NOON.[5]

———

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

———

’Tis noon. At noon the Hebrew bowed the kneeAnd worshiped, while the husbandman withdrewFrom the scorched field, and the wayfaring manGrew faint, and turned aside by bubbling fount,Or rested in the shadow of the palm.I, too, amid the overflow of day,Behold the power which wields and cherishesThe frame of Nature. From this brow of rockThat overlooks the Hudson’s western marge,I gaze upon the long array of groves,The piles and gulfs of verdure drinking inThe grateful heats. They love the fiery sun;Their broadening leaves grow glossier, and their spraysClimb as he looks upon them. In the midst,The swelling river into his green gulfs,Unshadowed save by passing sails above,Takes the redundant glory, and enjoysThe summer in his chilly bed. Coy flowers,That would not open in the early light,Push back their plaited sheaths. The rivulet’s pool,That darkly quivered all the morning longIn the cool shade, now glimmers in the sun,And o’er its surface shoots, and shoots again,The glittering dragon-fly, and deep withinRun the brown water-beetles to and fro.A silence, the brief sabbath of an hour,Reigns o’er the fields; the laborer sits withinHis dwelling; he has left his steers awhile,Unyoked, to bite the herbage, and his dogSleeps stretched beside the door-stone in the shade.Now the gray marmot, with uplifted paws,No more sits listening by his den, but stealsAbroad, in safety, to the clover field,And crops its juicy blossoms. All the whileA ceaseless murmur from the populous townSwells o’er these solitudes; a mingled soundOf jarring wheels, and iron hoofs that clashUpon the stony ways, and hammer clang,And creak of engines lifting ponderous bulks,And calls and cries, and tread of eager feet,Innumerable, hurrying to and fro.Noon, in that mighty mart of nations, bringsNo pause to toil and care; with early dayBegan the tumult, and shall only ceaseWhen midnight, hushing one by one the soundsOf bustle, gathers the tired brood to rest.Thus, in this feverish time, when love of gainAnd luxury possess the hearts of men,Thus is it with the noon of human life.We in our fervid manhood, in our strengthOf reason, we, with hurry, noise and care,Plan, toil and strive, and pause not to refreshOur spirits with the calm and beautifulOf God’s harmonious universe, that wonOur youthful wonder; pause not to inquireWhy we are here, and what the reverenceMan owes to man, and what the mysteryThat links us to the greater world, besideWhose borders we but hover for a space.

’Tis noon. At noon the Hebrew bowed the knee

And worshiped, while the husbandman withdrew

From the scorched field, and the wayfaring man

Grew faint, and turned aside by bubbling fount,

Or rested in the shadow of the palm.

I, too, amid the overflow of day,Behold the power which wields and cherishesThe frame of Nature. From this brow of rockThat overlooks the Hudson’s western marge,I gaze upon the long array of groves,The piles and gulfs of verdure drinking inThe grateful heats. They love the fiery sun;Their broadening leaves grow glossier, and their spraysClimb as he looks upon them. In the midst,The swelling river into his green gulfs,Unshadowed save by passing sails above,Takes the redundant glory, and enjoysThe summer in his chilly bed. Coy flowers,That would not open in the early light,Push back their plaited sheaths. The rivulet’s pool,That darkly quivered all the morning longIn the cool shade, now glimmers in the sun,And o’er its surface shoots, and shoots again,The glittering dragon-fly, and deep withinRun the brown water-beetles to and fro.

I, too, amid the overflow of day,

Behold the power which wields and cherishes

The frame of Nature. From this brow of rock

That overlooks the Hudson’s western marge,

I gaze upon the long array of groves,

The piles and gulfs of verdure drinking in

The grateful heats. They love the fiery sun;

Their broadening leaves grow glossier, and their sprays

Climb as he looks upon them. In the midst,

The swelling river into his green gulfs,

Unshadowed save by passing sails above,

Takes the redundant glory, and enjoys

The summer in his chilly bed. Coy flowers,

That would not open in the early light,

Push back their plaited sheaths. The rivulet’s pool,

That darkly quivered all the morning long

In the cool shade, now glimmers in the sun,

And o’er its surface shoots, and shoots again,

The glittering dragon-fly, and deep within

Run the brown water-beetles to and fro.

A silence, the brief sabbath of an hour,Reigns o’er the fields; the laborer sits withinHis dwelling; he has left his steers awhile,Unyoked, to bite the herbage, and his dogSleeps stretched beside the door-stone in the shade.Now the gray marmot, with uplifted paws,No more sits listening by his den, but stealsAbroad, in safety, to the clover field,And crops its juicy blossoms. All the whileA ceaseless murmur from the populous townSwells o’er these solitudes; a mingled soundOf jarring wheels, and iron hoofs that clashUpon the stony ways, and hammer clang,And creak of engines lifting ponderous bulks,And calls and cries, and tread of eager feet,Innumerable, hurrying to and fro.Noon, in that mighty mart of nations, bringsNo pause to toil and care; with early dayBegan the tumult, and shall only ceaseWhen midnight, hushing one by one the soundsOf bustle, gathers the tired brood to rest.

A silence, the brief sabbath of an hour,

Reigns o’er the fields; the laborer sits within

His dwelling; he has left his steers awhile,

Unyoked, to bite the herbage, and his dog

Sleeps stretched beside the door-stone in the shade.

Now the gray marmot, with uplifted paws,

No more sits listening by his den, but steals

Abroad, in safety, to the clover field,

And crops its juicy blossoms. All the while

A ceaseless murmur from the populous town

Swells o’er these solitudes; a mingled sound

Of jarring wheels, and iron hoofs that clash

Upon the stony ways, and hammer clang,

And creak of engines lifting ponderous bulks,

And calls and cries, and tread of eager feet,

Innumerable, hurrying to and fro.

Noon, in that mighty mart of nations, brings

No pause to toil and care; with early day

Began the tumult, and shall only cease

When midnight, hushing one by one the sounds

Of bustle, gathers the tired brood to rest.

Thus, in this feverish time, when love of gainAnd luxury possess the hearts of men,Thus is it with the noon of human life.We in our fervid manhood, in our strengthOf reason, we, with hurry, noise and care,Plan, toil and strive, and pause not to refreshOur spirits with the calm and beautifulOf God’s harmonious universe, that wonOur youthful wonder; pause not to inquireWhy we are here, and what the reverenceMan owes to man, and what the mysteryThat links us to the greater world, besideWhose borders we but hover for a space.

Thus, in this feverish time, when love of gain

And luxury possess the hearts of men,

Thus is it with the noon of human life.

We in our fervid manhood, in our strength

Of reason, we, with hurry, noise and care,

Plan, toil and strive, and pause not to refresh

Our spirits with the calm and beautiful

Of God’s harmonious universe, that won

Our youthful wonder; pause not to inquire

Why we are here, and what the reverence

Man owes to man, and what the mystery

That links us to the greater world, beside

Whose borders we but hover for a space.

[5]From an unpublished Poem.

[5]

From an unpublished Poem.

TRUTH.

———

BY MRS. FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.

———

“This above all!—to thine own self be true!And it must follow, as the night the day,Thou canst not then be false to any man.”

“This above all!—to thine own self be true!

And it must follow, as the night the day,

Thou canst not then be false to any man.”

A MOTHER’S INFLUENCE.

