York?”

“Yes.”

“You are going to take him wine?”

“Yes. It is only hospitable to offer him some refreshment.”

Mrs. Carleton stood with her eyes resting on the floor for some moments,

in a thoughtful attitude.

“I rather think, Rose,” said she, as she lifted her eyes to her

daughter’s face, “that it would be as well not to hand him wine.”

“Why, mother?” inquired Rose, looking curious.

“We know nothing of the young man’s previous life and habits.”

“Why do you say that, mother?” asked Rose, who did not comprehend the

meaning of what had been uttered.

“He may have been intemperate.”

“Mother! How can you imagine such a thing?”

“I know nothing of him whatever, my child,” replied Mrs. Carleton, “and

do not wish to wrong him by an unkind suspicion. My suggestion is

nothing more than the dictate of a humane prudence. I have recently had

my thoughts turned to the subject of intemperance, and, by many forcible

illustrations, have been led to see that the use of even wine,

unrestrictedly, is fraught with much danger. We never can know whose

perverted taste we may inflame, when we set even wine before guests of

whose history we know nothing. It is, therefore, wiser to refrain. But

you have left Mr. Newton alone, and must not linger here. Do not,

however, present him with wine. After he is gone we will talk on this

subject again; when I think you will be satisfied that my present advice

is good.”

Rose left the wine on the sideboard, and went back to the parlor,

wondering at what she had heard. After the young man had gone away, she

joined her mother, when the latter said—

“You seemed surprised at my remarks a little while ago; and I was,

perhaps, as much surprised when like suggestions were made to me. But

when, from indisputable evidence, we become aware that our actions may

wrong others, we are bound by every consideration to guard against such

injurious results. You know how painfully afflicted the family of Mr.

Delaney has been, in consequence of the intemperate habits of Morton?”

“Yes. Poor Flora! the last time I was with her, he passed us in the

street so much intoxicated that he almost staggered. Her heart was so

full that she could not speak, and when I left her, a little while

afterward, her eyes were ready to gush over with tears.”

“Unhappy young man! So young, and yet so abandoned.”

“Until I met him, as just said, I thought he had reformed his bad habit

of drinking,” said Rose.

“It was in order to refer to this fact that I mentioned his name just

now,” returned her mother. “He did attempt to do better, and for some

months kept fast hold of his good resolutions. But, in an evil hour, he

fell, and his temptress was a young girl of your own age, Rose. A few

weeks ago he went to New York on business. While there, he visited the

house of a relative, where wine was presented to him by a beautiful

cousin, and he had not the resolution to refuse the sparkling draught.

He tasted, and—you have seen the result.”

“Oh, mother!” exclaimed Rose, “I would not have that cousin’s feelings

for the world!”

“She acted as innocently as you would have done just now, my daughter.”

“Was she not aware of his weakness?”

“No. Nor had she ever been told that for one whose taste is vitiated, it

is dangerous, in the highest degree, to take even a glass of wine.”

“I am so glad that I did not offer wine to Mr. Newton!” said Rose,

drawing a long breath.

“Mr. Newton,” returned the mother, “may never have used intoxicating

drinks to excess. He may not be in danger from a glass of wine.”

“But I know nothing of his previous life.”

“And, therefore, it is wisest to take counsel of prudence. This is just

what I want you to see for yourself. To such an extent has intemperance

prevailed in this country, that the whole community, to a certain

extent, have perverted appetites, which are excited so inordinately by

any kind of stimulating drink as to destroy, in too many instances, all

self-control. Another case, even more painful to contemplate than that

of Morton Delaney, occurred in this city last week. I heard of it a day

or two since. A beautiful young girl was addressed by a gentleman who

had recently removed here from the South; and her friends seeing nothing

about him to warrant disapprobation, made no objection to his suit. An

engagement soon followed, and the wedding was celebrated a few days ago.

The father of the bride gave a brilliant entertainment to a large and

elegant company. The choicest wines were used more freely than water,

and the young husband drank with the rest. Alas! before the evening

closed he was so much intoxicated that he had to be separated from the

company; and, what is worse, he has not been sober for an hour since.”

“Oh, what a sad, sad thing!” exclaimed Rose.

