SONG.

———

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

———

These prairies glow with flowers,These groves are tall and fair;The mocking-bird with music fillsThe fragrant morning air.And yet I pine to seeMy native hill once more,And hear the sparrow’s friendly chirpBeside its cottage door.And he for whom I leftMy native hill and brook,Alas! I sometimes think I traceA coldness in his look.If I have lost his love,I know my heart will break;And haply they I left for himWill sorrow for my sake.

These prairies glow with flowers,

These groves are tall and fair;

The mocking-bird with music fills

The fragrant morning air.

And yet I pine to see

My native hill once more,

And hear the sparrow’s friendly chirp

Beside its cottage door.

And he for whom I leftMy native hill and brook,Alas! I sometimes think I traceA coldness in his look.If I have lost his love,I know my heart will break;And haply they I left for himWill sorrow for my sake.

And he for whom I left

My native hill and brook,

Alas! I sometimes think I trace

A coldness in his look.

If I have lost his love,

I know my heart will break;

And haply they I left for him

Will sorrow for my sake.

THE MIDSHIPMAN’S FAREWELL.

———

BY MRS. CORNELIA DA PONTE.

———

When slumber seals those heavenly eyes,And dreams of rapture round thee glow,When angels watch, for angels loveTo guard the pure from ills below,Mine in that hour must keep the watchAlone upon the midnight sea,As winds and waves with hated speedBear me away from home and thee.Yes, mine shall fix their silent gaze,Nor shrink if danger hover near;This hand that trembles now in thine,Must grasp the sword without a fear;And for the music of thy voice,The stormy wave with shout of men,For whispers soft, words stern and coldMust be the sounds that hail me then.The hour has come, fresh blows the gale,Our ship moves down yon tide afar,Away, away beyond that tideThy image follows as a star;Farewell to thee, farewell to all,My native land and skies above;O who will greet the wanderer nowWith soothing words or smiles of love?

When slumber seals those heavenly eyes,

And dreams of rapture round thee glow,

When angels watch, for angels love

To guard the pure from ills below,

Mine in that hour must keep the watch

Alone upon the midnight sea,

As winds and waves with hated speed

Bear me away from home and thee.

Yes, mine shall fix their silent gaze,Nor shrink if danger hover near;This hand that trembles now in thine,Must grasp the sword without a fear;And for the music of thy voice,The stormy wave with shout of men,For whispers soft, words stern and coldMust be the sounds that hail me then.

Yes, mine shall fix their silent gaze,

Nor shrink if danger hover near;

This hand that trembles now in thine,

Must grasp the sword without a fear;

And for the music of thy voice,

The stormy wave with shout of men,

For whispers soft, words stern and cold

Must be the sounds that hail me then.

The hour has come, fresh blows the gale,Our ship moves down yon tide afar,Away, away beyond that tideThy image follows as a star;Farewell to thee, farewell to all,My native land and skies above;O who will greet the wanderer nowWith soothing words or smiles of love?

The hour has come, fresh blows the gale,

Our ship moves down yon tide afar,

Away, away beyond that tide

Thy image follows as a star;

Farewell to thee, farewell to all,

My native land and skies above;

O who will greet the wanderer now

With soothing words or smiles of love?

Remember me, ’tis all I ask,When others gaze, when others sigh,When others plead with bending knee,And drink the beauty of thine eye,Remember then, for e’en in dreams,Though bright they come, this heart shall weep,My thirsting spirit vainly seekThy image on the lonely deep.

Remember me, ’tis all I ask,

When others gaze, when others sigh,

When others plead with bending knee,

And drink the beauty of thine eye,

Remember then, for e’en in dreams,

Though bright they come, this heart shall weep,

My thirsting spirit vainly seek

Thy image on the lonely deep.

LAW AND LOVE.

OR GAINING A CASE.

———

BY ICHABOD JONES.

———

“So, Oliver, you have a case with which to commence your career at the bar?”

“Yes, thanks to Uncle Scott, I have.”

“And will you allow me to ask what it is?”

“Well, to tell you that, I must first know myself. I believe it to be in relation to a contested will, but as to the particulars you are as wise as I.”

“A will case, eh! I have heard old lawyers say they were the best of cases, as far as fee is concerned.”

“To-morrow I am to have an interview with my client. My uncle gave such a glowing description of her that he has quite raised my curiosity.”

“A lady for a client! why that’s better yet. By the bye, Oliver, you seem somewhat indifferent to the divine sex; and yet you have a warm heart.”

“For friendship, James, but how can I think of love, the owner of the six chairs, book-case and table you see, and nothing but my profession to rely on for the future. Love never flourishes in so stern a climate.”

“We have the best authority for knowing that it lives through the fiercest tempest, as well as under the beautiful skies of Italy. What do you think, Oliver, of a rich wife?”

“I think such advice comes very badly from you. Let me ask in turn why you are about to connect yourself with a penniless girl, when you might win the greatest fortune in town.”

This question came to the point, but it received no other answer than a light laugh as the young man turned on his heel to go.

