SONG.

———

BY THOMASFITZGERALD, EDITOR CITY ITEM.

———

Ah! do not speak so coldly,Cold words my heart will chill;If I have loved too boldly,Oh, let me worship still.The pure heart loves forever,To its own likeness true,And though fate bids us sever,I’ll love, I’ll love but you!The heart will throb in sorrowIf from its idol torn,Nor elsewhere joy will borrowIf love’s return be scorn.Then do not speak so coldly,Cold words my heart will chill;E’en if I’ve loved too boldly,Oh, let me worship still.

Ah! do not speak so coldly,Cold words my heart will chill;If I have loved too boldly,Oh, let me worship still.

Ah! do not speak so coldly,

Cold words my heart will chill;

If I have loved too boldly,

Oh, let me worship still.

The pure heart loves forever,To its own likeness true,And though fate bids us sever,I’ll love, I’ll love but you!

The pure heart loves forever,

To its own likeness true,

And though fate bids us sever,

I’ll love, I’ll love but you!

The heart will throb in sorrowIf from its idol torn,Nor elsewhere joy will borrowIf love’s return be scorn.

The heart will throb in sorrow

If from its idol torn,

Nor elsewhere joy will borrow

If love’s return be scorn.

Then do not speak so coldly,Cold words my heart will chill;E’en if I’ve loved too boldly,Oh, let me worship still.

Then do not speak so coldly,

Cold words my heart will chill;

E’en if I’ve loved too boldly,

Oh, let me worship still.

IBAD’S VISION.

———

BY RICHARD PENN SMITH.

———

Ibad the Dervise, instead of feeling proud in the right of the Source of All Good, shrunk from his sight as if unworthy of the hand that had fashioned him. He did not worship as the birds and children worship, with songs and joy, but he built himself a cell, and there, in solitude, worshiped his God, amidst groans and torture screaming—“Yahu, ya allah! I am not a Naeshbendee, and live not among sinful men.” The birds and the children in their simplicity thank the Prophet, and even while dying sing their gratitude. Ibad worshiped in suffering, believing that temporal torment, self-inflicted, would be acceptable in the sight of him who gave all to render man happy. The children and the birds understand God’s dispensations better than did Ibad the dervise.

Ibad slept and had a vision. He beheld a broad and extended path over a verdant meadow, where balmy breezes sported in the sunbeams. A stalwort figure suddenly appeared, with head erect, front of pride, and with eyes that quailed not while staring at the eye of day. Onward he strode, and seemed to spurn even the path he trod, and as he gazed at the sun, his shadow that dogged his heels was tenfold his colossal stature; yet the shadow was willing to follow, without an attempt to lead the way. The figure was Ambition; the shadow Dependence, hunting in his trail.

Onward they strode. The pathway was strewed with flowers and tempting fruit, when suddenly a fascinating figure stept beside Ambition—it was Friendship, and Friendship cast his shadow also—a shadow as substantial as the substance.

The four marched proudly on, Ambition, Friendship and their shadows, and as they traversed the level pathway they mutually laughed, self-satisfied—Friendship smiled and simpered, while Ambition chuckled in his sleeve.

A change came over Ibad’s vision. The sun was overshadowed, murky clouds hung over their path, and Ambition entered a wilderness where no light glimmered to guide him; he knew that Death had spread a snare before every footstep; but he knew not where the pitfall had been spread.

Ambition, as he entered this dark passage, looked up to the heavens for light, but the sun was sleeping; he turned to his gay companion Friendship who had prattled over the flowery meadows in the sunshine, but Friendship was not there; he looked behind him—all was darkness, and even the sycophantic shadow that had crawled at his kibes had deserted him. Ambition exclaimed in bitter irony—“Can I not, in the dark day of my progress leave even a shadow behind me! Have both Friendship and my shadow vanished together because a cloud is upon me! Forward; emerge from the present gloom, and the sun will laugh in your eye to-morrow, and then you will find Friendship with his cheerful face, simpering beside you, and your shadow will assume ten fold its former dimensions, will mimick more accurately every motion of your body, and stick more closely to your heel while you walk in the sunshine.”

The morning sun arose, and as Ambition emerged from his dark and thorny pathway, his road became light, broad and fragrant. The fresh breeze was as wine to his wearied spirit, and he winked and smiled at the sun in the pride of his manhood. Friendship came up smiling beside him, and as they again walked together, their tall dark shadows followed closely upon their heels, fantastically mimicking their motions, as if even their shadows were endeavoring to deceive each other.

They now approached a precipice. Their path became narrow, and still more narrow as they ascended, until finally Friendship jostled Ambition in endeavoring to maintain his foothold, at the same time striving to take the lead. Even their unsubstantial shadows jostled each other in like manner. “The path hath become too narrow for us two,” cried Ambition, as he coolly hurled Friendship headlong down the precipice, without even casting a glance upon his destruction.

He was now alone, without even the shadow of Friendship to sustain him; still onward he strode up the dizzy height, while his own shadow, at every step, diminished in its immense proportions. At length his course was intercepted by a perpendicular barrier, upon which there was no safe foothold. He looked behind him and discovered that his shadow had departed; he looked down upon his feet to ascertain upon what safe pedestal he stood, and lo! there was nothing more substantial than the heels of his shadow to sustain him; its gigantic outline had dwindled to a pigmy. He raised his proud head and exclaimed exultingly—“but one daring leap is required to surmount this obstruction, and then all will be sunshine!” He made the leap; he touched the rocking pinnacle where all his hopes were perched; his shadow, true to him in sunshine followed, but he found no foothold there, for in an instant he overtoppled and fell on the other side, and he and his shadow disappeared forever.

“And is it so?” cried Ibad as he awoke. “Is the path of life too narrow to admit of Friendship without being jostled, and too dangerous for Ambition to tread in safety; and must that proud being disappear as a meteor, without leaving behind even a shadow of his existence! Yahu, ya allah! Praise to thee! I am no Naeshbendee, and live not among sinful men!”

