“But see, too, how long and deep the shadows are getting, Willie. No, my dear one, you must come in now.”
“Mother dear, I am so happy to-day—so happy, and so much better than I have been for a long time, and I know it is only because you have let me come out here, and lie in the sunlight. You will let me come again—every day, dear mother?”
How could she refuse the pleading voice its last request? How could she look upon the little shrunken figure, upon the little face, with its beseeching, gentle eyes, and deny him what he asked—that she might keep him to herself a few short days longer?
“You shall come, my darling, if it makes you so happy,” she said, very softly: then she took him in her arms, and bore him to the house, kissing him with a wild passion that she could not hide.
And so for two or three weeks, in the bright, sunny morning, Willie was always laid on his couch in the sheltered corner near the elm trees; but though he was very happy lying there, and would often talk gayly of the time when he should be well again, he never got strong any more.
Day by day Gabrielle watched him, knowing that the end was coming very near; but, with her strong mother’s love, hiding her sorrow from him. She never told him that he was dying; but sometimes they spoke together of death, and often—for he liked to hear her—she would sing sweet hymns to him, that told of the heaven he was so soon going to.
For two or three weeks it went on thus, and then the last day came. He had been suffering very much with the terrible cough, each paroxysm of which shook the wasted frame with a pain that pierced to Gabrielle’s heart: and all day he had had no rest. It was a day in May—a soft, warm day. But the couch beneath the trees was empty. He was too weak even to be carried there, but lay restlessly turning on his little bed, through the long hours, showing by his burning cheek, and bright but heavy eye, how ill and full of pain he was. And by his side, as ever, Gabrielle knelt, soothing him with tender words; bathing the little hands, and moistening the lips; bending over him and gazing on him with all her passionate love beaming in her tearful eyes. But she was wonderfully calm—watching like a gentle angel over him.
Through the long day, and far into the night, and still no rest or ease. Gabrielle never moved from beside him: she could feel no fatigue; her sorrow seemed to bear her up with a strange strength. At last, he was so weak that he could not raise his head from the pillow.
He lay very still, with his mother’s hand in his; the flush gradually passing away from his cheek, until it became quite pale, like marble, the weary eye half closed.
“You are not suffering much, my child?”
“Oh! no, mother, not now. I am so much better!”
So much better! How deep the words went down into her heart.
“I am so sleepy,” said the little plaintive voice again. “If I go to sleep, wouldn’t you sleep, too? You must be so tired, mother.”
“See, my darling, I will lay down here by you; let me raise your head a moment—there—lay it upon me. Can you sleep so?”
“Ah! yes, mother; that is very good.”
He was closing his eyes, when a strong impulse that Gabrielle could not resist, made her rouse him for a moment, for she knew that he was dying.
“Willie, before you sleep, have you strength to say your evening prayer?”
“Yes, mother.”
Meekly folding the little thin white hands, he offered up his simple thanksgiving, then said, “Our Father.” The little voice toward the end was very faint and weak; and as he finished, his head, which he had feebly tried to bend forward, fell back more heavily on Gabrielle’s bosom.
“Good night, mother dear. Go to sleep.”
“Good night, my darling. God bless you, Willie, my child!”
And then they never spoke to one another any more. One sweet look upward to his mother’s face, and the gentle eyes closed for ever.
As he fell asleep, through the parted curtains, the morning light stole faintly in. Another day was breaking; but before the sun rose, Gabrielle’s child was dead. Softly in his sleep the spirit had passed away. When Bertha came in, after the few hours’ rest that she had snatched, she found the chamber all quiet, and Gabrielle still holding—folded in her arms—the lifeless form that had been so very dear to her.
There was no violent grief in her. His death had been so peaceful and holy, that at first she did not even shed tears. Quite calmly she knelt down by his side when they had laid him in his white dress on the bed, and kissed his pate brow and lips, looking almost reproachfully on Bertha, as—standing by her side—she sobbed aloud; quite calmly, too, she let them lead her from the room, and as they bade her, she lay down upon her bed, and closed her eyes as if to sleep. And then in her solitude, in the darkened room, she wept quite silently, stretching out her arms, and crying for her child.
For many years two gentle, quiet women lived alone in the little cottage in the dell, moving amongst the dwellers in that country village like two ministering angels; nursing the sick, comforting the sorrowful, helping the needy, soothing many a deathbed with their gentle, holy words; spreading peace around them wheresoever their footsteps went. And often in the summer evenings, one of them—the youngest and most beautiful—would wend her quiet way to the old church-yard, and there, in a green, sunny spot, would calmly sit and work for hours, while the lime-trees waved their leaves above her, and the sunlight shining through them, danced and sparkled on a little grave.
———
BY WM. H. C. HOSMER.
———
Ginevra! Ginevra!Thy girlish lip is mute;And silent, in ancestral hall,Hangs now thy gilded lute;With trophies from the Holy LandHath come thine own true Knight,To wildly wish the desert sandHad drank his blood in fight.Ginevra! Ginevra!By palmer wert thou told,That on the plains of PalestineMy corse was lying cold;And credence giving to the tale,Went up wild prayer todie,While suddenly thy cheek grew pale,And lustreless thine eye.Ginevra! Ginevra!No more thy lulling voice,When twilight paints the sky, will trillThe ballad of my choice;Thy parting gift, my buried bride,Will nerve this arm no more,When speeds my barb with fetlock dyedIn Saracenic gore.Ginevra! Ginevra!Death holds in icy thrallThy loveliness of form and face,In his unlighted hall;With laurels from the Holy LandHath come thine own true Knight,To wildly wish the desert sandHad drank his blood in fight.