“Well, Oliver, I wish you great success in the cause of this lovely client. Good day,” said he, in the gleeful tone of a heart free from care. And, indeed, if this could be the condition of any mortal in this care-worn world, it was that of James Ashly. Thus far in life his path had been strewn with flowers, and in the horizon of the future no clouds were visible. The son of an opulent merchant, endowed by nature with a good mind, and possessing in a rare degree that animation only to be acquired by intercourse with gay society, he was an unusual favorite with those in whose company he mingled, especially the fairer portion, whose gentle hearts are ever gracious, to that easy air and manner, too much neglected by their fancied lords and superiors. But he joined with these superficial graces of address, a cultivated intellect, stored with much useful information, which are so seldom united as to be deemed inconsistent, if not antagonistical. By the latter he retained all the good will and esteem which by the former he gained.

In his extensive acquaintance no friend was more valued than Oliver Barton, a young lawyer, in whose office the above conversation occurred, and whose fortune consisted of little more than a well-furnished mind and generous heart—a kind of wealth little appreciated in this matter-of-fact world. He had been educated by a maternal uncle, who rejoiced in the name of Scott, and having made choice of the legal profession, was fitted in due course for the bar. In the maiden speech he delivered, shortly after his admission, he gave promise of future eminence and distinction. Unlike his friend, he was reserved and somewhat diffident, but his intrinsic worth and handsome form won favor and respect by less striking, but equally certain means. It was only when well known that those nice shades of merit, which so permanently recommend their possessor, could be discovered in his character. His prominent forehead and rather heavy brow gave a slight shade of melancholy to his countenance, but their intellectual expression, increased by the steady light of a dark eye, commanded admiration. When he smiled a row of glistening teeth revealed themselves, and his features were lit up with a life and joy rendered more striking by their usual thoughtful repose.

——

The next day Oliver Barton proceeded to his office at an earlier hour than usual; so early indeed that most of those adjoining were still closed. Being of a meditative turn of mind, and even inclined to castle-building, this era of his life afforded much subject for thought. “If I succeed,” thought he, “it will be the commencement of an extensive practice.” Forthwith, upon this contingency, he proceeded to erect a magnificent superstructure in the air, which was finally blown away by it occurring to him that he mightnotsucceed. Unwilling to contemplate this side of the picture, and remembering his client was a lady, he took from the table before him “Chesterfield’s Letters,” in hopes of finding something there both useful and entertaining.

Notwithstanding the agreeable wit and advice of his lordship, the hours passed heavily. At last in came Uncle Scott, a little, genteel-looking person, in tight pantaloons and well-brushed coat, carryinghis ivory-headed cane under his arm. He looked the very personification of a precise old bachelor, who had lived in the great world and grown wise by experience.

“Here I am, according to appointment,” said he, pulling a showy watch from its fob, “just half past twelve, and we are to be at Miss Medford’s at one.”

“I’m ready, uncle,” returned Oliver, after having changed his coat and settled his hat before the glass with extra attention. Mr. Scott, like most old bachelors, was very punctual in fulfilling engagements.

“You told me, I believe, that Miss Medford was an orphan?” said Oliver, when they had reached the street.

“Yes, poor thing,” answered Mr. Scott, “she lost her mother while still an infant, and it has now been ten years since her father, Charles Medford, died. He was a generous, noble-hearted fellow, but too much given to fine company and expense. I recollect him well, for we were young men together, and dashed about in the same gay society. He married a beautiful woman for love,” and Uncle Scott sighed, “with her face for her fortune, and as his own amounted to little more, the match was any thing but happy. To be deprived of the only parent she had ever known nearly broke Clara’s heart, and she wept long and bitterly. So touching was her grief it affected the heart of her uncle, John Medford, who, as he was a bachelor, adopted her, and resolved to cherish her as his own. He was one of the most singular men I have ever known. Withered and forbidding in appearance, crabbed in temper, and particular about money matters even to parsimony, he was no attractive object to so tender a flower as Clara. But, by her childish love and attention, she insinuated herself into his unkindly heart, and soothed the many cares of the declining years of his life—so that even he blessed her. At his death the principal amount of his property was bequeathed to her, but with this singular provision, that if she marry within ten years it was to go to some distant relative. Among the many whims of the old man, he particularly hated a branch of his family, the children of a disobedient sister. These are now endeavoring to prove the illegality of the will in question, as they are entirely cut off by it from all share in his estate; but you shall hear more of the circumstances from her own lips.”

They were now at their destination, and in a few moments found themselves seated in a spacious and richly furnished parlor, containing many indications of female taste and attention. On the centre-table lay a small boquet of beautiful flowers, blushing with the freshness of the field, but which, on a closer inspection, were found to be artificial, doubtless moulded under the delicate fingers of the presiding fairy. A number of beautifully shaded landscape sketches next attracted Oliver’s attention, and as he turned from one to another he would have forgotten the dry subject on which he came, but for the promptings of Mr. Scott.

They had not waited long before Clara Medford entered. If Oliver had been affected by her story he was still more touched with her winning grace and beauty, enhanced rather than obscured by the deep mourning in which she was dressed. She was somewhat pale, but he would have found no difficulty in accounting for this in her late affliction, had not the sweet expression of her hazel eye more than atoned for it. Her mien was so easy and unaffected that Oliver, who had dreaded the awkward formality of so embarrassing an interview, felt at once perfectly self-possessed. There was something serene and even childlike in her countenance, which was extremely interesting, and she seemed polite, rather because it was natural to her, than in obedience to the requirements of custom.

We leave them to converse over the business of the suit, of which the reader already knows sufficient for the purposes of our narrative.

——

Some weeks after the scene of our last chapter, Clara Medford was sitting where the young attorney had first seen her. Jane Preston, an intimate friend, who had called to pay a morning visit, sat by her side on the sofa with bonnet and shawl still on.

