“ ‘Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,O’er the grave where our hero was buried.’ ”
“ ‘Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,O’er the grave where our hero was buried.’ ”
“ ‘Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,O’er the grave where our hero was buried.’ ”
“ ‘Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,O’er the grave where our hero was buried.’ ”
“ ‘Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
O’er the grave where our hero was buried.’ ”
“It isstrikingly like,” said Hattie, “not even the usual descriptive adjectives, and very little amplification. That shows how easily pieces of poetry of great celebrity may have been written. Perhaps you and I may one day be famous. I have often thought how a pensive man, looking at the water in this river during a mild fall of snow, might say very naturally, in thinking of the transitoriness of the pleasures of this world,
‘Like snow falls in a river,A moment white, then melts forever,’
‘Like snow falls in a river,A moment white, then melts forever,’
‘Like snow falls in a river,A moment white, then melts forever,’
‘Like snow falls in a river,A moment white, then melts forever,’
‘Like snow falls in a river,
A moment white, then melts forever,’
and yet be unconscious that he had uttered a beautiful comparison.”
“So, too,” said Fred, “any one who has ever cooked a certain kind of shell-fish before sunrise, could not help saying, as the light broke upon him,
“ ‘Like lobsters boiled—the moonFrom black to red begins to turn.’ ”
“ ‘Like lobsters boiled—the moonFrom black to red begins to turn.’ ”
“ ‘Like lobsters boiled—the moonFrom black to red begins to turn.’ ”
“ ‘Like lobsters boiled—the moonFrom black to red begins to turn.’ ”
“ ‘Like lobsters boiled—the moon
From black to red begins to turn.’ ”
“Come,” said Hattie, when our laugh had subsided, “it is getting dark, and as I promised to be at home in time to see Sally dressed for her bridal, I fearif we don’t go now, she will remind me of the pouting dame who sits at home,
“ ‘Gathering her brows like gathering storm,Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.’ ”
“ ‘Gathering her brows like gathering storm,Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.’ ”
“ ‘Gathering her brows like gathering storm,Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.’ ”
“ ‘Gathering her brows like gathering storm,Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.’ ”
“ ‘Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.’ ”
After we had left Hattie at her own door, and were proceeding homeward, Fred broke out in his most earnest tone. “That Miss Atherton is a very nice girl; what an intellectual face she has—have you seen any of her poetry—does she write much?”
“Oh, yes—you have read some of it, which she has published anonymously, (but this is a great secret, remember,) and her motive in doing so is as honorable to her heart as the verses are to her poetical powers. You know Mr. Atherton lavishes his wealth upon his children without bounds, and Hattie says it does not seem very benevolent for her to give away her father’s money, so she devotes the proceeds of her literary labors to purposes of charity. She is very kind to the poor; I wish you could see how their faces brighten at her approach.”
“Well done! that is what I like in a woman. She is really a very sensible girl,” replied my brother.
“Even if she does write her name H-a-t-t-i-e,” said I, with a sly glance. Fred pinched my arm, but said nothing.
Time passed on, and I was satisfied that my brother had found out “what there was to like in Hattie Atherton;” but a proud man deeply in love is the most timid of mortals, and he sped but slowly in his wooing. His favorite books were offered for her perusal; and long evenings were spent in arguments upon questions of metaphysics and philosophy, and though Hattie had sufficient strength of intellect to sustain her share of the conversation creditably, she was too much impressed with awe of Fred’s menial abilities to feel perfectly at ease while he was thus drawing forth the powers of her mind; and, mistaking her dignity and slight reserve of manner for indifference or aversion, he dared not betray the strong affection with which she inspired him.
One evening, late in the summer, as I was sitting alone in the twilight, Fred entered hastily, and throwing himself into a chair, exclaimed, “I have just heard very bad news—do you know—have you seen Harriet to-day?”
“No—what has happened? Tell me, for mercy’s sake,” said I, half frightened out of my wits at the sight of his pale face.
“Mr. Atherton has failed.”
“Oh, is that all,” replied I, with a feeling of relief on knowing that nothing dreadful had befallen my friend.
“All!” retorted Fred. “I should think that was enough. It will nearly kill the old man, he has such an overwhelming horror of debt.”
“How did it happen?” said I, rising and putting on my bonnet as I spoke.
“Are you going over there? I will go with you, and tell you about it on the way,” replied Fred, throwing my shawl around me, and giving me his arm. The story was soon told. The loss of a ship which was wrecked without insurance some months before, had somewhat embarrassed him, and the sudden failure of two large mercantile firms in Boston, with whom he was connected had completed the ruin.
As we approached the house through the garden, I proposed that we should go in through one of the parlor windows, which opened upon a grass-plot, and formed a convenient entrance in that direction, of which we had frequently availed ourselves. Never shall I forget the sight which presented itself as we stood before the window. Mrs. Atherton was reclining on the sofa, sobbing bitterly. Mr. Atherton was seated in an arm-chair, his face buried in his hands, and his whole frame shrunk and collapsed, as if beneath a weight of shame and agony. Harriet stood beside him, bathing his head and raising with her smooth, white fingers, the gray locks he had pulled over his brow. The light which fell full on her face, showed that she had been weeping violently; but now there was a faint smile on her trembling lips, and she was talking earnestly. We could not hear what she said, but the tones were full of encouragement, and her attitude and expression betokened firmness and hope. As we gazed, the old man suddenly uncovered his face, and throwing his arms around her neck, drew her mouth down to his, and kissed her fervently.
“We will not intrude here,” said my brother. There was a strange huskiness in his voice, and I felt his whole frame tremble as it did when he was strongly moved.
We walked slowly home again and talked sadly of the misfortune that had befallen our friends—of their plans of quiet happiness that must be given up—of their munificent charities that must be now contracted, and of the anxieties and embarrassments which wouldharass that honorable old man, but when I said that Lizzy must come home from school, and George must discontinue his studies, Fred replied resolutely that “It must not be;” and when we entered the house, he seated himself before the writing-desk and commenced a letter. Having occasion to cross the room as he was closing it, I took a sister’s liberty to peep over his shoulder, and saw—“So, my dear fellow, do not think of leaving, but draw on me for whatever funds you may require.”
A fortnight elapsed, during which I saw little of Harriet. In his professional capacity, as a lawyer, Fred was busy most of the time with Mr. Atherton, canvassing the business—settling accounts and making assignments; and it was a season of mental torture to the ruined father which could hardly have been borne had it not been for the gentle ministrations of his daughter. She it was who nerved her invalid mother to meet calmly their change of circumstances, and to aid her in consoling the care-worn, haggard man, whose sorrow they so deeply shared. The sight of her lovely face beaming with cheerfulness and affection, the sound of her low musical voice, as she sung the songs he loved, or repeated to him words of religious faith and consolation, seemed to operate like a charm in driving away the cares that haunted him, and gradually her firmness and courage were imparted to him, and he was enabled to lift up his head once more and hope for better days.