“Mother! mother!” exclaimed a sweet, eager voice, and the speaker, a child of thirteen years, burst into the room, where Mrs. Carlton sat at work, “don’t you think there is to be a prize given on exhibition day for the best composition! And I mean to try for it—sha’nt I?”

She was a little, harum-scarum looking imp! I suppose she had run all the way home from school, for her straw bonnet hung on her neck instead of her head, and a profusion of soft dark hair was streaming in such disorder about her glowing face, that you could not tell if she were pretty or not; but you could see a pair of brilliant, gray or blue or black eyes—they certainly changed their color with every new emotion; but I think they were really gray—full of laughter, and love beaming through the truant tresses, and all eloquent with the beauty of a fresh, warm soul. This change in the child’s eyes is no freak of a foolish fancy; for every one noticed it; and her school-crony, Kate Sumner, used to declare, that when Harriet was angry they were black; gray when she was thoughtful; violet when sad; and when happy and loving, they changed to the tenderest blue.

Mrs. Carlton drew the little girl toward her, and smoothed back the rebellious curls, at the same time exclaiming, with a long drawn sigh, “MydearHarriet! how youdolook!”

“Oh, mother! it’s not the least matter howIlook! If I were only a beauty, now, like Angelina Burton, I would keep my hair as smooth as—asanything; but I wouldn’t rub my cheeks though, as she does always, just before she goes into a room where there’s company—wouldyou, mother?”

The mother gazed at her child’s expressive face, as she spoke, with its irregular, yet lovely features, the strange, bright eyes, the changing cheek, the full and sweet, but spirited mouth, and said to herself, “Whatever you may think, my darling, I would not change your simple, innocent, childlike unconsciousness, for all Angelina’s beauty, spoiled as it is by vanity and affectation.”

“But, mother, do give me a subject for composition, for I want to write it now, this minute!”

“Harriet,” said Mrs. Carlton quietly, “go and brush your hair, change your shoes, and mend that rent in your dress as neatly as you can.”

Harriet half pouted; but she met her mother’s tranquil eye; the pout changed to a good-humored smile, and kissing her affectionately, she bounded off to do her bidding.

While she is gone, you would like—would you not, dear reader?—to ask a few questions about her. I can guess what they are, and will answer them, to the best of my knowledge.

Mrs. Carlton is a widow, with a moderate fortune, and a handsome house in Tremont street, Boston. She has been a star in fashionable life, but since the loss of her husband, whom she tenderly loved, she has retired from the gay world, and devoted herself to her child—a wild, frank, happy, generous and impetuous creature, with half a dozen glaring faults, and one rare virtue which nobly redeemed them all. That virtue, patient reader, you must find out for yourself. Perhaps you will catch a glimpse of it in

——

AUNT ELOISE.

Harriet was busy with her composition, when her aunt, who was on a visit to Mrs. Carlton, entered the room. Aunt Eloise was a weak minded and weak hearted lady of a very uncertain age—unhappily gifted with more sensibility than sense. She really had a deal of feeling—for herself—and an almost inexhaustible shower of tears, varied occasionally by hysterics and fainting-fits, whenever any pressing exigency in the fate of her friends demanded self-possession, energy, or immediate assistance. If, too, there happened, as there will sometimes, in all households, to be an urgent necessity for instant exertion by any member of the family, such as sewing, watching with an invalid, shopping with a country cousin, poor Aunt Eloise was invariably and most unfortunately seized with a sudden toothache, headache, pain in the side, strange feelings, dreadful nervousness, or some trouble of the kind, which quite precluded the propriety of asking her aid.

Every morning at breakfast Aunt Eloise edified the family with a wonderful dream, which the breakfast-bell had interrupted, and every evening she grew sentimental over the reminiscences which the twilight hour awakened. It was then that innumerable shades of former admirers arose. Some doubted if they had ever beenmorethan shades; but Aunt Eloise certainly knew best about that, and who had a right to deny, that Mr. Smith had knelt to her for pity; that Colonel Green had vowed eternal adoration; and that Lawyer Lynx had laid his heart, his hand, and his fees, which were not quite a fortune, at her feet?

Aunt Eloise had been—at least she hinted so—a beauty and a blue, in her day; and, to maintain both characters, she rouged, wore false ringlets, and scribbled love-verses, which she had a bad habit of leaving, by accident, between the leaves of books in every frequented room of the house.

She thought and avowed herself extravagantly fond of her niece, during her early childhood, and imagined that she displayed a graceful enthusiasm in exclaiming, every now and then, in her presence, and in that of others, “Oh! you angel child! I do think she is the sweetest creature! Come here and kiss me, you beauty!” &c. &c. But no one ever saw Aunt Eloise taking care of the child, attending to its little wants, or doing any thing for its benefit. The only tangible proof of her affection for her niece, was in the shape of bonbons and candy, which she was in the habit of bringing home from her frequent walks in Tremont street. Harriet regularly handed these forbidden luxuries to her mother, and Mrs. Carlton as regularly threw them in the fire.

“Isn’t it a pity to waste such nice things, mother? Why not give them to some poor child in the street?” asked the little girl one day, as she watched, with longing eyes, a paper full of the tempting poison, which her mother was quietly emptying into the grate.

Mrs. Carlton did not disdain to reason with her child—

“That would beworsethan wasted, dear. It would be cruel to give to another what I refuse to you on account of its unwholesomeness.”

But Harriet had now been for a long time out of the spinster’s books—as the saying is—and this misfortune occurred as follows—

One morning, when she was about six years old, the child came into her mother’s room from her aunt’s, where she had been alternately pelted, scolded, and teased, till she was weary, and, seating herself in a corner, remained for some time absorbed in thought. She had been reading to her mother that morning, and one sentence, of which she had asked an explanation, had made a deep impression upon her. It was this—“God sends us trials and troubles to strengthen and purify our hearts.” She now sat in her corner, without speaking or stirring, until her mother’s voice startled her from her reverie.

“Of what are you now thinking, Harriet?”

“Mother, did God send Aunt Eloise to strengthen and purify my heart?”

“What do you mean, my child?”

“Why, the book says he sends trials for that, and she is the greatest trialIhave, you know.”

The indignant maiden was just entering the room as this dialogue began, and hearing her own name, she had stopped, unseen, to listen. Speechless with rage, she returned to her chamber, and was never heard to call Harriet an angel child again.

But we have wasted more words on the fair Eloise’s follies than they deserve. Let us return to Harriet’s all-important composition.

The maiden-lady, selfish and indolent as she was, took it into her head sometimes to be exceedingly inquisitive; and officious too, particularly where she thought her literary talents could come into play. She walked up to Harriet and looked over her shoulder.

“What’s this, hey? oh! a story! That’s right, Harriet, I am glad to see you taking to literary pursuits. Come, child! give me the pen and I will improve that sentence for you.”

“Thank you, aunt! but I don’t want it improved.”

“Not want it improved! There’s vanity!”

“Indeed, aunt, I am not vain about it, and I would like you to help me, if it were not to be shown as mine. It wouldn’t be fair, you know, to pass off another’s as my own. I am writing for a prize.”

“For a prize! So much the more reason that you should be assisted. There, dear, run away to your play and I will write it all for you. You’ll be sure to win the prize.”