“Well, Clara,” said she, changing their conversation, “you are now secured in the possession of this house and all your uncle’s property; my, what wealth! I’m sure I wish it may yield you all the happiness you desire.”

“Thank you, Jane, for your kind wishes,” answered Clara mildly, “but I have thought that wealth seldom confers as much real happiness as it brings additional care and anxiety.”

“But your care, unlike that of others, ends for the best.”

“True, I have no disappointment to complain of,” said Clara, “but my success is only a negative pleasure, after all.”

“I am sure I should think it a very positive one,” returned Miss Preston, as she rose to go. Clara pressed her to stay longer, but, pleading an engagement, she proceeded to the door.

“But, Clara,” said she, continuing their conversation on the steps, “do tell me who young Lawyer Barton is?”

“I know little more of him than that he is very talented in his profession,” replied Clara, slightly blushing, more at the manner in which it was asked than at the question itself.

“I have heard he was very retired, and went but little into company,” continued Jane, giving information when she found none was to be obtained. “But every one agrees that he has conducted your late suit with great ability, for which, I suppose, you are very grateful,” said she, with an arch side glance at her companion.

“I am, sincerely so,” returned Clara seriously, butwith a rapid change of countenance she added, “Oh! Jane, I almost forgot to ask you whether you have yet appointed a day to gratify your sighing swain?”

“Oh!” exclaimed she, blushing crimson in turn, “I’ll tell you when we’ve more time, for it’s a long story. Good-by, Clara, don’t be too grateful to the handsome Mr. Barton,” and with a ringing, joyous laugh, she tripped lightly down the marble steps.

“Good-by,” returned Clara, gazing after her retiring form, and almost envying her the happy spirit with which she was animated.

At the time the above conversation occurred, Oliver Barton was meditating on his encouraging success in the late trial, alone in the office where twice before we have seen him. There was a more than usual melancholy in the expression of his countenance. His head rested on his hand, and at intervals he would heave an involuntary sigh, as though his thoughts were of no agreeable nature. One would have concluded that some great misfortune, rather than triumphant success, had befallen him. At length he was roused from his reverie by the sound of rapid footsteps in the entry, and in another moment James Ashly had entered.

“Well, Oliver,” said he, “so you exerted your eloquence to some purpose. I knew when I saw your eye that you intended carrying all before you. But,” continued he, observing the dejected mood of his friend, “what is the matter—have you heard of the death of any near relative?”

“No,” answered Oliver, “I ought, I know, to be very happy.”

“You have cause to be so, certainly; then what has made you look like a man contemplating suicide.”

“Sit down, James,” said Oliver, in a calm tone, and composing himself as with an effort, “and I will tell you the cause; I confide in your friendship, because I know its sincerity. The truth is, my sentiments toward Miss Medford are not those of mere admiration, they are warmer; I feel that I love her,” and starting from his chair, he strode rapidly across the room.

“And, Oliver,” urged James, when the first surprise of so unexpected an announcement was over, “is it cause of grief to love a girl so amiable and beautiful as Miss Medford? You are already esteemed by her, and time may incline her heart to a more tender sentiment. There is but one short step between friendship and love. This suit is now so happily terminated—”

“You have named the most embittering reflection of all,” said Oliver, stopping before him and speaking earnestly; “by that decision the validity of a will is established, which deprives her of the right to dispose of her hand. By its mandate she must resign all; and what could I offer to compensate her for the sacrifice? The homage of my heart, and the devotion of my life, are worthless trifles. I knew, while striving to establish her rights, that if successful I sealed my own unhappiness, and forever cut off all hope of calling her mine. I even debated with myself whether I might not lose the case by mismanagement, and then win the heart of the trusting, beautiful Clara. It was a great conflict for a single moment, but the temptation yielded to a sense of honor and justice. Her cause triumphed; and at least I have the melancholy satisfaction left of knowing that I served the one I love.”

Oliver spoke with the eloquence of despair, and his friend listened, engrossed in astonishment and admiration.

“I can appreciate the feelings which so trying a situation prompts, but,” added he, the naturally sanguine disposition of his mind prevailing over its first gloomy sensations, “trust to time for a happy termination; for although your way is now overhung with clouds, as you advance into the future, it will become brighter, and a glorious store of happiness will be opened to your view.”

“Your words bid me hope,” answered Oliver, “but I fear while you utter them your heart misgives you. No, no, James—I see no room for hope, nothing to brighten my path with a solitary ray of comfort. I must try to banish her image from my heart, and think of her only in connexion with every thing lovely and perfect, never as my first and only love. I can but make the effort, though I believe it will fail.”

James was sensible of all the deep despair and silently corroding influence of “hope deferred;” its dreams and disappointments; its moments of bright anticipation succeeded by still darker views of the stern reality; its overwhelming anguish, and its rush of mad gayety more dreadful than tears. He knew, too, the depth of passionate feeling of which Oliver’s heart was capable, and shuddered as he thought that the soul of one so generous and noble would be made the prey of that slow and deadly poison, hopeless love. But by an effort he suppressed the rising emotions of his breast, and continued to urge the possibility of the future removing the obstacles which now appeared so formidable.

“It is not to be expected,” said he, “nay, it is impossible, that one so young and beautiful should remain single, in mere obedience to the foolish whim of an uncle, no longer living. If her heart become engaged, she will soon resign the gold, which is but a useless burthen, and some one less scrupulous will possess the hand that might be your own. Besides, will she not appreciate the struggle you have endured, and the sacrifice of self in your conduct? And these aided by the gratitude she already feels, are sufficient to win the heart of any maiden.”