Early one morning Hattie entered the room wherewe were sitting at breakfast, with a face so much more joyful than she had for some time worn, that I knew she must have some good news to communicate.
“It is, indeed, so,” said she, in reply to my inquiry. “I came to tell some news, and also to beg your assistance for to-day.”
“I am at your service,” I answered; “but first tell me what has happened to please you so much?”
“I must premise,” replied she, “what you already know, that on settling up his affairs, father has found that he can pay every cent he owes, and we shall have our dear old house and garden left; and as father has a thousand dollars a year from his land agency, we shall be able to get along quite comfortably. But in order to do so, Lizzy must leave school and George must help support himself for the next eighteen months which elapse before his studies are finished. Now you know he inherits mother’s delicate constitution, and his health is too feeble to allow him to apply himself as closely as will be necessary if he is to earn his own support. Father has a sort of nervous horror of his getting into debt, (and George is as particular as father is on that point,) so, to make my story short,” she added, hesitating a little, while a bright blush suddenly suffused her face, “Iam going to support them, and father can keep the old homestead—”
“You support them—how?” we both exclaimed.
“Through the kindness of my old teacher, Miss W——. Lizzy mentioned in her last letter that Miss Foster, who has so long taught drawing and music at the Seminary, had left to be married, and their present teacher was not considered competent. So I wrote the day after our misfortune came, without saying any thing to father, and applied for the situation, and this morning I received an answer, filled with the most flattering expressions of kindness, and offering very liberal terms.”
“You do not seriously mean that you intend teaching?” said my brother, in a tone that deepened the flush on Hattie’s cheek.
“Certainly I do. Why should I not make my acquirements available. I intend to ‘improve my talents,’ and as that old-fashioned Jewish coin is not current in this country, I must exchange it for something that will pass more readily. I am quite delighted, too, with the terms Miss W—— offers me, though I fear I shall not be worth so much money. She says, if I will let part of the salary go to pay Lizzy’s school-bills, she will give me five hundred dollars a year, on condition that I engage to remain two years.”
“That will be about four hundred dollars in money,” said I, musingly; “yes, that is quite good pay, to be sure; but, then, what will your father and mother do without you for two years—have they consented to your plans?”
“They have, after some opposition. They will be very much alone, but I shall depend upon your kindness to cheer their lonely hours, and your brother will perhaps spend an evening with father occasionally,” added she, glancing timidly at Fred, who was drumming on the table with a very dissatisfied air.
“When do you leave?” asked my mother.
“To-morrow,” she answered, rising; “and that reminds me that I have not yet told you, Mary, that I came to request your assistance to-day in making my final preparations. I did not expect to go so soon, and have many little things to arrange before I leave.”
“Why do you go to-morrow?”
“In order to be there at the commencement of the next term—you will come, wont you?”
I promised to be with her in a short time, and she departed; and Fred, after putting salt into his coffee, and mustard on his bread, in a vain attempt to finish his breakfast, took his hat in desperation, and went out after her.
“Miss Atherton,” said he earnestly, as he overtook her, “let me persuade you to give up this scheme—we can’t spare you for two years.”
“I am quite astonished at opposition from you, Mr. Stanley,” said Hattie, in some confusion at his earnest manner. “It is but a few weeks since we had that long talk about woman’s duties and powers of usefulness. You remember what you said then?”
“Yes; but with you,” replied Fred, in a low tone, “with you it is ‘to gild refined gold, to paint the lily.’ ”
A long silence followed, for both were too much agitated to speak, when Fred repeated, “Do give up this plan—there is no need of it. I have written your brother to draw on me for any amount he may need to complete his education.”
“You are very kind,” said Hattie, tremulously, and her soft eyes were filled with a dewy light, as for a moment they met his impassioned gaze. Just then they reached the garden-gate, and in attempting to unlatch it at the same time, their hands met. The touch thrilled through each frame like an electric shock. Fred took her hand and drew it within his arm as they proceeded up the walk.
“If I could only persuade you,” said he, “how gratified I am to be of service to you. If you could have the faintest adequate idea how necessary is your presence to my happiness—how I have lived for weeks, months, only in the hope that I might one day tell you how fervently my whole soul loves you. Oh, dear Miss Atherton, is it all in vain?”
There was no reply, but the small, trembling hand that rested on his arm, placed itself in the hand that lay near it, and nestled there, as if it would cling forever. A glad, hopeful smile sprung to his lips. “Harriet—dear Harriet, you will let me love you?”
Again those expressive eyes were raised to his, and her heart spoke through them, as her low dear tones answered, “I will love you.”
“And you will not leave me—you will be my wife—you will give me the right to assist your brother?”
“Some time hence, but not now. You must not strive to break my resolution. I trust in you fully, and the words you have just spoken, are to me like sunshine breaking through the clouds that have enveloped my life; but for Lizzy’s sake, and for George’s, it is best that I should not relinquish my purpose.”
They entered the house and sat down together. All the barriers of doubt and distrust that had separated them were removed, and these two full, strong hearts, were revealed to each other. With all the eloquence of affection, Fred endeavored to convince her thatit was not her duty to leave the home that was now more than ever dear to her; but the gentle girl was firm in her noble resolve, and at length her pleadings won from him a reluctant consent to its fulfillment.
The two years, which had seemed so long in the prospective, passed rapidly away, as time always does when one is in the steady performance of duty. Hattie’s visits at home were short and unfrequent, but she won the admiration of her pupils. Lizzy was at school with her, and Fred found so much business to compel him to visit the city, that he was considered quite a public benefactor by certain postage-saving acquaintances, who besieged our door with inquiries when Mr. Stanley would go to B——, and would he take a package?
It was the evening before the wedding-day. The sisters had returned three months before, and George had been some time at home, and was soon to be ordained as pastor over the church where for generations his fathers had worshiped. Having assisted Lizzy in arranging the bridal paraphernalia for to-morrow morning’s ceremony, I went down stairs to bid Hattie good-night before I went home. She was standing by the window, with her head leaning on Fred’s shoulder. One of his arms was around her, and with the other he was holding back the curtain that the brilliant moonlight might fall full on the beautiful face that was raised to his with an expression of confiding affection. A sudden recollection flashed upon my mind, and crossing the room, I threw my arms around them as they stood together, and said to my brother, “Fred,have youfound out what there is to like in Hattie Atherton?”