Ibad retired to his solitary cell, where he feared not the selfish duplicity of Friendship, and as his sole ambition was to worship the Prophet, he apprehended no barrier in his pathway; and though he might disappear from the eye of man as a shadow, he felt that the shadow he had cast in this world would be gathered up, and become substance in the sight of God through eternity in the next.

A HARMLESS GLASS OF WINE.

———

BY KATE SUTHERLAND.

———

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

“Rose, dear,” said Mrs. Carleton to her daughter, whom she met at the door of the dining-room, with a decanter of wine and glasses on a waiter, “who is in the parlor?”

“Mr. Newton,” replied the young girl.

“The young man from New York?”

“Yes.”

“You are going to take him wine?”

“Yes. It is only hospitable to offer him some refreshment.”

Mrs. Carleton stood with her eyes resting on the floor for some moments, in a thoughtful attitude.

“I rather think, Rose,” said she, as she lifted her eyes to her daughter’s face, “that it would be as well not to hand him wine.”

“Why, mother?” inquired Rose, looking curious.

“We know nothing of the young man’s previous life and habits.”

“Why do you say that, mother?” asked Rose, who did not comprehend the meaning of what had been uttered.

“He may have been intemperate.”

“Mother! How can you imagine such a thing?”

“I know nothing of him whatever, my child,” replied Mrs. Carleton, “and do not wish to wrong him by an unkind suspicion. My suggestion is nothing more than the dictate of a humane prudence. I have recently had my thoughts turned to the subject of intemperance, and, by many forcible illustrations, have been led to see that the use of even wine, unrestrictedly, is fraught with much danger. We never can know whose perverted taste we may inflame, when we set even wine before guests of whose history we know nothing. It is, therefore, wiser to refrain. But you have left Mr. Newton alone, and must not linger here. Do not, however, present him with wine. After he is gone we will talk on this subject again; when I think you will be satisfied that my present advice is good.”

Rose left the wine on the sideboard, and went back to the parlor, wondering at what she had heard. After the young man had gone away, she joined her mother, when the latter said—

“You seemed surprised at my remarks a little while ago; and I was, perhaps, as much surprised when like suggestions were made to me. But when, from indisputable evidence, we become aware that our actions may wrong others, we are bound by every consideration to guard against such injurious results. You know how painfully afflicted the family of Mr. Delaney has been, in consequence of the intemperate habits of Morton?”

“Yes. Poor Flora! the last time I was with her, he passed us in the street so much intoxicated that he almost staggered. Her heart was so full that she could not speak, and when I left her, a little while afterward, her eyes were ready to gush over with tears.”

“Unhappy young man! So young, and yet so abandoned.”

“Until I met him, as just said, I thought he had reformed his bad habit of drinking,” said Rose.

“It was in order to refer to this fact that I mentioned his name just now,” returned her mother. “He did attempt to do better, and for some months kept fast hold of his good resolutions. But, in an evil hour, he fell, and his temptress was a young girl of your own age, Rose. A few weeks ago he went to New York on business. While there, he visited the house of a relative, where wine was presented to him by a beautiful cousin, and he had not the resolution to refuse the sparkling draught. He tasted, and—you have seen the result.”

“Oh, mother!” exclaimed Rose, “I would not have that cousin’s feelings for the world!”

“She acted as innocently as you would have done just now, my daughter.”

“Was she not aware of his weakness?”

“No. Nor had she ever been told that for one whose taste is vitiated, it is dangerous, in the highest degree, to take even a glass of wine.”

“I am so glad that I did not offer wine to Mr. Newton!” said Rose, drawing a long breath.

“Mr. Newton,” returned the mother, “may never have used intoxicating drinks to excess. He may not be in danger from a glass of wine.”

“But I know nothing of his previous life.”

“And, therefore, it is wisest to take counsel of prudence. This is just what I want you to see for yourself. To such an extent has intemperance prevailed in this country, that the whole community, to a certain extent, have perverted appetites, which are excited so inordinately by any kind of stimulating drink as to destroy, in too many instances, all self-control. Another case, even more painful to contemplate than that of Morton Delaney, occurred in this city last week. I heard of it a day or two since. A beautiful young girl was addressed by a gentleman who had recently removed here from the South; and her friends seeing nothing about him to warrant disapprobation, made no objection to his suit. An engagement soon followed, and the wedding was celebrated a few days ago. The father of the bride gave a brilliant entertainment to a large and elegant company. The choicest wines were used more freely than water, and the young husband drank with the rest. Alas! before the evening closed he was so much intoxicated that he had to be separated from the company; and, what is worse, he has not been sober for an hour since.”

“Oh, what a sad, sad thing!” exclaimed Rose.

“It is sad, sad indeed! What an awakening froma dream of exquisite happiness was that of the beautiful bride! It now appears that the young man had fallen into habits of dissipation, and afterward reformed. On his wedding night he could not refuse a glass of wine. A single draught sufficed to rekindle the old fire, that was smouldering, not extinguished. He fell, and, so far, has not risen from his fall, and may never rise.”

“You frighten me!” said Rose, while a shudder went through her frame. “I never dreamed of such danger in a glass of wine. Pure wine I have always looked upon as a good thing. I did not think that it would lead any one into danger.”

W. P. Frith W. H. EgletonROSE CARLTON.Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine

“Even the best of things, my child, may be turned to an evil purpose. The heat and light of the sun is received by one plant and changed into a poison, while another converts it into healthy and nourishing food. Pure wine will not excite a healthy appetite, although it may madden one that has become morbid through intemperance. Here is the distinction that ought to be made.”

“Is it not dangerous, then, to serve wine in promiscuous companies?”

“Undoubtedly. I did not think so a little while ago, because the subject was not presented to my mind in the light that it now is. To this custom I can well believe that hundreds who had begun the work of restricting their craving appetites owe their downfall. Where all are partaking, the temptation to join in is almost irresistible; especially, as a refusal might create a suspicion against the individual that he was afraid to trust himself.”

“I will be very careful how I offer wine to any one again,” said Rose. “I would not have the guilt of tempting a man to ruin upon my conscience for all the world.”

