THE CAPTIVES.

A TALE OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.

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BY S. D. ANDERSON.

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No portion of the infant colonies suffered more from the rude and unsparing hand of war than did the South, and especially the Carolinas. The storm of desolation fell with double fury on those devoted sections of our country, not only from the foreign invaders, seeking to strike down the germ of our liberties, but also from the intestine foes with which she was cursed. This latter kind of warfare was the more to be dreaded, as it fell alike on the old and the young—the blooming youth and the blushing maiden. No condition was permitted to escape. Gray hairs were nothing in the estimation of those fiends in human shape, called Tories. Children were taken from a weeping mother and consigned to a lingering death; beauty was torn from the bridal altar, and innocence from the house of prayer; all the kind and holy feelings of the human heart were given to the winds, and the family hearth, and even the household circle were often made the scene of a brutal death. Such were some of the dangers and difficulties our fathers had to encounter in the struggle for Independence.

A beautiful day, in the spring of 1781, was drawing to a close. The day had been warm, but now the genial breeze of night, so peculiarly pleasing in southern climates, had sprung up. Dim twilight had taken the place of day, the song of the night-bird was beginning to be heard in the wood, the deep-green foliage of the pines looked still deeper in the fast increasing shadows of night, and one by one the stars took their places in the sky. Silence still and deep rested all around; and naught was heard save the occasional hoot of the solitary owl far in the sombre depths of the forest that shaded both sides of the road, (if such the dimly marked path might be called,) which led through this section of the wood. The ground was covered with a dense growth of pines and other trees, interlaced with wild vines and smaller shrubbery, so that their shade, even in daylight, excluded from the eye every thing that was removed a few paces from the road-side, but now, as the darkness came down, all was a blank. Suddenly the stillness of the scene was broken by a slight noise, and a solitary horseman emerged from the cover of the wood into the opening. When he had gained the road, he checked his horse, and carefully examined the vicinity, as if to satisfy himself of the safeness of his position, as well as to mark the locality of the spot. This caution seemed to proceed as much from a settled habit of watchfulness, common in days of peril, as from a sense of personal danger. In appearance the stranger seemed not to have arrived at the full age of manhood. He was clad in a hunting-frock of blue domestic, common in those days among the inhabitants of the Southern States. The style and finish of the dress, however, bespoke more than usual attention to the fitness of the articles. Around his waist was girded a broad leather belt, embellished in front with a massive buckle, and underneath this might have been seen, almost concealed by the folds of his coat, a pair of pistols, such as were used by the horsemen of that day. His pantaloons were of the same materials as his coat, and on his head he wore a hat that differed from that of a common citizen of the times, only in the additional ornament of a small cockade, worn on the left side near the top. This, with a pair of boots made of untanned leather, and armed with rude spurs, made up the costume of the new comer. In stature he was rather over the usual standard, but not so much so as to take from his figure its appearance of grace and activity. His features were large and manly, and his complexion, though darkened by exposure to the burning rays of the southern sun, still showed the tinge of blood upon the cheek. His eyes were dark and piercing, and a profusion of black and curling hair covered a finely-shaped head. In the whole appearance and bearing of the individual could be read the love of the daring and adventurous, shared in common with the noble and chivalrous sons of the South in those days of peril and danger.

After he seemed to have been satisfied of the absence of any intruder, he advanced a short distance up the path we have mentioned, until he gained a place where the underwood was still more dense and impenetrable. It was a small ravine, made by a rivulet in the wet seasons, but at this time was dry. There the branches of the trees interlaced and formed a natural retreat, so dense as to preclude its being reached with any chance of success. When immediately in front of this, he raised his hands to his mouth and produced a sound so nearly resembling the cry of the wood-owl, that a person who was not very familiar with the singular note of this bird must have been mistaken. It was immediately repeated from the ravine, and in a short time a second person made his egress from the leafy ambush. The appearance of the new comer differed in all respects from that of the first. He was a modern Hercules in frame and figure, and bore the marks of long and severe service in sun and storm. But he was dressed much after the fashion of his companion, though the materials were of a coarser kind, and boasted no ornaments. He wore on his head a cap made of the skin of a fox. His arms were the usual brace of pistols, but in addition he bore in his hand a short rifle, and slung from his broad shoulder was the powder-horn and bullet-pouch of the forest ranger. In his face could be seen the marks of the frontier life—good-nature and courage—a man to trust in danger—a friendwhen most needed. He advanced with slow and cautious steps until he gained the edge of the wood, and then raising his rifle into a position for immediate use, he breathed in a faint but distinct voice “Hawks.” He waited a moment, and then the voice of the stranger repeated, “They fly.” “All’s right,” was the glad answer from the forester, and breaking from the thicket, he seized the hand of the horseman with a nerve and energy that made the blood tingle to the ends of the fingers.

“Well, Harry, what of the cavalcade?” asked the younger of the men, in a voice that bespoke the excitement under which he was laboring. “Have they passed? How many of them were there?”

“Oh, a score or more of the villains,” answered the other, in a bold, free voice, “and young Wilson and his sister in the midst. They seemed particularly choice of him, as he was lashed to one of the largest of the gang; but what is to be done—have you seen the captain?”

“No,” replied the other, in an excited manner, “he has not returned from the Santee. If the captain was but here, we would soon teach these renegades better manners than to fire and kill at pleasure; and the sister, too—was not the brother enough?”

There was something in the voice and manner of the speaker when he alluded to the capture of this couple, that told a tale of the feelings, plainer, perhaps, than he would have wished, if he had been in other company than that in which he was. When he again spoke, however, he was more calm and collected. Addressing himself with confidence to his companion, he said,

“Harry, what would you advise? You have had more experience in this mode of life than I, and this is an occasion which calls for all our energies.”

A look of honest pride stole over the face of the forester at this marked display of the confidence of his superior in rank; but it was only for a moment, and then the old expression of caution and determination again resumed its place. After a pause, in which he seemed to be debating in his mind the better way of serving the wish of the other, he appeared to have hit upon the plan, and advancing still nearer to his companion to prevent the possibility of being overheard, he said, in a low whisper,

“You must go back to the camp and raise the men, I will follow in the trail of the party; they must have taken the lower route, as the late defeat of the Tories in the north would make the other unsafe. If I fail I will meet you at the Big Pine—you will take that road—they cannot get farther than the Cypress Swamp to-night—I will be there.”

This arrangement seemed to meet the views of the other, as he made no objections to it, but after some minor matters had been disposed of, the two prepared to separate. Shaking his companion heartily by the hand, the younger of the friends struck into the forest in the same direction as that from which we saw him emerge. The other gazed after him until he became lost in the darkness of the shadows, and then striking into the wood in the opposite direction, he proceeded for some distance with hasty steps, until he gained a spot more densely shaded than usual. Parting the branches, he entered the enclosure, and in a few moments came forth leading a horse, which he immediately mounted, and plunged more deeply into the wood. Leaving our two friends to the fulfillment of their tasks, we must give the reader some account of the circumstances that preceded their introduction to us.