“It is sad, sad indeed! What an awakening from a dream of exquisite

happiness was that of the beautiful bride! It now appears that the young

man had fallen into habits of dissipation, and afterward reformed. On

his wedding night he could not refuse a glass of wine. A single draught

sufficed to rekindle the old fire, that was smouldering, not

extinguished. He fell, and, so far, has not risen from his fall, and may

never rise.”

“You frighten me!” said Rose, while a shudder went through her frame. “I

never dreamed of such danger in a glass of wine. Pure wine I have always

looked upon as a good thing. I did not think that it would lead any one

into danger.”

[Illustration: W. P. Frith W. H. Egleton

ROSE CARLTON.

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine]

“Even the best of things, my child, may be turned to an evil purpose.

The heat and light of the sun is received by one plant and changed into

a poison, while another converts it into healthy and nourishing food.

Pure wine will not excite a healthy appetite, although it may madden one

that has become morbid through intemperance. Here is the distinction

that ought to be made.”

“Is it not dangerous, then, to serve wine in promiscuous companies?”

“Undoubtedly. I did not think so a little while ago, because the subject

was not presented to my mind in the light that it now is. To this custom

I can well believe that hundreds who had begun the work of restricting

their craving appetites owe their downfall. Where all are partaking, the

temptation to join in is almost irresistible; especially, as a refusal

might create a suspicion against the individual that he was afraid to

trust himself.”

“I will be very careful how I offer wine to any one again,” said Rose.

“I would not have the guilt of tempting a man to ruin upon my conscience

for all the world.”

“The more I ponder the subject,” remarked Mrs. Carleton, “the more

surprised am I at myself and others. I invite some friends to an

entertainment, or to spend a social evening, and I serve wine to my

guests. Among them is a man who has fallen into intemperate habits at

one time of life, and whose present sobriety is dependent upon his rigid

observance of the rule of total abstinence. He is, it may be, the

husband of my most cherished friend. I place wine before him with the

rest. He is tempted to break his rule, and falls. Ah, me! How many

hundreds of such cases occur in our large cities.”

Mrs. Carleton was a widow in easy circumstances, and moved in

fashionable society. She entertained a good deal of company, and did it

in the fashionable way. When gentlemen called at her house, wine was

invariably set before them; and when she gave parties, wine was always

served to her guests. But, suddenly startled into reflection, she saw

that the practice was a dangerous one, and determined to abandon it. On

this resolution she acted, much to the surprise of many of her

acquaintances. Some said she was “queer,”—others decided that it was a

foolish notion; while others pronounced her conduct positively absurd.

But she did not in the least swerve from her purpose. Wine was no more

placed before her guests.

The visits of Mr. Newton to Rose, which at first were only occasional,

became more and more frequent. A mutual attachment ensued, which ended

in marriage. No wine was provided at the wedding party—to many a

strange omission—and Rose observed that at the parties given them by

friends her husband invariably let the wine pass him untasted. Curious

to know the reason for such abstemiousness, she one day, some months

after marriage, said to him—

“Do you never drink wine?”

The question caused Newton to look serious; and he replied in a simple

monosyllable.

“Don’t you like it?” inquired Rose.

“Yes; too well perhaps.”

The way in which this was said half startled the young wife. Newton saw

the effect of his words, and forcing a smile said—

“When quite a young man, I was thrown much into gay company, and there

acquired a bad habit of using all kinds of intoxicating drinks with a

dangerous freedom. Before I was conscious of my error, I was verging on

rapidly to the point of losing all self-control. Startled at finding

myself in such a position, I made a resolution to abandon the use of

every thing but wine. This, however, did not reach the evil. The taste

of wine excited my appetite to such a degree that I invariably resorted

to brandy for its gratification. I then abandoned the use of wine, as

the only safe course for me, and, with occasional exceptions, have

strictly adhered to my resolution. In a few instances young ladies, at

whose houses I visited, have presented me with wine, and not wishing to

push back the proffered refreshment, I have tasted it. The consequence

was invariable. A burning desire for stronger stimulants was awakened,

that carried me away as by an irresistible power. You, Rose, never

tempted me in this way. Had you done so, we might not have been as happy

as we are to-day.”

A shudder passed through the frame of the young wife, as she remembered

the glass of wine she had been so near presenting to his lips. Never

afterward could she think of it without an inward tremor. And fears for

the future mingled with her thoughts of the past; but these have proved

groundless fears, for Mr. Newton has no temptation at home, and he has

resolution enough to refuse a glass of wine in any company, and on all

occasions. Herein lies his safety.