“I have found,” replied Fred, drawing her fondly to his heart, “that there is every thing in her to like except her name; she will change that to-morrow, and then she will be perfect.”
TO MARY.
———
BY LUCY CABELL.
———
’Twere vain, dear Mary, to attemptTo sound your praise in rhyme;Though oft I’ve gazed upon your face,You’re fairer every time.The stars are bright—but your sweet eyes,Are lovelier far than they,And diamonds, were they half as sweet,Have scarce a brighter ray.And, oh, such winning fondness lies,In your gay, gladsome smile,I scarce can look on you, and thinkI do not dream the while.And then your form—light as the air,And perfect as a fairy;Though many strive for beauty’s prize,None can compare with Mary.Oh, Mary, may thy future life,Be bright, as thou art now,And not a shade of sorrow rest,Upon thy snow-white brow.And when thy gentle spirit soars,From its abode of love,Oh, may it leave this world of cares,To dwell with God above.
’Twere vain, dear Mary, to attemptTo sound your praise in rhyme;Though oft I’ve gazed upon your face,You’re fairer every time.The stars are bright—but your sweet eyes,Are lovelier far than they,And diamonds, were they half as sweet,Have scarce a brighter ray.And, oh, such winning fondness lies,In your gay, gladsome smile,I scarce can look on you, and thinkI do not dream the while.And then your form—light as the air,And perfect as a fairy;Though many strive for beauty’s prize,None can compare with Mary.Oh, Mary, may thy future life,Be bright, as thou art now,And not a shade of sorrow rest,Upon thy snow-white brow.And when thy gentle spirit soars,From its abode of love,Oh, may it leave this world of cares,To dwell with God above.
’Twere vain, dear Mary, to attemptTo sound your praise in rhyme;Though oft I’ve gazed upon your face,You’re fairer every time.
’Twere vain, dear Mary, to attempt
To sound your praise in rhyme;
Though oft I’ve gazed upon your face,
You’re fairer every time.
The stars are bright—but your sweet eyes,Are lovelier far than they,And diamonds, were they half as sweet,Have scarce a brighter ray.
The stars are bright—but your sweet eyes,
Are lovelier far than they,
And diamonds, were they half as sweet,
Have scarce a brighter ray.
And, oh, such winning fondness lies,In your gay, gladsome smile,I scarce can look on you, and thinkI do not dream the while.
And, oh, such winning fondness lies,
In your gay, gladsome smile,
I scarce can look on you, and think
I do not dream the while.
And then your form—light as the air,And perfect as a fairy;Though many strive for beauty’s prize,None can compare with Mary.
And then your form—light as the air,
And perfect as a fairy;
Though many strive for beauty’s prize,
None can compare with Mary.
Oh, Mary, may thy future life,Be bright, as thou art now,And not a shade of sorrow rest,Upon thy snow-white brow.
Oh, Mary, may thy future life,
Be bright, as thou art now,
And not a shade of sorrow rest,
Upon thy snow-white brow.
And when thy gentle spirit soars,From its abode of love,Oh, may it leave this world of cares,To dwell with God above.
And when thy gentle spirit soars,
From its abode of love,
Oh, may it leave this world of cares,
To dwell with God above.
LITTLE WILLIE.
———
BY MRS. H. MARION STEPHENS.
———
My beautiful—my beautiful,Upon thy baby brow,The stern, relentless hand of deathHas placed his signet now!The golden threads that span thy life,Are breaking, one by one;Let me not hold his spirit back—Oh, God! thy will be done!My beautiful—my beautiful!Thy life has been a dream;A moment more, and it has passed,Like sunshine on a stream;Or like a bud, whose perfumed leavesUnfolded for an hour,To gaze with rapture on its God—Then droop beneath his power.My beautiful—my beautiful!I would not call thee back;I joy that thou hast fled the stormsThat beat upon life’s track;I love to know thy sinless soulHas burst its bonds of clay,And watch thy spirit as it glidesSo pleasantly away.And when I gather up the foldsAround thy pale, cold face,And when I weep to see thee laidIn thy last resting-place,I’ll mind me that the fearful stormBy which my soul is riven,Has borne my dove an olive branch,And wafted him to Heaven.
My beautiful—my beautiful,Upon thy baby brow,The stern, relentless hand of deathHas placed his signet now!The golden threads that span thy life,Are breaking, one by one;Let me not hold his spirit back—Oh, God! thy will be done!My beautiful—my beautiful!Thy life has been a dream;A moment more, and it has passed,Like sunshine on a stream;Or like a bud, whose perfumed leavesUnfolded for an hour,To gaze with rapture on its God—Then droop beneath his power.My beautiful—my beautiful!I would not call thee back;I joy that thou hast fled the stormsThat beat upon life’s track;I love to know thy sinless soulHas burst its bonds of clay,And watch thy spirit as it glidesSo pleasantly away.And when I gather up the foldsAround thy pale, cold face,And when I weep to see thee laidIn thy last resting-place,I’ll mind me that the fearful stormBy which my soul is riven,Has borne my dove an olive branch,And wafted him to Heaven.
My beautiful—my beautiful,Upon thy baby brow,The stern, relentless hand of deathHas placed his signet now!The golden threads that span thy life,Are breaking, one by one;Let me not hold his spirit back—Oh, God! thy will be done!
My beautiful—my beautiful,
Upon thy baby brow,
The stern, relentless hand of death
Has placed his signet now!
The golden threads that span thy life,
Are breaking, one by one;
Let me not hold his spirit back—
Oh, God! thy will be done!
My beautiful—my beautiful!Thy life has been a dream;A moment more, and it has passed,Like sunshine on a stream;Or like a bud, whose perfumed leavesUnfolded for an hour,To gaze with rapture on its God—Then droop beneath his power.
My beautiful—my beautiful!
Thy life has been a dream;
A moment more, and it has passed,
Like sunshine on a stream;
Or like a bud, whose perfumed leaves
Unfolded for an hour,
To gaze with rapture on its God—
Then droop beneath his power.
My beautiful—my beautiful!I would not call thee back;I joy that thou hast fled the stormsThat beat upon life’s track;I love to know thy sinless soulHas burst its bonds of clay,And watch thy spirit as it glidesSo pleasantly away.
My beautiful—my beautiful!
I would not call thee back;
I joy that thou hast fled the storms
That beat upon life’s track;
I love to know thy sinless soul
Has burst its bonds of clay,
And watch thy spirit as it glides
So pleasantly away.