William Seaton, the hero of our narrative, was the only child of one of the oldest families in the South. At the breaking out of the war of the Revolution, his father took a firm and decided stand in the defense of the rights of the Colonists, and sealed that defense with his blood. He fell at the Siege of Charleston, bequeathing to his son the care of a mother. With the same bold and fearless love of his native land that distinguished his sire, young Seaton, on the receipt of this intelligence, hastened home from the little band of men to which he belonged, and bearing his mother to a place of safety, hurried to rejoin his comrades again. He had joined that band, by the consent of his patriot father at the outbreaking of the war, though then but a stripling, and had acted with them in all those prominent events that has rendered them so famous in the annals of freedom.

Attached to the same company as Seaton was a young man named Wilson, like him a volunteer in the cause of liberty; and both being in the spring of youth and promise, they became mutually attached. The hours not devoted to labor were spent in the society of each other. In one of the many changes that the fate of war made in the position of this band of patriots, they encamped in the vicinity of Wilson’s father, and now, when the duties of the camp did not call for the attendance of our friends, the snatches of time were spent at the paternal residence. George Wilson’s father was far advanced in the vale of years, and consequently remained neutral, as far as actions went, in the excitements of the day. But still his heart was with the Colonists in the unequal struggle for their rights. The chief attraction for Seaton, however, was Emma Wilson, the sister of George; and she was well worthy a soldier’s admiration and love. She was a soldier’s sister, full of noble daring, and untameable spirit. At each visit Seaton lingered longer and longer. Each glance of his eye was full of meaning, and told more truly to Emma, than words, the conquest she had made. Seaton feared to offer the hand of a nameless soldier to the sister of his high-souled friend, though that hand had been raised at the altar of liberty. But he was poor, his father had periled his all in the cause of his country, and it had been wrested from him; and now the son had nothing, save his sword and the consciousness of rectitude. But that could not prevent the growth of the passion in the breast of young Seaton; and how often would he think he saw in the hesitation and blushes of Emma, when he requested her to sing his favorite songs, something on which to build a lover’s hopes; and this, though slight, would raise into a flame the fire of his affections.

Thus stood matters, when, one evening, Seaton started to visit the Wilson’s, George having been absent some days on account of the illness of his father. It was some distance from the camp, and as he wasin the dreaming mood, he suffered his horse to proceed at a slow pace, and gave full vent to his fancy. From this trance he was aroused by a slight noise, and raising his eyes, he beheld (for a turn of the path brought him within view of it) the mansion of the Wilsons in flames. Putting spurs to his steed he soon arrived at the spot. Here all was desolation and ruin. The truth flashed upon him. It was the work of the Tories. But what had become of the inmates? Had they fallen victims, or had they been made captives? No one was visible to solve the question. But no time was to be lost, and after a hasty survey of the vicinity, he started in the direction of the camp to report the affair and procure assistance for the prisoners. On the return he fell in with one of the scouts, and making known the affair to him, it was determined to fall upon the trail of the party, if possible to watch them until they should encamp, and then the scout, by superior knowledge of the windings of the forest, must return to the camp and ensure the surprise and capture of the foe. Acting on this, and knowing that the captain was at this time on his way from the Santee with a body of recruits, Seaton chose the route most likely to fall in with him, to whom he would communicate the intelligence and obtain assistance. Giving his instructions to his companion to await him at the Crossings, he gave the reign to his horse and dashed into the wood. With the result of this meeting the reader is already acquainted in the conversation between the two at the commencement of the story. Buried in the gloom of the ravine, Harry Burton saw the prisoners pass, guarded by a strong band of the Tories. Marking their direction, he had in quiet awaited the coming of his comrade.

Our business now is with the scout. After he parted from his companion, he left the main route, and striking deeper into the forest, pursued his way for some time with as much rapidity as the nature of the ground would admit of, appearing to be guided more by instinct than reason, so well did he, amid the darkness of the dense wood, find out the different pathways and crossings of the forest. After continuing his unbroken course for some time, he turned again in the direction of the main path. Falling into the stream of a small rivulet that ran in that direction, he followed it up, as if to prevent any marks of his horse’s feet being seen in the coming light, if he should not succeed in his enterprise. Silently and steadily did he ride on until he gained a bend in the stream, where he dismounted, and leaving his animal in the deep shade of the trees, continuously advanced to the edge of the pathway, and bent his gaze long and earnestly along the road. Satisfied of the absence of any hostile party, he emerged into the clearing, and commenced a careful survey of the path, with as much accuracy as the faint beams of a partially risen moon would permit. Long and anxious was the labor, and not till he was satisfied of the recent passing of a band of mounted men did it cease. Once confident of this, he again mounted, and pressed on with renewed vigor, still keeping hid in the shade, though not at so great a distance as before. Continuing his course for some time, he gained the top of a hill, and here, for the first time since the passing of the band at the Crossings, he again gained sight of the captives. Halting, that the distance between them might be increased, and thus the danger of discovery lessened, he had a full opportunity to observe them. No material change had taken place in the aspect of the party since he last saw them, save that the bonds of the female had been unloosed, and she was suffered to ride between two of the band. Her brother was still bound, and his horse fastened to that of one of the escort. The only circumstance that struck the quick sight and sense of the scout was the want of that caution and discipline that betokens the consciousness of danger.

Taking advantage of this want of prudence on the part of his enemies, the active mind of the scout suggested the bold expedient of pushing into the front of the party, and by secreting himself in the dense foliage that skirted both sides of the road, gather, if possible, from the lips of the Tories, some hints of their designs. Without waiting to calculate the danger of the undertaking, he again took to the forest, and putting his steed into a swifter pace, made a circuit of some distance to avoid the most remote possibility of being seen. Having again gained the road-side, he took a position more favorable for his purpose. He did not wait long ere the foremost of the band came in sight. When sufficiently near, Harry recognized him as one of the most active and unprincipled of the men who had long been a terror and dread to that vicinity. He had been an unsuccessful suitor for the hand of Emma Wilson; and this, joined to his unrelenting hatred of the Whigs, made the object of the recent attack apparent to the scout. He was attended by several others of the same character—some actuated by motives of personal malice, and others by the love of plunder. The leader appeared in earnest conversation with those who rode near him; and, as they neared the place where the scout was concealed, the words of some of them reached his ear. They were directed to the captain of the band, and were spoken as if in continuation of a question.

“But what do you intend doing with the brother? He fought well, no matter what else he has done, and deserves a better fate than I fear you intend for him.”

“He shall have the same fate as his father—death. The one fell by this hand, by the sword it is true; his son shall die by the rope. I’ll teach them to refuse me. One more, and then my vengeance is complete. That young lover of hers, Seaton!—but he cannot escape me; we have tracked the band that he belongs to, and in a few days he too will be mine. But how stands my modest beauty?” he asked of one of the gang who just rode up from the rear. “She shall have a merry ride to-night, and in the morning—”

“She has fainted from fatigue, and cannot ride farther,” interrupted the other; “what must be done? As there is no danger from pursuit now, I think we had better halt for the night. The Cypress is nigh, and that will be the safest place between here and the Corners. Besides, the captain, as they call him, is in the south now. So no fear of him.”

“I do not fear him,” answered the leader; and then after a pause of a few moments he resumed—“Well,give the command to encamp at the swamp. In the morning we will see what is to be done.”