“What! refuse a harmless glass of wine?” will sometimes be said to him.

To this he has but one answer.

“Pure wine may be harmless in itself; so is light—yet light will

destroy an inflamed eye.”

* * * * *

NORTHAMPTON.

BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN.

Ere from thy calm seclusion parted,

O fairest village of the plain!

The thoughts that here to life have started

Draw me to Nature’s heart again.

The tasseled maize, full grain, or clover,

Far o’er the level meadow grows,

And through it, like a wayward rover,

The noble river gently flows.

Majestic elms, with trunks unshaken

By all the storms an age can bring,

Frail sprays whose rest the zephyrs waken,

Yet lithesome with the juice of spring.

By sportive airs the foliage lifted,

Each green leaf shows its white below,

As foam on emerald waves is drifted,

Their tints alternate come and go.

And then the skies! when vapors cluster

From zenith to horizon’s verge,

As wild gusts ominously bluster,

And in deep shade the landscape merge;—

Under the massive cloud’s low border,

Where hill-tops with the sky unite,

Like an old minster’s blazoned warder,

There scintillates an amber light.

Sometimes a humid fleece reposes

Midway upon the swelling ridge,

Like an aerial couch of roses,

Or Dairy’s amethystine bridge:

And pale green inlets lucid shimmer,

With huge cliffs jutting out beside,

Like those in mountain lakes that glimmer,

Tinged like the ocean’s crystal tide:

Or saffron-tinted islands planted

In firmaments of azure dye,

With pearly mounds that loom undaunted,

And float like icebergs of the sky.

Like autumn leaves that eddying falter,

Yet settle to their crimson rest,

As pilgrims round their burning altar,

They slowly gather in the west.

And when the distant mountain ranges

In moonlight or blue mist are clad,

Oft memory all the landscape changes,

And pensive thoughts are blent with glad.

For then, as in a dream Elysian,

Val d’Arno’s fair and loved domain

Seems to my rapt yet waking vision,

To yield familiar charms again.

Save that for dome and turret hoary,

Amid the central valley lies

A white church-spire unknown to story,

And smoke-wreaths from a cottage rise.

On Holyoke’s summit woods are frowning,

No line of cypresses we see,

Nor convent old with beauty crowning

The heights of sweet Fiésole.

Yet here may willing eyes discover

The art and life of every shore,

For Nature bids her patient lover

All true similitudes explore.

These firs, when cease their boughs to quiver,

Stand like pagodas brahmins seek,

Yon isle, that parts the winding river,

Seems modeled from a light caique.

And fanes that in these groves are hidden,

Are sculptured like a dainty frieze,

While choral music steals unbidden,

As undulates the forest breeze.

A gothic arch and springing column,

A floral-dyed, mosaic ground,

A twilight shade and vista solemn

In all these sylvan haunts are found.

And now this fragile garland weaving

While ebbs the musing tide away,

As one a sacred temple leaving,

Some tribute on its shrine would lay;

I bless the scenes whose tranquil beauty

Have cheered me like the sense of youth,

And freshened lonely tasks of duty,

The dream of love and zest of truth.

* * * * *

A THOUGHT.

BY ISAAC GRAY BLANCHARD.

The flower springs by the fountain-side,

And blooms its little day;

Speechless it lives the life it has,

And silent fades away.

O, I would not be like the flower,

To perish in the mould,

And leave no record of my heart,

No fond affection told.

Let beauty be to others given,

And beautiful array—

To those who, like the flower, are but

Ambitious to be gay;

I only ask the pen, the tongue,

That can the heart unfold,

That the deep beauty of the soul

Be not unsung, untold.

* * * * *

THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER.

BY C. M. FARMER.