“The more I ponder the subject,” remarked Mrs. Carleton, “the more surprised am I at myself and others. I invite some friends to an entertainment, or to spend a social evening, and I serve wine to my guests. Among them is a man who has fallen into intemperate habits at one time of life, and whose present sobriety is dependent upon his rigid observance of the rule of total abstinence. He is, it may be, the husband of my most cherished friend. I place wine before him with the rest. He is tempted to break his rule, and falls. Ah, me! How many hundreds of such cases occur in our large cities.”

Mrs. Carleton was a widow in easy circumstances, and moved in fashionable society. She entertained a good deal of company, and did it in the fashionable way. When gentlemen called at her house, wine was invariably set before them; and when she gave parties, wine was always served to her guests. But, suddenly startled into reflection, she saw that the practice was a dangerous one, and determined to abandon it. On this resolution she acted, much to the surprise of many of her acquaintances. Some said she was “queer,”—others decided that it was a foolish notion; while others pronounced her conduct positively absurd. But she did not in the least swerve from her purpose. Wine was no more placed before her guests.

The visits of Mr. Newton to Rose, which at first were only occasional, became more and more frequent. A mutual attachment ensued, which ended in marriage. No wine was provided at the wedding party—to many a strange omission—and Rose observed that at the parties given them by friends her husband invariably let the wine pass him untasted. Curious to know the reason for such abstemiousness, she one day, some months after marriage, said to him—

“Do you never drink wine?”

The question caused Newton to look serious; and he replied in a simple monosyllable.

“Don’t you like it?” inquired Rose.

“Yes; too well perhaps.”

The way in which this was said half startled the young wife. Newton saw the effect of his words, and forcing a smile said—

“When quite a young man, I was thrown much into gay company, and there acquired a bad habit of using all kinds of intoxicating drinks with a dangerous freedom. Before I was conscious of my error, I was verging on rapidly to the point of losing all self-control. Startled at finding myself in such a position, I made a resolution to abandon the use of every thing but wine. This, however, did not reach the evil. The taste of wine excited my appetite to such a degree that I invariably resorted to brandy for its gratification. I then abandoned the use of wine, as the only safe course for me, and, with occasional exceptions, have strictly adhered to my resolution. In a few instances young ladies, at whose houses I visited, have presented me with wine, and not wishing to push back the proffered refreshment, I have tasted it. The consequence was invariable. A burning desire for stronger stimulants was awakened, that carried me away as by an irresistible power. You, Rose, never tempted me in this way. Had you done so, we might not have been as happy as we are to-day.”

A shudder passed through the frame of the young wife, as she remembered the glass of wine she had been so near presenting to his lips. Never afterward could she think of it without an inward tremor. And fears for the future mingled with her thoughts of the past; but these have proved groundless fears, for Mr. Newton has no temptation at home, and he has resolution enough to refuse a glass of wine in any company, and on all occasions. Herein lies his safety.

“What! refuse a harmless glass of wine?” will sometimes be said to him. To this he has but one answer.

“Pure wine may be harmless in itself; so is light—yet light will destroy an inflamed eye.”

NORTHAMPTON.

———

BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN.

———

Ere from thy calm seclusion parted,O fairest village of the plain!The thoughts that here to life have startedDraw me to Nature’s heart again.The tasseled maize, full grain, or clover,Far o’er the level meadow grows,And through it, like a wayward rover,The noble river gently flows.Majestic elms, with trunks unshakenBy all the storms an age can bring,Frail sprays whose rest the zephyrs waken,Yet lithesome with the juice of spring.By sportive airs the foliage lifted,Each green leaf shows its white below,As foam on emerald waves is drifted,Their tints alternate come and go.And then the skies! when vapors clusterFrom zenith to horizon’s verge,As wild gusts ominously bluster,And in deep shade the landscape merge;—Under the massive cloud’s low border,Where hill-tops with the sky unite,Like an old minster’s blazoned warder,There scintillates an amber light.Sometimes a humid fleece reposesMidway upon the swelling ridge,Like an aerial couch of roses,Or Dairy’s amethystine bridge:And pale green inlets lucid shimmer,With huge cliffs jutting out beside,Like those in mountain lakes that glimmer,Tinged like the ocean’s crystal tide:Or saffron-tinted islands plantedIn firmaments of azure dye,With pearly mounds that loom undaunted,And float like icebergs of the sky.Like autumn leaves that eddying falter,Yet settle to their crimson rest,As pilgrims round their burning altar,They slowly gather in the west.And when the distant mountain rangesIn moonlight or blue mist are clad,Oft memory all the landscape changes,And pensive thoughts are blent with glad.For then, as in a dream Elysian,Val d’Arno’s fair and loved domainSeems to my rapt yet waking vision,To yield familiar charms again.Save that for dome and turret hoary,Amid the central valley liesA white church-spire unknown to story,And smoke-wreaths from a cottage rise.On Holyoke’s summit woods are frowning,No line of cypresses we see,Nor convent old with beauty crowningThe heights of sweet Fiésole.Yet here may willing eyes discoverThe art and life of every shore,For Nature bids her patient loverAll true similitudes explore.These firs, when cease their boughs to quiver,Stand like pagodas brahmins seek,Yon isle, that parts the winding river,Seems modeled from a light caique.And fanes that in these groves are hidden,Are sculptured like a dainty frieze,While choral music steals unbidden,As undulates the forest breeze.A gothic arch and springing column,A floral-dyed, mosaic ground,A twilight shade and vista solemnIn all these sylvan haunts are found.And now this fragile garland weavingWhile ebbs the musing tide away,As one a sacred temple leaving,Some tribute on its shrine would lay;I bless the scenes whose tranquil beautyHave cheered me like the sense of youth,And freshened lonely tasks of duty,The dream of love and zest of truth.

Ere from thy calm seclusion parted,O fairest village of the plain!The thoughts that here to life have startedDraw me to Nature’s heart again.

Ere from thy calm seclusion parted,

O fairest village of the plain!

The thoughts that here to life have started

Draw me to Nature’s heart again.

The tasseled maize, full grain, or clover,Far o’er the level meadow grows,And through it, like a wayward rover,The noble river gently flows.