And when I gather up the foldsAround thy pale, cold face,And when I weep to see thee laidIn thy last resting-place,I’ll mind me that the fearful stormBy which my soul is riven,Has borne my dove an olive branch,And wafted him to Heaven.
And when I gather up the folds
Around thy pale, cold face,
And when I weep to see thee laid
In thy last resting-place,
I’ll mind me that the fearful storm
By which my soul is riven,
Has borne my dove an olive branch,
And wafted him to Heaven.
MARY WILSON.
———
BY D. W. BELISLE.
———
“She never told her love, but deepWithin her heart concealed there layThe worm that prey’d upon her cheek,And stole her bloom away.”
“She never told her love, but deepWithin her heart concealed there layThe worm that prey’d upon her cheek,And stole her bloom away.”
“She never told her love, but deep
Within her heart concealed there lay
The worm that prey’d upon her cheek,
And stole her bloom away.”
Mary Wilson was an only child. Her parents were exceedingly wealthy; and, though possessing extended landed estates, they were as parsimonious in hoarding up riches as though they were only in moderate circumstances. Mr. Wilson was rather aristocratic in his manners, yet, in many respects, he was quite liberal to those of his neighbors who were not as fortunate as himself in accumulating property. He was a gentleman of great influence, around whom gathered the elite of Cincinnati—whose favor was courted and sought by the wealthy and great. In his earlier days Mr. Wilson had laid out the rules which were to govern him through the world, and, in whatever circumstance in life, he fully resolved to abide by the course he had adopted for his guidance. He had retired from the active capacity of a business man; and yet, whenever he found an opportunity for speculating, he was just the man to engage in it.
About the time our story commences, the fever of speculation in the Western States raged to a marvelous extent. The excitement was great, and many had invested their whole patrimony in the speculation, with the ardent assurance that they would become immensely wealthy. But, alas! their expectations were but “castles in the air;” for the excitement soon subsided, and those who had invested their all in purchasing land, now found, to their great astonishment, that they had lost all they possessed. Many who were independent one day, and had the brightest anticipations of the future, the next were penniless and destitute, not knowing where or how to procure a sustenance for their families.
Among the most unfortunate in this respect was Mr. Wilson. He had invested all—even to the last dollar—of his immense possessions; he had bought lands at an exorbitant price; but he was perfectly satisfied that in the speculation he would make his thousands. His wife and daughter remonstrated against his entering so largely into the meshes of the excitement, and of involving himself to so great an extent; but he was too deeply resolved upon making money to pay the least regard to their remonstrances. He endorsed largely for others, and appeared lost in the agitation which existed. Speculation was the all-absorbing topic—with him it was a sort of magic, which usurped his entire thoughts, and, to a great degree, restrained his manly virtues. But soon his dreams and anticipations received a relapse, the effect of which had a serious impression upon his feelings. The day of speculation had passed, and the entire capital which Mr. Wilson had invested, was gone! He had lost all! he was reduced to poverty! Many others shared the same fate. Wealthy citizens were stripped of all their property; many of whom, who had not lost all in speculating, were sufferers from the evil consequences of endorsing for others. In short, a depression of business ensued seldom witnessed in a commercial city.
Reduced to want, Mr. Wilson’s ambition was gone! his pride preventing him from engaging in any ordinary business; and his constitution too feeble for manual labor, he felt keenly sensible of the unpleasantness of his situation. He knew not what to do! His splendid mansion—the home of his childhood, whose hallowed associations filled his heart with happiness—had been given up, to satisfy the demands of the law; his furniture was sold; and still unliquidated claims pressed daily and heavily upon him for payment. Friends who, in the days of his prosperity, flocked to his hospitable board, now shunned him, as one whom they regarded as their inferior, both in point of wealth and respectability. Mr. Wilson observed the change with the keenest sense of injustice, and now felt how painful it was to bethoughtinferior to his fellow-man.
Mary was a girl of uncommon pretensions, whose amiable disposition and beauty attracted to her side a host of admirers, who, in their prosperous days, sought to rival each other for her hand—among whom was Charles Tomlinson, the son of a wealthy merchant of Cincinnati. Charles was a young man of rare talents, prepossessing deportment, and affable disposition. He possessed all the qualities of a noble, generous-hearted man; but, notwithstanding the purity of his daily “walk and conversation,” he had imbibed many vague sentiments in regard to the Bible and the precepts taught in that holy book. Mary observed this, and felt pained to see so much talent wasted in useless attempts to prove the Bible false; but yet she loved him. Their attachment daily grew stronger, until they were betrothed, and the day appointed for the consummation of their vows. Before, however, the time for their marriage arrived, Mr. Wilson’s misfortune came, the tendency of which was an entire revolution in the feelings of Mr. Tomlinson. He now resolved that he wouldnotmarry her, because her father had failed, and, in all probability, would never be worth a dollar again. With this resolution on his mind, he was at a loss in what way to acquaint her of his determination, or how he could honorably release himself from his engagement. He had too little fortitude to unmask his change of sentiment to her, personally; and to do so by letter would betray a want of manliness, which he had the reputation of possessing. In the midst of this trying situation, he called to his assistance a friend, in whom he had placed the utmost confidence, and to whom he had entrusted the transaction of much important business. To this friend Mr. Tomlinson gaveinstructions how to proceed, directing him at the same time to use the utmost caution in the information he wished to convey. His name was Samuel Gordon.
——
“She seldom smiled—and when she did,It was so sad, subdued, and brief,As though her mourning heart she’d chide,And strove to smile away its grief.”
“She seldom smiled—and when she did,It was so sad, subdued, and brief,As though her mourning heart she’d chide,And strove to smile away its grief.”
“She seldom smiled—and when she did,
It was so sad, subdued, and brief,
As though her mourning heart she’d chide,
And strove to smile away its grief.”
The attachment between Tomlinson and Miss Wilson, thus far, had been secretly kept from her parents, they preferring to make it known but a few weeks previously to their marriage-day. But Mrs. Wilson, with the watchfulness of a mother, perceived their intimacy, and, in a gentle manner, addressed her thus:
“Mary, for some time past I have noticed rather more than a friendly intimacy between you and Mr. Tomlinson, and, as a mother, I feel it my duty to give you advice on the subject. I would not do aught to give you pain; but I am not favorable to the addresses of Mr. Tomlinson.”
Miss Wilson, deeming it no longer prudent to keep the truth of the matter concealed from her mother, replied:
“Dear mother, I hope you will forgive my rashness, for we have long since been engaged. I hope you will overlook my disobedience.”
Their conversation was broken off by a quick ring of the bell, and Mary hastened to the door to respond to the call.
“I have a message from Mr. Tomlinson, and wish to see Miss Wilson alone for a few moments,” said the stranger.