With every word thus uttered, Harriet’s eyes had grown larger and darker, and at the close, she turned them, full of astonishment, from her aunt’s face to her mother’s. Reassured by the expression of the latter, she replied,

“But, Aunt Eloise, that would be a falsehood, you know.”

“A falsehood, miss!” cried the maiden, sharply, “It is a very common thing, I assure you!”

“But not the less false for being common, Eloise,” said Mrs. Carlton; “pray let Harriet have her own way about it. It would be far better to lose the prize, than to gain it thus dishonestly.”

Aunt Eloise, as usual, secretly determined to haveherown way; but she said no more then, and Harriet pursued her employment without further interruption.

——

THE PRIZE.

The exhibition day had arrived. Harriet had finished her story several days before, and read it to her mother. It was a simple, graceful, childlike effusion, with less of pretension and ornament, and more of spirit and originality than the compositions of most children of the same age contain.

Mrs. Carlton seemed much pleased; but Aunt Eloise had criticised it without mercy. At the same time she was observed to smile frequently with a cunning, sly, triumphant expression, peculiar to herself—an expression which she always wore when she had a secret, and secrets she had, in abundance—a new one almost every day—trivial, petty secrets, which no one cared about but herself; but whichsheguarded as jealously as if they had been apples of gold.

The exhibition day had arrived.

“Good bye, mother; good bye, aunty,” said Harriet, glancing for a moment into the breakfast-room.

She was looking very pretty in a simple, tasteful dress, made for the occasion. She held the story in her hand, neatly enclosed in an envelope, and her eyes were full of hope—the cloudless hope of childhood.

“Don’t be surprised, Harriet,” said her aunt, “at any thing that may happen to-day. Only be thankful if the prize is yours, that’s all.”

“If Kate Sumner don’t win it, I dohopeI shall!” replied the eager child, and away she tripped to school.

At twelve o’clock Mrs. Carlton and her sister took their seats among the audience, in the exhibition room. The usual exercises were completed, and it only remained for the compositions to be read aloud by the teacher.

The first was a sentimental essay upon Friendship. Mr. Wentworth, the teacher, looked first surprised, then amused, then vexed as he read, while a gaily and fashionably dressed lady, who occupied a conspicuous place in the assembly, was observed to toss her head and fan herself with a very complacent air, while she met, with a nod, the conscious eyes of a fair and beautiful, but haughty looking girl of fifteen seated among the pupils.

“By Angelina Burton,” said the teacher, as he concluded, and laying it aside without further comment, he took up the next—“Lines to a Favorite Tree,” by Catherine Sumner.

It was short and simple, and ran as follows⁠—

Thy leaves’ lightest murmur,Oh! beautiful tree!Each bend of thy branches,The stately, the free,Each wild, wavy whisper,Is music to me.I gaze thro’ thy labyrinth,Golden and green,Where the light loves to linger,In glory serene,Far up, till yon heaven-blueTrembles between.I shut out the city,Its sight and its sound,And away, far away,For the forest I’m bound,For the noble old forest,Which ages have crowned!I lean on its moss banks,I stoop o’er its rills,I see, thro’ its vistas,The vapor-wreathed hills,And my soul with a gushOf wild happiness fills!I pine for the freshness,The freedom, the health,Which Nature can give me—My soul’s dearest wealthIs wasted in cities;Where only, by stealth,The mountain-born breezesCan fitfully play,Where we steal but a glimpseOf this glorious day,And but by the calendar,Learn it is May.But away with repining,I’ll study, from thee,A lesson of patience,Oh! noble, old tree!’Mid dark walls imprisoned,Thou droop’st not like me;But strivest forever,Still up, strong and brave,’Till in Heaven’s pure sunshine,Thy free branches wave!Oh! thus mayImeet it,No longer a slave!

Thy leaves’ lightest murmur,Oh! beautiful tree!Each bend of thy branches,The stately, the free,Each wild, wavy whisper,Is music to me.

Thy leaves’ lightest murmur,

Oh! beautiful tree!

Each bend of thy branches,

The stately, the free,

Each wild, wavy whisper,

Is music to me.

I gaze thro’ thy labyrinth,Golden and green,Where the light loves to linger,In glory serene,Far up, till yon heaven-blueTrembles between.

I gaze thro’ thy labyrinth,

Golden and green,

Where the light loves to linger,

In glory serene,

Far up, till yon heaven-blue

Trembles between.

I shut out the city,Its sight and its sound,And away, far away,For the forest I’m bound,For the noble old forest,Which ages have crowned!

I shut out the city,

Its sight and its sound,

And away, far away,

For the forest I’m bound,

For the noble old forest,

Which ages have crowned!

I lean on its moss banks,I stoop o’er its rills,I see, thro’ its vistas,The vapor-wreathed hills,And my soul with a gushOf wild happiness fills!

I lean on its moss banks,

I stoop o’er its rills,

I see, thro’ its vistas,

The vapor-wreathed hills,

And my soul with a gush

Of wild happiness fills!

I pine for the freshness,The freedom, the health,Which Nature can give me—My soul’s dearest wealthIs wasted in cities;Where only, by stealth,

I pine for the freshness,

The freedom, the health,

Which Nature can give me—

My soul’s dearest wealth

Is wasted in cities;

Where only, by stealth,

The mountain-born breezesCan fitfully play,Where we steal but a glimpseOf this glorious day,And but by the calendar,Learn it is May.

The mountain-born breezes

Can fitfully play,

Where we steal but a glimpse

Of this glorious day,

And but by the calendar,

Learn it is May.

But away with repining,I’ll study, from thee,A lesson of patience,Oh! noble, old tree!’Mid dark walls imprisoned,Thou droop’st not like me;

But away with repining,

I’ll study, from thee,

A lesson of patience,

Oh! noble, old tree!

’Mid dark walls imprisoned,

Thou droop’st not like me;

But strivest forever,Still up, strong and brave,’Till in Heaven’s pure sunshine,Thy free branches wave!Oh! thus mayImeet it,No longer a slave!

But strivest forever,

Still up, strong and brave,

’Till in Heaven’s pure sunshine,

Thy free branches wave!

Oh! thus mayImeet it,

No longer a slave!

The next was a story, and Harriet Carlton’s eyes and cheeks changed color as she listened. It was the same, yet not the same! The incidents were hers, the sentiment more novel-like, and many a flowery and highly wrought sentence had been introduced, which she had never heard before.

She sat speechless with wonder, indignation, and dismay, and though several other inferior compositions were read, she was so absorbed in reverie, that she heard no more until she was startled by Mr. Wentworth’s voice calling her by name. She looked up. In his hand was the prize—a richly chased, golden pencil-case, suspended to a chain of the same material. The sound, the sight recalled her bewildered faculties, and ere she reached the desk, she had formed a resolution, which, however, it required all her native strength of soul to put in practice.

“Miss Carlton, the prize is yours!” and the teacher leaned forward to throw the chain around her neck. The child drew back⁠—

“No, sir,” she said in a low, but firm and distinct voice, looking up bravely in his face, “I did not write the story you have read.”

“Not write it!” exclaimed Mr. Wentworth, “Why, then, does it bear your name? Am I to understand, Miss Carlton, that you have asked another’s assistance in your composition, and that you now repent the deception?”