But the view thus presented, skillfully colored by the hand of friendship, could not change the determination he had expressed.

“It was I,” said Oliver, “who undertook the case, and succeeded in securing to her the full benefit of her uncle’s will; knowing, then, its provisions,would it not be inconsistent, even fraudulent, in me to attempt to defeat it now?”

To this James could oppose nothing, for he felt the delicacy of his friend’s situation; he knew how deep was the suffering excited by that absorbing passion of the soul when struggling with adversity or oppression, and his own heart swelled with a generous sympathy, as he grasped the hand of his friend on parting.

——

Again we take a leap over a period of time which, to those in the enjoyment of a life of pleasure and excitement, appears short, but to the sufferer on a bed of sickness, or the condemned felon, is an age. They, in whom we are more immediately interested, thought it either brief or tedious, as it brought good or ill fortune. James Ashly, though deeply concerned in the distress of his friend, was enabled by the elasticity of his spirits to preserve that sprightly air, which had in a manner become habitual. But he had much real cause for joy. The girl who had long reigned mistress of his heart, had consented to become a bride, and appointed a day for the wedding. As for Oliver Barton, a heavy cloud rested on his brow, denoting deep-seated grief. In vain his friend tried to entertain him, and draw his mind from the melancholy subject on which it continually brooded; in vain Oliver himself endeavored to carry out his resolution, and banish all thought of Clara Medford from his mind; the effort only proved the strength of his affection. But it was not weakness; he could have trusted himself in her society, conversed with, worshiped her, and yetkept the secret buried in his breast.

“Oliver,” said uncle Scott one day, bustling into his nephew’s office, with a huge book under his arm, which looked as though it might have been bound near the beginning of the seventeenth century, “here is an old relic of your family, which I think you have never seen—no less than the family Bible, containing a record of the births, marriages, and deaths, of the ancestors in whose connexion you have just reason to be proud.”

This was delivered with all the importance of one communicating a valuable secret, never doubting that Oliver would feel as lively an interest as himself.

“It is, in fact,” continued he, “a complete history of the house for several generations back. The character of the writer is shown in the chirography much better than in many a prosy biography.”

Oliver expressed much more interest in the “old relic” than he really felt, from a desire to please an indulgent uncle by humoring his whims.

“Your father,” continued Mr. Scott, spreading the old volume before him, and looking intently on it, “you will observe, was an only son, with two sisters, Mary and Catharine Blake. The former died early; here is the record in his own hand.” Oliver gazed on with awakened attention. “The latter married Charles Blake.”

“Her name, then, was Catharine Blake,” said Oliver, earnestly.

“Yes,” answered Mr. Scott, “it was; my recollection serves me to recall an incident in relation to her marriage. It was this; John Medford loved her devotedly, but she could never return his affection, and finally bestowed her hand on Charles Blake, who had nothing but spotless worth and intelligence to recommend him. She left no children, and is long since dead; but Medford, who always cherished an affection for her, could never be persuaded of the truth of the report.”

This account was heard by Oliver with breathless attention, and as he examined the venerable record, a glow of intense joy lit up his face. Observing this, Mr. Scott proceeded further back into the annals of the Bartons, and expiated on the events and eras with critical exactness. But the mind of his nephew was engrossed by what he had already learned, and he scarcely heard the list of marriages, and intermarriages, deaths, and births, which his uncle recounted with painful minuteness.

At length he was alone.

“A ray of hope,” exclaimed he, “has already dawned, destined probably to shed a propitious fight on my path. James was right; the future may yet have a store of happiness provided for me, too great even to contemplate.”

A goodly company was assembled in the lofty parlors of Miss Medford’s residence. The young, the gay, the serious, the frivolous, were there in indiscriminate profusion; some chatting familiarly on the luxurious sofas and lounges, others walking or standing beneath the chandelier, and not a few engaged in unseen, as they thought, flirtations in the corners. The young and the old of both sexes seemed to enjoy the scene with apeculiar relish. The flowers sparkled in their vases, under the rich light of the numerous lamps; the jewels glistened, their owners smiled, and all was gay, happy, and inspiring.

Among that numerous and fashionable company, James Ashly was the most joyful of the joyous, the happiest of the happy. His heart had secured the prize for which it had so long contended—its constant love had been crowned with success; and in the sweet being leaning on his arm, he felt he possessed such a treasure as the world could not equal. After a prolonged courtship, Jane Preston became his bride—and they were now the admired of all admirers. The small figure and benevolent countenance of Mr. Scott were not less conspicuous in the crowd of happy faces which thronged the apartments, whose walls had never witnessed so animated a scene.

But there was one individual who seemed to have no connexion with any one present. He sat by himself, and took no part in the conversation ofeither the young or old. His countenance bore deep traces of habitual care and discontent, which, with the wrinkles of age, gave it a sour and forbidding aspect. Dressed in a blue coat, which might have fitted him when it was made, but now hung loosely about his form; straight-collared vest, too long and too loose; and pantaloons of the greatest redundancy of cloth—he appeared to no advantage, nor did he seem to care. A nervous uneasiness pervaded his frame, as though contemplating something beyond the mere pleasure of being present. Sometimes his attention was attracted by a witty remark, or joyful laugh, but he would turn away his head, and smile dismally, as though he envied the happy heart from which it echoed. The name of this person wasSandford. He had been engaged in business with the deceased Mr. Medford, and was in every respect a congenial spirit. At his death, Sandford was left executor, and entrusted with the administration of the will.

