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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/4619-h.zip b/4619-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..bfb249a --- /dev/null +++ b/4619-h.zip diff --git a/4619-h/4619-h.htm b/4619-h/4619-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..da798d7 --- /dev/null +++ b/4619-h/4619-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11587 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<HTML> +<HEAD> + +<META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> + +<TITLE> +The Project Gutenberg E-text of Words of Cheer for the Tempted, the Toiling, +and the Sorrowing, by T. S. Arthur +</TITLE> + +<STYLE TYPE="text/css"> +BODY { color: Black; + background: White; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +P {text-indent: 4% } + +P.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +P.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: small } + +P.letter {text-indent: 0%; + font-size: small ; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.footnote {font-size: small ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.transnote {font-size: small ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.intro {font-size: medium ; + text-indent: -5% ; + margin-left: 5% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +</STYLE> + +</HEAD> + +<BODY> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Words of Cheer for the Tempted, the +Toiling, and the Sorrowing, by T. S. Arthur + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Words of Cheer for the Tempted, the Toiling, and the Sorrowing + +Author: T. S. Arthur + +Posting Date: August 30, 2009 [EBook #4619] +Release Date: November, 2003 +First Posted: February 20, 2002 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WORDS OF CHEER *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +WORDS OF CHEER FOR The Tempted, <BR> +the Toiling, and the Sorrowing. +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +EDITED BY T. S. ARTHUR. +</H3> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +PHILADELPHIA +<BR><BR> +1856. +</H4> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +PREFACE. +</H3> + +<P> +AS we pass on our way through the world, we find our paths now +smooth and flowery, and now rugged and difficult to travel. The sky, +bathed in golden sunshine to-day, is black with storms to-morrow! +This is the history of every one. And it is also the life-experience +of all, that when the way is rough and the sky dark, the poor heart +sinks and trembles, and the eye of faith cannot see the bright sun +smiling in the heavens beyond the veil of clouds. But, for all this +fear and doubt, the rugged path winds steadily upwards, and the +broad sky is glittering in light. +</P> + +<P> +Let the toiling, the tempted, and the sorrowing ever keep this in +mind. Let them have faith in Him who feedeth the young lions, and +clothes the fields with verdure—who bindeth up the broken heart, +and giveth joy to the mourners. There are Words of Cheer in the air! +Listen! and their melody will bring peace to the spirit, and their +truths strength to the heart. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CONTENTS. +</H2> + +<H4> + <A HREF="#mary">AUNT MARY</A><BR> + <A HREF="#dead">THE DEAD</A><BR> + <A HREF="#suffer">DO YOU SUFFER MORE THAN YOUR NEIGHBOUR?</A><BR> + <A HREF="#led">WE ARE LED BY A WAY THAT WE KNOW NOT</A><BR> + <A HREF="#ivy">THE IVY IN THE DUNGEON</A><BR> + <A HREF="#garden">THE GARDEN OF EDEN</A><BR> + <A HREF="#flower">HAVE A FLOWER IN YOUR ROOM</A><BR> + <A HREF="#wealth">WEALTH</A><BR> + <A HREF="#happy">HOW TO BE HAPPY</A><BR> + <A HREF="#rebecca">REBECCA</A><BR> + <A HREF="#life">LIFE A TREADMILL</A><BR> + <A HREF="#arthur">ARTHUR LELAND</A><BR> + <A HREF="#poppy">THE SCARLET POPPY</A><BR> + <A HREF="#twelve">NUMBER TWELVE</A><BR> + <A HREF="#absentee">TO AN ABSENTEE</A><BR> + <A HREF="#dove">THE WHITE DOVE</A><BR> + <A HREF="#hester">HESTER</A><BR> + <A HREF="#thistle">THISTLE-DOWN</A><BR> + <A HREF="#children">THE LITTLE CHILDREN</A><BR> + <A HREF="#noble">WHAT IS NOBLE?</A><BR> + <A HREF="#anemone">THE ANEMONE HEPATICA</A><BR> + <A HREF="#family">THE FAMILY OF MICHAEL AROUT</A><BR> + <A HREF="#baby">BABY IS DEAD</A><BR> + <A HREF="#ringlet">THE TREASURED RINGLET</A><BR> + <A HREF="#human">HUMAN LONGINGS FOR PEACE AND REST</A><BR> + <A HREF="#strong">"BE STRONG"</A><BR> + <A HREF="#neglected">THE NEGLECTED ONE</A><BR> + <A HREF="#hours">THE HOURS OF LIFE</A><BR> + <A HREF="#angels">MINISTERING ANGELS</A><BR> + <A HREF="#loved">OURS, LOVED, AND "GONE BEFORE"</A><BR> + <A HREF="#outward">OUTWARD MINISTERINGS</A><BR> + <A HREF="#bodily">BODILY DEFORMITY, SPIRITUAL BEAUTY</A><BR> + <A HREF="#child">THE DEAD CHILD</A><BR> + <A HREF="#water">WATER</A><BR> + <A HREF="#beautiful">BEAUTIFUL, HAPPY, AND BELOVED</A><BR> + <A HREF="#cloud">"EVERY CLOUD HAS A SILVER LINING"</A><BR> + <A HREF="#patience">AN ANGEL OF PATIENCE</A><BR> + <A HREF="#advice">THE GRANDFATHER'S ADVICE</A><BR> + <A HREF="#hymn">A HYMN OF PRAISE</A><BR> + <A HREF="#house">AN ANGEL IN EVERY HOUSE</A><BR> + <A HREF="#annie">ANNIE</A><BR> + <A HREF="#mother">MOTHER</A><BR> + <A HREF="#duties">GREAT PRINCIPLES AND SMALL DUTIES</A><BR> + <A HREF="#heaven">"OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN"</A><BR> + <A HREF="#church">THE OLD VILLAGE CHURCH</A><BR> + <A HREF="#word">"THE WORD IS NIGH THEE"</A><BR> + <A HREF="#rachel">AUNT RACHEL</A><BR> + <A HREF="#blessing">COMETH A BLESSING DOWN</A><BR> + <A HREF="#pathway">THE DARKENED PATHWAY</A><BR> + <A HREF="#picture">LOOK ON THIS PICTURE</A><BR> + <A HREF="#kindness">THE POWER OF KINDNESS</A><BR> + <A HREF="#kindly">SPEAK KINDLY</A><BR> + <A HREF="#have">HAVE PATIENCE</A><BR> + <A HREF="#miss">DO THEY MISS ME?</A><BR> +</H4> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="mary"></A> +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +WORDS OF CHEER. +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +AUNT MARY. +</H3> + +<P> +A LADY sat alone in her own apartment one clear evening, when the +silver stars were out, and the moon shone pure as the spirit of +peace upon the rebellious earth. How lovely was every outward thing! +How beautiful is God's creation! The window curtains were drawn +close, and the only light in the cheerful room, was given by a +night-lamp that was burning on the mantel-piece. The occupant, who +perhaps had numbered about thirty-five years, was sitting by a small +table in the centre of the room, her head leaning upon one slender +hand; the other lay upon the open page of a book in which she had +endeavoured to interest herself. But the effort had been vain; other +and stronger feelings had overpowered her; there was an expression +of suffering upon the gentle face, over which the tears rained +heavily. For a brief moment she raised her soft blue eyes upward +with an appealing look, then sunk her head upon the table before +her, murmuring, +</P> + +<P> +"Father! forgive me! it is good for me. Give me strength to bear +everything. Pour thy love into my heart, for I am desolate—if I +could but be useful to one human being—if I could make one person +happier, I should be content. But no! I am desolate—desolate. Whose +heart clings to mine with the strong tendrils of affection? Who ever +turns to me for a smile? Oh! this world is so cold—so cold!" +</P> + +<P> +And that sensitive being wept passionately, and pressed her hand +upon her bosom as if to still its own yearnings. +</P> + +<P> +Mary Clinton had met with many sorrows; she was the youngest of a +large family; she had been the caressed darling in her early days, +for her sweetness won every heart to love. She had dwelt in the warm +breath of affection, it was her usual sunshine, and she gave it no +thought while it blessed her; a cold word or look was an unfamiliar +thing. A most glad-hearted being she was once! But death came in a +terrible form, folded her loved ones in his icy arms and bore them +to another world. A kind father, a tender mother, a brother and +sister, were laid in the grave, in one short month, by the cholera. +One brother was yet left, and she was taken to his home, for he was +a wealthy merchant. But there seemed a coldness in his splendid +house, a coldness in his wife's heart. Sick in body and in mind, the +bereft one resolved to travel South, and visit among her relations, +hoping to awaken her interest in life, which had lain dormant +through grief. She went to that sunny region, and while there, +became acquainted with a man of fine intellect and fascinating +manners, who won her affections, and afterwards proved unworthy of +her. Again the beauty of her life was darkened, and with a weary +heart she wore out the tedious years of her joyless existence. She +was an angel of charity to the poor and suffering. She grew lovelier +through sorrow. A desire to see her brother, her nearest and dearest +relative, called her North again, and when our story opens she was +in the bosom of his home, a member of his family. He loved her +deeply, yet she felt like an alien—his wife had not welcomed her as +a sister should. Mary Clinton's heart went out toward's Alice, her +eldest niece, a beautiful and loving creature just springing into +womanhood. But the fair girl was gay and thoughtless, flattered and +caressed by everybody. She knew sadness only by the name. She had no +dream that she could impart a deep joy, by giving forth her young +heart's love to the desolate stranger. +</P> + +<P> +The hour had grown late, very late, and Mary Clinton still leaned +her head upon the table buried in thoughts, when the bounding step +of Alice outside the door aroused her from her revery. She listened, +almost hoping to see her friendly face peeping in, but wearied with +the enjoyment of the evening, the fair young belle hastened on to +her chamber, and her aunt heard the door close. Rising from her seat +at the table, Miss Clinton approached a window, and threw back the +curtains that the midnight air might steal coolingly over her brow. +Her eye fell upon the rich bracelet that clasped her arm, a gift of +her brother, and then with a sad smile, she surveyed the pure dress +of delicate white she wore. "Ah!" she sighed, "I am robed for a +scene of gayety, but how sad the heart that beats beneath this +boddice! How glad I was to escape from the company; loneliness in +the crowd is so sad a feeling." At that moment the door of her room +opened, and Alice came laughing in, her glowing face all bright and +careless. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! Aunt Mary," she exclaimed, "do help me! I cannot unclasp my +necklace, and my patience has all oozed out at the tips of my +fingers. There! you have unfastened it already. Well! I believe I +never will be good for anything!" And Alice laughed as heartily, as +if the idea was charming. "When did you leave the parlours, Aunt +Mary? I never missed you at all. Father said you left early, when I +met him just now on the stairs." +</P> + +<P> +"I did leave early," replied Miss Clinton. "I chanced to feel like +being entirely alone, so I sought my own apartment." +</P> + +<P> +"Have you been reading, aunt? I should think you would feel lonely!" +</P> + +<P> +"I read very little," was the reply, in a sad tone. No remark was +made on her loneliness. +</P> + +<P> +"It seems so strange to me, Aunt Mary, that you are so fond of being +alone. I like company so much," said Alice, looking in her quiet +face. "But I must go," she added; she paused a moment, then pressed +an affectionate kiss upon her aunt's cheek, and whispered a soft +"good night." Miss Clinton cast both arms around her, and drew her +to her heart, with an eagerness that surprised Alice. Twice she +kissed her, then hastily released her as if her feeling had gone +forth before she was aware of it. Alice stood still before her a +moment, and her careless eyes took a deeply searching expression as +they dwelt upon the countenance before her. Something like sadness +passed over her face, and her voice was deeper in its tone, as she +repeated, "Good night, dear Aunt Mary!" With a slow step she left +the apartment, mentally contrasting her own position with that of +her aunt. Circumstances around her and the society with which she +mingled, tended to drown reflection, and call into play only the +brighter and gayer feelings, that flutter on the surface of our +being. She had never known the luxury of devoting an hour to genuine +meditation on the world within—or the great world without. The +earth was to her a garden of joy; she lived upon it only to enjoy +herself. Like many selfish people, Alice's mother made an idol of +her beautiful child, because she was a part of herself; and Mrs. +Clinton was not one to perform a mother's duty faithfully in +instilling right views of life into her daughter's mind. Thus, with +a depth of feeling, and rich gifts of mind, Alice fluttered on her +way like a light-winged butterfly, her soul's pure wells of tender +thought unknown to her. How many millions pass through a whole long +life, with the deepest and holiest secrets of their being still +unlocked by their heedless hands! How few see aught to live for, but +the outward sunshine of prosperity, which is an idle sunshine, +compared with the ever-strengthening light that may grow in the +spirit! How strong, how great, how beautiful may life be, when +smiled upon by our Creator! how weak, how abject, how trampled upon, +when turned away from his face! +</P> + +<P> +With better and more quiet emotions, Mary Clinton retired to rest. +"I can love others, if I am not beloved," she murmured, and the dove +of peace fluttered its white wing over her. Her resigned prayer was, +"Lord, into thy hands I commit my spirit." Tears of earnest humility +had washed away all bitterness from the wrung heart of that lovely +being. How beautiful was the angel smile that played over her face, +in her pure dreams! +</P> + +<P> +A few weeks after, Alice entered her aunt's apartment one drizzling, +damp, foggy, uncomfortable day. "Such miserable weather!" she +exclaimed, throwing herself idly into an arm-chair; "I believe I +have got the <I>blues</I> for once in my life. I don't know what to do +with myself; it makes me perfectly melancholy to look out of the +window, and nothing in the house wears a cheerful aspect. Mother has +a headache; when I proposed reading to her, she very politely asked +me if I would not let her remain alone. She says I always want to +sing, read, or talk incessantly if she wishes to be quiet. I can't +ding on the piano, for it is heard from attic to basement. I don't +want to read alone, for I have such a desire to be sociable—now, +Aunt Mary, you have a catalogue of my troubles, can't you relieve +me, for I am really miserable, if I don't look so!" Alice broke into +a laugh, although it did not bubble right up from her merry heart as +usual. +</P> + +<P> +"If your attention was fully engaged, you would not mind the weather +so much," remarked Aunt Mary, with a quiet smile. "You are not in a +mood to enjoy a book just now, so what <I>will</I> you do, my dear?" +</P> + +<P> +"Mend stockings, or turn my room upside down, and then arrange it +neatly," said Alice in a speculative tone. "There is nothing in the +house to interest me; there is Patty in the kitchen, I have just +been paying her a visit. She is as busy as a bee, and as happy as a +queen. I believe poor people are happier than the rich, in such +weather as this, at least." +</P> + +<P> +"Because they are useful, Alice; go busy yourself about some +physical labour for an hour or two, then come back to me, and I +predict your face will be as sunshiny as ever. I am in earnest—you +need not look so incredulous!" +</P> + +<P> +"What shall I do?" asked the young girl laughing. "I don't know how +to do a single thing in domestic matters. Mother says I shall never +work. It would spoil my fairy fingers, I presume, a terrible +consequence!" +</P> + +<P> +"But seriously Alice, you are not so entirely incapable of doing +anything, are you?" +</P> + +<P> +"I am positively, but I can learn if I choose. I believe I will +sweep my room and put it in order, as a beginning. That will be +something new: now I will try my best!" Alice sprang from her chair, +and tripped from the apartment quite pleased with the idea. A smile +broke over Miss Clinton's features, after her niece had left her +alone. "How easily Alice might be trained to better things, by love +and gentleness," she said half aloud. "Oh! if she would only love +me, and turn to me fondly. How I would delight to breathe a genial +prayer over the buds of promise in her youthful heart, and fan them +to warmer life." More than an hour flew by, as Mary Clinton sat in +thought, devising plans to awaken her favourite to a true sense of +her duties—to a knowledge of her capabilities for happiness and +usefulness. We may be useful with a heart full of sadness; but we +can rarely taste of happiness, unless we are desirous to benefit +some one besides ourselves. A quietness came over the lonely one as +she mused—a spirit of beautiful repose; for she forgot all thoughts +of her own enjoyment, in caring for another. +</P> + +<P> +"You are quite a physician, Aunt Mary, to a mind diseased," +exclaimed Alice, breaking her revery as she came in with a smiling +face, after the performance of her unaccustomed labour. "I am quite +in tune again now. I believe there is a little philosophy in being +busy occasionally, after all." +</P> + +<P> +"There is really," replied Miss Clinton, raising her deep blue eyes +to Alice's face, with their pleasant expression; "and there is also +philosophy in recreation—in abandoning yourself for a time to +innocent gayety. An hour of enjoyment is refreshing and beneficial." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Aunt Mary!" said Alice in some surprise, "I had no idea that +you thought so. You are always so industrious and quiet, I imagined +you disapproved of the merriment of ordinary people. When we have a +large company you almost always retire early. Why do you do so, +aunt, may I ask you?" +</P> + +<P> +Mary Clinton was silent a moment, then she said gently, "When I +think I can add to the ease or enjoyment of any person present, I +take pleasure in staying; but when I feel that I am rather a +restraint than otherwise, I retire—to weep. You are yet young and +beautiful, my child, for you have never known such feelings. I am +too selfish, or I would not be sad so often; it is right that I +should pass through such a school of discipline. I hope it has +already made me better." The look of resignation that beamed from +Miss Clinton's tearful eyes, caused a chord in Alice's heart to +tremble with a strange blending of love, sweetness, and sorrow. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>You</I> should be happy, if any one should, dear aunt," she said in a +low voice, and she partly averted her head, to conceal the tears +that started down her cheek. "I am happy so often," she resumed, +turning around and seating herself upon an ottoman at her aunt's +feet. "You deserve so much more than I—to be as good as you are, +Aunt Mary, I would almost change situations, for then I should be +sure of going to heaven." +</P> + +<P> +"You can be just as sure in your own position, as in that of any +other person. But, dear child, the more deeply we scan our hearts, +the more we see there to conquer, in order that we may become fit +companions for the angels." +</P> + +<P> +Alice remained thoughtful for some moments, then she folded her +hands over Aunt Mary's lap, and lifted her eyes to the loving face +that bent over her. "Be my guardian angel," she prayed tearfully, +"your love is so pure; a gentleness comes over me, when I am with +you. All tumultuous feelings sink down to repose. I have not known +you, Aunt Mary; you have shown me to-day how lovely goodness is. I +can feel it in your presence. Oh! to possess it! I fear it will be +long years before I grow so gentle in my spirit—so unselfish—so +like a child of Heaven!" +</P> + +<P> +"Hush, hush!" was Mary Clinton's gentle interruption. "You do not +know me yet, Alice. Perhaps I appear far better than I am." +</P> + +<P> +Alice smiled, and laying her arm around Aunt Mary's neck, drew down +her face, and kissed her affectionately, whispering, "You will be my +guide, I ask no better." +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you, thank you," broke from Aunt Mary's lips; she pressed +Alice's cheek with the ardent haste of love and gratitude; then +yielding to the emotions that thrilled her heart, she burst into +tears, and wept with a joy she had long been a stranger to. She felt +that her life would no longer be useless, if she could live for +Alice, and lift up to God her heart. How beautiful in its freshness, +is the early day when the light of a good resolve breaks like a halo +over the soul, and by its power, seeks to win it from its selfish +idols! Earnest and strong is the hopefulness that bids us labour +trustingly to become all we yearn to be—all we may be. How +tremblingly Mary Clinton leaned upon her Saviour! experience had +taught her the weakness of her fluttering heart; sorrow was +familiar, yet she prayed not to shrink from it. How clear and +vigorous was the mind of Alice—how shadowless was her unerring path +to be—how all weakness departed before the sudden thought that rose +up in her soul! How rich was the light that beamed from her steady +eye—how calm and trusting the slight smile that parted her lips! +How meek and confiding she was, and yet how full of strength! She +was a young seeker after truth, and she realized not yet, that that +same truth was the power to which she must bow every rebellious +thing within her. Months rolled on, and the quiet gladness in her +heart made it a delight to her to do anything and everything it +seemed her duty to do. The unexplored world within opened to her +gaze, and threw a glory upon creation. Infinitely priceless in her +eyes, were the thousand hearts around her, in which the Lord had +kindled the undying lamp of life. +</P> + +<P> +One evening, at rather a late hour, Alice Clinton sought the chamber +of her aunt and seated herself quietly beside her, saying in a +subdued voice as she took her hand, "I am inexpressibly sad +to-night, Aunt Mary. There is no very particular reason why I should +feel so; no one can soothe me but you. Put your arms around me, Aunt +Mary, and talk to me—give me some strength to go forward in the way +I have chosen. I almost despair—I have no good influence, no moral +courage. Perhaps, after all, my efforts have been in vain to become +better, and I shall sink back into my former state. If all who are +my friends were like you, it would be an easy thing to glide on with +the stream. But I am in the midst of peril—I never knew until +to-night that it was hard to speak with a cold rigour to our friends +when they merit it. If I were despised, or neglected, I could more +easily fix my thoughts on heaven. I dread so to hurt the feelings of +any one." +</P> + +<P> +"What do you refer to, dear?" inquired Aunt Mary, tenderly. +</P> + +<P> +"My friend Eleanor Temple, and her brother Theodore, have been +spending the evening with me. You know how gay and witty they are. +In answer to a remark of mine, Theodore gravely quoted a passage of +Scripture, which applied to my observation in an irresistibly +ludicrous manner. I yielded to a hearty laugh which I could not +restrain; it came so suddenly I had no time for thought. But in a +moment after my conscience smote me, and I felt that my respect for +Theodore had lessened. I had no right to rebuke him, even if I had +the moral courage, for my laughter was encouragement. I turned away +from him and spoke to Eleanor; I was displeased with myself, and I +felt a sort of inward repugnance to him. But that was not the end; +several times afterwards Theodore did the same thing. +</P> + +<P> +"'There are subjects which are not fit food for merriment;' I said +once in an embarrassed manner. 'If I do wrong, it is not +deliberately done.' Theodore was silent a moment, and he looked at +me as if he hardly knew how to understand me—then smiling, he +turned the conversation, and was as gay as ever. When they had taken +their leave, I entered the parlour again, and threw myself in a seat +by the open window. I turned the blind, and looked out after them. +Eleanor had caught the fringe of her mantilla in the railing of the +area. I was about to speak with her on the little accident, when +Theodore laughed, and said to his sister, 'Alice is as fond of +taking characters, as an actress. She attempted to reprove me, for +the very thing she had laughed at a little while before. Rather +inconsistent in our favourite, Nelly, don't you think so?' Eleanor +laughed, and said good-naturedly, 'Alice is impulsive, she don't +measure what she says, before it comes out.' +</P> + +<P> +"I rose, and left the window. I felt sad, and peculiarly discomposed +and dissatisfied with myself. I knew that I had tried to do right in +some degree, and it grated on my feelings that my effort should be +called 'a taking of character.' Oh! if I could only live with good +people altogether, who would bear with me, and trust my motives! You +have my story, Aunt Mary, it amounts to nothing, but I am so sad." +</P> + +<P> +"Life is made up of trifles," said Miss Clinton. "Few circumstances +are so trivial that we may not draw a lesson from them. Do not feel +sad, Alice, because you are misunderstood. Do not repine on account +of your position; no one could fill it but yourself, or you would +not be placed in it. Be resigned to meet those who call out +unpleasant feelings; they teach you better your own nature than ever +the angels could. They bring forth what is evil in you, that it may +be conquered. Do not understand me to mean that you should ever seek +those who may harm you. But a day can hardly pass over our heads, +that we do not meet with persons who ruffle that harmony of soul we +so labour after. It is keenly felt when one is as young in a better +life as you are. You need strength, and then you will be calm and +even. Time, patience, combating, prayer, good-will to man, must +bring your soul to order, then you will bear upon the spirits of +others with a still, purifying power which will soothe and soften +like far-off music. You have it in your power to do much good; your +Creator has blessed you with that inexpressible sympathy which may +glide gently into another human heart and open its secret springs +almost unconsciously to the possessor. I have watched you, child of +my love, and perhaps I know you better than you know yourself. There +are many latent germs within your being; Oh! Alice, pray God to +expand them to heavenly life. Bear on—and live for something worthy +a creature God has made." Mary Clinton paused in an unusual emotion; +her cheek glowed deeply, and the burning softness of her eyes +chained Alice's look as with a spell, to their angel expression. The +heart of the young girl throbbed almost to bursting, with the world +of undeveloped feeling that rushed over her. It was a moment which +many have experienced—a moment which breaks over the young for the +first time with such a thrill—she realized that God had gifted her +with power—with a soul that might and <I>must</I> have its influence. +Bowing her head upon Aunt Mary's knee, she wept; and a flood of joy, +humility, and thanksgiving came over her, as she more deeply +dedicated herself to the holy Lord, and laid her gifts upon His +altar. Aunt Mary's words sunk peacefully into her soul, and a clear +light irradiated it and filled it with a calmness that made all +things right. With a look of irrepressible tenderness, and a voice +full of low music, Alice said to Aunt Mary, as she rose to retire, +"You have charmed away every discordant note that was touched +to-night, dear aunt. How unaccountable are our sudden changes of +mood! You have now thrown over me your own spirit of peaceful repose +and contentment. Good-night, and think you!" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I am content, entirely content," soliloquized Mary Clinton, +when the loved form of the child of her heart had disappeared. "To +try to bless another, how richly does the blessing fall back upon my +own soul! Yes! I have my joys. Why am I ever so ungrateful as to +murmur at aught that befalls me? I am blest—a sunshine is breaking +over the tender earth for me; all clouds are gone." With feelings +much changed from what they were a few months previous, Mary Clinton +sought the window, and with loving and devoted eyes dwelt upon the +night and stillness of the heavens—so boundless and so pure. The +moon was full; near it was one bright cloud of silver drapery, upon +the edge of which rested a single star. "So shall it be with me," +she murmured, "be the clouds that float over the heavens of my soul +bright or dark, the star of holy trust shall linger near, ever +bringing to my bosom—peace." +</P> + +<P> +About two years after, on a winter evening, there was a large +company assembled at Mr. Clinton's dwelling. It was in compliment to +Alice, for that day completed her twentieth year. As she moved from +one spot to another, her sweet face radiant with happiness, Aunt +Mary's eyes followed her with a devoted expression, which betrayed +that the lovely being was her dearest earthly treasure. The merry +girl was now a glad-hearted, but thoughtful woman. An innocent +mirthfulness lingered around her, which time itself would never +subdue, except for a brief season, when her sweet laugh broke out +with a natural, rich suddenness; there was a catching joy in it, +that could not be withstood. She was the gentle hostess to +perfection; with tact enough to discover congenial spirits, and +bring them together, finding her own pleasure in the cheerful home +thus made. She possessed the rare but happy art of making every body +feel perfectly at home, one knew not why. For a moment, Alice stood +alone with her little hand resting upon the centre-table. Behind +her, two rather fashionable young men were talking and laughing +somewhat too loud, and jesting upon sacred things. A look of pain +passed over the face of the fair listener as she slowly turned +round, and said in a low but earnest tone, "Don't, Theodore! Excuse +me, but <I>such</I> trifling pains me." The young gentlemen both appeared +mortified. "Pardon me! Alice," exclaimed Theodore Temple, "I will +try to break that habit for your sake. I was not aware that it +pained you so much—a lady's word is law!" and he bowed gallantly. +</P> + +<P> +"No, no! Base your giving up of the habit upon principle, then it +will be permanent. Much obliged for the compliment"—Alice bowed +with assumed dignity, and her sweet face dimpled into a playful +smile, "but I have no faith in these pretty speeches. Remember, now, +I have your promise to try to break the habit; you will forfeit your +word if you do not; so you see your position, don't you?" Thus +saying, and without waiting for a reply, the young lady left them. +</P> + +<P> +"I believe Miss Clinton is right, after all," remarked Temple's +companion. "What is the use of jesting on such subjects? We never +feel any better after it, and we subject ourselves to the +displeasure of those who respect these things. I pass my word to +give it up, if you will, Temple." +</P> + +<P> +"Agreed!" was Theodore's brief answer. Without saying how mingled +the motive might have been, which induced the young men to forsake +the habit, they <I>did</I> forsake it permanently. Aunt Mary's lonely +life was at last smiled upon by a sunbeam—and that sunbeam was the +soul of Alice, which she had turned to the light. For that cherished +being Mary Clinton could have offered up her life, and there would +have been a joy in the sacrifice. Strongly and nobly were their +hearts knit together—beautiful is the devotedness of holy, +unselfish love! Blest are two frank hearts, which may be opened to +each other, pouring out like lava the tide of feeling hoarded in the +inward soul—such revelations are for moments when the yearning +heart will not be hushed to calmness. But "there is a moonlight in +human life," and there is also a blessing in that subdued hour which +whispers wearily to the loving one, of weaknesses and sins, with a +prayer for consoling strength to triumph yet, leaving them in the +dust. Thus was it with Mary and Alice Clinton; their souls were open +as the day to each other. They travelled along life's pathway with +earnest purpose, fulfilling the many and changing duties that fell +upon them, ever catching rich gleams of joy from above. And sorrows +came too! but they purified, and taught the slumbering soul its +rarest wealth—its deepest sympathies with all things good and +heavenly. It seemed a slight thing that took away the desolation +from the heart of Mary Clinton—she turned away from <I>self</I>, and +devoted her efforts to the eternal happiness of another. Is there +one human being in the wide world so desolate, that he may not do +likewise? Only a mite may be cast in, but God has made none of his +children so poor, as to be without an influence. The humblest +effort, if it is all that <I>can</I> be made, is as full of greatness at +the core, as the most ostentatious display. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="dead"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE DEAD. +</H3> + +<P> +IT is strange what a change is wrought in one hour by death. The +moment our friend is gone from us for ever, what sacredness invests +him! Everything he ever said or did seems to return to us clothed in +new significance. A thousand yearnings rise, of things we would fain +say to him—of questions unanswered, and now unanswerable. All he +wore or touched, or looked upon familiarly, becomes sacred as +relics. Yesterday these were homely articles, to be tossed to and +fro, handled lightly, given away thoughtlessly—to-day we touch them +softly, our tears drop on them; death has laid his hand on them, and +they have become holy in our eyes. Those are sad hours when one has +passed from our doors never to return, and we go back to set the +place in order. There the room, so familiar, the homely belongings +of their daily life, each one seems to say to us in its turn, +"Neither shall their place know them any more." Clear the shelf now +of vials and cups, and prescriptions; open the windows; step no more +carefully; there is no one now to be cared for—no one to be +nursed—no one to be awakened. +</P> + +<P> +Ah! why does this bring a secret pang with it when we know that they +are where none shall any more say, "I am sick!" Could only one +flutter of their immortal garments be visible in such moments; could +their face, glorious with the light of heaven, once smile on the +deserted room, it might be better. One needs to lose friends to +understand one's self truly. The death of a friend teaches things +within that we never knew before. We may have expected it, prepared +for it, it may have been hourly expected for weeks; yet when it +comes, it falls on us suddenly, and reveals in us emotions we could +not dream. The opening of those heavenly gate for them startles and +flutters our souls with strange mysterious thrills, unfelt before. +The glimpse of glories, the sweep of voices, all startle and dazzle +us, and the soul for many a day aches and longs with untold +longings. +</P> + +<P> +We divide among ourselves the possessions of our lost ones. Each +well-known thing comes to us with an almost supernatural power. The +book we once read with them, the old Bible, the familiar hymn; then +perhaps little pet articles of fancy, made dear to them by some +peculiar taste, the picture, the vase!—how costly are they now in +our eyes. +</P> + +<P> +We value them not for their beauty or worth, but for the frequency +with which we have seen them touched or used by them; and our eye +runs over the collection, and perhaps lights most lovingly on the +homeliest thing which may have been oftenest touched or worn by +them. +</P> + +<P> +It is a touching ceremony to divide among a circle of friends the +memorials of the lost. Each one comes inscribed—"<I>no more</I>;" and +yet each one, too, is a pledge of reunion. But there are invisible +relics of our lost ones more precious than the book, the pictures, +or the vase. Let us treasure them in our hearts. Let us bind to our +hearts the patience which they will never need again; the fortitude +in suffering which belonged only to this suffering state. Let us +take from their dying hand that submission under affliction which +they shall need no more in a world where affliction is unknown. Let +us collect in our thoughts all those cheerful and hopeful sayings +which they threw out from time to time as they walked with us, and +string them as a rosary to be daily counted over. Let us test our +own daily life by what must be their now perfected estimate; and as +they once walked with us on earth, let us walk with them in heaven. +</P> + +<P> +We may learn at the grave of our lost ones how to live with the +living. It is a fearful thing to live so carelessly as we often do +with those dearest to us, who may at any moment be gone for ever. +The life we are living, the words we are now saying, will all be +lived over in memory over some future grave. One remarks that the +death of a child often makes parents tender and indulgent! Ah, it is +a lesson learned of bitter sorrow! If we would know how to measure +our work to living friends, let us see how we feel towards the dead. +If we have been neglectful, if we have spoken hasty and unkind +words, on which death has put his inevitable seal, what an anguish +is that! But our living friends may, ere we know, pass from us; we +may be to-day talking with those whose names to-morrow are to be +written among the dead; the familiar household object of to-day may +become sacred relics to-morrow. Let us walk softly; let us forbear +and love; none ever repented of too much love to a departed friend; +none ever regretted too much tenderness and indulgence, but many a +tear has been shed for too much harshness and severity. Let our +friends in heaven then teach us how to treat our friends on earth. +Thus by no vain fruitless sorrow, but by a deeper self-knowledge, a +tenderer and more sacred estimate of life, may our heavenly friends +prove to us ministering spirits. +</P> + +<P> +The triumphant apostle says to the Christian, "All things are +yours—Life and Death." Let us not lose either; let us make <I>Death</I> +our own; in a richer, deeper, and more solemn earnestness of life. +So those souls which have gone from our ark, and seemed lost over +the gloomy ocean of the unknown, shall return to us, bearing the +olive-leaves of Paradise. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="suffer"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +DO YOU SUFFER MORE THAN YOUR NEIGHBOUR? +</H3> + +<P> +"WHOSE sorrow is like unto my sorrow?" +</P> + +<P> +Such is the language of the stricken soul, such the outbreak of +feeling, when affliction darkens the horizon of man's sunny hopes, +and dashes the full cup of blessings suddenly from the expectant +lips. +</P> + +<P> +"Console me not; you have not felt this pang," cries the spirit in +agony, to the kind friend who is striving to pour the balm of +consolation in the wounded heart. +</P> + +<P> +"But I have known worse," is the reply. +</P> + +<P> +"Worse! never, never; no one could suffer more keenly than I now do, +and live." +</P> + +<P> +In vain the friend reasons; sorrow is always more or less selfish; +it absorbs all other passions; it consecrates itself to tears and +lamentations, and the bereaved one feels alone; utterly alone in the +world, and of all mankind the most forsaken. Every heart knoweth its +own bitterness, and there is a canker spot on every human plant in +God's garden. Some are blighted and withered, ready to fall from the +stalk; others are blooming while a blight is at the root. +</P> + +<P> +What right have you to say, because you droop and languish, that +your neighbour, with a fair exterior and upright mien, is all that +his appearance indicates? What evidence have you that because you +suffer from want, and your neighbour rides in his carriage, that he +is, therefore, more abundantly blessed, more contentedly happy than +you? +</P> + +<P> +As you walk through the streets of costly and beautiful mansions, +you feel vaguely, that, associated with so much of beauty, of +magnificence and ease, there must be absolute content, enviable +freedom, unmixed pleasure, and constant happiness. How deplorably +mistaken. Here, where gold and crimson drape the windows, is mortal +sickness; there, where the heavy shutters fold over the rich plate +glass, lies shrouded death. Here, is blasted reputation, there, is +an untold and hideous grief. Here, is blighted love, striving to +look and be brave, but with a bosom corroded and full of bitterness; +there the sad conduct of a wayward child. Here is the terrible +neglect of an unkind and perhaps idolized husband; there the wilful +and repeated faults of an unfaithful wife. Here is dread of +bankruptcy, there dread of dishonour or exposure. Here is bitter +hatred, lacking only the nerve to prove another Cain. There silent +and hidden disease, working its skilful fangs about the heart, while +it paints the cheek with the very hue of health. Here is undying +remorse in the breast of one who has wronged the widow and the +fatherless; there the suffering being the victim of foul slander; +here is imbecility, there smothered revenge. The bride and the +belle, both so seemingly blessed, have each their sacred but +poignant sorrow. +</P> + +<P> +Have you a worse grief than your neighbour? You think you have; you +have buried your only child—he has laid seven in the tomb. Seven +times has his heart been rent open; and the wounds are yet fresh; he +has no hope to sustain him; he is a miserable man, and you are a +Christian. +</P> + +<P> +Have you more trouble than your neighbour? You have lost your +all—no, no, say not so; your neighbour has lost houses and lands, +but his health has gone also; and while you are robust, he lies on +the uneasy pillow of sickness, and watches some faithful menial +prepare his scanty meal, and then waits till a trusty hand bears the +food to his parched lips. +</P> + +<P> +Do you suffer more than your neighbour? True; Saturday night tests +your poverty; you have but money enough for the bare necessaries of +life; your children dress meagerly, and your house is scantily +furnished; you do not know whether or not work will be forthcoming +the following week. Your neighbour sees not, nor did he ever see, +want. House, wife and children are sumptuously provided for; his +barn is a palace to your kitchen. Step into his parlour and look at +him for a moment; papers surround him, blazing Lehigh floods the +grate, velvet carpets yield to the step; luxurious chairs invite to +rest—check the sigh of envy; there is a ring at the bell—hurrying +footsteps on the stairs—a jarring sound against the polished door, +and in bursts the rich man's son, his brow haggard, his eyes fierce +and red. He is a notorious profligate; gambling is his food and +drink, debauchery his glory and his ruin. Would you be that father? +Go back to your honest sons and look in their faces; throw the +bright locks from their brows, and bless God that there the angel +triumphs over the brute; be even thankful that you are not burdened +with corrupt gold, for their sakes; say not again that you suffer +more than your neighbour. +</P> + +<P> +Do you toil, young girl, from daylight to midnight, while the little +sums eked out with frowns and reluctant fingers, hardly suffice to +provide for you food and raiment? And the wife of your rich +employer, who passes stranger-like by you, may sit at her marble +toilet-table for hours, and retouch the faded brow of beauty before +a gilded mirror; may lounge at her palace window till she is weary +of gazing, and being gazed at; do you envy your wealthier neighbour, +young sewing-girl? Go to her boudoir, where pictures and statuary, +silken hangings and perfumes delight every sense, and where costly +robes are flung around with a profusion that betokens lavish +expenditure; ask her which she deems happiest, and she will point +her jewelled finger towards you, and—if she speaks with +candour—tell you that for your single soul and free spirits, she +would barter all her riches. The opera, where night after night the +wealth of glorious voices is flung upon the air till its every +vibration is melody, and the spirit drinks it in as it would the +incense of rare flowers, is to her not so exquisite a luxury as the +choice songs, warbled in a concert room, to which you may listen but +few times in the year; such pleasure palls in repetition, on the +common mind, for nature's favourites are among the poor, and gold, +with all its magical power, can never attune the ear to music, nor +the taste to an appreciation of that which is truly beautiful in +nature or art. Keep then your integrity, and you never need envy the +wife of your employer. A round of heartless dissipation has sickened +her of humanity; and if it were not for the excitement of outshining +her compeers in the ranks of fashion, she would lay down her useless +life to-morrow. +</P> + +<P> +Mothers, worn out and enfeebled with work, labouring for those who, +however good they may be, are at the best unable to pay you for you +unceasing toil, unable to realize your great sacrifices, do you look +upon your neighbour who has more means and a few petted children, +and wish that your lot was like hers? You pause often over your +task, and think it greater than you can bear. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell mothers," said a lady to us a short time since, "who have +their little ones around them, that they are living their happiest +days; and the time will come when they will realize it. Tell them to +bend in thankfulness over the midnight lamp, to smile at their +ceaseless work and call it pleasure. I can but kneel in fancy by the +distant graves of my children; they are all gone. Could I but have +them beside me now, I would delve like a slave for them; I would +think no burden too hard, no denial beyond my strength, if I might +but labour for their good and be rewarded by their smiles and their +love." +</P> + +<P> +Then in whatever situation we are, we should remember that even but +a door from our own dwelling there may be anguish, compared with +which ours is but as the whisper of a breath to the roll of the +thunder. We do not say then, let us <I>console</I> ourselves by the +reflection that there are always those in the world who suffer +keener afflictions than ourselves, "but let us feel that though our +cup of sorrow may be almost full, there might be added many a drop +of bitterness;" and never, never should we breathe the expression, +"there is no sorrow like unto mine." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="led"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +WE ARE LED BY A WAY THAT WE KNOW NOT. +</H3> + +<P> +WE are to consider the facts and circumstances which confirm the +doctrine that the Lord's providence is at once universal and +particular; and indeed that he leads us by a way unknown to +ourselves. +</P> + +<P> +And who that has reflected upon his own life, or upon the life of +others, or upon the current events of the day, will not bear witness +to the universal application of this principle? +</P> + +<P> +Look to the affairs of the world, to the nations and governments of +all the earth, and tell me, where is anything turning out according +to the forethought and prudence of man? +</P> + +<P> +Look to the movements of our own country, and say whether human +prudence ever devised what we behold? What party or what individuals +have ever, in the long run, brought things about as they expected? +And how is it in our own city, and under our own eyes? +</P> + +<P> +In the societies of the church, and in organizations for church +extension, the same rule applies. And I might ask, where does it not +apply? I might give examples. But this is unnecessary, when they are +so numerous, and so fresh in the memory of every one. +</P> + +<P> +But when we turn to the experience of individuals, we meet with the +most unlimited application of our subject. The life of every one is +a standing memento of its truth. For who is there, that has come to +his present stand-point in life, by the route that he had marked out +for himself? I will imagine that ten, fifteen, or twenty years ago +each one of you fixed on your plan of life, for a longer or shorter +period. It matters not what the original plan was. It matters not +what prudence, sagacity, and forethought were employed in making it. +It matters not how much money and power have come to the support of +it. Still its parts have never been filled up as you originally +sketched them. +</P> + +<P> +Many particulars were altered and amended, from day to day, as you +went along. Some things were abandoned as useless; some as hopeless; +some as impossible; some as injurious; some things were neglected, +and others forgotten. An unknown hand now and then interposed, +turning the tables entirely. An unaccountable influence was found +operating on certain individuals, changing their tone, and modifying +their conduct. An unknown individual has come alongside of you, and +has become your friend. He has mingled his emotions and his plans +with yours. You have modified your plans. He has changed his. +Business and commerce have taken an unexpected turn. You are the +gainer or the loser, it matters not; your plans are changed by the +event. An intimate friend has left you and become your open enemy; +an open enemy has been reconciled and has returned to the affection +and confidence of your heart. Your plans in life have to be changed +to suit such events as these. Several friends and relatives, that +were near to you, have been removed into the spiritual world. It may +be that by such providences, your feelings, thoughts, and actions +have been changed—changed utterly and for ever. Darkness of mind, +gloominess of life, and anguish of spirit may have come upon you, by +some such unexpected providence, and thus your plans may have been +changed, or even utterly abandoned. +</P> + +<P> +But beyond matters of this description, which are somewhat external, +and as we say accidental, and certainly incidental, to a life in +this world, and in all of which we are led in a way that we know +not; there are unexpected changes of another kind, that we all have +experienced. I now refer to changes in the inner man, and in the +inner life. +</P> + +<P> +For there is a Divinity within us that shapes our ends, and while +the things of the outward life remain much the same, we experience +changes of the inner life, that are at times amazing and terrible. +They come like the swelling of the tide, and like the beating of the +waves rolling on from a distant ocean; the deep emotions of the soul +arise and swell and sweep away; the fire of thought is kindled; the +imagination paints the canvas; the tongue stands ready to utter the +influx of love and wisdom; and the hand to illustrate it. +</P> + +<P> +As these internal states of the soul change, by conjunction with the +Lord and communion with Heaven, on the one hand; or by opposition to +God and alliance with Hell, on the other, we see all things of the +outward world in a different light. +</P> + +<P> +The changes of our internal man are, to appearance, much more +directly of the Lord's Divine Providence, than the events of the +outward life. Nevertheless, the two are so related by the +constitution of the mind, that each individual determines, in +rationality and freedom, which of the emotions and thoughts of the +<I>inner life</I>, he will bring forth into <I>ultimate acts</I>; and it is +here that the man may ally himself with the good and the true on one +hand, or with the evil and the false on the other; and in this +manner determine his destiny for heaven or hell. +</P> + +<P> +The practical bearings of our subjects hinge chiefly on this; we are +to confide in the Lord; lean upon his great arm; and look to Him, +with the assurance that although He leads us by a way that we know +not, nevertheless He is leading us aright; and if we trust to Him, +and do His will, He will finally bring us to heaven. +</P> + +<P> +Casting our eyes from one extreme of the Lord's vast dominions to +the other, we find the same Divine Providence everywhere operating +and operative. The angels of heaven, from the highest to the lowest, +are continually led by the Lord in paths that they have not known; +darkness is made light before them, and crooked things straight. +Nevertheless they are not led into infinite good nor infinite +delight. For this would be impossible. But constantly they are led +into a higher degree of good than they would naturally choose; and +they are defended from evil into which they would naturally subside. +So also it is with us. +</P> + +<P> +Hence we may rest assured, that however meagre may be the good we +experience, it is vaster by far than we should inherit, if we had +been permitted to carry out our own plans and to have our own way in +those numerous particulars in which we have been frustrated in our +plans and disappointed in our hopes. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="ivy"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE IVY IN THE DUNGEON. +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + THE ivy in a dungeon grew,<BR> + Unfed by rain, uncheered by dew;<BR> + Its pallid leaflets only drank<BR> + Cave-moistures foul, and odours dank.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + But through the dungeon-grating high<BR> + There fell a sunbeam from the sky;<BR> + It slept upon the grateful floor<BR> + In silent gladness evermore.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + The ivy felt a tremor shoot<BR> + Through all its fibres to the root;<BR> + It felt the light, it saw the ray,<BR> + It strove to blossom into day.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + It grew, it crept, it pushed, it clomb—<BR> + Long had the darkness been its home;<BR> + But well it knew, though veiled in night,<BR> + The goodness and the joy of light.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Its clinging roots grew deep and strong;<BR> + Its stem expanded firm and long;<BR> + And in the currents of the air<BR> + Its tender branches flourished fair.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + It reached the beam—it thrilled—it curled—<BR> + It blessed the warmth that cheers the world;<BR> + It rose towards the dungeon bars—<BR> + It looked upon the sun and stars.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + It felt the life of bursting Spring,<BR> + It heard the happy sky-lark sing.<BR> + It caught the breath of morns and eves,<BR> + And wooed the swallow to its leaves.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + By rains, and dews, and sunshine fed,<BR> + Over the outer wall it spread;<BR> + And in the day-beam waving free,<BR> + It grew into a steadfast tree.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Upon that solitary place,<BR> + Its verdure threw adorning grace.<BR> + The mating birds became its guests,<BR> + And sang its praises from their nests.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Wouldst know the moral of the rhyme?<BR> + Behold the heavenly light! and climb.<BR> + To every dungeon comes a ray<BR> + Of God's interminable day.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="garden"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE GARDEN OF EDEN. +</H3> + +<P> +ONE day little Alice hung about her mother's neck covering her +cheeks with kisses, and saying in her pretty, childish way, +</P> + +<P> +"I love you, you nice, sweet mother! You are good—so good!" But her +mother answered earnestly, +</P> + +<P> +"Dear child, God is good; if I have any good it is from Him; He has +given it to me; it is not mine." +</P> + +<P> +Then the little one unclasped her caressing arms, and putting back +her hair with both hands gazed with a look of surprise into her +mother's face. +</P> + +<P> +Presently she said—"But if He has given it to you, it is yours." +</P> + +<P> +"No, darling," replied the lady, "you do not quite understand. +Listen. Suppose your dear father had a great garden full of all most +beautiful things that ever grew in gardens, and he should say to +you—'Come and live in my garden; you shall have as much ground as +you are able to cultivate, and I will give you seeds of all fruits +and flowers you love best, as many as you want. Here no evil thing +can ever come to harm you, but every day you will grow happier and +stronger, and then I will give you more ground and more seeds, and +you shall live with me for ever!' Suppose you were so glad to hear +this that you lost no time, but went in, at once, and began to plant +the seeds in your little plot, close by the gate—you know it would +be a tiny little plot at first, because you are small and weak; and +soon your flowers were to grow up and bloom, so tall, and so +beautiful, and your trees hang heavy with such delightful fruit that +every one passing by would exclaim, +</P> + +<P> +"'Oh, what a beautiful garden! Are these flowers and fruit trees +yours?' +</P> + +<P> +"Would you not say— +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no! they are not mine; they are all my father's. This is his +beautiful garden, but he said if I were willing I might stay here +always, and I have come to live with him because he is good. Nothing +at all here belongs to me, though my father likes me to give away +the fruits and flowers that grow in my plot to all who ask for them. +I am a great deal happier, all the time, when I think that even the +wild flowers in this grass, and the small berries, and the little +birds that eat them, belong to him, than I could be if they were +mine, and I had no one to love for them.' +</P> + +<P> +"Should you not feel, dearest, as though you were telling a wicked +story, and almost as though you were stealing something, if you +said, 'Yes, they are all mine,' so that the people would not even +know you had a father?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes! that would be very naughty indeed. I would give the people +some of the fruit and flowers, and say they grew on my father's +trees, and then they would love him too; but tell me more about the +garden." +</P> + +<P> +"I will tell you all I think you can understand, and you must be +attentive, for I want you to remember it all your life. Did you ever +hear of the Garden of Eden?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; that is where Adam and Eve lived." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, that's the beautiful garden I've been telling you about, and +God is your good father. You can begin your journey there this very +day if you like." +</P> + +<P> +"Is it a very long journey?—and will you go with me? Is there +really, <I>really</I> such a garden? Oh, tell me where it is!" +</P> + +<P> +"I desire nothing in the world so much as to lead you there, but the +path is rough and steep; I cannot carry you in my arms along that +road; you must walk on your own little feet, and I am afraid they +will sometimes get—very tired." +</P> + +<P> +"You know, mother, I never do get tired when I am going to a +pleasant place; but, oh, dear! I do believe now it is all a +dream-story; you smiled and kissed me just as if it were." +</P> + +<P> +"No, you need not look so disappointed, little one, for though it is +something like a 'dream-story,' there is nothing in the world half +so true and real. Think in that little head of yours, and tell me +what seems to you most like this beautiful garden." +</P> + +<P> +"I cannot think of anything at all like it, except heaven.—Oh, +yes!—that is it! Heaven, is it not?" +</P> + +<P> +"And what is heaven?" +</P> + +<P> +"The place where good people go when they die." +</P> + +<P> +"Think again. What is heaven?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have thought again, and I cannot think of anything but the place +where God and the angels are. I do not know how you want me to +think." +</P> + +<P> +"I want you to think why it is heaven, and why the angels are happy. +Do you understand?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Being beautiful and so pleasant makes it heaven; and the +angels are happy because they are in heaven." +</P> + +<P> +"Then, of course, if you put even such wicked people into a +beautiful and pleasant place they would be angels, and happy?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, now I see! You mean the angels are happy because they are +good." +</P> + +<P> +"Why should that make them happy?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know why, but I know the Bible says so. I suppose just the +same as when you promise me, in the morning, that if I say my +lessons all nicely you will tell me a beautiful fairy-tale after +tea." +</P> + +<P> +"No, my little Alice, not exactly in that way, though at first +thought it does seem to be so. I want you very much indeed, to +understand the truth about it, but I am afraid you will not find it +easy. You know that God is good, and wise, and happy—ah, dearest! +better, wiser, happier than the purest angels will ever know, though +they go on learning it to eternity. When I say to you God is +infinitely good, and wise, and happy, you cannot understand that, +and neither can I; but one thing about it I can understand, and this +I will tell you. Just as every joyous ray of light and heat comes to +us from the sun, so all wisdom, all goodness, all beauty, all joy, +flow forth from God, and are His, alone. Our very souls would go out +of existence like the flames of a lamp when the oil is spent, if, +for the least fraction of a second, He ceased to give us life. This +truth that I am teaching you now is not mine, nor yours; it is only +a tiny stream flowing from the fountains of His infinite wisdom, and +would be the truth, all the same, if we had never been born, or +never learned to see it. The good and joyous feelings in your heart, +too, are also from God, just as the truth is, though they seem to +you more as if they were your own. You must never think of them as +your own, never; but thank God for them very gratefully and humbly, +for they are His fruits that grow in the garden of your father, the +Garden of Eden." +</P> + +<P> +"Why do you call it the Garden of Eden?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because, by the Garden of Eden, is signified the state of those who +live in obedience to God; and by the beauty and pleasantness of the +garden we are taught that, when we receive goodness and truth from +God, we, at the same time, receive happiness from Him, because He is +infinitely happy, as well as infinitely good, and when His spirit +fills our hearts, we are happy too. Happiness comes with goodness, +just as the flowers and songs of birds come with summer." +</P> + +<P> +"Then are all good people happy? I thought not." +</P> + +<P> +"It is true, there are many trials in this world, but do you not see +that if we were good we should acknowledge that God sent them as +blessings, and should be willing to accept them from him, and +should, therefore, not be made very unhappy by them. You may be sure +that people are really, in their heart of hearts, happy exactly in +proportion as they are good. I have known persons who had suffered a +great deal in many ways, and who yet said that nothing had been so +bitter to them as the consciousness of their own sins. Good people +see a thousand things to love and enjoy which the wicked world find +no pleasure in; they are sure to make friends, and, what is far +better, sure to love and do good to all about them. They take +delight in everything beautiful that God has created. They think of +Him, and all His goodness, and, in the midst of sorrow, their hearts +are comforted, and filled with heavenly peace." +</P> + +<P> +"Why did you say the road was rough and long to that beautiful +garden?—is it so very, very hard to be good?—and does it take so +very long?" +</P> + +<P> +"You must not feel sad because it is not easy to be good; you must +think of it bravely, and joyfully. Why, my Alice! did you not say +you never felt tired when you were going to a pleasant place? It is +not always easy to do right; sometimes we are sorely tempted, and +then it seems very difficult; but what of that? It is possible, +always, for God never requires of us what we cannot do. When you +feel discouraged, remember that angels in heaven were little +children once, and that some of them found it as hard as you do to +be good and true, but they tried over and over again, and are +blessed angels now. They love to acknowledge that it was not by +their own strength they overcame evil, but that all the good and +truth and happiness they have are from God. He does not love you +less than He did them, for His love is infinite to all His children, +and if you are willing He will lead you also into His Garden of +Eden." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="flower"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +HAVE A FLOWER IN YOUR ROOM. +</H3> + +<P> +A FIRE in winter, a flower in summer! If you can have a fine print +or picture all the year round, so much the better; you will thus +always have a bit of sunshine in your room, whether the sky be clear +or not. But, above all, a flower in summer! +</P> + +<P> +Most people have yet to learn the true enjoyment of life; it is not +fine dresses, or large houses, or elegant furniture, or rich wines, +or gay parties, that make homes happy. Really, wealth cannot +purchase pleasures of the higher sort; these depend not on money, or +money's worth; it is the heart, and taste, and intellect, which +determine the happiness of men; which give the seeing eye and the +sentient nature, and without which, man is little better than a kind +of walking clothes-horse. +</P> + +<P> +A snug and a clean home, no matter how tiny it be, so that it be +wholesome; windows, into which the sun can shine cheerily; a few +good books (and who need be without a few good books in these days +of universal cheapness?)—no duns at the door, and the cupboard well +supplied, and with a flower in your room!—and there is none so poor +as not to have about him the elements of pleasure. +</P> + +<P> +Hark! there is a child passing our window calling "wallflowers!" We +must have a bunch forthwith: it is only a penny! A shower has just +fallen, the pearly drops are still hanging upon the petals, and they +sparkle in the sun which has again come out in his beauty. +</P> + +<P> +How deliciously the flower smells of country and nature! It is like +summer coming into our room to greet us. The wallflowers are from +Kent, and only last night were looking up to the stars from their +native stems; they are full of buds yet, with their promise of fresh +beauty. "Betty! bring a glass of clear water to put these flowers +in!" and so we set to, arranging and displaying our pennyworth to +the best advantage. +</P> + +<P> +But what do you say to a nosegay of roses? Here you have a specimen +of the most beautiful of the smiles of Nature! Who, that looks on +one of these bright full-blown beauties, will say that she is sad, +or sour, or puritanical! Nature tells us to be happy, to be glad, +for she decks herself with roses, and the fields, the skies, the +hedgerows, the thickets, the green lanes, the dells, the mountains, +the morning and evening sky, are robed in loveliness. The "laughing +flowers," exclaims the poet! but there is more than gayety in the +blooming flower, though it takes a wise man to see its full +significance—there is the beauty, the love, and the adaptation, of +which it is full. Few of us, however, see any more deeply in this +respect than did Peter Bell:— +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "A primrose by a river's brim,<BR> + A yellow primrose was to him,<BR> + And it was nothing more."<BR> +</P> + +<P> +What would we think or say of one who had invented +flowers—supposing, that before him, flowers were things unknown; +would it not be the paradise of a new delight? should we not hail +the inventor as a genius as a god? And yet these lovely offsprings +of the earth have been speaking to man from the first dawn of his +existence till now, telling him of the goodness and wisdom of the +Creating Power, which bade the earth bring forth, not only that +which was useful as food, but also flowers, the bright consummate +flowers, to clothe it in beauty and joy! +</P> + +<P> +See that graceful fuchsia, its blood-red petals, and calyx of +bluish-purple, more exquisite in colour and form than any hand or +eyes, no matter how well skilled and trained, can imitate! We can +manufacture no colours to equal those of our flowers in their bright +brilliancy—such, for instance, as the Scarlet Lychnis, the +Browallia, or even the Common Poppy. Then see the exquisite blue of +the humble Speedwell, and the dazzling white of the Star of +Bethlehem, that shines even in the dark. Bring one of even our +common field-flowers into a room, place it on your table or chimney +piece, and you seem to have brought a ray of sunshine into the +place. There is ever cheerfulness about flowers; what a delight are +they to the drooping invalid! the very sight of them is cheering; +they are like a sweet draught of fresh bliss, coming as messengers +from the country without, and seeming to say:—"Come and see the +place where we grow, and let thy heart be glad in our presence." +</P> + +<P> +What can be more innocent than flowers! Are they not like children +undimmed by sin? They are emblems of purity and truth, always a new +source of delight to the pure and the innocent. The heart that does +not love flowers, or the voice of a playful child, is one that we +should not like to consort with. It was a beautiful conceit that +invented a language of flowers, by which lovers were enabled to +express the feelings that they dared not openly speak. But flowers +have a voice to all,—to old and young, to rich and poor, if they +would but listen, and try to interpret their meaning. "To me," says +Wordsworth, +</P> + +<P CLASS="flower"> + The meanest flower that blows can give<BR> + Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."<BR> +</P> + +<P> +Have a flower in your room then, by all means! It will cost you only +a penny, if your ambition is moderate; and the gratification it will +give you will be beyond all price. If you can have a flower for your +window, so much the better. What can be more delicious than the +sun's light streaming through flowers—through the midst of crimson +fuchsias or scarlet geraniums? Then to look out into the light +through flowers—is not that poetry? And to break the force of the +sunbeams by the tender resistance of green leaves? If you can train +a nasturtium round the window, or some sweet-peas, then you have the +most beautiful frame you can invent for the picture without, whether +it be the busy crowd, or a distant landscape, or trees with their +lights and shades, or the changes of the passing clouds. Any one may +thus look through flowers for the price of an old song. And what a +pure taste and refinement does it not indicate on the part of the +cultivator! +</P> + +<P> +A flower in your window sweetens the air, makes your room look +graceful, gives the sun's light a new charm, rejoices your eye, and +links you to nature and beauty. You really cannot be altogether +alone, if you have a sweet flower to look upon, and it is a +companion which will never utter a cross thing to anybody, but +always look beautiful and smiling. Do not despise it because it is +cheap, and everybody may have the luxury as well as you. Common +things are cheap, and common things are invariably the most +valuable. Could we only have a fresh air or sunshine by purchase, +what luxuries these would be; but they are free to all, and we think +not of their blessings. +</P> + +<P> +There is, indeed, much in nature that we do not yet half enjoy, +because we shut our avenues of sensation and of feeling. We are +satisfied with the matter of fact, and look not for the spirit of +fact, which is above all. If we would open our minds to enjoyment, +we should find tranquil pleasures spread about us on every side. We +might live with the angels that visit us on every sunbeam, and sit +with the fairies who wait on every flower. We want some loving +knowledge to enable us truly to enjoy life, and we require to +cultivate a little more than we do the art of making the most of the +common means and appliances for enjoyment, which lie about us on +every side. There are, we doubt not, many who may read these pages, +who can enter into and appreciate the spirit of all that we have now +said; and, to those who may still hesitate, we would say—begin and +experiment forthwith; and first of all, when the next flower-girl +comes along your street, at once hail her, and "Have a flower for +your room!" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="wealth"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +WEALTH. +</H3> + +<P> +THE error of life into which man most readily falls, is the pursuit +of wealth as the highest good of existence. While riches command +respect, win position, and secure comfort, it is expected that they +will be regarded by all classes only with a strong and unsatisfied +desire. But the undue reverence which is everywhere manifested for +wealth, the rank which is conceded it, the homage which is paid it, +the perpetual worship which is offered it, all tend to magnify its +desirableness, and awaken longings for its possession in the minds +of those born without inheritance. In society, as at present +observed, the acquisition of money would seem to be the height of +human aim—the great object of living, to which all other purposes +are made subordinate. Money, which exalts the lowly, and sheds +honour upon the exalted—money, which makes sin appear goodness, and +gives to viciousness the seeming of chastity—money, which silences +evil report, and opens wide the mouth of praise—money, which +constitutes its possessor an oracle, to whom men listen with +deference—money, which makes deformity beautiful, and sanctifies +crime—money, which lets the guilty go unpunished, and wins +forgiveness for wrong—money, which makes manhood and age +respectable, and is commendation, surety, and good name for the +young,—how shall it be gained? by what schemes gathered in? by what +sacrifice secured? These are the questions which absorb the mind, +the practical answerings of which engross the life of men. The +schemes are too often those of fraud, and outrage upon the sacred +obligations of being; the sacrifice, loss of the highest moral +sense, the destruction of the purest susceptibilities of nature, the +neglect of internal life and development, the utter and sad +perversion of the true purposes of existence. Money is valued beyond +its worth—it has gained a power vastly above its deserving. Wealth +is courted so obsequiously, is flattered so servilely, is so +influential in moulding opinions and judgment, has such a weight in +the estimation of character, that men regard its acquisition as the +most prudent aim of their endeavours, and its possession as absolute +enjoyment and honour, rather than the means of honourable, useful, +and happy life. While riches are thus over-estimated, and hold such +power in the community, men will forego ease and endure toil, +sacrifice social pleasures and abandon principle, for the speedy and +unlimited acquirement of property. Money will not be regarded as the +means of living, but as the object of life. All nobler ends will be +neglected in the eager haste to be rich. No higher pursuit will be +recognised than the pursuit of gold—no attainment deemed so +desirable as the attainment of wealth. While the great man of every +circle is the rich man, in the common mind wealth becomes the +synonyme of greatness. No condition is discernable superior to that +which money confers; no loftier idea of manhood is entertained than +that which embraces the extent of one's possessions. +</P> + +<P> +There is a wealth of heart better than gold, and an interior +decoration fairer than outward ornament.— +</P> + +<P> +There is a splendour in upright life, beside which gems are +lustreless; and a fineness of spirit whose beauty outvies the +glitter of diamonds. Man's true riches are hidden in his nature, and +in their development and increase will he find his surest happiness. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="happy"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +HOW TO BE HAPPY. +</H3> + +<P> +OLD Mr. Cleveland sat by his comfortable fireside one cold winter's +night. He was a widower, and lived alone on his plantation; that is +to say, he was the only white person there; for of negroes, both +field hands and house servants, he had enough and to spare. He was a +queer old man, this Mr. Cleveland; a man of kind, good feelings, but +of eccentric impulses, and blunt and startling manners. You must +always let him do everything in his own odd way; just attempt to +dictate to him, or even to suggest a certain course, and you would +be sure to defeat your wisest designs. He seemed at times possessed +by a spirit of opposition, and would often turn right round and +oppose a course he had just been vehemently advocating, only because +some one else had ventured openly and warmly to approve it. +</P> + +<P> +The night, as I have said, was bitter cold, and would have done +honour to a northern latitude, and in addition to this, a violent +storm was coming on. The wind blew in fitful gusts, howling and +sighing among the huge trees with which the house was surrounded, +and then dying away with a melancholy, dirge-like moan. The old tree +rubbed their leafless branches against the window panes, and the +fowls which had roosted there for the night, were fain to clap their +wings, and make prodigious efforts to preserve their equilibrium. +Mr. Cleveland grew moody and restless, threw down the book in which +he had been reading, kicked one of the andirons till he made the +whole blazing fabric tumble down, and finally called, in an +impatient tone, his boy Tom. +</P> + +<P> +Tom soon popped his head in at the door, and said, "Yer's me, sir." +</P> + +<P> +"Yer's me, indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Cleveland, "what sort of a way is +this to build a fire?" +</P> + +<P> +"I rispec you is bin kick um, sir," said Tom. +</P> + +<P> +"Hey? What? Well! suppose I did bin kick um, if it had been properly +made, it would not have tumbled down. Fix it this minute, sir!" +</P> + +<P> +"I is gwine to fix um now, sir," said Tom, fumbling at the fire. +</P> + +<P> +"Well! fix it, sir, without having so much to say about it; you had +better do more, and say less," said Mr. Cleveland. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir," answered Tom. +</P> + +<P> +"You <I>will</I> keep answering me when there is no occasion!" exclaimed +Mr. Cleveland; "I just wish I had my stick here, I'd crack the side +of your head with it." +</P> + +<P> +"Yer's de stick, sir," said Tom, handing the walking cane out of the +corner. +</P> + +<P> +"Put it down, this instant, sir," said Mr. Cleveland; "how dare you +touch my stick without my leave?" +</P> + +<P> +"I bin tink you bin say you bin want um, sir," said Tom. +</P> + +<P> +"You had better tink about your work, sir, and stop answering me, +sir, or I'll find a way to make you," said Mr. Cleveland. "Bring in +some more light wood, and make the fire, and shut in the window +shutters. Do you hear me, sir?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir," replied Tom. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, why don't you answer, if you hear, then? How am I to know +when you hear me, if you don't answer?" said Mr. Cleveland. +</P> + +<P> +"I bin tink you bin tell me for no answer you, sir," said Tom. +</P> + +<P> +"I said when there was no occasion, boy; that's what I said," +exclaimed Mr. Cleveland, reaching for his stick. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir," said Tom, as he went grinning out of the room. +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Cleveland was, in the main, a very kind master, though somewhat +hasty and impatient. Tom and he were for ever sparring, yet neither +could have done without the other; and there was something comical +about Tom's disposition which well suited his master's eccentric and +changeable moods. Tom evidently served as a kind of safety valve for +his master's nervous system, and many an explosion of superfluous +excitability he had to bear. +</P> + +<P> +On the night in question, Mr. Cleveland was particularly out of +sorts. The truth is, he was naturally a generous, warm-hearted man, +but in consequence of early disappointment, had lived a solitary +life, and was really suffering for the want of objects of affection. +His feelings, unsatisfied, unemployed, yet morbidly sensitive, were +becoming soured, and his untenanted heart often ached for want of +sympathy. +</P> + +<P> +He rose and took several diagonal turns across the room. At length +he opened a window, and looked out upon the stormy night. "What +confounded weather!" he muttered to himself, "it makes a man feel +like blowing his brains out! There are no two ways about it, I'm +tired of life. What have I to live for? If I were to die to-morrow, +who would shed a tear?" +</P> + +<P> +Then whispered conscience, "It is thine own fault. A man need not +feel alone because there are none in the world who bear his name, or +share his blood. All men are thy brethren. Thou art one of the great +human family, and what hast thou done to relieve the poor and +suffering around thee? Will not thy Master say to thee at the last +day, 'I was an hungered, and you gave me no meat; I was thirsty, and +you gave me no drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me not in; +naked, and you clothed me not; sick, and in prison, and you visited +me not. Inasmuch as you did it not to one of the least of these my +brethren, <I>you did it not to me.</I>'" +</P> + +<P> +This was a strong and direct appeal, and it was not without its +effect. Then muttered Mr. Cleveland to himself again, "Well, how can +I help it? It has not been for want of inclination. Heaven knows I +am always ready to put my hand in my pocket whenever people call on +me for charity. How can I help it if the poor and suffering do not +make their wants known to me?" +</P> + +<P> +Then again spake Conscience: "Thou art trying to deceive thyself, +but thou canst not deceive nor silence <I>me</I>. Thou hast known of the +existence of suffering, and thine indolence has prevented thee from +going abroad to relieve it. Did thy Master thus? Did he not <I>go +about</I> to do good? Did he not sit down to meat with publicans and +sinners? Can you stand here, and look out upon such a night as this, +and not think of those who are exposed to its bitterness? Can thy +human heart beat only for itself when thou thinkest of the thousand +miseries crying to Heaven for relief? Resolve, now, before thy head +touches its comfortable pillow, that with the morning's dawn thou +wilt resolutely set about thy work; or, rather, thy Master's work." +</P> + +<P> +"It is very hard," still muttered Mr. Cleveland to himself, "that +these thoughts will continually intrude themselves upon me. They +give me no peace of my life. Stifle them as I may, they come with +tenfold force. People have no business to be poor. I was poor once, +and nobody gave charity to me. I had to help myself up in the world +as well as I could. I hate poor people; I hate unfortunate people; +in fact, confound it! I hate the world and everybody in it." +</P> + +<P> +Then answered once again the still, small voice: "For shame, Mr. +Cleveland, for shame! You will ruin your soul if you thus darken the +light within. You know better than all this, and you are sinning +against yourself. You want to be happy; well, you may be so. There +is a wide field of duty open before you; enter, in God's name, and +go to work like a man. What you say about having helped yourself, is +perfectly true, and you deserve all credit for it. But remember that +the majority of the poor are entirely destitute of your advantages. +You had the foundation rightly laid. A thousand circumstances in +your early life conspired to render you energetic and self-relying. +You had the right sort of education, and Providence also helped to +train you. Besides, once more I ask you, did your Master stop to +inquire how human misery was brought about before he relieved it? +Away with this unmanly, selfish policy! Follow thy generous +impulses, follow out the yearnings of thy heart, without which you +never can have peace; above, all, follow Christ." +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Cleveland shut the window, heaved a deep sigh, and took several +more turns across the room. "I believe it is all true," at length he +said, "and I have been a confounded fool. I'll turn about, and lead +a different life, so help me Heaven! I have wealth, and not a chick +nor a child to spend it on, nor to leave it to when I die, and so +I'll spend it in doing good, if I can only find out the best way; +that's the trouble. But never mind, I'll be my own executor." He now +rang the bell for Tom. +</P> + +<P> +Tom immediately appeared, with his usual "Yer's me, sir." +</P> + +<P> +"Tom," said Mr. Cleveland, "put me in mind in the morning, to send a +load of wood to old Mrs. Peters." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir," said Tom, "an' you better sen' some bacon, 'cause I bin +yerry (hear) little Mas Jack Peter say him ain't bin hab no meat for +eat sence I do' know de day when. I rispec dey drudder hab de meat +sted o' de wood, 'cause dey can pick up wood nuf all about." +</P> + +<P> +"You mind your own business, sir," said Mr. Cleveland, "I'll send +just what I please. How long is it since I came to you for advice? +Confound the fellow!" he muttered aside, "I meant to send the woman +some meat, and now if I do it, that impudent fellow will think I do +it because he advised it. Any how, I'll not send bacon, I'll send +beef or mutton." +</P> + +<P> +Just at this moment, there was a knock at the door, and Tom, going +to open it, admitted Dick, the coachman. +</P> + +<P> +"What do you want, Dick, at this time of night?" inquired his +master. +</P> + +<P> +"Dere's a man down stays, sir," replied Dick, "and he seem to be in +great 'fliction. He says dey is campin' out 'bout half a mile below, +sir, and de trees is fallin' so bad he is 'fraid dey will all be +killed. He ask you if you kin let dem stay in one of de out-houses +tell to-morrow." +</P> + +<P> +"Camping out such a night as this?" exclaimed Mr. Cleveland, "the +Lord have pity on them! How many are there of them, Dick?" +</P> + +<P> +"He, an' his wife, and six little children, sir," answered Dick. +</P> + +<P> +"No negroes?" inquired his master. +</P> + +<P> +"Not a nigger, sir," said Dick. "I ain't like poor buckrah, no how, +sir, but I 'spect you best take dese people in, lest dey might die +right in our woods." +</P> + +<P> +Tom, knowing his master's dislike of advice, and fearing that Dick +had taken the surest method to shut them out, now chimed in, and +said, "Massa, ef I bin you, I no would tek dem in none 't all." +</P> + +<P> +"What do you mean, sir?" exclaimed Mr. Cleveland; "you surely must +be taking leave of your senses. Dick, you'll have to give that boy +of yours a thrashing. I'll not stand his insolence much longer. +Don't stand there, grinning at me, sir." +</P> + +<P> +"No, sir," snickered Tom, skulking behind Dick, who was his father. +</P> + +<P> +"Let the man come up here, Dick," said Mr. Cleveland. +</P> + +<P> +When the traveller made his appearance, Mr. Cleveland was startled +at his wan and wo-begone appearance. "Sit down, my man," said he. +</P> + +<P> +"I thank you, sir," replied the stranger, "but I must be back as +soon as possible to my family. Can you grant us a night's lodging, +sir?" +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly, sir," replied Mr. Cleveland; "have you any means of +getting your family hither? I am told you have six little ones." +</P> + +<P> +"They must walk, sir," replied the stranger, "for our only horse has +been killed by a falling tree; but I have not a word to say. It +might have been my wife or one of my little ones, and, poor as I am, +I can spare none of them." +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Cleveland, whose feelings were at this time in an usually +softened state, got up, and walked rapidly to the book-case to +conceal his emotion, dashed away a tear, and muttered to himself, as +was his wont, "'Tis confoundedly affecting, that's a fact." Then +turning to the stranger, who was in the act of leaving the room, he +said, "If you will wait a few moments I will have my carriage got; +your wife and little ones must not walk on such a night as this." +</P> + +<P> +"God bless you, sir!" said the stranger, in a trembling voice; "but +I am too uneasy to stay a moment longer." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, go on," said Mr. Cleveland, "and the carriage shall come +after you, and I will go in it myself." The stranger brushed his +hand across his eyes, and left the room without speaking a word; +while Dick and Tom exchanged glances of surprise at their master's +uncommon fit of philanthropy; Tom feeling fully assured that the +"poor buckrahs," as he termed them, owed their good fortune to his +seasonable interference. +</P> + +<P> +The carriage was soon in readiness, and Mr. Cleveland rode in it to +the spot. He found the family all gathered around the dead horse, +and lamenting over it; while the father, having just arrived, was +expatiating upon his kind reception by Mr. Cleveland. It took them +some little time to stow themselves away in the carriage, and Mr. +Cleveland actually carried two sturdy children on his knees. Yes, +there he was, riding through the dreadful storm, in danger every +moment from the trees which were falling all around him, with an +infant in its mother's arms squalling with all its might, and a +heavy boy on each knee, and squeezed almost to death into the +bargain—for there were nine in the carriage—and yet feeling so +happy! ay, far happier than he had felt for many a long day. Truly, +charity brings its own reward. +</P> + +<P> +When they arrived at Mr. Cleveland's house, instead of being stowed +away in an out-building, as the poor man had modestly requested, +they were comfortably provided for beneath his own roof. That night, +as he laid his head upon his pillow, he could not help feeling +surprised at his sudden accession of happiness. "Well, I will go +on," he soliloquized; "I will pursue the path I have this night +taken, and if I always feel as I do now, I am a new man, and will +never again talk about blowing my brains out." He slept that night +the sleep of peace, and rose in the morning with a light heart and +buoyant spirits. +</P> + +<P> +His first care was to take the father of the family aside, and +gather from him the story of his misfortunes. It was a long and +mournful tale, and Mr. Cleveland was obliged, more than once, to +pretend a sudden call out of the room, that he might hide his +emotion. And the tale was by no means told in vain. True to his new +resolutions, Mr. Cleveland thankfully accepted the work which +Providence had given him to do, and the family of emigrants, to this +day, mention the name of Cleveland with tears of gratitude and love, +and, when they implore God's mercy for themselves, never forget to +invoke, for their kind benefactor, Heaven's choicest blessings. Nor +is that the only family whose hearts glow at the mention of Mr. +Cleveland's name. Far and wide his name is known, and honoured, and +beloved. +</P> + +<P> +And Mr. Cleveland has found out the real secret of happiness. It is +true that he and Tom still have their squabbles, for Tom is really a +provoking fellow, and Mr. Cleveland is, and always will be, an +eccentric, impulsive man, but his heart, which, when we first +introduced him to our readers, was far from being right with God, or +with his fellow-men, is now the dwelling-place of love and kindness, +and the experience of every day contributes to strengthen the new +principles he has imbibed, and to confirm him in the right. +</P> + +<P> +Reader! art thou sad or solitary? I can offer thee a certain cure +for all thy woes. Contemplate the life of Him who spake as never man +spake. Follow him through all those years of toil and suffering. See +him wherever called by the sorrows of his human brethren, and +witness his deeds of mercy and his offices of love, and then—"go +thou and do likewise." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="rebecca"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +REBECCA. +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + HER words were few, without pretence<BR> + To tricks of courtly eloquence,<BR> + But full of pure and simple thought,<BR> + And with a guileless feeling fraught,<BR> + And said in accents which conferred<BR> + Poetic charm on household word.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + She needed not to speak, to be<BR> + The best loved of the company—<BR> + She did her hands together press<BR> + With such a child-like gracefulness;<BR> + And such a sweet tranquillity<BR> + Upon her silent lips did lie,<BR> + And such unsullied purity<BR> + In the blue heaven of her eye.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + She moved among us like to one<BR> + Who had not lived on earth alone;<BR> + But felt a dim, mysterious sense<BR> + Of a more stately residence,<BR> + And seemed to have a consciousness<BR> + Of an anterior happiness—<BR> + To hear, at times, the echoes sent<BR> + From some unearthly instrument<BR> + With half-remembered voices blent—<BR> + And yet to hold the friendships dear,<BR> + And prize the blessings of our sphere—<BR> + In sweet perplexity to know<BR> + Which of the two was dreamy show,<BR> + The dark green earth, the deep blue skies,<BR> + The love which shone in mortal eyes,<BR> + Or those faint recollections, telling<BR> + Of a more bright and tranquil dwelling.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + We could not weep upon the day<BR> + When her pure spirit passed away;<BR> + We thought we read the mystery<BR> + Which in her life there seemed to be—<BR> + That she was not our own, but lent<BR> + To us little while, and sent<BR> + An angel child, what others preach<BR> + Of heavenly purity, to teach,<BR> + In ways more eloquent than speech—<BR> + And chiefly by that raptured eye<BR> + Which seemed to look beyond the sky,<BR> + And that abstraction, listening<BR> + To hear the choir of seraphs sing.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + We thought that death did seem to her<BR> + Of long-lost joy the harbinger—<BR> + Like an old household servant, come<BR> + To take the willing scholar home;<BR> + The school-house, it was very dear,<BR> + But then the holidays were near;<BR> + And why should she be lingering here?<BR> + Softly the servant bore the child<BR> + Who at her parting turned and smiled,<BR> + And looked back to us, till the night<BR> + For ever hid her from our sight.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="life"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +LIFE A TREADMILL. +</H3> + +<P> +WHO says that life is a treadmill? +</P> + +<P> +You, merchant, when, after a weary day of measuring cotton-cloth or +numbering flower barrels, bowing to customers or taking account of +stock, you stumble homeward, thinking to yourself that the moon is a +tolerable substitute for gas light, to prevent people from running +against the posts—and then, by chance, recall the time when, a +school-boy, you read about "chaste Dian" in your Latin books, and +discovered a striking resemblance to moonbeams in certain blue eyes +that beamed upon you from the opposite side of the school-room. +</P> + +<P> +Ah! those were the days when brick side-walks were as elastic as +India rubber beneath your feet; shop windows were an exhibition of +transparencies to amuse children and young people, and the world in +prospect was one long pleasure excursion. Then you drank the bright +effervescence in your glass of soda-water, and now you must swallow +the cold, flat settlings, or not get your money's worth. Long ago +you found out that the moon is the origin of moonshine, that blue +eyes are not quite as fascinating under gray hair and behind +spectacles, and that "money answereth all things." +</P> + +<P> +You say so, clerk or bank-teller, when you look up from your books +at the new-fallen snow glistening in the morning light, and feel +something like the prancing of horses' hoofs in the soles of your +boots, and hear the jingling of sleigh bells in your mind's ear, +long after the sound of them has passed from your veritable +auriculars. +</P> + +<P> +You say so, teacher, while going through the daily drill of your A B +C regiments, your multiplication table platoons, and your +chirographical battalions. +</P> + +<P> +You say so, factory girl, passing backward and forward from the +noise and whirl of wheels in the mills, to the whirl and noise of +wheels in your dreams. +</P> + +<P> +You say so, milliner's apprentice, as you sit down to sew gay +ribbons on gay bonnets, and stand up to try gay bonnets on gay +heads. +</P> + +<P> +You say so, housemaid or housekeeper, when the song of the early +bird reminds you of crying children, whose faces are to be washed; +when the rustling of fallen leaves in the wind makes you wonder how +the new broom is going to sweep; when the aroma of roses suggests +the inquiry whether the box of burnt coffee is empty; and when the +rising sun, encircled by vapoury clouds, brings up the similitude of +a huge fire-proof platter, and the smoke of hot potatoes. +</P> + +<P> +There is a principle in human nature which rebels against +repetitions. Who likes to fall asleep, thinking that to-morrow +morning he must get up and do exactly the same things that he did +to-day, the next day ditto, and so forth, until the chapter of +earthly existence is finished! +</P> + +<P> +It is very irksome for these soaring thoughts winged to "wander +through eternity," to come down and work out the terms of a tedious +apprenticeship to the senses. And yet, what were thoughts +unlocalized and unembodied? Mere comets or vague nebulosities in the +firmament, without a form, and without a home. +</P> + +<P> +All things have their orbit, and are held in it by the power of two +great opposing forces. +</P> + +<P> +Outward circumstances form the centripetal force, which keeps us in +ours. Let the eccentric will fly off at ever so wide a tangent for a +time, back it must come to a regular diurnal path, or wander away +into the "blackness of darkness." And if these daily duties and +cares come to us robed in the shining livery of Law, should we not +accept them as bearers of a sublime mission? +</P> + +<P> +"What?" you say, "anything sublime in yardstick tactics or ledger +columns? Anything sublime in washing dishes or trimming bonnets? The +idea is simply ridiculous!" +</P> + +<P> +No, not ridiculous; only a simple idea, and great in its simplicity. +For the manner of performing even menial duties, gives you the gauge +and dimensions of the doer's inward strength. The power of the soul +asserts itself, not so much in shaping favourable circumstances to +desired ends, as in resisting the pressure of crushing circumstances, +and triumphing over them. +</P> + +<P> +Manufactures, trades, and all the subordinate arts and occupations +that keep the car of civilization in motion, may be to you machines +moving with a monotonous and unmeaning buzz, or they may be like +Ezekiel's vision of wheels involved in wheels, that were lifted up +from the earth by the power of the living creature that was in them. +</P> + +<P> +Grumbling man or woman, life <I>is</I> a treadmill to you, because you +look doggedly down and see nothing but the dull steps you take. If +you would cease grumbling, and look up, your life would be +transformed into a Jacob's ladder, and every step onward would be a +step upward too. And even if it were a treadmill, to which you and +other mortals were condemned for past offences, a kindly sympathy +for your fellow-prisoners could carpet the way with velvet, and you +might move on smilingly together, as through the mazes of an easy +dance. +</P> + +<P> +It is of no use to preach the old sermon of contentment with one +condition, whatever it may be, a sermon framed for lands where +aristocracies are fixtures, in this generation and on this +continent. Discontent is a necessity of republicanism, until the +millennium comes. +</P> + +<P> +Yet it is not sensible to complain of the present, until we have +gleaned its harvests and drained its sap, and it has become capital +for us to draw upon in the future. Most of the dissatisfied +grumblers of our day are like children from whom the prospect of a +Christmas pie, intended for the climax of a supper, takes away all +relish for the more solid and wholesome introductory exercises of +bread and butter. +</P> + +<P> +What is it we would have our life? Not princely pop and equipments, +nor to "marry the prince's own," which used to form the denouement +of every fairy tale, will suffice us now; for every ingenious Yankee +school-boy or girl has learned to dissect the puppet show of +royalty, and knows that its personages move in a routine the most +hampered and helpless of all. +</P> + +<P> +The honour of being four years in stepping from one door of the +"White House" to the other, ceases to be the meed of a dignified +ambition when it results from a skilful shuffling of political +cards, rather than from strength and steadiness of head and an +upright gait. +</P> + +<P> +If we ask for freedom from care, and leisure to enjoy life—until we +have learned, through the discipline of labour and care, how to +appreciate and use leisure—we might as well petition from +government a grant of prairie land for Egyptian mummies to run races +upon. +</P> + +<P> +If one might get himself appointed to the general overseership of +the solar system, still, what would his occupation be but a regular +pacing to and fro from the sun to the outermost limits of Le +Verrier's calculations, and perhaps a little farther? A succession +of rather longish strides he would have to take, to be sure; now +burning his soles in the fires of Mercury; now hitting his corns +against some of the pebbly Asteroids, and now slipping upon the icy +rim of Neptune. Still, if he made drudgery of his work by keeping +his soul out of it, he would only have his treadmill life over +again, on a large scale. +</P> + +<P> +The monotony of our three-score years and ten is wearisome to us; +what can we think then of the poor planets, doomed to the same +diurnal spinning, the same annual path, for six thousand years, to +our certain knowledge? And, if telescopes tell us the truth, the +universe is an ever-widening series of similar monotonies. +</P> + +<P> +Yet space is ample enough to give all systems variety of place. +While each planet moves steadily along on the edge of its plane, the +whole solar equipage is going forward to open a new track on the +vast highway of the heavens. +</P> + +<P> +We too, moving in our several spheres with honest endeavours and +aspirations, are, by the stability of our motions, lifting and being +lifted, with the whole compact human brotherhood, into a higher +elevation, a brighter revelation of the Infinite, the Universe of +Wisdom and Love. +</P> + +<P> +And in this view, though our efforts be humble and our toil hard, +life can never be a treadmill. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="arthur"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +ARTHUR LELAND. +</H3> + +<P> +ARTHUR LELAND was a young lawyer of some twenty-seven years of age. +His office stood a stone's throw from the court-house, in a thriving +town in the West. Arthur had taken a full course in a Northern +college, both in the collegiate and law department, and with some +honour. During his course he had managed to read an amazing amount +of English literature, and no man was readier or had a keener taste +in such things than he. He had a pleasing personal appearance, a +fluent and persuasive manner, an unblemished character. Every +morning he came to his office from one of the most pleasant little +cottage homes in the world; and if you had opened the little front +gate, and gone up through the shrubbery to the house, you would have +seen a Mrs. Leland, somewhere in-doors, and she as intelligent and +pleasant a lady as you ever saw. You would have seen, moreover, +tumbling about the grass, or up to the eyes in some mischief, as +noble-looking a little fellow of some three years old as you could +well have wished for your own son. +</P> + +<P> +This all looks well enough, but there is something wrong. Not in the +house. No; it is as pleasant a cottage as you could wish—plenty of +garden, peas and honeysuckles climbing up everywhere, green grass, +white paint, Venetian blinds, comfortable furniture. +</P> + +<P> +Not in Willie, the little scamp. No; rosy, healthy, good head, +intelligent eyes, a fine specimen he was of an only son. Full of +mischief, of course, he was. Overflowing with uproar and questions +and mischief. Mustachios of egg or butter-milk or molasses after +each meal, as a matter of course. Cut fingers, bumped forehead, torn +clothes, all day long. Yet a more affectionate, easily-managed child +never was. +</P> + +<P> +The mischief was not in Lucy, the Mrs. Leland. I assure you it was +not. Leland knew, to his heart's core, that a lovelier, more +prudent, sensible, intelligent wife it was impossible to exist. +Thrifty, loving, lady-like, right and true throughout. +</P> + +<P> +Where was this mischief? Look at Leland. He is in perpetual motion. +Reading, writing, walking the streets, he is always fast, in dead +earnest. Somewhat <I>too</I> fast. There is a certain slowness about your +strong man. You never associate the idea of mental depth and power +with your quick-stepping man. You cannot conceive of a Roman emperor +or a Daniel Webster as a slight, swift man. The bearing of a man's +body is the outward emblem of the bearing of his soul. Leland is +rather slight, rather swift. He meets you in his rapid walk. He +stops, grasps your hand, asks cordially after your health. There is +an open, warm feeling in the man. No hypocrisy whatever. Yet he +talks too fast. He don't give you half a chance to answer one of his +rapid questions, before he is asking another totally different. He +is not at ease. He keeps you from being at ease. You feel it +specially in his house. He is too cordial, too full of effort to +make your visit pleasant to you. You like him, yet you don't feel +altogether at home with him. You are glad when he leaves you to his +more composed wife. You never knew or heard of his saying or doing +anything wrong or even unbecoming. You look upon him as a peculiar +sort of man—well, somehow—but! He is at the bar defending that +woman, who sits by him, dressed in mourning—some chancery case. Or +it is a criminal case, and it is the widow's only son that Leland is +defending. If you had been in his office for the last week, you +would have acknowledged that he has studied the case, has prepared +himself on it as thoroughly as a man can. He is an ambitious man. He +intensely desires to make for himself a fortune and a position. His +address to the judge, or to the jury, as the case may be, is a good +one. Yet, somehow, he does not convince. He himself is carried away +by his own earnestness, but he does not carry away with him his +hearers. His remarks are interesting. People listen to him from +first to last closely. Yet his arguing does not, somehow, convince. +His pathos does not, somehow, melt. He is the sort of man that +people think of for the Legislature. No man ever thinks of him in +connexion with the Supreme Bench or Senate. +</P> + +<P> +Wherein lies the defect? Arthur Leland is well read, a gentleman of +spotless character, of earnest application, of popular manners. Why +is not this man a man of more weight, power, standing? Why, you +answer, the man is just what he is. He fills just the position up to +which his force of mind raises him. Did he have more talent, he +would be more. No, sir. Every acquaintance he has known, he himself +knows, that he is capable of being much more than he is—somehow, +somehow he does not attain to it! It is this singular impression +Leland makes upon you. It is this singular, uneasy, unsatisfied +feeling he himself is preyed upon by. "He might be, but he is not," +say his neighbours. "I am not, yet I might be," worries him as an +incessant and eternal truth. +</P> + +<P> +It broke upon him like a revelation. +</P> + +<P> +He was at work one fine morning in his garden, in a square in which +young watermelon plants of a choice kind were just springing. Willie +was there with him, just emerged fresh for fun from the waters of +sleep. Very anxious to be as near as possible to his father, who was +always his only playmate, Willie had strayed from the walk in which +his father had seated him, and stood beside his father. With a +quick, passionate motion, Leland seized his child, and placed him +violently back in the walk, with a harsh threat. The child whimpered +for a while, and soon forgetting himself, came to his father again +over the tender plants. This time Leland seized him still more +violently, seated him roughly in the walk, and, with harsh threats, +struck him upon his plump red cheek. Willie burst into tears, and +wept in passion. His father was in a miserable, uneasy frame of +mind. He ceased his work, bared his brow to the delicious morning +air. He leaned upon his hoe, and gazed upon his child. He felt there +was something wrong. He always knew, and acknowledged, that he was +of a rash, irritable disposition. He now remembered that ever since +his child's birth he had been exceedingly impatient with it. He +remembered how harshly he had spoken to it, how rudely he had tossed +it on his knee when it awoke him with its crying at night. He +remembered that the little one had been daily with him for now three +years, and that not a day had passed in which he had not spoken +loudly, fiercely to the child. +</P> + +<P> +Yes, he remembered the heavy blows he had given it in bursts of +passion, blows deeply regretted the instant after, yet repeated on +the first temptation. He thought of it all; that his boy was but a +little child, and that he had spoken to it, and expected from it, as +if it were grown. All his passionate, cruel words and blows rushed +upon his memory; his rough replies to childish questions; his +unmanly anger at childish offences. He thought, too, how the little +boy had still followed him, because its father was all on earth to +him; how the little thing had said, he "was sorry," and had offered +a kiss even after some bitter word or blow altogether undeserved. +Leland remembered, too, as the morning air blew aside his hair, how +often he had shown the same miserable, nervous irritability to his +dog, his horse, his servants; even the branch of the tree that +struck him as he walked; yea, even to his own wife. He remembered +how the same black, unhappy feelings had clouded his brow, had burst +from his lips at every little domestic annoyance that had happened. +He could not but remember how it had only made matters worse—had +made himself and his family wretched for the time. He felt how +undignified, how unmanly all this was. He pictured himself before +his own eyes as a peevish, uneasy, irritable, unhappy man—so +weak-minded! +</P> + +<P> +He glanced at the house; he knew his wife was in it, engaged in her +morning duties; gentle, lady-like, loving him so dearly. He glanced +at his sobbing child, and saw how healthful and intelligent he was. +He glanced over his garden, and orchard, and lawn, and saw how +pleasant was his home. He thought of his circle of friends, his +position in business, his own education and health. He saw how much +he had to make him happy; and all jarred and marred, and cursed by +his miserable fits of irritation; the fever, the plague increasing +daily; becoming his nature, breathing the pestilent atmosphere of +hell over himself and all connected with him. +</P> + +<P> +As he thus thought, his little boy again forgot himself, and strayed +with heedless feet toward his father. Leland dropped his hoe, +reached toward his child. The little fellow threw up his hands, and +writhed his body as if expecting a blow. +</P> + +<P> +"Willie," said the father, in a low, gentle voice. Willie looked up +with half fright, half amazement. "Willie, boy," said the father in +a new tone, which had never passed his lips before, and he felt the +deep, calm power of his own words. "Willie, boy, don't walk on pa's +plants. Go back, and stay there till pa is done." +</P> + +<P> +The child turned as by the irresistible power of the slow-spoken, +gentle words, and walked back and resumed his seat, evidently not +intending to transgress again. +</P> + +<P> +As Leland stood with the words dying on his lips, and his hand +extended, a sudden and singular idea struck him. He felt that he had +just said the most impressive and eloquent thing he had ever said in +his life! He felt that there was a power in his tone and manner +which he had never used before; a power which would affect a judge +or a jury, as it had affected Willie. The curse cursed here too! It +was that hasty, nervous disposition, which gave manner and tone to +his very public speaking; which made his arguments unconvincing, his +pathos unaffecting. It was just that calm, deep, serene feeling and +manner, which was needed at the bar as well as with Willie. Arguing +with that feeling and manner, he felt, would convince irresistibly. +Pleading with that quiet, gentle spirit, he felt would melt, would +affect the hearts as with the very emotion of tears. +</P> + +<P> +Unless you catch the idea, there is no describing it, reader. Leland +was a Christian. All that day he thought upon the whole matter. That +night in the privacy of his office he knelt and repeated the whole +matter before God. For his boy's sake, for his wife's sake, for his +own sake, for his usefulness' sake at the bar, he implored steady +aid to overcome the deadly, besetting sin. He pleaded that, +indulging in that disposition, he was alienating from himself his +boy and his wife; yea, that he was alienating his own better self +from himself, for he was losing his own self-respect. And here his +voice sank from a murmur into silence; he remembered that he was +thus alienating from his bosom and his side—God! +</P> + +<P> +And then he remembered that just such a daily disposition as he +lacked was exactly that disposition which characterized God when God +became man. The excellence of such a disposition rose serenely +before him, embodied in the person of Jesus Christ; the young lawyer +fell forward on his face and wept in the agony of his desire and his +prayer. +</P> + +<P> +From that sweet spring morning was Arthur Leland another man; a +wiser, abler, more successful man in every sense. Not all at once; +steadily, undoubtedly advanced the change. The wife saw and felt, +and rejoiced in it. Willie felt it, and was restrained by it every +drop of his merry blood; the household felt it, as a ship does an +even wind; and sailed on over smooth seas constrained by it. You saw +the change in the man's very gait and bearing and conversation. +Judge and jury felt it. It was the ceasing of a fever in the frame +of a strong man; and Leland went about easily, naturally, the strong +man he was. The old, uneasy, self-harassing feeling was forgotten, +and an ease and grace of tone and manner succeeded. It was a higher +development of the father, the husband, the orator, the gentleman, +the Christian. Surely love is the fountain of patience and peace. +Surely it is the absence of passion which makes angels to be the +beings they are. +</P> + +<P> +Men can become very nearly angels or devils, even before they have +left the world. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="poppy"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE SCARLET POPPY. +</H3> + +<P> +ONE warm morning in June, just as the sun returned from his long but +rapid journey to the distant east, and sailed majestically up +through the clear blue sky, the many bright flowers of one of the +prettiest little parterres in the world, who had opened their +eyes—those bright flowers—to smile at the sunbeams which came to +kiss away the tears night had shed over them, were very much +surprised, and not a little offended to find in their very midst an +individual who, though most of them knew her, one might have +supposed, from their appearance, was a perfect stranger to them all. +</P> + +<P> +The parterre, I have said, was small, for it was in the very heart +of a great city, where land would bring almost any price; but the +gentleman and lady who lived in the noble mansion which fronted it, +would not, for the highest price which might have been offered them, +have had those sweet flowers torn up, and a brick pile reared in the +place—their only child, the dear little Carie, loved the garden so +dearly, and spent so much of her time there. +</P> + +<P> +Oh, it was a sweet little place, though it was in the midst of a +great city where the air was full of dust and coal smoke; for the +fountain which played in the garden kept the atmosphere pure and +cool, and every day the gardener showered all the plants so that +their leaves were green and fresh as though they were blooming far +away in their native woods and dells. There were sweet roses of +every hue, from the pure Alba to the dark Damascus; and pinks, some +of the most spicy odour, some almost scentless, but all so beautiful +and so nicely trimmed. The changeless amaranth was there, the pale, +sweet-scented heliotrope, always looking towards the sun; the pure +lily; and the blue violet, which, though it had been taught to bloom +far away from the mossy bed where it had first opened its meek eye +to the light, had not yet forgotten its gentleness and modesty; and +not far from them were the fickle hydrangea, the cardinal flower +with its rich, showy petals, and the proud, vain, and ostentatious, +but beautiful crimson and white peonias. The dahlias had yet put +forth but very few blossoms, but they were elegant, and the swelling +buds promised that ere long there would be a rich display of +brilliant colours. Honeysuckles, the bright-hued and fragrant, the +white jasmine, and many other climbing plants, were latticing the +little arbour beside the clear fountain, half hiding their +jewel-like pensile blossoms and bright red berries among the smooth +green leaves which clustered so closely together as to shut out +completely the hot sun from the little gay-plumaged and sweet-voiced +songsters whose gilt cage hung within the bower. But I cannot speak +of the flowers, there were so many of them, and they were all so +beautiful and so sweet-scented. +</P> + +<P> +Well, this June morning, as I was saying, when the flowers, as they +were waked from their sleep by the sunbeams which came to kiss away +the tears night had shed over them, opened their eyes and looked +about them, they were surprised and offended to see a stranger in +their company. +</P> + +<P> +There had been, through all the season, some little rivalries and +jealousies among the flowers; but from the glances which they turned +on each other, this morning, it was evident that their feelings +towards the stranger were exactly alike. However, as might be +expected from their different dispositions, they expressed their +dislike and contempt for her in different ways; but at first all +hesitated to address her, for no one seemed to find language strong +enough to express the scorn they felt for her; until the balsam, who +never could keep silent long, inquired of the stranger, in a very +impatient tone, what was her name, and how she came there. +</P> + +<P> +The poor thing hesitated an instant, and her face grew very red; she +must have known that her presence in that company was very much +undesired, and when she spoke, it was in a low and embarrassed tone. +</P> + +<P> +"My name is Papaver, and—" +</P> + +<P> +But the Marygold laughed aloud. "Papaver!" she repeated in her most +scornful tone; "she is nothing more nor less than a Poppy—a great +offensive Poppy, whose breath fairly makes me sick. Long ago, +when—" +</P> + +<P> +But here the Marygold stopped short, it would not do, to confess to +her genteel friends, that she had formerly been acquainted with the +disreputable stranger. They did not heed her embarrassment, however, +for every one, now that the silence was broken, was anxious to +speak; all but the Mimosa, who could not utter a word, for she had +fainted quite away—the red Rose who was very diffident, and the +Dahlia who was too dignified to meddle with such trifling affairs. +</P> + +<P> +"You great, red-faced thing!" said the Carnation, "how came you here +in your ragged dress? Do you know what kind of company you are in? +Who first saw her here?" +</P> + +<P> +"I saw her," said the Morning Glory, who usually waked quite early, +"I saw her before she had got her eyes open; and what do you suppose +she had on her head? Why a little green cap which she has just +pulled off and thrown away. There it lies on the ground now. Only +look at it! no wonder she was ashamed of it. Can you think what she +wore it for?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why, yes!" said the Ladies' Slipper. "She is so handsome and so +delicate that she was fearful the early hours might injure her +health and destroy her charms!" +</P> + +<P> +"No, no!" interrupted another; "she was afraid the morning breeze +might steal away her sweet breath!" +</P> + +<P> +"You had better gather up your sweet leaves, and put on your cap +again," said the London Pride. "I see a golden-winged butterfly in +Calla's cup; your spicy breath will soon bring him here to drink of +your nectar!" +</P> + +<P> +The most of the flowers laughed, but the Carnation still called +out—"How came she here?" +</P> + +<P> +The Amaranth, however, who never slept a wink through the whole +night, would not answer the question, though the flowers were +certain that she could, were she so inclined. +</P> + +<P> +"I do not see how you who are in her immediate neighbourhood, can +breathe!" said the Syringa, who was farthest removed from the poor +Poppy. +</P> + +<P> +"I do feel as if I should faint!" said the Verbena. +</P> + +<P> +"And I feel a cold chill creeping over me!" said the Ice Plant. +</P> + +<P> +"That is not strange!" remarked the Nightshade, who had sprung up in +the shadow of the hedge, "she carries with her, everywhere she goes, +the atmosphere of the place whence she comes. Do you know where that +is?" +</P> + +<P> +Some of the flowers shuddered, but the Nightshade went on:— +</P> + +<P> +"The Poppy is indigenous now only on the verdureless banks of the +Styx. When Proserpine, who was gathering flowers, was carried away +to the dark Avernus, all the other blossoms which she had woven in +her garland withered and died, but the Poppy; and that the goddess +planted in the land of darkness and gloom, and called it the flower +of Death. She flourishes there in great luxuriance; Nox and Somnus +make her bed their couch. The aching head, which is bound with a +garland of her blossoms, ceases to throb; the agonized soul which +drinks in her deep breath, wakes no more to sorrow. Death follows +wherever she comes!" +</P> + +<P> +"We will not talk of such gloomy things!" said the Coreopsis, with +difficulty preserving her cheerfulness. +</P> + +<P> +But the other plants were silent and dejected; all but the Amaranth, +who knew herself gifted with immortality, and the Box, who was very +stoical. But another trial awaited the poor Poppy. +</P> + +<P> +The Nightshade had hardly ceased speaking, when soft, gentle human +voices were heard in the garden, and a child of three summers, with +rosy cheeks, deep blue eyes, and flowing, golden hair, came bounding +down the gravelled walks, followed by a fair lady. The child had +come to bid good morning to her flowers and birds, and as she +carolled to the latter, and paused now and then to inhale the breath +of some fragrant blossom, and examine the elegant form and rich and +varied tints of another, the little songsters sang more loudly and +cheerily; and the flowers, it seemed, became more sweet and +beautiful. +</P> + +<P> +The Poppy, who was as ignorant as was any one else how she had found +her way into the garden, now began to reason with herself. +</P> + +<P> +"Some one must have planted me here," she said; "and though I am not +as sweet as that proud Carnation, nor so elegant as that dignified +Dahlia, I may have as much right to remain here as they!" and she +raised her head erect, and spread out her broad, scarlet petals, +with their deep, ragged fringe, hoping to attract the notice of the +little girl. +</P> + +<P> +And so indeed she did; for as the child paused before pale +sweet-scented Verbena, the flaunting Poppy caught her eye, and she +extended her hand toward the strange blossom. +</P> + +<P> +"Carie, Carie, don't touch that vile thing!" said her mother, "it is +poisonous. The smell of it will make you sick. I do not see how it +came here. John must bring his spade and take it up. We will have +nothing in the garden but what is beautiful or sweet, and this is +neither!" +</P> + +<P> +The poor Poppy! She had begun to love the little girl, the child had +smiled on her so sweetly, and the other flowers had seemed so +envious when that little white hand was stretched out towards her; +and when she drew back, at her Mother's call, reluctantly, but with +look of surprise and aversion, the Poppy did not care how soon she +was banished from a place where she had been treated so unjustly. +</P> + +<P> +However, she was suffered to remain; whether the lady neglected +giving instructions to the gardener respecting her, or whether he +forgot her commands, I am not sure; but there she remained, day +after day, striving every morning to wake up early and pull off her +little green cap before the other flowers had opened their eyes, but +never succeeding in so doing. +</P> + +<P> +It was no enviable position that she occupied, laughed at, despised, +and scorned by all the other flowers in the garden, and in hourly +expectation of being torn up by the roots and thrown into the +street—the poor Poppy! +</P> + +<P> +One day when the lady and her Carie were walking in the garden, the +little girl, who had looked rather pale, put her hands suddenly to +her head, and cried aloud. Her mother was very much frightened. She +caught up the little girl in her arms, and tried to ascertain what +was the matter; but the child only pressed her hands more tightly to +her head, and cried more piteously. The lady carried her into the +house, and the family were soon all in an uproar. The servants were +all running hither and thither; no one seemed to know what was the +matter; for the lady had fainted from terror at her child's pale +face and agonized cries, and the little girl could tell nothing. +</P> + +<P> +"It is that odious Poppy who is the cause of all this!" said the +flowers one to another (little Carie was indeed playing in her +immediate vicinity when she was seized with that dreadful distress), +"she has poisoned her." And their suspicions were confirmed when one +of the servants came running into the garden, and seizing hold of +the Poppy, stripped off every one of her bright scarlet petals, and +gathering them up, returned quickly to the house. +</P> + +<P> +"You poor thing!" said the Elder, as the Poppy, so rudely handled, +bent down her dishonoured head to the ground; but not one of the +other flowers addressed to her a single word. +</P> + +<P> +Through the long day she lay there—the Poppy—on the earth, trying +to forget what had happened; for she did not know but their words +were true, and she was the cause of the little girl's suffering—she +would so gladly have soothed her pain. The other flowers thought she +was dead, and the Poppy herself believed that she should never see +the light of another morning; but just before the day was gone, the +lady walked again into the garden accompanied by her husband; +and—what do you suppose the other flowers thought?—without +noticing one of them, the lady walked directly to the Poppy, lifted +her head from the ground, and leaned it against the frame which +supported the proud Carnation, and then, with her white hands, +replaced the loosened earth about her half uptorn roots. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I hope it will not die!" she said to her husband, "I should +rather lose anything else in the garden, for I don't know but it +saved dear little Carie's life! She had a dreadful headache, and +nothing afforded her the least relief, till we bruised the leaves of +the Poppy, and bound them on her temples, and then she became quiet, +and fell into a gentle sleep. Oh, I hope it will live!" +</P> + +<P> +Don't you think the Poppy did live, and was proud and happy enough? +Do you think she was ever afterwards ashamed of her little green +cap, or her ragged scarlet leaves? And do you think the other +flowers ever laughed at her again, or were ashamed of her +acquaintance? +</P> + +<P> +When the summer had passed away, and the bright blossoms one by one +withered and died before the autumn's cool breath, the Poppy +cheerfully scattered her little seeds on the earth, and laid herself +down to die; for she knew that when another spring should come, and +her children should shoot up from the ground, they would be nurtured +as tenderly, and prized as highly as those of the sweeter and far +more beautiful flowers. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="twelve"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +NUMBER TWELVE. +</H3> + +<P> +WHEN I was a young man, working at my trade as a mason, I met with a +severe injury by falling from a scaffolding placed at a height of +forty feet from the ground. There I remained, stunned and bleeding, +on the rubbish, until my companions, by attempting to remove me, +restored me to consciousness. I felt as if the ground on which I was +lying formed a part of myself; that I could not be lifted from it +without being torn asunder; and, with the most piercing cries, I +entreated my well-meaning assistants to leave me alone to die. They +desisted for the moment, one running for the doctor, another for a +litter, others surrounding me with pitying gaze; but amidst my +increasing sense of suffering, the conviction began to dawn upon my +mind, that the injuries were not mortal; and so, by the time the +doctor and the litter arrived, I resigned myself to their aid, and +allowed myself, without further objection, to be carried to the +hospital. +</P> + +<P> +There I remained for more than three months, gradually recovering +from my bodily injuries, but devoured with an impatience at my +condition, and the slowness of my cure, which effectually retarded +it. I felt all the restlessness and anxiety of a labourer suddenly +thrown out of employment difficult enough to procure, knowing that +there were scores of others ready to step into my place; that the +job was going on, and that, ten chances to one, I should never set +my foot on that scaffolding again. The visiting surgeon vainly +warned me against the indulgence of such passionate regrets—vainly +inculcated the opposite feeling of gratitude demanded by my escape; +all in vain. I tossed on my fevered bed, murmured at the slowness of +his remedies, and might have thus rendered them altogether +ineffectual, had not a sudden change been effected in my disposition +by another, at first unwelcome, addition to our patients. He was +placed in the same ward with me, and insensibly I found my +impatience rebuked, my repinings hushed for very shame, in the +presence of his meek resignation to far greater privations and +sufferings. Fresh courage sprang from his example, and soon, thanks +to my involuntary physician, I was in a fair road to recovery. +</P> + +<P> +And he who had worked the charm, what was he? A poor, helpless old +man, utterly deformed by suffering, his very name unnoticed, or at +least never spoken in the place where he now was; he went only by +the appellation of No. 12—the number of his bed, which was next to +my own. This bed had already been his refuge during three long and +trying illnesses, and had at last become a sort of property for the +poor fellow in the eyes of doctors, students, nurse-tenders, in +fact, the whole hospital staff. Never did a gentler creature walk on +God's earth; walk—alas! for him the word was but an old memory. +Many years before he had totally lost the use of his legs; but, to +use his own expression, "this misfortune did not upset him;" he +still retained the power of earning his livelihood, which he derived +from copying deeds for a lawyer at so much per sheet; and if the +legs were no longer a support, the hands worked at the stamped +parchments as diligently as ever. But some months passed by, and +then the paralysis attacked his right arm; still undaunted, he +taught himself to write with the left; but hardly had the brave +heart and hand conquered the difficulty, when the enemy crept on, +and disabling this second ally, no more remained for him than to be +conveyed once more, though this time as a last resource, to the +hospital. There he had the gratification to find his former quarters +vacant, and he took possession of his old familiar bed with a +satisfaction that seemed to obliterate all regret at being obliged +to occupy it again. His first grateful accents smote almost +reproachfully on my ear: "Misfortune must have its turn, but <I>every +day has a tomorrow!</I>" +</P> + +<P> +It was indeed a lesson to witness the gratitude of this excellent +creature. The hospital, so dreary a sojourn to most of its inmates, +was a scene of enjoyment to him; everything pleased him; and the +poor fellow's admiration of even the most trifling conveniences +proved how severe must have been his privations. He never wearied of +praising the neatness of the linen, the whiteness of the bread, the +quality of the food; and my surprise gave place to the truest pity, +when I learned that, for the last twenty years, this respectable old +man could only afford himself, out of the profits of his persevering +industry, the coarsest bread, diversified with white cheese, or +vegetable porridge; and yet, instead of reverting to his privations +in the language of complaint, he converted them into a fund of +gratitude, and made the generosity of the nation, which had provided +such a retreat for the suffering poor, his continual theme. Nor did +his thankful spirit confine itself to this. To listen to him, you +would have believed him an especial object of divine as well as +human benevolence—all things working for his good. The doctor used +to say that No. 12 had a "mania for happiness;" but it was a mania, +that, in creating esteem for its victim, infused fresh courage into +all that came within its range. +</P> + +<P> +I think I still see him seated on the side of his bed, with his +little black silk cap, his spectacles and the well-worn volume, +which he never ceased perusing. Every morning, the first rays of the +sun rested on his bed, always to him a fresh subject of rejoicing +and thankfulness to God. To witness his gratitude, one might suppose +that the sun was rising for him alone. I need hardly say, that he +soon interested himself in my cure, and regularly made inquiry +respecting its progress. He always found something cheering to +say—something to inspire patience and hope, himself a living +commentary on his words. When I looked at this poor motionless +figure, those distorted limbs, and, crowning all, that smiling +countenance, I had not courage to be angry, or even to complain. At +each painful crisis, he would exclaim: "One minute, and it will be +over. Relief will soon follow. <I>Every day has its to-morrow!</I>" +</P> + +<P> +I had one good and true friend—a fellow-workman, who used sometimes +to spare an hour to visit me, and he took great delight in +cultivating an acquaintance with No. 12. As if attracted by a +kindred spirit, he never passed his bed without pausing to offer his +cordial salutation; and then he would whisper to me: "He is a saint +on earth; and not content with gaining Paradise himself, must win it +for others also. Such people should have monuments erected to them, +known and read of all men. In observing such a character, we feel +ashamed of our own happiness—we feel how comparatively little we +deserve it. Is there anything I can do to prove my regard for this +good, poor No. 12?" +</P> + +<P> +"Just try among the bookstalls," I replied, "and find the second +volume of that book you see him reading. It is now more than six +years since he lost it, and ever since he has been obliged to +content himself with the first." +</P> + +<P> +Now, I must premise that my worthy friend had a perfect horror of +literature, even in its simplest stages. He regarded the art of +printing as a Satanic invention, filling men's brains with idleness +and conceit; and as to writing—in his opinion a man was never +thoroughly committed until he had recorded his sentiments in black +and white for the inspection of his neighbours. His own success in +life, which had been tolerable, thanks to his industry and +integrity, he attributed altogether to his ignorance of those +dangerous arts; and now a cloud swept across his lately beaming face +as he exclaimed, "What! the good creature is a lover of books? Well, +we must admit that even the best have their failings. No matter. +Write down the name of this odd volume on a slip of paper; and it +shall go hard with me, but I give him that gratification." +</P> + +<P> +He did actually return the following week with a well-worn volume, +which he presented in triumph to the old invalid. He looked somewhat +surprised as he opened it; but our friend proceeding to explain that +it was at my suggestion he had procured it in place of the lost one, +the old grateful expression at once beamed up in the eyes of No. 12, +and with a voice trembling with emotion, he thanked the hearty +giver. +</P> + +<P> +I had my misgivings, however, and the moment our visiter turned his +back, I asked to see the book. My old neighbour reddened, stammered, +and tried to change the conversation; but, forced behind his last +entrenchments, he handed me the little volume. It was an old Royal +Almanac. The bookseller, taking advantage of his customer's +ignorance, had substituted it for the book he had demanded. I burst +into an immoderate fit of laughter; but No. 12 checked me with the +only impatient word I ever heard from his lips: "Do you wish our +friend to hear you? I would rather never recover the power of this +lost arm, than deprive his kind heart of the pleasure of his gift. +And what of it? Yesterday I did not care a straw for an almanac; but +in a little time it is perhaps the very book I should have desired. +<I>Every day has its to-morrow</I>. Besides, I assure you it is a very +improving study; even already I perceive the names of a crowd of +princes never mentioned in history, and of whom, up to this moment, +I have never heard any one speak." +</P> + +<P> +And so the old almanac was carefully preserved beside the volume of +poetry it had been intended to match; and the old invalid never +failed to be seen turning over the leaves whenever our friend +happened to enter the room. As to him, he was quite proud of its +success, and would say to me at each time: "It appears I have made +him a famous present." And thus the two guileless natures were +content. +</P> + +<P> +Towards the close of my sojourn in the hospital, the strength of +poor No. 12 diminished rapidly. At first, he lost the slight powers +of motion he had retained; then his speech became inarticulate; at +last, no part obeyed his will, except the eyes, which continued to +smile on us still. But one morning, at last, it seemed to me as if +his very glance had become dim. I arose hastily, and approaching his +bed, inquired if he wished for a drink; he made a slight movement of +his eyelids, as if to thank me, and at that instant the first ray of +the rising sun shone in on his bed. Then the eyes lighted up, like a +taper that flashes into brightness before it is extinguished—he +looked as if saluting this last gift of his Creator; and even as I +watched him for a moment, his head fell gently on the side, his +kindly heart ceased to beat. He had thrown off the burden of To-day; +he had entered on his eternal To-morrow. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="absentee"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +TO AN ABSENTEE. +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + O'ER hill and dale, and distant sea,<BR> + Through all the miles that stretch between,<BR> + My thought must fly to rest on thee,<BR> + And would, though worlds should intervene.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Nay, thou art now so dear, methinks,<BR> + The farther we are forced apart,<BR> + Affection's firm elastic links<BR> + But bind thee closer round the heart.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + For now we sever each from each,<BR> + I learn what I have lost in thee;<BR> + Alas! that nothing less could teach<BR> + How great, indeed, my love should be!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Farewell! I did not know thy worth;<BR> + But thou art gone, and now 'tis prized:<BR> + So angels walked unknown on earth,<BR> + But when they flew were recognised.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="dove"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE WHITE DOVE. +</H3> + +<P> +THE little Lina opened her eyes upon this world in the arms of her +father, the good Gotleib. He kissed the child with a holy joy: +"For," said he, "now is a thought of God fixed in an eternal form;" +and he felt that a Divine love flowed into this work of the great +God—this also thrilled his warm, manly heart with a wondrous love. +He felt the inmost of his being vibrating as with an electric touch, +to the inmost of the little new-born innocent. But the rapture of +the young father was altogether imperfect, until he had sealed his +lips in a love-kiss upon those of the fraulein Anna, who lay there +so white and beautiful in the new joy of a young mother. Like an +innocent maiden, she twined her arms around Gotleib's neck, and grew +strong in the influx of warm life that flowed into her responsive +cares of the husband of her heart. Then Gotleib held up the +newly-born Lina, and the mother's lips touched the soft cheek of the +tiny little one with a living rapture, as if all of Heaven were +embraced in this heart-possession. +</P> + +<P> +And Gotleib knelt by the bedside, and thanked God for the beautiful +gift of love with a pious awe and holy joy—large tears stood in the +eyes of Anna. As he rose from his reverent posture, he kissed off +the bright tears even as the sun exhales dew-drops from a pure +flower, and said, +</P> + +<P> +"Dost thou weep for joy, sweet one?" +</P> + +<P> +And Anna said, +</P> + +<P> +"Once—not long since—I had a dream—a beautiful dream—that this +day has been realized. I dreamed that I was in a quite heavenly +place—yet the place was as nothing—it was the <I>state</I>—for I sat +with an infant in my arms—a bright innocent little one—and, thou, +dearest Gotleib, knelt beside me; and an angel-woman stood near us, +in a soft heavenly glory, and said, in low musical, +spirit-words—'Behold the fruit of the union of good and truth.' And +then, methought, thou didst embrace me with a new joy of love, and +whispered, 'an angel of God is born of us.' This little one is the +dream-child, dear Gotleib." +</P> + +<P> +Thus beautiful was the birth of the little Lina, who grew, daily, in +a pure innocent loveliness. While she is expanding in the first days +of her new, breathing, sensitive life, we will go back to the former +life of Gotleib and Anna. +</P> + +<P> +Gotleib Von Arnheim had first seen the light in this same small +cottage, on the confines of the Black Forest of Germany. He was born +with a large, loving heart. But the father and mother, and the dear +God, were the only beings on whom his affections were fixed; for his +sensitive nature shrank from the contact of the honest-hearted, but +rough peasant neighbours, that made the little world of their simple +life. But soon death came, and the good father left the earth for +the beautiful Heaven-world. The little Gotleib missed his kind +father; but his mother told him of the bright inner life, and how +his father yet lived and loved him; and the heart of the boy was +comforted: he felt a sense of elevation in having his father, whom +he had known so familiarly here upon earth, now the companion of +angels, and living in such a bright and beautiful world. +</P> + +<P> +Ah, life had to him such an inner beauty; and, when still, dreamy +moments of leisure intervened between his work and play, he revelled +in such dreams of fancy, as lent light and life and joy to his whole +being. But the death of the kind father had not only carried the +boy's fancy to the other world; it was also drawing the mother's +heart away to the fair spirit-land. Gotleib saw his mother's face +growing thin and pale; he knew that she was weak—for oftentimes, in +the long winter evenings, as he read to her from the holy word of +God, her hand would drop wearily with the raised spindle, and she, +who was never before idle, would fold her hands in a quiet, meek +resignation. At such times a tremour would seize the boy's heart. +The mother saw it; and, one night, when his fixed tender gaze rested +on her, she raised her spiritual eyes to his, and said, +</P> + +<P> +"Dear Gotleib! thou wilt yet have the good God to love." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, mother! mother!" cried the boy, "wilt thou, too, leave me?" +</P> + +<P> +His head was bowed upon her knees in bitter grief, the desolation of +earth was spread like an impenetrable pall over his whole future. +Suddenly he looked up, full of a strange, bright hope, and said, +</P> + +<P> +"Mother, I too may die." +</P> + +<P> +Then the mother put off her weakness, and long and loving was the +talk she held with her dear boy. She told him that from a little one +he had ever loved God; that the first word he had ever pronounced +was the name of the Holy One. She had taught him to clasp his tiny +baby hands and look up and say "God," ere any other word had passed +his lips. She had named him Gotleib, because he was the love of God +to her, and he was to be a lover of God. As she talked, the boy grew +strong and calm, and said, +</P> + +<P> +"Yet, oh, my mother! God is so great for the heart of a small child. +God is so high and lifted up in the far heavens, that I feel myself +but as a tiny blade of grass that looks up to the far sun—dear +mother! the earth will be too lonely; ah, there is no hope but in +death." +</P> + +<P> +"No, my son," said the mother, "there is a beautiful hope for the +earth also. I will tell you what will make you love God more truly +than ever." +</P> + +<P> +The boy was fixed attention. +</P> + +<P> +"Thou didst not know, dear Gotleib, that when God created thee a +strong, brave boy, He also created a tender, gentle little maiden, +like unto thee in all things, save thou wert a boy and she a maiden. +Thou wert strong and able to work, and she gentle and born to love +thee." +</P> + +<P> +"Where is she?" inquired the excited Gotleib. +</P> + +<P> +"I know not," replied the mother. "But God knows, and He will watch +over the two whom He has created, the one for the other; and, on +earth, or in heaven, the two will meet. Is it not better, then, not +to wish to die, but to leave all things to the will of God? For what +if thy little maiden is left alone upon the earth, and there is no +strong, manly heart upon which she may lean, and no vigorous arm to +labour for her, how will her spirit droop with a weary, lonely +sadness? No, my son, live! and the joy of a most beautiful, loving +companionship, may yet be thine. The earth will not be desolate ever +to thy orphan heart, with this beautiful hope before thee." +</P> + +<P> +Thus, in the cold wintry night of a dark sorrow, did the good mother +plant a living seed of truth, that afterwards sprang up into a +vernal flowery Eden, that bloomed in the boy's heart with an eternal +beauty. +</P> + +<P> +When the early spring came, Gotleib looked calmly and lovingly on +the beloved mother, who was leaving for the inner world. Death was +beautiful to him now; it was simply the new birthtime of a mature, +living soul. +</P> + +<P> +The spirit of the mother's love seemed to linger over the home of +his childhood, and it was a great sorrow to leave the cherished +spot; but, his mother told him he was to seek a brother of hers in +the distant town of Heidelberg. As Gotleib turned from the now +voiceless home of his parents, a fervent desire arose in his heart +that he might again be permitted to dwell beneath this sheltering +roof and amidst its living associations. +</P> + +<P> +The boy went forth into the unknown world, with a living trust in +his heart in the great God. His was a simple, childish faith, born +of his love—to him God was not a mystery. It was a Divine +personality he loved. Jesus had walked the earth, and his father and +mother also—all were now spirits, none the less to be loved and +trusted than when upon earth; but now they were to him in +transcendent states of glory. The Lord Jesus, as being infinitely +great and glorious, was the alone One to whom he now looked for +help—though ever as he knelt to pray to GOD, he felt that his +angel-mother bowed with his spirit, and by her prompting beautiful +words of humiliation and praise came to him, that he himself could +never have thought of; hence the affections of his heart all grew up +into the inner spirit-world. +</P> + +<P> +And years passed in the good town of Heidelberg, years that brought +blessings to the orphan boy as they flew. The God in whom he trusted +had provided for him—had awakened a friendly kindness in many warm +hearts. And Gotleib, who was at first designed by his relatives to +spend his days over the shoemaker's awl and last, at length found +himself, by his own ardent exertions and the helpful kindness of +others, a student in the University. This was to him a most pure +gratification—not because of a love of learning, not because of +ambition, to attain a position before his fellow-men. Oh! it was +quite otherwise with the good youth—he had one object in life. The +hope that his dying mother had awakened in his heart was the guiding +star of all his efforts. That little maiden created for him, and to +be supported by him! The image was ever before him. Yes, he was a +student for a high and noble use. Science was to be to him the +instrument of a life of love and blessedness. To do good to others, +and thus to provide for the maiden, was what led him to the arduous +study of medicine. +</P> + +<P> +It mattered not that cold and hunger and toil all bound him in an +earthly coil. The warm, hopeful heart has a wonderful endurance. The +delicate, attenuated form of the young student seemed barely +sufficient to hold the bright and glowing spirit that looked out +from his soft eyes, when he received his degrees. The desire of his +life was growing into a fruition; and when he returned to his poor +lodgings, a sense of freedom, of gratitude, and of delight, crowned +his yet barren life. To work! to work! seemed now the one call of +his being; but, whither was he to go? There was the childhood's +home, to which his heart instinctively turned; but, alone and +desolate, he could not dwell there. Gotleib had not forgotten his +mother's lessons; he knelt and prayed to God for guidance. Even as +he kneels, and feels his spirit in the sunshine of God's presence, +there is a knock at the door, and the good Professor Eberhard +enters. He has marked the student in his poverty and toil, and feels +that he will now hold out a helping hand to the young beginner. As +professor of anatomy, he needs the quick eye and delicate hand of an +expert assistant. +</P> + +<P> +Gotleib looked upon the Herr professor as Heaven-sent, and in a few +days was installed in all the luxury of a life of active use. +</P> + +<P> +Years passed away, and (sic) Gotlieb Von Arnheim sighed with a man's +full heart for a woman's sympathy and responsive affection. He had +seen bright eyes gleam and soft cheeks flush at his approach, and he +had looked wonderingly into many a sweet face. But he had not yet +seen the little maiden of whom his mother spoke—who was to be the +reflex of himself. All these German maidens were altogether +different from—and his heart remained unsatisfied in their +presence. He felt no visions of eternity as he looked into their +friendly faces. +</P> + +<P> +Sometimes hope almost died out. But his trust in God seemed to +forbid the death of this sweet hope. Often he said, "the good God +would not have created this intense desire in one so wholly +dependent upon Him, were he not intending to satisfy it." At all +events, he thought—"If the maiden is not upon earth, she is in +heaven." So he worked and waited patiently. +</P> + +<P> +The wintry winds were howling, as it were, a wild requiem over the +lordly ruins of the crime-stained castle of Heidelberg. Cold, and +bitter, and clear was the starry night, when the weary Gotleib +issued out of the Herr professor's warm house to answer the late +call of a sick woman. Gotleib looked up into those illimitable +depths where earths and suns hang suspended, to appeal to the +material perceptions of man that this is not the alone world—the +alone existence. The silent bright stars comforted the earth-wearied +heart in which the day's toil had dimmed the spirit's perception. +Gotleib stepped on bravely through the frosty darkness, and said +hopefully to himself, +</P> + +<P> +"There is yet another world—another life than this." +</P> + +<P> +And now he stood before the house in which his services were needed. +He entered a chamber, whose bare poverty reminded him of his student +days. But far sadder was cold poverty here, for a lady lay on a hard +couch before the scantily furnished grate, and her hollow cough, and +the oozing blood that saturated her white handkerchief, rendered all +words unnecessary. +</P> + +<P> +A young girl, with blanched cheek and tearless eye of agony, knelt +by the wan sufferer. Gotleib felt himself in the sphere of his +life's use; cold and fatigue were alike gone. The sick and almost +dying woman seemed to revive under his touch—it was as if strength +flowed from the physician into the patient. His very presence +diffused an air of hope and comfort through the desolate apartment, +and the kind serving-girl, Bettina, who had guided him to the humble +lodging, seconded all his active efforts to produce warmth and +comfort, and soon returned with one of his prescriptions—an +abundance of fuel for the almost exhausted grate. The cheerful blaze +threw its strong light upon the young girl, who at first knelt in +hopeless grief beside her dying mother. +</P> + +<P> +What was it that thrilled the heart of Gotleib, as he looked upon +this young maiden? Was it her beauty? No! he had seen others more +beautiful. Was it her sorrow? No! he had seen others quite as sad. +But, whatever it was, Gotleib felt he had met his destiny; the +fulness of his being was developed to him; and, all unconsciously, +the maiden turned to him as the Providence of God to her. She seemed +to rest her troubled heart upon his strong understanding. He said +her mother would not die immediately, and she grew calm. +</P> + +<P> +It was very late that night when Gotleib retired; and very fervent +were the prayers that arose from his heart before he slept. He felt +a sense of gratitude for the uses he was permitted to perform to his +fellow beings, and, in his prayers, he felt that light shone from +the Divine sun upon that sorrowing maiden, and it was as if she +knelt by his side, and his strong spirit-arms upheld her in the +sunshine of God's love. +</P> + +<P> +When the morning came, Gotleib awakened with a delicious sense of +enjoyment in life—with a looking forth into the events of the day, +that he had never before experienced. He hastened through his +morning duties with an elasticity of spirit and hope that was +altogether new to him. Though, as yet, his feeling was not defined +into a thought, it was a faint perception, a dim consciousness that +the elective affinities of his heart had all awakened. And while he +thought he was in an excessive anxiety to see after his feeble +patient, he was borne on rather by the attractions of his heart's +love. He paused in a thrilling excitement of hope and doubt before +the door of the poor chamber—he dreaded to have the agreeable +impressions of the last evening dissipated. But, when he knocked, a +light tread was heard; the door was gently opened, and the pale Anna +stood before him, with such a gentle grace, and so earnest a look of +gratified expectation, that, as she said in subdued tones, +</P> + +<P> +"I hoped it was you," his heart bounded with exultation, to think +that the young girl had him in her thoughts. But, as he approached +the sick bed, his reason told him what was more natural than her +wishing for the arrival of her mother's physician. +</P> + +<P> +A careful glance, by daylight, around the humble apartment, revealed +to Gotleib that Anna worked with her delicate, white, lady-looking +hands, for the support of her dying mother. A table, placed by the +window, was covered with artificial flowers of exquisite +workmanship, and, while he yet lingered in the chamber, Bettina, the +maid, entered from the street door, with a basket filled with the +same flowers—looked at Anna, and shook her head mournfully. The +young girl's lips quivered, and she pressed the tears back when she +saw no purchaser had been found for her labour. Gotleib saw and felt +with the most intense sympathy all that was passing. He lingered yet +longer—he made encouraging remarks to the sick mother, and, at +length, ventured to approach the table, and gazed with admiration on +the beautiful flowers, while his brain was busy in devising how he +was to make them the medium of conveying aid to the suffering mother +and daughter. He turned to the faithful Bettina, who clung to those +whom she served in their hard poverty—he told her that if she would +follow him he would find a purchaser for the pretty flowers. Anna +cast upon him a look of tearful smiling gratitude, and her simple, +"I thank you," as she held out her hand to him, bound him as with a +magnetic chain to her being. Bettina thought the Herr Doctor was a +most generous man, for he more than doubled the paltry sum she asked +for the flowers; though she did not consider it necessary to mention +the fact to Anna, she merely stated to her that she had found a +purchaser for as many flowers as she chose to make. +</P> + +<P> +But Gotleib! what an Eden those flowers made of his chamber! with +what a joy he returned to it after hours of absence; it seemed as if +they brought him into contact with the sphere of a beloved +existence. He examined them with delight, and could not avoid +covering them with kisses. Never was patient visited or watched over +more attentively than was Madame Hendrickson; and, as the mother +revived, the daughter seemed to feel new life. Light beamed from her +soft eyes, and oftentimes Gotleib thought that the roses that +bloomed in her delicate face were far more beautiful and bright than +those that grew under her light and skilful touch. +</P> + +<P> +For him she seemed to feel an earnest trustful gratitude. She never +concealed her glad recognition of his coming; she was too pure, and +innocent, and good, to think it necessary to conceal anything. And +Gotleib's visits were so pleasant, they grew longer and longer—for +he and Madame Hendrickson were of the same religious faith—and he +had a peculiar faculty for consoling her. Gotleib spoke of the other +world with such a definite perception of its existences and modes of +being, that the dying woman never wearied of listening to him. The +high and true faith of the good Gotleib opened to him a world of +beauty, which he poured forth in his earnest enthusiasm, more like a +gifted poet than a being of mere prose. Oftentimes, as he talked, +the light of his intelligence seemed to gleam back from the +answering eye of Anna, until his whole being was filled with +delight. While she felt that her hitherto dim and indistinct faith +was growing into form and fixedness, and her intellect awakened to a +sphere of ideas, to a world of perceptions, that endowed her all at +once with a charmed existence, and flooded her with the light of a +graceful beauty that made her appear to the admiring Gotleib like an +angelic spirit. +</P> + +<P> +Thus were the spirit links being woven through the cold bright days +of winter. Madame Hendrickson was no longer confined to her bed; and +on the Sabbath days Anna could attend the public worship of God, of +whom, now, only she seemed truly to learn. It was to the Holy Supper +she went on that first solemn Sabbath day, after months of +confinement and sorrow. Oh! how blessed it was to listen to the +Divine Word, through which God seemed to her awakened perception to +shine, in a veiled beauty! and when she tasted the wine of spiritual +truth, flowing from the wisdom of the Divine One, and ate of the +bread of the celestial good of His love, Heaven seemed to open to +her receptive heart and mind—and, as her heart's prayers went up +with those of the shining angels round the throne of God, it was not +for herself that she prayed, but for him that had spoken living +truth to her virgin heart. Oh, the good child! In that holy moment +she rejoiced to reveal her heart's love to the Divine Father; she +knew that her love was born of her knowledge of God, and thus she +knew that it was blessed from above. +</P> + +<P> +As she passed out of the church, she encountered the earnest glance +of surprised and delighted recognition from Gotleib. Very soon he +was at her side. In the fullness and stillness of her beautiful +thoughts and satisfied affections they walked on. Oh, how happy the +dear mother looked, when she saw the two enter her lonely chamber! +The heavenly light and warmth of love seemed to be within and around +them; and she saw that two beings so exactly created the one for the +other, could not but find an eternal happiness in each other. +Gotleib was truly in one of his genial, sunny moods; he seemed to +soar into worlds of light; his expanding heart was filling with the +glory of Heaven. The teachings of his childhood were all brought +forth; he talked of his beloved mother—now an angel of God—told of +the beautiful hope she awakened in his heart concerning the little +maiden created by God for him, when his heart shrunk in such pain +from the isolation her death would leave him in. Then he turned to +the blushing Anna, and said he thought the maiden was now found. She +lifted her love-lighted eyes to his—he clasped her hand and said +softly, +</P> + +<P> +"Thou art mine!" +</P> + +<P> +"I am thine," fell responsive from the maiden's lips; and an +infinite blessedness flowed into the loving, satisfied heart of +Gotleib. +</P> + +<P> +The next day brought with it a new and beautiful joy,—a letter from +the beloved one, conveyed into his hand as he tenderly pressed hers, +at parting. For this his thirsty soul had yearned—for some +expression of the maiden's heart-love that had as yet gleamed upon +him but momentarily from her modest eyes. But alone in his chamber, +with the dear letter before him! Ah, now indeed he was to lift the +veil that hid his life's treasure. To have revealed to him the heart +and mind of the beloved one. And his whole being went forth to her +as he read the tender revealings. She wrote: +</P> + +<P> +"Gotleib! my heart would fain speak to thine. It longs to say +gratefully, 'I love thee, thou heaven-sent one.' And I would tell +thee of a dream that came to me last night in my heart's beautiful +happiness. +</P> + +<P> +"I was reading aloud to my mother in the book you lent me. I read of +how the angels ever have their faces turned to the Divine Sun. Of +how their shining brows are ever attracted to this central point, in +whatever position they may be—even as our feet are attracted to the +central point of the earth. I was happy in this beautiful truth, and +felt that through my love for thee, my thought was lifted upward, +and my face, too, was turned to the Lord; and when sleep came, it +seemed as if my happy spirit was conscious of a new and beautiful +existence. I found myself in a large place, and a company of angelic +spirits surrounded me; and we were seated at a table, adorned with +an exceeding elegance, and having many varieties of food, of which +we partook, but without a consciousness of taste—only there was a +genial delight of mind arising from the mutual love of all those +bright ones. An angel-woman spoke to me and said, 'This is the +Lord's Supper; appropriate to thyself the goods and truths of His +heavenly kingdom.' While she thus spoke, I saw thee, dear Gotleib, +approach, with such a smiling and beautiful grace, and thou saidst +to me, holding my hand—'Sweet one! how bright thou art! Hast thou +learnt some new truth! for thou art ever bright, when thou dost +perceive a new truth!' Then I answered, 'Ah, yes, indeed! I have +learned a beautiful new truth;' and I led thee to an east window and +pointed upward to the great Sun, that shone in such a Divine +effulgence—then I told thee how the angels were held by the +attraction of love in this centre of being—even as the children of +the world are held by the attraction of gravitation to the +earth—and as we talked, the light shone around thee, dear Gotleib! +with so heavenly a glory, that my heart was filled with a new love +for thee. For I saw, truly, that thou wert a child of God, and in +loving thee I loved Him who shone in such a radiant glory upon thee. +Oh! was not this a pleasant dream? Gotleib! what worlds of beauty +thou hast opened to me! Once my thought was so narrow, so bound down +to the earth; but thou hast lifted me above the earth. A woman's +heart is so weak—it is like a trailing vine, that cannot lift +itself up until its curling tendrils are wound round the lofty +tree-tops of a man's ascending thought. Gotleib, thus dost thou bear +me up into the serene, bright heavens, and like some blooming +flowery vine will my love ever seek to adorn thy noble thoughts." +</P> + +<P> +Gotleib was charmed with the maiden's thoughts. Oh, yes—her flowers +were already flying over his highest branches. She soared above him, +and through her heavenly truths were growing clearer to him. How +grateful he was to his Heavenly Father, that from his own bosom, as +it were, was born his spirit's companion. But her life was from +God—and how holy was her whole being to him! She was enthroned in +his inmost heart, to be for ever treasured as the highest and best +gift of God. +</P> + +<P> +It was evening when he next stood beside her. The mother slept, and +Anna and Gotleib stood in the moonlit window. Few, and softly +whispered, were his loving words to her. But she smiled in a oneness +of thought, when he said, +</P> + +<P> +"In heaven, the sun shone upon us; upon earth the cold moonbeams +unite us; but the sunshine will soon come again." +</P> + +<P> +Anna felt that her letter had made Gotleib very happy; and she bent +her head lovingly on his manly breast. Oh! to him, the desolate +forlorn one, how thrilling was the first caress of the maiden! His +lips touched her soft white brows with a delicious new joy. But +brow, eyes, cheeks, and lips, were soon covered with rapturous +kisses. +</P> + +<P> +Ah! happy youth and maiden, thus bedewed with life's nectar of +blessedness! What are earth's sorrows to you? Heaven is in you, and +eternity only can satisfy the infinite desires of such hearts. +</P> + +<P> +But as the days passed, the material body of the mother wasted away, +and her spirit was growing bright in its coming glory. She wished +much to see her beloved Anna in a holy marriage union before she +left this world. So a few weeks after the betrothal, Gotleib led his +bride to the marriage altar. It was a festive scene of the heart's +happiness even beside the bed of death. Madame Hendrickson felt that +she, too, was adorning for a beautiful bridal—and earthly care +being thus removed from her heart, she was altogether happy. +</P> + +<P> +And the good, true-hearted Anna, in white bridal garments and virgin +innocence, looked to the loving mother and happy Gotleib like an +angel of God. Even the Professor Eberhard thought thus, and quite +certain it is, that the good minister spoke as if a heavenly +inspiration flowed into him, as he bound the two into an eternal +<I>oneness</I> of being. "Little children!" said he, "love one another! +was the teaching of the great God, as he walked upon the earth. +Hence love is the holy of the holies. And it flows from God even as +heat flows from the material sun—and as the sun is in its own heat +and light, so God is in love." +</P> + +<P> +And taking the marriage ring, he placed it on the soft, white, +rose-tipped finger of the bride, and said, +</P> + +<P> +"How beautiful and expressive is this symbol of union, showing the +conjunction of good and truth, which conjunction first exists in the +Lord, for His love is the inmost, and His wisdom is like the golden +bond of truth encasing and protecting love. And this love of the +Lord flowing into man is received, protected, and guarded by woman's +truth, until, in her fitness and perfect adaptation to him, she +becomes the love of the wisdom of the man's love, and the twain are +no longer two, but one." +</P> + +<P> +The fresh spring days were now coming—Madame Hendrickson went to an +eternal spring. But the heart of the loving Anna rose above the +earthly sorrow of separation, as if upheld by her husband's strong +faith; her imagination delighted itself in following the beloved +mother into her new and beautiful state of being. +</P> + +<P> +Gotleib felt that now it was good for him to return to the home of +his childhood, for it was more delightful to live apart from the +strife and toil of men. In the simple country life much good might +be done, and yet there would be less of life's sorrow to look upon. +It was weary to live in a crowded haunt, where a perception of vice +and misery so mingled itself with the blessedness of his heart's +love. Anna was charmed and delighted with the pure country life, and +as business increased on the Herr Doctor's hands, it was so great a +happiness to her to minister to his comfort. After the long winter +rides, how she chafed his cold hands and warmed his frozen feet, and +how lovingly she helped him to the warm suppers of the good Bettina, +no homeless and desolate wanderer of earth can know. But to Gotleib, +what an inexpressible blessedness was all this; and how often he +left off to eat, that he might clasp Anna to his heart and cover her +with kisses! Thus went the blessed married life until another spring +brought with it the sweet "dream-child," as Anna called the little +one, whom the angel said, was "the fruit of the union of good and +truth." +</P> + +<P> +The little Lina thus born into the very sphere of love, seemed ever +a living joy. The father's wisdom guided the mother's tender love, +and the little one was good and unselfish—and so gay in the +infantile innocence and grace of her being, that oftentimes the +young mother, leaning on the father's bosom, would whisper, +</P> + +<P> +"Gotleib, she is indeed an angel of God." +</P> + +<P> +One dark and wintry day, as the child thus sported in the inner glad +light and joy of her heart, and Gotleib and Anna as usual were +watching the light of her radiance, a beautiful White Dove flew +fluttering against the friendly window. The child grew still in her +wondrous joy. But the father quickly opened the window, and the +half-frozen bird flew in, and nestled itself in Anna's bosom. It was +fed and warmed and loved as bird never was before. For the little +one thought it was the spirit of God come down upon the house, and +Gotleib loved it because to him it was a living symbol of the peace +and purity of his married life, and Anna received it as a heavenly +gift for the loving child. Thus both literally and spiritually the +White Dove of innocence and peace dwelt in their midst. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="hester"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +HESTER. +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + WHILE Hester lived, the day was bright<BR> + With something more than common light—<BR> + 'Twas the moon's difference to the night.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + As summer sun and summer shower<BR> + Revive the tree, the herb, and flower,<BR> + Hers was the gift of warmth and power.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + She was not what the world calls wise;<BR> + Yet, the mute language of her eyes<BR> + Was worth a thousand homilies.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + She was so crystal pure a thing,<BR> + That sin to her could no more cling<BR> + Than water to a sea-bird's wing.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Like memory-tones heard long ago,<BR> + Her gentle voice was soft and low,<BR> + But plaintive in its underflow.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Her life so slowly loosed its springs,<BR> + Long ere she passed from earthly things,<BR> + We saw the budding of her wings.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + She lingered so in taking leave—<BR> + Heaven granted us a long reprieve—<BR> + That when she went we could not grieve.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + The very night that Hester died,<BR> + There came and stood my couch beside,<BR> + A gentle spirit glorified.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + And often in my darker mood,<BR> + When evil thoughts subdue the good,<BR> + I see her clasp the holy Rood.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + But when my better hopes illume<BR> + The narrow pathway to the tomb,<BR> + My Hester's presence fills the room.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="thistle"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THISTLE-DOWN. +</H3> + +<P> +THERE is no time like these clear September nights, after sunset, +for a revery. If it is a calm evening, and an intense light fills +the sky, and glorifies it, and you sit where you can see the new +moon, with the magnificent evening star beneath it, you must be a +stupid affair, indeed, if you cannot then dream the most <I>heavenly</I> +dreams! +</P> + +<P> +But Rosalie Sherwood, poor young creature, is in no dreaming mood +this lovely Sabbath night. Her heart is crushed in such an utter +helplessness, as leaves no room in it for hope: her brain is too +acutely sensitive, just now, for visions. The thistle-down, in +beautiful fairy-like procession, floats on and up before her eyes, +and as she watches the frail things, they assume a new interest to +her; she feels a human sympathy with them. Like the viewless winds +they come, from whence she knows not; and go, whither? none can +tell. They are homeless, and she is like them; but she is not as +they, purposeless. +</P> + +<P> +If you could look into her mind, you would see how she has nerved it +to a great determination; how that, mustering visions and hopes once +cherished, she had gone forward to a bleak and barren path, and +stands there very resolute, yet, in the first moment of her resolve, +miserable; no, she had not yet grown strong in the suffering; she +cannot <I>this</I> night stand up and bear her burden with a smile of +triumph. +</P> + +<P> +Rosalie Sherwood was an only child, the daughter of an humble friend +Mrs. Melville had known from girlhood. <I>She</I>, poor creature, had +neither lived nor died innocent. +</P> + +<P> +On her death-bed, Cecily Sherwood gave her unrecognised child to the +care of one who promised, in the sincerity of her passion, to be a +mother to the unfortunate infant. And during the eighteen years of +that girl's life, from the hour of her mother's death to the day +when she was left without hope in the world, Rosalie <I>had</I> found a +parent in the rigid but always kind and just Mary Melville. +</P> + +<P> +This widow lady had one son; he was four years old when her husband +died, which was the very year that the little Rosalie was brought to +Melville House. The boy's father had been considered a man of great +wealth, but when his affairs were settled, after his decease, it was +found that the debts of the estate being paid, little more than a +competency remained for the widow. But the lady was fitted, by a +life of self-discipline, even in her luxurious home, to calmly meet +this emergency. With the remnant of an imagined fortune, she retired +to an humbler residence, where, in quiet retirement, she gave her +time to managing household affairs, and superintending the home +education of the children. +</P> + +<P> +Her son Duncan, and the young Rosalie, had grown up together, until +the girl's twelfth birth-day, constant playmates and pupils in the +same school. No one, not even the busiest busy-body, had ever been +able to detect the slightest partiality in Mrs. Melville's treatment +of her children; and, indeed, it had been quite impossible that she +should ever regard a child so winningly beautiful as Rosalie, with +other than the tenderest affection. Under a light and careless rein, +the girl had been a difficult one to manage, for there was a light +little fire in her eyes, that told of strong will and deep passions; +and besides, her striking appearance had won sufficient admiration +to have completely spoiled her, if a guardian the most vigilant as +well as most discerning, had not been ever at hand to speak the +right word to and do the right thing with her. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Melville was a thoroughly religious woman, and seriously +conscious of the responsibility she incurred in adopting the infant. +She could not quiet her conscience with the reflection that she had +done a wonderfully good thing in giving Rosalie a home and +education; the chief pity she felt for the unfortunate orphan, led +her to exercise an uncommon care, that all tendency to evil should +be eradicated from the heart of the brilliant girl while she was yet +young; that a sense of right, such as should prove abiding, might be +impressed on her tender mind. And her labour of love met with a +return which might well have made the mother proud. +</P> + +<P> +There had been no officious voice to whisper to Rosalie Sherwood the +story of the doubtful position which she occupied in the world. She +was an orphan, the adopted child of the lady whom she devoutly loved +with all a daughter's tenderness; this she knew, and it was all she +knew; and Mrs. Melville was resolved that she should never know +more. +</P> + +<P> +The son of the widow had been educated for the ministry. He was now +twenty-two years old, and was soon to be admitted to the priesthood. +In this he was following out his own wish, and the most cherished +hope of his mother, and it seemed to all who knew him, as though the +Head of the Church had set his seal upon Duncan from his boyhood. He +was so mild and forbearing, so discreet and generous, so earnest and +so honest; meek, and holy of heart, was the thought of any one who +looked upon his placid, youthful face. Yet, he had, besides his +gentleness, that without which his character might have subsided +into a mere puerile weakness; a firmness of purpose; a reverence for +duty; a strict sense of right, equal to that which marked his mother +among women. Duncan Melville's abilities were of a high order; +perhaps not of the very highest, though, if his ambition were only +equal to his powers, they would surely seem so to the world. +</P> + +<P> +His voice had a sweet persuasive tone, that was fitted to <I>win</I> +souls, yet it could ring like a clarion, when the grandeur of his +themes fired his soul. With the warmest hopes and the deepest +interest, they, who knew the difficulties and trials attending the +profession he had chosen, looked on this young man. +</P> + +<P> +Duncan and Rosalie had long known the nature of the tie which bound +them together—members of one family—and they never called +themselves brother and sister, after the youth came home a graduate +from college. For, from the time when absence empowered him to look +as a stranger would look on Rosalie, from that time he saw her +elegant and accomplished, and bewitching, as she was, and other than +fraternal affection was in his heart for her. +</P> + +<P> +And Rosalie, too, loved him, just as Duncan, had he spoken his +passion, would have prayed her to love him. She had long ago made +him the standard of all manly excellence; and when he came back, +after three years of absence, she was not inclined to revoke her +early decision; therefore was she prepared to read the language of +Duncan's eyes, and she consecrated her heart to him. +</P> + +<P> +During the years which followed his return from college, till he was +prepared for ordination, as a priest, he did not once <I>speak</I> to her +of his love, which was growing all the while stronger and deeper, as +the river course that, flowing to the ocean, receives every day +fresh impetus and force from the many tiny springs that commingle +with it. Duncan Melville never <I>thought</I> of wedding another than +Rosalie Sherwood. +</P> + +<P> +It was, as I said, near the time appointed for his ordination, when +he felt, for the first time, as though he had a <I>right</I> to speak +openly with her of all his hopes. He asked her, then, what, in soul +language, he had long before asked, a question which she had as +emphatically, in like language, answered—to be his partner for +life, in weal or woe. +</P> + +<P> +He had tried to calmly consider Rosalie's character as a Christian +minister should consider the character of her whom he would make the +sharer of his peculiar lot; and setting every preference aside, +Duncan felt that she was fitted to assist, and to bear with him. She +was truthful as the day, strong-minded and generous; humane and +charitable: and though no professor of religion, a woman full of +reverence and veneration. +</P> + +<P> +He knew that it was only a fear that she should not <I>adorn</I> the +Christian name, that kept her back from the altar of the church, and +he loved her for that spirit of humility, knowing that she was "on +the Lord's side," and that grace, ere long, would be given to her, +to proclaim it in doing <I>all</I> His commandments. +</P> + +<P> +It was certainly with a joyful and confident heart that, after he +had spoken with Rosalie, Duncan sought his mother, to tell her of +the whole of that bright future which opened now before him. +</P> + +<P> +How then was he overcome with amazement and grief when Mrs. Melville +told him it was a union to which she could never consent! Then, for +the first time in his life, the astonished young man heard of that +stain which was on the name poor Rosalie bore. +</P> + +<P> +He heard the story to the end, and, with a decision and energy that +would have settled the matter with almost any other than his mother, +he declared, +</P> + +<P> +"Yet for all that, I will not give her up." +</P> + +<P> +"It would not be expected that you would fulfil the engagement. +Rosalie herself would not allow it, if she knew the truth of the +matter." +</P> + +<P> +"But she need not know it. There is no existing necessity. Is it not +enough that she is good and precious <I>to me</I>? She is a noble woman, +whose life has been, thanks to your guidance, beautiful and lofty." +</P> + +<P> +"God knows, I <I>have</I> striven to do my duty by her, but I know what I +should have done if I had ever thought you would wish to change your +relations with her, Duncan." +</P> + +<P> +"The world has not her equal! It is cruel—it is sinful—in you, +mother, to oppose our union." +</P> + +<P> +"She <I>is</I> a lovely woman; but, my son, there are myriads like her." +</P> + +<P> +"No <I>not one</I>! Tell me you will never breathe a word of what you +have told me <I>to her</I>!" +</P> + +<P> +"Never." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! thank you! thank you, mother! you could not wish another +daughter." +</P> + +<P> +"But for that I have told you, I could not wish another." +</P> + +<P> +"Then I say you must not work this great injustice on us. Rosalie +loves me. She has promised to be mine. You will break my heart." +</P> + +<P> +"You are deluded and strongly excited, my son, or you would never +speak so to me," said the mother, with that persisting firmness with +which the physician resorts to a desperate remedy for a desperate +disease. Then she spoke to him of all the relations in life he might +yet be called upon to assume; of the misery which very possibly +might follow this union in after days. Hours passed on, and the +conference was not ended, until, with a crushed heart, and a +trembling voice, Duncan arose, abruptly, while his mother yet spoke, +and he said, +</P> + +<P> +"If the conclusion to which you have urged me, in God's sight, is +just, He will give me—He will give Rosalie, too—strength to abide +by it. But I can never speak to her of this, and I must find another +home than yours and hers. You must speak <I>for me</I>, mother; and let +me charge you, do it gently. Do not tell her <I>all</I>. Let her think +what she will, believe, as she must, that I am a wretch, past +pardon; but do not blight her peace by telling <I>all</I>." +</P> + +<P> +"I promise you, Duncan," was the answer, spoken through many tears, +and in the deepest sorrow. +</P> + +<P> +An hour after, he was on the way from the village that he might +spend the coming Sabbath in another town. +</P> + +<P> +And, after he was gone, the mother sought her younger, her dearly +loved child. Rosalie heard that familiar step on the stairway; she +had seen Duncan hurrying away from the house, and she knew the +conference was over; but she had no fear for the result. So she +hushed the glad tumultuous beating of her heart, and tried to veil +the brightness of her eyes as she heard the gentle tapping at her +door that announced the mother coming. +</P> + +<P> +As for Mrs. Melville, her heart quite failed her when she went into +the pleasant room, and sat down close by Rosalie. In spite of all +the strengthening thoughts of duty which she had taken with her as a +support in that interview, she was now at a sore loss, for it had +been a bitter grief to her kind heart when, of old, for duty's sake, +she made her children unhappy. How then could sh endure to take away +their life's best joy, their richest hope? It was a hard thing; and +many moments passed before she could nerve her strong spirit to +utter the first word. Rosalie, anxious and impatient, too, but +unsuspecting, at last exclaimed, +</P> + +<P> +"What can it be that so much troubles you, mother?" +</P> + +<P> +Then Mary Melville spoke, but with a voice so soft and sad, so faint +with emotion, that it seemed not at all her voice. She said, +</P> + +<P> +"I want you to consider that what I say to you, dear child, has +given me more pain even to think of than I have ever felt before. +Duncan has told me of your engagement to marry with him; and it has +been my duty, my most sorrowful duty, oh! believe me, to tell him +that such a tie must never unite you. He can never be your husband; +you can never be his wife." +</P> + +<P> +She paused, exhausted by her emotion; she could not utter another +syllable. Rosalie, who had watched her with fixed astonishment as +she listened to the words, was the first to speak again, and she +tried to say, calmly, +</P> + +<P> +"Of course, you have a reason for saying so. It is but just that I +should know it." +</P> + +<P> +"It cannot <I>be</I> known. If I had ever in my life deceived you, +Rosalie, you might doubt me now, when I assure you that an +impediment, which cannot be named, exists to the marriage. Have I +not been a mother to you always?" she asked, appealingly, +imploringly: "I love you as I love Duncan, and it cuts me to the +heart to grieve you." +</P> + +<P> +"Has Duncan given you an answer?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Rosalie." +</P> + +<P> +"And it—?" +</P> + +<P> +"He has trusted to his mother!" she said, almost proudly. +</P> + +<P> +"Rather than me," quickly interrupted Rosalie. +</P> + +<P> +"Rather than do that which is wrong; which might hereafter prove the +misery of you both, my child." +</P> + +<P> +"Where is he? Why does he not come himself to tell me this? If the +thing is really true, <I>his</I> lips should have spoken it, and not +another's." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! Rosalie, he could not do it. I believe his heart is broken. Do +not look so upon me. Is it not enough that I bitterly regret, that I +shall always deplore, having not foreseen the result of your +companionship? Say only that you do believe I have striven to do the +best for you always, as far as I knew how. I implore you, <I>say it</I>." +</P> + +<P> +"Heaven knows I believe it, mother. When will Duncan come home +again?" +</P> + +<P> +"Monday; not before." +</P> + +<P> +When Monday morning came, on the desk in Rosalie's room this letter +was found:— +</P> + +<P> +"I cannot leave you for ever, Duncan; I cannot go from your +protecting care, mother, without saying all that is in my heart. I +have no courage to look on you, my brother, again. Mother! our +union, which we had thought life-lasting, is broken. I cannot any +longer live in the world's sight as your daughter by adoption. I +would have done so. I would have remained in any capacity, as a +slave, even, for I was bound by gratitude for all that you have done +for me, to be with you always—at least so long as you could wish. +If you had unveiled the mystery, and suffered me to stand before +you, recognising myself as <I>you</I> know me, I would have stayed. I +would have been to you, Duncan, only as in childhood—a proud yet +humble sister, rejoicing in your triumphs, and sharing by <I>sympathy</I> +in your griefs. I would have put forth fetters on my heart; the +in-dwelling spirit should henceforth have been a stranger to you. I +<I>know</I> I could have borne even to see another made your wife; but in +a mistaken kindness you put this utterly beyond my power. Too much +has been required, and I am found—wanting! If even the most +miserable fate that can befall an innocent woman; if the curse of +illegitimacy were upon me, I could bear that thought even, and +acknowledge the justice and wisdom that did not consider me a fit +associate for one whose birth is recognized by a parent's pride and +fondness. +</P> + +<P> +"But, dear Mrs. Melville, I must be cognisant of the relation, +whatever it is, that I bear you. I cannot, I will not, consent to +appear nominally your daughter, when you scorn to receive me as +such. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Mother</I>—in my dear mother's name, I thank you for the generous +love you have ever shown me: for the generous care with which you +have attended to the development of the talents God gave me. For I +am now fitted to labour for myself. I thank you for the watchful +guardianship that has made me what I am, a woman—self-reliant and +strong. I thank you for it, from a heart that has learned only to +love and honour you in the past eighteen years. And I call down the +blessings of the infinite God upon you, as I depart. Hereafter, +always, it will be my endeavour to live worthily of you—to be <I>all</I> +that you have, in your more than charity, capacitated me to be. +Duncan, you will not forget me? +</P> + +<P> +"I do not ask it. But pray for me, and live up to the fullness of +your being—of your heart and of your intellect. There is a happy +future for you. I have no word of counsel, no feeble utterance of +encouragement to leave you—you will not need such from <I>me</I>. God +bless and strengthen you in every good word and work—it shall be +the constant hope of the sister who <I>loves</I> you. Mother, farewell!" +</P> + +<P> +This letter was written on the Sabbath eve on which our story +opens—written in a perfect passion—yes, of grief, and of despair. +The anger that Rosalie may at first have felt, gave way to the +wildest sorrow now, but her resolution was taken, and her heart was +really strong to bear the resolution out. +</P> + +<P> +After the sudden and most unlooked-for disappearance, the mother and +son sought long, and I need not say how anxiously, for Rosalie. But +their search was vain, and, at last, as time passed on, she became +to the villagers as one who had never been. But never by the widow +was she forgotten; and oh! there was in the world one heart that +sorrowed with a constant sorrow, that hoped with a constant hope for +her. +</P> + +<P> +He had lost her, and Duncan sought for no other love among women. +When all his searching for Rosalie proved unavailing, the minister +applied himself with industry to the work of his calling, and verily +he met here with his reward; for as he was a blessing to the people +of his parish, in time they almost adored him. He was a spiritual +physician whom God empowered to heal many a wounded and stricken +heart; but there was a cross of suffering that he bore himself, +which could not be removed. It was his glory that he bore it with +martyr-like patience—that he never uttered a reproachful word to +her through whom he bore it. +</P> + +<P> +As years passed away, the gifted preacher's impassioned eloquence, +and stirring words, bowed many a proud and impenitent soul with +another love than that he wished to inspire, still he sought not +among any of them companionship, or close friendship. They said, at +last, considering his life spent in the most rigid performance of +duty, that "<I>he was too high-church to marry</I>,"—that he did not +believe such union consonant with the duties of the cloth! But the +mother knew better than this—<I>she</I> knew a name that was never +spoken now in Rosalie's old home, that was dearer than life to the +heart of her son; and desolate and lonely as he oft-times was, she +never <I>dared</I> ask him to give to her a daughter—to take unto +himself a wife. +</P> + +<P> +In a splendid old cathedral a solemn ceremonial was going forward, +on the morning of a holy festival. A bishop was to be consecrated. +</P> + +<P> +A mighty crowd assembled to witness the ceremony, and the mother of +Duncan Melville was there, the happiest soul in all that company, +for it was on <I>her</I> son that the high honour was to be laid. +</P> + +<P> +How beautiful was the pale, holy countenance of the minister, who, +in the early strength of his manhood, was accounted worthy to fill +that great office for which he was about to be set apart! He was a +man "acquainted with grief,"—you had known it by the resigned, +submissive expression of his face; you had known that the passions +of mortals had been all but chilled in him, by the holy light in his +tranquil eyes. Duncan <I>had</I> toiled—he <I>had</I> born a burden! +</P> + +<P> +A thousand felt it, looking on the noble front where religion +undefiled, and peace, and holy love, and charity, had left for +themselves unmistakable evidences: and, more than all, one being +felt it who had not looked upon that man for years—not since the +lines of grief and care had marked the face and form of Duncan +Melville. There was reason for the passionate sobs of one heart, +crushed anew in that solemn hour; there was pathos such as no other +voice could give to the prayers which went up to God from one +woman's heart, in the great congregation, for him. Poor, loving, +still-beloved Rosalie! She was there, her proud, magnificent figure +bent humbly from the very commencement to the close of the +ceremonial; there, her beautiful eyes filled with tears of love, and +grief, and despair, and pride; there, crushed as the humblest +flower—the glorious beauty! +</P> + +<P> +And the good man at the altar, for whom the prayers and the praise +ascended, thought of her in that hour! Yes, in that very hour he +remembered how <I>one</I> would have looked on him that day, could she +have come, his wife, to witness how his brethren and the people +loved and honoured him. He thought of her, and as he knelt at the +altar, even there he prayed for her; but not as numbers thought upon +the name of Rosalie Sherwood that day; for she also was soon to +appear before a throng, and there was a myriad hearts that throbbed +with expectancy, and waited impatiently for the hour when they +should look upon her. +</P> + +<P> +Bishop Melville had retired at noonday to his study, that he might +be for a few moments alone. He was glancing over the sermon (sic) +the was to deliver that afternoon, when his mother, his proud and +happy mother, came quickly into the room, laid a sealed note on the +table and instantly withdrew, for she saw how he was occupied. When +he had finished his manuscript, the bishop opened the note and +read—could it have been with careless eyes? +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"Duncan, I have knelt in the house of the Lord, to-day, and +witnessed your triumph. Ten years ago, when I went desolate and +wretched from your house, I might have prophesied your destiny. +Come, to-night, and behold <I>my</I> triumph—at—the opera-house! +<BR><BR> +"Your sister, +<BR> +ROSALIE." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Do you think that, as he read that summons, he hesitated as to +whether he should obey it? If his bishopric had been sacrificed by +it, he would have gone; if disgrace and danger had attended his +footsteps, he would have obeyed her bidding! The love which had been +strengthening in ten long years of loneliness and bereavement, was +not now to stop, to question or to fear. +</P> + +<P> +"Accompany me, dear mother, this evening; I have made an engagement +for you," he said, as he went, she hanging on his arm, to the +cathedral for afternoon service. +</P> + +<P> +"Willingly, my son," was the instant answer, and Duncan kept her to +her word. +</P> + +<P> +But it was with wondering, with surprise that she did not attempt to +conceal, and with questions which were satisfied with no definite +reply, that Mrs. Melville found herself standing with her son in an +obscure corner of the opera-house that night. Soon all her +expressions of astonishment were hushed, but by another cause than +the mysterious inattention of her son: a queenly woman appeared upon +the stage; she lifted her voice, and sobbed the mournful wail which +opens the first scene in——. +</P> + +<P> +For years there had not been such a sensation created among the +frequenters of that place, as now, by the appearance of this +stranger. The wild, singular style of her beauty made an impression +that was heightened by every movement of her graceful figure, every +tone of her rich melodious voice. She seemed for the time the very +embodiment of the sorrow to which she gave an expression, and the +effect was a complete triumph. +</P> + +<P> +Mary Melville and her son gazed on the <I>debutante</I>—they had no +word, no look for each other: for they recognised in her voice the +tones of a grief of which long ago they heard the prelude—and every +note found its echo in the bishop's inmost heart. +</P> + +<P> +"Come away! let us go home! Duncan, this is no place for us—for +<I>you</I>. It is disgrace to be here," was the mother's passionate plea, +when at last Rosalie disappeared, and other forms stood in her +place. +</P> + +<P> +"We will stay and save her," was the answer, spoken with tears and +trembling, by the man for whom, in many a quiet home, prayers in +that very hour ascended. "She is mine <I>now</I>, and no earthly +consideration or power shall divide us." +</P> + +<P> +And looking for a moment in her son's face steadfastly, the lady +turned away sighing and tearful, for she knew that she must yield +then, and she had fears for the future. +</P> + +<P> +A half-hour passed and the star of the night reappeared, resplendent +in beauty, triumphing in hope;—again her marvellous voice was +raised, not with the bitter cry of despair that was hopeless, but +glad and gay, angelic in its joy. +</P> + +<P> +Again the mother's eyes were turned on him beside her—and a light +was on that pale forehead—a smile on that calm face—a gladness in +those eyes—such as she had not seen there in long, long years; but +though she looked with a mother's love upon the one who stood the +admiration of all eyes, crowned with the glory-crown of perfection +in her art, she could not with Duncan hope. For, alas! her +woman-heart knew too well the ordeal through which the daughter of +her care and love must have passed before she came into <I>that</I> +presence where she stood now, who could tell if still the mistress +of herself and her destiny? who could tell if pure and undefiled? +</P> + +<P> +That night and the following day, there were many who sought +admittance to the parlours of Rosalie Sherwood; they would lay the +homage of their trifling hearts at her feet. But all these sought in +vain; and why was this? Because such admiring tribute was not what +the noble woman sought; <I>and</I> because, ere she had risen in the +morning, a letter, written in the solitude of night, was handed to +her, which barred and bolted her doors against the curious world. +</P> + +<P> +"Rosalie! Rosalie! look back through the ten years that are gone; I +am answering your letter of long ago with words; I have a thousand +times answered them with my heart, till the thoughts which have +crowded there, filled it almost to breaking. We have met—met at +last—you and I! But did you call that a triumph when you stood in +God's house, and saw them lay their consecrating hands upon me? +Heaven forgive me! I was thinking of you then—and thinking, too, +that if this honor was in any way to be considered a <I>reward</I>, the +needful part was wanting—you were not there! Yet you <I>were</I> there, +you have written me; ah! but not <I>Rosalie, my wife</I>, the woman I +loved better than <I>all</I> on earth—the <I>acknowledged</I> woman, her +whose memory I have borne about with me till it was a needful part +of my existence. You were by when the people came to see me +consecrated—and I obeyed your call; I saw <I>you</I> when the people +anointed you with the tears of their admiration and praise. If you +read my heart at all, to-day, you <I>knew</I> how I had suffered—you +<I>saw</I> that I had grown old in sorrow. Was I mistaken to-night in the +thought that you, too, had not been unmindful of <I>our</I> past; that +you were not satisfied with the popular applause; that you, also, +have been lonely, that you have wept; that you have trodden in the +path of duty with weariness? +</P> + +<P> +"There is but one barrier now in the wide world that shall interpose +between us—Rosalie, it is your own will. If I was ever anything to +you, I beseech you think calmly before you answer, and do not let +your triumph, to-night, blind you to the fact which you once +recognised, which can make us happy <I>yet</I>. I trust you as in our +younger days; nothing, nothing but your own words could convince me +that you are not worthy to take the highest place among the ladies +of this land. Oh, let the remembrance that I have been faithful to +you through all the past, plead for me, if your pride should rise +up, to condemn me. Let me come and plead <I>with</I> you, for I know not +what I write." +</P> + +<P> +The answer returned to this letter was as follows:— +</P> + +<P> +"I learned long ago, the bar that prevented our union; it is in +existence still, Duncan. Your mother only shall decide if it be +insurmountable. I have never, even for a moment, doubted your +faithfulness; and it has been to me an unspeakable comfort to <I>know</I> +that none had supplanted me in your affections. In the temptations, +and struggles, and hardships, I have known, it has kept me above and +beyond the world, and if the last night's triumph proves to be but +the opening of a new life for me on earth, the recollection of what +you are, and that you care for me, will prove a rock of defence, and +a stronghold of hope always. Severed from, or united with you, I am +yours for ever." +</P> + +<P> +Seven days after there was a marriage in the little church of that +remote village, where Duncan Melville and Rosalie Sherwood passed +their childhood. Side by side they stood now, once again, where the +baptismal service had long since been read for them, and the mother +of the bishop gave the bride away! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="children"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE LITTLE CHILDREN. +</H3> + +<P> +IT was Sabbath morning. Soft and silvery, like stray notes from the +quivering chords of an archangel's harp, floated the clear, sweet +voice of the church-bells through the hushed heart of the great +metropolis, while old men and little children—youth in its hope, +and manhood in its pride—came forth at their summons, setting a +mighty human tide in the direction of the sanctuaries, beneath whose +sacred droppings they should hear again the tidings which come to us +over the waves of nearly two thousand years, fresh and full of +exceeding melody, as when the Day-Star from on high first poured its +blessed beams over the mountain heights of Judea, and the song, +pealing over the hills of jasper, rolled down to the shepherds who +kept their night-watches on her plains; "Peace on earth and +good-will to men." +</P> + +<P> +A child came forth with his ragged garments, unwashed face and +uncombed hair, from one of those haunts of darkness and misery which +fill the city with crime and suffering. He was a little child, and +yet there was none of its peace on his brow, or its light in his +eye, as he looked up with a strange, wistful earnestness at the +strip of blue sky that looked down with its serene heaven-smile +between the frowning and dilapidated pile of buildings which rose on +either side of the alley. The sunshine flitted like the +soft-caressing fingers of a spirit over his forehead, and the voice +of the bells fell upon his spirit with a strange, subduing +influence; and the child kept on his way until the alley terminated +in a broad, pleasant street, with its crowd of church-goers, and +still the boy kept on, unmindful of dainty robe and silken vesture +that waved and rustled by him. +</P> + +<P> +He stood at last within the broad shadow of the sanctuary, while far +above him rose the tall spire, with the sunbeams coiling like a +heaven-halo around it, pointing to the golden battlements of the +far-off city, within whose blessed precincts nothing "which defileth +shall ever enter." The massive church doors swung slowly open as one +and another entered, and the child looked eagerly up the long, +mysterious mid-aisle, but the silken garments rustled past—there +was no hand outstretched to lead the ragged and wretched little one +within its walls, and no one paused to tell him of the Great Father, +within whose sight the rich and poor are alike. But while he stood +there, an angel with golden hair and gleaming wings bent over him, +holding precious heart-seed, gathered from the white plains of the +spirit-land, and as the child drew nearer the church steps, the +angel followed. +</P> + +<P> +Suddenly the little dapper sexton, with his broad smile and bustling +gait, came out of the church. His eyes rested a moment upon the +young wistful face and on the ragged garments, and then he beckoned +to the child. +</P> + +<P> +"Shall I take you in here, my boy?" asked a voice kinder and +pleasanter than any which the child had ever heard; and as he +timidly bowed his head, the sexton took the little soiled hand in +his own, and they passed in, and the angel followed them. +</P> + +<P> +Seated in one corner of the church, the child's eyes wandered over +the frescoed walls, with the sunshine flitting like the fringe of a +spirit's robe across it, and up the dim aisle to the great marble +pulpit, with a kind of bewildered awe, for he had seen nothing of +the like before, unless it might be in some dim, half-forgotten +dream; but when the heavy doors swung together and the Sabbath hush +gathered over the church, and the hallelujahs of the organ filled +the house of the Lord and thrilled the heart of the child; he bowed +his head and wept sweet tears—he could not tell whence was their +coming. Then the solemn prayer from the pulpit—"O, Thou who lovest +all men, who art the Father of the old and the young, the rich and +the poor, and in whose sight they are alike precious, grant us Thy +blessing," came to the ears of the child, and a new cry awoke in his +soul. <I>Where</I> was this Father? It did not seem true that He could +love him, a poor little, hungry, ragged beggar; that such a one +could be his child. But, oh! it was just what his heart longed for, +and if all others were <I>precious</I> to this Great Father, he did not +believe He would leave him out. If he could only find Him—no matter +how long the road was, nor how cold and hungry he might be, he would +keep straight on the way, until he reached Him, and then he would go +right in and say, "Father, I am cold and hungry, and very wretched. +There is no one to love me, none to care for me. May I be your +child, Father?" And perhaps He would look kindly upon him, and +whisper softly, as no human being had ever whispered to him, "My +child!" and stronger and wilder from his heart came up that cry, +"Oh, if I could only find Him!" +</P> + +<P> +Again the tones of the deep-toned organ and the sweet-voiced choir +floated on the Sabbath air, and crept, a strange, soft tide, into +the silent places of the boy's heart, softening and subduing it; +while during the long sermon, of which he heard little, and +comprehended less, that spirit cry rolled continually up from the +depths of his soul—"<I>Where</I> is the Father?" +</P> + +<P> +The benediction had been pronounced, and the house was disgorged of +most of its vast crowd of worshippers, and yet the boy lingered—he +could not bear to return to his dark and dismal dwelling, to the +harsh words and harsher usage of those who loved him not, without +having that question, which his soul was so eagerly asking, +answered. But that little timid heart lacked courage, and he knew +the words would die in his throat if he attempted to speak them, and +so he must go away without knowing the way to the Father—but his +feet dragged unwillingly along, and his eyes searched earnestly the +figures that, unwitting of his want, passed swiftly before him. +</P> + +<P> +"What is it you want to know, little boy?" The voice was very +musical, and the smile on the lips of the child-questioner very +winning. The chestnut-brown curls floated over her silken robe, and +the soft blue eyes that looked into the boy's, wore that unearthly +purity of expression which is not the portion of the children of +this world. +</P> + +<P> +The boy looked into that fair, childish face, and his heart took +courage, while very eagerly from his lips came the words, "Where is +the Great Father?" +</P> + +<P> +"God is in heaven!" answered the little girl in solemn tones, while +a sudden gravity gathered over her features. +</P> + +<P> +From lips that burned with blasphemies, amid oaths from the vile, +and revilings from the scoffer, had the boy first learned that name, +and never before had it possessed aught of import for him. But now +he knew it was the name of the Great Father that loved him, and +again he asked very earnestly, "Where is the way to God in heaven? I +am going to Him now." +</P> + +<P> +The child shook her head as she looked on the boy with a sort of +pitying wonder at his ignorance, and again she answered, "You cannot +go to Him, but He will come to you if you will call upon Him, and He +will hear, though you whisper very low, for God is everywhere." +</P> + +<P> +"Come, come, Miss Ellen, you must not stay here any longer," called +the servant, who had been very intent at ranging the cushions in the +pew, and who now hurried her little charge through the aisle, +apprehensive that some evil might accrue from her contiguity with a +"street-beggar." +</P> + +<P> +But the words of the little girl had brought a new and precious +light into the boy's heart. That "cardinal explication of the +reason," the wondrous idea of the Deity, had found a voice in his +soul, and the child went forth from the church, while the +golden-winged angel followed him to the dark alley, and the darker +home; and that night, before he laid himself on his miserable pallet +in the corner, he bowed his head, and clasped his hands, and +whispered so that none might hear him, "My Father, will you take +care of me, and come and take me to yourself? for I love you." And +the angel folded his bright wings above that scanty pallet, and bent +in the silent watches of the night over the boy, and filled his +heart with peace, and his dreams with brightness. +</P> + +<P> +Six months had rolled their mighty burden of life-records into the +pulseless ocean of the past. The pale stars of mid-winter were +looking down with meek, seraph glances over the mighty metropolis +along whose thousand thoroughfares lay the white carpet of the +snow-king; and Boreas, loosed from his ice caverns on the frozen +floor of the Arctic, was holding mad revels, and howling with +demoniac glee along the streets, wrapped in the pall shadows of +midnight. +</P> + +<P> +Twelve o'clock pealed from the mighty tongue of the time-recorder, +and then the white-robed angel of death knocked at the door of two +young human hearts, in the great city. +</P> + +<P> +The tide of golden hair flowed over the white pillows of +crimson-draperied couch. Shaded lamps poured their dim, silvery +glances upon bright flowers and circling vines, the cunning +workmanship of fingers in far-off lands, which lay among the soft +groundwork of the rich carpet, while small white fingers glided +caressingly among the golden hair; and white faces, wild with +sorrow, bent over the rigid features of the dying child, and tears, +such only as flow from the heart's deepest and bitterest fountains, +fell upon the cold forehead and paling lips, as the lids swept back +for a moment from her blue eyes, and the light from her spirit broke +for the last time into them; the lips upon which the death-seal was +ready to be laid, opened; and clear and joyous through the hushed +room rang the words, "I am coming! I am coming!" and the next moment +the cold, beautiful clay was all which was left to the mourners. +</P> + +<P> +The other, at whose heart the death-angel knocked, lay in one corner +of an old and dilapidated room, on a pallet of straw. No soft hand +wandered caressingly among his dark locks, or cooled with its cold +touch the fever of his forehead. The dim, flickering rays of the +tallow candle wandered over the features now grown stark and rigid +with the death-chill. No grief-printed face bent in anguish above +him; no eye watched for the latest breath; no ear for the dying +word; but through the half-open door, came to the ear of the dying +boy the coarse laugh of the inebriate—the jest of the vile, and the +frightful blasphemies of those whose way is the way of death. +</P> + +<P> +None saw the last life-light, as it broke into the dark, spiritual +eyes of the boy. None saw the smile that played like the light +around the lips of a seraph, about his blue and cold lips, as they +spoke exceeding joyfully, "Father! Father, I have called and you +have heard me; I am coming to you, coming now; for the angels beckon +me;" and the pale clay on that sunken pallet was all that remained +of the boy. +</P> + +<P> +Together they met, those two children who had stood together in the +earthly courts of the Most High, and whom the angel had +simultaneously called from the earth, beneath the shining +battlements of "the city of God." The white wings of the +warden-angels, who stood on its watch-towers, were slowly folded +together, and back rolled the massive gates from the walls of +jasper; and with the great "Godlight" streaming outward, and amid +the sound of archangel's harp and seraph's lyre, the ministering +angels came forth. They did not ask the child-spirits there, if +their earthly homes had been among the high and the honourable; they +did not ask them if broad lands had been their heritage, and +sparkling coffers their portion; if their paths had lain by pleasant +waters, and animals followed their biddings; but alike they led +them—she, the daughter of wealth and earthly splendour, whose +forehead the breezes might not visit too roughly, and whose pathway +had been bordered with flowers and gilded with sunshine; and he, the +heir of poverty, whose portion had been want, and his inalienable +heritage, suffering; whose path had known no pleasant places; whose +life had had no brightness within that glorious city. They placed +bright crowns, alike woven from the fragrant branches of the +far-spreading "Tree of Life," around their spirit-brows; they decked +them alike in white robes, whose lustre many ages shall not dim; +alike they placed in their hands the harps whose music shall roll +for ever over (sic) the the hills of jasper; and alike they pointed +them to the gleaming battlements, to the still skies over whose +surface the shadow of a cloud hath never floated; to the "many +mansions" which throw the shadow of their shining portals on the +rippling waters of the "River of Life," and to far more of glory +"which it hath never entered into the heart of man to conceive of," +and told them they should "go no more out for ever." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="noble"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +WHAT IS NOBLE? +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + WHAT is noble? to inherit<BR> + Wealth, estate, and proud degree?<BR> + There must be some other merit,<BR> + Higher yet than these for me.<BR> + Something greater far must enter<BR> + Into life's majestic span;<BR> + Fitted to create and centre<BR> + True nobility in man!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + What is noble? 'tis the finer<BR> + Portion of our mind and heart:<BR> + Linked to something still diviner<BR> + Than mere language can impart;<BR> + Ever prompting—ever seeing<BR> + Some improvement yet to plan;<BR> + To uplift our fellow-being—<BR> + And like man to feel for man!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + What is noble? is the sabre<BR> + Nobler than the humble spade?<BR> + There's a dignity in labour<BR> + Truer than e'er Pomp arrayed!<BR> + He who seeks the mind's improvement<BR> + Aids the world—in aiding mind!<BR> + Every great, commanding movement<BR> + Serves not one—but all mankind.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + O'er the Forge's heat and ashes—<BR> + O'er the Engine's iron head—<BR> + Where the rapid Shuttle flashes,<BR> + And the Spindle whirls its thread;<BR> + There is Labour lowly tending<BR> + Each requirement of the hour;<BR> + There is genius still extending<BR> + Science—and its world of power!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="anemone"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE ANEMONE HEPATICA. +</H3> + +<P> +TWO friends were walking together beside a picturesque mill-stream. +While they walked, they talked of mortal life, its meaning and its +end; and, as is almost inevitable with such themes, the current of +their thoughts gradually lost its cheerful flow. +</P> + +<P> +"This is a miserable world," said one; "the black shroud of sorrow +overhangs everything here." +</P> + +<P> +"Not so," replied the other; "Sorrow is not a shroud. It is only the +covering Hope wraps about her when she sleeps." +</P> + +<P> +Just then they entered an oak-grove. It was early spring, and the +trees were bare, but last year's leaves lay thick as snow-drifts +upon the ground. +</P> + +<P> +"The Liverwort grows here, one of our earliest flowers, I think," +said the last speaker. "There, push away the leaves, and you will +find it. How beautiful, with its delicate shades of pink, and +purple, and green, lying against the bare roots of the oak-trees! +But look deeper, or you will not find the flowers; they are under +the dead leaves." +</P> + +<P> +"Now I have learned a lesson that I shall not forget," said her +friend. "This seems to me a bad world, and there is no denying that +there are bad things in it. To a sweeping glance, it will sometimes +seem barren and desolate; but not one buried germ of life and beauty +is lost to the All-seeing Eye. I, having the weakness of human +vision, must believe where I cannot see. Henceforth, when I am +tempted to complainings and despair on account of the evil around +me, I will say to myself, 'Look deeper, look under the dead leaves, +and you will find flowers.'" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="family"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE FAMILY OF MICHAEL AROUT. +</H3> + +<P> +<I>September 15th, eight o'clock.</I>—This morning, while I was +arranging my books, Mother Genevieve came in, and brought me the +basket of fruit I buy of her every Sunday. For nearly twenty years +that I have lived in this quarter, I have dealt in her little +fruit-shop. Perhaps I should be better served elsewhere, but Mother +Genevieve has but little custom; to leave her would do her harm, and +cause her unnecessary pain. It seems to me that the length of our +acquaintance has made me incur a sort of tacit obligation to her; my +patronage has become her property. +</P> + +<P> +She has put the basket upon my table, and as I wanted her husband, +who is a joiner, to add some shelves to my bookcase, she has gone +down stairs again immediately to send him to me. +</P> + +<P> +At first I did not notice either her looks or the sound of her +voice; but now, that I recall them, it seems to me that she was not +as jovial as usual. Can Mother Genevieve be in trouble about +anything? +</P> + +<P> +Poor woman! All her best years were subject to such bitter trials, +that she might think she had received her full share already. Were I +to live a hundred years, I should never forget the circumstances +which first made her known to me, and which obtained her my respect. +</P> + +<P> +It was at the time of my first settling in the faubourg. I had +noticed her empty fruit-shop, which nobody came into, and being +attracted by its forsaken appearance, made my little purchases in +it. I have always instinctively preferred the poor shops; there is +less choice in them, but it seems to me that my purchase is a sign +of sympathy with a brother in poverty. These little dealings are +almost always an anchor of hope to those whose very existence is in +peril—the only means by which some orphan gains a livelihood. There +the aim of the tradesman is not to enrich himself, but to live! The +purchase you make of him is more than exchange—it is a good action. +</P> + +<P> +Mother Genevieve at that time was still young, but had already lost +that fresh bloom of youth, which suffering causes to wither so soon +among the poor. Her husband, a clever joiner, gradually left off +working to become, according to the picturesque expression of the +workshops, <I>a worshipper of Saint Monday</I>. The wages of the week, +which was always reduced to two or three working days, were +completely dedicated by him to the worship of this god of the +Barriers, +</P> + +<P> +The cheap wine-shops are outside the Barriers, to avoid the +<I>octroi</I>, or municipal excise. +</P> + +<P> +and Genevieve was obliged herself to provide for all the wants of +the household. +</P> + +<P> +One evening, when I went to make some trifling purchases of her, I +heard a sound of quarrelling in the back shop. There were the voices +of several women, among which I distinguished that of Genevieve, +broken by sobs. On looking further in, I perceived the fruit-woman, +with a child in her arms, and kissing it, while a country nurse +seemed to be claiming her wages from her. The poor woman, who +without doubt had exhausted every explanation and every excuse, was +crying in silence, and one of her neighbours was trying in vain to +appease the countrywoman. Excited by that love of money which the +evils of a hard peasant life but too well excuse, and disappointed +by the refusal of her expected wages, the nurse was launching forth +in recriminations, threats, and abuse. In spite of myself, I +listened to the quarrel, not daring to interfere, and not thinking +of going away, when Michael Arout appeared at the shop-door. +</P> + +<P> +The joiner had just come from the Barrier, where he had passed part +of the day at the public-house. His blouse, without a belt, and +untied at the throat, showed none of the noble stains of work: in +his hand he held his cap, which he had just picked out of the mud; +his hair was in disorder, his eye fixed, and the pallor of +drunkenness in his face. He came reeling in, looked wildly around +him, and called for Genevieve. +</P> + +<P> +She heard his voice, gave a start, and rushed into the shop; but at +the sight of the miserable man, who was trying in vain to steady +himself, she pressed the child in her arms, and bent over it with +tears. +</P> + +<P> +The countrywoman and the neighbour had followed her. +</P> + +<P> +"Come! come! Do you intend to pay me, after all?" cried the former, +in a rage. +</P> + +<P> +"Ask the master for the money," ironically answered the woman from +next door, pointing to the joiner, who had just fallen against the +counter. +</P> + +<P> +The countrywoman looked at him. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! he is the father," resumed she; "well, what idle beggars! not +to have a penny to pay honest people, and get tipsy with wine in +that way." +</P> + +<P> +The drunkard raised his head. +</P> + +<P> +"What! what!" stammered he; "who is it that talks of wine? I've had +nothing but brandy. But I am going back again to get some wine. +Wife, give me your money; there are some friends waiting for me at +the <I>Pere la Tuille</I>." +</P> + +<P> +Genevieve did not answer: he went round the counter, opened the +till, and began to rummage in it. +</P> + +<P> +"You see where the money of the house goes!" observed the neighbour +to the countrywoman; "how can the poor unhappy woman pay you when he +takes all?" +</P> + +<P> +"Is that my fault, then?" replied the nurse angrily; "they owe it +me, and somehow or other they must pay me." +</P> + +<P> +And letting loose her tongue, as those women out of the country do, +she began relating at length all the care she had taken of the +child, and all the expense it had been to her. In proportion as she +recalled all she had done, her words seemed to convince her more +than ever of her rights, and to increase her anger. The poor mother, +who no doubt feared that her violence would frighten the child, +returned into the back shop, and put it into its cradle. +</P> + +<P> +Whether it was that the countrywoman saw in this act a determination +to escape her claims, or that she was blinded by passion, I cannot +say; but she rushed into the next room, where I heard the sounds of +quarrelling, with which the cries of the child were soon mingled. +The joiner, who was still rummaging in the till, was startled, and +raised his head. +</P> + +<P> +At the same moment Genevieve appeared at the door, holding in her +arms the baby that the countrywoman was trying to tear from her. She +ran towards the counter, and, throwing herself behind her husband, +cried, +</P> + +<P> +"Michael, defend your son!" +</P> + +<P> +The drunken man quickly stood up erect, like one who awakes with a +start. +</P> + +<P> +"My son!" stammered he; "what son?" +</P> + +<P> +His looks fell upon the child; a vague ray of intelligence passed +over his features. +</P> + +<P> +"Robert," resumed he; "is it Robert?" +</P> + +<P> +He tried to steady himself on his feet, that he might take the baby, +but he tottered. The nurse approached him in a rage. +</P> + +<P> +"My money, or I shall take the child away!" cried she; "it is I who +have fed and brought it up; if you don't pay for what has made it +live, it ought to be the same to you as if it were dead. I shall not +go till I have my due or the baby." +</P> + +<P> +"And what would you do with him?" murmured Genevieve, pressing +Robert against her bosom. +</P> + +<P> +"Take it to the Foundling!" replied the countrywoman, harshly; "the +hospital is a better mother than you are, for it pays for the food +of its little ones." +</P> + +<P> +At the word "Foundling," Genevieve had exclaimed aloud in horror. +With her arms wound round her son, whose head she hid in her bosom, +and her two hands spread over him, she had retreated to the wall, +and remained with her back against it, like a lioness defending her +young ones. +</P> + +<P> +The neighbour and I contemplated this scene, without knowing how we +could interfere. As for Michael, he looked at us by turns, making a +visible effort to comprehend it all. When his eye rested upon +Genevieve and the child, it lit up with a gleam of pleasure; but +when he turned towards us, he again became stupid and hesitating. +</P> + +<P> +At last, apparently making a prodigious effort, he cried +out—"Wait!" +</P> + +<P> +And going to a tub full of water, he plunged his face into it +several times. +</P> + +<P> +Every eye was turned upon him; the countrywoman herself seemed +astonished. At length he raised his dripping head. This ablution had +partly dispelled his drunkenness; he looked at us for a moment, then +he turned to Genevieve, and his face brightened up. +</P> + +<P> +"Robert!" cried he, going up to the child, and taking him in his +arms. "Ah! give him me, wife; I must look at him." +</P> + +<P> +The mother seemed to give up his son to him with reluctance, and +stayed before him with her arms extended, as if she feared the child +would have a fall. The nurse began again in her turn to speak, and +renewed her claims, this time threatening to appeal to law. +</P> + +<P> +At first Michael listened to her attentively, and when he +comprehended her meaning, he gave the child back to its mother. +</P> + +<P> +"How much do we owe you?" asked he. +</P> + +<P> +The countrywoman began to reckon up the different expenses, which +amounted to nearly thirty francs. The joiner felt to the bottom of +his pockets, but could find nothing. His forehead became contracted +by frowns; low curses began to escape him; all of a sudden he +rummaged in his breast, drew forth a large watch, and holding it up +above his head— +</P> + +<P> +"Here it is—here's your money!" cried he, with a joyful laugh; "a +watch, number one! I always said it would keep for a drink on a dry +day; but it is not I who will drink it, but the young one. Ah! ah! +ah! go and sell it for me, neighbour; and if that is not enough, +have my ear-rings. Eh! Genevieve, take them off for me, the +ear-rings will square all. They shall not say you have been +disgraced on account of the child. No, not even if I must pledge a +bit of my flesh! My watch, my ear-rings, and my ring, get rid of all +of them for me at the goldsmith's; pay the woman, and let the little +fool go to sleep. Give him me, Genevieve, I will put him to bed." +</P> + +<P> +And, taking the baby from the arms of his mother, he carried him +with a firm step to his cradle. +</P> + +<P> +It was easy to perceive the change which took place in Michael from +this day. He cut all his old drinking acquaintances. He went early +every morning to his work, and returned regularly in the evening to +finish the day with Genevieve and Robert. Very soon he would not +leave them at all, and he hired a place near the fruitshop, and +worked in it on his own account. +</P> + +<P> +They would soon have been able to live in comfort, had it not been +for the expenses which the child required. Everything was given up +to his education. He had gone through the regular school training, +had studied mathematics, drawing, and the carpenter's trade, and had +only begun to work a few months ago. Till now, they had been +exhausting every resource which their laborious industry could +provide to push him forward in his business; but, happily, all these +exertions had not proved useless; the seed had brought forth its +fruits, and the days of harvest were close by. +</P> + +<P> +While I was thus recalling these remembrances to my mind, Michael +had come in, and was occupied in fixing shelves where they were +wanted. +</P> + +<P> +During the time I was writing the notes of my journal, I was also +scrutinizing the joiner. +</P> + +<P> +The excesses of his youth and the labour of his manhood have deeply +marked his face; his hair is thin and gray, his shoulders stooping, +his legs shrunken and slightly bent. There seems a sort of weight in +his whole being. His very features have an expression of sorrow and +despondency. He answered my questions by monosyllables, and like a +man who wishes to avoid conversation. From whence is this dejection, +when one would think he had all he could wish for? I should like to +know! +</P> + +<P> +<I>Ten o'clock</I>.—Michael is just gone down stairs to look for a tool +he has forgotten. I have at last succeeded in drawing from him the +secret of his and Genevieve's sorrow. Their son Robert is the cause +of it. +</P> + +<P> +Not that he has turned out ill after all their care—not that he is +idle or dissipated; but both were in hopes he would never leave them +any more. The presence of the young man was to have renewed and made +glad their lives once more; his mother counted the days, his father +prepared everything to receive their dear associate in their toils, +and at the moment when they were thus about to be repaid for all +their sacrifices, Robert had suddenly informed them that he had just +engaged himself to a contractor at Versailles. +</P> + +<P> +Every remonstrance and every prayer were useless; he brought forward +the necessity of initiating himself into all the details of an +important contract, the facilities he should have, in his new +position, of improving himself in his trade, and the hopes he had of +turning his knowledge to advantage. At last, when his mother, having +come to the end of her arguments, began to cry, he hastily kissed +her, and went away, that he might avoid any further remonstrances. +</P> + +<P> +He had been absent a year, and there was nothing to give them hopes +of his return. His parents hardly saw him once a month, and then he +only stayed a few moments with them. +</P> + +<P> +"I have been punished where I had hoped to be rewarded," Michael +said to me just now; "I had wished for a saving and industrious son, +and God has given me an ambitious and avaricious one. I had always +said to myself, that, when once he was grown up, we should have him +always with us, to recall our youth and to enliven our hearts; his +mother was always thinking of getting him married, and having +children again to care for. You know women always will busy +themselves about others. As for me, I thought of him working near my +bench, and singing his new songs—for he has learnt music, and is +one of the best singers at the Orpheon. A dream, sir, truly! +Directly the bird was fledged, he took to flight, and remembers +neither father nor mother. Yesterday, for instance, was the day we +expected him; he should have come to supper with us. No Robert +to-day, either! He has had some plan to finish, or some bargain to +arrange, and his old parents are put down last in the accounts, +after the customers and the joiner's work. Ah! if I could have +guessed how it would have turned out! Fool! to have sacrificed my +likings and my money, for nearly twenty years, to the education of a +thankless son! Was it for this I took the trouble to cure myself of +drinking, to break with my friends, to become an example to the +neighbourhood? The jovial good fellow has made a goose of himself. +Oh! if I had to begin again! No, no! you see women and children are +our bane. They soften our hearts; they lead us a life of hope and +affection; we pass a quarter of our lives in fostering the growth of +a grain of corn which is to be everything to us in our old age, and +when the harvest-time comes—good-night, the ear is empty!" +</P> + +<P> +Whilt he was speaking, Michael's voice became hoarse, his eye +fierce, and his lips quivered. I wished to answer him, but I could +only think of commonplace consolations, and I remained silent. The +joiner pretended he wanted a tool, and left me. +</P> + +<P> +Poor father! Ah! I know those moments of temptation when virtue has +failed to reward us, and we regret having obeyed her! Who has not +felt this weakness in hours of trial, and who has not uttered, at +least once, the mournful exclamation of "Brutus?" +</P> + +<P> +But if <I>virtue is only a word</I>, what is there then in life which is +true and real? No, I will not believe that goodness is in vain! It +does not always give the happiness we had hoped for, but it brings +some other. In the world everything is ruled by order, and has its +proper and necessary consequences, and virtue cannot be the sole +exception to the general law. If it had been prejudicial to those +who practise it, experience would have avenged them; but experience +has, on the contrary, (sic) mader it more universal and more holy. +We only accuse it of being a faithless debtor, because we demand an +immediate payment, and one apparent to our senses. We always +consider life as a fairy tale, in which every good action must be +rewarded by a visible wonder. We do not accept as payment a peaceful +conscience, self-content, or a good name among men, treasures that +are more precious than any other, but the value of which we do not +feel till after we have lost them! +</P> + +<P> +Michael is come back, and returned to his work. His son had not yet +arrived. +</P> + +<P> +By telling me of his hopes and his grievous disappointments, he +became excited; he unceasingly went over again the same subject, +always adding something to his griefs. He has just wound up his +confidential discourse by speaking to me of a joiner's business, +which he had hoped to buy, and work to good account with Robert's +help. The present owner had made a fortune by it, and after thirty +years of business, he was thinking of retiring to one of the +ornamental cottages in the outskirts of the city, a usual retreat +for the frugal and successful working man. Michael had not indeed +the two thousand francs which must be paid down; but perhaps he +could have persuaded Master Benoit to wait. Robert's presence would +have been a security for him; for the young man could not fail to +insure the prosperity of a workshop; besides science and skill, he +had the power of invention and bringing to perfection. His father +had discovered among his drawings a new plan for a staircase, which +had occupied his thoughts for a long time; and he even suspected him +of having engaged himself to the Versailles contractor for the very +purpose of executing it. The youth was tormented by this spirit of +invention, which took possession of all his thoughts, and, while +devoting his mind to study, he had no time to listen to his +feelings. +</P> + +<P> +Michael told me all this with a mixed feeling of pride and vexation. +I saw he was proud of the son he was abusing, and that his very +pride made him more sensible of that son's neglect. +</P> + +<P> +<I>Six o'clock, P. M.</I>—I have just finished a happy day. How many +events have happened within a few hours, and what a change for +Genevieve and Michael! +</P> + +<P> +He had just finished fixing the shelves, and telling me of his son, +whilst I laid the cloth for my breakfast. +</P> + +<P> +Suddenly we heard hurried steps in the passage, the door opened, and +Genevieve entered with Robert. +</P> + +<P> +The joiner gave a start of joyful surprise, but he repressed it +immediately, as if he wished to keep up the appearance of +displeasure. +</P> + +<P> +The young man did not appear to notice it, but threw himself into +his arms in an open-hearted manner, which surprised me. Genevieve, +whose face shone with happiness, seemed to wish to speak, and to +restrain herself with difficulty. +</P> + +<P> +I told Robert I was glad to see him, and he answered me with ease +and civility. +</P> + +<P> +"I expected you yesterday," said Michael Arout, rather dryly. +</P> + +<P> +"Forgive me, father," replied the young workman, "but I had business +at St. Germains. I was not able to come back till it was very late, +and then the master kept me." +</P> + +<P> +The joiner looked at his son sideways, and then took up his hammer +again. +</P> + +<P> +"It is right," muttered he, in a grumbling tone; "when we are with +other people we must do as they wish; but there are some who would +like better to eat brown bread with their own knife, than partridges +with the silver fork of a master." +</P> + +<P> +"And I am one of those, father," replied Robert, merrily; "but, as +the proverb says, <I>you must shell the peas before you can eat them.</I> +It was necessary that I should first work in a great workshop"— +</P> + +<P> +"To go on with your plan of the staircase," interrupted Michael, +ironically. +</P> + +<P> +"You must now say M. Raymond's plan, father," replied Robert, +smiling. +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because I have sold it to him." +</P> + +<P> +The joiner, who was planing a board, turned round quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"Sold it!" cried he, with sparkling eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"For the reason that I was not rich enough to give it him." +</P> + +<P> +Michael threw down the board and tool. +</P> + +<P> +"There he is again!" resumed he, angrily; "his good genius puts an +idea into his head which would have made him known, and he goes and +sells it to a rich man, who will take the honour of it himself." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, what harm is there done?" asked Genevieve. +</P> + +<P> +"What harm!" cried the joiner, in a passion; "you understand nothing +about it—you are a woman; but he—he knows well that a true workman +never gives up his own inventions for money, no more than a soldier +would give up his cross. That is his glory; he is bound to keep it +for the honour it does him! Ah! thunder! if I had ever made a +discovery, rather than put it up at auction I would have sold one of +my eyes! Don't you see, that a new invention is like a child to a +workman! he takes care of it, he brings it up, he makes a way for it +in the world, and it is only poor creatures who sell it." +</P> + +<P> +Robert coloured a little. +</P> + +<P> +"You will think differently, father," said he, "when you know why I +sold my plan." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, and you will thank him for it," added Genevieve, who could no +longer keep silence. +</P> + +<P> +"Never!" replied Michael. +</P> + +<P> +"But, wretched man!" cried she, "he only sold it for our sakes!" +</P> + +<P> +The joiner looked at his wife and son with astonishment. It was +necessary to come to an explanation. The latter related how he had +entered into a negotiation with Master Benoit, who had positively +refused to sell his business unless one-half of the two thousand +francs was first paid down. It was in the hopes of obtaining this +sum that he had gone to work with the contractor at Versailles; he +had an opportunity of trying his invention, and of finding a +purchaser. Thanks to the money he received for it, he had just +concluded the bargain with Benoit, and had brought his father the +key of the new work-yard. +</P> + +<P> +This explanation was given by the young workman with so much modesty +and simplicity, that I was quite affected by it. Genevieve cried; +Michael pressed his son to his heart, and in a long embrace he +seemed to ask his pardon for having unjustly accused him. +</P> + +<P> +All was now explained with honour to Robert. The conduct which his +parents had ascribed to indifference, really sprang from affection; +he had neither obeyed the voice of ambition nor of avarice, nor even +the nobler inspiration of inventive genius; his whole motive and +single aim had been the happiness of Genevieve and Michael. The day +for proving his gratitude had come, and he had returned them +sacrifice for sacrifice! +</P> + +<P> +After the explanations and exclamations of joy, were over, all three +were about to leave me; but the cloth being laid, I added three more +places, and kept them to breakfast. +</P> + +<P> +The meal was prolonged; the fare was only tolerable; but the +overflowings of affection made it delicious. +</P> + +<P> +Never had I better understood the unspeakable charm of family love. +What calm enjoyment in that happiness which is always shared with +others; in that community of interests which unites such various +feelings; in that association of existences which forms one single +being of so many! What is man without those home affections, which, +like so many roots, fix him firmly in the earth, and permit him to +imbibe all the juices of life? Energy, happiness, does it not all +come from them? Without family life, where would man learn to love, +to associate, to deny himself? A community in little, is not it +which teaches us how to live in the great one? Such is the holiness +of home, that to express our relation with God, we have been obliged +to borrow the words invented for our family life. Men have named +themselves the <I>sons</I> of a heavenly <I>Father</I>. +</P> + +<P> +Ah! let us carefully preserve these chains of domestic union; do not +let us unbind the human sheaf, and scatter its ears to all the +caprices of chance, and of the winds; but let us rather enlarge this +holy law; let us carry the principles and the habits of home beyond +its bounds; and, if it may be, let us realize the prayer of the +Apostle of the Gentiles when he exclaimed to the newborn children of +Christ:—"Be ye like-minded, having the same love, being of one +accord, of one mind." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="baby"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BABY IS DEAD. +</H3> + +<P> +"BABY is dead!" How many hearts have throbbed with anguish, and eyes +overflowed with tears at the utterance of these thrilling words! A +tender bud is intrusted to a rejoicing family. Very precious does it +become to them. With what ecstatic joy do they note the first dawn +of intelligence as it beams from the starry eyes! How merry their +own hearts now, as they listen to the shouts of childish glee as +they burst from the coral lips! Ay, very, very dear is this little +one, and their cup of bliss seems full without alloy; when suddenly +the relentless destroyer enters their happy home, and sets his seal +on that snowy brow, so like a lily's leaf, in its pure beauty. +Disease fastens itself upon the loved one, and, like a tender bud +nipped by the untimely frost, it withers, droops, and dies. Then +come the fearful words, "Baby is dead!" With what a crushing weight +do they fall on the ears of that mourning family! How reluctantly do +their bruised hearts acknowledge the sad truth! But stern reality +avers it so, and the spectre Grief claims them for its own, as they +gaze upon the pale face of the little sleeper. +</P> + +<P> +Ah! the light of those bright eyes is for ever quenched, and the +lids are closed tranquilly over them; the rose tint has fled from +the round cheeks; the ruby lips are colourless, and the youthful +heart has ceased its throbbings. +</P> + +<P> +Yes, "Baby is dead," and silently they prepare it for the cheerless +tomb. The golden tresses they so oft have wound lovingly over their +fingers, are gently smoothed for the last time, while one fairy curl +is severed and placed next the mother's heart; oft will she gaze +upon it, as the months of her sorrow come and go, and weep over the +memory of her departed treasure. +</P> + +<P> +Sadly the little form is robed in the tiny shroud, and the dimpled +hands crossed sweetly over the pulseless bosom. Gently he is placed +in the coffin—it is a harder bed than he was wont to rest on, but +he will feel it not. With unutterable anguish they follow him to the +dark, cold grave; strange hands lower him into its gloomy depths, +and the clods fall heavily upon the coffin. Each one seems to sink +with laden weight into their hearts. It is filled up now, and the +green turf covers the late smiling cherub, and the mourners turn +sadly away. Oh! how dark the world seems now, which was so full of +sunshine a little while ago! How desolate their once joyous house! +</P> + +<P> +"Baby is dead—our idol is gone," is the language of their hearts. +Yes, stricken ones, your sunbeam is gone; but where? You have buried +the beauteous casket beneath the green sods of the valley; but the +precious jewel it contained is beaming brightly in the coronal of +God. +</P> + +<P> +Your treasure is taken from your love-encircling arms, but it is +sweetly pillowed on the bosom of that kind Saviour who said, "Suffer +little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is +the kingdom of heaven." +</P> + +<P> +The bud is nipped from its parent stem in the springtime of its +existence; but it hath been transplanted to a milder clime, where +the rough blasts and chilling storms of mortality cannot harm, and +where, watered by the soft dew of Divine love, its tiny leaves will +expand and bloom with unfading lustre! +</P> + +<P> +Had this bud of life, over whom your souls yearned with such +unutterable fondness, been spared to you, you know not how your +bright anticipations might have been darkened. When it came to +thread life's strange, wild paths, mildew and blight might have +settled on the pure spirit, and guilty, desolating passions scathed +the guileless heart. +</P> + +<P> +Then weep not, mourning ones, but rather rejoice that He, who doeth +all things well, hath summoned it, in its pristine purity, to a +haven of innocence, where contamination nor decay cannot defile or +enter. And when you miss the childish prattle or silvery laugh which +fell so sweetly on your ears, think of the baby that is dead to you, +as a rejoicing angel among angelic hosts that throng the "land of +the blest." Baby is dead to earth, but is living in Paradise! +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "Then mourn not, though the loved one go<BR> + Early from this world of woe;<BR> + Upon yon bright and blissful shore<BR> + You soon shall meet to part no more,<BR> + 'Mid amaranthine flowers to roam,<BR> + Where sin and death can never come."<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="ringlet"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE TREASURED RINGLET. +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + I AM thinking how, one April eve,<BR> + Upon the old arm-chair<BR> + I sat, and how I fondly played<BR> + With this brown lock of hair;<BR> + Your head was pillowed on my breast,<BR> + Your eyes were fixed on mine,<BR> + I knew your heart was all my own,<BR> + I know my own was thine.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + The balmy breath of violets<BR> + Came floating in the room,<BR> + And mingling with the rose's sigh,<BR> + Spread round a rich perfume;<BR> + Yet sweeter was the warm breath which<BR> + I felt upon my cheek,<BR> + Than fragrance from the blushing rose,<BR> + Or from the violet meek.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Upon the oak the mocking-bird<BR> + Was singing loud and clear,<BR> + But notes more musical to me<BR> + Were falling on my ear;<BR> + For from your noble heart you poured<BR> + Love's low, yet thrilling tone,<BR> + And every word your pure soul breathed<BR> + Was answered by my own.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + How like a glorious rainbow, then,<BR> + The future all appeared?<BR> + No care or sorrow then we knew,<BR> + No disappointment feared.<BR> + The world's rude waves had not begun<BR> + Across our path to sweep,<BR> + We never—save from happiness—<BR> + Had cause to sigh or weep.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + But many weary years have passed<BR> + Since that bright April eve,<BR> + And you have learned since then to weep,<BR> + And I have learned to grieve;<BR> + And on thy brow, unfurrowed then,<BR> + Time, and his sister, Care,<BR> + Have set their wrinkled seal, and strewed<BR> + Their silver in thy hair.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Nor Time, nor Care, nor world's rude waves,<BR> + Have had the power to chill<BR> + The holy love which then we vowed,<BR> + That is unclouded still;<BR> + And until Death—the reaper—comes,<BR> + It ne'er shall flow away—<BR> + Our tide of love which first began<BR> + Upon that April day.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="human"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +HUMAN LONGINGS FOR PEACE AND REST. +</H3> + +<P> +THERE are few whose idea of happiness does not include peace as +essential. Most men have been so tempest-tossed, and not comforted, +that they long for a closing of all excitements at last in peace. +Hence the images of the haven receiving the shattered bark, of the +rural vale remote from the noise of towns, have always been dear to +human fancy. Hence, too, the decline of life away from severe toil, +rapid motion, and passionate action, has often a charm even beyond +the kindling enterprise of youth. The cold grave itself repels not +altogether, but somewhat allures the imagination. +</P> + +<P> +"How still and peaceful is the grave!" +</P> + +<P> +Especially has heaven risen to the religious mind in this complexion +of tranquillity. It is generally conceived as free from all +disturbance, broken by not a sound save of harmonious anthems, +which, like murmuring water, give deeper peace than could be found +in silence. +</P> + +<P> +But man so longs for rest and peace, that he not only soothes +himself with these images from afar, but hopes to foretaste their +substance. And what are his views to this end? He means to retire +from business to some spot where he can calmly enjoy what he has in +vain panted for in the race of life. Perhaps he tries the +experiment, but finds himself restless still, and learns the great +lesson at last, that peace is not in the landscape, but only in the +soul; and the calm sky, the horizon's circle, the steady stars, are +only its language, not itself. +</P> + +<P> +Perhaps he seeks peace in his home. Everything there is made soft to +the feet; each chair and couch receives him softly; agreeable +sounds, odours, viands, regale every sense: and illuminated chambers +replace for him at night the splendour of the sun. But here again he +is at fault. Peace comes not to him thus, though all the apparatus +seems at hand to produce it. Still he may be outshone by a +neighbour; or high estate may draw down upon him envy and ill-will; +or his senses themselves may refuse the proffered bliss, and ache +with disease. Peace is not in outward comforts, which the +constitution sharply limits; which pass with time, or pall upon the +taste. The human mind is too great a thing to be pleased with mere +blandishments. +</P> + +<P> +Man has a soul of vast desires; and the solemn truth will come home +irresistibly at times, even to the easy epicure. Something is +wanting still. There is more of pain than peace in the remnants of +feasting and the exhausted rounds of pleasure. +</P> + +<P> +Man has sometimes sought peace in yet another way. Abjuring all +sensual delights, he has gone into the desert to scourge the body, +to live on roots and water, and be absorbed in pious raptures; and +often has he thus succeeded, better than do the vulgar hunters of +pleasure. But unrest mingles even with the tranquillity thus +obtained. His innocent, active powers resist this crucifixion. The +distant world rolls to his ear the voices of suffering fellow-men; +and even his devotions, all lonely, become selfish and unsatisfying. +</P> + +<P> +All men are seeking, in a way better or worse, this same peace and +rest. Some seek it objectively in mere outward activity. They are +not unfrequently frivolous and ill-furnished within, seeking rest by +travelling, by running from place to place, from company to company, +changing ever their sky but never themselves. Such persons, deeply +to be pitied, seek by dress to hide the nakedness of their souls, or +by the gayety of their own prattle to chill the fire which burns +away their hearts. The merriest faces may be sometimes seen in +mourning coaches; and so, the most melancholy souls, pinched and +pining, sometimes stare at you out of the midst of superficial +smiles and light laughter. +</P> + +<P> +Others seek rest in more adventurous action. Such are mariners, +soldiers, merchants, speculators, politicians, travellers, impelled +to adventurous life to relieve the aching void in their hearts. The +hazards of trade, the changes of political life, cause them to +forget themselves, and so they are rocked into oblivion of internal +disquiet by the toss of the ocean waves. They forget the hollowness +of their own hearts, and cheat themselves into the belief that they +are on their way to peace. +</P> + +<P> +Is peace, is rest, so longed for, then, never to be found? Yes! it +has been found, though perhaps but seldom, and somewhat imperfectly. +That is a state of rest for the soul when all man's powers work +harmoniously together, none conflicting with another, none hindering +another. This rest is complete when every special power in man's +nature is active, and works towards some noble end, free to act, yet +acting entirely in harmony, each with all, and all with each. That +is what may be called self-command, self-possession, tranquillity, +peace, rest for the soul. It is not indifference, it is not +sluggishness; it is not sleep: it is activity in its perfect +character and highest mode. +</P> + +<P> +Some few men seem born for this. Their powers are well-balanced. But +to most it comes only by labour and life-struggle. Most men, and +above all, most strong men, are so born and organized, that they +feel the riddle of the world, and they have to struggle with +themselves. At first they are not well-balanced. One part of their +nature preponderates over another, and they are not in equilibrium. +Like the troubled sea, they cannot rest. The lower powers and +propensities must be brought into subjection to the higher. All the +powers must be brought into harmony. This requires correct views of +life, knowledge of the truth, a strong will, a resolute purpose, a +high idea, a mind that learns by experience to correct its wrongs. +Thus he acquires the mastery over himself, and his passions become +his servants, which were formerly masters. Reason prevails over +feeling, and duty over impulse. If he has lost a friend, he does not +mourn inconsolably, nor seek to forget that friend. He turns his +thoughts more frequently to where that friend has gone, and so he +goes on until it becomes to him a loss no longer, but rather a +gain—a son, daughter, brother, or wife, immortal in the kingdom of +God, rather than mortal and perishing on earth. Gradually he +acquires a perfect command of himself, an equilibrium of all his +active powers, and so is at rest. +</P> + +<P> +What is more beautiful in the earthly life of Jesus, than this manly +harmony, equipoise, and rest? He enjoyed peace, and promised it to +His friends. And this peace of His, He did not for others postpone +to a distant day, or shut up altogether in a future Heaven, but left +it to His disciples on earth. What, then, was His peace? +</P> + +<P> +His peace was not inactivity. They must mistake who give a material +sense to the images of Heaven as a state of rest. If Christ's life +represented Heaven, its peace is not slothful ease, but intense +exertion. How He laboured in word and deed of virtue! He walked in +coarse raiment from town to town, from city to city, from the +dessert to the waves of the sea. His ministry was toil from the day +of His baptism to the scene upon Calvary. And yet His life was +peace. He expressed no wish to retire to an unoccupied ease. His +absorption in duty was His joy. He was so peaceful because so +engaged. His labours were the elements of His divine tranquillity. +</P> + +<P> +And so active and earnest must we be, if we would have calmness and +peace. An appeal may here be made to every one's experience. Every +one will confess that when he had least to do, when mornings came +and went, and suns circled, and seasons rolled, and brought no +serious business, then time was a burthen; existence a weariness; +and the hungry soul, which craves some outward satisfaction, was +found fallen back upon itself and preying upon its own vitality. Are +not the idlest of men proverbially the most miserable? And is not +the young woman often to be seen passing restless from place to +place, because exempt from the necessity of industry, till vanity +and envy, growing rank in her vacant mind, makes her far more an +object of compassion than those who work hardest for a living? The +unemployed, then, are not the most peaceful. The labourer has a +deeper peace than any idler ever knew. His toils make his short +pauses refreshing. Were those pauses prolonged they would be invaded +by a miserable ennui. Perfect peace will be found here or hereafter, +not when we sink down into torpor, but only when the soul is wrought +into high action for high ends. +</P> + +<P> +Another element of the peace of Jesus was His sinlessness. And all +human experience testifies that nothing has so much disturbed +tranquillity as conscious guilt, or the memory of wrong-doing. Peace +is forfeited by every transgression. Angry words, envious looks, +unkind and selfish deeds, will all prevent peace from visiting our +hearts. +</P> + +<P> +We have noticed already another element of peace—mental and moral +harmony. There is a spiritual proportion when every power does its +work, every feeling fills its measure, and all make a common current +to bear the soul along to ever new peace and joy. Our inward +discords are the woes of life. The peaceful heart is quiet, not +because inactive, but through intense harmonious working. +</P> + +<P> +The cravings of the human heart for peace and rest must seek +satisfaction in the ways indicated, or fail of satisfaction. There +must be activity, abstinence from guilt, and moral harmony. Thus +alone can we receive the peace which Jesus said He would leave to +His true followers. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="strong"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +"BE STRONG." +</H3> + +<P> + IN the flush, and the rush, and the crush of Life's battle,<BR> + When the stern blow of Right dashes loud on steeled Wrong,<BR> + Half-drowning the voice of the babe's holy prattle,<BR> + Remember the watchword—the motto—"Be strong!"<BR> +</P> + +<P> + When the clouds of the past gather brooding above thee,<BR> + And gloam o'er thy pillow the aching night long,<BR> + Remember who never for once failed to love thee,<BR> + And in deepest of loneliness thou wilt <I>be strong</I>!<BR> +</P> + +<P> + When the rays of the morning seem slow in their beaming,<BR> + Overpowered the firm Right—most tremendous bold Wrong,<BR> + Let not thy Thought's eye grow the dimmer for streaming,<BR> + Pour thy tears in Faith's bosom—thou yet wilt BE STRONG.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="neglected"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE NEGLECTED ONE. +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "I never was a favourite;<BR> + My mother never smiled<BR> + On me with half the tenderness<BR> + That blessed her fairer child."<BR> +</P> + +<P> +"CHRISTINE, do be obliging for once, and sew this button on my +glove, won't you?" cried Ann Lambert, impatiently, throwing a white +kid glove in her sister's lap. "I am in such a flurry! I won't be +ready to go to the concert in two or three hours. Mr. Darcet has +been waiting in the parlour an age. I don't know what the reason is, +but I never can find anything I want, when I look for it; whenever I +don't want a thing, it is always in the way. Have you sewed it on +yet?" she asked, looking around from the bureau, where she was +turning everything topsy turvy, in the most vigorous manner. +Christine was quietly looking out of the window, yawning and gazing +listlessly up at the moon and stars. +</P> + +<P> +"O no matter if you have no button on," was her reply; "I really +don't feel like moving my fingers just now. You must wait on +yourself. I always do." +</P> + +<P> +"I shouldn't have expected anything but your usual idle selfishness, +even when I most need your assistance," replied Ann, in a cool, +bitter tone; the curve of her beautiful lip, and the calm scorn of +the look she bent on Christine, betrayed her haughty, passionate +character, and it also told that she was conscious of a certain +power and strength of mind, which when roused, could and would bend +others to her will. A slight, contemptuous smile was on her lip, as +she picked up the glove which had fallen on the floor. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll sew the button on, Ann," said Christine, taking it from her, +and looking up seriously, but with a compressed expression about her +face. Her cheeks burned; there was a reproof in her steady gaze, +before which Ann's scornful smile vanished. "No, Christine, I will +wait on myself," she answered in a rigid tone. +</P> + +<P> +"Very well," and Christine turned to the window again. She had not +quailed before her sister's look, but its bitter contempt rankled in +her heart, and poisoned the current of her thoughts. Not a word was +spoken, when Ann with her bonnet on, left their apartment. The front +door closed; Christine listened to the sound of her sister's voice +in the street a moment, then rose from her chair, and threw herself +upon the bed, sobbing violently. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! why has God made me as I am?" she murmured. "No one loves me. +They do not know me; they know how bad I am—but, oh! they never +dream how often I weep, and pray for the affection that is denied +me. How Ann is caressed by everybody, and how indifferently am I +greeted! There is no one in the wide world who takes a deep interest +in me. I am only secondary with father and mother; they are so proud +of Ann's beauty and talent, they do not think to see whether I am +possessed of talent or not. They think I am cold and heartless, +because they have taught me to restrain my warmest feelings; they +have turned me back upon myself, they have forced me to shut up in +my own heart, its bitterness, its prayers for affection, its pride, +its sorrow. They have made me selfish, disobliging, and +disagreeable, because I am too proud to act as if I would beg the +love they are so careless of bestowing. And yet, why am I so proud +and so bitter? I was not so at school; then I was gentle and gay; +then I too was a favourite; they called me amiable. I am not so now. +Then I dwelt in an atmosphere of love, only the best impulses of my +nature were called out. Now—oh! I did not know I could so change; I +did not know that there was room in my heart for envy and jealousy. +I did not know myself!" +</P> + +<P> +Christine wept, until her head ached, and her forehead felt as if it +was swelled almost to bursting. "After a storm, there comes a calm," +is a truism well known. In about half an hour, she was sleeping +profoundly, from mere exhaustion of feeling. But her face was pale, +and sad to look upon, even in her sleep. +</P> + +<P> +When Ann returned home, at a late hour, she glanced hastily at the +bed, to see if she had retired, and was sleeping. More than once +during the evening her heart had reproached her for the part she had +acted. With a noiseless step she approached Christine, and bent over +her. The tear-drop upon her pale cheek, revealed the unconscious +girl to her in a new character. How her conscience smote her, for +the grief upon that countenance, now so subdued by the spirit of +sleep! Its meek sadness and tenderness stirred in her bosom feelings +she had seldom experienced. She felt and understood better than ever +before, her sister's proud reserve with herself, as well as every +one else. She kissed away the tear, and knelt at the bedside in +prayer, a thing she had not done for years. A flood of tender and +self-reproachful feelings came over her; the spring was touched, and +she wept aloud. Christine started up, and murmured a few broken +sentences, before she was fully conscious of the meaning of the +scene. +</P> + +<P> +"What is the matter, Ann, are you crying?" she at length asked, as +her sister lifted up her face. Ann arose from her knees; she +hesitated, she felt as if she could throw herself into Christine's +arms, and weep freely as she asked forgiveness for her conduct. She +felt that she would be affectionately pardoned. And yet she stood +silent; her heart brimming with tenderness all the while—something +held her back; a something that too often chills a pure impulse, a +gush of holy feeling. It was pride. She could not bring herself to +speak words of penitence and humility. But she did not turn away +from the anxious gaze riveted upon her; she drooped her eyes, and +the tears rolled slowly down her face. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Ann, dear Ann, this does not seem like you!" said Christine, +tenderly approaching her. "I am your sister; if you have any sorrow, +why may I not sympathize with you? How can <I>you</I> be sorrowful? you +never meet with neglect, and—" the young girl paused hastily, with +a suddenly flushed face; she had inadvertently betrayed what she had +previously so carefully concealed under the mask of callous +indifference—she had shown that she felt keenly her own position, +and that of her sister as a favourite. Ann was proud of her +intellect and fascinating beauty; she was selfishly fond of +admiration. She knew that her sister was really as gifted as +herself, if not more so; she had heard her converse at times, when +her cheek glowed, and her eye kindled with enthusiasm. She had seen +her, very rarely, but still she had seen her, when <I>expression</I> had +lit up her face with a positive beauty—when the soul, the life of +beauty beamed forth, and went to the heart with a thrill that +acknowledged its power. She knew that she would have been brilliant +and fascinating, if she had not been repressed; with all her faults, +there was a more feminine yieldingness about her, than about +herself. There was an affectionate pathos in her voice, a tender +grace in her air, when she asked to sympathize in her sorrow. Ann +felt for the first time fully, that she was one to love, and be +beloved in the social circle. She felt that she had been most +ungenerous to absorb all the attention of her friends, instead of +bringing forward the reserved, sensitive Christine. The sisters had +never been much together; they had never made confidants of each +other;—Ann was the eldest, and all in all with her parents, while +Christine was a sort of appendage. Ann felt the unintentional +reproach conveyed in her last words; she marked how quickly she +stopped, and seemed to retire within herself again; she scanned her +face closely, and generous feelings triumphed. +</P> + +<P> +"Dear Christine!" she said in a low voice, passing her arm around +her. "We have never been to each other what sisters ought to be. I +have been too thoughtless and careless; I have not remembered as I +should have done, that you returned from school, a stranger to the +majority of our friends and acquaintances. You are so reserved, even +here at home; you never talk and laugh with father and mother as I +do." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you know why I appear cold, Ann? I am not so by nature. They do +not seem to care when I speak, and I am not yet humble enough to +have what I say treated with perfect indifference." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Christine, you are too sensitive," said Ann, half impatiently. +"Be as noisy and lively as I am; entertain father, and say what will +please mother; then you will be as great a pet as I." +</P> + +<P> +"Even if I should value love, based upon my powers of pleasing, +instead of the intrinsic worth of my character, I could not gain it, +Ann. I came home, after my long absence, as merry and light-hearted, +as full of hope, of love towards you all, as ever a happy schoolgirl +did. Then I was seventeen; it seems as if long years had elapsed +since the day I sprang into your arms so joyfully—since father and +mother kissed me. Home, sweet home, how musical those words were to +me! how often I had dreamed of nestling at father's side, your hand +locked in mine, and mother's smile upon us both. It was not long +before I was awakened from the dream I had cherished so long. I +thought my heart would break when the reality that I was unloved, +came upon me. Then I learned how deep were the fountains of +tenderness within me. My heart overflowed with an intense desire for +affection, when I saw that I did not possess it. Oh! how often I +looked upon mother's face, unobserved, and felt that my love for her +was but a wasted shower. At that time of bitterness, how sad was the +revelation that came up from the very depths of my soul, teaching me +a truth fraught with suffering—that affection is life itself! I +felt that it was my destiny never to be cheered by its blessed light +and warmth. Months passed away, and I closed up my heart; a +coldness, a stoic apathy came over me, which was sometimes broken by +a slight thing; the flood-gates of feeling gave way, and I wept with +a passionate sorrow—over my own sinfulness—over my own lonely +heart, without one joy to shed a glow on its rude desolation. Oh! +then, when I was softened, when I could pray, and feel that the Lord +listened to me, I would have been a different being, if mother's +hand had been laid fondly upon my head, if her eyes had filled with +tears, and I could have leaned upon her bosom and wept. But I was +unloved, and my heart grew hard again." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't say that you are unloved," interrupted Ann, pressing +Christine to her heart, and sobbing with an abandonment of feeling. +"Forgive me, dear, dear sister! my heart shall be your home—we will +love each other always; I will never again be as I have been. Don't +weep so, Christine, can't you believe me? I am selfish, I am +heartless sometimes, but a change has come over me to-night; to +<I>you</I> I can never be heartless again!" +</P> + +<P> +At that moment, few would have recognised the haughty Miss Lambert +in the tearful girl, whose head drooped on Christine's shoulder, +while her white hand was clasped and held in meek affection to her +lips. If we could read the private history of many an apparently +cold, heartless being, we would be more charitable in our opinions +of others. We would see that there are times when the better +feelings, which God has given as a pure inheritance, are touched. We +would see the inner life from Him, flowing down from its home in the +hidden recesses of the soul, breaking and scattering the clouds of +evil, which had impeded its descent—we would see the hard heart +melted, though perhaps briefly, beneath angel influences. We would +see that all alike are the beloved creations of the Almighty's hand, +and we would weep over ourselves, as well as others, to feel how +seldom we yield to the voice that would ever lead us aright. Ann +Lambert, as her heart overflowed with pure affection, thought +sincerely that no selfish action of hers should ever sadden +Christine. She felt that she was unworthy, that she had been cruel +and selfish, but she imagined her strong emotions of repentance had +uprooted the evils, which had only been shaken. +</P> + +<P> +Christine dried her tears, and looked earnestly and inquiringly in +her sister's face, as if she suspected there was some hidden sorrow +with which she was unacquainted. Ann answered her look by saying, +</P> + +<P> +"You wonder what I was weeping for, when you awoke, Christine. I had +met with no sorrow; but when I looked at you, the course of conduct +I had pursued towards you came up before me vividly: I felt how +unsisterly I had been—" +</P> + +<P> +"Say nothing about it," interrupted Christine, with delicate +generosity, "let the past be forgotten, the future shall be all +brightness, dearest Ann. We will pour out our hearts to each other, +and each will strengthen the other in better purposes. I am no +longer alone, you love me and I am happy." +</P> + +<P> +That night, the dreams of the sisters were pure and peaceful. One +happy week passed away with Christine; Ann was affectionate and +gentle, and only went out when accompanied by her. They were +inseparable; they read, wrote, studied, and sewed together. For the +time, Ann seemed to have laid aside her usual character; she yielded +to her purest feelings; no incident had yet occurred to mar her +tranquillity. One evening, when she was reading aloud to Christine +in their own apartment, a servant girl threw open the door and +exclaimed, +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Ann, there are two gentlemen waiting in the parlour to see +you; Mr. Darcet and Mr. Burns!" +</P> + +<P> +"Very well," replied Ann, rising, and giving the book to Christine; +but she took it away in the instant, and said, +</P> + +<P> +"Come, Crissy, go down with me!" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no matter," replied her sister, "I am not acquainted with them, +and I would rather stay up here, and read. Mother will be in the +parlour." +</P> + +<P> +"Suit yourself," returned Ann, half carelessly, as she smoothed her +hair. "When you get tired of reading, come down." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll see about it," said Christine, as the door closed. +</P> + +<P> +Ann looked beautiful indeed, as she entered the parlour, her +features lit up with a smile of graceful welcome. After a little +easy trifling, the conversation turned upon subjects which she knew +Christine would be interested in. Under a kind impulse, she left the +room, and hastened to her. +</P> + +<P> +"Come down into the parlour, Christine," she exclaimed, laying her +hand affectionately upon her shoulder, as she approached. "Mr. +Darcet is telling about his travels in Europe, and I am sure you +will be interested. There (sic) isn o need of your being so +unsociable. Come, dear!" +</P> + +<P> +Christine raised her face with an eloquent smile; she went with Ann +without speaking, but her heart was filled with a sweet happiness, +from this proof of thoughtful affection. When she was introduced to +Ann's friends, there was a most lovely expression on her face, +breathing forth from a pure joyfulness within. +</P> + +<P> +"I was not aware that you had a sister, Miss Lambert," said Mr. +Darcet, turning to Ann, when they were quietly seated after a brief +admiring gaze at Christine. +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps I have been too much of a recluse," replied Christine +quickly, in order to relieve the embarrassment of Ann, which was +manifested by a deep blush. "I have yielded to sister Ann's +persuasions this time to be a little sociable, and I think I shall +make this a beginning of sociabilities." +</P> + +<P> +"I hope so," returned Darcet; "do you think being much secluded, has +a beneficial effect upon the mind and feelings?" +</P> + +<P> +"I do not," was the young girl's brief answer. The colour came to +her cheek, and a painful expression crossed her brow, an instant. +"But sometimes—" the sentence was left unfinished. Darcet's +curiosity was awakened by the sudden quiver of Christine's lip, and +forgetful of what he was about, he perused her countenance longer, +and more eagerly, than was perfectly polite or delicate. She felt +his scrutiny, and was vexed with her tell-tale face. There was a +silence which Mrs. Lambert interrupted by saying, with a smile, +</P> + +<P> +"We should like to hear more of your adventures, Mr. Darcet, if it +is agreeable to you." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! certainly!" he replied. And he whiled an hour quickly away. Ann +was then urged to play and sing, which she did, but there was a +little haughtiness mingled with her usual grace. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you sing, Miss Christine?" asked Darcet, leaving the piano, +and approaching the window where she sat, listening attentively to +Ann. +</P> + +<P> +"I do sometimes," answered Christine, smiling, "but Ann sings far +better." +</P> + +<P> +"Let others judge of that. Isn't that fair?" +</P> + +<P> +"We often err in thinking we do better than other people, but I +think we generally hit the truth, when we discover that in some +things, at least, we are not quite as perfect as others." +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly, but it is the custom to speak of ourselves, as if we +were inferior to those whom we really regard as beneath us in many +respects. There is no true humility in that; we depart from the +truth." +</P> + +<P> +"Custom sanctions many falsehoods; to speak the truth always, would +make us many enemies. But we might better have them, than to +contradict the truth; what do you think?" Christine looked up with +an earnest seriousness. +</P> + +<P> +"Truth, and truth alone, should govern us in every situation, let +the consequences be what they may," said Darcet, in a tone that +sounded almost stern; then more gently he added, "Before all things +I prize a frank spirit; for heaven may be reflected there. With all, +this upright candour must in a measure be acquired. Yet, I think +frankness to our own souls is acquired with far more labour. We +shrink from a severe scrutiny into our tangled motives." +</P> + +<P> +"And when these motives are forced upon our notice, we endeavour to +palliate and excuse them. I am sure it is so," exclaimed Christine +earnestly, for her own young heart's history came up before her, and +she remembered that she had excused herself for acting and feeling +wrong, on the plea that others had not done right, by her. +"But"—she continued after a pause, "you cannot think it is well +always to express the sentiments which circumstances may give rise +to. Such a course might prevent us from doing a great deal of good." +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly it might. The end in view should be regarded. Good sense, +and a pure heart, will show us the best way in most cases." +</P> + +<P> +There is a power deep and silent, exerted by good persons; the +folded blossoms of the heart slowly open in their presence, and are +refreshed. A new impulse, a pure aspiration for a higher life, a +yearning after the perfecting of our nature, may be sown as a seed +in hearts that are young in the work of self-conquest. Thus it was +with Christine. The influence of Darcet strengthened all that was +good within her; and as they remained long engaged in deep and +earnest conversation, the elevation and purity of his sentiments +gave clearness and strength to ideas that had been obscure to her +before, because unexpressed. Her peculiar situation had made her far +more thoughtful than many of her years. She thought she had lost the +gay buoyancy of her childhood, but she was mistaken. She was one to +profit by lessons that pressed down the bounding lightness of her +spirit; she was yet to learn that she could grow young in glad +feelings, as years rolled over her head. There was a subdued joy in +her heart, that was new to her, and gave a sweetness to her manner, +as she poured forth the guileless thoughts that first rose to her +lips. It seemed strange to meet with the ardent sympathy which +Darcet manifested by every look of his intelligent face; she could +scarcely realize that it was herself, that anybody really felt +interested in the thoughts and imaginings that had clustered around +her solitary hours. At parting, he said with warm interest, as he +slightly pressed her hand, "I hope, Miss Christine, we may have many +conversations on the subjects we have touched upon to-night." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! I hope so," replied Christine, with a frank, bright smile. +After the gentlemen had gone, Christine threw her arm around her +sister, and said gayly, "Hav'n't we had a pleasant evening, Ann, my +dear?" +</P> + +<P> +"Pleasant enough," said Ann, trying to yawn, "but I felt rather +stupid, as I often do." +</P> + +<P> +"Stupid! Is it possible?" exclaimed the astonished girl. "You were +talking with Mr. Burns; well, he didn't look as if he would ever set +the North River afire with his energies, it is true." +</P> + +<P> +Ann smiled very slightly, then rather pettishly disengaged herself +from the detaining hand of Christine, and taking a light, retired +without saying anything, but a brief good-night to her mother. +Christine soon followed, wondering what made Ann so mute and sharp +in her actions. "Why, Ann, are you angry with me?" she asked, going +up to her, as soon as she entered the apartment. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know what I should be angry for," was the impatient reply. +"Can't a person be a little short when sleepy, without being +tormented with questions about it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes, I won't trouble you any more." And making due allowance +for Ann's quick temper, Christine occupied herself good-humouredly +with her own thoughts. The secret of Ann's shortness and sleepiness +lay here. Her vanity was wounded to think, that Christine was more +interesting than her own beautiful self. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, he is a sort of a puritan, and now I begin to understand +Christine, better, I think she is too," thought Ann, after she had +mused her irritation away a little. "He is very polite and +agreeable, and it was very pleasant to have him always ready to take +me out when I wanted to go, but I never felt perfectly easy in his +company; I was always afraid I might say something dreadful; +something that would shock his wonderful goodness. But Christine +seemed perfectly at home. How bright and lovely she looked! I will +not allow evil thoughts to triumph over me. I will not be vexed +simply because she eclipsed me, where no one ever did before. She is +a dear, affectionate girl, and I made a vow before God to love her +always, never to be to her as I was once." +</P> + +<P> +A fervent prayer brought back to Ann all her former tranquillity, +and she pressed a kiss upon Christine's forehead, full of repentant +affection. Just before she went to sleep, she thought to herself, +</P> + +<P> +"Well, if I may trust my woman's perception, Darcet will be +exclaiming, after he has seen Christine a few times more, +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! love, young love, bound in thy rosy bands." +</P> + +<P> +Ann's perception proved correct. About a year after these +cogitations, Christine became Mrs. Darcet. The sisters were much +changed, but Christine the most so. There was a child-like +simplicity and sweetness beaming from her young face, which Ann +needed. Yet had much haughtiness faded from the brow of that +beautiful girl; she had grown better; but as yet her heart had not +been schooled in suffering as Christine's had. There was deep +affection in the warm tears that fell upon the bride's cheek, as +poor Ann felt that she had indeed gone to bless another with her +tender goodness. Christine's warm heart grew yet more sunny in her +own happy little home, and her feelings more open and expansive, +beneath the genial influence of friendly eyes. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="hours"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE HOURS OF LIFE. +</H3> + +<P> +TWILIGHT.—The dewy morning of childhood has passed, and the noon of +youth has gone, and the gloom of twilight is gathering over my +spirit. Alas! alas! how my heart sinks in a wan despair! One by one +my hopes have died out, have faded like the gleams of sunshine that +have just vanished beneath the grove of trees. Hopes! Ah, such warm, +bright, beautiful, loving hopes! But, methinks, than lived upon the +earth, unlike the gleaming rays of sunshine that are fed from +heaven. The earth's darkness dims not their glory; pure and radiant +they shine behind the black shadow. But human hopes are earth-born; +they spring from the earth, like the flitting light of night, and +lead us into bogs and quagmires. +</P> + +<P> +Yet it is beautiful to realize that we have had hopes; they are the +past light of the soul, and their glow yet lingers in this gloomy +twilight, reminding one that there has been a sunny day, and +memories of things pleasant and joyous mingle with the present +loneliness and cheerless desolation. +</P> + +<P> +Words, that excited hopes, that awoke thrilling emotions, linger on +the listening ear. But, ah! the heart grows very sad, when the ear +listens in vain, and the yearning, unsatisfied spirit realizes that +the words, so loved, so fondly dwelt upon, were but words, empty, +vain words. But, to have believed them, was a fleeting blindness. +They served for food to the yearning heart, when they were given, +and shall the traveller through the desolate wilderness look back +with scorn upon the bread and water that once satisfied his hunger +and thirst, even though it is now withheld? No—let him be thankful +for the past; otherwise, the keen biting hunger, the thirsty anguish +of the soul, will have a bitterness and a gall in it, that will +corrode his whole being. Ah! what is this being? if one could but +understand one's own existence, what a relief it would be; but to +understand nothing—alas! +</P> + +<P> +Life is a weary burden. I feel weighed down with it, and I do not +know what is in the pack that bows me so wearily to the earth. I do +know that in it are agonized feelings, bitter disappointments, and a +desolation of the heart. But there is a something else in it; for, +now and then, come vague, vast perceptions of a dim future; but I +shut my eyes. I cannot look beyond the earth. I could have been +satisfied here with a very little; a little of human love would have +made me so happy. Yes, I would never have dreamed of an unknown +heaven. Heaven! What is heaven? I remember when I was a little +child, lying on my bed in the early morning twilight (ah! that was a +twilight, unlike this, which is sinking into a black night, for that +was ushering in the beautiful golden day), but it was twilight when +I looked through the uncurtained window; and through the +intertwining branches of a noble tree I saw the far, dim, misty +sky—and I wondered, in my childish way, "if heaven is like that;" +and all at once it seemed to me that the dim, distant sky opened, +and my dead mother's face looked out upon me so beautifully, I did +not know her, for she died when I was an unconscious infant, and yet +I did know her. Yes, that beautiful face was my mother's, and my +heart was full of delight. That my mother could see me, and love me, +from the far heavens, was like a revelation to me. And often, on +other mornings, I awakened and looked through the very same branches +of the tree, out into the far sky, and thought to see my mother's +face shining through the window and watching over her lonely, +sleeping child. But my fancy never again conjured up the vision. +Fancy! What is fancy? If one could but understand, could grasp the +phantom and mystery of life! And above all, if one could but +understand what heaven is! +</P> + +<P> +When I was a child, heaven was to me a peopled place, a wonderful +reality; and I remember a dream that I had—what a strange dream it +was! For I went to heaven, and I saw a shining One, sitting on a +throne, and many beautiful ones were standing and seated around the +throne, and my father and mother were there; and they had crowns on +their heads, and held each other by the hand, and looked down upon +me so lovingly. I knew that it was my father, because my mother held +him by the hand, though my father died the day I was born, and I +stood before them in the great light of a Heavenly Presence, as such +a poor little earth-child, but I was happy, inexpressibly happy, +only they did not touch me; but I was not fit to be touched by such +soft, shining hands. And what was yet a greater joy than ever to see +my unknown father and mother on the other side of the throne, I saw +my brother, my dear, gentle, beautiful little brother, who, seven +years older than I, had loved and played with me on the earth. He +was clothed in white garments, and was grown from a child to a +youth, and was so full of a noble and beautiful grace. He smiled +upon me; he did not speak; none spoke. All was so still, and serene, +and bright, and beautiful. Next morning I awoke as if yet in my +dream, so vivid was the whole scene before me. I could have danced +and sung all day, "I have seen my father and mother and brother in +the heavenly courts." But what are dreams? +</P> + +<P> +Yet, it is wonderful to go back to the dreams and thoughts of +childhood; they are so distinct; such living realities. I often +remember a speech I made in those far childish days. I was lying in +bed with a friend in the early gray morning. All at once I started +up and said—"Oh, how I wish I had lived in the days when Jesus +lived upon the earth!" +</P> + +<P> +I was asked why? And I replied, "Because I could have loved Him; I +would have followed as those women followed Him; I would have kissed +the hem of His garment." +</P> + +<P> +A laugh checked the further flow of my talk; but I lay down again, +and then my thoughts wandered off to the mountains of Judea, and I +saw a Divine Man walking over the hills and valleys, and women +following Him. In those days I knew two passages in the Bible, and +that was all that I knew of it, for I never read it. But I learned +at Sunday school, Christ's Sermon on the Mount, and the first five +verses of the first chapter of John. And I remember how confused I +always was over the WORD, for some told me it meant "<I>Logos</I>." +</P> + +<P> +What was "<I>Logos</I>?" I could never fathom it. Now I know what +"<I>Logos</I>" means. And yet the mystery is not fathomed. Well, let that +go. I could never understand the Bible. However, in those days it +was something holy and sacred to me; because the Bible that I owned +belonged to my dear father, and I often kissed it, and loved the +Book dearly, but I could not read it by myself. But I did read +occasionally in the Bible, to an old woman; she lived on the way to +the village school, in a dilapidated, deserted country store; she +occupied the little back room, in which was a fire-place, and I was +permitted to take a flask of milk to her every day, as I passed to +school; and with what a glad heart I always hurried off in the +morning, that I might gather broken brush-wood and dried sticks, for +her to kindle her fire with. Charitable people sent her wood, but it +was wet and hard to kindle, and the poor old woman, with her bent +back, would go out and painfully gather the dried sticks that lay +around her desolate home; but when I came, she would take my book +and dinner-basket into her house, and leave me the delight of +gathering the sticks. Ah! I was happy then—when I knelt on the rude +hearth and blew with my mouth instead of a bellows, the smoking, +smouldering wood into a blaze, and heard the loving words that the +good old woman lavished upon me. She loved me—but not as much as I +loved her. She was my peculiar treasure—something for me to live +for, and think of. I always left my dinner with her, and at noon +returned to eat it with her; though I would feel almost ashamed to +spread out the cold meat and bread before her, she looked so much +like a lady. +</P> + +<P> +But she always asked a blessing; that was what I never did, and it +gave me an awe-stricken feeling, and my meal would have something of +a solemn and tender interest—what with the blessing, and the old +woman's love for me, and mine for her—and we ate it in a solemn and +gloomy room, for there was no table in the little back room, so we +used the counter of the old store; and the empty shelves and the +closed doors and shutters, with only the light from the back-door, +made me often look around shudderingly into the gloom and obscurity +of dark corners—for I abounded in superstitious terrors, and I +pitied the poor, lonely old woman for living in such a home more +than I ever pitied the cold and hunger she endured. +</P> + +<P> +Often when our dinner was over, I read aloud to her in the Bible. +She could read it herself. But perhaps she liked to hear the sound +of a childish voice, and perhaps she thought that she was doing me +good. Did she do me good? heigho!—at all events, she left a +beautiful memory to gild this dark twilight that grows upon my soul. +</P> + +<P> +But the loving, trusting childhood is gone, and why do I dwell upon +it? Why does its sensitive life yet move and stir in my memory? Has +it aught to do with the cold, dark present? The Present! Alas! what +a contrast it is to that childish faith! I almost wish that I could +now believe as I did then. But no. <I>Reason</I> has dissipated the +visions and dreams and superstitions of childhood. It has made +unreal to me that which was most real. In its cold, chilling light, +I have looked into the world of tangible facts and possible +realities. +</P> + +<P> +Ah! this cold, cold light, how much of beauty and love it has +congealed! It has fallen like a mantle of snow over the warm, living +life of the earth; and blooming flowers, that sent up odours on the +soft air, have crumbled to dust, and bright summer waters that +reflected the heavens in their blue depths, and glittered in the +light of stars and moon and sun, have now been congealed into solid, +dull opaque masses, which yield not to the tread of man. Alas! no +bird of beauty dips its wing in these dead waters, and plumes itself +for an aerial flight of love and joy. But the cold contraction +chains down all the freer, beautiful life, into a hopeless, chilling +inanity. +</P> + +<P> +MIDNIGHT.—The gloom has gathered into a darkness that may be felt; +and seeing nothing, I would stretch forth my hands to feel if there +is anything within my mind to stay my soul upon. But, alas! in a +deep sorrow, how little do mental acquisitions avail! All the +beautiful systems and theories that delighted my intelligence, and +filled my thought in my noon of hope and life, have sunk into +darkness. How is this? Sometimes I think that all light comes +through the heart into the mind; and when love is quenched, behold, +there is only darkness; the beauty and life and joy are gone. Ah, +woe is me! Have I nothing left?—no internal resources—no wealth of +knowledge, with which to minister to this poverty of hope and life? +It cannot be that all past efforts, all struggles and self-sacrifices, +to attain this coveted and natural knowledge, were useless, vain +mockeries. I thought I should live by this knowledge; that when the +outer life palled upon me, I could then retire within my own being +to boundless stores of riches and beauty. Well—this time has come, +and what do I find? Truly it is no Aladdin-palace, glittering with +gold and gems. It is more like a cavernous depth, stored with +rubbish, and from its dark deeps comes up an earthy odour, that almost +suffocates my spirit. But this is my all, and I must descend from the +life of the heart to the life of the mind, and scan my unsatisfactory +possessions. +</P> + +<P> +Well, here is a world of childish, school-day lumber. Once it was a +great delight to me to learn that the world was round, and not +square; but I cannot see that a knowledge of that fact affords me +any great satisfaction now, for it has shaped itself to me as an +acute angle. And the earth's surface! how I used to glow with the +excitement of the bare thought of Rome! and Athens! and +Constantinople! and their thrilling histories and wonders of art, +and beauties of nature, seemed to me an indefinite world of +unattainable delight and ecstasy. But now, I have lived in all these +places, and the light and glory have gone. They have fallen within +the freezing light of reason. They are no longer like beautiful +dreams to me. They are squared down into fixed, unalterable facts. I +cannot gild them with any light of fancy; and I cannot extract from +them anything like the delight of my childhood. So I will turn from +these fixed facts and look out for those philosophical theories, +that gave me a later delight, as more interior mental pleasure. +</P> + +<P> +Well, when I first broke through the shackles of the old childish +faith, Percy Bysshe Shelley was my high-priest. Through him I +thought I had come into a beautiful light of nature, vague, shadowy, +and grand, filling vast conceptions of the indefinite. He discarded +the God of the Hebrews, who was fashioned after their own narrow, +revengeful passions; a Being of wrath and war. And a brooding +spirit, an indefinite indwelling life of nature, was a new +revelation to me. I grew mystical and sublime and sentimental, in +this new mental perception. But I wearied of that. I could not walk +on stilts always, and I descended to the earth and read Voltaire, +and laughed and sneered at all the old forms and superstitions of +man. But this does not afford me any enjoyment now—the unhappy do +not feel like laughing at a ribald wit; but, alas! this rubbish is +stored here, and here I must live with it. It blackened and blurred +the pictures of the angels, that adorned my childish memories. It +wiped out all heavenly visions, and left only the earthly life. +</P> + +<P> +But the human heart cannot live without a God; and I tried hard to +make one, for myself, through German pantheism. But I turn this +rubbish over disconsolately, for it is a material God, and does not +respond to one spiritual nature. It seems rather to react against +it. Alas! alas! I sink down into a Cimmerian darkness here; it seems +as if the Stygian pools of blackness had closed over me, and a cry +of anguish goes forth from my inmost soul, piercing the dark depths +to learn what is spirit? and what is God? What manner of existence +or unity of Being is He? Who is He? Where is He? And how can I +attain to a knowledge of Him? But through the echoing halls of my +dark mind, there is only a wailing sound of woe, of misery, of +disappointment, of a yearning anguish of spirit for a something +higher and better than I have ever yet conceived of or known. +</P> + +<P> +But there is yet more of this mental rubbish. Ah! here is a whole +chapter of stuff—and I once thought it was so wise. I called it the +"progressive chain of being," and wove it out of the Pythagorean +philosophy. I said man's nature begins from the lowest, and ascends +to the highest. <I>Nature</I> gives the impulse to life; and the flower +that blooms in South America may die, and its inner spirit may +clothe itself in a donkey born in Greece! and so it goes on +transfusing itself from clime to clime, in ever new and higher +forms, until man is developed. Well, was there ever such stuff +concocted before? I almost hear the bray of that donkey, who +originated in a flower. And pray, most sapient self! what is nature? +It seems <I>now</I>, to me, a <I>form</I>, a mere dead incubus of matter. And +could this inert tangible matter, sublimate in its hard, dead bosom, +an essence so subtle, as to be freer of the bonds of time and space? +At such a preposterous suggestion even a donkey might bow his ears +with shame. So I will hand this "progressive chain of being" over to +a deeper darkness, and pass on. +</P> + +<P> +Lo! here lie the statues of broken gods, headless divinities. I +tried to believe in Greek mythology; to fancy that the world had +gone backwards, and that there were spirits of the earth and air, +that took part in the life of man. But these were poetic visions +that shifted and waved with every fleeting fancy. But <I>now</I> this +would be a pleasant faith. What if I <I>could</I> appeal to an invisible, +higher spiritual being, who sympathized with my nature, to lead me +out of this darkness of ignorance into a true world of light, of +truth, of definite knowledge, concerning life and its origin; +concerning God and His nature? If I were only an old Greek, how I +would pray to Minerva for help, and call upon Hercules to remove +this Augean dirt, that pollutes and lumbers all the chambers of my +mind! But when the old Greeks called, were they answered? Ah, there +is nothing to hope for! +</P> + +<P> +Yet Socrates believed in these spiritual existences; he ordered a +cock to be sacrificed to Esculapius as he was drinking the hemlock. +To him, they were not mere poetic creations; he believed to the last +that he was guided and guarded by his demon. What if we all are? +What if even now, in this midnight darkness, stands a beautiful +being, veiled by my ignorance, who loves me, from a world of light; +sees the tangled web of my thoughts, and would draw it out into +form, and order, and beauty? If such there be, oh, bright and +beautiful one! pity me, love me, and enlighten me. Alas, no!—all is +yet dark. What would a being revelling in light and beauty, have to +do with this poor, faded life of mine? Alas! that was a fleeting +hope, that, like a pale, flickering ray, gilded the darkness for a +moment. +</P> + +<P> +But, here is a something which gives somewhat of joy and life to the +mind. It is a beautiful thought of Plato, that there is a great +central sun in the universe, around which all other suns revolve. +What if this be an inner sun, which is the fountain of spiritual +life? That is something to believe. Yet the thought sinks appalled +from it. The heart desires a God that it may love, and trust in, +that it may speak to and be heard; and if the fountain of life be +only a sun, what is there to love in it? True, we rejoice in the +light and beauty of the sun that upholds <I>this</I> world in its place; +but what is this enjoyment compared to the bliss of human love? A +man—a living, breathing, loving man—is the perfection of +existence; and one could be happy with a perfect man, if all the +suns in the universe were blotted out. A MAN! what is he, in his +essential attributes? What is it that gives a delight in him? Ah! I +am full of ideal visions—for in all history I find not one man that +altogether fills my vision of what a man should be. From the +Alexanders and Caesars I turn with loathing—their fierce, rude, +outre life, their selfish, grasping ambition, suggest to me the +vision of snarling wild beasts, battling over the torn and +palpitating limbs of nations. These men could never have touched my +soul; they could never have dispelled the darkness of my mind; they +could not be friends. But was there ever a man that could have +answered the questions for the solution of which my spirit yearns? +Plato was beautiful; around him was a pure, intellectual light. But, +after all, he <I>knew</I> very little; his writings are mostly +suggestive. But suppose here was a man who could reveal all the +hidden things of life? How sudden would be the delight of learning +of him, of communing with his spirit? And what if he knew, not only +everything relating to this world, and my own intellectual being, +but could tell me of all the universe, of all the after life? Oh! +what a joy such a man would be to me! How would this midnight +darkness melt into the clearest and most beautiful day! +</P> + +<P> +But did such an one ever exist? Why is it that now comes over me the +vision of my childhood, of the Divine Man walking over the hills of +Judea? Oh, Christ! who wert Thou? My thought goes forth to Thee; +beautiful was Thy life upon the earth. It had in it a heavenly +sanctity, a purity, a grace and mercy, a gentleness and forbearance, +that seems to me God-like and Divine. Yes—what if God descended and +walked on the earth? I could love Him, that He had lowered Himself +to my comprehension. But God! the Infinite and Eternal! in the +finite human form, undergoing death! I cannot comprehend this. But +what is infinity? When I look within myself and realize my +ever-changing and fleeting feelings, now glancing in expansive +ranges of thought from star to star, I realize an infinity in mind, +that is not of the body. What if it were thus with the Holy Man, +Christ? What if He were God as to the spirit, and man as to the +flesh? If this were so, well may I have wished "to live when Jesus +walked the earth," for He alone could have revealed all things to +me. How wonderful must have been His wisdom! And if His indwelling +spirit were God, then Christ yet lives—lives in some inner world of +love and beauty. Ah, beautiful hope! for, if immortality is my +portion, I may yet see Him, and learn of Him in another existence. +Methinks the night of my soul is passing away; upon the rayless +darkness a star has risen; a fixed star of love and hope; what if +like other fixed stars it prove a sun? +</P> + +<P> +Oh, Christ! holy and beautiful Man! if Thou yet livest in far-away +realms of light and blessedness—grant that I may see Thee, and +learn of Thy wondrous wisdom. Enlighten my darkness, and suffer me +to love Thee as the Divinest type of man that my thought has yet +imagined. +</P> + +<P> +THE DAWN OF THE MORNING.—I have gone back to my Bible with the old +childish love and reverence. I read it with an object now. I know +that in it, the beautiful Christ-nature was portrayed; and I read +with infinite longings to find Him the "unknown God;" and bright +revealings come to me through this Book. I feel that it is Divine, +and the light grows upon me; and sometimes like the Apostles, who +awakened in the night, and saw Christ transfigured before them, I +also saw a transfiguration. I lose sight of the mere material man, +and I perceive an inner glory of being, a radiance of wisdom, and +purity, and love, that clothe Him in a Divine light, and make His +countenance brilliant with a spiritual glory. +</P> + +<P> +This transfiguration, what was it? My thought dwells upon it so—it +was a wonderful thing. I know that the scoffing philosophers +ridicule the idea of there being any reality in it; they regard it +either as a fiction on the part of the writers, or as a dream or a +delusion of the senses. But I believe that it all happened just as +it was narrated. For it is beautiful to believe it. If it did not +happen, I am none the worse for believing it, even if the whole life +was a fiction, which all history proves to have been true; and had +no Christ lived upon the earth, yet, as a work of art, this fiction +would have been the highest and most beautiful dream of the human +thought. But if it is all literally true; if Christ was "God +manifest in the flesh," how much do I gain by believing in him! I +have attained the highest and best of all knowledge—I know GOD! +</P> + +<P> +And this transfiguration becomes a wonderful revelation! It was the +Spirit of God shining through the Man. And this spirit was a +substance and a form. And what was its form?—that of a man, with a +face radiant as the sun. Now know I how to think of God. He is no +longer a vague, incomprehensible existence; an ether floating in +space. But He is a living, breathing human form, a Man! in whose +image and likeness we were created. Oh, how I thank God that He has +revealed this to me! Now, I know what manner of Being I pray to; and +like as the apostles saw Him, in His Divine spiritual human form, +will I now always think of Him. I will look through His veil of +flesh, I will love Him as the only God-man that ever existed. +</P> + +<P> +When I think thus of the inner Divine nature, clothed in a material +body, how wonderfully do the scenes of this drama of the life of +Christ strike me! Imagine Him, the God of the universe, standing +before the Jewish sanhedrim, condemned, buffeted, and spit upon. How +at that moment in His inmost Divine soul, He must have glanced over +the vast creation, that He had called into being; and felt that an +Infinite power dwelt in Him. One blazing look of wrathful +indignation would have annihilated that rude rabble. But He had +clothed himself in flesh, to subdue all of its evil and vile +passions; to show to an ignorant and sensual race, the grace and +beauty of a self-abnegation—a Divine pity and forgiveness. And thus +did the outer material Man die with that beautiful and touching +appeal to the Infinite-loving soul, from which the body was born: +"Father! forgive them, they know not what they do." Oh, Thou! Divine +Jesus! make me like unto Thee in this heavenly and loving spirit. +</P> + +<P> +How clear many things grow to me now! I smile when I think of the +old childish trouble over the word "<I>Logos</I>," for this <I>Logos</I>, i. +e. truth, has been revealed to me. In the knowledge that Christ was +the Infinite God—the Creator of the universe, I see Him as the +central <I>truth</I>. Thus Christ was the <I>Logos</I>,—the <I>Word</I>; the +Divine Truth, and now I read, that "In the beginning was Christ, and +Christ was with God, and Christ was God." And I am happy in this +knowledge—my thought has something to rest upon out of myself; and +my affections grow up from the earth to that wonderful Divine Man, +who, after the death of the body, was seen as a man, a living man! +Immortality is no longer the dream of a Plato. It is a demonstrated +fact. +</P> + +<P> +In my mind is the stirring of a new life, as in the light of an +early morning-glory; the voice of singing birds is in my heart, and +an odour of blooming flowers expands itself in the delight of my new +day. I see the morning sun in a fixed form, yet flooding worlds with +the radiations of its light and heat, and shining in its glory on +the dew-bespangled blade of grass. Oh Christ!—thou art my Sun—and +I, the tiny blade of grass, rejoice in Thy Divine wisdom and love. +Look down upon me, oh, Thou holy One! from the "throne of Thy glory, +and the habitation of Thy Holiness," and exhale from me, through the +dew of my sorrow, the incense of my love. Draw me up from the earth, +even as the sun draws up the bowed plants, and let me drink in the +beautiful life of free heavenly airs. +</P> + +<P> +NOON-DAY.—How the light grows! In the warm love of my soul a +summer's day glows—so serene and bright, so full of ceaseless +activities, that the fruits ripen in a smiling, rosy beauty. +</P> + +<P> +The living Christ hath heard my soul's prayer; and books, which I +never before heard of, have revealed to me all those wonderful +truths after which my spirit yearned. +</P> + +<P> +First of all, the mystery of the Bible has been made clear to me. I +see it now as a beautiful whole. The Infinite knew from the +beginning that He was going to descend upon the earth, and take upon +Himself a human nature, weak and ignorant and vicious; and that He +was to purify and enlighten, and make Divine this fallen nature, +that man might know God in a material form, and love Him. All this +is written out in the Bible. +</P> + +<P> +I stand on the threshold of a wonderful science. There are +innumerable things that I do not comprehend in the Bible; but what I +see and understand awakens in me a thrilling delight, and I can +never exhaust this book; for it is full of the nerves of life; and I +can no more number them than I can count the sensitive fibres that +spread themselves from my brain, to the innumerable cellular tissues +of my skin. But as the body is full of a sentient life, so is every +word of the Bible full of an indwelling life. +</P> + +<P> +And now do I recognise the good that my patient, suffering old +friend did me in my childhood; would that I had read the Holy Bible +to her many other days. Doubtless she is now a beautiful angel in +Heaven. +</P> + +<P> +The angels! and Heaven! now too do I understand the inner existence; +and the dreams and visions of my childhood were, after all, blessed +realities; and the dead father and the dead mother, after whom my +childish heart yearned so lovingly, were revealed to me as a living +father and a living mother, in a wondrously beautiful life. Thus was +a warm inner love kept alive in my soul; and now I know that death +is but a new birth. As a glove is drawn from the hand, so is the +body drawn from the spirit; and, I too, will thus be born again. +Life is again crowned with a beautiful hope. +</P> + +<P> +Life!—and this mystery too is solved. God is the alone life, and +finite human spirits are forms receptive of life from God. God is +the soul and creation is His body—and from this infinite Divine +soul, life flows forth into every atom of the body. Beautiful +thought! The Lord sits throned in the inmost, and is cognisant of +every nerve that thrills through His boundless universe of being. +Every thought and feeling that passes through my heart and mind is +as clearly perceived by Him, as are the sensations of my body +perceived by my soul. Thus are we in God, and God in us. +</P> + +<P> +And how vast is the thought that suns, and their peopled worlds, are +to the body of God but as the drops of blood to the finite human +body; and who can count these drops? for as they flow forth, and +back to the heart, they ever grow and change, and increase—and who +can measure the Infinite! and this Being, sentient of all things in +the universe, providing for all things; seeing all things; +maintaining order, down to the minutest particle, in a system which +the finite thought of man can never grasp—and loving his creatures +in myriads of worlds, of which man never dreamed. How inconceivable +must be His boundless wisdom, His infinite love! Can we wonder that +a Soul so glowing with love, so radiant in intelligence, should +shine as the sun? Yes—this is the Central Sun, whose spiritual +beams, pouring forth their Divine influences, creating as they go +angelic and spiritual intelligences, finally ultimate themselves in +material suns, and material human bodies. Thus the garment of dull, +opaque matter is woven by the Divine Soul, through the condensations +of His emanations. Thus, were "all things made by Him; and without +Him was not anything made that was made;" and "in Him was life, and +the life was the light of men." +</P> + +<P> +The thought sinks after this far flight—we worship and adore the +Infinite. But the Lord must for ever remain apart from our weak +natures, as far as the sun is above the earth. He lives, in His +incomprehensible self-existence, at an immeasurable distance from +us. This the Divine Man sees, and in His tender compassion and +loving mercy for every human soul He creates, a twin-soul is made, +that the finite may find the fullness of delight in another finite +existence. +</P> + +<P> +Oh, blessed and beautiful providence of God! that two human hearts +and minds may intertwine in mutual support, and look up to the +Infinite. And in the glorious sunshine of life, grow ever young and +beautiful, in an immortal youth. +</P> + +<P> +Oh, ye suffering, sorrowing children of earth! turn your affections +and hopes from the fleeting things of time; from the outside-world, +to the beautiful inner spirit-life, where eternity develops ever new +and varying joys. Then only can the day dawn upon the human soul, +and the midnight darkness be dissipated by boundless effulgence of +light. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="angels"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +MINISTERING ANGELS. +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + TIME and Patience! These are Angels<BR> + By our Heavenly Father sent;<BR> + Whispering to our restless spirits,<BR> + "Cease to murmur—be content;<BR> + God, who is thy truest friend,<BR> + Doth our aid in trials send.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + When thy weary spirit faileth,<BR> + 'Neath the weary cross it bears,<BR> + God is not unmindful of thee—<BR> + He is listening to thy prayers;<BR> + From His children's tearful pleading<BR> + He will <I>never</I> turn unheeding!"<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Heart of mine! Trust thou these Angels;<BR> + Lean on Patience, and be calm;<BR> + Trust in Time, who is preparing<BR> + For thy grief a spirit-balm;<BR> + God is merciful, and He<BR> + Gave them charge concerning thee.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="loved"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +OURS, LOVED, AND "GONE BEFORE." +</H3> + +<P> + The light of her young life went out,<BR> + As sinks behind the hill<BR> + The glory of a setting star;<BR> + Clear, suddenly, and still.<BR> +<BR> + —WHITTIER.<BR> +</P> + +<P> +YOU ask me to tell you of her, the sweet friend we have loved and +lost. You impose on me a difficult task; I find it so harrowing to +my feelings, and I also find that my pen is inadequate to the +tribute my heart would pay. +</P> + +<P> +I would that the privilege of knowing and loving her had been yours, +for to know her was to love her. +</P> + +<P> +In former letters I told you something of her; how she came to us a +lovely bride of just nineteen summers; how anxiously we looked for +her first appearance in church, for they arrived late Saturday +evening, and no one had seen her. I told you how my heart went out +to her as I looked on her sweet, bright, yet somewhat timid face; +there was a perfect witchery in her eyes. I felt that I could gaze +into them for ever; there was about them a spell, a fascination that +I have never seen in others; they laughed as they looked at you, and +yet they were not merely laughing eyes; perhaps the long, drooping +lashes somewhat modified the expression, and helped to give the +peculiarity so strikingly their own. +</P> + +<P> +Her dress and whole appearance were captivating; the simple light +straw hat, with the little illusion veil, and the pure white dress +fitting so prettily the slender form. I could hardly wait for the +next day, so anxious was I to see and speak with her, for I loved +her already. +</P> + +<P> +I had been prepared to love her, for our young pastor had told us +much of his future bride. You know our house was one of his homes, +and to us he had spoken often and enthusiastically of his Mary. It +seemed to me that first Sabbath, that his prayers were particularly +impressive, and his thanks to the Author and Giver of every perfect +gift unusually appropriate; he seemed overpowered by a weight of +gratitude and love. +</P> + +<P> +How I admired the two as I glanced from one to the other! And I know +that many prayers went up from that assembled congregation for long +life and blessings on them. +</P> + +<P> +It was a beautiful home that had been prepared for her. Her +furniture had been sent on previous to their marriage, and our +little band had vied with each other in arranging with a view both +to taste and comfort. How we did wish for a peep into her own home, +to get a hint with regard to arranging her things, so as to be +<I>home-like</I>! +</P> + +<P> +You know there is often so much in association, and we would have +loved the new strange place to have a familiar look to her at first +sight. Oh! what visions we conjured up as we arranged the room which +was to serve both as parlour and dining-room; for the house was +small, and Mr. B.'s study must be on the first floor. <I>There</I> was +the best place for the piano between the windows, which looked into +the garden; we heard in anticipation the sweet voice which was to +fill the little room with melody, as the roses and flowers of June +now filled the garden with fragrance. The pretty fire-screen must +stand in a conspicuous corner, for that spoke particularly of home, +and of the hours delightfully passed in the dear family circle while +tracing it stitch by stitch; and I fancied that into each bright +flower which stood out so life-like from the canvas some emotion of +her heart had been indelibly wrought. How many lovely home +associations will the pretty fire-screen bring up! +</P> + +<P> +How we arranged, and disarranged, and re-arranged, before all was to +our minds; and how we hoped, when all was finished, that it would +look as charming to her as it did to us! And we were not +disappointed; for, on the following Monday, when we called to see +her, nothing could exceed the enthusiasm of her expression and +gratitude; everything was lovely, perfect; she saw all <I>en couleur +de rose</I>. +</P> + +<P> +She had left indulgent parents, and a home of refinement and luxury, +and we feared for her the untried duties of her new position; but an +intimate acquaintance proved her eminently qualified for the +responsibility she had assumed. She adapted herself with charming +grace and readiness to her present circumstances. She was a most +delightful acquisition to our limited circle; a favourite with all; +and she blended so beautifully the graces of religion with those of +her natural temperament that she became our idol. +</P> + +<P> +The "parsonage" seemed to me a paradise, surrounded by none but +bright and holy influences. There the poor always found a welcome, a +willing heart, a ready hand, and listening ear; however sad and +desponding on entering, they invariably came out cheerful and +hopeful. There seemed a magic spell cast around every one who sought +the presence of our dearly loved pastor and his wife. +</P> + +<P> +With what pleasure I used to watch for their steps as they took +their morning walks together that bright first year of their married +life! They seemed to have the life and vivacity of children. She +always accompanied him in his walks, in his visits to the poor, in +relief to the sick, by the bedside of the dying; she was like his +shadow, and always haunted him for good. It might be said most +emphatically of both, "When the ear heard them it blessed them, and +when the eye saw them it gave witness to them, because they +delivered the poor that cried, and the fatherless, and him that had +none to help him; the blessing of him that was ready to perish came +upon them, and they caused the widow's heart to sing for joy." +</P> + +<P> +Thus several years passed away; new cares and new duties devolved on +them; but all were cheerfully met and delightfully performed; and +they basked in the sunshine of God's love. Beautiful children sprang +up around them, and we felt that "earth never owned a happier nest" +than that which was placed in our midst. +</P> + +<P> +How proud Mr. B. was of his family, and with what reason, too, for +we all felt it with him; his wife so beautiful, so good, so in all +respects fitted to make home happy, with her never-failing sunshine +and light-heartedness; his two little girls, our impersonation of +cherubs; and the youngest a noble boy, so dear to his mother's +heart. Oh! how many attractions within that charmed circle! +</P> + +<P> +I shall never forget an evening I passed in the nursery with that +dear one surrounded by her happy little band. Willie, "the baby," as +she called him, although more than two years old, was sitting in her +lap, twirling one of her long, beautiful ringlets round his tiny +fingers. +</P> + +<P> +"Sing, mamma!" he said. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, do!" joined in Effie and Minnie, putting their bright innocent +faces and soft brown curls close to hers; "sing The Dove, mamma, +please." +</P> + +<P> +She laughingly asked me to excuse her, saying, she always devoted +the twilight hour to amusing and instructing the little ones. I +begged her to allow my presence to be no restraint upon her usual +custom. She then commenced, and I thought no seraph's voice could be +sweeter, as she sang one of Mary Howitt's beautiful translations:— +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "There sitteth a dove so white and fair<BR> + All on the lily spray,<BR> + And she listeneth how to Jesus Christ<BR> + The little children pray;<BR> + Lightly she spreads her friendly wings,<BR> + And to Heaven's gate hath fled,<BR> + And to the Father in Heaven she bears<BR> + The prayers which the children have said.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + And back she comes from Heaven's gate,<BR> + And brings, that dove so mild,<BR> + From the Father in Heaven, who hears her speak,<BR> + A blessing for every child.<BR> + The children lift up a pious prayer—<BR> + It hears whatever you say,<BR> + That heavenly dove, so white and fair,<BR> + All on the lily spray."<BR> +</P> + +<P> +I joined heartily in the thanks and admiration the children +expressed when she had finished. +</P> + +<P> +As she laid them in their little beds, and kissed their rosy lips +and dimpled cheeks, she said, "I can never thank God enough for +these sweet children." She then added, "Oh! what an affliction it +must be to lose a child; I think if one of mine should die, I should +die too; but," she added, "I should not say so; could I not trust +them with Him who doeth all things well?" She little realized how +soon she was to be put to the test. I called there a few days after. +She was in the garden raising and tying up some drooping carnations +which the rain of the preceding day had injured. +</P> + +<P> +"Willie is not well," said she. "I have just sung him to sleep, and +Mr. B. said I must take a little fresh air, for I was fatigued with +holding him, and I thought I would confine myself to the garden, to +be near, if he should wake." +</P> + +<P> +Soon a cry from the nursery was heard; she sprang up the steps in +nervous haste, while I quite chided her anxiety. I followed her into +the room, and was surprised and shocked to find the dear boy in a +high fever; his little arms tossing restlessly, and his lips dry and +parched. Mr. B. sent immediately for the physician; we waited +anxiously his arrival, hoping secretly that we were unnecessarily +alarmed; but his coming did not reassure us; he saw dangerous +symptoms; but still, he said, he hoped for the best. I went home, as +Mr. and Mrs. B. both declined my services for the night, saying they +would rather attend him alone. The next day I was pained to hear +that his symptoms were more unfavourable; that the medicine had had +no effect, and the physician was becoming discouraged. I flew over +to the "parsonage;" the wildly anxious look of the mother distressed +me. I begged her to lie down a little while, and allow me to take +her place by the baby. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no," she said, "I cannot leave him; who but his mother should +be by his side?" +</P> + +<P> +It seemed to me that I had never seen greater distress on any +countenance. Mr. B. endeavoured to soothe her, though his anguish +was apparently as keen as her own. +</P> + +<P> +"If our Saviour would remove this little flower to his own garden, +shall we refuse to give it up? Shall we not rather bless and thank +him for allowing us to keep it so long?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes!" she said, "He doeth all things well; I know that he does +not willingly afflict nor grieve the children of men. I know that +whom He loveth he chasteneth, and I can say, 'Thy will be done.' +Nature is powerful, but my Saviour feels for me, and will forgive +the inward struggle." +</P> + +<P> +All that night they watched his little life fast ebbing away. +Towards morning his sufferings seemed to cease; he smiled upon his +parents. Hope for a moment revived in their hearts, but soon to be +displaced by bitter anguish. Daylight showed the marked change in +his features and complexion that told too plainly the messenger was +very near. +</P> + +<P> +"Speak to me, Willie," she exclaimed, bending over him in an agony +of grief. +</P> + +<P> +"Mamma," he said, and, with the effort, his little spirit took its +flight. +</P> + +<P> +Much has been said and written upon the death of infants, but when +we see so much of wickedness in the world, so much of sin to blight, +so much sorrow to fade, can we wonder that the Lord of Paradise +loves to transplant to a fairer clime these frail buds of earth, +there to have a beautiful and unfading development! +</P> + +<P> +We saw no more of our precious friends till the day of the funeral. +This was their first affliction, and none liked to intrude on the +sanctity of their grief, though many tears were shed, and hearts +went out to them; but we felt that they knew whom they had trusted, +and that under the shadow of His wings they could rest securely till +the storm was past. +</P> + +<P> +A neighbouring clergyman was to perform the last sad office for the +dead. Most lovely did little Willie look in his coffin. The +child-like, beautiful expression still lingered. Rare flowers, the +smallest and whitest, had been placed in the tiny hand, and shed +their fragrance throughout the room. +</P> + +<P> +Oh! how sad and sick appeared the mother, as she bent to take the +last look at the little form she had loved and cherished so +tenderly! Her nights of anxiety and watching had left their traces +upon her face; her usually light and elastic step was feeble and +slow, and she rested heavily upon the arm of her husband. His form +also was bowed, and his countenance bore traces of the deepest +grief. +</P> + +<P> +One of those sudden changes which we so often experience in this our +most changeful climate, took place that day. At noon it was very +warm and bright, but before we returned from the funeral it was +cloudy and cold. +</P> + +<P> +The next day Mrs. B. was quite sick with severe cold, and the +effects of the past excitement and grief. We flattered ourselves +that rest and quiet, with good nursing, would soon restore her; and +you may judge of our dismay upon learning, the day after, that she +was dangerously ill. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh no," we thought and said a hundred times, "it cannot be so; she +will surely be better to-morrow." +</P> + +<P> +We could not have it otherwise. We could not for an instant admit +the idea that she would not recover. The bare supposition was agony. +Oh! how harrowing to me is the remembrance of those long summer +days, and those wakeful moonlight nights, in which, prostrated by +disease, lay that young and lovely being so idolized by us all, but +whom, indeed, we were destined to see no more on earth. +</P> + +<P> +The Divine fiat had gone forth, and hearts were agonized, and looks +grew sadder and sadder, as day after day sounded like a knell in our +ears the fearful words, "Not materially better." But we could not +give her up; hope would linger. No one was permitted to see her but +the family and nurses, for the doctor said all excitement must be +carefully avoided. We said, "She will not die; God will raise her +up." In our weakness and blindness, we could see no mercy nor wisdom +in this terrible bereavement, this scorching desolation of the +already heavily-stricken servant of the Most High. He was naturally +of a most hopeful disposition, and this, notwithstanding the +discouraging words of the physician, buoyed up his soul, and he with +us hoped against hope. They could not persuade him to leave her for +a moment. Whole nights he watched by the side of her he loved best +on earth, anticipating every word and look, and administering to her +comfort. +</P> + +<P> +How you would have felt for us, dear Anna, had you been here! We +would walk by the house, and look up at the windows or door, not +daring to knock for fear of disturbing her, but hoping to see one of +the physicians or some one of the family, of whom to make inquiries. +Oh, the nervousness of those days! the restless, weary nights we +passed, till our fears and apprehensions became a racking torment, +and we felt almost that we must die (sic) ourselves ourselves or be +out of suspense; but when, on the evening of the tenth day after her +illness, a messenger came with pallid face and almost wild look to +say that she was <I>dead</I>, we were stunned. I really think we were +almost as much shocked as though we had not heard of her illness; +for we felt that, at the eleventh hour, some favourable turn <I>must</I> +take place. I think we expected a miracle to be performed, so +certain were we, or wished and tried to be, that she would recover. +</P> + +<P> +But God's ways are not as our ways; truly, they are past finding +out. We felt like putting our hands on our mouths, for fear of +rebelling against <I>His</I> most righteous decrees. "Be still, and know +that I am God," was all that we could say. It was hard to realize +that the sun was still shining behind the cloud, for this was a +darkness that might be felt. There seemed a pall over the earth and +sky. Oh, how unsatisfactory seemed all on earth! how dark and +strange! how mysterious and unreal! We could not weep, we were +stunned, and it seemed at the time that we could never come back to +earth without her. But when the touching relation of her last hours +was made to us, the fountains of grief were unsealed, and we wept, +as it were, rivers of tears. +</P> + +<P> +I can give you no idea on paper of the beauty and sublimity of that +death-scene as it was painted to me. We imagined that the heart must +shrink, or at least draw back before the entrance into the dark +valley. But all was peace; it flowed in upon her like a river, and +she felt that underneath were the everlasting arms. Her husband and +two remaining children stood by the bed. Oh, the bitterness of the +cup he was called upon to drink! He shrank from it. As he bent over +her, she said, +</P> + +<P> +"Do not weep, love. How good God has been to give us so many bright, +happy years together! Surely the lines have fallen to us in pleasant +places, and I"—raising her beautiful eyes to heaven—"have a goodly +heritage. I go to my Saviour. How should I feel at this moment had I +not a hope in him? Oh, I am going home! I see Willie beckoning me to +hasten. I will bear him in my arms to the Saviour's feet, and +together we shall sing the 'new song.' I do not love you nor these +sweet darlings less; but I love the Saviour more. I wish you could +look in my heart and see the love I bear you. Thank you for all your +indulgence, for all your kindness in bearing with my many +infirmities. If I am permitted, I will be ever your guardian angel. +Remember me with much and undying love to all the dear friends who +have been so kind to me." +</P> + +<P> +She appeared buoyed up with unnatural strength, though her end was +so near. She broke into a sweet hymn; and it was, they said, as +though the angel's voice had anticipated the few short moments +before she should sing the "new song." She lay quiet for a little +time, holding the hand of her husband in her own; then, opening her +eyes and seeing the last rays of the departing sun, "I shall never +look upon that bright orb again; but there is no need of the sun +there. I draw near to heavenly habitations, and I would not retreat +for what the world can give. Dearest, be faithful to your trust." +And, imprinting a kiss upon his lips, her pure spirit went +peacefully home. +</P> + +<P> +We draw a veil upon the feelings of that bereaved one; too sacred +are they to be looked upon; his house was left unto him desolate. +That form, which had been to his eye like the well in the desert or +the bow in the sky, was now cold in death. +</P> + +<P> +Oh! thought we, why needed this affliction to be sent upon one so +near <I>perfection</I>? Surely, <I>he</I>, of all others, needed not this +discipline; and then came to our minds, soft, sweet, and soothing, +the words, "Every branch in me that beareth fruit, he purgeth it +that it may bring forth more fruit." +</P> + +<P> +We felt that it was hard to lay in the grave the form of our dear +friend; it was hard to part with the casket which had enshrined the +precious jewel. Beautiful in life, she was so in death. The +departing spirit had left a ray of brightness on its earthly house, +and, in looking at the calm brow and peaceful smile, death seemed +divested of its terror. We had twined the pure white flowers she +loved around and amongst the rich dark masses of wavy hair, and she +looked like a beautiful bride more than a tenant for the grave. The +memory of that day will live ever in our minds. It was the last day +of summer, and there seemed a beautiful appropriateness in the +season; it seemed to us that the summer of our hearts had gone with +her. +</P> + +<P> +A sad and mournful procession, we followed her remains to the church +so dear to her in life. It was but a few days since she entered it +in her loveliness and bloom, and for the last time on earth +commemorated a Saviour's dying love. She will partake with us here +no more. May we be counted worthy to sit down with her at our +Father's board in heaven! Mournful was the sight of the black pall +which covered the coffin; mournful the drapery which shrouded her +accustomed seat and enveloped the chancel; mournful the badges which +all, as by consent, had adopted as expressive of their feelings on +the occasion; but, oh! most mournful and heart-rending was the sight +of that husband and father leading by the hand on either side all +that remained to him of his beautiful family. It was difficult to +recognise in him the man of two short weeks before; twenty years +seemed added to his life; the eyes, usually beaming with light, now +cast down and swollen with weeping—the countenance, index of a +heart full of peace and joy, now so sorrow-stricken. Truly, he +seemed "smitten of God and afflicted." We turned our eyes away as he +stood by the grave which contained almost his earthly all. +</P> + +<P> +It was a beautiful spot where they laid her to rest by the side of +her baby. The sun was just going down in a golden flood of light, +betokening a glorious morrow (beautiful emblem of the resurrection, +when this perishing body should be raised in glory), and the shadows +of the trees were lengthening on the grass. Every sound was in sweet +accordance with the scene; the soft twittering of the birds as they +sought their resting-places for the night, the quiet hum of the +insects, and the sweet murmuring of the brook which flowed at a +little distance. +</P> + +<P> +A holy calm pervaded our minds as we wended our way between the +trees and down the slope which bounded this lovely spot; and, as we +left the gate, we involuntarily paused and looked back long and +earnestly on the sweet view. Every object was bathed in that golden +haze so peculiar to the last days of summer and the beginning of +autumn; but at this time it seemed to us that the flood of soft +light had escaped from the gate of heaven which we imagined had +opened to receive the form lost to our sight. +</P> + +<P> +Oh, we miss her more and more, everywhere! in our walks and visits; +in the missionary circle, of which she was so ready and active a +member; in the Sunday school; in her accustomed seat in church; and +we miss the soft tones of her voice in prayer, and the rich +outpourings of her melody in praise. +</P> + +<P> +The poor of the parish have, indeed, lost a friend, as their tears +and remembrance amply testify when they recount her kindnesses, her +gentle words, her deeds of charity and love. "Flowers grew under the +feet of her," said one wretchedly poor, yet, I thought, quite +poetical old woman, whose declining days she had lightened of much +of their weariness. A track of glory seems that which she has left +behind; and there was so much that was beautiful and consoling in +her last hours that it were selfishness to wish her back. She is +with the Saviour she loved; she folds again to her heart the little +one whose loss she had not time to realize on earth; together they +have entered on their "long age of bliss in heaven." +</P> + +<P> +Does not that death-scene speak volumes in attestation of the +religion she professed, of the Saviour she adored? That young fair +being, surrounded by all that makes life happy; friends who loved, a +husband who idolized, children who clung to her; with a heart full +of love and sympathy for all, rejoicing with those who rejoiced, and +weeping with those who wept; of rare beauty and rarer accomplishments, +a sunbeam on the face of the earth; yet she willingly left all when +her Father called her. Is not her faith worth striving after? +</P> + +<P> +We have reason (blessed be God!) to see already some good effects +from the contemplation of her life and death. The young have +received a warning, thoughtlessness a check. We have realized that +neither youth nor beauty is a security against the ravages of the +spoiler. +</P> + +<P> +God grant that our dear pastor may experience the truth of the words +of the Psalmist: "Those who sow in tears shall reap in joy." He +feels that his treasure is laid up in heaven, and we know that his +heart is there. To see his dear one happy had ever been his chief +desire, and he would not call her back, for he knows that she is now +in the enjoyment of a bliss that the world cannot give. +</P> + +<P> +Though cast down, he is not destroyed; he has come unscathed from +this furnace of affliction because one like the Son of God was with +him. With eyes turned heavenward, he waits his appointed time. The +religion of the cross glistens like a gem on his dark-robed +fortunes, and points him to fairer worlds, where the love that grew +here amidst clouds will be made perfect in a light that knows no +shadow, where he and his departed ones will again have one home, one +altar, and one resting place. +</P> + +<P> +Like his Divine Master, he goes about doing good. Oftener than ever +is he found amongst the sons and daughters of affliction; more than +ever are they objects of his special care; his precept is blessed by +his example, and thus many a prodigal son has he recalled from his +wanderings, many an outcast gathered into the fold, many a wayworn +pilgrim pointed to his true rest, many a mourner comforted. They saw +that the resignation he preached to others he practised himself; +they saw that the hand of the Lord was heavy upon him, but that yet +he turned not backward; they saw that he went his way as a pilgrim +pressing forward to a better country. Most brilliant will be the +diadem which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give him in the +last day, for are not these words of Holy Writ, "They who turn many +to righteousness shall shine like the stars for ever and ever?" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="outward"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +OUTWARD MINISTERINGS. +</H3> + +<P> + EACH owns some secret law;—the flowers that flourish<BR> + Bloom in their season, in their season die;<BR> + Dews flow beneath, their feeble strength to nourish,<BR> + The wind, Earth's angels, life's sweet breath supply.<BR> +</P> + +<P> + As in the wondrous world of faultless Nature,<BR> + So in the moral universe of man,<BR> + Given for the spirit's every form and feature,<BR> + Are powers fulfilling its immortal plan.<BR> +</P> + +<P> + Whether its aim be fixed on seeking Pleasure,<BR> + Whilst draining deep her falsely-sparkling bowl,<BR> + Or in the light of Love be sought the treasure<BR> + Whose worth may satisfy the craving soul;<BR> +</P> + +<P> + Whether it court the applause of listening nations,<BR> + And toil, with earnest energy, for fame,<BR> + Or seek with nobler hopes those elevations,<BR> + Whence from its God with spotless robes it came:<BR> +</P> + +<P> + All help to lead it on; to Truth or Error,<BR> + Darkness or Light, as its own pathway lies;<BR> + Here, seeming seraphs, hidden shapes of terror,<BR> + There, darksome shadows, angels in disguise.<BR> +</P> + +<P> + Behold yon miser bend, with palsied fingers,<BR> + O'er the rich gold around him glittering piled,<BR> + How, with a father's care, he tireless lingers<BR> + By life's all-precious hope, his darling—child.<BR> +</P> + +<P> + Fond wretch! his aim to narrow life is bounded,<BR> + Yet, true to Nature, all for him hath proved;<BR> + The glorious gifts that once his path surrounded,<BR> + Have served to strengthen feelings basely loved!<BR> +</P> + +<P> + By glittering lights, behold yon splendid palace,<BR> + See squalid youth and beauty enter there,<BR> + Eager to drown within the brimming chalice,<BR> + All pangs of grief—all thoughts of woe or care.<BR> +</P> + +<P> + Alas! for them, that such a sad fruition<BR> + Should burst from seeds bright with the hues of Time;<BR> + These specious splendours fail not in their mission,<BR> + But spur their spirits on the road to crime!<BR> +</P> + +<P> + In yonder room, behold a beauteous maiden,<BR> + Who bright the standard of her hope unrolls;<BR> + But, oh! that smiling bark, with evil laden,<BR> + Leads on to fatal depths, or treacherous shoals!<BR> +</P> + +<P> + Gaze on the gambler, pale with care and sorrow,<BR> + And mark the dismal shades he long hath trod,<BR> + Who lives to witness each returning morrow,<BR> + Sin-burdened, roll before an outraged God!<BR> +</P> + +<P> + Seest thou the light from yonder casement streaming?<BR> + Seest thou the shadow on the window cast?<BR> + There, lost in thought and poesy's wild dreaming,<BR> + Waits one to hear Fame's loud but fickle blast.<BR> +</P> + +<P> + This is his life's great aim; but what beyond it?<BR> + Of Truth's bright treasure though he love to tell,<BR> + In barren mines of lore he hath not found it,<BR> + Bowing beneath his idol's deadly spell.<BR> +</P> + +<P> + But gaze on One, who seeks in all around him,<BR> + Lessons of good to cheer him on his way,<BR> + As every golden year through life hath found him<BR> + Nearer the realms of Heaven's eternal day.<BR> +</P> + +<P> + With him events of earth are sweet evangels,<BR> + All meaner things but step-stones hurled beneath;<BR> + Whilst nobler lead to Eden-realms of angels,<BR> + With shining robes, and crown, and amaranth wreath.<BR> +</P> + +<P> + Oh! fellow-pilgrims through this desert dreary,<BR> + In all the scenes of life God's mercy trace,<BR> + Then though with grief cast down, with watching weary,<BR> + Strong shall ye stand in His sufficient grace!<BR> +</P> + +<P> + Thus sweet, melodious tones and forms of beauty,<BR> + All glorious sights and sounds may ever prove<BR> + Angels to lure us on the path of duty,<BR> + Echoes of symphonies that float above!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="bodily"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BODILY DEFORMITY, SPIRITUAL BEAUTY. +</H3> + +<P> +WHO has not observed in passing through the crowded streets of our +city, how great, comparatively, is the number of those, who are more +or less deformed? My heart aches for these poor unfortunates, who +are deprived of some of the legitimate avenues of enjoyment which +God has so bounteously vouchsafed to me. +</P> + +<P> +Here is one (and it would seem to me the most unmitigated of all the +catalogue) who is groping his way along in darkness, holding fast by +the hand of a little girl. There is another who has lost a limb, and +makes his way along with the utmost difficulty. Yonder is one so +extremely deformed, that his sensitiveness forbids him often to +appear in the crowded streets. And there is another still, who is +quite helpless, sitting in a little wagon drawn about by a faithful +dog. +</P> + +<P> +In the minds of different individuals, these various aspects of +deformity produce pity, disgust, and horror; but I have often +thought, could we but look, as God looks—down into the audience +chamber of the spirit—the heart—how differently our minds would be +affected at the sight of these bodily deformities. Perhaps yon poor +blind man, grinding away upon his hand-organ, whose natural eyes for +long, weary years, have been closed against the profusion of beauty +around him, has had the eyes of his understanding opened, and the +pure light from the eternal throne illumes the depth of his soul. +Perhaps he, who hobbles slowly and sadly along upon his crutches, +treads with care and unknown joy, the <I>narrow way</I>,—and when, +life's journey's over, he walks through the valley of the shadow of +death, he will fear no evil; for a rod and a staff unknown to his +earthly pilgrimage, <I>they will comfort him</I>. Who shall say but he, +whose deformity drives him from the public way, walks continually +before God and Angels—a perfect man? It may be, that yon helpless +one—<I>so</I> helpless that his mother feeds him—has power to move the +arm that moves the world; for God hears prayer. +</P> + +<P> +It is a most solemn truth that He who is the judge of quick and +dead, looks not upon the <I>outer</I> man; but upon his inner, spiritual +nature. With His judgment, it matters not, that a man be deformed; +that his eyes be blind or his tongue be tied: is the heart all +right?—has it become a sanctuary, meet for the spirit's residence +and lighted by the Sun of Righteousness, where every word, thought, +and deed, becomes an acceptable sacrifice to God? is it not +disturbed by sin or blinded by passion? These are the things which +have to do in the estimate which God puts upon every intelligent +creature. Take good care then, my brother pilgrim, that the heart is +all right—though the body which covers it for a little season is +distorted and maimed. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="child"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE DEAD CHILD. +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "Though our tears fell fast and faster,<BR> + Yet we would not call her back;<BR> + We are glad her feet no longer<BR> + Tread life's rough and thorny track.<BR> + We are glad our Heavenly Father<BR> + Took her while her heart was pure;<BR> + We are glad He did not leave her,<BR> + All life's troubles to endure.<BR> + We are glad—and yet the tear-drop<BR> + Falleth, for, alas! we know<BR> + That our fireside will be lonely,<BR> + We shall miss our darling so!"<BR> +</P> + +<P> +HOW beautiful a young child in its shroud! Calm and heavenly looks +the white face on which the blighting breath of sin never rested. +</P> + +<P> +The silken curls parted from the marble brow—the once bright eyes +closed—once red lips pale—little hands that have ofttimes been +clasped as the lips repeated "Our Father," now meekly folded over +the throbless heart, tell us that Death, cruel, relentless Death, +has been there. +</P> + +<P> +Surely, the <I>soul</I> that once beamed from those closed eyes is happy! +Hath not the Saviour said, "Of such is the kingdom of heaven?" Robed +like an angel is she now, a lamb in the Saviour's bosom. Could +parental love ask more? Surely not. Cleansed from all earthly taint; +secure from all trouble, care, or sin, those eyes will no more weep; +but the tiny hands will sweep a golden harp, and the childish voice +will be heard making music in heaven. +</P> + +<P> +Often, O, how often had our hearts said, "God bless her!" And has +not our prayer been answered? The yearnings of love cannot be +stifled; for we miss the loving clasp of white arms—the soft +pressure of fresh lips—the prattle and smile that were music and +light to our world-weary hearts; our hand moves in vain for a +resting-place on the golden head; yet we feel, we know that "it is +well with the child," for we see how much of woe she has escaped; +how much of bliss she has gained; a home with the sinless; the +companionship of angels for ETERNITY. Blessed one! +</P> + +<P> +Alone, yet fearlessly, didst thou pass through the "dark valley" and +enter into the home prepared for thee. As fearlessly, trustingly may +<I>we</I> meet the conqueror, Death, and when the conflict is ended, meet +thee in thy new home to dwell for evermore! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="water"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +WATER. +</H3> + +<P> +GOD is the author of all our blessings. There is no truth, perhaps, +to which we are more ready to give our assent than this; and yet, a +great many people seem to act as if they did not believe it, or, at +least, as if they were prone to forget it. +</P> + +<P> +A traveller stopped at a fountain, and, letting the rein he held in +his hand fall upon the neck of his horse, permitted the thirsty +animal to drink of the cooling water that came pouring down from a +rocky hill, and spread itself out in a basin below. While the weary +beast refreshed himself, the traveller looked at the bright stream +that sparkled in the sunlight, and said thus to himself:— +</P> + +<P> +"What a blessing is water! How it refreshes, strengthens, and +purifies! And how bountifully it is given! Everywhere flows this +good gift of our Heavenly Father, and it is as free as the air to +man and beast." +</P> + +<P> +While he thus mused, a child came to the fountain. She had a vessel +in her hand, and she stooped to fill it with water. +</P> + +<P> +"Give me a drink, my good little girl," said the traveller. +</P> + +<P> +And, with a smiling face, the child reached her pitcher to the man +who still sat on his horse. +</P> + +<P> +"Who made this water?" said the traveller, as he handed the vessel +back to the child. +</P> + +<P> +"God made it," was her quick reply. +</P> + +<P> +"And do you know anything that water is like?" asked the traveller. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes! Father says that water is like truth." +</P> + +<P> +"Does he?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir. He says that water is like truth, because truth purifies +the mind as water does the body." +</P> + +<P> +"That is wisely said," returned the traveller. "And truth quenches +our thirst for knowledge, as water quenches the thirst of our lips." +</P> + +<P> +The little girl smiled as this was said, and, taking up her pitcher, +went back to her home. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, water represents truth," said the traveller, as he rode +thoughtfully away. "The child was right. It purifies and refreshes +us, and is spread out, like truth, on every hand, free for those who +will take it. Whenever I look upon water again, I will think of it +as representing truth; and then I will remember that it is as +important to the mind's health and purity to have truth as it is for +the body to have water." +</P> + +<P> +Thus, from a simple fountain, as it leaped out from the side of a +hill, the traveller gained a lesson of wisdom. And so, as we pass +through the world, we may find in almost every natural object that +exists something that will turn our minds to higher and better +thoughts. Every tree and flower, every green thing that grows, and +every beast of the field and bird of the air, have in them a +signification, if we could but learn it. They speak to us in a +spiritual language, and figure forth to our natural senses the +higher, more beautiful, and more enduring things of the mind. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="beautiful"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BEAUTIFUL, HAPPY, AND BELOVED. +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + WOULDST thou be beautiful?<BR> + Ah, then, be pure! be pure! An angel's face<BR> + Is the transparent mirror of her soul.<BR> + If ghastly guilt on fairest brows you trace,<BR> + Then do you hear the knell of beauty toll.<BR> + Let Purity her seal on thee impress,<BR> + And thine shall be angelic loveliness.<BR> + The pure are beautiful.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Wouldst thou be dearly loved?<BR> + Then love, love truly all that God has made;<BR> + For by His name of love is He best known.<BR> + No damp distrust be on thy spirit laid;<BR> + And let affection's words and deeds be one.<BR> + Thy soul's warm fountain shall not gush in vain;<BR> + From Love's deep source it shall be filled again;<BR> + For they who love, are loved.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + And wouldst thou happy be?<BR> + Then make the truth thy talisman, thy guide.<BR> + Be truth the stone in all thy jewels set.<BR> + Into thy heart its opal-light shall glide,<BR> + And guide thee where are happier spirits yet.<BR> + For these three rays are in the shining crown:<BR> + The seraph by the Throne of Light lays down,<BR> + Truth, Love, and Purity.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="cloud"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +"EVERY CLOUD HAS A SILVER LINING." +</H3> + +<P> +WHAT! can this be true in this dark world of ours, where the thick +clouds of sorrow, disappointed hopes, and bereavements are +continually hanging over us, obscuring even the bright star of hope; +where upon every passing breeze is borne deep wailings of woe, +bitter sighs ascending from bruised and broken hearts mourning over +lost hopes, crushed affections, wasted love; struggling vainly for +victory in the fierce battle of life; groping about in darkness to +catch, if possible, one gleam of sunlight from the heavy clouds—but +in vain? +</P> + +<P> +"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust." Another shrine robbed of its idol; +another hearth left desolate. See, how the black clouds settle down +and press more closely around that lonely widowed one. Grim Death +mocks at his grief from the open grave, so soon to receive his +heart's idol. Ay, remove the coffin lid; gaze with all the agonizing +bitterness of a <I>last</I> look upon that cold marble face; was aught on +earth so lovely? Kiss for the last time the pure forehead. Ah! those +pale white lips give back no answering pressure of love; sealed for +ever by that last chilling blast from the cold river. +</P> + +<P> +And now the damp earth presses heavily over that cherished form; far +down in the darkness and silence of the grave must the loved one +remain, never more to cheer by her gentle words of love and +kindness, the heart of him who so needed her sympathy and love. +Gone, gone for ever. +</P> + +<P> +What on earth is now beautiful or bright since the dearest, best +treasure is removed? Oh, no! there can be no bright spot in +affliction like this; there can be no bright ray to gild this night +of sorrow. +</P> + +<P> +Ah! thou erring mortal, repine not. The all-wise Father knew thy +frail heart, saw thy whole life and soul bound up in that one +creature, weak and sinful like thyself; forgetful of the Creator; +and wilt thou dare raise thy feeble voice against the Almighty when +He removed the idol that He alone may reign? Wilt thou not bow +meekly, kiss the rod, and accept the bitter cup of bereavement, +offered as it is in mercy? +</P> + +<P> +And is this all? Is there no life beyond the grave? Is the spirit +which held such communion with thine for ever quenched? +</P> + +<P> +Can the grave contain for ever the immortal part? Look up, oh! +mourning one; thy loved one is not there. +</P> + +<P> +Hark! hearest thou not soft, heavenly voices, whispering sweetly of +a life beyond the dark river, where Death can never come; of +glorious mansions where is peace and joy for ever more, and of +another freed spirit welcomed to the blissful home? Dost thou not +feel upon thy tear-moistened cheek, gentle wavings of angel wings +perfumed with the breath of heavenly flowers? +</P> + +<P> +Even now, may the happy glorified spirit of thy loved one be +hovering around; think you it would return again to that perishing +body of clay? +</P> + +<P> +The sweet star of faith is already rising over thy grief; the +clouds, all bright and shining with hues caught from heavenly skies, +are no longer dark and rayless; and now, even with thy lonely +bleeding heart, canst thou humbly receive the chastisement from Him +who doeth all things well. +</P> + +<P> +Henceforth will earth seem less dear, heaven nearer, and more to be +desired; thy own cherished companion is there, and who can know but +that her pure spirit may sometimes look down upon thee, still to +encourage thy endeavours to battle manfully with life and its +trials, still to cheer and console in thy hours of distress; but +now, with heart and affections all purified from the dross of earth, +will not the influence be more blessed than when she walked with +bodily presence at thy side? +</P> + +<P> +Yes, thanks to our merciful Father, every cloud <I>has</I> a silver +lining, however dark the side presented to our view, ladened heavy +though it be with sorrows and woes, which almost crush the life from +our hearts as it presses upon us; yet there away, hidden from our +short mortal vision, gleams the soft silvery lining, ever gently +shining, perhaps never to be revealed in this world, reserved for us +to discover after we too have been called from this to our heavenly +home, and look back upon our earthly pilgrimage with rejoicings that +we have been so safely borne through every trial and temptation. +</P> + +<P> +Ah! then will our sky be without a cloud. All joyous and happy will +we tune our harps anew to the praise of Him who loved us and hath +given us the victory! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="patience"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +AN ANGEL OF PATIENCE. +</H3> + +<P> + BESIDE the toilsome way,<BR> + Lowly and sad, by fruits and flowers unblest,<BR> + Which my lone feet tread sadly, day by day,<BR> + Longing in vain for rest,<BR> +</P> + +<P> + An angel softly walks,<BR> + With pale, sweet face, and eyes cast meekly down,<BR> + The while from withered leaves and flowerless stalks<BR> + She weaves my fitting crown.<BR> +</P> + +<P> + A sweet and patient grace,<BR> + A look of firm endurance true and tried,<BR> + Of suffering meekly borne, rests on her face,<BR> + So pure—so glorified.<BR> +</P> + +<P> + And when my fainting heart<BR> + Desponds and murmurs at its adverse fate,<BR> + Then quietly the angel's bright lips part,<BR> + Murmuring softly, "Wait!"<BR> +</P> + +<P> + "Patience!" she meekly saith—<BR> + "Thy Father's mercies never come too late;<BR> + Gird thee with patient strength and trusting faith,<BR> + And firm endurance wait!"<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="advice"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE GRANDFATHER'S ADVICE. +</H3> + +<P> +IT was a golden sunset, which was fondly gazed upon by an old man on +whose broad brow the history of seventy winters had been written. He +sat in the wide porch of a large old-fashioned house: his look was +calm and clear, though years had quelled the fire of his eagle +glance; his silver hair was borne mildly back, by the south wind of +August, and a smile of sweetness played over his features, breathing +the music of contentment. His heart was still fresh, and his mind +open to receive an impress of the loveliness of earth. The dew of +love for his fellow-creatures fell upon his aged soul, and pure +adoration went up to the Giver of every good from its altar. He +lifted his gaze to the cerulean blue above him, and dwelt upon his +future, with a glow of hope upon his heart—then he turned to the +past, and his beaming expression gradually mellowed into +pensiveness: in thought, he travelled through the long vista of +years which he had left behind him, and his mental exclamation was, +</P> + +<P> +"There has not been a year of my life since manhood, that I might +not have lived to a better purpose. I might have been more useful +and devoted to my race. I might more fully have sacrificed the idol +self, which so often I have knelt to, in worship more heartfelt than +I offered the Divinity. Yet have I laboured to become pure in thy +sight, oh, my God! build thy kingdom in my breast!" +</P> + +<P> +A tear trembled in the aged suppliant's eye, and the calm of holy +humility stole over him; the gentle look was again upon his +countenance, when a young man of about twenty years, swung open the +gate leading to the house, and, approaching, saluted the old man +with a cordial grasp of the hand; flinging his cap carelessly down, +he took a seat in a rustic chair, and exclaimed with a smile of +mingled affection and reverence, which broke over his thoughtful +features, making him extremely handsome, +</P> + +<P> +"Well, grandfather, I believe you complete seventy years to-day!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, my son, and I have been looking back upon them. I do not +usually dwell upon the past with repining, yet I see much that might +have been better. My years have not always been improved." +</P> + +<P> +The young man listened respectfully; presently he asked, with sudden +interest, "Pray tell me, if there ever was a whole year of your +life, so perfectly happy that you would wish to live it all over +again?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have been perfectly happy at brief intervals," was the reply, +"yet there is not a year of my long life, that I would choose to +have return. I have been surrounded by many warm friends now gone to +their homes in the spirit-world,—I have loved, and have been loved, +and the recollection yet thrills me; still I thank God that I am not +to live over those years upon earth. I have struggled much for truth +and goodness, and there has not been one struggle which I would +renew, though each has been followed by a deep satisfaction." +</P> + +<P> +"To me, your life appears to have been dreary, grandfather," replied +his companion. "I ask for happiness!" After a pause, he added with +impetuosity, "If I am not to meet with the ardent happiness I dream +of, and desire, I do not care to live. What is the life which +thousands lead, worth? Nothing! I cannot sail monotonously down the +stream—the more I <I>think</I>, and thought devours me, the more +discontented do I become with everything I see. Why is an +overpowering desire for happiness planted within the human breast, +if it is so very rarely to be gratified? My childhood was sometimes +gay, but as often, it was clouded by disappointments which are great +to children. I have never seen even the moment, since I have been +old enough to reflect, when I could say that I was as happy as I was +capable of being. I have even felt the consciousness that my soul's +depths were not filled to the brim with joy. I could always ask for +more. In my happiest hours, the eager question rushes upon me, +involuntarily, 'Am I entirely content?' And the response that rises +up, is ever 'No.' I am young, and this soft air steals over a brow +of health—I can appreciate the beautiful and exquisite. I can drink +in the deep poetry of noble minds—I can idly revel in voluptuous +music, and dream away my soul, but with that bewitching dream, there +is still a yearning for its realization. I cannot abate the +restlessness that presses upon me—I look around, and young faces +are bright and smiling with cheerful gayety. I endeavour to catch +the buoyant spirit, but I succeed rarely,—if I do, it floats on the +surface, leaving the under-current unbroken in its flow. Yet after I +have endeavoured to lighten the oppressive cares of some +unfortunate creature, a sort of peace has for a time descended upon +me, which has been infinitely soothing. It soon departs, and my +usual bitterness again sways me. I sought for friendship, and for +awhile I was relieved, but I cannot forbear glancing down into the +motives of my fellow men, and that involuntarily-searching spirit +has proved unfortunate to me. I met with selfishness in the form of +attachment, and then I turned to look upon the hollow heart of +society, and it was there." +</P> + +<P> +"Alfred, you make me sad," said the old man, in a solemn and deeply +pained voice. "This is the first time I knew that your heart was +such a temple of bitterness." +</P> + +<P> +"If I have saddened you, I wish I had not spoken: but the thoughts +rushed over me, your kind heart is always open, and I gave them +expression. You have lived long, and there is more sympathy in your +experience, than in the laughing jest of those near my own age. +Pardon me, grandfather, I will not pain you again!" Alfred turned +his eyes upon his aged friend; he caught the look of kindness upon +that honoured face, and it fell warmly, upon his soul. +</P> + +<P> +"It is right to think deeply," said the revered adviser, "but one +must think rightly, also. You must not look out upon the world, from +the darkened corners of your soul, or the hue is transferred to all +things which your glance falls upon. Take the torch of truth and +heavenly charity to chase away the dimness within you, then powerful +changes will be wrought in your vision. You will begin to regard +your fellow man with new feelings of interest. I am a plain and +blunt old man, Alfred, but you know that my only desire is for your +good; so bear with my remarks if they be unpalatable." +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly, sir, I value frankness before flattery." +</P> + +<P> +"You may say that you have never been <I>perfectly</I> happy," continued +the old gentleman; "that is neither strange nor uncommon, for I have +met with few thoughtful persons of your years, who, upon close +reflection, could say that their souls could desire no more than had +been granted to them. You must seek for resignation, not entire +bliss upon earth, although it is possible that you may enjoy it for +a season." +</P> + +<P> +"Why is joy so transitory and unquiet so lasting?" demanded the +young man impatiently. +</P> + +<P> +"The fault is not in the transitoriness of the joy, but in the very +soul itself,—it is in a state of disorder; its nature must be +changed before it can receive for ever only the image of gladness. +In a chaos of the elements, can a smiling sky be always seen? Lay +asleep all unruly elements in the spirit, and a pure heaven of +brightness will then greet the uplifted glance." +</P> + +<P> +"But how can all this be done, grandfather? hath unruly elements do +you speak of? What can I do; for instance? I certainly am willing +and glad to see my kind happy—if my soul be in disorder, I do not +know in what it consists, or how to bring it to order. I am weary of +its unsatisfied desires; it is, continually in search of something +which it has never caught sight of,—and the fear, that that +unknown, yet powerfully desired something may never come to quench +my thirst, falls with the coldness of death upon my bosom." +</P> + +<P> +"That something may be found by every human being, if sought for in +the right way. Those yearnings are not given us, that they may fall +back and wither the fountain from which they spring. But the +question is, do we seek for happiness in the right way? Do we not +rather ask for an impossibility, when we ask for permanent bliss, +before we have laid a foundation in our souls for it? You wish to +take this life too easy by far, my son; rouse up all your strength, +look around you with the keenness of a resolved spirit, and seek to +regenerate your whole being,—let that be your object, and let the +desire for happiness be subservient to it. You will clasp joy to +your breast, as an everlasting gift, at the end of the race. What +are your aims and objects? You hardly know; you are in pursuit of +that which flees, before you as a shadow, and your restless spirit +sinks and murmurs,—you have no grand object in view, to buoy you up +steadily and trustfully through every ill which life has power to +bestow. Those very ills are seized upon, and become instruments of +glory to the devoted and heaven-strengthened spirit,—they prepare +for a deeper draught of all things dear and desired, and though the +soul droop beneath the weight of human suffering, yet the rod that +smites is kissed with a prayer. Turn away from your individual self, +as far as you can, and regard the broad world with a philanthropic +eye—" +</P> + +<P> +"Impossible—impossible!" interrupted Alfred, hastily, "I defy any +person to turn from himself, and look upon the world with a more +interested gaze than he casts upon his own heart. One may be +philanthropic in his feelings and devoted to alleviating the +distresses of less fortunate beings, but I hold it to be impossible +that our individual selves will not always be first in interest. A +sudden and powerful impulse may carry us away for a time, but after +that rushing influence leaves us, we see yourselves again, and, find +that we had only lost our equilibrium briefly. I say only what I +sincerely think, and what thousands secretly know to be the case, +even while advocating views quite opposite. There is no candour in +the world!" +</P> + +<P> +"Softly, my good friend," said the grandfather, mildly smiling. "I +also hold it to be impossible that we can lose either our +individuality or our interest in ourselves, but I believe it +possible that we may love others just as well, if not better than +ourselves. I do not refer to one or two particular persons whom we +may admire, but I speak of the mass of our fellow-creatures." +</P> + +<P> +"I cannot even conceive of such a love!" returned the young man, +shaking his head. "I cannot see how I could love a person who +possesses no attractive qualities whatever;—I always feel +indifference, if not dislike. I think I could sacrifice my life to +one I loved, if thrown into sudden and imminent danger; still, I +think I might give pain to that same person many times, by +gratifying myself. For instance, grandfather,—suppose you were to +be led to the stake, to be burned to-morrow,—I would take your +place to save you; yet I do not now do all I possible can, to add to +your happiness. I gratify whims of my own; I idle away hours in the +woods, or by some stream, when I fully know that it would be more +pleasing to you, to see me bending patiently over my Greek and +Latin." +</P> + +<P> +"Very true!" sighed the old man. "You prove your own position, which +is that your ruling love is self-love." +</P> + +<P> +Alfred lifted up his eyebrows, as if he had heard an unwelcome fact. +We are often willing to confess things, which we do not like to have +old us. He fell into deep thought. Finally he said, "It is +universally allowed that virtue is lovely; those who practise it, +appear calm and resigned, and often happy—but, to tell the truth, +such enjoyment seems rather tame and flat. I wish to be in freedom, +to let my burning impulses rush on as they will, without a yoke. I +love, and I hate, as my heart bids me, and I scorn control of any +kind." +</P> + +<P> +"Yet you submit to a yoke, my son; one which is not of your own +imposing either." +</P> + +<P> +"What kind of a yoke?" +</P> + +<P> +"The yoke of society,—you bow to public opinion in a measure. You +avoid a glaring act, often, more because it will not be <I>approved</I>, +than because you have a real disinclination for it. Is not that the +case sometimes?" +</P> + +<P> +Alfred did not exceedingly relish this probing, but he was too +candid to cover up his motives from himself. He answered a decided +"yes!" but it was spoken, because he could not elbow himself out of +the self-evident conviction forced upon him. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think it degrading for a man to conquer and govern the +strongest, as well as the weakest impulses of his soul?" pursued his +grandfather. +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly not degrading,—it is in the highest degree worthy of +praise. It is truly noble! I acknowledge it." +</P> + +<P> +"And yet you deem such enjoyment as would result from this +government, tame and flat." +</P> + +<P> +"I beg pardon; when I spoke of virtue, I referred to that smooth +kind which is current, and seems more passive than active,—that +soft amiability which appears to deaden enthusiasm, and to shut up +the soul in a set of opinions, instead of expanding it widely to +everything noble and generous, wherever it may be found." +</P> + +<P> +"It was not genuine virtue, you referred to, then,—it was only its +resemblance." +</P> + +<P> +"It was what passes for virtue. But to come at the main point, +grandfather;—where is happiness to be found, if we are to be +warring with ourselves during a lifetime, checking every natural +spring in the soul?" +</P> + +<P> +"Stop there, Alfred! We only quench the streams, which prevent the +spirit's purest wells of noble and happy feelings from gushing forth +in freedom. We must wage a warfare, it is true; why conceal it? But +it does not last for ever, and intervals of gladness come to refresh +us, which the worn and blunted spirit of the man of pleasure in vain +pants for. An exquisite joy, innocent as that of childhood, pervades +the bosom of truth's soldier in his hours of peace and rest, and he +lifts an eye of rapture to heaven—to God." +</P> + +<P> +Alfred dwelt earnestly upon the noble countenance of the speaker, +and his bosom filled with unwonted emotion, as the heavenly +sweetness of the old man's smile penetrated into his inward soul. +Goodness stood before him in its wonderful power, and he bowed down +his soul in worship. How insignificant then seemed his individual +yearnings after present enjoyment, instead of that celestial love +which can fill a human soul with so strong a power from on high. He +reflected upon that venerable being's life—so strong and upright; +he dwelt upon his large and noble heart, which could clasp the world +in its embrace. He remembered months of acute suffering, both +physical and mental, which had been endured with the stillness of a +martyr's inward strength; and then, too, he recalled times when that +aged heart was more truly and deeply joyful than his own young +spirit had even been. Both relapsed into the eloquent silence of +absorbing thought. It was evident from the softened and meditative +cast of Alfred's features, that his bitterness had given way to the +true tenderness of feeling it so often quelled; he revolved in his +mind all that had been advanced by his grandfather, and he dwelt +upon every point with candour and serious reflection. A strong +impression was made upon him, but he was entirely silent in regard +to it,—he waited to try his strength, before he spoke of the better +resolutions that were formed, not without effort, in his mind. He +felt a conviction that a change from selfishness to angelic charity +might be accomplished, if he were but willing to co-operate with his +Maker,—the conception of universal love slowly dawned upon his +soul, now turned heavenward for light,—his duties as a responsible +being came before him, and a sigh of reproach was given to the past. +Then golden visions of delight thronged up to his gaze, and it was +with a severe pang he thought of losing his, hold upon the dear +domains of idle fancy,—he had so revelled for hours and hours, in +intoxicating dreams, which shut out the world and stern duty. He +felt his weakness, but he resolutely turned from dwelling upon it. +The evening air was refreshing after the warm sunset, but old Mr. +Monmouth would not trust himself to bear it. Alfred went into the +house with him, and made a brief call, then left, and wended his way +a short distance to his own home, which was a very elegant mansion, +surrounded by every mark of luxury and taste. He immediately sought +his chamber, and took up a neglected Bible which his mother had +given him when a child,—he turned over its leaves, and his eyes +fell upon the one hundred and nineteenth psalm, "Thy word is a lamp +unto my feet, and a light upon my path. I have sworn, and I will +perform it, that I will keep thy righteous judgments." He read on, +and the exceeding beauty and touching power of the Holy Word had +never so deeply affected him,—he wept, and all that was harsh in +his nature melted,—he prayed, and the angels of God approached, +filling his uplifted soul with heavenly strength. Sweet was the +thrill of thanksgiving, that arose from that hitherto restless +spirit—quiet and blest the peace that hushed him to deep, +invigorating slumber. Persons of an enthusiastic temperament are apt +to fall into extremes; such was the case with Alfred Monmouth. He so +feared that he would fall back into his former states of feeling, +that he guarded himself like an anchorite. For three months he +abstained from going into company, and even reasonable enjoyment he +deprived himself of. He threw aside all books but scientific and +religious ones; even poetry he shut his ears against, lest it might +beguile him again to his dreamy, but selfish musings. No doubt this +severe discipline was very useful to him at the time, in +strengthening him against the besetting faults of his character; but +it could not last long, without originating other errors. During +this time he had been, perhaps, as happy as ever in his life; his +mind had been fixed upon an object, and a wealth of new thoughts had +crowded upon him—he rejoiced with a kind of proud humility in his +capability for self-government. He thought he was rapidly verging +towards perfection. But "a change came o'er the spirit of his dream" +at last, and an unwonted melancholy grew upon him, until it settled +like a pall over his heart. An apathy in regard to what had so +lately interested him, stole over him, and indeed a cold glance fell +upon almost every pursuit he had once prized. Plunged in deep gloom, +he one evening sought his grandfather's dwelling, hoping, by a +conversation with the cheerful old man, to regain a more healthy +state of mind; to his great satisfaction, Alfred found him alone +reading. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, my boy, I am glad you have come in!" was the salutation, with +a most cordial smile, for Mr. Monmouth had silently remarked the +late alteration in his somewhat reckless grandson. He also detected +the present gloom upon his fine countenance, and the earnest hope of +dispelling it, added an affectionate heartiness to his manner. +Alfred made several common-place remarks, then, with his usual +impatience, he flung aside all preamble, and said, +</P> + +<P> +"I am gloomy, grandfather, even more so than I have ever been, and I +cannot explain it. The last serious conversation I had with you, +produced a strong effect upon me, and for a long time after I was +unusually cheerful and vigorous in mind. I seemed to have imbibed +something of your spirit—I delighted in the hope of regenerating +myself, through the aid of Heaven; it seemed as if angels hushed my +restless spirit to repose, and I tried in humility to draw near my +God. Yet I feared for myself, and I withdrew from temptation, from +all society which was uncongenial to my state of mind. I was +<I>content</I> for a long time, but now the sadness of apathy overwhelms +me." +</P> + +<P> +"Endeavour, without murmuring, to bear this state of mind, and it +will soon pass off," remarked Mr. Monmouth. "We must not always fly +from temptation in every form, my boy, but we must arm ourselves +against its attacks, otherwise our usefulness will be greatly +lessened. If those who are endeavouring to make themselves better, +do so by shunning society, they are rather examples of selfishness +than benevolent goodness,—the selfishness is unconscious, and such +a course may be followed from a sense of duty. But the glance which +discovered this to be duty was not wide enough; it took in only the +claims of self, yet I would not convey the idea, that we have any +one's evils to take care of but our own. We need society, and, +however humble we may be, society needs us. We need to be refreshed +by the strength of good beings, and we must also contribute our +slight share to those whom Providence wills that we may benefit. The +life of heaven may thus circulate freely, and increase in power +among many hearts. Go forward, Alfred, unmindful of your feelings, +and pray only to trust in Providence, and to gain a deep desire for +usefulness." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! yes," returned the young man, earnestly. Light broke in upon +his darkness. "I am glad that I have spoken with you, grandfather, +for your words give me strength to persevere. I never knew that I +was weak until lately." +</P> + +<P> +"Such knowledge is precious, my dear son. We are indeed strongest +when the hand of humility removes the veil that hides us from +ourselves." +</P> + +<P> +"Probably such is, the case, but I cannot realize it. It is with +effort that I drag through the day; I am continually looking towards +the future, and beholding a thousand perplexing situations where my +besetting sins will be called into action. I see myself incapable of +always following out the noble principles I have lately adopted." +</P> + +<P> +"As thy day is, so shall thy strength be!" said Mr. Monmouth. "Be +careful only to guard yourself against each little stumbling-block +as it presents itself, and your mountains will be changed to +mole-hills. Never fear for the future, do as well as you can in the +present." +</P> + +<P> +"But it is so singular that I should feel thus, when I have been +trying as hard as a mortal could to change my erroneous views, and +to regard all the dispensations of Providence with a resigned heart. +I have cast the selfish thought of my own earthly happiness from my +mind as much as possible." +</P> + +<P> +"And yet there is a repining in your gloominess. You are not +satisfied to bear it." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, perhaps not. I am wrong,—I think that I could submit with +true fortitude to an outward trial, but there seems so little reason +in my low spirits. Have you ever felt so, grandfather?" +</P> + +<P> +"Often; and at such times, I devote myself more earnestly than ever +to anything which will take my thoughts from myself." +</P> + +<P> +"I will do so!" replied Alfred, firmly. "If my purposes are right in +the sight of Heaven, I will be supported." +</P> + +<P> +"True, my son." +</P> + +<P> +Alfred left the home of his grandsire, more at rest with himself and +all the world. Fresh peaceful hopes again sprang up within him, and +he began to see his way clear. He reasoned himself into resignation, +and, as day after day went on, he grew grateful for the privilege +and opportunity offered to school his rebellious spirit to order. +</P> + +<P> +Four years passed; Alfred was engaged in the busy world, and he +shrunk not from it, but rather sought to do his duty in it. One +summer evening, he was called to enter the large, old-fashioned +house of his grandfather. His brow was thoughtful, but calm and +resigned—he sought a quiet room; it was the chamber of death,—yet +was its stillness beautiful and peaceful; he knelt by a dying couch, +and clasped the hand of his aged grandsire—then he wept, but the +unbidden tears were those of gratitude. The serenity of heaven was +upon the countenance of the noble old man. +</P> + +<P> +"My hour has come, Alfred," he said, placing one hand upon the +beloved head bowed before him, "and I go hence with thankfulness. +Ah! even now, there is a heavenly content in my bosom. The angels +are bending over me, and wait to take my spirit to its home: there +is no mist before my sight, all is clear. The Father of love lifts +up my soul in this hour—our parting will be short, my son—" the +old man's voice trembled, an infinite tenderness dwelt in his eyes, +and Alfred felt that there was a reality in the peace of the dying +one. All the good that he had done him rushed before him, and he +exclaimed with humility, +</P> + +<P> +"How can I ever repay you, dear grandfather! for all your noble +lessons to me?" +</P> + +<P> +"I am repaid," was (sic) the the low reply; "they have brought forth +fruit, and I have lived to see it. I trust that you will leave the +world with all the peace that I do, and with deeper goodness in your +spirit. My blessing be upon you, my son!" +</P> + +<P> +"Amen!" came low from Alfred's fervent lips. +</P> + +<P> +The eyes of the aged one closed in death, and his young disciple +went forth again into the world, made better by the scene he had +witnessed. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="hymn"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A HYMN OF PRAISE. +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + I BLESS Thee for the sunshine on the hills,<BR> + For Heaven's own dewdrops in the vales below,<BR> + For rain, the parent cloud alike distils,<BR> + On the fond bridegroom's joy—the mourner's woe!<BR> + And for the viewless wind, that gently blows<BR> + Where'er it listeth, over field and flood,<BR> + Whence coming, whither going, no man knows,<BR> + Yet moved in secret at Thy will, Oh, God!<BR> + E'en now it lifts a ring of shining hair<BR> + From off the brow close to my bosom pressed—<BR> + The loving angels scarce have brows more fair<BR> + Than this, that looks so peaceful in its rest:—<BR> + We bless Thee, Father, for our darling child,<BR> + Oh, like Thine angels make her, innocent and mild!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + I rise and bless Thee, for the morning hours;<BR> + Refreshed and gladdened by a timely rest,<BR> + When thoughts like bees, rove out among the flowers,<BR> + Still gathering honey where they find the best:<BR> + And for the gentle influence of the night,<BR> + Oh, Heavenly Father! do we bend the knee,<BR> + That shuts the curtains of our mortal sight,<BR> + Yet leaves the mind, with range and vision free,<BR> + For dreams! the solemn, weird, and strange that come<BR> + And bear the soul to an elysian clime,—<BR> + Unveiling splendours of that better home,<BR> + Where angels minister to sons of time!<BR> + For all Thy blessings that with sleep descend,<BR> + Our hearts shall praise Thee, God, our Father and our Friend!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="house"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +AN ANGEL IN EVERY HOUSE. +</H3> + +<P> +IT is a trite saying, and an unique one, that there is "a skeleton +in every house." That every form however erect, that every face +however smiling, covers some secret malady of mind that no physician +can cure. This may be true, and undoubtedly is; but we contend that, +as everything has its opposite, there is also an <I>angel</I> in every +house. No matter how fallen the inmates, how depressing their +circumstances, there is an angel there to pity or to cheer. It may +be in the presence of a wrinkled body, treading the downward path to +the grave. Or, perhaps, in a cheerful spirit looking upon the ills +of life as so many steps toward heaven, if only bravely overcome, +and mounted with sinless feet. +</P> + +<P> +We knew such an angel once, and it was a drunkard's child. On every +side wherever she moved she saw only misery and degradation, and yet +she did not fall. Her father was brutal, and her mother discouraged, +and her home thoroughly comfortless. But she struggled along with +angel endurance, bearing with an almost saintly patience the +infirmities of him who gave her existence, and then hourly +embittered it. Night after night, at the hours of ten, twelve, and +even one, barefoot, ragged, shawlless, and bonnetless, has she been +to the den of the drunkard, and gone staggering home with her arm +around her father. Many a time has her flesh been blue with the mark +of his hand when she has stepped in between her helpless mother and +violence. Many a time has she sat upon the cold curbstone with his +head in her lap; many a time known how bitter it was to cry for +hunger, when the money that should have bought bread was spent for +rum. +</P> + +<P> +And the patience that the angel wrought with made her young face +shine, so that, though never acknowledged in the courts of this +world, in the kingdom of heaven she was waited for by assembled +hosts of spirits, and the crown of martyrdom ready, lay waiting for +her young brow. +</P> + +<P> +And she was a martyr. Her gentle spirit went up from at couch of +anguish—anguish brought on by ill-usage and neglect. And never till +then did the father recognise the angel in the child; never till +then did his manhood arise from the dust of its dishonour. From her +humble grave, he went away to steep his resolves for the better in +bitter tears; and he will tell you to-day, how the memory of her +much-enduring life keeps him from the bowl: how he goes sometimes +and stands where her patient hands have held him, while her cheek +crimsoned at the sneers of those who scoffed at the drunkard's +child. +</P> + +<P> +Search for the angels in your households, and cherish them while +they are among you. It may be that all unconsciously you frown upon +them, when a smile would lead you to a knowledge of their exceeding +worth. They may be among the least cared for, most despised; but +when they are gone with their silent influence, then will you mourn +for them as for a jewel of great worth. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="annie"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +ANNIE. +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + THE grave is Heaven's gate, they say;<BR> + And when dear Annie passed away,<BR> + One calm June morning,<BR> + I saw upon the heavenly stairs,<BR> + A band of angels, unawares,<BR> + Her path adorning.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + The grave is Heaven's gate, they say;<BR> + And when dear Annie passed away,<BR> + A music flowing<BR> + Filled my sad soul with love and light,<BR> + That made me seem, by day and night,<BR> + To Heaven going.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + The grave is Heaven's gate, they say;<BR> + And when dear Annie passed away,<BR> + A saintly whiteness<BR> + O'erspread the beauty of her face,<BR> + And filled it with the tender grace<BR> + Of angel brightness.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + The grave is Heaven's gate, they say;<BR> + And when dear Annie passed away,<BR> + An angel splendid<BR> + Cast his large glories to the ground,<BR> + While waves of throbbing music-sound<BR> + In sweetness blended.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + The grave is Heaven's gate, they say;<BR> + And when dear Annie passed away,<BR> + In holy sweetness—<BR> + When life's sad dream with her was o'er,<BR> + Her white soul stood at Heaven's door,<BR> + In its completeness.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="mother"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +MOTHER. +</H3> + +<P> +WHEN she changed worlds, and before the time, what was she to +others? A small old, delicate woman. <I>What was she to us?</I> A +radiant, smiling angel, upon whose brow the sunshine of the eternal +world had fallen. We looked into her large, tender eyes, and saw not +as others did, that her mortal garment had waxed old and feeble; or +if we saw, this, it was no symbol of decay, for beyond and within, +we recognised <I>her</I> in all her beauty. Oh! how heavy and bitter +would have been her long and slow decline, if we had seen her grow +old instead of young! The days that hastened to give her birth into +eternity, grow brighter and brighter, until when memory wandered +back, it had no experiences so sweet as those through which she was +passing. The long life, with its youthful romance, its prosaic +cares, its quiet sunshine, and deep tragedies, was culminating to +its earthly close; and, like some blessed story that appeals to the +heart in its great pathos, the end was drawing, near, all clouds +were rolling away, and she was stepping forth into the brilliance of +prosperity. Selfishness ceased to weep under the light of her +cheerful glance, and grew to be congratulation. Beside her couch we +sat, and traced with loving fancy the new life soon to open before +her; with tears and smiles we traced it. Doubts never mingled, for +from earliest childhood we had no memories of her inconsistent with +the expectations of a Christian. Deep in our souls there lay +gratitude that her morning drew near; beautiful and amazing it +seemed that she would never more bow to the stroke of the chastener; +fresh courage descended from on high, as we realized that there was +an end to suffering; it was difficult to credit that her discipline +was nearly over; how brief it had been, compared with the glorious +existence it had won her. How passing sweet were her assurances that +she should leave us awhile longer on earth with childlike trust, +knowing that our own souls needed to stay, and that the destiny of +others needed it! But the future seemed very near to her, and she +saw us gathered around her in her everlasting home. She grew weaker, +and said her last words to us. Throughout the last day she said but +little, but often her tender eyes were riveted upon us; they said +"Farewell! farewell!" In the hush of the chamber, a faint, +eolian-like strain came from her dying lips; it sounded as if it +came from afar; <I>then</I> the angels were taking her to their +companionship. She softly fell asleep, resigning her worn-out body +to us, and <I>she</I> entered heaven. Ah! do we apprehend what a glorious +event it is for the "pure in heart" to die? We look upon the bride's +beauty, and see in the vista before her, anguish and tears, and but +transient sunshine. The beauty fades, the splendour of life declines +to the worldly eyes that gaze upon her. Deaf and blind are such +gazers, for the bride may daily be winning imperishable beauty, yet +it is not for this world. A most sad and melancholy thing it seems +when children of a larger growth judge their parents by their frail +and decaying bodies, rather than by their spirits. And more deeply +sad still is it, when the aged learn through the young to feel that +the freshness of existence has gone by with them. Gone by? when they +are waiting to be born into a new and vast existence that shall roll +on in increasing majesty, and never reach an end! Gone by? when they +have just entered life, as it were! The glory and sweetness of +living is <I>going by</I> only with those who are turning away their +faces from the Prince of Peace. Sweet mother! she is breathing +vernal airs now, and with every breath a spring-like life and joy +are wafted through her being. Mother beautiful and beloved! some +sweet, embryo joy fills the chambers of my heart as I contemplate +the scenes with which she is becoming familiar. Dead and dreary +winter robes the earth, and autumn leaves lie under the snow like +past hopes; but what of them? I see only the smile of God's +sunshine. I see in the advancing future, love and peace—only +infinite peace! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="duties"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +GREAT PRINCIPLES AND SMALL DUTIES. +</H3> + +<P> +IT is observable that the trivial services of social life are best +performed, and the lesser particles of domestic happiness are most +skilfully organized, by the deepest and the fairest heart. It is an +error to suppose that homely minds are the best administrators of +small duties. Who does not know how wretched a contradiction such a +rule receives in the moral economy of many a home? how often the +daily troubles, the swarm of blessed cares, the innumerable minutiae +of arrangement in a family, prove quite too much for the generalship +of feeble minds, and even the clever selfishness of strong ones; how +a petty and scrupulous anxiety in defending with infinite +perseverance some small and almost invisible point of frugality, and +comfort, surrenders the greater unobserved, and while saving money, +ruins minds; how, on the other hand, a rough and unmellowed sagacity +<I>rules</I> indeed, and without defeat, but while maintaining in action +the mechanism of government, creates a constant and intolerable +friction, a gathering together of reluctant wills, a groaning under +the consciousness of force, that make the movements of life fret and +chafe incessantly? But where, in the presiding genius of a home, +taste and sympathy unite (and in their genuine forms they cannot be +separated)—the intelligent feeling for moral beauty, and the deep +heart of domestic love,—with, what ease, what mastery, what +graceful disposition, do the seeming trivialities of life fall into +order, and drop a blessing as they take their place! how do the +hours steal away, unnoticed but by the precious fruits they leave! +and by the self-renunciation of affection, there comes a spontaneous +adjustment of various wills; and not an innocent pleasure is lost, +not a pure taste offended, nor a peculiar temper unconsidered; and +every day has its silent achievements of wisdom, and every night its +retrospect of piety and love; and the tranquil thoughts, that in the +evening meditation come down with the starlight, seem like the +serenade of angels, bringing in melody the peace of God! Wherever +this picture is realized, it is not by microscopic solicitude of +spirit, but by comprehension of mind, and enlargement of heart; by +that breadth and nicety of moral view which discerns everything in +due proportion, and in avoiding an intense elaboration of trifles, +has energy to spare for what is great; in short, by a perception +akin to that of God, whose providing frugality is on an infinite +scale, vigilant alike in heaven and on, earth; whose art colours a +universe with beauty and touches with its pencil the petals of a +flower. A soul thus pure and large disowns the paltry rules of +dignity, the silly notions of great and mean, by which fashion +distorts God's real proportions; is utterly delivered from the +spirit of contempt; and, in consulting for the benign administration +of life, will learn many a truth, and discharge many ant office, +from which lesser beings, esteeming themselves greater, would shrink +from as ignoble. But in truth, nothing is degrading which a high and +graceful purpose ennobles; and offices the most menial cease to be +menial, the moment they are wrought in love. What thousand services +are rendered, ay, and by delicate hands, around the bed of sickness, +which, else considered mean, become at once holy and quite +inalienable rights! To smooth the pillow, to proffer the draught, to +soothe or obey the fancies of the delirious will, to sit for hours +as the mere sentinel of the feverish sleep; these things are +suddenly erected, by their relation to hope and life, into sacred +privileges. And experience is perpetually bringing occasions, +similar in kind, though of less persuasive poignancy, when a true +eye and a lovely heart will quickly see the relations of things +thrown into a new position, and calling for a sacrifice of +conventional order to the higher laws of the affections; and alike +without condescension and without ostentation, will noiselessly take +the post of service and do the kindly deed. Thus it is that the +lesser graces display themselves most richly, like the leaves and +flowers of life, where there is the deepest and the widest root of +love; not like the staring and artificial blossoms of dry custom +that, winter or summer, cannot change; but living petals woven in +Nature's workshop and folded by her tender skill, opening and +shutting morning and night, glancing and trembling in the sunshine +and in the breeze. This easy capacity of great affections for small +duties is the peculiar triumph of the highest spirit of love. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="heaven"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +"OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN." +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + How quietly she lies!<BR> + Closed are the lustrous eyes,<BR> + Whose fringed lids, so meek,<BR> + Rest on the placid cheek;<BR> + While, round the forehead fair,<BR> + Twines the light golden hair,<BR> + Clinging with wondrous grace<BR> + Unto the cherub face.<BR> + Tread softly near her, dear ones! Let her sleep,—<BR> + I would not have my darling wake to weep.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Mark how her head doth rest<BR> + Upon her snowy breast,<BR> + While, 'neath the shadow of a drooping curl,<BR> + One little shoulder nestles like a pearl,<BR> + And the small waxen fingers, careless, clasp<BR> + White odorous flowers in their tiny grasp;<BR> + Blossoms most sweet<BR> + Crown her pure brow, and cluster o'er her feet,<BR> + Sure earth hath never known a thing more fair<BR> + Than she who gently, calmly, slumbers there.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Alas! 'tis Death, not sleep,<BR> + That girds her in its frozen slumbers deep.<BR> + No balmy breath comes forth<BR> + From the slight-parted mouth;<BR> + Nor heaves the little breast,<BR> + In its unyielding rest;<BR> + Dead fingers clasp<BR> + Flowers in unconscious grasp;—<BR> + Woe, woe is me, oh! lone, bereaved mother!<BR> + 'Tis Death that hath my treasure, and none other.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + No more I hear the voice,<BR> + Those loving accents made my heart rejoice;<BR> + No more within my arms<BR> + Fold I her rosy charms.<BR> + And, gazing down into the liquid splendour<BR> + Of the brown eyes serenely, softly tender,<BR> + Print rapturous kisses on the gentle brow,<BR> + So cold and pallid now.<BR> + No more, no more! repining heart, be still,<BR> + And trust in Him who doeth all things well.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Oh, happy little one!<BR> + How soon her race was run—<BR> + Her pain and suffering o'er,<BR> + Herself from sin secure.<BR> + Not hers to wander through the waste of years,<BR> + Sowing in hope, to gather nought but tears;<BR> + Nor care, nor strife,<BR> + Dimmed her brief day of life.<BR> + All true souls cherished her, and fondly strove<BR> + To guard from every ill my meek white dove.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Love, in its essence,<BR> + Pervaded her sweet presence.<BR> + How winning were her ways;<BR> + Her little child-like grace,<BR> + And the mute pleadings of her innocent eyes,<BR> + Seizing the heart with sudden, soft surprise,<BR> + As if an angel, unaware,<BR> + Had strayed from Heaven, here;<BR> + And, saddened at the dark and downward road,<BR> + Averted her meek gaze, and sought her Father, God.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + In her new spiritual birth,<BR> + No garments soiled with earth<BR> + Cling round the little form, that happy strays,<BR> + Up through the gates of pearl and golden ways,<BR> + Where sister spirits meet her,<BR> + And angels joyful greet her.<BR> + Arrayed in robes of white,<BR> + She walks the paths of light;<BR> + Adorning the bright city of our God,<BR> + The glorious realms by saints and martyr trod!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="church"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE OLD VILLAGE CHURCH. +</H3> + +<P> +TWENTY years! Yes, twenty years had intervened since I left the +pleasant village of Brookdale, and not once during all this period +had I visited the dear old spot that was held more and more sacred +by memory. Hundred times had I purposed to do so, yet not until the +lapse of twenty years was this purpose fulfilled. Then, sobered by +disappointments, I went back on a pilgrimage, to the home of early +days. +</P> + +<P> +I was just twenty years old when I left Brookdale. My father's +family removed at the same time, and this was the reason why I had +not returned. The heart's strongest attractions were in another +place. But the desire to go back revived, after a season of +affliction and some painful defeats in the great battle of life. The +memory of dear childhood grew so palpable, and produced such an +earnest longing to revisit old scenes, that I was constrained to +turn my face towards my early home. +</P> + +<P> +It was late in the evening of a calm autumnal day, at the close of +the week, when I arrived at Brookdale. The village inn where I +stopped, and at which I engaged lodgings for a few days, was not the +old village inn. That had passed away, and a newer and larger +building stood in its place. Nor was the old landlord there. Why had +I expected to see him? Twenty years before, he was bent with age. +His eyes were dim and his step faltered when last I saw him. It was +but natural that he should pass away. Still, I felt a shade of +disappointment when the truth came. He who filled his place was +unknown to me; and, in all his household, not a familiar countenance +was presented. +</P> + +<P> +But I solaced myself for this with thoughts of the morrow, when my +eyes would look upon long-remembered scenes and faces. The old +homestead, with its garden and clambering vines—a picture which had +grown more vivid in my thoughts every year—how earnest was my +desire to look upon it again! There was the deep, pure spring, in +which, as I bent to drink, I had so often looked upon my mirrored +face; and the broad flat stone near by, where I had sat so many +times. I would sit there again, after tasting the sweet water, and +think of the olden time! The dear old mill, too, with its murmuring +wheel glistening in the bright sunshine, and the race, on whose bank +I had gathered wild flowers and raspberries? +</P> + +<P> +I could sleep but little for thinking of these things, and when +morning broke, and the sun shone out, I went I forth impatient to +see the real objects which had been so long pictured in my memory. +</P> + +<P> +"Am I in Brookdale? No—it cannot be. There is some strange error. +Yes—yes—it is Brookdale, for here is the old church. I cannot +mistake that. Hark! Yes—yes—it is the early bell! I would know its +sound amid a thousand!" +</P> + +<P> +On I moved, passing the ancient building whose architect had long +since been called to sleep with his fathers, and over whose walls +and spire time had cast a duller hue. I was eager to reach the old +homestead. The mill lay between—or, once it did. Only a shapeless +ruin now remained. The broken wheel, the crumbling walls, and empty +forebay were all that my eyes rested upon, and I paused sadly to +mark the wreck which time had made. The race was dry, and overgrown +with elder and rank weeds. A quarter of a mile distant stood out +sharply, against the clear sky, a large factory, newly built and +thither the stream in which I had once sailed my tiny boat, or +dropped my line, had been turned, and the old mill left to silence +and decay. Ah me! I cannot make words obedient to my thoughts in +giving utterance to the disappointment I then felt. A brief space I +stood, mourning over the ruins, and then moved on again, a painful +presentiment fast arising in my heart that all would not be, as I +had left, it in the white cottage I was seeking. The two great elms +that stood bending together, as if instinct with a sense of +protection, above that dear home—where were they? My eyes searched +for them in vain. +</P> + +<P> +"Where is the spring? Surely it welled up here, and this is the way +the clear stream flowed!" +</P> + +<P> +Alas! the spring was dried, and scarcely a trace of its former +existence remained. The broad flat stone was broken. The shady +alcove beneath which the waters came up so cool and clear, had been +removed. All was naked and barren. Near by stood an old deserted +house. The door was half open, the windows were broken out, the +chimney had fallen, and great patches of the roof had been torn +away. Around, all was in keeping with this. The little garden was +covered with weeds, the fence that once enclosed it was broken down, +the old apple-tree that I had loved almost as tenderly as if it had +been a human creature, was no more to be seen, and in the place +where the grape-vine grew was a deep pool of green and stagnant +water. +</P> + +<P> +My first impulse was to turn and flee from the place, under a +painful revulsion of feeling. But I could not leave the spot thus. +For some minutes I stood mournfully leaning on the broken garden +gate, and then forced myself to enter beneath the roof where I was +born, and where I grew up with loving and happy children, under the +sunlight of a mother's smile. If there was ruin without, there was +desolation added to ruin within, but neither ruin nor desolation +could entirely obliterate the forms so well remembered. I passed +from room to room, now pausing to recall an incident, and now +hurrying on under a sense of pain at seeing a place, hallowed in my +thoughts by the tenderest associations of my life, thus abandoned to +the gnawing tooth of decay, and destined to certain and speedy +destruction. When I came to my mother's room, emotion grew too +powerful, and a gush of tears relieved the oppressive weight that +lay upon my bosom. There I lingered long, with a kind of mournful +pleasure in this scene of my days of innocence, and lived over years +of the bygone times. +</P> + +<P> +At last I turned with sad feelings from a spot which memory had held +sacred for twenty years; but which, in its change, could be sacred +no longer. Material things are called substantial; but it is not so. +Change and decay are ever at work upon them; they are unsubstantial. +A real substance is the mind, with its thoughts and affections. +Forms built there do not decay. How perfectly had I retained in +memory the home of my childhood! Not a leaf had withered, not a +flower had faded; nothing had fallen under the scythe of time. The +greenness and perfection of all were as the mind had received them +twenty years before. But the material things themselves had, in that +brief space, passed almost wholly away. Yes; it is in the mind that +we must seek for real substance. +</P> + +<P> +Slowly and sadly I turned from the hallowed place, and went back +towards the village inn. No interest for anything in Brookdale +remained, and no surprise was created at the almost total +obliteration of the old landmarks apparent on every hand. My purpose +was to leave the place by the early stage that morning, and seek to +forget that I had ever returned to the home of my childhood. +</P> + +<P> +My way was past the old village church where, Sabbath after Sabbath, +for nearly fifteen years, I had met with the worshippers; and as I +drew nearer and nearer the sacred place, I was more and more +impressed with the fact that, if change had been working busily all +around, his hand had spared the holy edifice. That change had been +there was plainly to be seen, but he had lingered only a moment, +laying his hand gently, as he paused, on the ancient pile. New and +tenderer feelings came over me. I could not pass the village church, +and so I entered it once more, although it was yet too early for the +worshippers to assemble. How familiar all! A year seemed not to have +intervened since I had stood beneath that roof. The deep, arched +windows, the antique pulpit and chancel, the old gallery and organ, +the lofty roof, but most of all the broad tablet above the pulpit, +and the words "Reverence my Sanctuary: I am the Lord," were as +familiar as the face of a dear friend. There was change all around, +but no change here in the house of God. +</P> + +<P> +Seating myself in the old family pew, I gave my mind up to a flood +of crowding associations; and there I sat, scarcely conscious of the +passing time, until the bell sounded clear above me its weekly +summons to the worshippers. And soon they began to assemble, one +after another coming in, and silently taking their places. Conscious +that I was intruding, I yet remained in the old family pew. It +seemed as if I could not leave it—as if I must sit there and +hearken once more to the words of life. And I was there when the +rightful owners came. I arose to retire, but was beckoned to remain. +So I resumed my seat, thankful for the privilege. Group after group +entered, but faces of strangers were all around me. Presently a +white-haired old man came slowly along the aisle, and, entering the +chancel, ascended to the pulpit. I had not expected this. Our +minister was far advanced in years when we left the village, yet +here he was! How breathlessly did I lean forward to catch the sound +of his voice when he arose to read the service! It was the same +impressive voice, yet lower and somewhat broken. My heart trembled, +and tears dimmed my eyes as the sound went echoing through the room. +For a time I was a child again. I closed my eyes, and felt that my +mother, my sister, and my brothers were with me. +</P> + +<P> +I can never forget that morning. When the service closed, and the +people moved away, I looked from countenance to countenance, but all +were strange, except those of a few old men and women. Still +lingering, I met the minister as he came slowly down the aisle +towards the door. He did not know me, for his eyes were dim with +age, and I had changed in twenty years. But, when I extended my hand +and gave my name, he seized it with a quick energy, while a vivid +light irradiated his countenance. +</P> + +<P> +I will not weary the reader with a detail of the long interview held +that day with the old minister in his own house. It was good for me +that I met him ere leaving Brookdale under the pressure of a first +disappointment. His words of wisdom were yet in my ears. +</P> + +<P> +"As you have found the old church the same," said he, while holding +my hand in parting, "amid ruin and change everywhere around, so will +you find the truths which are given for our salvation ever +immutable, though mere human inventions of thought are set aside by +every coming generation for new philosophies, and the finer fancies +of more brilliant intellects. Religion is built upon a rock, and the +storms and floods of time cannot move it from its firm foundation." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="word"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +"THE WORD IS NIGH THEE." +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + DWELL'ST thou with thine own people? are the joys,<BR> + The hopes, the blessings of "sweet home" thine own?<BR> + "The Word is nigh thee;" hear the sacred voice!<BR> + At morn, bow with thy loved ones round the throne;<BR> + At noon-tide read and pray; and in the hour<BR> + When evening's shades close round thee, let the truth<BR> + Subdue thy heart by its transforming power;<BR> + That thou, whom God has blessed, may'st serve him from thy youth.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Affection's ties oft sunder; and the home<BR> + Of peace and love, sorrow and death can enter.<BR> + Art thou, indeed, a mourner? dost thou roam<BR> + Alone and sad, where late thy joys did centre?<BR> + "The Word is nigh thee!" and though bitter grief<BR> + Makes all the future seem one day of sorrow,—<BR> + Its words of peace shall grant thee sweet relief;<BR> + The night of pain and fear shall find a joyous morrow<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "The Word of God is nigh thee!" let it be<BR> + The lamp that o'er thy pathway sheds its light,<BR> + Then, through the mists of error, thou shalt see<BR> + The way of truth, all radiant and bright,<BR> + In which of old the sons of God did go,<BR> + Leaning on Him who was their friend and guide;<BR> + Nor shall thy heart be faint, thy step be slow,<BR> + Till thou in Heaven, thy home, shalt triumph by their side<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + The Word of God shall bless thee, in the hour<BR> + When human hopes and human friends shall fail:<BR> + It was in health thy portion, and its power<BR> + Is mightiest even in the gloomy vale.<BR> + No evil shalt thou fear while He is with thee;<BR> + The sting of death his hand shall take away,<BR> + His rod and staff shall comfort thee and cheer thee,<BR> + And thou with Him shalt dwell through heaven's eternal day.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="rachel"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +AUNT RACHEL. +</H3> + +<P> +WE remember as it were yesterday the first time we saw her, though +it was a brief glance, and she was so quickly forgotten that most of +us had passed into the supper-room and the rest had reached the +door, heedless of the stranger, when one of our party, perhaps more +thoughtful than the others, cast her eyes on the quiet little figure +that stood, near the fire as if irresolute, whether to follow or +remain. With lady-like politeness she received the excuses which one +of the gentlemen offered for having preceded her, and entered the +room. +</P> + +<P> +She was very slight, and thin, and pale, her, eyes were of a light +gray and her hair inclined to redness, but her forehead, was broad +and smooth and, about her thin lips there hovered an expression of +sweetness and repose. +</P> + +<P> +We have forgotten now what first led us to feel that beneath that +unprepossessing exterior were concealed the pulses of a warm, +generous heart, and the powers of a strong and cultivated mind, but +we remember well the morning that she set her seal upon our heart. +</P> + +<P> +It was a clear, cold, brilliant morning in March. The whole broad +country was covered with a thick crust of hard, glittering snow, and +every tree was encased in ice. The oaks and elms and chestnuts and +beeches from their trunks upward and outward to their minutest +twigs, and the pines and firs with their greenness shining through, +sparkled like diamonds and emeralds in the brightness of the sun. +</P> + +<P> +O, it was a glorious morning, and we have seldom since been so young +in feeling as never we are sure in years, as when we walked forth +into its bracing air. And Aunt Rachel—she enjoyed it; the broad icy +fields, the difficult ascent of the steep slippery hills and the +"duckies" down them, and the crackling of the icicles as we thrust +our way through the bristling under-brush of those diamond-cressed +woods. We loved even to eat the icicles that hung from the pines +with their pungent flavour, strong as though their pointed leaves +had been steeped in boiling water. It was a pleasure to taste as +well as see the trees. +</P> + +<P> +As we entered the "Main Road" and were passing along by the "Asylum +for the Insane," a clear, pleasant voice from one of the cells in +the upper story, accosted us: "Good morning, ladies." We looked up +and bowed in reply to the salutation. "It is a beautiful morning," +he continued, "and I should like myself to take a walk down on 'Main +Street,' but my folks have sent me here to be shut up because they +say I am crazy, but I am sure I am not crazy, and I can't see why +they should think so." And we thought the same as we listened to the +calm, pleasant tones of his voice, till he added, "It will soon make +me beside myself to be with this wild, screaming set; and it doesn't +do them any good either to shut them up here. What they want is the +Grace of God, and I'll put the Grace of God into them." +</P> + +<P> +His voice grew wild and excited, but we knew that a whole volume of +truth had been uttered in those simple words: "What they want is the +Grace of God." +</P> + +<P> +The Grace of God. How many has it saved—rescued—from madness! how +have prayer and watchfulness been blest in conquering self, in +subduing rampant passion and the wild, disorderly vagaries of the +brain! +</P> + +<P> +As we listen, the low whispered prayer of a Hall when he felt the +billows of angry passion about to sweep over his soul, "O, Lamb of +God, calm my perturbed spirit," we feel that but for such +interceding prayer and that watchfulness which accompanied it, the +insanity to which he was temporarily subject would have won the same +mastery over the mighty powers of his mind as over those of Swift, +and the glory of his "wide fame" as well as the peace of his "humble +hope," would have been exchanged for the vagaries of the madman or +the drivellings of the idiot. +</P> + +<P> +The Grace of God. We thought of John Randolph, with his sway over +the minds of others, with a "wit and eloquence that recalled the +splendours of ancient oratory," yet with so little command over +himself that his weak frame sometimes sank beneath the excitement of +his temper, and gusts of passion were succeeded by fainting-fits; +and when the one desire of his heart was denied, when a love mighty +as every other passion of his soul failed him, his grief, +ungovernable and frenzied as his rage, overwhelmed him, and the +"taint of madness which ran in his line," flooded his brain. But +when the atheist became a Christian; when, in his own words, he felt +"the Spirit of God was not the chimera of heated brains, nor a +device of artful men to frighten and cajole the credulous, but an +existence to be felt and understood as the whisperings of one's own +heart;" his prayer of, "Lord! I believe, help thou my unbelief," was +answered in calm and peace to his soul. +</P> + +<P> +"The saddest thought," said Aunt Rachel, as we turned away from that +gloomy edifice, "the saddest thought connected with that building +is, that so large a number of its unhappy inmates have brought their +misery upon themselves, are the victims of their own irregular and +indulged passions." +</P> + +<P> +As we turned and looked upon her smooth brow, her serious and serene +eyes and her sweet, calm mouth, we marked a look of subdued +suffering mingled with an expression of Christian triumph; and we +knew that she had felt "the ploughings of grief;" that she had +learned "how sublime a thing it is to suffer and grow strong;" but, +though we wondered deeply, we never knew in what form she had been +called "to pass under the rod;" but we heard a voice that said, +</P> + +<P> +"Fear not; when thou passest through the waters, I will be with +thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee." +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Nay, fear not, weak and fainting soul,<BR> + Though the wild waters round thee roll,<BR> + He will sustain thy faltering way,<BR> + Will be thy sure, unfailing stay.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + And though it were the fabled stream<BR> + Whose waves were fire of fearful gleam,<BR> + He still would bear thee safely through<BR> + The fire, but cleanse thy soul anew.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="blessing"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +COMETH A BLESSING DOWN. +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + NOT to the man of dollars,<BR> + Not to the man of deeds,<BR> + Not to the man of cunning,<BR> + Not to the man of creeds,<BR> + Not to the one whose passion<BR> + Is for a world's renown,<BR> + Not in a form of fashion,<BR> + Cometh a blessing down.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Not unto land's expansion,<BR> + Not to the miser's chest,<BR> + Not to the princely mansion,<BR> + Not to the blazoned crest,<BR> + Not to the sordid worldling,<BR> + Not to the knavish clown,<BR> + Not to the haughty tyrant,<BR> + Cometh a blessing down.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Not to the folly-blinded,<BR> + Not to the steeped in shame,<BR> + Not to the carnal-minded,<BR> + Not to unholy fame;<BR> + Not in neglect of duty,<BR> + Not in the monarch's crown,<BR> + Not at the smile of beauty,<BR> + Cometh a blessing down.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + But to the one whose spirit<BR> + Yearns for the great and good;<BR> + Unto the one whose storehouse<BR> + Yieldeth the hungry food;<BR> + Unto the one who labours,<BR> + Fearless of foe or frown;<BR> + Unto the kindly-hearted,<BR> + Cometh a blessing down.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="pathway"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE DARKENED PATHWAY. +</H3> + +<P> +"TO some the sky is always bright, while to others it is never free +from clouds. There is to me a mystery in this—something that looks +like a partial Providence—for those who grope sadly through life in +darkened paths are, so far as human judgment can determine, often +purer and less selfish than those who move gayly along in perpetual +sunshine. Look at Mrs. Adair. It always gives me the heart-ache to +think of what she has endured in life, and still endures. Once she +was surrounded by all that wealth could furnish of external good; +now she is in poverty, with five children, clinging to her for +support, her health feeble, and few friends to counsel or lend her +their aid. No woman could have loved a husband more tenderly than +she loved hers, and few wives were ever more beloved in return; but +she has gathered the widow's weeds around her, and is sitting in the +darkness of an inconsolable grief. What a sweet character was hers! +Always loving and unselfish—a very angel on the earth from +childhood upwards, and yet her doom to tread this darkened pathway! +If Heaven smiles on the good—if the righteous are never forsaken, +why this strange, hard, harsh Providence in the case of Mrs. Adair? +I cannot understand it! God is goodness itself, they say, and loves +His creatures with a love surpassing the love of a mother; but would +any mother condemn beloved child to such a cruel fate? No, no, no! +From the very depths of my spirit I answer—No! I am only a weak, +erring, selfish creature, but—" +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Endicott checked the utterance of what was in her thought, for +at the instant another thought, rebuking her for an impious +comparison of herself with her Maker, flitted across her mind. Yes, +she was about drawing a Parallel between herself and a Being of +infinite wisdom and love, unfavourable to the latter! +</P> + +<P> +The sky of Mrs. Endicott had not always been free from clouds. Many +times had she walked in darkness; and why this was so ever appeared +as one of the mysteries of life, for her self-explorations had never +gone far enough to discover those natural evils, the existence of +which only a state of intense mental suffering would manifest to her +deeper consciousness. But all she had yet been called to endure, +was, she freely acknowledged, light in comparison to what poor Mrs. +Adair had suffered, and was suffering daily—and the case of this +friend gave her a strong argument against the wisdom and justice of +that Power in the hands of which the children of men are as clay in +the hands of the potter. +</P> + +<P> +Even while Mrs. Endicott thus questioned and doubted, a domestic +opened the door of the room in which she was sitting, and said, +</P> + +<P> +"Mrs. Adair is in the parlour." +</P> + +<P> +"Is she? Say that I will be down in a moment." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Endicott felt a little surprised at the coincidence of her +thought of her friend and that friend's appearance. It was another +of those life-mysteries into which her dull eyes could not +penetrate, and gave new occasion for dark surmises in regard to the +Power above all, in all, and ruling all. With a sober face, as was +befitting an interview with one so deeply burdened as Mrs. Adair, +she went down to the parlour. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear friend!" she said, tenderly, almost sadly, as she took the +hand of her visiter. +</P> + +<P> +Into the eyes of Mrs. Adair she looked earnestly for the glittering +tear-veil, and upon her lips for the grief curve. To her surprise +neither were there; but a cheerful light in the former and a gentle +smile on the latter. +</P> + +<P> +"How are you this morning?" +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Endicott's voice was low and sympathizing. +</P> + +<P> +"I feel a little stronger, to-day, thank you," answered Mrs. Adair, +smiling as she spoke. +</P> + +<P> +"How is your breast?" +</P> + +<P> +"Still very tender." +</P> + +<P> +"And the pain in your side." +</P> + +<P> +"I am not free from that a moment." +</P> + +<P> +Still she smiled as she answered. There was not even a touch of +sadness or despondency in her voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Not free a moment! How do you bear it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Happily—as I often say to myself—I have no time to think about +the pain," replied Mrs. Adair, cheerfully. "It is wonderful how +mental activity lifts us above the consciousness of bodily +suffering. For my part, I am sure that if I had nothing to do but to +sit down and brood over my ailments, I would be one of the most +miserable, complaining creatures alive. But a kind Providence, even +in the sending of poverty to his afflicted one, has but tempered the +winds to the shorn lamb." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Endicott was astonished to hear these words, falling, as they +did, with such a confiding earnestness from the pale lips of her +much-enduring friend. +</P> + +<P> +"How can you speak so cheerfully?" she said. "How can you feel so +thankful to Him who has shrouded your sky in darkness, and left you +to grope in strange paths, on which falls not a single ray of +light?" +</P> + +<P> +"Even though the sky is clouded," was answered, "I know that the sun +is shining there as clear and as beautiful as ever. The paths in +which a wise and good Providence has called me to walk, may be +strange, and are, at times, rough-and toilsome; but you err in +saying that no light falls upon them. +</P> + +<P> +"But the sky is dark—whence comes the light, Mrs. Adair?" +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you remember the beautiful hymn written by Moore? It is to me +worth all he ever penned besides. How often do I say it over to +myself, lingering with a warming heart and a quickening pulse, on +every word of consolation!" +</P> + +<P> +And in the glow of her fine enthusiasm, Mrs. Adair repeated— +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "Oh, Thou, who dry'st the mourner's tear,<BR> + How dark this world would be,<BR> + If, when deceived and wounded here,<BR> + We could not fly to Thee!<BR> + The friends, who in our sunshine live,<BR> + When winter comes, are flown;<BR> + And he who has but tears to give,<BR> + Must weep those tears alone.<BR> + But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,<BR> + Which, like the plants that throw<BR> + Their fragrance from the wounded part,<BR> + Breathes sweetness out of woe.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "When joy no longer soothes or cheers,<BR> + And e'en the hope that threw<BR> + A moment's sparkle o'er our tears<BR> + Is dimmed and vanished, too,<BR> + Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom,<BR> + Did not Thy wing of Love<BR> + Come, brightly wafting through the gloom<BR> + Our Peace-branch from above?<BR> + Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright<BR> + With more than rapture's ray<BR> + <I>As darkness shows us worlds of light</I><BR> + <I>We never saw by day.</I>"<BR> +</P> + +<P> +"None," said Mrs. Adair, "but those who have had the sky of their +earthly affections shrouded in darkness, can fully understand the +closing words of this consolatory hymn. Need I now answer your +question, 'Whence comes the light?' There is an inner world Mrs. +Endicott—a world full of light, and joy, and consolation—a world +whose sky is never darkened, whose sun is never hidden by clouds. +When we turn from all in this life that we vainly trusted, and lift +our eyes upward towards the sky, bending over our sad spirits, an +unexpected light breaks in upon us, and we see a new firmament, +glittering with myriads of stairs, whose light is fed from that +inner world where the sun shines for ever undimmed. Oh, no, I do not +tread a darkened pathway, Mrs. Endicott. There is light upon it from +the Sun of heaven, and I am walking forward, weary at times, it may +be, but with unwavering footsteps. I have been tried sorely, it is +true—I have suffered, oh how deeply! and yet I can say, and do say, +it is good for me that I was afflicted. But I meant not to speak so +much of myself, and you must forgive the intrusion. Self, you know, +is ever an attractive theme. I have called this morning to try and +interest you in a poor woman who lives next door to me. She is very +ill, and I am afraid will die. She has two children, almost +babes—sweet little things—and if the mother is taken they will be +left without a home or a friend, unless God puts it into the heart +of some one to give them both. I have been awake half the night, +thinking about them, and debating the difficult question of my duty +in the case. I might make room for one of them—" +</P> + +<P> +"You!" Mrs. Endicott interrupted her in a voice of unfeigned +astonishment. "You! How can you give place a moment to such a +thought, broken down in health as you are and with five children of +your own clinging to you for support? It would be unjust to yourself +and to them. Don't think of such a thing." +</P> + +<P> +"That makes the difficulty in the case," replied Mrs. Adair. "The +spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. My heart is large enough +to take both of them in; but I have not strength enough to bear the +added burden. And so I have come around this morning to see if I +cannot awaken your interest. They are dear, sweet children, and will +carry sunshine and a blessing into any home that opens to receive +them." +</P> + +<P> +"But why, my friend," said Mrs. Endicott, "do you, whose time is so +precious—who have cares, and interests, and anxieties of your own, +far more than enough for one poor, weak woman to bear, burden +yourself with a duty like this? Leave the task to others more fitted +for the work." +</P> + +<P> +"There are but few who can rightly sympathize with that mother and +her babes; and I am one of the few. Ah! my kind friend, none but the +mother, who like me has been brought to the verge of eternity, can +truly feel for one in like circumstances. I have looked at my own +precious ones, as I felt the waves of time sweeping my feet from +their earthly resting place, and wept bitter tears as no answer came +to the earnest question, 'Who will love them, who will care for the +when I am taken?' You cannot know, Mrs. Endicott, how profoundly +thankful to God I am, that He spares my life, and yet gives me +strength to do for my children. I bless His name for this tender +mercy towards me when I lie down at night, and when I rise up in the +morning, I bear every burden, I endure every pain cheerfully, +hopefully, even thankfully. It is because I can understand the heart +of this dying mother, and feel for her in her mortal extremity, that +I undertake her cause. You have only one child, my friend, and she +is partly grown. 'A babe in the house is a well-spring of pleasure.' +Is it not so? Take one, or even both of these children, if the +mother dies. They are the little ones who are born upon the earth, +in order that they may become angels in Heaven. They are of God's +kingdom, and precious in His eyes. Nurture and raise them up for +Him. Come! oh, come with me to the bedside of this dying mother, and +say to her, 'Give me your babes, and I will shelter them in my +heart.' So doing, you will open for yourself a perennial fountain of +delight. The picture of that poor mother's joyful face, painted +instantly by love's bright sunbeams on your memory, will be a source +of pleasure lasting as eternity. Do not neglect this golden +opportunity, nor leave other hands to gather the blessings which lie +about your feet." +</P> + +<P> +That earnest plea was echoed from the heart of Mrs. Endicott. The +beautiful enthusiasm, so full of a convincing eloquence, prevailed; +and the woman in whose heart the waters of benevolence were growing +stagnant, and already sending up exhalations that were hiding the +Sun of heaven, felt a yearning pity for the dying mother, and was +moved by an unselfish impulse toward her and her babes. Half an hour +afterwards she was in the sick-chamber; and ere leaving had received +from the happy mother the solemn gift of her children, and seen her +eyes close gently as her spirit took its tranquil departure for its +better home. +</P> + +<P> +"God will bless you, madame!" +</P> + +<P> +All the dying mother's thankfulness was compressed into these words, +and her full heart spent itself in their utterance. +</P> + +<P> +Far away, in the inner depths of Mrs. Endicott's spirit—very far +away—the words found an echo; and as this echo came back to her +ears, she felt a new thrill of pleasure that ran deeper down the +electric chain of feelings than emotion had ever, until now, +penetrated. There were depths and capacities in her being unknown +before; and of this she had now a dim perception. Her action was +unselfish, and to be unselfish is to be God-like—for God acts from +a love of blessing others. To be God-like in her action brought her +nearer the Infinite Source of what is pure and holy; and all +proximity in this direction gives its measure of interior +delight—as all retrocession gives its measure of darkness and +disquietude. +</P> + +<P> +"God will bless you!" +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Endicott never ceased hearing these words, and she felt them to +be a prophecy. And God did bless her. In bestowing love and care +upon the motherless little ones, she received from above double for +all she gave. In blessing, she was twice blessed. About them her +heart entwined daily new tendrils, until her own life beat with +theirs in even pulses, and to seek their good was the highest joy of +her existence. +</P> + +<P> +Still there were times when Mrs. Endicott felt that to some God was +not just in his dispensations, and the closer she observed Mrs. +Adair, the less satisfied was she that one so pure-minded, so +unselfish, so earnest to impart good to others, should be so hardly +dealt by—should be compelled to grope through life with painful +steps along a darkened way. +</P> + +<P> +"There is a mystery in all this which my dim vision fails to +penetrate," she said one day, to Mrs. Adair. "But we see here only +in part—I must force myself into the belief that all is right. I +say <I>force</I>, for it is indeed force-work." +</P> + +<P> +"To me," was answered, "there is no longer a mystery here. I have +been led by at way that I knew not. For a time I moved along this +way, doubting, fearing trembling—but now I see that it is the right +way, and though toilsome at times, yet it is winding steadily +upwards, and I begin to see the sunshine resting calmly on the +mountain-tops. Flowers, too, are springing by the wayside—few they +are, as yet, but very fragrant." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Adair paused for a moment, and then resumed, +</P> + +<P> +"It may sound strange to you, but I am really happier than when all +was bright and prosperous around me." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Endicott looked surprised. +</P> + +<P> +"I am a better woman, and therefore happier. I do not say this +boastfully, but only to meet your question. I am a more useful +woman, and therefore happier, for, as I have learned, inward peace +is the sure reward of benefits conferred. The doing of good to +another, from an unselfish end, brings to the heart its purest +pleasure; and is not that the kindest Providence which leads us, no +matter by what hard experiences, into a state of willingness to live +for others instead of for ourselves alone? The dying mother, whose +gift to you has proved so great—a good, might have passed away, +though her humble abode stood beside the elegant residence I called +my home, without exciting more than a passing wave of +sympathy—certainly without filling my heart with the yearning +desire to make truly peaceful her last moments, which led to the +happy results that followed her efforts in my behalf. My children, +too; you have often lamented that it is not so well with them as it +would have been had misfortune not overshadowed us,—but I am not so +sure of that. I believe that all external disadvantages will be more +than counterbalanced by the higher regard I have been led to take in +the development of what is good and true in their characters. I now +see them as future men and women, for whose usefulness and happiness +I am in a great measure responsible; and as my views of life have +become clearer, and I trust wiser, through suffering, I am far +better able, under all the disadvantages of my position, to secure +this great end than I was before." +</P> + +<P> +"But the way is hard for you—very hard," said Mrs. Endicott. +</P> + +<P> +"It is my preparation for Heaven," replied the patient sufferer, +while a smile, not caught from earth, made beautiful her +countenance. "If my Heavenly Father could have made the way +smoother, He would have done so. As it is, I thank Him daily for the +roughness, and would not ask to have a stone removed or a rough +place made even." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="picture"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +LOOK ON THIS PICTURE. +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + O, IT is life! departed days<BR> + Fling back their brightness while I gaze—<BR> + 'Tis Emma's self—this brow so fair,<BR> + Half-curtained in this glossy hair,<BR> + These eyes, the very home of love,<BR> + The dark thin arches traced above,<BR> + These red-ripe lips that almost speak,<BR> + The fainter blush of this pure cheek,<BR> + The rose and lily's beauteous strife—<BR> + It is—ah, no! 'tis all <I>but</I> life.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + 'Tis all <I>but</I> life—art could not save<BR> + Thy graces, Emma, from the grave;<BR> + Thy cheek is pale, thy smile is past,<BR> + Thy love-lit eyes have looked their last,<BR> + Mouldering beneath the coffin's lid,<BR> + All we adored of thee is hid;<BR> + Thy heart, where goodness loved to dwell,<BR> + Is throbless in the narrow cell:<BR> + Thy gentle voice shall charm no more,<BR> + Its last, last joyful note is o'er.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Oft, oft, indeed, it hath been sung,<BR> + The requiem of the fair and young;<BR> + The theme is old, alas! how old,<BR> + Of grief that will not be controlled,<BR> + Of sighs that speak a father's woe,<BR> + Of pangs that none but mothers know,<BR> + Of friendship with its bursting heart,<BR> + Doomed from the idol-one to part—<BR> + Still its sad debt must feeling pay,<BR> + Till feeling, too, shall pass away.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + O say, why age, and grief, and pain,<BR> + Shall long to go, but long in vain?<BR> + Why vice is left to mock at time,<BR> + And gray in years, grow gray in crime;<BR> + While youth, that every eye makes glad,<BR> + And beauty, all in radiance clad,<BR> + And goodness, cheering every heart,<BR> + Come, but come only to depart;<BR> + Sunbeams, to cheer life's wintry day,<BR> + Sunbeams, to flash, then fade away?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + 'Tis darkness all! black banners wave<BR> + Round the cold borders of the grave;<BR> + Then when in agony we bend<BR> + O'er the fresh sod that hides a friend,<BR> + One only comfort then we know—<BR> + We, too, shall quit this world of woe;<BR> + We, too, shall find a quiet place<BR> + With the dear lost ones of our race;<BR> + Our crumbling bones with theirs shall blend,<BR> + And life's sad story find an end.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + And <I>is</I> this all—this mournful doom?<BR> + Beams no glad light beyond the tomb?<BR> + Mark how yon clouds in darkness ride;<BR> + They do not quench the orb they hide;<BR> + Still there it wheels—the tempest o'er,<BR> + In a bright sky to burn once more;<BR> + So, far above the clouds of time,<BR> + Faith can behold a world sublime—<BR> + There, when the storms of life are past,<BR> + The light beyond shall break at last.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="kindness"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE POWER OF KINDNESS. +</H3> + +<P> +HOW much comprised in the simple word, <I>kindness!</I> One kind word, or +even one mild look, will oftentimes dispel thick gathering gloom +from the countenance of an affectionate husband, or wife. When the +temper is tried by some inconvenience or trifling vexation, and +marks of displeasure are depicted upon the countenances and perhaps, +too, that most "unruly of all members" is ready to vent its spleen +upon the innocent husband or wife, what will a kind mien, a pleasant +reply, accomplish? Almost invariably perfect harmony and peace are +thus restored. +</P> + +<P> +These thoughts were suggested by the recollection of a little +domestic incident, to which I was a silent, though not uninterested +spectator. During the summer months of 1834, I was spending several +weeks with a happy married pair, who had tasted the good and ills of +life together only a twelvemonth. Both possessed many amiable +qualities, and were well calculated to promote each other's +happiness. My second visit to my friends was of a week's duration, +in the month of December. One cold evening the husband returned home +at his usual hour at nine o'clock, expecting to find a warm fire for +his reception, but, instead, he found a cheerless, comfortless room. +His first thought, no doubt, was, that it was owing to the +negligence of his wife, and, under this impression, in rather a +severe tone, he said, +</P> + +<P> +"This is too bad; to come in from the office cold, and find no fire; +I really should have thought you might have kept it." +</P> + +<P> +I sat almost breathless, trembling for the reply. I well knew it was +no fault of hers, for she had wasted nearly all the evening, and +almost exhausted her patience, in attempting to kindle a fire. She +in a moment replied, with great kindness, +</P> + +<P> +"Why my dear, I wonder what is the matter with our stove! We must +have something done to-morrow, for I have spent a great deal of time +in vain to make a fire." +</P> + +<P> +This was said in such a mild, pleasant tone, that it had the most +happy effect. If she had replied at that moment, when his feelings +were alive to supposed neglect, "I don't know who is to blame; I +have done my part, and have been freezing all the evening for my +pains. If the stove had been put up as it should have been, all +would have been well enough." This, said in an unamiable, peevish +tone, might have added "fuel to the fire," and this little breeze +might have led to more serious consequences; but fortunately, her +mild reply restored perfect serenity. The next day the stove was +taken down, and the difficulty, owing to some defect in the flue, +was removed. What will not a kind word accomplish? +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="kindly"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +SPEAK KINDLY. +</H3> + +<P> + SPEAK kindly, speak kindly! ye know not the power<BR> + Of a kind and gentle word,<BR> + As its tones in a sad and weary hour<BR> + By the trouble heart are heard.<BR> + Ye know not how often it falls to bless<BR> + The stranger in his weariness;<BR> + How many a blessing is round thee thrown<BR> + By the magic spell, of a soft, low tone.<BR> + Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost<BR> + By gentle words—to the heart and ear<BR> + Of the sad and lonely, they're dear, how dear,<BR> + And they nothing cost.<BR> +</P> + +<P> + Speak kindly to childhood. Oh, do not fling<BR> + A cloud o'er life's troubled sky;<BR> + But cherish it well—a holy thing<BR> + Is the heart in its purity.<BR> + Enough of sorrow the cold world hath,<BR> + Enough of care in its later path,<BR> + And ye do a wrong if ye seek to throw<BR> + O'er the fresh young spirit a shade of woe.<BR> + Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost<BR> + By gentle words—to the heart and ear<BR> + Of joyous childhood, they're dear, how dear—<BR> + And they nothing cost.<BR> +</P> + +<P> + Speak gently to age—a weary way<BR> + Is the rough and toilsome road of life,<BR> + As one by one its joys decay,<BR> + And its hopes go out 'mid its lengthened strife.<BR> + How often the word that is kindly spoken,<BR> + Will bind up the heart that is well nigh broken,<BR> + Then pass not the feeble and aged one<BR> + With a cold, and careless, and slighting tone;<BR> + But kindly, speak kindly; there's nothing lost<BR> + By gentle words—to the heart and ear<BR> + Of the care-worn and weary, they're dear, how dear—<BR> + And they nothing cost.<BR> +</P> + +<P> + Speak kindly to those who are haughty and cold,<BR> + Ye know not the thoughts that are dwelling there;<BR> + Ye know not the feelings that struggle untold—<BR> + Oh, every heart hath its burden of care.<BR> + And the curl of the lip, and the scorn of the eye<BR> + Are often a bitter mockery,<BR> + When a bursting heart its grief would hide<BR> + From the eye of the world 'neath a veil of pride.<BR> + Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost<BR> + By gentle words—to the heart and ear<BR> + Of the proud and haughty they're often dear,<BR> + And they nothing cost.<BR> +</P> + +<P> + Speak kindly ever—oh, cherish well<BR> + The light of a gentle tone;<BR> + It will fling round thy pathway a magic spell,<BR> + A charm that is all its own.<BR> + But see that it springs from a gentle heart,<BR> + That it need not the hollow aid of art;<BR> + Let it gush in its joyous purity,<BR> + From its home in the heart all glad and free.<BR> + Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost<BR> + By gentle words—to the heart and ear<BR> + Of all who hear them they're dear, how dear—<BR> + And they nothing cost.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="have"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +HAVE PATIENCE. +</H3> + +<P> +IT was Saturday evening, about eight o clock. Mary Gray had finished +mangling, and had sent home the last basket of clothes. She had +swept up her little room, stirred the fire, and placed upon it a +saucepan of water. She had brought out the bag of oatmeal, a basin, +and a spoon, and laid them upon the round deal table. The place, +though very scantily furnished, looked altogether neat and +comfortable. Mary now sat idle by the fire. She was not often idle.' +She was a pale, delicate-looking woman, of about five-and-thirty. +She looked like ones who had worked beyond her strength, and her +thin face had a very anxious, careworn expression. Her dress showed +signs of poverty, but it was scrupulously clean and neat. As it grew +later, she seemed to be listening attentively for the approach of +some one; she was ready to start up every time a step came near her +door. At length a light step approached, and did not go by it; it +stopped, and there was a gentle tap at the door. Mary's pallid face +brightened, and in a moment she had let in a fine, intelligent-looking +lad, about thirteen years of age, whom she welcomed with evident +delight. +</P> + +<P> +"You are later than usual to-night, Stephen," she said. +</P> + +<P> +Stephen did not reply; but he threw off his cap, and placed himself +in the seat Mary had quitted. +</P> + +<P> +"You do not look well to-night, dear," said Mary anxiously; "is +anything the matter?" +</P> + +<P> +"I am quite well, mother," replied the boy. "Let me have my supper. +I am quite ready for it." +</P> + +<P> +As he spoke, he turned away his eyes from Mary's inquiring look. +Mary, without another word, set herself about preparing the supper, +of oatmeal porridge. She saw that something was wrong with Stephen, +and that he did not wish to be questioned, so she remained silent. +In the mean time Stephen had placed his feet on the fender, rested +his elbows on his knees, and his head on his hands. His hands +covered his face; and, by and by, a few large tears began to trickle +down his fingers. Then suddenly dashing off his tears, as though he +were ashamed of them, he showed his pale, agitated face, and said, +in a tone of indignation and resolve, +</P> + +<P> +"Mother, I am determined I will bear it no longer." +</P> + +<P> +Mary was not surprised. She finished pouring out the porridge; then, +taking a stool, she seated herself beside him. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Stephen," she said, trying to speak cheerfully, "how many +hundred times before have you made that resolution! But what's the +matter now? Have you any new trouble to tell me of?" +</P> + +<P> +Stephen answered by silently removing with his hand some of his +thick curly hair, and showing beneath it an ear bearing the too +evident marks of cruel usage. +</P> + +<P> +"My poor boy!" exclaimed Mary, her tears starting forth. "Could he +be so cruel?" +</P> + +<P> +"It is nothing, mother," replied the boy, sorry to have called forth +his mother's tears. "I don't care for it. It was done in a passion, +and he was sorry for it after." +</P> + +<P> +"But what could you have done, Stephen, to make him so angry with +you?" +</P> + +<P> +"I was selling half a quire of writing paper to a lady: he counted +the sheets after me, and found thirteen instead of only twelve; they +had stuck together so that I took two for one. I tried to explain, +but he was in a passion, and gave me a blow. The lady said something +to him about his improper conduct, and he said that I was such a +<I>careless little rascal</I>, that he lost all patience with me. That +hurt me a great deal more than the blow. It was a falsehood, and he +knew it; but he wanted to excuse himself. I felt that I was going +into a passion, too, but I thought of what you are always telling me +about patience and forbearance, and I kept down my passion; I know +he was sorry for it after, from the way he spoke to me, though he +didn't say so." +</P> + +<P> +"I have no doubt he suffered more than you, Stephen," said Mary; "he +would be vexed that he, had shown his temper before the lady, vexed +that he had told a lie, and vexed that he had hurt you when you bore +it so patiently. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, mother, but that doesn't make it easier for me to bear his ill +temper; I've borne it now for more than a year for your sake, and I +can bear it no longer. Surely I can get something to do; I'm sturdy +and healthy, and willing to do any kind of work." +</P> + +<P> +Mary shook her head, and remained for a long time silent and +thoughtful. At length she said, with a solemn earnestness of manner +that almost made poor Stephen cry, +</P> + +<P> +"You say that, for my sake, you have borne your master's unkind +treatment for more than a year; for my sake, bear it longer, +Stephen. Your patience must, and will be rewarded in the end. You +know how I have worked, day and night, ever since your poor father +died, when you were only a little infant in the cradle, to feed and +clothe you, and to pay for your schooling, for I was determined that +you should have schooling; you know how I have been cheered in all +my toil by the hope of seeing you, one day, getting on in the world, +And I know, Stephen, that you will get on. You are good, honest lad, +and kind to your poor mother, and God will reward you. But not if +you are hasty; not if you are impatient. You know how hard it was +for me to get you this situation; you might not get another; you +must not leave; you must not break your indentures; you must be +patient and industrious still; you have a hard master, and, God +knows, it costs me many at heartache to think of what you have to +suffer; but bear with him, Stephen; bear with him, for my sake, a +few years longer." +</P> + +<P> +Stephen was now fairly crying and his mother kissed off his tears, +while her own flowed freely. Her appeal to his affection was not in +vain. He soon smiled through his tears, as he said, +</P> + +<P> +"Well, mother, you always know how to talk me over, When I came in +to-night I did think that I would never go the shop again. But I +will promise you to be patient and industrious still. Considering +all that you have, done for me, this is little enough for me to do +for you. When I have a shop of my own, you shall live like a lady. +I'll trust to your word that I shall be sure to get on, if I am +patient and industrious, though I don't see how it's to be.—It's +not so very bad to bear after all; and, bad as my master is, there's +one comfort, he lets me have my Saturday nights and blessed Sundays +with you. Well, I feel happier now, and I think I can eat my supper. +We forgot that my porridge was getting cold all this time." +</P> + +<P> +Stephen kept his word; day after day, and month after month, his +patience and industry never flagged. And plenty of trials, poor +fellow, he had for his fortitude. His master, a small stationer in a +small country town, to whom Stephen was bound apprentice for five +years, with a salary barely sufficient to keep him in clothes, was a +little, spare, sharp-faced man, who seemed to have worn himself away +with continual fretfulness and vexation. He was perpetually +fretting, perpetually finding fault with something or other, +perpetually thinking that everything was going wrong. Though he did +cease to go into a passion with, and to strike Stephen, the poor lad +was an object always at hand, on which to vent his ill-humour, Many, +many times was Stephen on the point of losing heart and temper; but +he was always able to control himself by thinking of his mother. +And, as he said, there was always comfort in those Saturday nights +and blessed Sundays. A long walk in the country on those blessed +Sundays, and the Testament readings to his mother, would always +strengthen his often wavering faith in her prophecies of good in the +end, would cheer his spirits, and nerve him with a fresh resolution +for the coming week. And what was it that the widow hoped would +result from this painful bondage? She did not know; she only had +faith in her doctrine—that patience and industry would some time be +rewarded. <I>How</I> the reward was to come in her son's case, she could +not see. It seemed likely, indeed, from all appearances, that the +doctrine in this case would prove false. But still she had faith. +</P> + +<P> +It was now nearly four years since the conversation between mother +and son before detailed. They were together again on the Saturday +evening. Stephen had grown into a tall, manly youth, with a gentle, +kind, and thoughtful expression of countenance. Mary looked much +older, thinner, paler, and more anxious. Both were at this moment +looking very downcast. +</P> + +<P> +"I do not see that anything can be hoped from him," said Stephen, +with a sigh. "I have now served him faithfully for five years; I +have borne patiently all his ill-humour; I have never been absent a +moment from my post; and during all that time, notwithstanding all +this, he has never thanked me, he has never so much as given me a +single kind word, nor even a kind look. He must know that +apprenticeships will be out on Tuesday, yet he never says a word to +me about it, and I suppose I must just go without a word." +</P> + +<P> +"You must speak to him," said Mary; "you cannot leave without saying +something; and tell him exactly how you are situated; he cannot +refuse to do something to help you." +</P> + +<P> +"It is easy to talk of speaking to him, mother, but not so easy to +do it. I have often before thought of speaking to him, of telling +him how very, very poor we are, and begging a little more salary. +But I never could do it when I came before him. I seemed to feel +that he would refuse me, and I felt somehow too proud to ask a +favour that would most likely be refused. But it shall be done now, +mother; I will not be a burthen upon you, if I can help it. I'd +sooner do anything than that. He <I>ought</I> to do something for me, and +there's no one else that I know of that can. I will speak to him on +Monday." +</P> + +<P> +Monday evening was come; all day Stephen had been screwing up his +courage for the task he had to do; of course it could not be done +when his master and he were in the shop together, for there they +were liable at any moment to be interrupted. At dinner-time they +separated; for they took the meal alternately, that the post in the +shop might never be deserted. But now the day's work was over: +everything was put away, and master and apprentice had retired into +the little back parlour a to take their tea. As usual, they were +alone, for the stationer was a single man (which might account for +the sourness of his temper), and the meal was usually taken in +silence, and soon after it was over they would both retire to bed, +still in silence. Stephen's master had poured out for him his first +cup of tea, handed it to him without looking at him, and begun to +swallow his own potion. Stephen allowed his cup to remain before him +untouched; he glanced timidly towards his master, drew a deep +breath, coloured slightly, and then began:— +</P> + +<P> +"If you please, sir, I wish to speak to you." +</P> + +<P> +His master looked up with a sudden jerk of the head, and fixed his +keen gray eyes on poor Stephen's face. He did not seem at all +surprised, but said sharply (and he had a very sharp voice), "Well, +sir, speak on." +</P> + +<P> +Stephen was determined not to be discouraged, so he began to tell +his little tale. His voice faltered at first, but as he went on he +became quite eloquent. He spoke with a boldness which astonished +himself. He forgot his master, and thought only of his mother. He +told all about her poverty, and struggles to get a living. He dwelt +strongly, but modestly, on his own conduct during his apprenticeship, +and finished by entreating his master now to help him to do something, +for he had nothing in the world to turn to, no friends, no money, no +influence. +</P> + +<P> +His master heard him to an end. He had soon withdrawn his eyes from +Stephen's agitated face, then partially averted his own face, then +left his seat, and advanced to a side table, where he began to +rummage among some papers, with his back to Stephen. +</P> + +<P> +Stephen had ceased speaking some time before he made any reply. Then +still without turning round, he spoke, beginning with a sort of +grunting ejaculation—"Humph! so your mother gets her living by +mangling, does she? and she thought that if she got you some +schooling, and taught you to behave yourself, your fortune would be +made. Well, you will be free to-morrow; you may go to her and tell +her she is a fool for her pains. Here are your indentures, and +here's the salary that's due to you. Now you may go to bed." +</P> + +<P> +As he spoke the last words, he had taken the indentures from a desk, +and the money from his purse. Stephen felt a choking sensation in +his throat as he took from his hands the paper and the money; he +would even have uttered the indignation he felt, but, before he +could speak, his master left the room. Disappointed and heart-sick, +and feeling humiliated that he should have asked a favour of such a +man, the poor lad retired to his garret, and it was almost time to +get up in the morning before he could fall asleep. On the Tuesday, +when the day's work was over, Stephen packed up his bundle of +clothes;—should he say good-bye to his master? Yes; he would not be +ungracious at the last. He opened the door of the back parlour, and +stood just within the door-way, his bundle in his hand. His master +was sitting, solitary, at the tea-table. +</P> + +<P> +"I am going, sir, good-bye," said Stephen. +</P> + +<P> +"Good-bye, sir," returned his master, without, looking at him. And +so they parted. +</P> + +<P> +The result of the application told, the mother and the son sat +together that night in silence; their hearts were too full for +words. Mary sorrowed most, because she had hoped most. Bitter tears +rolled down her cheeks, as she sat brooding over her disappointment. +Stephen looked more cheerful, for his mind was busy trying to form +plans for the future—how he should go about to seek for another +situation, &c. Bed-time came; both rose to retire to rest. Stephen +had pressed his mother's hand, and was retiring, saying as he went, +"Never mind, mother, it'll all be right yet," when they were +startled by a loud rap at the door. +</P> + +<P> +"Who's there?" shouted Stephen. +</P> + +<P> +"A letter for you," was the reply. +</P> + +<P> +Stephen thought there was some mistake, but he opened the door. A +letter was put into his hand, and the bearer disappeared. Surprised, +Stephen held the letter close to the rush-light Mary was carrying. +He became still more surprised; it was addressed to Mrs. Gray, that +was his mother, and he thought he knew the handwriting; it was very +like his master's. Mary's look of wonder became suddenly brightened +by a flash of hope; she could not read writing—Stephen must read it +for her. He opened the letter, something like a banknote was the +first thing he saw—he examined it—it was actually a ten pound Bank +of England note; his heart beat rapidly, and so did his mother's; +what could this mean? But there was a little note which would +perhaps explain. Stephen's fingers trembled sadly as he opened it. +There were not many words, but they were to the purpose. Stephen +read them to himself before he read them aloud. And as he was +reading, his face turned very red, and how it did burn! But what was +the meaning of tears, and he looking so pleased? Mary could not +understand it. +</P> + +<P> +"Do read up, Stephen," she exclaimed. +</P> + +<P> +With a voice broken by the effort he had to make all the time to +keep from crying, Stephen read, +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"MADAM—Put away your mangle-that son of yours is worth mangling +for; but it is time to rest now. The note is for your present wants; +in future your son may supply you. I let him go to-night; but I did +not mean him to stay away, if he chooses to come back. I don't see +that I can do well without him. But I don't want him back if he +would rather go anywhere else; I know plenty that would be glad to +have him. He has been seen in the shop, and noticed, and such lads +are not always to be got. If he chooses to come back to me, he won't +repent. I've no sons of my own, thank God. He knows what I am; I am +better than I was, and I may be better still. I've a queer way of +doing things, but it is my way, and can't be helped. Tell him I'll +be glad to have him back to-morrow, if he likes. Yours, +<BR><BR> +"J. W." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"I knew it!" exclaimed Mary, triumphantly; "I always said so! I knew +you would get on!" +</P> + +<P> +Stephen did go back to his eccentric master, and he never had any +reason to repent. He <I>got on</I> even beyond his mother's most soaring +hopes. The shop eventually became his own, and he lived a +flourishing and respected tradesman. We need scarcely add that his +mother had no further use for her mangle, and that she was a very +proud and a very happy woman. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="miss"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +DO THEY MISS ME? +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Do they miss me at home? Do they miss me?<BR> + 'Twould be an assurance most dear,<BR> + To know at this moment some loved one<BR> + Was saying, "I wish he was here!"<BR> + To feel that the group at the fireside<BR> + Were thinking of me as I roam!<BR> + Oh, yes! 'twould be joy beyond measure,<BR> + To know that they missed me at home.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + When twilight approaches—the season<BR> + That ever was sacred to song—<BR> + Does some one repeat my name over,<BR> + And sigh that I tarry so long?<BR> + And is there a chord in the music,<BR> + That's missed when my voice is away?<BR> + And a chord in each glad heart that waketh<BR> + Regret at my wearisome stay?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Do they place me a chair at the table,<BR> + When evening's home pleasures are nigh!<BR> + And lamps are lit up in the parlour,<BR> + And stars in the calm azure sky?<BR> + And when the "Good Nights" are repeated,<BR> + And each lays them calmly to sleep,<BR> + Do they think of the absent, and waft me<BR> + A whispered "Good-Night" o'er the deep?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Do they miss me at home? do they miss me?<BR> + At morning, at noon, or at night,<BR> + And lingers one gloomy shade round them,<BR> + That only my presence can light?<BR> + Are joys less invitingly welcomed,<BR> + Are pleasures less hailed than before,<BR> + Because one is missed from the circle?<BR> + Because I am with them no more?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Oh, yes! they do miss me! kind voices<BR> + Are calling me back as I roam,<BR> + And eyes are grown weary with weeping,<BR> + And watch but to welcome me home.<BR> + Kind friends, ye shall wait me no longer,<BR> + I'll hurry me back from the seas;<BR> + For how can I tarry when followed<BR> + By watchings and prayers such as these?<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="finis"> +THE END. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Words of Cheer for the Tempted, the +Toiling, and the Sorrowing, by T. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Words of Cheer for the Tempted, the Toiling, and the Sorrowing + +Author: T. S. Arthur + +Posting Date: August 30, 2009 [EBook #4619] +Release Date: November, 2003 +First Posted: February 20, 2002 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WORDS OF CHEER *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + + + + + +WORDS OF CHEER FOR The Tempted, the Toiling, and the Sorrowing. + + +EDITED BY T. S. ARTHUR. + + + +PHILADELPHIA + + + +1856. + + + + +PREFACE. + + +AS we pass on our way through the world, we find our paths now +smooth and flowery, and now rugged and difficult to travel. The sky, +bathed in golden sunshine to-day, is black with storms to-morrow! +This is the history of every one. And it is also the life-experience +of all, that when the way is rough and the sky dark, the poor heart +sinks and trembles, and the eye of faith cannot see the bright sun +smiling in the heavens beyond the veil of clouds. But, for all this +fear and doubt, the rugged path winds steadily upwards, and the +broad sky is glittering in light. + +Let the toiling, the tempted, and the sorrowing ever keep this in +mind. Let them have faith in Him who feedeth the young lions, and +clothes the fields with verdure--who bindeth up the broken heart, +and giveth joy to the mourners. There are Words of Cheer in the air! +Listen! and their melody will bring peace to the spirit, and their +truths strength to the heart. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + AUNT MARY + THE DEAD + DO YOU SUFFER MORE THAN YOUR NEIGHBOUR? + WE ARE LED BY A WAY THAT WE KNOW NOT + THE IVY IN THE DUNGEON + THE GARDEN OF EDEN + HAVE A FLOWER IN YOUR ROOM + WEALTH + HOW TO BE HAPPY + REBECCA + LIFE A TREADMILL + ARTHUR LELAND + THE SCARLET POPPY + NUMBER TWELVE + TO AN ABSENTEE + THE WHITE DOVE + HESTER + THISTLE-DOWN + THE LITTLE CHILDREN + WHAT IS NOBLE? + THE ANEMONE HEPATICA + THE FAMILY OF MICHAEL AROUT + BABY IS DEAD + THE TREASURED RINGLET + HUMAN LONGINGS FOR PEACE AND REST + "BE STRONG" + THE NEGLECTED ONE + THE HOURS OF LIFE + MINISTERING ANGELS + OURS, LOVED, AND "GONE BEFORE" + OUTWARD MINISTERINGS + BODILY DEFORMITY, SPIRITUAL BEAUTY + THE DEAD CHILD + WATER + BEAUTIFUL, HAPPY, AND BELOVED + "EVERY CLOUD HAS A SILVER LINING" + AN ANGEL OF PATIENCE + THE GRANDFATHER'S ADVICE + A HYMN OF PRAISE + AN ANGEL IN EVERY HOUSE + ANNIE + MOTHER + GREAT PRINCIPLES AND SMALL DUTIES + "OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN" + THE OLD VILLAGE CHURCH + "THE WORD IS NIGH THEE" + AUNT RACHEL + COMETH A BLESSING DOWN + THE DARKENED PATHWAY + LOOK ON THIS PICTURE + THE POWER OF KINDNESS + SPEAK KINDLY + HAVE PATIENCE + DO THEY MISS ME? + + + + +WORDS OF CHEER. + + + + +AUNT MARY. + + +A LADY sat alone in her own apartment one clear evening, when the +silver stars were out, and the moon shone pure as the spirit of +peace upon the rebellious earth. How lovely was every outward thing! +How beautiful is God's creation! The window curtains were drawn +close, and the only light in the cheerful room, was given by a +night-lamp that was burning on the mantel-piece. The occupant, who +perhaps had numbered about thirty-five years, was sitting by a small +table in the centre of the room, her head leaning upon one slender +hand; the other lay upon the open page of a book in which she had +endeavoured to interest herself. But the effort had been vain; other +and stronger feelings had overpowered her; there was an expression +of suffering upon the gentle face, over which the tears rained +heavily. For a brief moment she raised her soft blue eyes upward +with an appealing look, then sunk her head upon the table before +her, murmuring, + +"Father! forgive me! it is good for me. Give me strength to bear +everything. Pour thy love into my heart, for I am desolate--if I +could but be useful to one human being--if I could make one person +happier, I should be content. But no! I am desolate--desolate. Whose +heart clings to mine with the strong tendrils of affection? Who ever +turns to me for a smile? Oh! this world is so cold--so cold!" + +And that sensitive being wept passionately, and pressed her hand +upon her bosom as if to still its own yearnings. + +Mary Clinton had met with many sorrows; she was the youngest of a +large family; she had been the caressed darling in her early days, +for her sweetness won every heart to love. She had dwelt in the warm +breath of affection, it was her usual sunshine, and she gave it no +thought while it blessed her; a cold word or look was an unfamiliar +thing. A most glad-hearted being she was once! But death came in a +terrible form, folded her loved ones in his icy arms and bore them +to another world. A kind father, a tender mother, a brother and +sister, were laid in the grave, in one short month, by the cholera. +One brother was yet left, and she was taken to his home, for he was +a wealthy merchant. But there seemed a coldness in his splendid +house, a coldness in his wife's heart. Sick in body and in mind, the +bereft one resolved to travel South, and visit among her relations, +hoping to awaken her interest in life, which had lain dormant +through grief. She went to that sunny region, and while there, +became acquainted with a man of fine intellect and fascinating +manners, who won her affections, and afterwards proved unworthy of +her. Again the beauty of her life was darkened, and with a weary +heart she wore out the tedious years of her joyless existence. She +was an angel of charity to the poor and suffering. She grew lovelier +through sorrow. A desire to see her brother, her nearest and dearest +relative, called her North again, and when our story opens she was +in the bosom of his home, a member of his family. He loved her +deeply, yet she felt like an alien--his wife had not welcomed her as +a sister should. Mary Clinton's heart went out toward's Alice, her +eldest niece, a beautiful and loving creature just springing into +womanhood. But the fair girl was gay and thoughtless, flattered and +caressed by everybody. She knew sadness only by the name. She had no +dream that she could impart a deep joy, by giving forth her young +heart's love to the desolate stranger. + +The hour had grown late, very late, and Mary Clinton still leaned +her head upon the table buried in thoughts, when the bounding step +of Alice outside the door aroused her from her revery. She listened, +almost hoping to see her friendly face peeping in, but wearied with +the enjoyment of the evening, the fair young belle hastened on to +her chamber, and her aunt heard the door close. Rising from her seat +at the table, Miss Clinton approached a window, and threw back the +curtains that the midnight air might steal coolingly over her brow. +Her eye fell upon the rich bracelet that clasped her arm, a gift of +her brother, and then with a sad smile, she surveyed the pure dress +of delicate white she wore. "Ah!" she sighed, "I am robed for a +scene of gayety, but how sad the heart that beats beneath this +boddice! How glad I was to escape from the company; loneliness in +the crowd is so sad a feeling." At that moment the door of her room +opened, and Alice came laughing in, her glowing face all bright and +careless. + +"Oh! Aunt Mary," she exclaimed, "do help me! I cannot unclasp my +necklace, and my patience has all oozed out at the tips of my +fingers. There! you have unfastened it already. Well! I believe I +never will be good for anything!" And Alice laughed as heartily, as +if the idea was charming. "When did you leave the parlours, Aunt +Mary? I never missed you at all. Father said you left early, when I +met him just now on the stairs." + +"I did leave early," replied Miss Clinton. "I chanced to feel like +being entirely alone, so I sought my own apartment." + +"Have you been reading, aunt? I should think you would feel lonely!" + +"I read very little," was the reply, in a sad tone. No remark was +made on her loneliness. + +"It seems so strange to me, Aunt Mary, that you are so fond of being +alone. I like company so much," said Alice, looking in her quiet +face. "But I must go," she added; she paused a moment, then pressed +an affectionate kiss upon her aunt's cheek, and whispered a soft +"good night." Miss Clinton cast both arms around her, and drew her +to her heart, with an eagerness that surprised Alice. Twice she +kissed her, then hastily released her as if her feeling had gone +forth before she was aware of it. Alice stood still before her a +moment, and her careless eyes took a deeply searching expression as +they dwelt upon the countenance before her. Something like sadness +passed over her face, and her voice was deeper in its tone, as she +repeated, "Good night, dear Aunt Mary!" With a slow step she left +the apartment, mentally contrasting her own position with that of +her aunt. Circumstances around her and the society with which she +mingled, tended to drown reflection, and call into play only the +brighter and gayer feelings, that flutter on the surface of our +being. She had never known the luxury of devoting an hour to genuine +meditation on the world within--or the great world without. The +earth was to her a garden of joy; she lived upon it only to enjoy +herself. Like many selfish people, Alice's mother made an idol of +her beautiful child, because she was a part of herself; and Mrs. +Clinton was not one to perform a mother's duty faithfully in +instilling right views of life into her daughter's mind. Thus, with +a depth of feeling, and rich gifts of mind, Alice fluttered on her +way like a light-winged butterfly, her soul's pure wells of tender +thought unknown to her. How many millions pass through a whole long +life, with the deepest and holiest secrets of their being still +unlocked by their heedless hands! How few see aught to live for, but +the outward sunshine of prosperity, which is an idle sunshine, +compared with the ever-strengthening light that may grow in the +spirit! How strong, how great, how beautiful may life be, when +smiled upon by our Creator! how weak, how abject, how trampled upon, +when turned away from his face! + +With better and more quiet emotions, Mary Clinton retired to rest. +"I can love others, if I am not beloved," she murmured, and the dove +of peace fluttered its white wing over her. Her resigned prayer was, +"Lord, into thy hands I commit my spirit." Tears of earnest humility +had washed away all bitterness from the wrung heart of that lovely +being. How beautiful was the angel smile that played over her face, +in her pure dreams! + +A few weeks after, Alice entered her aunt's apartment one drizzling, +damp, foggy, uncomfortable day. "Such miserable weather!" she +exclaimed, throwing herself idly into an arm-chair; "I believe I +have got the _blues_ for once in my life. I don't know what to do +with myself; it makes me perfectly melancholy to look out of the +window, and nothing in the house wears a cheerful aspect. Mother has +a headache; when I proposed reading to her, she very politely asked +me if I would not let her remain alone. She says I always want to +sing, read, or talk incessantly if she wishes to be quiet. I can't +ding on the piano, for it is heard from attic to basement. I don't +want to read alone, for I have such a desire to be sociable--now, +Aunt Mary, you have a catalogue of my troubles, can't you relieve +me, for I am really miserable, if I don't look so!" Alice broke into +a laugh, although it did not bubble right up from her merry heart as +usual. + +"If your attention was fully engaged, you would not mind the weather +so much," remarked Aunt Mary, with a quiet smile. "You are not in a +mood to enjoy a book just now, so what _will_ you do, my dear?" + +"Mend stockings, or turn my room upside down, and then arrange it +neatly," said Alice in a speculative tone. "There is nothing in the +house to interest me; there is Patty in the kitchen, I have just +been paying her a visit. She is as busy as a bee, and as happy as a +queen. I believe poor people are happier than the rich, in such +weather as this, at least." + +"Because they are useful, Alice; go busy yourself about some +physical labour for an hour or two, then come back to me, and I +predict your face will be as sunshiny as ever. I am in earnest--you +need not look so incredulous!" + +"What shall I do?" asked the young girl laughing. "I don't know how +to do a single thing in domestic matters. Mother says I shall never +work. It would spoil my fairy fingers, I presume, a terrible +consequence!" + +"But seriously Alice, you are not so entirely incapable of doing +anything, are you?" + +"I am positively, but I can learn if I choose. I believe I will +sweep my room and put it in order, as a beginning. That will be +something new: now I will try my best!" Alice sprang from her chair, +and tripped from the apartment quite pleased with the idea. A smile +broke over Miss Clinton's features, after her niece had left her +alone. "How easily Alice might be trained to better things, by love +and gentleness," she said half aloud. "Oh! if she would only love +me, and turn to me fondly. How I would delight to breathe a genial +prayer over the buds of promise in her youthful heart, and fan them +to warmer life." More than an hour flew by, as Mary Clinton sat in +thought, devising plans to awaken her favourite to a true sense of +her duties--to a knowledge of her capabilities for happiness and +usefulness. We may be useful with a heart full of sadness; but we +can rarely taste of happiness, unless we are desirous to benefit +some one besides ourselves. A quietness came over the lonely one as +she mused--a spirit of beautiful repose; for she forgot all thoughts +of her own enjoyment, in caring for another. + +"You are quite a physician, Aunt Mary, to a mind diseased," +exclaimed Alice, breaking her revery as she came in with a smiling +face, after the performance of her unaccustomed labour. "I am quite +in tune again now. I believe there is a little philosophy in being +busy occasionally, after all." + +"There is really," replied Miss Clinton, raising her deep blue eyes +to Alice's face, with their pleasant expression; "and there is also +philosophy in recreation--in abandoning yourself for a time to +innocent gayety. An hour of enjoyment is refreshing and beneficial." + +"Why, Aunt Mary!" said Alice in some surprise, "I had no idea that +you thought so. You are always so industrious and quiet, I imagined +you disapproved of the merriment of ordinary people. When we have a +large company you almost always retire early. Why do you do so, +aunt, may I ask you?" + +Mary Clinton was silent a moment, then she said gently, "When I +think I can add to the ease or enjoyment of any person present, I +take pleasure in staying; but when I feel that I am rather a +restraint than otherwise, I retire--to weep. You are yet young and +beautiful, my child, for you have never known such feelings. I am +too selfish, or I would not be sad so often; it is right that I +should pass through such a school of discipline. I hope it has +already made me better." The look of resignation that beamed from +Miss Clinton's tearful eyes, caused a chord in Alice's heart to +tremble with a strange blending of love, sweetness, and sorrow. + +"_You_ should be happy, if any one should, dear aunt," she said in a +low voice, and she partly averted her head, to conceal the tears +that started down her cheek. "I am happy so often," she resumed, +turning around and seating herself upon an ottoman at her aunt's +feet. "You deserve so much more than I--to be as good as you are, +Aunt Mary, I would almost change situations, for then I should be +sure of going to heaven." + +"You can be just as sure in your own position, as in that of any +other person. But, dear child, the more deeply we scan our hearts, +the more we see there to conquer, in order that we may become fit +companions for the angels." + +Alice remained thoughtful for some moments, then she folded her +hands over Aunt Mary's lap, and lifted her eyes to the loving face +that bent over her. "Be my guardian angel," she prayed tearfully, +"your love is so pure; a gentleness comes over me, when I am with +you. All tumultuous feelings sink down to repose. I have not known +you, Aunt Mary; you have shown me to-day how lovely goodness is. I +can feel it in your presence. Oh! to possess it! I fear it will be +long years before I grow so gentle in my spirit--so unselfish--so +like a child of Heaven!" + +"Hush, hush!" was Mary Clinton's gentle interruption. "You do not +know me yet, Alice. Perhaps I appear far better than I am." + +Alice smiled, and laying her arm around Aunt Mary's neck, drew down +her face, and kissed her affectionately, whispering, "You will be my +guide, I ask no better." + +"Thank you, thank you," broke from Aunt Mary's lips; she pressed +Alice's cheek with the ardent haste of love and gratitude; then +yielding to the emotions that thrilled her heart, she burst into +tears, and wept with a joy she had long been a stranger to. She felt +that her life would no longer be useless, if she could live for +Alice, and lift up to God her heart. How beautiful in its freshness, +is the early day when the light of a good resolve breaks like a halo +over the soul, and by its power, seeks to win it from its selfish +idols! Earnest and strong is the hopefulness that bids us labour +trustingly to become all we yearn to be--all we may be. How +tremblingly Mary Clinton leaned upon her Saviour! experience had +taught her the weakness of her fluttering heart; sorrow was +familiar, yet she prayed not to shrink from it. How clear and +vigorous was the mind of Alice--how shadowless was her unerring path +to be--how all weakness departed before the sudden thought that rose +up in her soul! How rich was the light that beamed from her steady +eye--how calm and trusting the slight smile that parted her lips! +How meek and confiding she was, and yet how full of strength! She +was a young seeker after truth, and she realized not yet, that that +same truth was the power to which she must bow every rebellious +thing within her. Months rolled on, and the quiet gladness in her +heart made it a delight to her to do anything and everything it +seemed her duty to do. The unexplored world within opened to her +gaze, and threw a glory upon creation. Infinitely priceless in her +eyes, were the thousand hearts around her, in which the Lord had +kindled the undying lamp of life. + +One evening, at rather a late hour, Alice Clinton sought the chamber +of her aunt and seated herself quietly beside her, saying in a +subdued voice as she took her hand, "I am inexpressibly sad +to-night, Aunt Mary. There is no very particular reason why I should +feel so; no one can soothe me but you. Put your arms around me, Aunt +Mary, and talk to me--give me some strength to go forward in the way +I have chosen. I almost despair--I have no good influence, no moral +courage. Perhaps, after all, my efforts have been in vain to become +better, and I shall sink back into my former state. If all who are +my friends were like you, it would be an easy thing to glide on with +the stream. But I am in the midst of peril--I never knew until +to-night that it was hard to speak with a cold rigour to our friends +when they merit it. If I were despised, or neglected, I could more +easily fix my thoughts on heaven. I dread so to hurt the feelings of +any one." + +"What do you refer to, dear?" inquired Aunt Mary, tenderly. + +"My friend Eleanor Temple, and her brother Theodore, have been +spending the evening with me. You know how gay and witty they are. +In answer to a remark of mine, Theodore gravely quoted a passage of +Scripture, which applied to my observation in an irresistibly +ludicrous manner. I yielded to a hearty laugh which I could not +restrain; it came so suddenly I had no time for thought. But in a +moment after my conscience smote me, and I felt that my respect for +Theodore had lessened. I had no right to rebuke him, even if I had +the moral courage, for my laughter was encouragement. I turned away +from him and spoke to Eleanor; I was displeased with myself, and I +felt a sort of inward repugnance to him. But that was not the end; +several times afterwards Theodore did the same thing. + +"'There are subjects which are not fit food for merriment;' I said +once in an embarrassed manner. 'If I do wrong, it is not +deliberately done.' Theodore was silent a moment, and he looked at +me as if he hardly knew how to understand me--then smiling, he +turned the conversation, and was as gay as ever. When they had taken +their leave, I entered the parlour again, and threw myself in a seat +by the open window. I turned the blind, and looked out after them. +Eleanor had caught the fringe of her mantilla in the railing of the +area. I was about to speak with her on the little accident, when +Theodore laughed, and said to his sister, 'Alice is as fond of +taking characters, as an actress. She attempted to reprove me, for +the very thing she had laughed at a little while before. Rather +inconsistent in our favourite, Nelly, don't you think so?' Eleanor +laughed, and said good-naturedly, 'Alice is impulsive, she don't +measure what she says, before it comes out.' + +"I rose, and left the window. I felt sad, and peculiarly discomposed +and dissatisfied with myself. I knew that I had tried to do right in +some degree, and it grated on my feelings that my effort should be +called 'a taking of character.' Oh! if I could only live with good +people altogether, who would bear with me, and trust my motives! You +have my story, Aunt Mary, it amounts to nothing, but I am so sad." + +"Life is made up of trifles," said Miss Clinton. "Few circumstances +are so trivial that we may not draw a lesson from them. Do not feel +sad, Alice, because you are misunderstood. Do not repine on account +of your position; no one could fill it but yourself, or you would +not be placed in it. Be resigned to meet those who call out +unpleasant feelings; they teach you better your own nature than ever +the angels could. They bring forth what is evil in you, that it may +be conquered. Do not understand me to mean that you should ever seek +those who may harm you. But a day can hardly pass over our heads, +that we do not meet with persons who ruffle that harmony of soul we +so labour after. It is keenly felt when one is as young in a better +life as you are. You need strength, and then you will be calm and +even. Time, patience, combating, prayer, good-will to man, must +bring your soul to order, then you will bear upon the spirits of +others with a still, purifying power which will soothe and soften +like far-off music. You have it in your power to do much good; your +Creator has blessed you with that inexpressible sympathy which may +glide gently into another human heart and open its secret springs +almost unconsciously to the possessor. I have watched you, child of +my love, and perhaps I know you better than you know yourself. There +are many latent germs within your being; Oh! Alice, pray God to +expand them to heavenly life. Bear on--and live for something worthy +a creature God has made." Mary Clinton paused in an unusual emotion; +her cheek glowed deeply, and the burning softness of her eyes +chained Alice's look as with a spell, to their angel expression. The +heart of the young girl throbbed almost to bursting, with the world +of undeveloped feeling that rushed over her. It was a moment which +many have experienced--a moment which breaks over the young for the +first time with such a thrill--she realized that God had gifted her +with power--with a soul that might and _must_ have its influence. +Bowing her head upon Aunt Mary's knee, she wept; and a flood of joy, +humility, and thanksgiving came over her, as she more deeply +dedicated herself to the holy Lord, and laid her gifts upon His +altar. Aunt Mary's words sunk peacefully into her soul, and a clear +light irradiated it and filled it with a calmness that made all +things right. With a look of irrepressible tenderness, and a voice +full of low music, Alice said to Aunt Mary, as she rose to retire, +"You have charmed away every discordant note that was touched +to-night, dear aunt. How unaccountable are our sudden changes of +mood! You have now thrown over me your own spirit of peaceful repose +and contentment. Good-night, and think you!" + +"Well, I am content, entirely content," soliloquized Mary Clinton, +when the loved form of the child of her heart had disappeared. "To +try to bless another, how richly does the blessing fall back upon my +own soul! Yes! I have my joys. Why am I ever so ungrateful as to +murmur at aught that befalls me? I am blest--a sunshine is breaking +over the tender earth for me; all clouds are gone." With feelings +much changed from what they were a few months previous, Mary Clinton +sought the window, and with loving and devoted eyes dwelt upon the +night and stillness of the heavens--so boundless and so pure. The +moon was full; near it was one bright cloud of silver drapery, upon +the edge of which rested a single star. "So shall it be with me," +she murmured, "be the clouds that float over the heavens of my soul +bright or dark, the star of holy trust shall linger near, ever +bringing to my bosom--peace." + +About two years after, on a winter evening, there was a large +company assembled at Mr. Clinton's dwelling. It was in compliment to +Alice, for that day completed her twentieth year. As she moved from +one spot to another, her sweet face radiant with happiness, Aunt +Mary's eyes followed her with a devoted expression, which betrayed +that the lovely being was her dearest earthly treasure. The merry +girl was now a glad-hearted, but thoughtful woman. An innocent +mirthfulness lingered around her, which time itself would never +subdue, except for a brief season, when her sweet laugh broke out +with a natural, rich suddenness; there was a catching joy in it, +that could not be withstood. She was the gentle hostess to +perfection; with tact enough to discover congenial spirits, and +bring them together, finding her own pleasure in the cheerful home +thus made. She possessed the rare but happy art of making every body +feel perfectly at home, one knew not why. For a moment, Alice stood +alone with her little hand resting upon the centre-table. Behind +her, two rather fashionable young men were talking and laughing +somewhat too loud, and jesting upon sacred things. A look of pain +passed over the face of the fair listener as she slowly turned +round, and said in a low but earnest tone, "Don't, Theodore! Excuse +me, but _such_ trifling pains me." The young gentlemen both appeared +mortified. "Pardon me! Alice," exclaimed Theodore Temple, "I will +try to break that habit for your sake. I was not aware that it +pained you so much--a lady's word is law!" and he bowed gallantly. + +"No, no! Base your giving up of the habit upon principle, then it +will be permanent. Much obliged for the compliment"--Alice bowed +with assumed dignity, and her sweet face dimpled into a playful +smile, "but I have no faith in these pretty speeches. Remember, now, +I have your promise to try to break the habit; you will forfeit your +word if you do not; so you see your position, don't you?" Thus +saying, and without waiting for a reply, the young lady left them. + +"I believe Miss Clinton is right, after all," remarked Temple's +companion. "What is the use of jesting on such subjects? We never +feel any better after it, and we subject ourselves to the +displeasure of those who respect these things. I pass my word to +give it up, if you will, Temple." + +"Agreed!" was Theodore's brief answer. Without saying how mingled +the motive might have been, which induced the young men to forsake +the habit, they _did_ forsake it permanently. Aunt Mary's lonely +life was at last smiled upon by a sunbeam--and that sunbeam was the +soul of Alice, which she had turned to the light. For that cherished +being Mary Clinton could have offered up her life, and there would +have been a joy in the sacrifice. Strongly and nobly were their +hearts knit together--beautiful is the devotedness of holy, +unselfish love! Blest are two frank hearts, which may be opened to +each other, pouring out like lava the tide of feeling hoarded in the +inward soul--such revelations are for moments when the yearning +heart will not be hushed to calmness. But "there is a moonlight in +human life," and there is also a blessing in that subdued hour which +whispers wearily to the loving one, of weaknesses and sins, with a +prayer for consoling strength to triumph yet, leaving them in the +dust. Thus was it with Mary and Alice Clinton; their souls were open +as the day to each other. They travelled along life's pathway with +earnest purpose, fulfilling the many and changing duties that fell +upon them, ever catching rich gleams of joy from above. And sorrows +came too! but they purified, and taught the slumbering soul its +rarest wealth--its deepest sympathies with all things good and +heavenly. It seemed a slight thing that took away the desolation +from the heart of Mary Clinton--she turned away from _self_, and +devoted her efforts to the eternal happiness of another. Is there +one human being in the wide world so desolate, that he may not do +likewise? Only a mite may be cast in, but God has made none of his +children so poor, as to be without an influence. The humblest +effort, if it is all that _can_ be made, is as full of greatness at +the core, as the most ostentatious display. + + + + +THE DEAD. + + +IT is strange what a change is wrought in one hour by death. The +moment our friend is gone from us for ever, what sacredness invests +him! Everything he ever said or did seems to return to us clothed in +new significance. A thousand yearnings rise, of things we would fain +say to him--of questions unanswered, and now unanswerable. All he +wore or touched, or looked upon familiarly, becomes sacred as +relics. Yesterday these were homely articles, to be tossed to and +fro, handled lightly, given away thoughtlessly--to-day we touch them +softly, our tears drop on them; death has laid his hand on them, and +they have become holy in our eyes. Those are sad hours when one has +passed from our doors never to return, and we go back to set the +place in order. There the room, so familiar, the homely belongings +of their daily life, each one seems to say to us in its turn, +"Neither shall their place know them any more." Clear the shelf now +of vials and cups, and prescriptions; open the windows; step no more +carefully; there is no one now to be cared for--no one to be +nursed--no one to be awakened. + +Ah! why does this bring a secret pang with it when we know that they +are where none shall any more say, "I am sick!" Could only one +flutter of their immortal garments be visible in such moments; could +their face, glorious with the light of heaven, once smile on the +deserted room, it might be better. One needs to lose friends to +understand one's self truly. The death of a friend teaches things +within that we never knew before. We may have expected it, prepared +for it, it may have been hourly expected for weeks; yet when it +comes, it falls on us suddenly, and reveals in us emotions we could +not dream. The opening of those heavenly gate for them startles and +flutters our souls with strange mysterious thrills, unfelt before. +The glimpse of glories, the sweep of voices, all startle and dazzle +us, and the soul for many a day aches and longs with untold +longings. + +We divide among ourselves the possessions of our lost ones. Each +well-known thing comes to us with an almost supernatural power. The +book we once read with them, the old Bible, the familiar hymn; then +perhaps little pet articles of fancy, made dear to them by some +peculiar taste, the picture, the vase!