Gentle reader! allow me to introduce to your consideration the

characters of Mr. Brigs, (_soi disant_ Allen Brigs, Esquire,) and his

distinguished lady Mrs. Polly Brigs. Imagine a stout built, corpulent

“five footer,” with a very big head, on which there never was hair

enough to make a decent pair of whiskers, and on which, consequently,

rode a red wig, curled as many different ways as the sunbeams point;

with the largest of all large noses, into which he incessantly—or at

least fifty times in each day—thrust the raw rappee with no small

degree of relish; little pop-eyes, just large enough to see every body

in church at one and the same time; a blue silk vest, striped cassimere

pantaloons, a leviathian shad-belly coat, and a milk-white cravat tied

in a double bow before, and surrounding a collar made _partly_ of very

coarse linen, and _mostly_ of very stiff starch, which came up on either

side to his ears, sustaining the equilibrium of his head. Of course, his

head could only move in two directions—backward and forward—without

manifest danger to the implements of hearing thereto attached, all set

off by a pair of cork-sole boots six and a quarter inches across the

instep when on, the toes of which looked right into the master’s face;

and here you have Allen Brigs—alias, Mr. A. Brigs, Esquire.

Mr. Brigs had undoubtedly seen the eclipses of a great many years.

According to his own averment, he had “waded through as many snows as

there were hairs on his wig;” and as he had repeated this averment so

many times, and nobody had ever evinced any inclination to contest the

point with him, he had persuaded himself that he was _ipso facto_, a

“very old man.” Be this as it may, Mr. Allen Brigs was not the man to be

eschewed for his aged stupidity. He was amusing and buoyant as a boy. He

never took the unnecessary trouble to correct himself for errors in

language, no matter how gross, but would leave that to be done by any

body who chose to “take it up.” If he was asked if it was Jonah who

swallowed the whale, he would reply in the affirmative, and when

corrected, would invariably answer—“Zooks! it’s all the same in

Dutch—just _vice versa_, as the lawyers say—that’s all!”

In short, Mr. Allen Brigs was a man not to be scared by any “livin’

warmint,” two-legged, or four-legged, male or female—a perfect man of

the world in business—“a real out and outer”—crushing all opposition

to his own schemes, and believing in his heart that every body was a

fool who did not coincide in all things with him, Mr. Allen Brigs.

Mrs. Brigs was some ten years the junior of her partner in life, and was

a lady in every sense of the word. It was evident that she had _once_

been beautiful, but that once had been past a long time; and now, where

then dangled the glossy curls, (not _false_ curls—girls never wore

false curls in those days,) she displayed two huge bows of yellow

ribbon. These were necessary ornaments, however, for they were

appendages to a very neat frilled cap. Mrs. Brigs had never been known

to wear a stay-body frock, or a bustle—indeed, such things were not

then in fashion—she never wore sleeves of the mutton-leg cut; nor were

they ever so tight as to render the arms useless members, but always

large enough and small enough to be comfortable. Mrs. Brigs never could

endure small shoes—consequently, she never was compelled to endure the

pains incident to corns. She was an inflexible knitter and darner, and

though Mr. Brigs never had but one pair of socks, they never had a hole

in them, because whenever the legs wore out she would leg them, and when

the feet wore out she would foot them. Mrs. Brigs was so good

herself—so artless and unsuspecting, that she thought every body else

was good, and artless, and unsuspecting too. Mrs. Brigs was literally

the very woman for Mr. Brigs, and that gentleman was the very man for

Mrs. Brigs. Hence, it can only be inferred that they lived happily

together—so happily, indeed, and contentedly, that they were known but

to be loved. A peaceful country village was their home. A ten acre farm

of fertile land, through which murmured a dear, bright stream

“That wound in many a flow’ry nook,”

was the _fee simple_ property of Allen Brigs. A pretty little

white-washed house, almost hidden by the clustering fruit-trees, was

their humble tenement. A handsome little garden, tastefully laid out,

occupied the space between the house and rivulet, and here Mrs. Brigs

sought recreation when burthened with the _ennui_ of knitting and

darning. A cow and calf—a sow and pig—a horse, and a yard full of

poultry of every species, composed the family stock. And with all these,

and nothing more, they were rich—rich in the honesty of their own

hearts which knew no covetousness—contentment was theirs, and that was

riches. They were surrounded by kind neighbors—some affluent, but not

aristocratic. An athletic son of sixteen, and a beautiful daughter of

twelve, were their only offspring. Solomon Brigs was his father’s sole

help, but they managed every thing to admiration. Nanny was a sweet

tempered child—affectionate and dutiful. Every body loved her, and she

loved every body. Notwithstanding she was a country girl, there was a

native, witching, fascinating grace in her every movement. She was so

active, and gay, and cheerful—so full of life and joy—and so mild and

modest! She had never known sickness: health flowed through every vein,

and glowed in her soft dark eyes and blooming cheeks—and her smiling

face was a sure index to her pure heart. Her finely shaped head, and

intelligent forehead, bore testimony to her keen susceptibilities.