The tasseled maize, full grain, or clover,

Far o’er the level meadow grows,

And through it, like a wayward rover,

The noble river gently flows.

Majestic elms, with trunks unshakenBy all the storms an age can bring,Frail sprays whose rest the zephyrs waken,Yet lithesome with the juice of spring.

Majestic elms, with trunks unshaken

By all the storms an age can bring,

Frail sprays whose rest the zephyrs waken,

Yet lithesome with the juice of spring.

By sportive airs the foliage lifted,Each green leaf shows its white below,As foam on emerald waves is drifted,Their tints alternate come and go.

By sportive airs the foliage lifted,

Each green leaf shows its white below,

As foam on emerald waves is drifted,

Their tints alternate come and go.

And then the skies! when vapors clusterFrom zenith to horizon’s verge,As wild gusts ominously bluster,And in deep shade the landscape merge;—

And then the skies! when vapors cluster

From zenith to horizon’s verge,

As wild gusts ominously bluster,

And in deep shade the landscape merge;—

Under the massive cloud’s low border,Where hill-tops with the sky unite,Like an old minster’s blazoned warder,There scintillates an amber light.

Under the massive cloud’s low border,

Where hill-tops with the sky unite,

Like an old minster’s blazoned warder,

There scintillates an amber light.

Sometimes a humid fleece reposesMidway upon the swelling ridge,Like an aerial couch of roses,Or Dairy’s amethystine bridge:

Sometimes a humid fleece reposes

Midway upon the swelling ridge,

Like an aerial couch of roses,

Or Dairy’s amethystine bridge:

And pale green inlets lucid shimmer,With huge cliffs jutting out beside,Like those in mountain lakes that glimmer,Tinged like the ocean’s crystal tide:

And pale green inlets lucid shimmer,

With huge cliffs jutting out beside,

Like those in mountain lakes that glimmer,

Tinged like the ocean’s crystal tide:

Or saffron-tinted islands plantedIn firmaments of azure dye,With pearly mounds that loom undaunted,And float like icebergs of the sky.

Or saffron-tinted islands planted

In firmaments of azure dye,

With pearly mounds that loom undaunted,

And float like icebergs of the sky.

Like autumn leaves that eddying falter,Yet settle to their crimson rest,As pilgrims round their burning altar,They slowly gather in the west.

Like autumn leaves that eddying falter,

Yet settle to their crimson rest,

As pilgrims round their burning altar,

They slowly gather in the west.

And when the distant mountain rangesIn moonlight or blue mist are clad,Oft memory all the landscape changes,And pensive thoughts are blent with glad.

And when the distant mountain ranges

In moonlight or blue mist are clad,

Oft memory all the landscape changes,

And pensive thoughts are blent with glad.

For then, as in a dream Elysian,Val d’Arno’s fair and loved domainSeems to my rapt yet waking vision,To yield familiar charms again.

For then, as in a dream Elysian,

Val d’Arno’s fair and loved domain

Seems to my rapt yet waking vision,

To yield familiar charms again.

Save that for dome and turret hoary,Amid the central valley liesA white church-spire unknown to story,And smoke-wreaths from a cottage rise.

Save that for dome and turret hoary,

Amid the central valley lies

A white church-spire unknown to story,

And smoke-wreaths from a cottage rise.

On Holyoke’s summit woods are frowning,No line of cypresses we see,Nor convent old with beauty crowningThe heights of sweet Fiésole.

On Holyoke’s summit woods are frowning,

No line of cypresses we see,

Nor convent old with beauty crowning

The heights of sweet Fiésole.

Yet here may willing eyes discoverThe art and life of every shore,For Nature bids her patient loverAll true similitudes explore.

Yet here may willing eyes discover

The art and life of every shore,

For Nature bids her patient lover

All true similitudes explore.

These firs, when cease their boughs to quiver,Stand like pagodas brahmins seek,Yon isle, that parts the winding river,Seems modeled from a light caique.

These firs, when cease their boughs to quiver,

Stand like pagodas brahmins seek,

Yon isle, that parts the winding river,

Seems modeled from a light caique.

And fanes that in these groves are hidden,Are sculptured like a dainty frieze,While choral music steals unbidden,As undulates the forest breeze.

And fanes that in these groves are hidden,

Are sculptured like a dainty frieze,

While choral music steals unbidden,

As undulates the forest breeze.

A gothic arch and springing column,A floral-dyed, mosaic ground,A twilight shade and vista solemnIn all these sylvan haunts are found.

A gothic arch and springing column,

A floral-dyed, mosaic ground,

A twilight shade and vista solemn

In all these sylvan haunts are found.

And now this fragile garland weavingWhile ebbs the musing tide away,As one a sacred temple leaving,Some tribute on its shrine would lay;

And now this fragile garland weaving

While ebbs the musing tide away,

As one a sacred temple leaving,

Some tribute on its shrine would lay;

I bless the scenes whose tranquil beautyHave cheered me like the sense of youth,And freshened lonely tasks of duty,The dream of love and zest of truth.

I bless the scenes whose tranquil beauty

Have cheered me like the sense of youth,

And freshened lonely tasks of duty,

The dream of love and zest of truth.

A THOUGHT.

———

BY ISAAC GRAY BLANCHARD.

———

The flower springs by the fountain-side,And blooms its little day;Speechless it lives the life it has,And silent fades away.O, I would not be like the flower,To perish in the mould,And leave no record of my heart,No fond affection told.Let beauty be to others given,And beautiful array—To those who, like the flower, are butAmbitious to be gay;I only ask the pen, the tongue,That can the heart unfold,That the deep beauty of the soulBe not unsung, untold.

The flower springs by the fountain-side,

And blooms its little day;

Speechless it lives the life it has,

And silent fades away.

O, I would not be like the flower,

To perish in the mould,

And leave no record of my heart,

No fond affection told.

Let beauty be to others given,And beautiful array—To those who, like the flower, are butAmbitious to be gay;I only ask the pen, the tongue,That can the heart unfold,That the deep beauty of the soulBe not unsung, untold.

Let beauty be to others given,

And beautiful array—

To those who, like the flower, are but

Ambitious to be gay;

I only ask the pen, the tongue,

That can the heart unfold,

That the deep beauty of the soul

Be not unsung, untold.

THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER.

———

BY C. M. FARMER.

———

Gentle reader! allow me to introduce to your consideration the characters of Mr. Brigs, (soi disantAllen Brigs, Esquire,) and his distinguished lady Mrs. Polly Brigs. Imagine a stout built, corpulent “five footer,” with a very big head, on which there never was hair enough to make a decent pair of whiskers, and on which, consequently, rode a red wig, curled as many different ways as the sunbeams point; with the largest of all large noses, into which he incessantly—or at least fifty times in each day—thrust the raw rappee with no small degree of relish; little pop-eyes, just large enough to see every body in church at one and the same time; a blue silk vest, striped cassimere pantaloons, a leviathian shad-belly coat, and a milk-white cravat tied in a double bow before, and surrounding a collar madepartlyof very coarse linen, andmostlyof very stiff starch, which came up on either side to his ears, sustaining the equilibrium of his head. Of course, his head could only move in two directions—backward and forward—without manifest danger to the implements of hearing thereto attached, all set off by a pair of cork-sole boots six and a quarter inches across the instep when on, the toes of which looked right into the master’s face; and here you have Allen Brigs—alias, Mr. A. Brigs, Esquire.

Mr. Brigs had undoubtedly seen the eclipses of a great many years. According to his own averment, he had “waded through as many snows as there were hairs on his wig;” and as he had repeated this averment so many times, and nobody had ever evinced any inclination to contest the point with him, he had persuaded himself that he wasipso facto, a “very old man.” Be this as it may, Mr. Allen Brigs was not the man to be eschewed for his aged stupidity. He was amusing and buoyant as a boy. He never took the unnecessary trouble to correct himself for errors in language, no matter how gross, but would leave that to be done by any body who chose to “take it up.” If he was asked if it was Jonah who swallowed the whale, he would reply in the affirmative, and when corrected, would invariably answer—“Zooks! it’s all the same in Dutch—justvice versa, as the lawyers say—that’s all!”

In short, Mr. Allen Brigs was a man not to be scared by any “livin’ warmint,” two-legged, or four-legged, male or female—a perfect man of the world in business—“a real out and outer”—crushing all opposition to his own schemes, and believing in his heart that every body was a fool who did not coincide in all things with him, Mr. Allen Brigs.

Mrs. Brigs was some ten years the junior of her partner in life, and was a lady in every sense of the word. It was evident that she hadoncebeen beautiful, but that once had been past a long time; and now, where then dangled the glossy curls, (notfalsecurls—girls never wore false curls in those days,) she displayed two huge bows of yellow ribbon. These were necessary ornaments, however, for they were appendages to a very neat frilled cap. Mrs. Brigs had never been known to wear a stay-body frock, or a bustle—indeed, such things were not then in fashion—she never wore sleeves of the mutton-leg cut; nor were they ever so tight as to render the arms useless members, but always large enough and small enough to be comfortable. Mrs. Brigs never could endure small shoes—consequently, she never was compelled to endure the pains incident to corns. She was an inflexible knitter and darner, and though Mr. Brigs never had but one pair of socks, they never had a hole in them, because whenever the legs wore out she would leg them, and when the feet wore out she would foot them. Mrs. Brigs was so good herself—so artless and unsuspecting, that she thought every body else was good, and artless, and unsuspecting too. Mrs. Brigs was literally the very woman for Mr. Brigs, and that gentleman was the very man for Mrs. Brigs. Hence, it can only be inferred that they lived happily together—so happily, indeed, and contentedly, that they were known but to be loved. A peaceful country village was their home. A ten acre farm of fertile land, through which murmured a dear, bright stream

“That wound in many a flow’ry nook,”

was thefee simpleproperty of Allen Brigs. A pretty little white-washed house, almost hidden by the clustering fruit-trees, was their humble tenement. A handsome little garden, tastefully laid out, occupied the space between the house and rivulet, and here Mrs. Brigs sought recreation when burthened with theennuiof knitting and darning. A cow and calf—a sow and pig—a horse, and a yard full of poultry of every species, composed the family stock. And with all these, and nothing more, they were rich—rich in the honesty of their own hearts which knew no covetousness—contentment was theirs, and that was riches. They were surrounded by kind neighbors—some affluent, but not aristocratic. An athletic son of sixteen, and a beautiful daughter of twelve, were their only offspring. Solomon Brigs was his father’s sole help, but they managed every thing to admiration. Nanny was a sweet tempered child—affectionate and dutiful. Every body loved her, and she loved every body. Notwithstanding she was a country girl, there was a native, witching, fascinating grace in her every movement. She was so active, and gay, and cheerful—so full of life and joy—and so mild and modest! She had never known sickness: health flowed through every vein, and glowed in her soft dark eyes and blooming cheeks—and her smiling face was a sure index to her pure heart. Her finely shaped head, and intelligentforehead, bore testimony to her keen susceptibilities.

Solomon was a smart boy—so said his knowing father; and though he had made no higher attainments than reading, writing, and cyphering to the single rule of three, he knew how to plough the corn, and hill the potatoes, and weed his sister’s flower-beds. He could not solve a problem in mathematics, but he could jump higher and hallo louder than any boy in the village, large or small.

Nanny was a proficient in the art of housekeeping, but not in French, painting, &c. &c. She, too, could read, write, and cypher, and Mr. Brigs considered that enough book learning forhischildren. It was allheknew, and there was danger in too much. But we come now to give our characters a more conspicuous place in the public mind.

It was one cold morning in December, when the snow was thick on the ground, and a luxuriant fire was blazing on every hearth in the village, and when nobody living would have thought of visiting, except Miss Lachevers, the housekeeper of John Doe, next door neighbor to the Brigses, No. 10 Lachevers’ lane. As I said, it was cold—extremely cold; but Miss Lachevers, No. 10 Lachevers’ lane, did not regard cold weather. Now, whether ayounglady, living to the age of forty odd, becomes invulnerable to the piercing air of a December morning, or whether the young lady in question was differently constituted from other people, I shall not attempt to decide—probably the latter. Nevertheless, on this same morning, almost as soon as the sun showed his face, Miss Lachevers peeped in at the door of Allen Brigs. Mr. Brigs was drying the morning’s paper by the fire, while Mrs. Brigs busied herself “clearing away” the breakfast table. Solomon and Nanny were both reading from the same book, the story of “Aladdin’s Lamp.”