--how costly are they now in +our eyes. + +We value them not for their beauty or worth, but for the frequency +with which we have seen them touched or used by them; and our eye +runs over the collection, and perhaps lights most lovingly on the +homeliest thing which may have been oftenest touched or worn by +them. + +It is a touching ceremony to divide among a circle of friends the +memorials of the lost. Each one comes inscribed--"_no more_;" and +yet each one, too, is a pledge of reunion. But there are invisible +relics of our lost ones more precious than the book, the pictures, +or the vase. Let us treasure them in our hearts. Let us bind to our +hearts the patience which they will never need again; the fortitude +in suffering which belonged only to this suffering state. Let us +take from their dying hand that submission under affliction which +they shall need no more in a world where affliction is unknown. Let +us collect in our thoughts all those cheerful and hopeful sayings +which they threw out from time to time as they walked with us, and +string them as a rosary to be daily counted over. Let us test our +own daily life by what must be their now perfected estimate; and as +they once walked with us on earth, let us walk with them in heaven. + +We may learn at the grave of our lost ones how to live with the +living. It is a fearful thing to live so carelessly as we often do +with those dearest to us, who may at any moment be gone for ever. +The life we are living, the words we are now saying, will all be +lived over in memory over some future grave. One remarks that the +death of a child often makes parents tender and indulgent! Ah, it is +a lesson learned of bitter sorrow! If we would know how to measure +our work to living friends, let us see how we feel towards the dead. +If we have been neglectful, if we have spoken hasty and unkind +words, on which death has put his inevitable seal, what an anguish +is that! But our living friends may, ere we know, pass from us; we +may be to-day talking with those whose names to-morrow are to be +written among the dead; the familiar household object of to-day may +become sacred relics to-morrow. Let us walk softly; let us forbear +and love; none ever repented of too much love to a departed friend; +none ever regretted too much tenderness and indulgence, but many a +tear has been shed for too much harshness and severity. Let our +friends in heaven then teach us how to treat our friends on earth. +Thus by no vain fruitless sorrow, but by a deeper self-knowledge, a +tenderer and more sacred estimate of life, may our heavenly friends +prove to us ministering spirits. + +The triumphant apostle says to the Christian, "All things are +yours--Life and Death." Let us not lose either; let us make _Death_ +our own; in a richer, deeper, and more solemn earnestness of life. +So those souls which have gone from our ark, and seemed lost over +the gloomy ocean of the unknown, shall return to us, bearing the +olive-leaves of Paradise. + + + + +DO YOU SUFFER MORE THAN YOUR NEIGHBOUR? + + +"WHOSE sorrow is like unto my sorrow?" + +Such is the language of the stricken soul, such the outbreak of +feeling, when affliction darkens the horizon of man's sunny hopes, +and dashes the full cup of blessings suddenly from the expectant +lips. + +"Console me not; you have not felt this pang," cries the spirit in +agony, to the kind friend who is striving to pour the balm of +consolation in the wounded heart. + +"But I have known worse," is the reply. + +"Worse! never, never; no one could suffer more keenly than I now do, +and live." + +In vain the friend reasons; sorrow is always more or less selfish; +it absorbs all other passions; it consecrates itself to tears and +lamentations, and the bereaved one feels alone; utterly alone in the +world, and of all mankind the most forsaken. Every heart knoweth its +own bitterness, and there is a canker spot on every human plant in +God's garden. Some are blighted and withered, ready to fall from the +stalk; others are blooming while a blight is at the root. + +What right have you to say, because you droop and languish, that +your neighbour, with a fair exterior and upright mien, is all that +his appearance indicates? What evidence have you that because you +suffer from want, and your neighbour rides in his carriage, that he +is, therefore, more abundantly blessed, more contentedly happy than +you? + +As you walk through the streets of costly and beautiful mansions, +you feel vaguely, that, associated with so much of beauty, of +magnificence and ease, there must be absolute content, enviable +freedom, unmixed pleasure, and constant happiness. How deplorably +mistaken. Here, where gold and crimson drape the windows, is mortal +sickness; there, where the heavy shutters fold over the rich plate +glass, lies shrouded death. Here, is blasted reputation, there, is +an untold and hideous grief. Here, is blighted love, striving to +look and be brave, but with a bosom corroded and full of bitterness; +there the sad conduct of a wayward child. Here is the terrible +neglect of an unkind and perhaps idolized husband; there the wilful +and repeated faults of an unfaithful wife. Here is dread of +bankruptcy, there dread of dishonour or exposure. Here is bitter +hatred, lacking only the nerve to prove another Cain. There silent +and hidden disease, working its skilful fangs about the heart, while +it paints the cheek with the very hue of health. Here is undying +remorse in the breast of one who has wronged the widow and the +fatherless; there the suffering being the victim of foul slander; +here is imbecility, there smothered revenge. The bride and the +belle, both so seemingly blessed, have each their sacred but +poignant sorrow. + +Have you a worse grief than your neighbour? You think you have; you +have buried your only child--he has laid seven in the tomb. Seven +times has his heart been rent open; and the wounds are yet fresh; he +has no hope to sustain him; he is a miserable man, and you are a +Christian. + +Have you more trouble than your neighbour? You have lost your +all--no, no, say not so; your neighbour has lost houses and lands, +but his health has gone also; and while you are robust, he lies on +the uneasy pillow of sickness, and watches some faithful menial +prepare his scanty meal, and then waits till a trusty hand bears the +food to his parched lips. + +Do you suffer more than your neighbour? True; Saturday night tests +your poverty; you have but money enough for the bare necessaries of +life; your children dress meagerly, and your house is scantily +furnished; you do not know whether or not work will be forthcoming +the following week. Your neighbour sees not, nor did he ever see, +want. House, wife and children are sumptuously provided for; his +barn is a palace to your kitchen. Step into his parlour and look at +him for a moment; papers surround him, blazing Lehigh floods the +grate, velvet carpets yield to the step; luxurious chairs invite to +rest--check the sigh of envy; there is a ring at the bell--hurrying +footsteps on the stairs--a jarring sound against the polished door, +and in bursts the rich man's son, his brow haggard, his eyes fierce +and red. He is a notorious profligate; gambling is his food and +drink, debauchery his glory and his ruin. Would you be that father? +Go back to your honest sons and look in their faces; throw the +bright locks from their brows, and bless God that there the angel +triumphs over the brute; be even thankful that you are not burdened +with corrupt gold, for their sakes; say not again that you suffer +more than your neighbour. + +Do you toil, young girl, from daylight to midnight, while the little +sums eked out with frowns and reluctant fingers, hardly suffice to +provide for you food and raiment? And the wife of your rich +employer, who passes stranger-like by you, may sit at her marble +toilet-table for hours, and retouch the faded brow of beauty before +a gilded mirror; may lounge at her palace window till she is weary +of gazing, and being gazed at; do you envy your wealthier neighbour, +young sewing-girl? Go to her boudoir, where pictures and statuary, +silken hangings and perfumes delight every sense, and where costly +robes are flung around with a profusion that betokens lavish +expenditure; ask her which she deems happiest, and she will point +her jewelled finger towards you, and--if she speaks with +candour--tell you that for your single soul and free spirits, she +would barter all her riches. The opera, where night after night the +wealth of glorious voices is flung upon the air till its every +vibration is melody, and the spirit drinks it in as it would the +incense of rare flowers, is to her not so exquisite a luxury as the +choice songs, warbled in a concert room, to which you may listen but +few times in the year; such pleasure palls in repetition, on the +common mind, for nature's favourites are among the poor, and gold, +with all its magical power, can never attune the ear to music, nor +the taste to an appreciation of that which is truly beautiful in +nature or art. Keep then your integrity, and you never need envy the +wife of your employer. A round of heartless dissipation has sickened +her of humanity; and if it were not for the excitement of outshining +her compeers in the ranks of fashion, she would lay down her useless +life to-morrow. + +Mothers, worn out and enfeebled with work, labouring for those who, +however good they may be, are at the best unable to pay you for you +unceasing toil, unable to realize your great sacrifices, do you look +upon your neighbour who has more means and a few petted children, +and wish that your lot was like hers? You pause often over your +task, and think it greater than you can bear. + +"Tell mothers," said a lady to us a short time since, "who have +their little ones around them, that they are living their happiest +days; and the time will come when they will realize it. Tell them to +bend in thankfulness over the midnight lamp, to smile at their +ceaseless work and call it pleasure. I can but kneel in fancy by the +distant graves of my children; they are all gone. Could I but have +them beside me now, I would delve like a slave for them; I would +think no burden too hard, no denial beyond my strength, if I might +but labour for their good and be rewarded by their smiles and their +love." + +Then in whatever situation we are, we should remember that even but +a door from our own dwelling there may be anguish, compared with +which ours is but as the whisper of a breath to the roll of the +thunder. We do not say then, let us _console_ ourselves by the +reflection that there are always those in the world who suffer +keener afflictions than ourselves, "but let us feel that though our +cup of sorrow may be almost full, there might be added many a drop +of bitterness;" and never, never should we breathe the expression, +"there is no sorrow like unto mine." + + + + +WE ARE LED BY A WAY THAT WE KNOW NOT. + + +WE are to consider the facts and circumstances which confirm the +doctrine that the Lord's providence is at once universal and +particular; and indeed that he leads us by a way unknown to +ourselves. + +And who that has reflected upon his own life, or upon the life of +others, or upon the current events of the day, will not bear witness +to the universal application of this principle? + +Look to the affairs of the world, to the nations and governments of +all the earth, and tell me, where is anything turning out according +to the forethought and prudence of man? + +Look to the movements of our own country, and say whether human +prudence ever devised what we behold? What party or what individuals +have ever, in the long run, brought things about as they expected? +And how is it in our own city, and under our own eyes? + +In the societies of the church, and in organizations for church +extension, the same rule applies. And I might ask, where does it not +apply? I might give examples. But this is unnecessary, when they are +so numerous, and so fresh in the memory of every one. + +But when we turn to the experience of individuals, we meet with the +most unlimited application of our subject. The life of every one is +a standing memento of its truth. For who is there, that has come to +his present stand-point in life, by the route that he had marked out +for himself? I will imagine that ten, fifteen, or twenty years ago +each one of you fixed on your plan of life, for a longer or shorter +period. It matters not what the original plan was. It matters not +what prudence, sagacity, and forethought were employed in making it. +It matters not how much money and power have come to the support of +it. Still its parts have never been filled up as you originally +sketched them. + +Many particulars were altered and amended, from day to day, as you +went along. Some things were abandoned as useless; some as hopeless; +some as impossible; some as injurious; some things were neglected, +and others forgotten. An unknown hand now and then interposed, +turning the tables entirely. An unaccountable influence was found +operating on certain individuals, changing their tone, and modifying +their conduct. An unknown individual has come alongside of you, and +has become your friend. He has mingled his emotions and his plans +with yours. You have modified your plans. He has changed his. +Business and commerce have taken an unexpected turn. You are the +gainer or the loser, it matters not; your plans are changed by the +event. An intimate friend has left you and become your open enemy; +an open enemy has been reconciled and has returned to the affection +and confidence of your heart. Your plans in life have to be changed +to suit such events as these. Several friends and relatives, that +were near to you, have been removed into the spiritual world. It may +be that by such providences, your feelings, thoughts, and actions +have been changed--changed utterly and for ever. Darkness of mind, +gloominess of life, and anguish of spirit may have come upon you, by +some such unexpected providence, and thus your plans may have been +changed, or even utterly abandoned. + +But beyond matters of this description, which are somewhat external, +and as we say accidental, and certainly incidental, to a life in +this world, and in all of which we are led in a way that we know +not; there are unexpected changes of another kind, that we all have +experienced. I now refer to changes in the inner man, and in the +inner life. + +For there is a Divinity within us that shapes our ends, and while +the things of the outward life remain much the same, we experience +changes of the inner life, that are at times amazing and terrible. +They come like the swelling of the tide, and like the beating of the +waves rolling on from a distant ocean; the deep emotions of the soul +arise and swell and sweep away; the fire of thought is kindled; the +imagination paints the canvas; the tongue stands ready to utter the +influx of love and wisdom; and the hand to illustrate it. + +As these internal states of the soul change, by conjunction with the +Lord and communion with Heaven, on the one hand; or by opposition to +God and alliance with Hell, on the other, we see all things of the +outward world in a different light. + +The changes of our internal man are, to appearance, much more +directly of the Lord's Divine Providence, than the events of the +outward life. Nevertheless, the two are so related by the +constitution of the mind, that each individual determines, in +rationality and freedom, which of the emotions and thoughts of the +_inner life_, he will bring forth into _ultimate acts_; and it is +here that the man may ally himself with the good and the true on one +hand, or with the evil and the false on the other; and in this +manner determine his destiny for heaven or hell. + +The practical bearings of our subjects hinge chiefly on this; we are +to confide in the Lord; lean upon his great arm; and look to Him, +with the assurance that although He leads us by a way that we know +not, nevertheless He is leading us aright; and if we trust to Him, +and do His will, He will finally bring us to heaven. + +Casting our eyes from one extreme of the Lord's vast dominions to +the other, we find the same Divine Providence everywhere operating +and operative. The angels of heaven, from the highest to the lowest, +are continually led by the Lord in paths that they have not known; +darkness is made light before them, and crooked things straight. +Nevertheless they are not led into infinite good nor infinite +delight. For this would be impossible. But constantly they are led +into a higher degree of good than they would naturally choose; and +they are defended from evil into which they would naturally subside. +So also it is with us. + +Hence we may rest assured, that however meagre may be the good we +experience, it is vaster by far than we should inherit, if we had +been permitted to carry out our own plans and to have our own way in +those numerous particulars in which we have been frustrated in our +plans and disappointed in our hopes. + + + + +THE IVY IN THE DUNGEON. + + + THE ivy in a dungeon grew, + Unfed by rain, uncheered by dew; + Its pallid leaflets only drank + Cave-moistures foul, and odours dank. + + But through the dungeon-grating high + There fell a sunbeam from the sky; + It slept upon the grateful floor + In silent gladness evermore. + + The ivy felt a tremor shoot + Through all its fibres to the root; + It felt the light, it saw the ray, + It strove to blossom into day. + + It grew, it crept, it pushed, it clomb-- + Long had the darkness been its home; + But well it knew, though veiled in night, + The goodness and the joy of light. + + Its clinging roots grew deep and strong; + Its stem expanded firm and long; + And in the currents of the air + Its tender branches flourished fair. + + It reached the beam--it thrilled--it curled-- + It blessed the warmth that cheers the world; + It rose towards the dungeon bars-- + It looked upon the sun and stars. + + It felt the life of bursting Spring, + It heard the happy sky-lark sing. + It caught the breath of morns and eves, + And wooed the swallow to its leaves. + + By rains, and dews, and sunshine fed, + Over the outer wall it spread; + And in the day-beam waving free, + It grew into a steadfast tree. + + Upon that solitary place, + Its verdure threw adorning grace. + The mating birds became its guests, + And sang its praises from their nests. + + Wouldst know the moral of the rhyme? + Behold the heavenly light! and climb. + To every dungeon comes a ray + Of God's interminable day. + + + + +THE GARDEN OF EDEN. + + +ONE day little Alice hung about her mother's neck covering her +cheeks with kisses, and saying in her pretty, childish way, + +"I love you, you nice, sweet mother! You are good--so good!" But her +mother answered earnestly, + +"Dear child, God is good; if I have any good it is from Him; He has +given it to me; it is not mine." + +Then the little one unclasped her caressing arms, and putting back +her hair with both hands gazed with a look of surprise into her +mother's face. + +Presently she said--"But if He has given it to you, it is yours." + +"No, darling," replied the lady, "you do not quite understand. +Listen. Suppose your dear father had a great garden full of all most +beautiful things that ever grew in gardens, and he should say to +you--'Come and live in my garden; you shall have as much ground as +you are able to cultivate, and I will give you seeds of all fruits +and flowers you love best, as many as you want. Here no evil thing +can ever come to harm you, but every day you will grow happier and +stronger, and then I will give you more ground and more seeds, and +you shall live with me for ever!' Suppose you were so glad to hear +this that you lost no time, but went in, at once, and began to plant +the seeds in your little plot, close by the gate--you know it would +be a tiny little plot at first, because you are small and weak; and +soon your flowers were to grow up and bloom, so tall, and so +beautiful, and your trees hang heavy with such delightful fruit that +every one passing by would exclaim, + +"'Oh, what a beautiful garden! Are these flowers and fruit trees +yours?' + +"Would you not say-- + +"Oh, no! they are not mine; they are all my father's. This is his +beautiful garden, but he said if I were willing I might stay here +always, and I have come to live with him because he is good. Nothing +at all here belongs to me, though my father likes me to give away +the fruits and flowers that grow in my plot to all who ask for them. +I am a great deal happier, all the time, when I think that even the +wild flowers in this grass, and the small berries, and the little +birds that eat them, belong to him, than I could be if they were +mine, and I had no one to love for them.' + +"Should you not feel, dearest, as though you were telling a wicked +story, and almost as though you were stealing something, if you +said, 'Yes, they are all mine,' so that the people would not even +know you had a father?" + +"Oh, yes! that would be very naughty indeed. I would give the people +some of the fruit and flowers, and say they grew on my father's +trees, and then they would love him too; but tell me more about the +garden." + +"I will tell you all I think you can understand, and you must be +attentive, for I want you to remember it all your life. Did you ever +hear of the Garden of Eden?" + +"Yes; that is where Adam and Eve lived." + +"Well, that's the beautiful garden I've been telling you about, and +God is your good father. You can begin your journey there this very +day if you like." + +"Is it a very long journey?--and will you go with me? Is there +really, _really_ such a garden? Oh, tell me where it is!" + +"I desire nothing in the world so much as to lead you there, but the +path is rough and steep; I cannot carry you in my arms along that +road; you must walk on your own little feet, and I am afraid they +will sometimes get--very tired." + +"You know, mother, I never do get tired when I am going to a +pleasant place; but, oh, dear! I do believe now it is all a +dream-story; you smiled and kissed me just as if it were." + +"No, you need not look so disappointed, little one, for though it is +something like a 'dream-story,' there is nothing in the world half +so true and real. Think in that little head of yours, and tell me +what seems to you most like this beautiful garden." + +"I cannot think of anything at all like it, except heaven.--Oh, +yes!--that is it! Heaven, is it not?" + +"And what is heaven?" + +"The place where good people go when they die." + +"Think again. What is heaven?" + +"I have thought again, and I cannot think of anything but the place +where God and the angels are. I do not know how you want me to +think." + +"I want you to think why it is heaven, and why the angels are happy. +Do you understand?" + +"Yes. Being beautiful and so pleasant makes it heaven; and the +angels are happy because they are in heaven." + +"Then, of course, if you put even such wicked people into a +beautiful and pleasant place they would be angels, and happy?" + +"Oh, now I see! You mean the angels are happy because they are +good." + +"Why should that make them happy?" + +"I don't know why, but I know the Bible says so. I suppose just the +same as when you promise me, in the morning, that if I say my +lessons all nicely you will tell me a beautiful fairy-tale after +tea." + +"No, my little Alice, not exactly in that way, though at first +thought it does seem to be so. I want you very much indeed, to +understand the truth about it, but I am afraid you will not find it +easy. You know that God is good, and wise, and happy--ah, dearest! +better, wiser, happier than the purest angels will ever know, though +they go on learning it to eternity. When I say to you God is +infinitely good, and wise, and happy, you cannot understand that, +and neither can I; but one thing about it I can understand, and this +I will tell you. Just as every joyous ray of light and heat comes to +us from the sun, so all wisdom, all goodness, all beauty, all joy, +flow forth from God, and are His, alone. Our very souls would go out +of existence like the flames of a lamp when the oil is spent, if, +for the least fraction of a second, He ceased to give us life. This +truth that I am teaching you now is not mine, nor yours; it is only +a tiny stream flowing from the fountains of His infinite wisdom, and +would be the truth, all the same, if we had never been born, or +never learned to see it. The good and joyous feelings in your heart, +too, are also from God, just as the truth is, though they seem to +you more as if they were your own. You must never think of them as +your own, never; but thank God for them very gratefully and humbly, +for they are His fruits that grow in the garden of your father, the +Garden of Eden." + +"Why do you call it the Garden of Eden?" + +"Because, by the Garden of Eden, is signified the state of those who +live in obedience to God; and by the beauty and pleasantness of the +garden we are taught that, when we receive goodness and truth from +God, we, at the same time, receive happiness from Him, because He is +infinitely happy, as well as infinitely good, and when His spirit +fills our hearts, we are happy too. Happiness comes with goodness, +just as the flowers and songs of birds come with summer." + +"Then are all good people happy? I thought not." + +"It is true, there are many trials in this world, but do you not see +that if we were good we should acknowledge that God sent them as +blessings, and should be willing to accept them from him, and +should, therefore, not be made very unhappy by them. You may be sure +that people are really, in their heart of hearts, happy exactly in +proportion as they are good. I have known persons who had suffered a +great deal in many ways, and who yet said that nothing had been so +bitter to them as the consciousness of their own sins. Good people +see a thousand things to love and enjoy which the wicked world find +no pleasure in; they are sure to make friends, and, what is far +better, sure to love and do good to all about them. They take +delight in everything beautiful that God has created. They think of +Him, and all His goodness, and, in the midst of sorrow, their hearts +are comforted, and filled with heavenly peace." + +"Why did you say the road was rough and long to that beautiful +garden?--is it so very, very hard to be good?--and does it take so +very long?" + +"You must not feel sad because it is not easy to be good; you must +think of it bravely, and joyfully. Why, my Alice! did you not say +you never felt tired when you were going to a pleasant place? It is +not always easy to do right; sometimes we are sorely tempted, and +then it seems very difficult; but what of that? It is possible, +always, for God never requires of us what we cannot do. When you +feel discouraged, remember that angels in heaven were little +children once, and that some of them found it as hard as you do to +be good and true, but they tried over and over again, and are +blessed angels now. They love to acknowledge that it was not by +their own strength they overcame evil, but that all the good and +truth and happiness they have are from God. He does not love you +less than He did them, for His love is infinite to all His children, +and if you are willing He will lead you also into His Garden of +Eden." + + + + +HAVE A FLOWER IN YOUR ROOM. + + +A FIRE in winter, a flower in summer! If you can have a fine print +or picture all the year round, so much the better; you will thus +always have a bit of sunshine in your room, whether the sky be clear +or not. But, above all, a flower in summer! + +Most people have yet to learn the true enjoyment of life; it is not +fine dresses, or large houses, or elegant furniture, or rich wines, +or gay parties, that make homes happy. Really, wealth cannot +purchase pleasures of the higher sort; these depend not on money, or +money's worth; it is the heart, and taste, and intellect, which +determine the happiness of men; which give the seeing eye and the +sentient nature, and without which, man is little better than a kind +of walking clothes-horse. + +A snug and a clean home, no matter how tiny it be, so that it be +wholesome; windows, into which the sun can shine cheerily; a few +good books (and who need be without a few good books in these days +of universal cheapness?)--no duns at the door, and the cupboard well +supplied, and with a flower in your room!--and there is none so poor +as not to have about him the elements of pleasure. + +Hark! there is a child passing our window calling "wallflowers!" We +must have a bunch forthwith: it is only a penny! A shower has just +fallen, the pearly drops are still hanging upon the petals, and they +sparkle in the sun which has again come out in his beauty. + +How deliciously the flower smells of country and nature! It is like +summer coming into our room to greet us. The wallflowers are from +Kent, and only last night were looking up to the stars from their +native stems; they are full of buds yet, with their promise of fresh +beauty. "Betty! bring a glass of clear water to put these flowers +in!" and so we set to, arranging and displaying our pennyworth to +the best advantage. + +But what do you say to a nosegay of roses? Here you have a specimen +of the most beautiful of the smiles of Nature! Who, that looks on +one of these bright full-blown beauties, will say that she is sad, +or sour, or puritanical! Nature tells us to be happy, to be glad, +for she decks herself with roses, and the fields, the skies, the +hedgerows, the thickets, the green lanes, the dells, the mountains, +the morning and evening sky, are robed in loveliness. The "laughing +flowers," exclaims the poet! but there is more than gayety in the +blooming flower, though it takes a wise man to see its full +significance--there is the beauty, the love, and the adaptation, of +which it is full. Few of us, however, see any more deeply in this +respect than did Peter Bell:-- + + "A primrose by a river's brim, + A yellow primrose was to him, + And it was nothing more." + +What would we think or say of one who had invented +flowers--supposing, that before him, flowers were things unknown; +would it not be the paradise of a new delight? should we not hail +the inventor as a genius as a god? And yet these lovely offsprings +of the earth have been speaking to man from the first dawn of his +existence till now, telling him of the goodness and wisdom of the +Creating Power, which bade the earth bring forth, not only that +which was useful as food, but also flowers, the bright consummate +flowers, to clothe it in beauty and joy! + +See that graceful fuchsia, its blood-red petals, and calyx of +bluish-purple, more exquisite in colour and form than any hand or +eyes, no matter how well skilled and trained, can imitate! We can +manufacture no colours to equal those of our flowers in their bright +brilliancy--such, for instance, as the Scarlet Lychnis, the +Browallia, or even the Common Poppy. Then see the exquisite blue of +the humble Speedwell, and the dazzling white of the Star of +Bethlehem, that shines even in the dark. Bring one of even our +common field-flowers into a room, place it on your table or chimney +piece, and you seem to have brought a ray of sunshine into the +place. There is ever cheerfulness about flowers; what a delight are +they to the drooping invalid! the very sight of them is cheering; +they are like a sweet draught of fresh bliss, coming as messengers +from the country without, and seeming to say:--"Come and see the +place where we grow, and let thy heart be glad in our presence." + +What can be more innocent than flowers! Are they not like children +undimmed by sin? They are emblems of purity and truth, always a new +source of delight to the pure and the innocent. The heart that does +not love flowers, or the voice of a playful child, is one that we +should not like to consort with. It was a beautiful conceit that +invented a language of flowers, by which lovers were enabled to +express the feelings that they dared not openly speak. But flowers +have a voice to all,--to old and young, to rich and poor, if they +would but listen, and try to interpret their meaning. "To me," says +Wordsworth, + + The meanest flower that blows can give + Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears." + +Have a flower in your room then, by all means! It will cost you only +a penny, if your ambition is moderate; and the gratification it will +give you will be beyond all price. If you can have a flower for your +window, so much the better. What can be more delicious than the +sun's light streaming through flowers--through the midst of crimson +fuchsias or scarlet geraniums? Then to look out into the light +through flowers--is not that poetry? And to break the force of the +sunbeams by the tender resistance of green leaves? If you can train +a nasturtium round the window, or some sweet-peas, then you have the +most beautiful frame you can invent for the picture without, whether +it be the busy crowd, or a distant landscape, or trees with their +lights and shades, or the changes of the passing clouds. Any one may +thus look through flowers for the price of an old song. And what a +pure taste and refinement does it not indicate on the part of the +cultivator! + +A flower in your window sweetens the air, makes your room look +graceful, gives the sun's light a new charm, rejoices your eye, and +links you to nature and beauty. You really cannot be altogether +alone, if you have a sweet flower to look upon, and it is a +companion which will never utter a cross thing to anybody, but +always look beautiful and smiling. Do not despise it because it is +cheap, and everybody may have the luxury as well as you. Common +things are cheap, and common things are invariably the most +valuable. Could we only have a fresh air or sunshine by purchase, +what luxuries these would be; but they are free to all, and we think +not of their blessings. + +There is, indeed, much in nature that we do not yet half enjoy, +because we shut our avenues of sensation and of feeling. We are +satisfied with the matter of fact, and look not for the spirit of +fact, which is above all. If we would open our minds to enjoyment, +we should find tranquil pleasures spread about us on every side. We +might live with the angels that visit us on every sunbeam, and sit +with the fairies who wait on every flower. We want some loving +knowledge to enable us truly to enjoy life, and we require to +cultivate a little more than we do the art of making the most of the +common means and appliances for enjoyment, which lie about us on +every side. There are, we doubt not, many who may read these pages, +who can enter into and appreciate the spirit of all that we have now +said; and, to those who may still hesitate, we would say--begin and +experiment forthwith; and first of all, when the next flower-girl +comes along your street, at once hail her, and "Have a flower for +your room!" + + + + +WEALTH. + + +THE error of life into which man most readily falls, is the pursuit +of wealth as the highest good of existence. While riches command +respect, win position, and secure comfort, it is expected that they +will be regarded by all classes only with a strong and unsatisfied +desire. But the undue reverence which is everywhere manifested for +wealth, the rank which is conceded it, the homage which is paid it, +the perpetual worship which is offered it, all tend to magnify its +desirableness, and awaken longings for its possession in the minds +of those born without inheritance. In society, as at present +observed, the acquisition of money would seem to be the height of +human aim--the great object of living, to which all other purposes +are made subordinate. Money, which exalts the lowly, and sheds +honour upon the exalted--money, which makes sin appear goodness, and +gives to viciousness the seeming of chastity--money, which silences +evil report, and opens wide the mouth of praise--money, which +constitutes its possessor an oracle, to whom men listen with +deference--money, which makes deformity beautiful, and sanctifies +crime--money, which lets the guilty go unpunished, and wins +forgiveness for wrong--money, which makes manhood and age +respectable, and is commendation, surety, and good name for the +young,--how shall it be gained? by what schemes gathered in? by what +sacrifice secured? These are the questions which absorb the mind, +the practical answerings of which engross the life of men. The +schemes are too often those of fraud, and outrage upon the sacred +obligations of being; the sacrifice, loss of the highest moral +sense, the destruction of the purest susceptibilities of nature, the +neglect of internal life and development, the utter and sad +perversion of the true purposes of existence. Money is valued beyond +its worth--it has gained a power vastly above its deserving. Wealth +is courted so obsequiously, is flattered so servilely, is so +influential in moulding opinions and judgment, has such a weight in +the estimation of character, that men regard its acquisition as the +most prudent aim of their endeavours, and its possession as absolute +enjoyment and honour, rather than the means of honourable, useful, +and happy life. While riches are thus over-estimated, and hold such +power in the community, men will forego ease and endure toil, +sacrifice social pleasures and abandon principle, for the speedy and +unlimited acquirement of property. Money will not be regarded as the +means of living, but as the object of life. All nobler ends will be +neglected in the eager haste to be rich. No higher pursuit will be +recognised than the pursuit of gold--no attainment deemed so +desirable as the attainment of wealth. While the great man of every +circle is the rich man, in the common mind wealth becomes the +synonyme of greatness. No condition is discernable superior to that +which money confers; no loftier idea of manhood is entertained than +that which embraces the extent of one's possessions. + +There is a wealth of heart better than gold, and an interior +decoration fairer than outward ornament.-- + +There is a splendour in upright life, beside which gems are +lustreless; and a fineness of spirit whose beauty outvies the +glitter of diamonds. Man's true riches are hidden in his nature, and +in their development and increase will he find his surest happiness. + + + + +HOW TO BE HAPPY. + + +OLD Mr. Cleveland sat by his comfortable fireside one cold winter's +night. He was a widower, and lived alone on his plantation; that is +to say, he was the only white person there; for of negroes, both +field hands and house servants, he had enough and to spare. He was a +queer old man, this Mr. Cleveland; a man of kind, good feelings, but +of eccentric impulses, and blunt and startling manners. You must +always let him do everything in his own odd way; just attempt to +dictate to him, or even to suggest a certain course, and you would +be sure to defeat your wisest designs. He seemed at times possessed +by a spirit of opposition, and would often turn right round and +oppose a course he had just been vehemently advocating, only because +some one else had ventured openly and warmly to approve it. + +The night, as I have said, was bitter cold, and would have done +honour to a northern latitude, and in addition to this, a violent +storm was coming on. The wind blew in fitful gusts, howling and +sighing among the huge trees with which the house was surrounded, +and then dying away with a melancholy, dirge-like moan. The old tree +rubbed their leafless branches against the window panes, and the +fowls which had roosted there for the night, were fain to clap their +wings, and make prodigious efforts to preserve their equilibrium. +Mr. Cleveland grew moody and restless, threw down the book in which +he had been reading, kicked one of the andirons till he made the +whole blazing fabric tumble down, and finally called, in an +impatient tone, his boy Tom. + +Tom soon popped his head in at the door, and said, "Yer's me, sir." + +"Yer's me, indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Cleveland, "what sort of a way is +this to build a fire?" + +"I rispec you is bin kick um, sir," said Tom. + +"Hey? What? Well! suppose I did bin kick um, if it had been properly +made, it would not have tumbled down. Fix it this minute, sir!" + +"I is gwine to fix um now, sir," said Tom, fumbling at the fire. + +"Well! fix it, sir, without having so much to say about it; you had +better do more, and say less," said Mr. Cleveland. + +"Yes, sir," answered Tom. + +"You _will_ keep answering me when there is no occasion!" exclaimed +Mr. Cleveland; "I just wish I had my stick here, I'd crack the side +of your head with it." + +"Yer's de stick, sir," said Tom, handing the walking cane out of the +corner. + +"Put it down, this instant, sir," said Mr. Cleveland; "how dare you +touch my stick without my leave?" + +"I bin tink you bin say you bin want um, sir," said Tom. + +"You had better tink about your work, sir, and stop answering me, +sir, or I'll find a way to make you," said Mr. Cleveland. "Bring in +some more light wood, and make the fire, and shut in the window +shutters. Do you hear me, sir?" + +"Yes, sir," replied Tom. + +"Well, why don't you answer, if you hear, then? How am I to know +when you hear me, if you don't answer?" said Mr. Cleveland. + +"I bin tink you bin tell me for no answer you, sir," said Tom. + +"I said when there was no occasion, boy; that's what I said," +exclaimed Mr. Cleveland, reaching for his stick. + +"Yes, sir," said Tom, as he went grinning out of the room. + +Mr. Cleveland was, in the main, a very kind master, though somewhat +hasty and impatient. Tom and he were for ever sparring, yet neither +could have done without the other; and there was something comical +about Tom's disposition which well suited his master's eccentric and +changeable moods. Tom evidently served as a kind of safety valve for +his master's nervous system, and many an explosion of superfluous +excitability he had to bear. + +On the night in question, Mr. Cleveland was particularly out of +sorts. The truth is, he was naturally a generous, warm-hearted man, +but in consequence of early disappointment, had lived a solitary +life, and was really suffering for the want of objects of affection. +His feelings, unsatisfied, unemployed, yet morbidly sensitive, were +becoming soured, and his untenanted heart often ached for want of +sympathy. + +He rose and took several diagonal turns across the room. At length +he opened a window, and looked out upon the stormy night. "What +confounded weather!" he muttered to himself, "it makes a man feel +like blowing his brains out! There are no two ways about it, I'm +tired of life. What have I to live for? If I were to die to-morrow, +who would shed a tear?" + +Then whispered conscience, "It is thine own fault. A man need not +feel alone because there are none in the world who bear his name, or +share his blood. All men are thy brethren. Thou art one of the great +human family, and what hast thou done to relieve the poor and +suffering around thee? Will not thy Master say to thee at the last +day, 'I was an hungered, and you gave me no meat; I was thirsty, and +you gave me no drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me not in; +naked, and you clothed me not; sick, and in prison, and you visited +me not. Inasmuch as you did it not to one of the least of these my +brethren, _you did it not to me._'" + +This was a strong and direct appeal, and it was not without its +effect. Then muttered Mr. Cleveland to himself again, "Well, how can +I help it? It has not been for want of inclination. Heaven knows I +am always ready to put my hand in my pocket whenever people call on +me for charity. How can I help it if the poor and suffering do not +make their wants known to me?" + +Then again spake Conscience: "Thou art trying to deceive thyself, +but thou canst not deceive nor silence _me_. Thou hast known of the +existence of suffering, and thine indolence has prevented thee from +going abroad to relieve it. Did thy Master thus? Did he not _go +about_ to do good? Did he not sit down to meat with publicans and +sinners? Can you stand here, and look out upon such a night as this, +and not think of those who are exposed to its bitterness? Can thy +human heart beat only for itself when thou thinkest of the thousand +miseries crying to Heaven for relief? Resolve, now, before thy head +touches its comfortable pillow, that with the morning's dawn thou +wilt resolutely set about thy work; or, rather, thy Master's work." + +"It is very hard," still muttered Mr. Cleveland to himself, "that +these thoughts will continually intrude themselves upon me. They +give me no peace of my life. Stifle them as I may, they come with +tenfold force. People have no business to be poor. I was poor once, +and nobody gave charity to me. I had to help myself up in the world +as well as I could. I hate poor people; I hate unfortunate people; +in fact, confound it! I hate the world and everybody in it." + +Then answered once again the still, small voice: "For shame, Mr. +Cleveland, for shame! You will ruin your soul if you thus darken the +light within. You know better than all this, and you are sinning +against yourself. You want to be happy; well, you may be so. There +is a wide field of duty open before you; enter, in God's name, and +go to work like a man. What you say about having helped yourself, is +perfectly true, and you deserve all credit for it. But remember that +the majority of the poor are entirely destitute of your advantages. +You had the foundation rightly laid. A thousand circumstances in +your early life conspired to render you energetic and self-relying. +You had the right sort of education, and Providence also helped to +train you. Besides, once more I ask you, did your Master stop to +inquire how human misery was brought about before he relieved it? +Away with this unmanly, selfish policy! Follow thy generous +impulses, follow out the yearnings of thy heart, without which you +never can have peace; above, all, follow Christ." + +Mr. Cleveland shut the window, heaved a deep sigh, and took several +more turns across the room. "I believe it is all true," at length he +said, "and I have been a confounded fool. I'll turn about, and lead +a different life, so help me Heaven! I have wealth, and not a chick +nor a child to spend it on, nor to leave it to when I die, and so +I'll spend it in doing good, if I can only find out the best way; +that's the trouble. But never mind, I'll be my own executor." He now +rang the bell for Tom. + +Tom immediately appeared, with his usual "Yer's me, sir." + +"Tom," said Mr. Cleveland, "put me in mind in the morning, to send a +load of wood to old Mrs. Peters." + +"Yes, sir," said Tom, "an' you better sen' some bacon, 'cause I bin +yerry (hear) little Mas Jack Peter say him ain't bin hab no meat for +eat sence I do' know de day when. I rispec dey drudder hab de meat +sted o' de wood, 'cause dey can pick up wood nuf all about." + +"You mind your own business, sir," said Mr. Cleveland, "I'll send +just what I please. How long is it since I came to you for advice? +Confound the fellow!" he muttered aside, "I meant to send the woman +some meat, and now if I do it, that impudent fellow will think I do +it because he advised it. Any how, I'll not send bacon, I'll send +beef or mutton." + +Just at this moment, there was a knock at the door, and Tom, going +to open it, admitted Dick, the coachman. + +"What do you want, Dick, at this time of night?" inquired his +master. + +"Dere's a man down stays, sir," replied Dick, "and he seem to be in +great 'fliction. He says dey is campin' out 'bout half a mile below, +sir, and de trees is fallin' so bad he is 'fraid dey will all be +killed. He ask you if you kin let dem stay in one of de out-houses +tell to-morrow." + +"Camping out such a night as this?" exclaimed Mr. Cleveland, "the +Lord have pity on them! How many are there of them, Dick?" + +"He, an' his wife, and six little children, sir," answered Dick. + +"No negroes?" inquired his master. + +"Not a nigger, sir," said Dick. "I ain't like poor buckrah, no how, +sir, but I 'spect you best take dese people in, lest dey might die +right in our woods." + +Tom, knowing his master's dislike of advice, and fearing that Dick +had taken the surest method to shut them out, now chimed in, and +said, "Massa, ef I bin you, I no would tek dem in none 't all." + +"What do you mean, sir?" exclaimed Mr. Cleveland; "you surely must +be taking leave of your senses. Dick, you'll have to give that boy +of yours a thrashing. I'll not stand his insolence much longer. +Don't stand there, grinning at me, sir." + +"No, sir," snickered Tom, skulking behind Dick, who was his father. + +"Let the man come up here, Dick," said Mr. Cleveland. + +When the traveller made his appearance, Mr. Cleveland was startled +at his wan and wo-begone appearance. "Sit down, my man," said he. + +"I thank you, sir," replied the stranger, "but I must be back as +soon as possible to my family. Can you grant us a night's lodging, +sir?" + +"Certainly, sir," replied Mr. Cleveland; "have you any means of +getting your family hither? I am told you have six little ones." + +"They must walk, sir," replied the stranger, "for our only horse has +been killed by a falling tree; but I have not a word to say. It +might have been my wife or one of my little ones, and, poor as I am, +I can spare none of them." + +Mr. Cleveland, whose feelings were at this time in an usually +softened state, got up, and walked rapidly to the book-case to +conceal his emotion, dashed away a tear, and muttered to himself, as +was his wont, "'Tis confoundedly affecting, that's a fact." Then +turning to the stranger, who was in the act of leaving the room, he +said, "If you will wait a few moments I will have my carriage got; +your wife and little ones must not walk on such a night as this." + +"God bless you, sir!" said the stranger, in a trembling voice; "but +I am too uneasy to stay a moment longer." + +"Well, go on," said Mr. Cleveland, "and the carriage shall come +after you, and I will go in it myself." The stranger brushed his +hand across his eyes, and left the room without speaking a word; +while Dick and Tom exchanged glances of surprise at their master's +uncommon fit of philanthropy; Tom feeling fully assured that the +"poor buckrahs," as he termed them, owed their good fortune to his +seasonable interference. + +The carriage was soon in readiness, and Mr. Cleveland rode in it to +the spot. He found the family all gathered around the dead horse, +and lamenting over it; while the father, having just arrived, was +expatiating upon his kind reception by Mr. Cleveland. It took them +some little time to stow themselves away in the carriage, and Mr. +Cleveland actually carried two sturdy children on his knees. Yes, +there he was, riding through the dreadful storm, in danger every +moment from the trees which were falling all around him, with an +infant in its mother's arms squalling with all its might, and a +heavy boy on each knee, and squeezed almost to death into the +bargain--for there were nine in the carriage--and yet feeling so +happy! ay, far happier than he had felt for many a long day. Truly, +charity brings its own reward. + +When they arrived at Mr. Cleveland's house, instead of being stowed +away in an out-building, as the poor man had modestly requested, +they were comfortably provided for beneath his own roof. That night, +as he laid his head upon his pillow, he could not help feeling +surprised at his sudden accession of happiness. "Well, I will go +on," he soliloquized; "I will pursue the path I have this night +taken, and if I always feel as I do now, I am a new man, and will +never again talk about blowing my brains out." He slept that night +the sleep of peace, and rose in the morning with a light heart and +buoyant spirits. + +His first care was to take the father of the family aside, and +gather from him the story of his misfortunes. It was a long and +mournful tale, and Mr. Cleveland was obliged, more than once, to +pretend a sudden call out of the room, that he might hide his +emotion. And the tale was by no means told in vain. True to his new +resolutions, Mr. Cleveland thankfully accepted the work which +Providence had given him to do, and the family of emigrants, to this +day, mention the name of Cleveland with tears of gratitude and love, +and, when they implore God's mercy for themselves, never forget to +invoke, for their kind benefactor, Heaven's choicest blessings. Nor +is that the only family whose hearts glow at the mention of Mr. +Cleveland's name. Far and wide his name is known, and honoured, and +beloved. + +And Mr. Cleveland has found out the real secret of happiness. It is +true that he and Tom still have their squabbles, for Tom is really a +provoking fellow, and Mr. Cleveland is, and always will be, an +eccentric, impulsive man, but his heart, which, when we first +introduced him to our readers, was far from being right with God, or +with his fellow-men, is now the dwelling-place of love and kindness, +and the experience of every day contributes to strengthen the new +principles he has imbibed, and to confirm him in the right. + +Reader! art thou sad or solitary? I can offer thee a certain cure +for all thy woes. Contemplate the life of Him who spake as never man +spake. Follow him through all those years of toil and suffering. See +him wherever called by the sorrows of his human brethren, and +witness his deeds of mercy and his offices of love, and then--"go +thou and do likewise." + + + + +REBECCA. + + + HER words were few, without pretence + To tricks of courtly eloquence, + But full of pure and simple thought, + And with a guileless feeling fraught, + And said in accents which conferred + Poetic charm on household word. + + She needed not to speak, to be + The best loved of the company-- + She did her hands together press + With such a child-like gracefulness; + And such a sweet tranquillity + Upon her silent lips did lie, + And such unsullied purity + In the blue heaven of her eye. + + She moved among us like to one + Who had not lived on earth alone; + But felt a dim, mysterious sense + Of a more stately residence, + And seemed to have a consciousness + Of an anterior happiness-- + To hear, at times, the echoes sent + From some unearthly instrument + With half-remembered voices blent-- + And yet to hold the friendships dear, + And prize the blessings of our sphere-- + In sweet perplexity to know + Which of the two was dreamy show, + The dark green earth, the deep blue skies, + The love which shone in mortal eyes, + Or those faint recollections, telling + Of a more bright and tranquil dwelling. + + We could not weep upon the day + When her pure spirit passed away; + We thought we read the mystery + Which in her life there seemed to be-- + That she was not our own, but lent + To us little while, and sent + An angel child, what others preach + Of heavenly purity, to teach, + In ways more eloquent than speech-- + And chiefly by that raptured eye + Which seemed to look beyond the sky, + And that abstraction, listening + To hear the choir of seraphs sing. + + We thought that death did seem to her + Of long-lost joy the harbinger-- + Like an old household servant, come + To take the willing scholar home; + The school-house, it was very dear, + But then the holidays were near; + And why should she be lingering here? + Softly the servant bore the child + Who at her parting turned and smiled, + And looked back to us, till the night + For ever hid her from our sight. + + + + +LIFE A TREADMILL. + + +WHO says that life is a treadmill? + +You, merchant, when, after a weary day of measuring cotton-cloth or +numbering flower barrels, bowing to customers or taking account of +stock, you stumble homeward, thinking to yourself that the moon is a +tolerable substitute for gas light, to prevent people from running +against the posts--and then, by chance, recall the time when, a +school-boy, you read about "chaste Dian" in your Latin books, and +discovered a striking resemblance to moonbeams in certain blue eyes +that beamed upon you from the opposite side of the school-room. + +Ah! those were the days when brick side-walks were as elastic as +India rubber beneath your feet; shop windows were an exhibition of +transparencies to amuse children and young people, and the world in +prospect was one long pleasure excursion. Then you drank the bright +effervescence in your glass of soda-water, and now you must swallow +the cold, flat settlings, or not get your money's worth. Long ago +you found out that the moon is the origin of moonshine, that blue +eyes are not quite as fascinating under gray hair and behind +spectacles, and that "money answereth all things." + +You say so, clerk or bank-teller, when you look up from your books +at the new-fallen snow glistening in the morning light, and feel +something like the prancing of horses' hoofs in the soles of your +boots, and hear the jingling of sleigh bells in your mind's ear, +long after the sound of them has passed from your veritable +auriculars. + +You say so, teacher, while going through the daily drill of your A B +C regiments, your multiplication table platoons, and your +chirographical battalions. + +You say so, factory girl, passing backward and forward from the +noise and whirl of wheels in the mills, to the whirl and noise of +wheels in your dreams. + +You say so, milliner's apprentice, as you sit down to sew gay +ribbons on gay bonnets, and stand up to try gay bonnets on gay +heads. + +You say so, housemaid or housekeeper, when the song of the early +bird reminds you of crying children, whose faces are to be washed; +when the rustling of fallen leaves in the wind makes you wonder how +the new broom is going to sweep; when the aroma of roses suggests +the inquiry whether the box of burnt coffee is empty; and when the +rising sun, encircled by vapoury clouds, brings up the similitude of +a huge fire-proof platter, and the smoke of hot potatoes. + +There is a principle in human nature which rebels against +repetitions. Who likes to fall asleep, thinking that to-morrow +morning he must get up and do exactly the same things that he did +to-day, the next day ditto, and so forth, until the chapter of +earthly existence is finished! + +It is very irksome for these soaring thoughts winged to "wander +through eternity," to come down and work out the terms of a tedious +apprenticeship to the senses. And yet, what were thoughts +unlocalized and unembodied? Mere comets or vague nebulosities in the +firmament, without a form, and without a home. + +All things have their orbit, and are held in it by the power of two +great opposing forces. + +Outward circumstances form the centripetal force, which keeps us in +ours. Let the eccentric will fly off at ever so wide a tangent for a +time, back it must come to a regular diurnal path, or wander away +into the "blackness of darkness." And if these daily duties and +cares come to us robed in the shining livery of Law, should we not +accept them as bearers of a sublime mission? + +"What?" you say, "anything sublime in yardstick tactics or ledger +columns? Anything sublime in washing dishes or trimming bonnets? The +idea is simply ridiculous!" + +No, not ridiculous; only a simple idea, and great in its simplicity. +For the manner of performing even menial duties, gives you the gauge +and dimensions of the doer's inward strength. The power of the soul +asserts itself, not so much in shaping favourable circumstances to +desired ends, as in resisting the pressure of crushing circumstances, +and triumphing over them. + +Manufactures, trades, and all the subordinate arts and occupations +that keep the car of civilization in motion, may be to you machines +moving with a monotonous and unmeaning buzz, or they may be like +Ezekiel's vision of wheels involved in wheels, that were lifted up +from the earth by the power of the living creature that was in them. + +Grumbling man or woman, life _is_ a treadmill to you, because you +look doggedly down and see nothing but the dull steps you take. If +you would cease grumbling, and look up, your life would be +transformed into a Jacob's ladder, and every step onward would be a +step upward too. And even if it were a treadmill, to which you and +other mortals were condemned for past offences, a kindly sympathy +for your fellow-prisoners could carpet the way with velvet, and you +might move on smilingly together, as through the mazes of an easy +dance. + +It is of no use to preach the old sermon of contentment with one +condition, whatever it may be, a sermon framed for lands where +aristocracies are fixtures, in this generation and on this +continent. Discontent is a necessity of republicanism, until the +millennium comes. + +Yet it is not sensible to complain of the present, until we have +gleaned its harvests and drained its sap, and it has become capital +for us to draw upon in the future. Most of the dissatisfied +grumblers of our day are like children from whom the prospect of a +Christmas pie, intended for the climax of a supper, takes away all +relish for the more solid and wholesome introductory exercises of +bread and butter. + +What is it we would have our life? Not princely pop and equipments, +nor to "marry the prince's own," which used to form the denouement +of every fairy tale, will suffice us now; for every ingenious Yankee +school-boy or girl has learned to dissect the puppet show of +royalty, and knows that its personages move in a routine the most +hampered and helpless of all. + +The honour of being four years in stepping from one door of the +"White House" to the other, ceases to be the meed of a dignified +ambition when it results from a skilful shuffling of political +cards, rather than from strength and steadiness of head and an +upright gait. + +If we ask for freedom from care, and leisure to enjoy life--until we +have learned, through the discipline of labour and care, how to +appreciate and use leisure--we might as well petition from +government a grant of prairie land for Egyptian mummies to run races +upon. + +If one might get himself appointed to the general overseership of +the solar system, still, what would his occupation be but a regular +pacing to and fro from the sun to the outermost limits of Le +Verrier's calculations, and perhaps a little farther? A succession +of rather longish strides he would have to take, to be sure; now +burning his soles in the fires of Mercury; now hitting his corns +against some of the pebbly Asteroids, and now slipping upon the icy +rim of Neptune. Still, if he made drudgery of his work by keeping +his soul out of it, he would only have his treadmill life over +again, on a large scale. + +The monotony of our three-score years and ten is wearisome to us; +what can we think then of the poor planets, doomed to the same +diurnal spinning, the same annual path, for six thousand years, to +our certain knowledge? And, if telescopes tell us the truth, the +universe is an ever-widening series of similar monotonies. + +Yet space is ample enough to give all systems variety of place. +While each planet moves steadily along on the edge of its plane, the +whole solar equipage is going forward to open a new track on the +vast highway of the heavens. + +We too, moving in our several spheres with honest endeavours and +aspirations, are, by the stability of our motions, lifting and being +lifted, with the whole compact human brotherhood, into a higher +elevation, a brighter revelation of the Infinite, the Universe of +Wisdom and Love. + +And in this view, though our efforts be humble and our toil hard, +life can never be a treadmill. + + + + +ARTHUR LELAND. + + +ARTHUR LELAND was a young lawyer of some twenty-seven years of age. +His office stood a stone's throw from the court-house, in a thriving +town in the West. Arthur had taken a full course in a Northern +college, both in the collegiate and law department, and with some +honour. During his course he had managed to read an amazing amount +of English literature, and no man was readier or had a keener taste +in such things than he. He had a pleasing personal appearance, a +fluent and persuasive manner, an unblemished character. Every +morning he came to his office from one of the most pleasant little +cottage homes in the world; and if you had opened the little front +gate, and gone up through the shrubbery to the house, you would have +seen a Mrs. Leland, somewhere in-doors, and she as intelligent and +pleasant a lady as you ever saw. You would have seen, moreover, +tumbling about the grass, or up to the eyes in some mischief, as +noble-looking a little fellow of some three years old as you could +well have wished for your own son. + +This all looks well enough, but there is something wrong. Not in the +house. No; it is as pleasant a cottage as you could wish--plenty of +garden, peas and honeysuckles climbing up everywhere, green grass, +white paint, Venetian blinds, comfortable furniture. + +Not in Willie, the little scamp. No; rosy, healthy, good head, +intelligent eyes, a fine specimen he was of an only son. Full of +mischief, of course, he was. Overflowing with uproar and questions +and mischief. Mustachios of egg or butter-milk or molasses after +each meal, as a matter of course. Cut fingers, bumped forehead, torn +clothes, all day long. Yet a more affectionate, easily-managed child +never was. + +The mischief was not in Lucy, the Mrs. Leland. I assure you it was +not. Leland knew, to his heart's core, that a lovelier, more +prudent, sensible, intelligent wife it was impossible to exist. +Thrifty, loving, lady-like, right and true throughout. + +Where was this mischief? Look at Leland. He is in perpetual motion. +Reading, writing, walking the streets, he is always fast, in dead +earnest. Somewhat _too_ fast. There is a certain slowness about your +strong man. You never associate the idea of mental depth and power +with your quick-stepping man. You cannot conceive of a Roman emperor +or a Daniel Webster as a slight, swift man. The bearing of a man's +body is the outward emblem of the bearing of his soul. Leland is +rather slight, rather swift. He meets you in his rapid walk. He +stops, grasps your hand, asks cordially after your health. There is +an open, warm feeling in the man. No hypocrisy whatever. Yet he +talks too fast. He don't give you half a chance to answer one of his +rapid questions, before he is asking another totally different. He +is not at ease. He keeps you from being at ease. You feel it +specially in his house. He is too cordial, too full of effort to +make your visit pleasant to you. You like him, yet you don't feel +altogether at home with him. You are glad when he leaves you to his +more composed wife. You never knew or heard of his saying or doing +anything wrong or even unbecoming. You look upon him as a peculiar +sort of man--well, somehow--but! He is at the bar defending that +woman, who sits by him, dressed in mourning--some chancery case. Or +it is a criminal case, and it is the widow's only son that Leland is +defending. If you had been in his office for the last week, you +would have acknowledged that he has studied the case, has prepared +himself on it as thoroughly as a man can. He is an ambitious man. He +intensely desires to make for himself a fortune and a position. His +address to the judge, or to the jury, as the case may be, is a good +one. Yet, somehow, he does not convince. He himself is carried away +by his own earnestness, but he does not carry away with him his +hearers. His remarks are interesting. People listen to him from +first to last closely. Yet his arguing does not, somehow, convince. +His pathos does not, somehow, melt. He is the sort of man that +people think of for the Legislature. No man ever thinks of him in +connexion with the Supreme Bench or Senate. + +Wherein lies the defect? Arthur Leland is well read, a gentleman of +spotless character, of earnest application, of popular manners. Why +is not this man a man of more weight, power, standing? Why, you +answer, the man is just what he is. He fills just the position up to +which his force of mind raises him. Did he have more talent, he +would be more. No, sir. Every acquaintance he has known, he himself +knows, that he is capable of being much more than he is--somehow, +somehow he does not attain to it! It is this singular impression +Leland makes upon you. It is this singular, uneasy, unsatisfied +feeling he himself is preyed upon by. "He might be, but he is not," +say his neighbours. "I am not, yet I might be," worries him as an +incessant and eternal truth. + +It broke upon him like a revelation. + +He was at work one fine morning in his garden, in a square in which +young watermelon plants of a choice kind were just springing. Willie +was there with him, just emerged fresh for fun from the waters of +sleep. Very anxious to be as near as possible to his father, who was +always his only playmate, Willie had strayed from the walk in which +his father had seated him, and stood beside his father. With a +quick, passionate motion, Leland seized his child, and placed him +violently back in the walk, with a harsh threat. The child whimpered +for a while, and soon forgetting himself, came to his father again +over the tender plants. This time Leland seized him still more +violently, seated him roughly in the walk, and, with harsh threats, +struck him upon his plump red cheek. Willie burst into tears, and +wept in passion. His father was in a miserable, uneasy frame of +mind. He ceased his work, bared his brow to the delicious morning +air. He leaned upon his hoe, and gazed upon his child. He felt there +was something wrong. He always knew, and acknowledged, that he was +of a rash, irritable disposition. He now remembered that ever since +his child's birth he had been exceedingly impatient with it. He +remembered how harshly he had spoken to it, how rudely he had tossed +it on his knee when it awoke him with its crying at night. He +remembered that the little one had been daily with him for now three +years, and that not a day had passed in which he had not spoken +loudly, fiercely to the child. + +Yes, he remembered the heavy blows he had given it in bursts of +passion, blows deeply regretted the instant after, yet repeated on +the first temptation. He thought of it all; that his boy was but a +little child, and that he had spoken to it, and expected from it, as +if it were grown. All his passionate, cruel words and blows rushed +upon his memory; his rough replies to childish questions; his +unmanly anger at childish offences. He thought, too, how the little +boy had still followed him, because its father was all on earth to +him; how the little thing had said, he "was sorry," and had offered +a kiss even after some bitter word or blow altogether undeserved. +Leland remembered, too, as the morning air blew aside his hair, how +often he had shown the same miserable, nervous irritability to his +dog, his horse, his servants; even the branch of the tree that +struck him as he walked; yea, even to his own wife. He remembered +how the same black, unhappy feelings had clouded his brow, had burst +from his lips at every little domestic annoyance that had happened. +He could not but remember how it had only made matters worse--had +made himself and his family wretched for the time. He felt how +undignified, how unmanly all this was. He pictured himself before +his own eyes as a peevish, uneasy, irritable, unhappy man--so +weak-minded! + +He glanced at the house; he knew his wife was in it, engaged in her +morning duties; gentle, lady-like, loving him so dearly. He glanced +at his sobbing child, and saw how healthful and intelligent he was. +He glanced over his garden, and orchard, and lawn, and saw how +pleasant was his home. He thought of his circle of friends, his +position in business, his own education and health. He saw how much +he had to make him happy; and all jarred and marred, and cursed by +his miserable fits of irritation; the fever, the plague increasing +daily; becoming his nature, breathing the pestilent atmosphere of +hell over himself and all connected with him. + +As he thus thought, his little boy again forgot himself, and strayed +with heedless feet toward his father. Leland dropped his hoe, +reached toward his child. The little fellow threw up his hands, and +writhed his body as if expecting a blow. + +"Willie," said the father, in a low, gentle voice. Willie looked up +with half fright, half amazement. "Willie, boy," said the father in +a new tone, which had never passed his lips before, and he felt the +deep, calm power of his own words. "Willie, boy, don't walk on pa's +plants. Go back, and stay there till pa is done." + +The child turned as by the irresistible power of the slow-spoken, +gentle words, and walked back and resumed his seat, evidently not +intending to transgress again. + +As Leland stood with the words dying on his lips, and his hand +extended, a sudden and singular idea struck him. He felt that he had +just said the most impressive and eloquent thing he had ever said in +his life! He felt that there was a power in his tone and manner +which he had never used before; a power which would affect a judge +or a jury, as it had affected Willie. The curse cursed here too! It +was that hasty, nervous disposition, which gave manner and tone to +his very public speaking; which made his arguments unconvincing, his +pathos unaffecting. It was just that calm, deep, serene feeling and +manner, which was needed at the bar as well as with Willie. Arguing +with that feeling and manner, he felt, would convince irresistibly. +Pleading with that quiet, gentle spirit, he felt would melt, would +affect the hearts as with the very emotion of tears. + +Unless you catch the idea, there is no describing it, reader. Leland +was a Christian. All that day he thought upon the whole matter. That +night in the privacy of his office he knelt and repeated the whole +matter before God. For his boy's sake, for his wife's sake, for his +own sake, for his usefulness' sake at the bar, he implored steady +aid to overcome the deadly, besetting sin. He pleaded that, +indulging in that disposition, he was alienating from himself his +boy and his wife; yea, that he was alienating his own better self +from himself, for he was losing his own self-respect. And here his +voice sank from a murmur into silence; he remembered that he was +thus alienating from his bosom and his side--God! + +And then he remembered that just such a daily disposition as he +lacked was exactly that disposition which characterized God when God +became man. The excellence of such a disposition rose serenely +before him, embodied in the person of Jesus Christ; the young lawyer +fell forward on his face and wept in the agony of his desire and his +prayer. + +From that sweet spring morning was Arthur Leland another man; a +wiser, abler, more successful man in every sense. Not all at once; +steadily, undoubtedly advanced the change. The wife saw and felt, +and rejoiced in it. Willie felt it, and was restrained by it every +drop of his merry blood; the household felt it, as a ship does an +even wind; and sailed on over smooth seas constrained by it. You saw +the change in the man's very gait and bearing and conversation. +Judge and jury felt it. It was the ceasing of a fever in the frame +of a strong man; and Leland went about easily, naturally, the strong +man he was. The old, uneasy, self-harassing feeling was forgotten, +and an ease and grace of tone and manner succeeded. It was a higher +development of the father, the husband, the orator, the gentleman, +the Christian. Surely love is the fountain of patience and peace. +Surely it is the absence of passion which makes angels to be the +beings they are. + +Men can become very nearly angels or devils, even before they have +left the world. + + + + +THE SCARLET POPPY. + + +ONE warm morning in June, just as the sun returned from his long but +rapid journey to the distant east, and sailed majestically up +through the clear blue sky, the many bright flowers of one of the +prettiest little parterres in the world, who had opened their +eyes--those bright flowers--to smile at the sunbeams which came to +kiss away the tears night had shed over them, were very much +surprised, and not a little offended to find in their very midst an +individual who, though most of them knew her, one might have +supposed, from their appearance, was a perfect stranger to them all. + +The parterre, I have said, was small, for it was in the very heart +of a great city, where land would bring almost any price; but the +gentleman and lady who lived in the noble mansion which fronted it, +would not, for the highest price which might have been offered them, +have had those sweet flowers torn up, and a brick pile reared in the +place--their only child, the dear little Carie, loved the garden so +dearly, and spent so much of her time there. + +Oh, it was a sweet little place, though it was in the midst of a +great city where the air was full of dust and coal smoke; for the +fountain which played in the garden kept the atmosphere pure and +cool, and every day the gardener showered all the plants so that +their leaves were green and fresh as though they were blooming far +away in their native woods and dells. There were sweet roses of +every hue, from the pure Alba to the dark Damascus; and pinks, some +of the most spicy odour, some almost scentless, but all so beautiful +and so nicely trimmed. The changeless amaranth was there, the pale, +sweet-scented heliotrope, always looking towards the sun; the pure +lily; and the blue violet, which, though it had been taught to bloom +far away from the mossy bed where it had first opened its meek eye +to the light, had not yet forgotten its gentleness and modesty; and +not far from them were the fickle hydrangea, the cardinal flower +with its rich, showy petals, and the proud, vain, and ostentatious, +but beautiful crimson and white peonias. The dahlias had yet put +forth but very few blossoms, but they were elegant, and the swelling +buds promised that ere long there would be a rich display of +brilliant colours. Honeysuckles, the bright-hued and fragrant, the +white jasmine, and many other climbing plants, were latticing the +little arbour beside the clear fountain, half hiding their +jewel-like pensile blossoms and bright red berries among the smooth +green leaves which clustered so closely together as to shut out +completely the hot sun from the little gay-plumaged and sweet-voiced +songsters whose gilt cage hung within the bower. But I cannot speak +of the flowers, there were so many of them, and they were all so +beautiful and so sweet-scented. + +Well, this June morning, as I was saying, when the flowers, as they +were waked from their sleep by the sunbeams which came to kiss away +the tears night had shed over them, opened their eyes and looked +about them, they were surprised and offended to see a stranger in +their company. + +There had been, through all the season, some little rivalries and +jealousies among the flowers; but from the glances which they turned +on each other, this morning, it was evident that their feelings +towards the stranger were exactly alike. However, as might be +expected from their different dispositions, they expressed their +dislike and contempt for her in different ways; but at first all +hesitated to address her, for no one seemed to find language strong +enough to express the scorn they felt for her; until the balsam, who +never could keep silent long, inquired of the stranger, in a very +impatient tone, what was her name, and how she came there. + +The poor thing hesitated an instant, and her face grew very red; she +must have known that her presence in that company was very much +undesired, and when she spoke, it was in a low and embarrassed tone. + +"My name is Papaver, and--" + +But the Marygold laughed aloud. "Papaver!" she repeated in her most +scornful tone; "she is nothing more nor less than a Poppy--a great +offensive Poppy, whose breath fairly makes me sick. Long ago, +when--" + +But here the Marygold stopped short, it would not do, to confess to +her genteel friends, that she had formerly been acquainted with the +disreputable stranger. They did not heed her embarrassment, however, +for every one, now that the silence was broken, was anxious to +speak; all but the Mimosa, who could not utter a word, for she had +fainted quite away--the red Rose who was very diffident, and the +Dahlia who was too dignified to meddle with such trifling affairs. + +"You great, red-faced thing!" said the Carnation, "how came you here +in your ragged dress? Do you know what kind of company you are in? +Who first saw her here?" + +"I saw her," said the Morning Glory, who usually waked quite early, +"I saw her before she had got her eyes open; and what do you suppose +she had on her head? Why a little green cap which she has just +pulled off and thrown away. There it lies on the ground now. Only +look at it! no wonder she was ashamed of it. Can you think what she +wore it for?" + +"Why, yes!" said the Ladies' Slipper. "She is so handsome and so +delicate that she was fearful the early hours might injure her +health and destroy her charms!" + +"No, no!" interrupted another; "she was afraid the morning breeze +might steal away her sweet breath!" + +"You had better gather up your sweet leaves, and put on your cap +again," said the London Pride. "I see a golden-winged butterfly in +Calla's cup; your spicy breath will soon bring him here to drink of +your nectar!" + +The most of the flowers laughed, but the Carnation still called +out--"How came she here?" + +The Amaranth, however, who never slept a wink through the whole +night, would not answer the question, though the flowers were +certain that she could, were she so inclined. + +"I do not see how you who are in her immediate neighbourhood, can +breathe!" said the Syringa, who was farthest removed from the poor +Poppy. + +"I do feel as if I should faint!" said the Verbena. + +"And I feel a cold chill creeping over me!" said the Ice Plant. + +"That is not strange!" remarked the Nightshade, who had sprung up in +the shadow of the hedge, "she carries with her, everywhere she goes, +the atmosphere of the place whence she comes. Do you know where that +is?" + +Some of the flowers shuddered, but the Nightshade went on:-- + +"The Poppy is indigenous now only on the verdureless banks of the +Styx. When Proserpine, who was gathering flowers, was carried away +to the dark Avernus, all the other blossoms which she had woven in +her garland withered and died, but the Poppy; and that the goddess +planted in the land of darkness and gloom, and called it the flower +of Death. She flourishes there in great luxuriance; Nox and Somnus +make her bed their couch. The aching head, which is bound with a +garland of her blossoms, ceases to throb; the agonized soul which +drinks in her deep breath, wakes no more to sorrow. Death follows +wherever she comes!" + +"We will not talk of such gloomy things!" said the Coreopsis, with +difficulty preserving her cheerfulness. + +But the other plants were silent and dejected; all but the Amaranth, +who knew herself gifted with immortality, and the Box, who was very +stoical. But another trial awaited the poor Poppy. + +The Nightshade had hardly ceased speaking, when soft, gentle human +voices were heard in the garden, and a child of three summers, with +rosy cheeks, deep blue eyes, and flowing, golden hair, came bounding +down the gravelled walks, followed by a fair lady. The child had +come to bid good morning to her flowers and birds, and as she +carolled to the latter, and paused now and then to inhale the breath +of some fragrant blossom, and examine the elegant form and rich and +varied tints of another, the little songsters sang more loudly and +cheerily; and the flowers, it seemed, became more sweet and +beautiful. + +The Poppy, who was as ignorant as was any one else how she had found +her way into the garden, now began to reason with herself. + +"Some one must have planted me here," she said; "and though I am not +as sweet as that proud Carnation, nor so elegant as that dignified +Dahlia, I may have as much right to remain here as they!" and she +raised her head erect, and spread out her broad, scarlet petals, +with their deep, ragged fringe, hoping to attract the notice of the +little girl. + +And so indeed she did; for as the child paused before pale +sweet-scented Verbena, the flaunting Poppy caught her eye, and she +extended her hand toward the strange blossom. + +"Carie, Carie, don't touch that vile thing!" said her mother, "it is +poisonous. The smell of it will make you sick. I do not see how it +came here. John must bring his spade and take it up. We will have +nothing in the garden but what is beautiful or sweet, and this is +neither!" + +The poor Poppy! She had begun to love the little girl, the child had +smiled on her so sweetly, and the other flowers had seemed so +envious when that little white hand was stretched out towards her; +and when she drew back, at her Mother's call, reluctantly, but with +look of surprise and aversion, the Poppy did not care how soon she +was banished from a place where she had been treated so unjustly. + +However, she was suffered to remain; whether the lady neglected +giving instructions to the gardener respecting her, or whether he +forgot her commands, I am not sure; but there she remained, day +after day, striving every morning to wake up early and pull off her +little green cap before the other flowers had opened their eyes, but +never succeeding in so doing. + +It was no enviable position that she occupied, laughed at, despised, +and scorned by all the other flowers in the garden, and in hourly +expectation of being torn up by the roots and thrown into the +street--the poor Poppy! + +One day when the lady and her Carie were walking in the garden, the +little girl, who had looked rather pale, put her hands suddenly to +her head, and cried aloud. Her mother was very much frightened. She +caught up the little girl in her arms, and tried to ascertain what +was the matter; but the child only pressed her hands more tightly to +her head, and cried more piteously. The lady carried her into the +house, and the family were soon all in an uproar. The servants were +all running hither and thither; no one seemed to know what was the +matter; for the lady had fainted from terror at her child's pale +face and agonized cries, and the little girl could tell nothing. + +"It is that odious Poppy who is the cause of all this!" said the +flowers one to another (little Carie was indeed playing in her +immediate vicinity when she was seized with that dreadful distress), +"she has poisoned her." And their suspicions were confirmed when one +of the servants came running into the garden, and seizing hold of +the Poppy, stripped off every one of her bright scarlet petals, and +gathering them up, returned quickly to the house. + +"You poor thing!" said the Elder, as the Poppy, so rudely handled, +bent down her dishonoured head to the ground; but not one of the +other flowers addressed to her a single word. + +Through the long day she lay there--the Poppy--on the earth, trying +to forget what had happened; for she did not know but their words +were true, and she was the cause of the little girl's suffering--she +would so gladly have soothed her pain. The other flowers thought she +was dead, and the Poppy herself believed that she should never see +the light of another morning; but just before the day was gone, the +lady walked again into the garden accompanied by her husband; +and--what do you suppose the other flowers thought?--without +noticing one of them, the lady walked directly to the Poppy, lifted +her head from the ground, and leaned it against the frame which +supported the proud Carnation, and then, with her white hands, +replaced the loosened earth about her half uptorn roots. + +"Oh, I hope it will not die!" she said to her husband, "I should +rather lose anything else in the garden, for I don't know but it +saved dear little Carie's life! She had a dreadful headache, and +nothing afforded her the least relief, till we bruised the leaves of +the Poppy, and bound them on her temples, and then she became quiet, +and fell into a gentle sleep. Oh, I hope it will live!" + +Don't you think the Poppy did live, and was proud and happy enough? +Do you think she was ever afterwards ashamed of her little green +cap, or her ragged scarlet leaves? And do you think the other +flowers ever laughed at her again, or were ashamed of her +acquaintance? + +When the summer had passed away, and the bright blossoms one by one +withered and died before the autumn's cool breath, the Poppy +cheerfully scattered her little seeds on the earth, and laid herself +down to die; for she knew that when another spring should come, and +her children should shoot up from the ground, they would be nurtured +as tenderly, and prized as highly as those of the sweeter and far +more beautiful flowers. + + + + +NUMBER TWELVE. + + +WHEN I was a young man, working at my trade as a mason, I met with a +severe injury by falling from a scaffolding placed at a height of +forty feet from the ground. There I remained, stunned and bleeding, +on the rubbish, until my companions, by attempting to remove me, +restored me to consciousness. I felt as if the ground on which I was +lying formed a part of myself; that I could not be lifted from it +without being torn asunder; and, with the most piercing cries, I +entreated my well-meaning assistants to leave me alone to die. They +desisted for the moment, one running for the doctor, another for a +litter, others surrounding me with pitying gaze; but amidst my +increasing sense of suffering, the conviction began to dawn upon my +mind, that the injuries were not mortal; and so, by the time the +doctor and the litter arrived, I resigned myself to their aid, and +allowed myself, without further objection, to be carried to the +hospital. + +There I remained for more than three months, gradually recovering +from my bodily injuries, but devoured with an impatience at my +condition, and the slowness of my cure, which effectually retarded +it. I felt all the restlessness and anxiety of a labourer suddenly +thrown out of employment difficult enough to procure, knowing that +there were scores of others ready to step into my place; that the +job was going on, and that, ten chances to one, I should never set +my foot on that scaffolding again. The visiting surgeon vainly +warned me against the indulgence of such passionate regrets--vainly +inculcated the opposite feeling of gratitude demanded by my escape; +all in vain. I tossed on my fevered bed, murmured at the slowness of +his remedies, and might have thus rendered them altogether +ineffectual, had not a sudden change been effected in my disposition +by another, at first unwelcome, addition to our patients. He was +placed in the same ward with me, and insensibly I found my +impatience rebuked, my repinings hushed for very shame, in the +presence of his meek resignation to far greater privations and +sufferings. Fresh courage sprang from his example, and soon, thanks +to my involuntary physician, I was in a fair road to recovery. + +And he who had worked the charm, what was he? A poor, helpless old +man, utterly deformed by suffering, his very name unnoticed, or at +least never spoken in the place where he now was; he went only by +the appellation of No. 12--the number of his bed, which was next to +my own. This bed had already been his refuge during three long and +trying illnesses, and had at last become a sort of property for the +poor fellow in the eyes of doctors, students, nurse-tenders, in +fact, the whole hospital staff. Never did a gentler creature walk on +God's earth; walk--alas! for him the word was but an old memory. +Many years before he had totally lost the use of his legs; but, to +use his own expression, "this misfortune did not upset him;" he +still retained the power of earning his livelihood, which he derived +from copying deeds for a lawyer at so much per sheet; and if the +legs were no longer a support, the hands worked at the stamped +parchments as diligently as ever. But some months passed by, and +then the paralysis attacked his right arm; still undaunted, he +taught himself to write with the left; but hardly had the brave +heart and hand conquered the difficulty, when the enemy crept on, +and disabling this second ally, no more remained for him than to be +conveyed once more, though this time as a last resource, to the +hospital. There he had the gratification to find his former quarters +vacant, and he took possession of his old familiar bed with a +satisfaction that seemed to obliterate all regret at being obliged +to occupy it again. His first grateful accents smote almost +reproachfully on my ear: "Misfortune must have its turn, but _every +day has a tomorrow!_" + +It was indeed a lesson to witness the gratitude of this excellent +creature. The hospital, so dreary a sojourn to most of its inmates, +was a scene of enjoyment to him; everything pleased him; and the +poor fellow's admiration of even the most trifling conveniences +proved how severe must have been his privations. He never wearied of +praising the neatness of the linen, the whiteness of the bread, the +quality of the food; and my surprise gave place to the truest pity, +when I learned that, for the last twenty years, this respectable old +man could only afford himself, out of the profits of his persevering +industry, the coarsest bread, diversified with white cheese, or +vegetable porridge; and yet, instead of reverting to his privations +in the language of complaint, he converted them into a fund of +gratitude, and made the generosity of the nation, which had provided +such a retreat for the suffering poor, his continual theme. Nor did +his thankful spirit confine itself to this. To listen to him, you +would have believed him an especial object of divine as well as +human benevolence--all things working for his good. The doctor used +to say that No. 12 had a "mania for happiness;" but it was a mania, +that, in creating esteem for its victim, infused fresh courage into +all that came within its range. + +I think I still see him seated on the side of his bed, with his +little black silk cap, his spectacles and the well-worn volume, +which he never ceased perusing. Every morning, the first rays of the +sun rested on his bed, always to him a fresh subject of rejoicing +and thankfulness to God. To witness his gratitude, one might suppose +that the sun was rising for him alone. I need hardly say, that he +soon interested himself in my cure, and regularly made inquiry +respecting its progress. He always found something cheering to +say--something to inspire patience and hope, himself a living +commentary on his words. When I looked at this poor motionless +figure, those distorted limbs, and, crowning all, that smiling +countenance, I had not courage to be angry, or even to complain. At +each painful crisis, he would exclaim: "One minute, and it will be +over. Relief will soon follow. _Every day has its to-morrow!_" + +I had one good and true friend--a fellow-workman, who used sometimes +to spare an hour to visit me, and he took great delight in +cultivating an acquaintance with No. 12. As if attracted by a +kindred spirit, he never passed his bed without pausing to offer his +cordial salutation; and then he would whisper to me: "He is a saint +on earth; and not content with gaining Paradise himself, must win it +for others also. Such people should have monuments erected to them, +known and read of all men. In observing such a character, we feel +ashamed of our own happiness--we feel how comparatively little we +deserve it. Is there anything I can do to prove my regard for this +good, poor No. 12?" + +"Just try among the bookstalls," I replied, "and find the second +volume of that book you see him reading. It is now more than six +years since he lost it, and ever since he has been obliged to +content himself with the first." + +Now, I must premise that my worthy friend had a perfect horror of +literature, even in its simplest stages. He regarded the art of +printing as a Satanic invention, filling men's brains with idleness +and conceit; and as to writing--in his opinion a man was never +thoroughly committed until he had recorded his sentiments in black +and white for the inspection of his neighbours. His own success in +life, which had been tolerable, thanks to his industry and +integrity, he attributed altogether to his ignorance of those +dangerous arts; and now a cloud swept across his lately beaming face +as he exclaimed, "What! the good creature is a lover of books? Well, +we must admit that even the best have their failings. No matter. +Write down the name of this odd volume on a slip of paper; and it +shall go hard with me, but I give him that gratification." + +He did actually return the following week with a well-worn volume, +which he presented in triumph to the old invalid. He looked somewhat +surprised as he opened it; but our friend proceeding to explain that +it was at my suggestion he had procured it in place of the lost one, +the old grateful expression at once beamed up in the eyes of No. 12, +and with a voice trembling with emotion, he thanked the hearty +giver. + +I had my misgivings, however, and the moment our visiter turned his +back, I asked to see the book. My old neighbour reddened, stammered, +and tried to change the conversation; but, forced behind his last +entrenchments, he handed me the little volume. It was an old Royal +Almanac. The bookseller, taking advantage of his customer's +ignorance, had substituted it for the book he had demanded. I burst +into an immoderate fit of laughter; but No. 12 checked me with the +only impatient word I ever heard from his lips: "Do you wish our +friend to hear you? I would rather never recover the power of this +lost arm, than deprive his kind heart of the pleasure of his gift. +And what of it? Yesterday I did not care a straw for an almanac; but +in a little time it is perhaps the very book I should have desired. +_Every day has its to-morrow_. Besides, I assure you it is a very +improving study; even already I perceive the names of a crowd of +princes never mentioned in history, and of whom, up to this moment, +I have never heard any one speak." + +And so the old almanac was carefully preserved beside the volume of +poetry it had been intended to match; and the old invalid never +failed to be seen turning over the leaves whenever our friend +happened to enter the room. As to him, he was quite proud of its +success, and would say to me at each time: "It appears I have made +him a famous present." And thus the two guileless natures were +content. + +Towards the close of my sojourn in the hospital, the strength of +poor No. 12 diminished rapidly. At first, he lost the slight powers +of motion he had retained; then his speech became inarticulate; at +last, no part obeyed his will, except the eyes, which continued to +smile on us still. But one morning, at last, it seemed to me as if +his very glance had become dim. I arose hastily, and approaching his +bed, inquired if he wished for a drink; he made a slight movement of +his eyelids, as if to thank me, and at that instant the first ray of +the rising sun shone in on his bed. Then the eyes lighted up, like a +taper that flashes into brightness before it is extinguished--he +looked as if saluting this last gift of his Creator; and even as I +watched him for a moment, his head fell gently on the side, his +kindly heart ceased to beat. He had thrown off the burden of To-day; +he had entered on his eternal To-morrow. + + + + +TO AN ABSENTEE. + + + O'ER hill and dale, and distant sea, + Through all the miles that stretch between, + My thought must fly to rest on thee, + And would, though worlds should intervene. + + Nay, thou art now so dear, methinks, + The farther we are forced apart, + Affection's firm elastic links + But bind thee closer round the heart. + + For now we sever each from each, + I learn what I have lost in thee; + Alas! that nothing less could teach + How great, indeed, my love should be! + + Farewell! I did not know thy worth; + But thou art gone, and now 'tis prized: + So angels walked unknown on earth, + But when they flew were recognised. + + + + +THE WHITE DOVE. + + +THE little Lina opened her eyes upon this world in the arms of her +father, the good Gotleib. He kissed the child with a holy joy: +"For," said he, "now is a thought of God fixed in an eternal form;" +and he felt that a Divine love flowed into this work of the great +God--this also thrilled his warm, manly heart with a wondrous love. +He felt the inmost of his being vibrating as with an electric touch, +to the inmost of the little new-born innocent. But the rapture of +the young father was altogether imperfect, until he had sealed his +lips in a love-kiss upon those of the fraulein Anna, who lay there +so white and beautiful in the new joy of a young mother. Like an +innocent maiden, she twined her arms around Gotleib's neck, and grew +strong in the influx of warm life that flowed into her responsive +cares of the husband of her heart. Then Gotleib held up the +newly-born Lina, and the mother's lips touched the soft cheek of the +tiny little one with a living rapture, as if all of Heaven were +embraced in this heart-possession. + +And Gotleib knelt by the bedside, and thanked God for the beautiful +gift of love with a pious awe and holy joy--large tears stood in the +eyes of Anna. As he rose from his reverent posture, he kissed off +the bright tears even as the sun exhales dew-drops from a pure +flower, and said, + +"Dost thou weep for joy, sweet one?" + +And Anna said, + +"Once--not long since--I had a dream--a beautiful dream--that this +day has been realized. I dreamed that I was in a quite heavenly +place--yet the place was as nothing--it was the _state_--for I sat +with an infant in my arms--a bright innocent little one--and, thou, +dearest Gotleib, knelt beside me; and an angel-woman stood near us, +in a soft heavenly glory, and said, in low musical, +spirit-words--'Behold the fruit of the union of good and truth.' And +then, methought, thou didst embrace me with a new joy of love, and +whispered, 'an angel of God is born of us.' This little one is the +dream-child, dear Gotleib." + +Thus beautiful was the birth of the little Lina, who grew, daily, in +a pure innocent loveliness. While she is expanding in the first days +of her new, breathing, sensitive life, we will go back to the former +life of Gotleib and Anna. + +Gotleib Von Arnheim had first seen the light in this same small +cottage, on the confines of the Black Forest of Germany. He was born +with a large, loving heart. But the father and mother, and the dear +God, were the only beings on whom his affections were fixed; for his +sensitive nature shrank from the contact of the honest-hearted, but +rough peasant neighbours, that made the little world of their simple +life. But soon death came, and the good father left the earth for +the beautiful Heaven-world. The little Gotleib missed his kind +father; but his mother told him of the bright inner life, and how +his father yet lived and loved him; and the heart of the boy was +comforted: he felt a sense of elevation in having his father, whom +he had known so familiarly here upon earth, now the companion of +angels, and living in such a bright and beautiful world. + +Ah, life had to him such an inner beauty; and, when still, dreamy +moments of leisure intervened between his work and play, he revelled +in such dreams of fancy, as lent light and life and joy to his whole +being. But the death of the kind father had not only carried the +boy's fancy to the other world; it was also drawing the mother's +heart away to the fair spirit-land. Gotleib saw his mother's face +growing thin and pale; he knew that she was weak--for oftentimes, in +the long winter evenings, as he read to her from the holy word of +God, her hand would drop wearily with the raised spindle, and she, +who was never before idle, would fold her hands in a quiet, meek +resignation. At such times a tremour would seize the boy's heart. +The mother saw it; and, one night, when his fixed tender gaze rested +on her, she raised her spiritual eyes to his, and said, + +"Dear Gotleib! thou wilt yet have the good God to love." + +"Ah, mother! mother!" cried the boy, "wilt thou, too, leave me?" + +His head was bowed upon her knees in bitter grief, the desolation of +earth was spread like an impenetrable pall over his whole future. +Suddenly he looked up, full of a strange, bright hope, and said, + +"Mother, I too may die." + +Then the mother put off her weakness, and long and loving was the +talk she held with her dear boy. She told him that from a little one +he had ever loved God; that the first word he had ever pronounced +was the name of the Holy One. She had taught him to clasp his tiny +baby hands and look up and say "God," ere any other word had passed +his lips. She had named him Gotleib, because he was the love of God +to her, and he was to be a lover of God. As she talked, the boy grew +strong and calm, and said, + +"Yet, oh, my mother! God is so great for the heart of a small child. +God is so high and lifted up in the far heavens, that I feel myself +but as a tiny blade of grass that looks up to the far sun--dear +mother! the earth will be too lonely; ah, there is no hope but in +death." + +"No, my son," said the mother, "there is a beautiful hope for the +earth also. I will tell you what will make you love God more truly +than ever." + +The boy was fixed attention. + +"Thou didst not know, dear Gotleib, that when God created thee a +strong, brave boy, He also created a tender, gentle little maiden, +like unto thee in all things, save thou wert a boy and she a maiden. +Thou wert strong and able to work, and she gentle and born to love +thee." + +"Where is she?" inquired the excited Gotleib. + +"I know not," replied the mother. "But God knows, and He will watch +over the two whom He has created, the one for the other; and, on +earth, or in heaven, the two will meet. Is it not better, then, not +to wish to die, but to leave all things to the will of God? For what +if thy little maiden is left alone upon the earth, and there is no +strong, manly heart upon which she may lean, and no vigorous arm to +labour for her, how will her spirit droop with a weary, lonely +sadness? No, my son, live! and the joy of a most beautiful, loving +companionship, may yet be thine. The earth will not be desolate ever +to thy orphan heart, with this beautiful hope before thee." + +Thus, in the cold wintry night of a dark sorrow, did the good mother +plant a living seed of truth, that afterwards sprang up into a +vernal flowery Eden, that bloomed in the boy's heart with an eternal +beauty. + +When the early spring came, Gotleib looked calmly and lovingly on +the beloved mother, who was leaving for the inner world. Death was +beautiful to him now; it was simply the new birthtime of a mature, +living soul. + +The spirit of the mother's love seemed to linger over the home of +his childhood, and it was a great sorrow to leave the cherished +spot; but, his mother told him he was to seek a brother of hers in +the distant town of Heidelberg. As Gotleib turned from the now +voiceless home of his parents, a fervent desire arose in his heart +that he might again be permitted to dwell beneath this sheltering +roof and amidst its living associations. + +The boy went forth into the unknown world, with a living trust in +his heart in the great God. His was a simple, childish faith, born +of his love--to him God was not a mystery. It was a Divine +personality he loved. Jesus had walked the earth, and his father and +mother also--all were now spirits, none the less to be loved and +trusted than when upon earth; but now they were to him in +transcendent states of glory. The Lord Jesus, as being infinitely +great and glorious, was the alone One to whom he now looked for +help--though ever as he knelt to pray to GOD, he felt that his +angel-mother bowed with his spirit, and by her prompting beautiful +words of humiliation and praise came to him, that he himself could +never have thought of; hence the affections of his heart all grew up +into the inner spirit-world. + +And years passed in the good town of Heidelberg, years that brought +blessings to the orphan boy as they flew. The God in whom he trusted +had provided for him--had awakened a friendly kindness in many warm +hearts. And Gotleib, who was at first designed by his relatives to +spend his days over the shoemaker's awl and last, at length found +himself, by his own ardent exertions and the helpful kindness of +others, a student in the University. This was to him a most pure +gratification--not because of a love of learning, not because of +ambition, to attain a position before his fellow-men. Oh! it was +quite otherwise with the good youth--he had one object in life. The +hope that his dying mother had awakened in his heart was the guiding +star of all his efforts. That little maiden created for him, and to +be supported by him! The image was ever before him. Yes, he was a +student for a high and noble use. Science was to be to him the +instrument of a life of love and blessedness. To do good to others, +and thus to provide for the maiden, was what led him to the arduous +study of medicine. + +It mattered not that cold and hunger and toil all bound him in an +earthly coil. The warm, hopeful heart has a wonderful endurance. The +delicate, attenuated form of the young student seemed barely +sufficient to hold the bright and glowing spirit that looked out +from his soft eyes, when he received his degrees. The desire of his +life was growing into a fruition; and when he returned to his poor +lodgings, a sense of freedom, of gratitude, and of delight, crowned +his yet barren life. To work! to work! seemed now the one call of +his being; but, whither was he to go? There was the childhood's +home, to which his heart instinctively turned; but, alone and +desolate, he could not dwell there. Gotleib had not forgotten his +mother's lessons; he knelt and prayed to God for guidance. Even as +he kneels, and feels his spirit in the sunshine of God's presence, +there is a knock at the door, and the good Professor Eberhard +enters. He has marked the student in his poverty and toil, and feels +that he will now hold out a helping hand to the young beginner. As +professor of anatomy, he needs the quick eye and delicate hand of an +expert assistant. + +Gotleib looked upon the Herr professor as Heaven-sent, and in a few +days was installed in all the luxury of a life of active use. + +Years passed away, and (sic) Gotlieb Von Arnheim sighed with a man's +full heart for a woman's sympathy and responsive affection. He had +seen bright eyes gleam and soft cheeks flush at his approach, and he +had looked wonderingly into many a sweet face. But he had not yet +seen the little maiden of whom his mother spoke--who was to be the +reflex of himself. All these German maidens were altogether +different from--and his heart remained unsatisfied in their +presence. He felt no visions of eternity as he looked into their +friendly faces. + +Sometimes hope almost died out. But his trust in God seemed to +forbid the death of this sweet hope. Often he said, "the good God +would not have created this intense desire in one so wholly +dependent upon Him, were he not intending to satisfy it." At all +events, he thought--"If the maiden is not upon earth, she is in +heaven." So he worked and waited patiently. + +The wintry winds were howling, as it were, a wild requiem over the +lordly ruins of the crime-stained castle of Heidelberg. Cold, and +bitter, and clear was the starry night, when the weary Gotleib +issued out of the Herr professor's warm house to answer the late +call of a sick woman. Gotleib looked up into those illimitable +depths where earths and suns hang suspended, to appeal to the +material perceptions of man that this is not the alone world--the +alone existence. The silent bright stars comforted the earth-wearied +heart in which the day's toil had dimmed the spirit's perception. +Gotleib stepped on bravely through the frosty darkness, and said +hopefully to himself, + +"There is yet another world--another life than this." + +And now he stood before the house in which his services were needed. +He entered a chamber, whose bare poverty reminded him of his student +days. But far sadder was cold poverty here, for a lady lay on a hard +couch before the scantily furnished grate, and her hollow cough, and +the oozing blood that saturated her white handkerchief, rendered all +words unnecessary. + +A young girl, with blanched cheek and tearless eye of agony, knelt +by the wan sufferer. Gotleib felt himself in the sphere of his +life's use; cold and fatigue were alike gone. The sick and almost +dying woman seemed to revive under his touch--it was as if strength +flowed from the physician into the patient. His very presence +diffused an air of hope and comfort through the desolate apartment, +and the kind serving-girl, Bettina, who had guided him to the humble +lodging, seconded all his active efforts to produce warmth and +comfort, and soon returned with one of his prescriptions--an +abundance of fuel for the almost exhausted grate. The cheerful blaze +threw its strong light upon the young girl, who at first knelt in +hopeless grief beside her dying mother. + +What was it that thrilled the heart of Gotleib, as he looked upon +this young maiden? Was it her beauty? No! he had seen others more +beautiful. Was it her sorrow? No! he had seen others quite as sad. +But, whatever it was, Gotleib felt he had met his destiny; the +fulness of his being was developed to him; and, all unconsciously, +the maiden turned to him as the Providence of God to her. She seemed +to rest her troubled heart upon his strong understanding. He said +her mother would not die immediately, and she grew calm. + +It was very late that night when Gotleib retired; and very fervent +were the prayers that arose from his heart before he slept. He felt +a sense of gratitude for the uses he was permitted to perform to his +fellow beings, and, in his prayers, he felt that light shone from +the Divine sun upon that sorrowing maiden, and it was as if she +knelt by his side, and his strong spirit-arms upheld her in the +sunshine of God's love. + +When the morning came, Gotleib awakened with a delicious sense of +enjoyment in life--with a looking forth into the events of the day, +that he had never before experienced. He hastened through his +morning duties with an elasticity of spirit and hope that was +altogether new to him. Though, as yet, his feeling was not defined +into a thought, it was a faint perception, a dim consciousness that +the elective affinities of his heart had all awakened. And while he +thought he was in an excessive anxiety to see after his feeble +patient, he was borne on rather by the attractions of his heart's +love. He paused in a thrilling excitement of hope and doubt before +the door of the poor chamber--he dreaded to have the agreeable +impressions of the last evening dissipated. But, when he knocked, a +light tread was heard; the door was gently opened, and the pale Anna +stood before him, with such a gentle grace, and so earnest a look of +gratified expectation, that, as she said in subdued tones, + +"I hoped it was you," his heart bounded with exultation, to think +that the young girl had him in her thoughts. But, as he approached +the sick bed, his reason told him what was more natural than her +wishing for the arrival of her mother's physician. + +A careful glance, by daylight, around the humble apartment, revealed +to Gotleib that Anna worked with her delicate, white, lady-looking +hands, for the support of her dying mother. A table, placed by the +window, was covered with artificial flowers of exquisite +workmanship, and, while he yet lingered in the chamber, Bettina, the +maid, entered from the street door, with a basket filled with the +same flowers--looked at Anna, and shook her head mournfully. The +young girl's lips quivered, and she pressed the tears back when she +saw no purchaser had been found for her labour. Gotleib saw and felt +with the most intense sympathy all that was passing. He lingered yet +longer--he made encouraging remarks to the sick mother, and, at +length, ventured to approach the table, and gazed with admiration on +the beautiful flowers, while his brain was busy in devising how he +was to make them the medium of conveying aid to the suffering mother +and daughter. He turned to the faithful Bettina, who clung to those +whom she served in their hard poverty--he told her that if she would +follow him he would find a purchaser for the pretty flowers. Anna +cast upon him a look of tearful smiling gratitude, and her simple, +"I thank you," as she held out her hand to him, bound him as with a +magnetic chain to her being. Bettina thought the Herr Doctor was a +most generous man, for he more than doubled the paltry sum she asked +for the flowers; though she did not consider it necessary to mention +the fact to Anna, she merely stated to her that she had found a +purchaser for as many flowers as she chose to make. + +But Gotleib! what an Eden those flowers made of his chamber! with +what a joy he returned to it after hours of absence; it seemed as if +they brought him into contact with the sphere of a beloved +existence. He examined them with delight, and could not avoid +covering them with kisses. Never was patient visited or watched over +more attentively than was Madame Hendrickson; and, as the mother +revived, the daughter seemed to feel new life. Light beamed from her +soft eyes, and oftentimes Gotleib thought that the roses that +bloomed in her delicate face were far more beautiful and bright than +those that grew under her light and skilful touch. + +For him she seemed to feel an earnest trustful gratitude. She never +concealed her glad recognition of his coming; she was too pure, and +innocent, and good, to think it necessary to conceal anything. And +Gotleib's visits were so pleasant, they grew longer and longer--for +he and Madame Hendrickson were of the same religious faith--and he +had a peculiar faculty for consoling her. Gotleib spoke of the other +world with such a definite perception of its existences and modes of +being, that the dying woman never wearied of listening to him. The +high and true faith of the good Gotleib opened to him a world of +beauty, which he poured forth in his earnest enthusiasm, more like a +gifted poet than a being of mere prose. Oftentimes, as he talked, +the light of his intelligence seemed to gleam back from the +answering eye of Anna, until his whole being was filled with +delight. While she felt that her hitherto dim and indistinct faith +was growing into form and fixedness, and her intellect awakened to a +sphere of ideas, to a world of perceptions, that endowed her all at +once with a charmed existence, and flooded her with the light of a +graceful beauty that made her appear to the admiring Gotleib like an +angelic spirit. + +Thus were the spirit links being woven through the cold bright days +of winter. Madame Hendrickson was no longer confined to her bed; and +on the Sabbath days Anna could attend the public worship of God, of +whom, now, only she seemed truly to learn. It was to the Holy Supper +she went on that first solemn Sabbath day, after months of +confinement and sorrow. Oh! how blessed it was to listen to the +Divine Word, through which God seemed to her awakened perception to +shine, in a veiled beauty! and when she tasted the wine of spiritual +truth, flowing from the wisdom of the Divine One, and ate of the +bread of the celestial good of His love, Heaven seemed to open to +her receptive heart and mind--and, as her heart's prayers went up +with those of the shining angels round the throne of God, it was not +for herself that she prayed, but for him that had spoken living +truth to her virgin heart. Oh, the good child! In that holy moment +she rejoiced to reveal her heart's love to the Divine Father; she +knew that her love was born of her knowledge of God, and thus she +knew that it was blessed from above. + +As she passed out of the church, she encountered the earnest glance +of surprised and delighted recognition from Gotleib. Very soon he +was at her side. In the fullness and stillness of her beautiful +thoughts and satisfied affections they walked on. Oh, how happy the +dear mother looked, when she saw the two enter her lonely chamber! +The heavenly light and warmth of love seemed to be within and around +them; and she saw that two beings so exactly created the one for the +other, could not but find an eternal happiness in each other. +Gotleib was truly in one of his genial, sunny moods; he seemed to +soar into worlds of light; his expanding heart was filling with the +glory of Heaven. The teachings of his childhood were all brought +forth; he talked of his beloved mother--now an angel of God--told of +the beautiful hope she awakened in his heart concerning the little +maiden created by God for him, when his heart shrunk in such pain +from the isolation her death would leave him in. Then he turned to +the blushing Anna, and said he thought the maiden was now found. She +lifted her love-lighted eyes to his--he clasped her hand and said +softly, + +"Thou art mine!" + +"I am thine," fell responsive from the maiden's lips; and an +infinite blessedness flowed into the loving, satisfied heart of +Gotleib. + +The next day brought with it a new and beautiful joy,--a letter from +the beloved one, conveyed into his hand as he tenderly pressed hers, +at parting. For this his thirsty soul had yearned--for some +expression of the maiden's heart-love that had as yet gleamed upon +him but momentarily from her modest eyes. But alone in his chamber, +with the dear letter before him! Ah, now indeed he was to lift the +veil that hid his life's treasure. To have revealed to him the heart +and mind of the beloved one. And his whole being went forth to her +as he read the tender revealings. She wrote: + +"Gotleib! my heart would fain speak to thine. It longs to say +gratefully, 'I love thee, thou heaven-sent one.' And I would tell +thee of a dream that came to me last night in my heart's beautiful +happiness. + +"I was reading aloud to my mother in the book you lent me. I read of +how the angels ever have their faces turned to the Divine Sun. Of +how their shining brows are ever attracted to this central point, in +whatever position they may be--even as our feet are attracted to the +central point of the earth. I was happy in this beautiful truth, and +felt that through my love for thee, my thought was lifted upward, +and my face, too, was turned to the Lord; and when sleep came, it +seemed as if my happy spirit was conscious of a new and beautiful +existence. I found myself in a large place, and a company of angelic +spirits surrounded me; and we were seated at a table, adorned with +an exceeding elegance, and having many varieties of food, of which +we partook, but without a consciousness of taste--only there was a +genial delight of mind arising from the mutual love of all those +bright ones. An angel-woman spoke to me and said, 'This is the +Lord's Supper; appropriate to thyself the goods and truths of His +heavenly kingdom.' While she thus spoke, I saw thee, dear Gotleib, +approach, with such a smiling and beautiful grace, and thou saidst +to me, holding my hand--'Sweet one! how bright thou art! Hast thou +learnt some new truth! for thou art ever bright, when thou dost +perceive a new truth!' Then I answered, 'Ah, yes, indeed! I have +learned a beautiful new truth;' and I led thee to an east window and +pointed upward to the great Sun, that shone in such a Divine +effulgence--then I told thee how the angels were held by the +attraction of love in this centre of being--even as the children of +the world are held by the attraction of gravitation to the +earth--and as we talked, the light shone around thee, dear Gotleib! +with so heavenly a glory, that my heart was filled with a new love +for thee. For I saw, truly, that thou wert a child of God, and in +loving thee I loved Him who shone in such a radiant glory upon thee. +Oh! was not this a pleasant dream? Gotleib! what worlds of beauty +thou hast opened to me! Once my thought was so narrow, so bound down +to the earth; but thou hast lifted me above the earth. A woman's +heart is so weak--it is like a trailing vine, that cannot lift +itself up until its curling tendrils are wound round the lofty +tree-tops of a man's ascending thought. Gotleib, thus dost thou bear +me up into the serene, bright heavens, and like some blooming +flowery vine will my love ever seek to adorn thy noble thoughts." + +Gotleib was charmed with the maiden's thoughts. Oh, yes--her flowers +were already flying over his highest branches. She soared above him, +and through her heavenly truths were growing clearer to him. How +grateful he was to his Heavenly Father, that from his own bosom, as +it were, was born his spirit's companion. But her life was from +God--and how holy was her whole being to him! She was enthroned in +his inmost heart, to be for ever treasured as the highest and best +gift of God. + +It was evening when he next stood beside her. The mother slept, and +Anna and Gotleib stood in the moonlit window. Few, and softly +whispered, were his loving words to her. But she smiled in a oneness +of thought, when he said, + +"In heaven, the sun shone upon us; upon earth the cold moonbeams +unite us; but the sunshine will soon come again." + +Anna felt that her letter had made Gotleib very happy; and she bent +her head lovingly on his manly breast. Oh! to him, the desolate +forlorn one, how thrilling was the first caress of the maiden! His +lips touched her soft white brows with a delicious new joy. But +brow, eyes, cheeks, and lips, were soon covered with rapturous +kisses. + +Ah! happy youth and maiden, thus bedewed with life's nectar of +blessedness! What are earth's sorrows to you? Heaven is in you, and +eternity only can satisfy the infinite desires of such hearts. + +But as the days passed, the material body of the mother wasted away, +and her spirit was growing bright in its coming glory. She wished +much to see her beloved Anna in a holy marriage union before she +left this world. So a few weeks after the betrothal, Gotleib led his +bride to the marriage altar. It was a festive scene of the heart's +happiness even beside the bed of death. Madame Hendrickson felt that +she, too, was adorning for a beautiful bridal--and earthly care +being thus removed from her heart, she was altogether happy. + +And the good, true-hearted Anna, in white bridal garments and virgin +innocence, looked to the loving mother and happy Gotleib like an +angel of God. Even the Professor Eberhard thought thus, and quite +certain it is, that the good minister spoke as if a heavenly +inspiration flowed into him, as he bound the two into an eternal +_oneness_ of being. "Little children!" said he, "love one another! +was the teaching of the great God, as he walked upon the earth. +Hence love is the holy of the holies. And it flows from God even as +heat flows from the material sun--and as the sun is in its own heat +and light, so God is in love." + +And taking the marriage ring, he placed it on the soft, white, +rose-tipped finger of the bride, and said, + +"How beautiful and expressive is this symbol of union, showing the +conjunction of good and truth, which conjunction first exists in the +Lord, for His love is the inmost, and His wisdom is like the golden +bond of truth encasing and protecting love. And this love of the +Lord flowing into man is received, protected, and guarded by woman's +truth, until, in her fitness and perfect adaptation to him, she +becomes the love of the wisdom of the man's love, and the twain are +no longer two, but one." + +The fresh spring days were now coming--Madame Hendrickson went to an +eternal spring. But the heart of the loving Anna rose above the +earthly sorrow of separation, as if upheld by her husband's strong +faith; her imagination delighted itself in following the beloved +mother into her new and beautiful state of being. + +Gotleib felt that now it was good for him to return to the home of +his childhood, for it was more delightful to live apart from the +strife and toil of men. In the simple country life much good might +be done, and yet there would be less of life's sorrow to look upon. +It was weary to live in a crowded haunt, where a perception of vice +and misery so mingled itself with the blessedness of his heart's +love. Anna was charmed and delighted with the pure country life, and +as business increased on the Herr Doctor's hands, it was so great a +happiness to her to minister to his comfort. After the long winter +rides, how she chafed his cold hands and warmed his frozen feet, and +how lovingly she helped him to the warm suppers of the good Bettina, +no homeless and desolate wanderer of earth can know. But to Gotleib, +what an inexpressible blessedness was all this; and how often he +left off to eat, that he might clasp Anna to his heart and cover her +with kisses! Thus went the blessed married life until another spring +brought with it the sweet "dream-child," as Anna called the little +one, whom the angel said, was "the fruit of the union of good and +truth." + +The little Lina thus born into the very sphere of love, seemed ever +a living joy. The father's wisdom guided the mother's tender love, +and the little one was good and unselfish--and so gay in the +infantile innocence and grace of her being, that oftentimes the +young mother, leaning on the father's bosom, would whisper, + +"Gotleib, she is indeed an angel of God." + +One dark and wintry day, as the child thus sported in the inner glad +light and joy of her heart, and Gotleib and Anna as usual were +watching the light of her radiance, a beautiful White Dove flew +fluttering against the friendly window. The child grew still in her +wondrous joy. But the father quickly opened the window, and the +half-frozen bird flew in, and nestled itself in Anna's bosom. It was +fed and warmed and loved as bird never was before. For the little +one thought it was the spirit of God come down upon the house, and +Gotleib loved it because to him it was a living symbol of the peace +and purity of his married life, and Anna received it as a heavenly +gift for the loving child. Thus both literally and spiritually the +White Dove of innocence and peace dwelt in their midst. + + + + +HESTER. + + + WHILE Hester lived, the day was bright + With something more than common light-- + 'Twas the moon's difference to the night. + + As summer sun and summer shower + Revive the tree, the herb, and flower, + Hers was the gift of warmth and power. + + She was not what the world calls wise; + Yet, the mute language of her eyes + Was worth a thousand homilies. + + She was so crystal pure a thing, + That sin to her could no more cling + Than water to a sea-bird's wing. + + Like memory-tones heard long ago, + Her gentle voice was soft and low, + But plaintive in its underflow. + + Her life so slowly loosed its springs, + Long ere she passed from earthly things, + We saw the budding of her wings. + + She lingered so in taking leave-- + Heaven granted us a long reprieve-- + That when she went we could not grieve. + + The very night that Hester died, + There came and stood my couch beside, + A gentle spirit glorified. + + And often in my darker mood, + When evil thoughts subdue the good, + I see her clasp the holy Rood. + + But when my better hopes illume + The narrow pathway to the tomb, + My Hester's presence fills the room. + + + + +THISTLE-DOWN. + + +THERE is no time like these clear September nights, after sunset, +for a revery. If it is a calm evening, and an intense light fills +the sky, and glorifies it, and you sit where you can see the new +moon, with the magnificent evening star beneath it, you must be a +stupid affair, indeed, if you cannot then dream the most _heavenly_ +dreams! + +But Rosalie Sherwood, poor young creature, is in no dreaming mood +this lovely Sabbath night. Her heart is crushed in such an utter +helplessness, as leaves no room in it for hope: her brain is too +acutely sensitive, just now, for visions. The thistle-down, in +beautiful fairy-like procession, floats on and up before her eyes, +and as she watches the frail things, they assume a new interest to +her; she feels a human sympathy with them. Like the viewless winds +they come, from whence she knows not; and go, whither? none can +tell. They are homeless, and she is like them; but she is not as +they, purposeless. + +If you could look into her mind, you would see how she has nerved it +to a great determination; how that, mustering visions and hopes once +cherished, she had gone forward to a bleak and barren path, and +stands there very resolute, yet, in the first moment of her resolve, +miserable; no, she had not yet grown strong in the suffering; she +cannot _this_ night stand up and bear her burden with a smile of +triumph. + +Rosalie Sherwood was an only child, the daughter of an humble friend +Mrs. Melville had known from girlhood. _She_, poor creature, had +neither lived nor died innocent. + +On her death-bed, Cecily Sherwood gave her unrecognised child to the +care of one who promised, in the sincerity of her passion, to be a +mother to the unfortunate infant. And during the eighteen years of +that girl's life, from the hour of her mother's death to the day +when she was left without hope in the world, Rosalie _had_ found a +parent in the rigid but always kind and just Mary Melville. + +This widow lady had one son; he was four years old when her husband +died, which was the very year that the little Rosalie was brought to +Melville House. The boy's father had been considered a man of great +wealth, but when his affairs were settled, after his decease, it was +found that the debts of the estate being paid, little more than a +competency remained for the widow. But the lady was fitted, by a +life of self-discipline, even in her luxurious home, to calmly meet +this emergency. With the remnant of an imagined fortune, she retired +to an humbler residence, where, in quiet retirement, she gave her +time to managing household affairs, and superintending the home +education of the children. + +Her son Duncan, and the young Rosalie, had grown up together, until +the girl's twelfth birth-day, constant playmates and pupils in the +same school. No one, not even the busiest busy-body, had ever been +able to detect the slightest partiality in Mrs. Melville's treatment +of her children; and, indeed, it had been quite impossible that she +should ever regard a child so winningly beautiful as Rosalie, with +other than the tenderest affection. Under a light and careless rein, +the girl had been a difficult one to manage, for there was a light +little fire in her eyes, that told of strong will and deep passions; +and besides, her striking appearance had won sufficient admiration +to have completely spoiled her, if a guardian the most vigilant as +well as most discerning, had not been ever at hand to speak the +right word to and do the right thing with her. + +Mrs. Melville was a thoroughly religious woman, and seriously +conscious of the responsibility she incurred in adopting the infant. +She could not quiet her conscience with the reflection that she had +done a wonderfully good thing in giving Rosalie a home and +education; the chief pity she felt for the unfortunate orphan, led +her to exercise an uncommon care, that all tendency to evil should +be eradicated from the heart of the brilliant girl while she was yet +young; that a sense of right, such as should prove abiding, might be +impressed on her tender mind. And her labour of love met with a +return which might well have made the mother proud. + +There had been no officious voice to whisper to Rosalie Sherwood the +story of the doubtful position which she occupied in the world. She +was an orphan, the adopted child of the lady whom she devoutly loved +with all a daughter's tenderness; this she knew, and it was all she +knew; and Mrs. Melville was resolved that she should never know +more. + +The son of the widow had been educated for the ministry. He was now +twenty-two years old, and was soon to be admitted to the priesthood. +In this he was following out his own wish, and the most cherished +hope of his mother, and it seemed to all who knew him, as though the +Head of the Church had set his seal upon Duncan from his boyhood. He +was so mild and forbearing, so discreet and generous, so earnest and +so honest; meek, and holy of heart, was the thought of any one who +looked upon his placid, youthful face. Yet, he had, besides his +gentleness, that without which his character might have subsided +into a mere puerile weakness; a firmness of purpose; a reverence for +duty; a strict sense of right, equal to that which marked his mother +among women. Duncan Melville's abilities were of a high order; +perhaps not of the very highest, though, if his ambition were only +equal to his powers, they would surely seem so to the world. + +His voice had a sweet persuasive tone, that was fitted to _win_ +souls, yet it could ring like a clarion, when the grandeur of his +themes fired his soul. With the warmest hopes and the deepest +interest, they, who knew the difficulties and trials attending the +profession he had chosen, looked on this young man. + +Duncan and Rosalie had long known the nature of the tie which bound +them together--members of one family--and they never called +themselves brother and sister, after the youth came home a graduate +from college. For, from the time when absence empowered him to look +as a stranger would look on Rosalie, from that time he saw her +elegant and accomplished, and bewitching, as she was, and other than +fraternal affection was in his heart for her. + +And Rosalie, too, loved him, just as Duncan, had he spoken his +passion, would have prayed her to love him. She had long ago made +him the standard of all manly excellence; and when he came back, +after three years of absence, she was not inclined to revoke her +early decision; therefore was she prepared to read the language of +Duncan's eyes, and she consecrated her heart to him. + +During the years which followed his return from college, till he was +prepared for ordination, as a priest, he did not once _speak_ to her +of his love, which was growing all the while stronger and deeper, as +the river course that, flowing to the ocean, receives every day +fresh impetus and force from the many tiny springs that commingle +with it. Duncan Melville never _thought_ of wedding another than +Rosalie Sherwood. + +It was, as I said, near the time appointed for his ordination, when +he felt, for the first time, as though he had a _right_ to speak +openly with her of all his hopes. He asked her, then, what, in soul +language, he had long before asked, a question which she had as +emphatically, in like language, answered--to be his partner for +life, in weal or woe. + +He had tried to calmly consider Rosalie's character as a Christian +minister should consider the character of her whom he would make the +sharer of his peculiar lot; and setting every preference aside, +Duncan felt that she was fitted to assist, and to bear with him. She +was truthful as the day, strong-minded and generous; humane and +charitable: and though no professor of religion, a woman full of +reverence and veneration. + +He knew that it was only a fear that she should not _adorn_ the +Christian name, that kept her back from the altar of the church, and +he loved her for that spirit of humility, knowing that she was "on +the Lord's side," and that grace, ere long, would be given to her, +to proclaim it in doing _all_ His commandments. + +It was certainly with a joyful and confident heart that, after he +had spoken with Rosalie, Duncan sought his mother, to tell her of +the whole of that bright future which opened now before him. + +How then was he overcome with amazement and grief when Mrs. Melville +told him it was a union to which she could never consent! Then, for +the first time in his life, the astonished young man heard of that +stain which was on the name poor Rosalie bore. + +He heard the story to the end, and, with a decision and energy that +would have settled the matter with almost any other than his mother, +he declared, + +"Yet for all that, I will not give her up." + +"It would not be expected that you would fulfil the engagement. +Rosalie herself would not allow it, if she knew the truth of the +matter." + +"But she need not know it. There is no existing necessity. Is it not +enough that she is good and precious _to me_? She is a noble woman, +whose life has been, thanks to your guidance, beautiful and lofty." + +"God knows, I _have_ striven to do my duty by her, but I know what I +should have done if I had ever thought you would wish to change your +relations with her, Duncan." + +"The world has not her equal! It is cruel--it is sinful--in you, +mother, to oppose our union." + +"She _is_ a lovely woman; but, my son, there are myriads like her." + +"No _not one_! Tell me you will never breathe a word of what you +have told me _to her_!" + +"Never." + +"Oh! thank you! thank you, mother! you could not wish another +daughter." + +"But for that I have told you, I could not wish another." + +"Then I say you must not work this great injustice on us. Rosalie +loves me. She has promised to be mine. You will break my heart." + +"You are deluded and strongly excited, my son, or you would never +speak so to me," said the mother, with that persisting firmness with +which the physician resorts to a desperate remedy for a desperate +disease. Then she spoke to him of all the relations in life he might +yet be called upon to assume; of the misery which very possibly +might follow this union in after days. Hours passed on, and the +conference was not ended, until, with a crushed heart, and a +trembling voice, Duncan arose, abruptly, while his mother yet spoke, +and he said, + +"If the conclusion to which you have urged me, in God's sight, is +just, He will give me--He will give Rosalie, too--strength to abide +by it. But I can never speak to her of this, and I must find another +home than yours and hers. You must speak _for me_, mother; and let +me charge you, do it gently. Do not tell her _all_. Let her think +what she will, believe, as she must, that I am a wretch, past +pardon; but do not blight her peace by telling _all_." + +"I promise you, Duncan," was the answer, spoken through many tears, +and in the deepest sorrow. + +An hour after, he was on the way from the village that he might +spend the coming Sabbath in another town. + +And, after he was gone, the mother sought her younger, her dearly +loved child. Rosalie heard that familiar step on the stairway; she +had seen Duncan hurrying away from the house, and she knew the +conference was over; but she had no fear for the result. So she +hushed the glad tumultuous beating of her heart, and tried to veil +the brightness of her eyes as she heard the gentle tapping at her +door that announced the mother coming. + +As for Mrs. Melville, her heart quite failed her when she went into +the pleasant room, and sat down close by Rosalie. In spite of all +the strengthening thoughts of duty which she had taken with her as a +support in that interview, she was now at a sore loss, for it had +been a bitter grief to her kind heart when, of old, for duty's sake, +she made her children unhappy. How then could sh endure to take away +their life's best joy, their richest hope? It was a hard thing; and +many moments passed before she could nerve her strong spirit to +utter the first word. Rosalie, anxious and impatient, too, but +unsuspecting, at last exclaimed, + +"What can it be that so much troubles you, mother?" + +Then Mary Melville spoke, but with a voice so soft and sad, so faint +with emotion, that it seemed not at all her voice. She said, + +"I want you to consider that what I say to you, dear child, has +given me more pain even to think of than I have ever felt before. +Duncan has told me of your engagement to marry with him; and it has +been my duty, my most sorrowful duty, oh! believe me, to tell him +that such a tie must never unite you. He can never be your husband; +you can never be his wife." + +She paused, exhausted by her emotion; she could not utter another +syllable. Rosalie, who had watched her with fixed astonishment as +she listened to the words, was the first to speak again, and she +tried to say, calmly, + +"Of course, you have a reason for saying so. It is but just that I +should know it." + +"It cannot _be_ known. If I had ever in my life deceived you, +Rosalie, you might doubt me now, when I assure you that an +impediment, which cannot be named, exists to the marriage. Have I +not been a mother to you always?" she asked, appealingly, +imploringly: "I love you as I love Duncan, and it cuts me to the +heart to grieve you." + +"Has Duncan given you an answer?" + +"Yes, Rosalie." + +"And it--?" + +"He has trusted to his mother!" she said, almost proudly. + +"Rather than me," quickly interrupted Rosalie. + +"Rather than do that which is wrong; which might hereafter prove the +misery of you both, my child." + +"Where is he? Why does he not come himself to tell me this? If the +thing is really true, _his_ lips should have spoken it, and not +another's." + +"Oh! Rosalie, he could not do it. I believe his heart is broken. Do +not look so upon me. Is it not enough that I bitterly regret, that I +shall always deplore, having not foreseen the result of your +companionship? Say only that you do believe I have striven to do the +best for you always, as far as I knew how. I implore you, _say it_." + +"Heaven knows I believe it, mother. When will Duncan come home +again?" + +"Monday; not before." + +When Monday morning came, on the desk in Rosalie's room this letter +was found:-- + +"I cannot leave you for ever, Duncan; I cannot go from your +protecting care, mother, without saying all that is in my heart. I +have no courage to look on you, my brother, again. Mother! our +union, which we had thought life-lasting, is broken. I cannot any +longer live in the world's sight as your daughter by adoption. I +would have done so. I would have remained in any capacity, as a +slave, even, for I was bound by gratitude for all that you have done +for me, to be with you always--at least so long as you could wish. +If you had unveiled the mystery, and suffered me to stand before +you, recognising myself as _you_ know me, I would have stayed. I +would have been to you, Duncan, only as in childhood--a proud yet +humble sister, rejoicing in your triumphs, and sharing by _sympathy_ +in your griefs. I would have put forth fetters on my heart; the +in-dwelling spirit should henceforth have been a stranger to you. I +_know_ I could have borne even to see another made your wife; but in +a mistaken kindness you put this utterly beyond my power. Too much +has been required, and I am found--wanting! If even the most +miserable fate that can befall an innocent woman; if the curse of +illegitimacy were upon me, I could bear that thought even, and +acknowledge the justice and wisdom that did not consider me a fit +associate for one whose birth is recognized by a parent's pride and +fondness. + +"But, dear Mrs. Melville, I must be cognisant of the relation, +whatever it is, that I bear you. I cannot, I will not, consent to +appear nominally your daughter, when you scorn to receive me as +such. + +"_Mother_--in my dear mother's name, I thank you for the generous +love you have ever shown me: for the generous care with which you +have attended to the development of the talents God gave me. For I +am now fitted to labour for myself. I thank you for the watchful +guardianship that has made me what I am, a woman--self-reliant and +strong. I thank you for it, from a heart that has learned only to +love and honour you in the past eighteen years. And I call down the +blessings of the infinite God upon you, as I depart. Hereafter, +always, it will be my endeavour to live worthily of you--to be _all_ +that you have, in your more than charity, capacitated me to be. +Duncan, you will not forget me? + +"I do not ask it. But pray for me, and live up to the fullness of +your being--of your heart and of your intellect. There is a happy +future for you. I have no word of counsel, no feeble utterance of +encouragement to leave you--you will not need such from _me_. God +bless and strengthen you in every good word and work--it shall be +the constant hope of the sister who _loves_ you. Mother, farewell!" + +This letter was written on the Sabbath eve on which our story +opens--written in a perfect passion--yes, of grief, and of despair. +The anger that Rosalie may at first have felt, gave way to the +wildest sorrow now, but her resolution was taken, and her heart was +really strong to bear the resolution out. + +After the sudden and most unlooked-for disappearance, the mother and +son sought long, and I need not say how anxiously, for Rosalie. But +their search was vain, and, at last, as time passed on, she became +to the villagers as one who had never been. But never by the widow +was she forgotten; and oh! there was in the world one heart that +sorrowed with a constant sorrow, that hoped with a constant hope for +her. + +He had lost her, and Duncan sought for no other love among women. +When all his searching for Rosalie proved unavailing, the minister +applied himself with industry to the work of his calling, and verily +he met here with his reward; for as he was a blessing to the people +of his parish, in time they almost adored him. He was a spiritual +physician whom God empowered to heal many a wounded and stricken +heart; but there was a cross of suffering that he bore himself, +which could not be removed. It was his glory that he bore it with +martyr-like patience--that he never uttered a reproachful word to +her through whom he bore it. + +As years passed away, the gifted preacher's impassioned eloquence, +and stirring words, bowed many a proud and impenitent soul with +another love than that he wished to inspire, still he sought not +among any of them companionship, or close friendship. They said, at +last, considering his life spent in the most rigid performance of +duty, that "_he was too high-church to marry_,"--that he did not +believe such union consonant with the duties of the cloth! But the +mother knew better than this--_she_ knew a name that was never +spoken now in Rosalie's old home, that was dearer than life to the +heart of her son; and desolate and lonely as he oft-times was, she +never _dared_ ask him to give to her a daughter--to take unto +himself a wife. + +In a splendid old cathedral a solemn ceremonial was going forward, +on the morning of a holy festival. A bishop was to be consecrated. + +A mighty crowd assembled to witness the ceremony, and the mother of +Duncan Melville was there, the happiest soul in all that company, +for it was on _her_ son that the high honour was to be laid. + +How beautiful was the pale, holy countenance of the minister, who, +in the early strength of his manhood, was accounted worthy to fill +that great office for which he was about to be set apart! He was a +man "acquainted with grief,"--you had known it by the resigned, +submissive expression of his face; you had known that the passions +of mortals had been all but chilled in him, by the holy light in his +tranquil eyes. Duncan _had_ toiled--he _had_ born a burden! + +A thousand felt it, looking on the noble front where religion +undefiled, and peace, and holy love, and charity, had left for +themselves unmistakable evidences: and, more than all, one being +felt it who had not looked upon that man for years--not since the +lines of grief and care had marked the face and form of Duncan +Melville. There was reason for the passionate sobs of one heart, +crushed anew in that solemn hour; there was pathos such as no other +voice could give to the prayers which went up to God from one +woman's heart, in the great congregation, for him. Poor, loving, +still-beloved Rosalie! She was there, her proud, magnificent figure +bent humbly from the very commencement to the close of the +ceremonial; there, her beautiful eyes filled with tears of love, and +grief, and despair, and pride; there, crushed as the humblest +flower--the glorious beauty! + +And the good man at the altar, for whom the prayers and the praise +ascended, thought of her in that hour! Yes, in that very hour he +remembered how _one_ would have looked on him that day, could she +have come, his wife, to witness how his brethren and the people +loved and honoured him. He thought of her, and as he knelt at the +altar, even there he prayed for her; but not as numbers thought upon +the name of Rosalie Sherwood that day; for she also was soon to +appear before a throng, and there was a myriad hearts that throbbed +with expectancy, and waited impatiently for the hour when they +should look upon her. + +Bishop Melville had retired at noonday to his study, that he might +be for a few moments alone. He was glancing over the sermon (sic) +the was to deliver that afternoon, when his mother, his proud and +happy mother, came quickly into the room, laid a sealed note on the +table and instantly withdrew, for she saw how he was occupied. When +he had finished his manuscript, the bishop opened the note and +read--could it have been with careless eyes? + + +"Duncan, I have knelt in the house of the Lord, to-day, and +witnessed your triumph. Ten years ago, when I went desolate and +wretched from your house, I might have prophesied your destiny. +Come, to-night, and behold _my_ triumph--at--the opera-house! + +"Your sister, + +ROSALIE." + + +Do you think that, as he read that summons, he hesitated as to +whether he should obey it? If his bishopric had been sacrificed by +it, he would have gone; if disgrace and danger had attended his +footsteps, he would have obeyed her bidding! The love which had been +strengthening in ten long years of loneliness and bereavement, was +not now to stop, to question or to fear. + +"Accompany me, dear mother, this evening; I have made an engagement +for you," he said, as he went, she hanging on his arm, to the +cathedral for afternoon service. + +"Willingly, my son," was the instant answer, and Duncan kept her to +her word. + +But it was with wondering, with surprise that she did not attempt to +conceal, and with questions which were satisfied with no definite +reply, that Mrs. Melville found herself standing with her son in an +obscure corner of the opera-house that night. Soon all her +expressions of astonishment were hushed, but by another cause than +the mysterious inattention of her son: a queenly woman appeared upon +the stage; she lifted her voice, and sobbed the mournful wail which +opens the first scene in----. + +For years there had not been such a sensation created among the +frequenters of that place, as now, by the appearance of this +stranger. The wild, singular style of her beauty made an impression +that was heightened by every movement of her graceful figure, every +tone of her rich melodious voice. She seemed for the time the very +embodiment of the sorrow to which she gave an expression, and the +effect was a complete triumph. + +Mary Melville and her son gazed on the _debutante_--they had no +word, no look for each other: for they recognised in her voice the +tones of a grief of which long ago they heard the prelude--and every +note found its echo in the bishop's inmost heart. + +"Come away! let us go home! Duncan, this is no place for us--for +_you_. It is disgrace to be here," was the mother's passionate plea, +when at last Rosalie disappeared, and other forms stood in her +place. + +"We will stay and save her," was the answer, spoken with tears and +trembling, by the man for whom, in many a quiet home, prayers in +that very hour ascended. "She is mine _now_, and no earthly +consideration or power shall divide us." + +And looking for a moment in her son's face steadfastly, the lady +turned away sighing and tearful, for she knew that she must yield +then, and she had fears for the future. + +A half-hour passed and the star of the night reappeared, resplendent +in beauty, triumphing in hope;--again her marvellous voice was +raised, not with the bitter cry of despair that was hopeless, but +glad and gay, angelic in its joy. + +Again the mother's eyes were turned on him beside her--and a light +was on that pale forehead--a smile on that calm face--a gladness in +those eyes--such as she had not seen there in long, long years; but +though she looked with a mother's love upon the one who stood the +admiration of all eyes, crowned with the glory-crown of perfection +in her art, she could not with Duncan hope. For, alas! her +woman-heart knew too well the ordeal through which the daughter of +her care and love must have passed before she came into _that_ +presence where she stood now, who could tell if still the mistress +of herself and her destiny? who could tell if pure and undefiled? + +That night and the following day, there were many who sought +admittance to the parlours of Rosalie Sherwood; they would lay the +homage of their trifling hearts at her feet. But all these sought in +vain; and why was this? Because such admiring tribute was not what +the noble woman sought; _and_ because, ere she had risen in the +morning, a letter, written in the solitude of night, was handed to +her, which barred and bolted her doors against the curious world. + +"Rosalie! Rosalie! look back through the ten years that are gone; I +am answering your letter of long ago with words; I have a thousand +times answered them with my heart, till the thoughts which have +crowded there, filled it almost to breaking. We have met--met at +last--you and I! But did you call that a triumph when you stood in +God's house, and saw them lay their consecrating hands upon me? +Heaven forgive me! I was thinking of you then--and thinking, too, +that if this honor was in any way to be considered a _reward_, the +needful part was wanting--you were not there! Yet you _were_ there, +you have written me; ah! but not _Rosalie, my wife_, the woman I +loved better than _all_ on earth--the _acknowledged_ woman, her +whose memory I have borne about with me till it was a needful part +of my existence. You were by when the people came to see me +consecrated--and I obeyed your call; I saw _you_ when the people +anointed you with the tears of their admiration and praise. If you +read my heart at all, to-day, you _knew_ how I had suffered--you +_saw_ that I had grown old in sorrow. Was I mistaken to-night in the +thought that you, too, had not been unmindful of _our_ past; that +you were not satisfied with the popular applause; that you, also, +have been lonely, that you have wept; that you have trodden in the +path of duty with weariness? + +"There is but one barrier now in the wide world that shall interpose +between us--Rosalie, it is your own will. If I was ever anything to +you, I beseech you think calmly before you answer, and do not let +your triumph, to-night, blind you to the fact which you once +recognised, which can make us happy _yet_. I trust you as in our +younger days; nothing, nothing but your own words could convince me +that you are not worthy to take the highest place among the ladies +of this land. Oh, let the remembrance that I have been faithful to +you through all the past, plead for me, if your pride should rise +up, to condemn me. Let me come and plead _with_ you, for I know not +what I write." + +The answer returned to this letter was as follows:-- + +"I learned long ago, the bar that prevented our union; it is in +existence still, Duncan. Your mother only shall decide if it be +insurmountable. I have never, even for a moment, doubted your +faithfulness; and it has been to me an unspeakable comfort to _know_ +that none had supplanted me in your affections. In the temptations, +and struggles, and hardships, I have known, it has kept me above and +beyond the world, and if the last night's triumph proves to be but +the opening of a new life for me on earth, the recollection of what +you are, and that you care for me, will prove a rock of defence, and +a stronghold of hope always. Severed from, or united with you, I am +yours for ever." + +Seven days after there was a marriage in the little church of that +remote village, where Duncan Melville and Rosalie Sherwood passed +their childhood. Side by side they stood now, once again, where the +baptismal service had long since been read for them, and the mother +of the bishop gave the bride away! + + + + +THE LITTLE CHILDREN. + + +IT was Sabbath morning. Soft and silvery, like stray notes from the +quivering chords of an archangel's harp, floated the clear, sweet +voice of the church-bells through the hushed heart of the great +metropolis, while old men and little children--youth in its hope, +and manhood in its pride--came forth at their summons, setting a +mighty human tide in the direction of the sanctuaries, beneath whose +sacred droppings they should hear again the tidings which come to us +over the waves of nearly two thousand years, fresh and full of +exceeding melody, as when the Day-Star from on high first poured its +blessed beams over the mountain heights of Judea, and the song, +pealing over the hills of jasper, rolled down to the shepherds who +kept their night-watches on her plains; "Peace on earth and +good-will to men." + +A child came forth with his ragged garments, unwashed face and +uncombed hair, from one of those haunts of darkness and misery which +fill the city with crime and suffering. He was a little child, and +yet there was none of its peace on his brow, or its light in his +eye, as he looked up with a strange, wistful earnestness at the +strip of blue sky that looked down with its serene heaven-smile +between the frowning and dilapidated pile of buildings which rose on +either side of the alley. The sunshine flitted like the +soft-caressing fingers of a spirit over his forehead, and the voice +of the bells fell upon his spirit with a strange, subduing +influence; and the child kept on his way until the alley terminated +in a broad, pleasant street, with its crowd of church-goers, and +still the boy kept on, unmindful of dainty robe and silken vesture +that waved and rustled by him. + +He stood at last within the broad shadow of the sanctuary, while far +above him rose the tall spire, with the sunbeams coiling like a +heaven-halo around it, pointing to the golden battlements of the +far-off city, within whose blessed precincts nothing "which defileth +shall ever enter." The massive church doors swung slowly open as one +and another entered, and the child looked eagerly up the long, +mysterious mid-aisle, but the silken garments rustled past--there +was no hand outstretched to lead the ragged and wretched little one +within its walls, and no one paused to tell him of the Great Father, +within whose sight the rich and poor are alike. But while he stood +there, an angel with golden hair and gleaming wings bent over him, +holding precious heart-seed, gathered from the white plains of the +spirit-land, and as the child drew nearer the church steps, the +angel followed. + +Suddenly the little dapper sexton, with his broad smile and bustling +gait, came out of the church. His eyes rested a moment upon the +young wistful face and on the ragged garments, and then he beckoned +to the child. + +"Shall I take you in here, my boy?" asked a voice kinder and +pleasanter than any which the child had ever heard; and as he +timidly bowed his head, the sexton took the little soiled hand in +his own, and they passed in, and the angel followed them. + +Seated in one corner of the church, the child's eyes wandered over +the frescoed walls, with the sunshine flitting like the fringe of a +spirit's robe across it, and up the dim aisle to the great marble +pulpit, with a kind of bewildered awe, for he had seen nothing of +the like before, unless it might be in some dim, half-forgotten +dream; but when the heavy doors swung together and the Sabbath hush +gathered over the church, and the hallelujahs of the organ filled +the house of the Lord and thrilled the heart of the child; he bowed +his head and wept sweet tears--he could not tell whence was their +coming. Then the solemn prayer from the pulpit--"O, Thou who lovest +all men, who art the Father of the old and the young, the rich and +the poor, and in whose sight they are alike precious, grant us Thy +blessing," came to the ears of the child, and a new cry awoke in his +soul. _Where_ was this Father? It did not seem true that He could +love him, a poor little, hungry, ragged beggar; that such a one +could be his child. But, oh! it was just what his heart longed for, +and if all others were _precious_ to this Great Father, he did not +believe He would leave him out. If he could only find Him--no matter +how long the road was, nor how cold and hungry he might be, he would +keep straight on the way, until he reached Him, and then he would go +right in and say, "Father, I am cold and hungry, and very wretched. +There is no one to love me, none to care for me. May I be your +child, Father?" And perhaps He would look kindly upon him, and +whisper softly, as no human being had ever whispered to him, "My +child!" and stronger and wilder from his heart came up that cry, +"Oh, if I could only find Him!" + +Again the tones of the deep-toned organ and the sweet-voiced choir +floated on the Sabbath air, and crept, a strange, soft tide, into +the silent places of the boy's heart, softening and subduing it; +while during the long sermon, of which he heard little, and +comprehended less, that spirit cry rolled continually up from the +depths of his soul--"_Where_ is the Father?" + +The benediction had been pronounced, and the house was disgorged of +most of its vast crowd of worshippers, and yet the boy lingered--he +could not bear to return to his dark and dismal dwelling, to the +harsh words and harsher usage of those who loved him not, without +having that question, which his soul was so eagerly asking, +answered. But that little timid heart lacked courage, and he knew +the words would die in his throat if he attempted to speak them, and +so he must go away without knowing the way to the Father--but his +feet dragged unwillingly along, and his eyes searched earnestly the +figures that, unwitting of his want, passed swiftly before him. + +"What is it you want to know, little boy?" The voice was very +musical, and the smile on the lips of the child-questioner very +winning. The chestnut-brown curls floated over her silken robe, and +the soft blue eyes that looked into the boy's, wore that unearthly +purity of expression which is not the portion of the children of +this world. + +The boy looked into that fair, childish face, and his heart took +courage, while very eagerly from his lips came the words, "Where is +the Great Father?" + +"God is in heaven!" answered the little girl in solemn tones, while +a sudden gravity gathered over her features. + +From lips that burned with blasphemies, amid oaths from the vile, +and revilings from the scoffer, had the boy first learned that name, +and never before had it possessed aught of import for him. But now +he knew it was the name of the Great Father that loved him, and +again he asked very earnestly, "Where is the way to God in heaven? I +am going to Him now." + +The child shook her head as she looked on the boy with a sort of +pitying wonder at his ignorance, and again she answered, "You cannot +go to Him, but He will come to you if you will call upon Him, and He +will hear, though you whisper very low, for God is everywhere." + +"Come, come, Miss Ellen, you must not stay here any longer," called +the servant, who had been very intent at ranging the cushions in the +pew, and who now hurried her little charge through the aisle, +apprehensive that some evil might accrue from her contiguity with a +"street-beggar." + +But the words of the little girl had brought a new and precious +light into the boy's heart. That "cardinal explication of the +reason," the wondrous idea of the Deity, had found a voice in his +soul, and the child went forth from the church, while the +golden-winged angel followed him to the dark alley, and the darker +home; and that night, before he laid himself on his miserable pallet +in the corner, he bowed his head, and clasped his hands, and +whispered so that none might hear him, "My Father, will you take +care of me, and come and take me to yourself? for I love you." And +the angel folded his bright wings above that scanty pallet, and bent +in the silent watches of the night over the boy, and filled his +heart with peace, and his dreams with brightness. + +Six months had rolled their mighty burden of life-records into the +pulseless ocean of the past. The pale stars of mid-winter were +looking down with meek, seraph glances over the mighty metropolis +along whose thousand thoroughfares lay the white carpet of the +snow-king; and Boreas, loosed from his ice caverns on the frozen +floor of the Arctic, was holding mad revels, and howling with +demoniac glee along the streets, wrapped in the pall shadows of +midnight. + +Twelve o'clock pealed from the mighty tongue of the time-recorder, +and then the white-robed angel of death knocked at the door of two +young human hearts, in the great city. + +The tide of golden hair flowed over the white pillows of +crimson-draperied couch. Shaded lamps poured their dim, silvery +glances upon bright flowers and circling vines, the cunning +workmanship of fingers in far-off lands, which lay among the soft +groundwork of the rich carpet, while small white fingers glided +caressingly among the golden hair; and white faces, wild with +sorrow, bent over the rigid features of the dying child, and tears, +such only as flow from the heart's deepest and bitterest fountains, +fell upon the cold forehead and paling lips, as the lids swept back +for a moment from her blue eyes, and the light from her spirit broke +for the last time into them; the lips upon which the death-seal was +ready to be laid, opened; and clear and joyous through the hushed +room rang the words, "I am coming! I am coming!" and the next moment +the cold, beautiful clay was all which was left to the mourners. + +The other, at whose heart the death-angel knocked, lay in one corner +of an old and dilapidated room, on a pallet of straw. No soft hand +wandered caressingly among his dark locks, or cooled with its cold +touch the fever of his forehead. The dim, flickering rays of the +tallow candle wandered over the features now grown stark and rigid +with the death-chill. No grief-printed face bent in anguish above +him; no eye watched for the latest breath; no ear for the dying +word; but through the half-open door, came to the ear of the dying +boy the coarse laugh of the inebriate--the jest of the vile, and the +frightful blasphemies of those whose way is the way of death. + +None saw the last life-light, as it broke into the dark, spiritual +eyes of the boy. None saw the smile that played like the light +around the lips of a seraph, about his blue and cold lips, as they +spoke exceeding joyfully, "Father! Father, I have called and you +have heard me; I am coming to you, coming now; for the angels beckon +me;" and the pale clay on that sunken pallet was all that remained +of the boy. + +Together they met, those two children who had stood together in the +earthly courts of the Most High, and whom the angel had +simultaneously called from the earth, beneath the shining +battlements of "the city of God." The white wings of the +warden-angels, who stood on its watch-towers, were slowly folded +together, and back rolled the massive gates from the walls of +jasper; and with the great "Godlight" streaming outward, and amid +the sound of archangel's harp and seraph's lyre, the ministering +angels came forth. They did not ask the child-spirits there, if +their earthly homes had been among the high and the honourable; they +did not ask them if broad lands had been their heritage, and +sparkling coffers their portion; if their paths had lain by pleasant +waters, and animals followed their biddings; but alike they led +them--she, the daughter of wealth and earthly splendour, whose +forehead the breezes might not visit too roughly, and whose pathway +had been bordered with flowers and gilded with sunshine; and he, the +heir of poverty, whose portion had been want, and his inalienable +heritage, suffering; whose path had known no pleasant places; whose +life had had no brightness within that glorious city. They placed +bright crowns, alike woven from the fragrant branches of the +far-spreading "Tree of Life," around their spirit-brows; they decked +them alike in white robes, whose lustre many ages shall not dim; +alike they placed in their hands the harps whose music shall roll +for ever over (sic) the the hills of jasper; and alike they pointed +them to the gleaming battlements, to the still skies over whose +surface the shadow of a cloud hath never floated; to the "many +mansions" which throw the shadow of their shining portals on the +rippling waters of the "River of Life," and to far more of glory +"which it hath never entered into the heart of man to conceive of," +and told them they should "go no more out for ever." + + + + +WHAT IS NOBLE? + + + WHAT is noble? to inherit + Wealth, estate, and proud degree? + There must be some other merit, + Higher yet than these for me. + Something greater far must enter + Into life's majestic span; + Fitted to create and centre + True nobility in man! + + What is noble? 