Ginevra! Ginevra!Thy girlish lip is mute;And silent, in ancestral hall,Hangs now thy gilded lute;With trophies from the Holy LandHath come thine own true Knight,To wildly wish the desert sandHad drank his blood in fight.Ginevra! Ginevra!By palmer wert thou told,That on the plains of PalestineMy corse was lying cold;And credence giving to the tale,Went up wild prayer todie,While suddenly thy cheek grew pale,And lustreless thine eye.Ginevra! Ginevra!No more thy lulling voice,When twilight paints the sky, will trillThe ballad of my choice;Thy parting gift, my buried bride,Will nerve this arm no more,When speeds my barb with fetlock dyedIn Saracenic gore.Ginevra! Ginevra!Death holds in icy thrallThy loveliness of form and face,In his unlighted hall;With laurels from the Holy LandHath come thine own true Knight,To wildly wish the desert sandHad drank his blood in fight.
Ginevra! Ginevra!
Thy girlish lip is mute;
And silent, in ancestral hall,
Hangs now thy gilded lute;
With trophies from the Holy Land
Hath come thine own true Knight,
To wildly wish the desert sand
Had drank his blood in fight.
Ginevra! Ginevra!
By palmer wert thou told,
That on the plains of Palestine
My corse was lying cold;
And credence giving to the tale,
Went up wild prayer todie,
While suddenly thy cheek grew pale,
And lustreless thine eye.
Ginevra! Ginevra!
No more thy lulling voice,
When twilight paints the sky, will trill
The ballad of my choice;
Thy parting gift, my buried bride,
Will nerve this arm no more,
When speeds my barb with fetlock dyed
In Saracenic gore.
Ginevra! Ginevra!
Death holds in icy thrall
Thy loveliness of form and face,
In his unlighted hall;
With laurels from the Holy Land
Hath come thine own true Knight,
To wildly wish the desert sand
Had drank his blood in fight.
———
BY CHARLES H. STEWART.
———
Joy murmurs in the ocean,And laughs on shore outright;The world’s in glorious motion—Save mine, all hearts are light.To tread in sunlight places,With heart so strange the while—To gaze in gladsome faces,When all but you can smile—To live while Hope’s high heavenTo others lends a ray,To you no gleam is given—Is this not grief, O say?
Joy murmurs in the ocean,And laughs on shore outright;The world’s in glorious motion—Save mine, all hearts are light.To tread in sunlight places,With heart so strange the while—To gaze in gladsome faces,When all but you can smile—To live while Hope’s high heavenTo others lends a ray,To you no gleam is given—Is this not grief, O say?
Joy murmurs in the ocean,
And laughs on shore outright;
The world’s in glorious motion—
Save mine, all hearts are light.
To tread in sunlight places,
With heart so strange the while—
To gaze in gladsome faces,
When all but you can smile—
To live while Hope’s high heaven
To others lends a ray,
To you no gleam is given—
Is this not grief, O say?
A VISIT.[2]
———
BY FREDERIKA BREMER.
———
One winter evening it so happened that I was alone at home. A slight indisposition had kept me for two or three days within doors, and, though I was now well, it was thought advisable for me to remain quiet this night, and not go to any of the parties that carried off the rest of the family. And I was quite satisfied—then I used most to enjoy myself, when all alone at home; and with much good humor and many good wishes I said adieu to father and mother, sister and brothers, as some went to the opera, and some to a ball, and some to a concert. Then, though we were generally a very quiet household, with a drop or two of gloominess coming from . . . . . no matter what—we had just obtained a brighter place than usual: my eldest sister having become engaged to an excellent young man, and my youngest brother being just returned from college with very flattering testimonials, and full of hope and joyfulness, and love of his youngest sister, who also was equally in love with her brother. For myself, I was at that interesting period in a woman’s life where she, young still, but not in her first youth, feels disposed to settle down in some way, and is not without offers or opportunities, but still does not feel bound to sacrifice her freedom to any thing below her heart’s choice.