Poor Harriet! this was too much! Her dark eyes first flashed, and then filled with tears; her lip trembled with emotion, and she paused a moment, as if disdaining a reply to this unmerited charge.

A slight and sneering laugh from the beauty aroused her, and she answered, respectfully but firmly,

“The story, I did write, was in that envelope yesterday. Some one has changed it without my knowledge. It was not so good as that you have read; so I must not take the prize.”

There was a murmur of applause through the assembly, and the teacher bent upon the blushing girl a look of approval, which amply repaid her for all the embarrassment she had suffered.

Aunt Eloise took advantage of the momentary excitement to steal unobserved from the room. Harriet took her seat, and Miss Angelina Burton was next called up. The portly matron leaned smilingly forward; and the graceful, little beauty, already affecting the airs of a fine lady, sauntered up to the desk and languidly reached out her hand for the prize.

“I cannot say much for your taste in selection, Miss Burton. I do not admire your author’s sentiments. The next time you wish to make an extract, you must allow me to choose for you. There are better things than this, even in the trashy magazine from which you have copied it.”

And with this severe, but justly merited reproof of the imposition that had been practiced, he handed the young lady, not the prize, which she expected, but the MS. essay on Friendship, which she had copied, word for word, from an old magazine.

The portly lady turned very red, and the beauty, bursting into tears of anger and mortification, returned to her seat discomfited.

“Miss Catherine Sumner,” resumed the teacher, with a benign smile, to a plain, yet noble-looking girl, who came forward as he spoke, “I believe there can be no mistake aboutyourlittle effusion. I feel great pleasure in presenting you the reward, due, not only to your mental cultivation, but to the goodness of your heart. What! doyou, too, hesitate?”

“Will you be kind enough, sir,” said the generous Kate, taking a paper from her pocket, “to read Harriet’s story before you decide. I asked her for a copy several days ago, and here it is.”

“You shall read it to the audience yourself, my dear; I am sure they will listen patiently to so kind a pleader in her friend’s behalf.”

The listeners looked pleased and eager to hear the story; and Kate Sumner, with a modest self-possession, which well became her, and with her fine eyes lighting up as she read, did full justice to the pretty and touching story, of which Harriet had been so cruelly robbed.

“It is well worth reading,” said Mr. Wentworth, when she had finished; “your friend has won the prize, my dear young lady; and, as she owes it to your generosity, you shall have the pleasure of bestowing it, yourself.”

Kate’s face glowed with emotion as she hung the chain around Harriet’s neck; and Harriet could not restrain her tears, while she whispered,

“I will take it,notas a prize, but as a gift fromyou, dear Kate!”

“And now, Miss Sumner,” said Mr. Wentworth, in conclusion, “let me beg your acceptance of these volumes, as a token of your teacher’s respect and esteem,” and presenting her a beautifully bound edition of Milton’s works, he bowed his adieu to the retiring audience.

“Will you lend me your prize-pencil this morning, Harriet?” said Mrs. Carlton the next day. She was dressed for a walk, and Harriet wondered why she should want the pencil to take out with her; but she immediately unclasped the chain from her neck, and handed it to her mother without asking any questions.

She was rewarded at dinner by finding it lying at the side of her plate, with the single word, “Truth” engraved upon its seal.

a young woman holds two young girls and a dog in her lapE. T. Parris. Engraved by Rawdon, Wright, Hatch, & Smillie.True Affection.Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.

E. T. Parris. Engraved by Rawdon, Wright, Hatch, & Smillie.

TRUE AFFECTION.

ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE.

Matron in thy golden prime,Well the world may envy thee;Thou hast reached the happy timeWhen life holds her jubilee⁠—Midway on her pilgrimage,Looking backward and before,Where end infancy and ageOn her being’s misty shore.Turning to the past, thine eyeDwells upon a way of flowers⁠—Not a cloud upon the sky’Neath which passed the happy hours.Clear the vision of the True!⁠—Standing on the verge of Time,See! Hope opens to your viewGlories of the better clime!So the past and present life⁠—What the tale the present tells?Childhood—maidenhood—awife⁠—Thus the tide of being swells⁠—Mother!oh all else in thisFade as stars before the sun,Thou the highest point of blissYielded to the True hast won.Love—communion—in these wordsAll the happiness we know;Without them the world affordsNought to bind the heart below;“True Affection!” with unrestWe the boon demand of all;Vainly seeking, still unblest⁠—Strangers at life’s carnival.Earnest, calm, unchanging love,With no doubt its light to shade⁠—Oh, the happiness aboveIs but this eternal made!Thou hast found it—in thine eyes,In the eyes that look to thine,As the stars from summer skiesSweetly do we see it shine.Exiles from a better sphereWeary wanderers are we,Doomed ’mid clouds to linger here,Source of bliss, unknowing thee!Save, when from the world apartThou upon our gloomy wayShinest from a kindred heart,Turning darkness into day!

Matron in thy golden prime,

Well the world may envy thee;

Thou hast reached the happy time

When life holds her jubilee⁠—

Midway on her pilgrimage,

Looking backward and before,

Where end infancy and age

On her being’s misty shore.

Turning to the past, thine eyeDwells upon a way of flowers⁠—Not a cloud upon the sky’Neath which passed the happy hours.Clear the vision of the True!⁠—Standing on the verge of Time,See! Hope opens to your viewGlories of the better clime!

Turning to the past, thine eye

Dwells upon a way of flowers⁠—

Not a cloud upon the sky

’Neath which passed the happy hours.

Clear the vision of the True!⁠—

Standing on the verge of Time,

See! Hope opens to your view

Glories of the better clime!

So the past and present life⁠—What the tale the present tells?Childhood—maidenhood—awife⁠—Thus the tide of being swells⁠—Mother!oh all else in thisFade as stars before the sun,Thou the highest point of blissYielded to the True hast won.

So the past and present life⁠—

What the tale the present tells?

Childhood—maidenhood—awife⁠—

Thus the tide of being swells⁠—

Mother!oh all else in this

Fade as stars before the sun,

Thou the highest point of bliss

Yielded to the True hast won.

Love—communion—in these wordsAll the happiness we know;Without them the world affordsNought to bind the heart below;“True Affection!” with unrestWe the boon demand of all;Vainly seeking, still unblest⁠—Strangers at life’s carnival.

Love—communion—in these words

All the happiness we know;

Without them the world affords

Nought to bind the heart below;

“True Affection!” with unrest

We the boon demand of all;

Vainly seeking, still unblest⁠—

Strangers at life’s carnival.

Earnest, calm, unchanging love,With no doubt its light to shade⁠—Oh, the happiness aboveIs but this eternal made!Thou hast found it—in thine eyes,In the eyes that look to thine,As the stars from summer skiesSweetly do we see it shine.

Earnest, calm, unchanging love,

With no doubt its light to shade⁠—

Oh, the happiness above

Is but this eternal made!

Thou hast found it—in thine eyes,

In the eyes that look to thine,

As the stars from summer skies

Sweetly do we see it shine.

Exiles from a better sphereWeary wanderers are we,Doomed ’mid clouds to linger here,Source of bliss, unknowing thee!Save, when from the world apartThou upon our gloomy wayShinest from a kindred heart,Turning darkness into day!

Exiles from a better sphere

Weary wanderers are we,

Doomed ’mid clouds to linger here,

Source of bliss, unknowing thee!