The occasion which brought together this various company, and gave it so lively a tone, was no less than the marriage of the modest and charming Clara Medford to the handsome and talented Oliver Barton.

The hour approached when the knot was to be tied, and the grave minister, in his robes, was already present. A bustle was suddenly perceptible through the rooms as the youthful couple entered, the bride blushing to the borders of her dress, and the groom, it must be confessed, paler than usual. The ceremony began with that embarrassment always attending such occasions; and many a heart palpitated with mingled emotions of joy and terror under the solemn and impressive voice of the clergyman. The earnest appeal was made for those who knew of any impediment “to speak now, or ever after hold their peace.”

“This lady,” said Sandford, in the pause that followed, with the astonished eyes of every one fixed on him, “this lady, by the present act, forfeits, according to her uncle’s will, all title to his wealth, which is to go to one Catharine Blake, or her heirs, if she be not living. I thought it proper to make this declaration, as the legal executor of the deceased Mr. Medford. The ceremony may now proceed.”

“And, sir,” said Oliver Barton, “the only surviving heir of Catharine Blake you will recognize in me.”

A whisper of delight ran through the rooms at this unexpecteddénouement; the service proceeded, and in a few moments, tears, kisses, and confusion announced the silken bands of matrimony had firmly united two as pure, confiding hearts as ever throbbed in human breast.

And thus the case was doubly gained.

MY AUNT FABBINS’S OLD GARRET.

———

BY C. P. CRANCH.

———

I have often wondered whether there ever was in our whole blessed United States, such a queer place as my Aunt Fabbins’s garret. In all my migrations from city to city, from house to house, from room to room, where I was the guest of people who were quite differently constituted by nature and education from my good aunt, I have thought to myself as I observed somewhat of the family economy in these various hospitable abodes, that there could not possibly be in a single one of them a room whose internal arrangement or disarrangement bore the faintest resemblance to that queer old garret at my Aunt Fabbins’s. Oh, it was the queerest of all queer places that the sun ever peeped into or did not peep into. Language utterly fails to tell how queer it was. I have sometimes thought I would seriously sit down and describe it at length; that I would take an inventory of all the queer things it contained, one by one, with scientific patience and accuracy, and give to the herein unenlightened world the results of my researches and labors, in the shape of an article for some antiquarian society, or, perhaps, some national academy of arts and sciences. Catacombs and tombs, and Egyptian pyramids, have been thrown open to the gaze of mankind, and the dim religious light of old cloisters and cathedrals has been invaded by the prying spirit of utilitarian curiosity and reform; and that which was hidden and mysterious, hath been everywhere brought into the atmosphere of vulgar daylight, and Penny Magazines, and Lyceum Lectures—and science every where is laying his cold clutch upon the shrinking form of poetic truth; then why should not the secrets of my Aunt Fabbins’s queer old musty fusty garret be disclosed, and the world be one little wrinkle the wiser?

Now I do not propose to treat this old garret and its contents scientifically or chronologically—perhaps I shall treat it hardly reverentially; and though there was many a monument therein of past years, and many a hieroglyphic of deep significance were the key only known, yet I shall modestly decline entering the lists with Champollion or Mr. Gliddon. Other spirits more peculiarly gifted with powers of investigation than myself, may, at some future time, visit my aunt’s house, and if they should be favored by chance, or by friendship, to enter that dim upper receptacle of the shadows of the past, they may more fully explore a field which I have scarcely had the courage or patience to do with completeness and accuracy.

But before I enlighten my readers upon the subjectof this old garret and its arcana, it will be necessary for me to give a glance at one feature in the domestic economy of my Aunt and Uncle Fabbins.