'tis the finer + Portion of our mind and heart: + Linked to something still diviner + Than mere language can impart; + Ever prompting--ever seeing + Some improvement yet to plan; + To uplift our fellow-being-- + And like man to feel for man! + + What is noble? is the sabre + Nobler than the humble spade? + There's a dignity in labour + Truer than e'er Pomp arrayed! + He who seeks the mind's improvement + Aids the world--in aiding mind! + Every great, commanding movement + Serves not one--but all mankind. + + O'er the Forge's heat and ashes-- + O'er the Engine's iron head-- + Where the rapid Shuttle flashes, + And the Spindle whirls its thread; + There is Labour lowly tending + Each requirement of the hour; + There is genius still extending + Science--and its world of power! + + + + +THE ANEMONE HEPATICA. + + +TWO friends were walking together beside a picturesque mill-stream. +While they walked, they talked of mortal life, its meaning and its +end; and, as is almost inevitable with such themes, the current of +their thoughts gradually lost its cheerful flow. + +"This is a miserable world," said one; "the black shroud of sorrow +overhangs everything here." + +"Not so," replied the other; "Sorrow is not a shroud. It is only the +covering Hope wraps about her when she sleeps." + +Just then they entered an oak-grove. It was early spring, and the +trees were bare, but last year's leaves lay thick as snow-drifts +upon the ground. + +"The Liverwort grows here, one of our earliest flowers, I think," +said the last speaker. "There, push away the leaves, and you will +find it. How beautiful, with its delicate shades of pink, and +purple, and green, lying against the bare roots of the oak-trees! +But look deeper, or you will not find the flowers; they are under +the dead leaves." + +"Now I have learned a lesson that I shall not forget," said her +friend. "This seems to me a bad world, and there is no denying that +there are bad things in it. To a sweeping glance, it will sometimes +seem barren and desolate; but not one buried germ of life and beauty +is lost to the All-seeing Eye. I, having the weakness of human +vision, must believe where I cannot see. Henceforth, when I am +tempted to complainings and despair on account of the evil around +me, I will say to myself, 'Look deeper, look under the dead leaves, +and you will find flowers.'" + + + + +THE FAMILY OF MICHAEL AROUT. + + +_September 15th, eight o'clock._--This morning, while I was +arranging my books, Mother Genevieve came in, and brought me the +basket of fruit I buy of her every Sunday. For nearly twenty years +that I have lived in this quarter, I have dealt in her little +fruit-shop. Perhaps I should be better served elsewhere, but Mother +Genevieve has but little custom; to leave her would do her harm, and +cause her unnecessary pain. It seems to me that the length of our +acquaintance has made me incur a sort of tacit obligation to her; my +patronage has become her property. + +She has put the basket upon my table, and as I wanted her husband, +who is a joiner, to add some shelves to my bookcase, she has gone +down stairs again immediately to send him to me. + +At first I did not notice either her looks or the sound of her +voice; but now, that I recall them, it seems to me that she was not +as jovial as usual. Can Mother Genevieve be in trouble about +anything? + +Poor woman! All her best years were subject to such bitter trials, +that she might think she had received her full share already. Were I +to live a hundred years, I should never forget the circumstances +which first made her known to me, and which obtained her my respect. + +It was at the time of my first settling in the faubourg. I had +noticed her empty fruit-shop, which nobody came into, and being +attracted by its forsaken appearance, made my little purchases in +it. I have always instinctively preferred the poor shops; there is +less choice in them, but it seems to me that my purchase is a sign +of sympathy with a brother in poverty. These little dealings are +almost always an anchor of hope to those whose very existence is in +peril--the only means by which some orphan gains a livelihood. There +the aim of the tradesman is not to enrich himself, but to live! The +purchase you make of him is more than exchange--it is a good action. + +Mother Genevieve at that time was still young, but had already lost +that fresh bloom of youth, which suffering causes to wither so soon +among the poor. Her husband, a clever joiner, gradually left off +working to become, according to the picturesque expression of the +workshops, _a worshipper of Saint Monday_. The wages of the week, +which was always reduced to two or three working days, were +completely dedicated by him to the worship of this god of the +Barriers, + +The cheap wine-shops are outside the Barriers, to avoid the +_octroi_, or municipal excise. + +and Genevieve was obliged herself to provide for all the wants of +the household. + +One evening, when I went to make some trifling purchases of her, I +heard a sound of quarrelling in the back shop. There were the voices +of several women, among which I distinguished that of Genevieve, +broken by sobs. On looking further in, I perceived the fruit-woman, +with a child in her arms, and kissing it, while a country nurse +seemed to be claiming her wages from her. The poor woman, who +without doubt had exhausted every explanation and every excuse, was +crying in silence, and one of her neighbours was trying in vain to +appease the countrywoman. Excited by that love of money which the +evils of a hard peasant life but too well excuse, and disappointed +by the refusal of her expected wages, the nurse was launching forth +in recriminations, threats, and abuse. In spite of myself, I +listened to the quarrel, not daring to interfere, and not thinking +of going away, when Michael Arout appeared at the shop-door. + +The joiner had just come from the Barrier, where he had passed part +of the day at the public-house. His blouse, without a belt, and +untied at the throat, showed none of the noble stains of work: in +his hand he held his cap, which he had just picked out of the mud; +his hair was in disorder, his eye fixed, and the pallor of +drunkenness in his face. He came reeling in, looked wildly around +him, and called for Genevieve. + +She heard his voice, gave a start, and rushed into the shop; but at +the sight of the miserable man, who was trying in vain to steady +himself, she pressed the child in her arms, and bent over it with +tears. + +The countrywoman and the neighbour had followed her. + +"Come! come! Do you intend to pay me, after all?" cried the former, +in a rage. + +"Ask the master for the money," ironically answered the woman from +next door, pointing to the joiner, who had just fallen against the +counter. + +The countrywoman looked at him. + +"Ah! he is the father," resumed she; "well, what idle beggars! not +to have a penny to pay honest people, and get tipsy with wine in +that way." + +The drunkard raised his head. + +"What! what!" stammered he; "who is it that talks of wine? I've had +nothing but brandy. But I am going back again to get some wine. +Wife, give me your money; there are some friends waiting for me at +the _Pere la Tuille_." + +Genevieve did not answer: he went round the counter, opened the +till, and began to rummage in it. + +"You see where the money of the house goes!" observed the neighbour +to the countrywoman; "how can the poor unhappy woman pay you when he +takes all?" + +"Is that my fault, then?" replied the nurse angrily; "they owe it +me, and somehow or other they must pay me." + +And letting loose her tongue, as those women out of the country do, +she began relating at length all the care she had taken of the +child, and all the expense it had been to her. In proportion as she +recalled all she had done, her words seemed to convince her more +than ever of her rights, and to increase her anger. The poor mother, +who no doubt feared that her violence would frighten the child, +returned into the back shop, and put it into its cradle. + +Whether it was that the countrywoman saw in this act a determination +to escape her claims, or that she was blinded by passion, I cannot +say; but she rushed into the next room, where I heard the sounds of +quarrelling, with which the cries of the child were soon mingled. +The joiner, who was still rummaging in the till, was startled, and +raised his head. + +At the same moment Genevieve appeared at the door, holding in her +arms the baby that the countrywoman was trying to tear from her. She +ran towards the counter, and, throwing herself behind her husband, +cried, + +"Michael, defend your son!" + +The drunken man quickly stood up erect, like one who awakes with a +start. + +"My son!" stammered he; "what son?" + +His looks fell upon the child; a vague ray of intelligence passed +over his features. + +"Robert," resumed he; "is it Robert?" + +He tried to steady himself on his feet, that he might take the baby, +but he tottered. The nurse approached him in a rage. + +"My money, or I shall take the child away!" cried she; "it is I who +have fed and brought it up; if you don't pay for what has made it +live, it ought to be the same to you as if it were dead. I shall not +go till I have my due or the baby." + +"And what would you do with him?" murmured Genevieve, pressing +Robert against her bosom. + +"Take it to the Foundling!" replied the countrywoman, harshly; "the +hospital is a better mother than you are, for it pays for the food +of its little ones." + +At the word "Foundling," Genevieve had exclaimed aloud in horror. +With her arms wound round her son, whose head she hid in her bosom, +and her two hands spread over him, she had retreated to the wall, +and remained with her back against it, like a lioness defending her +young ones. + +The neighbour and I contemplated this scene, without knowing how we +could interfere. As for Michael, he looked at us by turns, making a +visible effort to comprehend it all. When his eye rested upon +Genevieve and the child, it lit up with a gleam of pleasure; but +when he turned towards us, he again became stupid and hesitating. + +At last, apparently making a prodigious effort, he cried +out--"Wait!" + +And going to a tub full of water, he plunged his face into it +several times. + +Every eye was turned upon him; the countrywoman herself seemed +astonished. At length he raised his dripping head. This ablution had +partly dispelled his drunkenness; he looked at us for a moment, then +he turned to Genevieve, and his face brightened up. + +"Robert!" cried he, going up to the child, and taking him in his +arms. "Ah! give him me, wife; I must look at him." + +The mother seemed to give up his son to him with reluctance, and +stayed before him with her arms extended, as if she feared the child +would have a fall. The nurse began again in her turn to speak, and +renewed her claims, this time threatening to appeal to law. + +At first Michael listened to her attentively, and when he +comprehended her meaning, he gave the child back to its mother. + +"How much do we owe you?" asked he. + +The countrywoman began to reckon up the different expenses, which +amounted to nearly thirty francs. The joiner felt to the bottom of +his pockets, but could find nothing. His forehead became contracted +by frowns; low curses began to escape him; all of a sudden he +rummaged in his breast, drew forth a large watch, and holding it up +above his head-- + +"Here it is--here's your money!" cried he, with a joyful laugh; "a +watch, number one! I always said it would keep for a drink on a dry +day; but it is not I who will drink it, but the young one. Ah! ah! +ah! go and sell it for me, neighbour; and if that is not enough, +have my ear-rings. Eh! Genevieve, take them off for me, the +ear-rings will square all. They shall not say you have been +disgraced on account of the child. No, not even if I must pledge a +bit of my flesh! My watch, my ear-rings, and my ring, get rid of all +of them for me at the goldsmith's; pay the woman, and let the little +fool go to sleep. Give him me, Genevieve, I will put him to bed." + +And, taking the baby from the arms of his mother, he carried him +with a firm step to his cradle. + +It was easy to perceive the change which took place in Michael from +this day. He cut all his old drinking acquaintances. He went early +every morning to his work, and returned regularly in the evening to +finish the day with Genevieve and Robert. Very soon he would not +leave them at all, and he hired a place near the fruitshop, and +worked in it on his own account. + +They would soon have been able to live in comfort, had it not been +for the expenses which the child required. Everything was given up +to his education. He had gone through the regular school training, +had studied mathematics, drawing, and the carpenter's trade, and had +only begun to work a few months ago. Till now, they had been +exhausting every resource which their laborious industry could +provide to push him forward in his business; but, happily, all these +exertions had not proved useless; the seed had brought forth its +fruits, and the days of harvest were close by. + +While I was thus recalling these remembrances to my mind, Michael +had come in, and was occupied in fixing shelves where they were +wanted. + +During the time I was writing the notes of my journal, I was also +scrutinizing the joiner. + +The excesses of his youth and the labour of his manhood have deeply +marked his face; his hair is thin and gray, his shoulders stooping, +his legs shrunken and slightly bent. There seems a sort of weight in +his whole being. His very features have an expression of sorrow and +despondency. He answered my questions by monosyllables, and like a +man who wishes to avoid conversation. From whence is this dejection, +when one would think he had all he could wish for? I should like to +know! + +_Ten o'clock_.--Michael is just gone down stairs to look for a tool +he has forgotten. I have at last succeeded in drawing from him the +secret of his and Genevieve's sorrow. Their son Robert is the cause +of it. + +Not that he has turned out ill after all their care--not that he is +idle or dissipated; but both were in hopes he would never leave them +any more. The presence of the young man was to have renewed and made +glad their lives once more; his mother counted the days, his father +prepared everything to receive their dear associate in their toils, +and at the moment when they were thus about to be repaid for all +their sacrifices, Robert had suddenly informed them that he had just +engaged himself to a contractor at Versailles. + +Every remonstrance and every prayer were useless; he brought forward +the necessity of initiating himself into all the details of an +important contract, the facilities he should have, in his new +position, of improving himself in his trade, and the hopes he had of +turning his knowledge to advantage. At last, when his mother, having +come to the end of her arguments, began to cry, he hastily kissed +her, and went away, that he might avoid any further remonstrances. + +He had been absent a year, and there was nothing to give them hopes +of his return. His parents hardly saw him once a month, and then he +only stayed a few moments with them. + +"I have been punished where I had hoped to be rewarded," Michael +said to me just now; "I had wished for a saving and industrious son, +and God has given me an ambitious and avaricious one. I had always +said to myself, that, when once he was grown up, we should have him +always with us, to recall our youth and to enliven our hearts; his +mother was always thinking of getting him married, and having +children again to care for. You know women always will busy +themselves about others. As for me, I thought of him working near my +bench, and singing his new songs--for he has learnt music, and is +one of the best singers at the Orpheon. A dream, sir, truly! +Directly the bird was fledged, he took to flight, and remembers +neither father nor mother. Yesterday, for instance, was the day we +expected him; he should have come to supper with us. No Robert +to-day, either! He has had some plan to finish, or some bargain to +arrange, and his old parents are put down last in the accounts, +after the customers and the joiner's work. Ah! if I could have +guessed how it would have turned out! Fool! to have sacrificed my +likings and my money, for nearly twenty years, to the education of a +thankless son! Was it for this I took the trouble to cure myself of +drinking, to break with my friends, to become an example to the +neighbourhood? The jovial good fellow has made a goose of himself. +Oh! if I had to begin again! No, no! you see women and children are +our bane. They soften our hearts; they lead us a life of hope and +affection; we pass a quarter of our lives in fostering the growth of +a grain of corn which is to be everything to us in our old age, and +when the harvest-time comes--good-night, the ear is empty!" + +Whilt he was speaking, Michael's voice became hoarse, his eye +fierce, and his lips quivered. I wished to answer him, but I could +only think of commonplace consolations, and I remained silent. The +joiner pretended he wanted a tool, and left me. + +Poor father! Ah! I know those moments of temptation when virtue has +failed to reward us, and we regret having obeyed her! Who has not +felt this weakness in hours of trial, and who has not uttered, at +least once, the mournful exclamation of "Brutus?" + +But if _virtue is only a word_, what is there then in life which is +true and real? No, I will not believe that goodness is in vain! It +does not always give the happiness we had hoped for, but it brings +some other. In the world everything is ruled by order, and has its +proper and necessary consequences, and virtue cannot be the sole +exception to the general law. If it had been prejudicial to those +who practise it, experience would have avenged them; but experience +has, on the contrary, (sic) mader it more universal and more holy. +We only accuse it of being a faithless debtor, because we demand an +immediate payment, and one apparent to our senses. We always +consider life as a fairy tale, in which every good action must be +rewarded by a visible wonder. We do not accept as payment a peaceful +conscience, self-content, or a good name among men, treasures that +are more precious than any other, but the value of which we do not +feel till after we have lost them! + +Michael is come back, and returned to his work. His son had not yet +arrived. + +By telling me of his hopes and his grievous disappointments, he +became excited; he unceasingly went over again the same subject, +always adding something to his griefs. He has just wound up his +confidential discourse by speaking to me of a joiner's business, +which he had hoped to buy, and work to good account with Robert's +help. The present owner had made a fortune by it, and after thirty +years of business, he was thinking of retiring to one of the +ornamental cottages in the outskirts of the city, a usual retreat +for the frugal and successful working man. Michael had not indeed +the two thousand francs which must be paid down; but perhaps he +could have persuaded Master Benoit to wait. Robert's presence would +have been a security for him; for the young man could not fail to +insure the prosperity of a workshop; besides science and skill, he +had the power of invention and bringing to perfection. His father +had discovered among his drawings a new plan for a staircase, which +had occupied his thoughts for a long time; and he even suspected him +of having engaged himself to the Versailles contractor for the very +purpose of executing it. The youth was tormented by this spirit of +invention, which took possession of all his thoughts, and, while +devoting his mind to study, he had no time to listen to his +feelings. + +Michael told me all this with a mixed feeling of pride and vexation. +I saw he was proud of the son he was abusing, and that his very +pride made him more sensible of that son's neglect. + +_Six o'clock, P. M._--I have just finished a happy day. How many +events have happened within a few hours, and what a change for +Genevieve and Michael! + +He had just finished fixing the shelves, and telling me of his son, +whilst I laid the cloth for my breakfast. + +Suddenly we heard hurried steps in the passage, the door opened, and +Genevieve entered with Robert. + +The joiner gave a start of joyful surprise, but he repressed it +immediately, as if he wished to keep up the appearance of +displeasure. + +The young man did not appear to notice it, but threw himself into +his arms in an open-hearted manner, which surprised me. Genevieve, +whose face shone with happiness, seemed to wish to speak, and to +restrain herself with difficulty. + +I told Robert I was glad to see him, and he answered me with ease +and civility. + +"I expected you yesterday," said Michael Arout, rather dryly. + +"Forgive me, father," replied the young workman, "but I had business +at St. Germains. I was not able to come back till it was very late, +and then the master kept me." + +The joiner looked at his son sideways, and then took up his hammer +again. + +"It is right," muttered he, in a grumbling tone; "when we are with +other people we must do as they wish; but there are some who would +like better to eat brown bread with their own knife, than partridges +with the silver fork of a master." + +"And I am one of those, father," replied Robert, merrily; "but, as +the proverb says, _you must shell the peas before you can eat them._ +It was necessary that I should first work in a great workshop"-- + +"To go on with your plan of the staircase," interrupted Michael, +ironically. + +"You must now say M. Raymond's plan, father," replied Robert, +smiling. + +"Why?" + +"Because I have sold it to him." + +The joiner, who was planing a board, turned round quickly. + +"Sold it!" cried he, with sparkling eyes. + +"For the reason that I was not rich enough to give it him." + +Michael threw down the board and tool. + +"There he is again!" resumed he, angrily; "his good genius puts an +idea into his head which would have made him known, and he goes and +sells it to a rich man, who will take the honour of it himself." + +"Well, what harm is there done?" asked Genevieve. + +"What harm!" cried the joiner, in a passion; "you understand nothing +about it--you are a woman; but he--he knows well that a true workman +never gives up his own inventions for money, no more than a soldier +would give up his cross. That is his glory; he is bound to keep it +for the honour it does him! Ah! thunder! if I had ever made a +discovery, rather than put it up at auction I would have sold one of +my eyes! Don't you see, that a new invention is like a child to a +workman! he takes care of it, he brings it up, he makes a way for it +in the world, and it is only poor creatures who sell it." + +Robert coloured a little. + +"You will think differently, father," said he, "when you know why I +sold my plan." + +"Yes, and you will thank him for it," added Genevieve, who could no +longer keep silence. + +"Never!" replied Michael. + +"But, wretched man!" cried she, "he only sold it for our sakes!" + +The joiner looked at his wife and son with astonishment. It was +necessary to come to an explanation. The latter related how he had +entered into a negotiation with Master Benoit, who had positively +refused to sell his business unless one-half of the two thousand +francs was first paid down. It was in the hopes of obtaining this +sum that he had gone to work with the contractor at Versailles; he +had an opportunity of trying his invention, and of finding a +purchaser. Thanks to the money he received for it, he had just +concluded the bargain with Benoit, and had brought his father the +key of the new work-yard. + +This explanation was given by the young workman with so much modesty +and simplicity, that I was quite affected by it. Genevieve cried; +Michael pressed his son to his heart, and in a long embrace he +seemed to ask his pardon for having unjustly accused him. + +All was now explained with honour to Robert. The conduct which his +parents had ascribed to indifference, really sprang from affection; +he had neither obeyed the voice of ambition nor of avarice, nor even +the nobler inspiration of inventive genius; his whole motive and +single aim had been the happiness of Genevieve and Michael. The day +for proving his gratitude had come, and he had returned them +sacrifice for sacrifice! + +After the explanations and exclamations of joy, were over, all three +were about to leave me; but the cloth being laid, I added three more +places, and kept them to breakfast. + +The meal was prolonged; the fare was only tolerable; but the +overflowings of affection made it delicious. + +Never had I better understood the unspeakable charm of family love. +What calm enjoyment in that happiness which is always shared with +others; in that community of interests which unites such various +feelings; in that association of existences which forms one single +being of so many! What is man without those home affections, which, +like so many roots, fix him firmly in the earth, and permit him to +imbibe all the juices of life? Energy, happiness, does it not all +come from them? Without family life, where would man learn to love, +to associate, to deny himself? A community in little, is not it +which teaches us how to live in the great one? Such is the holiness +of home, that to express our relation with God, we have been obliged +to borrow the words invented for our family life. Men have named +themselves the _sons_ of a heavenly _Father_. + +Ah! let us carefully preserve these chains of domestic union; do not +let us unbind the human sheaf, and scatter its ears to all the +caprices of chance, and of the winds; but let us rather enlarge this +holy law; let us carry the principles and the habits of home beyond +its bounds; and, if it may be, let us realize the prayer of the +Apostle of the Gentiles when he exclaimed to the newborn children of +Christ:--"Be ye like-minded, having the same love, being of one +accord, of one mind." + + + + +BABY IS DEAD. + + +"BABY is dead!" How many hearts have throbbed with anguish, and eyes +overflowed with tears at the utterance of these thrilling words! A +tender bud is intrusted to a rejoicing family. Very precious does it +become to them. With what ecstatic joy do they note the first dawn +of intelligence as it beams from the starry eyes! How merry their +own hearts now, as they listen to the shouts of childish glee as +they burst from the coral lips! Ay, very, very dear is this little +one, and their cup of bliss seems full without alloy; when suddenly +the relentless destroyer enters their happy home, and sets his seal +on that snowy brow, so like a lily's leaf, in its pure beauty. +Disease fastens itself upon the loved one, and, like a tender bud +nipped by the untimely frost, it withers, droops, and dies. Then +come the fearful words, "Baby is dead!" With what a crushing weight +do they fall on the ears of that mourning family! How reluctantly do +their bruised hearts acknowledge the sad truth! But stern reality +avers it so, and the spectre Grief claims them for its own, as they +gaze upon the pale face of the little sleeper. + +Ah! the light of those bright eyes is for ever quenched, and the +lids are closed tranquilly over them; the rose tint has fled from +the round cheeks; the ruby lips are colourless, and the youthful +heart has ceased its throbbings. + +Yes, "Baby is dead," and silently they prepare it for the cheerless +tomb. The golden tresses they so oft have wound lovingly over their +fingers, are gently smoothed for the last time, while one fairy curl +is severed and placed next the mother's heart; oft will she gaze +upon it, as the months of her sorrow come and go, and weep over the +memory of her departed treasure. + +Sadly the little form is robed in the tiny shroud, and the dimpled +hands crossed sweetly over the pulseless bosom. Gently he is placed +in the coffin--it is a harder bed than he was wont to rest on, but +he will feel it not. With unutterable anguish they follow him to the +dark, cold grave; strange hands lower him into its gloomy depths, +and the clods fall heavily upon the coffin. Each one seems to sink +with laden weight into their hearts. It is filled up now, and the +green turf covers the late smiling cherub, and the mourners turn +sadly away. Oh! how dark the world seems now, which was so full of +sunshine a little while ago! How desolate their once joyous house! + +"Baby is dead--our idol is gone," is the language of their hearts. +Yes, stricken ones, your sunbeam is gone; but where? You have buried +the beauteous casket beneath the green sods of the valley; but the +precious jewel it contained is beaming brightly in the coronal of +God. + +Your treasure is taken from your love-encircling arms, but it is +sweetly pillowed on the bosom of that kind Saviour who said, "Suffer +little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is +the kingdom of heaven." + +The bud is nipped from its parent stem in the springtime of its +existence; but it hath been transplanted to a milder clime, where +the rough blasts and chilling storms of mortality cannot harm, and +where, watered by the soft dew of Divine love, its tiny leaves will +expand and bloom with unfading lustre! + +Had this bud of life, over whom your souls yearned with such +unutterable fondness, been spared to you, you know not how your +bright anticipations might have been darkened. When it came to +thread life's strange, wild paths, mildew and blight might have +settled on the pure spirit, and guilty, desolating passions scathed +the guileless heart. + +Then weep not, mourning ones, but rather rejoice that He, who doeth +all things well, hath summoned it, in its pristine purity, to a +haven of innocence, where contamination nor decay cannot defile or +enter. And when you miss the childish prattle or silvery laugh which +fell so sweetly on your ears, think of the baby that is dead to you, +as a rejoicing angel among angelic hosts that throng the "land of +the blest." Baby is dead to earth, but is living in Paradise! + + "Then mourn not, though the loved one go + Early from this world of woe; + Upon yon bright and blissful shore + You soon shall meet to part no more, + 'Mid amaranthine flowers to roam, + Where sin and death can never come." + + + + +THE TREASURED RINGLET. + + + I AM thinking how, one April eve, + Upon the old arm-chair + I sat, and how I fondly played + With this brown lock of hair; + Your head was pillowed on my breast, + Your eyes were fixed on mine, + I knew your heart was all my own, + I know my own was thine. + + The balmy breath of violets + Came floating in the room, + And mingling with the rose's sigh, + Spread round a rich perfume; + Yet sweeter was the warm breath which + I felt upon my cheek, + Than fragrance from the blushing rose, + Or from the violet meek. + + Upon the oak the mocking-bird + Was singing loud and clear, + But notes more musical to me + Were falling on my ear; + For from your noble heart you poured + Love's low, yet thrilling tone, + And every word your pure soul breathed + Was answered by my own. + + How like a glorious rainbow, then, + The future all appeared? + No care or sorrow then we knew, + No disappointment feared. + The world's rude waves had not begun + Across our path to sweep, + We never--save from happiness-- + Had cause to sigh or weep. + + But many weary years have passed + Since that bright April eve, + And you have learned since then to weep, + And I have learned to grieve; + And on thy brow, unfurrowed then, + Time, and his sister, Care, + Have set their wrinkled seal, and strewed + Their silver in thy hair. + + Nor Time, nor Care, nor world's rude waves, + Have had the power to chill + The holy love which then we vowed, + That is unclouded still; + And until Death--the reaper--comes, + It ne'er shall flow away-- + Our tide of love which first began + Upon that April day. + + + + +HUMAN LONGINGS FOR PEACE AND REST. + + +THERE are few whose idea of happiness does not include peace as +essential. Most men have been so tempest-tossed, and not comforted, +that they long for a closing of all excitements at last in peace. +Hence the images of the haven receiving the shattered bark, of the +rural vale remote from the noise of towns, have always been dear to +human fancy. Hence, too, the decline of life away from severe toil, +rapid motion, and passionate action, has often a charm even beyond +the kindling enterprise of youth. The cold grave itself repels not +altogether, but somewhat allures the imagination. + +"How still and peaceful is the grave!" + +Especially has heaven risen to the religious mind in this complexion +of tranquillity. It is generally conceived as free from all +disturbance, broken by not a sound save of harmonious anthems, +which, like murmuring water, give deeper peace than could be found +in silence. + +But man so longs for rest and peace, that he not only soothes +himself with these images from afar, but hopes to foretaste their +substance. And what are his views to this end? He means to retire +from business to some spot where he can calmly enjoy what he has in +vain panted for in the race of life. Perhaps he tries the +experiment, but finds himself restless still, and learns the great +lesson at last, that peace is not in the landscape, but only in the +soul; and the calm sky, the horizon's circle, the steady stars, are +only its language, not itself. + +Perhaps he seeks peace in his home. Everything there is made soft to +the feet; each chair and couch receives him softly; agreeable +sounds, odours, viands, regale every sense: and illuminated chambers +replace for him at night the splendour of the sun. But here again he +is at fault. Peace comes not to him thus, though all the apparatus +seems at hand to produce it. Still he may be outshone by a +neighbour; or high estate may draw down upon him envy and ill-will; +or his senses themselves may refuse the proffered bliss, and ache +with disease. Peace is not in outward comforts, which the +constitution sharply limits; which pass with time, or pall upon the +taste. The human mind is too great a thing to be pleased with mere +blandishments. + +Man has a soul of vast desires; and the solemn truth will come home +irresistibly at times, even to the easy epicure. Something is +wanting still. There is more of pain than peace in the remnants of +feasting and the exhausted rounds of pleasure. + +Man has sometimes sought peace in yet another way. Abjuring all +sensual delights, he has gone into the desert to scourge the body, +to live on roots and water, and be absorbed in pious raptures; and +often has he thus succeeded, better than do the vulgar hunters of +pleasure. But unrest mingles even with the tranquillity thus +obtained. His innocent, active powers resist this crucifixion. The +distant world rolls to his ear the voices of suffering fellow-men; +and even his devotions, all lonely, become selfish and unsatisfying. + +All men are seeking, in a way better or worse, this same peace and +rest. Some seek it objectively in mere outward activity. They are +not unfrequently frivolous and ill-furnished within, seeking rest by +travelling, by running from place to place, from company to company, +changing ever their sky but never themselves. Such persons, deeply +to be pitied, seek by dress to hide the nakedness of their souls, or +by the gayety of their own prattle to chill the fire which burns +away their hearts. The merriest faces may be sometimes seen in +mourning coaches; and so, the most melancholy souls, pinched and +pining, sometimes stare at you out of the midst of superficial +smiles and light laughter. + +Others seek rest in more adventurous action. Such are mariners, +soldiers, merchants, speculators, politicians, travellers, impelled +to adventurous life to relieve the aching void in their hearts. The +hazards of trade, the changes of political life, cause them to +forget themselves, and so they are rocked into oblivion of internal +disquiet by the toss of the ocean waves. They forget the hollowness +of their own hearts, and cheat themselves into the belief that they +are on their way to peace. + +Is peace, is rest, so longed for, then, never to be found? Yes! it +has been found, though perhaps but seldom, and somewhat imperfectly. +That is a state of rest for the soul when all man's powers work +harmoniously together, none conflicting with another, none hindering +another. This rest is complete when every special power in man's +nature is active, and works towards some noble end, free to act, yet +acting entirely in harmony, each with all, and all with each. That +is what may be called self-command, self-possession, tranquillity, +peace, rest for the soul. It is not indifference, it is not +sluggishness; it is not sleep: it is activity in its perfect +character and highest mode. + +Some few men seem born for this. Their powers are well-balanced. But +to most it comes only by labour and life-struggle. Most men, and +above all, most strong men, are so born and organized, that they +feel the riddle of the world, and they have to struggle with +themselves. At first they are not well-balanced. One part of their +nature preponderates over another, and they are not in equilibrium. +Like the troubled sea, they cannot rest. The lower powers and +propensities must be brought into subjection to the higher. All the +powers must be brought into harmony. This requires correct views of +life, knowledge of the truth, a strong will, a resolute purpose, a +high idea, a mind that learns by experience to correct its wrongs. +Thus he acquires the mastery over himself, and his passions become +his servants, which were formerly masters. Reason prevails over +feeling, and duty over impulse. If he has lost a friend, he does not +mourn inconsolably, nor seek to forget that friend. He turns his +thoughts more frequently to where that friend has gone, and so he +goes on until it becomes to him a loss no longer, but rather a +gain--a son, daughter, brother, or wife, immortal in the kingdom of +God, rather than mortal and perishing on earth. Gradually he +acquires a perfect command of himself, an equilibrium of all his +active powers, and so is at rest. + +What is more beautiful in the earthly life of Jesus, than this manly +harmony, equipoise, and rest? He enjoyed peace, and promised it to +His friends. And this peace of His, He did not for others postpone +to a distant day, or shut up altogether in a future Heaven, but left +it to His disciples on earth. What, then, was His peace? + +His peace was not inactivity. They must mistake who give a material +sense to the images of Heaven as a state of rest. If Christ's life +represented Heaven, its peace is not slothful ease, but intense +exertion. How He laboured in word and deed of virtue! He walked in +coarse raiment from town to town, from city to city, from the +dessert to the waves of the sea. His ministry was toil from the day +of His baptism to the scene upon Calvary. And yet His life was +peace. He expressed no wish to retire to an unoccupied ease. His +absorption in duty was His joy. He was so peaceful because so +engaged. His labours were the elements of His divine tranquillity. + +And so active and earnest must we be, if we would have calmness and +peace. An appeal may here be made to every one's experience. Every +one will confess that when he had least to do, when mornings came +and went, and suns circled, and seasons rolled, and brought no +serious business, then time was a burthen; existence a weariness; +and the hungry soul, which craves some outward satisfaction, was +found fallen back upon itself and preying upon its own vitality. Are +not the idlest of men proverbially the most miserable? And is not +the young woman often to be seen passing restless from place to +place, because exempt from the necessity of industry, till vanity +and envy, growing rank in her vacant mind, makes her far more an +object of compassion than those who work hardest for a living? The +unemployed, then, are not the most peaceful. The labourer has a +deeper peace than any idler ever knew. His toils make his short +pauses refreshing. Were those pauses prolonged they would be invaded +by a miserable ennui. Perfect peace will be found here or hereafter, +not when we sink down into torpor, but only when the soul is wrought +into high action for high ends. + +Another element of the peace of Jesus was His sinlessness. And all +human experience testifies that nothing has so much disturbed +tranquillity as conscious guilt, or the memory of wrong-doing. Peace +is forfeited by every transgression. Angry words, envious looks, +unkind and selfish deeds, will all prevent peace from visiting our +hearts. + +We have noticed already another element of peace--mental and moral +harmony. There is a spiritual proportion when every power does its +work, every feeling fills its measure, and all make a common current +to bear the soul along to ever new peace and joy. Our inward +discords are the woes of life. The peaceful heart is quiet, not +because inactive, but through intense harmonious working. + +The cravings of the human heart for peace and rest must seek +satisfaction in the ways indicated, or fail of satisfaction. There +must be activity, abstinence from guilt, and moral harmony. Thus +alone can we receive the peace which Jesus said He would leave to +His true followers. + + + + +"BE STRONG." + + + IN the flush, and the rush, and the crush of Life's battle, + When the stern blow of Right dashes loud on steeled Wrong, + Half-drowning the voice of the babe's holy prattle, + Remember the watchword--the motto--"Be strong!" + + When the clouds of the past gather brooding above thee, + And gloam o'er thy pillow the aching night long, + Remember who never for once failed to love thee, + And in deepest of loneliness thou wilt _be strong_! + + When the rays of the morning seem slow in their beaming, + Overpowered the firm Right--most tremendous bold Wrong, + Let not thy Thought's eye grow the dimmer for streaming, + Pour thy tears in Faith's bosom--thou yet wilt BE STRONG. + + + + +THE NEGLECTED ONE. + + + "I never was a favourite; + My mother never smiled + On me with half the tenderness + That blessed her fairer child." + +"CHRISTINE, do be obliging for once, and sew this button on my +glove, won't you?" cried Ann Lambert, impatiently, throwing a white +kid glove in her sister's lap. "I am in such a flurry! I won't be +ready to go to the concert in two or three hours. Mr. Darcet has +been waiting in the parlour an age. I don't know what the reason is, +but I never can find anything I want, when I look for it; whenever I +don't want a thing, it is always in the way. Have you sewed it on +yet?" she asked, looking around from the bureau, where she was +turning everything topsy turvy, in the most vigorous manner. +Christine was quietly looking out of the window, yawning and gazing +listlessly up at the moon and stars. + +"O no matter if you have no button on," was her reply; "I really +don't feel like moving my fingers just now. You must wait on +yourself. I always do." + +"I shouldn't have expected anything but your usual idle selfishness, +even when I most need your assistance," replied Ann, in a cool, +bitter tone; the curve of her beautiful lip, and the calm scorn of +the look she bent on Christine, betrayed her haughty, passionate +character, and it also told that she was conscious of a certain +power and strength of mind, which when roused, could and would bend +others to her will. A slight, contemptuous smile was on her lip, as +she picked up the glove which had fallen on the floor. + +"I'll sew the button on, Ann," said Christine, taking it from her, +and looking up seriously, but with a compressed expression about her +face. Her cheeks burned; there was a reproof in her steady gaze, +before which Ann's scornful smile vanished. "No, Christine, I will +wait on myself," she answered in a rigid tone. + +"Very well," and Christine turned to the window again. She had not +quailed before her sister's look, but its bitter contempt rankled in +her heart, and poisoned the current of her thoughts. Not a word was +spoken, when Ann with her bonnet on, left their apartment. The front +door closed; Christine listened to the sound of her sister's voice +in the street a moment, then rose from her chair, and threw herself +upon the bed, sobbing violently. + +"Oh! why has God made me as I am?" she murmured. "No one loves me. +They do not know me; they know how bad I am--but, oh! they never +dream how often I weep, and pray for the affection that is denied +me. How Ann is caressed by everybody, and how indifferently am I +greeted! There is no one in the wide world who takes a deep interest +in me. I am only secondary with father and mother; they are so proud +of Ann's beauty and talent, they do not think to see whether I am +possessed of talent or not. They think I am cold and heartless, +because they have taught me to restrain my warmest feelings; they +have turned me back upon myself, they have forced me to shut up in +my own heart, its bitterness, its prayers for affection, its pride, +its sorrow. They have made me selfish, disobliging, and +disagreeable, because I am too proud to act as if I would beg the +love they are so careless of bestowing. And yet, why am I so proud +and so bitter? I was not so at school; then I was gentle and gay; +then I too was a favourite; they called me amiable. I am not so now. +Then I dwelt in an atmosphere of love, only the best impulses of my +nature were called out. Now--oh! I did not know I could so change; I +did not know that there was room in my heart for envy and jealousy. +I did not know myself!" + +Christine wept, until her head ached, and her forehead felt as if it +was swelled almost to bursting. "After a storm, there comes a calm," +is a truism well known. In about half an hour, she was sleeping +profoundly, from mere exhaustion of feeling. But her face was pale, +and sad to look upon, even in her sleep. + +When Ann returned home, at a late hour, she glanced hastily at the +bed, to see if she had retired, and was sleeping. More than once +during the evening her heart had reproached her for the part she had +acted. With a noiseless step she approached Christine, and bent over +her. The tear-drop upon her pale cheek, revealed the unconscious +girl to her in a new character. How her conscience smote her, for +the grief upon that countenance, now so subdued by the spirit of +sleep! Its meek sadness and tenderness stirred in her bosom feelings +she had seldom experienced. She felt and understood better than ever +before, her sister's proud reserve with herself, as well as every +one else. She kissed away the tear, and knelt at the bedside in +prayer, a thing she had not done for years. A flood of tender and +self-reproachful feelings came over her; the spring was touched, and +she wept aloud. Christine started up, and murmured a few broken +sentences, before she was fully conscious of the meaning of the +scene. + +"What is the matter, Ann, are you crying?" she at length asked, as +her sister lifted up her face. Ann arose from her knees; she +hesitated, she felt as if she could throw herself into Christine's +arms, and weep freely as she asked forgiveness for her conduct. She +felt that she would be affectionately pardoned. And yet she stood +silent; her heart brimming with tenderness all the while--something +held her back; a something that too often chills a pure impulse, a +gush of holy feeling. It was pride. She could not bring herself to +speak words of penitence and humility. But she did not turn away +from the anxious gaze riveted upon her; she drooped her eyes, and +the tears rolled slowly down her face. + +"Oh, Ann, dear Ann, this does not seem like you!" said Christine, +tenderly approaching her. "I am your sister; if you have any sorrow, +why may I not sympathize with you? How can _you_ be sorrowful? you +never meet with neglect, and--" the young girl paused hastily, with +a suddenly flushed face; she had inadvertently betrayed what she had +previously so carefully concealed under the mask of callous +indifference--she had shown that she felt keenly her own position, +and that of her sister as a favourite. Ann was proud of her +intellect and fascinating beauty; she was selfishly fond of +admiration. She knew that her sister was really as gifted as +herself, if not more so; she had heard her converse at times, when +her cheek glowed, and her eye kindled with enthusiasm. She had seen +her, very rarely, but still she had seen her, when _expression_ had +lit up her face with a positive beauty--when the soul, the life of +beauty beamed forth, and went to the heart with a thrill that +acknowledged its power. She knew that she would have been brilliant +and fascinating, if she had not been repressed; with all her faults, +there was a more feminine yieldingness about her, than about +herself. There was an affectionate pathos in her voice, a tender +grace in her air, when she asked to sympathize in her sorrow. Ann +felt for the first time fully, that she was one to love, and be +beloved in the social circle. She felt that she had been most +ungenerous to absorb all the attention of her friends, instead of +bringing forward the reserved, sensitive Christine. The sisters had +never been much together; they had never made confidants of each +other;--Ann was the eldest, and all in all with her parents, while +Christine was a sort of appendage. Ann felt the unintentional +reproach conveyed in her last words; she marked how quickly she +stopped, and seemed to retire within herself again; she scanned her +face closely, and generous feelings triumphed. + +"Dear Christine!" she said in a low voice, passing her arm around +her. "We have never been to each other what sisters ought to be. I +have been too thoughtless and careless; I have not remembered as I +should have done, that you returned from school, a stranger to the +majority of our friends and acquaintances. You are so reserved, even +here at home; you never talk and laugh with father and mother as I +do." + +"Do you know why I appear cold, Ann? I am not so by nature. They do +not seem to care when I speak, and I am not yet humble enough to +have what I say treated with perfect indifference." + +"Why, Christine, you are too sensitive," said Ann, half impatiently. +"Be as noisy and lively as I am; entertain father, and say what will +please mother; then you will be as great a pet as I." + +"Even if I should value love, based upon my powers of pleasing, +instead of the intrinsic worth of my character, I could not gain it, +Ann. I came home, after my long absence, as merry and light-hearted, +as full of hope, of love towards you all, as ever a happy schoolgirl +did. Then I was seventeen; it seems as if long years had elapsed +since the day I sprang into your arms so joyfully--since father and +mother kissed me. Home, sweet home, how musical those words were to +me! how often I had dreamed of nestling at father's side, your hand +locked in mine, and mother's smile upon us both. It was not long +before I was awakened from the dream I had cherished so long. I +thought my heart would break when the reality that I was unloved, +came upon me. Then I learned how deep were the fountains of +tenderness within me. My heart overflowed with an intense desire for +affection, when I saw that I did not possess it. Oh! how often I +looked upon mother's face, unobserved, and felt that my love for her +was but a wasted shower. At that time of bitterness, how sad was the +revelation that came up from the very depths of my soul, teaching me +a truth fraught with suffering--that affection is life itself! I +felt that it was my destiny never to be cheered by its blessed light +and warmth. Months passed away, and I closed up my heart; a +coldness, a stoic apathy came over me, which was sometimes broken by +a slight thing; the flood-gates of feeling gave way, and I wept with +a passionate sorrow--over my own sinfulness--over my own lonely +heart, without one joy to shed a glow on its rude desolation. Oh! +then, when I was softened, when I could pray, and feel that the Lord +listened to me, I would have been a different being, if mother's +hand had been laid fondly upon my head, if her eyes had filled with +tears, and I could have leaned upon her bosom and wept. But I was +unloved, and my heart grew hard again." + +"Don't say that you are unloved," interrupted Ann, pressing +Christine to her heart, and sobbing with an abandonment of feeling. +"Forgive me, dear, dear sister! my heart shall be your home--we will +love each other always; I will never again be as I have been. Don't +weep so, Christine, can't you believe me? I am selfish, I am +heartless sometimes, but a change has come over me to-night; to +_you_ I can never be heartless again!" + +At that moment, few would have recognised the haughty Miss Lambert +in the tearful girl, whose head drooped on Christine's shoulder, +while her white hand was clasped and held in meek affection to her +lips. If we could read the private history of many an apparently +cold, heartless being, we would be more charitable in our opinions +of others. We would see that there are times when the better +feelings, which God has given as a pure inheritance, are touched. We +would see the inner life from Him, flowing down from its home in the +hidden recesses of the soul, breaking and scattering the clouds of +evil, which had impeded its descent--we would see the hard heart +melted, though perhaps briefly, beneath angel influences. We would +see that all alike are the beloved creations of the Almighty's hand, +and we would weep over ourselves, as well as others, to feel how +seldom we yield to the voice that would ever lead us aright. Ann +Lambert, as her heart overflowed with pure affection, thought +sincerely that no selfish action of hers should ever sadden +Christine. She felt that she was unworthy, that she had been cruel +and selfish, but she imagined her strong emotions of repentance had +uprooted the evils, which had only been shaken. + +Christine dried her tears, and looked earnestly and inquiringly in +her sister's face, as if she suspected there was some hidden sorrow +with which she was unacquainted. Ann answered her look by saying, + +"You wonder what I was weeping for, when you awoke, Christine. I had +met with no sorrow; but when I looked at you, the course of conduct +I had pursued towards you came up before me vividly: I felt how +unsisterly I had been--" + +"Say nothing about it," interrupted Christine, with delicate +generosity, "let the past be forgotten, the future shall be all +brightness, dearest Ann. We will pour out our hearts to each other, +and each will strengthen the other in better purposes. I am no +longer alone, you love me and I am happy." + +That night, the dreams of the sisters were pure and peaceful. One +happy week passed away with Christine; Ann was affectionate and +gentle, and only went out when accompanied by her. They were +inseparable; they read, wrote, studied, and sewed together. For the +time, Ann seemed to have laid aside her usual character; she yielded +to her purest feelings; no incident had yet occurred to mar her +tranquillity. One evening, when she was reading aloud to Christine +in their own apartment, a servant girl threw open the door and +exclaimed, + +"Miss Ann, there are two gentlemen waiting in the parlour to see +you; Mr. Darcet and Mr. Burns!" + +"Very well," replied Ann, rising, and giving the book to Christine; +but she took it away in the instant, and said, + +"Come, Crissy, go down with me!" + +"Oh, no matter," replied her sister, "I am not acquainted with them, +and I would rather stay up here, and read. Mother will be in the +parlour." + +"Suit yourself," returned Ann, half carelessly, as she smoothed her +hair. "When you get tired of reading, come down." + +"I'll see about it," said Christine, as the door closed. + +Ann looked beautiful indeed, as she entered the parlour, her +features lit up with a smile of graceful welcome. After a little +easy trifling, the conversation turned upon subjects which she knew +Christine would be interested in. Under a kind impulse, she left the +room, and hastened to her. + +"Come down into the parlour, Christine," she exclaimed, laying her +hand affectionately upon her shoulder, as she approached. "Mr. +Darcet is telling about his travels in Europe, and I am sure you +will be interested. There (sic) isn o need of your being so +unsociable. Come, dear!" + +Christine raised her face with an eloquent smile; she went with Ann +without speaking, but her heart was filled with a sweet happiness, +from this proof of thoughtful affection. When she was introduced to +Ann's friends, there was a most lovely expression on her face, +breathing forth from a pure joyfulness within. + +"I was not aware that you had a sister, Miss Lambert," said Mr. +Darcet, turning to Ann, when they were quietly seated after a brief +admiring gaze at Christine. + +"Perhaps I have been too much of a recluse," replied Christine +quickly, in order to relieve the embarrassment of Ann, which was +manifested by a deep blush. "I have yielded to sister Ann's +persuasions this time to be a little sociable, and I think I shall +make this a beginning of sociabilities." + +"I hope so," returned Darcet; "do you think being much secluded, has +a beneficial effect upon the mind and feelings?" + +"I do not," was the young girl's brief answer. The colour came to +her cheek, and a painful expression crossed her brow, an instant. +"But sometimes--" the sentence was left unfinished. Darcet's +curiosity was awakened by the sudden quiver of Christine's lip, and +forgetful of what he was about, he perused her countenance longer, +and more eagerly, than was perfectly polite or delicate. She felt +his scrutiny, and was vexed with her tell-tale face. There was a +silence which Mrs. Lambert interrupted by saying, with a smile, + +"We should like to hear more of your adventures, Mr. Darcet, if it +is agreeable to you." + +"Oh! certainly!" he replied. And he whiled an hour quickly away. Ann +was then urged to play and sing, which she did, but there was a +little haughtiness mingled with her usual grace. + +"Don't you sing, Miss Christine?" asked Darcet, leaving the piano, +and approaching the window where she sat, listening attentively to +Ann. + +"I do sometimes," answered Christine, smiling, "but Ann sings far +better." + +"Let others judge of that. Isn't that fair?" + +"We often err in thinking we do better than other people, but I +think we generally hit the truth, when we discover that in some +things, at least, we are not quite as perfect as others." + +"Certainly, but it is the custom to speak of ourselves, as if we +were inferior to those whom we really regard as beneath us in many +respects. There is no true humility in that; we depart from the +truth." + +"Custom sanctions many falsehoods; to speak the truth always, would +make us many enemies. But we might better have them, than to +contradict the truth; what do you think?" Christine looked up with +an earnest seriousness. + +"Truth, and truth alone, should govern us in every situation, let +the consequences be what they may," said Darcet, in a tone that +sounded almost stern; then more gently he added, "Before all things +I prize a frank spirit; for heaven may be reflected there. With all, +this upright candour must in a measure be acquired. Yet, I think +frankness to our own souls is acquired with far more labour. We +shrink from a severe scrutiny into our tangled motives." + +"And when these motives are forced upon our notice, we endeavour to +palliate and excuse them. I am sure it is so," exclaimed Christine +earnestly, for her own young heart's history came up before her, and +she remembered that she had excused herself for acting and feeling +wrong, on the plea that others had not done right, by her. +"But"--she continued after a pause, "you cannot think it is well +always to express the sentiments which circumstances may give rise +to. Such a course might prevent us from doing a great deal of good." + +"Certainly it might. The end in view should be regarded. Good sense, +and a pure heart, will show us the best way in most cases." + +There is a power deep and silent, exerted by good persons; the +folded blossoms of the heart slowly open in their presence, and are +refreshed. A new impulse, a pure aspiration for a higher life, a +yearning after the perfecting of our nature, may be sown as a seed +in hearts that are young in the work of self-conquest. Thus it was +with Christine. The influence of Darcet strengthened all that was +good within her; and as they remained long engaged in deep and +earnest conversation, the elevation and purity of his sentiments +gave clearness and strength to ideas that had been obscure to her +before, because unexpressed. Her peculiar situation had made her far +more thoughtful than many of her years. She thought she had lost the +gay buoyancy of her childhood, but she was mistaken. She was one to +profit by lessons that pressed down the bounding lightness of her +spirit; she was yet to learn that she could grow young in glad +feelings, as years rolled over her head. There was a subdued joy in +her heart, that was new to her, and gave a sweetness to her manner, +as she poured forth the guileless thoughts that first rose to her +lips. It seemed strange to meet with the ardent sympathy which +Darcet manifested by every look of his intelligent face; she could +scarcely realize that it was herself, that anybody really felt +interested in the thoughts and imaginings that had clustered around +her solitary hours. At parting, he said with warm interest, as he +slightly pressed her hand, "I hope, Miss Christine, we may have many +conversations on the subjects we have touched upon to-night." + +"Oh! I hope so," replied Christine, with a frank, bright smile. +After the gentlemen had gone, Christine threw her arm around her +sister, and said gayly, "Hav'n't we had a pleasant evening, Ann, my +dear?" + +"Pleasant enough," said Ann, trying to yawn, "but I felt rather +stupid, as I often do." + +"Stupid! Is it possible?" exclaimed the astonished girl. "You were +talking with Mr. Burns; well, he didn't look as if he would ever set +the North River afire with his energies, it is true." + +Ann smiled very slightly, then rather pettishly disengaged herself +from the detaining hand of Christine, and taking a light, retired +without saying anything, but a brief good-night to her mother. +Christine soon followed, wondering what made Ann so mute and sharp +in her actions. "Why, Ann, are you angry with me?" she asked, going +up to her, as soon as she entered the apartment. + +"I don't know what I should be angry for," was the impatient reply. +"Can't a person be a little short when sleepy, without being +tormented with questions about it?" + +"Oh, yes, I won't trouble you any more." And making due allowance +for Ann's quick temper, Christine occupied herself good-humouredly +with her own thoughts. The secret of Ann's shortness and sleepiness +lay here. Her vanity was wounded to think, that Christine was more +interesting than her own beautiful self. + +"Well, he is a sort of a puritan, and now I begin to understand +Christine, better, I think she is too," thought Ann, after she had +mused her irritation away a little. "He is very polite and +agreeable, and it was very pleasant to have him always ready to take +me out when I wanted to go, but I never felt perfectly easy in his +company; I was always afraid I might say something dreadful; +something that would shock his wonderful goodness. But Christine +seemed perfectly at home. How bright and lovely she looked! I will +not allow evil thoughts to triumph over me. I will not be vexed +simply because she eclipsed me, where no one ever did before. She is +a dear, affectionate girl, and I made a vow before God to love her +always, never to be to her as I was once." + +A fervent prayer brought back to Ann all her former tranquillity, +and she pressed a kiss upon Christine's forehead, full of repentant +affection. Just before she went to sleep, she thought to herself, + +"Well, if I may trust my woman's perception, Darcet will be +exclaiming, after he has seen Christine a few times more, + +"Oh! love, young love, bound in thy rosy bands." + +Ann's perception proved correct. About a year after these +cogitations, Christine became Mrs. Darcet. The sisters were much +changed, but Christine the most so. There was a child-like +simplicity and sweetness beaming from her young face, which Ann +needed. Yet had much haughtiness faded from the brow of that +beautiful girl; she had grown better; but as yet her heart had not +been schooled in suffering as Christine's had. There was deep +affection in the warm tears that fell upon the bride's cheek, as +poor Ann felt that she had indeed gone to bless another with her +tender goodness. Christine's warm heart grew yet more sunny in her +own happy little home, and her feelings more open and expansive, +beneath the genial influence of friendly eyes. + + + + +THE HOURS OF LIFE. + + +TWILIGHT.--The dewy morning of childhood has passed, and the noon of +youth has gone, and the gloom of twilight is gathering over my +spirit. Alas! alas! how my heart sinks in a wan despair! One by one +my hopes have died out, have faded like the gleams of sunshine that +have just vanished beneath the grove of trees. Hopes! Ah, such warm, +bright, beautiful, loving hopes! But, methinks, than lived upon the +earth, unlike the gleaming rays of sunshine that are fed from +heaven. The earth's darkness dims not their glory; pure and radiant +they shine behind the black shadow. But human hopes are earth-born; +they spring from the earth, like the flitting light of night, and +lead us into bogs and quagmires. + +Yet it is beautiful to realize that we have had hopes; they are the +past light of the soul, and their glow yet lingers in this gloomy +twilight, reminding one that there has been a sunny day, and +memories of things pleasant and joyous mingle with the present +loneliness and cheerless desolation. + +Words, that excited hopes, that awoke thrilling emotions, linger on +the listening ear. But, ah! the heart grows very sad, when the ear +listens in vain, and the yearning, unsatisfied spirit realizes that +the words, so loved, so fondly dwelt upon, were but words, empty, +vain words. But, to have believed them, was a fleeting blindness. +They served for food to the yearning heart, when they were given, +and shall the traveller through the desolate wilderness look back +with scorn upon the bread and water that once satisfied his hunger +and thirst, even though it is now withheld? No--let him be thankful +for the past; otherwise, the keen biting hunger, the thirsty anguish +of the soul, will have a bitterness and a gall in it, that will +corrode his whole being. Ah! what is this being? if one could but +understand one's own existence, what a relief it would be; but to +understand nothing--alas! + +Life is a weary burden. I feel weighed down with it, and I do not +know what is in the pack that bows me so wearily to the earth. I do +know that in it are agonized feelings, bitter disappointments, and a +desolation of the heart. But there is a something else in it; for, +now and then, come vague, vast perceptions of a dim future; but I +shut my eyes. I cannot look beyond the earth. I could have been +satisfied here with a very little; a little of human love would have +made me so happy. Yes, I would never have dreamed of an unknown +heaven. Heaven! What is heaven? I remember when I was a little +child, lying on my bed in the early morning twilight (ah! that was a +twilight, unlike this, which is sinking into a black night, for that +was ushering in the beautiful golden day), but it was twilight when +I looked through the uncurtained window; and through the +intertwining branches of a noble tree I saw the far, dim, misty +sky--and I wondered, in my childish way, "if heaven is like that;" +and all at once it seemed to me that the dim, distant sky opened, +and my dead mother's face looked out upon me so beautifully, I did +not know her, for she died when I was an unconscious infant, and yet +I did know her. Yes, that beautiful face was my mother's, and my +heart was full of delight. That my mother could see me, and love me, +from the far heavens, was like a revelation to me. And often, on +other mornings, I awakened and looked through the very same branches +of the tree, out into the far sky, and thought to see my mother's +face shining through the window and watching over her lonely, +sleeping child. But my fancy never again conjured up the vision. +Fancy! What is fancy? If one could but understand, could grasp the +phantom and mystery of life! And above all, if one could but +understand what heaven is! + +When I was a child, heaven was to me a peopled place, a wonderful +reality; and I remember a dream that I had--what a strange dream it +was! For I went to heaven, and I saw a shining One, sitting on a +throne, and many beautiful ones were standing and seated around the +throne, and my father and mother were there; and they had crowns on +their heads, and held each other by the hand, and looked down upon +me so lovingly. I knew that it was my father, because my mother held +him by the hand, though my father died the day I was born, and I +stood before them in the great light of a Heavenly Presence, as such +a poor little earth-child, but I was happy, inexpressibly happy, +only they did not touch me; but I was not fit to be touched by such +soft, shining hands. And what was yet a greater joy than ever to see +my unknown father and mother on the other side of the throne, I saw +my brother, my dear, gentle, beautiful little brother, who, seven +years older than I, had loved and played with me on the earth. He +was clothed in white garments, and was grown from a child to a +youth, and was so full of a noble and beautiful grace. He smiled +upon me; he did not speak; none spoke. All was so still, and serene, +and bright, and beautiful. Next morning I awoke as if yet in my +dream, so vivid was the whole scene before me. I could have danced +and sung all day, "I have seen my father and mother and brother in +the heavenly courts." But what are dreams? + +Yet, it is wonderful to go back to the dreams and thoughts of +childhood; they are so distinct; such living realities. I often +remember a speech I made in those far childish days. I was lying in +bed with a friend in the early gray morning. All at once I started +up and said--"Oh, how I wish I had lived in the days when Jesus +lived upon the earth!" + +I was asked why? And I replied, "Because I could have loved Him; I +would have followed as those women followed Him; I would have kissed +the hem of His garment." + +A laugh checked the further flow of my talk; but I lay down again, +and then my thoughts wandered off to the mountains of Judea, and I +saw a Divine Man walking over the hills and valleys, and women +following Him. In those days I knew two passages in the Bible, and +that was all that I knew of it, for I never read it. But I learned +at Sunday school, Christ's Sermon on the Mount, and the first five +verses of the first chapter of John. And I remember how confused I +always was over the WORD, for some told me it meant "_Logos_." + +What was "_Logos_?" I could never fathom it. Now I know what +"_Logos_" means. And yet the mystery is not fathomed. Well, let that +go. I could never understand the Bible. However, in those days it +was something holy and sacred to me; because the Bible that I owned +belonged to my dear father, and I often kissed it, and loved the +Book dearly, but I could not read it by myself. But I did read +occasionally in the Bible, to an old woman; she lived on the way to +the village school, in a dilapidated, deserted country store; she +occupied the little back room, in which was a fire-place, and I was +permitted to take a flask of milk to her every day, as I passed to +school; and with what a glad heart I always hurried off in the +morning, that I might gather broken brush-wood and dried sticks, for +her to kindle her fire with. Charitable people sent her wood, but it +was wet and hard to kindle, and the poor old woman, with her bent +back, would go out and painfully gather the dried sticks that lay +around her desolate home; but when I came, she would take my book +and dinner-basket into her house, and leave me the delight of +gathering the sticks. Ah! I was happy then--when I knelt on the rude +hearth and blew with my mouth instead of a bellows, the smoking, +smouldering wood into a blaze, and heard the loving words that the +good old woman lavished upon me. She loved me--but not as much as I +loved her. She was my peculiar treasure--something for me to live +for, and think of. I always left my dinner with her, and at noon +returned to eat it with her; though I would feel almost ashamed to +spread out the cold meat and bread before her, she looked so much +like a lady. + +But she always asked a blessing; that was what I never did, and it +gave me an awe-stricken feeling, and my meal would have something of +a solemn and tender interest--what with the blessing, and the old +woman's love for me, and mine for her--and we ate it in a solemn and +gloomy room, for there was no table in the little back room, so we +used the counter of the old store; and the empty shelves and the +closed doors and shutters, with only the light from the back-door, +made me often look around shudderingly into the gloom and obscurity +of dark corners--for I abounded in superstitious terrors, and I +pitied the poor, lonely old woman for living in such a home more +than I ever pitied the cold and hunger she endured. + +Often when our dinner was over, I read aloud to her in the Bible. +She could read it herself. But perhaps she liked to hear the sound +of a childish voice, and perhaps she thought that she was doing me +good. Did she do me good? heigho!--at all events, she left a +beautiful memory to gild this dark twilight that grows upon my soul. + +But the loving, trusting childhood is gone, and why do I dwell upon +it? Why does its sensitive life yet move and stir in my memory? Has +it aught to do with the cold, dark present? The Present! Alas! what +a contrast it is to that childish faith! I almost wish that I could +now believe as I did then. But no. _Reason_ has dissipated the +visions and dreams and superstitions of childhood. It has made +unreal to me that which was most real. In its cold, chilling light, +I have looked into the world of tangible facts and possible +realities. + +Ah! this cold, cold light, how much of beauty and love it has +congealed! It has fallen like a mantle of snow over the warm, living +life of the earth; and blooming flowers, that sent up odours on the +soft air, have crumbled to dust, and bright summer waters that +reflected the heavens in their blue depths, and glittered in the +light of stars and moon and sun, have now been congealed into solid, +dull opaque masses, which yield not to the tread of man. Alas! no +bird of beauty dips its wing in these dead waters, and plumes itself +for an aerial flight of love and joy. But the cold contraction +chains down all the freer, beautiful life, into a hopeless, chilling +inanity. + +MIDNIGHT.--The gloom has gathered into a darkness that may be felt; +and seeing nothing, I would stretch forth my hands to feel if there +is anything within my mind to stay my soul upon. But, alas! in a +deep sorrow, how little do mental acquisitions avail! All the +beautiful systems and theories that delighted my intelligence, and +filled my thought in my noon of hope and life, have sunk into +darkness. How is this? Sometimes I think that all light comes +through the heart into the mind; and when love is quenched, behold, +there is only darkness; the beauty and life and joy are gone. Ah, +woe is me! Have I nothing left?--no internal resources--no wealth of +knowledge, with which to minister to this poverty of hope and life? +It cannot be that all past efforts, all struggles and self-sacrifices, +to attain this coveted and natural knowledge, were useless, vain +mockeries. I thought I should live by this knowledge; that when the +outer life palled upon me, I could then retire within my own being +to boundless stores of riches and beauty. Well--this time has come, +and what do I find? Truly it is no Aladdin-palace, glittering with +gold and gems. It is more like a cavernous depth, stored with +rubbish, and from its dark deeps comes up an earthy odour, that almost +suffocates my spirit. But this is my all, and I must descend from the +life of the heart to the life of the mind, and scan my unsatisfactory +possessions. + +Well, here is a world of childish, school-day lumber. Once it was a +great delight to me to learn that the world was round, and not +square; but I cannot see that a knowledge of that fact affords me +any great satisfaction now, for it has shaped itself to me as an +acute angle. And the earth's surface! how I used to glow with the +excitement of the bare thought of Rome! and Athens! and +Constantinople! and their thrilling histories and wonders of art, +and beauties of nature, seemed to me an indefinite world of +unattainable delight and ecstasy. But now, I have lived in all these +places, and the light and glory have gone. They have fallen within +the freezing light of reason. They are no longer like beautiful +dreams to me. They are squared down into fixed, unalterable facts. I +cannot gild them with any light of fancy; and I cannot extract from +them anything like the delight of my childhood. So I will turn from +these fixed facts and look out for those philosophical theories, +that gave me a later delight, as more interior mental pleasure. + +Well, when I first broke through the shackles of the old childish +faith, Percy Bysshe Shelley was my high-priest. Through him I +thought I had come into a beautiful light of nature, vague, shadowy, +and grand, filling vast conceptions of the indefinite. He discarded +the God of the Hebrews, who was fashioned after their own narrow, +revengeful passions; a Being of wrath and war. And a brooding +spirit, an indefinite indwelling life of nature, was a new +revelation to me. I grew mystical and sublime and sentimental, in +this new mental perception. But I wearied of that. I could not walk +on stilts always, and I descended to the earth and read Voltaire, +and laughed and sneered at all the old forms and superstitions of +man. But this does not afford me any enjoyment now--the unhappy do +not feel like laughing at a ribald wit; but, alas! this rubbish is +stored here, and here I must live with it. It blackened and blurred +the pictures of the angels, that adorned my childish memories. It +wiped out all heavenly visions, and left only the earthly life. + +But the human heart cannot live without a God; and I tried hard to +make one, for myself, through German pantheism. But I turn this +rubbish over disconsolately, for it is a material God, and does not +respond to one spiritual nature. It seems rather to react against +it. Alas! alas! I sink down into a Cimmerian darkness here; it seems +as if the Stygian pools of blackness had closed over me, and a cry +of anguish goes forth from my inmost soul, piercing the dark depths +to learn what is spirit? and what is God? What manner of existence +or unity of Being is He? Who is He? Where is He? And how can I +attain to a knowledge of Him? But through the echoing halls of my +dark mind, there is only a wailing sound of woe, of misery, of +disappointment, of a yearning anguish of spirit for a something +higher and better than I have ever yet conceived of or known. + +But there is yet more of this mental rubbish. Ah! here is a whole +chapter of stuff--and I once thought it was so wise. I called it the +"progressive chain of being," and wove it out of the Pythagorean +philosophy. I said man's nature begins from the lowest, and ascends +to the highest. _Nature_ gives the impulse to life; and the flower +that blooms in South America may die, and its inner spirit may +clothe itself in a donkey born in Greece! and so it goes on +transfusing itself from clime to clime, in ever new and higher +forms, until man is developed. Well, was there ever such stuff +concocted before? I almost hear the bray of that donkey, who +originated in a flower. And pray, most sapient self! what is nature? +It seems _now_, to me, a _form_, a mere dead incubus of matter. And +could this inert tangible matter, sublimate in its hard, dead bosom, +an essence so subtle, as to be freer of the bonds of time and space? +At such a preposterous suggestion even a donkey might bow his ears +with shame. So I will hand this "progressive chain of being" over to +a deeper darkness, and pass on. + +Lo! here lie the statues of broken gods, headless divinities. I +tried to believe in Greek mythology; to fancy that the world had +gone backwards, and that there were spirits of the earth and air, +that took part in the life of man. But these were poetic visions +that shifted and waved with every fleeting fancy. But _now_ this +would be a pleasant faith. What if I _could_ appeal to an invisible, +higher spiritual being, who sympathized with my nature, to lead me +out of this darkness of ignorance into a true world of light, of +truth, of definite knowledge, concerning life and its origin; +concerning God and His nature? If I were only an old Greek, how I +would pray to Minerva for help, and call upon Hercules to remove +this Augean dirt, that pollutes and lumbers all the chambers of my +mind! But when the old Greeks called, were they answered? Ah, there +is nothing to hope for! + +Yet Socrates believed in these spiritual existences; he ordered a +cock to be sacrificed to Esculapius as he was drinking the hemlock. +To him, they were not mere poetic creations; he believed to the last +that he was guided and guarded by his demon. What if we all are? +What if even now, in this midnight darkness, stands a beautiful +being, veiled by my ignorance, who loves me, from a world of light; +sees the tangled web of my thoughts, and would draw it out into +form, and order, and beauty? If such there be, oh, bright and +beautiful one! pity me, love me, and enlighten me. Alas, no!--all is +yet dark. What would a being revelling in light and beauty, have to +do with this poor, faded life of mine? Alas! that was a fleeting +hope, that, like a pale, flickering ray, gilded the darkness for a +moment. + +But, here is a something which gives somewhat of joy and life to the +mind. It is a beautiful thought of Plato, that there is a great +central sun in the universe, around which all other suns revolve. +What if this be an inner sun, which is the fountain of spiritual +life? That is something to believe. Yet the thought sinks appalled +from it. The heart desires a God that it may love, and trust in, +that it may speak to and be heard; and if the fountain of life be +only a sun, what is there to love in it? True, we rejoice in the +light and beauty of the sun that upholds _this_ world in its place; +but what is this enjoyment compared to the bliss of human love? A +man--a living, breathing, loving man--is the perfection of +existence; and one could be happy with a perfect man, if all the +suns in the universe were blotted out. A MAN! what is he, in his +essential attributes? What is it that gives a delight in him? Ah! I +am full of ideal visions--for in all history I find not one man that +altogether fills my vision of what a man should be. From the +Alexanders and Caesars I turn with loathing--their fierce, rude, +outre life, their selfish, grasping ambition, suggest to me the +vision of snarling wild beasts, battling over the torn and +palpitating limbs of nations. These men could never have touched my +soul; they could never have dispelled the darkness of my mind; they +could not be friends. But was there ever a man that could have +answered the questions for the solution of which my spirit yearns? +Plato was beautiful; around him was a pure, intellectual light. But, +after all, he _knew_ very little; his writings are mostly +suggestive. But suppose here was a man who could reveal all the +hidden things of life? How sudden would be the delight of learning +of him, of communing with his spirit? And what if he knew, not only +everything relating to this world, and my own intellectual being, +but could tell me of all the universe, of all the after life? Oh! +what a joy such a man would be to me! How would this midnight +darkness melt into the clearest and most beautiful day! + +But did such an one ever exist? Why is it that now comes over me the +vision of my childhood, of the Divine Man walking over the hills of +Judea? Oh, Christ! who wert Thou? My thought goes forth to Thee; +beautiful was Thy life upon the earth. It had in it a heavenly +sanctity, a purity, a grace and mercy, a gentleness and forbearance, +that seems to me God-like and Divine. Yes--what if God descended and +walked on the earth? I could love Him, that He had lowered Himself +to my comprehension. But God! the Infinite and Eternal! in the +finite human form, undergoing death! I cannot comprehend this. But +what is infinity? When I look within myself and realize my +ever-changing and fleeting feelings, now glancing in expansive +ranges of thought from star to star, I realize an infinity in mind, +that is not of the body. What if it were thus with the Holy Man, +Christ? What if He were God as to the spirit, and man as to the +flesh? If this were so, well may I have wished "to live when Jesus +walked the earth," for He alone could have revealed all things to +me. How wonderful must have been His wisdom! And if His indwelling +spirit were God, then Christ yet lives--lives in some inner world of +love and beauty. Ah, beautiful hope! for, if immortality is my +portion, I may yet see Him, and learn of Him in another existence. +Methinks the night of my soul is passing away; upon the rayless +darkness a star has risen; a fixed star of love and hope; what if +like other fixed stars it prove a sun? + +Oh, Christ! holy and beautiful Man! if Thou yet livest in far-away +realms of light and blessedness--grant that I may see Thee, and +learn of Thy wondrous wisdom. Enlighten my darkness, and suffer me +to love Thee as the Divinest type of man that my thought has yet +imagined. + +THE DAWN OF THE MORNING.--I have gone back to my Bible with the old +childish love and reverence. I read it with an object now. I know +that in it, the beautiful Christ-nature was portrayed; and I read +with infinite longings to find Him the "unknown God;" and bright +revealings come to me through this Book. I feel that it is Divine, +and the light grows upon me; and sometimes like the Apostles, who +awakened in the night, and saw Christ transfigured before them, I +also saw a transfiguration. I lose sight of the mere material man, +and I perceive an inner glory of being, a radiance of wisdom, and +purity, and love, that clothe Him in a Divine light, and make His +countenance brilliant with a spiritual glory. + +This transfiguration, what was it? My thought dwells upon it so--it +was a wonderful thing. I know that the scoffing philosophers +ridicule the idea of there being any reality in it; they regard it +either as a fiction on the part of the writers, or as a dream or a +delusion of the senses. But I believe that it all happened just as +it was narrated. For it is beautiful to believe it. If it did not +happen, I am none the worse for believing it, even if the whole life +was a fiction, which all history proves to have been true; and had +no Christ lived upon the earth, yet, as a work of art, this fiction +would have been the highest and most beautiful dream of the human +thought. But if it is all literally true; if Christ was "God +manifest in the flesh," how much do I gain by believing in him! I +have attained the highest and best of all knowledge--I know GOD! + +And this transfiguration becomes a wonderful revelation! It was the +Spirit of God shining through the Man. And this spirit was a +substance and a form. And what was its form?--that of a man, with a +face radiant as the sun. Now know I how to think of God. He is no +longer a vague, incomprehensible existence; an ether floating in +space. But He is a living, breathing human form, a Man! in whose +image and likeness we were created. Oh, how I thank God that He has +revealed this to me! Now, I know what manner of Being I pray to; and +like as the apostles saw Him, in His Divine spiritual human form, +will I now always think of Him. I will look through His veil of +flesh, I will love Him as the only God-man that ever existed. + +When I think thus of the inner Divine nature, clothed in a material +body, how wonderfully do the scenes of this drama of the life of +Christ strike me! Imagine Him, the God of the universe, standing +before the Jewish sanhedrim, condemned, buffeted, and spit upon. How +at that moment in His inmost Divine soul, He must have glanced over +the vast creation, that He had called into being; and felt that an +Infinite power dwelt in Him. One blazing look of wrathful +indignation would have annihilated that rude rabble. But He had +clothed himself in flesh, to subdue all of its evil and vile +passions; to show to an ignorant and sensual race, the grace and +beauty of a self-abnegation--a Divine pity and forgiveness. And thus +did the outer material Man die with that beautiful and touching +appeal to the Infinite-loving soul, from which the body was born: +"Father! forgive them, they know not what they do." Oh, Thou! Divine +Jesus! make me like unto Thee in this heavenly and loving spirit. + +How clear many things grow to me now! I smile when I think of the +old childish trouble over the word "_Logos_," for this _Logos_, i. +e. truth, has been revealed to me. In the knowledge that Christ was +the Infinite God--the Creator of the universe, I see Him as the +central _truth_. Thus Christ was the _Logos_,--the _Word_; the +Divine Truth, and now I read, that "In the beginning was Christ, and +Christ was with God, and Christ was God." And I am happy in this +knowledge--my thought has something to rest upon out of myself; and +my affections grow up from the earth to that wonderful Divine Man, +who, after the death of the body, was seen as a man, a living man! +Immortality is no longer the dream of a Plato. It is a demonstrated +fact. + +In my mind is the stirring of a new life, as in the light of an +early morning-glory; the voice of singing birds is in my heart, and +an odour of blooming flowers expands itself in the delight of my new +day. I see the morning sun in a fixed form, yet flooding worlds with +the radiations of its light and heat, and shining in its glory on +the dew-bespangled blade of grass. Oh Christ!--thou art my Sun--and +I, the tiny blade of grass, rejoice in Thy Divine wisdom and love. +Look down upon me, oh, Thou holy One! from the "throne of Thy glory, +and the habitation of Thy Holiness," and exhale from me, through the +dew of my sorrow, the incense of my love. Draw me up from the earth, +even as the sun draws up the bowed plants, and let me drink in the +beautiful life of free heavenly airs. + +NOON-DAY.--How the light grows! In the warm love of my soul a +summer's day glows--so serene and bright, so full of ceaseless +activities, that the fruits ripen in a smiling, rosy beauty. + +The living Christ hath heard my soul's prayer; and books, which I +never before heard of, have revealed to me all those wonderful +truths after which my spirit yearned. + +First of all, the mystery of the Bible has been made clear to me. I +see it now as a beautiful whole. The Infinite knew from the +beginning that He was going to descend upon the earth, and take upon +Himself a human nature, weak and ignorant and vicious; and that He +was to purify and enlighten, and make Divine this fallen nature, +that man might know God in a material form, and love Him. All this +is written out in the Bible. + +I stand on the threshold of a wonderful science. There are +innumerable things that I do not comprehend in the Bible; but what I +see and understand awakens in me a thrilling delight, and I can +never exhaust this book; for it is full of the nerves of life; and I +can no more number them than I can count the sensitive fibres that +spread themselves from my brain, to the innumerable cellular tissues +of my skin. But as the body is full of a sentient life, so is every +word of the Bible full of an indwelling life. + +And now do I recognise the good that my patient, suffering old +friend did me in my childhood; would that I had read the Holy Bible +to her many other days. Doubtless she is now a beautiful angel in +Heaven. + +The angels! and Heaven! now too do I understand the inner existence; +and the dreams and visions of my childhood were, after all, blessed +realities; and the dead father and the dead mother, after whom my +childish heart yearned so lovingly, were revealed to me as a living +father and a living mother, in a wondrously beautiful life. Thus was +a warm inner love kept alive in my soul; and now I know that death +is but a new birth. As a glove is drawn from the hand, so is the +body drawn from the spirit; and, I too, will thus be born again. +Life is again crowned with a beautiful hope. + +Life!--and this mystery too is solved. God is the alone life, and +finite human spirits are forms receptive of life from God. God is +the soul and creation is His body--and from this infinite Divine +soul, life flows forth into every atom of the body. Beautiful +thought! The Lord sits throned in the inmost, and is cognisant of +every nerve that thrills through His boundless universe of being. +Every thought and feeling that passes through my heart and mind is +as clearly perceived by Him, as are the sensations of my body +perceived by my soul. Thus are we in God, and God in us. + +And how vast is the thought that suns, and their peopled worlds, are +to the body of God but as the drops of blood to the finite human +body; and who can count these drops? for as they flow forth, and +back to the heart, they ever grow and change, and increase--and who +can measure the Infinite! and this Being, sentient of all things in +the universe, providing for all things; seeing all things; +maintaining order, down to the minutest particle, in a system which +the finite thought of man can never grasp--and loving his creatures +in myriads of worlds, of which man never dreamed. How inconceivable +must be His boundless wisdom, His infinite love! Can we wonder that +a Soul so glowing with love, so radiant in intelligence, should +shine as the sun? Yes--this is the Central Sun, whose spiritual +beams, pouring forth their Divine influences, creating as they go +angelic and spiritual intelligences, finally ultimate themselves in +material suns, and material human bodies. Thus the garment of dull, +opaque matter is woven by the Divine Soul, through the condensations +of His emanations. Thus, were "all things made by Him; and without +Him was not anything made that was made;" and "in Him was life, and +the life was the light of men." + +The thought sinks after this far flight--we worship and adore the +Infinite. But the Lord must for ever remain apart from our weak +natures, as far as the sun is above the earth. He lives, in His +incomprehensible self-existence, at an immeasurable distance from +us. This the Divine Man sees, and in His tender compassion and +loving mercy for every human soul He creates, a twin-soul is made, +that the finite may find the fullness of delight in another finite +existence. + +Oh, blessed and beautiful providence of God! that two human hearts +and minds may intertwine in mutual support, and look up to the +Infinite. And in the glorious sunshine of life, grow ever young and +beautiful, in an immortal youth. + +Oh, ye suffering, sorrowing children of earth! turn your affections +and hopes from the fleeting things of time; from the outside-world, +to the beautiful inner spirit-life, where eternity develops ever new +and varying joys. Then only can the day dawn upon the human soul, +and the midnight darkness be dissipated by boundless effulgence of +light. + + + + +MINISTERING ANGELS. + + + TIME and Patience! These are Angels + By our Heavenly Father sent; + Whispering to our restless spirits, + "Cease to murmur--be content; + God, who is thy truest friend, + Doth our aid in trials send. + + When thy weary spirit faileth, + 'Neath the weary cross it bears, + God is not unmindful of thee-- + He is listening to thy prayers; + From His children's tearful pleading + He will _never_ turn unheeding!" + + Heart of mine! Trust thou these Angels; + Lean on Patience, and be calm; + Trust in Time, who is preparing + For thy grief a spirit-balm; + God is merciful, and He + Gave them charge concerning thee. + + + + +OURS, LOVED, AND "GONE BEFORE." + + + The light of her young life went out, + As sinks behind the hill + The glory of a setting star; + Clear, suddenly, and still. + + --WHITTIER. + +YOU ask me to tell you of her, the sweet friend we have loved and +lost. You impose on me a difficult task; I find it so harrowing to +my feelings, and I also find that my pen is inadequate to the +tribute my heart would pay. + +I would that the privilege of knowing and loving her had been yours, +for to know her was to love her. + +In former letters I told you something of her; how she came to us a +lovely bride of just nineteen summers; how anxiously we looked for +her first appearance in church, for they arrived late Saturday +evening, and no one had seen her. I told you how my heart went out +to her as I looked on her sweet, bright, yet somewhat timid face; +there was a perfect witchery in her eyes. I felt that I could gaze +into them for ever; there was about them a spell, a fascination that +I have never seen in others; they laughed as they looked at you, and +yet they were not merely laughing eyes; perhaps the long, drooping +lashes somewhat modified the expression, and helped to give the +peculiarity so strikingly their own. + +Her dress and whole appearance were captivating; the simple light +straw hat, with the little illusion veil, and the pure white dress +fitting so prettily the slender form. I could hardly wait for the +next day, so anxious was I to see and speak with her, for I loved +her already. + +I had been prepared to love her, for our young pastor had told us +much of his future bride. You know our house was one of his homes, +and to us he had spoken often and enthusiastically of his Mary. It +seemed to me that first Sabbath, that his prayers were particularly +impressive, and his thanks to the Author and Giver of every perfect +gift unusually appropriate; he seemed overpowered by a weight of +gratitude and love. + +How I admired the two as I glanced from one to the other! And I know +that many prayers went up from that assembled congregation for long +life and blessings on them. + +It was a beautiful home that had been prepared for her. Her +furniture had been sent on previous to their marriage, and our +little band had vied with each other in arranging with a view both +to taste and comfort. How we did wish for a peep into her own home, +to get a hint with regard to arranging her things, so as to be +_home-like_! + +You know there is often so much in association, and we would have +loved the new strange place to have a familiar look to her at first +sight. Oh! what visions we conjured up as we arranged the room which +was to serve both as parlour and dining-room; for the house was +small, and Mr. B.'s study must be on the first floor. _There_ was +the best place for the piano between the windows, which looked into +the garden; we heard in anticipation the sweet voice which was to +fill the little room with melody, as the roses and flowers of June +now filled the garden with fragrance. The pretty fire-screen must +stand in a conspicuous corner, for that spoke particularly of home, +and of the hours delightfully passed in the dear family circle while +tracing it stitch by stitch; and I fancied that into each bright +flower which stood out so life-like from the canvas some emotion of +her heart had been indelibly wrought. How many lovely home +associations will the pretty fire-screen bring up! + +How we arranged, and disarranged, and re-arranged, before all was to +our minds; and how we hoped, when all was finished, that it would +look as charming to her as it did to us! And we were not +disappointed; for, on the following Monday, when we called to see +her, nothing could exceed the enthusiasm of her expression and +gratitude; everything was lovely, perfect; she saw all _en couleur +de rose_. + +She had left indulgent parents, and a home of refinement and luxury, +and we feared for her the untried duties of her new position; but an +intimate acquaintance proved her eminently qualified for the +responsibility she had assumed. She adapted herself with charming +grace and readiness to her present circumstances. She was a most +delightful acquisition to our limited circle; a favourite with all; +and she blended so beautifully the graces of religion with those of +her natural temperament that she became our idol. + +The "parsonage" seemed to me a paradise, surrounded by none but +bright and holy influences. There the poor always found a welcome, a +willing heart, a ready hand, and listening ear; however sad and +desponding on entering, they invariably came out cheerful and +hopeful. There seemed a magic spell cast around every one who sought +the presence of our dearly loved pastor and his wife. + +With what pleasure I used to watch for their steps as they took +their morning walks together that bright first year of their married +life! They seemed to have the life and vivacity of children. She +always accompanied him in his walks, in his visits to the poor, in +relief to the sick, by the bedside of the dying; she was like his +shadow, and always haunted him for good. It might be said most +emphatically of both, "When the ear heard them it blessed them, and +when the eye saw them it gave witness to them, because they +delivered the poor that cried, and the fatherless, and him that had +none to help him; the blessing of him that was ready to perish came +upon them, and they caused the widow's heart to sing for joy." + +Thus several years passed away; new cares and new duties devolved on +them; but all were cheerfully met and delightfully performed; and +they basked in the sunshine of God's love. Beautiful children sprang +up around them, and we felt that "earth never owned a happier nest" +than that which was placed in our midst. + +How proud Mr. B. was of his family, and with what reason, too, for +we all felt it with him; his wife so beautiful, so good, so in all +respects fitted to make home happy, with her never-failing sunshine +and light-heartedness; his two little girls, our impersonation of +cherubs; and the youngest a noble boy, so dear to his mother's +heart. Oh! how many attractions within that charmed circle! + +I shall never forget an evening I passed in the nursery with that +dear one surrounded by her happy little band. Willie, "the baby," as +she called him, although more than two years old, was sitting in her +lap, twirling one of her long, beautiful ringlets round his tiny +fingers. + +"Sing, mamma!" he said. + +"Oh, do!" joined in Effie and Minnie, putting their bright innocent +faces and soft brown curls close to hers; "sing The Dove, mamma, +please." + +She laughingly asked me to excuse her, saying, she always devoted +the twilight hour to amusing and instructing the little ones. I +begged her to allow my presence to be no restraint upon her usual +custom. She then commenced, and I thought no seraph's voice could be +sweeter, as she sang one of Mary Howitt's beautiful translations:-- + + "There sitteth a dove so white and fair + All on the lily spray, + And she listeneth how to Jesus Christ + The little children pray; + Lightly she spreads her friendly wings, + And to Heaven's gate hath fled, + And to the Father in Heaven she bears + The prayers which the children have said. + + And back she comes from Heaven's gate, + And brings, that dove so mild, + From the Father in Heaven, who hears her speak, + A blessing for every child. + The children lift up a pious prayer-- + It hears whatever you say, + That heavenly dove, so white and fair, + All on the lily spray." + +I joined heartily in the thanks and admiration the children +expressed when she had finished. + +As she laid them in their little beds, and kissed their rosy lips +and dimpled cheeks, she said, "I can never thank God enough for +these sweet children." She then added, "Oh! what an affliction it +must be to lose a child; I think if one of mine should die, I should +die too; but," she added, "I should not say so; could I not trust +them with Him who doeth all things well?" She little realized how +soon she was to be put to the test. I called there a few days after. +She was in the garden raising and tying up some drooping carnations +which the rain of the preceding day had injured. + +"Willie is not well," said she. "I have just sung him to sleep, and +Mr. B. said I must take a little fresh air, for I was fatigued with +holding him, and I thought I would confine myself to the garden, to +be near, if he should wake." + +Soon a cry from the nursery was heard; she sprang up the steps in +nervous haste, while I quite chided her anxiety. I followed her into +the room, and was surprised and shocked to find the dear boy in a +high fever; his little arms tossing restlessly, and his lips dry and +parched. Mr. B. sent immediately for the physician; we waited +anxiously his arrival, hoping secretly that we were unnecessarily +alarmed; but his coming did not reassure us; he saw dangerous +symptoms; but still, he said, he hoped for the best. I went home, as +Mr. and Mrs. B. both declined my services for the night, saying they +would rather attend him alone. The next day I was pained to hear +that his symptoms were more unfavourable; that the medicine had had +no effect, and the physician was becoming discouraged. I flew over +to the "parsonage;" the wildly anxious look of the mother distressed +me. I begged her to lie down a little while, and allow me to take +her place by the baby. + +"Oh, no," she said, "I cannot leave him; who but his mother should +be by his side?" + +It seemed to me that I had never seen greater distress on any +countenance. Mr. B. endeavoured to soothe her, though his anguish +was apparently as keen as her own. + +"If our Saviour would remove this little flower to his own garden, +shall we refuse to give it up? Shall we not rather bless and thank +him for allowing us to keep it so long?" + +"Oh, yes!" she said, "He doeth all things well; I know that he does +not willingly afflict nor grieve the children of men. I know that +whom He loveth he chasteneth, and I can say, 'Thy will be done.' +Nature is powerful, but my Saviour feels for me, and will forgive +the inward struggle." + +All that night they watched his little life fast ebbing away. +Towards morning his sufferings seemed to cease; he smiled upon his +parents. Hope for a moment revived in their hearts, but soon to be +displaced by bitter anguish. Daylight showed the marked change in +his features and complexion that told too plainly the messenger was +very near. + +"Speak to me, Willie," she exclaimed, bending over him in an agony +of grief. + +"Mamma," he said, and, with the effort, his little spirit took its +flight. + +Much has been said and written upon the death of infants, but when +we see so much of wickedness in the world, so much of sin to blight, +so much sorrow to fade, can we wonder that the Lord of Paradise +loves to transplant to a fairer clime these frail buds of earth, +there to have a beautiful and unfading development! + +We saw no more of our precious friends till the day of the funeral. +This was their first affliction, and none liked to intrude on the +sanctity of their grief, though many tears were shed, and hearts +went out to them; but we felt that they knew whom they had trusted, +and that under the shadow of His wings they could rest securely till +the storm was past. + +A neighbouring clergyman was to perform the last sad office for the +dead. Most lovely did little Willie look in his coffin. The +child-like, beautiful expression still lingered. Rare flowers, the +smallest and whitest, had been placed in the tiny hand, and shed +their fragrance throughout the room. + +Oh! how sad and sick appeared the mother, as she bent to take the +last look at the little form she had loved and cherished so +tenderly! Her nights of anxiety and watching had left their traces +upon her face; her usually light and elastic step was feeble and +slow, and she rested heavily upon the arm of her husband. His form +also was bowed, and his countenance bore traces of the deepest +grief. + +One of those sudden changes which we so often experience in this our +most changeful climate, took place that day. At noon it was very +warm and bright, but before we returned from the funeral it was +cloudy and cold. + +The next day Mrs. B. was quite sick with severe cold, and the +effects of the past excitement and grief. We flattered ourselves +that rest and quiet, with good nursing, would soon restore her; and +you may judge of our dismay upon learning, the day after, that she +was dangerously ill. + +"Oh no," we thought and said a hundred times, "it cannot be so; she +will surely be better to-morrow." + +We could not have it otherwise. We could not for an instant admit +the idea that she would not recover. The bare supposition was agony. +Oh! how harrowing to me is the remembrance of those long summer +days, and those wakeful moonlight nights, in which, prostrated by +disease, lay that young and lovely being so idolized by us all, but +whom, indeed, we were destined to see no more on earth. + +The Divine fiat had gone forth, and hearts were agonized, and looks +grew sadder and sadder, as day after day sounded like a knell in our +ears the fearful words, "Not materially better." But we could not +give her up; hope would linger. No one was permitted to see her but +the family and nurses, for the doctor said all excitement must be +carefully avoided. We said, "She will not die; God will raise her +up." In our weakness and blindness, we could see no mercy nor wisdom +in this terrible bereavement, this scorching desolation of the +already heavily-stricken servant of the Most High. He was naturally +of a most hopeful disposition, and this, notwithstanding the +discouraging words of the physician, buoyed up his soul, and he with +us hoped against hope. They could not persuade him to leave her for +a moment. Whole nights he watched by the side of her he loved best +on earth, anticipating every word and look, and administering to her +comfort. + +How you would have felt for us, dear Anna, had you been here! We +would walk by the house, and look up at the windows or door, not +daring to knock for fear of disturbing her, but hoping to see one of +the physicians or some one of the family, of whom to make inquiries. +Oh, the nervousness of those days! the restless, weary nights we +passed, till our fears and apprehensions became a racking torment, +and we felt almost that we must die (sic) ourselves ourselves or be +out of suspense; but when, on the evening of the tenth day after her +illness, a messenger came with pallid face and almost wild look to +say that she was _dead_, we were stunned. I really think we were +almost as much shocked as though we had not heard of her illness; +for we felt that, at the eleventh hour, some favourable turn _must_ +take place. I think we expected a miracle to be performed, so +certain were we, or wished and tried to be, that she would recover. + +But God's ways are not as our ways; truly, they are past finding +out. We felt like putting our hands on our mouths, for fear of +rebelling against _His_ most righteous decrees. "Be still, and know +that I am God," was all that we could say. It was hard to realize +that the sun was still shining behind the cloud, for this was a +darkness that might be felt. There seemed a pall over the earth and +sky. Oh, how unsatisfactory seemed all on earth! how dark and +strange! how mysterious and unreal! We could not weep, we were +stunned, and it seemed at the time that we could never come back to +earth without her. But when the touching relation of her last hours +was made to us, the fountains of grief were unsealed, and we wept, +as it were, rivers of tears. + +I can give you no idea on paper of the beauty and sublimity of that +death-scene as it was painted to me. We imagined that the heart must +shrink, or at least draw back before the entrance into the dark +valley. But all was peace; it flowed in upon her like a river, and +she felt that underneath were the everlasting arms. Her husband and +two remaining children stood by the bed. Oh, the bitterness of the +cup he was called upon to drink! He shrank from it. As he bent over +her, she said, + +"Do not weep, love. How good God has been to give us so many bright, +happy years together! Surely the lines have fallen to us in pleasant +places, and I"--raising her beautiful eyes to heaven--"have a goodly +heritage. I go to my Saviour. How should I feel at this moment had I +not a hope in him? Oh, I am going home! I see Willie beckoning me to +hasten. I will bear him in my arms to the Saviour's feet, and +together we shall sing the 'new song.' I do not love you nor these +sweet darlings less; but I love the Saviour more. I wish you could +look in my heart and see the love I bear you. Thank you for all your +indulgence, for all your kindness in bearing with my many +infirmities. If I am permitted, I will be ever your guardian angel. +Remember me with much and undying love to all the dear friends who +have been so kind to me." + +She appeared buoyed up with unnatural strength, though her end was +so near. She broke into a sweet hymn; and it was, they said, as +though the angel's voice had anticipated the few short moments +before she should sing the "new song." She lay quiet for a little +time, holding the hand of her husband in her own; then, opening her +eyes and seeing the last rays of the departing sun, "I shall never +look upon that bright orb again; but there is no need of the sun +there. I draw near to heavenly habitations, and I would not retreat +for what the world can give. Dearest, be faithful to your trust." +And, imprinting a kiss upon his lips, her pure spirit went +peacefully home. + +We draw a veil upon the feelings of that bereaved one; too sacred +are they to be looked upon; his house was left unto him desolate. +That form, which had been to his eye like the well in the desert or +the bow in the sky, was now cold in death. + +Oh! thought we, why needed this affliction to be sent upon one so +near _perfection_? Surely, _he_, of all others, needed not this +discipline; and then came to our minds, soft, sweet, and soothing, +the words, "Every branch in me that beareth fruit, he purgeth it +that it may bring forth more fruit." + +We felt that it was hard to lay in the grave the form of our dear +friend; it was hard to part with the casket which had enshrined the +precious jewel. Beautiful in life, she was so in death. The +departing spirit had left a ray of brightness on its earthly house, +and, in looking at the calm brow and peaceful smile, death seemed +divested of its terror. We had twined the pure white flowers she +loved around and amongst the rich dark masses of wavy hair, and she +looked like a beautiful bride more than a tenant for the grave. The +memory of that day will live ever in our minds. It was the last day +of summer, and there seemed a beautiful appropriateness in the +season; it seemed to us that the summer of our hearts had gone with +her. + +A sad and mournful procession, we followed her remains to the church +so dear to her in life. It was but a few days since she entered it +in her loveliness and bloom, and for the last time on earth +commemorated a Saviour's dying love. She will partake with us here +no more. May we be counted worthy to sit down with her at our +Father's board in heaven! Mournful was the sight of the black pall +which covered the coffin; mournful the drapery which shrouded her +accustomed seat and enveloped the chancel; mournful the badges which +all, as by consent, had adopted as expressive of their feelings on +the occasion; but, oh! most mournful and heart-rending was the sight +of that husband and father leading by the hand on either side all +that remained to him of his beautiful family. It was difficult to +recognise in him the man of two short weeks before; twenty years +seemed added to his life; the eyes, usually beaming with light, now +cast down and swollen with weeping--the countenance, index of a +heart full of peace and joy, now so sorrow-stricken. Truly, he +seemed "smitten of God and afflicted." We turned our eyes away as he +stood by the grave which contained almost his earthly all. + +It was a beautiful spot where they laid her to rest by the side of +her baby. The sun was just going down in a golden flood of light, +betokening a glorious morrow (beautiful emblem of the resurrection, +when this perishing body should be raised in glory), and the shadows +of the trees were lengthening on the grass. Every sound was in sweet +accordance with the scene; the soft twittering of the birds as they +sought their resting-places for the night, the quiet hum of the +insects, and the sweet murmuring of the brook which flowed at a +little distance. + +A holy calm pervaded our minds as we wended our way between the +trees and down the slope which bounded this lovely spot; and, as we +left the gate, we involuntarily paused and looked back long and +earnestly on the sweet view. Every object was bathed in that golden +haze so peculiar to the last days of summer and the beginning of +autumn; but at this time it seemed to us that the flood of soft +light had escaped from the gate of heaven which we imagined had +opened to receive the form lost to our sight. + +Oh, we miss her more and more, everywhere! in our walks and visits; +in the missionary circle, of which she was so ready and active a +member; in the Sunday school; in her accustomed seat in church; and +we miss the soft tones of her voice in prayer, and the rich +outpourings of her melody in praise. + +The poor of the parish have, indeed, lost a friend, as their tears +and remembrance amply testify when they recount her kindnesses, her +gentle words, her deeds of charity and love. "Flowers grew under the +feet of her," said one wretchedly poor, yet, I thought, quite +poetical old woman, whose declining days she had lightened of much +of their weariness. A track of glory seems that which she has left +behind; and there was so much that was beautiful and consoling in +her last hours that it were selfishness to wish her back. She is +with the Saviour she loved; she folds again to her heart the little +one whose loss she had not time to realize on earth; together they +have entered on their "long age of bliss in heaven." + +Does not that death-scene speak volumes in attestation of the +religion she professed, of the Saviour she adored? That young fair +being, surrounded by all that makes life happy; friends who loved, a +husband who idolized, children who clung to her; with a heart full +of love and sympathy for all, rejoicing with those who rejoiced, and +weeping with those who wept; of rare beauty and rarer accomplishments, +a sunbeam on the face of the earth; yet she willingly left all when +her Father called her. Is not her faith worth striving after? + +We have reason (blessed be God!) to see already some good effects +from the contemplation of her life and death. The young have +received a warning, thoughtlessness a check. We have realized that +neither youth nor beauty is a security against the ravages of the +spoiler. + +God grant that our dear pastor may experience the truth of the words +of the Psalmist: "Those who sow in tears shall reap in joy." He +feels that his treasure is laid up in heaven, and we know that his +heart is there. To see his dear one happy had ever been his chief +desire, and he would not call her back, for he knows that she is now +in the enjoyment of a bliss that the world cannot give. + +Though cast down, he is not destroyed; he has come unscathed from +this furnace of affliction because one like the Son of God was with +him. With eyes turned heavenward, he waits his appointed time. The +religion of the cross glistens like a gem on his dark-robed +fortunes, and points him to fairer worlds, where the love that grew +here amidst clouds will be made perfect in a light that knows no +shadow, where he and his departed ones will again have one home, one +altar, and one resting place. + +Like his Divine Master, he goes about doing good. Oftener than ever +is he found amongst the sons and daughters of affliction; more than +ever are they objects of his special care; his precept is blessed by +his example, and thus many a prodigal son has he recalled from his +wanderings, many an outcast gathered into the fold, many a wayworn +pilgrim pointed to his true rest, many a mourner comforted. They saw +that the resignation he preached to others he practised himself; +they saw that the hand of the Lord was heavy upon him, but that yet +he turned not backward; they saw that he went his way as a pilgrim +pressing forward to a better country. Most brilliant will be the +diadem which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give him in the +last day, for are not these words of Holy Writ, "They who turn many +to righteousness shall shine like the stars for ever and ever?" + + + + +OUTWARD MINISTERINGS. + + + EACH owns some secret law;--the flowers that flourish + Bloom in their season, in their season die; + Dews flow beneath, their feeble strength to nourish, + The wind, Earth's angels, life's sweet breath supply. + + As in the wondrous world of faultless Nature, + So in the moral universe of man, + Given for the spirit's every form and feature, + Are powers fulfilling its immortal plan. + + Whether its aim be fixed on seeking Pleasure, + Whilst draining deep her falsely-sparkling bowl, + Or in the light of Love be sought the treasure + Whose worth may satisfy the craving soul; + + Whether it court the applause of listening nations, + And toil, with earnest energy, for fame, + Or seek with nobler hopes those elevations, + Whence from its God with spotless robes it came: + + All help to lead it on; to Truth or Error, + Darkness or Light, as its own pathway lies; + Here, seeming seraphs, hidden shapes of terror, + There, darksome shadows, angels in disguise. + + Behold yon miser bend, with palsied fingers, + O'er the rich gold around him glittering piled, + How, with a father's care, he tireless lingers + By life's all-precious hope, his darling--child. + + Fond wretch! his aim to narrow life is bounded, + Yet, true to Nature, all for him hath proved; + The glorious gifts that once his path surrounded, + Have served to strengthen feelings basely loved! + + By glittering lights, behold yon splendid palace, + See squalid youth and beauty enter there, + Eager to drown within the brimming chalice, + All pangs of grief--all thoughts of woe or care. + + Alas! for them, that such a sad fruition + Should burst from seeds bright with the hues of Time; + These specious splendours fail not in their mission, + But spur their spirits on the road to crime! + + In yonder room, behold a beauteous maiden, + Who bright the standard of her hope unrolls; + But, oh! that smiling bark, with evil laden, + Leads on to fatal depths, or treacherous shoals! + + Gaze on the gambler, pale with care and sorrow, + And mark the dismal shades he long hath trod, + Who lives to witness each returning morrow, + Sin-burdened, roll before an outraged God! + + Seest thou the light from yonder casement streaming? + Seest thou the shadow on the window cast? + There, lost in thought and poesy's wild dreaming, + Waits one to hear Fame's loud but fickle blast. + + This is his life's great aim; but what beyond it? + Of Truth's bright treasure though he love to tell, + In barren mines of lore he hath not found it, + Bowing beneath his idol's deadly spell. + + But gaze on One, who seeks in all around him, + Lessons of good to cheer him on his way, + As every golden year through life hath found him + Nearer the realms of Heaven's eternal day. + + With him events of earth are sweet evangels, + All meaner things but step-stones hurled beneath; + Whilst nobler lead to Eden-realms of angels, + With shining robes, and crown, and amaranth wreath. + + Oh! fellow-pilgrims through this desert dreary, + In all the scenes of life God's mercy trace, + Then though with grief cast down, with watching weary, + Strong shall ye stand in His sufficient grace! + + Thus sweet, melodious tones and forms of beauty, + All glorious sights and sounds may ever prove + Angels to lure us on the path of duty, + Echoes of symphonies that float above! + + + + +BODILY DEFORMITY, SPIRITUAL BEAUTY. + + +WHO has not observed in passing through the crowded streets of our +city, how great, comparatively, is the number of those, who are more +or less deformed? My heart aches for these poor unfortunates, who +are deprived of some of the legitimate avenues of enjoyment which +God has so bounteously vouchsafed to me. + +Here is one (and it would seem to me the most unmitigated of all the +catalogue) who is groping his way along in darkness, holding fast by +the hand of a little girl. There is another who has lost a limb, and +makes his way along with the utmost difficulty. Yonder is one so +extremely deformed, that his sensitiveness forbids him often to +appear in the crowded streets. And there is another still, who is +quite helpless, sitting in a little wagon drawn about by a faithful +dog. + +In the minds of different individuals, these various aspects of +deformity produce pity, disgust, and horror; but I have often +thought, could we but look, as God looks--down into the audience +chamber of the spirit--the heart--how differently our minds would be +affected at the sight of these bodily deformities. Perhaps yon poor +blind man, grinding away upon his hand-organ, whose natural eyes for +long, weary years, have been closed against the profusion of beauty +around him, has had the eyes of his understanding opened, and the +pure light from the eternal throne illumes the depth of his soul. +Perhaps he, who hobbles slowly and sadly along upon his crutches, +treads with care and unknown joy, the _narrow way_,--and when, +life's journey's over, he walks through the valley of the shadow of +death, he will fear no evil; for a rod and a staff unknown to his +earthly pilgrimage, _they will comfort him_. Who shall say but he, +whose deformity drives him from the public way, walks continually +before God and Angels--a perfect man? It may be, that yon helpless +one--_so_ helpless that his mother feeds him--has power to move the +arm that moves the world; for God hears prayer. + +It is a most solemn truth that He who is the judge of quick and +dead, looks not upon the _outer_ man; but upon his inner, spiritual +nature. With His judgment, it matters not, that a man be deformed; +that his eyes be blind or his tongue be tied: is the heart all +right?--has it become a sanctuary, meet for the spirit's residence +and lighted by the Sun of Righteousness, where every word, thought, +and deed, becomes an acceptable sacrifice to God? is it not +disturbed by sin or blinded by passion? These are the things which +have to do in the estimate which God puts upon every intelligent +creature. Take good care then, my brother pilgrim, that the heart is +all right--though the body which covers it for a little season is +distorted and maimed. + + + + +THE DEAD CHILD. + + + "Though our tears fell fast and faster, + Yet we would not call her back; + We are glad her feet no longer + Tread life's rough and thorny track. + We are glad our Heavenly Father + Took her while her heart was pure; + We are glad He did not leave her, + All life's troubles to endure. + We are glad--and yet the tear-drop + Falleth, for, alas! we know + That our fireside will be lonely, + We shall miss our darling so!" + +HOW beautiful a young child in its shroud! Calm and heavenly looks +the white face on which the blighting breath of sin never rested. + +The silken curls parted from the marble brow--the once bright eyes +closed--once red lips pale--little hands that have ofttimes been +clasped as the lips repeated "Our Father," now meekly folded over +the throbless heart, tell us that Death, cruel, relentless Death, +has been there. + +Surely, the _soul_ that once beamed from those closed eyes is happy! +Hath not the Saviour said, "Of such is the kingdom of heaven?" Robed +like an angel is she now, a lamb in the Saviour's bosom. Could +parental love ask more? Surely not. Cleansed from all earthly taint; +secure from all trouble, care, or sin, those eyes will no more weep; +but the tiny hands will sweep a golden harp, and the childish voice +will be heard making music in heaven. + +Often, O, how often had our hearts said, "God bless her!" And has +not our prayer been answered? The yearnings of love cannot be +stifled; for we miss the loving clasp of white arms--the soft +pressure of fresh lips--the prattle and smile that were music and +light to our world-weary hearts; our hand moves in vain for a +resting-place on the golden head; yet we feel, we know that "it is +well with the child," for we see how much of woe she has escaped; +how much of bliss she has gained; a home with the sinless; the +companionship of angels for ETERNITY. Blessed one! + +Alone, yet fearlessly, didst thou pass through the "dark valley" and +enter into the home prepared for thee. As fearlessly, trustingly may +_we_ meet the conqueror, Death, and when the conflict is ended, meet +thee in thy new home to dwell for evermore! + + + + +WATER. + + +GOD is the author of all our blessings. There is no truth, perhaps, +to which we are more ready to give our assent than this; and yet, a +great many people seem to act as if they did not believe it, or, at +least, as if they were prone to forget it. + +A traveller stopped at a fountain, and, letting the rein he held in +his hand fall upon the neck of his horse, permitted the thirsty +animal to drink of the cooling water that came pouring down from a +rocky hill, and spread itself out in a basin below. While the weary +beast refreshed himself, the traveller looked at the bright stream +that sparkled in the sunlight, and said thus to himself:-- + +"What a blessing is water! How it refreshes, strengthens, and +purifies! And how bountifully it is given! Everywhere flows this +good gift of our Heavenly Father, and it is as free as the air to +man and beast." + +While he thus mused, a child came to the fountain. She had a vessel +in her hand, and she stooped to fill it with water. + +"Give me a drink, my good little girl," said the traveller. + +And, with a smiling face, the child reached her pitcher to the man +who still sat on his horse. + +"Who made this water?" said the traveller, as he handed the vessel +back to the child. + +"God made it," was her quick reply. + +"And do you know anything that water is like?" asked the traveller. + +"Oh, yes! Father says that water is like truth." + +"Does he?" + +"Yes, sir. He says that water is like truth, because truth purifies +the mind as water does the body." + +"That is wisely said," returned the traveller. "And truth quenches +our thirst for knowledge, as water quenches the thirst of our lips." + +The little girl smiled as this was said, and, taking up her pitcher, +went back to her home. + +"Yes, water represents truth," said the traveller, as he rode +thoughtfully away. "The child was right. It purifies and refreshes +us, and is spread out, like truth, on every hand, free for those who +will take it. Whenever I look upon water again, I will think of it +as representing truth; and then I will remember that it is as +important to the mind's health and purity to have truth as it is for +the body to have water." + +Thus, from a simple fountain, as it leaped out from the side of a +hill, the traveller gained a lesson of wisdom. And so, as we pass +through the world, we may find in almost every natural object that +exists something that will turn our minds to higher and better +thoughts. Every tree and flower, every green thing that grows, and +every beast of the field and bird of the air, have in them a +signification, if we could but learn it. They speak to us in a +spiritual language, and figure forth to our natural senses the +higher, more beautiful, and more enduring things of the mind. + + + + +BEAUTIFUL, HAPPY, AND BELOVED. + + + WOULDST thou be beautiful? + Ah, then, be pure! be pure! An angel's face + Is the transparent mirror of her soul. + If ghastly guilt on fairest brows you trace, + Then do you hear the knell of beauty toll. + Let Purity her seal on thee impress, + And thine shall be angelic loveliness. + The pure are beautiful. + + Wouldst thou be dearly loved? + Then love, love truly all that God has made; + For by His name of love is He best known. + No damp distrust be on thy spirit laid; + And let affection's words and deeds be one. + Thy soul's warm fountain shall not gush in vain; + From Love's deep source it shall be filled again; + For they who love, are loved. + + And wouldst thou happy be? + Then make the truth thy talisman, thy guide. + Be truth the stone in all thy jewels set. + Into thy heart its opal-light shall glide, + And guide thee where are happier spirits yet. + For these three rays are in the shining crown: + The seraph by the Throne of Light lays down, + Truth, Love, and Purity. + + + + +"EVERY CLOUD HAS A SILVER LINING." + + +WHAT! can this be true in this dark world of ours, where the thick +clouds of sorrow, disappointed hopes, and bereavements are +continually hanging over us, obscuring even the bright star of hope; +where upon every passing breeze is borne deep wailings of woe, +bitter sighs ascending from bruised and broken hearts mourning over +lost hopes, crushed affections, wasted love; struggling vainly for +victory in the fierce battle of life; groping about in darkness to +catch, if possible, one gleam of sunlight from the heavy clouds--but +in vain? + +"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust." Another shrine robbed of its idol; +another hearth left desolate. See, how the black clouds settle down +and press more closely around that lonely widowed one. Grim Death +mocks at his grief from the open grave, so soon to receive his +heart's idol. Ay, remove the coffin lid; gaze with all the agonizing +bitterness of a _last_ look upon that cold marble face; was aught on +earth so lovely? Kiss for the last time the pure forehead. Ah! those +pale white lips give back no answering pressure of love; sealed for +ever by that last chilling blast from the cold river. + +And now the damp earth presses heavily over that cherished form; far +down in the darkness and silence of the grave must the loved one +remain, never more to cheer by her gentle words of love and +kindness, the heart of him who so needed her sympathy and love. +Gone, gone for ever. + +What on earth is now beautiful or bright since the dearest, best +treasure is removed? Oh, no! there can be no bright spot in +affliction like this; there can be no bright ray to gild this night +of sorrow. + +Ah! thou erring mortal, repine not. The all-wise Father knew thy +frail heart, saw thy whole life and soul bound up in that one +creature, weak and sinful like thyself; forgetful of the Creator; +and wilt thou dare raise thy feeble voice against the Almighty when +He removed the idol that He alone may reign? Wilt thou not bow +meekly, kiss the rod, and accept the bitter cup of bereavement, +offered as it is in mercy? + +And is this all? Is there no life beyond the grave? Is the spirit +which held such communion with thine for ever quenched? + +Can the grave contain for ever the immortal part? Look up, oh! +mourning one; thy loved one is not there. + +Hark! hearest thou not soft, heavenly voices, whispering sweetly of +a life beyond the dark river, where Death can never come; of +glorious mansions where is peace and joy for ever more, and of +another freed spirit welcomed to the blissful home? Dost thou not +feel upon thy tear-moistened cheek, gentle wavings of angel wings +perfumed with the breath of heavenly flowers? + +Even now, may the happy glorified spirit of thy loved one be +hovering around; think you it would return again to that perishing +body of clay? + +The sweet star of faith is already rising over thy grief; the +clouds, all bright and shining with hues caught from heavenly skies, +are no longer dark and rayless; and now, even with thy lonely +bleeding heart, canst thou humbly receive the chastisement from Him +who doeth all things well. + +Henceforth will earth seem less dear, heaven nearer, and more to be +desired; thy own cherished companion is there, and who can know but +that her pure spirit may sometimes look down upon thee, still to +encourage thy endeavours to battle manfully with life and its +trials, still to cheer and console in thy hours of distress; but +now, with heart and affections all purified from the dross of earth, +will not the influence be more blessed than when she walked with +bodily presence at thy side? + +Yes, thanks to our merciful Father, every cloud _has_ a silver +lining, however dark the side presented to our view, ladened heavy +though it be with sorrows and woes, which almost crush the life from +our hearts as it presses upon us; yet there away, hidden from our +short mortal vision, gleams the soft silvery lining, ever gently +shining, perhaps never to be revealed in this world, reserved for us +to discover after we too have been called from this to our heavenly +home, and look back upon our earthly pilgrimage with rejoicings that +we have been so safely borne through every trial and temptation. + +Ah! then will our sky be without a cloud. All joyous and happy will +we tune our harps anew to the praise of Him who loved us and hath +given us the victory! + + + + +AN ANGEL OF PATIENCE. + + + BESIDE the toilsome way, + Lowly and sad, by fruits and flowers unblest, + Which my lone feet tread sadly, day by day, + Longing in vain for rest, + + An angel softly walks, + With pale, sweet face, and eyes cast meekly down, + The while from withered leaves and flowerless stalks + She weaves my fitting crown. + + A sweet and patient grace, + A look of firm endurance true and tried, + Of suffering meekly borne, rests on her face, + So pure--so glorified. + + And when my fainting heart + Desponds and murmurs at its adverse fate, + Then quietly the angel's bright lips part, + Murmuring softly, "Wait!" + + "Patience!" she meekly saith-- + "Thy Father's mercies never come too late; + Gird thee with patient strength and trusting faith, + And firm endurance wait!" + + + + +THE GRANDFATHER'S ADVICE. + + +IT was a golden sunset, which was fondly gazed upon by an old man on +whose broad brow the history of seventy winters had been written. He +sat in the wide porch of a large old-fashioned house: his look was +calm and clear, though years had quelled the fire of his eagle +glance; his silver hair was borne mildly back, by the south wind of +August, and a smile of sweetness played over his features, breathing +the music of contentment. His heart was still fresh, and his mind +open to receive an impress of the loveliness of earth. The dew of +love for his fellow-creatures fell upon his aged soul, and pure +adoration went up to the Giver of every good from its altar. He +lifted his gaze to the cerulean blue above him, and dwelt upon his +future, with a glow of hope upon his heart--then he turned to the +past, and his beaming expression gradually mellowed into +pensiveness: in thought, he travelled through the long vista of +years which he had left behind him, and his mental exclamation was, + +"There has not been a year of my life since manhood, that I might +not have lived to a better purpose. I might have been more useful +and devoted to my race. I might more fully have sacrificed the idol +self, which so often I have knelt to, in worship more heartfelt than +I offered the Divinity. Yet have I laboured to become pure in thy +sight, oh, my God! build thy kingdom in my breast!" + +A tear trembled in the aged suppliant's eye, and the calm of holy +humility stole over him; the gentle look was again upon his +countenance, when a young man of about twenty years, swung open the +gate leading to the house, and, approaching, saluted the old man +with a cordial grasp of the hand; flinging his cap carelessly down, +he took a seat in a rustic chair, and exclaimed with a smile of +mingled affection and reverence, which broke over his thoughtful +features, making him extremely handsome, + +"Well, grandfather, I believe you complete seventy years to-day!" + +"Yes, my son, and I have been looking back upon them. I do not +usually dwell upon the past with repining, yet I see much that might +have been better. My years have not always been improved." + +The young man listened respectfully; presently he asked, with sudden +interest, "Pray tell me, if there ever was a whole year of your +life, so perfectly happy that you would wish to live it all over +again?" + +"I have been perfectly happy at brief intervals," was the reply, +"yet there is not a year of my long life, that I would choose to +have return. I have been surrounded by many warm friends now gone to +their homes in the spirit-world,--I have loved, and have been loved, +and the recollection yet thrills me; still I thank God that I am not +to live over those years upon earth. I have struggled much for truth +and goodness, and there has not been one struggle which I would +renew, though each has been followed by a deep satisfaction." + +"To me, your life appears to have been dreary, grandfather," replied +his companion. "I ask for happiness!" After a pause, he added with +impetuosity, "If I am not to meet with the ardent happiness I dream +of, and desire, I do not care to live. What is the life which +thousands lead, worth? Nothing! I cannot sail monotonously down the +stream--the more I _think_, and thought devours me, the more +discontented do I become with everything I see. Why is an +overpowering desire for happiness planted within the human breast, +if it is so very rarely to be gratified? My childhood was sometimes +gay, but as often, it was clouded by disappointments which are great +to children. I have never seen even the moment, since I have been +old enough to reflect, when I could say that I was as happy as I was +capable of being. I have even felt the consciousness that my soul's +depths were not filled to the brim with joy. I could always ask for +more. In my happiest hours, the eager question rushes upon me, +involuntarily, 'Am I entirely content?' And the response that rises +up, is ever 'No.' I am young, and this soft air steals over a brow +of health--I can appreciate the beautiful and exquisite. I can drink +in the deep poetry of noble minds--I can idly revel in voluptuous +music, and dream away my soul, but with that bewitching dream, there +is still a yearning for its realization. I cannot abate the +restlessness that presses upon me--I look around, and young faces +are bright and smiling with cheerful gayety. I endeavour to catch +the buoyant spirit, but I succeed rarely,--if I do, it floats on the +surface, leaving the under-current unbroken in its flow. Yet after I +have endeavoured to lighten the oppressive cares of some +unfortunate creature, a sort of peace has for a time descended upon +me, which has been infinitely soothing. It soon departs, and my +usual bitterness again sways me. I sought for friendship, and for +awhile I was relieved, but I cannot forbear glancing down into the +motives of my fellow men, and that involuntarily-searching spirit +has proved unfortunate to me. I met with selfishness in the form of +attachment, and then I turned to look upon the hollow heart of +society, and it was there." + +"Alfred, you make me sad," said the old man, in a solemn and deeply +pained voice. "This is the first time I knew that your heart was +such a temple of bitterness." + +"If I have saddened you, I wish I had not spoken: but the thoughts +rushed over me, your kind heart is always open, and I gave them +expression. You have lived long, and there is more sympathy in your +experience, than in the laughing jest of those near my own age. +Pardon me, grandfather, I will not pain you again!" Alfred turned +his eyes upon his aged friend; he caught the look of kindness upon +that honoured face, and it fell warmly, upon his soul. + +"It is right to think deeply," said the revered adviser, "but one +must think rightly, also. You must not look out upon the world, from +the darkened corners of your soul, or the hue is transferred to all +things which your glance falls upon. Take the torch of truth and +heavenly charity to chase away the dimness within you, then powerful +changes will be wrought in your vision. You will begin to regard +your fellow man with new feelings of interest. I am a plain and +blunt old man, Alfred, but you know that my only desire is for your +good; so bear with my remarks if they be unpalatable." + +"Certainly, sir, I value frankness before flattery." + +"You may say that you have never been _perfectly_ happy," continued +the old gentleman; "that is neither strange nor uncommon, for I have +met with few thoughtful persons of your years, who, upon close +reflection, could say that their souls could desire no more than had +been granted to them. You must seek for resignation, not entire +bliss upon earth, although it is possible that you may enjoy it for +a season." + +"Why is joy so transitory and unquiet so lasting?" demanded the +young man impatiently. + +"The fault is not in the transitoriness of the joy, but in the very +soul itself,--it is in a state of disorder; its nature must be +changed before it can receive for ever only the image of gladness. +In a chaos of the elements, can a smiling sky be always seen? Lay +asleep all unruly elements in the spirit, and a pure heaven of +brightness will then greet the uplifted glance." + +"But how can all this be done, grandfather? hath unruly elements do +you speak of? What can I do; for instance? I certainly am willing +and glad to see my kind happy--if my soul be in disorder, I do not +know in what it consists, or how to bring it to order. I am weary of +its unsatisfied desires; it is, continually in search of something +which it has never caught sight of,--and the fear, that that +unknown, yet powerfully desired something may never come to quench +my thirst, falls with the coldness of death upon my bosom." + +"That something may be found by every human being, if sought for in +the right way. Those yearnings are not given us, that they may fall +back and wither the fountain from which they spring. But the +question is, do we seek for happiness in the right way? Do we not +rather ask for an impossibility, when we ask for permanent bliss, +before we have laid a foundation in our souls for it? You wish to +take this life too easy by far, my son; rouse up all your strength, +look around you with the keenness of a resolved spirit, and seek to +regenerate your whole being,--let that be your object, and let the +desire for happiness be subservient to it. You will clasp joy to +your breast, as an everlasting gift, at the end of the race. What +are your aims and objects? You hardly know; you are in pursuit of +that which flees, before you as a shadow, and your restless spirit +sinks and murmurs,--you have no grand object in view, to buoy you up +steadily and trustfully through every ill which life has power to +bestow. Those very ills are seized upon, and become instruments of +glory to the devoted and heaven-strengthened spirit,--they prepare +for a deeper draught of all things dear and desired, and though the +soul droop beneath the weight of human suffering, yet the rod that +smites is kissed with a prayer. Turn away from your individual self, +as far as you can, and regard the broad world with a philanthropic +eye--" + +"Impossible--impossible!" interrupted Alfred, hastily, "I defy any +person to turn from himself, and look upon the world with a more +interested gaze than he casts upon his own heart. One may be +philanthropic in his feelings and devoted to alleviating the +distresses of less fortunate beings, but I hold it to be impossible +that our individual selves will not always be first in interest. A +sudden and powerful impulse may carry us away for a time, but after +that rushing influence leaves us, we see yourselves again, and, find +that we had only lost our equilibrium briefly. I say only what I +sincerely think, and what thousands secretly know to be the case, +even while advocating views quite opposite. There is no candour in +the world!" + +"Softly, my good friend," said the grandfather, mildly smiling. "I +also hold it to be impossible that we can lose either our +individuality or our interest in ourselves, but I believe it +possible that we may love others just as well, if not better than +ourselves. I do not refer to one or two particular persons whom we +may admire, but I speak of the mass of our fellow-creatures." + +"I cannot even conceive of such a love!" returned the young man, +shaking his head. "I cannot see how I could love a person who +possesses no attractive qualities whatever;--I always feel +indifference, if not dislike. I think I could sacrifice my life to +one I loved, if thrown into sudden and imminent danger; still, I +think I might give pain to that same person many times, by +gratifying myself. For instance, grandfather,--suppose you were to +be led to the stake, to be burned to-morrow,--I would take your +place to save you; yet I do not now do all I possible can, to add to +your happiness. I gratify whims of my own; I idle away hours in the +woods, or by some stream, when I fully know that it would be more +pleasing to you, to see me bending patiently over my Greek and +Latin." + +"Very true!" sighed the old man. "You prove your own position, which +is that your ruling love is self-love." + +Alfred lifted up his eyebrows, as if he had heard an unwelcome fact. +We are often willing to confess things, which we do not like to have +old us. He fell into deep thought. Finally he said, "It is +universally allowed that virtue is lovely; those who practise it, +appear calm and resigned, and often happy--but, to tell the truth, +such enjoyment seems rather tame and flat. I wish to be in freedom, +to let my burning impulses rush on as they will, without a yoke. I +love, and I hate, as my heart bids me, and I scorn control of any +kind." + +"Yet you submit to a yoke, my son; one which is not of your own +imposing either." + +"What kind of a yoke?" + +"The yoke of society,--you bow to public opinion in a measure. You +avoid a glaring act, often, more because it will not be _approved_, +than because you have a real disinclination for it. Is not that the +case sometimes?" + +Alfred did not exceedingly relish this probing, but he was too +candid to cover up his motives from himself. He answered a decided +"yes!" but it was spoken, because he could not elbow himself out of +the self-evident conviction forced upon him. + +"Do you think it degrading for a man to conquer and govern the +strongest, as well as the weakest impulses of his soul?" pursued his +grandfather. + +"Certainly not degrading,--it is in the highest degree worthy of +praise. It is truly noble! I acknowledge it." + +"And yet you deem such enjoyment as would result from this +government, tame and flat." + +"I beg pardon; when I spoke of virtue, I referred to that smooth +kind which is current, and seems more passive than active,--that +soft amiability which appears to deaden enthusiasm, and to shut up +the soul in a set of opinions, instead of expanding it widely to +everything noble and generous, wherever it may be found." + +"It was not genuine virtue, you referred to, then,--it was only its +resemblance." + +"It was what passes for virtue. But to come at the main point, +grandfather;--where is happiness to be found, if we are to be +warring with ourselves during a lifetime, checking every natural +spring in the soul?" + +"Stop there, Alfred! We only quench the streams, which prevent the +spirit's purest wells of noble and happy feelings from gushing forth +in freedom. We must wage a warfare, it is true; why conceal it? But +it does not last for ever, and intervals of gladness come to refresh +us, which the worn and blunted spirit of the man of pleasure in vain +pants for. An exquisite joy, innocent as that of childhood, pervades +the bosom of truth's soldier in his hours of peace and rest, and he +lifts an eye of rapture to heaven--to God." + +Alfred dwelt earnestly upon the noble countenance of the speaker, +and his bosom filled with unwonted emotion, as the heavenly +sweetness of the old man's smile penetrated into his inward soul. +Goodness stood before him in its wonderful power, and he bowed down +his soul in worship. How insignificant then seemed his individual +yearnings after present enjoyment, instead of that celestial love +which can fill a human soul with so strong a power from on high. He +reflected upon that venerable being's life--so strong and upright; +he dwelt upon his large and noble heart, which could clasp the world +in its embrace. He remembered months of acute suffering, both +physical and mental, which had been endured with the stillness of a +martyr's inward strength; and then, too, he recalled times when that +aged heart was more truly and deeply joyful than his own young +spirit had even been. Both relapsed into the eloquent silence of +absorbing thought. It was evident from the softened and meditative +cast of Alfred's features, that his bitterness had given way to the +true tenderness of feeling it so often quelled; he revolved in his +mind all that had been advanced by his grandfather, and he dwelt +upon every point with candour and serious reflection. A strong +impression was made upon him, but he was entirely silent in regard +to it,--he waited to try his strength, before he spoke of the better +resolutions that were formed, not without effort, in his mind. He +felt a conviction that a change from selfishness to angelic charity +might be accomplished, if he were but willing to co-operate with his +Maker,--the conception of universal love slowly dawned upon his +soul, now turned heavenward for light,--his duties as a responsible +being came before him, and a sigh of reproach was given to the past. +Then golden visions of delight thronged up to his gaze, and it was +with a severe pang he thought of losing his, hold upon the dear +domains of idle fancy,--he had so revelled for hours and hours, in +intoxicating dreams, which shut out the world and stern duty. He +felt his weakness, but he resolutely turned from dwelling upon it. +The evening air was refreshing after the warm sunset, but old Mr. +Monmouth would not trust himself to bear it. Alfred went into the +house with him, and made a brief call, then left, and wended his way +a short distance to his own home, which was a very elegant mansion, +surrounded by every mark of luxury and taste. He immediately sought +his chamber, and took up a neglected Bible which his mother had +given him when a child,--he turned over its leaves, and his eyes +fell upon the one hundred and nineteenth psalm, "Thy word is a lamp +unto my feet, and a light upon my path. I have sworn, and I will +perform it, that I will keep thy righteous judgments." He read on, +and the exceeding beauty and touching power of the Holy Word had +never so deeply affected him,--he wept, and all that was harsh in +his nature melted,--he prayed, and the angels of God approached, +filling his uplifted soul with heavenly strength. Sweet was the +thrill of thanksgiving, that arose from that hitherto restless +spirit--quiet and blest the peace that hushed him to deep, +invigorating slumber. Persons of an enthusiastic temperament are apt +to fall into extremes; such was the case with Alfred Monmouth. He so +feared that he would fall back into his former states of feeling, +that he guarded himself like an anchorite. For three months he +abstained from going into company, and even reasonable enjoyment he +deprived himself of. He threw aside all books but scientific and +religious ones; even poetry he shut his ears against, lest it might +beguile him again to his dreamy, but selfish musings. No doubt this +severe discipline was very useful to him at the time, in +strengthening him against the besetting faults of his character; but +it could not last long, without originating other errors. During +this time he had been, perhaps, as happy as ever in his life; his +mind had been fixed upon an object, and a wealth of new thoughts had +crowded upon him--he rejoiced with a kind of proud humility in his +capability for self-government. He thought he was rapidly verging +towards perfection. But "a change came o'er the spirit of his dream" +at last, and an unwonted melancholy grew upon him, until it settled +like a pall over his heart. An apathy in regard to what had so +lately interested him, stole over him, and indeed a cold glance fell +upon almost every pursuit he had once prized. Plunged in deep gloom, +he one evening sought his grandfather's dwelling, hoping, by a +conversation with the cheerful old man, to regain a more healthy +state of mind; to his great satisfaction, Alfred found him alone +reading. + +"Well, my boy, I am glad you have come in!" was the salutation, with +a most cordial smile, for Mr. Monmouth had silently remarked the +late alteration in his somewhat reckless grandson. He also detected +the present gloom upon his fine countenance, and the earnest hope of +dispelling it, added an affectionate heartiness to his manner. +Alfred made several common-place remarks, then, with his usual +impatience, he flung aside all preamble, and said, + +"I am gloomy, grandfather, even more so than I have ever been, and I +cannot explain it. The last serious conversation I had with you, +produced a strong effect upon me, and for a long time after I was +unusually cheerful and vigorous in mind. I seemed to have imbibed +something of your spirit--I delighted in the hope of regenerating +myself, through the aid of Heaven; it seemed as if angels hushed my +restless spirit to repose, and I tried in humility to draw near my +God. Yet I feared for myself, and I withdrew from temptation, from +all society which was uncongenial to my state of mind. I was +_content_ for a long time, but now the sadness of apathy overwhelms +me." + +"Endeavour, without murmuring, to bear this state of mind, and it +will soon pass off," remarked Mr. Monmouth. "We must not always fly +from temptation in every form, my boy, but we must arm ourselves +against its attacks, otherwise our usefulness will be greatly +lessened. If those who are endeavouring to make themselves better, +do so by shunning society, they are rather examples of selfishness +than benevolent goodness,--the selfishness is unconscious, and such +a course may be followed from a sense of duty. But the glance which +discovered this to be duty was not wide enough; it took in only the +claims of self, yet I would not convey the idea, that we have any +one's evils to take care of but our own. We need society, and, +however humble we may be, society needs us. We need to be refreshed +by the strength of good beings, and we must also contribute our +slight share to those whom Providence wills that we may benefit. The +life of heaven may thus circulate freely, and increase in power +among many hearts. Go forward, Alfred, unmindful of your feelings, +and pray only to trust in Providence, and to gain a deep desire for +usefulness." + +"Ah! yes," returned the young man, earnestly. Light broke in upon +his darkness. "I am glad that I have spoken with you, grandfather, +for your words give me strength to persevere. I never knew that I +was weak until lately." + +"Such knowledge is precious, my dear son. We are indeed strongest +when the hand of humility removes the veil that hides us from +ourselves." + +"Probably such is, the case, but I cannot realize it. It is with +effort that I drag through the day; I am continually looking towards +the future, and beholding a thousand perplexing situations where my +besetting sins will be called into action. I see myself incapable of +always following out the noble principles I have lately adopted." + +"As thy day is, so shall thy strength be!" said Mr. Monmouth. "Be +careful only to guard yourself against each little stumbling-block +as it presents itself, and your mountains will be changed to +mole-hills. Never fear for the future, do as well as you can in the +present." + +"But it is so singular that I should feel thus, when I have been +trying as hard as a mortal could to change my erroneous views, and +to regard all the dispensations of Providence with a resigned heart. +I have cast the selfish thought of my own earthly happiness from my +mind as much as possible." + +"And yet there is a repining in your gloominess. You are not +satisfied to bear it." + +"Well, perhaps not. I am wrong,--I think that I could submit with +true fortitude to an outward trial, but there seems so little reason +in my low spirits. Have you ever felt so, grandfather?" + +"Often; and at such times, I devote myself more earnestly than ever +to anything which will take my thoughts from myself." + +"I will do so!" replied Alfred, firmly. "If my purposes are right in +the sight of Heaven, I will be supported." + +"True, my son." + +Alfred left the home of his grandsire, more at rest with himself and +all the world. Fresh peaceful hopes again sprang up within him, and +he began to see his way clear. He reasoned himself into resignation, +and, as day after day went on, he grew grateful for the privilege +and opportunity offered to school his rebellious spirit to order. + +Four years passed; Alfred was engaged in the busy world, and he +shrunk not from it, but rather sought to do his duty in it. One +summer evening, he was called to enter the large, old-fashioned +house of his grandfather. His brow was thoughtful, but calm and +resigned--he sought a quiet room; it was the chamber of death,--yet +was its stillness beautiful and peaceful; he knelt by a dying couch, +and clasped the hand of his aged grandsire--then he wept, but the +unbidden tears were those of gratitude. The serenity of heaven was +upon the countenance of the noble old man. + +"My hour has come, Alfred," he said, placing one hand upon the +beloved head bowed before him, "and I go hence with thankfulness. +Ah! even now, there is a heavenly content in my bosom. The angels +are bending over me, and wait to take my spirit to its home: there +is no mist before my sight, all is clear. The Father of love lifts +up my soul in this hour--our parting will be short, my son--" the +old man's voice trembled, an infinite tenderness dwelt in his eyes, +and Alfred felt that there was a reality in the peace of the dying +one. All the good that he had done him rushed before him, and he +exclaimed with humility, + +"How can I ever repay you, dear grandfather! for all your noble +lessons to me?" + +"I am repaid," was (sic) the the low reply; "they have brought forth +fruit, and I have lived to see it. I trust that you will leave the +world with all the peace that I do, and with deeper goodness in your +spirit. My blessing be upon you, my son!" + +"Amen!" came low from Alfred's fervent lips. + +The eyes of the aged one closed in death, and his young disciple +went forth again into the world, made better by the scene he had +witnessed. + + + + +A HYMN OF PRAISE. + + + I BLESS Thee for the sunshine on the hills, + For Heaven's own dewdrops in the vales below, + For rain, the parent cloud alike distils, + On the fond bridegroom's joy--the mourner's woe! + And for the viewless wind, that gently blows + Where'er it listeth, over field and flood, + Whence coming, whither going, no man knows, + Yet moved in secret at Thy will, Oh, God! + E'en now it lifts a ring of shining hair + From off the brow close to my bosom pressed-- + The loving angels scarce have brows more fair + Than this, that looks so peaceful in its rest:-- + We bless Thee, Father, for our darling child, + Oh, like Thine angels make her, innocent and mild! + + I rise and bless Thee, for the morning hours; + Refreshed and gladdened by a timely rest, + When thoughts like bees, rove out among the flowers, + Still gathering honey where they find the best: + And for the gentle influence of the night, + Oh, Heavenly Father! do we bend the knee, + That shuts the curtains of our mortal sight, + Yet leaves the mind, with range and vision free, + For dreams! the solemn, weird, and strange that come + And bear the soul to an elysian clime,-- + Unveiling splendours of that better home, + Where angels minister to sons of time! + For all Thy blessings that with sleep descend, + Our hearts shall praise Thee, God, our Father and our Friend! + + + + +AN ANGEL IN EVERY HOUSE. + + +IT is a trite saying, and an unique one, that there is "a skeleton +in every house." That every form however erect, that every face +however smiling, covers some secret malady of mind that no physician +can cure. This may be true, and undoubtedly is; but we contend that, +as everything has its opposite, there is also an _angel_ in every +house. No matter how fallen the inmates, how depressing their +circumstances, there is an angel there to pity or to cheer. It may +be in the presence of a wrinkled body, treading the downward path to +the grave. Or, perhaps, in a cheerful spirit looking upon the ills +of life as so many steps toward heaven, if only bravely overcome, +and mounted with sinless feet. + +We knew such an angel once, and it was a drunkard's child. On every +side wherever she moved she saw only misery and degradation, and yet +she did not fall. Her father was brutal, and her mother discouraged, +and her home thoroughly comfortless. But she struggled along with +angel endurance, bearing with an almost saintly patience the +infirmities of him who gave her existence, and then hourly +embittered it. Night after night, at the hours of ten, twelve, and +even one, barefoot, ragged, shawlless, and bonnetless, has she been +to the den of the drunkard, and gone staggering home with her arm +around her father. Many a time has her flesh been blue with the mark +of his hand when she has stepped in between her helpless mother and +violence. Many a time has she sat upon the cold curbstone with his +head in her lap; many a time known how bitter it was to cry for +hunger, when the money that should have bought bread was spent for +rum. + +And the patience that the angel wrought with made her young face +shine, so that, though never acknowledged in the courts of this +world, in the kingdom of heaven she was waited for by assembled +hosts of spirits, and the crown of martyrdom ready, lay waiting for +her young brow. + +And she was a martyr. Her gentle spirit went up from at couch of +anguish--anguish brought on by ill-usage and neglect. And never till +then did the father recognise the angel in the child; never till +then did his manhood arise from the dust of its dishonour. From her +humble grave, he went away to steep his resolves for the better in +bitter tears; and he will tell you to-day, how the memory of her +much-enduring life keeps him from the bowl: how he goes sometimes +and stands where her patient hands have held him, while her cheek +crimsoned at the sneers of those who scoffed at the drunkard's +child. + +Search for the angels in your households, and cherish them while +they are among you. It may be that all unconsciously you frown upon +them, when a smile would lead you to a knowledge of their exceeding +worth. They may be among the least cared for, most despised; but +when they are gone with their silent influence, then will you mourn +for them as for a jewel of great worth. + + + + +ANNIE. + + + THE grave is Heaven's gate, they say; + And when dear Annie passed away, + One calm June morning, + I saw upon the heavenly stairs, + A band of angels, unawares, + Her path adorning. + + The grave is Heaven's gate, they say; + And when dear Annie passed away, + A music flowing + Filled my sad soul with love and light, + That made me seem, by day and night, + To Heaven going. + + The grave is Heaven's gate, they say; + And when dear Annie passed away, + A saintly whiteness + O'erspread the beauty of her face, + And filled it with the tender grace + Of angel brightness. + + The grave is Heaven's gate, they say; + And when dear Annie passed away, + An angel splendid + Cast his large glories to the ground, + While waves of throbbing music-sound + In sweetness blended. + + The grave is Heaven's gate, they say; + And when dear Annie passed away, + In holy sweetness-- + When life's sad dream with her was o'er, + Her white soul stood at Heaven's door, + In its completeness. + + + + +MOTHER. + + +WHEN she changed worlds, and before the time, what was she to +others? A small old, delicate woman. _What was she to us?_ A +radiant, smiling angel, upon whose brow the sunshine of the eternal +world had fallen. We looked into her large, tender eyes, and saw not +as others did, that her mortal garment had waxed old and feeble; or +if we saw, this, it was no symbol of decay, for beyond and within, +we recognised _her_ in all her beauty. Oh! how heavy and bitter +would have been her long and slow decline, if we had seen her grow +old instead of young! The days that hastened to give her birth into +eternity, grow brighter and brighter, until when memory wandered +back, it had no experiences so sweet as those through which she was +passing. The long life, with its youthful romance, its prosaic +cares, its quiet sunshine, and deep tragedies, was culminating to +its earthly close; and, like some blessed story that appeals to the +heart in its great pathos, the end was drawing, near, all clouds +were rolling away, and she was stepping forth into the brilliance of +prosperity. Selfishness ceased to weep under the light of her +cheerful glance, and grew to be congratulation. Beside her couch we +sat, and traced with loving fancy the new life soon to open before +her; with tears and smiles we traced it. Doubts never mingled, for +from earliest childhood we had no memories of her inconsistent with +the expectations of a Christian. Deep in our souls there lay +gratitude that her morning drew near; beautiful and amazing it +seemed that she would never more bow to the stroke of the chastener; +fresh courage descended from on high, as we realized that there was +an end to suffering; it was difficult to credit that her discipline +was nearly over; how brief it had been, compared with the glorious +existence it had won her. How passing sweet were her assurances that +she should leave us awhile longer on earth with childlike trust, +knowing that our own souls needed to stay, and that the destiny of +others needed it! But the future seemed very near to her, and she +saw us gathered around her in her everlasting home. She grew weaker, +and said her last words to us. Throughout the last day she said but +little, but often her tender eyes were riveted upon us; they said +"Farewell! farewell!" In the hush of the chamber, a faint, +eolian-like strain came from her dying lips; it sounded as if it +came from afar; _then_ the angels were taking her to their +companionship. She softly fell asleep, resigning her worn-out body +to us, and _she_ entered heaven. Ah! do we apprehend what a glorious +event it is for the "pure in heart" to die? We look upon the bride's +beauty, and see in the vista before her, anguish and tears, and but +transient sunshine. The beauty fades, the splendour of life declines +to the worldly eyes that gaze upon her. Deaf and blind are such +gazers, for the bride may daily be winning imperishable beauty, yet +it is not for this world. A most sad and melancholy thing it seems +when children of a larger growth judge their parents by their frail +and decaying bodies, rather than by their spirits. And more deeply +sad still is it, when the aged learn through the young to feel that +the freshness of existence has gone by with them. Gone by? when they +are waiting to be born into a new and vast existence that shall roll +on in increasing majesty, and never reach an end! Gone by? when they +have just entered life, as it were! The glory and sweetness of +living is _going by_ only with those who are turning away their +faces from the Prince of Peace. Sweet mother! she is breathing +vernal airs now, and with every breath a spring-like life and joy +are wafted through her being. Mother beautiful and beloved! some +sweet, embryo joy fills the chambers of my heart as I contemplate +the scenes with which she is becoming familiar. Dead and dreary +winter robes the earth, and autumn leaves lie under the snow like +past hopes; but what of them? I see only the smile of God's +sunshine. I see in the advancing future, love and peace--only +infinite peace! + + + + +GREAT PRINCIPLES AND SMALL DUTIES. + + +IT is observable that the trivial services of social life are best +performed, and the lesser particles of domestic happiness are most +skilfully organized, by the deepest and the fairest heart. It is an +error to suppose that homely minds are the best administrators of +small duties. Who does not know how wretched a contradiction such a +rule receives in the moral economy of many a home? how often the +daily troubles, the swarm of blessed cares, the innumerable minutiae +of arrangement in a family, prove quite too much for the generalship +of feeble minds, and even the clever selfishness of strong ones; how +a petty and scrupulous anxiety in defending with infinite +perseverance some small and almost invisible point of frugality, and +comfort, surrenders the greater unobserved, and while saving money, +ruins minds; how, on the other hand, a rough and unmellowed sagacity +_rules_ indeed, and without defeat, but while maintaining in action +the mechanism of government, creates a constant and intolerable +friction, a gathering together of reluctant wills, a groaning under +the consciousness of force, that make the movements of life fret and +chafe incessantly? But where, in the presiding genius of a home, +taste and sympathy unite (and in their genuine forms they cannot be +separated)--the intelligent feeling for moral beauty, and the deep +heart of domestic love,--with, what ease, what mastery, what +graceful disposition, do the seeming trivialities of life fall into +order, and drop a blessing as they take their place! how do the +hours steal away, unnoticed but by the precious fruits they leave! +and by the self-renunciation of affection, there comes a spontaneous +adjustment of various wills; and not an innocent pleasure is lost, +not a pure taste offended, nor a peculiar temper unconsidered; and +every day has its silent achievements of wisdom, and every night its +retrospect of piety and love; and the tranquil thoughts, that in the +evening meditation come down with the starlight, seem like the +serenade of angels, bringing in melody the peace of God! Wherever +this picture is realized, it is not by microscopic solicitude of +spirit, but by comprehension of mind, and enlargement of heart; by +that breadth and nicety of moral view which discerns everything in +due proportion, and in avoiding an intense elaboration of trifles, +has energy to spare for what is great; in short, by a perception +akin to that of God, whose providing frugality is on an infinite +scale, vigilant alike in heaven and on, earth; whose art colours a +universe with beauty and touches with its pencil the petals of a +flower. A soul thus pure and large disowns the paltry rules of +dignity, the silly notions of great and mean, by which fashion +distorts God's real proportions; is utterly delivered from the +spirit of contempt; and, in consulting for the benign administration +of life, will learn many a truth, and discharge many ant office, +from which lesser beings, esteeming themselves greater, would shrink +from as ignoble. But in truth, nothing is degrading which a high and +graceful purpose ennobles; and offices the most menial cease to be +menial, the moment they are wrought in love. What thousand services +are rendered, ay, and by delicate hands, around the bed of sickness, +which, else considered mean, become at once holy and quite +inalienable rights! To smooth the pillow, to proffer the draught, to +soothe or obey the fancies of the delirious will, to sit for hours +as the mere sentinel of the feverish sleep; these things are +suddenly erected, by their relation to hope and life, into sacred +privileges. And experience is perpetually bringing occasions, +similar in kind, though of less persuasive poignancy, when a true +eye and a lovely heart will quickly see the relations of things +thrown into a new position, and calling for a sacrifice of +conventional order to the higher laws of the affections; and alike +without condescension and without ostentation, will noiselessly take +the post of service and do the kindly deed. Thus it is that the +lesser graces display themselves most richly, like the leaves and +flowers of life, where there is the deepest and the widest root of +love; not like the staring and artificial blossoms of dry custom +that, winter or summer, cannot change; but living petals woven in +Nature's workshop and folded by her tender skill, opening and +shutting morning and night, glancing and trembling in the sunshine +and in the breeze. This easy capacity of great affections for small +duties is the peculiar triumph of the highest spirit of love. + + + + +"OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN." + + + How quietly she lies! + Closed are the lustrous eyes, + Whose fringed lids, so meek, + Rest on the placid cheek; + While, round the forehead fair, + Twines the light golden hair, + Clinging with wondrous grace + Unto the cherub face. + Tread softly near her, dear ones! Let her sleep,-- + I would not have my darling wake to weep. + + Mark how her head doth rest + Upon her snowy breast, + While, 'neath the shadow of a drooping curl, + One little shoulder nestles like a pearl, + And the small waxen fingers, careless, clasp + White odorous flowers in their tiny grasp; + Blossoms most sweet + Crown her pure brow, and cluster o'er her feet, + Sure earth hath never known a thing more fair + Than she who gently, calmly, slumbers there. + + Alas! 