Well, they—my kith and kin—all went out, and I was left alone. I felt quite pleased with it. Putting out the lights, except one in each of the chandeliers in the two drawing-rooms, I began to walk slowly up and down the soft carpets, enjoying the solitude, and the pleasant light shedding itself from above over the rooms and their furniture. It was a romanticclair obscur, soft, and a little melancholy—and this evening I felt very romantic. A slight, not unpleasant, weakness remained after the past illness; but I was perfectly well, and with every moment a fresh gush of health and delicious life seemed to swell my heart and pervade my whole being: a certain soft emotion kept rising within me. On the whole, I felt not quite so happy at being alone the whole evening. I wished somebody would come and partake of my solitude; it was too full for me. My heart bounded with sympathy toward my fellow creatures; with good will to love, and to be loved; to interchange endearing words and good offices. I wanted only to give; I wanted only somebody good enough to receive; I felt my heart overflowing with good will for all the world and all the people in it. I left the door to the vestibule unlocked, in hope—not as in the extravagant fancies of my childhood—in hope that robbers and burglars would come in and give me an opportunity to develop some wonderful acts of courage orprésence d’ésprit;—no, I did not wish for robbers to come, but I did wish for somebody; and I had a strong presentiment that somebody would come, that I should not remain alone the whole evening. I felt sure that I should have a visit—a visit that could not but become of importance either to me or to somebody else. Then, any body that would come in this evening must feel my influence—must experience something uncommon from the very volume of life that rolled in my veins, and that I would roll on him or her. A thousand feelings—a thousand thoughts—were in my heart and mind. But I walked silently to and fro in the rooms, now and then looking curiously down the street. Our house was a corner house: at the corner of the house opposite hung a street-lamp, not very bright nor brilliant, but still shedding a light, clear enough on the spot under it, and on the objects nearest around. Right under the lamp hung, and swung in the evening wind, a huge, red wooden glove (a glove-maker’s sign) with the forefinger (a very long forefinger) pointing right down. The snow fell in large flakes round the lamp and the red glove on the frozen white ground. Now and then came persons—mostly men—wrapped up in their cloaks, passing right under the lamp and the red glove, and were, as they passed, lighted up by the former. I thought I recognized friends or acquaintances in some of them, and often it would seem as if they steered their way directly toward my house, but then again they were wrapped up in the darkness, and the great red glove swung, and the lamp shed its light, and the snow fell fast over the solitary spot—and again I paced the carpets of the drawing-rooms. No matter: it was yet good time for visiting, it was early yet, and a visit I should certainly have that night; and many a face passed in thecamera obscuraof my mind—many a vision of my expected visitor. First, I saw one that had been very kind to me, but that I had been less kind to; one of these that we esteem, but can neither like nor love; but now, this night, if that person would come, I should be so kind, so—it would not be my fault if that person did not feel amiable and loveable. And then there was somebody who had wronged me, and made me suffer. Oh! thatshemight come, that I might do her good instead—that I might make her rich and happy; it would give me the greatest pleasure. And then there was a man that was more to me than I to him—that I liked; a brilliant, interesting man, that did not like me, but who was interested by me, liked to talk with me, and was a friend of mine. Oh! if he should come; he would love me, perhapsfall in love with me that evening! There was in me so much of that fire which makes every thing light up and radiate. Was he quite fire-proof? Well, still his spirit would light up by the light of mine; I knew it, and we would have such a talk about stars and showers of stars; about Copernicus, and Taylor, and Newton; and about electricity, and alchemy, and Berzelius: we would have such a great intellectual treat and conversation! And then there was another man, that liked me well, and would offer me heart and hand, if I would like him. Like him I could not; but feel very kindly, respectfully, almost tenderly for him, that I could—I did; and then he was a very good and very stately gentleman, and of a rank and fortune that well could flatter a little worldly vanity, and I had my share. Ah! if he should come this evening, and ask the question, I fear that I should not find heart to ask delay to consider, and so forth; I fear I should say “Yes,” at once, and fix my destiny before I was sure it was well. My heart was too warm to be wise. I almost feared that he would come and ask me. But then there was an elderly married man, and a genius, that I loved as young women love elderly gentlemen who are geniuses, and are kind to them—adoringly, passionately. Oh! that he might come. No danger of his asking dangerous questions; no danger of becoming engaged to him, and fixing one’s destiny before the heart was right fixed. If he should but come—what a delight to indulge looking at him—to give vent to the flow of thoughts and feelings with such a mind—to be inspired, and foolish, and nonsensical, in a sublime sense, as well he could be—to hear the effusions of that great heart, great as the world. He never had quite understood me; I never had been quite myself with him; this evening I should be so, he should know my heart. May-be he would ask me to do something for him—to give my purse, every shilling I possessed, to some poor persons—what a delight! And how I should treat him with tea, and wine, and cake, just as Hebe did Jupiter; and how he should enjoy it. Dear me, what an Olympian treat it would be! And then I saw a lady, whose very shadow on the wall I loved. Oh! that if she would but come, my dear, my bosom friend! What a delightful time we should have together, with tea and chat, and the outpourings of the heart. I would tell her every thing: she would counsel me wisely, as she was wont to do. Dear soul, how I loved her; tears filled my eyes in thinking of her, and that she would come—to be sure she was a hundred miles away, on her estate; but, no matter, it could very well happen that she should come. She liked to surprise people, and come unawares upon them, like the Emperor Nicholas. Very likely she would come this evening. My heart asked for it, and then I looked out of the window; the street-lamp flamed and flickered red; the great red glove swung to and fro, with the long forefinger pointing right out; the snow fell fast. I heard sleigh-bells ringing—a carriage was coming—may-be my friend in it. There it comes, right up against the house—my house. The light of the lamp glances over it—how snow-covered! Oh! I will kiss off the snow from her clothes—I will make her so comfortable and happy!
Away flew the carriage, with the lady and the snow-cloak, and the merry jingling bells. But there, now, the great red glove stands still, and the long forefinger points right down on a man wrapped up in a big cloak! I am sure it is the genius, and he is coming to pay me a visit. Dear great man! he comes right up to the house—yes, no—he comes not he turns to the left hand, it could not be he, he would not have passed me so! There, again the glove stands still, the finger points, and a slender figure passes under it—how like my friend thenaturalist!—and he is coming right here—no, he is not—he turns to the right hand. And the light flickers, and the snow falls, and the glove swings over the now solitary spot—and I am still alone, and walk up and down the soft carpets in the romantic twilight.