A worthier and more warm-hearted old couple never lived. For forty years they had shared the joys and sorrows of life together; they had known many trials, but these had only bound them more closely to each other, and to Heaven. They had married early, and brought up a large family, like good parents and good Christians as they were. In the earlier period of their wedded state, they had both, through habit and necessity, managed all their domestic affairs with the strictest economy. They were perfect patterns of housekeeping and management to their neighbors. With the extravagant Southerners, among whom they lived (for my uncle and aunt emigrated from the land of steady habits, old Massachusetts, soon after their marriage, into a more southern latitude, for the same reasons, I suppose, which carry so many of our young couples, nowadays, off to the west); among these Southerners, I say, my Uncle and Aunt Fabbins were absolute wonders, so different were their habits from those about them. There was no end, no bound to the wonder of these people. They could not comprehend how, with their limited income, they contrived to live so snugly and genteelly. The richest families among them could not keep their household arrangements from going “out in the elbows.” In the winter time they never could keep their parlors warm, or their doors shut. Their windowswouldrattle; the windwouldblow in, bringing influenza and consumption on its wings; theycouldnot keep their closets supplied with medicines, or even always with the necessary eatables of life, but were somehow or other obliged to borrow of the Fabbins’s. And in summer, they would leave their windows open to every rain, or their chimneys would tumble down, or their garden-tools would get lost or broken, or their children catch the ague and fever, from running about in puddles, or eating green fruit; and then the whole family establishment and family counsel and assistance of the Fabbins’s were taxed for the ill-management of these extravagant and improvident neighbors. If a pump-handle were loose, or needed oiling, no one could put it to rights like Uncle Fabbins. If a wheelbarrow or rake were broken, they invariably borrowed of neighbor Fabbins. If a baby had the croup, the whole family came in a committee of the whole to wait on the Fabbins’s; Uncle Fabbins must prescribe the physic, and weigh it out, and Aunt Fabbins must leave her sewing, or her pickling, or her ironing, and run in to put the child into a warm bath. If a neighboring housewife wanted a quart of meal, or a loaf of bread, or a pound of butter, she would not scruple to send at all hours of the day, or night to draw upon Mrs. Fabbins’s exhaustless store-house. Everybody knew just where to go when any sudden want or emergency overtook them. I remember hearing of a man who sent out his servant to one of his neighbors’ houses, when a thunder storm was coming up, to give his master’s compliments, and “please wouldn’t he lend him hislightning-rodfor a little while.” I have never heard that my uncle’s neighbors ever went quite so far in their neighborly feelings as this, but I do remember hearing my aunt relate one circumstance nearly as amusing as this. A storm was coming up, and all the windows and doors were closed—not a sign of any living creature was seen abroad, save a few lazy cows, who began to think it best to retire to their apartments in their respective cow-yards. The sky was growing darker and darker; the wind swept by over trees and dusty roads in fearful gusts; a few large rain-drops were beginning to fall, and one or two vivid flashes of lightning had cleft the dark clouds, followed by tremendous claps of thunder; when a small boy was seen running violently toward my uncle’s house—a loud knocking was heard—the summons was answered—and the embassy was not exactly to borrow a lightning-rod, for there were none in those days, I believe, but, “mother says, please lend her”—“What, child, is anybody dying?” “No, marm, but mother says, please lend her—anutmeg!”

“Parturiunt Montes!” I said to myself, when I heard it, (it was in my college days, when I was fond of Latin quotations,) “et nascitur ridiculus mus.”

This is not altogether a digression from my subject. I will come to the garret presently, after I have patiently conducted my readers up the preliminary steps. We must always begin at the bottom of the stairs before we can get to the top; that old garret may be called the flower,run to seed, of all this beautiful economy in the household affairs of the Fabbins’s.

It was, indeed, a beautiful system of economy. The Fabbins’s homestead was a little world in itself of ways and means—a microcosm, where, for years, every thing that was needed stood at hand ready for use, and every thing had its place. You could not lay your hand upon the merest bit of broken crockery, or rusty nail, or weather-stained shingle, or fragment of tangled twine, but it came into service, sooner or later, in some part of the establishment—at least so my aunt always affirmed. Honor to these good old folks for their principles and their practice. If the world—if society at large—if government could but take a lesson from these humble lights of their little circle, how much poverty, and crime, and misery, would be avoided, which now runs riot over the world.

But, alas! there is an old adage which will come sneaking into the corner of my brain, as I continue to trace my way up toward the old garret—some cynic philosopher must have given it birth; “too much of a good thing is good for nothing.” Rather harsh, friend philosopher, but the rough shell may be found to contain a kernel of truth.

And here I am much disposed to fall into some deep reflections, and give utterance to some veryprofound remarks, and even go into some winding digressions about the philosophy of ultraism, and show how there is no one truth, or good principle, which, if emphasized too strongly and exclusively, may not result in a falsity and an evil. Virtue may become vice, truth error, if we persist in riding our favorite hobby forever in the same way, and on the same road. Let us not dwell forever in the parts and particles of good, but in the whole. Let us not breathe the gasses, hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen, or carbonic acid, butair.

Having taken my patient reader this long step upward, we come to a landing and a breathing place on the stairs. Let us have a little more patience yet, and we shall finally come to the garret. I already, in fancy, begin to inhale its musty fragrance.

Acting uniformly on this principle of throwing away or destroying nothing that might, at some future time, be turned to account in some of the departments of the household economy, my good uncle and aunt had gradually accumulated around them a little of every thing that was ever known or thought of in the memorandum-book of a housekeeper. It so happened that they had gone through several removals from one house to another, in their forty years of housekeeping, (they always had an aversion to boarding,) and all their effects from the greatest to the least, from looking-glasses and bedsteads down to broken saucers and barrel-hoops, were always taken along with them. Not a scrap of any kind, were it nothing more than an old newspaper, or a dozen of old broken corks, was ever suffered to be thrown away.

“Mother,” said my aunt’s youngest daughter, Jemima, once, on the eve of one of their removals, “I shall throw away these old bits of rusty iron—they cannot possibly be of any use to us; they have been lying in this corner for years, and the spiders have made a grand nest among them.”

“You shan’t throw them away, child!” said my aunt, “they’ll all come into use. Waste not, want not, my dear. When you live to be as old as I am, you will be cured of these extravagant whims.”

“But, mother, what use can possibly be made of them?” said Jemima.

“Use enough, my dear,” said my aunt. “Stop up rat holes, made into hinges—plenty of use for them; at any rate the blacksmith will buy them—any thing rather than throw them away.”

“But, mother, these bits of broken window-glass, and these old cracked cups, and that worn-out old coffee-mill, without a tooth in its head, and⁠—”

“Youshan’tthrow them away, child, I tell you—I shall find some use for them if you don’t.”