Save, when from the world apart

Thou upon our gloomy way

Shinest from a kindred heart,

Turning darkness into day!

THE PERSECUTOR’S DAUGHTER.

———

BY CHARLES J. PETERSON.

———

The last days of November are at hand, and the melancholy woods, shorn of their foliage, stand skeleton-like against the cold, lowering sky; or toss their branches to and fro, with a low moaning sound, in the fitful tempest. Hark! how the gale swells out with the deep voice of a cathedral organ, or dies plaintively away like the cry of a lost child in the forest. The sky is covered with cloud-rifts of a deep, leaden color, only a spot of blue sky being here and there visible; but occasionally the sun, bursting, like a god, from the darkness that encircles him, covers the brown hills with an effulgent glory, while the opposite firmament is lit up with a dull, fiery glow, that has something almost spectral in its aspect. The streams are swollen and discolored, and roll their turbid waters hoarsely onward. Along the fields the brown grass whistles in the wind, and the bare flower-stalks rattle, with a melancholy tone, in the garden. Now and then, drops of rain plash heavily to the ground. The wind comes with a sudden chill to the nerves—the bay is crisped into foam by the fitful gusts—and along the bleak coast the now mountain waves roll in with a hoarse, sullen roar, forewarning us of shipwreck and death. Sad thoughts insensibly possess the mind, and tales of sorrow, that had long been forgot, come up to our memories. One such is even now heavy on our heart—listen! and we will rehearse it.

It was on just such a morning as this, many a long year ago, and far away from our own happy land, that a little congregation was gathered together in the hills to worship God. The time was in those sore and evil days when the decree of a tyrannical king had gone forth, that no man should worship, except as a corrupt hierarchy and lascivious court might ordain—and when, all over Scotland, those who would not give up the free birthright of their fathers, were driven to meet in mountain glens, and on lonely moors, whither their pastors—the holy men who had baptized them in infancy, and united them to the dear objects of their love—had already been hunted. And often, in solitary places, where hitherto only the cry of the eagle had been heard, the Sabbath hymn rose sweetly up from tender maidens and tearful wives, while their brothers and husbands listened with weapons in their hands, or watched from some neighboring eminence, lest the fiery dragoons of Claverhouse should be in sight. And when these God-defying troopers, with hands red with the blood of the saints, burst into the little flock, woful was the tale, and loud the wailing that went through all the vales around. Every new Sabbath brought its tale of slaughter, until the land smoked with blood, and the incense thereof went up from a hundred hills, crying for vengeance to the Most High.

And such a congregation had now met in the hollow of three hills, far away from the usual track of the persecutors. A simple rock served the hoary headed pastor for a pulpit; while hard by, a rivulet, brawling over its pebbly bed, and then for a moment expanding into a mimic lake, bottomed with silvery sands, formed the holy font for baptism. Around was gathered the little flock—aged sires and young striplings, staid matrons and meek-eyed maidens, young children and stalwart men—all gazing upward into the pastor’s face, a sacred throng. But there was one other there, who seemed equally with him an object of anxious interest, and on whom every eye was occasionally turned—a bright, beautiful being, with far more of heaven than earth in her deep, azure eyes. Oh! lovely was that fair-haired girl, even as we may have dreamed a seraph to be, all glorious with golden wings, under the throne of God. And now there sat in those soft blue eyes an expression of meek sorrow, tempered with high and holy faith, for many and sore had been the trials of Helen Græme; but grace had been given her to endure them all, and even to rise above them, with a courage which had made her dear unto every heart among these wandering and persecuted ones.

The father of Helen was the last son of a family which had been decaying for centuries, and which, of all its once mighty possessions, retained only the comparatively small estate of Craigburnie, in one of the southern counties of Scotland. To rebuild the fortunes of his house had been the darling wish of her father. For this purpose he had entered the army of the Covenanters, during the wars of the great revolution, and served with some distinction, though without permanent advantage, in consequence of the return of the king. On the happening of this event, Mr. Græme retired to his estate, soured and disappointed. Here he would have been far more discontented than he was, but for his wife, a lady of the meekest piety, and whose single minded charity was known throughout all her native hills, for Mrs. Græme was the daughter of one of the holiest ministers of the kirk, and inherited not only his piety, but the fervent admiration with which he was regarded by his parishioners. She early instilled into her child the pure precepts of our holy religion, and often might the little girl be seen seated at her mother’s knee, lisping the word of God, which the parent taught her thus early to peruse. And, on the Sabbath, who listened more attentively to the venerable pastor, or joined with sweeter voice in the anthem of praise? Nurtured thus, what wonder that at seventeen she seemed the counterpart of the mother, and was regarded by the poorer folk around the Brae—her mother’s birthplace, and where she spent several months each year—almost with veneration, for had not many of them, in times of sore trial, been sustained by the bounty, and cheered by the smiles of the heavenly girl?

But at length her mother fell sick, and for many a weary month Helen watched by the sufferer’s bed-side, a ministering angel. During this illness she noticed that, at times, her father would seem lost in thought, as if something weighed heavily on his mind; but Helen regarded it little, attributing it to his suspense at her mother’s danger, for he loved both her and his child with an intensity seemingly in contradiction to his hard, unbending character, but which, in truth, was the result of his total seclusion from the world; for the sympathies thus shut out from others lavished themselves wholly on his wife and daughter. At length, Mrs. Græme died, and for many days it seemed as if that strong man’s heart would break, while Helen wept in silence, though not less uncontrollably. Her father was now sterner than ever, though not to her. He was more alone, often indulged in fits of musing, and was absent at Edinburgh for some days—an unusual occurrence—and when he came back it was as Sir Roland Græme, a title which men said he had purchased by selling himself to the Court. Helen heard these rumors—which, however, came to her ears in whispers, and which at first she could not believe—with sorrow and despair of heart; but no word of reproof broke from her lips. Her sufferings were endured silently; but so deep was her grief, that she pined away, seeming to all eyes a being lent awhile to earth, and gradually exhaling to heaven. Her father, thinking her sorrow sprung wholly from her mother’s death, and wishing, perhaps, that she should be from home when he should first act for the government, sent her to her mother’s native vale, alleging, and doubtless hoping, that change of air would restore her to health. It were doing him no more than justice to say, that his paternal love was fully aroused to Helen’s danger, and that he took the only possible means to keep at his side this dear bud of her who was now in heaven. He forgot how much the little family at the Brae leaned toward the persecuted sect—he forgot the disaffected character of the district into which Helen went—he forgot the danger lest her own feelings should become enlisted in behalf of those against whom he was so soon to draw his sword; remembering only—for was he not a father?—that his child’s health was in danger, and that a residence in the mountain district where she had been born, and where she had spent so many happy years, was the sole chance of saving her life.