“Good mornin’ to you,” said Miss Lachevers, introducing her body as well as her head—“cool mornin’ this.”

“Rather,” replied Mr. Brigs senior, laying down the paper and rubbing the palms of his hands hard enough together to erase the skin. “Come to the fire, Betty—be seated—have off your bonnet.”

The finishing clause of this address proceeded from the voluble tongue of Mrs. Brigs; and Nanny arose from her seat to hand Miss Lachevers a chair.

“Don’t trouble yourself, child—I never have time to sit. I must go back in one second. It’s trot, trot, from mornin’ till night, with me. I just stepped in,” she continued, turning her eyes on Mrs. Brigs, “to ask you all if you’ve hearn the news?”

“What news?” inquired Mr. Brigs senior, glancing first at the paper on the chair and then at the early visiter—“any body dead or dying—or any steamship busted—or any thing of that species?”

“Oh, no!” said Miss Lachevers, “nothin’ of that are character. But somethin’ more important andnovelthan either.”

All eyes were now turned toward the significant countenance of Miss Betty Lachevers, who still remained standing. Mr. Brigs senior, not exactly understanding the application of the word “novel” to the sudden intelligence of any thing new—having never heard it applied to any thing but a book—requested Miss Lachevers to explain herself. Mrs. Brigs insisted that Betty should take a chair and tell all about it; and Solomon and Nanny continued their reading, as if nothingnovelwas going on.

“Why, raly,” said Miss Lachevers, drawing a seat, and depositing her person thereon, “I haint hardly got time to tell you. But it’s wonderful to think of. The fact is, a young schoolmaster arrived in town last night, and I hear it’s his intention to set up a school here for the eddication of youth; and the worst of all is, nobody knows who he is, or where he come from. His name I heered, but I almost forgot it—it’s Dubbs—or Grubbs—or Dobbs—or somethin’ like that. They say he’s a wonderful genus, smart as can be, and full of larning. He stopped at old Jenkins’s, cross the way—whether he means to board thereIcan’t say—but there he is. I s’pose we’ll get a peep at him to-day. For my part, I should like to know why he put up at old Jenkins’s.”

“A schoolmaster!” repeated Mr. Brigs, the elder, with emphatic surprise.

“Yes—a reg’lar built, yankee schoolmaster,” replied Miss Betty.

“Come to teach the children how that the earth revolves round the sun, instead of the sun revolving round the earth, and things of that extravagant natur’, I s’pose?”

“To be sure he will,” said the young lady, “and he’ll be after coaxin’ your children into his notions—see if he don’t.”

“Not he!” consequentially returned the old man—“Sol has too much sense for any Yankee that ever lived yet; and I guess Nanny will have enough to do to larn of her mother. Not he!” and Mr. Brigs inflicted two slaps on the left side pocket of his blue vest.

Mrs. Brigs sighed, and Miss Lachevers coughed—whether for want of something to say, or to render what she had said complete, it matters not—but she coughed, and bidding a hasty adieu, left the room.

Mr. Brigs settled himself down to read the paper, and his lady settled herself down to her favorite exercise—knitting; while Solomon and Nanny repeated to each other surmises as to the probable appearance of the new comer—his age—dress, &c.

The day passed away, and night came on. Tea was over, and this happy little family had gathered around the cheerful fire. A gentle tap was heard at the door, and a voice pronouncing the simple word—“housekeepers.”

“Come in,” responded Mrs. Brigs, and in came Mr. Jenkins, followed by a young man apparently about twenty-two, with black hair and eyes, straight, tall, and erect, handsome, and of a genteel and prepossessing appearance, who was introduced by his conductor as Mr. Timothy Dobbs.

“My friend,” said Mr. Jenkins, after being seated, and taking an accurate survey of the premises, “has come among us for the purpose, he says, of opening a school. He is an orphan, of very superior endowments—brings with him ample credentials of hiscapacity, and expects to find patronage for his support from the inhabitants of our village.”

Mr. Dobbs bowed a concurrence in the remarks of Mr. Jenkins, and hoped that Mr. Brigs could furnish him with board and a convenient room in his house.

“Ah, that’s it!” said Mr. Jenkins, recollecting the object of his visit—“that’s what we’re a coming to. This gentleman, Mr. Brigs, wishes to reside in your family, and to eat at your table, sir. I hope—I s’pose you can accommodate him, Mr. Brigs?”

Mr. Brigs said that he could, and that he should be happy to serve him, Mr. Dobbs, in any other manner possible. Matters being thus considered, and terms agreed on, Mr Jenkins arose to depart; having first satisfied Mr. Dobbs that he, Dobbs, would be sure to sleep soundly that night, and assured him of the total absence of all danger from external assaults under the roof of so great and good a man as his friend and neighbor Allen Brigs.

Before retiring to rest, Mr. Dobbs acquainted himself with the characters before him, by conversing with them, and each of them, on various topics; and found to his satisfaction that they were kind and noble-hearted people. The characteristic traits of Mr. Brigs were rough and unique, yet there was a generous frankness about him—such a flow of spirits and good humor—that he considered him a pleasant man. Nor was Mrs. Brigs unlike her husband in these particulars. To tell the truth, Mr. Dobbs was pleased. More than once did he get a full view of the sweet face of Nanny; and more than once did Nanny blush to catch his eye. Timothy admired her modest looks, and fancied that hemightone day love her. He wondered how old she was, and blest his luck that he had fallen into that particular family, where such a beautiful face as hers might shed its sunny smiles about him—perhaps to cheer many of his tedious moments. He fancied shemustbe young, yet she seemed already expanding into womanhood. Such perfect symmetry of form, and grace of carriage, he had never seen in a country girl: and then the rich intelligence that beamed through her soft dark eyes, convinced him that she was born to follow some more noble pursuit than housewifery.