Saying this, he relapsed into silence, and the other fell back on the rear to give the orders for the night. Harry waited until the last of the band had passed his place of concealment, and faded from sight in the direction of the proposed stopping-place for the night; and then, as if satisfied with the result of his plan, he again took the backward trail to wait at the appointed place young Seaton, and his band, if he should succeed in raising them.

Morning broke upon the forest with unusual freshness and beauty. The dew sparkled on the young grass—the birds caroled sweetly from the trees—the streamlet went leaping on its way in gladness, and sending its music out into the sunny air as if the spirit of rejoicing sat upon its tiny waves. It was yet early morning when our scene opens in the camp of the outlaws. Here all was bustle and excitement. Men could be seen gathered in groups in low conversation, as if some event of more than usual interest was about to take place. In the centre of the encampment could be seen two persons we have heretofore described. They were seated some distance apart; the brother being fastened to a tree in a sitting posture, with his hands confined to his side, while the sister was suffered to remain unbound, but subject to a strict guard. He was already doomed to death, and that the shameful one of the gibbet. Bitter as was the pang at being cut off in the bloom of life, when the road to fame was open to his view, and when his suffering and bleeding country called aloud on all her sons for aid in this desperate contest. Still this was nothing for him. But then his sister, and that sister the witness of a father’s murder, was now a captive, and at the mercy of that father’s murderer—this made the doom doubly bitter. And there at his side sat that sister mute and tearless, for the dreadful scenes through which she had passed seemed to have shut up the fountains of her grief, while he who should have been her protector was now helpless as herself. These were the thoughts that were coursing through his mind when the leader of the band approached the spot where he was confined. If ever vice and malignity had chosen a resting-place, the face of that man was their home; and now as he gazed upon the consummation of all his long-cherished plans of lust and vengeance, the time for which he had hoarded up the passion of years, his look assumed the aspect of a demon. Calmly he gazed upon the captives, as preparing himself for the outbreak, and then advancing still nearer, he said —

“Do you accept my proposals, or must I compel you to that you cannot now avoid?” This was addressed to Emma Wilson. “Accept this hand, and your brother lives; refuse me, and he dies upon the tree before an hour.”

What answer Emma would have given is unknown, as at this moment her brother caught the question, and turning to the ruffian, he answered —

“No, Emma, murderer as he is, he dare not do this; and if death must come, it would be nothing compared to the union with a wretch like this.”

But then as the helpless condition of that sister, already in the power of this man, and as the desperate and lawless character of the band, all pressed upon the mind of the brother, he sunk his voice to a whisper, and said, as the tears came gushing into his eyes —

“Man, man, if you have the commonest feelings of humanity, I implore you do not harm my sister. Do with me as you like—give me to the fire, or the tree—but spare a brother the agonizing thought of a sister’s shame.”

A bitter smile passed over the face of the outcast as he saw the agony of his prisoner—a smile that spoke of triumph and revenge—but it was only for a moment, and when he again spoke, his voice was calm and resolute.

“And does the high-spirited and haughty blood of the Wilson’s deign to supplicate me? Me! the outcast they once spurned. To what am I indebted for this favor? But no!” and sinking his voice into that of a person fearful of his own passions, he proceeded, “I offer her this hand—if she accept it you are free, if not, you die—not the death of a man, but the death of a dog. And still she shall be mine.”

For the first time since the captain of the gang had made his appearance, Emma raised her eyes to those of her brother. She heard the determination of the ruffian, and knew from his previous acts that to will and to do was the same with him. Nerving herself, therefore, for the contest, she said:

“Do your worst—I never will be yours. Your hand struck down my gray-haired father when he knelt to you, and your hand raised the torch to the family roof-tree, and sent us, homeless orphans, out upon the world. It can but be death, and that is paradise compared to a life with you.” And then turning to her brother, she continued—“George, I would do all to save you but dishonor myself and our spotless name—that I cannot do—forgive me—that is a sister’s resolve.”

“Bless you, Emma, for those words—now I can die.” And sinking his voice, he continued—“But there still may be hope—our men cannot be far off, and if Seaton did but know of this.” The paleness of his sister’s cheek told George he had touched a tender chord, and hastening to redress the wound he had inflicted, he said—“I do not entirely despair, if I could but gain a few hours; the captain is still in the field, and there is still hope.”

The leader had now left them, and the brother and sister now talked of the past, and Emma’s heart was fast telling her, as the name of Seaton was mentioned, that she had long and fondly loved him. But this reverie was interrupted by the return of the outlaw, who had been talking with some of his band. Advancing still closer to Emma, he said:

“Have you decided?—the time has come, and I am in no mood for trifling—remember, this is the last chance for your brother’s life.”

“I remember,” replied Emma, “and I have decided—for death—both of us, for I survive not him.” And drawing a small knife from her bosom, she said—“Now leave us.”

“ ’Tis well—you will find me no sluggard in the fulfillment of my promises,” said the other, his voicehoarse with suppressed passion. “Here, guard, hang this rebel to the nearest tree; we will find if his high-bred sister can act as well as talk.”

Obedient to their leader’s command, the outlaws seized upon the prisoner, and leading him to a little distance from the spot where his sister sat, commenced the horrid preparations for his death. Shading her eyes with her hands, Emma sat mute and motionless, the picture of despair. In haste the fated noose was made and fastened around the neck of the captive, and now all was ready. Again did the heartless villain urge the sister to accept the offer of his hand, but this time in mere mockery; but the words of her brother, as he blessed her for the resolve, came to her and she sat mute. Stung by this display of courage, the ruffian now gave the word for the completion of the execution.

The cord had been run over the limb of the tree, and two of the band waited the signal from the captain. Around had congregated the gang to witness the proceeding. All was stillness. The spot was wild and lonely—a single open space amid the dense swamp that on every hand spread its curtain of foliage, so that the eye could not reach but a small distance into the environs of the encampment. And there stood that brother. He had taken the last view of nature—the last farewell of his sister—the last thought of his country—and now, he stood firm and collected. And near him was the leader of the band, a glare of triumph lighting up his eyes as he saw the end of all approaching. Gazing upon his victim’s face for a moment, he said —

“George Wilson, you once despised me and rejected my friendship. I loved your sister—you thwarted me in that love, now I am your captor, ask no mercy—I will grant none.”

“Wretch!” replied Wilson, “I despise alike your friendship and your mercy. Talk not of love. Such a villain cannot feel the passion; but think not to escape for this deed, the band to which I belong will not let my blood be spilt in vain. You tremble at the name—well you may—it will be a curse on your path, and you will pay a heavy penalty for this day’s work.”

“No more of this ranting,” interrupted the outlaw. “Think not to fright me from my purpose. Marion himself could not do that. Ha! ha!—who conquers now?”