And now Helen was once more amid the scenes where her childhood had been spent, and every old counsel and prayer of her mother, recalled to mind by the spots where they had been first heard, rose up before her, and softened her heart; and often, at Sabbath eve, or in the still watches of the night, it seemed to her as if the spirit of that sainted mother hovered over her, whispering her heavenward, and bidding her never to forget or forsake her God. All the sympathies which now surrounded her, drew her to the persecuted sect; for her cousin and aunt were both among the non-conformists; and though the little kirk, standing all alone in the hills, a cool well in a parched desert, was now closed, and he who had formerly ministered there an outcast, yet the sight and recognition of him, at more than one stolen meeting, recalled to Helen’s mind the time when he blessed her, nestling bird-like to her mother’s bosom, she looking the while half affrightedly, yet oh, how reverentially, up into the face of the mild old man! And was not her heart softened, even to tears, when the patriarch, well remembering her—for none did he ever forget—sought her among the crowd, and, laying his hands on her head, blessed her, hoping that God still kept her in the way her mother had trod? From that hour Helen became a changed being. The light heartedness of youth was gone. She wept often, and prayed in solitary places by herself; for lo! the struggle in her bosom, between duty to her parent, and a higher duty to God, waxed stronger and stronger; but daily she yearned more and more to the oppressed remnant, until finally it was whispered in the scattered congregation that the persecutor’s daughter—that child of many prayers—was to become a professed member of the flock. And old men and nursing mothers in the church blessed God as they heard it.

On this Sabbath morning, Helen had, for the first time, openly attended a meeting in the hills. At first, she had come with fear and trembling, but when she saw the looks of kindly sympathy with which all regarded her, she became more composed, and could enter on the holy duties of the day in a fitting mood. And when the aged pastor gave out the hymn, and the congregation joined in the sacred anthem, what voice sang of redeeming love so sweetly as that of Helen?

Lo! the vision of light has passed from our souls, and in place of that seraphic countenance, we behold the face of a stern warrior, in every feature of which we read of cruelty and blood. Even now he is hot in pursuit of the suffering remnant, and with his troop of fiery dragoons interrupts the Sabbath quiet of the vales and glens, with the jingling of broad swords and the ribald jests of scoffers; and many a dark-browed peasant scowls on the persecutor as he passes, and prays that God will yet avenge his slaughtered saints. Nor, if the popular rumor is to be believed, is that vengeance altogether withheld; for men say that Sir Roland Græme, having sold his religion for the paltry honors of earth, has been already cursed from on high, and that, sleeping or waking, he finds no rest from the stingings of remorse; yet, like one who has committed the unpardonable sin, he cannot draw back from his career of blood, but is impelled onward, as if by some irresistible power, to still darker crimes. Look upon his face again, and tell us if there is not something there which you shudder to behold—something of untold horror in that stern, God-defying brow, as if the arch-enemy had already been suffered to affix his seal upon it.

And whither was that man of blood going? Far, far over hill and dale, to the slaughter of the saints. He had heard, through some traitor, of the assemblage to be held that morning in the hills, and with the first dawn of day he and his troopers had been in the saddle, thirsting to participate in the bloody sacrament. For the last half hour he had seemed lost in thought, and now he suddenly drew in his rein, and turned to his lieutenant.

“Lennox,” he said, “I believe I will not lead these brave fellows to-day, but surrender the command to you. I see, over yonder hill, the blue summit that looks down on the Brae, where my daughter is visiting. I have not seen her for months, nor is it probable I shall be in this district for many months more. The country here is widely disaffected, and therefore an unbecoming residence for a child of mine. It has just struck me that I might cross the hills, and bring her home with me this afternoon. And yet something whispers to me that I ought rather to pursue these traitors and schismatics,” he continued, as if to himself; “however, I can trust to you, and it is imperative that my daughter leave this district. We will meet here by four o’clock. Your road lies down yonder glen. All I have to say is, ‘spare none!’ ”

“I understand,” said the subordinate; “neither age nor sex.”

“Neither age nor sex, nor even those of rank, if such there be,” sternly said Sir Roland; “when the poison has sunk deep, nothing but the cautery will cure. And hark ye! on the faithful execution of your commands depends your hope of preferment. I would not spare my own child, if I found her among these spawn of Satan!”

And, with these memorable words, he ordered a detachment of his company to follow him, and rode off, though at first reluctantly, in the direction of the Brae.

The route was passed in silence, for Sir Roland was buried in thought. There was indeed cause for it. One or two things in the last letter he had received from his daughter—and that missive had now been written a month—made him feel uneasy, lest she looked more favorably on the persecuted sect than became a daughter of his; and it was this fear, all at once recalled to mind by the business on which he had set forth this morning, that determined him so suddenly to leave the dispersion of the conventicle to his lieutenant, while he should ride over to the Brae, and bring his daughter home. Other thoughts, too, were busy within him. The long coveted rank had brought little alleviation to his soured and disappointed mind, for his fortune was now more than ever inadequate to his condition, and all the peculiarly sensitive feelings of a proud man were stung to the quick by the indignities to which, in consequence, he was often exposed. Moreover, he was aware of the light in which he was held, since his change of politics, not only by the common people, but by large portions of the gentry; so that, on every hand, he was soured and irritated, and longed to wreak on the Covenanters the hate which he felt toward all men.

And yet, as he approached the Brae, and saw at a distance the low roof of the mansion from which he had taken his bride, gentler feelings stole into his bosom. He thought of her whom he had once loved with all the fervor of a first passion—he remembered the happy years they had spent together—and when he recollected that she was now no more, and that the last time he had beheld these roofs he had been in her company, a tear almost gathered into his eye. Then he thought of his daughter. As her image rose up before him, his heart was fully melted. With all the sternness of his character he loved that daughter as few fathers loved—ay! loved her doubly since her mother’s death, for she was now the only object in the whole wide world on which he could bestow aught of affection. And now, joy at the prospect of meeting her gave to his spirits the glad exhilaration of boyhood, and quickening his pace, he galloped gaily across the hills, nor drew his rein until he reached the door of the old mansion.

The Brae was an antique and partially dilapidated residence, at present inhabited by the aunt of Helen, and a daughter about the age of Miss Græme. At all times it wore a sombre, deserted look, but on this morning it seemed peculiarly desolate, for the whole front of the house was closed, and all the outhouses shut up. A strange fear came over the father, as he beheld the absence of these signs of life, and he hastily ordered one of the dragoons to dismount and knock at the door. The man obeyed, but for a time knocked in vain. The sound of the hilt of his heavy sword, striking on the door, echoed through the long hall of the house; but no signs of life within were visible. The usual frown on the face of Sir Roland grew darker, and he cried angrily—

“Blow off the lock with a pistol, and search the house!”

At this instant, however, and just as the trooper was proceeding to execute this order, the face of an old woman was protruded from one of the upper windows, while she demanded who was below.

“Sir Roland Græme,” replied the leader; “where are the family? where is Miss Græme? Is any one sick?”

“They are all well, but out!” briefly said the woman.

“Out—out!” exclaimed the persecutor, “and on Sunday, when there is no church within miles. By G—,” he continued, striving to drown his fears in rage, “is this a time to be out? Where have they gone? Answer truly, on your life!”

“May it please your honor,” said one of the dragoons, touching his cap, “may they not have gone to this conventicle, and taken your daughter with them?”

Quick as lightning, Sir Roland wheeled round on the unthinking speaker, and while the indentation on his brow became deeper than ever, and his eye flashed with rage, he said—

“Mydaughter consorting with traitors and schismatics! Breathe but the word again, and by the God of heaven I will cleave you to the chine!” and his fingers played nervously with the hilt of his sword; but, seeing the deprecating look of the trooper, he recovered himself, and added, “tush! man, you are innocent, but take care how even innocently you rouse the tiger.”