After all, how gaudily life wears away! why should we not make the best of it? why not take the love and kindness that are offered, and make happy those that we can make happy? Why should we think so much of ourselves alone, and be so afraid of not being so happy as happy can be? we must think also of others, and be content for ourselves with a moderate share of happiness.
Well! if the friend so kind and noble-hearted, whose heart I can claim, now claims my hand, this evening he shall have it, I believe. I will make him happy, and his whole house comfortable, and everybody about him! I must have something to do, to love, to live for. Well!—if he comes! . . . And then I looked out of the window. There now, this time the forefinger of the red hand points most decidedly down on a tall, stately figure—and he is coming—yes, he is certainly coming—coming right to this house; he enters the door. It must be he! how I felt my heart beat! I almost wished it was not he. And to be sure, if it were he who entered the house, he never came up the steps, nor opened the unlocked door of my house and heart—no, not this time; and the half-dreaded, half-wished-for question was not asked now.
The next time that I looked out of the window the lamp was obscured by a lowering mist, and the great red hand was swinging—and black figures were seen passing under it, as through a black veil—my heart began to feel a little low and sad. But—it was not too late yet for a visit; some of our friends used to come very late; somebody would yet come.
Next time I looked again for my visitor, the mist had fully come down, and I could not see a bit more of the lamp, nor the red glove, nor of the mystical figures passing under it. But as I happened to look upward I saw that the sky had cleared, and that the stars shone bright and brilliant; the City of God stood all in light over the earthly city, obscured by mist and darkness. I was struck by the sight of a constellation that I had not seen before; and the truth was, that taken up by earthly objects since a time, I had forgotten to follow up the study of the firmament that I had begun, with the help of my friend the naturalist. Now I took my map and globe, and began to study: I put out the light in the great drawing-room, so as to leave the starlight alone, and made there my observatory. That side of the room looking toward a square was a fine space of sky to range over; and I began to range among the stars. After a while, I ascertained the names of several of the constellations new to me, and the names of their brightest stars; I made the acquaintance of several greater and smaller notabilities of the higher sphere, and read about them what wise men have thought and said. Then would come of themselves enlarging thoughts about the connexion of our planet and its human beings, and those shining worlds where lights and shadows, and weight and measure, are the same as here, and who, consequently, are related to us in soul and matter, in weal and wo, and who tell us of it in lovely shining stars. All this gave me great pleasure.
The servant came with the tea-tray; I was sitting alone, but had forgotten it. I enjoyed my tea and sandwiches, but only to return fresh to my study; and continued visiting among the stars, and making friends with them, till I felt bodily weary. I looked at the watch—it was near midnight; I sat down on the sofa in the small drawing-room: the light shone calmly and romantically as before; and I was as before—alone. Yet there was a pleasant calm—a feeling of plenitude and elevation in my soul—my heart was at rest. What was it that made me feel so well, though I had been disappointed in my visit? Left alone, I had not felt lonely nor at loss: I had studied the works of the Great Father; I had learned and adored, and so forgotten time, solitude, myself, earth and earthly wishes, and my expected visit. Oh! was it not clear that I had had a visit after all—a visit, not from mortal friends, but from immortal? They had whispered to me—“Hereafter thou shalt never feel lonely when alone; then we will come to thee.” And I was glad and thankful!
[2]
It will no doubt add to the interest with which this paper may be read, to know that it was written in English by Miss Bremer, and that it has not been necessary to alter a dozen words.—Ed.
———
BY MRS. E. J. EAMES.
———
“And looking round, he sat down and wept,because he saw no other worlds to conquer!”Alone! alone with night and Heaven,The mighty Macedonian stood;The searching stars looked down on him,To whom their glorious light seemed dim,To whom such boundless thoughts seemed givenBy old Hyphasis’ flood!Boundless yet on those haughty featuresThere dwelt a mournfulness profound;And the shadow of a painful thoughtUpon that kingly brow was wrought,He who subdued earth’s countless creatures—He—the world-conqueror crowned!Yes! there, beside the silent river,On which the moonbeams sweetly slept—By which the green and graceful palm,Rose ever stately still and calm—There did the monarch’s heart-strings quiver—For lo! the victor wept!Yea, wept, though all the nations renderedMeek homage to his sovereign will;His soldier-bands their king adored—And all victorious with his sword,’Mid trophies, crowns, and laurels splendid—Mark what was wanting still!“I see no other worlds!—and HeavenBends o’er me with prophetic eye;Alas! my wild and wildering glanceCan never pierce that starred expanse,Yon radiant sphere may not be given,My aims to gratify!Hath not this oft-told tale a moral,Impressive of the vanityTo which all human hopes must tend—To where ambitious flights must end!—For still Earth’s proudest crown and laurel,Mock poor mortality!”