“But, mother, those old boots of Frank’s, that are all out at the toes, and down at the heels, and no soles to them, and all mouldy and green⁠—”

“I tell you, child, you shan’t.” Just then in bustled Uncle Fabbins, with three barrel-staves under one arm, on which hung a basket of old, dry blacking bottles, and extending the other at full length, at the extremity of which appeared four worn-out, dirty tooth-brushes, of various patterns and ages.

“See here,” he exclaimed, “I guess this is some of your doings, Jemima—when will you learn to be economical. Here I found all these lying on the ground, where, to all appearance, they had been thrown from the windows. Waste not, want not, my child. Why can’t you take a lesson of good housekeeping from your mother.”

“But, father,” said Jemima, hardly restraining her mirth, “what on earth can you do with those old tooth-brushes?”

“Do with them?—clean your lamps with them—rub your brasses—keep a great many of your things bright and clean. Do with them? I thinkIcould find use enough for them.”

And with that he carefully wrapped up the much abused instruments of cleanliness in a piece of brown paper, which he carefully drew from his pocket, and as carefully unfolded, and placed them in a corner of his basket, along with the quondam receptacles of Day and Martin.

And thus it went on for years—this gradual accumulation; and as the sons and daughters grew up into more independence of thought and habit, it became not unfrequently, especially at the spring or fall house-cleaning, a bone—no, not exactly a bone, but a sort ofossificationof contention between parents and offspring. But the old folks had their way, and by following out steadfastly their principles of economy, even inoculated the younger branches of the family tree to some extent with their peculiarities in this respect.

As long ago as my first acquaintance in my Aunt Fabbins’s family, I remember these heaps and accretions of useless rubbish. I remember how they excited my boyish curiosity and imagination. Visions of dark closets piled to the very ceiling with all the nameless odds and ends in the annals of housekeeping, are even now hovering before me. There were strata and substrata—primary, secondary, and tertiary formations. There were shelves, and boxes, and old chests, and barrels of things which seemed as if they never had a name, much less a use—things that seemed as if they must have dropped out of the moon, or might have once belonged to some inhabitant of the planet Saturn, who had come to take lodgings on our earth, and had forgotten to take away all his old traps. Every closet, nook and corner of the house was filled with these antique remnants. For years the process of accumulation had gone on, silently, and almost invisibly, like the formation of stalactites in a cave. And whenever it became absolutely necessary that a portion of the rubbish should be removed—do not for a moment suppose that it was thrown into the street, or sold at auction, or even given to the poor, (although my Aunt Fabbins was charity herself to all who were in want,) but every thing was taken from below stairs, and transferred to the garret. This was thegreat receptacle of all fragments—this was the final resting-place—the charnel-house, or say rather kingdom of the dead, where the ghosts of the departed dumb servants of the household at last congregated in peaceful and undisturbed repose. And now we have reached this dim land of shadows at length, not as the ancients did, by descending, but by ascending—to the very top of the house, we may draw forth our key and unlock the sacred door, and enter, reverently if we can—we have reached

But, ah! how can I describe it, when I have no other light but memory to enable me to grope through it? Yet will I endeavor, as well as I can, to throw a little light upon this dark, silent abode of mysteries.

We open the door, then. A strong odor,—compounded of various ingredients, the chief of which seem to be salt fish, bacon, grease, dried herbs and old leather,—assails our olfactories;—“A most ancient and fish-like smell, a sort of, not the newest, poorjohn.” We enter a dark apartment, with a low ceiling, the greater part of it sloping with the roof, and very much stained by the rains which have leaked through. A dim light beams through a single window, the panes of which are very dusty and cracked. We will seat ourselves on a couple of old candle-boxes, and commence our inventory of the contents in all due form, as well as the light of memory and the dim window-glass will permit.

Item. A pair of old buckskin breeches hanging on the wall, which once adorned the legs of my Uncle Fabbins himself, some forty-five years ago. Alas! where are the buff waistcoat, the sky-blue coat, the buckled-shoes, the three-cornered hat, and the long cane that used to accompany this affecting relic of the past? And could Echo speak, in an apartment so crowded as this, she would answer, as she does to the poets—where?

Item, secondly. An old sword—also hanging against the wall. We will take it down—we will draw it from its rusty scabbard. What! can that be blood upon its blade? Ah, no! nothing but spots of rust—and the blade is duller than my uncle’s dullest hoe. It was never sharpened for the battle—it is guiltless of ever shedding a drop of blood—it never was used but in piping times of peace, by my uncle’s eldest son Ebenezer, when he belonged to a company of cavalry. It will never again see a training day—it will remain in its corner till my uncle and aunt’s effects descend to their children.

Item, thirdly. A barrel of old business letters, receipted bills, leaves torn out of Latin grammars and books of arithmetic; old newspapers, that were fresh once—in the days of the Revolution—but are now so stale and fusty that the very rats turn from them with disgust. “All this old paper will come into use, yet,” says my Aunt Fabbins.

Item, fourthly. But I see plainly that at this rate we shall never get through—we must take the garreten masse, and present a rough sketch of the whole.