“Tiger,” shrieked the old woman, who had known Sir Roland in former days, and who now seemed impelled by some sudden gust of passion to speak out, “it is well said; ay! one whose fangs have been in the hearts of the persecuted remnant—but God will avenge his people. Know, false persecutor, that your daughterhasgone forth to-day to become one of the chosen few against whom, oh! man of sin, you have so often ridden with steel and war horse, holding the commission of your master, the Evil One. Go to, Roland Græme, I mind ye when ye were a boy, and little did I think ye would ever become the Judas you are now.”

It is probable that if her hearer had comprehended the whole of this harangue, a bullet would have been the speaker’s reward; but the first words of the old woman, when taken in connection with the desertion of the house, and his own misgivings from Helen’s late letter, assured him that his daughter had indeed attended the conventicle. The conviction fell on his heart with agonizing force. Remembering the injunctions of indiscriminate butchery he had laid on his subordinate, and well knowing that the command would be fulfilled to the very letter, he staggered back in his saddle, with a face whiter than ashes, and was fain to grasp the pommel for support, while he exclaimed in tones wrung from him by the keenest anguish—

“My child!—my child!—I have murdered my child!”

“What is that ye say?” screamed the old hag, leaning eagerly forward; “have ye sent out your reiving dragoons against the Lord’s anointed? and ye fear that they will slay your ain bairn. Oh! man of blood, the judgment of God has come upon ye—the judgment has come upon ye!”

But to the voice of the speaker, as well as to the astonished looks of the dragoons, the father was insensible. He still remained clutching the saddle, every feature of his face working with intense agony, and his eyes glaring vacantly on the air. Those who looked on him shrunk back aghast at the horror of his aspect; which, fearful as it was, only faintly shadowed forth the torture of the soul within. The peril of his only child stupefied him for a time. Then a succession of wild images rose up to his mind. He saw his daughter flying before the ruthless dragoons—he heard her cries for mercy, and the bitter sneer of disbelief on the part of her pursuers—he beheld her lying a corpse on the bare heath, her bosom gashed with brutal wounds, and her long fair hair dabbled with blood. In that moment the memory of every one whom he had slain came up before him—the mothers who had clung to his knees, the babes who had looked innocently in his face as they died, the daughters whose aged parents he had slain before their eyes. He thought of the silvery headed patriarch whom he had shot for refusing the test, and the prophetic warning of the victim that he, even he, the proud persecutor, should curse the day he ever drew his sword against the saints, came up to his memory. He groaned in anguish. For a time none dared to intrude on his misery. One of his men, a trusty body adherent, at length ventured to speak, by asking him if they had not better ride with all haste after Lennox, in the hope that they might yet come up in time. Starting, as if a shot had struck him, the father plunged his rowels into the side of his steed, until the blood gushed forth, and wheeling his horse sharp around, looked back sternly on his followers, as he led the way at a fearful pace up the hill. Well did he know the country around, and necessary, indeed, was that knowledge, for his frantic gallop required the most intimate acquaintance with every turn and inequality of the road. Over hill and dale, through glen and moor he dashed, reckless of danger, for how could he think of aught but his daughter? Oh! what would he not have given to be assured that he should once more look into her soft blue eyes, that he should again press her to his bosom. What now to him was rank or wealth? Perhaps he thought that Helen would be able to reveal her name ere she fell a victim—but no! for even if she spoke, would his subordinate believe her story? Once, the very suspicion that she favored the Covenanters had angered him, but now he would forgive every thing, only to be assured of her safety. The contending emotions—hope and fear, love and anger, suspense and despair—that agitated his bosom, made that hour’s ride an hour of agony, such as he had never before thought a human being could endure, and live. He felt that the curse of God was on him—that all the agonies he had inflicted on others were now concentrated on himself—that he was bound to the wheel of fire. His punishment had already begun. He had rushed against the thick bosses of the Almighty’s buckler, and found, like him of old, that man could not contend against the Most High.

We remember, when a boy, waking from a dream of horror, to find our mother smiling over our sleep. Oh! never shall we forget the heavenly radiance of that loved face, for radiant with heaven it seemed to us, after the terrors of that midnight vision. Even so we feel when turning from contemplating the tortures of the persecutor, to gaze on his sainted child. The hour was now approaching noon, and Helen, in the presence of the silent flock, had taken upon her those vows she could never put off. Tears fell from many an eye as the worshipers beheld her thus in their midst; and the old pastor was so affected that he could scarcely speak.

“God will reward you, my daughter, and give you strength,” he said; “I bless His holy name that thou art delivered from the dominion of Baal. It is hard, I know, to disobey a parent; but saith not the Scripture, that we must leave father and mother, if required, and take up our cross and follow Christ? Only persevere, and God will make your way plain to you, guiding you, even as he led the children of Israel, with a pillar of cloud by day, and of fire by night. Trials, and sore ones, we must all have in this world—and I boast not, but only speak to cheer you, when I say that mine have been many and hard, but God has given me grace to endure all, even as He will give it unto you. But my race is nearly run; the golden urn will soon be broken at the fountain. I only pray to die like the martyrs of old, with my armor on, and my sword girt to my thigh. Come, oh! Lord, most mighty,” he continued, raising his hands and eyes rapturously above, “come, oh! Lord most gracious, and come quickly!”

A deep silence followed the conclusion of this prayer, while the tears of many fell fast and thick. Every eye was fixed on the holy man, or turned to Helen, for the countenances of both already seemed to glow, as those of angels. None dared to draw a breath, lest they should dispel the hushed stillness that so well accorded with the solemnity of the moment. But suddenly a cry was heard, clear, loud and startling—“The dragoons—the dragoons are here!” and had a voice come from the dead, it would not have produced a more sudden change in the hearers. Every one started up, and all eyes were turned toward the point whence the cry had proceeded. There, on a gentle eminence, stood a shepherd waving his plaid, and making gestures for the congregation to fly up the glen. In an instant all was confusion. Mothers clasped their infants to their bosoms, and looked up tremblingly, with faces whiter than ashes—maidens clung to their lovers, and gazed around with dilated eyes and looks of terror—and fathers and brothers, gathering around these dear ones, hurried them on foot and horseback, in the direction indicated by the sentinel. The escort of Helen and her aunt had been several armed retainers, and these now rallied to the side of their mistress and the pastor, prepared to make good their retreat, or defend themselves to the last. Hoping to escape the notice of the pursuers, they dashed off in a different direction from that pursued by the others of the congregation; but just as they turned the angle of the hill, the pennons of the troopers came into sight, and by the immediate diversion of a party in pursuit of them, the fugitives knew they were detected. Pricking their horses, they now hurried rapidly onward, and for several hundred yards lost sight of their pursuers. At length, the little party reached the brow of a slight acclivity.

“Faster—faster,” said one who had looked back, “they gain on us—press on.”