“And looking round, he sat down and wept,because he saw no other worlds to conquer!”Alone! alone with night and Heaven,The mighty Macedonian stood;The searching stars looked down on him,To whom their glorious light seemed dim,To whom such boundless thoughts seemed givenBy old Hyphasis’ flood!Boundless yet on those haughty featuresThere dwelt a mournfulness profound;And the shadow of a painful thoughtUpon that kingly brow was wrought,He who subdued earth’s countless creatures—He—the world-conqueror crowned!Yes! there, beside the silent river,On which the moonbeams sweetly slept—By which the green and graceful palm,Rose ever stately still and calm—There did the monarch’s heart-strings quiver—For lo! the victor wept!Yea, wept, though all the nations renderedMeek homage to his sovereign will;His soldier-bands their king adored—And all victorious with his sword,’Mid trophies, crowns, and laurels splendid—Mark what was wanting still!“I see no other worlds!—and HeavenBends o’er me with prophetic eye;Alas! my wild and wildering glanceCan never pierce that starred expanse,Yon radiant sphere may not be given,My aims to gratify!Hath not this oft-told tale a moral,Impressive of the vanityTo which all human hopes must tend—To where ambitious flights must end!—For still Earth’s proudest crown and laurel,Mock poor mortality!”
“And looking round, he sat down and wept,
because he saw no other worlds to conquer!”
Alone! alone with night and Heaven,
The mighty Macedonian stood;
The searching stars looked down on him,
To whom their glorious light seemed dim,
To whom such boundless thoughts seemed given
By old Hyphasis’ flood!
Boundless yet on those haughty features
There dwelt a mournfulness profound;
And the shadow of a painful thought
Upon that kingly brow was wrought,
He who subdued earth’s countless creatures—
He—the world-conqueror crowned!
Yes! there, beside the silent river,
On which the moonbeams sweetly slept—
By which the green and graceful palm,
Rose ever stately still and calm—
There did the monarch’s heart-strings quiver—
For lo! the victor wept!
Yea, wept, though all the nations rendered
Meek homage to his sovereign will;
His soldier-bands their king adored—
And all victorious with his sword,
’Mid trophies, crowns, and laurels splendid—
Mark what was wanting still!
“I see no other worlds!—and Heaven
Bends o’er me with prophetic eye;
Alas! my wild and wildering glance
Can never pierce that starred expanse,
Yon radiant sphere may not be given,
My aims to gratify!
Hath not this oft-told tale a moral,
Impressive of the vanity
To which all human hopes must tend—
To where ambitious flights must end!—
For still Earth’s proudest crown and laurel,
Mock poor mortality!”
Gather ripe fruit, oh death! exclaims the gifted,Full of fresh blossoms for the ripening hour;Adown whose sky the clouds afar have drifted—Whose golden hopes are gilding bud and flower;Who, through the vista long, of years advancing,Sees fame and honors round his pathway spread,And views green laurels in the distance glancing,All wreathed in beauty for his waiting head.Gather ripe fruit, oh death! the young bride crieth,Whilst blushing joys her trembling bosom thrill,And each enchanted hour so noiseless flieth,That no distracting fears her bright hopes fill.The future, all in rainbow-tints is glowing,Painted with hues from Love’s own gorgeous dyes;And life seems but a river, softly flowing’Mid fragrant banks, ’neath bland and sunny skies.Gather ripe fruit, oh death! is ever ringingFrom anxious lips, with deep and earnest tone;Some joy, some hope, is ever fondly springing,Which clinging fancy deemeth theirs alone.All, youth and age alike, the reaper spurneth,The young in triumph point to those before;And age, from the grim spectre trembling turneth,And bids him glean from fields all ripened o’er!
Gather ripe fruit, oh death! exclaims the gifted,Full of fresh blossoms for the ripening hour;Adown whose sky the clouds afar have drifted—Whose golden hopes are gilding bud and flower;Who, through the vista long, of years advancing,Sees fame and honors round his pathway spread,And views green laurels in the distance glancing,All wreathed in beauty for his waiting head.Gather ripe fruit, oh death! the young bride crieth,Whilst blushing joys her trembling bosom thrill,And each enchanted hour so noiseless flieth,That no distracting fears her bright hopes fill.The future, all in rainbow-tints is glowing,Painted with hues from Love’s own gorgeous dyes;And life seems but a river, softly flowing’Mid fragrant banks, ’neath bland and sunny skies.Gather ripe fruit, oh death! is ever ringingFrom anxious lips, with deep and earnest tone;Some joy, some hope, is ever fondly springing,Which clinging fancy deemeth theirs alone.All, youth and age alike, the reaper spurneth,The young in triumph point to those before;And age, from the grim spectre trembling turneth,And bids him glean from fields all ripened o’er!
Gather ripe fruit, oh death! exclaims the gifted,
Full of fresh blossoms for the ripening hour;
Adown whose sky the clouds afar have drifted—
Whose golden hopes are gilding bud and flower;
Who, through the vista long, of years advancing,
Sees fame and honors round his pathway spread,
And views green laurels in the distance glancing,
All wreathed in beauty for his waiting head.
Gather ripe fruit, oh death! the young bride crieth,
Whilst blushing joys her trembling bosom thrill,
And each enchanted hour so noiseless flieth,
That no distracting fears her bright hopes fill.
The future, all in rainbow-tints is glowing,
Painted with hues from Love’s own gorgeous dyes;
And life seems but a river, softly flowing
’Mid fragrant banks, ’neath bland and sunny skies.
Gather ripe fruit, oh death! is ever ringing
From anxious lips, with deep and earnest tone;
Some joy, some hope, is ever fondly springing,
Which clinging fancy deemeth theirs alone.
All, youth and age alike, the reaper spurneth,
The young in triumph point to those before;
And age, from the grim spectre trembling turneth,
And bids him glean from fields all ripened o’er!
THE LUCKY PENNY.
———
BY MRS. S. C. HALL.
———
“And what will you do with yours, Willy?”