As he finished, he raised his bugle to his lips and blew a shrill blast—the signal for the execution. The blast was repeated from the wood, and the last note had not died upon the ear, when breaking from the thickness came the band of Marion. Had the trump of the Archangel sounded, it could not have struck greater consternation into the gang, who stood paralyzed, mute and lifeless as statues. A moment after came the crash of a hundred rifles, carrying death and dismay into the ranks of the Tories, followed by the sabres and pistols of the men, and the iron heels of the horses. Escape was impossible. Surrounded on all sides, and struck with terror at this unthought of rescue, the ruffians made no resistance, but fled. Dashing into the midst of the scene, the rescuers, with young Seaton at their head, soon made a clear field. Giving orders to capture the few remaining Tories, he dismounted and cut the bands that confined his friend, who until this time seemed unconscious of what was acting around. But as he saw the face of his companion, and recollected other familiar comrades, he awoke, and seizing the hand of his friend, pressed it in silence.

When the first moment of surprise was over Seaton asked the fate of Emma, in a tone and manner that told how much of his happiness was centered there. Her brother pointed to where he had left her, and there she lay upon the green sod, for she had fainted amid the noise and tumult of the last few moments. To fly to her and raise her up—to clasp those soft hands, and sprinkle the pure brow with water, was the work of a moment for Seaton, and as she recovered and rested her head upon his bosom, to tell her she was safe, and that her brother was safe, was a sweet task; and then to hear from those lips the throbs of a guileless heart, and to read in those bright eyes more than a maiden’s modesty would tell, was a sweet recompense for Seaton. And now the brother and sister were united, and Seaton left them to complete the victory. He saw the day had been won, as one by one his men returned, bringing with them the bare remnants of the gang. On the ground he discovered the scout engaged in searching for the body of the leader. It was found, still holding in his hand the trumpet, as he had held it when the death-shot had struck him. Giving his orders to the scout, Seaton made instant preparations for departure. The lover rode by the side of Wilson and his sister, and from them he heard all the occurrences of the last few hours. After a ride of some length they reached the camp in safety, and the next day Emma Wilson was placed under the charge of some friends remote from the scene of war; but not until she heard from the lips of Seaton the confession of his love, and he received in return the assurances of her affection.

The conclusion is soon told. After Seaton left the scout, he repaired to the camp, and as Marion had not arrived, he assumed the command of the band, and led them to the place agreed upon by him and the scout. Here he fell in with Harry who was waiting for them, and he led them to the Tories’ encampment, where they arrived just in time to thwart the designs of the outlaws.

Seaton and Wilson continued to serve with Marion until the close of the war. Both were in most of those daring and successful enterprises which so distinguished that gallant officer. Harry also served out the war in the capacity of scout, one of the most dangerous, as well as useful posts in the army. After the close of the war Seaton pressed his suit with Emma, and she again became a captive, though this time the chains were garlanded with flowers. They rebuilt the old family mansion, near which they erected a monument to the memory of Emma’s father, and with her brother, who still continued a bachelor, they made their residence there. Harry had his home there, and in the long winter nights would tell to the children the story of “The Captives.”

THE POET.

Who is the Poet? Know him byThe downcast and abstracted eye;By careless mien and lofty brow;By tones so musically low;By a pale cheek of spirit light,Telling of hopes and visions bright;By a deep communing with allThat earth can good or gentle call;By silent reveries and loneThe Poet, God’s best work, is known.Where dwells the Poet? Seek him whereVoices of music fill the air;Where flowers in beauty meet the sun;Where streams in gentle silence run;Seek him beneath the forest tree,Where bird and breeze meet whisperingly;Seek him where thunder peals are heard;Where the proud elements are stirred;Where Nature shows her giant force,And earth is troubled in its course.Seek him where all that stirs the soulIs independent of control;Where torrents rush, and lightning gleams,Till earth a fierce volcano seems;Where the proud ocean, boiling o’er,Lashes the weak and frightened shore;Where Nature moves in awful might,Or proudly smiles in living light;Wherever earth hath might or bloom —There is the Poet’s cherished home.What is the Poet? One who hathA lonely and a troubled path;He walks through life as in a dream —Among mankind, but not of them;A strange anomaly of earth —A compound of despair and mirth;A proud, high spirit, strange and wild,Yet gentle as a little child;A being filled with love and hate —Each powerful—a thing of fate!Who are the Poet’s friends? Alas!But few in human shape he has;Yet Nature shrines a hoard for him,Far in her sanctuary dim:Forth, from the flowers and gentle streams,For him a ray of friendship gleams;The breeze that shakes the forest-tree,For him hath love and sympathy;The sunset cloud a radiance lends —And wave and star to him are friends.Who is the Poet’s worshiped love?A being from the halls above;A thing of ideal life and light,Intensely beautiful and bright;Embodying it in human form,With passions redolent and warm —But sees, upon a near survey,The visionary pass away;And finds, instead of hope’s ideal,A being cold, and false, and real.What is the Poet’s heritage,In every clime, in every age?While living, disappointment, doubt,To wear his wasting spirit out;To feel ambition’s haughty fire,Yet doomed to see its light expire;To struggle on, and toil for fame;To bear with scorn, and want, and shame;To hope, and find that he must die.For him, is life’s sole certainty.What is the Poet’s meed, when lifeHas passed, with all its toil and strife?A tardy justice to his name;A place upon the scroll of fame;A wreath of praise which must atoneFor years of suffering dark and lone;A guerdon valueless at last,When he who would have prized has pastFar from the sound of man’s rank breath —A victor over all—even Death!When should the Poet die? At eve,When dew-drops glisten on each leaf;When stars come forth from their abodeBeneath the footstool of our God,And linger on the holy sky;Then should the earth-worn Poet die:When all is still, and pure, and calm,Beneath the twilight’s hallowed balm —When flowers and stars unfold to pray —The Poet’s soul should pass away.Where should the Poet sleep, when deathHas chained his proud, aspiring breath?For those who loved earth’s gentle bloom,Within a quiet lonely tomb,Afar the deep still woods among —Beneath green shadows, where the songOf bird, and bee, and breeze can fall,Making it pure and sacred all;Where flowers pour forth their latest sigh —There should the lowly Poet lie.The proud in heart should slumber whereEnters no sound of earthly air;Silent, in some cathedral old,Where shadows fall from each marble mould;Where the colored radiance scarce can tellOf the world he toiled for, long and well —Where, side by side, the mighty deadA hallowing spell from their proud tombs shed —Where the kings of the earth to muse may come —The Poet may find his last, long home.What is the Poet’s future lotWhen death has passed? Oh, question not!Those who in virtue’s pathway trodHave found a dwelling with their God;Those who, like straying sheep, have erred,And doubted His revealed word,Their fate is in His power who triesEach pilgrim underneath the skies;And He who kept the Poet hereWill bless him in a holier sphere.

Who is the Poet? Know him by

The downcast and abstracted eye;

By careless mien and lofty brow;

By tones so musically low;

By a pale cheek of spirit light,

Telling of hopes and visions bright;

By a deep communing with all

That earth can good or gentle call;

By silent reveries and lone

The Poet, God’s best work, is known.

Where dwells the Poet? Seek him whereVoices of music fill the air;Where flowers in beauty meet the sun;Where streams in gentle silence run;Seek him beneath the forest tree,Where bird and breeze meet whisperingly;Seek him where thunder peals are heard;Where the proud elements are stirred;Where Nature shows her giant force,And earth is troubled in its course.