Every eye was turned in the direction of the pursuers, and there, not half the distance they had been before, were the dragoons, thundering along with fiery haste. The sight gave new energy to the fugitives, who urged on their steeds with redoubled vigor. For a while now the result seemed doubtful. During this interval of suspense the feelings of the fugitives were of the most conflicting character—the instinctive love of life alternating with a holy resignation to whatever fate might be assigned them. Now, as they gained on the troopers, the former prevailed, and now, as they saw their pursuers drawing nigher, the latter won the mastery. The emotions of each, meanwhile, were different. The old pastor, with eyes uplifted, seemed rapturously awaiting martyrdom—the aunt and cousin of Helen were pale and red by turns as their fear or faith rose triumphant, while the serving men frowned darkly as they looked behind, and appeared to wish for a chance to exchange passes with their steel-clad oppressors. But the feelings of Helen were most difficult to analyze, though perhaps they had less of earth in them than those of any except the pastor. Subdued by the day’s sacrifice of herself, and all glowing with divine faith and energy, what had she to fear from death? Yet, even with this perfect resignation, she could not avoid looking back on their pursuers, while her heart heat quicker as the distance increased between the troopers and themselves.

“We gain—we gain—press on, we shall escape,” shouted the leader of the little party, “the Lord will yet deliver us from our enemies.”

“Nay, nay,” said the pastor suddenly, “the hour has come—see ye not that we are cut off in front, lo! the horses and the men-of-war.”

A cry—almost a shriek—broke from Helen’s two female companions as they looked ahead, and saw, emerging from a narrow ravine, another party of dragoons, led by a tall, dark man far in advance of the rest, and all riding with tumultuous haste. Helen spoke not, but only raised her eyes to heaven, for escape was now impossible. The ravine ahead was the only feasible outlet in that direction, from the glen up which the fugitives had fled, and to turn back would be to fall on the swords of their pursuers. The serving men looked aghast, and drew in their reins, which example the rest of the party immediately followed. For a minute there was a profound silence. At length the leader again spoke.

“Why stand we here? Escape is impossible, unless we can cut our way through. Let us charge the party behind, for that is the smaller. Form a circle around the women—wheel—trot.”

There was no time for consultation, and the proposal seemed to point out the only feasible plan. With the words they wheeled their horses, and dashed to the desperate attack. The dragoons seemed for an instant astonished by the movement, but did not slacken their pace. Their leader waved his sword, and turning to his men, led the onset in person, shouting “God save the king and bishops,” while the Covenanters, unsheathing their blades, raised the cry of “The sword of the Lord and Gideon.” And thus, borne in the midst of those armed men as in the embrace of a whirlwind, Helen was hurried toward the dragoons. And as they galloped along, the heavenly girl, with heart uplifted, prayed, while her countenance shone with a glory as of the cherubim.

And who was it that dashed so frantically up the glen, as if fearful that he might not arrive to whet his blade in the blood of the fugitives? Who, but Sir Roland Græme, flying to save his daughter, and even now almost maddened with the thought that he had come too late, for the instant that he emerged from the ravine he recognized his child, and now, when he saw her turned back to the pursuers, and his practiced eye told him that he could not reach her until the two parties should be engaged in deadly combat, the same sickening sensation of horror which had attacked him at the Brae came over him again. With a sharp cry of agony he ploughed his spurs into the already bloody sides of his horse, and sprang forward at a pace even more frantic than that which he had before led; but swift as was his progress it seemed to him only that of a snail. On—on—he urged his gallant beast, and nearer and nearer the fugitives and their first pursuers drew to each other. What though he gained on the group!—he saw that the hostile parties would meet while he would yet be far away. Oh! what were his feelings as this conviction forced itself on him. If only another mile, in which to overtake them, had been given him, he might perhaps have succeeded; but now hope was in vain! Cold drops of sweat stood on his brow, while his heart throbbed almost to bursting against his corselet. Did none recognize him, and could they not understand his frantic signs? He shouted—again—again—again. The dead might as well be expected to hear. He waved his plumed hat on high, but, at that instant, with the shock of an earthquake, the opponents met. A dizziness came over his eyes, but with a mighty effort he rallied his reeling faculties, and looked at the fight. Was his child yet alive? He saw the gleam of the broadswords, the blaze of firearms, and all the tumult of the conflict, but his daughter was not visible. Suddenly a sharp, quick, female shriek, rising shrill over the uproar, met his ear. God of heaven, had his Helen fallen! Another leap of his frantic steed, and he was near enough to hear the shouts of the combatants and distinguish particular persons. He trembled with eagerness, but lo! his daughter was still unharmed, girt around as with a wall of steel, by the broadswords of her defenders. He rose in his stirrups at the sight, and waving his hat around his head, shouted with the voice of a Titan. Joy—joy! they recognize him, and his child extends her arms toward him. She is saved. But no! for at this very instant, when at length they understood by their leader’s gestures that they were to desist, one of the dragoons, availing himself of the confusion of the moment and thirsting for vengeance for a wound he had received, aimed a pistol at the pastor’s bosom, and though a fellow soldier struck aside his arm, it was only to wing the deadly ball to another heart, even that of Helen, who all along had been nestled by the side of the holy man. She fell back into his arms, the blood gushing from her bosom, and for an instant they thought her gone. But when the pastor called on her name she faintly opened her eyes, pressed his hand, smiled sweetly, and murmuring of heaven, sank away apparently into a slumber.

One wild cry of horror had risen, at her fall, from those immediately around her, telling the tale of her murder; but the father needed not this confirmation of his worst fears, for he had seen the shot and beheld her fall. Galloping wildly forward, with a few gigantic leaps he reached the offender, whom he smote to the earth with a single blow of his broadsword. The next instant he was by his daughter’s side, the group opening awe-struck to let him pass. He spoke not, but oh! the terrible agony of his countenance. Putting them aside with arms extended, he approached and gazed down into the face of his child—gazed as Sapphira did when the apostle told her doom, and she saw the bearers returning from her husband’s burial. And for a minute of profound silence he continued gazing thus, into that fair sweet face, on which, though now stilled as in death, there yet lingered a smile of heavenly joy. He shuddered as he looked, and his countenance became livid as that of a corpse. He essayed to speak, but though his lips moved, no sound proceeded from them. At length slowly, almost reluctantly, he stooped down and took her hand.

“Helen—Helen,” he said, in a choking voice, “you are not dead. Say so—tell me I am not your murderer. Oh! speak, and forgive me.”

The dying girl faintly opened her eyes, and gazed vacantly into her father’s face. Her senses were fast deserting her. She did not recognize him.

“Oh God! my child is dying,” groaned the father. “Helen, Helen,” he continued, raising his voice, “do you not know me? I am your father—your murderer. Do not look on me with such strange eyes! Helen, Helen dear, say, if only by a smile, that you forgive me. Oh! Lord God of heaven,” he exclaimed, lifting his eyes agonizingly above, “have mercy on me—suffer her to live to forgive me—crush not the bruised reed,” and hot tears gushed from his eyes and trickled in his daughter’s face.

“Who weeps?” faintly said the dying sufferer, “weep not for me. Tell my father how I love him, and die blessing him⁠—”

“Thank thee, Almighty Father, I thank thee,” gasped the penitent. “Helen, here is your father—I am he.”

For the first time, now, the dying girl seemed fully to comprehend her situation. She looked a minute around the group, and then, with a sweet smile, her eyes rested on her father’s face. She faintly pressed his hand. Tears gushed from his eyes like rain, and though he strove to speak he could not for his sobs. She murmured of him, of her mother, of heaven, and then they knew she was dead. The father looked on her a moment, and with a groan—which none there ever forgot—sunk helpless to her side. They raised him, but he was a corpse. “Vengeance is mine,” saith the Lord, “and I will repay.”

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