“I dun know,” replied the heavy-looking urchin, while he turned the half-pence over and over in his hand; “two ha p’nees; it’s not much.” Nedpirouetted on one broad, bare foot, and tossed a summerset on the pavement, close to the pretty basket-shop at a corner of Covent-Garden Market, while “Willy” pondered over the half-pence. When “Ned” recovered his breath, and had shouldered the door-post for half a minute, he again spoke—
“And that one, just riding away on his fine responsible horse, thought he’d make our fortune this frosty new-year’s morning, with his three-pence betwixt three of us—and his grand condition, that we should meet him on this spot, if living, this day twel’-months, and tell him what we did with the pennies! Hurroo! as if we could remember. I say, Willy, suppose you and I toss up for them—head wins?”
“No, no,” replied the prudent Willy, putting the half-pence into his pocket, and attempting to button the garment; an unsuccessful attempt, inasmuch as there was no button: “No; I’ll not make up my mind jist yet—I’ll may-be let it lie, and show it to him this day twal’-month. He may give more for taking care of un.”
“Easy, easy,” persisted Ned, “let tail win, if you don’t like head.”
“I’ll not have it, no way.”
“But where’s Richard gone?” inquired the careless boy, after varying his exercise by walking on his hands, and kicking his feet in the air.
“I dun know,” replied the other; “it’s most like he’s gone home: that’s where he goes most times: he comes the gentleman over us because of his edication.”
“He has no spirit,” said Ned, contemptuously; “he never spends his money like—like me.”
“He got the ‘lucky penny,’ for all that,” answered Willy, “for I saw the hole in it myself.”
“Look at that, now!” exclaimed Ned; “it’s ever the way with him; see now, if that don’t turn up something before the year’s out. While we sleep under bridges, in tatur-baskets, and ‘darkies,’ he sleeps on a bed; and his mother stiches o’ nights, and days too. He’s as high up as a gentleman, and yet he’s as keen after a job as a cat after a sparra.”
The two boys lounged away, while the third—the only one of the three who had earned his penny, by holding a gentleman’s horse for a moment, while the others looked on—had passed rapidly to a small circulating library near Cranbourne Alley, and laying down his penny on the counter, looked in the bookseller’s face, and said—
“Please, sir, will you lend me the works of Benjamin Franklin—for a penny?”
The bookseller looked at the boy, and then at the penny, and inquired if he were the lad who had carried the parcels about for Thomas Brand, when he was ill.
The boy said he was.
“And would you like to do so now, on your own account?” was the next question. The pale, pinched-up features of the youth crimsoned all over, and his dark, deep-set eyes were illumined as if by magic.
“Be your messenger, sir?—indeed I would.”
“Who could answer for your character?”
“My mother, sir; she knows me best,” he replied with great simplicity.
“But who knows her?” said the bookseller, smiling.
“Not many, sir; but the landlady where we live, and some few others.”
The bookseller inquired what place of worship they attended.
The lad told him, but added, “My mother has not been there lately.”
“Why not?”
The deep flash returned, but the expression of the face told of pain, not pleasure.
“My mother, sir, has not been well—and—the weather is cold—and her clothes are not warm.” He eagerly inquired if he was wanted that day. The bookseller told him to be there at half-past seven the next morning, and that meanwhile he would inquire into his character.
The boy could hardly speak; unshed tears stood in his eyes, and after sundry scrapes and bows, he rushed from the shop.
“Holloa, youngster!” called out the bookseller, “you have not told me your mother’s name or address.” The boy gave both, and again ran off. Again the bookseller shouted, “Holloa!”
“You have forgotten Franklin.”
The lad bowed and scraped twice as much as ever; and muttering something about “joy” and “mother,” placed the book inside his jacket and disappeared.
Richard Dolland’s mother was seated in the smallest of all possible rooms, which looked into a court near the “Seven Dials.” The window was but little above the flags, for the room had been slipped off the narrow entrance; and stowed away into a corner, where there was space for a bedstead, a small table, a chair, and a box; there was a little bookshelf, upon it were three or four old books, an ink-bottle, and some stumpy pens; and the grate only contained wood-ashes.
Mrs. Dolland was plying her needle and thread atthe window; but she did not realise that wonderful Daguerreotype of misery which one of our greatest poets drew; for she wasnotclad in
“Unwomanly rags,”
“Unwomanly rags,”
though the very light-colored cotton-dress—the worn-out and faded blue “comforter” round her throat—the pale and purple hue of her face proclaimed that poverty had been beside her many a dreary winter’s day. The snow was drizzling in little hard bitter knots, not falling in soft gentle flakes, wooing the earth to resignation; and the woman whose slight, almost girlish figure, and fair braided hair gave her an aspect of extreme youth, bent more and more forward to the light, as if she found it difficult to thread her needle; she rubbed her eyes until they became quite red; she rubbed the window-glass with her handkerchief (thatwastorn), and at last her hands fell into her lap, and large tears coursed each other over her pale cheeks; she pressed her eyes, and tried again; no—she could not pass the line thread into the fine needle.
Oh! what an expression saddened her face into despair. She threw back her head as if appealing to the Almighty; she clasped her thin palms together, and then, raising them slowly, pressed them on her eyes.
A light, quick, bounding step echoed in the little court—the mother knew it well: she arose, as if uncertain what to do—she shuddered—she sat down—took up her work, and when Richard, in passing, tapped against the window, she met the flushed, excited face of her son with her usual calm, quiet smile.