Picture, then, to yourself a medley somewhat like what follows; to wit: old broken bedsteads, and worn-out sacking; a battered warming-pan; a copper kettle, with a great hole in the bottom; a quantity of old bottles and phials, pots of paint dried up as hard as granite, old stumps of paint brushes, shreds of canvas, broken casts and an easel, once the property of a poor painter who once was a boarder in my uncle’s house; pine-boards and scraps of mahogany furniture, of every shape and size—old rags—old mouldy boots and shoes—old picture-frames; bits of window-glass and looking-glass; old rusty keys, old coffee-mills—and great iron wheels that seem as incomprehensible as those of Ezekiel; old greasy boxes, with something old and mysterious in every one of them—battered old trunks, without tops to them; quantities of empty bottles, and one or two forsaken demijohns, (my uncle and aunt have joined the Temperance Society;) great heaps of rusty iron—saws without handles or teeth; locks without keys or springs; scraps of bell-wire; bells without tongues; doll-babies without heads or legs; broken-down chairs and tables; knives and forks without handles, broken pitchers, bags of dried sage, antiquated andirons, fire-shovels, tongs, fenders and battered fire-boards, and—but I can remember no more—the rest the reader may fill outad libitum. My recording muse halts, and hastens out to take a whiff of fresh air, and refresh her soul with something green and living—something that belongs to the present rather than to the past. We will leave this museum of antiquities, though we have not half described it, and transport ourselves to my aunt’s snug little breakfast parlor, on the first floor. Time—about a year ago, one fine spring morning, after breakfast. Present—Aunt Fabbins, Uncle Fabbins, the five Miss Fabbinses, and the three Mr. Fabbinses, my cousins, myself and the cat. The ladies were washing up the breakfast things and putting the room in order, my uncle was reading the paper, and the three sons and myself—contemplating the rest of the party; when the following conversation arose.

“I wish,” said Jemima, partly to herself, and partly that her father and mother might hear—“I wish, upon my soul, that something would happen which would clear this house of some of its rubbish. I can’t find room for these books on the shelf, for the old newspapers have taken complete possession. I am obliged to convert the top of my piano into a book-shelf—and I don’t think I shall submit to it. There is no room for half the things that are in the house. I have half a mind, I declare, to turn some of these piles of trash into the street.”

“Those are just my sentiments, Jemima,” said doctor Peter, the youngest son—“I’ll help you, Jemima—just go ahead, and I’ll second you. The fact is, I’ve long been of the opinion that the whole house, from top to bottom, needs a thorough treatment.It is as full as a boa constrictor that has swallowed a calf—it will tumble down with its own weight, one of these days, and die of repletion. It needs blood-letting. Confound me, if I can find an inch of room for my chemical experiments.”

“Yes,” said Susan, “and all my beautiful plants I am obliged to keep out of doors, exposed to the night frosts, to make room for that old desk of father’s, which is filled with empty ink-bottles and pamphlets and sermons half a century old, that nobody, not even he, ever thinks of reading. It would be such a nice little corner for my flowers.”

“In my opinion,” said Frank, “I really think a fire would do the house good.”

“What!” said my aunt, in a tone of horror.

“I mean,” said Frank, “if the old house caught fire, and burned—a little—I don’t mean much—but just a little, it would greatly purify us. We should have room to breathe—and I should have room for my gun and dogs and fishing-tackle. I really should laugh to see the old garret go.”

“My child,” said my aunt, solemnly, “you speak like a fool. When you get to be as old as your father and mother, you will alter your tone. Will my childreneverlearn economy?”

My uncle here looked up over his spectacles, solemnly at Frank, and approvingly at his wife, but said nothing, and went on reading the paper.

The rest of my cousins said little, and rather took sides with their parents. The fact was, they were growing old and conservative.

Ebenezer thought the house was very well as it was; and he for one did not wish to see any thing cleared out—unless, indeed, it were in some places, where he needed a closet or two for his bugs and butterflies and geological specimens.

But my good aunt still persisted in maintaining that there was nothing in the whole house that could be spared, and that sooner or later every thing would come into use.

Such little altercations as this not unfrequently arose in the Fabbins family circle; but I have not yet heard that they have resulted in any change or reform in the administration of the internal affairs.

O, Spirit of Conservatism! I have seen thee in the first green buds of thy spring time and thy youth, when thou wast a necessary and wholesome plant, in commonwealths as in families;—I have beheld thee again bursting into bloom, when thou wast still a beautiful and fragrant flower, smiling serenely and lovingly in thy green shady nooks, a blessing and a protecting angel, when the weeds of fanaticism and anarchy would spread a poisonous blight over the fairest and most venerable things of life;—but again, and too often, have I seen thee, when thy blossoms have shriveled up and fallen to the earth, and thy stalk was flowerless and leafless, and covered with nothing but dry seed-dust, with bugs and with cobwebs—keeping thy place in the garden merely because thou wastoncebeautiful, but now an unsightly cumberer of the ground, a brother to the meanest weeds and stubble of the field!

But such high-flown conceits as this I have just uttered, never entered the brains of my Uncle and Aunt Fabbins, and least of all would they see that it had any thing whatever to do with their house and its arrangements. But, good reader, if thou wilt look into it, thou mayest find a deeper significance in this family picture than at first meets the eye. The most homely and common things often cover a moral which is grounded in the very heart of universal and primal truth. If thou readest not merely to laugh, but to think, this little sketch may guide thee into the light of spiritual facts of infinite value; may teach thee the great lesson which in our age all must learn—to separate the spirit from the letter, the substance from the form—and to see that the best principle, carried to extremes and pursued with exclusive rigor, will, in its latter end, so differ from its beginning, that men will say, “I know it not; this is not the friend of my youth.” And if a straw like this I throw into the stream, may show thee how the current sets, I shall have done something more beside the attempt to amuse thee.

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