“I am Miss Wilson. What is your business with me, sir?” she asked.
“I have,” he continued, “unfortunately to announce to you that Mr. Tomlinson, since he has lost so much in the misfortunes which have fallen on so many of the citizens of this city, deems it, at present, a rash undertaking to marry, while circumstances of such an aggravating character continue. I think it would be better for you to be as calm as possible, and wait with due patience until a more favorable turn of fortune, which I anticipate will not be very long.”
Had an ice-bolt entered the heart of that young girl, it could not have had a much greater effect. His words fell upon her ears like the solemn knell of all her hopes; for, since their misfortunes, she had fondly supposed that her marriage with Mr. Tomlinson would, in a great measure, retrieve the reputation of her father. She could not believe that Mr. Tomlinson would be guilty of such duplicity, and thought a stranger had imposed upon her. But how he, stranger as he was, knew any thing in regard to their engagement, was something more than she could solve—an enigma which cost her much anxiety and thought; for even her parents, until that moment, had not known it. Her mother saw the hectic flush mantle the cheek of her child, and felt conscious that something serious would be the consequence. That Mary loved Tomlinson was unmistakable. She read it in the deep blue of her eyes; she saw it in every lineament of her features; she discovered it in all her actions; and, with the sympathy of a mother’s own feelings, she endeavored to console her in that, her “hour of need.” But the effect was too much for her delicate constitution to bear. She “loved not wisely, but too well;” and, day after day, she sat pensively surveying the beautiful scenery before her, and silently reflecting on her own unhappy condition.
“Her silvery voice was heard no more—She sang not, and her breathing late,Which never knew neglect before,Now lies alone—forgotten, mute!Or, if a passing strain she rang,So mournfully its numbers rose,That those who heard might deem she sangA lorn soul’s requiem to repose!”
“Her silvery voice was heard no more—She sang not, and her breathing late,Which never knew neglect before,Now lies alone—forgotten, mute!Or, if a passing strain she rang,So mournfully its numbers rose,That those who heard might deem she sangA lorn soul’s requiem to repose!”
“Her silvery voice was heard no more—She sang not, and her breathing late,Which never knew neglect before,Now lies alone—forgotten, mute!Or, if a passing strain she rang,So mournfully its numbers rose,That those who heard might deem she sangA lorn soul’s requiem to repose!”
“Her silvery voice was heard no more—She sang not, and her breathing late,Which never knew neglect before,Now lies alone—forgotten, mute!Or, if a passing strain she rang,So mournfully its numbers rose,That those who heard might deem she sangA lorn soul’s requiem to repose!”
“Her silvery voice was heard no more—
She sang not, and her breathing late,
Which never knew neglect before,
Now lies alone—forgotten, mute!
Or, if a passing strain she rang,
So mournfully its numbers rose,
That those who heard might deem she sang
A lorn soul’s requiem to repose!”
On a lovely autumn evening, just as the sun was shedding its last rosy beams on the tops of the surrounding hills, Mary looked from her chamber window, and drank in, at a glance, the golden glories of expiring day, and thought how calm it would be for her to die as sweetly as the sun was sinking to rest behind the hills, so that her memory might live, like the beauteous twilight, long after her frail body had mouldered again to dust. She called her mother to her side, and told her that she was dying! At such a beautiful hour, when the day began to close, and shadows were no longer broad-cast from the clouds, but were stretched along the surface of the earth by the interception of a tree, or hill-side, Mary breathed her last!
As these precious but fleeting scenes pass like sober thoughts across the face of earth, or intermingle side by side with gay and brilliant passages of light of equal evanescence, making all tender and beautiful, which otherwise had been lustrous and sparkling, they call up within the heart the memory of the past; and by an association we can scarcely trace, characters reappear of friends who have passed away before us.
Thus ended the life of Mary Wilson. Struck down in the vigor and bloom of youth, this young maiden has left many friends to mourn her loss. She was much esteemed; so much so, that every personal defect was forgotten in the charms of her spirit, with which she imparted to her friends a look of kindness and a blessing.
“Yon willow shades a marble stone,On which the curious eye can tellThat underneath there lieth oneWho loved not wisely—but too well.”
“Yon willow shades a marble stone,On which the curious eye can tellThat underneath there lieth oneWho loved not wisely—but too well.”
“Yon willow shades a marble stone,On which the curious eye can tellThat underneath there lieth oneWho loved not wisely—but too well.”
“Yon willow shades a marble stone,
On which the curious eye can tell
That underneath there lieth one
Who loved not wisely—but too well.”
WORDS OF WAYWARDNESS.
———
BY PROFESSOR CAMPBELL.