'tis Death, not sleep, + That girds her in its frozen slumbers deep. + No balmy breath comes forth + From the slight-parted mouth; + Nor heaves the little breast, + In its unyielding rest; + Dead fingers clasp + Flowers in unconscious grasp;-- + Woe, woe is me, oh! lone, bereaved mother! + 'Tis Death that hath my treasure, and none other. + + No more I hear the voice, + Those loving accents made my heart rejoice; + No more within my arms + Fold I her rosy charms. + And, gazing down into the liquid splendour + Of the brown eyes serenely, softly tender, + Print rapturous kisses on the gentle brow, + So cold and pallid now. + No more, no more! repining heart, be still, + And trust in Him who doeth all things well. + + Oh, happy little one! + How soon her race was run-- + Her pain and suffering o'er, + Herself from sin secure. + Not hers to wander through the waste of years, + Sowing in hope, to gather nought but tears; + Nor care, nor strife, + Dimmed her brief day of life. + All true souls cherished her, and fondly strove + To guard from every ill my meek white dove. + + Love, in its essence, + Pervaded her sweet presence. + How winning were her ways; + Her little child-like grace, + And the mute pleadings of her innocent eyes, + Seizing the heart with sudden, soft surprise, + As if an angel, unaware, + Had strayed from Heaven, here; + And, saddened at the dark and downward road, + Averted her meek gaze, and sought her Father, God. + + In her new spiritual birth, + No garments soiled with earth + Cling round the little form, that happy strays, + Up through the gates of pearl and golden ways, + Where sister spirits meet her, + And angels joyful greet her. + Arrayed in robes of white, + She walks the paths of light; + Adorning the bright city of our God, + The glorious realms by saints and martyr trod! + + + + +THE OLD VILLAGE CHURCH. + + +TWENTY years! Yes, twenty years had intervened since I left the +pleasant village of Brookdale, and not once during all this period +had I visited the dear old spot that was held more and more sacred +by memory. Hundred times had I purposed to do so, yet not until the +lapse of twenty years was this purpose fulfilled. Then, sobered by +disappointments, I went back on a pilgrimage, to the home of early +days. + +I was just twenty years old when I left Brookdale. My father's +family removed at the same time, and this was the reason why I had +not returned. The heart's strongest attractions were in another +place. But the desire to go back revived, after a season of +affliction and some painful defeats in the great battle of life. The +memory of dear childhood grew so palpable, and produced such an +earnest longing to revisit old scenes, that I was constrained to +turn my face towards my early home. + +It was late in the evening of a calm autumnal day, at the close of +the week, when I arrived at Brookdale. The village inn where I +stopped, and at which I engaged lodgings for a few days, was not the +old village inn. That had passed away, and a newer and larger +building stood in its place. Nor was the old landlord there. Why had +I expected to see him? Twenty years before, he was bent with age. +His eyes were dim and his step faltered when last I saw him. It was +but natural that he should pass away. Still, I felt a shade of +disappointment when the truth came. He who filled his place was +unknown to me; and, in all his household, not a familiar countenance +was presented. + +But I solaced myself for this with thoughts of the morrow, when my +eyes would look upon long-remembered scenes and faces. The old +homestead, with its garden and clambering vines--a picture which had +grown more vivid in my thoughts every year--how earnest was my +desire to look upon it again! There was the deep, pure spring, in +which, as I bent to drink, I had so often looked upon my mirrored +face; and the broad flat stone near by, where I had sat so many +times. I would sit there again, after tasting the sweet water, and +think of the olden time! The dear old mill, too, with its murmuring +wheel glistening in the bright sunshine, and the race, on whose bank +I had gathered wild flowers and raspberries? + +I could sleep but little for thinking of these things, and when +morning broke, and the sun shone out, I went I forth impatient to +see the real objects which had been so long pictured in my memory. + +"Am I in Brookdale? No--it cannot be. There is some strange error. +Yes--yes--it is Brookdale, for here is the old church. I cannot +mistake that. Hark! Yes--yes--it is the early bell! I would know its +sound amid a thousand!" + +On I moved, passing the ancient building whose architect had long +since been called to sleep with his fathers, and over whose walls +and spire time had cast a duller hue. I was eager to reach the old +homestead. The mill lay between--or, once it did. Only a shapeless +ruin now remained. The broken wheel, the crumbling walls, and empty +forebay were all that my eyes rested upon, and I paused sadly to +mark the wreck which time had made. The race was dry, and overgrown +with elder and rank weeds. A quarter of a mile distant stood out +sharply, against the clear sky, a large factory, newly built and +thither the stream in which I had once sailed my tiny boat, or +dropped my line, had been turned, and the old mill left to silence +and decay. Ah me! I cannot make words obedient to my thoughts in +giving utterance to the disappointment I then felt. A brief space I +stood, mourning over the ruins, and then moved on again, a painful +presentiment fast arising in my heart that all would not be, as I +had left, it in the white cottage I was seeking. The two great elms +that stood bending together, as if instinct with a sense of +protection, above that dear home--where were they? My eyes searched +for them in vain. + +"Where is the spring? Surely it welled up here, and this is the way +the clear stream flowed!" + +Alas! the spring was dried, and scarcely a trace of its former +existence remained. The broad flat stone was broken. The shady +alcove beneath which the waters came up so cool and clear, had been +removed. All was naked and barren. Near by stood an old deserted +house. The door was half open, the windows were broken out, the +chimney had fallen, and great patches of the roof had been torn +away. Around, all was in keeping with this. The little garden was +covered with weeds, the fence that once enclosed it was broken down, +the old apple-tree that I had loved almost as tenderly as if it had +been a human creature, was no more to be seen, and in the place +where the grape-vine grew was a deep pool of green and stagnant +water. + +My first impulse was to turn and flee from the place, under a +painful revulsion of feeling. But I could not leave the spot thus. +For some minutes I stood mournfully leaning on the broken garden +gate, and then forced myself to enter beneath the roof where I was +born, and where I grew up with loving and happy children, under the +sunlight of a mother's smile. If there was ruin without, there was +desolation added to ruin within, but neither ruin nor desolation +could entirely obliterate the forms so well remembered. I passed +from room to room, now pausing to recall an incident, and now +hurrying on under a sense of pain at seeing a place, hallowed in my +thoughts by the tenderest associations of my life, thus abandoned to +the gnawing tooth of decay, and destined to certain and speedy +destruction. When I came to my mother's room, emotion grew too +powerful, and a gush of tears relieved the oppressive weight that +lay upon my bosom. There I lingered long, with a kind of mournful +pleasure in this scene of my days of innocence, and lived over years +of the bygone times. + +At last I turned with sad feelings from a spot which memory had held +sacred for twenty years; but which, in its change, could be sacred +no longer. Material things are called substantial; but it is not so. +Change and decay are ever at work upon them; they are unsubstantial. +A real substance is the mind, with its thoughts and affections. +Forms built there do not decay. How perfectly had I retained in +memory the home of my childhood! Not a leaf had withered, not a +flower had faded; nothing had fallen under the scythe of time. The +greenness and perfection of all were as the mind had received them +twenty years before. But the material things themselves had, in that +brief space, passed almost wholly away. Yes; it is in the mind that +we must seek for real substance. + +Slowly and sadly I turned from the hallowed place, and went back +towards the village inn. No interest for anything in Brookdale +remained, and no surprise was created at the almost total +obliteration of the old landmarks apparent on every hand. My purpose +was to leave the place by the early stage that morning, and seek to +forget that I had ever returned to the home of my childhood. + +My way was past the old village church where, Sabbath after Sabbath, +for nearly fifteen years, I had met with the worshippers; and as I +drew nearer and nearer the sacred place, I was more and more +impressed with the fact that, if change had been working busily all +around, his hand had spared the holy edifice. That change had been +there was plainly to be seen, but he had lingered only a moment, +laying his hand gently, as he paused, on the ancient pile. New and +tenderer feelings came over me. I could not pass the village church, +and so I entered it once more, although it was yet too early for the +worshippers to assemble. How familiar all! A year seemed not to have +intervened since I had stood beneath that roof. The deep, arched +windows, the antique pulpit and chancel, the old gallery and organ, +the lofty roof, but most of all the broad tablet above the pulpit, +and the words "Reverence my Sanctuary: I am the Lord," were as +familiar as the face of a dear friend. There was change all around, +but no change here in the house of God. + +Seating myself in the old family pew, I gave my mind up to a flood +of crowding associations; and there I sat, scarcely conscious of the +passing time, until the bell sounded clear above me its weekly +summons to the worshippers. And soon they began to assemble, one +after another coming in, and silently taking their places. Conscious +that I was intruding, I yet remained in the old family pew. It +seemed as if I could not leave it--as if I must sit there and +hearken once more to the words of life. And I was there when the +rightful owners came. I arose to retire, but was beckoned to remain. +So I resumed my seat, thankful for the privilege. Group after group +entered, but faces of strangers were all around me. Presently a +white-haired old man came slowly along the aisle, and, entering the +chancel, ascended to the pulpit. I had not expected this. Our +minister was far advanced in years when we left the village, yet +here he was! How breathlessly did I lean forward to catch the sound +of his voice when he arose to read the service! It was the same +impressive voice, yet lower and somewhat broken. My heart trembled, +and tears dimmed my eyes as the sound went echoing through the room. +For a time I was a child again. I closed my eyes, and felt that my +mother, my sister, and my brothers were with me. + +I can never forget that morning. When the service closed, and the +people moved away, I looked from countenance to countenance, but all +were strange, except those of a few old men and women. Still +lingering, I met the minister as he came slowly down the aisle +towards the door. He did not know me, for his eyes were dim with +age, and I had changed in twenty years. But, when I extended my hand +and gave my name, he seized it with a quick energy, while a vivid +light irradiated his countenance. + +I will not weary the reader with a detail of the long interview held +that day with the old minister in his own house. It was good for me +that I met him ere leaving Brookdale under the pressure of a first +disappointment. His words of wisdom were yet in my ears. + +"As you have found the old church the same," said he, while holding +my hand in parting, "amid ruin and change everywhere around, so will +you find the truths which are given for our salvation ever +immutable, though mere human inventions of thought are set aside by +every coming generation for new philosophies, and the finer fancies +of more brilliant intellects. Religion is built upon a rock, and the +storms and floods of time cannot move it from its firm foundation." + + + + +"THE WORD IS NIGH THEE." + + + DWELL'ST thou with thine own people? are the joys, + The hopes, the blessings of "sweet home" thine own? + "The Word is nigh thee;" hear the sacred voice! + At morn, bow with thy loved ones round the throne; + At noon-tide read and pray; and in the hour + When evening's shades close round thee, let the truth + Subdue thy heart by its transforming power; + That thou, whom God has blessed, may'st serve him from thy youth. + + Affection's ties oft sunder; and the home + Of peace and love, sorrow and death can enter. + Art thou, indeed, a mourner? dost thou roam + Alone and sad, where late thy joys did centre? + "The Word is nigh thee!" and though bitter grief + Makes all the future seem one day of sorrow,-- + Its words of peace shall grant thee sweet relief; + The night of pain and fear shall find a joyous morrow + + "The Word of God is nigh thee!" let it be + The lamp that o'er thy pathway sheds its light, + Then, through the mists of error, thou shalt see + The way of truth, all radiant and bright, + In which of old the sons of God did go, + Leaning on Him who was their friend and guide; + Nor shall thy heart be faint, thy step be slow, + Till thou in Heaven, thy home, shalt triumph by their side + + The Word of God shall bless thee, in the hour + When human hopes and human friends shall fail: + It was in health thy portion, and its power + Is mightiest even in the gloomy vale. + No evil shalt thou fear while He is with thee; + The sting of death his hand shall take away, + His rod and staff shall comfort thee and cheer thee, + And thou with Him shalt dwell through heaven's eternal day. + + + + +AUNT RACHEL. + + +WE remember as it were yesterday the first time we saw her, though +it was a brief glance, and she was so quickly forgotten that most of +us had passed into the supper-room and the rest had reached the +door, heedless of the stranger, when one of our party, perhaps more +thoughtful than the others, cast her eyes on the quiet little figure +that stood, near the fire as if irresolute, whether to follow or +remain. With lady-like politeness she received the excuses which one +of the gentlemen offered for having preceded her, and entered the +room. + +She was very slight, and thin, and pale, her, eyes were of a light +gray and her hair inclined to redness, but her forehead, was broad +and smooth and, about her thin lips there hovered an expression of +sweetness and repose. + +We have forgotten now what first led us to feel that beneath that +unprepossessing exterior were concealed the pulses of a warm, +generous heart, and the powers of a strong and cultivated mind, but +we remember well the morning that she set her seal upon our heart. + +It was a clear, cold, brilliant morning in March. The whole broad +country was covered with a thick crust of hard, glittering snow, and +every tree was encased in ice. The oaks and elms and chestnuts and +beeches from their trunks upward and outward to their minutest +twigs, and the pines and firs with their greenness shining through, +sparkled like diamonds and emeralds in the brightness of the sun. + +O, it was a glorious morning, and we have seldom since been so young +in feeling as never we are sure in years, as when we walked forth +into its bracing air. And Aunt Rachel--she enjoyed it; the broad icy +fields, the difficult ascent of the steep slippery hills and the +"duckies" down them, and the crackling of the icicles as we thrust +our way through the bristling under-brush of those diamond-cressed +woods. We loved even to eat the icicles that hung from the pines +with their pungent flavour, strong as though their pointed leaves +had been steeped in boiling water. It was a pleasure to taste as +well as see the trees. + +As we entered the "Main Road" and were passing along by the "Asylum +for the Insane," a clear, pleasant voice from one of the cells in +the upper story, accosted us: "Good morning, ladies." We looked up +and bowed in reply to the salutation. "It is a beautiful morning," +he continued, "and I should like myself to take a walk down on 'Main +Street,' but my folks have sent me here to be shut up because they +say I am crazy, but I am sure I am not crazy, and I can't see why +they should think so." And we thought the same as we listened to the +calm, pleasant tones of his voice, till he added, "It will soon make +me beside myself to be with this wild, screaming set; and it doesn't +do them any good either to shut them up here. What they want is the +Grace of God, and I'll put the Grace of God into them." + +His voice grew wild and excited, but we knew that a whole volume of +truth had been uttered in those simple words: "What they want is the +Grace of God." + +The Grace of God. How many has it saved--rescued--from madness! how +have prayer and watchfulness been blest in conquering self, in +subduing rampant passion and the wild, disorderly vagaries of the +brain! + +As we listen, the low whispered prayer of a Hall when he felt the +billows of angry passion about to sweep over his soul, "O, Lamb of +God, calm my perturbed spirit," we feel that but for such +interceding prayer and that watchfulness which accompanied it, the +insanity to which he was temporarily subject would have won the same +mastery over the mighty powers of his mind as over those of Swift, +and the glory of his "wide fame" as well as the peace of his "humble +hope," would have been exchanged for the vagaries of the madman or +the drivellings of the idiot. + +The Grace of God. We thought of John Randolph, with his sway over +the minds of others, with a "wit and eloquence that recalled the +splendours of ancient oratory," yet with so little command over +himself that his weak frame sometimes sank beneath the excitement of +his temper, and gusts of passion were succeeded by fainting-fits; +and when the one desire of his heart was denied, when a love mighty +as every other passion of his soul failed him, his grief, +ungovernable and frenzied as his rage, overwhelmed him, and the +"taint of madness which ran in his line," flooded his brain. But +when the atheist became a Christian; when, in his own words, he felt +"the Spirit of God was not the chimera of heated brains, nor a +device of artful men to frighten and cajole the credulous, but an +existence to be felt and understood as the whisperings of one's own +heart;" his prayer of, "Lord! I believe, help thou my unbelief," was +answered in calm and peace to his soul. + +"The saddest thought," said Aunt Rachel, as we turned away from that +gloomy edifice, "the saddest thought connected with that building +is, that so large a number of its unhappy inmates have brought their +misery upon themselves, are the victims of their own irregular and +indulged passions." + +As we turned and looked upon her smooth brow, her serious and serene +eyes and her sweet, calm mouth, we marked a look of subdued +suffering mingled with an expression of Christian triumph; and we +knew that she had felt "the ploughings of grief;" that she had +learned "how sublime a thing it is to suffer and grow strong;" but, +though we wondered deeply, we never knew in what form she had been +called "to pass under the rod;" but we heard a voice that said, + +"Fear not; when thou passest through the waters, I will be with +thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee." + + Nay, fear not, weak and fainting soul, + Though the wild waters round thee roll, + He will sustain thy faltering way, + Will be thy sure, unfailing stay. + + And though it were the fabled stream + Whose waves were fire of fearful gleam, + He still would bear thee safely through + The fire, but cleanse thy soul anew. + + + + +COMETH A BLESSING DOWN. + + + NOT to the man of dollars, + Not to the man of deeds, + Not to the man of cunning, + Not to the man of creeds, + Not to the one whose passion + Is for a world's renown, + Not in a form of fashion, + Cometh a blessing down. + + Not unto land's expansion, + Not to the miser's chest, + Not to the princely mansion, + Not to the blazoned crest, + Not to the sordid worldling, + Not to the knavish clown, + Not to the haughty tyrant, + Cometh a blessing down. + + Not to the folly-blinded, + Not to the steeped in shame, + Not to the carnal-minded, + Not to unholy fame; + Not in neglect of duty, + Not in the monarch's crown, + Not at the smile of beauty, + Cometh a blessing down. + + But to the one whose spirit + Yearns for the great and good; + Unto the one whose storehouse + Yieldeth the hungry food; + Unto the one who labours, + Fearless of foe or frown; + Unto the kindly-hearted, + Cometh a blessing down. + + + + +THE DARKENED PATHWAY. + + +"TO some the sky is always bright, while to others it is never free +from clouds. There is to me a mystery in this--something that looks +like a partial Providence--for those who grope sadly through life in +darkened paths are, so far as human judgment can determine, often +purer and less selfish than those who move gayly along in perpetual +sunshine. Look at Mrs. Adair. It always gives me the heart-ache to +think of what she has endured in life, and still endures. Once she +was surrounded by all that wealth could furnish of external good; +now she is in poverty, with five children, clinging to her for +support, her health feeble, and few friends to counsel or lend her +their aid. No woman could have loved a husband more tenderly than +she loved hers, and few wives were ever more beloved in return; but +she has gathered the widow's weeds around her, and is sitting in the +darkness of an inconsolable grief. What a sweet character was hers! +Always loving and unselfish--a very angel on the earth from +childhood upwards, and yet her doom to tread this darkened pathway! +If Heaven smiles on the good--if the righteous are never forsaken, +why this strange, hard, harsh Providence in the case of Mrs. Adair? +I cannot understand it! God is goodness itself, they say, and loves +His creatures with a love surpassing the love of a mother; but would +any mother condemn beloved child to such a cruel fate? No, no, no! +From the very depths of my spirit I answer--No! I am only a weak, +erring, selfish creature, but--" + +Mrs. Endicott checked the utterance of what was in her thought, for +at the instant another thought, rebuking her for an impious +comparison of herself with her Maker, flitted across her mind. Yes, +she was about drawing a Parallel between herself and a Being of +infinite wisdom and love, unfavourable to the latter! + +The sky of Mrs. Endicott had not always been free from clouds. Many +times had she walked in darkness; and why this was so ever appeared +as one of the mysteries of life, for her self-explorations had never +gone far enough to discover those natural evils, the existence of +which only a state of intense mental suffering would manifest to her +deeper consciousness. But all she had yet been called to endure, +was, she freely acknowledged, light in comparison to what poor Mrs. +Adair had suffered, and was suffering daily--and the case of this +friend gave her a strong argument against the wisdom and justice of +that Power in the hands of which the children of men are as clay in +the hands of the potter. + +Even while Mrs. Endicott thus questioned and doubted, a domestic +opened the door of the room in which she was sitting, and said, + +"Mrs. Adair is in the parlour." + +"Is she? Say that I will be down in a moment." + +Mrs. Endicott felt a little surprised at the coincidence of her +thought of her friend and that friend's appearance. It was another +of those life-mysteries into which her dull eyes could not +penetrate, and gave new occasion for dark surmises in regard to the +Power above all, in all, and ruling all. With a sober face, as was +befitting an interview with one so deeply burdened as Mrs. Adair, +she went down to the parlour. + +"My dear friend!" she said, tenderly, almost sadly, as she took the +hand of her visiter. + +Into the eyes of Mrs. Adair she looked earnestly for the glittering +tear-veil, and upon her lips for the grief curve. To her surprise +neither were there; but a cheerful light in the former and a gentle +smile on the latter. + +"How are you this morning?" + +Mrs. Endicott's voice was low and sympathizing. + +"I feel a little stronger, to-day, thank you," answered Mrs. Adair, +smiling as she spoke. + +"How is your breast?" + +"Still very tender." + +"And the pain in your side." + +"I am not free from that a moment." + +Still she smiled as she answered. There was not even a touch of +sadness or despondency in her voice. + +"Not free a moment! How do you bear it?" + +"Happily--as I often say to myself--I have no time to think about +the pain," replied Mrs. Adair, cheerfully. "It is wonderful how +mental activity lifts us above the consciousness of bodily +suffering. For my part, I am sure that if I had nothing to do but to +sit down and brood over my ailments, I would be one of the most +miserable, complaining creatures alive. But a kind Providence, even +in the sending of poverty to his afflicted one, has but tempered the +winds to the shorn lamb." + +Mrs. Endicott was astonished to hear these words, falling, as they +did, with such a confiding earnestness from the pale lips of her +much-enduring friend. + +"How can you speak so cheerfully?" she said. "How can you feel so +thankful to Him who has shrouded your sky in darkness, and left you +to grope in strange paths, on which falls not a single ray of +light?" + +"Even though the sky is clouded," was answered, "I know that the sun +is shining there as clear and as beautiful as ever. The paths in +which a wise and good Providence has called me to walk, may be +strange, and are, at times, rough-and toilsome; but you err in +saying that no light falls upon them. + +"But the sky is dark--whence comes the light, Mrs. Adair?" + +"Don't you remember the beautiful hymn written by Moore? It is to me +worth all he ever penned besides. How often do I say it over to +myself, lingering with a warming heart and a quickening pulse, on +every word of consolation!" + +And in the glow of her fine enthusiasm, Mrs. Adair repeated-- + + "Oh, Thou, who dry'st the mourner's tear, + How dark this world would be, + If, when deceived and wounded here, + We could not fly to Thee! + The friends, who in our sunshine live, + When winter comes, are flown; + And he who has but tears to give, + Must weep those tears alone. + But Thou wilt heal that broken heart, + Which, like the plants that throw + Their fragrance from the wounded part, + Breathes sweetness out of woe. + + "When joy no longer soothes or cheers, + And e'en the hope that threw + A moment's sparkle o'er our tears + Is dimmed and vanished, too, + Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom, + Did not Thy wing of Love + Come, brightly wafting through the gloom + Our Peace-branch from above? + Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright + With more than rapture's ray + _As darkness shows us worlds of light_ + _We never saw by day._" + +"None," said Mrs. Adair, "but those who have had the sky of their +earthly affections shrouded in darkness, can fully understand the +closing words of this consolatory hymn. Need I now answer your +question, 'Whence comes the light?' There is an inner world Mrs. +Endicott--a world full of light, and joy, and consolation--a world +whose sky is never darkened, whose sun is never hidden by clouds. +When we turn from all in this life that we vainly trusted, and lift +our eyes upward towards the sky, bending over our sad spirits, an +unexpected light breaks in upon us, and we see a new firmament, +glittering with myriads of stairs, whose light is fed from that +inner world where the sun shines for ever undimmed. Oh, no, I do not +tread a darkened pathway, Mrs. Endicott. There is light upon it from +the Sun of heaven, and I am walking forward, weary at times, it may +be, but with unwavering footsteps. I have been tried sorely, it is +true--I have suffered, oh how deeply! and yet I can say, and do say, +it is good for me that I was afflicted. But I meant not to speak so +much of myself, and you must forgive the intrusion. Self, you know, +is ever an attractive theme. I have called this morning to try and +interest you in a poor woman who lives next door to me. She is very +ill, and I am afraid will die. She has two children, almost +babes--sweet little things--and if the mother is taken they will be +left without a home or a friend, unless God puts it into the heart +of some one to give them both. I have been awake half the night, +thinking about them, and debating the difficult question of my duty +in the case. I might make room for one of them--" + +"You!" Mrs. Endicott interrupted her in a voice of unfeigned +astonishment. "You! How can you give place a moment to such a +thought, broken down in health as you are and with five children of +your own clinging to you for support? It would be unjust to yourself +and to them. Don't think of such a thing." + +"That makes the difficulty in the case," replied Mrs. Adair. "The +spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. My heart is large enough +to take both of them in; but I have not strength enough to bear the +added burden. And so I have come around this morning to see if I +cannot awaken your interest. They are dear, sweet children, and will +carry sunshine and a blessing into any home that opens to receive +them." + +"But why, my friend," said Mrs. Endicott, "do you, whose time is so +precious--who have cares, and interests, and anxieties of your own, +far more than enough for one poor, weak woman to bear, burden +yourself with a duty like this? Leave the task to others more fitted +for the work." + +"There are but few who can rightly sympathize with that mother and +her babes; and I am one of the few. Ah! my kind friend, none but the +mother, who like me has been brought to the verge of eternity, can +truly feel for one in like circumstances. I have looked at my own +precious ones, as I felt the waves of time sweeping my feet from +their earthly resting place, and wept bitter tears as no answer came +to the earnest question, 'Who will love them, who will care for the +when I am taken?' You cannot know, Mrs. Endicott, how profoundly +thankful to God I am, that He spares my life, and yet gives me +strength to do for my children. I bless His name for this tender +mercy towards me when I lie down at night, and when I rise up in the +morning, I bear every burden, I endure every pain cheerfully, +hopefully, even thankfully. It is because I can understand the heart +of this dying mother, and feel for her in her mortal extremity, that +I undertake her cause. You have only one child, my friend, and she +is partly grown. 'A babe in the house is a well-spring of pleasure.' +Is it not so? Take one, or even both of these children, if the +mother dies. They are the little ones who are born upon the earth, +in order that they may become angels in Heaven. They are of God's +kingdom, and precious in His eyes. Nurture and raise them up for +Him. Come! oh, come with me to the bedside of this dying mother, and +say to her, 'Give me your babes, and I will shelter them in my +heart.' So doing, you will open for yourself a perennial fountain of +delight. The picture of that poor mother's joyful face, painted +instantly by love's bright sunbeams on your memory, will be a source +of pleasure lasting as eternity. Do not neglect this golden +opportunity, nor leave other hands to gather the blessings which lie +about your feet." + +That earnest plea was echoed from the heart of Mrs. Endicott. The +beautiful enthusiasm, so full of a convincing eloquence, prevailed; +and the woman in whose heart the waters of benevolence were growing +stagnant, and already sending up exhalations that were hiding the +Sun of heaven, felt a yearning pity for the dying mother, and was +moved by an unselfish impulse toward her and her babes. Half an hour +afterwards she was in the sick-chamber; and ere leaving had received +from the happy mother the solemn gift of her children, and seen her +eyes close gently as her spirit took its tranquil departure for its +better home. + +"God will bless you, madame!" + +All the dying mother's thankfulness was compressed into these words, +and her full heart spent itself in their utterance. + +Far away, in the inner depths of Mrs. Endicott's spirit--very far +away--the words found an echo; and as this echo came back to her +ears, she felt a new thrill of pleasure that ran deeper down the +electric chain of feelings than emotion had ever, until now, +penetrated. There were depths and capacities in her being unknown +before; and of this she had now a dim perception. Her action was +unselfish, and to be unselfish is to be God-like--for God acts from +a love of blessing others. To be God-like in her action brought her +nearer the Infinite Source of what is pure and holy; and all +proximity in this direction gives its measure of interior +delight--as all retrocession gives its measure of darkness and +disquietude. + +"God will bless you!" + +Mrs. Endicott never ceased hearing these words, and she felt them to +be a prophecy. And God did bless her. In bestowing love and care +upon the motherless little ones, she received from above double for +all she gave. In blessing, she was twice blessed. About them her +heart entwined daily new tendrils, until her own life beat with +theirs in even pulses, and to seek their good was the highest joy of +her existence. + +Still there were times when Mrs. Endicott felt that to some God was +not just in his dispensations, and the closer she observed Mrs. +Adair, the less satisfied was she that one so pure-minded, so +unselfish, so earnest to impart good to others, should be so hardly +dealt by--should be compelled to grope through life with painful +steps along a darkened way. + +"There is a mystery in all this which my dim vision fails to +penetrate," she said one day, to Mrs. Adair. "But we see here only +in part--I must force myself into the belief that all is right. I +say _force_, for it is indeed force-work." + +"To me," was answered, "there is no longer a mystery here. I have +been led by at way that I knew not. For a time I moved along this +way, doubting, fearing trembling--but now I see that it is the right +way, and though toilsome at times, yet it is winding steadily +upwards, and I begin to see the sunshine resting calmly on the +mountain-tops. Flowers, too, are springing by the wayside--few they +are, as yet, but very fragrant." + +Mrs. Adair paused for a moment, and then resumed, + +"It may sound strange to you, but I am really happier than when all +was bright and prosperous around me." + +Mrs. Endicott looked surprised. + +"I am a better woman, and therefore happier. I do not say this +boastfully, but only to meet your question. I am a more useful +woman, and therefore happier, for, as I have learned, inward peace +is the sure reward of benefits conferred. The doing of good to +another, from an unselfish end, brings to the heart its purest +pleasure; and is not that the kindest Providence which leads us, no +matter by what hard experiences, into a state of willingness to live +for others instead of for ourselves alone? The dying mother, whose +gift to you has proved so great--a good, might have passed away, +though her humble abode stood beside the elegant residence I called +my home, without exciting more than a passing wave of +sympathy--certainly without filling my heart with the yearning +desire to make truly peaceful her last moments, which led to the +happy results that followed her efforts in my behalf. My children, +too; you have often lamented that it is not so well with them as it +would have been had misfortune not overshadowed us,--but I am not so +sure of that. I believe that all external disadvantages will be more +than counterbalanced by the higher regard I have been led to take in +the development of what is good and true in their characters. I now +see them as future men and women, for whose usefulness and happiness +I am in a great measure responsible; and as my views of life have +become clearer, and I trust wiser, through suffering, I am far +better able, under all the disadvantages of my position, to secure +this great end than I was before." + +"But the way is hard for you--very hard," said Mrs. Endicott. + +"It is my preparation for Heaven," replied the patient sufferer, +while a smile, not caught from earth, made beautiful her +countenance. "If my Heavenly Father could have made the way +smoother, He would have done so. As it is, I thank Him daily for the +roughness, and would not ask to have a stone removed or a rough +place made even." + + + + +LOOK ON THIS PICTURE. + + + O, IT is life! departed days + Fling back their brightness while I gaze-- + 'Tis Emma's self--this brow so fair, + Half-curtained in this glossy hair, + These eyes, the very home of love, + The dark thin arches traced above, + These red-ripe lips that almost speak, + The fainter blush of this pure cheek, + The rose and lily's beauteous strife-- + It is--ah, no! 'tis all _but_ life. + + 'Tis all _but_ life--art could not save + Thy graces, Emma, from the grave; + Thy cheek is pale, thy smile is past, + Thy love-lit eyes have looked their last, + Mouldering beneath the coffin's lid, + All we adored of thee is hid; + Thy heart, where goodness loved to dwell, + Is throbless in the narrow cell: + Thy gentle voice shall charm no more, + Its last, last joyful note is o'er. + + Oft, oft, indeed, it hath been sung, + The requiem of the fair and young; + The theme is old, alas! how old, + Of grief that will not be controlled, + Of sighs that speak a father's woe, + Of pangs that none but mothers know, + Of friendship with its bursting heart, + Doomed from the idol-one to part-- + Still its sad debt must feeling pay, + Till feeling, too, shall pass away. + + O say, why age, and grief, and pain, + Shall long to go, but long in vain? + Why vice is left to mock at time, + And gray in years, grow gray in crime; + While youth, that every eye makes glad, + And beauty, all in radiance clad, + And goodness, cheering every heart, + Come, but come only to depart; + Sunbeams, to cheer life's wintry day, + Sunbeams, to flash, then fade away? + + 'Tis darkness all! black banners wave + Round the cold borders of the grave; + Then when in agony we bend + O'er the fresh sod that hides a friend, + One only comfort then we know-- + We, too, shall quit this world of woe; + We, too, shall find a quiet place + With the dear lost ones of our race; + Our crumbling bones with theirs shall blend, + And life's sad story find an end. + + And _is_ this all--this mournful doom? + Beams no glad light beyond the tomb? + Mark how yon clouds in darkness ride; + They do not quench the orb they hide; + Still there it wheels--the tempest o'er, + In a bright sky to burn once more; + So, far above the clouds of time, + Faith can behold a world sublime-- + There, when the storms of life are past, + The light beyond shall break at last. + + + + +THE POWER OF KINDNESS. + + +HOW much comprised in the simple word, _kindness!_ One kind word, or +even one mild look, will oftentimes dispel thick gathering gloom +from the countenance of an affectionate husband, or wife. When the +temper is tried by some inconvenience or trifling vexation, and +marks of displeasure are depicted upon the countenances and perhaps, +too, that most "unruly of all members" is ready to vent its spleen +upon the innocent husband or wife, what will a kind mien, a pleasant +reply, accomplish? Almost invariably perfect harmony and peace are +thus restored. + +These thoughts were suggested by the recollection of a little +domestic incident, to which I was a silent, though not uninterested +spectator. During the summer months of 1834, I was spending several +weeks with a happy married pair, who had tasted the good and ills of +life together only a twelvemonth. Both possessed many amiable +qualities, and were well calculated to promote each other's +happiness. My second visit to my friends was of a week's duration, +in the month of December. One cold evening the husband returned home +at his usual hour at nine o'clock, expecting to find a warm fire for +his reception, but, instead, he found a cheerless, comfortless room. +His first thought, no doubt, was, that it was owing to the +negligence of his wife, and, under this impression, in rather a +severe tone, he said, + +"This is too bad; to come in from the office cold, and find no fire; +I really should have thought you might have kept it." + +I sat almost breathless, trembling for the reply. I well knew it was +no fault of hers, for she had wasted nearly all the evening, and +almost exhausted her patience, in attempting to kindle a fire. She +in a moment replied, with great kindness, + +"Why my dear, I wonder what is the matter with our stove! We must +have something done to-morrow, for I have spent a great deal of time +in vain to make a fire." + +This was said in such a mild, pleasant tone, that it had the most +happy effect. If she had replied at that moment, when his feelings +were alive to supposed neglect, "I don't know who is to blame; I +have done my part, and have been freezing all the evening for my +pains. If the stove had been put up as it should have been, all +would have been well enough." This, said in an unamiable, peevish +tone, might have added "fuel to the fire," and this little breeze +might have led to more serious consequences; but fortunately, her +mild reply restored perfect serenity. The next day the stove was +taken down, and the difficulty, owing to some defect in the flue, +was removed. What will not a kind word accomplish? + + + + +SPEAK KINDLY. + + + SPEAK kindly, speak kindly! ye know not the power + Of a kind and gentle word, + As its tones in a sad and weary hour + By the trouble heart are heard. + Ye know not how often it falls to bless + The stranger in his weariness; + How many a blessing is round thee thrown + By the magic spell, of a soft, low tone. + Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost + By gentle words--to the heart and ear + Of the sad and lonely, they're dear, how dear, + And they nothing cost. + + Speak kindly to childhood. Oh, do not fling + A cloud o'er life's troubled sky; + But cherish it well--a holy thing + Is the heart in its purity. + Enough of sorrow the cold world hath, + Enough of care in its later path, + And ye do a wrong if ye seek to throw + O'er the fresh young spirit a shade of woe. + Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost + By gentle words--to the heart and ear + Of joyous childhood, they're dear, how dear-- + And they nothing cost. + + Speak gently to age--a weary way + Is the rough and toilsome road of life, + As one by one its joys decay, + And its hopes go out 'mid its lengthened strife. + How often the word that is kindly spoken, + Will bind up the heart that is well nigh broken, + Then pass not the feeble and aged one + With a cold, and careless, and slighting tone; + But kindly, speak kindly; there's nothing lost + By gentle words--to the heart and ear + Of the care-worn and weary, they're dear, how dear-- + And they nothing cost. + + Speak kindly to those who are haughty and cold, + Ye know not the thoughts that are dwelling there; + Ye know not the feelings that struggle untold-- + Oh, every heart hath its burden of care. + And the curl of the lip, and the scorn of the eye + Are often a bitter mockery, + When a bursting heart its grief would hide + From the eye of the world 'neath a veil of pride. + Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost + By gentle words--to the heart and ear + Of the proud and haughty they're often dear, + And they nothing cost. + + Speak kindly ever--oh, cherish well + The light of a gentle tone; + It will fling round thy pathway a magic spell, + A charm that is all its own. + But see that it springs from a gentle heart, + That it need not the hollow aid of art; + Let it gush in its joyous purity, + From its home in the heart all glad and free. + Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost + By gentle words--to the heart and ear + Of all who hear them they're dear, how dear-- + And they nothing cost. + + + + +HAVE PATIENCE. + + +IT was Saturday evening, about eight o clock. Mary Gray had finished +mangling, and had sent home the last basket of clothes. She had +swept up her little room, stirred the fire, and placed upon it a +saucepan of water. She had brought out the bag of oatmeal, a basin, +and a spoon, and laid them upon the round deal table. The place, +though very scantily furnished, looked altogether neat and +comfortable. Mary now sat idle by the fire. She was not often idle.' +She was a pale, delicate-looking woman, of about five-and-thirty. +She looked like ones who had worked beyond her strength, and her +thin face had a very anxious, careworn expression. Her dress showed +signs of poverty, but it was scrupulously clean and neat. As it grew +later, she seemed to be listening attentively for the approach of +some one; she was ready to start up every time a step came near her +door. At length a light step approached, and did not go by it; it +stopped, and there was a gentle tap at the door. Mary's pallid face +brightened, and in a moment she had let in a fine, intelligent-looking +lad, about thirteen years of age, whom she welcomed with evident +delight. + +"You are later than usual to-night, Stephen," she said. + +Stephen did not reply; but he threw off his cap, and placed himself +in the seat Mary had quitted. + +"You do not look well to-night, dear," said Mary anxiously; "is +anything the matter?" + +"I am quite well, mother," replied the boy. "Let me have my supper. +I am quite ready for it." + +As he spoke, he turned away his eyes from Mary's inquiring look. +Mary, without another word, set herself about preparing the supper, +of oatmeal porridge. She saw that something was wrong with Stephen, +and that he did not wish to be questioned, so she remained silent. +In the mean time Stephen had placed his feet on the fender, rested +his elbows on his knees, and his head on his hands. His hands +covered his face; and, by and by, a few large tears began to trickle +down his fingers. Then suddenly dashing off his tears, as though he +were ashamed of them, he showed his pale, agitated face, and said, +in a tone of indignation and resolve, + +"Mother, I am determined I will bear it no longer." + +Mary was not surprised. She finished pouring out the porridge; then, +taking a stool, she seated herself beside him. + +"Why, Stephen," she said, trying to speak cheerfully, "how many +hundred times before have you made that resolution! But what's the +matter now? Have you any new trouble to tell me of?" + +Stephen answered by silently removing with his hand some of his +thick curly hair, and showing beneath it an ear bearing the too +evident marks of cruel usage. + +"My poor boy!" exclaimed Mary, her tears starting forth. "Could he +be so cruel?" + +"It is nothing, mother," replied the boy, sorry to have called forth +his mother's tears. "I don't care for it. It was done in a passion, +and he was sorry for it after." + +"But what could you have done, Stephen, to make him so angry with +you?" + +"I was selling half a quire of writing paper to a lady: he counted +the sheets after me, and found thirteen instead of only twelve; they +had stuck together so that I took two for one. I tried to explain, +but he was in a passion, and gave me a blow. The lady said something +to him about his improper conduct, and he said that I was such a +_careless little rascal_, that he lost all patience with me. That +hurt me a great deal more than the blow. It was a falsehood, and he +knew it; but he wanted to excuse himself. I felt that I was going +into a passion, too, but I thought of what you are always telling me +about patience and forbearance, and I kept down my passion; I know +he was sorry for it after, from the way he spoke to me, though he +didn't say so." + +"I have no doubt he suffered more than you, Stephen," said Mary; "he +would be vexed that he, had shown his temper before the lady, vexed +that he had told a lie, and vexed that he had hurt you when you bore +it so patiently. + +"Yes, mother, but that doesn't make it easier for me to bear his ill +temper; I've borne it now for more than a year for your sake, and I +can bear it no longer. Surely I can get something to do; I'm sturdy +and healthy, and willing to do any kind of work." + +Mary shook her head, and remained for a long time silent and +thoughtful. At length she said, with a solemn earnestness of manner +that almost made poor Stephen cry, + +"You say that, for my sake, you have borne your master's unkind +treatment for more than a year; for my sake, bear it longer, +Stephen. Your patience must, and will be rewarded in the end. You +know how I have worked, day and night, ever since your poor father +died, when you were only a little infant in the cradle, to feed and +clothe you, and to pay for your schooling, for I was determined that +you should have schooling; you know how I have been cheered in all +my toil by the hope of seeing you, one day, getting on in the world, +And I know, Stephen, that you will get on. You are good, honest lad, +and kind to your poor mother, and God will reward you. But not if +you are hasty; not if you are impatient. You know how hard it was +for me to get you this situation; you might not get another; you +must not leave; you must not break your indentures; you must be +patient and industrious still; you have a hard master, and, God +knows, it costs me many at heartache to think of what you have to +suffer; but bear with him, Stephen; bear with him, for my sake, a +few years longer." + +Stephen was now fairly crying and his mother kissed off his tears, +while her own flowed freely. Her appeal to his affection was not in +vain. He soon smiled through his tears, as he said, + +"Well, mother, you always know how to talk me over, When I came in +to-night I did think that I would never go the shop again. But I +will promise you to be patient and industrious still. Considering +all that you have, done for me, this is little enough for me to do +for you. When I have a shop of my own, you shall live like a lady. +I'll trust to your word that I shall be sure to get on, if I am +patient and industrious, though I don't see how it's to be.--It's +not so very bad to bear after all; and, bad as my master is, there's +one comfort, he lets me have my Saturday nights and blessed Sundays +with you. Well, I feel happier now, and I think I can eat my supper. +We forgot that my porridge was getting cold all this time." + +Stephen kept his word; day after day, and month after month, his +patience and industry never flagged. And plenty of trials, poor +fellow, he had for his fortitude. His master, a small stationer in a +small country town, to whom Stephen was bound apprentice for five +years, with a salary barely sufficient to keep him in clothes, was a +little, spare, sharp-faced man, who seemed to have worn himself away +with continual fretfulness and vexation. He was perpetually +fretting, perpetually finding fault with something or other, +perpetually thinking that everything was going wrong. Though he did +cease to go into a passion with, and to strike Stephen, the poor lad +was an object always at hand, on which to vent his ill-humour, Many, +many times was Stephen on the point of losing heart and temper; but +he was always able to control himself by thinking of his mother. +And, as he said, there was always comfort in those Saturday nights +and blessed Sundays. A long walk in the country on those blessed +Sundays, and the Testament readings to his mother, would always +strengthen his often wavering faith in her prophecies of good in the +end, would cheer his spirits, and nerve him with a fresh resolution +for the coming week. And what was it that the widow hoped would +result from this painful bondage? She did not know; she only had +faith in her doctrine--that patience and industry would some time be +rewarded. _How_ the reward was to come in her son's case, she could +not see. It seemed likely, indeed, from all appearances, that the +doctrine in this case would prove false. But still she had faith. + +It was now nearly four years since the conversation between mother +and son before detailed. They were together again on the Saturday +evening. Stephen had grown into a tall, manly youth, with a gentle, +kind, and thoughtful expression of countenance. Mary looked much +older, thinner, paler, and more anxious. Both were at this moment +looking very downcast. + +"I do not see that anything can be hoped from him," said Stephen, +with a sigh. "I have now served him faithfully for five years; I +have borne patiently all his ill-humour; I have never been absent a +moment from my post; and during all that time, notwithstanding all +this, he has never thanked me, he has never so much as given me a +single kind word, nor even a kind look. He must know that +apprenticeships will be out on Tuesday, yet he never says a word to +me about it, and I suppose I must just go without a word." + +"You must speak to him," said Mary; "you cannot leave without saying +something; and tell him exactly how you are situated; he cannot +refuse to do something to help you." + +"It is easy to talk of speaking to him, mother, but not so easy to +do it. I have often before thought of speaking to him, of telling +him how very, very poor we are, and begging a little more salary. +But I never could do it when I came before him. I seemed to feel +that he would refuse me, and I felt somehow too proud to ask a +favour that would most likely be refused. But it shall be done now, +mother; I will not be a burthen upon you, if I can help it. I'd +sooner do anything than that. He _ought_ to do something for me, and +there's no one else that I know of that can. I will speak to him on +Monday." + +Monday evening was come; all day Stephen had been screwing up his +courage for the task he had to do; of course it could not be done +when his master and he were in the shop together, for there they +were liable at any moment to be interrupted. At dinner-time they +separated; for they took the meal alternately, that the post in the +shop might never be deserted. But now the day's work was over: +everything was put away, and master and apprentice had retired into +the little back parlour a to take their tea. As usual, they were +alone, for the stationer was a single man (which might account for +the sourness of his temper), and the meal was usually taken in +silence, and soon after it was over they would both retire to bed, +still in silence. Stephen's master had poured out for him his first +cup of tea, handed it to him without looking at him, and begun to +swallow his own potion. Stephen allowed his cup to remain before him +untouched; he glanced timidly towards his master, drew a deep +breath, coloured slightly, and then began:-- + +"If you please, sir, I wish to speak to you." + +His master looked up with a sudden jerk of the head, and fixed his +keen gray eyes on poor Stephen's face. He did not seem at all +surprised, but said sharply (and he had a very sharp voice), "Well, +sir, speak on." + +Stephen was determined not to be discouraged, so he began to tell +his little tale. His voice faltered at first, but as he went on he +became quite eloquent. He spoke with a boldness which astonished +himself. He forgot his master, and thought only of his mother. He +told all about her poverty, and struggles to get a living. He dwelt +strongly, but modestly, on his own conduct during his apprenticeship, +and finished by entreating his master now to help him to do something, +for he had nothing in the world to turn to, no friends, no money, no +influence. + +His master heard him to an end. He had soon withdrawn his eyes from +Stephen's agitated face, then partially averted his own face, then +left his seat, and advanced to a side table, where he began to +rummage among some papers, with his back to Stephen. + +Stephen had ceased speaking some time before he made any reply. Then +still without turning round, he spoke, beginning with a sort of +grunting ejaculation--"Humph! so your mother gets her living by +mangling, does she? and she thought that if she got you some +schooling, and taught you to behave yourself, your fortune would be +made. Well, you will be free to-morrow; you may go to her and tell +her she is a fool for her pains. Here are your indentures, and +here's the salary that's due to you. Now you may go to bed." + +As he spoke the last words, he had taken the indentures from a desk, +and the money from his purse. Stephen felt a choking sensation in +his throat as he took from his hands the paper and the money; he +would even have uttered the indignation he felt, but, before he +could speak, his master left the room. Disappointed and heart-sick, +and feeling humiliated that he should have asked a favour of such a +man, the poor lad retired to his garret, and it was almost time to +get up in the morning before he could fall asleep. On the Tuesday, +when the day's work was over, Stephen packed up his bundle of +clothes;--should he say good-bye to his master? Yes; he would not be +ungracious at the last. He opened the door of the back parlour, and +stood just within the door-way, his bundle in his hand. His master +was sitting, solitary, at the tea-table. + +"I am going, sir, good-bye," said Stephen. + +"Good-bye, sir," returned his master, without, looking at him. And +so they parted. + +The result of the application told, the mother and the son sat +together that night in silence; their hearts were too full for +words. Mary sorrowed most, because she had hoped most. Bitter tears +rolled down her cheeks, as she sat brooding over her disappointment. +Stephen looked more cheerful, for his mind was busy trying to form +plans for the future--how he should go about to seek for another +situation, &c. Bed-time came; both rose to retire to rest. Stephen +had pressed his mother's hand, and was retiring, saying as he went, +"Never mind, mother, it'll all be right yet," when they were +startled by a loud rap at the door. + +"Who's there?" shouted Stephen. + +"A letter for you," was the reply. + +Stephen thought there was some mistake, but he opened the door. A +letter was put into his hand, and the bearer disappeared. Surprised, +Stephen held the letter close to the rush-light Mary was carrying. +He became still more surprised; it was addressed to Mrs. Gray, that +was his mother, and he thought he knew the handwriting; it was very +like his master's. Mary's look of wonder became suddenly brightened +by a flash of hope; she could not read writing--Stephen must read it +for her. He opened the letter, something like a banknote was the +first thing he saw--he examined it--it was actually a ten pound Bank +of England note; his heart beat rapidly, and so did his mother's; +what could this mean? But there was a little note which would +perhaps explain. Stephen's fingers trembled sadly as he opened it. +There were not many words, but they were to the purpose. Stephen +read them to himself before he read them aloud. And as he was +reading, his face turned very red, and how it did burn! But what was +the meaning of tears, and he looking so pleased? Mary could not +understand it. + +"Do read up, Stephen," she exclaimed. + +With a voice broken by the effort he had to make all the time to +keep from crying, Stephen read, + + +"MADAM--Put away your mangle-that son of yours is worth mangling +for; but it is time to rest now. The note is for your present wants; +in future your son may supply you. I let him go to-night; but I did +not mean him to stay away, if he chooses to come back. I don't see +that I can do well without him. But I don't want him back if he +would rather go anywhere else; I know plenty that would be glad to +have him. He has been seen in the shop, and noticed, and such lads +are not always to be got. If he chooses to come back to me, he won't +repent. I've no sons of my own, thank God. He knows what I am; I am +better than I was, and I may be better still. I've a queer way of +doing things, but it is my way, and can't be helped. Tell him I'll +be glad to have him back to-morrow, if he likes. Yours, + +"J. W." + + +"I knew it!" exclaimed Mary, triumphantly; "I always said so! I knew +you would get on!" + +Stephen did go back to his eccentric master, and he never had any +reason to repent. He _got on_ even beyond his mother's most soaring +hopes. The shop eventually became his own, and he lived a +flourishing and respected tradesman. We need scarcely add that his +mother had no further use for her mangle, and that she was a very +proud and a very happy woman. + + + + +DO THEY MISS ME? + + + Do they miss me at home? Do they miss me? + 'Twould be an assurance most dear, + To know at this moment some loved one + Was saying, "I wish he was here!" + To feel that the group at the fireside + Were thinking of me as I roam! + Oh, yes! 'twould be joy beyond measure, + To know that they missed me at home. + + When twilight approaches--the season + That ever was sacred to song-- + Does some one repeat my name over, + And sigh that I tarry so long? + And is there a chord in the music, + That's missed when my voice is away? + And a chord in each glad heart that waketh + Regret at my wearisome stay? + + Do they place me a chair at the table, + When evening's home pleasures are nigh! + And lamps are lit up in the parlour, + And stars in the calm azure sky? + And when the "Good Nights" are repeated, + And each lays them calmly to sleep, + Do they think of the absent, and waft me + A whispered "Good-Night" o'er the deep? + + Do they miss me at home? do they miss me? + At morning, at noon, or at night, + And lingers one gloomy shade round them, + That only my presence can light? + Are joys less invitingly welcomed, + Are pleasures less hailed than before, + Because one is missed from the circle? + Because I am with them no more? + + Oh, yes! they do miss me! kind voices + Are calling me back as I roam, + And eyes are grown weary with weeping, + And watch but to welcome me home. + Kind friends, ye shall wait me no longer, + I'll hurry me back from the seas; + For how can I tarry when followed + By watchings and prayers such as these? + + + + +THE END. + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Words of Cheer for the Tempted, the +Toiling, and the Sorrowing, by T. 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Arthur + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +Release Date: November, 2003 [Etext #4619] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on February 20, 2002] + +The Project Gutenberg Etext of Words of Cheer for the Tempted, the Toiling, +and the Sorrowing, by T.S. Arthur +This file should be named wrdsc10.txt or wrdsc10.zip + +Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, wrdsc11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, wrdsc10a.txt + +This etext was created by Charles Aldarondo (Aldarondo@yahoo.com) + + +Project Gutenberg Etexts are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we usually do not +keep etexts in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +The "legal small print" and other information about this book +may now be found at the end of this file. Please read this +important information, as it gives you specific rights and +tells you about restrictions in how the file may be used. + + + + + + + + + + +WORDS OF CHEER FOR The Tempted, the Toiling, and the Sorrowing. + +EDITED BY T. S. ARTHUR. + +PHILADELPHIA + +1856. + + + + + + +PREFACE. + + + + + +AS we pass on our way through the world, we find our paths now +smooth and flowery, and now rugged and difficult to travel. The sky, +bathed in golden sunshine to-day, is black with storms to-morrow! +This is the history of every one. And it is also the life-experience +of all, that when the way is rough and the sky dark, the poor heart +sinks and trembles, and the eye of faith cannot see the bright sun +smiling in the heavens beyond the veil of clouds. But, for all this +fear and doubt, the rugged path winds steadily upwards, and the +broad sky is glittering in light. + +Let the toiling, the tempted, and the sorrowing ever keep this in +mind. Let them have faith in Him who feedeth the young lions, and +clothes the fields with verdure--who bindeth up the broken heart, +and giveth joy to the mourners. There are Words of Cheer in the air! +Listen! and their melody will bring peace to the spirit, and their +truths strength to the heart. + + + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + + + +AUNT MARY +THE DEAD +DO YOU SUFFER MORE THAN YOUR NEIGHBOUR? +WE ARE LED BY A WAY THAT WE KNOW NOT +THE IVY IN THE DUNGEON +THE GARDEN OF EDEN +HAVE A FLOWER IN YOUR ROOM +WEALTH +HOW TO BE HAPPY +REBECCA +LIFE A TREADMILL +ARTHUR LELAND +THE SCARLET POPPY +NUMBER TWELVE +TO AN ABSENTEE +THE WHITE DOVE +HESTER +THISTLE-DOWN +THE LITTLE CHILDREN +WHAT IS NOBLE? +THE ANEMONE HEPATICA +THE FAMILY OF MICHAEL AROUT +BABY IS DEAD +THE TREASURED RINGLET +HUMAN LONGINGS FOR PEACE AND REST +"BE STRONG" +THE NEGLECTED ONE +THE HOURS OF LIFE +MINISTERING ANGELS +OURS, LOVED, AND "GONE BEFORE" +OUTWARD MINISTERINGS +BODILY DEFORMITY, SPIRITUAL BEAUTY +THE DEAD CHILD +WATER +BEAUTIFUL, HAPPY, AND BELOVED +"EVERY CLOUD HAS A SILVER LINING" +AN ANGEL OF PATIENCE +THE GRANDFATHER'S ADVICE +A HYMN OF PRAISE +AN ANGEL IN EVERY HOUSE +ANNIE +MOTHER +GREAT PRINCIPLES AND SMALL DUTIES +"OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN" +THE OLD VILLAGE CHURCH +"THE WORD IS NIGH THEE" +AUNT RACHEL +COMETH A BLESSING DOWN +THE DARKENED PATHWAY +LOOK ON THIS PICTURE +THE POWER OF KINDNESS +SPEAK KINDLY +HAVE PATIENCE +DO THEY MISS ME? + + + + + + +WORDS OF CHEER. + +AUNT MARY. + + + + + +A LADY sat alone in her own apartment one clear evening, when the +silver stars were out, and the moon shone pure as the spirit of +peace upon the rebellious earth. How lovely was every outward thing! +How beautiful is God's creation! The window curtains were drawn +close, and the only light in the cheerful room, was given by a +night-lamp that was burning on the mantel-piece. The occupant, who +perhaps had numbered about thirty-five years, was sitting by a small +table in the centre of the room, her head leaning upon one slender +hand; the other lay upon the open page of a book in which she had +endeavoured to interest herself. But the effort had been vain; other +and stronger feelings had overpowered her; there was an expression +of suffering upon the gentle face, over which the tears rained +heavily. For a brief moment she raised her soft blue eyes upward +with an appealing look, then sunk her head upon the table before +her, murmuring, + +"Father! forgive me! it is good for me. Give me strength to bear +everything. Pour thy love into my heart, for I am desolate--if I +could but be useful to one human being--if I could make one person +happier, I should be content. But no! I am desolate--desolate. Whose +heart clings to mine with the strong tendrils of affection? Who ever +turns to me for a smile? Oh! this world is so cold--so cold!" + +And that sensitive being wept passionately, and pressed her hand +upon her bosom as if to still its own yearnings. + +Mary Clinton had met with many sorrows; she was the youngest of a +large family; she had been the caressed darling in her early days, +for her sweetness won every heart to love. She had dwelt in the warm +breath of affection, it was her usual sunshine, and she gave it no +thought while it blessed her; a cold word or look was an unfamiliar +thing. A most glad-hearted being she was once! But death came in a +terrible form, folded her loved ones in his icy arms and bore them +to another world. A kind father, a tender mother, a brother and +sister, were laid in the grave, in one short month, by the cholera. +One brother was yet left, and she was taken to his home, for he was +a wealthy merchant. But there seemed a coldness in his splendid +house, a coldness in his wife's heart. Sick in body and in mind, the +bereft one resolved to travel South, and visit among her relations, +hoping to awaken her interest in life, which had lain dormant +through grief. She went to that sunny region, and while there, +became acquainted with a man of fine intellect and fascinating +manners, who won her affections, and afterwards proved unworthy of +her. Again the beauty of her life was darkened, and with a weary +heart she wore out the tedious years of her joyless existence. She +was an angel of charity to the poor and suffering. She grew lovelier +through sorrow. A desire to see her brother, her nearest and dearest +relative, called her North again, and when our story opens she was +in the bosom of his home, a member of his family. He loved her +deeply, yet she felt like an alien--his wife had not welcomed her as +a sister should. Mary Clinton's heart went out toward's Alice, her +eldest niece, a beautiful and loving creature just springing into +womanhood. But the fair girl was gay and thoughtless, flattered and +caressed by everybody. She knew sadness only by the name. She had no +dream that she could impart a deep joy, by giving forth her young +heart's love to the desolate stranger. + +The hour had grown late, very late, and Mary Clinton still leaned +her head upon the table buried in thoughts, when the bounding step +of Alice outside the door aroused her from her revery. She listened, +almost hoping to see her friendly face peeping in, but wearied with +the enjoyment of the evening, the fair young belle hastened on to +her chamber, and her aunt heard the door close. Rising from her seat +at the table, Miss Clinton approached a window, and threw back the +curtains that the midnight air might steal coolingly over her brow. +Her eye fell upon the rich bracelet that clasped her arm, a gift of +her brother, and then with a sad smile, she surveyed the pure dress +of delicate white she wore. "Ah!" she sighed, "I am robed for a +scene of gayety, but how sad the heart that beats beneath this +boddice! How glad I was to escape from the company; loneliness in +the crowd is so sad a feeling." At that moment the door of her room +opened, and Alice came laughing in, her glowing face all bright and +careless. + +"Oh! Aunt Mary," she exclaimed, "do help me! I cannot unclasp my +necklace, and my patience has all oozed out at the tips of my +fingers. There! you have unfastened it already. Well! I believe I +never will be good for anything!" And Alice laughed as heartily, as +if the idea was charming. "When did you leave the parlours, Aunt +Mary? I never missed you at all. Father said you left early, when I +met him just now on the stairs." + +"I did leave early," replied Miss Clinton. "I chanced to feel like +being entirely alone, so I sought my own apartment." + +"Have you been reading, aunt? I should think you would feel lonely!" + +"I read very little," was the reply, in a sad tone. No remark was +made on her loneliness. + +"It seems so strange to me, Aunt Mary, that you are so fond of being +alone. I like company so much," said Alice, looking in her quiet +face. "But I must go," she added; she paused a moment, then pressed +an affectionate kiss upon her aunt's cheek, and whispered a soft +"good night." Miss Clinton cast both arms around her, and drew her +to her heart, with an eagerness that surprised Alice. Twice she +kissed her, then hastily released her as if her feeling had gone +forth before she was aware of it. Alice stood still before her a +moment, and her careless eyes took a deeply searching expression as +they dwelt upon the countenance before her. Something like sadness +passed over her face, and her voice was deeper in its tone, as she +repeated, "Good night, dear Aunt Mary!" With a slow step she left +the apartment, mentally contrasting her own position with that of +her aunt. Circumstances around her and the society with which she +mingled, tended to drown reflection, and call into play only the +brighter and gayer feelings, that flutter on the surface of our +being. She had never known the luxury of devoting an hour to genuine +meditation on the world within--or the great world without. The +earth was to her a garden of joy; she lived upon it only to enjoy +herself. Like many selfish people, Alice's mother made an idol of +her beautiful child, because she was a part of herself; and Mrs. +Clinton was not one to perform a mother's duty faithfully in +instilling right views of life into her daughter's mind. Thus, with +a depth of feeling, and rich gifts of mind, Alice fluttered on her +way like a light-winged butterfly, her soul's pure wells of tender +thought unknown to her. How many millions pass through a whole long +life, with the deepest and holiest secrets of their being still +unlocked by their heedless hands! How few see aught to live for, but +the outward sunshine of prosperity, which is an idle sunshine, +compared with the ever-strengthening light that may grow in the +spirit! How strong, how great, how beautiful may life be, when +smiled upon by our Creator! how weak, how abject, how trampled upon, +when turned away from his face! + +With better and more quiet emotions, Mary Clinton retired to rest. +"I can love others, if I am not beloved," she murmured, and the dove +of peace fluttered its white wing over her. Her resigned prayer was, +"Lord, into thy hands I commit my spirit." Tears of earnest humility +had washed away all bitterness from the wrung heart of that lovely +being. How beautiful was the angel smile that played over her face, +in her pure dreams! + +A few weeks after, Alice entered her aunt's apartment one drizzling, +damp, foggy, uncomfortable day. "Such miserable weather!" she +exclaimed, throwing herself idly into an arm-chair; "I believe I +have got the _blues_ for once in my life. I don't know what to do +with myself; it makes me perfectly melancholy to look out of the +window, and nothing in the house wears a cheerful aspect. Mother has +a headache; when I proposed reading to her, she very politely asked +me if I would not let her remain alone. She says I always want to +sing, read, or talk incessantly if she wishes to be quiet. I can't +ding on the piano, for it is heard from attic to basement. I don't +want to read alone, for I have such a desire to be sociable--now, +Aunt Mary, you have a catalogue of my troubles, can't you relieve +me, for I am really miserable, if I don't look so!" Alice broke into +a laugh, although it did not bubble right up from her merry heart as +usual. + +"If your attention was fully engaged, you would not mind the weather +so much," remarked Aunt Mary, with a quiet smile. "You are not in a +mood to enjoy a book just now, so what _will_ you do, my dear?" + +"Mend stockings, or turn my room upside down, and then arrange it +neatly," said Alice in a speculative tone. "There is nothing in the +house to interest me; there is Patty in the kitchen, I have just +been paying her a visit. She is as busy as a bee, and as happy as a +queen. I believe poor people are happier than the rich, in such +weather as this, at least." + +"Because they are useful, Alice; go busy yourself about some +physical labour for an hour or two, then come back to me, and I +predict your face will be as sunshiny as ever. I am in earnest--you +need not look so incredulous!" + +"What shall I do?" asked the young girl laughing. "I don't know how +to do a single thing in domestic matters. Mother says I shall never +work. It would spoil my fairy fingers, I presume, a terrible +consequence!" + +"But seriously Alice, you are not so entirely incapable of doing +anything, are you?" + +"I am positively, but I can learn if I choose. I believe I will +sweep my room and put it in order, as a beginning. That will be +something new: now I will try my best!" Alice sprang from her chair, +and tripped from the apartment quite pleased with the idea. A smile +broke over Miss Clinton's features, after her niece had left her +alone. "How easily Alice might be trained to better things, by love +and gentleness," she said half aloud. "Oh! if she would only love +me, and turn to me fondly. How I would delight to breathe a genial +prayer over the buds of promise in her youthful heart, and fan them +to warmer life." More than an hour flew by, as Mary Clinton sat in +thought, devising plans to awaken her favourite to a true sense of +her duties--to a knowledge of her capabilities for happiness and +usefulness. We may be useful with a heart full of sadness; but we +can rarely taste of happiness, unless we are desirous to benefit +some one besides ourselves. A quietness came over the lonely one as +she mused--a spirit of beautiful repose; for she forgot all thoughts +of her own enjoyment, in caring for another. + +"You are quite a physician, Aunt Mary, to a mind diseased," +exclaimed Alice, breaking her revery as she came in with a smiling +face, after the performance of her unaccustomed labour. "I am quite +in tune again now. I believe there is a little philosophy in being +busy occasionally, after all." + +"There is really," replied Miss Clinton, raising her deep blue eyes +to Alice's face, with their pleasant expression; "and there is also +philosophy in recreation--in abandoning yourself for a time to +innocent gayety. An hour of enjoyment is refreshing and beneficial." + +"Why, Aunt Mary!" said Alice in some surprise, "I had no idea that +you thought so. You are always so industrious and quiet, I imagined +you disapproved of the merriment of ordinary people. When we have a +large company you almost always retire early. Why do you do so, +aunt, may I ask you?" + +Mary Clinton was silent a moment, then she said gently, "When I +think I can add to the ease or enjoyment of any person present, I +take pleasure in staying; but when I feel that I am rather a +restraint than otherwise, I retire--to weep. You are yet young and +beautiful, my child, for you have never known such feelings. I am +too selfish, or I would not be sad so often; it is right that I +should pass through such a school of discipline. I hope it has +already made me better." The look of resignation that beamed from +Miss Clinton's tearful eyes, caused a chord in Alice's heart to +tremble with a strange blending of love, sweetness, and sorrow. + +"_You_ should be happy, if any one should, dear aunt," she said in a +low voice, and she partly averted her head, to conceal the tears +that started down her cheek. "I am happy so often, she resumed, +turning around and seating herself upon an ottoman at her aunt's +feet. "You deserve so much more than I--to be as good as you are, +Aunt Mary, I would almost change situations, for then I should be +sure of going to heaven." + +"You can be just as sure in your own position, as in that of any +other person. But, dear child, the more deeply we scan our hearts, +the more we see there to conquer, in order that we may become fit +companions for the angels." + +Alice remained thoughtful for some moments, then she folded her +hands over Aunt Mary's lap, and lifted her eyes to the loving face +that bent over her. "Be my guardian angel," she prayed tearfully, +"your love is so pure; a gentleness comes over me, when I am with +you. All tumultuous feelings sink down to repose. I have not known +you, Aunt Mary; you have shown me to-day how lovely goodness is. I +can feel it in your presence. Oh! to possess it! I fear it will be +long years before I grow so gentle in my spirit--so unselfish--so +like a child of Heaven!" + +"Hush, hush!" was Mary Clinton's gentle interruption. "You do not +know me yet, Alice. Perhaps I appear far better than I am." + +Alice smiled, and laying her arm around Aunt Mary's neck, drew down +her face, and kissed her affectionately, whispering, "You will be my +guide, I ask no better." + +"Thank you, thank you," broke from Aunt Mary's lips; she pressed +Alice's cheek with the ardent haste of love and gratitude; then +yielding to the emotions that thrilled her heart, she burst into +tears, and wept with a joy she had long been a stranger to. She felt +that her life would no longer be useless, if she could live for +Alice, and lift up to God her heart. How beautiful in its freshness, +is the early day when the light of a good resolve breaks like a halo +over the soul, and by its power, seeks to win it from its selfish +idols! Earnest and strong is the hopefulness that bids us labour +trustingly to become all we yearn to be--all we may be. How +tremblingly Mary Clinton leaned upon her Saviour! experience had +taught her the weakness of her fluttering heart; sorrow was +familiar, yet she prayed not to shrink from it. How clear and +vigorous was the mind of Alice--how shadowless was her unerring path +to be--how all weakness departed before the sudden thought that rose +up in her soul! How rich was the light that beamed from her steady +eye--how calm and trusting the slight smile that parted her lips! +How meek and confiding she was, and yet how full of strength! She +was a young seeker after truth, and she realized not yet, that that +same truth was the power to which she must bow every rebellious +thing within her. Months rolled on, and the quiet gladness in her +heart made it a delight to her to do anything and everything it +seemed her duty to do. The unexplored world within opened to her +gaze, and threw a glory upon creation. Infinitely priceless in her +eyes, were the thousand hearts around her, in which the Lord had +kindled the undying lamp of life. + +One evening, at rather a late hour, Alice Clinton sought the chamber +of her aunt and seated herself quietly beside her, saying in a +subdued voice as she took her hand, "I am inexpressibly sad +to-night, Aunt Mary. There is no very particular reason why I should +feel so; no one can soothe me but you. Put your arms around me, Aunt +Mary, and talk to me--give me some strength to go forward in the way +I have chosen. I almost despair--I have no good influence, no moral +courage. Perhaps, after all, my efforts have been in vain to become +better, and I shall sink back into my former state. If all who are +my friends were like you, it would be an easy thing to glide on with +the stream. But I am in the midst of peril--I never knew until +to-night that it was hard to speak with a cold rigour to our friends +when they merit it. If I were despised, or neglected, I could more +easily fix my thoughts on heaven. I dread so to hurt the feelings of +any one." + +"What do you refer to, dear?" inquired Aunt Mary, tenderly. + +"My friend Eleanor Temple, and her brother Theodore, have been +spending the evening with me. You know how gay and witty they are. +In answer to a remark of mine, Theodore gravely quoted a passage of +Scripture, which applied to my observation in an irresistibly +ludicrous manner. I yielded to a hearty laugh which I could not +restrain; it came so suddenly I had no time for thought. But in a +moment after my conscience smote me, and I felt that my respect for +Theodore had lessened. I had no right to rebuke him, even if I had +the moral courage, for my laughter was encouragement. I turned away +from him and spoke to Eleanor; I was displeased with myself, and I +felt a sort of inward repugnance to him. But that was not the end; +several times afterwards Theodore did the same thing. + +"'There are subjects which are not fit food for merriment;' I said +once in an embarrassed manner. 'If I do wrong, it is not +deliberately done.' Theodore was silent a moment, and he looked at +me as if he hardly knew how to understand me--then smiling, he +turned the conversation, and was as gay as ever. When they had taken +their leave, I entered the parlour again, and threw myself in a seat +by the open window. I turned the blind, and looked out after them. +Eleanor had caught the fringe of her mantilla in the railing of the +area. I was about to speak with her on the little accident, when +Theodore laughed, and said to his sister, 'Alice is as fond of +taking characters, as an actress. She attempted to reprove me, for +the very thing she had laughed at a little while before. Rather +inconsistent in our favourite, Nelly, don't you think so?' Eleanor +laughed, and said good-naturedly, 'Alice is impulsive, she don't +measure what she says, before it comes out.' + +"I rose, and left the window. I felt sad, and peculiarly discomposed +and dissatisfied with myself. I knew that I had tried to do right in +some degree, and it grated on my feelings that my effort should be +called 'a taking of character.' Oh! if I could only live with good +people altogether, who would bear with me, and trust my motives! You +have my story, Aunt Mary, it amounts to nothing, but I am so sad." + +"Life is made up of trifles," said Miss Clinton. "Few circumstances +are so trivial that we may not draw a lesson from them. Do not feel +sad, Alice, because you are misunderstood. Do not repine on account +of your position; no one could fill it but yourself, or you would +not be placed in it. Be resigned to meet those who call out +unpleasant feelings; they teach you better your own nature than ever +the angels could. They bring forth what is evil in you, that it may +be conquered. Do not understand me to mean that you should ever seek +those who may harm you. But a day can hardly pass over our heads, +that we do not meet with persons who ruffle that harmony of soul we +so labour after. It is keenly felt when one is as young in a better +life as you are. You need strength, and then you will be calm and +even. Time, patience, combating, prayer, good-will to man, must +bring your soul to order, then you will bear upon the spirits of +others with a still, purifying power which will soothe and soften +like far-off music. You have it in your power to do much good; your +Creator has blessed you with that inexpressible sympathy which may +glide gently into another human heart and open its secret springs +almost unconsciously to the possessor. I have watched you, child of +my love, and perhaps I know you better than you know yourself. There +are many latent germs within your being; Oh! Alice, pray God to +expand them to heavenly life. Bear on--and live for something worthy +a creature God has made." Mary Clinton paused in an unusual emotion; +her cheek glowed deeply, and the burning softness of her eyes +chained Alice's look as with a spell, to their angel expression. The +heart of the young girl throbbed almost to bursting, with the world +of undeveloped feeling that rushed over her. It was a moment which +many have experienced--a moment which breaks over the young for the +first time with such a thrill--she realized that God had gifted her +with power--with a soul that might and _must_ have its influence. +Bowing her head upon Aunt Mary's knee, she wept; and a flood of joy, +humility, and thanksgiving came over her, as she more deeply +dedicated herself to the holy Lord, and laid her gifts upon His +altar. Aunt Mary's words sunk peacefully into her soul, and a clear +light irradiated it and filled it with a calmness that made all +things right. With a look of irrepressible tenderness, and a voice +full of low music, Alice said to Aunt Mary, as she rose to retire, +"You have charmed away every discordant note that was touched +to-night, dear aunt. How unaccountable are our sudden changes of +mood! You have now thrown over me your own spirit of peaceful repose +and contentment. Good-night, and think you!" + +"Well, I am content, entirely content," soliloquized Mary Clinton, +when the loved form of the child of her heart had disappeared. "To +try to bless another, how richly does the blessing fall back upon my +own soul! Yes! I have my joys. Why am I ever so ungrateful as to +murmur at aught that befalls me? I am blest--a sunshine is breaking +over the tender earth for me; all clouds are gone." With feelings +much changed from what they were a few months previous, Mary Clinton +sought the window, and with loving and devoted eyes dwelt upon the +night and stillness of the heavens--so boundless and so pure. The +moon was full; near it was one bright cloud of silver drapery, upon +the edge of which rested a single star. "So shall it be with me," +she murmured, "be the clouds that float over the heavens of my soul +bright or dark, the star of holy trust shall linger near, ever +bringing to my bosom--peace." + +About two years after, on a winter evening, there was a large +company assembled at Mr. Clinton's dwelling. It was in compliment to +Alice, for that day completed her twentieth year. As she moved from +one spot to another, her sweet face radiant with happiness, Aunt +Mary's eyes followed her with a devoted expression, which betrayed +that the lovely being was her dearest earthly treasure. The merry +girl was now a glad-hearted, but thoughtful woman. An innocent +mirthfulness lingered around her, which time itself would never +subdue, except for a brief season, when her sweet laugh broke out +with a natural, rich suddenness; there was a catching joy in it, +that could not be withstood. She was the gentle hostess to +perfection; with tact enough to discover congenial spirits, and +bring them together, finding her own pleasure in the cheerful home +thus made. She possessed the rare but happy art of making every body +feel perfectly at home, one knew not why. For a moment, Alice stood +alone with her little hand resting upon the centre-table. Behind +her, two rather fashionable young men were talking and laughing +somewhat too loud, and jesting upon sacred things. A look of pain +passed over the face of the fair listener as she slowly turned +round, and said in a low but earnest tone, "Don't, Theodore! Excuse +me, but _such_ trifling pains me." The young gentlemen both appeared +mortified. "Pardon me! Alice," exclaimed Theodore Temple, "I will +try to break that habit for your sake. I was not aware that it +pained you so much--a lady's word is law!" and he bowed gallantly. + +"No, no! Base your giving up of the habit upon principle, then it +will be permanent. Much obliged for the compliment"--Alice bowed +with assumed dignity, and her sweet face dimpled into a playful +smile, "but I have no faith in these pretty speeches. Remember, now, +I have your promise to try to break the habit; you will forfeit your +word if you do not; so you see your position, don't you?" Thus +saying, and without waiting for a reply, the young lady left them. + +"I believe Miss Clinton is right, after all," remarked Temple's +companion. "What is the use of jesting on such subjects? We never +feel any better after it, and we subject ourselves to the +displeasure of those who respect these things. I pass my word to +give it up, if you will, Temple." + +"Agreed!" was Theodore's brief answer. Without saying how mingled +the motive might have been, which induced the young men to forsake +the habit, they _did_ forsake it permanently. Aunt Mary's lonely +life was at last smiled upon by a sunbeam--and that sunbeam was the +soul of Alice, which she had turned to the light. For that cherished +being Mary Clinton could have offered up her life, and there would +have been a joy in the sacrifice. Strongly and nobly were their +hearts knit together--beautiful is the devotedness of holy, +unselfish love! Blest are two frank hearts, which may be opened to +each other, pouring out like lava the tide of feeling hoarded in the +inward soul--such revelations are for moments when the yearning +heart will not be hushed to calmness. But "there is a moonlight in +human life," and there is also a blessing in that subdued hour which +whispers wearily to the loving one, of weaknesses and sins, with a +prayer for consoling strength to triumph yet, leaving them in the +dust. Thus was it with Mary and Alice Clinton; their souls were open +as the day to each other. They travelled along life's pathway with +earnest purpose, fulfilling the many and changing duties that fell +upon them, ever catching rich gleams of joy from above. And sorrows +came too! but they purified, and taught the slumbering soul its +rarest wealth--its deepest sympathies with all things good and +heavenly. It seemed a slight thing that took away the desolation +from the heart of Mary Clinton--she turned away from _self_, and +devoted her efforts to the eternal happiness of another. Is there +one human being in the wide world so desolate, that he may not do +likewise? Only a mite may be cast in, but God has made none of his +children so poor, as to be without an influence. The humblest +effort, if it is all that _can_ be made, is as full of greatness at +the core, as the most ostentatious display. + + + + + + +THE DEAD. + + + + + +IT is strange what a change is wrought in one hour by death. The +moment our friend is gone from us for ever, what sacredness invests +him! Everything he ever said or did seems to return to us clothed in +new significance. A thousand yearnings rise, of things we would fain +say to him--of questions unanswered, and now unanswerable. All he +wore or touched, or looked upon familiarly, becomes sacred as +relics. Yesterday these were homely articles, to be tossed to and +fro, handled lightly, given away thoughtlessly--to-day we touch them +softly, our tears drop on them; death has laid his hand on them, and +they have become holy in our eyes. Those are sad hours when one has +passed from our doors never to return, and we go back to set the +place in order. There the room, so familiar, the homely belongings +of their daily life, each one seems to say to us in its turn, +"Neither shall their place know them any more." Clear the shelf now +of vials and cups, and prescriptions; open the windows; step no more +carefully; there is no one now to be cared for--no one to be +nursed--no one to be awakened. + +Ah! why does this bring a secret pang with it when we know that they +are where none shall any more say, "I am sick!" Could only one +flutter of their immortal garments be visible in such moments; could +their face, glorious with the light of heaven, once smile on the +deserted room, it might be better. One needs to lose friends to +understand one's self truly. The death of a friend teaches things +within that we never knew before. We may have expected it, prepared +for it, it may have been hourly expected for weeks; yet when it +comes, it falls on us suddenly, and reveals in us emotions we could +not dream. The opening of those heavenly gate for them startles and +flutters our souls with strange mysterious thrills, unfelt before. +The glimpse of glories, the sweep of voices, all startle and dazzle +us, and the soul for many a day aches and longs with untold +longings. + +We divide among ourselves the possessions of our lost ones. Each +well-known thing comes to us with an almost supernatural power. The +book we once read with them, the old Bible, the familiar hymn; then +perhaps little pet articles of fancy, made dear to them by some +peculiar taste, the picture, the vase!--how costly are they now in +our eyes. + +We value them not for their beauty or worth, but for the frequency +with which we have seen them touched or used by them; and our eye +runs over the collection, and perhaps lights most lovingly on the +homeliest thing which may have been oftenest touched or worn by +them. + +It is a touching ceremony to divide among a circle of friends the +memorials of the lost. Each one comes inscribed--"_no more_;" and +yet each one, too, is a pledge of reunion. But there are invisible +relics of our lost ones more precious than the book, the pictures, +or the vase. Let us treasure them in our hearts. Let us bind to our +hearts the patience which they will never need again; the fortitude +in suffering which belonged only to this suffering state. Let us +take from their dying hand that submission under affliction which +they shall need no more in a world where affliction is unknown. Let +us collect in our thoughts all those cheerful and hopeful sayings +which they threw out from time to time as they walked with us, and +string them as a rosary to be daily counted over. Let us test our +own daily life by what must be their now perfected estimate; and as +they once walked with us on earth, let us walk with them in heaven. + +We may learn at the grave of our lost ones how to live with the +living. It is a fearful thing to live so carelessly as we often do +with those dearest to us, who may at any moment be gone for ever. +The life we are living, the words we are now saying, will all be +lived over in memory over some future grave. One remarks that the +death of a child often makes parents tender and indulgent! Ah, it is +a lesson learned of bitter sorrow! If we would know how to measure +our work to living friends, let us see how we feel towards the dead. +If we have been neglectful, if we have spoken hasty and unkind +words, on which death has put his inevitable seal, what an anguish +is that! But our living friends may, ere we know, pass from us; we +may be to-day talking with those whose names to-morrow are to be +written among the dead; the familiar household object of to-day may +become sacred relics to-morrow. Let us walk softly; let us forbear +and love; none ever repented of too much love to a departed friend; +none ever regretted too much tenderness and indulgence, but many a +tear has been shed for too much harshness and severity. Let our +friends in heaven then teach us how to treat our friends on earth. +Thus by no vain fruitless sorrow, but by a deeper self-knowledge, a +tenderer and more sacred estimate of life, may our heavenly friends +prove to us ministering spirits. + +The triumphant apostle says to the Christian, "All things are +yours--Life and Death." Let us not lose either; let us make _Death_ +our own; in a richer, deeper, and more solemn earnestness of life. +So those souls which have gone from our ark, and seemed lost over +the gloomy ocean of the unknown, shall return to us, bearing the +olive-leaves of Paradise. + + + + + + +DO YOU SUFFER MORE THAN YOUR NEIGHBOUR? + + + + + +"WHOSE sorrow is like unto my sorrow?" + +Such is the language of the stricken soul, such the outbreak of +feeling, when affliction darkens the horizon of man's sunny hopes, +and dashes the full cup of blessings suddenly from the expectant +lips. + +"Console me not; you have not felt this pang," cries the spirit in +agony, to the kind friend who is striving to pour the balm of +consolation in the wounded heart. + +"But I have known worse," is the reply. + +"Worse! never, never; no one could suffer more keenly than I now do, +and live." + +In vain the friend reasons; sorrow is always more or less selfish; +it absorbs all other passions; it consecrates itself to tears and +lamentations, and the bereaved one feels alone; utterly alone in the +world, and of all mankind the most forsaken. Every heart knoweth its +own bitterness, and there is a canker spot on every human plant in +God's garden. Some are blighted and withered, ready to fall from the +stalk; others are blooming while a blight is at the root. + +What right have you to say, because you droop and languish, that +your neighbour, with a fair exterior and upright mien, is all that +his appearance indicates? What evidence have you that because you +suffer from want, and your neighbour rides in his carriage, that he +is, therefore, more abundantly blessed, more contentedly happy than +you? + +As you walk through the streets of costly and beautiful mansions, +you feel vaguely, that, associated with so much of beauty, of +magnificence and ease, there must be absolute content, enviable +freedom, unmixed pleasure, and constant happiness. How deplorably +mistaken. Here, where gold and crimson drape the windows, is mortal +sickness; there, where the heavy shutters fold over the rich plate +glass, lies shrouded death. Here, is blasted reputation, there, is +an untold and hideous grief. Here, is blighted love, striving to +look and be brave, but with a bosom corroded and full of bitterness; +there the sad conduct of a wayward child. Here is the terrible +neglect of an unkind and perhaps idolized husband; there the wilful +and repeated faults of an unfaithful wife. Here is dread of +bankruptcy, there dread of dishonour or exposure. Here is bitter +hatred, lacking only the nerve to prove another Cain. There silent +and hidden disease, working its skilful fangs about the heart, while +it paints the cheek with the very hue of health. Here is undying +remorse in the breast of one who has wronged the widow and the +fatherless; there the suffering being the victim of foul slander; +here is imbecility, there smothered revenge. The bride and the +belle, both so seemingly blessed, have each their sacred but +poignant sorrow. + +Have you a worse grief than your neighbour? You think you have; you +have buried your only child--he has laid seven in the tomb. Seven +times has his heart been rent open; and the wounds are yet fresh; he +has no hope to sustain him; he is a miserable man, and you are a +Christian. + +Have you more trouble than your neighbour? You have lost your +all--no, no, say not so; your neighbour has lost houses and lands, +but his health has gone also; and while you are robust, he lies on +the uneasy pillow of sickness, and watches some faithful menial +prepare his scanty meal, and then waits till a trusty hand bears the +food to his parched lips. + +Do you suffer more than your neighbour? True; Saturday night tests +your poverty; you have but money enough for the bare necessaries of +life; your children dress meagerly, and your house is scantily +furnished; you do not know whether or not work will be forthcoming +the following week. Your neighbour sees not, nor did he ever see, +want. House, wife and children are sumptuously provided for; his +barn is a palace to your kitchen. Step into his parlour and look at +him for a moment; papers surround him, blazing Lehigh floods the +grate, velvet carpets yield to the step; luxurious chairs invite to +rest--check the sigh of envy; there is a ring at the bell--hurrying +footsteps on the stairs--a jarring sound against the polished door, +and in bursts the rich man's son, his brow haggard, his eyes fierce +and red. He is a notorious profligate; gambling is his food and +drink, debauchery his glory and his ruin. Would you be that father? +Go back to your honest sons and look in their faces; throw the +bright locks from their brows, and bless God that there the angel +triumphs over the brute; be even thankful that you are not burdened +with corrupt gold, for their sakes; say not again that you suffer +more than your neighbour. + +Do you toil, young girl, from daylight to midnight, while the little +sums eked out with frowns and reluctant fingers, hardly suffice to +provide for you food and raiment? And the wife of your rich +employer, who passes stranger-like by you, may sit at her marble +toilet-table for hours, and retouch the faded brow of beauty before +a gilded mirror; may lounge at her palace window till she is weary +of gazing, and being gazed at; do you envy your wealthier neighbour, +young sewing-girl? Go to her boudoir, where pictures and statuary, +silken hangings and perfumes delight every sense, and where costly +robes are flung around with a profusion that betokens lavish +expenditure; ask her which she deems happiest, and she will point +her jewelled finger towards you, and--if she speaks with +candour--tell you that for your single soul and free spirits, she +would barter all her riches. The opera, where night after night the +wealth of glorious voices is flung upon the air till its every +vibration is melody, and the spirit drinks it in as it would the +incense of rare flowers, is to her not so exquisite a luxury as the +choice songs, warbled in a concert room, to which you may listen but +few times in the year; such pleasure palls in repetition, on the +common mind, for nature's favourites are among the poor, and gold, +with all its magical power, can never attune the ear to music, nor +the taste to an appreciation of that which is truly beautiful in +nature or art. Keep then your integrity, and you never need envy the +wife of your employer. A round of heartless dissipation has sickened +her of humanity; and if it were not for the excitement of outshining +her compeers in the ranks of fashion, she would lay down her useless +life to-morrow. + +Mothers, worn out and enfeebled with work, labouring for those who, +however good they may be, are at the best unable to pay you for you +unceasing toil, unable to realize your great sacrifices, do you look +upon your neighbour who has more means and a few petted children, +and wish that your lot was like hers? You pause often over your +task, and think it greater than you can bear. + +"Tell mothers," said a lady to us a short time since, "who have +their little ones around them, that they are living their happiest +days; and the time will come when they will realize it. Tell them to +bend in thankfulness over the midnight lamp, to smile at their +ceaseless work and call it pleasure. I can but kneel in fancy by the +distant graves of my children; they are all gone. Could I but have +them beside me now, I would delve like a slave for them; I would +think no burden too hard, no denial beyond my strength, if I might +but labour for their good and be rewarded by their smiles and their +love." + +Then in whatever situation we are, we should remember that even but +a door from our own dwelling there may be anguish, compared with +which ours is but as the whisper of a breath to the roll of the +thunder. We do not say then, let us _console_ ourselves by the +reflection that there are always those in the world who suffer +keener afflictions than ourselves, "but let us feel that though our +cup of sorrow may be almost full, there might be added many a drop +of bitterness;" and never, never should we breathe the expression, +"there is no sorrow like unto mine." + + + + + + +WE ARE LED BY A WAY THAT WE KNOW NOT. + + + + + +WE are to consider the facts and circumstances which confirm the +doctrine that the Lord's providence is at once universal and +particular; and indeed that he leads us by a way unknown to +ourselves. + +And who that has reflected upon his own life, or upon the life of +others, or upon the current events of the day, will not bear witness +to the universal application of this principle? + +Look to the affairs of the world, to the nations and governments of +all the earth, and tell me, where is anything turning out according +to the forethought and prudence of man? + +Look to the movements of our own country, and say whether human +prudence ever devised what we behold? What party or what individuals +have ever, in the long run, brought things about as they expected? +And how is it in our own city, and under our own eyes? + +In the societies of the church, and in organizations for church +extension, the same rule applies. And I might ask, where does it not +apply? I might give examples. But this is unnecessary, when they are +so numerous, and so fresh in the memory of every one. + +But when we turn to the experience of individuals, we meet with the +most unlimited application of our subject. The life of every one is +a standing memento of its truth. For who is there, that has come to +his present stand-point in life, by the route that he had marked out +for himself? I will imagine that ten, fifteen, or twenty years ago +each one of you fixed on your plan of life, for a longer or shorter +period. It matters not what the original plan was. It matters not +what prudence, sagacity, and forethought were employed in making it. +It matters not how much money and power have come to the support of +it. Still its parts have never been filled up as you originally +sketched them. + +Many particulars were altered and amended, from day to day, as you +went along. Some things were abandoned as useless; some as hopeless; +some as impossible; some as injurious; some things were neglected, +and others forgotten. An unknown hand now and then interposed, +turning the tables entirely. An unaccountable influence was found +operating on certain individuals, changing their tone, and modifying +their conduct. An unknown individual has come alongside of you, and +has become your friend. He has mingled his emotions and his plans +with yours. You have modified your plans. He has changed his. +Business and commerce have taken an unexpected turn. You are the +gainer or the loser, it matters not; your plans are changed by the +event. An intimate friend has left you and become your open enemy; +an open enemy has been reconciled and has returned to the affection +and confidence of your heart. Your plans in life have to be changed +to suit such events as these. Several friends and relatives, that +were near to you, have been removed into the spiritual world. It may +be that by such providences, your feelings, thoughts, and actions +have been changed--changed utterly and for ever. Darkness of mind, +gloominess of life, and anguish of spirit may have come upon you, by +some such unexpected providence, and thus your plans may have been +changed, or even utterly abandoned. + +But beyond matters of this description, which are somewhat external, +and as we say accidental, and certainly incidental, to a life in +this world, and in all of which we are led in a way that we know +not; there are unexpected changes of another kind, that we all have +experienced. I now refer to changes in the inner man, and in the +inner life. + +For there is a Divinity within us that shapes our ends, and while +the things of the outward life remain much the same, we experience +changes of the inner life, that are at times amazing and terrible. +They come like the swelling of the tide, and like the beating of the +waves rolling on from a distant ocean; the deep emotions of the soul +arise and swell and sweep away; the fire of thought is kindled; the +imagination paints the canvas; the tongue stands ready to utter the +influx of love and wisdom; and the hand to illustrate it. + +As these internal states of the soul change, by conjunction with the +Lord and communion with Heaven, on the one hand; or by opposition to +God and alliance with Hell, on the other, we see all things of the +outward world in a different light. + +The changes of our internal man are, to appearance, much more +directly of the Lord's Divine Providence, than the events of the +outward life. Nevertheless, the two are so related by the +constitution of the mind, that each individual determines, in +rationality and freedom, which of the emotions and thoughts of the +_inner life_, he will bring forth into _ultimate acts_; and it is +here that the man may ally himself with the good and the true on one +hand, or with the evil and the false on the other; and in this +manner determine his destiny for heaven or hell. + +The practical bearings of our subjects hinge chiefly on this; we are +to confide in the Lord; lean upon his great arm; and look to Him, +with the assurance that although He leads us by a way that we know +not, nevertheless He is leading us aright; and if we trust to Him, +and do His will, He will finally bring us to heaven. + +Casting our eyes from one extreme of the Lord's vast dominions to +the other, we find the same Divine Providence everywhere operating +and operative. The angels of heaven, from the highest to the lowest, +are continually led by the Lord in paths that they have not known; +darkness is made light before them, and crooked things straight. +Nevertheless they are not led into infinite good nor infinite +delight. For this would be impossible. But constantly they are led +into a higher degree of good than they would naturally choose; and +they are defended from evil into which they would naturally subside. +So also it is with us. + +Hence we may rest assured, that however meagre may be the good we +experience, it is vaster by far than we should inherit, if we had +been permitted to carry out our own plans and to have our own way in +those numerous particulars in which we have been frustrated in our +plans and disappointed in our hopes. + + + + + + +THE IVY IN THE DUNGEON. + + + + + + THE ivy in a dungeon grew, + Unfed by rain, uncheered by dew; + Its pallid leaflets only drank + Cave-moistures foul, and odours dank. + + But through the dungeon-grating high + There fell a sunbeam from the sky; + It slept upon the grateful floor + In silent gladness evermore. + + The ivy felt a tremor shoot + Through all its fibres to the root; + It felt the light, it saw the ray, + It strove to blossom into day. + + It grew, it crept, it pushed, it clomb-- + Long had the darkness been its home; + But well it knew, though veiled in night, + The goodness and the joy of light. + + Its clinging roots grew deep and strong; + Its stem expanded firm and long; + And in the currents of the air + Its tender branches flourished fair. + + It reached the beam--it thrilled--it curled-- + It blessed the warmth that cheers the world; + It rose towards the dungeon bars-- + It looked upon the sun and stars. + + It felt the life of bursting Spring, + It heard the happy sky-lark sing. + It caught the breath of morns and eves, + And wooed the swallow to its leaves. + + By rains, and dews, and sunshine fed, + Over the outer wall it spread; + And in the day-beam waving free, + It grew into a steadfast tree. + + Upon that solitary place, + Its verdure threw adorning grace. + The mating birds became its guests, + And sang its praises from their nests. + + Wouldst know the moral of the rhyme? + Behold the heavenly light! and climb. + To every dungeon comes a ray + Of God's interminable day. + + + + + + +THE GARDEN OF EDEN. + + + + + +ONE day little Alice hung about her mother's neck covering her +cheeks with kisses, and saying in her pretty, childish way, + +"I love you, you nice, sweet mother! You are good--so good!" But her +mother answered earnestly, + +"Dear child, God is good; if I have any good it is from Him; He has +given it to me; it is not mine." + +Then the little one unclasped her caressing arms, and putting back +her hair with both hands gazed with a look of surprise into her +mother's face. + +Presently she said--"But if He has given it to you, it is yours." + +"No, darling," replied the lady, "you do not quite understand. +Listen. Suppose your dear father had a great garden full of all most +beautiful things that ever grew in gardens, and he should say to +you--'Come and live in my garden; you shall have as much ground as +you are able to cultivate, and I will give you seeds of all fruits +and flowers you love best, as many as you want. Here no evil thing +can ever come to harm you, but every day you will grow happier and +stronger, and then I will give you more ground and more seeds, and +you shall live with me for ever!' Suppose you were so glad to hear +this that you lost no time, but went in, at once, and began to plant +the seeds in your little plot, close by the gate--you know it would +be a tiny little plot at first, because you are small and weak; and +soon your flowers were to grow up and bloom, so tall, and so +beautiful, and your trees hang heavy with such delightful fruit that +every one passing by would exclaim, + +"'Oh, what a beautiful garden! Are these flowers and fruit trees +yours?' + +"Would you not say-- + +"Oh, no! they are not mine; they are all my father's. This is his +beautiful garden, but he said if I were willing I might stay here +always, and I have come to live with him because he is good. Nothing +at all here belongs to me, though my father likes me to give away +the fruits and flowers that grow in my plot to all who ask for them. +I am a great deal happier, all the time, when I think that even the +wild flowers in this grass, and the small berries, and the little +birds that eat them, belong to him, than I could be if they were +mine, and I had no one to love for them.' + +"Should you not feel, dearest, as though you were telling a wicked +story, and almost as though you were stealing something, if you +said, 'Yes, they are all mine,' so that the people would not even +know you had a father?" + +"Oh, yes! that would be very naughty indeed. I would give the people +some of the fruit and flowers, and say they grew on my father's +trees, and then they would love him too; but tell me more about the +garden." + +"I will tell you all I think you can understand, and you must be +attentive, for I want you to remember it all your life. Did you ever +hear of the Garden of Eden?" + +"Yes; that is where Adam and Eve lived." + +"Well, that's the beautiful garden I've been telling you about, and +God is your good father. You can begin your journey there this very +day if you like." + +"Is it a very long journey?--and will you go with me? Is there +really, _really_ such a garden? Oh, tell me where it is!" + +"I desire nothing in the world so much as to lead you there, but the +path is rough and steep; I cannot carry you in my arms along that +road; you must walk on your own little feet, and I am afraid they +will sometimes get--very tired." + +"You know, mother, I never do get tired when I am going to a +pleasant place; but, oh, dear! I do believe now it is all a +dream-story; you smiled and kissed me just as if it were." + +"No, you need not look so disappointed, little one, for though it is +something like a 'dream-story,' there is nothing in the world half +so true and real. Think in that little head of yours, and tell me +what seems to you most like this beautiful garden." + +"I cannot think of anything at all like it, except heaven.--Oh, +yes!--that is it! Heaven, is it not?" + +"And what is heaven?" + +"The place where good people go when they die." + +"Think again. What is heaven?" + +"I have thought again, and I cannot think of anything but the place +where God and the angels are. I do not know how you want me to +think." + +"I want you to think why it is heaven, and why the angels are happy. +Do you understand?" + +"Yes. Being beautiful and so pleasant makes it heaven; and the +angels are happy because they are in heaven." + +"Then, of course, if you put even such wicked people into a +beautiful and pleasant place they would be angels, and happy?" + +"Oh, now I see! You mean the angels are happy because they are +good." + +"Why should that make them happy?" + +"I don't know why, but I know the Bible says so. I suppose just the +same as when you promise me, in the morning, that if I say my +lessons all nicely you will tell me a beautiful fairy-tale after +tea." + +"No, my little Alice, not exactly in that way, though at first +thought it does seem to be so. I want you very much indeed, to +understand the truth about it, but I am afraid you will not find it +easy. You know that God is good, and wise, and happy--ah, dearest! +better, wiser, happier than the purest angels will ever know, though +they go on learning it to eternity. When I say to you God is +infinitely good, and wise, and happy, you cannot understand that, +and neither can I; but one thing about it I can understand, and this +I will tell you. Just as every joyous ray of light and heat comes to +us from the sun, so all wisdom, all goodness, all beauty, all joy, +flow forth from God, and are His, alone. Our very souls would go out +of existence like the flames of a lamp when the oil is spent, if, +for the least fraction of a second, He ceased to give us life. This +truth that I am teaching you now is not mine, nor yours; it is only +a tiny stream flowing from the fountains of His infinite wisdom, and +would be the truth, all the same, if we had never been born, or +never learned to see it. The good and joyous feelings in your heart, +too, are also from God, just as the truth is, though they seem to +you more as if they were your own. You must never think of them as +your own, never; but thank God for them very gratefully and humbly, +for they are His fruits that grow in the garden of your father, the +Garden of Eden." + +"Why do you call it the Garden of Eden?" + +"Because, by the Garden of Eden, is signified the state of those who +live in obedience to God; and by the beauty and pleasantness of the +garden we are taught that, when we receive goodness and truth from +God, we, at the same time, receive happiness from Him, because He is +infinitely happy, as well as infinitely good, and when His spirit +fills our hearts, we are happy too. Happiness comes with goodness, +just as the flowers and songs of birds come with summer." + +"Then are all good people happy? I thought not." + +"It is true, there are many trials in this world, but do you not see +that if we were good we should acknowledge that God sent them as +blessings, and should be willing to accept them from him, and +should, therefore, not be made very unhappy by them. You may be sure +that people are really, in their heart of hearts, happy exactly in +proportion as they are good. I have known persons who had suffered a +great deal in many ways, and who yet said that nothing had been so +bitter to them as the consciousness of their own sins. Good people +see a thousand things to love and enjoy which the wicked world find +no pleasure in; they are sure to make friends, and, what is far +better, sure to love and do good to all about them. They take +delight in everything beautiful that God has created. They think of +Him, and all His goodness, and, in the midst of sorrow, their hearts +are comforted, and filled with heavenly peace." + +"Why did you say the road was rough and long to that beautiful +garden?--is it so very, very hard to be good?--and does it take so +very long?" + +"You must not feel sad because it is not easy to be good; you must +think of it bravely, and joyfully. Why, my Alice! did you not say +you never felt tired when you were going to a pleasant place? It is +not always easy to do right; sometimes we are sorely tempted, and +then it seems very difficult; but what of that? It is possible, +always, for God never requires of us what we cannot do. When you +feel discouraged, remember that angels in heaven were little +children once, and that some of them found it as hard as you do to +be good and true, but they tried over and over again, and are +blessed angels now. They love to acknowledge that it was not by +their own strength they overcame evil, but that all the good and +truth and happiness they have are from God. He does not love you +less than He did them, for His love is infinite to all His children, +and if you are willing He will lead you also into His Garden of +Eden." + + + + + + +HAVE A FLOWER IN YOUR ROOM. + + + + + +A FIRE in winter, a flower in summer! If you can have a fine print +or picture all the year round, so much the better; you will thus +always have a bit of sunshine in your room, whether the sky be clear +or not. But, above all, a flower in summer! + +Most people have yet to learn the true enjoyment of life; it is not +fine dresses, or large houses, or elegant furniture, or rich wines, +or gay parties, that make homes happy. Really, wealth cannot +purchase pleasures of the higher sort; these depend not on money, or +money's worth; it is the heart, and taste, and intellect, which +determine the happiness of men; which give the seeing eye and the +sentient nature, and without which, man is little better than a kind +of walking clothes-horse. + +A snug and a clean home, no matter how tiny it be, so that it be +wholesome; windows, into which the sun can shine cheerily; a few +good books (and who need be without a few good books in these days +of universal cheapness?)--no duns at the door, and the cupboard well +supplied, and with a flower in your room!--and there is none so poor +as not to have about him the elements of pleasure. + +Hark! there is a child passing our window calling "wallflowers!" We +must have a bunch forthwith: it is only a penny! A shower has just +fallen, the pearly drops are still hanging upon the petals, and they +sparkle in the sun which has again come out in his beauty. + +How deliciously the flower smells of country and nature! It is like +summer coming into our room to greet us. The wallflowers are from +Kent, and only last night were looking up to the stars from their +native stems; they are full of buds yet, with their promise of fresh +beauty. "Betty! bring a glass of clear water to put these flowers +in!" and so we set to, arranging and displaying our pennyworth to +the best advantage. + +But what do you say to a nosegay of roses? Here you have a specimen +of the most beautiful of the smiles of Nature! Who, that looks on +one of these bright full-blown beauties, will say that she is sad, +or sour, or puritanical! Nature tells us to be happy, to be glad, +for she decks herself with roses, and the fields, the skies, the +hedgerows, the thickets, the green lanes, the dells, the mountains, +the morning and evening sky, are robed in loveliness. The "laughing +flowers," exclaims the poet! but there is more than gayety in the +blooming flower, though it takes a wise man to see its full +significance--there is the beauty, the love, and the adaptation, of +which it is full. Few of us, however, see any more deeply in this +respect than did Peter Bell:-- + + "A primrose by a river's brim, + A yellow primrose was to him, + And it was nothing more." + +What would we think or say of one who had invented +flowers-supposing, that before him, flowers were things unknown; +would it not be the paradise of a new delight? should we not hail +the inventor as a genius as a god? And yet these lovely offsprings +of the earth have been speaking to man from the first dawn of his +existence till now, telling him of the goodness and wisdom of the +Creating Power, which bade the earth bring forth, not only that +which was useful as food, but also flowers, the bright consummate +flowers, to clothe it in beauty and joy! + +See that graceful fuchsia, its blood-red petals, and calyx of +bluish-purple, more exquisite in colour and form than any hand or +eyes, no matter how well skilled and trained, can imitate! We can +manufacture no colours to equal those of our flowers in their bright +brilliancy--such, for instance, as the Scarlet Lychnis, the +Browallia, or even the Common Poppy. Then see the exquisite blue of +the humble Speedwell, and the dazzling white of the Star of +Bethlehem, that shines even in the dark. Bring one of even our +common field-flowers into a room, place it on your table or chimney +piece, and you seem to have brought a ray of sunshine into the +place. There is ever cheerfulness about flowers; what a delight are +they to the drooping invalid! the very sight of them is cheering; +they are like a sweet draught of fresh bliss, coming as messengers +from the country without, and seeming to say:--"Come and see the +place where we grow, and let thy heart be glad in our presence." + +What can be more innocent than flowers! Are they not like children +undimmed by sin? They are emblems of purity and truth, always a new +source of delight to the pure and the innocent. The heart that does +not love flowers, or the voice of a playful child, is one that we +should not like to consort with. It was a beautiful conceit that +invented a language of flowers, by which lovers were enabled to +express the feelings that they dared not openly speak. But flowers +have a voice to all,--to old and young, to rich and poor, if they +would but listen, and try to interpret their meaning. "To me," says +Wordsworth, + + The meanest flower that blows can give + Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears." + +Have a flower in your room then, by all means! It will cost you only +a penny, if your ambition is moderate; and the gratification it will +give you will be beyond all price. If you can have a flower for your +window, so much the better. What can be more delicious than the +sun's light streaming through flowers--through the midst of crimson +fuchsias or scarlet geraniums? Then to look out into the light +through flowers--is not that poetry? And to break the force of the +sunbeams by the tender resistance of green leaves? If you can train +a nasturtium round the window, or some sweet-peas, then you have the +most beautiful frame you can invent for the picture without, whether +it be the busy crowd, or a distant landscape, or trees with their +lights and shades, or the changes of the passing clouds. Any one may +thus look through flowers for the price of an old song. And what a +pure taste and refinement does it not indicate on the part of the +cultivator! + +A flower in your window sweetens the air, makes your room look +graceful, gives the sun's light a new charm, rejoices your eye, and +links you to nature and beauty. You really cannot be altogether +alone, if you have a sweet flower to look upon, and it is a +companion which will never utter a cross thing to anybody, but +always look beautiful and smiling. Do not despise it because it is +cheap, and everybody may have the luxury as well as you. Common +things are cheap, and common things are invariably the most +valuable. Could we only have a fresh air or sunshine by purchase, +what luxuries these would be; but they are free to all, and we think +not of their blessings. + +There is, indeed, much in nature that we do not yet half enjoy, +because we shut our avenues of sensation and of feeling. We are +satisfied with the matter of fact, and look not for the spirit of +fact, which is above all. If we would open our minds to enjoyment, +we should find tranquil pleasures spread about us on every side. We +might live with the angels that visit us on every sunbeam, and sit +with the fairies who wait on every flower. We want some loving +knowledge to enable us truly to enjoy life, and we require to +cultivate a little more than we do the art of making the most of the +common means and appliances for enjoyment, which lie about us on +every side. There are, we doubt not, many who may read these pages, +who can enter into and appreciate the spirit of all that we have now +said; and, to those who may still hesitate, we would say--begin and +experiment forthwith; and first of all, when the next flower-girl +comes along your street, at once hail her, and "Have a flower for +your room!" + + + + + + +WEALTH. + + + + + +THE error of life into which man most readily falls, is the pursuit +of wealth as the highest good of existence. While riches command +respect, win position, and secure comfort, it is expected that they +will be regarded by all classes only with a strong and unsatisfied +desire. But the undue reverence which is everywhere manifested for +wealth, the rank which is conceded it, the homage which is paid it, +the perpetual worship which is offered it, all tend to magnify its +desirableness, and awaken longings for its possession in the minds +of those born without inheritance. In society, as at present +observed, the acquisition of money would seem to be the height of +human aim--the great object of living, to which all other purposes +are made subordinate. Money, which exalts the lowly, and sheds +honour upon the exalted--money, which makes sin appear goodness, and +gives to viciousness the seeming of chastity--money, which silences +evil report, and opens wide the mouth of praise--money, which +constitutes its possessor an oracle, to whom men listen with +deference--money, which makes deformity beautiful, and sanctifies +crime--money, which lets the guilty go unpunished, and wins +forgiveness for wrong--money, which makes manhood and age +respectable, and is commendation, surety, and good name for the +young,--how shall it be gained? by what schemes gathered in? by what +sacrifice secured? These are the questions which absorb the mind, +the practical answerings of which engross the life of men. The +schemes are too often those of fraud, and outrage upon the sacred +obligations of being; the sacrifice, loss of the highest moral +sense, the destruction of the purest susceptibilities of nature, the +neglect of internal life and development, the utter and sad +perversion of the true purposes of existence. Money is valued beyond +its worth--it has gained a power vastly above its deserving. Wealth +is courted so obsequiously, is flattered so servilely, is so +influential in moulding opinions and judgment, has such a weight in +the estimation of character, that men regard its acquisition as the +most prudent aim of their endeavours, and its possession as absolute +enjoyment and honour, rather than the means of honourable, useful, +and happy life. While riches are thus over-estimated, and hold such +power in the community, men will forego ease and endure toil, +sacrifice social pleasures and abandon principle, for the speedy and +unlimited acquirement of property. Money will not be regarded as the +means of living, but as the object of life. All nobler ends will be +neglected in the eager haste to be rich. No higher pursuit will be +recognised than the pursuit of gold--no attainment deemed so +desirable as the attainment of wealth. While the great man of every +circle is the rich man, in the common mind wealth becomes the +synonyme of greatness. No condition is discernable superior to that +which money confers; no loftier idea of manhood is entertained than +that which embraces the extent of one's possessions. + +There is a wealth of heart better than gold, and an interior +decoration fairer than outward ornament.-- + +There is a splendour in upright life, beside which gems are +lustreless; and a fineness of spirit whose beauty outvies the +glitter of diamonds. Man's true riches are hidden in his nature, and +in their development and increase will he find his surest happiness. + + + + + + +HOW TO BE HAPPY. + + + + + +OLD Mr. Cleveland sat by his comfortable fireside one cold winter's +night. He was a widower, and lived alone on his plantation; that is +to say, he was the only white person there; for of negroes, both +field hands and house servants, he had enough and to spare. He was a +queer old man, this Mr. Cleveland; a man of kind, good feelings, but +of eccentric impulses, and blunt and startling manners. You must +always let him do everything in his own odd way; just attempt to +dictate to him, or even to suggest a certain course, and you would +be sure to defeat your wisest designs. He seemed at times possessed +by a spirit of opposition, and would often turn right round and +oppose a course he had just been vehemently advocating, only because +some one else had ventured openly and warmly to approve it. + +The night, as I have said, was bitter cold, and would have done +honour to a northern latitude, and in addition to this, a violent +storm was coming on. The wind blew in fitful gusts, howling and +sighing among the huge trees with which the house was surrounded, +and then dying away with a melancholy, dirge-like moan. The old tree +rubbed their leafless branches against the window panes, and the +fowls which had roosted there for the night, were fain to clap their +wings, and make prodigious efforts to preserve their equilibrium. +Mr. Cleveland grew moody and restless, threw down the book in which +he had been reading, kicked one of the andirons till he made the +whole blazing fabric tumble down, and finally called, in an +impatient tone, his boy Tom. + +Tom soon popped his head in at the door, and said, "Yer's me, sir." + +"Yer's me, indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Cleveland, "what sort of a way is +this to build a fire?" + +"I rispec you is bin kick um, sir," said Tom. + +"Hey? What? Well! suppose I did bin kick um, if it had been properly +made, it would not have tumbled down. Fix it this minute, sir!" + +"I is gwine to fix um now, sir," said Tom, fumbling at the fire. + +"Well! fix it, sir, without having so much to say about it; you had +better do more, and say less," said Mr. Cleveland. + +"Yes, sir," answered Tom. + +"You _will_ keep answering me when there is no occasion!" exclaimed +Mr. Cleveland; "I just wish I had my stick here, I'd crack the side +of your head with it." + +"Yer's de stick, sir," said Tom, handing the walking cane out of the +corner. + +"Put it down, this instant, sir," said Mr. Cleveland; "how dare you +touch my stick without my leave?" + +"I bin tink you bin say you bin want um, sir," said Tom. + +"You had better tink about your work, sir, and stop answering me, +sir, or I'll find a way to make you," said Mr. Cleveland. "Bring in +some more light wood, and make the fire, and shut in the window +shutters. Do you hear me, sir?" + +"Yes, sir," replied Tom. + +"Well, why don't you answer, if you hear, then? How am I to know +when you hear me, if you don't answer?" said Mr. Cleveland. + +"I bin tink you bin tell me for no answer you, sir," said Tom. + +"I said when there was no occasion, boy; that's what I said," +exclaimed Mr. Cleveland, reaching for his stick." + +"Yes, sir," said Tom, as he went grinning out of the room. + +Mr. Cleveland was, in the main, a very kind master, though somewhat +hasty and impatient. Tom and he were for ever sparring, yet neither +could have done without the other; and there was something comical +about Tom's disposition which well suited his master's eccentric and +changeable moods. Tom evidently served as a kind of safety valve for +his master's nervous system, and many an explosion of superfluous +excitability he had to bear. + +On the night in question, Mr. Cleveland was particularly out of +sorts. The truth is, he was naturally a generous, warm-hearted man, +but in consequence of early disappointment, had lived a solitary +life, and was really suffering for the want of objects of affection. +His feelings, unsatisfied, unemployed, yet morbidly sensitive, were +becoming soured, and his untenanted heart often ached for want of +sympathy. + +He rose and took several diagonal turns across the room. At length +he opened a window, and looked out upon the stormy night. "What +confounded weather!" he muttered to himself, "it makes a man feel +like blowing his brains out! There are no two ways about it, I'm +tired of life. What have I to live for? If I were to die to-morrow, +who would shed a tear?" + +Then whispered conscience, "It is thine own fault. A man need not +feel alone because there are none in the world who bear his name, or +share his blood. All men are thy brethren. Thou art one of the great +human family, and what hast thou done to relieve the poor and +suffering around thee? Will not thy Master say to thee at the last +day, 'I was an hungered, and you gave me no meat; I was thirsty, and +you gave me no drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me not in; +naked, and you clothed me not; sick, and in prison, and you visited +me not. Inasmuch as you did it not to one of the least of these my +brethren, _you did it not to me._'" + +This was a strong and direct appeal, and it was not without its +effect. Then muttered Mr. Cleveland to himself again, "Well, how can +I help it? It has not been for want of inclination. Heaven knows I +am always ready to put my hand in my pocket whenever people call on +me for charity. How can I help it if the poor and suffering do not +make their wants known to me?" + +Then again spake Conscience: "Thou art trying to deceive thyself, +but thou canst not deceive nor silence _me_. Thou hast known of the +existence of suffering, and thine indolence has prevented thee from +going abroad to relieve it. Did thy Master thus? Did he not _go +about_ to do good? Did he not sit down to meat with publicans and +sinners? Can you stand here, and look out upon such a night as this, +and not think of those who are exposed to its bitterness? Can thy +human heart beat only for itself when thou thinkest of the thousand +miseries crying to Heaven for relief? Resolve, now, before thy head +touches its comfortable pillow, that with the morning's dawn thou +wilt resolutely set about thy work; or, rather, thy Master's work." + +"It is very hard," still muttered Mr. Cleveland to himself, "that +these thoughts will continually intrude themselves upon me. They +give me no peace of my life. Stifle them as I may, they come with +tenfold force. People have no business to be poor. I was poor once, +and nobody gave charity to me. I had to help myself up in the world +as well as I could. I hate poor people; I hate unfortunate people; +in fact, confound it! I hate the world and everybody in it." + +Then answered once again the still, small voice: "For shame, Mr. +Cleveland, for shame! You will ruin your soul if you thus darken the +light within. You know better than all this, and you are sinning +against yourself. You want to be happy; well, you may be so. There +is a wide field of duty open before you; enter, in God's name, and +go to work like a man. What you say about having helped yourself, is +perfectly true, and you deserve all credit for it. But remember that +the majority of the poor are entirely destitute of your advantages. +You had the foundation rightly laid. A thousand circumstances in +your early life conspired to render you energetic and self-relying. +You had the right sort of education, and Providence also helped to +train you. Besides, once more I ask you, did your Master stop to +inquire how human misery was brought about before he relieved it? +Away with this unmanly, selfish policy! Follow thy generous +impulses, follow out the yearnings of thy heart, without which you +never can have peace; above, all, follow Christ." + +Mr. Cleveland shut the window, heaved a deep sigh, and took several +more turns across the room. "I believe it is all true," at length he +said, "and I have been a confounded fool. I'll turn about, and lead +a different life, so help me Heaven! I have wealth, and not a chick +nor a child to spend it on, nor to leave it to when I die, and so +I'll spend it in doing good, if I can only find out the best way; +that's the trouble. But never mind, I'll be my own executor." He now +rang the bell for Tom. + +Tom immediately appeared, with his usual "Yer's me, sir." + +"Tom," said Mr. Cleveland, "put me in mind in the morning, to send a +load of wood to old Mrs. Peters." + +"Yes, sir," said Tom, "an' you better sen' some bacon, 'cause I bin +yerry (hear) little Mas Jack Peter say him ain't bin hab no meat for +eat sence I do' know de day when. I rispec dey drudder hab de meat +sted o' de wood, 'cause dey can pick up wood nuf all about." + +"You mind your own business, sir," said Mr. Cleveland, "I'll send +just what I please. How long is it since I came to you for advice? +Confound the fellow!" he muttered aside, "I meant to send the woman +some meat, and now if I do it, that impudent fellow will think I do +it because he advised it. Any how, I'll not send bacon, I'll send +beef or mutton." + +Just at this moment, there was a knock at the door, and Tom, going +to open it, admitted Dick, the coachman. + +"What do you want, Dick, at this time of night?" inquired his +master. + +"Dere's a man down stays, sir," replied Dick, "and he seem to be in +great 'fliction. He says dey is campin' out 'bout half a mile below, +sir, and de trees is fallin' so bad he is 'fraid dey will all be +killed. He ask you if you kin let dem stay in one of de out-houses +tell to-morrow." + +"Camping out such a night as this?" exclaimed Mr. Cleveland, "the +Lord have pity on them! How many are there of them, Dick?" + +"He, an' his wife, and six little children, sir," answered Dick. + +"No negroes?" inquired his master. + +"Not a nigger, sir," said Dick. "I ain't like poor buckrah, no how, +sir, but I 'spect you best take dese people in, lest dey might die +right in our woods." + +Tom, knowing his master's dislike of advice, and fearing that Dick +had taken the surest method to shut them out, now chimed in, and +said, "Massa, ef I bin you, I no would tek dem in none 't all." + +"What do you mean, sir?" exclaimed Mr. Cleveland; "you surely must +be taking leave of your senses. Dick, you'll have to give that boy +of yours a thrashing. I'll not stand his insolence much longer. +Don't stand there, grinning at me, sir." + +"No, sir," snickered Tom, skulking behind Dick, who was his father. + +"Let the man come up here, Dick," said Mr. Cleveland. + +When the traveller made his appearance, Mr. Cleveland was startled +at his wan and wo-begone appearance. "Sit down, my man," said he. + +"I thank you, sir," replied the stranger, "but I must be back as +soon as possible to my family. Can you grant us a night's lodging, +sir?" + +"Certainly, sir," replied Mr. Cleveland; "have you any means of +getting your family hither? I am told you have six little ones." + +"They must walk, sir," replied the stranger, "for our only horse has +been killed by a falling tree; but I have not a word to say. It +might have been my wife or one of my little ones, and, poor as I am, +I can spare none of them." + +Mr. Cleveland, whose feelings were at this time in an usually +softened state, got up, and walked rapidly to the book-case to +conceal his emotion, dashed away a tear, and muttered to himself, as +was his wont, "'Tis confoundedly affecting, that's a fact." Then +turning to the stranger, who was in the act of leaving the room, he +said, "If you will wait a few moments I will have my carriage got; +your wife and little ones must not walk on such a night as this." + +"God bless you, sir!" said the stranger, in a trembling voice; "but +I am too uneasy to stay a moment longer." + +"Well, go on," said Mr. Cleveland, "and the carriage shall come +after you, and I will go in it myself." The stranger brushed his +hand across his eyes, and left the room without speaking a word; +while Dick and Tom exchanged glances of surprise at their master's +uncommon fit of philanthropy; Tom feeling fully assured that the +"poor buckrahs," as he termed them, owed their good fortune to his +seasonable interference. + +The carriage was soon in readiness, and Mr. Cleveland rode in it to +the spot. He found the family all gathered around the dead horse, +and lamenting over it; while the father, having just arrived, was +expatiating upon his kind reception by Mr. Cleveland. It took them +some little time to stow themselves away in the carriage, and Mr. +Cleveland actually carried two sturdy children on his knees. Yes, +there he was, riding through the dreadful storm, in danger every +moment from the trees which were falling all around him, with an +infant in its mother's arms squalling with all its might, and a +heavy boy on each knee, and squeezed almost to death into the +bargain--for there were nine in the carriage--and yet feeling so +happy! ay, far happier than he had felt for many a long day. Truly, +charity brings its own reward. + +When they arrived at Mr. Cleveland's house, instead of being stowed +away in an out-building, as the poor man had modestly requested, +they were comfortably provided for beneath his own roof. That night, +as he laid his head upon his pillow, he could not help feeling +surprised at his sudden accession of happiness. "Well, I will go +on," he soliloquized; "I will pursue the path I have this night +taken, and if I always feel as I do now, I am a new man, and will +never again talk about blowing my brains out." He slept that night +the sleep of peace, and rose in the morning with a light heart and +buoyant spirits. + +His first care was to take the father of the family aside, and +gather from him the story of his misfortunes. It was a long and +mournful tale, and Mr. Cleveland was obliged, more than once, to +pretend a sudden call out of the room, that he might hide his +emotion. And the tale was by no means told in vain. True to his new +resolutions, Mr. Cleveland thankfully accepted the work which +Providence had given him to do, and the family of emigrants, to this +day, mention the name of Cleveland with tears of gratitude and love, +and, when they implore God's mercy for themselves, never forget to +invoke, for their kind benefactor, Heaven's choicest blessings. Nor +is that the only family whose hearts glow at the mention of Mr. +Cleveland's name. Far and wide his name is known, and honoured, and +beloved. + +And Mr. Cleveland has found out the real secret of happiness. It is +true that he and Tom still have their squabbles, for Tom is really a +provoking fellow, and Mr. Cleveland is, and always will be, an +eccentric, impulsive man, but his heart, which, when we first +introduced him to our readers, was far from being right with God, or +with his fellow-men, is now the dwelling-place of love and kindness, +and the experience of every day contributes to strengthen the new +principles he has imbibed, and to confirm him in the right. + +Reader! art thou sad or solitary? I can offer thee a certain cure +for all thy woes. Contemplate the life of Him who spake as never man +spake. Follow him through all those years of toil and suffering. See +him wherever called by the sorrows of his human brethren, and +witness his deeds of mercy and his offices of love, and then--"go +thou and do likewise." + + + + + + +REBECCA. + + + + + + HER words were few, without pretence + To tricks of courtly eloquence, + But full of pure and simple thought, + And with a guileless feeling fraught, + And said in accents which conferred + Poetic charm on household word. + + She needed not to speak, to be + The best loved of the company-- + She did her hands together press + With such a child-like gracefulness; + And such a sweet tranquillity + Upon her silent lips did lie, + And such unsullied purity + In the blue heaven of her eye. + + She moved among us like to one + Who had not lived on earth alone; + But felt a dim, mysterious sense + Of a more stately residence, + And seemed to have a consciousness + Of an anterior happiness-- + To hear, at times, the echoes sent + From some unearthly instrument + With half-remembered voices blent-- + And yet to hold the friendships dear, + And prize the blessings of our sphere-- + In sweet perplexity to know + Which of the two was dreamy show, + The dark green earth, the deep blue skies, + The love which shone in mortal eyes, + Or those faint recollections, telling + Of a more bright and tranquil dwelling. + + We could not weep upon the day + When her pure spirit passed away; + We thought we read the mystery + Which in her life there seemed to be-- + That she was not our own, but lent + To us little while, and sent + An angel child, what others preach + Of heavenly purity, to teach, + In ways more eloquent than speech-- + And chiefly by that raptured eye + Which seemed to look beyond the sky, + And that abstraction, listening + To hear the choir of seraphs sing. + + We thought that death did seem to her + Of long-lost joy the harbinger-- + Like an old household servant, come + To take the willing scholar home; + The school-house, it was very dear, + But then the holidays were near; + And why should she be lingering here? + Softly the servant bore the child + Who at her parting turned and smiled, + And looked back to us, till the night + For ever hid her from our sight. + + + + + + +LIFE A TREADMILL. + + + + + +WHO says that life is a treadmill? + +You, merchant, when, after a weary day of measuring cotton-cloth or +numbering flower barrels, bowing to customers or taking account of +stock, you stumble homeward, thinking to yourself that the moon is a +tolerable substitute for gas light, to prevent people from running +against the posts--and then, by chance, recall the time when, a +school-boy, you read about "chaste Dian" in your Latin books, and +discovered a striking resemblance to moonbeams in certain blue eyes +that beamed upon you from the opposite side of the school-room. + +Ah! those were the days when brick side-walks were as elastic as +India rubber beneath your feet; shop windows were an exhibition of +transparencies to amuse children and young people, and the world in +prospect was one long pleasure excursion. Then you drank the bright +effervescence in your glass of soda-water, and now you must swallow +the cold, flat settlings, or not get your money's worth. Long ago +you found out that the moon is the origin of moonshine, that blue +eyes are not quite as fascinating under gray hair and behind +spectacles, and that "money answereth all things." + +You say so, clerk or bank-teller, when you look up from your books +at the new-fallen snow glistening in the morning light, and feel +something like the prancing of horses' hoofs in the soles of your +boots, and hear the jingling of sleigh bells in your mind's ear, +long after the sound of them has passed from your veritable +auriculars. + +You say so, teacher, while going through the daily drill of your A B +C regiments, your multiplication table platoons, and your +chirographical battalions. + +You say so, factory girl, passing backward and forward from the +noise and whirl of wheels in the mills, to the whirl and noise of +wheels in your dreams. + +You say so, milliner's apprentice, as you sit down to sew gay +ribbons on gay bonnets, and stand up to try gay bonnets on gay +heads. + +You say so, housemaid or housekeeper, when the song of the early +bird reminds you of crying children, whose faces are to be washed; +when the rustling of fallen leaves in the wind makes you wonder how +the new broom is going to sweep; when the aroma of roses suggests +the inquiry whether the box of burnt coffee is empty; and when the +rising sun, encircled by vapoury clouds, brings up the similitude of +a huge fire-proof platter, and the smoke of hot potatoes. + +There is a principle in human nature which rebels against +repetitions. Who likes to fall asleep, thinking that to-morrow +morning he must get up and do exactly the same things that he did +to-day, the next day ditto, and so forth, until the chapter of +earthly existence is finished! + +It is very irksome for these soaring thoughts winged to "wander +through eternity," to come down and work out the terms of a tedious +apprenticeship to the senses. And yet, what were thoughts +unlocalized and unembodied? Mere comets or vague nebulosities in the +firmament, without a form, and without a home. + +All things have their orbit, and are held in it by the power of two +great opposing forces. + +Outward circumstances form the centripetal force, which keeps us in +ours. Let the eccentric will fly off at ever so wide a tangent for a +time, back it must come to a regular diurnal path, or wander away +into the "blackness of darkness." And if these daily duties and +cares come to us robed in the shining livery of Law, should we not +accept them as bearers of a sublime mission? + +"What?" you say, "anything sublime in yardstick tactics or ledger +columns? Anything sublime in washing dishes or trimming bonnets? The +idea is simply ridiculous!" + +No, not ridiculous; only a simple idea, and great in its simplicity. +For the manner of performing even menial duties, gives you the gauge +and dimensions of the doer's inward strength. The power of the soul +asserts itself, not so much in shaping favourable circumstances to +desired ends, as in resisting the pressure of crushing +circumstances, and triumphing over them. + +Manufactures, trades, and all the subordinate arts and occupations +that keep the car of civilization in motion, may be to you machines +moving with a monotonous and unmeaning buzz, or they may be like +Ezekiel's vision of wheels involved in wheels, that were lifted up +from the earth by the power of the living creature that was in them. + +Grumbling man or woman, life _is_ a treadmill to you, because you +look doggedly down and see nothing but the dull steps you take. If +you would cease grumbling, and look up, your life would be +transformed into a Jacob's ladder, and every step onward would be a +step upward too. And even if it were a treadmill, to which you and +other mortals were condemned for past offences, a kindly sympathy +for your fellow-prisoners could carpet the way with velvet, and you +might move on smilingly together, as through the mazes of an easy +dance. + +It is of no use to preach the old sermon of contentment with one +condition, whatever it may be, a sermon framed for lands where +aristocracies are fixtures, in this generation and on this +continent. Discontent is a necessity of republicanism, until the +millennium comes. + +Yet it is not sensible to complain of the present, until we have +gleaned its harvests and drained its sap, and it has become capital +for us to draw upon in the future. Most of the dissatisfied +grumblers of our day are like children from whom the prospect of a +Christmas pie, intended for the climax of a supper, takes away all +relish for the more solid and wholesome introductory exercises of +bread and butter. + +What is it we would have our life? Not princely pop and equipments, +nor to "marry the prince's own," which used to form the denouement +of every fairy tale, will suffice us now; for every ingenious Yankee +school-boy or girl has learned to dissect the puppet show of +royalty, and knows that its personages move in a routine the most +hampered and helpless of all. + +The honour of being four years in stepping from one door of the +"White House" to the other, ceases to be the meed of a dignified +ambition when it results from a skilful shuffling of political +cards, rather than from strength and steadiness of head and an +upright gait. + +If we ask for freedom from care, and leisure to enjoy life--until we +have learned, through the discipline of labour and care, how to +appreciate and use leisure--we might as well petition from +government a grant of prairie land for Egyptian mummies to run races +upon. + +If one might get himself appointed to the general overseership of +the solar system, still, what would his occupation be but a regular +pacing to and fro from the sun to the outermost limits of Le +Verrier's calculations, and perhaps a little farther? A succession +of rather longish strides he would have to take, to be sure; now +burning his soles in the fires of Mercury; now hitting his corns +against some of the pebbly Asteroids, and now slipping upon the icy +rim of Neptune. Still, if he made drudgery of his work by keeping +his soul out of it, he would only have his treadmill life over +again, on a large scale. + +The monotony of our three-score years and ten is wearisome to us; +what can we think then of the poor planets, doomed to the same +diurnal spinning, the same annual path, for six thousand years, to +our certain knowledge? And, if telescopes tell us the truth, the +universe is an ever-widening series of similar monotonies. + +Yet space is ample enough to give all systems variety of place. +While each planet moves steadily along on the edge of its plane, the +whole solar equipage is going forward to open a new track on the +vast highway of the heavens. + +We too, moving in our several spheres with honest endeavours and +aspirations, are, by the stability of our motions, lifting and being +lifted, with the whole compact human brotherhood, into a higher +elevation, a brighter revelation of the Infinite, the Universe of +Wisdom and Love. + +And in this view, though our efforts be humble and our toil hard, +life can never be a treadmill. + + + + + + +ARTHUR LELAND. + + + + + +ARTHUR LELAND was a young lawyer of some twenty-seven years of age. +His office stood a stone's throw from the court-house, in a thriving +town in the West. Arthur had taken a full course in a Northern +college, both in the collegiate and law department, and with some +honour. During his course he had managed to read an amazing amount +of English literature, and no man was readier or had a keener taste +in such things than he. He had a pleasing personal appearance, a +fluent and persuasive manner, an unblemished character. Every +morning he came to his office from one of the most pleasant little +cottage homes in the world; and if you had opened the little front +gate, and gone up through the shrubbery to the house, you would have +seen a Mrs. Leland, somewhere in-doors, and she as intelligent and +pleasant a lady as you ever saw. You would have seen, moreover, +tumbling about the grass, or up to the eyes in some mischief, as +noble-looking a little fellow of some three years old as you could +well have wished for your own son. + +This all looks well enough, but there is something wrong. Not in the +house. No; it is as pleasant a cottage as you could wish--plenty of +garden, peas and honeysuckles climbing up everywhere, green grass, +white paint, Venetian blinds, comfortable furniture. + +Not in Willie, the little scamp. No; rosy, healthy, good head, +intelligent eyes, a fine specimen he was of an only son. Full of +mischief, of course, he was. Overflowing with uproar and questions +and mischief. Mustachios of egg or butter-milk or molasses after +each meal, as a matter of course. Cut fingers, bumped forehead, torn +clothes, all day long. Yet a more affectionate, easily-managed child +never was. + +The mischief was not in Lucy, the Mrs. Leland. I assure you it was +not. Leland knew, to his heart's core, that a lovelier, more +prudent, sensible, intelligent wife it was impossible to exist. +Thrifty, loving, lady-like, right and true throughout. + +Where was this mischief? Look at Leland. He is in perpetual motion. +Reading, writing, walking the streets, he is always fast, in dead +earnest. Somewhat _too_ fast. There is a certain slowness about your +strong man. You never associate the idea of mental depth and power +with your quick-stepping man. You cannot conceive of a Roman emperor +or a Daniel Webster as a slight, swift man. The bearing of a man's +body is the outward emblem of the bearing of his soul. Leland is +rather slight, rather swift. He meets you in his rapid walk. He +stops, grasps your hand, asks cordially after your health. There is +an open, warm feeling in the man. No hypocrisy whatever. Yet he +talks too fast. He don't give you half a chance to answer one of his +rapid questions, before he is asking another totally different. He +is not at ease. He keeps you from being at ease. You feel it +specially in his house. He is too cordial, too full of effort to +make your visit pleasant to you. You like him, yet you don't feel +altogether at home with him. You are glad when he leaves you to his +more composed wife. You never knew or heard of his saying or doing +anything wrong or even unbecoming. You look upon him as a peculiar +sort of man--well, somehow--but! He is at the bar defending that +woman, who sits by him, dressed in mourning--some chancery case. Or +it is a criminal case, and it is the widow's only son that Leland is +defending. If you had been in his office for the last week, you +would have acknowledged that he has studied the case, has prepared +himself on it as thoroughly as a man can. He is an ambitious man. He +intensely desires to make for himself a fortune and a position. His +address to the judge, or to the jury, as the case may be, is a good +one. Yet, somehow, he does not convince. He himself is carried away +by his own earnestness, but he does not carry away with him his +hearers. His remarks are interesting. People listen to him from +first to last closely. Yet his arguing does not, somehow, convince. +His pathos does not, somehow, melt. He is the sort of man that +people think of for the Legislature. No man ever thinks of him in +connexion with the Supreme Bench or Senate. + +Wherein lies the defect? Arthur Leland is well read, a gentleman of +spotless character, of earnest application, of popular manners. Why +is not this man a man of more weight, power, standing? Why, you +answer, the man is just what he is. He fills just the position up to +which his force of mind raises him. Did he have more talent, he +would be more. No, sir. Every acquaintance he has known, he himself +knows, that he is capable of being much more than he is--somehow, +somehow he does not attain to it! It is this singular impression +Leland makes upon you. It is this singular, uneasy, unsatisfied +feeling he himself is preyed upon by. "He might be, but he is not," +say his neighbours. "I am not, yet I might be," worries him as an +incessant and eternal truth. + +It broke upon him like a revelation. + +He was at work one fine morning in his garden, in a square in which +young watermelon plants of a choice kind were just springing. Willie +was there with him, just emerged fresh for fun from the waters of +sleep. Very anxious to be as near as possible to his father, who was +always his only playmate, Willie had strayed from the walk in which +his father had seated him, and stood beside his father. With a +quick, passionate motion, Leland seized his child, and placed him +violently back in the walk, with a harsh threat. The child whimpered +for a while, and soon forgetting himself, came to his father again +over the tender plants. This time Leland seized him still more +violently, seated him roughly in the walk, and, with harsh threats, +struck him upon his plump red cheek. Willie burst into tears, and +wept in passion. His father was in a miserable, uneasy frame of +mind. He ceased his work, bared his brow to the delicious morning +air. He leaned upon his hoe, and gazed upon his child. He felt there +was something wrong. He always knew, and acknowledged, that he was +of a rash, irritable disposition. He now remembered that ever since +his child's birth he had been exceedingly impatient with it. He +remembered how harshly he had spoken to it, how rudely he had tossed +it on his knee when it awoke him with its crying at night. He +remembered that the little one had been daily with him for now three +years, and that not a day had passed in which he had not spoken +loudly, fiercely to the child. + +Yes, he remembered the heavy blows he had given it in bursts of +passion, blows deeply regretted the instant after, yet repeated on +the first temptation. He thought of it all; that his boy was but a +little child, and that he had spoken to it, and expected from it, as +if it were grown. All his passionate, cruel words and blows rushed +upon his memory; his rough replies to childish questions; his +unmanly anger at childish offences. He thought, too, how the little +boy had still followed him, because its father was all on earth to +him; how the little thing had said, he "was sorry," and had offered +a kiss even after some bitter word or blow altogether undeserved. +Leland remembered, too, as the morning air blew aside his hair, how +often he had shown the same miserable, nervous irritability to his +dog, his horse, his servants; even the branch of the tree that +struck him as he walked; yea, even to his own wife. He remembered +how the same black, unhappy feelings had clouded his brow, had burst +from his lips at every little domestic annoyance that had happened. +He could not but remember how it had only made matters worse--had +made himself and his family wretched for the time. He felt how +undignified, how unmanly all this was. He pictured himself before +his own eyes as a peevish, uneasy, irritable, unhappy man--so +weak-minded! + +He glanced at the house; he knew his wife was in it, engaged in her +morning duties; gentle, lady-like, loving him so dearly. He glanced +at his sobbing child, and saw how healthful and intelligent he was. +He glanced over his garden, and orchard, and lawn, and saw how +pleasant was his home. He thought of his circle of friends, his +position in business, his own education and health. He saw how much +he had to make him happy; and all jarred and marred, and cursed by +his miserable fits of irritation; the fever, the plague increasing +daily; becoming his nature, breathing the pestilent atmosphere of +hell over himself and all connected with him. + +As he thus thought, his little boy again forgot himself, and strayed +with heedless feet toward bis father. Leland dropped his hoe, +reached toward his child. The little fellow threw up his hands, and +writhed his body as if expecting a blow. + +"Willie," said the father, in a low, gentle voice. Willie looked up +with half fright, half amazement. "Willie, boy," said the father in +a new tone, which had never passed his lips before, and he felt the +deep, calm power of his own words. "Willie, boy, don't walk on pa's +plants. Go back, and stay there till pa is done." + +The child turned as by the irresistible power of the slow-spoken, +gentle words, and walked back and resumed his seat, evidently not +intending to transgress again. + +As Leland stood with the words dying on his lips, and his hand +extended, a sudden and singular idea struck him. He felt that he had +just said the most impressive and eloquent thing he had ever said in +his life! He felt that there was a power in his tone and manner +which he had never used before; a power which would affect a judge +or a jury, as it had affected Willie. The curse cursed here too! It +was that hasty, nervous disposition, which gave manner and tone to +his very public speaking; which made his arguments unconvincing, his +pathos unaffecting. It was just that calm, deep, serene feeling and +manner, which was needed at the bar as well as with Willie. Arguing +with that feeling and manner, he felt, would convince irresistibly. +Pleading with that quiet, gentle spirit, he felt would melt, would +affect the hearts as with the very emotion of tears. + +Unless you catch the idea, there is no describing it, reader. Leland +was a Christian. All that day he thought upon the whole matter. That +night in the privacy of his office he knelt and repeated the whole +matter before God. For his boy's sake, for his wife's sake, for his +own sake, for his usefulness' sake at the bar, he implored steady +aid to overcome the deadly, besetting sin. He pleaded that, +indulging in that disposition, he was alienating from himself his +boy and his wife; yea, that he was alienating his own better self +from himself, for he was losing his own self-respect. And here his +voice sank from a murmur into silence; he remembered that he was +thus alienating from his bosom and his side--God! + +And then he remembered that just such a daily disposition as he +lacked was exactly that disposition which characterized God when God +became man. The excellence of such a disposition rose serenely +before him, embodied in the person of Jesus Christ; the young lawyer +fell forward on his face and wept in the agony of his desire and his +prayer. + +From that sweet spring morning was Arthur Leland another man; a +wiser, abler, more successful man in every sense. Not all at once; +steadily, undoubtedly advanced the change. The wife saw and felt, +and rejoiced in it. Willie felt it, and was restrained by it every +drop of his merry blood; the household felt it, as a ship does an +even wind; and sailed on over smooth seas constrained by it. You saw +the change in the man's very gait and bearing and conversation. +Judge and jury felt it. It was the ceasing of a fever in the frame +of a strong man; and Leland went about easily, naturally, the strong +man he was. The old, uneasy, self-harassing feeling was forgotten, +and an ease and grace of tone and manner succeeded. It was a higher +development of the father, the husband, the orator, the gentleman, +the Christian. Surely love is the fountain of patience and peace. +Surely it is the absence of passion which makes angels to be the +beings they are. + +Men can become very nearly angels or devils, even before they have +left the world. + + + + + + +THE SCARLET POPPY. + + + + + +ONE warm morning in June, just as the sun returned from his long but +rapid journey to the distant east, and sailed majestically up +through the clear blue sky, the many bright flowers of one of the +prettiest little parterres in the world, who had opened their +eyes--those bright flowers--to smile at the sunbeams which came to +kiss away the tears night had shed over them, were very much +surprised, and not a little offended to find in their very midst an +individual who, though most of them knew her, one might have +supposed, from their appearance, was a perfect stranger to them all. + +The parterre, I have said, was small, for it was in the very heart +of a great city, where land would bring almost any price; but the +gentleman and lady who lived in the noble mansion which fronted it, +would not, for the highest price which might have been offered them, +have had those sweet flowers torn up, and a brick pile reared in the +place--their only child, the dear little Carie, loved the garden so +dearly, and spent so much of her time there. + +Oh, it was a sweet little place, though it was in the midst of a +great city where the air was full of dust and coal smoke; for the +fountain which played in the garden kept the atmosphere pure and +cool, and every day the gardener showered all the plants so that +their leaves were green and fresh as though they were blooming far +away in their native woods and dells. There were sweet roses of +every hue, from the pure Alba to the dark Damascus; and pinks, some +of the most spicy odour, some almost scentless, but all so beautiful +and so nicely trimmed. The changeless amaranth was there, the pale, +sweet-scented heliotrope, always looking towards the sun; the pure +lily; and the blue violet, which, though it had been taught to bloom +far away from the mossy bed where it had first opened its meek eye +to the light, had not yet forgotten its gentleness and modesty; and +not far from them were the fickle hydrangea, the cardinal flower +with its rich, showy petals, and the proud, vain, and ostentatious, +but beautiful crimson and white peonias. The dahlias had yet put +forth but very few blossoms, but they were elegant, and the swelling +buds promised that ere long there would be a rich display of +brilliant colours. Honeysuckles, the bright-hued and fragrant, the +white jasmine, and many other climbing plants, were latticing the +little arbour beside the clear fountain, half hiding their +jewel-like pensile blossoms and bright red berries among the smooth +green leaves which clustered so closely together as to shut out +completely the hot sun from the little gay-plumaged and sweet-voiced +songsters whose gilt cage hung within the bower. But I cannot speak +of the flowers, there were so many of them, and they were all so +beautiful and so sweet-scented. + +Well, this June morning, as I was saying, when the flowers, as they +were waked from their sleep by the sunbeams which came to kiss away +the tears night had shed over them, opened their eyes and looked +about them, they were surprised and offended to see a stranger in +their company. + +There had been, through all the season, some little rivalries and +jealousies among the flowers; but from the glances which they turned +on each other, this morning, it was evident that their feelings +towards the stranger were exactly alike. However, as might be +expected from their different dispositions, they expressed their +dislike and contempt for her in different ways; but at first all +hesitated to address her, for no one seemed to find language strong +enough to express the scorn they felt for her; until the balsam, who +never could keep silent long, inquired of the stranger, in a very +impatient tone, what was her name, and how she came there. + +The poor thing hesitated an instant, and her face grew very red; she +must have known that her presence in that company was very much +undesired, and when she spoke, it was in a low and embarrassed tone. + +"My name is Papaver, and--" + +But the Marygold laughed aloud. "Papaver!" she repeated in her most +scornful tone; "she is nothing more nor less than a Poppy--a great +offensive Poppy, whose breath fairly makes me sick. Long ago, +when--" + +But here the Marygold stopped short, it would not do, to confess to +her genteel friends, that she had formerly been acquainted with the +disreputable stranger. They did not heed her embarrassment, however, +for every one, now that the silence was broken, was anxious to +speak; all but the Mimosa, who could not utter a word, for she had +fainted quite away--the red Rose who was very diffident, and the +Dahlia who was too dignified to meddle with such trifling affairs. + +"You great, red-faced thing!" said the Carnation, "how came you here +in your ragged dress? Do you know what kind of company you are in? +Who first saw her here?" + +"I saw her," said the Morning Glory, who usually waked quite early, +"I saw her before she had got her eyes open; and what do you suppose +she had on her head? Why a little green cap which she has just +pulled off and thrown away. There it lies on the ground now. Only +look at it! no wonder she was ashamed of it. Can you think what she +wore it for?" + +"Why, yes!" said the Ladies' Slipper. "She is so handsome and so +delicate that she was fearful the early hours might injure her +health and destroy her charms!" + +"No, no!" interrupted another; "she was afraid the morning breeze +might steal away her sweet breath!" + +"You had better gather up your sweet leaves, and put on your cap +again," said the London Pride. "I see a golden-winged butterfly in +Calla's cup; your spicy breath will soon bring him here to drink of +your nectar!" + +The most of the flowers laughed, but the Carnation still called +out--"How came she here?" + +The Amaranth, however, who never slept a wink through the whole +night, would not answer the question, though the flowers were +certain that she could, were she so inclined. + +"I do not see how you who are in her immediate neighbourhood, can +breathe!" said the Syringa, who was farthest removed from the poor +Poppy. + +"I do feel as if I should faint!" said the Verbena. + +"And I feel a cold chill creeping over me!" said the Ice Plant. + +"That is not strange!" remarked the Nightshade, who had sprung up in +the shadow of the hedge, "she carries with her, everywhere she goes, +the atmosphere of the place whence she comes. Do you know where that +is?" + +Some of the flowers shuddered, but the Nightshade went on:-- + +"The Poppy is indigenous now only on the verdureless banks of the +Styx. When Proserpine, who was gathering flowers, was carried away +to the dark Avernus, all the other blossoms which she had woven in +her garland withered and died, but the Poppy; and that the goddess +planted in the land of darkness and gloom, and called it the flower +of Death. She flourishes there in great luxuriance; Nox and Somnus +make her bed their couch. The aching head, which is bound with a +garland of her blossoms, ceases to throb; the agonized soul which +drinks in her deep breath, wakes no more to sorrow. Death follows +wherever she comes!" + +"We will not talk of such gloomy things!" said the Coreopsis, with +difficulty preserving her cheerfulness. + +But the other plants were silent and dejected; all but the Amaranth, +who knew herself gifted with immortality, and the Box, who was very +stoical. But another trial awaited the poor Poppy. + +The Nightshade had hardly ceased speaking, when soft, gentle human +voices were heard in the garden, and a child of three summers, with +rosy cheeks, deep blue eyes, and flowing, golden hair, came bounding +down the gravelled walks, followed by a fair lady. The child had +come to bid good morning to her flowers and birds, and as she +carolled to the latter, and paused now and then to inhale the breath +of some fragrant blossom, and examine the elegant form and rich and +varied tints of another, the little songsters sang more loudly and +cheerily; and the flowers, it seemed, became more sweet and +beautiful. + +The Poppy, who was as ignorant as was any one else how she had found +her way into the garden, now began to reason with herself. + +"Some one must have planted me here," she said; "and though I am not +as sweet as that proud Carnation, nor so elegant as that dignified +Dahlia, I may have as much right to remain here as they!" and she +raised her head erect, and spread out her broad, scarlet petals, +with their deep, ragged fringe, hoping to attract the notice of the +little girl. + +And so indeed she did; for as the child paused before pale +sweet-scented Verbena, the flaunting Poppy caught her eye, and she +extended her hand toward the strange blossom. + +"Carie, Carie, don't touch that vile thing!" said her mother, "it is +poisonous. The smell of it will make you sick. I do not see how it +came here. John must bring his spade and take it up. We will have +nothing in the garden but what is beautiful or sweet, and this is +neither!" + +The poor Poppy! She had begun to love the little girl, the child had +smiled on her so sweetly, and the other flowers had seemed so +envious when that little white hand was stretched out towards her; +and when she drew back, at her Mother's call, reluctantly, but with +look of surprise and aversion, the Poppy did not care how soon she +was banished from a place where she had been treated so unjustly. + +However, she was suffered to remain; whether the lady neglected +giving instructions to the gardener respecting her, or whether he +forgot her commands, I am not sure; but there she remained, day +after day, striving every morning to wake up early and pull off her +little green cap before the other flowers had opened their eyes, but +never succeeding in so doing. + +It was no enviable position that she occupied, laughed at, despised, +and scorned by all the other flowers in the garden, and in hourly +expectation of being torn up by the roots and thrown into the +street--the poor Poppy! + +One day when the lady and her Carie were walking in the garden, the +little girl, who had looked rather pale, put her hands suddenly to +her head, and cried aloud. Her mother was very much frightened. She +caught up the little girl in her arms, and tried to ascertain what +was the matter; but the child only pressed her hands more tightly to +her head, and cried more piteously. The lady carried her into the +house, and the family were soon all in an uproar. The servants were +all running hither and thither; no one seemed to know what was the +matter; for the lady had fainted from terror at her child's pale +face and agonized cries, and the little girl could tell nothing. + +"It is that odious Poppy who is the cause of all this!" said the +flowers one to another (little Carie was indeed playing in her +immediate vicinity when she was seized with that dreadful distress), +"she has poisoned her." And their suspicions were confirmed when one +of the servants came running into the garden, and seizing hold of +the Poppy, stripped off every one of her bright scarlet petals, and +gathering them up, returned quickly to the house. + +"You poor thing!" said the Elder, as the Poppy, so rudely handled, +bent down her dishonoured head to the ground; but not one of the +other flowers addressed to her a single word. + +Through the long day she lay there--the Poppy--on the earth, trying +to forget what had happened; for she did not know but their words +were true, and she was the cause of the little girl's suffering--she +would so gladly have soothed her pain. The other flowers thought she +was dead, and the Poppy herself believed that she should never see +the light of another morning; but just before the day was gone, the +lady walked again into the garden accompanied by her husband; +and--what do you suppose the other flowers thought?