Where dwells the Poet? Seek him where

Voices of music fill the air;

Where flowers in beauty meet the sun;

Where streams in gentle silence run;

Seek him beneath the forest tree,

Where bird and breeze meet whisperingly;

Seek him where thunder peals are heard;

Where the proud elements are stirred;

Where Nature shows her giant force,

And earth is troubled in its course.

Seek him where all that stirs the soulIs independent of control;Where torrents rush, and lightning gleams,Till earth a fierce volcano seems;Where the proud ocean, boiling o’er,Lashes the weak and frightened shore;Where Nature moves in awful might,Or proudly smiles in living light;Wherever earth hath might or bloom —There is the Poet’s cherished home.

Seek him where all that stirs the soul

Is independent of control;

Where torrents rush, and lightning gleams,

Till earth a fierce volcano seems;

Where the proud ocean, boiling o’er,

Lashes the weak and frightened shore;

Where Nature moves in awful might,

Or proudly smiles in living light;

Wherever earth hath might or bloom —

There is the Poet’s cherished home.

What is the Poet? One who hathA lonely and a troubled path;He walks through life as in a dream —Among mankind, but not of them;A strange anomaly of earth —A compound of despair and mirth;A proud, high spirit, strange and wild,Yet gentle as a little child;A being filled with love and hate —Each powerful—a thing of fate!

What is the Poet? One who hath

A lonely and a troubled path;

He walks through life as in a dream —

Among mankind, but not of them;

A strange anomaly of earth —

A compound of despair and mirth;

A proud, high spirit, strange and wild,

Yet gentle as a little child;

A being filled with love and hate —

Each powerful—a thing of fate!

Who are the Poet’s friends? Alas!But few in human shape he has;Yet Nature shrines a hoard for him,Far in her sanctuary dim:Forth, from the flowers and gentle streams,For him a ray of friendship gleams;The breeze that shakes the forest-tree,For him hath love and sympathy;The sunset cloud a radiance lends —And wave and star to him are friends.

Who are the Poet’s friends? Alas!

But few in human shape he has;

Yet Nature shrines a hoard for him,

Far in her sanctuary dim:

Forth, from the flowers and gentle streams,

For him a ray of friendship gleams;

The breeze that shakes the forest-tree,

For him hath love and sympathy;

The sunset cloud a radiance lends —

And wave and star to him are friends.

Who is the Poet’s worshiped love?A being from the halls above;A thing of ideal life and light,Intensely beautiful and bright;Embodying it in human form,With passions redolent and warm —But sees, upon a near survey,The visionary pass away;And finds, instead of hope’s ideal,A being cold, and false, and real.

Who is the Poet’s worshiped love?

A being from the halls above;

A thing of ideal life and light,

Intensely beautiful and bright;

Embodying it in human form,

With passions redolent and warm —

But sees, upon a near survey,

The visionary pass away;

And finds, instead of hope’s ideal,

A being cold, and false, and real.

What is the Poet’s heritage,In every clime, in every age?While living, disappointment, doubt,To wear his wasting spirit out;To feel ambition’s haughty fire,Yet doomed to see its light expire;To struggle on, and toil for fame;To bear with scorn, and want, and shame;To hope, and find that he must die.For him, is life’s sole certainty.

What is the Poet’s heritage,

In every clime, in every age?

While living, disappointment, doubt,

To wear his wasting spirit out;

To feel ambition’s haughty fire,

Yet doomed to see its light expire;

To struggle on, and toil for fame;

To bear with scorn, and want, and shame;

To hope, and find that he must die.

For him, is life’s sole certainty.

What is the Poet’s meed, when lifeHas passed, with all its toil and strife?A tardy justice to his name;A place upon the scroll of fame;A wreath of praise which must atoneFor years of suffering dark and lone;A guerdon valueless at last,When he who would have prized has pastFar from the sound of man’s rank breath —A victor over all—even Death!

What is the Poet’s meed, when life

Has passed, with all its toil and strife?

A tardy justice to his name;

A place upon the scroll of fame;

A wreath of praise which must atone

For years of suffering dark and lone;

A guerdon valueless at last,

When he who would have prized has past

Far from the sound of man’s rank breath —

A victor over all—even Death!

When should the Poet die? At eve,When dew-drops glisten on each leaf;When stars come forth from their abodeBeneath the footstool of our God,And linger on the holy sky;Then should the earth-worn Poet die:When all is still, and pure, and calm,Beneath the twilight’s hallowed balm —When flowers and stars unfold to pray —The Poet’s soul should pass away.

When should the Poet die? At eve,

When dew-drops glisten on each leaf;

When stars come forth from their abode

Beneath the footstool of our God,

And linger on the holy sky;

Then should the earth-worn Poet die:

When all is still, and pure, and calm,

Beneath the twilight’s hallowed balm —

When flowers and stars unfold to pray —

The Poet’s soul should pass away.

Where should the Poet sleep, when deathHas chained his proud, aspiring breath?For those who loved earth’s gentle bloom,Within a quiet lonely tomb,Afar the deep still woods among —Beneath green shadows, where the songOf bird, and bee, and breeze can fall,Making it pure and sacred all;Where flowers pour forth their latest sigh —There should the lowly Poet lie.

Where should the Poet sleep, when death

Has chained his proud, aspiring breath?

For those who loved earth’s gentle bloom,

Within a quiet lonely tomb,

Afar the deep still woods among —

Beneath green shadows, where the song

Of bird, and bee, and breeze can fall,

Making it pure and sacred all;

Where flowers pour forth their latest sigh —

There should the lowly Poet lie.

The proud in heart should slumber whereEnters no sound of earthly air;Silent, in some cathedral old,Where shadows fall from each marble mould;Where the colored radiance scarce can tellOf the world he toiled for, long and well —Where, side by side, the mighty deadA hallowing spell from their proud tombs shed —Where the kings of the earth to muse may come —The Poet may find his last, long home.

The proud in heart should slumber where

Enters no sound of earthly air;

Silent, in some cathedral old,

Where shadows fall from each marble mould;

Where the colored radiance scarce can tell

Of the world he toiled for, long and well —

Where, side by side, the mighty dead

A hallowing spell from their proud tombs shed —

Where the kings of the earth to muse may come —

The Poet may find his last, long home.

What is the Poet’s future lotWhen death has passed? Oh, question not!Those who in virtue’s pathway trodHave found a dwelling with their God;Those who, like straying sheep, have erred,And doubted His revealed word,Their fate is in His power who triesEach pilgrim underneath the skies;And He who kept the Poet hereWill bless him in a holier sphere.

What is the Poet’s future lot

When death has passed? Oh, question not!

Those who in virtue’s pathway trod

Have found a dwelling with their God;

Those who, like straying sheep, have erred,

And doubted His revealed word,

Their fate is in His power who tries

Each pilgrim underneath the skies;

And He who kept the Poet here

Will bless him in a holier sphere.

TAKING TEA SOCIABLY.

FROM MY BUDGET OF ADVENTURES.

———

BY ELLA RODMAN.