Solomon was a smart boy—so said his knowing father; and though he had

made no higher attainments than reading, writing, and cyphering to the

single rule of three, he knew how to plough the corn, and hill the

potatoes, and weed his sister’s flower-beds. He could not solve a

problem in mathematics, but he could jump higher and hallo louder than

any boy in the village, large or small.

Nanny was a proficient in the art of housekeeping, but not in French,

painting, &c. &c. She, too, could read, write, and cypher, and Mr. Brigs

considered that enough book learning for _his_ children. It was all _he_

knew, and there was danger in too much. But we come now to give our

characters a more conspicuous place in the public mind.

It was one cold morning in December, when the snow was thick on the

ground, and a luxuriant fire was blazing on every hearth in the village,

and when nobody living would have thought of visiting, except Miss

Lachevers, the housekeeper of John Doe, next door neighbor to the

Brigses, No. 10 Lachevers’ lane. As I said, it was cold—extremely cold;

but Miss Lachevers, No. 10 Lachevers’ lane, did not regard cold weather.

Now, whether a _young_ lady, living to the age of forty odd, becomes

invulnerable to the piercing air of a December morning, or whether the

young lady in question was differently constituted from other people, I

shall not attempt to decide—probably the latter. Nevertheless, on this

same morning, almost as soon as the sun showed his face, Miss Lachevers

peeped in at the door of Allen Brigs. Mr. Brigs was drying the morning’s

paper by the fire, while Mrs. Brigs busied herself “clearing away” the

breakfast table. Solomon and Nanny were both reading from the same book,

the story of “Aladdin’s Lamp.”

“Good mornin’ to you,” said Miss Lachevers, introducing her body as well

as her head—“cool mornin’ this.”

“Rather,” replied Mr. Brigs senior, laying down the paper and rubbing

the palms of his hands hard enough together to erase the skin. “Come to

the fire, Betty—be seated—have off your bonnet.”

The finishing clause of this address proceeded from the voluble tongue

of Mrs. Brigs; and Nanny arose from her seat to hand Miss Lachevers a

chair.

“Don’t trouble yourself, child—I never have time to sit. I must go back

in one second. It’s trot, trot, from mornin’ till night, with me. I just

stepped in,” she continued, turning her eyes on Mrs. Brigs, “to ask you

all if you’ve hearn the news?”

“What news?” inquired Mr. Brigs senior, glancing first at the paper on

the chair and then at the early visiter—“any body dead or dying—or any

steamship busted—or any thing of that species?”

“Oh, no!” said Miss Lachevers, “nothin’ of that are character. But

somethin’ more important and _novel_ than either.”

All eyes were now turned toward the significant countenance of Miss

Betty Lachevers, who still remained standing. Mr. Brigs senior, not

exactly understanding the application of the word “novel” to the sudden

intelligence of any thing new—having never heard it applied to any

thing but a book—requested Miss Lachevers to explain herself. Mrs.

Brigs insisted that Betty should take a chair and tell all about it; and

Solomon and Nanny continued their reading, as if nothing _novel_ was

going on.

“Why, raly,” said Miss Lachevers, drawing a seat, and depositing her

person thereon, “I haint hardly got time to tell you. But it’s wonderful

to think of. The fact is, a young schoolmaster arrived in town last

night, and I hear it’s his intention to set up a school here for the

eddication of youth; and the worst of all is, nobody knows who he is, or

where he come from. His name I heered, but I almost forgot it—it’s

Dubbs—or Grubbs—or Dobbs—or somethin’ like that. They say he’s a

wonderful genus, smart as can be, and full of larning. He stopped at old

Jenkins’s, cross the way—whether he means to board there _I_ can’t

say—but there he is. I s’pose we’ll get a peep at him to-day. For my

part, I should like to know why he put up at old Jenkins’s.”

“A schoolmaster!” repeated Mr. Brigs, the elder, with emphatic surprise.

“Yes—a reg’lar built, yankee schoolmaster,” replied Miss Betty.

“Come to teach the children how that the earth revolves round the sun,

instead of the sun revolving round the earth, and things of that

extravagant natur’, I s’pose?”