The hour grew late, and Timothy bade good-night, and crept softly to his room, where fatigue soon lulled him to sleep. But he dreamed! Yes, he dreamed of one sweet angelic being, whom he had only seen once—only once—and that sweet being was Nanny!

“Zooks!” said Mr. Brigs, after Timothy had left the parlor—“but he seems to be a clever youth. Nanny, what do you think of him—eh?”

“I don’t know, father,” replied Nanny—“but—I think—he’s quite handsome.”

“Handsome! Yes, and I reckon he considered Miss Nanny Brigs a leetle specimen of the handsomest girl he ever saw. I saw him a squintin’ on that side of the house.”

“Oh, father!” cried Nanny, faintly blushing. “I’m sure helookedat us all—he looked at Solomon, too.”

“What’s his name, father?” inquired Solomon—“Stobbs?”

“Dobbs—Timothy Dobbs, I think, and that’s all I know about him yet: but we’ll find what kind of a chap he is soon, I guess. I expect he’s a squirt, any how.”

“I hope not,” said Mrs. Brigs.

“And I hope not, too,” rejoined Mr. Brigs; “but we’ll see!”

Time sped on. The village school was in a flourishing condition. Pupil after pupil had been added to the charge of Mr. Timothy Dobbs, the “great unknown,” until (to use a cant phrase) he had his hands full. It is very natural to suppose that our village schoolmaster had become very popular among all the villagers, and particularly so in the discerning eyes of Miss Betty Lachevers, No. 10 Lachevers’ lane. Notwithstanding the violent protestations of Mr. Brigs against the idea of suffering his children to become scholars of Mr. Dobbs, the old gentleman had confessed his wrong in that respect, and now protested with the same vehemence, that Mr. Timothy Dobbs was the finest fellow that ever lived; and that it would be high treason in any parent or guardian to refuse children and wards generally, the benefits of Mr. Dobbs’s seminary of learning; and he (Mr. Brigs) was firmly of the opinion that Solomon and Nanny would one day become the successors of their tutor in the office of “eddicating youth;” and on this hypothesis, he built the future prospect of the erection of the “Brigs’ College,” to be called after his own name, and of which, as a matter of course, Solomon was to be principal professor. Mr. Brigs saw all this as clear as a whistle, and he had no doubt that his prophecy would be fulfilled. Mr. Dobbs continued to board and lodge at Mr. Brigs’ house. Nanny grew more lovely and interesting every day, and made rapid advancement in her studies. Solomon declared that Mr. Dobbs paid more attention to his sister than to any other young lady in the school—to her instructions he meant; and that he believed seriously, that Mr. Dobbs had a notion of making her his assistant—in the school he meant. Miss Lachevers always happened to hoist the window of Mr. Doe’s parlor at the particular moment when the schoolmaster, Nanny, and Solomon passed the gate, on their return from school; and as it was as invariably the case that Mr. Dobbs walked closer to Nanny’s side than Solomon’s, the former young lady never failed to give her features an expression of scorn—at least, whenever her eye met Nanny’s. It might have been necessary for Miss Betty to hoist the window on all these occasions, for some domestic purpose, such as dusting, &c., and therefore she could not help seeing the passers by; she, however, at such times looked unusually prim, but Mr. Dobbs seemed, in every case, unconscious that the eyes of any third person were upon him, for he never turned his on either side, but looked straight forward. One day Nanny actually had her arm in that of the schoolmaster, when the walking was very bad on account of snow, and then Miss Lachevers looked daggers, and from thenceforth her deportment toward our innocent heroine grew cold and formal. Perhaps Miss Betty had different views of village etiquette from other young ladies, and thought it extremely rude for a younglady to lock arms with a gentleman, under an acquaintance of four years and a half; or perhaps she considered the law of primogeniture applicable to her individual case, and thought that ifanybody was to lock arms with the schoolmaster, it should be herself, as she wasratherolder than Miss Nanny Brigs. Nevertheless, she did not make her visits to Mr. Brigs’s less frequent. She would sometimes—though altogether accidentally—chance to “fall in” when Mr. Dobbs was there; and whenever that event occurred, she made herself extremely agreeable—so she thought. But Mr. Dobbs was a sober-minded man, of keen perception and sound views of propriety, and could read her writing as well as she could herself. Nor was it long ere his disgust was manifested at her sociable behavior, which caused her to bestow upon him the classic epithet of “itinerant pedagogue.” And now matters took another turn.

A year had passed away since the “itinerant pedagogue” first opened his school. The population of the village had considerably increased. Uncle Sam had established a post-office there. Lachevers’ lane was become the principal thoroughfare of the “town.” Stores—groceries—and tailor’s shops had been erected; sign-boards hung out and nailed to the window shutters. A handsome church “with tapering spire,” and surrounded by young trees, was now the Sabbath rendezvous of the villagers. The school-house had been enlarged—the play-ground enclosed—and every thing wore a new aspect. Miss Betty Lachevers, after exhausting all her efforts to captivate Timothy Dobbs, had abandoned him to the more attractive charms of Miss Brigs; and the former young lady was now scarcely ever seen, save at church on Sundays. A Sabbath-school had been opened in the basement-room of the village church, of which Timothy was superintendent, and Solomon and Nanny teachers; and the signs of the times bade fair to verify the predictions of Mr. Brigs with regard to colleges, &c. in general. But, stillall was not right! Timothy had declared his love to Nanny, and had received an answer of satisfaction. He had solicited the consent of her parents, and had received aREFUSAL!! Not that Mr. Brigs thought him unworthy of the hand of his daughter, but because his history was still enveloped in mystery and obscurity. Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Brigs, and Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Brigs, and half a dozen more misters and mistresses, had used all means to find out his origin, but to no effect. He would always, when spoken to on that point, fall into a state of dejected gloom, and evade all questions bearing on his nativity; and this was a barrier which intervened between him and the object of his affections.