--without +noticing one of them, the lady walked directly to the Poppy, lifted +her head from the ground, and leaned it against the frame which +supported the proud Carnation, and then, with her white hands, +replaced the loosened earth about her half uptorn roots. + +"Oh, I hope it will not die!" she said to her husband, "I should +rather lose anything else in the garden, for I don't know but it +saved dear little Carie's life! She had a dreadful headache, and +nothing afforded her the least relief, till we bruised the leaves of +the Poppy, and bound them on her temples, and then she became quiet, +and fell into a gentle sleep. Oh, I hope it will live!" + +Don't you think the Poppy did live, and was proud and happy enough? +Do you think she was ever afterwards ashamed of her little green +cap, or her ragged scarlet leaves? And do you think the other +flowers ever laughed at her again, or were ashamed of her +acquaintance? + +When the summer had passed away, and the bright blossoms one by one +withered and died before the autumn's cool breath, the Poppy +cheerfully scattered her little seeds on the earth, and laid herself +down to die; for she knew that when another spring should come, and +her children should shoot up from the ground, they would be nurtured +as tenderly, and prized as highly as those of the sweeter and far +more beautiful flowers. + + + + + + +NUMBER TWELVE. + + + + + +WHEN I was a young man, working at my trade as a mason, I met with a +severe injury by falling from a scaffolding placed at a height of +forty feet from the ground. There I remained, stunned and bleeding, +on the rubbish, until my companions, by attempting to remove me, re- +stored me to consciousness. I felt as if the ground on which I was +lying formed a part of myself; that I could not be lifted from it +without being torn asunder; and, with the most piercing cries, I +entreated my well-meaning assistants to leave me alone to die. They +desisted for the moment, one running for the doctor, another for a +litter, others surrounding me with pitying gaze; but amidst my +increasing sense of suffering, the conviction began to dawn upon my +mind, that the injuries were not mortal; and so, by the time the +doctor and the litter arrived, I resigned myself to their aid, and +allowed myself, without further objection, to be carried to the +hospital. + +There I remained for more than three months, gradually recovering +from my bodily injuries, but devoured with an impatience at my +condition, and the slowness of my cure, which effectually retarded +it. I felt all the restlessness and anxiety of a labourer suddenly +thrown out of employment difficult enough to procure, knowing that +there were scores of others ready to step into my place; that the +job was going on, and that, ten chances to one, I should never set +my foot on that scaffolding again. The visiting surgeon vainly +warned me against the indulgence of such passionate regrets--vainly +inculcated the opposite feeling of gratitude demanded by my escape; +all in vain. I tossed on my fevered bed, murmured at the slowness of +his remedies, and might have thus rendered them altogether +ineffectual, had not a sudden change been effected in my disposition +by another, at first unwelcome, addition to our patients. He was +placed in the same ward with me, and insensibly I found my +impatience rebuked, my repinings hushed for very shame, in the +presence of his meek resignation to far greater privations and +sufferings. Fresh courage sprang from his example, and soon, thanks +to my involuntary physician, I was in a fair road to recovery. + +And he who had worked the charm, what was he? A poor, helpless old +man, utterly deformed by suffering, his very name unnoticed, or at +least never spoken in the place where he now was; he went only by +the appellation of No. 12--the number of his bed, which was next to +my own. This bed had already been his refuge during three long and +trying illnesses, and had at last become a sort of property for the +poor fellow in the eyes of doctors, students, nurse-tenders, in +fact, the whole hospital staff. Never did a gentler creature walk on +God's earth; walk--alas! for him the word was but an old memory. +Many years before he had totally lost the use of his legs; but, to +use his own expression, "this misfortune did not upset him;" he +still retained the power of earning his livelihood, which he derived +from copying deeds for a lawyer at so much per sheet; and if the +legs were no longer a support, the hands worked at the stamped +parchments as diligently as ever. But some months passed by, and +then the paralysis attacked his right arm; still undaunted, he +taught himself to write with the left; but hardly had the brave +heart and hand conquered the difficulty, when the enemy crept on, +and disabling this second ally, no more remained for him than to be +conveyed once more, though this time as a last resource, to the +hospital. There he had the gratification to find his former quarters +vacant, and he took possession of his old familiar bed with a +satisfaction that seemed to obliterate all regret at being obliged +to occupy it again. His first grateful accents smote almost +reproachfully on my ear: "Misfortune must have its turn, but _every +day has a tomorrow!_" + +It was indeed a lesson to witness the gratitude of this excellent +creature. The hospital, so dreary a sojourn to most of its inmates, +was a scene of enjoyment to him; everything pleased him; and the +poor fellow's admiration of even the most trifling conveniences +proved how severe must have been his privations. He never wearied of +praising the neatness of the linen, the whiteness of the bread, the +quality of the food; and my surprise gave place to the truest pity, +when I learned that, for the last twenty years, this respectable old +man could only afford himself, out of the profits of his persevering +industry, the coarsest bread, diversified with white cheese, or +vegetable porridge; and yet, instead of reverting to his privations +in the language of complaint, he converted them into a fund of +gratitude, and made the generosity of the nation, which had provided +such a retreat for the suffering poor, his continual theme. Nor did +his thankful spirit confine itself to this. To listen to him, you +would have believed him an especial object of divine as well as +human benevolence--all things working for his good. The doctor used +to say that No. 12 had a "mania for happiness;" but it was a mania, +that, in creating esteem for its victim, infused fresh courage into +all that came within its range. + +I think I still see him seated on the side of his bed, with his +little black silk cap, his spectacles and the well-worn volume, +which he never ceased perusing. Every morning, the first rays of the +sun rested on his bed, always to him a fresh subject of rejoicing +and thankfulness to God. To witness his gratitude, one might suppose +that the sun was rising for him alone. I need hardly say, that he +soon interested himself in my cure, and regularly made inquiry +respecting its progress. He always found something cheering to +say--something to inspire patience and hope, himself a living +commentary on his words. When I looked at this poor motionless +figure, those distorted limbs, and, crowning all, that smiling +countenance, I had not courage to be angry, or even to complain. At +each painful crisis, he would exclaim: "One minute, and it will be +over. Relief will soon follow. _Every day has its to-morrow!_" + +I had one good and true friend--a fellow-workman, who used sometimes +to spare an hour to visit me, and he took great delight in +cultivating an acquaintance with No. 12. As if attracted by a +kindred spirit, he never passed his bed without pausing to offer his +cordial salutation; and then he would whisper to me: "He is a saint +on earth; and not content with gaining Paradise himself, must win it +for others also. Such people should have monuments erected to them, +known and read of all men. In observing such a character, we feel +ashamed of our own happiness--we feel how comparatively little we +deserve it. Is there anything I can do to prove my regard for this +good, poor No. 12?" + +"Just try among the bookstalls," I replied, "and find the second +volume of that book you see him reading. It is now more than six +years since he lost it, and ever since he has been obliged to +content himself with the first." + +Now, I must premise that my worthy friend had a perfect horror of +literature, even in its simplest stages. He regarded the art of +printing as a Satanic invention, filling men's brains with idleness +and conceit; and as to writing--in his opinion a man was never +thoroughly committed until he had recorded his sentiments in black +and white for the inspection of his neighbours. His own success in +life, which had been tolerable, thanks to his industry and +integrity, he attributed altogether to his ignorance of those +dangerous arts; and now a cloud swept across his lately beaming face +as he exclaimed, "What! the good creature is a lover of books? Well, +we must admit that even the best have their failings. No matter. +Write down the name of this odd volume on a slip of paper; and it +shall go hard with me, but I give him that gratification." + +He did actually return the following week with a well-worn volume, +which he presented in triumph to the old invalid. He looked somewhat +surprised as he opened it; but our friend proceeding to explain that +it was at my suggestion he had procured it in place of the lost one, +the old grateful expression at once beamed up in the eyes of No. 12, +and with a voice trembling with emotion, he thanked the hearty +giver. + +I had my misgivings, however, and the moment our visiter turned his +back, I asked to see the book. My old neighbour reddened, stammered, +and tried to change the conversation; but, forced behind his last +entrenchments, he handed me the little volume. It was an old Royal +Almanac. The bookseller, taking advantage of his customer's +ignorance, had substituted it for the book he had demanded. I burst +into an immoderate fit of laughter; but No. 12 checked me with the +only impatient word I ever heard from his lips: "Do you wish our +friend to hear you? I would rather never recover the power of this +lost arm, than deprive his kind heart of the pleasure of his gift. +And what of it? Yesterday I did not care a straw for an almanac; but +in a little time it is perhaps the very book I should have desired. +_Every day has its to-morrow_. Besides, I assure you it is a very +improving study; even already I perceive the names of a crowd of +princes never mentioned in history, and of whom, up to this moment, +I have never heard any one speak." + +And so the old almanac was carefully preserved beside the volume of +poetry it had been intended to match; and the old invalid never +failed to be seen turning over the leaves whenever our friend +happened to enter the room. As to him, he was quite proud of its +success, and would say to me at each time: "It appears I have made +him a famous present." And thus the two guileless natures were +content. + +Towards the close of my sojourn in the hospital, the strength of +poor No. 12 diminished rapidly. At first, he lost the slight powers +of motion he had retained; then his speech became inarticulate; at +last, no part obeyed his will, except the eyes, which continued to +smile on us still. But one morning, at last, it seemed to me as if +his very glance had become dim. I arose hastily, and approaching his +bed, inquired if he wished for a drink; be made a slight movement of +his eyelids, as if to thank me, and at that instant the first ray of +the rising sun shone in on his bed. Then the eyes lighted up, like a +taper that flashes into brightness before it is extinguished--he +looked as if saluting this last gift of his Creator; and even as I +watched him for a moment, his head fell gently on the side, his +kindly heart ceased to beat. He had thrown off the burden of To-day; +he had entered on his eternal To-morrow. + + + + + + +TO AN ABSENTEE. + + + + + + O'ER hill and dale, and distant sea, + Through all the miles that stretch between, + My thought must fly to rest on thee, + And would, though worlds should intervene. + + Nay, thou art now so dear, methinks, + The farther we are forced apart, + Affection's firm elastic links + But bind thee closer round the heart. + + For now we sever each from each, + I learn what I have lost in thee; + Alas! that nothing less could teach + How great, indeed, my love should be! + + Farewell! I did not know thy worth; + But thou art gone, and now 'tis prized: + So angels walked unknown on earth, + But when they flew were recognised. + + + + + + +THE WHITE DOVE. + + + + + +THE little Lina opened her eyes upon this world in the arms of her +father, the good Gotleib. He kissed the child with a holy joy: +"For," said he, "now is a thought of God fixed in an eternal form;" +and he felt that a Divine love flowed into this work of the great +God--this also thrilled his warm, manly heart with a wondrous love. +He felt the inmost of his being vibrating as with an electric touch, +to the inmost of the little new-born innocent. But the rapture of +the young father was altogether imperfect, until he had sealed his +lips in a love-kiss upon those of the fraulein Anna, who lay there +so white and beautiful in the new joy of a young mother. Like an +innocent maiden, she twined her arms around Gotleib's neck, and grew +strong in the influx of warm life that flowed into her responsive +cares of the husband of her heart. Then Gotleib held up the +newly-born Lina, and the mother's lips touched the soft cheek of the +tiny little one with a living rapture, as if all of Heaven were +embraced in this heart-possession. + +And Gotleib knelt by the bedside, and thanked God for the beautiful +gift of love with a pious awe and holy joy--large tears stood in the +eyes of Anna. As he rose from his reverent posture, he kissed off +the bright tears even as the sun exhales dew-drops from a pure +flower, and said, + +"Dost thou weep for joy, sweet one?" + +And Anna said, + +"Once--not long since--I had a dream--a beautiful dream--that this +day has been realized. I dreamed that I was in a quite heavenly +place--yet the place was as nothing--it was the _state_--for I sat +with an infant in my arms--a bright innocent little one--and, thou, +dearest Gotleib, knelt beside me; and an angel-woman stood near us, +in a soft heavenly glory, and said, in low musical, +spirit-words--'Behold the fruit of the union of good and truth.' And +then, methought, thou didst embrace me with a new joy of love, and +whispered, 'an angel of God is born of us.' This little one is the +dream-child, dear Gotleib." + +Thus beautiful was the birth of the little Lina, who grew, daily, in +a pure innocent loveliness. While she is expanding in the first days +of her new, breathing, sensitive life, we will go back to the former +life of Gotleib and Anna. + +Gotleib Von Arnheim had first seen the light in this same small +cottage, on the confines of the Black Forest of Germany. He was born +with a large, loving heart. But the father and mother, and the dear +God, were the only beings on whom his affections were fixed; for his +sensitive nature shrank from the contact of the honest-hearted, but +rough peasant neighbours, that made the little world of their simple +life. But soon death came, and the good father left the earth for +the beautiful Heaven-world. The little Gotleib missed his kind +father; but his mother told him of the bright inner life, and how +his father yet lived and loved him; and the heart of the boy was +comforted: he felt a sense of elevation in having his father, whom +he had known so familiarly here upon earth, now the companion of +angels, and living in such a bright and beautiful world. + +Ah, life had to him such an inner beauty; and, when still, dreamy +moments of leisure intervened between his work and play, he revelled +in such dreams of fancy, as lent light and life and joy to his whole +being. But the death of the kind father had not only carried the +boy's fancy to the other world; it was also drawing the mother's +heart away to the fair spirit-land. Gotleib saw his mother's face +growing thin and pale; he knew that she was weak--for oftentimes, in +the long winter evenings, as he read to her from the holy word of +God, her hand would drop wearily with the raised spindle, and she, +who was never before idle, would fold her hands in a quiet, meek +resignation. At such times a tremour would seize the boy's heart. +The mother saw it; and, one night, when his fixed tender gaze rested +on her, she raised her spiritual eyes to his, and said, + +"Dear Gotleib! thou wilt yet have the good God to love." + +"Ah, mother,! mother!" cried the boy, "wilt thou, too, leave me?" + +His head was bowed upon her knees in bitter grief, the desolation of +earth was spread like an impenetrable pall over his whole future. +Suddenly he looked up, full of a strange, bright hope, and said, + +"Mother, I too may die." + +Then the mother put off her weakness, and long and loving was the +talk she held with her dear boy. She told him that from a little one +he had ever loved God; that the first word he had ever pronounced +was the name of the Holy One. She had taught him to clasp his tiny +baby hands and look up and say "God," ere any other word had passed +his lips. She had named him Gotleib, because he was the love of God +to her, and he was to be a lover of God. As she talked, the boy grew +strong and calm, and said, + +"Yet, oh, my mother! God is so great for the heart of a small child. +God is so high and lifted up in the far heavens, that I feel myself +but as a tiny blade of grass that looks up to the far sun--dear +mother! the earth will be too lonely; ah, there is no hope but in +death." + +"No, my son," said the mother, "there is a beautiful hope for the +earth also. I will tell you what will make you love God more truly +than ever." + +The boy was fixed attention. + +"Thou didst not know, dear Gotleib, that when God created thee a +strong, brave boy, He also created a tender, gentle little maiden, +like unto thee in all things, save thou wert a boy and she a maiden. +Thou wert strong and able to work, and she gentle and born to love +thee." + +"Where is she?" inquired the excited Gotleib. + +"I know not," replied the mother. "But God knows, and He will watch +over the two whom He has created, the one for the other; and, on +earth, or in heaven, the two will meet. Is it not better, then, not +to wish to die, but to leave all things to the will of God? For what +if thy little maiden is left alone upon the earth, and there is no +strong, manly heart upon which she may lean, and no vigorous arm to +labour for her, how will her spirit droop with a weary, lonely +sadness? No, my son, live! and the joy of a most beautiful, loving +companionship, may yet be thine. The earth will not be desolate ever +to thy orphan heart, with this beautiful hope before thee." + +Thus, in the cold wintry night of a dark sorrow, did the good mother +plant a living seed of truth, that afterwards sprang up into a +vernal flowery Eden, that bloomed in the boy's heart with an eternal +beauty. + +When the early spring came, Gotleib looked calmly and lovingly on +the beloved mother, who was leaving for the inner world. Death was +beautiful to him now; it was simply the new birthtime of a mature, +living soul. + +The spirit of the mother's love seemed to linger over the home of +his childhood, and it was a great sorrow to leave the cherished +spot; but, his mother told him he was to seek a brother of hers in +the distant town of Heidelberg. As Gotleib turned from the now +voiceless home of his parents, a fervent desire arose in his heart +that he might again be permitted to dwell beneath this sheltering +roof and amidst its living associations. + +The boy went forth into the unknown world, with a living trust in +his heart in the great God. His was a simple, childish faith, born +of his love--to him God was not a mystery. It was a Divine +personality he loved. Jesus had walked the earth, and his father and +mother also--all were now spirits, none the less to be loved and +trusted than when upon earth; but now they were to him in +transcendent states of glory. The Lord Jesus, as being infinitely +great and glorious, was the alone One to whom he now looked for +help--though ever as he knelt to pray to GOD, he felt that his +angel-mother bowed with his spirit, and by her prompting beautiful +words of humiliation and praise came to him, that he himself could +never have thought of; hence the affections of his heart all grew up +into the inner spirit-world. + +And years passed in the good town of Heidelberg, years that brought +blessings to the orphan boy as they flew. The God in whom he trusted +had provided for him--had awakened a friendly kindness in many warm +hearts. And Gotleib, who was at first designed by his relatives to +spend his days over the shoemaker's awl and last, at length found +himself, by his own ardent exertions and the helpful kindness of +others, a student in the University. This was to him a most pure +gratification--not because of a love of learning, not because of +ambition, to attain a position before his fellow-men. Oh! it was +quite otherwise with the good youth--he had one object in life. The +hope that his dying mother had awakened in his heart was the guiding +star of all his efforts. That little maiden created for him, and to +be supported by him! The image was ever before him. Yes, he was a +student for a high and noble use. Science was to be to him the +instrument of a life of love and blessedness. To do good to others, +and thus to provide for the maiden, was what led him to the arduous +study of medicine. + +It mattered not that cold and hunger and toil all bound him in an +earthly coil. The warm, hopeful heart has a wonderful endurance. The +delicate, attenuated form of the young student seemed barely +sufficient to hold the bright and glowing spirit that looked out +from his soft eyes, when he received his degrees. The desire of his +life was growing into a fruition; and when he returned to his poor +lodgings, a sense of freedom, of gratitude, and of delight, crowned +his yet barren life. To work! to work! seemed now the one call of +his being; but, whither was he to go? There was the childhood's +home, to which his heart instinctively turned; but, alone and +desolate, he could not dwell there. Gotleib had not forgotten his +mother's lessons; he knelt and prayed to God for guidance. Even as +he kneels, and feels his spirit in the sunshine of God's presence, +there is a knock at the door, and the good Professor Eberhard +enters. He has marked the student in his poverty and toil, and feels +that he will now hold out a helping hand to the young beginner. As +professor of anatomy, he needs the quick eye and delicate hand of an +expert assistant. + +Gotleib looked upon the Herr professor as Heaven-sent, and in a few +days was installed in all the luxury of a life of active use. + +Years passed away, and (sic) Gotlieb Von Arnheim sighed with a man's +full heart for a woman's sympathy and responsive affection. He had +seen bright eyes gleam and soft cheeks flush at his approach, and he +had looked wonderingly into many a sweet face. But he had not yet +seen the little maiden of whom his mother spoke--who was to be the +reflex of himself. All these German maidens were altogether +different from--and his heart remained unsatisfied in their +presence. He felt no visions of eternity as he looked into their +friendly faces. + +Sometimes hope almost died out. But his trust in God seemed to +forbid the death of this sweet hope. Often he said, "the good God +would not have created this intense desire in one so wholly +dependent upon Him, were he not intending to satisfy it." At all +events, he thought--"If the maiden is not upon earth, she is in +heaven." So he worked and waited patiently. + +The wintry winds were howling, as it were, a wild requiem over the +lordly ruins of the crime-stained castle of Heidelberg. Cold, and +bitter, and clear was the starry night, when the weary Gotleib +issued out of the Herr professor's warm house to answer the late +call of a sick woman. Gotleib looked up into those illimitable +depths where earths and suns hang suspended, to appeal to the +material perceptions of man that this is not the alone world--the +alone existence. The silent bright stars comforted the earth-wearied +heart in which the day's toil had dimmed the spirit's perception. +Gotleib stepped on bravely through the frosty darkness, and said +hopefully to himself, + +"There is yet another world--another life than this." + +And now he stood before the house in which his services were needed. +He entered a chamber, whose bare poverty reminded him of his student +days. But far sadder was cold poverty here, for a lady lay on a hard +couch before the scantily furnished grate, and her hollow cough, and +the oozing blood that saturated her white handkerchief, rendered all +words unnecessary. + +A young girl, with blanched cheek and tearless eye of agony, knelt +by the wan sufferer. Gotleib felt himself in the sphere of his +life's use; cold and fatigue were alike gone. The sick and almost +dying woman seemed to revive under his touch--it was as if strength +flowed from the physician into the patient. His very presence +diffused an air of hope and comfort through the desolate apartment, +and the kind serving-girl, Bettina, who had guided him to the humble +lodging, seconded all his active efforts to produce warmth and +comfort, and soon returned with one of his prescriptions--an +abundance of fuel for the almost exhausted grate. The cheerful blaze +threw its strong light upon the young girl, who at first knelt in +hopeless grief beside her dying mother. + +What was it that thrilled the heart of Gotleib, as he looked upon +this young maiden? Was it her beauty? No! he had seen others more +beautiful. Was it her sorrow? No! he had seen others quite as sad. +But, whatever it was, Gotleib felt he had met his destiny; the +fulness of his being was developed to him; and, all unconsciously, +the maiden turned to him as the Providence of God to her. She seemed +to rest her troubled heart upon his strong understanding. He said +her mother would not die immediately, and she grew calm. + +It was very late that night when Gotleib retired; and very fervent +were the prayers that arose from his heart before he slept. He felt +a sense of gratitude for the uses he was permitted to perform to his +fellow beings, and, in his prayers, he felt that light shone from +the Divine sun upon that sorrowing maiden, and it was as if she +knelt by his side, and his strong spirit-arms upheld her in the +sunshine of God's love. + +When the morning came, Gotleib awakened with a delicious sense of +enjoyment in life--with a looking forth into the events of the day, +that he had never before experienced. He hastened through his +morning duties with an elasticity of spirit and hope that was +altogether new to him. Though, as yet, his feeling was not defined +into a thought, it was a faint perception, a dim consciousness that +the elective affinities of his heart had all awakened. And while he +thought he was in an excessive anxiety to see after his feeble +patient, he was borne on rather by the attractions of his heart's +love. He paused in a thrilling excitement of hope and doubt before +the door of the poor chamber--he dreaded to have the agreeable +impressions of the last evening dissipated. But, when he knocked, a +light tread was heard; the door was gently opened, and the pale Anna +stood before him, with such a gentle grace, and so earnest a look of +gratified expectation, that, as she said in subdued tones, + +"I hoped it was you," his heart bounded with exultation, to think +that the young girl had him in her thoughts. But, as he approached +the sick bed, his reason told him what was more natural than her +wishing for the arrival of her mother's physician. + +A careful glance, by daylight, around the humble apartment, revealed +to Gotleib that Anna worked with her delicate, white, lady-looking +hands, for the support of her dying mother. A table, placed by the +window, was covered with artificial flowers of exquisite +workmanship, and, while he yet lingered in the chamber, Bettina, the +maid, entered from the street door, with a basket filled with the +same flowers--looked at Anna, and shook her head mournfully. The +young girl's lips quivered, and she pressed the tears back when she +saw no purchaser had been found for her labour. Gotleib saw and felt +with the most intense sympathy all that was passing. He lingered yet +longer--he made encouraging remarks to the sick mother, and, at +length, ventured to approach the table, and gazed with admiration on +the beautiful flowers, while his brain was busy in devising how he +was to make them the medium of conveying aid to the suffering mother +and daughter. He turned to the faithful Bettina, who clung to those +whom she served in their hard poverty--he told her that if she would +follow him he would find a purchaser for the pretty flowers. Anna +cast upon him a look of tearful smiling gratitude, and her simple, +"I thank you," as she held out her hand to him, bound him as with a +magnetic chain to her being. Bettina thought the Herr Doctor was a +most generous man, for he more than doubled the paltry sum she asked +for the flowers; though she did not consider it necessary to mention +the fact to Anna, she merely stated to her that she had found a +purchaser for as many flowers as she chose to make. + +But Gotleib! what an Eden those flowers made of his chamber! with +what a joy he returned to it after hours of absence; it seemed as if +they brought him into contact with the sphere of a beloved +existence. He examined them with delight, and could not avoid +covering them with kisses. Never was patient visited or watched over +more attentively than was Madame Hendrickson; and, as the mother +revived, the daughter seemed to feel new life. Light beamed from her +soft eyes, and oftentimes Gotleib thought that the roses that +bloomed in her delicate face were far more beautiful and bright than +those that grew under her light and skilful touch. + +For him she seemed to feel an earnest trustful gratitude. She never +concealed her glad recognition of his coming; she was too pure, and +innocent, and good, to think it necessary to conceal anything. And +Gotleib's visits were so pleasant, they grew longer and longer--for +he and Madame Hendrickson were of the same religious faith--and he +had a peculiar faculty for consoling her. Gotleib spoke of the other +world with such a definite perception of its existences and modes of +being, that the dying woman never wearied of listening to him. The +high and true faith of the good Gotleib opened to him a world of +beauty, which he poured forth in his earnest enthusiasm, more like a +gifted poet than a being of mere prose. Oftentimes, as he talked, +the light of his intelligence seemed to gleam back from the +answering eye of Anna, until his whole being was filled with +delight. While she felt that her hitherto dim and indistinct faith +was growing into form and fixedness, and her intellect awakened to a +sphere of ideas, to a world of perceptions, that endowed her all at +once with a charmed existence, and flooded her with the light of a +graceful beauty that made her appear to the admiring Gotleib like an +angelic spirit. + +Thus were the spirit links being woven through the cold bright days +of winter. Madame Hendrickson was no longer confined to her bed; and +on the Sabbath days Anna could attend the public worship of God, of +whom, now, only she seemed truly to learn. It was to the Holy Supper +she went on that first solemn Sabbath day, after months of +confinement and sorrow. Oh! how blessed it was to listen to the +Divine Word, through which God seemed to her awakened perception to +shine, in a veiled beauty! and when she tasted the wine of spiritual +truth, flowing from the wisdom of the Divine One, and ate of the +bread of the celestial good of His love, Heaven seemed to open to +her receptive heart and mind--and, as her heart's prayers went up +with those of the shining angels round the throne of God, it was not +for herself that she prayed, but for him that had spoken living +truth to her virgin heart. Oh, the good child! In that holy moment +she rejoiced to reveal her heart's love to the Divine Father; she +knew that her love was born of her knowledge of God, and thus she +knew that it was blessed from above. + +As she passed out of the church, she encountered the earnest glance +of surprised and delighted recognition from Gotleib. Very soon he +was at her side. In the fullness and stillness of her beautiful +thoughts and satisfied affections they walked on. Oh, how happy the +dear mother looked, when she saw the two enter her lonely chamber! +The heavenly light and warmth of love seemed to be within and around +them; and she saw that two beings so exactly created the one for the +other, could not but find an eternal happiness in each other. +Gotleib was truly in one of his genial, sunny moods; he seemed to +soar into worlds of light; his expanding heart was filling with the +glory of Heaven. The teachings of his childhood were all brought +forth; he talked of his beloved mother--now an angel of God--told of +the beautiful hope she awakened in his heart concerning the little +maiden created by God for him, when his heart shrunk in such pain +from the isolation her death would leave him in. Then he turned to +the blushing Anna, and said he thought the maiden was now found. She +lifted her love-lighted eyes to his--he clasped her hand and said +softly, + +"Thou art mine!" + +"I am thine," fell responsive from the maiden's lips; and an +infinite blessedness flowed into the loving, satisfied heart of +Gotleib. + +The next day brought with it a new and beautiful joy,--a letter from +the beloved one, conveyed into his hand as he tenderly pressed hers, +at parting. For this his thirsty soul had yearned--for some +expression of the maiden's heart-love that had as yet gleamed upon +him but momentarily from her modest eyes. But alone in his chamber, +with the dear letter before him! Ah, now indeed he was to lift the +veil that hid his life's treasure. To have revealed to him the heart +and mind of the beloved one. And his whole being went forth to her +as he read the tender revealings. She wrote: + +"Gotleib! my heart would fain speak to thine. It longs to say +gratefully, 'I love thee, thou heaven-sent one.' And I would tell +thee of a dream that came to me last night in my heart's beautiful +happiness. + +"I was reading aloud to my mother in the book you lent me. I read of +how the angels ever have their faces turned to the Divine Sun. Of +how their shining brows are ever attracted to this central point, in +whatever position they may be--even as our feet are attracted to the +central point of the earth. I was happy in this beautiful truth, and +felt that through my love for thee, my thought was lifted upward, +and my face, too, was turned to the Lord; and when sleep came, it +seemed as if my happy spirit was conscious of a new and beautiful +existence. I found myself in a large place, and a company of angelic +spirits surrounded me; and we were seated at a table, adorned with +an exceeding elegance, and having many varieties of food, of which +we partook, but without a consciousness of taste--only there was a +genial delight of mind arising from the mutual love of all those +bright ones. An angel-woman spoke to me and said, 'This is the +Lord's Supper; appropriate to thyself the goods and truths of His +heavenly kingdom.' While she thus spoke, I saw thee, dear Gotleib, +approach, with such a smiling and beautiful grace, and thou saidst +to me, holding my hand--'Sweet one! how bright thou art! Hast thou +learnt some new truth! for thou art ever bright, when thou dost +perceive a new truth!' Then I answered, 'Ah, yes, indeed! I have +learned a beautiful new truth;' and I led thee to an east window and +pointed upward to the great Sun, that shone in such a Divine +effulgence--then I told thee how the angels were held by the +attraction of love in this centre of being--even as the children of +the world are held by the attraction of gravitation to the +earth--and as we talked, the light shone around thee, dear Gotleib! +with so heavenly a glory, that my heart was filled with a new love +for thee. For I saw, truly, that thou wert a child of God, and in +loving thee I loved Him who shone in such a radiant glory upon thee. +Oh! was not this a pleasant dream? Gotleib! what worlds of beauty +thou hast opened to me! Once my thought was so narrow, so bound down +to the earth; but thou hast lifted me above the earth. A woman's +heart is so weak--it is like a trailing vine, that cannot lift +itself up until its curling tendrils are wound round the lofty +tree-tops of a man's ascending thought. Gotleib, thus dost thou bear +me up into the serene, bright heavens, and like some blooming +flowery vine will my love ever seek to adorn thy noble thoughts." + +Gotleib was charmed with the maiden's thoughts. Oh, yes--her flowers +were already flying over his highest branches. She soared above him, +and through her heavenly truths were growing clearer to him. How +grateful he was to his Heavenly Father, that from his own bosom, as +it were, was born his spirit's companion. But her life was from +God--and how holy was her whole being to him! She was enthroned in +his inmost heart, to be for ever treasured as the highest and best +gift of God. + +It was evening when he next stood beside her. The mother slept, and +Anna and Gotleib stood in the moonlit window. Few, and softly +whispered, were his loving words to her. But she smiled in a oneness +of thought, when he said, + +"In heaven, the sun shone upon us; upon earth the cold moonbeams +unite us; but the sunshine will soon come again." + +Anna felt that her letter had made Gotleib very happy; and she bent +her head lovingly on his manly breast. Oh! to him, the desolate +forlorn one, how thrilling was the first caress of the maiden! His +lips touched her soft white brows with a delicious new joy. But +brow, eyes, cheeks, and lips, were soon covered with rapturous +kisses. + +Ah! happy youth and maiden, thus bedewed with life's nectar of +blessedness! What are earth's sorrows to you? Heaven is in you, and +eternity only can satisfy the infinite desires of such hearts. + +But as the days passed, the material body of the mother wasted away, +and her spirit was growing bright in its coming glory. She wished +much to see her beloved Anna in a holy marriage union before she +left this world. So a few weeks after the betrothal, Gotleib led his +bride to the marriage altar. It was a festive scene of the heart's +happiness even beside the bed of death. Madame Hendrickson felt that +she, too, was adorning for a beautiful bridal--and earthly care +being thus removed from her heart, she was altogether happy. + +And the good, true-hearted Anna, in white bridal garments and virgin +innocence, looked to the loving mother and happy Gotleib like an +angel of God. Even the Professor Eberhard thought thus, and quite +certain it is, that the good minister spoke as if a heavenly +inspiration flowed into him, as he bound the two into an eternal +_oneness_ of being. "Little children!" said he, "love one another! +was the teaching of the great God, as he walked upon the earth. +Hence love is the holy of the holies. And it flows from God even as +heat flows from the material sun--and as the sun is in its own heat +and light, so God is in love." + +And taking the marriage ring, he placed it on the soft, white, +rose-tipped finger of the bride, and said, + +"How beautiful and expressive is this symbol of union, showing the +conjunction of good and truth, which conjunction first exists in the +Lord, for His love is the inmost, and His wisdom is like the golden +bond of truth encasing and protecting love. And this love of the +Lord flowing into man is received, protected, and guarded by woman's +truth, until, in her fitness and perfect adaptation to him, she +becomes the love of the wisdom of the man's love, and the twain are +no longer two, but one." + +The fresh spring days were now coming--Madame Hendrickson went to an +eternal spring. But the heart of the loving Anna rose above the +earthly sorrow of separation, as if upheld by her husband's strong +faith; her imagination delighted itself in following the beloved +mother into her new and beautiful state of being. + +Gotleib felt that now it was good for him to return to the home of +his childhood, for it was more delightful to live apart from the +strife and toil of men. In the simple country life much good might +be done, and yet there would be less of life's sorrow to look upon. +It was weary to live in a crowded haunt, where a perception of vice +and misery so mingled itself with the blessedness of his heart's +love. Anna was charmed and delighted with the pure country life, and +as business increased on the Herr Doctor's hands, it was so great a +happiness to her to minister to his comfort. After the long winter +rides, how she chafed his cold hands and warmed his frozen feet, and +how lovingly she helped him to the warm suppers of the good Bettina, +no homeless and desolate wanderer of earth can know. But to Gotleib, +what an inexpressible blessedness was all this; and how often he +left off to eat, that he might clasp Anna to his heart and cover her +with kisses! Thus went the blessed married life until another spring +brought with it the sweet "dream-child," as Anna called the little +one, whom the angel said, was "the fruit of the union of good and +truth." + +The little Lina thus born into the very sphere of love, seemed ever +a living joy. The father's wisdom guided the mother's tender love, +and the little one was good and unselfish--and so gay in the +infantile innocence and grace of her being, that oftentimes the +young mother, leaning on the father's bosom, would whisper, + +"Gotleib, she is indeed an angel of God." + +One dark and wintry day, as the child thus sported in the inner glad +light and joy of her heart, and Gotleib and Anna as usual were +watching the light of her radiance, a beautiful White Dove flew +fluttering against the friendly window. The child grew still in her +wondrous joy. But the father quickly opened the window, and the +half-frozen bird flew in, and nestled itself in Anna's bosom. It was +fed and warmed and loved as bird never was before. For the little +one thought it was the spirit of God come down upon the house, and +Gotleib loved it because to him it was a living symbol of the peace +and purity of his married life, and Anna received it as a heavenly +gift for the loving child. Thus both literally and spiritually the +White Dove of innocence and peace dwelt in their midst. + + + + + + +HESTER. + + + + + + WHILE Hester lived, the day was bright + With something more than common light-- + 'Twas the moon's difference to the night. + + As summer sun and summer shower + Revive the tree, the herb, and flower, + Hers was the gift of warmth and power. + + She was not what the world calls wise; + Yet, the mute language of her eyes + Was worth a thousand homilies. + + She was so crystal pure a thing, + That sin to her could no more cling + Than water to a sea-bird's wing. + + Like memory-tones heard long ago, + Her gentle voice was soft and low, + But plaintive in its underflow. + + Her life so slowly loosed its springs, + Long ere she passed from earthly things, + We saw the budding of her wings. + + She lingered so in taking leave-- + Heaven granted us a long reprieve-- + That when she went we could not grieve. + + The very night that Hester died, + There came and stood my couch beside, + A gentle spirit glorified. + + And often in my darker mood, + When evil thoughts subdue the good, + I see her clasp the holy Rood. + + But when my better hopes illume + The narrow pathway to the tomb, + My Hester's presence fills the room. + + + + + + +THISTLE-DOWN. + + + + + +THERE is no time like these clear September nights, after sunset, +for a revery. If it is a calm evening, and an intense light fills +the sky, and glorifies it, and you sit where you can see the new +moon, with the magnificent evening star beneath it, you must be a +stupid affair, indeed, if you cannot then dream the most _heavenly_ +dreams! + +But Rosalie Sherwood, poor young creature, is in no dreaming mood +this lovely Sabbath night. Her heart is crushed in such an utter +helplessness, as leaves no room in it for hope: her brain is too +acutely sensitive, just now, for visions. The thistle-down, in +beautiful fairy-like procession, floats on and up before her eyes, +and as she watches the frail things, they assume a new interest to +her; she feels a human sympathy with them. Like the viewless winds +they come, from whence she knows not; and go, whither? none can +tell. They are homeless, and she is like them; but she is not as +they, purposeless. + +If you could look into her mind, you would see how she has nerved it +to a great determination; how that, mustering visions and hopes once +cherished, she had gone forward to a bleak and barren path, and +stands there very resolute, yet, in the first moment of her resolve, +miserable; no, she had not yet grown strong in the suffering; she +cannot _this_ night stand up and bear her burden with a smile of +triumph. + +Rosalie Sherwood was an only child, the daughter of an humble friend +Mrs. Melville had known from girlhood. _She_, poor creature, had +neither lived nor died innocent. + +On her death-bed, Cecily Sherwood gave her unrecognised child to the +care of one who promised, in the sincerity of her passion, to be a +mother to the unfortunate infant. And during the eighteen years of +that girl's life, from the hour of her mother's death to the day +when she was left without hope in the world, Rosalie _had_ found a +parent in the rigid but always kind and just Mary Melville. + +This widow lady had one son; he was four years old when her husband +died, which was the very year that the little Rosalie was brought to +Melville House. The boy's father had been considered a man of great +wealth, but when his affairs were settled, after his decease, it was +found that the debts of the estate being paid, little more than a +competency remained for the widow. But the lady was fitted, by a +life of self-discipline, even in her luxurious home, to calmly meet +this emergency. With the remnant of an imagined fortune, she retired +to an humbler residence, where, in quiet retirement, she gave her +time to managing household affairs, and superintending the home +education of the children. + +Her son Duncan, and the young Rosalie, had grown up together, until +the girl's twelfth birth-day, constant playmates and pupils in the +same school. No one, not even the busiest busy-body, had ever been +able to detect the slightest partiality in Mrs. Melville's treatment +of her children; and, indeed, it had been quite impossible that she +should ever regard a child so winningly beautiful as Rosalie, with +other than the tenderest affection. Under a light and careless rein, +the girl had been a difficult one to manage, for there was a light +little fire in her eyes, that told of strong will and deep passions; +and besides, her striking appearance had won sufficient admiration +to have completely spoiled her, if a guardian the most vigilant as +well as most discerning, had not been ever at hand to speak the +right word to and do the right thing with her. + +Mrs. Melville was a thoroughly religious woman, and seriously +conscious of the responsibility she incurred in adopting the infant. +She could not quiet her conscience with the reflection that she had +done a wonderfully good thing in giving Rosalie a home and +education; the chief pity she felt for the unfortunate orphan, led +her to exercise an uncommon care, that all tendency to evil should +be eradicated from the heart of the brilliant girl while she was yet +young; that a sense of right, such as should prove abiding, might be +impressed on her tender mind. And her labour of love met with a +return which might well have made the mother proud. + +There had been no officious voice to whisper to Rosalie Sherwood the +story of the doubtful position which she occupied in the world. She +was an orphan, the adopted child of the lady whom she devoutly loved +with all a daughter's tenderness; this she knew, and it was all she +knew; and Mrs. Melville was resolved that she should never know +more. + +The son of the widow had been educated for the ministry. He was now +twenty-two years old, and was soon to be admitted to the priesthood. +In this he was following out his own wish, and the most cherished +hope of his mother, and it seemed to all who knew him, as though the +Head of the Church had set his seal upon Duncan from his boyhood. He +was so mild and forbearing, so discreet and generous, so earnest and +so honest; meek, and holy of heart, was the thought of any one who +looked upon his placid, youthful face. Yet, he had, besides his +gentleness, that without which his character might have subsided +into a mere puerile weakness; a firmness of purpose; a reverence for +duty; a strict sense of right, equal to that which marked his mother +among women. Duncan Melville's abilities were of a high order; +perhaps not of the very highest, though, if his ambition were only +equal to his powers, they would surely seem so to the world. + +His voice had a sweet persuasive tone, that was fitted to _win_ +souls, yet it could ring like a clarion, when the grandeur of his +themes fired his soul. With the warmest hopes and the deepest +interest, they, who knew the difficulties and trials attending the +profession he had chosen, looked on this young man. + +Duncan and Rosalie had long known the nature of the tie which bound +them together--members of one family--and they never called +themselves brother and sister, after the youth came home a graduate +from college. For, from the time when absence empowered him to look +as a stranger would look on Rosalie, from that time he saw her +elegant and accomplished, and bewitching, as she was, and other than +fraternal affection was in his heart for her. + +And Rosalie, too, loved him, just as Duncan, had he spoken his +passion, would have prayed her to love him. She had long ago made +him the standard of all manly excellence; and when he came back, +after three years of absence, she was not inclined to revoke her +early decision; therefore was she prepared to read the language of +Duncan's eyes, and she consecrated her heart to him. + +During the years which followed his return from college, till he was +prepared for ordination, as a priest, he did not once _speak_ to her +of his love, which was growing all the while stronger and deeper, as +the river course that, flowing to the ocean, receives every day +fresh impetus and force from the many tiny springs that commingle +with it. Duncan Melville never _thought_ of wedding another than +Rosalie Sherwood. + +It was, as I said, near the time appointed for his ordination, when +he felt, for the first time, as though he had a _right_ to speak +openly with her of all his hopes. He asked her, then, what, in soul +language, he had long before asked, a question which she had as +emphatically, in like language, answered--to be his partner for +life, in weal or woe. + +He had tried to calmly consider Rosalie's character as a Christian +minister should consider the character of her whom he would make the +sharer of his peculiar lot; and setting every preference aside, +Duncan felt that she was fitted to assist, and to bear with him. She +was truthful as the day, strong-minded and generous; humane and +charitable: and though no professor of religion, a woman full of +reverence and veneration. + +He knew that it was only a fear that she should not _adorn_ the +Christian name, that kept her back from the altar of the church, and +he loved her for that spirit of humility, knowing that she was "on +the Lord's side," and that grace, ere long, would be given to her, +to proclaim it in doing _all_ His commandments. + +It was certainly with a joyful and confident heart that, after he +had spoken with Rosalie, Duncan sought his mother, to tell her of +the whole of that bright future which opened now before him. + +How then was he overcome with amazement and grief when Mrs. Melville +told him it was a union to which she could never consent! Then, for +the first time in his life, the astonished young man heard of that +stain which was on the name poor Rosalie bore. + +He heard the story to the end, and, with a decision and energy that +would have settled the matter with almost any other than his mother, +he declared, + +"Yet for all that, I will not give her up." + +"It would not be expected that you would fulfil the engagement. +Rosalie herself would not allow it, if she knew the truth of the +matter." + +"But she need not know it. There is no existing necessity. Is it not +enough that she is good and precious _to me_? She is a noble woman, +whose life has been, thanks to your guidance, beautiful and lofty." + +"God knows, I _have_ striven to do my duty by her, but I know what I +should have done if I had ever thought you would wish to change your +relations with her, Duncan." + +"The world has not her equal! It is cruel--it is sinful--in you, +mother, to oppose our union." + +"She _is_ a lovely woman; but, my son, there are myriads like her." + +"No _not one_! Tell me you will never breathe a word of what you +have told me _to her_!" + +"Never." + +"Oh! thank you! thank you, mother! you could not wish another +daughter." + +"But for that I have told you, I could not wish another." + +"Then I say you must not work this great injustice on us. Rosalie +loves me. She has promised to be mine. You will break my heart." + +"You are deluded and strongly excited, my son, or you would never +speak so to me," said the mother, with that persisting firmness with +which the physician resorts to a desperate remedy for a desperate +disease. Then she spoke to him of all the relations in life he might +yet be called upon to assume; of the misery which very possibly +might follow this union in after days. Hours passed on, and the +conference was not ended, until, with a crushed heart, and a +trembling voice, Duncan arose, abruptly, while his mother yet spoke, +and he said, + +"If the conclusion to which you have urged me, in God's sight, is +just, He will give me--He will give Rosalie, too--strength to abide +by it. But I can never speak to her of this, and I must find another +home than yours and hers. You must speak _for me_, mother; and let +me charge you, do it gently. Do not tell her _all_. Let her think +what she will, believe, as she must, that I am a wretch, past +pardon; but do not blight her peace by telling _all_." + +"I promise you, Duncan," was the answer, spoken through many tears, +and in the deepest sorrow. + +An hour after, he was on the way from the village that he might +spend the coming Sabbath in another town. + +And, after he was gone, the mother sought her younger, her dearly +loved child. Rosalie heard that familiar step on the stairway; she +had seen Duncan hurrying away from the house, and she knew the +conference was over; but she had no fear for the result. So she +hushed the glad tumultuous beating of her heart, and tried to veil +the brightness of her eyes as she heard the gentle tapping at her +door that announced the mother coming. + +As for Mrs. Melville, her heart quite failed her when she went into +the pleasant room, and sat down close by Rosalie. In spite of all +the strengthening thoughts of duty which she had taken with her as a +support in that interview, she was now at a sore loss, for it had +been a bitter grief to her kind heart when, of old, for duty's sake, +she made her children unhappy. How then could sh endure to take away +their life's best joy, their richest hope? It was a hard thing; and +many moments passed before she could nerve her strong spirit to +utter the first word. Rosalie, anxious and impatient, too, but +unsuspecting, at last exclaimed, + +"What can it be that so much troubles you, mother?" + +Then Mary Melville spoke, but with a voice so soft and sad, so faint +with emotion, that it seemed not at all her voice. She said, + +"I want you to consider that what I say to you, dear child, has +given me more pain even to think of than I have ever felt before. +Duncan has told me of your engagement to marry with him; and it has +been my duty, my most sorrowful duty, oh! believe me, to tell him +that such a tie must never unite you. He can never be your husband; +you can never be his wife." + +She paused, exhausted by her emotion; she could not utter another +syllable. Rosalie, who had watched her with fixed astonishment as +she listened to the words, was the first to speak again, and she +tried to say, calmly, + +"Of course, you have a reason for saying so. It is but just that I +should know it." + +"It cannot _be_ known. If I had ever in my life deceived you, +Rosalie, you might doubt me now, when I assure you that an +impediment, which cannot be named, exists to the marriage. Have I +not been a mother to you always?" she asked, appealingly, +imploringly: "I love you as I love Duncan, and it cuts me to the +heart to grieve you." + +"Has Duncan given you an answer?" + +"Yes, Rosalie." + +"And it--?" + +"He has trusted to his mother!" she said, almost proudly. + +"Rather than me," quickly interrupted Rosalie. + +"Rather than do that which is wrong; which might hereafter prove the +misery of you both, my child." + +"Where is he? Why does he not come himself to tell me this? If the +thing is really true, _his_ lips should have spoken it, and not +another's." + +"Oh! Rosalie, he could not do it. I believe his heart is broken. Do +not look so upon me. Is it not enough that I bitterly regret, that I +shall always deplore, having not foreseen the result of your +companionship? Say only that you do believe I have striven to do the +best for you always, as far as I knew how. I implore you, _say it_." + +"Heaven knows I believe it, mother. When will Duncan come home +again?" + +"Monday; not before." + +When Monday morning came, on the desk in Rosalie's room this letter +was found:-- + +"I cannot leave you for ever, Duncan; I cannot go from your +protecting care, mother, without saying all that is in my heart. I +have no courage to look on you, my brother, again. Mother! our +union, which we had thought life-lasting, is broken. I cannot any +longer live in the world's sight as your daughter by adoption. I +would have done so. I would have remained in any capacity, as a +slave, even, for I was bound by gratitude for all that you have done +for me, to be with you always--at least so long as you could wish. +If you had unveiled the mystery, and suffered me to stand before +you, recognising myself as _you_ know me, I would have stayed. I +would have been to you, Duncan, only as in childhood--a proud yet +humble sister, rejoicing in your triumphs, and sharing by _sympathy_ +in your griefs. I would have put forth fetters on my heart; the +in-dwelling spirit should henceforth have been a stranger to you. I +_know_ I could have borne even to see another made your wife; but in +a mistaken kindness you put this utterly beyond my power. Too much +has been required, and I am found--wanting! If even the most +miserable fate that can befall an innocent woman; if the curse of +illegitimacy were upon me, I could bear that thought even, and +acknowledge the justice and wisdom that did not consider me a fit +associate for one whose birth is recognized by a parent's pride and +fondness. + +"But, dear Mrs. Melville, I must be cognisant of the relation, +whatever it is, that I bear you. I cannot, I will not, consent to +appear nominally your daughter, when you scorn to receive me as +such. + +"_Mother_--in my dear mother's name, I thank you for the generous +love you have ever shown me: for the generous care with which you +have attended to the development of the talents God gave me. For I +am now fitted to labour for myself. I thank you for the watchful +guardianship that has made me what I am, a woman--self-reliant and +strong. I thank you for it, from a heart that has learned only to +love and honour you in the past eighteen years. And I call down the +blessings of the infinite God upon you, as I depart. Hereafter, +always, it will be my endeavour to live worthily of you--to be _all_ +that you have, in your more than charity, capacitated me to be. +Duncan, you will not forget me? + +"I do not ask it. But pray for me, and live up to the fullness of +your being--of your heart and of your intellect. There is a happy +future for you. I have no word of counsel, no feeble utterance of +encouragement to leave you--you will not need such from _me_. God +bless and strengthen you in every good word and work--it shall be +the constant hope of the sister who _loves_ you. Mother, farewell!" + +This letter was written on the Sabbath eve on which our story +opens--written in a perfect passion--yes, of grief, and of despair. +The anger that Rosalie may at first have felt, gave way to the +wildest sorrow now, but her resolution was taken, and her heart was +really strong to bear the resolution out. + +After the sudden and most unlooked-for disappearance, the mother and +son sought long, and I need not say how anxiously, for Rosalie. But +their search was vain, and, at last, as time passed on, she became +to the villagers as one who had never been. But never by the widow +was she forgotten; and oh! there was in the world one heart that +sorrowed with a constant sorrow, that hoped with a constant hope for +her. + +He had lost her, and Duncan sought for no other love among women. +When all his searching for Rosalie proved unavailing, the minister +applied himself with industry to the work of his calling, and verily +he met here with his reward; for as he was a blessing to the people +of his parish, in time they almost adored him. He was a spiritual +physician whom God empowered to heal many a wounded and stricken +heart; but there was a cross of suffering that he bore himself, +which could not be removed. It was his glory that he bore it with +martyr-like patience--that he never uttered a reproachful word to +her through whom he bore it. + +As years passed away, the gifted preacher's impassioned eloquence, +and stirring words, bowed many a proud and impenitent soul with +another love than that he wished to inspire, still he sought not +among any of them companionship, or close friendship. They said, at +last, considering his life spent in the most rigid performance of +duty, that "_he was too high-church to marry_,"--that he did not +believe such union consonant with the duties of the cloth! But the +mother knew better than this--_she_ knew a name that was never +spoken now in Rosalie's old home, that was dearer than life to the +heart of her son; and desolate and lonely as he oft-times was, she +never _dared_ ask him to give to her a daughter--to take unto +himself a wife. + +In a splendid old cathedral a solemn ceremonial was going forward, +on the morning of a holy festival. A bishop was to be consecrated. + +A mighty crowd assembled to witness the ceremony, and the mother of +Duncan Melville was there, the happiest soul in all that company, +for it was on _her_ son that the high honour was to be laid. + +How beautiful was the pale, holy countenance of the minister, who, +in the early strength of his manhood, was accounted worthy to fill +that great office for which he was about to be set apart! He was a +man "acquainted with grief,"--you had known it by the resigned, +submissive expression of his face; you had known that the passions +of mortals had been all but chilled in him, by the holy light in his +tranquil eyes. Duncan _had_ toiled--he _had_ born a burden! + +A thousand felt it, looking on the noble front where religion +undefiled, and peace, and holy love, and charity, had left for +themselves unmistakable evidences: and, more than all, one being +felt it who had not looked upon that man for years--not since the +lines of grief and care had marked the face and form of Duncan +Melville. There was reason for the passionate sobs of one heart, +crushed anew in that solemn hour; there was pathos such as no other +voice could give to the prayers which went up to God from one +woman's heart, in the great congregation, for him. Poor, loving, +still-beloved Rosalie! She was there, her proud, magnificent figure +bent humbly from the very commencement to the close of the +ceremonial; there, her beautiful eyes filled with tears of love, and +grief, and despair, and pride; there, crushed as the humblest +flower--the glorious beauty! + +And the good man at the altar, for whom the prayers and the praise +ascended, thought of her in that hour! Yes, in that very hour he +remembered how _one_ would have looked on him that day, could she +have come, his wife, to witness how his brethren and the people +loved and honoured him. He thought of her, and as he knelt at the +altar, even there he prayed for her; but not as numbers thought upon +the name of Rosalie Sherwood that day; for she also was soon to +appear before a throng, and there was a myriad hearts that throbbed +with expectancy, and waited impatiently for the hour when they +should look upon her. + +Bishop Melville had retired at noonday to his study, that he might +be for a few moments alone. He was glancing over the sermon (sic) +the was to deliver that afternoon, when his mother, his proud and +happy mother, came quickly into the room, laid a sealed note on the +table and instantly withdrew, for she saw how he was occupied. When +he had finished his manuscript, the bishop opened the note and +read--could it have been with careless eyes? + +"Duncan, I have knelt in the house of the Lord, to-day, and +witnessed your triumph. Ten years ago, when I went desolate and +wretched from your house, I might have prophesied your destiny. +Come, to-night, and behold _my_ triumph--at--the opera-house! + +"Your sister, + +ROSALIE." + +Do you think that, as he read that summons, he hesitated as to +whether he should obey it? If his bishopric had been sacrificed by +it, he would have gone; if disgrace and danger had attended his +footsteps, he would have obeyed her bidding! The love which had been +strengthening in ten long years of loneliness and bereavement, was +not now to stop, to question or to fear. + +"Accompany me, dear mother, this evening; I have made an engagement +for you," he said, as he went, she hanging on his arm, to the +cathedral for afternoon service. + +"Willingly, my son," was the instant answer, and Duncan kept her to +her word. + +But it was with wondering, with surprise that she did not attempt to +conceal, and with questions which were satisfied with no definite +reply, that Mrs. Melville found herself standing with her son in an +obscure corner of the opera-house that night. Soon all her +expressions of astonishment were hushed, but by another cause than +the mysterious inattention of her son: a queenly woman appeared upon +the stage; she lifted her voice, and sobbed the mournful wail which +opens the first scene in----. + +For years there had not been such a sensation created among the +frequenters of that place, as now, by the appearance of this +stranger. The wild, singular style of her beauty made an impression +that was heightened by every movement of her graceful figure, every +tone of her rich melodious voice. She seemed for the time the very +embodiment of the sorrow to which she gave an expression, and the +effect was a complete triumph. + +Mary Melville and her son gazed on the _debutante_--they had no +word, no look for each other: for they recognised in her voice the +tones of a grief of which long ago they heard the prelude--and every +note found its echo in the bishop's inmost heart. + +"Come away! let us go home! Duncan, this is no place for us--for +_you_. It is disgrace to be here," was the mother's passionate plea, +when at last Rosalie disappeared, and other forms stood in her +place. + +"We will stay and save her," was the answer, spoken with tears and +trembling, by the man for whom, in many a quiet home, prayers in +that very hour ascended. "She is mine _now_, and no earthly +consideration or power shall divide us." + +And looking for a moment in her son's face steadfastly, the lady +turned away sighing and tearful, for she knew that she must yield +then, and she had fears for the future. + +A half-hour passed and the star of the night reappeared, resplendent +in beauty, triumphing in hope;--again her marvellous voice was +raised, not with the bitter cry of despair that was hopeless, but +glad and gay, angelic in its joy. + +Again the mother's eyes were turned on him beside her--and a light +was on that pale forehead--a smile on that calm face--a gladness in +those eyes--such as she had not seen there in long, long years; but +though she looked with a mother's love upon the one who stood the +admiration of all eyes, crowned with the glory-crown of perfection +in her art, she could not with Duncan hope. For, alas! her +woman-heart knew too well the ordeal through which the daughter of +her care and love must have passed before she came into _that_ +presence where she stood now, who could tell if still the mistress +of herself and her destiny? who could tell if pure and undefiled? + +That night and the following day, there were many who sought +admittance to the parlours of Rosalie Sherwood; they would lay the +homage of their trifling hearts at her feet. But all these sought in +vain; and why was this? Because such admiring tribute was not what +the noble woman sought; _and_ because, ere she had risen in the +morning, a letter, written in the solitude of night, was handed to +her, which barred and bolted her doors against the curious world. + +"Rosalie! Rosalie! look back through the ten years that are gone; I +am answering your letter of long ago with words; I have a thousand +times answered them with my heart, till the thoughts which have +crowded there, filled it almost to breaking. We have met--met at +last--you and I! But did you call that a triumph when you stood in +God's house, and saw them lay their consecrating hands upon me? +Heaven forgive me! I was thinking of you then--and thinking, too, +that if this honor was in any way to be considered a _reward_, the +needful part was wanting--you were not there! Yet you _were_ there, +you have written me; ah! but not _Rosalie, my wife_, the woman I +loved better than _all_ on earth--the _acknowledged_ woman, her +whose memory I have borne about with me till it was a needful part +of my existence. You were by when the people came to see me +consecrated--and I obeyed your call; I saw _you_ when the people +anointed you with the tears of their admiration and praise. If you +read my heart at all, to-day, you _knew_ how I had suffered--you +_saw_ that I had grown old in sorrow. Was I mistaken to-night in the +thought that you, too, had not been unmindful of _our_ past; that +you were not satisfied with the popular applause; that you, also, +have been lonely, that you have wept; that you have trodden in the +path of duty with weariness? + +"There is but one barrier now in the wide world that shall interpose +between us--Rosalie, it is your own will. If I was ever anything to +you, I beseech you think calmly before you answer, and do not let +your triumph, to-night, blind you to the fact which you once +recognised, which can make us happy _yet_. I trust you as in our +younger days; nothing, nothing but your own words could convince me +that you are not worthy to take the highest place among the ladies +of this land. Oh, let the remembrance that I have been faithful to +you through all the past, plead for me, if your pride should rise +up, to condemn me. Let me come and plead _with_ you, for I know not +what I write." + +The answer returned to this letter was as follows:-- + +"I learned long ago, the bar that prevented our union; it is in +existence still, Duncan. Your mother only shall decide if it be +insurmountable. I have never, even for a moment, doubted your +faithfulness; and it has been to me an unspeakable comfort to _know_ +that none had supplanted me in your affections. In the temptations, +and struggles, and hardships, I have known, it has kept me above and +beyond the world, and if the last night's triumph proves to be but +the opening of a new life for me on earth, the recollection of what +you are, and that you care for me, will prove a rock of defence, and +a stronghold of hope always. Severed from, or united with you, I am +yours for ever." + +Seven days after there was a marriage in the little church of that +remote village, where Duncan Melville and Rosalie Sherwood passed +their childhood. Side by side they stood now, once again, where the +baptismal service had long since been read for them, and the mother +of the bishop gave the bride away! + + + + + + +THE LITTLE CHILDREN. + + + + + +IT was Sabbath morning. Soft and silvery, like stray notes from the +quivering chords of an archangel's harp, floated the clear, sweet +voice of the church-bells through the hushed heart of the great +metropolis, while old men and little children--youth in its hope, +and manhood in its pride--came forth at their summons, setting a +mighty human tide in the direction of the sanctuaries, beneath whose +sacred droppings they should hear again the tidings which come to us +over the waves of nearly two thousand years, fresh and full of +exceeding melody, as when the Day-Star from on high first poured its +blessed beams over the mountain heights of Judea, and the song, +pealing over the hills of jasper, rolled down to the shepherds who +kept their night-watches on her plains; "Peace on earth and +good-will to men." + +A child came forth with his ragged garments, unwashed face and +uncombed hair, from one of those haunts of darkness and misery which +fill the city with crime and suffering. He was a little child, and +yet there was none of its peace on his brow, or its light in his +eye, as he looked up with a strange, wistful earnestness at the +strip of blue sky that looked down with its serene heaven-smile +between the frowning and dilapidated pile of buildings which rose on +either side of the alley. The sunshine flitted like the +soft-caressing fingers of a spirit over his forehead, and the voice +of the bells fell upon his spirit with a strange, subduing +influence; and the child kept on his way until the alley terminated +in a broad, pleasant street, with its crowd of church-goers, and +still the boy kept on, unmindful of dainty robe and silken vesture +that waved and rustled by him. + +He stood at last within the broad shadow of the sanctuary, while far +above him rose the tall spire, with the sunbeams coiling like a +heaven-halo around it, pointing to the golden battlements of the +far-off city, within whose blessed precincts nothing "which defileth +shall ever enter." The massive church doors swung slowly open as one +and another entered, and the child looked eagerly up the long, +mysterious mid-aisle, but the silken garments rustled past--there +was no hand outstretched to lead the ragged and wretched little one +within its walls, and no one paused to tell him of the Great Father, +within whose sight the rich and poor are alike. But while he stood +there, an angel with golden hair and gleaming wings bent over him, +holding precious heart-seed, gathered from the white plains of the +spirit-land, and as the child drew nearer the church steps, the +angel followed. + +Suddenly the little dapper sexton, with his broad smile and bustling +gait, came out of the church. His eyes rested a moment upon the +young wistful face and on the ragged garments, and then he beckoned +to the child. + +"Shall I take you in here, my boy?" asked a voice kinder and +pleasanter than any which the child had ever heard; and as he +timidly bowed his head, the sexton took the little soiled hand in +his own, and they passed in, and the angel followed them. + +Seated in one corner of the church, the child's eyes wandered over +the frescoed walls, with the sunshine flitting like the fringe of a +spirit's robe across it, and up the dim aisle to the great marble +pulpit, with a kind of bewildered awe, for he had seen nothing of +the like before, unless it might be in some dim, half-forgotten +dream; but when the heavy doors swung together and the Sabbath hush +gathered over the church, and the hallelujahs of the organ filled +the house of the Lord and thrilled the heart of the child; he bowed +his head and wept sweet tears--he could not tell whence was their +coming. Then the solemn prayer from the pulpit--"O, Thou who lovest +all men, who art the Father of the old and the young, the rich and +the poor, and in whose sight they are alike precious, grant us Thy +blessing," came to the ears of the child, and a new cry awoke in his +soul. _Where_ was this Father? It did not seem true that He could +love him, a poor little, hungry, ragged beggar; that such a one +could be his child. But, oh! it was just what his heart longed for, +and if all others were _precious_ to this Great Father, he did not +believe He would leave him out. If he could only find Him--no matter +how long the road was, nor how cold and hungry he might be, he would +keep straight on the way, until he reached Him, and then he would go +right in and say, "Father, I am cold and hungry, and very wretched. +There is no one to love me, none to care for me. May I be your +child, Father?" And perhaps He would look kindly upon him, and +whisper softly, as no human being had ever whispered to him, "My +child!" and stronger and wilder from his heart came up that cry, +"Oh, if I could only find Him!" + +Again the tones of the deep-toned organ and the sweet-voiced choir +floated on the Sabbath air, and crept, a strange, soft tide, into +the silent places of the boy's heart, softening and subduing it; +while during the long sermon, of which he heard little, and +comprehended less, that spirit cry rolled continually up from the +depths of his soul--"_Where_ is the Father?" + +The benediction had been pronounced, and the house was disgorged of +most of its vast crowd of worshippers, and yet the boy lingered--he +could not bear to return to his dark and dismal dwelling, to the +harsh words and harsher usage of those who loved him not, without +having that question, which his soul was so eagerly asking, +answered. But that little timid heart lacked courage, and he knew +the words would die in his throat if he attempted to speak them, and +so he must go away without knowing the way to the Father--but his +feet dragged unwillingly along, and his eyes searched earnestly the +figures that, unwitting of his want, passed swiftly before him. + +"What is it you want to know, little boy?" The voice was very +musical, and the smile on the lips of the child-questioner very +winning. The chestnut-brown curls floated over her silken robe, and +the soft blue eyes that looked into the boy's, wore that unearthly +purity of expression which is not the portion of the children of +this world. + +The boy looked into that fair, childish face, and his heart took +courage, while very eagerly from his lips came the words, "Where is +the Great Father?" + +"God is in heaven!" answered the little girl in solemn tones, while +a sudden gravity gathered over her features. + +From lips that burned with blasphemies, amid oaths from the vile, +and revilings from the scoffer, had the boy first learned that name, +and never before had it possessed aught of import for him. But now +he knew it was the name of the Great Father that loved him, and +again he asked very earnestly, "Where is the way to God in heaven? I +am going to Him now." + +The child shook her head as she looked on the boy with a sort of +pitying wonder at his ignorance, and again she answered, "You cannot +go to Him, but He will come to you if you will call upon Him, and He +will hear, though you whisper very low, for God is everywhere." + +"Come, come, Miss Ellen, you must not stay here any longer," called +the servant, who had been very intent at ranging the cushions in the +pew, and who now hurried her little charge through the aisle, +apprehensive that some evil might accrue from her contiguity with a +"street-beggar." + +But the words of the little girl had brought a new and precious +light into the boy's heart. That "cardinal explication of the +reason," the wondrous idea of the Deity, had found a voice in his +soul, and the child went forth from the church, while the +golden-winged angel followed him to the dark alley, and the darker +home; and that night, before he laid himself on his miserable pallet +in the corner, he bowed his head, and clasped his hands, and +whispered so that none might hear him, "My Father, will you take +care of me, and come and take me to yourself? for I love you." And +the angel folded his bright wings above that scanty pallet, and bent +in the silent watches of the night over the boy, and filled his +heart with peace, and his dreams with brightness. + +Six months had rolled their mighty burden of life-records into the +pulseless ocean of the past. The pale stars of mid-winter were +looking down with meek, seraph glances over the mighty metropolis +along whose thousand thoroughfares lay the white carpet of the +snow-king; and Boreas, loosed from his ice caverns on the frozen +floor of the Arctic, was holding mad revels, and howling with +demoniac glee along the streets, wrapped in the pall shadows of +midnight. + +Twelve o'clock pealed from the mighty tongue of the time-recorder, +and then the white-robed angel of death knocked at the door of two +young human hearts, in the great city. + +The tide of golden hair flowed over the white pillows of +crimson-draperied couch. Shaded lamps poured their dim, silvery +glances upon bright flowers and circling vines, the cunning +workmanship of fingers in far-off lands, which lay among the soft +groundwork of the rich carpet, while small white fingers glided +caressingly among the golden hair; and white faces, wild with +sorrow, bent over the rigid features of the dying child, and tears, +such only as flow from the heart's deepest and bitterest fountains, +fell upon the cold forehead and paling lips, as the lids swept back +for a moment from her blue eyes, and the light from her spirit broke +for the last time into them; the lips upon which the death-seal was +ready to be laid, opened; and clear and joyous through the hushed +room rang the words, "I am coming! I am coming!" and the next moment +the cold, beautiful clay was all which was left to the mourners. + +The other, at whose heart the death-angel knocked, lay in one corner +of an old and dilapidated room, on a pallet of straw. No soft hand +wandered caressingly among his dark locks, or cooled with its cold +touch the fever of his forehead. The dim, flickering rays of the +tallow candle wandered over the features now grown stark and rigid +with the death-chill. No grief-printed face bent in anguish above +him; no eye watched for the latest breath; no ear for the dying +word; but through the half-open door, came to the ear of the dying +boy the coarse laugh of the inebriate--the jest of the vile, and the +frightful blasphemies of those whose way is the way of death. + +None saw the last life-light, as it broke into the dark, spiritual +eyes of the boy. None saw the smile that played like the light +around the lips of a seraph, about his blue and cold lips, as they +spoke exceeding joyfully, "Father! Father, I have called and you +have heard me; I am coming to you, coming now; for the angels beckon +me;" and the pale clay on that sunken pallet was all that remained +of the boy. + +Together they met, those two children who had stood together in the +earthly courts of the Most High, and whom the angel had +simultaneously called from the earth, beneath the shining +battlements of "the city of God." The white wings of the +warden-angels, who stood on its watch-towers, were slowly folded +together, and back rolled the massive gates from the walls of +jasper; and with the great "Godlight" streaming outward, and amid +the sound of archangel's harp and seraph's lyre, the ministering +angels came forth. They did not ask the child-spirits there, if +their earthly homes had been among the high and the honourable; they +did not ask them if broad lands had been their heritage, and +sparkling coffers their portion; if their paths had lain by pleasant +waters, and animals followed their biddings; but alike they led +them--she, the daughter of wealth and earthly splendour, whose +forehead the breezes might not visit too roughly, and whose pathway +had been bordered with flowers and gilded with sunshine; and he, the +heir of poverty, whose portion had been want, and his inalienable +heritage, suffering; whose path had known no pleasant places; whose +life had had no brightness within that glorious city. They placed +bright crowns, alike woven from the fragrant branches of the +far-spreading "Tree of Life," around their spirit-brows; they decked +them alike in white robes, whose lustre many ages shall not dim; +alike they placed in their hands the harps whose music shall roll +for ever over (sic) the the hills of jasper; and alike they pointed +them to the gleaming battlements, to the still skies over whose +surface the shadow of a cloud hath never floated; to the "many +mansions" which throw the shadow of their shining portals on the +rippling waters of the "River of Life," and to far more of glory +"which it hath never entered into the heart of man to conceive of," +and told them they should "go no more out for ever." + + + + + + +WHAT IS NOBLE? + + + + + + WHAT is noble? to inherit + Wealth, estate, and proud degree? + There must be some other merit, + Higher yet than these for me. + Something greater far must enter + Into life's majestic span; + Fitted to create and centre + True nobility in man! + + What is noble? 'tis the finer + Portion of our mind and heart: + Linked to something still diviner + Than mere language can impart; + Ever prompting--ever seeing + Some improvement yet to plan; + To uplift our fellow-being-- + And like man to feel for man! + + What is noble? is the sabre + Nobler than the humble spade? + There's a dignity in labour + Truer than e'er Pomp arrayed! + He who seeks the mind's improvement + Aids the world--in aiding mind! + Every great, commanding movement + Serves not one--but all mankind. + + O'er the Forge's heat and ashes-- + O'er the Engine's iron head-- + Where the rapid Shuttle flashes, + And the Spindle whirls its thread; + There is Labour lowly tending + Each requirement of the hour; + There is genius still extending + Science--and its world of power! + + + + + + +THE ANEMONE HEPATICA. + + + + + +TWO friends were walking together beside a picturesque mill-stream. +While they walked, they talked of mortal life, its meaning and its +end; and, as is almost inevitable with such themes, the current of +their thoughts gradually lost its cheerful flow. + +"This is a miserable world," said one; "the black shroud of sorrow +overhangs everything here." + +"Not so," replied the other; "Sorrow is not a shroud. It is only the +covering Hope wraps about her when she sleeps." + +Just then they entered an oak-grove. It was early spring, and the +trees were bare, but last year's leaves lay thick as snow-drifts +upon the ground. + +"The Liverwort grows here, one of our earliest flowers, I think," +said the last speaker. "There, push away the leaves, and you will +find it. How beautiful, with its delicate shades of pink, and +purple, and green, lying against the bare roots of the oak-trees! +But look deeper, or you will not find the flowers; they are under +the dead leaves." + +"Now I have learned a lesson that I shall not forget," said her +friend. "This seems to me a bad world, and there is no denying that +there are bad things in it. To a sweeping glance, it will sometimes +seem barren and desolate; but not one buried germ of life and beauty +is lost to the All-seeing Eye. I, having the weakness of human +vision, must believe where I cannot see. Henceforth, when I am +tempted to complainings and despair on account of the evil around +me, I will say to myself, 'Look deeper, look under the dead leaves, +and you will find flowers.'" + + + + + + +THE FAMILY OF MICHAEL AROUT. + + + + + +_September 15th, eight o'clock._--This morning, while I was +arranging my books, Mother Genevieve came in, and brought me the +basket of fruit I buy of her every Sunday. For nearly twenty years +that I have lived in this quarter, I have dealt in her little +fruit-shop. Perhaps I should be better served elsewhere, but Mother +Genevieve has but little custom; to leave her would do her harm, and +cause her unnecessary pain. It seems to me that the length of our +acquaintance has made me incur a sort of tacit obligation to her; my +patronage has become her property. + +She has put the basket upon my table, and as I wanted her husband, +who is a joiner, to add some shelves to my bookcase, she has gone +down stairs again immediately to send him to me. + +At first I did not notice either her looks or the sound of her +voice; but now, that I recall them, it seems to me that she was not +as jovial as usual. Can Mother Genevieve be in trouble about +anything? + +Poor woman! All her best years were subject to such bitter trials, +that she might think she had received her full share already. Were I +to live a hundred years, I should never forget the circumstances +which first made her known to me, and which obtained her my respect. + +It was at the time of my first settling in the faubourg. I had +noticed her empty fruit-shop, which nobody came into, and being +attracted by its forsaken appearance, made my little purchases in +it. I have always instinctively preferred the poor shops; there is +less choice in them, but it seems to me that my purchase is a sign +of sympathy with a brother in poverty. These little dealings are +almost always an anchor of hope to those whose very existence is in +peril--the only means by which some orphan gains a livelihood. There +the aim of the tradesman is not to enrich himself, but to live! The +purchase you make of him is more than exchange--it is a good action. + +Mother Genevieve at that time was still young, but had already lost +that fresh bloom of youth, which suffering causes to wither so soon +among the poor. Her husband, a clever joiner, gradually left off +working to become, according to the picturesque expression of the +workshops, _a worshipper of Saint Monday_. The wages of the week, +which was always reduced to two or three working days, were +completely dedicated by him to the worship of this god of the +Barriers, + +The cheap wine-shops are outside the Barriers, to avoid the +_octroi_, or municipal excise. + +and Genevieve was obliged herself to provide for all the wants of +the household. + +One evening, when I went to make some trifling purchases of her, I +heard a sound of quarrelling in the back shop. There were the voices +of several women, among which I distinguished that of Genevieve, +broken by sobs. On looking further in, I perceived the fruit-woman, +with a child in her arms, and kissing it, while a country nurse +seemed to be claiming her wages from her. The poor woman, who +without doubt had exhausted every explanation and every excuse, was +crying in silence, and one of her neighbours was trying in vain to +appease the countrywoman. Excited by that love of money which the +evils of a hard peasant life but too well excuse, and disappointed +by the refusal of her expected wages, the nurse was launching forth +in recriminations, threats, and abuse. In spite of myself, I +listened to the quarrel, not daring to interfere, and not thinking +of going away, when Michael Arout appeared at the shop-door. + +The joiner had just come from the Barrier, where he had passed part +of the day at the public-house. His blouse, without a belt, and +untied at the throat, showed none of the noble stains of work: in +his hand he held his cap, which he had just picked out of the mud; +his hair was in disorder, his eye fixed, and the pallor of +drunkenness in his face. He came reeling in, looked wildly around +him, and called for Genevieve. + +She heard his voice, gave a start, and rushed into the shop; but at +the sight of the miserable man, who was trying in vain to steady +himself, she pressed the child in her arms, and bent over it with +tears. + +The countrywoman and the neighbour had followed her. + +"Come! come! Do you intend to pay me, after all?" cried the former, +in a rage. + +"Ask the master for the money," ironically answered the woman from +next door, pointing to the joiner, who had just fallen against the +counter. + +The countrywoman looked at him. + +"Ah! he is the father," resumed she; "well, what idle beggars! not +to have a penny to pay honest people, and get tipsy with wine in +that way." + +The drunkard raised his head. + +"What! what!" stammered he; "who is it that talks of wine? I've had +nothing but brandy. But I am going back again to get some wine. +Wife, give me your money; there are some friends waiting for me at +the _Pere la Tuille_." + +Genevieve did not answer: he went round the counter, opened the +till, and began to rummage in it. + +"You see where the money of the house goes!" observed the neighbour +to the countrywoman; "how can the poor unhappy woman pay you when he +takes all?" + +"Is that my fault, then?" replied the nurse angrily; "they owe it +me, and somehow or other they must pay me." + +And letting loose her tongue, as those women out of the country do, +she began relating at length all the care she had taken of the +child, and all the expense it had been to her. In proportion as she +recalled all she had done, her words seemed to convince her more +than ever of her rights, and to increase her anger. The poor mother, +who no doubt feared that her violence would frighten the child, +returned into the back shop, and put it into its cradle. + +Whether it was that the countrywoman saw in this act a determination +to escape her claims, or that she was blinded by passion, I cannot +say; but she rushed into the next room, where I heard the sounds of +quarrelling, with which the cries of the child were soon mingled. +The joiner, who was still rummaging in the till, was startled, and +raised his head. + +At the same moment Genevieve appeared at the door, holding in her +arms the baby that the countrywoman was trying to tear from her. She +ran towards the counter, and, throwing herself behind her husband, +cried, + +"Michael, defend your son!" + +The drunken man quickly stood up erect, like one who awakes with a +start. + +"My son!" stammered he; "what son?" + +His looks fell upon the child; a vague ray of intelligence passed +over his features. + +"Robert," resumed he; "is it Robert?" + +He tried to steady himself on his feet, that he might take the baby, +but he tottered. The nurse approached him in a rage. + +"My money, or I shall take the child away!" cried she; "it is I who +have fed and brought it up; if you don't pay for what has made it +live, it ought to be the same to you as if it were dead. I shall not +go till I have my due or the baby." + +"And what would you do with him?" murmured Genevieve, pressing +Robert against her bosom. + +"Take it to the Foundling!" replied the countrywoman, harshly; "the +hospital is a better mother than you are, for it pays for the food +of its little ones." + +At the word "Foundling," Genevieve had exclaimed aloud in horror. +With her arms wound round her son, whose head she hid in her bosom, +and her two hands spread over him, she had retreated to the wall, +and remained with her back against it, like a lioness defending her +young ones. + +The neighbour and I contemplated this scene, without knowing how we +could interfere. As for Michael, he looked at us by turns, making a +visible effort to comprehend it all. When his eye rested upon +Genevieve and the child, it lit up with a gleam of pleasure; but +when he turned towards us, he again became stupid and hesitating. + +At last, apparently making a prodigious effort, he cried +out--"Wait!" + +And going to a tub full of water, he plunged his face into it +several times. + +Every eye was turned upon him; the countrywoman herself seemed +astonished. At length he raised his dripping head. This ablution had +partly dispelled his drunkenness; he looked at us for a moment, then +he turned to Genevieve, and his face brightened up. + +"Robert!" cried he, going up to the child, and taking him in his +arms. "Ah! give him me, wife; I must look at him." + +The mother seemed to give up his son to him with reluctance, and +stayed before him with her arms extended, as if she feared the child +would have a fall. The nurse began again in her turn to speak, and +renewed her claims, this time threatening to appeal to law. + +At first Michael listened to her attentively, and when he +comprehended her meaning, he gave the child back to its mother. + +"How much do we owe you?" asked he. + +The countrywoman began to reckon up the different expenses, which +amounted to nearly thirty francs. The joiner felt to the bottom of +his pockets, but could find nothing. His forehead became contracted +by frowns; low curses began to escape him; all of a sudden he +rummaged in his breast, drew forth a large watch, and holding it up +above his head-- + +"Here it is--here's your money!" cried he, with a joyful laugh; "a +watch, number one! I always said it would keep for a drink on a dry +day; but it is not I who will drink it, but the young one. Ah! ah! +ah! go and sell it for me, neighbour; and if that is not enough, +have my ear-rings. Eh! Genevieve, take them off for me, the +ear-rings will square all. They shall not say you have been +disgraced on account of the child. No, not even if I must pledge a +bit of my flesh! My watch, my ear-rings, and my ring, get rid of all +of them for me at the goldsmith's; pay the woman, and let the little +fool go to sleep. Give him me, Genevieve, I will put him to bed." + +And, taking the baby from the arms of his mother, he carried him +with a firm step to his cradle. + +It was easy to perceive the change which took place in Michael from +this day. He cut all his old drinking acquaintances. He went early +every morning to his work, and returned regularly in the evening to +finish the day with Genevieve and Robert. Very soon he would not +leave them at all, and he hired a place near the fruitshop, and +worked in it on his own account. + +They would soon have been able to live in comfort, had it not been +for the expenses which the child required. Everything was given up +to his education. He had gone through the regular school training, +had studied mathematics, drawing, and the carpenter's trade, and had +only begun to work a few months ago. Till now, they had been +exhausting every resource which their laborious industry could +provide to push him forward in his business; but, happily, all these +exertions had not proved useless; the seed had brought forth its +fruits, and the days of harvest were close by. + +While I was thus recalling these remembrances to my mind, Michael +had come in, and was occupied in fixing shelves where they were +wanted. + +During the time I was writing the notes of my journal, I was also +scrutinizing the joiner. + +The excesses of his youth and the labour of his manhood have deeply +marked his face; his hair is thin and gray, his shoulders stooping, +his legs shrunken and slightly bent. There seems a sort of weight in +his whole being. His very features have an expression of sorrow and +despondency. He answered my questions by monosyllables, and like a +man who wishes to avoid conversation. From whence is this dejection, +when one would think he had all he could wish for? I should like to +know! + +_Ten o'clock_.--Michael is just gone down stairs to look for a tool +he has forgotten. I have at last succeeded in drawing from him the +secret of his and Genevieve's sorrow. Their son Robert is the cause +of it. + +Not that he has turned out ill after all their care--not that he is +idle or dissipated; but both were in hopes he would never leave them +any more. The presence of the young man was to have renewed and made +glad their lives once more; his mother counted the days, his father +prepared everything to receive their dear associate in their toils, +and at the moment when they were thus about to be repaid for all +their sacrifices, Robert had suddenly informed them that he had just +engaged himself to a contractor at Versailles. + +Every remonstrance and every prayer were useless; he brought forward +the necessity of initiating himself into all the details of an +important contract, the facilities he should have, in his new +position, of improving himself in his trade, and the hopes he had of +turning his knowledge to advantage. At last, when his mother, having +come to the end of her arguments, began to cry, he hastily kissed +her, and went away, that he might avoid any further remonstrances. + +He had been absent a year, and there was nothing to give them hopes +of his return. His parents hardly saw him once a month, and then he +only stayed a few moments with them. + +"I have been punished where I had hoped to be rewarded," Michael +said to me just now; "I had wished for a saving and industrious son, +and God has given me an ambitious and avaricious one. I had always +said to myself, that, when once he was grown up, we should have him +always with us, to recall our youth and to enliven our hearts; his +mother was always thinking of getting him married, and having +children again to care for. You know women always will busy +themselves about others. As for me, I thought of him working near my +bench, and singing his new songs--for he has learnt music, and is +one of the best singers at the Orpheon. A dream, sir, truly! +Directly the bird was fledged, he took to flight, and remembers +neither father nor mother. Yesterday, for instance, was the day we +expected him; he should have come to supper with us. No Robert +to-day, either! He has had some plan to finish, or some bargain to +arrange, and his old parents are put down last in the accounts, +after the customers and the joiner's work. Ah! if I could have +guessed how it would have turned out! Fool! to have sacrificed my +likings and my money, for nearly twenty years, to the education of a +thankless son! Was it for this I took the trouble to cure myself of +drinking, to break with my friends, to become an example to the +neighbourhood? The jovial good fellow has made a goose of himself. +Oh! if I had to begin again! No, no! you see women and children are +our bane. They soften our hearts; they lead us a life of hope and +affection; we pass a quarter of our lives in fostering the growth of +a grain of corn which is to be everything to us in our old age, and +when the harvest-time comes--good-night, the ear is empty!" + +Whilt he was speaking, Michael's voice became hoarse, his eye +fierce, and his lips quivered. I wished to answer him, but I could +only think of commonplace consolations, and I remained silent. The +joiner pretended he wanted a tool, and left me. + +Poor father! Ah! I know those moments of temptation when virtue has +failed to reward us, and we regret having obeyed her! Who has not +felt this weakness in hours of trial, and who has not uttered, at +least once, the mournful exclamation of "Brutus?" + +But if _virtue is only a word_, what is there then in life which is +true and real? No, I will not believe that goodness is in vain! It +does not always give the happiness we had hoped for, but it brings +some other. In the world everything is ruled by order, and has its +proper and necessary consequences, and virtue cannot be the sole +exception to the general law. If it had been prejudicial to those +who practise it, experience would have avenged them; but experience +has, on the contrary, (sic) mader it more universal and more holy. +We only accuse it of being a faithless debtor, because we demand an +immediate payment, and one apparent to our senses. We always +consider life as a fairy tale, in which every good action must be +rewarded by a visible wonder. We do not accept as payment a peaceful +conscience, self-content, or a good name among men, treasures that +are more precious than any other, but the value of which we do not +feel till after we have lost them! + +Michael is come back, and returned to his work. His son had not yet +arrived. + +By telling me of his hopes and his grievous disappointments, he +became excited; he unceasingly went over again the same subject, +always adding something to his griefs. He has just wound up his +confidential discourse by speaking to me of a joiner's business, +which he had hoped to buy, and work to good account with Robert's +help. The present owner had made a fortune by it, and after thirty +years of business, he was thinking of retiring to one of the +ornamental cottages in the outskirts of the city, a usual retreat +for the frugal and successful working man. Michael had not indeed +the two thousand francs which must be paid down; but perhaps he +could have persuaded Master Benoit to wait. Robert's presence would +have been a security for him; for the young man could not fail to +insure the prosperity of a workshop; besides science and skill, he +had the power of invention and bringing to perfection. His father +had discovered among his drawings a new plan for a staircase, which +had occupied his thoughts for a long time; and he even suspected him +of having engaged himself to the Versailles contractor for the very +purpose of executing it. The youth was tormented by this spirit of +invention, which took possession of all his thoughts, and, while +devoting his mind to study, he had no time to listen to his +feelings. + +Michael told me all this with a mixed feeling of pride and vexation. +I saw he was proud of the son he was abusing, and that his very +pride made him more sensible of that son's neglect. + +_Six o'clock, P. M._--I have just finished a happy day. How many +events have happened within a few hours, and what a change for +Genevieve and Michael! + +He had just finished fixing the shelves, and telling me of his son, +whilst I laid the cloth for my breakfast. + +Suddenly we heard hurried steps in the passage, the door opened, and +Genevieve entered with Robert. + +The joiner gave a start of joyful surprise, but he repressed it +immediately, as if he wished to keep up the appearance of +displeasure. + +The young man did not appear to notice it, but threw himself into +his arms in an open-hearted manner, which surprised me. Genevieve, +whose face shone with happiness, seemed to wish to speak, and to +restrain herself with difficulty. + +I told Robert I was glad to see him, and he answered me with ease +and civility. + +"I expected you yesterday," said Michael Arout, rather dryly. + +"Forgive me, father," replied the young workman, "but I had business +at St. Germains. I was not able to come back till it was very late, +and then the master kept me." + +The joiner looked at his son sideways, and then took up his hammer +again. + +"It is right," muttered he, in a grumbling tone; "when we are with +other people we must do as they wish; but there are some who would +like better to eat brown bread with their own knife, than partridges +with the silver fork of a master." + +"And I am one of those, father," replied Robert, merrily; "but, as +the proverb says, _you must shell the peas before you can eat them._ +It was necessary that I should first work in a great workshop"-- + +"To go on with your plan of the staircase," interrupted Michael, +ironically. + +"You must now say M. Raymond's plan, father," replied Robert, +smiling. + +"Why?" + +"Because I have sold it to him." + +The joiner, who was planing a board, turned round quickly. + +"Sold it!" cried he, with sparkling eyes. + +"For the reason that I was not rich enough to give it him." + +Michael threw down the board and tool. + +"There he is again!" resumed he, angrily; "his good genius puts an +idea into his head which would have made him known, and he goes and +sells it to a rich man, who will take the honour of it himself." + +"Well, what harm is there done?" asked Genevieve. + +"What harm!" cried the joiner, in a passion; "you understand nothing +about it--you are a woman; but he--he knows well that a true workman +never gives up his own inventions for money, no more than a soldier +would give up his cross. That is his glory; he is bound to keep it +for the honour it does him! Ah! thunder! if I had ever made a +discovery, rather than put it up at auction I would have sold one of +my eyes! Don't you see, that a new invention is like a child to a +workman! he takes care of it, he brings it up, he makes a way for it +in the world, and it is only poor creatures who sell it." + +Robert coloured a little. + +"You will think differently, father," said he, "when you know why I +sold my plan." + +"Yes, and you will thank him for it," added Genevieve, who could no +longer keep silence. + +"Never!" replied Michael. + +"But, wretched man!" cried she, "he only sold it for our sakes!" + +The joiner looked at his wife and son with astonishment. It was +necessary to come to an explanation. The latter related how he had +entered into a negotiation with Master Benoit, who had positively +refused to sell his business unless one-half of the two thousand +francs was first paid down. It was in the hopes of obtaining this +sum that he had gone to work with the contractor at Versailles; he +had an opportunity of trying his invention, and of finding a +purchaser. Thanks to the money he received for it, he had just +concluded the bargain with Benoit, and had brought his father the +key of the new work-yard. + +This explanation was given by the young workman with so much modesty +and simplicity, that I was quite affected by it. Genevieve cried; +Michael pressed his son to his heart, and in a long embrace he +seemed to ask his pardon for having unjustly accused him. + +All was now explained with honour to Robert. The conduct which his +parents had ascribed to indifference, really sprang from affection; +he had neither obeyed the voice of ambition nor of avarice, nor even +the nobler inspiration of inventive genius; his whole motive and +single aim had been the happiness of Genevieve and Michael. The day +for proving his gratitude had come, and he had returned them +sacrifice for sacrifice! + +After the explanations and exclamations of joy, were over, all three +were about to leave me; but the cloth being laid, I added three more +places, and kept them to breakfast. + +The meal was prolonged; the fare was only tolerable; but the +overflowings of affection made it delicious. + +Never had I better understood the unspeakable charm of family love. +What calm enjoyment in that happiness which is always shared with +others; in that community of interests which unites such various +feelings; in that association of existences which forms one single +being of so many! What is man without those home affections, which, +like so many roots, fix him firmly in the earth, and permit him to +imbibe all the juices of life? Energy, happiness, does it not all +come from them? Without family life, where would man learn to love, +to associate, to deny himself? A community in little, is not it +which teaches us how to live in the great one? Such is the holiness +of home, that to express our relation with God, we have been obliged +to borrow the words invented for our family life. Men have named +themselves the _sons_ of a heavenly _Father_. + +Ah! let us carefully preserve these chains of domestic union; do not +let us unbind the human sheaf, and scatter its ears to all the +caprices of chance, and of the winds; but let us rather enlarge this +holy law; let us carry the principles and the habits of home beyond +its bounds; and, if it may be, let us realize the prayer of the +Apostle of the Gentiles when he exclaimed to the newborn children of +Christ:--"Be ye like-minded, having the same love, being of one +accord, of one mind." + + + + + + +BABY IS DEAD. + + + + + +"BABY is dead!" How many hearts have throbbed with anguish, and eyes +overflowed with tears at the utterance of these thrilling words! A +tender bud is intrusted to a rejoicing family. Very precious does it +become to them. With what ecstatic joy do they note the first dawn +of intelligence as it beams from the starry eyes! How merry their +own hearts now, as they listen to the shouts of childish glee as +they burst from the coral lips! Ay, very, very dear is this little +one, and their cup of bliss seems full without alloy; when suddenly +the relentless destroyer enters their happy home, and sets his seal +on that snowy brow, so like a lily's leaf, in its pure beauty. +Disease fastens itself upon the loved one, and, like a tender bud +nipped by the untimely frost, it withers, droops, and dies. Then +come the fearful words, "Baby is dead!" With what a crushing weight +do they fall on the ears of that mourning family! How reluctantly do +their bruised hearts acknowledge the sad truth! But stern reality +avers it so, and the spectre Grief claims them for its own, as they +gaze upon the pale face of the little sleeper. + +Ah! the light of those bright eyes is for ever quenched, and the +lids are closed tranquilly over them; the rose tint has fled from +the round cheeks; the ruby lips are colourless, and the youthful +heart has ceased its throbbings. + +Yes, "Baby is dead," and silently they prepare it for the cheerless +tomb. The golden tresses they so oft have wound lovingly over their +fingers, are gently smoothed for the last time, while one fairy curl +is severed and placed next the mother's heart; oft will she gaze +upon it, as the months of her sorrow come and go, and weep over the +memory of her departed treasure. + +Sadly the little form is robed in the tiny shroud, and the dimpled +hands crossed sweetly over the pulseless bosom. Gently he is placed +in the coffin--it is a harder bed than he was wont to rest on, but +he will feel it not. With unutterable anguish they follow him to the +dark, cold grave; strange hands lower him into its gloomy depths, +and the clods fall heavily upon the coffin. Each one seems to sink +with laden weight into their hearts. It is filled up now, and the +green turf covers the late smiling cherub, and the mourners turn +sadly away. Oh! how dark the world seems now, which was so full of +sunshine a little while ago! How desolate their once joyous house! + +"Baby is dead--our idol is gone," is the language of their hearts. +Yes, stricken ones, your sunbeam is gone; but where? You have buried +the beauteous casket beneath the green sods of the valley; but the +precious jewel it contained is beaming brightly in the coronal of +God. + +Your treasure is taken from your love-encircling arms, but it is +sweetly pillowed on the bosom of that kind Saviour who said, "Suffer +little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is +the kingdom of heaven." + +The bud is nipped from its parent stem in the springtime of its +existence; but it hath been transplanted to a milder clime, where +the rough blasts and chilling storms of mortality cannot harm, and +where, watered by the soft dew of Divine love, its tiny leaves will +expand and bloom with unfading lustre! + +Had this bud of life, over whom your souls yearned with such +unutterable fondness, been spared to you, you know not how your +bright anticipations might have been darkened. When it came to +thread life's strange, wild paths, mildew and blight might have +settled on the pure spirit, and guilty, desolating passions scathed +the guileless heart. + +Then weep not, mourning ones, but rather rejoice that He, who doeth +all things well, hath summoned it, in its pristine purity, to a +haven of innocence, where contamination nor decay cannot defile or +enter. And when you miss the childish prattle or silvery laugh which +fell so sweetly on your ears, think of the baby that is dead to you, +as a rejoicing angel among angelic hosts that throng the "land of +the blest." Baby is dead to earth, but is living in Paradise! + + "Then mourn not, though the loved one go + Early from this world of woe; + Upon yon bright and blissful shore + You soon shall meet to part no more, + 'Mid amaranthine flowers to roam, + Where sin and death can never come." + + + + + + +THE TREASURED RINGLET. + + + + + + I AM thinking how, one April eve, + Upon the old arm-chair + I sat, and how I fondly played + With this brown lock of hair; + Your head was pillowed on my breast, + Your eyes were fixed on mine, + I knew your heart was all my own, + I know my own was thine. + + The balmy breath of violets + Came floating in the room, + And mingling with the rose's sigh, + Spread round a rich perfume; + Yet sweeter was the warm breath which + I felt upon my cheek, + Than fragrance from the blushing rose, + Or from the violet meek. + + Upon the oak the mocking-bird + Was singing loud and clear, + But notes more musical to me + Were falling on my ear; + For from your noble heart you poured + Love's low, yet thrilling tone, + And every word your pure soul breathed + Was answered by my own. + + How like a glorious rainbow, then, + The future all appeared? + No care or sorrow then we knew, + No disappointment feared. + The world's rude waves had not begun + Across our path to sweep, + We never--save from happiness-- + Had cause to sigh or weep. + + But many weary years have passed + Since that bright April eve, + And you have learned since then to weep, + And I have learned to grieve; + And on thy brow, unfurrowed then, + Time, and his sister, Care, + Have set their wrinkled seal, and strewed + Their silver in thy hair. + + Nor Time, nor Care, nor world's rude waves, + Have had the power to chill + The holy love which then we vowed, + That is unclouded still; + And until Death--the reaper--comes, + It ne'er shall flow away-- + Our tide of love which first began + Upon that April day. + + + + + + +HUMAN LONGINGS FOR PEACE AND REST. + + + + + +THERE are few whose idea of happiness does not include peace as +essential. Most men have been so tempest-tossed, and not comforted, +that they long for a closing of all excitements at last in peace. +Hence the images of the haven receiving the shattered bark, of the +rural vale remote from the noise of towns, have always been dear to +human fancy. Hence, too, the decline of life away from severe toil, +rapid motion, and passionate action, has often a charm even beyond +the kindling enterprise of youth. The cold grave itself repels not +altogether, but somewhat allures the imagination. + +"How still and peaceful is the grave!" + +Especially has heaven risen to the religious mind in this complexion +of tranquillity. It is generally conceived as free from all +disturbance, broken by not a sound save of harmonious anthems, +which, like murmuring water, give deeper peace than could be found +in silence. + +But man so longs for rest and peace, that he not only soothes +himself with these images from afar, but hopes to foretaste their +substance. And what are his views to this end? He means to retire +from business to some spot where he can calmly enjoy what he has in +vain panted for in the race of life. Perhaps he tries the +experiment, but finds himself restless still, and learns the great +lesson at last, that peace is not in the landscape, but only in the +soul; and the calm sky, the horizon's circle, the steady stars, are +only its language, not itself. + +Perhaps he seeks peace in his home. Everything there is made soft to +the feet; each chair and couch receives him softly; agreeable +sounds, odours, viands, regale every sense: and illuminated chambers +replace for him at night the splendour of the sun. But here again he +is at fault. Peace comes not to him thus, though all the apparatus +seems at hand to produce it. Still he may be outshone by a +neighbour; or high estate may draw down upon him envy and ill-will; +or his senses themselves may refuse the proffered bliss, and ache +with disease. Peace is not in outward comforts, which the +constitution sharply limits; which pass with time, or pall upon the +taste. The human mind is too great a thing to be pleased with mere +blandishments. + +Man has a soul of vast desires; and the solemn truth will come home +irresistibly at times, even to the easy epicure. Something is +wanting still. There is more of pain than peace in the remnants of +feasting and the exhausted rounds of pleasure. + +Man has sometimes sought peace in yet another way. Abjuring all +sensual delights, he has gone into the desert to scourge the body, +to live on roots and water, and be absorbed in pious raptures; and +often has he thus succeeded, better than do the vulgar hunters of +pleasure. But unrest mingles even with the tranquillity thus +obtained. His innocent, active powers resist this crucifixion. The +distant world rolls to his ear the voices of suffering fellow-men; +and even his devotions, all lonely, become selfish and unsatisfying. + +All men are seeking, in a way better or worse, this same peace and +rest. Some seek it objectively in mere outward activity. They are +not unfrequently frivolous and ill-furnished within, seeking rest by +travelling, by running from place to place, from company to company, +changing ever their sky but never themselves. Such persons, deeply +to be pitied, seek by dress to hide the nakedness of their souls, or +by the gayety of their own prattle to chill the fire which burns +away their hearts. The merriest faces may be sometimes seen in +mourning coaches; and so, the most melancholy souls, pinched and +pining, sometimes stare at you out of the midst of superficial +smiles and light laughter. + +Others seek rest in more adventurous action. Such are mariners, +soldiers, merchants, speculators, politicians, travellers, impelled +to adventurous life to relieve the aching void in their hearts. The +hazards of trade, the changes of political life, cause them to +forget themselves, and so they are rocked into oblivion of internal +disquiet by the toss of the ocean waves. They forget the hollowness +of their own hearts, and cheat themselves into the belief that they +are on their way to peace. + +Is peace, is rest, so longed for, then, never to be found? Yes! it +has been found, though perhaps but seldom, and somewhat imperfectly. +That is a state of rest for the soul when all man's powers work +harmoniously together, none conflicting with another, none hindering +another. This rest is complete when every special power in man's +nature is active, and works towards some noble end, free to act, yet +acting entirely in harmony, each with all, and all with each. That +is what may be called self-command, self-possession, tranquillity, +peace, rest for the soul. It is not indifference, it is not +sluggishness; it is not sleep: it is activity in its perfect +character and highest mode. + +Some few men seem born for this. Their powers are well-balanced. But +to most it comes only by labour and life-struggle. Most men, and +above all, most strong men, are so born and organized, that they +feel the riddle of the world, and they have to struggle with +themselves. At first they are not well-balanced. One part of their +nature preponderates over another, and they are not in equilibrium. +Like the troubled sea, they cannot rest. The lower powers and +propensities must be brought into subjection to the higher. All the +powers must be brought into harmony. This requires correct views of +life, knowledge of the truth, a strong will, a resolute purpose, a +high idea, a mind that learns by experience to correct its wrongs. +Thus he acquires the mastery over himself, and his passions become +his servants, which were formerly masters. Reason prevails over +feeling, and duty over impulse. If he has lost a friend, he does not +mourn inconsolably, nor seek to forget that friend. He turns his +thoughts more frequently to where that friend has gone, and so he +goes on until it becomes to him a loss no longer, but rather a +gain--a son, daughter, brother, or wife, immortal in the kingdom of +God, rather than mortal and perishing on earth. Gradually he +acquires a perfect command of himself, an equilibrium of all his +active powers, and so is at rest. + +What is more beautiful in the earthly life of Jesus, than this manly +harmony, equipoise, and rest? He enjoyed peace, and promised it to +His friends. And this peace of His, He did not for others postpone +to a distant day, or shut up altogether in a future Heaven, but left +it to His disciples on earth. What, then, was His peace? + +His peace was not inactivity. They must mistake who give a material +sense to the images of Heaven as a state of rest. If Christ's life +represented Heaven, its peace is not slothful ease, but intense +exertion. How He laboured in word and deed of virtue! He walked in +coarse raiment from town to town, from city to city, from the +dessert to the waves of the sea. His ministry was toil from the day +of His baptism to the scene upon Calvary. And yet His life was +peace. He expressed no wish to retire to an unoccupied ease. His +absorption in duty was His joy. He was so peaceful because so +engaged. His labours were the elements of His divine tranquillity. + +And so active and earnest must we be, if we would have calmness and +peace. An appeal may here be made to every one's experience. Every +one will confess that when he had least to do, when mornings came +and went, and suns circled, and seasons rolled, and brought no +serious business, then time was a burthen; existence a weariness; +and the hungry soul, which craves some outward satisfaction, was +found fallen back upon itself and preying upon its own vitality. Are +not the idlest of men proverbially the most miserable? And is not +the young woman often to be seen passing restless from place to +place, because exempt from the necessity of industry, till vanity +and envy, growing rank in her vacant mind, makes her far more an +object of compassion than those who work hardest for a living? The +unemployed, then, are not the most peaceful. The labourer has a +deeper peace than any idler ever knew. His toils make his short +pauses refreshing. Were those pauses prolonged they would be invaded +by a miserable ennui. Perfect peace will be found here or hereafter, +not when we sink down into torpor, but only when the soul is wrought +into high action for high ends. + +Another element of the peace of Jesus was His sinlessness. And all +human experience testifies that nothing has so much disturbed +tranquillity as conscious guilt, or the memory of wrong-doing. Peace +is forfeited by every transgression. Angry words, envious looks, +unkind and selfish deeds, will all prevent peace from visiting our +hearts. + +We have noticed already another element of peace--mental and moral +harmony. There is a spiritual proportion when every power does its +work, every feeling fills its measure, and all make a common current +to bear the soul along to ever new peace and joy. Our inward +discords are the woes of life. The peaceful heart is quiet, not +because inactive, but through intense harmonious working. + +The cravings of the human heart for peace and rest must seek +satisfaction in the ways indicated, or fail of satisfaction. There +must be activity, abstinence from guilt, and moral harmony. Thus +alone can we receive the peace which Jesus said He would leave to +His true followers. + + + + + + +"BE STRONG." + + + + + + IN the flush, and the rush, and the crush of Life's battle, + When the stern blow of Right dashes loud on steeled Wrong, + Half-drowning the voice of the babe's holy prattle, + Remember the watchword--the motto--"Be strong!" + + When the clouds of the past gather brooding above thee, + And gloam o'er thy pillow the aching night long, + Remember who never for once failed to love thee, + And in deepest of loneliness thou wilt _be strong_! + + When the rays of the morning seem slow in their beaming, + Overpowered the firm Right--most tremendous bold Wrong, + Let not thy Thought's eye grow the dimmer for streaming, + Pour thy tears in Faith's bosom--thou yet wilt BE STRONG. + + + + + + +THE NEGLECTED ONE. + + + + + + "I never was a favourite; + My mother never smiled + On me with half the tenderness + That blessed her fairer child." + +"CHRISTINE, do be obliging for once, and sew this button on my +glove, won't you?" cried Ann Lambert, impatiently, throwing a white +kid glove in her sister's lap. "I am in such a flurry! I won't be +ready to go to the concert in two or three hours. Mr. Darcet has +been waiting in the parlour an age. I don't know what the reason is, +but I never can find anything I want, when I look for it; whenever I +don't want a thing, it is always in the way. Have you sewed it on +yet?" she asked, looking around from the bureau, where she was +turning everything topsy turvy, in the most vigorous manner. +Christine was quietly looking out of the window, yawning and gazing +listlessly up at the moon and stars. + +"O no matter if you have no button on," was her reply; "I really +don't feel like moving my fingers just now. You must wait on +yourself. I always do." + +"I shouldn't have expected anything but your usual idle selfishness, +even when I most need your assistance," replied Ann, in a cool, +bitter tone; the curve of her beautiful lip, and the calm scorn of +the look she bent on Christine, betrayed her haughty, passionate +character, and it also told that she was conscious of a certain +power and strength of mind, which when roused, could and would bend +others to her will. A slight, contemptuous smile was on her lip, as +she picked up the glove which had fallen on the floor. + +"I'll sew the button on, Ann," said Christine, taking it from her, +and looking up seriously, but with a compressed expression about her +face. Her cheeks burned; there was a reproof in her steady gaze, +before which Ann's scornful smile vanished. "No, Christine, I will +wait on myself," she answered in a rigid tone. + +"Very well," and Christine turned to the window again. She had not +quailed before her sister's look, but its bitter contempt rankled in +her heart, and poisoned the current of her thoughts. Not a word was +spoken, when Ann with her bonnet on, left their apartment. The front +door closed; Christine listened to the sound of her sister's voice +in the street a moment, then rose from her chair, and threw herself +upon the bed, sobbing violently. + +"Oh! why has God made me as I am?" she murmured. "No one loves me. +They do not know me; they know how bad I am--but, oh! they never +dream how often I weep, and pray for the affection that is denied +me. How Ann is caressed by everybody, and how indifferently am I +greeted! There is no one in the wide world who takes a deep interest +in me. I am only secondary with father and mother; they are so proud +of Ann's beauty and talent, they do not think to see whether I am +possessed of talent or not. They think I am cold and heartless, +because they have taught me to restrain my warmest feelings; they +have turned me back upon myself, they have forced me to shut up in +my own heart, its bitterness, its prayers for affection, its pride, +its sorrow. They have made me selfish, disobliging, and +disagreeable, because I am too proud to act as if I would beg the +love they are so careless of bestowing. And yet, why am I so proud +and so bitter? I was not so at school; then I was gentle and gay; +then I too was a favourite; they called me amiable. I am not so now. +Then I dwelt in an atmosphere of love, only the best impulses of my +nature were called out. Now--oh! I did not know I could so change; I +did not know that there was room in my heart for envy and jealousy. +I did not know myself!" + +Christine wept, until her head ached, and her forehead felt as if it +was swelled almost to bursting. "After a storm, there comes a calm," +is a truism well known. In about half an hour, she was sleeping +profoundly, from mere exhaustion of feeling. But her face was pale, +and sad to look upon, even in her sleep. + +When Ann returned home, at a late hour, she glanced hastily at the +bed, to see if she had retired, and was sleeping. More than once +during the evening her heart had reproached her for the part she had +acted. With a noiseless step she approached Christine, and bent over +her. The tear-drop upon her pale cheek, revealed the unconscious +girl to her in a new character. How her conscience smote her, for +the grief upon that countenance, now so subdued by the spirit of +sleep! Its meek sadness and tenderness stirred in her bosom feelings +she had seldom experienced. She felt and understood better than ever +before, her sister's proud reserve with herself, as well as every +one else. She kissed away the tear, and knelt at the bedside in +prayer, a thing she had not done for years. A flood of tender and +self-reproachful feelings came over her; the spring was touched, and +she wept aloud. Christine started up, and murmured a few broken +sentences, before she was fully conscious of the meaning of the +scene. + +"What is the matter, Ann, are you crying?" she at length asked, as +her sister lifted up her face. Ann arose from her knees; she +hesitated, she felt as if she could throw herself into Christine's +arms, and weep freely as she asked forgiveness for her conduct. She +felt that she would be affectionately pardoned. And yet she stood +silent; her heart brimming with tenderness all the while--something +held her back; a something that too often chills a pure impulse, a +gush of holy feeling. It was pride. She could not bring herself to +speak words of penitence and humility. But she did not turn away +from the anxious gaze riveted upon her; she drooped her eyes, and +the tears rolled slowly down her face. + +"Oh, Ann, dear Ann, this does not seem like you!" said Christine, +tenderly approaching her. "I am your sister; if you have any sorrow, +why may I not sympathize with you? How can _you_ be sorrowful? you +never meet with neglect, and--" the young girl paused hastily, with +a suddenly flushed face; she had inadvertently betrayed what she had +previously so carefully concealed under the mask of callous +indifference--she had shown that she felt keenly her own position, +and that of her sister as a favourite. Ann was proud of her +intellect and fascinating beauty; she was selfishly fond of +admiration. She knew that her sister was really as gifted as +herself, if not more so; she had heard her converse at times, when +her cheek glowed, and her eye kindled with enthusiasm. She had seen +her, very rarely, but still she had seen her, when _expression_ had +lit up her face with a positive beauty--when the soul, the life of +beauty beamed forth, and went to the heart with a thrill that +acknowledged its power. She knew that she would have been brilliant +and fascinating, if she had not been repressed; with all her faults, +there was a more feminine yieldingness about her, than about +herself. There was an affectionate pathos in her voice, a tender +grace in her air, when she asked to sympathize in her sorrow. Ann +felt for the first time fully, that she was one to love, and be +beloved in the social circle. She felt that she had been most +ungenerous to absorb all the attention of her friends, instead of +bringing forward the reserved, sensitive Christine. The sisters had +never been much together; they had never made confidants of each +other;--Ann was the eldest, and all in all with her parents, while +Christine was a sort of appendage. Ann felt the unintentional +reproach conveyed in her last words; she marked how quickly she +stopped, and seemed to retire within herself again; she scanned her +face closely, and generous feelings triumphed. + +"Dear Christine!" she said in a low voice, passing her arm around +her. "We have never been to each other what sisters ought to be. I +have been too thoughtless and careless; I have not remembered as I +should have done, that you returned from school, a stranger to the +majority of our friends and acquaintances. You are so reserved, even +here at home; you never talk and laugh with father and mother as I +do." + +"Do you know why I appear cold, Ann? I am not so by nature. They do +not seem to care when I speak, and I am not yet humble enough to +have what I say treated with perfect indifference." + +"Why, Christine, you are too sensitive," said Ann, half impatiently. +"Be as noisy and lively as I am; entertain father, and say what will +please mother; then you will be as great a pet as I." + +"Even if I should value love, based upon my powers of pleasing, +instead of the intrinsic worth of my character, I could not gain it, +Ann. I came home, after my long absence, as merry and light-hearted, +as full of hope, of love towards you all, as ever a happy schoolgirl +did. Then I was seventeen; it seems as if long years had elapsed +since the day I sprang into your arms so joyfully--since father and +mother kissed me. Home, sweet home, how musical those words were to +me! how often I had dreamed of nestling at father's side, your hand +locked in mine, and mother's smile upon us both. It was not long +before I was awakened from the dream I had cherished so long. I +thought my heart would break when the reality that I was unloved, +came upon me. Then I learned how deep were the fountains of +tenderness within me. My heart overflowed with an intense desire for +affection, when I saw that I did not possess it. Oh! how often I +looked upon mother's face, unobserved, and felt that my love for her +was but a wasted shower. At that time of bitterness, how sad was the +revelation that came up from the very depths of my soul, teaching me +a truth fraught with suffering--that affection is life itself! I +felt that it was my destiny never to be cheered by its blessed light +and warmth. Months passed away, and I closed up my heart; a +coldness, a stoic apathy came over me, which was sometimes broken by +a slight thing; the flood-gates of feeling gave way, and I wept with +a passionate sorrow--over my own sinfulness--over my own lonely +heart, without one joy to shed a glow on its rude desolation. Oh! +then, when I was softened, when I could pray, and feel that the Lord +listened to me, I would have been a different being, if mother's +hand had been laid fondly upon my head, if her eyes had filled with +tears, and I could have leaned upon her bosom and wept. But I was +unloved, and my heart grew hard again." + +"Don't say that you are unloved," interrupted Ann, pressing +Christine to her heart, and sobbing with an abandonment of feeling. +"Forgive me, dear, dear sister! my heart shall be your home--we will +love each other always; I will never again be as I have been. Don't +weep so, Christine, can't you believe me? I am selfish, I am +heartless sometimes, but a change has come over me to-night; to +_you_ I can never be heartless again!" + +At that moment, few would have recognised the haughty Miss Lambert +in the tearful girl, whose head drooped on Christine's shoulder, +while her white hand was clasped and held in meek affection to her +lips. If we could read the private history of many an apparently +cold, heartless being, we would be more charitable in our opinions +of others. We would see that there are times when the better +feelings, which God has given as a pure inheritance, are touched. We +would see the inner life from Him, flowing down from its home in the +hidden recesses of the soul, breaking and scattering the clouds of +evil, which had impeded its descent--we would see the hard heart +melted, though perhaps briefly, beneath angel influences. We would +see that all alike are the beloved creations of the Almighty's hand, +and we would weep over ourselves, as well as others, to feel how +seldom we yield to the voice that would ever lead us aright. Ann +Lambert, as her heart overflowed with pure affection, thought +sincerely that no selfish action of hers should ever sadden +Christine. She felt that she was unworthy, that she had been cruel +and selfish, but she imagined her strong emotions of repentance had +uprooted the evils, which had only been shaken. + +Christine dried her tears, and looked earnestly and inquiringly in +her sister's face, as if she suspected there was some hidden sorrow +with which she was unacquainted. Ann answered her look by saying, + +"You wonder what I was weeping for, when you awoke, Christine. I had +met with no sorrow; but when I looked at you, the course of conduct +I had pursued towards you came up before me vividly: I felt how +unsisterly I had been--" + +"Say nothing about it," interrupted Christine, with delicate +generosity, "let the past be forgotten, the future shall be all +brightness, dearest Ann. We will pour out our hearts to each other, +and each will strengthen the other in better purposes. I am no +longer alone, you love me and I am happy." + +That night, the dreams of the sisters were pure and peaceful. One +happy week passed away with Christine; Ann was affectionate and +gentle, and only went out when accompanied by her. They were +inseparable; they read, wrote, studied, and sewed together. For the +time, Ann seemed to have laid aside her usual character; she yielded +to her purest feelings; no incident had yet occurred to mar her +tranquillity. One evening, when she was reading aloud to Christine +in their own apartment, a servant girl threw open the door and +exclaimed, + +"Miss Ann, there are two gentlemen waiting in the parlour to see +you; Mr. Darcet and Mr. Burns!" + +"Very well," replied Ann, rising, and giving the book to Christine; +but she took it away in the instant, and said, + +"Come, Crissy, go down with me!" + +"Oh, no matter," replied her sister, "I am not acquainted with them, +and I would rather stay up here, and read. Mother will be in the +parlour." + +"Suit yourself," returned Ann, half carelessly, as she smoothed her +hair. "When you get tired of reading, come down." + +"I'll see about it," said Christine, as the door closed. + +Ann looked beautiful indeed, as she entered the parlour, her +features lit up with a smile of graceful welcome. After a little +easy trifling, the conversation turned upon subjects which she knew +Christine would be interested in. Under a kind impulse, she left the +room, and hastened to her. + +"Come down into the parlour, Christine," she exclaimed, laying her +hand affectionately upon her shoulder, as she approached. "Mr. +Darcet is telling about his travels in Europe, and I am sure you +will be interested. There (sic) isn o need of your being so +unsociable. Come, dear!" + +Christine raised her face with an eloquent smile; she went with Ann +without speaking, but her heart was filled with a sweet happiness, +from this proof of thoughtful affection. When she was introduced to +Ann's friends, there was a most lovely expression on her face, +breathing forth from a pure joyfulness within. + +"I was not aware that you had a sister, Miss Lambert," said Mr. +Darcet, turning to Ann, when they were quietly seated after a brief +admiring gaze at Christine. + +"Perhaps I have been too much of a recluse," replied Christine +quickly, in order to relieve the embarrassment of Ann, which was +manifested by a deep blush. "I have yielded to sister Ann's +persuasions this time to be a little sociable, and I think I shall +make this a beginning of sociabilities." + +"I hope so," returned Darcet; "do you think being much secluded, has +a beneficial effect upon the mind and feelings?" + +"I do not," was the young girl's brief answer. The colour came to +her cheek, and a painful expression crossed her brow, an instant. +"But sometimes--" the sentence was left unfinished. Darcet's +curiosity was awakened by the sudden quiver of Christine's lip, and +forgetful of what he was about, he perused her countenance longer, +and more eagerly, than was perfectly polite or delicate. She felt +his scrutiny, and was vexed with her tell-tale face. There was a +silence which Mrs. Lambert interrupted by saying, with a smile, + +"We should like to hear more of your adventures, Mr. Darcet, if it +is agreeable to you." + +"Oh! certainly!" he replied. And he whiled an hour quickly away. Ann +was then urged to play and sing, which she did, but there was a +little haughtiness mingled with her usual grace. + +"Don't you sing, Miss Christine?" asked Darcet, leaving the piano, +and approaching the window where she sat, listening attentively to +Ann. + +"I do sometimes," answered Christine, smiling, "but Ann sings far +better." + +"Let others judge of that. Isn't that fair?" + +"We often err in thinking we do better than other people, but I +think we generally hit the truth, when we discover that in some +things, at least, we are not quite as perfect as others." + +"Certainly, but it is the custom to speak of ourselves, as if we +were inferior to those whom we really regard as beneath us in many +respects. There is no true humility in that; we depart from the +truth." + +"Custom sanctions many falsehoods; to speak the truth always, would +make us many enemies. But we might better have them, than to +contradict the truth; what do you think?" Christine looked up with +an earnest seriousness. + +"Truth, and truth alone, should govern us in every situation, let +the consequences be what they may," said Darcet, in a tone that +sounded almost stern; then more gently he added, "Before all things +I prize a frank spirit; for heaven may be reflected there. With all, +this upright candour must in a measure be acquired. Yet, I think +frankness to our own souls is acquired with far more labour. We +shrink from a severe scrutiny into our tangled motives." + +"And when these motives are forced upon our notice, we endeavour to +palliate and excuse them. I am sure it is so," exclaimed Christine +earnestly, for her own young heart's history came up before her, and +she remembered that she had excused herself for acting and feeling +wrong, on the plea that others had not done right, by her. +"But"--she continued after a pause, "you cannot think it is well +always to express the sentiments which circumstances may give rise +to. Such a course might prevent us from doing a great deal of good." + +"Certainly it might. The end in view should be regarded. Good sense, +and a pure heart, will show us the best way in most cases." + +There is a power deep and silent, exerted by good persons; the +folded blossoms of the heart slowly open in their presence, and are +refreshed. A new impulse, a pure aspiration for a higher life, a +yearning after the perfecting of our nature, may be sown as a seed +in hearts that are young in the work of self-conquest. Thus it was +with Christine. The influence of Darcet strengthened all that was +good within her; and as they remained long engaged in deep and +earnest conversation, the elevation and purity of his sentiments +gave clearness and strength to ideas that had been obscure to her +before, because unexpressed. Her peculiar situation had made her far +more thoughtful than many of her years. She thought she had lost the +gay buoyancy of her childhood, but she was mistaken. She was one to +profit by lessons that pressed down the bounding lightness of her +spirit; she was yet to learn that she could grow young in glad +feelings, as years rolled over her head. There was a subdued joy in +her heart, that was new to her, and gave a sweetness to her manner, +as she poured forth the guileless thoughts that first rose to her +lips. It seemed strange to meet with the ardent sympathy which +Darcet manifested by every look of his intelligent face; she could +scarcely realize that it was herself, that anybody really felt +interested in the thoughts and imaginings that had clustered around +her solitary hours. At parting, he said with warm interest, as he +slightly pressed her hand, "I hope, Miss Christine, we may have many +conversations on the subjects we have touched upon to-night." + +"Oh! I hope so," replied Christine, with a frank, bright smile. +After the gentlemen had gone, Christine threw her arm around her +sister, and said gayly, "Hav'n't we had a pleasant evening, Ann, my +dear?" + +"Pleasant enough," said Ann, trying to yawn, "but I felt rather +stupid, as I often do." + +"Stupid! Is it possible?" exclaimed the astonished girl. "You were +talking with Mr. Burns; well, he didn't look as if he would ever set +the North River afire with his energies, it is true." + +Ann smiled very slightly, then rather pettishly disengaged herself +from the detaining hand of Christine, and taking a light, retired +without saying anything, but a brief good-night to her mother. +Christine soon followed, wondering what made Ann so mute and sharp +in her actions. "Why, Ann, are you angry with me?" she asked, going +up to her, as soon as she entered the apartment. + +"I don't know what I should be angry for," was the impatient reply. +"Can't a person be a little short when sleepy, without being +tormented with questions about it?" + +"Oh, yes, I won't trouble you any more." And making due allowance +for Ann's quick temper, Christine occupied herself good-humouredly +with her own thoughts. The secret of Ann's shortness and sleepiness +lay here. Her vanity was wounded to think, that Christine was more +interesting than her own beautiful self. + +"Well, he is a sort of a puritan, and now I begin to understand +Christine, better, I think she is too," thought Ann, after she had +mused her irritation away a little. "He is very polite and +agreeable, and it was very pleasant to have him always ready to take +me out when I wanted to go, but I never felt perfectly easy in his +company; I was always afraid I might say something dreadful; +something that would shock his wonderful goodness. But Christine +seemed perfectly at home. How bright and lovely she looked! I will +not allow evil thoughts to triumph over me. I will not be vexed +simply because she eclipsed me, where no one ever did before. She is +a dear, affectionate girl, and I made a vow before God to love her +always, never to be to her as I was once." + +A fervent prayer brought back to Ann all her former tranquillity, +and she pressed a kiss upon Christine's forehead, full of repentant +affection. Just before she went to sleep, she thought to herself, + +"Well, if I may trust my woman's perception, Darcet will be +exclaiming, after he has seen Christine a few times more, + +"Oh! love, young love, bound in thy rosy bands." + +Ann's perception proved correct. About a year after these +cogitations, Christine became Mrs. Darcet. The sisters were much +changed, but Christine the most so. There was a child-like +simplicity and sweetness beaming from her young face, which Ann +needed. Yet had much haughtiness faded from the brow of that +beautiful girl; she had grown better; but as yet her heart had not +been schooled in suffering as Christine's had. There was deep +affection in the warm tears that fell upon the bride's cheek, as +poor Ann felt that she had indeed gone to bless another with her +tender goodness. Christine's warm heart grew yet more sunny in her +own happy little home, and her feelings more open and expansive, +beneath the genial influence of friendly eyes. + + + + + + +THE HOURS OF LIFE. + + + + + +TWILIGHT.--The dewy morning of childhood has passed, and the noon of +youth has gone, and the gloom of twilight is gathering over my +spirit. Alas! alas! how my heart sinks in a wan despair! One by one +my hopes have died out, have faded like the gleams of sunshine that +have just vanished beneath the grove of trees. Hopes! Ah, such warm, +bright, beautiful, loving hopes! But, methinks, than lived upon the +earth, unlike the gleaming rays of sunshine that are fed from +heaven. The earth's darkness dims not their glory; pure and radiant +they shine behind the black shadow. But human hopes are earth-born; +they spring from the earth, like the flitting light of night, and +lead us into bogs and quagmires. + +Yet it is beautiful to realize that we have had hopes; they are the +past light of the soul, and their glow yet lingers in this gloomy +twilight, reminding one that there has been a sunny day, and +memories of things pleasant and joyous mingle with the present +loneliness and cheerless desolation. + +Words, that excited hopes, that awoke thrilling emotions, linger on +the listening ear. But, ah! the heart grows very sad, when the ear +listens in vain, and the yearning, unsatisfied spirit realizes that +the words, so loved, so fondly dwelt upon, were but words, empty, +vain words. But, to have believed them, was a fleeting blindness. +They served for food to the yearning heart, when they were given, +and shall the traveller through the desolate wilderness look back +with scorn upon the bread and water that once satisfied his hunger +and thirst, even though it is now withheld? No--let him be thankful +for the past; otherwise, the keen biting hunger, the thirsty anguish +of the soul, will have a bitterness and a gall in it, that will +corrode his whole being. Ah! what is this being? if one could but +understand one's own existence, what a relief it would be; but to +understand nothing--alas! + +Life is a weary burden. I feel weighed down with it, and I do not +know what is in the pack that bows me so wearily to the earth. I do +know that in it are agonized feelings, bitter disappointments, and a +desolation of the heart. But there is a something else in it; for, +now and then, come vague, vast perceptions of a dim future; but I +shut my eyes. I cannot look beyond the earth. I could have been +satisfied here with a very little; a little of human love would have +made me so happy. Yes, I would never have dreamed of an unknown +heaven. Heaven! What is heaven? I remember when I was a little +child, lying on my bed in the early morning twilight (ah! that was a +twilight, unlike this, which is sinking into a black night, for that +was ushering in the beautiful golden day), but it was twilight when +I looked through the uncurtained window; and through the +intertwining branches of a noble tree I saw the far, dim, misty +sky--and I wondered, in my childish way, "if heaven is like that;" +and all at once it seemed to me that the dim, distant sky opened, +and my dead mother's face looked out upon me so beautifully, I did +not know her, for she died when I was an unconscious infant, and yet +I did know her. Yes, that beautiful face was my mother's, and my +heart was full of delight. That my mother could see me, and love me, +from the far heavens, was like a revelation to me. And often, on +other mornings, I awakened and looked through the very same branches +of the tree, out into the far sky, and thought to see my mother's +face shining through the window and watching over her lonely, +sleeping child. But my fancy never again conjured up the vision. +Fancy! What is fancy? If one could but understand, could grasp the +phantom and mystery of life! And above all, if one could but +understand what heaven is! + +When I was a child, heaven was to me a peopled place, a wonderful +reality; and I remember a dream that I had--what a strange dream it +was! For I went to heaven, and I saw a shining One, sitting on a +throne, and many beautiful ones were standing and seated around the +throne, and my father and mother were there; and they had crowns on +their heads, and held each other by the hand, and looked down upon +me so lovingly. I knew that it was my father, because my mother held +him by the hand, though my father died the day I was born, and I +stood before them in the great light of a Heavenly Presence, as such +a poor little earth-child, but I was happy, inexpressibly happy, +only they did not touch me; but I was not fit to be touched by such +soft, shining hands. And what was yet a greater joy than ever to see +my unknown father and mother on the other side of the throne, I saw +my brother, my dear, gentle, beautiful little brother, who, seven +years older than I, had loved and played with me on the earth. He +was clothed in white garments, and was grown from a child to a +youth, and was so full of a noble and beautiful grace. He smiled +upon me; he did not speak; none spoke. All was so still, and serene, +and bright, and beautiful. Next morning I awoke as if yet in my +dream, so vivid was the whole scene before me. I could have danced +and sung all day, "I have seen my father and mother and brother in +the heavenly courts." But what are dreams? + +Yet, it is wonderful to go back to the dreams and thoughts of +childhood; they are so distinct; such living realities. I often +remember a speech I made in those far childish days. I was lying in +bed with a friend in the early gray morning. All at once I started +up and said--"Oh, how I wish I had lived in the days when Jesus +lived upon the earth!" + +I was asked why? And I replied, "Because I could have loved Him; I +would have followed as those women followed Him; I would have kissed +the hem of His garment." + +A laugh checked the further flow of my talk; but I lay down again, +and then my thoughts wandered off to the mountains of Judea, and I +saw a Divine Man walking over the hills and valleys, and women +following Him. In those days I knew two passages in the Bible, and +that was all that I knew of it, for I never read it. But I learned +at Sunday school, Christ's Sermon on the Mount, and the first five +verses of the first chapter of John. And I remember how confused I +always was over the WORD, for some told me it meant "_Logos_." + +What was "_Logos_?" I could never fathom it. Now I know what +"_Logos_" means. And yet the mystery is not fathomed. Well, let that +go. I could never understand the Bible. However, in those days it +was something holy and sacred to me; because the Bible that I owned +belonged to my dear father, and I often kissed it, and loved the +Book dearly, but I could not read it by myself. But I did read +occasionally in the Bible, to an old woman; she lived on the way to +the village school, in a dilapidated, deserted country store; she +occupied the little back room, in which was a fire-place, and I was +permitted to take a flask of milk to her every day, as I passed to +school; and with what a glad heart I always hurried off in the +morning, that I might gather broken brush-wood and dried sticks, for +her to kindle her fire with. Charitable people sent her wood, but it +was wet and hard to kindle, and the poor old woman, with her bent +back, would go out and painfully gather the dried sticks that lay +around her desolate home; but when I came, she would take my book +and dinner-basket into her house, and leave me the delight of +gathering the sticks. Ah! I was happy then--when I knelt on the rude +hearth and blew with my mouth instead of a bellows, the smoking, +smouldering wood into a blaze, and heard the loving words that the +good old woman lavished upon me. She loved me--but not as much as I +loved her. She was my peculiar treasure--something for me to live +for, and think of. I always left my dinner with her, and at noon +returned to eat it with her; though I would feel almost ashamed to +spread out the cold meat and bread before her, she looked so much +like a lady. + +But she always asked a blessing; that was what I never did, and it +gave me an awe-stricken feeling, and my meal would have something of +a solemn and tender interest--what with the blessing, and the old +woman's love for me, and mine for her--and we ate it in a solemn and +gloomy room, for there was no table in the little back room, so we +used the counter of the old store; and the empty shelves and the +closed doors and shutters, with only the light from the back-door, +made me often look around shudderingly into the gloom and obscurity +of dark corners--for I abounded in superstitious terrors, and I +pitied the poor, lonely old woman for living in such a home more +than I ever pitied the cold and hunger she endured. + +Often when our dinner was over, I read aloud to her in the Bible. +She could read it herself. But perhaps she liked to hear the sound +of a childish voice, and perhaps she thought that she was doing me +good. Did she do me good? heigho!