———

It was a most lovely afternoon in June, neither inconveniently warm nor uncomfortably chilly; the birds were singing merrily around, the breeze came clear and refreshing, and an inexpressible gladness seemed to be borne on the very atmosphere, while I stood in a state of considerable satisfaction before the toilet-glass in my own particularly pleasant little room. Not that I was in the least vain; oh no, I do not think I was, because I remember wishing that my nose was not quite soretroussé, and wondering if people could have the assurance to call my eyes green, though, to tell the truth, I did not exactly know what else to call them myself. I was going out to tea that afternoon; not to meet a bevy of girls and get up a complete frolic, but to see an old friend of my mother’s, a regular married woman, with several responsibilities, who claimed all her care and attention—a place where there was not an article in the shape of a beau, and yet I wished to be particularly fascinating, interesting, and agreeable. I wore nothing but a simple white muslin to be sure, yet I think I have seldom, if ever, taken as much pains with my toilet as on that particular afternoon. I brushed, and brushed my hair, which would friz in spite of me; and at last, finding that I could do no better, I concluded to be sweet simplicity in natural curls and unadorned innocence. I was pretty short, and pretty stout, and not much calculated for a heroine at best, and yet as I clasped a certain little gold cross around my neck, I fell to building castles in the air, and dreaming scenes from life, in which I figured as chief performer.

Must I explain? It is rather awkward to expose one’s own little plots and manœuvres, but I really see no help for it, as this particular one happens to be the centre around which all my movements revolved. We lived in the village, which was quite a pretty collection of half houses half villas, but still it was notquitethe country; there were no handsome edifices standing far back from the road, with noble, English-looking lawns in front, and endless gardens and a beautiful water prospect back; oh no! every thing looked far more exact and methodical, and an actual tea-drinking, with strawberries and cream, at a real country-seat was not to be despised. There was a very handsome place about a mile from the village, which had lately been taken by an old friend of my mother’s, who, on moving from the city, was considerably shocked and discouraged by the many inconveniences attending a residence in the country.

Mrs. Morfield, when she had time, was a very entertaining woman, and always had a great deal to say to my mother, and not much in particular to me; but she had repeatedly pressed me in a very kind manner to come and take tea with her sociably; and having never before availed myself of this invitation, I had now concluded to go. Mrs. Morfield’s good qualities, however, were considerably enhanced in my estimation by the knowledge of her being the happy sister of a brother who had been quite a favorite with me in my younger days. It was now three years since Henry Auchinclass departed for college, and during that time I had never once seen him, but his name had been frequently brought forward with a grand flourish of trumpets, till my curiosity was quite excited to see if he had altered so much from what I remembered him. Once a fugitive piece of poetry fell into my hands, after passing through various channels, and having just begun to admire sentiment, this production of my old playmate’s stirred up all my ecstasy and enthusiasm. Prizes were showered upon him at every examination, and in the eyes of his old acquaintances his brow was encircled with a wreath of laurel that raised him almost to a level with Shakspeare and Milton. This hero was now actually coming among us with all his honors fresh upon him; whether he really had arrived, or was going to arrive that afternoon, I did not know, but thinking it extremely probable that, as the distance from Mr. Auchinclass was not far, he would visit his sister as soon as possible, I was seized with a sudden fancy to execute one of my long promised tea-drinkings. At our last parting something of a fracas took place; but I was quite a juvenile then, not more than fourteen, and now, with the experience and improvement of three additional years, Icollectedall my energies to startle him with my fancied transformation.

There was a gentle tap at my door, and, her face quite radiant with excitement and anticipation, in walked (or rather bounded, for she never walked,) my chosen colleague, Annie Wilmot. A small basket hung on her arm, a huge sun-bonnet almost concealed her pretty face, and she was evidently bound on a strawberry excursion.

“Come, quick!” she exclaimed, “put on your hat, snatch up a basket, and let us be off, for we shall have a grand time of it. The girls are all pretty lazy, and require considerable stirring up, but there is a whole caravan at the door now, waiting for the light of your presence. Come, Ella, you’re a terrible snail! do make haste!”

A strawberry excursion!Dear me, what an idea! my lip curled at the very thoughts of it. Soil and tear my white frock among the brambles, disarrange my carefully smoothed ringlets, and stain my hands like any old strawberry-picker! I, a young lady of seventeen, perform such an undignified part!

“I am sorry, Annie,” I replied, “but you reallymust excuse me in consequence of a prior engagement.”

“Prior engagement!” repeated the laughing girl, mimicking my tone, as she eyed me from head to foot, “I am afraid you will choke yourself with big words—have you swallowed Webster, my dear? But really,” she continued, with a courtesy of mock reverence, “you must excuse my not being struck with your resplendent appearance before. Pray, if I may be so bold as to ask, what do all these curls mean, and that cross, and that particularly unrumpled-looking dress? Do initiate me as to this prior engagement.”

“I am only going out to tea,” I replied, a little confused, while I determined not to tell her where, for fear of her suspecting me. “But I really think,” said I, “that we are too old to go a-strawberrying, Annie—remember that we are no longer children.”

“Mercy on us! what has got into the girl?too old to go a-strawberrying!If we are too old togatherstrawberries,” said she, “we must be too old toeatthem, so I advise you to give them up at once. Farewell, Miss Propriety; I shall certainly send you a cap and a pair of spectacles suited to your advanced years. Wherever you are going,” she concluded, “I hope you will enjoy yourself as much as we expect to—but I very much doubt it.”

“So much you know,” thought I; and away bounded my merry visiter, probably to enlighten the waiting bevy as to the nature of my objections, for I soon heard a great deal of buzzing and laughter as the whole troop finally disappeared.

My toilet had received its last finishing touch, I screened my face with a large sun-bonnet, and taking my parasol for further protection, sallied forth. I entered upon my journey in a very pleasant frame of mind; I was benevolently inclined that afternoon, and quite disposed to view every thing in the best possible light; but notwithstanding this happy temper, I became reluctantly convinced that walk was one of the hottest and most disagreeable I had ever taken; the trees were few and far between, so that it was really fatiguing to get from one to the other, and scarcely a blade of grass refreshed the eye—nothing but barren, parched, discouraging looking soil, whereon nothing ever could, would, or did grow. Resolved, however, not to be damped at the very outset, I toiled along, shut my eyes to keep out the sun, and tried to feel happy and contented with my mouth full of dust.

At length, to my great relief, I approached the house, and worn and exhausted as I was, it burst upon me almost like a vision of Paradise—looking as cool and shady as possible in the midst of trees that appeared at least half a century old. I closed the heavy gate behind me, and walked leisurely up the graveled walk, quite charmed and enraptured with every thing I saw. Here and there was placed a handsome marble urn; tubs of orange and lemon-trees lined the whole walk from the house; and in the back-ground I perceived strawberry-beds, cherry-trees, and a large green-house. The steps leading to the front entrance were very broad, and with a light step I sprung up the whole flight, quite prepared for an afternoon of felicity. Those dark, solemn-looking trees—there was something sad in their very grandeur. A low melody played among the leaves as the summer wind wailed gently through them, and I stood watching and listening, fascinated by a strange power, until I almost forgot that I was to enter the house. All appeared very still around, the blinds were closed, and the sound almost startled me as my hand touched the bell.