“Here’s a bright new-year’s-day, mother!” he exclaimed.
“Where?” she said, looking drearily out at the falling snow, and dusting it off her son’s coat with her hand.
“Every where, mother!”—he laid the book on the table—“I earned a penny, and I’ve got a place—there!”
“Got a place!” repeated the woman; and then her face flushed—“with whom? how?”
He detailed the particulars. “And I gave the penny, mother dear,” he added, “to read the ‘Works of Benjamin Franklin,’ which will teach me how to grow rich and good; I’ll read the book to you this evening, while you work.”
The flush on her cheek faded to deadly paleness.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with my eyes, Richard—they are so weak.”
“Looking on the snow, mother; mine grow weak when I look on the snow.”
How she caught at the straw!—“I never thought of that, Richard; I dare say it is bad. And what did ye with the penny, dear?”
“I told you, mother; I got the reading of the ‘Works of Benjamin Franklin’ for it, and it’s a book that will do me great good; I read two or three pages here and there of it, at the very shop where I am to be employed, when I was there for Thomas Brand, before he died. It was just luck that took me there to look for it—the book, I mean—and then the gentleman offered me the place; I’m sure I have worn, as Ned Brady says, ‘the legs off my feet,’ tramping after places—andthatto offer itself tome—think of that, mother! Poor Tom Brand had four shillings a-week, but he could not make out a bill—I can; Benjamin Franklin (he wrote ‘Poor Richard’s Almanac,’ you know) says, ‘there are no gains without pains;’ and I’m sure poor father took pains enough to teach me, though I have the gains, and he had the——”
The entrance of his future master arrested Richard’s eloquence; he made a few inquiries, found his way into a back kitchen to the landlady, and, being satisfied with what he heard, engaged the lad at four shillings a-week; he looked kindly at the gentle mother, and uncomfortably at the grate; then slid a shilling into Mrs. Dolland’s hand, “in advance.”
“It was not ‘luck,’ Richard,” said she to her son, after the long, gaunt-looking man of books had departed; “it’s all come of God’s goodness!”
There was a fire that evening in the widow’s little room, and a whole candle was lit; and a cup of tea, with the luxuries of milk, sugar, and a little loaf, formed their new-year’s fête; and yet two-pence remained out of the bookseller’s loan!
When their frugal meal was finished, Mrs. Dolland worked on mechanically, and Richard threaded her needle; the boy read aloud to her certain passages which he thought she might like, he wondered she was not more elated at his success; she seemed working unconsciously, and buried in her own thoughts; at last, and not without a feeling of pain, he ceased reading aloud, and forgot all external cares in the deep interest he took in the self-helping volume that rested on his lap.
Suddenly he looked up, aroused by a sort of half-breathed sigh; his mother’s large eyes were fixed upon him—there was something in the look and the expression he thought he had never seen before.
“Richard,” she said, “is there any hope in that book?”
“Hope, mother! why, it is full, full of hope; for a poor lad, it is one great hope from beginning to end. Why, many a copy my father set from Poor Richard’s Almanac, though I don’t think he knew it. Don’t you remember ‘Help hands, for I have no lands,’ and ‘Diligence is the mother of good luck,’ and that grand, long one I wrote in small-hand—‘Since thou art not sure of a minute, throw not away an hour.’”
“Yes, dear, those were pleasant days; I mind them well; whenhewent,allwent.”
“No, mother,” replied the boy; “and I don’t know what is the matter to-day, you are not a bit like yourself; you used to say that God was always with us, and that hope was a part of God. And it is new-year’s day, and has begun so well; I have got a place—and a nice one; suppose it had been at a butcher’s or green-grocers? we should have been thankful—but among books and such like, with odd minutes for reading, and every penny of four shillings a-week—mother, you need not work so hard now.”
“I can’t, Richard,” she said; and then there was a long pause.
When she spoke again her voice seemed stifled. “I have been turning in my own mind what I could do; what do you think of ballad-singing—and a wee dog to lead me?”
“What is it, mother?” inquired the boy; and he flung himself on his knees beside her. “What sorrow is it?”
She laid her cheek on his head, while she whispered—so terrible did the words seem—“I am growingdark, my child; I shall soon be quite, quiteBLIND.” He drew back, pushed the hair off her brow, and gazed into her eyes steadily.
“It is over-work—weakness—illness—it cannot be blindness; it will soon be all right again; they are only a very little dim, mother.” And he kissed her eyes and brow until his lips were moist with her tears.
“If God would but spare me my sight, just to keep on a little longer, and keep me from the parish (though we have good right to its help,) and save me from being a burden—a millstone—about your neck, Richard!”
“Now don’t mother; I will not shed a tear this blessed new-year’s day; I wont believe it is as you say; it’s just the trouble and the cold you have gone through; and the tenderness you were once used to—though I only remember my father a poor school-master, still he took care of you. You know my four shillings a-week will do a great deal; it’s a capital salary,” said the boy, exultingly; “four broad white shillings a-week! you can have some nourishment then.” He paused a moment and opened his eyes. “I suppose I am not to live in the house; if I was, and you had itALL—Oh, mother, you wouldn’t be so comfortable!”