--at all events, she left a +beautiful memory to gild this dark twilight that grows upon my soul. + +But the loving, trusting childhood is gone, and why do I dwell upon +it? Why does its sensitive life yet move and stir in my memory? Has +it aught to do with the cold, dark present? The Present! Alas! what +a contrast it is to that childish faith! I almost wish that I could +now believe as I did then. But no. _Reason_ has dissipated the +visions and dreams and superstitions of childhood. It has made +unreal to me that which was most real. In its cold, chilling light, +I have looked into the world of tangible facts and possible +realities. + +Ah! this cold, cold light, how much of beauty and love it has +congealed! It has fallen like a mantle of snow over the warm, living +life of the earth; and blooming flowers, that sent up odours on the +soft air, have crumbled to dust, and bright summer waters that +reflected the heavens in their blue depths, and glittered in the +light of stars and moon and sun, have now been congealed into solid, +dull opaque masses, which yield not to the tread of man. Alas! no +bird of beauty dips its wing in these dead waters, and plumes itself +for an aerial flight of love and joy. But the cold contraction +chains down all the freer, beautiful life, into a hopeless, chilling +inanity. + +MIDNIGHT.--The gloom has gathered into a darkness that may be felt; +and seeing nothing, I would stretch forth my hands to feel if there +is anything within my mind to stay my soul upon. But, alas! in a +deep sorrow, how little do mental acquisitions avail! All the +beautiful systems and theories that delighted my intelligence, and +filled my thought in my noon of hope and life, have sunk into +darkness. How is this? Sometimes I think that all light comes +through the heart into the mind; and when love is quenched, behold, +there is only darkness; the beauty and life and joy are gone. Ah, +woe is me! Have I nothing left?--no internal resources--no wealth of +knowledge, with which to minister to this poverty of hope and life? +It cannot be that all past efforts, all struggles and +self-sacrifices, to attain this coveted and natural knowledge, were +useless, vain mockeries. I thought I should live by this knowledge; +that when the outer life palled upon me, I could then retire within +my own being to boundless stores of riches and beauty. Well--this +time has come, and what do I find? Truly it is no Aladdin-palace, +glittering with gold and gems. It is more like a cavernous depth, +stored with rubbish, and from its dark deeps comes up an earthy +odour, that almost suffocates my spirit. But this is my all, and I +must descend from the life of the heart to the life of the mind, and +scan my unsatisfactory possessions. + +Well, here is a world of childish, school-day lumber. Once it was a +great delight to me to learn that the world was round, and not +square; but I cannot see that a knowledge of that fact affords me +any great satisfaction now, for it has shaped itself to me as an +acute angle. And the earth's surface! how I used to glow with the +excitement of the bare thought of Rome! and Athens! and +Constantinople! and their thrilling histories and wonders of art, +and beauties of nature, seemed to me an indefinite world of +unattainable delight and ecstasy. But now, I have lived in all these +places, and the light and glory have gone. They have fallen within +the freezing light of reason. They are no longer like beautiful +dreams to me. They are squared down into fixed, unalterable facts. I +cannot gild them with any light of fancy; and I cannot extract from +them anything like the delight of my childhood. So I will turn from +these fixed facts and look out for those philosophical theories, +that gave me a later delight, as more interior mental pleasure. + +Well, when I first broke through the shackles of the old childish +faith, Percy Bysshe Shelley was my high-priest. Through him I +thought I had come into a beautiful light of nature, vague, shadowy, +and grand, filling vast conceptions of the indefinite. He discarded +the God of the Hebrews, who was fashioned after their own narrow, +revengeful passions; a Being of wrath and war. And a brooding +spirit, an indefinite indwelling life of nature, was a new +revelation to me. I grew mystical and sublime and sentimental, in +this new mental perception. But I wearied of that. I could not walk +on stilts always, and I descended to the earth and read Voltaire, +and laughed and sneered at all the old forms and superstitions of +man. But this does not afford me any enjoyment now--the unhappy do +not feel like laughing at a ribald wit; but, alas! this rubbish is +stored here, and here I must live with it. It blackened and blurred +the pictures of the angels, that adorned my childish memories. It +wiped out all heavenly visions, and left only the earthly life. + +But the human heart cannot live without a God; and I tried hard to +make one, for myself, through German pantheism. But I turn this +rubbish over disconsolately, for it is a material God, and does not +respond to one spiritual nature. It seems rather to react against +it. Alas! alas! I sink down into a Cimmerian darkness here; it seems +as if the Stygian pools of blackness had closed over me, and a cry +of anguish goes forth from my inmost soul, piercing the dark depths +to learn what is spirit? and what is God? What manner of existence +or unity of Being is He? Who is He? Where is He? And how can I +attain to a knowledge of Him? But through the echoing halls of my +dark mind, there is only a wailing sound of woe, of misery, of +disappointment, of a yearning anguish of spirit for a something +higher and better than I have ever yet conceived of or known. + +But there is yet more of this mental rubbish. Ah! here is a whole +chapter of stuff--and I once thought it was so wise. I called it the +"progressive chain of being," and wove it out of the Pythagorean +philosophy. I said man's nature begins from the lowest, and ascends +to the highest. _Nature_ gives the impulse to life; and the flower +that blooms in South America may die, and its inner spirit may +clothe itself in a donkey born in Greece! and so it goes on +transfusing itself from clime to clime, in ever new and higher +forms, until man is developed. Well, was there ever such stuff +concocted before? I almost hear the bray of that donkey, who +originated in a flower. And pray, most sapient self! what is nature? +It seems _now_, to me, a _form_, a mere dead incubus of matter. And +could this inert tangible matter, sublimate in its hard, dead bosom, +an essence so subtle, as to be freer of the bonds of time and space? +At such a preposterous suggestion even a donkey might bow his ears +with shame. So I will hand this "progressive chain of being" over to +a deeper darkness, and pass on. + +Lo! here lie the statues of broken gods, headless divinities. I +tried to believe in Greek mythology; to fancy that the world had +gone backwards, and that there were spirits of the earth and air, +that took part in the life of man. But these were poetic visions +that shifted and waved with every fleeting fancy. But _now_ this +would be a pleasant faith. What if I _could_ appeal to an invisible, +higher spiritual being, who sympathized with my nature, to lead me +out of this darkness of ignorance into a true world of light, of +truth, of definite knowledge, concerning life and its origin; +concerning God and His nature? If I were only an old Greek, how I +would pray to Minerva for help, and call upon Hercules to remove +this Augean dirt, that pollutes and lumbers all the chambers of my +mind! But when the old Greeks called, were they answered? Ah, there +is nothing to hope for! + +Yet Socrates believed in these spiritual existences; he ordered a +cock to be sacrificed to Esculapius as he was drinking the hemlock. +To him, they were not mere poetic creations; he believed to the last +that he was guided and guarded by his demon. What if we all are? +What if even now, in this midnight darkness, stands a beautiful +being, veiled by my ignorance, who loves me, from a world of light; +sees the tangled web of my thoughts, and would draw it out into +form, and order, and beauty? If such there be, oh, bright and +beautiful one! pity me, love me, and enlighten me. Alas, no!--all is +yet dark. What would a being revelling in light and beauty, have to +do with this poor, faded life of mine? Alas! that was a fleeting +hope, that, like a pale, flickering ray, gilded the darkness for a +moment. + +But, here is a something which gives somewhat of joy and life to the +mind. It is a beautiful thought of Plato, that there is a great +central sun in the universe, around which all other suns revolve. +What if this be an inner sun, which is the fountain of spiritual +life? That is something to believe. Yet the thought sinks appalled +from it. The heart desires a God that it may love, and trust in, +that it may speak to and be heard; and if the fountain of life be +only a sun, what is there to love in it? True, we rejoice in the +light and beauty of the sun that upholds _this_ world in its place; +but what is this enjoyment compared to the bliss of human love? A +man--a living, breathing, loving man--is the perfection of +existence; and one could be happy with a perfect man, if all the +suns in the universe were blotted out. A MAN! what is he, in his +essential attributes? What is it that gives a delight in him? Ah! I +am full of ideal visions--for in all history I find not one man that +altogether fills my vision of what a man should be. From the +Alexanders and Caesars I turn with loathing--their fierce, rude, +outre life, their selfish, grasping ambition, suggest to me the +vision of snarling wild beasts, battling over the torn and +palpitating limbs of nations. These men could never have touched my +soul; they could never have dispelled the darkness of my mind; they +could not be friends. But was there ever a man that could have +answered the questions for the solution of which my spirit yearns? +Plato was beautiful; around him was a pure, intellectual light. But, +after all, he _knew_ very little; his writings are mostly +suggestive. But suppose here was a man who could reveal all the +hidden things of life? How sudden would be the delight of learning +of him, of communing with his spirit? And what if he knew, not only +everything relating to this world, and my own intellectual being, +but could tell me of all the universe, of all the after life? Oh! +what a joy such a man would be to me! How would this midnight +darkness melt into the clearest and most beautiful day! + +But did such an one ever exist? Why is it that now comes over me the +vision of my childhood, of the Divine Man walking over the hills of +Judea? Oh, Christ! who wert Thou? My thought goes forth to Thee; +beautiful was Thy life upon the earth. It had in it a heavenly +sanctity, a purity, a grace and mercy, a gentleness and forbearance, +that seems to me God-like and Divine. Yes--what if God descended and +walked on the earth? I could love Him, that He had lowered Himself +to my comprehension. But God! the Infinite and Eternal! in the +finite human form, undergoing death! I cannot comprehend this. But +what is infinity? When I look within myself and realize my +ever-changing and fleeting feelings, now glancing in expansive +ranges of thought from star to star, I realize an infinity in mind, +that is not of the body. What if it were thus with the Holy Man, +Christ? What if He were God as to the spirit, and man as to the +flesh? If this were so, well may I have wished "to live when Jesus +walked the earth," for He alone could have revealed all things to +me. How wonderful must have been His wisdom! And if His indwelling +spirit were God, then Christ yet lives--lives in some inner world of +love and beauty. Ah, beautiful hope! for, if immortality is my +portion, I may yet see Him, and learn of Him in another existence. +Methinks the night of my soul is passing away; upon the rayless +darkness a star has risen; a fixed star of love and hope; what if +like other fixed stars it prove a sun? + +Oh, Christ! holy and beautiful Man! if Thou yet livest in far-away +realms of light and blessedness--grant that I may see Thee, and +learn of Thy wondrous wisdom. Enlighten my darkness, and suffer me +to love Thee as the Divinest type of man that my thought has yet +imagined. + +THE DAWN OF THE MORNING.--I have gone back to my Bible with the old +childish love and reverence. I read it with an object now. I know +that in it, the beautiful Christ-nature was portrayed; and I read +with infinite longings to find Him the "unknown God;" and bright +revealings come to me through this Book. I feel that it is Divine, +and the light grows upon me; and sometimes like the Apostles, who +awakened in the night, and saw Christ transfigured before them, I +also saw a transfiguration. I lose sight of the mere material man, +and I perceive an inner glory of being, a radiance of wisdom, and +purity, and love, that clothe Him in a Divine light, and make His +countenance brilliant with a spiritual glory. + +This transfiguration, what was it? My thought dwells upon it so--it +was a wonderful thing. I know that the scoffing philosophers +ridicule the idea of there being any reality in it; they regard it +either as a fiction on the part of the writers, or as a dream or a +delusion of the senses. But I believe that it all happened just as +it was narrated. For it is beautiful to believe it. If it did not +happen, I am none the worse for believing it, even if the whole life +was a fiction, which all history proves to have been true; and had +no Christ lived upon the earth, yet, as a work of art, this fiction +would have been the highest and most beautiful dream of the human +thought. But if it is all literally true; if Christ was "God +manifest in the flesh," how much do I gain by believing in him! I +have attained the highest and best of all knowledge--I know GOD! + +And this transfiguration becomes a wonderful revelation! It was the +Spirit of God shining through the Man. And this spirit was a +substance and a form. And what was its form?--that of a man, with a +face radiant as the sun. Now know I how to think of God. He is no +longer a vague, incomprehensible existence; an ether floating in +space. But He is a living, breathing human form, a Man! in whose +image and likeness we were created. Oh, how I thank God that He has +revealed this to me! Now, I know what manner of Being I pray to; and +like as the apostles saw Him, in His Divine spiritual human form, +will I now always think of Him. I will look through His veil of +flesh, I will love Him as the only God-man that ever existed. + +When I think thus of the inner Divine nature, clothed in a material +body, how wonderfully do the scenes of this drama of the life of +Christ strike me! Imagine Him, the God of the universe, standing +before the Jewish sanhedrim, condemned, buffeted, and spit upon. How +at that moment in His inmost Divine soul, He must have glanced over +the vast creation, that He had called into being; and felt that an +Infinite power dwelt in Him. One blazing look of wrathful +indignation would have annihilated that rude rabble. But He had +clothed himself in flesh, to subdue all of its evil and vile +passions; to show to an ignorant and sensual race, the grace and +beauty of a self-abnegation--a Divine pity and forgiveness. And thus +did the outer material Man die with that beautiful and touching +appeal to the Infinite-loving soul, from which the body was born: +"Father! forgive them, they know not what they do." Oh, Thou! Divine +Jesus! make me like unto Thee in this heavenly and loving spirit. + +How clear many things grow to me now! I smile when I think of the +old childish trouble over the word "_Logos_," for this _Logos_, i. +e. truth, has been revealed to me. In the knowledge that Christ was +the Infinite God--the Creator of the universe, I see Him as the +central _truth_. Thus Christ was the _Logos_,--the _Word_; the +Divine Truth, and now I read, that "In the beginning was Christ, and +Christ was with God, and Christ was God." And I am happy in this +knowledge--my thought has something to rest upon out of myself; and +my affections grow up from the earth to that wonderful Divine Man, +who, after the death of the body, was seen as a man, a living man! +Immortality is no longer the dream of a Plato. It is a demonstrated +fact. + +In my mind is the stirring of a new life, as in the light of an +early morning-glory; the voice of singing birds is in my heart, and +an odour of blooming flowers expands itself in the delight of my new +day. I see the morning sun in a fixed form, yet flooding worlds with +the radiations of its light and heat, and shining in its glory on +the dew-bespangled blade of grass. Oh Christ!--thou art my Sun--and +I, the tiny blade of grass, rejoice in Thy Divine wisdom and love. +Look down upon me, oh, Thou holy One! from the "throne of Thy glory, +and the habitation of Thy Holiness," and exhale from me, through the +dew of my sorrow, the incense of my love. Draw me up from the earth, +even as the sun draws up the bowed plants, and let me drink in the +beautiful life of free heavenly airs. + +NOON-DAY.--How the light grows! In the warm love of my soul a +summer's day glows--so serene and bright, so full of ceaseless +activities, that the fruits ripen in a smiling, rosy beauty. + +The living Christ hath heard my soul's prayer; and books, which I +never before heard of, have revealed to me all those wonderful +truths after which my spirit yearned. + +First of all, the mystery of the Bible has been made clear to me. I +see it now as a beautiful whole. The Infinite knew from the +beginning that He was going to descend upon the earth, and take upon +Himself a human nature, weak and ignorant and vicious; and that He +was to purify and enlighten, and make Divine this fallen nature, +that man might know God in a material form, and love Him. All this +is written out in the Bible. + +I stand on the threshold of a wonderful science. There are +innumerable things that I do not comprehend in the Bible; but what I +see and understand awakens in me a thrilling delight, and I can +never exhaust this book; for it is full of the nerves of life; and I +can no more number them than I can count the sensitive fibres that +spread themselves from my brain, to the innumerable cellular tissues +of my skin. But as the body is full of a sentient life, so is every +word of the Bible full of an indwelling life. + +And now do I recognise the good that my patient, suffering old +friend did me in my childhood; would that I had read the Holy Bible +to her many other days. Doubtless she is now a beautiful angel in +Heaven. + +The angels! and Heaven! now too do I understand the inner existence; +and the dreams and visions of my childhood were, after all, blessed +realities; and the dead father and the dead mother, after whom my +childish heart yearned so lovingly, were revealed to me as a living +father and a living mother, in a wondrously beautiful life. Thus was +a warm inner love kept alive in my soul; and now I know that death +is but a new birth. As a glove is drawn from the hand, so is the +body drawn from the spirit; and, I too, will thus be born again. +Life is again crowned with a beautiful hope. + +Life!--and this mystery too is solved. God is the alone life, and +finite human spirits are forms receptive of life from God. God is +the soul and creation is His body--and from this infinite Divine +soul, life flows forth into every atom of the body. Beautiful +thought! The Lord sits throned in the inmost, and is cognisant of +every nerve that thrills through His boundless universe of being. +Every thought and feeling that passes through my heart and mind is +as clearly perceived by Him, as are the sensations of my body +perceived by my soul. Thus are we in God, and God in us. + +And how vast is the thought that suns, and their peopled worlds, are +to the body of God but as the drops of blood to the finite human +body; and who can count these drops? for as they flow forth, and +back to the heart, they ever grow and change, and increase--and who +can measure the Infinite! and this Being, sentient of all things in +the universe, providing for all things; seeing all things; +maintaining order, down to the minutest particle, in a system which +the finite thought of man can never grasp--and loving his creatures +in myriads of worlds, of which man never dreamed. How inconceivable +must be His boundless wisdom, His infinite love! Can we wonder that +a Soul so glowing with love, so radiant in intelligence, should +shine as the sun? Yes--this is the Central Sun, whose spiritual +beams, pouring forth their Divine influences, creating as they go +angelic and spiritual intelligences, finally ultimate themselves in +material suns, and material human bodies. Thus the garment of dull, +opaque matter is woven by the Divine Soul, through the condensations +of His emanations. Thus, were "all things made by Him; and without +Him was not anything made that was made;" and "in Him was life, and +the life was the light of men." + +The thought sinks after this far flight--we worship and adore the +Infinite. But the Lord must for ever remain apart from our weak +natures, as far as the sun is above the earth. He lives, in His +incomprehensible self-existence, at an immeasurable distance from +us. This the Divine Man sees, and in His tender compassion and +loving mercy for every human soul He creates, a twin-soul is made, +that the finite may find the fullness of delight in another finite +existence. + +Oh, blessed and beautiful providence of God! that two human hearts +and minds may intertwine in mutual support, and look up to the +Infinite. And in the glorious sunshine of life, grow ever young and +beautiful, in an immortal youth. + +Oh, ye suffering, sorrowing children of earth! turn your affections +and hopes from the fleeting things of time; from the outside-world, +to the beautiful inner spirit-life, where eternity develops ever new +and varying joys. Then only can the day dawn upon the human soul, +and the midnight darkness be dissipated by boundless effulgence of +light. + + + + + + +MINISTERING ANGELS. + + + + + + TIME and Patience! These are Angels + By our Heavenly Father sent; + Whispering to our restless spirits, + "Cease to murmur--be content; + God, who is thy truest friend, + Doth our aid in trials send. + + When thy weary spirit faileth, + 'Neath the weary cross it bears, + God is not unmindful of thee-- + He is listening to thy prayers; + From His children's tearful pleading + He will _never_ turn unheeding!" + + Heart of mine! Trust thou these Angels; + Lean on Patience, and be calm; + Trust in Time, who is preparing + For thy grief a spirit-balm; + God is merciful, and He + Gave them charge concerning thee. + + + + + + +OURS, LOVED, AND "GONE BEFORE." + + + + + + The light of her young life went out, + As sinks behind the hill + The glory of a setting star; + Clear, suddenly, and still. + + --WHITTIER. + +YOU ask me to tell you of her, the sweet friend we have loved and +lost. You impose on me a difficult task; I find it so harrowing to +my feelings, and I also find that my pen is inadequate to the +tribute my heart would pay. + +I would that the privilege of knowing and loving her had been yours, +for to know her was to love her. + +In former letters I told you something of her; how she came to us a +lovely bride of just nineteen summers; how anxiously we looked for +her first appearance in church, for they arrived late Saturday +evening, and no one had seen her. I told you how my heart went out +to her as I looked on her sweet, bright, yet somewhat timid face; +there was a perfect witchery in her eyes. I felt that I could gaze +into them for ever; there was about them a spell, a fascination that +I have never seen in others; they laughed as they looked at you, and +yet they were not merely laughing eyes; perhaps the long, drooping +lashes somewhat modified the expression, and helped to give the +peculiarity so strikingly their own. + +Her dress and whole appearance were captivating; the simple light +straw hat, with the little illusion veil, and the pure white dress +fitting so prettily the slender form. I could hardly wait for the +next day, so anxious was I to see and speak with her, for I loved +her already. + +I had been prepared to love her, for our young pastor had told us +much of his future bride. You know our house was one of his homes, +and to us he had spoken often and enthusiastically of his Mary. It +seemed to me that first Sabbath, that his prayers were particularly +impressive, and his thanks to the Author and Giver of every perfect +gift unusually appropriate; he seemed overpowered by a weight of +gratitude and love. + +How I admired the two as I glanced from one to the other! And I know +that many prayers went up from that assembled congregation for long +life and blessings on them. + +It was a beautiful home that had been prepared for her. Her +furniture had been sent on previous to their marriage, and our +little band had vied with each other in arranging with a view both +to taste and comfort. How we did wish for a peep into her own home, +to get a hint with regard to arranging her things, so as to be +_home-like_! + +You know there is often so much in association, and we would have +loved the new strange place to have a familiar look to her at first +sight. Oh! what visions we conjured up as we arranged the room which +was to serve both as parlour and dining-room; for the house was +small, and Mr. B.'s study must be on the first floor. _There_ was +the best place for the piano between the windows, which looked into +the garden; we heard in anticipation the sweet voice which was to +fill the little room with melody, as the roses and flowers of June +now filled the garden with fragrance. The pretty fire-screen must +stand in a conspicuous corner, for that spoke particularly of home, +and of the hours delightfully passed in the dear family circle while +tracing it stitch by stitch; and I fancied that into each bright +flower which stood out so life-like from the canvas some emotion of +her heart had been indelibly wrought. How many lovely home +associations will the pretty fire-screen bring up! + +How we arranged, and disarranged, and re-arranged, before all was to +our minds; and how we hoped, when all was finished, that it would +look as charming to her as it did to us! And we were not +disappointed; for, on the following Monday, when we called to see +her, nothing could exceed the enthusiasm of her expression and +gratitude; everything was lovely, perfect; she saw all _en couleur +de rose_. + +She had left indulgent parents, and a home of refinement and luxury, +and we feared for her the untried duties of her new position; but an +intimate acquaintance proved her eminently qualified for the +responsibility she had assumed. She adapted herself with charming +grace and readiness to her present circumstances. She was a most +delightful acquisition to our limited circle; a favourite with all; +and she blended so beautifully the graces of religion with those of +her natural temperament that she became our idol. + +The "parsonage" seemed to me a paradise, surrounded by none but +bright and holy influences. There the poor always found a welcome, a +willing heart, a ready hand, and listening ear; however sad and +desponding on entering, they invariably came out cheerful and +hopeful. There seemed a magic spell cast around every one who sought +the presence of our dearly loved pastor and his wife. + +With what pleasure I used to watch for their steps as they took +their morning walks together that bright first year of their married +life! They seemed to have the life and vivacity of children. She +always accompanied him in his walks, in his visits to the poor, in +relief to the sick, by the bedside of the dying; she was like his +shadow, and always haunted him for good. It might be said most +emphatically of both, "When the ear heard them it blessed them, and +when the eye saw them it gave witness to them, because they +delivered the poor that cried, and the fatherless, and him that had +none to help him; the blessing of him that was ready to perish came +upon them, and they caused the widow's heart to sing for joy." + +Thus several years passed away; new cares and new duties devolved on +them; but all were cheerfully met and delightfully performed; and +they basked in the sunshine of God's love. Beautiful children sprang +up around them, and we felt that "earth never owned a happier nest" +than that which was placed in our midst. + +How proud Mr. B. was of his family, and with what reason, too, for +we all felt it with him; his wife so beautiful, so good, so in all +respects fitted to make home happy, with her never-failing sunshine +and light-heartedness; his two little girls, our impersonation of +cherubs; and the youngest a noble boy, so dear to his mother's +heart. Oh! how many attractions within that charmed circle! + +I shall never forget an evening I passed in the nursery with that +dear one surrounded by her happy little band. Willie, "the baby," as +she called him, although more than two years old, was sitting in her +lap, twirling one of her long, beautiful ringlets round his tiny +fingers. + +"Sing, mamma!" he said. + +"Oh, do!" joined in Effie and Minnie, putting their bright innocent +faces and soft brown curls close to hers; "sing The Dove, mamma, +please." + +She laughingly asked me to excuse her, saying, she always devoted +the twilight hour to amusing and instructing the little ones. I +begged her to allow my presence to be no restraint upon her usual +custom. She then commenced, and I thought no seraph's voice could be +sweeter, as she sang one of Mary Howitt's beautiful translations:-- + + "There sitteth a dove so white and fair + All on the lily spray, + And she listeneth how to Jesus Christ + The little children pray; + Lightly she spreads her friendly wings, + And to Heaven's gate hath fled, + And to the Father in Heaven she bears + The prayers which the children have said. + + And back she comes from Heaven's gate, + And brings, that dove so mild, + From the Father in Heaven, who hears her speak, + A blessing for every child. + The children lift up a pious prayer-- + It hears whatever you say, + That heavenly dove, so white and fair, + All on the lily spray." + +I joined heartily in the thanks and admiration the children +expressed when she had finished. + +As she laid them in their little beds, and kissed their rosy lips +and dimpled cheeks, she said, "I can never thank God enough for +these sweet children." She then added, "Oh! what an affliction it +must be to lose a child; I think if one of mine should die, I should +die too; but," she added, "I should not say so; could I not trust +them with Him who doeth all things well?" She little realized how +soon she was to be put to the test. I called there a few days after. +She was in the garden raising and tying up some drooping carnations +which the rain of the preceding day had injured. + +"Willie is not well," said she. "I have just sung him to sleep, and +Mr. B. said I must take a little fresh air, for I was fatigued with +holding him, and I thought I would confine myself to the garden, to +be near, if he should wake." + +Soon a cry from the nursery was heard; she sprang up the steps in +nervous haste, while I quite chided her anxiety. I followed her into +the room, and was surprised and shocked to find the dear boy in a +high fever; his little arms tossing restlessly, and his lips dry and +parched. Mr. B. sent immediately for the physician; we waited +anxiously his arrival, hoping secretly that we were unnecessarily +alarmed; but his coming did not reassure us; he saw dangerous +symptoms; but still, he said, he hoped for the best. I went home, as +Mr. and Mrs. B. both declined my services for the night, saying they +would rather attend him alone. The next day I was pained to hear +that his symptoms were more unfavourable; that the medicine had had +no effect, and the physician was becoming discouraged. I flew over +to the "parsonage;" the wildly anxious look of the mother distressed +me. I begged her to lie down a little while, and allow me to take +her place by the baby. + +"Oh, no," she said, "I cannot leave him; who but his mother should +be by his side?" + +It seemed to me that I had never seen greater distress on any +countenance. Mr. B. endeavoured to soothe her, though his anguish +was apparently as keen as her own. + +"If our Saviour would remove this little flower to his own garden, +shall we refuse to give it up? Shall we not rather bless and thank +him for allowing us to keep it so long?" + +"Oh, yes!" she said, "He doeth all things well; I know that he does +not willingly afflict nor grieve the children of men. I know that +whom He loveth he chasteneth, and I can say, 'Thy will be done.' +Nature is powerful, but my Saviour feels for me, and will forgive +the inward struggle." + +All that night they watched his little life fast ebbing away. +Towards morning his sufferings seemed to cease; he smiled upon his +parents. Hope for a moment revived in their hearts, but soon to be +displaced by bitter anguish. Daylight showed the marked change in +his features and complexion that told too plainly the messenger was +very near. + +"Speak to me, Willie," she exclaimed, bending over him in an agony +of grief. + +"Mamma," he said, and, with the effort, his little spirit took its +flight. + +Much has been said and written upon the death of infants, but when +we see so much of wickedness in the world, so much of sin to blight, +so much sorrow to fade, can we wonder that the Lord of Paradise +loves to transplant to a fairer clime these frail buds of earth, +there to have a beautiful and unfading development! + +We saw no more of our precious friends till the day of the funeral. +This was their first affliction, and none liked to intrude on the +sanctity of their grief, though many tears were shed, and hearts +went out to them; but we felt that they knew whom they had trusted, +and that under the shadow of His wings they could rest securely till +the storm was past. + +A neighbouring clergyman was to perform the last sad office for the +dead. Most lovely did little Willie look in his coffin. The +child-like, beautiful expression still lingered. Rare flowers, the +smallest and whitest, had been placed in the tiny hand, and shed +their fragrance throughout the room. + +Oh! how sad and sick appeared the mother, as she bent to take the +last look at the little form she had loved and cherished so +tenderly! Her nights of anxiety and watching had left their traces +upon her face; her usually light and elastic step was feeble and +slow, and she rested heavily upon the arm of her husband. His form +also was bowed, and his countenance bore traces of the deepest +grief. + +One of those sudden changes which we so often experience in this our +most changeful climate, took place that day. At noon it was very +warm and bright, but before we returned from the funeral it was +cloudy and cold. + +The next day Mrs. B. was quite sick with severe cold, and the +effects of the past excitement and grief. We flattered ourselves +that rest and quiet, with good nursing, would soon restore her; and +you may judge of our dismay upon learning, the day after, that she +was dangerously ill. + +"Oh no," we thought and said a hundred times, "it cannot be so; she +will surely be better to-morrow." + +We could not have it otherwise. We could not for an instant admit +the idea that she would not recover. The bare supposition was agony. +Oh! how harrowing to me is the remembrance of those long summer +days, and those wakeful moonlight nights, in which, prostrated by +disease, lay that young and lovely being so idolized by us all, but +whom, indeed, we were destined to see no more on earth. + +The Divine fiat had gone forth, and hearts were agonized, and looks +grew sadder and sadder, as day after day sounded like a knell in our +ears the fearful words, "Not materially better." But we could not +give her up; hope would linger. No one was permitted to see her but +the family and nurses, for the doctor said all excitement must be +carefully avoided. We said, "She will not die; God will raise her +up." In our weakness and blindness, we could see no mercy nor wisdom +in this terrible bereavement, this scorching desolation of the +already heavily-stricken servant of the Most High. He was naturally +of a most hopeful disposition, and this, notwithstanding the +discouraging words of the physician, buoyed up his soul, and he with +us hoped against hope. They could not persuade him to leave her for +a moment. Whole nights he watched by the side of her he loved best +on earth, anticipating every word and look, and administering to her +comfort. + +How you would have felt for us, dear Anna, had you been here! We +would walk by the house, and look up at the windows or door, not +daring to knock for fear of disturbing her, but hoping to see one of +the physicians or some one of the family, of whom to make inquiries. +Oh, the nervousness of those days! the restless, weary nights we +passed, till our fears and apprehensions became a racking torment, +and we felt almost that we must die (sic) ourselves ourselves or be +out of suspense; but when, on the evening of the tenth day after her +illness, a messenger came with pallid face and almost wild look to +say that she was _dead_, we were stunned. I really think we were +almost as much shocked as though we had not heard of her illness; +for we felt that, at the eleventh hour, some favourable turn _must_ +take place. I think we expected a miracle to be performed, so +certain were we, or wished and tried to be, that she would recover. + +But God's ways are not as our ways; truly, they are past finding +out. We felt like putting our hands on our mouths, for fear of +rebelling against _His_ most righteous decrees. "Be still, and know +that I am God," was all that we could say. It was hard to realize +that the sun was still shining behind the cloud, for this was a +darkness that might be felt. There seemed a pall over the earth and +sky. Oh, how unsatisfactory seemed all on earth! how dark and +strange! how mysterious and unreal! We could not weep, we were +stunned, and it seemed at the time that we could never come back to +earth without her. But when the touching relation of her last hours +was made to us, the fountains of grief were unsealed, and we wept, +as it were, rivers of tears. + +I can give you no idea on paper of the beauty and sublimity of that +death-scene as it was painted to me. We imagined that the heart must +shrink, or at least draw back before the entrance into the dark +valley. But all was peace; it flowed in upon her like a river, and +she felt that underneath were the everlasting arms. Her husband and +two remaining children stood by the bed. Oh, the bitterness of the +cup he was called upon to drink! He shrank from it. As he bent over +her, she said, + +"Do not weep, love. How good God has been to give us so many bright, +happy years together! Surely the lines have fallen to us in pleasant +places, and I"--raising her beautiful eyes to heaven--"have a goodly +heritage. I go to my Saviour. How should I feel at this moment had I +not a hope in him? Oh, I am going home! I see Willie beckoning me to +hasten. I will bear him in my arms to the Saviour's feet, and +together we shall sing the 'new song.' I do not love you nor these +sweet darlings less; but I love the Saviour more. I wish you could +look in my heart and see the love I bear you. Thank you for all your +indulgence, for all your kindness in bearing with my many +infirmities. If I am permitted, I will be ever your guardian angel. +Remember me with much and undying love to all the dear friends who +have been so kind to me." + +She appeared buoyed up with unnatural strength, though her end was +so near. She broke into a sweet hymn; and it was, they said, as +though the angel's voice had anticipated the few short moments +before she should sing the "new song." She lay quiet for a little +time, holding the hand of her husband in her own; then, opening her +eyes and seeing the last rays of the departing sun, "I shall never +look upon that bright orb again; but there is no need of the sun +there. I draw near to heavenly habitations, and I would not retreat +for what the world can give. Dearest, be faithful to your trust." +And, imprinting a kiss upon his lips, her pure spirit went +peacefully home. + +We draw a veil upon the feelings of that bereaved one; too sacred +are they to be looked upon; his house was left unto him desolate. +That form, which had been to his eye like the well in the desert or +the bow in the sky, was now cold in death. + +Oh! thought we, why needed this affliction to be sent upon one so +near _perfection_? Surely, _he_, of all others, needed not this +discipline; and then came to our minds, soft, sweet, and soothing, +the words, "Every branch in me that beareth fruit, he purgeth it +that it may bring forth more fruit." + +We felt that it was hard to lay in the grave the form of our dear +friend; it was hard to part with the casket which had enshrined the +precious jewel. Beautiful in life, she was so in death. The +departing spirit had left a ray of brightness on its earthly house, +and, in looking at the calm brow and peaceful smile, death seemed +divested of its terror. We had twined the pure white flowers she +loved around and amongst the rich dark masses of wavy hair, and she +looked like a beautiful bride more than a tenant for the grave. The +memory of that day will live ever in our minds. It was the last day +of summer, and there seemed a beautiful appropriateness in the +season; it seemed to us that the summer of our hearts had gone with +her. + +A sad and mournful procession, we followed her remains to the church +so dear to her in life. It was but a few days since she entered it +in her loveliness and bloom, and for the last time on earth +commemorated a Saviour's dying love. She will partake with us here +no more. May we be counted worthy to sit down with her at our +Father's board in heaven! Mournful was the sight of the black pall +which covered the coffin; mournful the drapery which shrouded her +accustomed seat and enveloped the chancel; mournful the badges which +all, as by consent, had adopted as expressive of their feelings on +the occasion; but, oh! most mournful and heart-rending was the sight +of that husband and father leading by the hand on either side all +that remained to him of his beautiful family. It was difficult to +recognise in him the man of two short weeks before; twenty years +seemed added to his life; the eyes, usually beaming with light, now +cast down and swollen with weeping--the countenance, index of a +heart full of peace and joy, now so sorrow-stricken. Truly, he +seemed "smitten of God and afflicted." We turned our eyes away as he +stood by the grave which contained almost his earthly all. + +It was a beautiful spot where they laid her to rest by the side of +her baby. The sun was just going down in a golden flood of light, +betokening a glorious morrow (beautiful emblem of the resurrection, +when this perishing body should be raised in glory), and the shadows +of the trees were lengthening on the grass. Every sound was in sweet +accordance with the scene; the soft twittering of the birds as they +sought their resting-places for the night, the quiet hum of the +insects, and the sweet murmuring of the brook which flowed at a +little distance. + +A holy calm pervaded our minds as we wended our way between the +trees and down the slope which bounded this lovely spot; and, as we +left the gate, we involuntarily paused and looked back long and +earnestly on the sweet view. Every object was bathed in that golden +haze so peculiar to the last days of summer and the beginning of +autumn; but at this time it seemed to us that the flood of soft +light had escaped from the gate of heaven which we imagined had +opened to receive the form lost to our sight. + +Oh, we miss her more and more, everywhere! in our walks and visits; +in the missionary circle, of which she was so ready and active a +member; in the Sunday school; in her accustomed seat in church; and +we miss the soft tones of her voice in prayer, and the rich +outpourings of her melody in praise. + +The poor of the parish have, indeed, lost a friend, as their tears +and remembrance amply testify when they recount her kindnesses, her +gentle words, her deeds of charity and love. "Flowers grew under the +feet of her," said one wretchedly poor, yet, I thought, quite +poetical old woman, whose declining days she had lightened of much +of their weariness. A track of glory seems that which she has left +behind; and there was so much that was beautiful and consoling in +her last hours that it were selfishness to wish her back. She is +with the Saviour she loved; she folds again to her heart the little +one whose loss she had not time to realize on earth; together they +have entered on their "long age of bliss in heaven." + +Does not that death-scene speak volumes in attestation of the +religion she professed, of the Saviour she adored? That young fair +being, surrounded by all that makes life happy; friends who loved, a +husband who idolized, children who clung to her; with a heart full +of love and sympathy for all, rejoicing with those who rejoiced, and +weeping with those who wept; of rare beauty and rarer +accomplishments, a sunbeam on the face of the earth; yet she +willingly left all when her Father called her. Is not her faith +worth striving after? + +We have reason (blessed be God!) to see already some good effects +from the contemplation of her life and death. The young have +received a warning, thoughtlessness a check. We have realized that +neither youth nor beauty is a security against the ravages of the +spoiler. + +God grant that our dear pastor may experience the truth of the words +of the Psalmist: "Those who sow in tears shall reap in joy." He +feels that his treasure is laid up in heaven, and we know that his +heart is there. To see his dear one happy had ever been his chief +desire, and he would not call her back, for he knows that she is now +in the enjoyment of a bliss that the world cannot give. + +Though cast down, he is not destroyed; he has come unscathed from +this furnace of affliction because one like the Son of God was with +him. With eyes turned heavenward, he waits his appointed time. The +religion of the cross glistens like a gem on his dark-robed +fortunes, and points him to fairer worlds, where the love that grew +here amidst clouds will be made perfect in a light that knows no +shadow, where he and his departed ones will again have one home, one +altar, and one resting place. + +Like his Divine Master, he goes about doing good. Oftener than ever +is he found amongst the sons and daughters of affliction; more than +ever are they objects of his special care; his precept is blessed by +his example, and thus many a prodigal son has he recalled from his +wanderings, many an outcast gathered into the fold, many a wayworn +pilgrim pointed to his true rest, many a mourner comforted. They saw +that the resignation he preached to others he practised himself; +they saw that the hand of the Lord was heavy upon him, but that yet +he turned not backward; they saw that he went his way as a pilgrim +pressing forward to a better country. Most brilliant will be the +diadem which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give him in the +last day, for are not these words of Holy Writ, "They who turn many +to righteousness shall shine like the stars for ever and ever?" + + + + + + +OUTWARD MINISTERINGS. + + + + + + EACH owns some secret law;--the flowers that flourish + Bloom in their season, in their season die; + Dews flow beneath, their feeble strength to nourish, + The wind, Earth's angels, life's sweet breath supply. + + As in the wondrous world of faultless Nature, + So in the moral universe of man, + Given for the spirit's every form and feature, + Are powers fulfilling its immortal plan. + + Whether its aim be fixed on seeking Pleasure, + Whilst draining deep her falsely-sparkling bowl, + Or in the light of Love be sought the treasure + Whose worth may satisfy the craving soul; + + Whether it court the applause of listening nations, + And toil, with earnest energy, for fame, + Or seek with nobler hopes those elevations, + Whence from its God with spotless robes it came: + + All help to lead it on; to Truth or Error, + Darkness or Light, as its own pathway lies; + Here, seeming seraphs, hidden shapes of terror, + There, darksome shadows, angels in disguise. + + Behold yon miser bend, with palsied fingers, + O'er the rich gold around him glittering piled, + How, with a father's care, he tireless lingers + By life's all-precious hope, his darling--child. + + Fond wretch! his aim to narrow life is bounded, + Yet, true to Nature, all for him hath proved; + The glorious gifts that once his path surrounded, + Have served to strengthen feelings basely loved! + + By glittering lights, behold yon splendid palace, + See squalid youth and beauty enter there, + Eager to drown within the brimming chalice, + All pangs of grief--all thoughts of woe or care. + + Alas! for them, that such a sad fruition + Should burst from seeds bright with the hues of Time; + These specious splendours fail not in their mission, + But spur their spirits on the road to crime! + + In yonder room, behold a beauteous maiden, + Who bright the standard of her hope unrolls; + But, oh! that smiling bark, with evil laden, + Leads on to fatal depths, or treacherous shoals! + + Gaze on the gambler, pale with care and sorrow, + And mark the dismal shades he long hath trod, + Who lives to witness each returning morrow, + Sin-burdened, roll before an outraged God! + + Seest thou the light from yonder casement streaming? + Seest thou the shadow on the window cast? + There, lost in thought and poesy's wild dreaming, + Waits one to hear Fame's loud but fickle blast. + + This is his life's great aim; but what beyond it? + Of Truth's bright treasure though he love to tell, + In barren mines of lore he hath not found it, + Bowing beneath his idol's deadly spell. + + But gaze on One, who seeks in all around him, + Lessons of good to cheer him on his way, + As every golden year through life hath found him + Nearer the realms of Heaven's eternal day. + + With him events of earth are sweet evangels, + All meaner things but step-stones hurled beneath; + Whilst nobler lead to Eden-realms of angels, + With shining robes, and crown, and amaranth wreath. + + Oh! fellow-pilgrims through this desert dreary, + In all the scenes of life God's mercy trace, + Then though with grief cast down, with watching weary, + Strong shall ye stand in His sufficient grace! + + Thus sweet, melodious tones and forms of beauty, + All glorious sights and sounds may ever prove + Angels to lure us on the path of duty, + Echoes of symphonies that float above! + + + + + + +BODILY DEFORMITY, SPIRITUAL BEAUTY. + + + + + +WHO has not observed in passing through the crowded streets of our +city, how great, comparatively, is the number of those, who are more +or less deformed? My heart aches for these poor unfortunates, who +are deprived of some of the legitimate avenues of enjoyment which +God has so bounteously vouchsafed to me. + +Here is one (and it would seem to me the most unmitigated of all the +catalogue) who is groping his way along in darkness, holding fast by +the hand of a little girl. There is another who has lost a limb, and +makes his way along with the utmost difficulty. Yonder is one so +extremely deformed, that his sensitiveness forbids him often to +appear in the crowded streets. And there is another still, who is +quite helpless, sitting in a little wagon drawn about by a faithful +dog. + +In the minds of different individuals, these various aspects of +deformity produce pity, disgust, and horror; but I have often +thought, could we but look, as God looks--down into the audience +chamber of the spirit--the heart--how differently our minds would be +affected at the sight of these bodily deformities. Perhaps yon poor +blind man, grinding away upon his hand-organ, whose natural eyes for +long, weary years, have been closed against the profusion of beauty +around him, has had the eyes of his understanding opened, and the +pure light from the eternal throne illumes the depth of his soul. +Perhaps he, who hobbles slowly and sadly along upon his crutches, +treads with care and unknown joy, the _narrow way_,--and when, +life's journey's over, he walks through the valley of the shadow of +death, he will fear no evil; for a rod and a staff unknown to his +earthly pilgrimage, _they will comfort him_. Who shall say but he, +whose deformity drives him from the public way, walks continually +before God and Angels--a perfect man? It may be, that yon helpless +one--_so_ helpless that his mother feeds him--has power to move the +arm that moves the world; for God hears prayer. + +It is a most solemn truth that He who is the judge of quick and +dead, looks not upon the _outer_ man; but upon his inner, spiritual +nature. With His judgment, it matters not, that a man be deformed; +that his eyes be blind or his tongue be tied: is the heart all +right?--has it become a sanctuary, meet for the spirit's residence +and lighted by the Sun of Righteousness, where every word, thought, +and deed, becomes an acceptable sacrifice to God? is it not +disturbed by sin or blinded by passion? These are the things which +have to do in the estimate which God puts upon every intelligent +creature. Take good care then, my brother pilgrim, that the heart is +all right--though the body which covers it for a little season is +distorted and maimed. + + + + + + +THE DEAD CHILD. + + + + + + "Though our tears fell fast and faster, + Yet we would not call her back; + We are glad her feet no longer + Tread life's rough and thorny track. + We are glad our Heavenly Father + Took her while her heart was pure; + We are glad He did not leave her, + All life's troubles to endure. + We are glad--and yet the tear-drop + Falleth, for, alas! we know + That our fireside will be lonely, + We shall miss our darling so!" + +HOW beautiful a young child in its shroud! Calm and heavenly looks +the white face on which the blighting breath of sin never rested. + +The silken curls parted from the marble brow--the once bright eyes +closed--once red lips pale--little hands that have ofttimes been +clasped as the lips repeated "Our Father," now meekly folded over +the throbless heart, tell us that Death, cruel, relentless Death, +has been there. + +Surely, the _soul_ that once beamed from those closed eyes is happy! +Hath not the Saviour said, "Of such is the kingdom of heaven?" Robed +like an angel is she now, a lamb in the Saviour's bosom. Could +parental love ask more? Surely not. Cleansed from all earthly taint; +secure from all trouble, care, or sin, those eyes will no more weep; +but the tiny hands will sweep a golden harp, and the childish voice +will be heard making music in heaven. + +Often, O, how often had our hearts said, "God bless her!" And has +not our prayer been answered? The yearnings of love cannot be +stifled; for we miss the loving clasp of white arms--the soft +pressure of fresh lips--the prattle and smile that were music and +light to our world-weary hearts; our hand moves in vain for a +resting-place on the golden head; yet we feel, we know that "it is +well with the child," for we see how much of woe she has escaped; +how much of bliss she has gained; a home with the sinless; the +companionship of angels for ETERNITY. Blessed one! + +Alone, yet fearlessly, didst thou pass through the "dark valley" and +enter into the home prepared for thee. As fearlessly, trustingly may +_we_ meet the conqueror, Death, and when the conflict is ended, meet +thee in thy new home to dwell for evermore! + + + + + + +WATER. + + + + + +GOD is the author of all our blessings. There is no truth, perhaps, +to which we are more ready to give our assent than this; and yet, a +great many people seem to act as if they did not believe it, or, at +least, as if they were prone to forget it. + +A traveller stopped at a fountain, and, letting the rein he held in +his hand fall upon the neck of his horse, permitted the thirsty +animal to drink of the cooling water that came pouring down from a +rocky hill, and spread itself out in a basin below. While the weary +beast refreshed himself, the traveller looked at the bright stream +that sparkled in the sunlight, and said thus to himself:-- + +"What a blessing is water! How it refreshes, strengthens, and +purifies! And how bountifully it is given! Everywhere flows this +good gift of our Heavenly Father, and it is as free as the air to +man and beast." + +While he thus mused, a child came to the fountain. She had a vessel +in her hand, and she stooped to fill it with water. + +"Give me a drink, my good little girl," said the traveller. + +And, with a smiling face, the child reached her pitcher to the man +who still sat on his horse. + +"Who made this water?" said the traveller, as he handed the vessel +back to the child. + +"God made it," was her quick reply. + +"And do you know anything that water is like?" asked the traveller. + +"Oh, yes! Father says that water is like truth." + +"Does he?" + +"Yes, sir. He says that water is like truth, because truth purifies +the mind as water does the body." + +"That is wisely said," returned the traveller. "And truth quenches +our thirst for knowledge, as water quenches the thirst of our lips." + +The little girl smiled as this was said, and, taking up her pitcher, +went back to her home. + +"Yes, water represents truth," said the traveller, as he rode +thoughtfully away. "The child was right. It purifies and refreshes +us, and is spread out, like truth, on every hand, free for those who +will take it. Whenever I look upon water again, I will think of it +as representing truth; and then I will remember that it is as +important to the mind's health and purity to have truth as it is for +the body to have water." + +Thus, from a simple fountain, as it leaped out from the side of a +hill, the traveller gained a lesson of wisdom. And so, as we pass +through the world, we may find in almost every natural object that +exists something that will turn our minds to higher and better +thoughts. Every tree and flower, every green thing that grows, and +every beast of the field and bird of the air, have in them a +signification, if we could but learn it. They speak to us in a +spiritual language, and figure forth to our natural senses the +higher, more beautiful, and more enduring things of the mind. + + + + + + +BEAUTIFUL, HAPPY, AND BELOVED. + + + + + + WOULDST thou be beautiful? + Ah, then, be pure! be pure! An angel's face + Is the transparent mirror of her soul. + If ghastly guilt on fairest brows you trace, + Then do you hear the knell of beauty toll. + Let Purity her seal on thee impress, + And thine shall be angelic loveliness. + The pure are beautiful. + + Wouldst thou be dearly loved? + Then love, love truly all that God has made; + For by His name of love is He best known. + No damp distrust be on thy spirit laid; + And let affection's words and deeds be one. + Thy soul's warm fountain shall not gush in vain; + From Love's deep source it shall be filled again; + For they who love, are loved. + + And wouldst thou happy be? + Then make the truth thy talisman, thy guide. + Be truth the stone in all thy jewels set. + Into thy heart its opal-light shall glide, + And guide thee where are happier spirits yet. + For these three rays are in the shining crown: + The seraph by the Throne of Light lays down, + Truth, Love, and Purity. + + + + + + +"EVERY CLOUD HAS A SILVER LINING." + + + + + +WHAT! can this be true in this dark world of ours, where the thick +clouds of sorrow, disappointed hopes, and bereavements are +continually hanging over us, obscuring even the bright star of hope; +where upon every passing breeze is borne deep wailings of woe, +bitter sighs ascending from bruised and broken hearts mourning over +lost hopes, crushed affections, wasted love; struggling vainly for +victory in the fierce battle of life; groping about in darkness to +catch, if possible, one gleam of sunlight from the heavy clouds--but +in vain? + +"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust." Another shrine robbed of its idol; +another hearth left desolate. See, how the black clouds settle down +and press more closely around that lonely widowed one. Grim Death +mocks at his grief from the open grave, so soon to receive his +heart's idol. Ay, remove the coffin lid; gaze with all the agonizing +bitterness of a _last_ look upon that cold marble face; was aught on +earth so lovely? Kiss for the last time the pure forehead. Ah! those +pale white lips give back no answering pressure of love; sealed for +ever by that last chilling blast from the cold river. + +And now the damp earth presses heavily over that cherished form; far +down in the darkness and silence of the grave must the loved one +remain, never more to cheer by her gentle words of love and +kindness, the heart of him who so needed her sympathy and love. +Gone, gone for ever. + +What on earth is now beautiful or bright since the dearest, best +treasure is removed? Oh, no! there can be no bright spot in +affliction like this; there can be no bright ray to gild this night +of sorrow. + +Ah! thou erring mortal, repine not. The all-wise Father knew thy +frail heart, saw thy whole life and soul bound up in that one +creature, weak and sinful like thyself; forgetful of the Creator; +and wilt thou dare raise thy feeble voice against the Almighty when +He removed the idol that He alone may reign? Wilt thou not bow +meekly, kiss the rod, and accept the bitter cup of bereavement, +offered as it is in mercy? + +And is this all? Is there no life beyond the grave? Is the spirit +which held such communion with thine for ever quenched? + +Can the grave contain for ever the immortal part? Look up, oh! +mourning one; thy loved one is not there. + +Hark! hearest thou not soft, heavenly voices, whispering sweetly of +a life beyond the dark river, where Death can never come; of +glorious mansions where is peace and joy for ever more, and of +another freed spirit welcomed to the blissful home? Dost thou not +feel upon thy tear-moistened cheek, gentle wavings of angel wings +perfumed with the breath of heavenly flowers? + +Even now, may the happy glorified spirit of thy loved one be +hovering around; think you it would return again to that perishing +body of clay? + +The sweet star of faith is already rising over thy grief; the +clouds, all bright and shining with hues caught from heavenly skies, +are no longer dark and rayless; and now, even with thy lonely +bleeding heart, canst thou humbly receive the chastisement from Him +who doeth all things well. + +Henceforth will earth seem less dear, heaven nearer, and more to be +desired; thy own cherished companion is there, and who can know but +that her pure spirit may sometimes look down upon thee, still to +encourage thy endeavours to battle manfully with life and its +trials, still to cheer and console in thy hours of distress; but +now, with heart and affections all purified from the dross of earth, +will not the influence be more blessed than when she walked with +bodily presence at thy side? + +Yes, thanks to our merciful Father, every cloud _has_ a silver +lining, however dark the side presented to our view, ladened heavy +though it be with sorrows and woes, which almost crush the life from +our hearts as it presses upon us; yet there away, hidden from our +short mortal vision, gleams the soft silvery lining, ever gently +shining, perhaps never to be revealed in this world, reserved for us +to discover after we too have been called from this to our heavenly +home, and look back upon our earthly pilgrimage with rejoicings that +we have been so safely borne through every trial and temptation. + +Ah! then will our sky be without a cloud. All joyous and happy will +we tune our harps anew to the praise of Him who loved us and hath +given us the victory! + + + + + + +AN ANGEL OF PATIENCE. + + + + + + BESIDE the toilsome way, + Lowly and sad, by fruits and flowers unblest, + Which my lone feet tread sadly, day by day, + Longing in vain for rest, + + An angel softly walks, + With pale, sweet face, and eyes cast meekly down, + The while from withered leaves and flowerless stalks + She weaves my fitting crown. + + A sweet and patient grace, + A look of firm endurance true and tried, + Of suffering meekly borne, rests on her face, + So pure--so glorified. + + And when my fainting heart + Desponds and murmurs at its adverse fate, + Then quietly the angel's bright lips part, + Murmuring softly, "Wait!" + + "Patience!" she meekly saith-- + "Thy Father's mercies never come too late; + Gird thee with patient strength and trusting faith, + And firm endurance wait!" + + + + + + +THE GRANDFATHER'S ADVICE. + + + + + +IT was a golden sunset, which was fondly gazed upon by an old man on +whose broad brow the history of seventy winters had been written. He +sat in the wide porch of a large old-fashioned house: his look was +calm and clear, though years had quelled the fire of his eagle +glance; his silver hair was borne mildly back, by the south wind of +August, and a smile of sweetness played over his features, breathing +the music of contentment. His heart was still fresh, and his mind +open to receive an impress of the loveliness of earth. The dew of +love for his fellow-creatures fell upon his aged soul, and pure +adoration went up to the Giver of every good from its altar. He +lifted his gaze to the cerulean blue above him, and dwelt upon his +future, with a glow of hope upon his heart--then he turned to the +past, and his beaming expression gradually mellowed into +pensiveness: in thought, he travelled through the long vista of +years which he had left behind him, and his mental exclamation was, + +"There has not been a year of my life since manhood, that I might +not have lived to a better purpose. I might have been more useful +and devoted to my race. I might more fully have sacrificed the idol +self, which so often I have knelt to, in worship more heartfelt than +I offered the Divinity. Yet have I laboured to become pure in thy +sight, oh, my God! build thy kingdom in my breast!" + +A tear trembled in the aged suppliant's eye, and the calm of holy +humility stole over him; the gentle look was again upon his +countenance, when a young man of about twenty years, swung open the +gate leading to the house, and, approaching, saluted the old man +with a cordial grasp of the hand; flinging his cap carelessly down, +he took a seat in a rustic chair, and exclaimed with a smile of +mingled affection and reverence, which broke over his thoughtful +features, making him extremely handsome, + +"Well, grandfather, I believe you complete seventy years to-day!" + +"Yes, my son, and I have been looking back upon them. I do not +usually dwell upon the past with repining, yet I see much that might +have been better. My years have not always been improved." + +The young man listened respectfully; presently he asked, with sudden +interest, "Pray tell me, if there ever was a whole year of your +life, so perfectly happy that you would wish to live it all over +again?" + +"I have been perfectly happy at brief intervals," was the reply, +"yet there is not a year of my long life, that I would choose to +have return. I have been surrounded by many warm friends now gone to +their homes in the spirit-world,--I have loved, and have been loved, +and the recollection yet thrills me; still I thank God that I am not +to live over those years upon earth. I have struggled much for truth +and goodness, and there has not been one struggle which I would +renew, though each has been followed by a deep satisfaction." + +"To me, your life appears to have been dreary, grandfather," replied +his companion. "I ask for happiness!" After a pause, he added with +impetuosity, "If I am not to meet with the ardent happiness I dream +of, and desire, I do not care to live. What is the life which +thousands lead, worth? Nothing! I cannot sail monotonously down the +stream--the more I _think_, and thought devours me, the more +discontented do I become with everything I see. Why is an +overpowering desire for happiness planted within the human breast, +if it is so very rarely to be gratified? My childhood was sometimes +gay, but as often, it was clouded by disappointments which are great +to children. I have never seen even the moment, since I have been +old enough to reflect, when I could say that I was as happy as I was +capable of being. I have even felt the consciousness that my soul's +depths were not filled to the brim with joy. I could always ask for +more. In my happiest hours, the eager question rushes upon me, +involuntarily, 'Am I entirely content?' And the response that rises +up, is ever 'No.' I am young, and this soft air steals over a brow +of health--I can appreciate the beautiful and exquisite. I can drink +in the deep poetry of noble minds--I can idly revel in voluptuous +music, and dream away my soul, but with that bewitching dream, there +is still a yearning for its realization. I cannot abate the +restlessness that presses upon me--I look around, and young faces +are bright and smiling with cheerful gayety. I endeavour to catch +the buoyant spirit, but I succeed rarely,--if I do, it floats on the +surface, leaving the under-current unbroken in its flow. Yet after I +have endeavoured to lighten the oppressive cares of some un- +fortunate creature, a sort of peace has for a time descended upon +me, which has been infinitely soothing. It soon departs, and my +usual bitterness again sways me. I sought for friendship, and for +awhile I was relieved, but I cannot forbear glancing down into the +motives of my fellow men, and that involuntarily-searching spirit +has proved unfortunate to me. I met with selfishness in the form of +attachment, and then I turned to look upon the hollow heart of +society, and it was there." + +"Alfred, you make me sad," said the old man, in a solemn and deeply +pained voice. "This is the first time I knew that your heart was +such a temple of bitterness." + +"If I have saddened you, I wish I had not spoken: but the thoughts +rushed over me, your kind heart is always open, and I gave them +expression. You have lived long, and there is more sympathy in your +experience, than in the laughing jest of those near my own age. +Pardon me, grandfather, I will not pain you again!" Alfred turned +his eyes upon his aged friend; he caught the look of kindness upon +that honoured face, and it fell warmly, upon his soul. + +"It is right to think deeply," said the revered adviser, "but one +must think rightly, also. You must not look out upon the world, from +the darkened corners of your soul, or the hue is transferred to all +things which your glance falls upon. Take the torch of truth and +heavenly charity to chase away the dimness within you, then powerful +changes will be wrought in your vision. You will begin to regard +your fellow man with new feelings of interest. I am a plain and +blunt old man, Alfred, but you know that my only desire is for your +good; so bear with my remarks if they be unpalatable." + +"Certainly, sir, I value frankness before flattery." + +"You may say that you have never been _perfectly_ happy continued +the old gentleman; "that is neither strange nor uncommon, for I have +met with few thoughtful persons of your years, who, upon close +reflection, could say that their souls could desire no more than had +been granted to them. You must seek for resignation, not entire +bliss upon earth, although it is possible that you may enjoy it for +a season." + +"Why is joy so transitory and unquiet so lasting?" demanded the +young man impatiently. + +"The fault is not in the transitoriness of the joy, but in the very +soul itself,--it is in a state of disorder; its nature must be +changed before it can receive for ever only the image of gladness. +In a chaos of the elements, can a smiling sky be always seen? Lay +asleep all unruly elements in the spirit, and a pure heaven of +brightness will then greet the uplifted glance." + +"But how can all this be done, grandfather? hath unruly elements do +you speak of? What can I do; for instance? I certainly am willing +and glad to see my kind happy--if my soul be in disorder, I do not +know in what it consists, or how to bring it to order. I am weary of +its unsatisfied desires; it is, continually in search of something +which it has never caught sight of,--and the fear, that that +unknown, yet powerfully desired something may never come to quench +my thirst, falls with the coldness of death upon my bosom." + +"That something may be found by every human being, if sought for in +the right way. Those yearnings are not given us, that they may fall +back and wither the fountain from which they spring. But the +question is, do we seek for happiness in the right way? Do we not +rather ask for an impossibility, when we ask for permanent bliss, +before we have laid a foundation in our souls for it? You wish to +take this life too easy by far, my son; rouse up all your strength, +look around you with the keenness of a resolved spirit, and seek to +regenerate your whole being,--let that be your object, and let the +desire for happiness be subservient to it. You will clasp joy to +your, breast, as an everlasting gift, at the end of the race. What +are your aims and objects? You hardly know; you are in pursuit of +that which flees, before you as a shadow, and your restless spirit +sinks and murmurs,--you have no grand object in view, to buoy you up +steadily and trustfully through every ill which life has power to +bestow. Those very ills are seized upon, and become instruments of +glory to the devoted and heaven-strengthened spirit,--they prepare +for a deeper draught of all things dear and desired, and though the +soul droop beneath the weight of human suffering, yet the rod that +smites is kissed with a prayer. Turn away from your individual self, +as far as you can, and regard the broad world with a philanthropic +eye--" + +"Impossible--impossible!" interrupted Alfred, hastily, "I defy any +person to turn from himself, and look upon the world with a more +interested gaze than he casts upon his own heart. One may be +philanthropic in his feelings and devoted to alleviating the +distresses of less fortunate beings, but I hold it to be impossible +that our individual selves will not always be first in interest. A +sudden and powerful impulse may carry us away for a time, but after +that rushing influence leaves us, we see yourselves again, and, find +that we had only lost our equilibrium briefly. I say only what I +sincerely think, and what thousands secretly know to be the case, +even while advocating views quite opposite. There is no candour in +the world!" + +"Softly, my good friend," said the grandfather, mildly smiling. "I +also hold it to be impossible that we can lose either our +individuality or our interest in ourselves, but I believe it +possible that we may love others just as well, if not better than +ourselves. I do not refer to one or two particular persons whom we +may admire, but I speak of the mass of our fellow-creatures." + +"I cannot even conceive of such a love!" returned the young man, +shaking his head. "I cannot see how I could love a person who +possesses no attractive qualities whatever;--I always feel +indifference, if not dislike. I think I could sacrifice my life to +one I loved, if thrown into sudden and imminent danger; still, I +think I might give pain to that same person many times, by +gratifying myself. For instance, grandfather,--suppose you were to +be led to the stake, to be burned to-morrow,--I would take your +place to save you; yet I do not now do all I possible can, to add to +your happiness. I gratify whims of my own; I idle away hours in the +woods, or by some stream, when I fully know that it would be more +pleasing to you, to see me bending patiently over my Greek and +Latin." + +"Very true!" sighed the old man. "You prove your own position, which +is that your ruling love is self-love." + +Alfred lifted up his eyebrows, as if he had heard an unwelcome fact. +We are often willing to confess things, which we do not like to have +old us. He fell into deep thought. Finally he said, "It is +universally allowed that virtue is lovely; those who practise it, +appear calm and resigned, and often happy--but, to tell the truth, +such enjoyment seems rather tame and flat. I wish to be in freedom, +to let my burning impulses rush on as they will, without a yoke. I +love, and I hate, as my heart bids me, and I scorn control of any +kind." + +"Yet you submit to a yoke, my son; one which is not of your own +imposing either." + +"What kind of a yoke?" + +"The yoke of society,--you bow to public opinion in a measure. You +avoid a glaring act, often, more because it will not be _approved_, +than because you have a real disinclination for it. Is not that the +case sometimes?" + +Alfred did not exceedingly relish this probing, but he was too +candid to cover up his motives from himself. He answered a decided +"yes!" but it was spoken, because he could not elbow himself out of +the self-evident conviction forced upon him. + +"Do you think it degrading for a man to conquer and govern the +strongest, as well as the weakest impulses of his soul?" pursued his +grandfather. + +"Certainly not degrading,--it is in the highest degree worthy of +praise. It is truly noble! I acknowledge it." + +"And yet you deem such enjoyment as would result from this +government, tame and flat." + +"I beg pardon; when I spoke of virtue, I referred to that smooth +kind which is current, and seems more passive than active,--that +soft amiability which appears to deaden enthusiasm, and to shut up +the soul in a set of opinions, instead of expanding it widely to +everything noble and generous, wherever it may be found." + +"It was not genuine virtue, you referred to, then,--it was only its +resemblance." + +"It was what passes for virtue. But to come at the main point, +grandfather;--where is happiness to be found, if we are to be +warring with ourselves during a lifetime, checking every natural +spring in the soul?" + +"Stop there, Alfred! We only quench the streams, which prevent the +spirit's purest wells of noble and happy feelings from gushing forth +in freedom. We must wage a warfare, it is true; why conceal it? But +it does not last for ever, and intervals of gladness come to refresh +us, which the worn and blunted spirit of the man of pleasure in vain +pants for. An exquisite joy, innocent as that of childhood, pervades +the bosom of truth's soldier in his hours of peace and rest, and he +lifts an eye of rapture to heaven--to God." + +Alfred dwelt earnestly upon the noble countenance of the speaker, +and his bosom filled with unwonted emotion, as the heavenly +sweetness of the old man's smile penetrated into his inward soul. +Goodness stood before him in its wonderful power, and he bowed down +his soul in worship. How insignificant then seemed his individual +yearnings after present enjoyment, instead of that celestial love +which can fill a human soul with so strong a power from on high. He +reflected upon that venerable being's life--so strong and upright; +he dwelt upon his large and noble heart, which could clasp the world +in its embrace. He remembered months of acute suffering, both +physical and mental, which had been endured with the stillness of a +martyr's inward strength; and then, too, he recalled times when that +aged heart was more truly and deeply joyful than his own young +spirit had even been. Both relapsed into the eloquent silence of +absorbing thought. It was evident from the softened and meditative +cast of Alfred's features, that his bitterness had given way to the +true tenderness of feeling it so often quelled; he revolved in his +mind all that had been advanced by his grandfather, and he dwelt +upon every point with candour and serious reflection. A strong +impression was made upon him, but he was entirely silent in regard +to it,--he waited to try his strength, before he spoke of the better +resolutions that were formed, not without effort, in his mind. He +felt a conviction that a change from selfishness to angelic charity +might be accomplished, if he were but willing to co-operate with his +Maker,--the conception of universal love slowly dawned upon his +soul, now turned heavenward for light,--his duties as a responsible +being came before him, and a sigh of reproach was given to the past. +Then golden visions of delight thronged up to his gaze, and it was +with a severe pang he thought of losing his, hold upon the dear +domains of idle fancy,--he had so revelled for hours and hours, in +intoxicating dreams, which shut out the world and stern duty. He +felt his weakness, but he resolutely turned from dwelling upon it. +The evening air was refreshing after the warm sunset, but old Mr. +Monmouth would not trust himself to bear it. Alfred went into the +house with him, and made a brief call, then left, and wended his way +a short distance to his own home, which was a very elegant mansion, +surrounded by every mark of luxury and taste. He immediately sought +his chamber, and took up a neglected Bible which his mother had +given him when a child,--he turned over its leaves, and his eyes +fell upon the one hundred and nineteenth psalm, "Thy word is a lamp +unto my feet, and a light upon my path. I have sworn, and I will +perform it, that I will keep thy righteous judgments." He read on, +and the exceeding beauty and touching power of the Holy Word had +never so deeply affected him,--he wept, and all that was harsh in +his nature melted,--he prayed, and the angels of God approached, +filling his uplifted soul with heavenly strength. Sweet was the +thrill of thanksgiving, that arose from that hitherto restless +spirit--quiet and blest the peace that hushed him to deep, +invigorating slumber. Persons of an enthusiastic temperament are apt +to fall into extremes; such was the case with Alfred Monmouth. He so +feared that he would fall back into his former states of feeling, +that he guarded himself like an anchorite. For three months he +abstained from going into company, and even reasonable enjoyment he +deprived himself of. He threw aside all books but scientific and +religious ones; even poetry he shut his ears against, lest it might +beguile him again to his dreamy, but selfish musings. No doubt this +severe discipline was very useful to him at the time, in +strengthening him against the besetting faults of his character; but +it could not last long, without originating other errors. During +this time he had been, perhaps, as happy as ever in his life; his +mind had been fixed upon an object, and a wealth of new thoughts had +crowded upon him--he rejoiced with a kind of proud humility in his +capability for self-government. He thought he was rapidly verging +towards perfection. But "a change came o'er the spirit of his dream" +at last, and an unwonted melancholy grew upon him, until it settled +like a pall over his heart. An apathy in regard to what had so +lately interested him, stole over him, and indeed a cold glance fell +upon almost every pursuit he had once prized. Plunged in deep gloom, +he one evening sought his grandfather's dwelling, hoping, by a +conversation with the cheerful old man, to regain a more healthy +state of mind; to his great satisfaction, Alfred found him alone +reading. + +"Well, my boy, I am glad you have come in!" was the salutation, with +a most cordial smile, for Mr. Monmouth had silently remarked the +late alteration in his somewhat reckless grandson. He also detected +the present gloom upon his fine countenance, and the earnest hope of +dispelling it, added an affectionate heartiness to his manner. +Alfred made several common-place remarks, then, with his usual +impatience, he flung aside all preamble, and said, + +"I am gloomy, grandfather, even more so than I have ever been, and I +cannot explain it. The last serious conversation I had with you, +produced a strong effect upon me, and for a long time after I was +unusually cheerful and vigorous in mind. I seemed to have imbibed +something of your spirit--I delighted in the hope of regenerating +myself, through the aid of Heaven; it seemed as if angels hushed my +restless spirit to repose, and I tried in humility to draw near my +God. Yet I feared for myself, and I withdrew from temptation, from +all society which was uncongenial to my state of mind. I was +_content_ for a long time, but now the sadness of apathy overwhelms +me." + +"Endeavour, without murmuring, to bear this state of mind, and it +will soon pass off," remarked Mr. Monmouth. "We must not always fly +from temptation in every form, my boy, but we must arm ourselves +against its attacks, otherwise our usefulness will be greatly +lessened. If those who are endeavouring to make themselves better, +do so by shunning society, they are rather examples of selfishness +than benevolent goodness,--the selfishness is unconscious, and such +a course may be followed from a sense of duty. But the glance which +discovered this to be duty was not wide enough; it took in only the +claims of self, yet I would not convey the idea, that we have any +one's evils to take care of but our own. We need society, and, +however humble we may be, society needs us. We need to be refreshed +by the strength of good beings, and we must also contribute our +slight share to those whom Providence wills that we may benefit. The +life of heaven may thus circulate freely, and increase in power +among many hearts. Go forward, Alfred, unmindful of your feelings, +and pray only to trust in Providence, and to gain a deep desire for +usefulness." + +"Ah! yes," returned the young man, earnestly. Light broke in upon +his darkness. "I am glad that I have spoken with you, grandfather, +for your words give me strength to persevere. I never knew that I +was weak until lately." + +"Such knowledge is precious, my dear son. We are indeed strongest +when the hand of humility removes the veil that hides us from +ourselves." + +"Probably such is, the case, but I cannot realize it. It is with +effort that I drag through the day; I am continually looking towards +the future, and beholding a thousand perplexing situations where my +besetting sins will be called into action. I see myself incapable of +always following out the noble principles I have lately adopted." + +"As thy day is, so shall thy strength be!" said Mr. Monmouth. "Be +careful only to guard yourself against each little stumbling-block +as it presents itself, and your mountains will be changed to +mole-hills. Never fear for the future, do as well as you can in the +present." + +"But it is so singular that I should feel thus, when I have been +trying as hard as a mortal could to change my erroneous views, and +to regard all the dispensations of Providence with a resigned heart. +I have cast the selfish thought of my own earthly happiness from my +mind as much as possible." + +"And yet there is a repining in your gloominess. You are not +satisfied to bear it." + +"Well, perhaps not. I am wrong,--I think that I could submit with +true fortitude to an outward trial, but there seems so little reason +in my low spirits. Have you ever felt so, grandfather?" + +"Often; and at such times, I devote myself more earnestly than ever +to anything which will take my thoughts from myself." + +"I will do so!" replied Alfred, firmly. "If my purposes are right in +the sight of Heaven, I will be supported." + +"True, my son." + +Alfred left the home of his grandsire, more at rest with himself and +all the world. Fresh peaceful hopes again sprang up within him, and +he began to see his way clear. He reasoned himself into resignation, +and, as day after day went on, he grew grateful for the privilege +and opportunity offered to school his rebellious spirit to order. + +Four years passed; Alfred was engaged in the busy world, and he +shrunk not from it, but rather sought to do his duty in it. One +summer evening, he was called to enter the large, old-fashioned +house of his grandfather. His brow was thoughtful, but calm and +resigned--he sought a quiet room; it was the chamber of death,--yet +was its stillness beautiful and peaceful; he knelt by a dying couch, +and clasped the hand of his aged grandsire--then he wept, but the +unbidden tears were those of gratitude. The serenity of heaven was +upon the countenance of the noble old man. + +"My hour has come, Alfred," he said, placing one hand upon the +beloved head bowed before him, "and I go hence with thankfulness. +Ah! even now, there is a heavenly content in my bosom. The angels +are bending over me, and wait to take my spirit to its home: there +is no mist before my sight, all is clear. The Father of love lifts +up my soul in this hour--our parting will be short, my son--" the +old man's voice trembled, an infinite tenderness dwelt in his eyes, +and Alfred felt that there was a reality in the peace of the dying +one. All the good that he had done him rushed before him, and he +exclaimed with humility, + +"How can I ever repay you, dear grandfather! for all your noble +lessons to me?" + +"I am repaid," was (sic) the the low reply; "they have brought forth +fruit, and I have lived to see it. I trust that you will leave the +world with all the peace that I do, and with deeper goodness in your +spirit. My blessing be upon you, my son!" + +"Amen!" came low from Alfred's fervent lips. + +The eyes of the aged one closed in death, and his young disciple +went forth again into the world, made better by the scene he had +witnessed. + + + + + + +A HYMN OF PRAISE. + + + + + + I BLESS Thee for the sunshine on the hills, + For Heaven's own dewdrops in the vales below, + For rain, the parent cloud alike distils, + On the fond bridegroom's joy--the mourner's woe! + And for the viewless wind, that gently blows + Where'er it listeth, over field and flood, + Whence coming, whither going, no man knows, + Yet moved in secret at Thy will, Oh, God! + E'en now it lifts a ring of shining hair + From off the brow close to my bosom pressed-- + The loving angels scarce have brows more fair + Than this, that looks so peaceful in its rest:-- + We bless Thee, Father, for our darling child, + Oh, like Thine angels make her, innocent and mild! + + I rise and bless Thee, for the morning hours; + Refreshed and gladdened by a timely rest, + When thoughts like bees, rove out among the flowers, + Still gathering honey where they find the best: + And for the gentle influence of the night, + Oh, Heavenly Father! do we bend the knee, + That shuts the curtains of our mortal sight, + Yet leaves the mind, with range and vision free, + For dreams! the solemn, weird, and strange that come + And bear the soul to an elysian clime,-- + Unveiling splendours of that better home, + Where angels minister to sons of time! + For all Thy blessings that with sleep descend, + Our hearts shall praise Thee, God, our Father and our Friend! + + + + + + +AN ANGEL IN EVERY HOUSE. + + + + + +IT is a trite saying, and an unique one, that there is "a skeleton +in every house." That every form however erect, that every face +however smiling, covers some secret malady of mind that no physician +can cure. This may be true, and undoubtedly is; but we contend that, +as everything has its opposite, there is also an _angel_ in every +house. No matter how fallen the inmates, how depressing their +circumstances, there is an angel there to pity or to cheer. It may +be in the presence of a wrinkled body, treading the downward path to +the grave. Or, perhaps, in a cheerful spirit looking upon the ills +of life as so many steps toward heaven, if only bravely overcome, +and mounted with sinless feet. + +We knew such an angel once, and it was a drunkard's child. On every +side wherever she moved she saw only misery and degradation, and yet +she did not fall. Her father was brutal, and her mother discouraged, +and her home thoroughly comfortless. But she struggled along with +angel endurance, bearing with an almost saintly patience the +infirmities of him who gave her existence, and then hourly +embittered it. Night after night, at the hours of ten, twelve, and +even one, barefoot, ragged, shawlless, and bonnetless, has she been +to the den of the drunkard, and gone staggering home with her arm +around her father. Many a time has her flesh been blue with the mark +of his hand when she has stepped in between her helpless mother and +violence. Many a time has she sat upon the cold curbstone with his +head in her lap; many a time known how bitter it was to cry for +hunger, when the money that should have bought bread was spent for +rum. + +And the patience that the angel wrought with made her young face +shine, so that, though never acknowledged in the courts of this +world, in the kingdom of heaven she was waited for by assembled +hosts of spirits, and the crown of martyrdom ready, lay waiting for +her young brow. + +And she was a martyr. Her gentle spirit went up from at couch of +anguish--anguish brought on by ill-usage and neglect. And never till +then did the father recognise the angel in the child; never till +then did his manhood arise from the dust of its dishonour. From her +humble grave, he went away to steep his resolves for the better in +bitter tears; and he will tell you to-day, how the memory of her +much-enduring life keeps him from the bowl: how he goes sometimes +and stands where her patient hands have held him, while her cheek +crimsoned at the sneers of those who scoffed at the drunkard's +child. + +Search for the angels in your households, and cherish them while +they are among you. It may be that all unconsciously you frown upon +them, when a smile would lead you to a knowledge of their exceeding +worth. They may be among the least cared for, most despised; but +when they are gone with their silent influence, then will you mourn +for them as for a jewel of great worth. + + + + + + +ANNIE. + + + + + + THE grave is Heaven's gate, they say; + And when dear Annie passed away, + One calm June morning, + I saw upon the heavenly stairs, + A band of angels, unawares, + Her path adorning. + + The grave is Heaven's gate, they say; + And when dear Annie passed away, + A music flowing + Filled my sad soul with love and light, + That made me seem, by day and night, + To Heaven going. + + The grave is Heaven's gate, they say; + And when dear Annie passed away, + A saintly whiteness + O'erspread the beauty of her face, + And filled it with the tender grace + Of angel brightness. + + The grave is Heaven's gate, they say; + And when dear Annie passed away, + An angel splendid + Cast his large glories to the ground, + While waves of throbbing music-sound + In sweetness blended. + + The grave is Heaven's gate, they say; + And when dear Annie passed away, + In holy sweetness-- + When life's sad dream with her was o'er, + Her white soul stood at Heaven's door, + In its completeness. + + + + + + +MOTHER. + + + + + +WHEN she changed worlds, and before the time, what was she to +others? A small old, delicate woman. _What was she to us?_ A +radiant, smiling angel, upon whose brow the sunshine of the eternal +world had fallen. We looked into her large, tender eyes, and saw not +as others did, that her mortal garment had waxed old and feeble; or +if we saw, this, it was no symbol of decay, for beyond and within, +we recognised _her_ in all her beauty. Oh! how heavy and bitter +would have been her long and slow decline, if we had seen her grow +old instead of young! The days that hastened to give her birth into +eternity, grow brighter and brighter, until when memory wandered +back, it had no experiences so sweet as those through which she was +passing. The long life, with its youthful romance, its prosaic +cares, its quiet sunshine, and deep tragedies, was culminating to +its earthly close; and, like some blessed story that appeals to the +heart in its great pathos, the end was drawing, near, all clouds +were rolling away, and she was stepping forth into the brilliance of +prosperity. Selfishness ceased to weep under the light of her +cheerful glance, and grew to be congratulation. Beside her couch we +sat, and traced with loving fancy the new life soon to open before +her; with tears and smiles we traced it. Doubts never mingled, for +from earliest childhood we had no memories of her inconsistent with +the expectations of a Christian. Deep in our souls there lay +gratitude that her morning drew near; beautiful and amazing it +seemed that she would never more bow to the stroke of the chastener; +fresh courage descended from on high, as we realized that there was +an end to suffering; it was difficult to credit that her discipline +was nearly over; how brief it had been, compared with the glorious +existence it had won her. How passing sweet were her assurances that +she should leave us awhile longer on earth with childlike trust, +knowing that our own souls needed to stay, and that the destiny of +others needed it! But the future seemed very near to her, and she +saw us gathered around her in her everlasting home. She grew weaker, +and said her last words to us. Throughout the last day she said but +little, but often. her tender eyes were riveted upon us; they said +"Farewell! farewell!" In the hush of the chamber, a faint, +eolian-like strain came from her dying lips; it sounded as if it +came from afar; _then_ the angels were taking her to their +companionship. She softly fell asleep, resigning her worn-out body +to us, and _she_ entered heaven. Ah! do we apprehend what a glorious +event it is for the "pure in heart" to die? We look upon the bride's +beauty, and see in the vista before her, anguish and tears, and but +transient sunshine. The beauty fades, the splendour of life declines +to the worldly eyes that gaze upon her. Deaf and blind are such +gazers, for the bride may daily be winning imperishable beauty, yet +it is not for this world. A most sad and melancholy thing it seems +when children of a larger growth judge their parents by their frail +and decaying bodies, rather than by their spirits. And more deeply +sad still is it, when the aged learn through the young to feel that +the freshness of existence has gone by with them. Gone by? when they +are waiting to be born into a new and vast existence that shall roll +on in increasing majesty, and never reach an end! Gone by? when they +have just entered life, as it were! The glory and sweetness of +living is _going by_ only with those who are turning away their +faces from the Prince of Peace. Sweet mother! she is breathing +vernal airs now, and with every breath a spring-like life and joy +are wafted through her being. Mother beautiful and beloved! some +sweet, embryo joy fills the chambers of my heart as I contemplate +the scenes with which she is becoming familiar. Dead and dreary +winter robes the earth, and autumn leaves lie under the snow like +past hopes; but what of them? I see only the smile of God's +sunshine. I see in the advancing future, love and peace--only +infinite peace! + + + + + + +GREAT PRINCIPLES AND SMALL DUTIES. + + + + + +IT is observable that the trivial services of social life are best +performed, and the lesser particles of domestic happiness are most +skilfully organized, by the deepest and the fairest heart. It is an +error to suppose that homely minds are the best administrators of +small duties. Who does not know how wretched a contradiction such a +rule receives in the moral economy of many a home? how often the +daily troubles, the swarm of blessed cares, the innumerable minutiae +of arrangement in a family, prove quite too much for the generalship +of feeble minds, and even the clever selfishness of strong ones; how +a petty and scrupulous anxiety in defending with infinite +perseverance some small and almost invisible point of frugality, and +comfort, surrenders the greater unobserved, and while saving money, +ruins minds; how, on the other hand, a rough and unmellowed sagacity +_rules_ indeed, and without defeat, but while maintaining in action +the mechanism of government, creates a constant and intolerable +friction, a gathering together of reluctant wills, a groaning under +the consciousness of force, that make the movements of life fret and +chafe incessantly? But where, in the presiding genius of a home, +taste and sympathy unite (and in their genuine forms they cannot be +separated)--the intelligent feeling for moral beauty, and the deep +heart of domestic love,--with, what ease, what mastery, what +graceful disposition, do the seeming trivialities of life fall into +order, and drop a blessing as they take their place! how do the +hours steal away, unnoticed but by the precious fruits they leave! +and by the self-renunciation of affection, there comes a spontaneous +adjustment of various wills; and not an innocent pleasure is lost, +not a pure taste offended, nor a peculiar temper unconsidered; and +every day has its silent achievements of wisdom, and every night its +retrospect of piety and love; and the tranquil thoughts, that in the +evening meditation come down with the starlight, seem like the +serenade of angels, bringing in melody the peace of God! Wherever +this picture is realized, it is not by microscopic solicitude of +spirit, but by comprehension of mind, and enlargement of heart; by +that breadth and nicety of moral view which discerns everything in +due proportion, and in avoiding an intense elaboration of trifles, +has energy to spare for what is great; in short, by a perception +akin to that of God, whose providing frugality is on an infinite +scale, vigilant alike in heaven and on, earth; whose art colours a +universe with beauty and touches with its pencil the petals of a +flower. A soul thus pure and large disowns the paltry rules of +dignity, the silly notions of great and mean, by which fashion +distorts God's real proportions; is utterly delivered from the +spirit of contempt; and, in consulting for the benign administration +of life, will learn many a truth, and discharge many ant office, +from which lesser beings, esteeming themselves greater, would shrink +from as ignoble. But in truth, nothing is degrading which a high and +graceful purpose ennobles; and offices the most menial cease to be +menial, the moment they are wrought in love. What thousand services +are rendered, ay, and by delicate hands, around the bed of sickness, +which, else considered mean, become at once holy and quite +inalienable rights! To smooth the pillow, to proffer the draught, to +soothe or obey the fancies of the delirious will, to sit for hours +as the mere sentinel of the feverish sleep; these things are +suddenly erected, by their relation to hope and life, into sacred +privileges. And experience is perpetually bringing occasions, +similar in kind, though of less persuasive poignancy, when a true +eye and a lovely heart will quickly see the relations of things +thrown into a new position, and calling for a sacrifice of +conventional order to the higher laws of the affections; and alike +without condescension and without ostentation, will noiselessly take +the post of service and do the kindly deed. Thus it is that the +lesser graces display themselves most richly, like the leaves and +flowers of life, where there is the deepest and the widest root of +love; not like the staring and artificial blossoms of dry custom +that, winter or summer, cannot change; but living petals woven in +Nature's workshop and folded by her tender skill, opening and +shutting morning and night, glancing and trembling in the sunshine +and in the breeze. This easy capacity of great affections for small +duties is the peculiar triumph of the highest spirit of love. + + + + + + +"OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN." + + + + + + How quietly she lies! + Closed are the lustrous eyes, + Whose fringed lids, so meek, + Rest on the placid cheek; + While, round the forehead fair, + Twines the light golden hair, + Clinging with wondrous grace + Unto the cherub face. + Tread softly near her, dear ones! Let her sleep,-- + I would not have my darling wake to weep. + + Mark how her head doth rest + Upon her snowy breast, + While, 'neath the shadow of a drooping curl, + One little shoulder nestles like a pearl, + And the small waxen fingers, careless, clasp + White odorous flowers in their tiny grasp; + Blossoms most sweet + Crown her pure brow, and cluster o'er her feet, + Sure earth hath never known a thing more fair + Than she who gently, calmly, slumbers there. + + Alas! 'tis Death, not sleep, + That girds her in its frozen slumbers deep. + No balmy breath comes forth + From the slight-parted mouth; + Nor heaves the little breast, + In its unyielding rest; + Dead fingers clasp + Flowers in unconscious grasp;-- + Woe, woe is me, oh! lone, bereaved mother! + 'Tis Death that hath my treasure, and none other. + + No more I hear the voice, + Those loving accents made my heart rejoice; + No more within my arms + Fold I her rosy charms. + And, gazing down into the liquid splendour + Of the brown eyes serenely, softly tender, + Print rapturous kisses on the gentle brow, + So cold and pallid now. + No more, no more! repining heart, be still, + And trust in Him who doeth all things well. + + Oh, happy little one! + How soon her race was run-- + Her pain and suffering o'er, + Herself from sin secure. + Not hers to wander through the waste of years, + Sowing in hope, to gather nought but tears; + Nor care, nor strife, + Dimmed her brief day of life. + All true souls cherished her, and fondly strove + To guard from every ill my meek white dove. + + Love, in its essence, + Pervaded her sweet presence. + How winning were her ways; + Her little child-like grace, + And the mute pleadings of her innocent eyes, + Seizing the heart with sudden, soft surprise, + As if an angel, unaware, + Had strayed from Heaven, here; + And, saddened at the dark and downward road, + Averted her meek gaze, and sought her Father, God. + + In her new spiritual birth, + No garments soiled with earth + Cling round the little form, that happy strays, + Up through the gates of pearl and golden ways, + Where sister spirits meet her, + And angels joyful greet her. + Arrayed in robes of white, + She walks the paths of light; + Adorning the bright city of our God, + The glorious realms by saints and martyr trod! + + + + + + +THE OLD VILLAGE CHURCH. + + + + + +TWENTY years! Yes, twenty years had intervened since I left the +pleasant village of Brookdale, and not once during all this period +had I visited the dear old spot that was held more and more sacred +by memory. hundred times had I purposed to do so, yet not until the +lapse of twenty years was this purpose fulfilled. Then, sobered. by +disappointments, I went back on a pilgrimage, to the home of early +days. + +I was just twenty years old when I left Brookdale. My father's +family removed at the same time, and this was the reason why I had +not returned. The heart's strongest attractions were in another +place. But the desire to go back revived, after a season of +affliction and some painful defeats in the great battle of life. The +memory of dear childhood grew so palpable, and produced such an +earnest longing to revisit old scenes, that I was constrained to +turn my face towards my early home. + +It was late in the evening of a calm autumnal day, at the close of +the week, when I arrived at Brookdale. The village inn where I +stopped, and at which I engaged lodgings for a few days, was not the +old village inn. That had passed away, and a newer and larger +building stood in its place. Nor was the old landlord there. Why had +I expected to see him? Twenty years before, he was bent with age. +His eyes were dim and his step faltered when last I saw him. It was +but natural that he should pass away. Still, I felt a shade of +disappointment when the truth came. He who filled his place was +unknown to me; and, in all his household, not a familiar countenance +was presented. + +But I solaced myself for this with thoughts of the morrow, when my +eyes would look upon long-remembered scenes and faces. The old +homestead, with its garden and clambering vines--a picture which had +grown more vivid in my thoughts every year--how earnest was my +desire to look upon it again! There was the deep, pure spring, in +which, as I bent to drink, I had so often looked upon my mirrored +face; and the broad flat stone near by, where I had sat so many +times. I would sit there again, after tasting the sweet water, and +think of the olden time! The dear old mill, too, with its murmuring +wheel glistening in the bright sunshine, and the race, on whose bank +I had gathered wild flowers and raspberries? + +I could sleep but little for thinking of these things, and when +morning broke, and the sun shone out, I went I forth impatient to +see the real objects which had been so long pictured in my memory. + +"Am I in Brookdale? No--it cannot be. There is some strange error. +Yes--yes--it is Brookdale, for here is the old church. I cannot +mistake that. Hark! Yes--yes--it is the early bell! I would know its +sound amid a thousand!" + +On I moved, passing the ancient building whose architect had long +since been called to sleep with his fathers, and over whose walls +and spire time had cast a duller hue. I was eager to reach the old +homestead. The mill lay between--or, once it did. Only a shapeless +ruin now remained. The broken wheel, the crumbling walls, and empty +forebay were all that my eyes rested upon, and I paused sadly to +mark the wreck which time had made. The race was dry, and overgrown +with elder and rank weeds. A quarter of a mile distant stood out +sharply, against the clear sky, a large factory, newly built and +thither the stream in which I had once sailed my tiny boat, or +dropped my line, had been turned, and the old mill left to silence +and decay. Ah me! I cannot make words obedient to my thoughts in +giving utterance to the disappointment I then felt. A brief space I +stood, mourning over the ruins, and then moved on again, a painful +presentiment fast arising in my heart that all would not be, as I +had left, it in the white cottage I was seeking. The two great elms +that stood bending together, as if instinct with a sense of +protection, above that dear home--where were they? My eyes searched +for them in vain. + +"Where is the spring? Surely it welled up here, and this is the way +the clear stream flowed!" + +Alas! the spring was dried, and scarcely a trace of its former +existence remained. The broad flat stone was broken. The shady +alcove beneath which the waters came up so cool and clear, had been +removed. All was naked and barren. Near by stood an old deserted +house. The door was half open, the windows were broken out, the +chimney had fallen, and great patches of the roof had been torn +away. Around, all was in keeping with this. The little garden was +covered with weeds, the fence that once enclosed it was broken down, +the old apple-tree that I had loved almost as tenderly as if it had +been a human creature, was no more to be seen, and in the place +where the grape-vine grew was a deep pool of green and stagnant +water. + +My first impulse was to turn and flee from the place, under a +painful revulsion of feeling. But I could not leave the spot thus. +For some minutes I stood mournfully leaning on the broken garden +gate, and then forced myself to enter beneath the roof where I was +born, and where I grew up with loving and happy children, under the +sunlight of a mother's smile. If there was ruin without, there was +desolation added to ruin within, but neither ruin nor desolation +could entirely obliterate the forms so well remembered. I passed +from room to room, now pausing to recall an incident, and now +hurrying on under a sense of pain at seeing a place, hallowed in my +thoughts by the tenderest associations of my life, thus abandoned to +the gnawing tooth of decay, and destined to certain and speedy +destruction. When I came to my mother's room, emotion grew too +powerful, and a gush of tears relieved the oppressive weight that +lay upon my bosom. There I lingered long, with a kind of mournful +pleasure in this scene of my days of innocence, and lived over years +of the bygone times. + +At last I turned with sad feelings from a spot which memory had held +sacred for twenty years; but which, in its change, could be sacred +no longer. Material things are called substantial; but it is not so. +Change and decay are ever at work upon them; they are unsubstantial. +A real substance is the mind, with its thoughts and affections. +Forms built there do not decay. How perfectly had I retained in +memory the home of my childhood! Not a leaf had withered, not a +flower had faded; nothing had fallen under the scythe of time. The +greenness and perfection of all were as the mind had received them +twenty years before. But the material things themselves had, in that +brief space, passed almost wholly away. Yes; it is in the mind that +we must seek for real substance. + +Slowly and sadly I turned from the hallowed place, and went back +towards the village inn. No interest for anything in Brookdale +remained, and no surprise was created at the almost total +obliteration of the old landmarks apparent on every hand. My purpose +was to leave the place by the early stage that morning, and seek to +forget that I had ever returned to the home of my childhood. + +My way was past the old village church where, Sabbath after Sabbath, +for nearly fifteen years, I had met with the worshippers; and as I +drew nearer and nearer the sacred place, I was more and more +impressed with the fact that, if change had been working busily all +around, his hand had spared the holy edifice. That change had been +there was plainly to be seen, but he had lingered only a moment, +laying his hand gently, as he paused, on the ancient pile. New and +tenderer feelings came over me. I could not pass the village church, +and so I entered it once more, although it was yet too early for the +worshippers to assemble. How familiar all! A year seemed not to have +intervened since I had stood beneath that roof. The deep, arched +windows, the antique pulpit and chancel, the old gallery and organ, +the lofty roof, but most of all the broad tablet above the pulpit, +and the words "Reverence my Sanctuary: I am the Lord," were as +familiar as the face of a dear friend. There was change all around, +but no change here in the house of God. + +Seating myself in the old family pew, I gave my mind up to a flood +of crowding associations; and there I sat, scarcely conscious of the +passing time, until the bell sounded clear above me its weekly +summons to the worshippers. And soon they began to assemble, one +after another coming in, and silently taking their places. Conscious +that I was intruding, I yet remained in the old family pew. It +seemed as if I could not leave it--as if I must sit there and +hearken once more to the words of life. And I was there when the +rightful owners came. I arose to retire, but was beckoned to remain. +So I resumed my seat, thankful for the privilege. Group after group +entered, but faces of strangers were all around me. Presently a +white-haired old man came slowly along the aisle, and, entering the +chancel, ascended to the pulpit. I had not expected this. Our +minister was far advanced in years when we left the village, yet +here he was! How breathlessly did I lean forward to catch the sound +of his voice when he arose to read the service! It was the same +impressive voice, yet lower and somewhat broken. My heart trembled, +and tears dimmed my eyes as the sound went echoing through the room. +For a time I was a child again. I closed my eyes, and felt that my +mother, my sister, and my brothers were with me. + +I can never forget that morning. When the service closed, and the +people moved away, I looked from countenance to countenance, but all +were strange, except those of a few old men and women. Still +lingering, I met the minister as he came slowly down the aisle +towards the door. He did not know me, for his eyes were dim with +age, and I had changed in twenty years. But, when I extended my hand +and gave my name, he seized it with a quick energy, while a vivid +light irradiated his countenance. + +I will not weary the reader with a detail of the long interview held +that day with the old minister in his own house. It was good for me +that I met him ere leaving Brookdale under the pressure of a first +disappointment. His words of wisdom were yet in my ears. + +"As you have found the old church the same," said he, while holding +my hand in parting, "amid ruin and change everywhere around, so will +you find the truths which are given for our salvation ever +immutable, though mere human inventions of thought are set aside by +every coming generation for new philosophies, and the finer fancies +of more brilliant intellects. Religion is built upon a rock, and the +storms and floods of time cannot move it from its firm foundation." + + + + + + +"THE WORD IS NIGH THEE." + + + + + + DWELL'ST thou with thine own people? are the joys, + The hopes, the blessings of "sweet home" thine own? + "The Word is nigh thee;" hear the sacred voice! + At morn, bow with thy loved ones round the throne; + At noon-tide read and pray; and in the hour + When evening's shades close round thee, let the truth + Subdue thy heart by its transforming power; + That thou, whom God has blessed, may'st serve him from thy youth. + + Affection's ties oft sunder; and the home + Of peace and love, sorrow and death can enter. + Art thou, indeed, a mourner? dost thou roam + Alone and sad, where late thy joys did centre? + "The Word is nigh thee!" and though bitter grief + Makes all the future seem one day of sorrow,-- + Its words of peace shall grant thee sweet relief; + The night of pain and fear shall find a joyous morrow + + "The Word of God is nigh thee!" let it be + The lamp that o'er thy pathway sheds its light, + Then, through the mists of error, thou shalt see + The way of truth, all radiant and bright, + In which of old the sons of God did go, + Leaning on Him who was their friend and guide; + Nor shall thy heart be faint, thy step be slow, + Till thou in Heaven, thy home, shalt triumph by their side + + The Word of God shall bless thee, in the hour + When human hopes and human friends shall fail: + It was in health thy portion, and its power + Is mightiest even in the gloomy vale. + No evil shalt thou fear while He is with thee; + The sting of death his hand shall take away, + His rod and staff shall comfort thee and cheer thee, + And thou with Him shalt dwell through heaven's eternal day. + + + + + + +AUNT RACHEL. + + + + + +WE remember as it were yesterday the first time we saw her, though +it was a brief glance, and she was so quickly forgotten that most of +us had passed into the supper-room and the rest had reached the +door, heedless of the stranger, when one of our party, perhaps more +thoughtful than the others, cast her eyes on the quiet little figure +that stood, near the fire as if irresolute, whether to follow or +remain. With lady-like politeness she received the excuses which one +of the gentlemen offered for having preceded her, and entered the +room. + +She was very slight, and thin, and pale, her, eyes were of a light +gray and her hair inclined to redness, but her forehead, was broad +and smooth and, about her thin lips there hovered an expression of +sweetness and repose. + +We have forgotten now what first led us to feel that beneath that +unprepossessing exterior were concealed the pulses of a warm, +generous heart, and the powers of a strong and cultivated mind, but +we remember well the morning that she set her seal upon our heart. + +It was a clear, cold, brilliant morning in March. The whole broad +country was covered with a thick crust of hard, glittering snow, and +every tree was encased in ice. The oaks and elms and chestnuts and +beeches from their trunks upward and outward to their minutest +twigs, and the pines and firs with their greenness shining through, +sparkled like diamonds and. emeralds in the brightness of the sun. + +O, it was a glorious morning, and we have seldom since been so young +in feeling as never we are sure in years, as when we walked forth +into its bracing air. And Aunt Rachel--she enjoyed it; the broad icy +fields, the difficult ascent of the steep slippery hills and the +"duckies" down them, and the crackling of the icicles as we thrust +our way through the bristling under-brush of those diamond-cressed +woods. We loved even to eat the icicles that hung from the pines +with their pungent flavour, strong as though their pointed leaves +had been steeped in boiling water. It was a pleasure to taste as +well as see the trees. + +As we entered the "Main Road" and were passing along by the "Asylum +for the Insane," a clear, pleasant voice from one of the cells in +the upper story, accosted us: "Good morning, ladies." We looked up +and bowed in reply to the salutation. "It is a beautiful morning," +he continued, "and I should like myself to take a walk down on 'Main +Street,' but my folks have sent me here to be shut up because they +say I am crazy, but I am sure I am not crazy, and I can't see why +they should think so." And we thought the same as we listened to the +calm, pleasant tones of his voice, till he added, "It will soon make +me beside myself to be with this wild, screaming set; and it doesn't +do them any good either to shut them up here. What they want is the +Grace of God, and I'll put the Grace of God into them." + +His voice grew wild and excited, but we knew that a whole volume of +truth had been uttered in those simple words: "What they want is the +Grace of God." + +The Grace of God. How many has it saved--rescued--from madness! how +have prayer and watchfulness been blest in conquering self, in +subduing rampant passion and the wild, disorderly vagaries of the +brain! + +As we listen, the low whispered prayer of a Hall when he felt the +billows of angry passion about to sweep over his soul, "O, Lamb of +God, calm my perturbed spirit," we feel that but for such +interceding prayer and that watchfulness which accompanied it, the +insanity to which he was temporarily subject would have won the same +mastery over the mighty powers of his mind as over those of Swift, +and the glory of his "wide fame" as well as the peace of his "humble +hope," would have been exchanged for the vagaries of the madman or +the drivellings of the idiot. + +The Grace of God. We thought of John Randolph, with his sway over +the minds of others, with a "wit and eloquence that recalled the +splendours of ancient oratory," yet with so little command over +himself that his weak frame sometimes sank beneath the excitement of +his temper, and gusts of passion were succeeded by fainting-fits; +and when the one desire of his heart was denied, when a love mighty +as every other passion of his soul failed him, his grief, +ungovernable and frenzied as his rage, overwhelmed him, and the +"taint of madness which ran in his line," flooded his brain. But +when the atheist became a Christian; when, in his own words, he felt +"the Spirit of God was not the chimera of heated brains, nor a +device of artful men to frighten and cajole the credulous, but an +existence to be felt and understood as the whisperings of one's own +heart;" his prayer of, "Lord! I believe, help thou my unbelief," was +answered in calm and peace to his soul. + +"The saddest thought," said Aunt Rachel, as we turned away from that +gloomy edifice, "the saddest thought connected with that building +is, that so large a number of its unhappy inmates have brought their +misery upon themselves, are the victims of their own irregular and +indulged passions." + +As we turned and looked upon her smooth brow, her serious and serene +eyes and her sweet, calm mouth, we marked a look of subdued +suffering mingled with an expression of Christian triumph; and we +knew that she had felt "the ploughings of grief;" that she had +learned "how sublime a thing it is to suffer and grow strong;" but, +though we wondered deeply, we never knew in what form she had been +called "to pass under the rod;" but we heard a voice that said, + +"Fear not; when thou passest through the waters, I will be with +thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee." + + Nay, fear not, weak and fainting soul, + Though the wild waters round thee roll, + He will sustain thy faltering way, + Will be thy sure, unfailing stay. + + And though it were the fabled stream + Whose waves were fire of fearful gleam, + He still would bear thee safely through + The fire, but cleanse thy soul anew. + + + + + + +COMETH A BLESSING DOWN. + + + + + + NOT to the man of dollars, + Not to the man of deeds, + Not to the man of cunning, + Not to the man of creeds, + Not to the one whose passion + Is for a world's renown, + Not in a form of fashion, + Cometh a blessing down. + + Not unto land's expansion, + Not to the miser's chest, + Not to the princely mansion, + Not to the blazoned crest, + Not to the sordid worldling, + Not to the knavish clown, + Not to the haughty tyrant, + Cometh a blessing down. + + Not to the folly-blinded, + Not to the steeped in shame, + Not to the carnal-minded, + Not to unholy fame; + Not in neglect of duty, + Not in the monarch's crown, + Not at the smile of beauty, + Cometh a blessing down. + + But to the one whose spirit + Yearns for the great and good; + Unto the one whose storehouse + Yieldeth the hungry food; + Unto the one who labours, + Fearless of foe or frown; + Unto the kindly-hearted, + Cometh a blessing down. + + + + + + +THE DARKENED PATHWAY. + + + + + +"TO some the sky is always bright, while to others it is never free +from clouds. There is to me a mystery in this--something that looks +like a partial Providence--for those who grope sadly through life in +darkened paths are, so far as human judgment can determine, often +purer and less selfish than those who move gayly along in perpetual +sunshine. Look at Mrs. Adair. It always gives me the heart-ache to +think of what she has endured in life, and still endures. Once she +was surrounded by all that wealth could furnish of external good; +now she is in poverty, with five children, clinging to her for +support, her health feeble, and few friends to counsel or lend her +their aid. No woman could have loved a husband more tenderly than +she loved hers, and few wives were ever more beloved in return; but +she has gathered the widow's weeds around her, and is sitting in the +darkness of an inconsolable grief. What a sweet character was hers! +Always loving and unselfish--a very angel on the earth from +childhood upwards, and yet her doom to tread this darkened pathway! +If Heaven smiles on the good--if the righteous are never forsaken, +why this strange, hard, harsh Providence in the case of Mrs. Adair? +I cannot understand it! God is goodness itself, they say, and loves +His creatures with a love surpassing the love of a mother; but would +any mother condemn beloved child to such a cruel fate? No, no, no! +From the very depths of my spirit I answer--No! I am only a weak, +erring, selfish creature, but--" + +Mrs. Endicott checked the utterance of what was in her thought, for +at the instant another thought, rebuking her for an impious +comparison of herself with her Maker, flitted across her mind. Yes, +she was about drawing a Parallel between herself and a Being of +infinite wisdom and love, unfavourable to the latter! + +The sky of Mrs. Endicott had not always been free from clouds. Many +times had she walked in darkness; and why this was so ever appeared +as one of the mysteries of life, for her self-explorations had never +gone far enough to discover those natural evils, the existence of +which only a state of intense mental suffering would manifest to her +deeper consciousness. But all she had yet been called to endure, +was, she freely acknowledged, light in comparison to what poor Mrs. +Adair had suffered, and was suffering daily--and the case of this +friend gave her a strong argument against the wisdom and justice of +that Power in the hands of which the children of men are as clay in +the hands of the potter. + +Even while Mrs. Endicott thus questioned and doubted, a domestic +opened the door of the room in which she was sitting, and said, + +"Mrs. Adair is in the parlour." + +"Is she? Say that I will be down in a moment." + +Mrs. Endicott felt a little surprised at the coincidence of her +thought of her friend and that friend's appearance. It was another +of those life-mysteries into which her dull eyes could not +penetrate, and gave new occasion for dark surmises in regard to the +Power above all, in all, and ruling all. With a sober face, as was +befitting an interview with one so deeply burdened as Mrs. Adair, +she went down to the parlour. + +"My dear friend!" she said, tenderly, almost sadly, as she took the +hand of her visiter. + +Into the eyes of Mrs. Adair she looked earnestly for the glittering +tear-veil, and upon her lips for the grief curve. To her surprise +neither were there; but a cheerful light in the former and a gentle +smile on the latter. + +"How are you this morning?" + +Mrs. Endicott's voice was low and sympathizing. + +"I feel a little stronger, to-day, thank you," answered Mrs. Adair, +smiling as she spoke. + +"How is your breast?" + +"Still very tender." + +"And the pain in your side." + +"I am not free from that a moment." + +Still she smiled as she answered. There was not even a touch of +sadness or despondency in her voice. + +"Not free a moment! How do you bear it?" + +"Happily--as I often say to myself--I have no time to think about +the pain," replied Mrs. Adair, cheerfully. "It is wonderful how +mental activity lifts us above the consciousness of bodily +suffering. For my part, I am sure that if I had nothing to do but to +sit down and brood over my ailments, I would be one of the most +miserable, complaining creatures alive. But a kind Providence, even +in the sending of poverty to his afflicted one, has but tempered the +winds to the shorn lamb." + +Mrs. Endicott was astonished to hear these words, falling, as they +did, with such a confiding earnestness from the pale lips of her +much-enduring friend. + +"How can you speak so cheerfully?" she said. "How can you feel so +thankful to Him who has shrouded your sky in darkness, and left you +to grope in strange paths, on which falls not a single ray of +light?" + +"Even though the sky is clouded," was answered, "I know that the sun +is shining there as clear and as beautiful as ever. The paths in +which a wise and good Providence has called me to walk, may be +strange, and are, at times, rough-and toilsome; but you err in +saying that no light falls upon them. + +"But the sky is dark--whence comes the light, Mrs. Adair?" + +"Don't you remember the beautiful hymn written by Moore? It is to me +worth all he ever penned besides. How often do I say it over to +myself, lingering with a warming heart and. a quickening pulse, on +every word of consolation!" + +And in the glow of her fine enthusiasm, Mrs. Adair repeated-- + + "Oh, Thou, who dry'st the mourner's tear, + How dark this world would be, + If, when deceived and wounded here, + We could not fly to Thee! + The friends, who in our sunshine live, + When winter comes, are flown; + And he who has but tears to give, + Must weep those tears alone. + But Thou wilt heal that broken heart, + Which, like the plants that throw + Their fragrance from the wounded part, + Breathes sweetness out of woe. + + "When joy no longer soothes or cheers, + And e'en the hope that threw + A moment's sparkle o'er our tears + Is dimmed and vanished, too, + Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom, + Did not Thy wing of Love + Come, brightly wafting through the gloom + Our Peace-branch from above? + Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright + With more than rapture's ray + _As darkness shows us worlds of light_ + _We never saw by day._" + +"None, said Mrs. Adair, "but those who have had the sky of their +earthly affections shrouded in darkness, can fully understand the +closing words of this consolatory hymn. Need I now answer your +question, 'Whence comes the light?' There is an inner world Mrs. +Endicott--a world full of light, and joy, and consolation--a world +whose sky is never darkened, whose sun is never hidden by clouds. +When we turn from all in this life that we vainly trusted, and lift +our eyes upward towards the sky, bending over our sad spirits, an +unexpected light breaks in upon us, and we see a new firmament, +glittering with myriads of stairs, whose light is fed from that +inner world where the sun shines for ever undimmed. Oh, no, I do not +tread a darkened pathway, Mrs. Endicott. There is light upon it from +the Sun of heaven, and I am walking forward, weary at times, it may +be, but with unwavering footsteps. I have been tried sorely, it is +true--I have suffered, oh how deeply! and yet I can say, and do say, +it is good for me that I was afflicted. But I meant not to speak so +much of myself, and you must forgive the intrusion. Self, you know, +is ever an attractive theme. I have called this morning to try and +interest you in a poor woman who lives next door to me. She is very +ill, and I am afraid will die. She has two children, almost +babes--sweet little things--and if the mother is taken they will be +left without a home or a friend, unless God puts it into the heart +of some one to give them both. I have been awake half the night, +thinking about them, and debating the difficult question of my duty +in the case. I might make room for one of them--" + +"You!" Mrs. Endicott interrupted her in a voice of unfeigned +astonishment. "You! How can you give place a moment to such a +thought, broken down in health as you are and with five children of +your own clinging to you for support? It would be unjust to yourself +and to them. Don't think of such a thing." + +"That makes the difficulty in the case," replied Mrs. Adair. "The +spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. My heart is large enough +to take both of them in; but I have not strength enough to bear the +added burden. And so I have come around this morning to see if I +cannot awaken your interest. They are dear, sweet children, and will +carry sunshine and a blessing into any home that opens to receive +them." + +"But why, my friend," said Mrs. Endicott, "do you, whose time is so +precious--who have cares, and interests, and anxieties of your own, +far more than enough for one poor, weak woman to bear, burden +yourself with a duty like this? Leave the task to others more fitted +for the work." + +"There are but few who can rightly sympathize with that mother and +her babes; and I am one of the few. Ah! my kind friend, none but the +mother, who like me has been brought to the verge of eternity, can +truly feel for one in like circumstances. I have looked at my own +precious ones, as I felt the waves of time sweeping my feet from +their earthly resting place, and wept bitter tears as no answer came +to the earnest question, 'Who will love them, who will care for the +when I am taken?' You cannot know, Mrs. Endicott, how profoundly +thankful to God I am, that He spares my life, and yet gives me +strength to do for my children. I bless His name for this tender +mercy towards me when I lie down at night, and when I rise up in the +morning, I bear every burden, I endure every pain cheerfully, +hopefully, even thankfully. It is because I can understand the heart +of this dying mother, and feel for her in her mortal extremity, that +I undertake her cause. You have only one child, my friend, and she +is partly grown. 'A babe in the house is a well-spring of pleasure.' +Is it not so? Take one, or even both of these children, if the +mother dies. They are the little ones who are born upon the earth, +in order that they may become angels in Heaven. They are of God's +kingdom, and precious in His eyes. Nurture and raise them up for +Him. Come! oh, come with me to the bedside of this dying mother, and +say to her, 'Give me your babes, and I will shelter them in my +heart.' So doing, you will open for yourself a perennial fountain of +delight. The picture of that poor mother's joyful face, painted +instantly by love's bright sunbeams on your memory, will be a source +of pleasure lasting as eternity. Do not neglect this golden +opportunity, nor leave other hands to gather the blessings which lie +about your feet." + +That earnest plea was echoed from the heart of Mrs. Endicott. The +beautiful enthusiasm, so full of a convincing eloquence, prevailed; +and the woman in whose heart the waters of benevolence were growing +stagnant, and already sending up exhalations that were hiding the +Sun of heaven, felt a yearning pity for the dying mother, and was +moved by an unselfish impulse toward her and her babes. Half an hour +afterwards she was in the sick-chamber; and ere leaving had received +from the happy mother the solemn gift of her children, and seen her +eyes close gently as her spirit took its tranquil departure for its +better home. + +"God will bless you, madame!" + +All the dying mother's thankfulness was compressed into these words, +and her full heart spent itself in their utterance. + +Far away, in the inner depths of Mrs. Endicott's spirit--very far +away--the words found an echo; and as this echo came back to her +ears, she felt a new thrill of pleasure that ran deeper down the +electric chain of feelings than emotion had ever, until now, +penetrated. There were depths and capacities in her being unknown +before; and of this she had now a dim perception. Her action was +unselfish, and to be unselfish is to be God-like--for God acts from +a love of blessing others. To be God-like in her action brought her +nearer the Infinite Source of what is pure and holy; and all +proximity in this direction gives its measure of interior +delight--as all retrocession gives its measure of darkness and +disquietude. + +"God will bless you!" + +Mrs. Endicott never ceased hearing these words, and she felt them to +be a prophecy. And God did bless her. In bestowing love and care +upon the motherless little ones, she received from above double for +all she gave. In blessing, she was twice blessed. About them her +heart entwined daily new tendrils, until her own life beat with +theirs in even pulses, and to seek their good was the highest joy of +her existence. + +Still there were times when Mrs. Endicott felt that to some God was +not just in his dispensations, and the closer she observed Mrs. +Adair, the less satisfied was she that one so pure-minded, so +unselfish, so earnest to impart good to others, should be so hardly +dealt by--should be compelled to grope through life with painful +steps along a darkened way. + +"There is a mystery in all this which my dim vision fails to +penetrate," she said one day, to Mrs. Adair. "But we see here only +in part--I must force myself into the belief that all is right. I +say _force_, for it is indeed force-work." + +"To me," was answered, "there is no longer a mystery here. I have +been led by at way that I knew not. For a time I moved along this +way, doubting, fearing trembling--but now I see that it is the right +way, and though toilsome at times, yet it is winding steadily +upwards, and I begin to see the sunshine resting calmly on the +mountain-tops. Flowers, too, are springing by the wayside--few they +are, as yet, but very fragrant." + +Mrs. Adair paused for a moment, and then resumed, + +"It may sound strange to you, but I am really happier than when all +was bright and prosperous around me." + +Mrs. Endicott looked surprised. + +"I am a better woman, and therefore happier. I do not say this +boastfully, but only to meet your question. I am a more useful +woman, and therefore happier, for, as I have learned, inward peace +is the sure reward of benefits conferred. The doing of good to +another, from an unselfish end, brings to the heart its purest +pleasure; and is not that the kindest Providence which leads us, no +matter by what hard experiences, into a state of willingness to live +for others instead of for ourselves alone? The dying mother, whose +gift to you has proved so great--a good, might have passed away, +though her humble abode stood beside the elegant residence I called +my home, without exciting more than a passing wave of +sympathy--certainly without filling my heart with the yearning +desire to make truly peaceful her last moments, which led to the +happy results that followed her efforts in my behalf. My children, +too; you have often lamented that it is not so well with them as it +would have been had misfortune not overshadowed us,--but I am not so +sure of that. I believe that all external disadvantages will be more +than counterbalanced by the higher regard I have been led to take in +the development of what is good and true in their characters. I now +see them as future men and women, for whose usefulness and happiness +I am in a great measure responsible; and as my views of life have +become clearer, and I trust wiser, through suffering, I am far +better able, under all the disadvantages of my position, to secure +this great end than I was before." + +"But the way is hard for you--very hard," said Mrs. Endicott. + +"It is my preparation for Heaven," replied the patient sufferer, +while a smile, not caught from earth, made beautiful her +countenance. "If my Heavenly Father could have made the way +smoother, He would have done so. As it is, I thank Him daily for the +roughness, and would not ask to have a stone removed or a rough +place made even." + + + + + + +LOOK ON THIS PICTURE. + + + + + + O, IT is life! departed days + Fling back their brightness while I gaze-- + 'Tis Emma's self--this brow so fair, + Half-curtained in this glossy hair, + These eyes, the very home of love, + The dark thin arches traced above, + These red-ripe lips that almost speak, + The fainter blush of this pure cheek, + The rose and lily's beauteous strife-- + It is--ah, no! 'tis all _but_ life. + + 'Tis all _but_ life--art could not save + Thy graces, Emma, from the grave; + Thy cheek is pale, thy smile is past, + Thy love-lit eyes have looked their last, + Mouldering beneath the coffin's lid, + All we adored of thee is hid; + Thy heart, where goodness loved to dwell, + Is throbless in the narrow cell: + Thy gentle voice shall charm no more, + Its last, last joyful note is o'er. + + Oft, oft, indeed, it hath been sung, + The requiem of the fair and young; + The theme is old, alas! how old, + Of grief that will not be controlled, + Of sighs that speak a father's woe, + Of pangs that none but mothers know, + Of friendship with its bursting heart, + Doomed from the idol-one to part-- + Still its sad debt must feeling pay, + Till feeling, too, shall pass away. + + O say, why age, and grief, and pain, + Shall long to go, but long in vain? + Why vice is left to mock at time, + And gray in years, grow gray in crime; + While youth, that every eye makes glad, + And beauty, all in radiance clad, + And goodness, cheering every heart, + Come, but come only to depart; + Sunbeams, to cheer life's wintry day, + Sunbeams, to flash, then fade away? + + 'Tis darkness all! black banners wave + Round the cold borders of the grave; + Then when in agony we bend + O'er the fresh sod that hides a friend, + One only comfort then we know-- + We, too, shall quit this world of woe; + We, too, shall find a quiet place + With the dear lost ones of our race; + Our crumbling bones with theirs shall blend, + And life's sad story find an end. + + And _is_ this all--this mournful doom? + Beams no glad light beyond the tomb? + Mark how yon clouds in darkness ride; + They do not quench the orb they hide; + Still there it wheels--the tempest o'er, + In a bright sky to burn once more; + So, far above the clouds of time, + Faith can behold a world sublime-- + There, when the storms of life are past, + The light beyond shall break at last. + + + + + + +THE POWER OF KINDNESS. + + + + + +HOW much comprised in the simple word, _kindness!_ One kind word, or +even one mild look, will oftentimes dispel thick gathering gloom +from the countenance of an affectionate husband, or wife. When the +temper is tried by some inconvenience or trifling vexation, and +marks of displeasure are depicted upon the countenances and perhaps, +too, that most "unruly of all members" is ready to vent its spleen +upon the innocent husband or wife, what will a kind mien, a pleasant +reply, accomplish? Almost invariably perfect harmony and peace are +thus restored. + +These thoughts were suggested by the recollection of a little +domestic incident, to which I was a silent, though not uninterested +spectator. During the summer months of 1834, I was spending several +weeks with a happy married pair, who had tasted the good and ills of +life together only a twelvemonth. Both possessed many amiable +qualities, and were well calculated to promote each other's +happiness. My second visit to my friends was of a week's duration, +in the month of December. One cold evening the husband returned home +at his usual hour at nine o'clock, expecting to find a warm fire for +his reception, but, instead, he found a cheerless, comfortless room. +His first thought, no doubt, was, that it was owing to the +negligence of his wife, and, under this impression, in rather a +severe tone, he said, + +"This is too bad; to come in from the office cold, and find no fire; +I really should have thought you might have kept it." + +I sat almost breathless, trembling for the reply. I well knew it was +no fault of hers, for she had wasted nearly all the evening, and +almost exhausted her patience, in attempting to kindle a fire. She +in a moment replied, with great kindness, + +"Why my dear, I wonder what is the matter with our stove! We must +have something done to-morrow, for I have spent a great deal of time +in vain to make a fire." + +This was said in such a mild, pleasant tone, that it had the most +happy effect. If she had replied at that moment, when his feelings +were alive to supposed neglect, "I don't know who is to blame; I +have done my part, and have been freezing all the evening for my +pains. If the stove had been put up as it should have been, all +would have been well enough." This, said in an unamiable, peevish +tone, might have added "fuel to the fire," and this little breeze +might have led to more serious consequences; but fortunately, her +mild reply restored perfect serenity. The next day the stove was +taken down, and the difficulty, owing to some defect in the flue, +was removed. What will not a kind word accomplish? + + + + + + +SPEAK KINDLY. + + + + + + SPEAK kindly, speak kindly! ye know not the power + Of a kind and gentle word, + As its tones in a sad and weary hour + By the trouble heart are heard. + Ye know not how often it falls to bless + The stranger in his weariness; + How many a blessing is round thee thrown + By the magic spell, of a soft, low tone. + Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost + By gentle words--to the heart and ear + Of the sad and lonely, they're dear, how dear, + And they nothing cost. + + Speak kindly to childhood. Oh, do not fling + A cloud o'er life's troubled sky; + But cherish it well--a holy thing + Is the heart in its purity. + Enough of sorrow the cold world hath, + Enough of care in its later path, + And ye do a wrong if ye seek to throw + O'er the fresh young spirit a shade of woe. + Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost + By gentle words--to the heart and ear + Of joyous childhood, they're dear, how dear-- + And they nothing cost. + + Speak gently to age--a weary way + Is the rough and toilsome road of life, + As one by one its joys decay, + And its hopes go out 'mid its lengthened strife. + How often the word that is kindly spoken, + Will bind up the heart that is well nigh broken, + Then pass not the feeble and aged one + With a cold, and careless, and slighting tone; + But kindly, speak kindly; there's nothing lost + By gentle words--to the heart and ear + Of the care-worn and weary, they're dear, how dear-- + And they nothing cost. + + Speak kindly to those who are haughty and cold, + Ye know not the thoughts that are dwelling there; + Ye know not the feelings that struggle untold-- + Oh, every heart hath its burden of care. + And the curl of the lip, and the scorn of the eye + Are often a bitter mockery, + When a bursting heart its grief would hide + From the eye of the world 'neath a veil of pride. + Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost + By gentle words--to the heart and ear + Of the proud and haughty they're often dear, + And they nothing cost. + + Speak kindly ever--oh, cherish well + The light of a gentle tone; + It will fling round thy pathway a magic spell, + A charm that is all its own. + But see that it springs from a gentle heart, + That it need not the hollow aid of art; + Let it gush in its joyous purity, + From its home in the heart all glad and free. + Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost + By gentle words--to the heart and ear + Of all who hear them they're dear, how dear-- + And they nothing cost. + + + + + + +HAVE PATIENCE. + + + + + +IT was Saturday evening, about eight o clock. Mary Gray had finished +mangling, and had sent home the last basket of clothes. She had +swept up her little room, stirred the fire, and placed upon it a +saucepan of water. She had brought out the bag of oatmeal, a basin, +and a spoon, and laid them upon the round deal table. The place, +though very scantily furnished, looked altogether neat and +comfortable. Mary now sat idle by the fire. She was not often idle.' +She was a pale, delicate-looking woman, of about five-and-thirty. +She looked like ones who had worked beyond her strength, and her +thin face had a very anxious, careworn expression. Her dress showed +signs of poverty, but it was scrupulously clean and neat. As it grew +later, she seemed to be listening attentively for the approach of +some one; she was ready to start up every time a step came near her +door. At length a light step approached, and did not go by it; it +stopped, and there was a gentle tap at the door. Mary's pallid face +brightened, and in a moment she had let in a fine, +intelligent-looking lad, about thirteen years of age, whom she +welcomed with evident delight. + +"You are later than usual to-night, Stephen," she said. + +Stephen did not reply; but he threw off his cap, and placed himself +in the seat Mary had quitted. + +"You do not look well to-night, dear," said Mary anxiously; "is +anything the matter?" + +"I am quite well, mother," replied the boy. "Let me have my supper. +I am quite ready for it." + +As he spoke, he turned away his eyes from Mary's inquiring look. +Mary, without another word, set herself about preparing the supper, +of oatmeal porridge. She saw that something was wrong with Stephen, +and that he did not wish to be questioned, so she remained silent. +In the mean time Stephen had placed his feet on the fender, rested +his elbows on his knees, and his head on his hands. His hands +covered his face; and, by and by, a few large tears began to trickle +down his fingers. Then suddenly dashing off his tears, as though he +were ashamed of them, he showed his pale, agitated face, and said, +in a tone of indignation and resolve, + +"Mother, I am determined I will bear it no longer." + +Mary was not surprised. She finished pouring out the porridge; then, +taking a stool, she seated herself beside him. + +"Why, Stephen," she said, trying to speak cheerfully, "how many +hundred times before have you made that resolution! But what's the +matter now? Have you any new trouble to tell me of?" + +Stephen answered by silently removing with his hand some of his +thick curly hair, and showing beneath it an ear bearing the too +evident marks of cruel usage. + +"My poor boy!" exclaimed Mary, her tears starting forth. "Could he +be so cruel?" + +"It is nothing, mother," replied the boy, sorry to have called forth +his mother's tears. "I don't care for it. It was done in a passion, +and he was sorry for it after." + +"But what could you have done, Stephen, to make him so angry with +you?" + +"I was selling half a quire of writing paper to a lady: he counted +the sheets after me, and found thirteen instead of only twelve; they +had stuck together so that I took two for one. I tried to explain, +but he was in a passion, and gave me a blow. The lady said something +to him about his improper conduct, and he said that I was such a +_careless little rascal_, that he lost all patience with me. That +hurt me a great deal more than the blow. It was a falsehood, and he +knew it; but he wanted to excuse himself. I felt that I was going +into a passion, too, but I thought of what you are always telling me +about patience and forbearance, and I kept down my passion; I know +he was sorry for it after, from the way he spoke to me, though he +didn't say so." + +"I have no doubt he suffered more than you, Stephen," said Mary; "he +would be vexed that he, had shown his temper before the lady, vexed +that he had told a lie, and vexed that he had hurt you when you bore +it so patiently. + +"Yes, mother, but that doesn't make it easier for me to bear his ill +temper; I've borne it now for more than a year for your sake, and I +can bear it no longer. Surely I can get something to do; I'm sturdy +and healthy, and willing to do any kind of work." + +Mary shook her head, and remained for a long time silent and +thoughtful. At length she said, with a solemn earnestness of manner +that almost made poor Stephen cry, + +"You say that, for my sake, you have borne your master's unkind +treatment for more than a year; for my sake, bear it longer, +Stephen. Your patience must, and will be rewarded in the end. You +know how I have worked, day and night, ever since your poor father +died, when you were only a little infant in the cradle, to feed and +clothe you, and to pay for your schooling, for I was determined that +you should have schooling; you know how I have been cheered in all +my toil by the hope of seeing you, one day, getting on in the world, +And I know, Stephen, that you will get on. You are good, honest lad, +and kind to your poor mother, and God will reward you. But not if +you are hasty; not if you are impatient. You know how hard it was +for me to get you this situation; you might not get another; you +must not leave; you must not break your indentures; you must be +patient and industrious still; you have a hard master, and, God +knows, it costs me many at heartache to think of what you have to +suffer; but bear with him, Stephen; bear with him, for my sake, a +few years longer." + +Stephen was now fairly crying and his mother kissed off his tears, +while her own flowed freely. Her appeal to his affection was not in +vain. He soon smiled through his tears, as he said, + +"Well, mother, you always know how to talk me over, When I came in +to-night I did think that I would never go the shop again. But I +will promise you to be patient and industrious still. Considering +all that you have, done for me, this is little enough for me to do +for you. When I have a shop of my own, you shall live like a lady. +I'll trust to your word that I shall be sure to get on, if I am +patient and industrious, though I don't see how it's to be.--It's +not so very bad to bear after all; and, bad as my master is, there's +one comfort, he lets me have my Saturday nights and blessed Sundays +with you. Well, I feel happier now, and I think I can eat my supper. +We forgot that my porridge was getting cold all this time." + +Stephen kept his word; day after day, and month after month, his +patience and industry never flagged. And plenty of trials, poor +fellow, he had for his fortitude. His master, a small stationer in a +small country town, to whom Stephen was bound apprentice for five +years, with a salary barely sufficient to keep him in clothes, was a +little, spare, sharp-faced man, who seemed to have worn himself away +with continual fretfulness and vexation. He was perpetually +fretting, perpetually finding fault with something or other, +perpetually thinking that everything was going wrong. Though he did +cease to go into a passion with, and to strike Stephen, the poor lad +was an object always at hand, on which to vent his ill-humour, Many, +many times was Stephen on the point of losing heart and temper; but +he was always able to control himself by thinking of his mother. +And, as he said, there was always comfort in those Saturday nights +and blessed Sundays. A long walk in the country on those blessed +Sundays, and the Testament readings to his mother, would always +strengthen his often wavering faith in her prophecies of good in the +end, would cheer his spirits, and nerve him with a fresh resolution +for the coming week. And what was it that the widow hoped would +result from this painful bondage? She did not know; she only had +faith in her doctrine--that patience and industry would some time be +rewarded. _How_ the reward was to come in her son's case, she could +not see. It seemed likely, indeed, from all appearances, that the +doctrine in this case would prove false. But still she had faith. + +It was now nearly four years since the conversation between mother +and son before detailed. They were together again on the Saturday +evening. Stephen had grown into a tall, manly youth, with a gentle, +kind, and thoughtful expression of countenance. Mary looked much +older, thinner, paler, and more anxious. Both were at this moment +looking very downcast. + +"I do not see that anything can be hoped from him," said Stephen, +with a sigh. "I have now served him faithfully for five years; I +have borne patiently all his ill-humour; I have never been absent a +moment from my post; and during all that time, notwithstanding all +this, he has never thanked me, he has never so much as given me a +single kind word, nor even a kind look. He must know that +apprenticeships will be out on Tuesday, yet he never says a word to +me about it, and I suppose I must just go without a word." + +"You must speak to him," said Mary; "you cannot leave without saying +something; and tell him exactly how you are situated; he cannot +refuse to do something to help you." + +"It is easy to talk of speaking to him, mother, but not so easy to +do it. I have often before thought of speaking to him, of telling +him how very, very poor we are, and begging a little more salary. +But I never could do it when I came before him. I seemed to feel +that he would refuse me, and I felt somehow too proud to ask a +favour that would most likely be refused. But it shall be done now, +mother; I will not be a burthen upon you, if I can help it. I'd +sooner do anything than that. He _ought_ to do something for me, and +there's no one else that I know of that can. I will speak to him on +Monday." + +Monday evening was come; all day Stephen had been screwing up his +courage for the task he had to do; of course it could not be done +when his master and he were in the shop together, for there they +were liable at any moment to be interrupted. At dinner-time they +separated; for they took the meal alternately, that the post in the +shop might never be deserted. But now the day's work was over: +everything was put away, and master and apprentice had retired into +the little back parlour a to take their tea. As usual, they were +alone, for the stationer was a single man (which might account for +the sourness of his temper), and the meal was usually taken in +silence, and soon after it was over they would both retire to bed, +still in silence. Stephen's master had poured out for him his first +cup of tea, handed it to him without looking at him, and begun to +swallow his own potion. Stephen allowed his cup to remain before him +untouched; he glanced timidly towards his master, drew a deep +breath, coloured slightly, and then began:-- + +"If you please, sir, I wish to speak to you." + +His master looked up with a sudden jerk of the head, and fixed his +keen gray eyes on poor Stephen's face. He did not seem at all +surprised, but said sharply (and he had a very sharp voice), "Well, +sir, speak on." + +Stephen was determined not to be discouraged, so he began to tell +his little tale. His voice faltered at first, but as he went on he +became quite eloquent. He spoke with a boldness which astonished +himself. He forgot his master, and thought only of his mother. He +told all about her poverty, and struggles to get a living. He dwelt +strongly, but modestly, on his own conduct during his +apprenticeship, and finished by entreating his master now to help +him to do something, for he had nothing in the world to turn to, no +friends, no money, no influence. + +His master heard him to an end. He had soon withdrawn his eyes from +Stephen's agitated face, then partially averted his own face, then +left his seat, and advanced to a side table, where he began to +rummage among some papers, with his back to Stephen. + +Stephen had ceased speaking some time before he made any reply. Then +still without turning round, he spoke, beginning with a sort of +grunting ejaculation--"Humph! so your mother gets her living by +mangling, does she? and she thought that if she got you some +schooling, and taught you to behave yourself, your fortune would be +made. Well, you will be free to-morrow; you may go to her and tell +her she is a fool for her pains. Here are your indentures, and +here's the salary that's due to you. Now you may go to bed." + +As he spoke the last words, he had taken the indentures from a desk, +and the money from his purse. Stephen felt a choking sensation in +his throat as he took from his hands the paper and the money; he +would even have uttered the indignation he felt, but, before he +could speak, his master left the room. Disappointed and heart-sick, +and feeling humiliated that he should have asked a favour of such a +man, the poor lad retired to his garret, and it was almost time to +get up in the morning before he could fall asleep. On the Tuesday, +when the day's work was over, Stephen packed up his bundle of +clothes;--should he say good-bye to his master? Yes; he would not be +ungracious at the last. He opened the door of the back parlour, and +stood just within the door-way, his bundle in his hand. His master +was sitting, solitary, at the tea-table. + +"I am going, sir, good-bye," said Stephen. + +"Good-bye, sir," returned his master, without, looking at him. And +so they parted. + +The result of the application told, the mother and the son sat +together that night in silence; their hearts were too full for +words. Mary sorrowed most, because she had hoped most. Bitter tears +rolled down her cheeks, as she sat brooding over her disappointment. +Stephen looked more cheerful, for his mind was busy trying to form +plans for the future--how he should go about to seek for another +situation, &c. Bed-time came; both rose to retire to rest. Stephen +had pressed his mother's hand, and was retiring, saying as he went, +"Never mind, mother, it'll all be right yet," when they were +startled by a loud rap at the door. + +"Who's there?" shouted Stephen. + +"A letter for you," was the reply. + +Stephen thought there was some mistake, but he opened the door. A +letter was put into his hand, and the bearer disappeared. Surprised, +Stephen held the letter close to the rush-light Mary was carrying. +He became still more surprised; it was addressed to Mrs. Gray, that +was his mother, and he thought he knew the handwriting; it was very +like his master's. Mary's look of wonder became suddenly brightened +by a flash of hope; she could not read writing--Stephen must read it +for her. He opened the letter, something like a banknote was the +first thing he saw--he examined it--it was actually a ten pound Bank +of England note; his heart beat rapidly, and so did his mother's; +what could this mean? But there was a little note which would +perhaps explain. Stephen's fingers trembled sadly as he opened it. +There were not many words, but they were to the purpose. Stephen +read them to himself before he read them aloud. And as he was +reading, his face turned very red, and how it did burn! But what was +the meaning of tears, and he looking so pleased? Mary could not +understand it. + +"Do read up, Stephen," she exclaimed. + +With a voice broken by the effort he had to make all the time to +keep from crying, Stephen read, + +"MADAM--Put away your mangle-that son of yours is worth mangling +for; but it is time to rest now. The note is for your present wants; +in future your son may supply you. I let him go to-night; but I did +not mean him to stay away, if he chooses to come back. I don't see +that I can do well without him. But I don't want him back if he +would rather go anywhere else; I know plenty that would be glad to +have him. He has been seen in the shop, and noticed, and such lads +are not always to be got. If he chooses to come back to me, he won't +repent. I've no sons of my own, thank God. He knows what I am; I am +better than I was, and I may be better still. I've a queer way of +doing things, but it is my way, and can't be helped. Tell him I'll +be glad to have him back to-morrow, if he likes. Yours, + +"J. W." + +"I knew it!" exclaimed Mary, triumphantly; "I always said so! I knew +you would get on!" + +Stephen did go back to his eccentric master, and he never had any +reason to repent. He _got on_ even beyond his mother's most soaring +hopes. The shop eventually became his own, and he lived a +flourishing and respected tradesman. We need scarcely add that his +mother had no further use for her mangle, and that she was a very +proud and a very happy woman. + + + + + + +DO THEY MISS ME? + + + + + + Do they miss me at home? Do they miss me? + 'Twould be an assurance most dear, + To know at this moment some loved one + Was saying, "I wish he was here!" + To feel that the group at the fireside + Were thinking of me as I roam! + Oh, yes! 'twould be joy beyond measure, + To know that they missed me at home. + + When twilight approaches--the season + That ever was sacred to song-- + Does some one repeat my name over, + And sigh that I tarry so long? + And is there a chord in the music, + That's missed when my voice is away? + And a chord in each glad heart that waketh + Regret at my wearisome stay? + + Do they place me a chair at the table, + When evening's home pleasures are nigh! + And lamps are lit up in the parlour, + And stars in the calm azure sky? + And when the "Good Nights" are repeated, + And each lays them calmly to sleep, + Do they think of the absent, and waft me + A whispered "Good-Night" o'er the deep? + + Do they miss me at home? do they miss me? + At morning, at noon, or at night, + And lingers one gloomy shade round them, + That only my presence can light? + Are joys less invitingly welcomed, + Are pleasures less hailed than before, + Because one is missed from the circle? + Because I am with them no more? + + Oh, yes! they do miss me! kind voices + Are calling me back as I roam, + And eyes are grown weary with weeping, + And watch but to welcome me home. + Kind friends, ye shall wait me no longer, + I'll hurry me back from the seas; + For how can I tarry when followed + By watchings and prayers such as these? + +THE END. + + + + + +The Project Gutenberg Etext of Words of Cheer for the Tempted, +the Toiling, and the Sorrowing, by T.S. 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