———
Hah! for the tide of the blood’s hot gush—Hah! for the throng or proud thoughts that rush,Reckless and riotous—why should they beIced by thy frown, Reality?Give, give me back the early joyOf youth’s warm hopes, of vows believed—Again, again a dreaming boyLet me be happy—though deceived.Friendship,they say, is but a name,And woman’s love a meteor flame,That feedeth upon fancy’s breathA little while, then perisheth.Out, out upon thee—out on thee!Thou hideous hag, Reality.Hah! tears again! dost ask me whyThe tear upon this burning cheek,The half repressed, yet bursting sigh?The tear, the sigh, themselves must speak;Must tell a tale of by-gone hours,A vision of all fair and bright—When my young path was strewn with flowers,And every throb was of delight.When joys were of each moment’s birth,Nor care, nor doubt, an instant stoleFrom days of ever-changeful mirth,That changeless shone upon the soul.When hopes, that in mist-distance gleaming,In promise e’en outvied the past,Came ever, halcyon heralds seeming,Of peace and bliss for aye to last.But where is now the sportive wileOf youth—so guileless and so gay—The soul of love, of fire—the smile,That spoke that soul—oh! where are they?Of days that could such joys impartWhat now remains? Their memory—A cheerless, blasted youth—a heartThat breaketh fast, though silently.And those proud hopes so fondly cherished,Have they too proved, like Friendship, breath?Ay, one by one, they all have perished—Yet no—not all—there yet is death!There yet remains to choose some spot,Where, far from man and scorn, to lie—And there, unheeded and forgot,Alone—oh! God—alone to die.Who talks of dying, while aroundThe earth’s so fair, the sky so bright?With Folly’s wreath let day be crowned,And Mirth and Music rule the night.Another chord—the purple hillsAre bowing to the yellow vales—The vales are smiling to the rills—The rills make music for the gales,That with the sunbeams twining hands,Through groves and meads and streams are glancingAdown the lanes, and on the sandsOf brave old Ocean madly dancing.And brave old Ocean roareth soHis honest laugh, to see those Misses,The pretty flow’rets bending low,As though to shun the wired-god’s kisses.Kisses—hah! hah!—around this stringOf other days what memories twine—Bring, merry comrades, quickly bringYouth-giving and song-making wine.Fill, fill—on the faithful brimPile up the sparkling flood—Drink, drink, till the living streamRun conqueror through the blood.Drink to the hill, the vale,The stream and its jeweled brink,To the warming ray and the cooling gale,To earth and to ocean drink.Drink to each thing that seemsOr loving or glad to be—Nor wait to ask if those joyous beamsBe nature’s hypocrisy.I’ve quaffed the brimming bowlIn mirth’s and madness’ hours—And drenched my thirsty soulIn goblets crowned with flowers.Of draughts so pure as this’Tis luxury to sip,But draught of purer blissDoth dwell on woman’s lip.I’ve felt the glowing sunSteal warmly to my heart’sFaint throbs, when gazing onThe skies of southern parts.But oh! a sun more bright,A purer, warmer sky,Of joy-embathing light,Is found in woman’s eye.’Neath holy Music’s spellHath lain each dream-rapt sense,While on my spirit fellIts gushing eloquence.But oh! a spell there isMore potent to rejoice—The soothing lowlinessOf woman’s whispered voice.Then wonder not, if nowTo her I pledge this cup,To whom my earliest vowFirst sent its incense up—To her—the soul of verse,Our hope, when hope-bereft—Our blessing ’neath the curse—Our all of Eden left.Give, give me back the early joyOf youth’s strong hopes, of vows believed—Again, again a dreaming boyLet me be happy, though deceived.For who hath caught the answering sighHeaving sweet woman’s timid breast,His longing soul fed on her eye,And learned the rapture to be blest—In lingering dalliance now to sip,In boldness now of ardor roving,To drink from eye, cheek, forehead, lip,Of one beloved, and seeming loving.Upon the tell-tale cheek to breathe,Closer the clasping hands to wreathe,As if no earthly power could severThe bosoms met, as met forever—While each responsive fluttering heart,Beating as though ’twould gladly breakTo tell the joy that tongue ne’er spake,Longs from its heaving breast to part,Nearer and nearer still to pressThe soul of its soul’s happiness.Oh! who has felt around his soulThe spells of this idolatry—And wished not that his days should rollThus spell-bound to eternity.Away with wisdom—’tis a cheat—Away with truth—’tis all a lie—Madness alone hath no deceit—Falsehood alone no mockery.
Hah! for the tide of the blood’s hot gush—Hah! for the throng or proud thoughts that rush,Reckless and riotous—why should they beIced by thy frown, Reality?Give, give me back the early joyOf youth’s warm hopes, of vows believed—Again, again a dreaming boyLet me be happy—though deceived.Friendship,they say, is but a name,And woman’s love a meteor flame,That feedeth upon fancy’s breathA little while, then perisheth.Out, out upon thee—out on thee!Thou hideous hag, Reality.Hah! tears again! dost ask me whyThe tear upon this burning cheek,The half repressed, yet bursting sigh?The tear, the sigh, themselves must speak;Must tell a tale of by-gone hours,A vision of all fair and bright—When my young path was strewn with flowers,And every throb was of delight.When joys were of each moment’s birth,Nor care, nor doubt, an instant stoleFrom days of ever-changeful mirth,That changeless shone upon the soul.When hopes, that in mist-distance gleaming,In promise e’en outvied the past,Came ever, halcyon heralds seeming,Of peace and bliss for aye to last.But where is now the sportive wileOf youth—so guileless and so gay—The soul of love, of fire—the smile,That spoke that soul—oh! where are they?Of days that could such joys impartWhat now remains? Their memory—A cheerless, blasted youth—a heartThat breaketh fast, though silently.And those proud hopes so fondly cherished,Have they too proved, like Friendship, breath?Ay, one by one, they all have perished—Yet no—not all—there yet is death!There yet remains to choose some spot,Where, far from man and scorn, to lie—And there, unheeded and forgot,Alone—oh! God—alone to die.Who talks of dying, while aroundThe earth’s so fair, the sky so bright?With Folly’s wreath let day be crowned,And Mirth and Music rule the night.Another chord—the purple hillsAre bowing to the yellow vales—The vales are smiling to the rills—The rills make music for the gales,That with the sunbeams twining hands,Through groves and meads and streams are glancingAdown the lanes, and on the sandsOf brave old Ocean madly dancing.And brave old Ocean roareth soHis honest laugh, to see those Misses,The pretty flow’rets bending low,As though to shun the wired-god’s kisses.Kisses—hah! hah!—around this stringOf other days what memories twine—Bring, merry comrades, quickly bringYouth-giving and song-making wine.Fill, fill—on the faithful brimPile up the sparkling flood—Drink, drink, till the living streamRun conqueror through the blood.Drink to the hill, the vale,The stream and its jeweled brink,To the warming ray and the cooling gale,To earth and to ocean drink.Drink to each thing that seemsOr loving or glad to be—Nor wait to ask if those joyous beamsBe nature’s hypocrisy.I’ve quaffed the brimming bowlIn mirth’s and madness’ hours—And drenched my thirsty soulIn goblets crowned with flowers.Of draughts so pure as this’Tis luxury to sip,But draught of purer blissDoth dwell on woman’s lip.I’ve felt the glowing sunSteal warmly to my heart’sFaint throbs, when gazing onThe skies of southern parts.But oh! a sun more bright,A purer, warmer sky,Of joy-embathing light,Is found in woman’s eye.’Neath holy Music’s spellHath lain each dream-rapt sense,While on my spirit fellIts gushing eloquence.But oh! a spell there isMore potent to rejoice—The soothing lowlinessOf woman’s whispered voice.Then wonder not, if nowTo her I pledge this cup,To whom my earliest vowFirst sent its incense up—To her—the soul of verse,Our hope, when hope-bereft—Our blessing ’neath the curse—Our all of Eden left.Give, give me back the early joyOf youth’s strong hopes, of vows believed—Again, again a dreaming boyLet me be happy, though deceived.For who hath caught the answering sighHeaving sweet woman’s timid breast,His longing soul fed on her eye,And learned the rapture to be blest—In lingering dalliance now to sip,In boldness now of ardor roving,To drink from eye, cheek, forehead, lip,Of one beloved, and seeming loving.Upon the tell-tale cheek to breathe,Closer the clasping hands to wreathe,As if no earthly power could severThe bosoms met, as met forever—While each responsive fluttering heart,Beating as though ’twould gladly breakTo tell the joy that tongue ne’er spake,Longs from its heaving breast to part,Nearer and nearer still to pressThe soul of its soul’s happiness.Oh! who has felt around his soulThe spells of this idolatry—And wished not that his days should rollThus spell-bound to eternity.Away with wisdom—’tis a cheat—Away with truth—’tis all a lie—Madness alone hath no deceit—Falsehood alone no mockery.