Some time elapsed before the ring was answered; I was obliged to give another, and another—and at length a slatternly-looking Irish girl made her appearance, who kept the door as closely shut as possible, and by placing her own substantial person in the aperture, effectually prevented my efforts at ingress. She appeared by no means to relish my intention of entering, and saying, in no gentle key: “And is it the misthress ye’d be wanting to see? She’s busy with the childer, and pr’aps will not lave them—but walk in a bit till I see.”

I followed my conductor, and entered an apartment on the first floor, which evidently answered the purpose of a dining-room, and was, without exception, as dismal-looking an apartment as I ever entered. The black hair-cloth sofa was ornamented with slits in various places, from which the stuffing was peeping forth, an exploit of which the young Morfields were particularly proud; the chairs were in the same condition, the carpet was torn in various places, and the whole room had a very poverty-stricken appearance. On themantel-piece were two large glass jars, covering pots of very unnatural-looking artificial flowers, considerably faded; over the sofa hung a picture of a sinking ship, and on one side a representation of Robinson Crusoe landed on the desert island. I felt irresistibly drawn toward that picture—it was dark, gloomy, and discouraging, and it sympathized with my own feelings. My hopes, too, had suffered a complete wreck; I entered upon the expedition with warm, glowing feelings, but the walk, the Irish woman, and the hopeless-looking apartment had blasted them entirely; and I was almost wishing myself with the strawberry party, when the door opened, and Mrs. Morfield entered, with a very bold, staring baby in her arms.

She appeared delighted to see me, and welcomed me so cordially, that I quite forgot my recent dissatisfaction. She had one of the most sunny, joyful dispositions I have ever encountered; she would have turned a desert island into sunshine, and laughed at every trouble that came in her way. Her temper must have been a happy one to stand the wear and tear of six noisy boys; but although a delightful and entertaining companion, she would have been still more so had she not always been in a hurry. All she said was uttered so fast that her auditors were in continual fear of her losing her breath; and one carefully avoided lengthy replies with her, she always seemed so pressed for time.

“I am very glad,” said she, with a merry laugh, “that you have come, for my own sake—and very sorry for yours, for both cook and nurse left me this morning in a fit of ill-temper; and as I have only Kitty for a helper, I am afraid you will fare but poorly for your tea. However, I shall not make a stranger of you.”

I hastened to assure her that it was not of the least consequence to me, for I thought to myself that with strawberries and cherries, a person need not care for any thing else; and having succeeded in setting her mind at ease on that point, she proposed that we should leave our room for some other apartment. “Exactly like Kitty to put you here,” said she, laughing, “but we will try if we cannot find a pleasanter.”

The baby, who behaved very much like a wooden machine, with the exception of staring and sucking its fingers, was again clasped in her arms, and we proceeded to the parlors. The blinds were shut closely and fastened to, and Mrs. Morfield, encumbered with the baby, tried in vain to open them. I gazed around, as well as I was able in the dark, and saw that the rooms were very large and handsomely furnished—having a cool appearance that was extremely pleasant. Very well satisfied with this prospect, I lent my assistance to unfasten the shutters—but in vain, they were obstinately determined not to open; and with a sigh I followed Mrs. Morfield into the hall.

“Come here,” said she, as she threw open a door on the other side, “here is a room that will just suit you, Miss Ella. I believe you are a little romantic, and the prospect from these windows cannot fail to please you.”

It was a complete fairy bower; the floor was covered with a light straw matting; the pretty French bedstead had a canopy of thin white muslin, bordered with lace, with a corresponding cover on the little toilet-table; the chairs were of wood, prettily painted, and every thing looked as light, airy, and country-like as possible. I was in ecstasies with the whole arrangement, and on glancing from the window, I found that the prospect quite justified Mrs. Morfield’s praises. Directly beneath was the green, close-shaven lawn, studded with wide-spreading trees, across which a majestic peacock every now and then strutted in all the glory of beauty and splendor; while far away rose a dim, indistinct mist of blue waters and purple mountains.

Mrs. Morfield, having placed her marvelous baby on the floor—marvelous because it had been so quiet—seated herself in a low rocking-chair, and gave me the whole history of her morning’s misfortunes. I was totally uninterested in the whole proceeding, but not being required to make any responses, I fixed my eyes on the scene without, and listened patiently to the end. She then commenced a panegyric on the still piece of humanity that sat sucking its shoe, which was quite natural, considering that it was the only sister of six brothers. I even joined in these praises, for its not crying appeared to me remarkable; and I began to think that I had at length met with that often-described, but always invisible curiosity—a good baby! The young lady was lifted from the floor, and even bribed to sit on my lap, which surprised me still more, as babies always had an invincible repugnance to me, which I returned with interest, and no performance was more disagreeable to me than baby-talk. I quite sympathized with the old bachelor, who, having picked up a woman and baby on the road, took them into his wagon on condition that the mother refrained from talking nonsense to her child. This the lady readily promised; but forgetting at length the scruples of her companion, she burst forth with: “Bless its little heart! so it should go ridy pidy in the coochee poochee—” “Get out of my wagon!” thundered the exasperated gentleman.

But the baby in question behaved remarkably well, and I really began to feel quite an attachment for it. It was no great beauty, certainly; and I did think I had seen heads that boasted more hair; but in its mother’s eyes it was pre-eminently lovely, and as I wished to earn a character for amiability, I praised it up to the skies. Its eyes were round, and very staring, so I remarked on their unusual size, and Mrs. Morfield observed complacently that they were exactly like its father’s—its forehead was high and broad, which of course was a mark of genius—and thus, with my own skill, and some promptings from the mother, I patched up quite a beauty out of materials which seemed to have been thrown together at random.

We had been chatting gayly for some time, and with the prospect from the window, the charming room, and the pleasant manners of Mrs. Morfield, to say nothing of what was yet in expectancy, I looked forward to a delightful afternoon, when my entertainer suddenly rose, and declaring she had quite forgotten Kitty, requested me to watch the child during her absence.

“You seem to be so fond of her,” said she, “that I am going to make you head nurse for a little while; but all you will have to do is to see that she does not get into mischief. Just keep an eye upon her, will you?”

I smilingly consented to perform this slight service: and skillfully manœuvering her way out without attracting the child’s attention, Mrs. Morfield closed the door behind her, and left me absorbed in a train of very pleasant fancies. I thought it very probable that she would ask me to make her a visit of a week at least; she must be so lonely, with no companions but those riotous boys—for her husband, having just become initiated into the mysteries of farming, spent his whole time out of doors, directing, arranging, and often hard at work himself. He was only visible at meal times, and I did wonder what had possessed his wife to marry him, he was so little of a companion; but she appeared quite satisfied with him, and looked upon all he did with admiring eyes. I intended, during my visit, to be the tenant of the pretty room in which I sat, and I pictured myself early in the morning throwing up the sash, and leaning out to catch the sweet air of summer as it played amid my hair, while a perfect burst of melody swept around from the birds, who always took up their station in those grand old trees—or at evening, when I wandered over the lawn, or rested, with a book in my hand beneath one of those spreading oaks—oh, it would be so delightful!