Presently he took down his father’s Bible, and read a psalm—it was the first Psalm:
“Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful;“But his delight is in the law of the Lord, and in his law doth he meditate day and night;“And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper”—
“Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful;
“But his delight is in the law of the Lord, and in his law doth he meditate day and night;
“And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper”—
The boy paused.
“There, mother! is there not hope in that?”
“There is, indeed—and comfort,” answered the widow; “and I am always glad when you read a book containing plenty of hope. The present is often so miserable that it is natural to get away from it, and feel and know there is something different to come; I have often sat with only hope for a comforter when you have been seeking employment; and I have been here without food or fire, or any thing—but hope.”
“And I used to think you so blythe, mother, when I came into the court, and heard you singing.”
“I have often sobbed through a song, Richard, and yet it was comfort, somehow, to sing it. I dare say there is a deal of hope in that new book of yours, but I wish it may be sanctified hope—hope of the right kind. Your poor father used to talk of unsanctified philosophy; but he was too wise, as well as too good for me—you ought to be good and wise, my child—God grant it!”
“To look at it, mother,” said the boy, with an earnestness beyond his years; “I was so full of joy at being employed, that I thought my heart would break, and now—” his young spirit bounded bravely above the trial—“no—not now will I believe what you fear; rest and comfort; you need not embroider at nights now; you can knit, or make nets, but no fine work.”
Strangers, to have heard him talk, would have imagined that his luxuriant imagination was contemplating four pounds instead of four shillings a-week; only those who have wanted, and counted over the necessaries to be procured by peace, can comprehend the wealth of shillings.
These two were alone in the world; the husband and father had died of consumption; he had been an earnest, true, book-loving man, whose enthusiastic and poetic temperament had been branded as “dreamy”—certainly, he was fonder of thinking than of acting; he had knowledge enough to have given him courage, but perhaps the natural delicacy of his constitution rendered his struggles for independence insufficient; latterly, he had been a schoolmaster, but certain religious scruples prevented his advancing with the great education movement beginning to agitate England; and when his health declined, his scholars fell away: but as his mental strength faded, that of his wife seemed to increase. She was nothing more than a simple, loving, enduring, industrious woman, noted in the village of their adoption as possessing a most beautiful voice; and often had the sound of her own minstrelsy, hyming God’s praise, or on week-days welling forth the tenderness or chivalry of an old ballad, been company and consolation to her wearied spirit.
Books and music refine external things; and born and brought up in their atmosphere, Richard, poor, half-starved, half-naked, running hither and thither in search of employment, and cast among really low, vicious, false, intemperate, godless children, was preserved from contagion. It was a singular happiness that his mother never feared for him; one of the many bits of poetry of her nature, was the firm faith she entertained that the son of her husband—whose memory was to her as the protection of a titular saint—could not be tainted by evil example. She knew the boy’s burning thirst for knowledge; she knew his struggles, not for ease, but for labor; she knew his young energy, and wondered at it; she knew the devotional spirit that was in him;—yet in all these things she put no trust: but she felt as though the invisible but present spirit of his father was with him through scenes of sin and misery, and encompassed him as with a halo, so that he might walk, like the prophets of Israel, through a burning fiery furnace unscathed.
These two—mother and son—were alone in their poverty-stricken sphere; and thatnew-year’s-day had brought to the mother both hope and despair;but though an increasing film came between her and the delicate embroidery she wrought with so much skill and care—though the confession that she was growing “dark,” caused her sharper agony than she had suffered since her husband’s death—still, as the evening drew on, and she put by her work, her spirit lightened under the influence of the fresh and healthful hope which animated her son. She busied herself with sundry contrivances for his making a neat appearance on the following day; she forced him into a jacket which he had out-grown, to see how he looked, and kissed and blessed the bright face which, she thanked God, she could still see. Together they turned out, and over and over again, the contents of their solitary box; and Richard, by no means indifferent to his personal appearance at any time, said, very frankly, that hethought his acquaintances, Ned Brady and William, or Willy “No-go,” as he was familiarly styled, would hardly recognise him on the morrow, if they should chance to meet.
“But if I lend you this silk handkerchief, that was your poor father’s, to tie round your neck, don’t let it puff you up,” said the simple-minded woman, “don’t; and don’t look down upon Ned Brady and William No-go, (what an odd name;) if they are good lads, you might ask them in to tea some night (that is, when we have tea;) they must be good lads, if you know them.”
And then followed a prayer and a blessing, and, much later than usual, after a few happier tears, another prayer, and another blessing, the worn-out eyes, and those so young and fresh, closed in peaceful sleep.
“Neddy, my boy!” stammered Mrs. Brady to her son, as she staggered to her wretched lodging that night, “it’s wonderful luck ye’ had with that penny; the four-pence ye’ won through it at “pitch and toss” has made a woman of me; I am as happy as a queen—as a queen, Neddy.” The unfortunate creature flourished her arm so decidedly that she broke a pane of glass in a shopkeeper’s window, and was secured by a policeman for the offence; poor unfortunate Ned followed his mother, with loud, incoherent lamentations, wishing “bad luck” to every one, but more especially to the police, and the gentleman that brought him into misery by his mean penny;—if it hadbeen a sum he could have done any thing with—but a penny! what could be done with one poor penny, but spend it!
Willy’s penny went into a box with several other coins;hismother lacked the common necessaries of life—still Willy hoarded, and continued to look after his treasure as a magpie watches the silver coin she drops into a hole in a castle wall.
[To be continued.