Hah! for the tide of the blood’s hot gush—Hah! for the throng or proud thoughts that rush,Reckless and riotous—why should they beIced by thy frown, Reality?
Hah! for the tide of the blood’s hot gush—
Hah! for the throng or proud thoughts that rush,
Reckless and riotous—why should they be
Iced by thy frown, Reality?
Give, give me back the early joyOf youth’s warm hopes, of vows believed—Again, again a dreaming boyLet me be happy—though deceived.
Give, give me back the early joy
Of youth’s warm hopes, of vows believed—
Again, again a dreaming boy
Let me be happy—though deceived.
Friendship,they say, is but a name,And woman’s love a meteor flame,That feedeth upon fancy’s breathA little while, then perisheth.Out, out upon thee—out on thee!Thou hideous hag, Reality.
Friendship,
they say, is but a name,
And woman’s love a meteor flame,
That feedeth upon fancy’s breath
A little while, then perisheth.
Out, out upon thee—out on thee!
Thou hideous hag, Reality.
Hah! tears again! dost ask me whyThe tear upon this burning cheek,The half repressed, yet bursting sigh?The tear, the sigh, themselves must speak;Must tell a tale of by-gone hours,A vision of all fair and bright—When my young path was strewn with flowers,And every throb was of delight.When joys were of each moment’s birth,Nor care, nor doubt, an instant stoleFrom days of ever-changeful mirth,That changeless shone upon the soul.When hopes, that in mist-distance gleaming,In promise e’en outvied the past,Came ever, halcyon heralds seeming,Of peace and bliss for aye to last.
Hah! tears again! dost ask me why
The tear upon this burning cheek,
The half repressed, yet bursting sigh?
The tear, the sigh, themselves must speak;
Must tell a tale of by-gone hours,
A vision of all fair and bright—
When my young path was strewn with flowers,
And every throb was of delight.
When joys were of each moment’s birth,
Nor care, nor doubt, an instant stole
From days of ever-changeful mirth,
That changeless shone upon the soul.
When hopes, that in mist-distance gleaming,
In promise e’en outvied the past,
Came ever, halcyon heralds seeming,
Of peace and bliss for aye to last.
But where is now the sportive wileOf youth—so guileless and so gay—The soul of love, of fire—the smile,That spoke that soul—oh! where are they?Of days that could such joys impartWhat now remains? Their memory—A cheerless, blasted youth—a heartThat breaketh fast, though silently.And those proud hopes so fondly cherished,Have they too proved, like Friendship, breath?Ay, one by one, they all have perished—Yet no—not all—there yet is death!There yet remains to choose some spot,Where, far from man and scorn, to lie—And there, unheeded and forgot,Alone—oh! God—alone to die.
But where is now the sportive wile
Of youth—so guileless and so gay—
The soul of love, of fire—the smile,
That spoke that soul—oh! where are they?
Of days that could such joys impart
What now remains? Their memory—
A cheerless, blasted youth—a heart
That breaketh fast, though silently.
And those proud hopes so fondly cherished,
Have they too proved, like Friendship, breath?
Ay, one by one, they all have perished—
Yet no—not all—there yet is death!
There yet remains to choose some spot,
Where, far from man and scorn, to lie—
And there, unheeded and forgot,
Alone—oh! God—alone to die.
Who talks of dying, while aroundThe earth’s so fair, the sky so bright?With Folly’s wreath let day be crowned,And Mirth and Music rule the night.Another chord—the purple hillsAre bowing to the yellow vales—The vales are smiling to the rills—The rills make music for the gales,That with the sunbeams twining hands,Through groves and meads and streams are glancingAdown the lanes, and on the sandsOf brave old Ocean madly dancing.And brave old Ocean roareth soHis honest laugh, to see those Misses,The pretty flow’rets bending low,As though to shun the wired-god’s kisses.
Who talks of dying, while around
The earth’s so fair, the sky so bright?
With Folly’s wreath let day be crowned,
And Mirth and Music rule the night.
Another chord—the purple hills
Are bowing to the yellow vales—
The vales are smiling to the rills—
The rills make music for the gales,
That with the sunbeams twining hands,
Through groves and meads and streams are glancing
Adown the lanes, and on the sands
Of brave old Ocean madly dancing.
And brave old Ocean roareth so
His honest laugh, to see those Misses,
The pretty flow’rets bending low,
As though to shun the wired-god’s kisses.
Kisses—hah! hah!—around this stringOf other days what memories twine—Bring, merry comrades, quickly bringYouth-giving and song-making wine.Fill, fill—on the faithful brimPile up the sparkling flood—Drink, drink, till the living streamRun conqueror through the blood.Drink to the hill, the vale,The stream and its jeweled brink,To the warming ray and the cooling gale,To earth and to ocean drink.Drink to each thing that seemsOr loving or glad to be—Nor wait to ask if those joyous beamsBe nature’s hypocrisy.
Kisses—hah! hah!—around this string
Of other days what memories twine—
Bring, merry comrades, quickly bring
Youth-giving and song-making wine.
Fill, fill—on the faithful brim
Pile up the sparkling flood—
Drink, drink, till the living stream
Run conqueror through the blood.
Drink to the hill, the vale,
The stream and its jeweled brink,
To the warming ray and the cooling gale,
To earth and to ocean drink.
Drink to each thing that seems
Or loving or glad to be—
Nor wait to ask if those joyous beams
Be nature’s hypocrisy.
I’ve quaffed the brimming bowlIn mirth’s and madness’ hours—And drenched my thirsty soulIn goblets crowned with flowers.Of draughts so pure as this’Tis luxury to sip,But draught of purer blissDoth dwell on woman’s lip.
I’ve quaffed the brimming bowl
In mirth’s and madness’ hours—
And drenched my thirsty soul
In goblets crowned with flowers.
Of draughts so pure as this
’Tis luxury to sip,
But draught of purer bliss
Doth dwell on woman’s lip.
I’ve felt the glowing sunSteal warmly to my heart’sFaint throbs, when gazing onThe skies of southern parts.But oh! a sun more bright,A purer, warmer sky,Of joy-embathing light,Is found in woman’s eye.
I’ve felt the glowing sun
Steal warmly to my heart’s
Faint throbs, when gazing on
The skies of southern parts.