A large oil painting ornamented the wall over the fire-place, representing a young mother, with an infant on her breast, reclining on the left arm of a man, who was defending her with his right, from the assaults of a ruffian. A beautiful girl lay weltering in blood near the surviving group; and the husband seemed to have received several dangerous wounds, from which large drops of blood were falling. It was a scene of deep and thrilling interest, and expressive of some awful tragedy. It was also well executed, and the languishing despair which beamed from the face of the young mother would almost seem, at times, to convert the painted canvas into a mass of animation. At this picture Mr. Dobbs was often seen to gaze with sad countenance and quivering lip; while the throbbings of his temples told that the mind was at work with melancholy thoughts. He became sad and cheerless, avoided all company (but Nanny’s) as much as possible, and was sometimes found weeping. Yet none knew the cause of his silent grief. Nanny observed the effect which had been wrought on him by the picture, and communicated the fact to her mother.

“He seems,” said she, “to take a sad pleasure in looking at the painting. He showed me a miniature yesterday, which is the express image of the lady with the infant child in her arms; and when I had examined it, and returned it to him, he pressed it to his lips, and the tears fell from his eyes. There must be something strange connected with his history!”

“And did he say nothing about the miniature or the painting?” inquired Mr. Brigs.

“Nothing!” replied Nanny, “I saw the subject gave him pain, and I feared to ask him any thing about it.”

“Where is the miniature?” asked Mrs. Brigs.

“He keeps it in his vest pocket,” answered Nanny. “I will beg him to show it to you, mother—I know he will.”

“No, child—don’t. I will inquire into the secret myself. But Nanny, did you never hear the story of the painting over the fire?”

“No,” said Nanny; “what is it?”

“Ah! it’s an awful thing—all true as Gospel—dreadful!”

Here Mrs. Brigs requested her daughter to ask her no questions, and she would tell her some other time. The young girl’s fears were excited, but she concealed them within her own bosom.

“Mr. Dobbs,” said Mrs. Brigs one evening, “what on earth ails you? You look like you have lost the best friend you had in the world. Do pray tell us what has made you so gloomy for so many days.”

Timothy sighed deeply, and a crimson flush suffused the cheek of Nanny. Mr. Brigs turned up his collar, and ran his fingers through his gray locks, and looked very hard at Mr. Dobbs. Solomon looked very hard at his father; and Mrs. Brigs looked at every one in the room alternately.

“Come,” said Mr. Briggs—“Come, Mr. Dobbs, let’s hear what’s the matter. Remember, young man, you are among friends; and if I can do any thing for you—why, I’ll do it. Come, now, let out. Don’t kill yourself for no trifle, young man.”

“I feel much obliged to you,” replied Timothy, “and will ask but one favor. I cannot now tell you what ails me; but there is something in this house which gives me great anxiety. I have long wished to make the inquiry, but had not the courage. Tell me, then, what is the meaning of that picture which hangs before me?”

“Zooks!” cried Mr. Brigs, “and is it the picture that has caused all your bad feelings, Mr. Dobbs?”

“It is,” returned the schoolmaster; “and I wish to know what it means!”

The surprise of Mr. Brigs and Solomon may be better imagined than described. The old gentleman drew out his red silk handkerchief and rubbed his eyes, stuffed it into his pocket again, and stared with all his might right into the schoolmaster’s face. Solomon stared also; and laying down the book he was reading, prepared himself to hear something strange. Mrs. Brigs and her daughter were before partially acquainted with the cause of Timothy’s disease—at least, they knew that it sprung from the oil painting in question. All was now deep interest, awaiting the development of some wonderful discovery.

“Ah!” said Mrs. Brigs, “it’s a solemn thing that! It used to make me sick to look at it; but it’s a long time since it was hung up there, and I’ve got used to it. Still it sticks deep into my heart—it does! It tells a sad story—but you shall hear it, Mr. Dobbs!” And Mrs. Brigs began.

I will not give the reader the story in the very words in which Mrs. Brigs gave it to Timothy; because that is impossible: for she paused more than once to wipe away the big tears, and to sob; and was obliged to commence afresh as many as three times before she satisfied herself that she was in the right path, and had begun at the beginning. But, as I said, she began, and the following is the substance of the narrative:

John Bloomfield, a merchant of London, was the father of two children, to wit: Arthur Bloomfield and Polly Bloomfield, now Polly Brigs, wife of Allen Brigs. He came to this country about two years anterior to the commencement of the Revolution, and settled on a handsome country-seat, near the place where now stands our village. Mrs. Bloomfield died during the passage across the Atlantic; so John Bloomfield was a widower.

At the time of his migration Arthur was twenty and Polly sixteen years of age. The latter was shortly afterward married to Mr. Brigs; and the widowed father dying, Arthur determined to sail for the West Indies, for the purpose of trading on the capital inherited from his father, which amounted to some five hundred pounds sterling.

Within one year after he left America, he heard that the long expected conflict between the two nations had begun, and being fired with a love of liberty, he returned home to join the army of Washington, to aid in repelling the invaders from the American soil. He brought with him a young and lovely wife, who, shortly subsequent to his return, gave joy to his heart by the birth of a son.

The sister of young Mrs. Bloomfield, a still more lovely girl, accompanied her brother-in-law hither; and so beautiful was she, that many gallant knights paid homage at her shrine. Alice was modest—pleasing—fascinating—and none saw her but to love.

Arthur fitted up the late domain of his deceased father; and leaving his family, soon after the birth of his son, under the supervision of his wife’s sister, prepared himself for a season of warfare.

Mr. Brigs was settled where he now resides, but his was then the only tenement in existence there: so Mr. Brigs may be considered as the founder of the village. With the property obtained by marriage he purchased the soil on which he built, together with such implements of husbandry as present wants required. The distance of two miles intervened between the two families—consequently, they enjoyed the intercourse of neighbors, though it was not very frequent that they interchanged visits. They were, however, neighbors, and Mrs. Brigs ministered, as much as in her lay, to the wants of Mrs. Bloomfield during her confinement.

The struggle of death was drawing to a close. Arthur Bloomfield had returned to his family, and was happy—happy because his life had been shielded amid the strifes of war—happy because health was again the property of Mrs. Bloomfield—happybecause he was a father!

One calm evening in spring, when a thousand blushing flowers

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