“To be sure he will,” said the young lady, “and he’ll be after coaxin’

your children into his notions—see if he don’t.”

“Not he!” consequentially returned the old man—“Sol has too much sense

for any Yankee that ever lived yet; and I guess Nanny will have enough

to do to larn of her mother. Not he!” and Mr. Brigs inflicted two slaps

on the left side pocket of his blue vest.

Mrs. Brigs sighed, and Miss Lachevers coughed—whether for want of

something to say, or to render what she had said complete, it matters

not—but she coughed, and bidding a hasty adieu, left the room.

Mr. Brigs settled himself down to read the paper, and his lady settled

herself down to her favorite exercise—knitting; while Solomon and Nanny

repeated to each other surmises as to the probable appearance of the new

comer—his age—dress, &c.

The day passed away, and night came on. Tea was over, and this happy

little family had gathered around the cheerful fire. A gentle tap was

heard at the door, and a voice pronouncing the simple

word—“housekeepers.”

“Come in,” responded Mrs. Brigs, and in came Mr. Jenkins, followed by a

young man apparently about twenty-two, with black hair and eyes,

straight, tall, and erect, handsome, and of a genteel and prepossessing

appearance, who was introduced by his conductor as Mr. Timothy Dobbs.

“My friend,” said Mr. Jenkins, after being seated, and taking an

accurate survey of the premises, “has come among us for the purpose, he

says, of opening a school. He is an orphan, of very superior

endowments—brings with him ample credentials of his capacity, and

expects to find patronage for his support from the inhabitants of our

village.”

Mr. Dobbs bowed a concurrence in the remarks of Mr. Jenkins, and hoped

that Mr. Brigs could furnish him with board and a convenient room in his

house.

“Ah, that’s it!” said Mr. Jenkins, recollecting the object of his

visit—“that’s what we’re a coming to. This gentleman, Mr. Brigs, wishes

to reside in your family, and to eat at your table, sir. I hope—I

s’pose you can accommodate him, Mr. Brigs?”

Mr. Brigs said that he could, and that he should be happy to serve him,

Mr. Dobbs, in any other manner possible. Matters being thus considered,

and terms agreed on, Mr Jenkins arose to depart; having first satisfied

Mr. Dobbs that he, Dobbs, would be sure to sleep soundly that night, and

assured him of the total absence of all danger from external assaults

under the roof of so great and good a man as his friend and neighbor

Allen Brigs.

Before retiring to rest, Mr. Dobbs acquainted himself with the

characters before him, by conversing with them, and each of them, on

various topics; and found to his satisfaction that they were kind and

noble-hearted people. The characteristic traits of Mr. Brigs were rough

and unique, yet there was a generous frankness about him—such a flow of

spirits and good humor—that he considered him a pleasant man. Nor was

Mrs. Brigs unlike her husband in these particulars. To tell the truth,

Mr. Dobbs was pleased. More than once did he get a full view of the

sweet face of Nanny; and more than once did Nanny blush to catch his

eye. Timothy admired her modest looks, and fancied that he _might_ one

day love her. He wondered how old she was, and blest his luck that he

had fallen into that particular family, where such a beautiful face as

hers might shed its sunny smiles about him—perhaps to cheer many of his

tedious moments. He fancied she _must_ be young, yet she seemed already

expanding into womanhood. Such perfect symmetry of form, and grace of

carriage, he had never seen in a country girl: and then the rich

intelligence that beamed through her soft dark eyes, convinced him that

she was born to follow some more noble pursuit than housewifery.

The hour grew late, and Timothy bade good-night, and crept softly to his

room, where fatigue soon lulled him to sleep. But he dreamed! Yes, he

dreamed of one sweet angelic being, whom he had only seen once—only

once—and that sweet being was Nanny!

“Zooks!” said Mr. Brigs, after Timothy had left the parlor—“but he

seems to be a clever youth. Nanny, what do you think of him—eh?”

“I don’t know, father,” replied Nanny—“but—I think—he’s quite

handsome.”

“Handsome! Yes, and I reckon he considered Miss Nanny Brigs a leetle

specimen of the handsomest girl he ever saw. I saw him a squintin’ on

that side of the house.”

“Oh, father!” cried Nanny, faintly blushing. “I’m sure he _looked_ at us

all—he looked at Solomon, too.”