But oh! a sun more bright,
A purer, warmer sky,
Of joy-embathing light,
Is found in woman’s eye.
’Neath holy Music’s spellHath lain each dream-rapt sense,While on my spirit fellIts gushing eloquence.But oh! a spell there isMore potent to rejoice—The soothing lowlinessOf woman’s whispered voice.
’Neath holy Music’s spell
Hath lain each dream-rapt sense,
While on my spirit fell
Its gushing eloquence.
But oh! a spell there is
More potent to rejoice—
The soothing lowliness
Of woman’s whispered voice.
Then wonder not, if nowTo her I pledge this cup,To whom my earliest vowFirst sent its incense up—To her—the soul of verse,Our hope, when hope-bereft—Our blessing ’neath the curse—Our all of Eden left.
Then wonder not, if now
To her I pledge this cup,
To whom my earliest vow
First sent its incense up—
To her—the soul of verse,
Our hope, when hope-bereft—
Our blessing ’neath the curse—
Our all of Eden left.
Give, give me back the early joyOf youth’s strong hopes, of vows believed—Again, again a dreaming boyLet me be happy, though deceived.For who hath caught the answering sighHeaving sweet woman’s timid breast,His longing soul fed on her eye,And learned the rapture to be blest—In lingering dalliance now to sip,In boldness now of ardor roving,To drink from eye, cheek, forehead, lip,Of one beloved, and seeming loving.Upon the tell-tale cheek to breathe,Closer the clasping hands to wreathe,As if no earthly power could severThe bosoms met, as met forever—While each responsive fluttering heart,Beating as though ’twould gladly breakTo tell the joy that tongue ne’er spake,Longs from its heaving breast to part,Nearer and nearer still to pressThe soul of its soul’s happiness.Oh! who has felt around his soulThe spells of this idolatry—And wished not that his days should rollThus spell-bound to eternity.
Give, give me back the early joy
Of youth’s strong hopes, of vows believed—
Again, again a dreaming boy
Let me be happy, though deceived.
For who hath caught the answering sigh
Heaving sweet woman’s timid breast,
His longing soul fed on her eye,
And learned the rapture to be blest—
In lingering dalliance now to sip,
In boldness now of ardor roving,
To drink from eye, cheek, forehead, lip,
Of one beloved, and seeming loving.
Upon the tell-tale cheek to breathe,
Closer the clasping hands to wreathe,
As if no earthly power could sever
The bosoms met, as met forever—
While each responsive fluttering heart,
Beating as though ’twould gladly break
To tell the joy that tongue ne’er spake,
Longs from its heaving breast to part,
Nearer and nearer still to press
The soul of its soul’s happiness.
Oh! who has felt around his soul
The spells of this idolatry—
And wished not that his days should roll
Thus spell-bound to eternity.
Away with wisdom—’tis a cheat—Away with truth—’tis all a lie—Madness alone hath no deceit—Falsehood alone no mockery.
Away with wisdom—’tis a cheat—
Away with truth—’tis all a lie—
Madness alone hath no deceit—
Falsehood alone no mockery.
OLDEN TIMES.
OLDEN TIMES.
OLDEN TIMES.
———
BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER.
———
[SEE ENGRAVING.]
The town or borough of Harrisburg, the political capital of Pennsylvania, lies on thebankof the Susquehanna, about 107 miles west of Philadelphia. I say on thebank, not the shore; for here a bold bluff rises a few yards from the northern margin of the river, and the town is, therefore, from ten to fifteen feet above the stream—a fact of consequence to the inhabitants; as the Susquehanna, which, in summer, may be easily forded by children, will frequently, during the spring freshets, rise from six to eight feet, threatening all upon its borders. The houses are built only on the north side of this front street, so as to face the river and leave, besides the beautiful avenue, a handsome esplanade in front of the town, overlooking the river.
Few places can present a more delightful promenade than thisfrontof Harrisburg; and the writer hereof has more than once sought to express his appreciation of the walk and the gorgeousness of the views to be enjoyed therefrom. The scene is ever fresh—ever delightsome, to one who has an eye for the beautiful of nature, and a heart to be warmed into the enjoyment of that beautiful. No frequency of indulgence palls the appetite here—no change of season diminishes the attraction. Whether the stream murmurs round the projecting rock and over masses of pebbles that mark its bed and are visible in summer, or whether the current dashes deep and bold, fed by the melting snows of the upper mountains, it is beautiful; beautiful in its simple exhibition—beautiful in its terrible grandeur. Whether the setting sun steeps the current in liquid, tremulous light, or the wild, tempestuous blasts of January heap up the waters in dark and chaffing masses, all is beautiful; and men go forth to gaze in quiet enjoyment on the peaceful flow of July, or to enrich and stimulate their feelings with the all-conquering power of the down-rushing torrent of March.
Indulging in dreamy pleasure one morning late in June, while contemplating the loveliness of the scene, I cast my eyes away to the mountains through which the river forces its course a few miles above the town, and was delighted to see the first evidences of the rising sun in the yellow light that tinged the topmost peaks of those mighty promontories, while heavy wreaths of mist, engendered on the ground below, were rolling upward, like giants anxious to bathe early in the sunlight—an enjoyment that must have cost them existence, or, perhaps, only presentvisibility.
I can now recall some of the reflections to which the magnificent scene gave rise. Those children of the mist, that tended upward, were they only imaginary beings? only the workmanship of my fancy, upon the crude materials that sprung up from the fens? or were those misty shapes indeed the essential forms of spirits, whose tendencies were upward—who, though dragged downward by the grossness of their outward covering, which affected its home and would abide in its cold, dark birth-place, struggled upward to the light and heat, and were released from the clogging properties of the visible and the impure, while they put on the invisible and the purified?
I knew the law of physics, by which the ascensive power of matter is augmented by heat, and consequently felt that some of those who were sleeping in the vicinity, would have referred all those misty images of the mountains to well known and always occurring circumstances. I admit that natural causes produce just such effects as the ascension of these wreaths of mist. But may not He who enacts the laws by which all these events occur, connect also the state, habits and tendencies of some class of beings with the operation of those laws? Because the sun gives light and heat to the system of which it is the centre, because we know that it riseth and goeth down, and because we can calculate the influence of its light and heat upon our planet, does it follow that the same body may not be the home of millions of rational beings, who would laugh if told that we, mundane men, thoughtthatluminous body made for the convenience of the earth?
I was calculating the effect upon one who should, while standing on that mountain, venture to address these wreathy forms, and find himself understood and answered, when the presence of a person whom I had once or twice seen, at the peep of dawn,