Here my attention was suddenly brought back to realities by a loud squeal which proceeded from the mouth of my forgotten charge. The young lady, having grown tired of amusing herself with an old shoe, glanced about for further employment, and not being at all pleased to see a stranger substituted for her mother, gave vent to her indignant feelings in a succession ofparticularly edifying screams. I was at first quite surprised, having been deluded into the belief that she was an excellent kind of a child, who would maintain almost the same position for a whole day at least. I did not suppose it necessary to feel the least responsibility concerning her; but I soon found that nothing was further from her intentions than to be neglected in this manner. Having a mortal aversion to strangers, the child crept rapidly toward the door, crying all the time, and it seemed almost impossible to pacify her. But at length I succeeded in placing her on my lap, where I tried very hard to convince her that the cross which I wore, and two or three rings, were the greatest curiosities that had refreshed her sight in a long time. For a little while she condescended to be duped by the lavish encomiums which I bestowed upon these articles; but soon recollecting that she had seen very much such things before, she broke forth anew. I then resorted to the very original amusement of shaking a thimble on a pair of scissors; but quite enraged at the idea of my attempting to quiet her in this manner, she screamed louder than ever, and I was obliged to surrender my poor curls to her savage grasp.

She even deigned to laugh and be quite amused with this employment for some time, especially when she saw my evident reluctance to be so tortured; but after a while I grew more accustomed to it, and endured her pulls with so much philosophy that she left off in high dudgeon. She then became quite interested in the excitement of scratching at me with her nails, and crying between spells; but finding this performance any thing but pleasant, I placed her on the bed and gave her a small box of tapers from the writing-table, which she opened and shut, and scattered about with evident satisfaction. Finding the young termagant so quietly disposed, I ventured to glide back to my window, and wondered what could keep Mrs. Morfield so long—not feeling exactly satisfied with this baby-tending. But then as her sunny face rose up before me all my anger vanished, and I felt quite sorry and concerned to think that she was probably busy in the kitchen with the awkward Kitty, in order to get a presentable tea for her visiter. The baby was now so quiet and well-behaved, that I almost regretted the hard thoughts I had entertained toward it; and in a more pleasant frame of mind, I took up the last number of “Graham,” which lay upon the table, and was soon deeply buried in its fascinating pages.

The quiet, however, was of short duration; I was startled by a noise of something falling, and on glancing at the bed, it was empty! In horror and despair I sprung to the other side, and there lay my young torment, quite purple in the face, with the tapers scattered around, and one of the large, ruffled pillows under her. I fully expected to be imprisoned and tried for murder, and hesitating to have my fears confirmed, I caught up the child to see if it still breathed. My touch immediately restored life and animation; having fortunately fallen with the pillow under her, she had not been hurt in the least—but extremely frightened and angry at her unceremonious descent, she held her breath for some time with passion, (an exploit in which good babies are very apt to indulge,) but she now sent forth screams that were absolute music in my ears, as they assured me beyond a doubt that my tormentor was still in the land of the living. The tapers were bitten quite flat in various places, and several had disappeared—whether down her throat or not I could not tell; but I gathered up the remainder, and devoted myself to the task of quieting the child.

I was now fairly in for it; I reasoned with myself a short time, and became convinced that the fault must be entirely my own—Iwas the one to blame, for its own mother had praised it as an excellent baby, and she surely ought to know—my bad management was the sole cause of its present behavior. My ambition was concerned to restore its good humor; Mrs. Morfield would be far better pleased to be relieved from the trouble of tending it, and animated with new energy, I seized it in my arms, and began dancing wildly around the room. The young lady regarded me with a look of approval, and sucked her fingers in quiet content. It was very solid, and appeared to me the heaviest baby I had ever carried, still I toiled on as long as I was able, but the moment I sunk into a seat she began to scream; and as I had at length found the means of quieting her, I endeavored to keep up for a short time longer—hoping every moment that Mrs. Morfield would enter the door and relieve me. I wondered that she did not hear the child cry; it seemed as though such screams must pierce the thickest wall; but the time passed on, and I was still imprisoned with my tormenting charge. At length I was obliged to give up—I really could not lug her around any longer; and sinking down in a kind of despair, I was entertained with an interminable fit of crying.

In the midst of this ebullition I happened to look out upon the lawn, and seeing a peacock pass leisurely along, I resolved to turn it to some account. Resting my heavy burden on one arm, with the other I pointed out the bird, knocked on the glass to it, talking as much nonsense in the meantime as I had ever heard in my whole life. The young lady was highly delighted—she stopped crying, and gazed with rapture on the brilliant color of the feathers. But at last, the peacock grew tired of spreading out his tail, and walked slowly away to my great annoyance, and also to that of my charge—who, finding that no more was to be seen, resumed her customary music. If ever a full sense of the beautiful dawned upon me, it was at the sight of a black hen and a brood of little chickens, who very obligingly supplied the absence of the peacock, and quarreled over some crumbs which had been thrown beneath the window. The child appeared to be fascinated by any thing that had the power of life; on the disappearance of the hen and chickens she transferred her raptures to a grave-looking cat; and I even hailed with delight the appearance of a grasshopper, if he took a pretty high spring.

But at last everything was gone; there seemed to be a strange perverseness among the live-stock that afternoon—not a peacock refreshed my sight, not a chicken could I spy, not even a grasshopper beamed upon my eagerly strained vision; and evidently regarding me as the cause, the child screamed furiously, and struggled to escape from my hold. Oh, how my poor arm didache with tending that little termagant! I was hot and exhausted with my efforts to amuse her, the afternoon was now rapidly passing away, and as yet I had tasted none of my expected felicity. The child was screaming; I sat quite listless and passive in a large easy-chair, regarding my burden with a look of hopeless weariness, and wondered if this could possibly be the excellent baby who had only wanted an eye kept upon it. An eye, indeed! Eyes, arms, tongue, feet, breath, every thing had been spent in vain; and now, in a state of desperation, I resolved to be freed from my odious bondage, and flung wide open the door leading into the hall, that Mrs. Morfield might reap the full benefit of her child’s inexhaustible lungs.

This manœuvre answered the expected end; my hostess soon made her appearance with a troubled look, and relieving me of the torment, she clasped it fondly in her arms, saying in a soothing voice:

“Did they leave it, darling? No, they shouldn’t plague my baby, no they shouldn’t—mother’s own pet! Ah, oh, you naughty girl!” with a pretended slap, “I’ll teach you to plague my darling!”

The young lady, having satisfied herself that I was undergoing proper correction for my misdemeanors, condescended to be pacified, and surveyed me with an aspect of great complacency. Quite wearied out with her superhuman exertions, she soon fell asleep; and having deposited her on the bed, Mrs. Morfield expressed her wonder at the child’s behavior.

“It is quite surprising,” she continued, “she is generally so good and so little trouble—I begin to think, Ella, that you cannot be very well versed in the accomplishment of nursing.”

I was quite provoked at this insinuation, after all the pains I had taken, and replied with some warmth, that good or bad, such a child was enough to provoke the patience of Job.

“Oh, stop! stop!” said she pleasantly. “It is easy to see that you are cut out for an old maid.”

Well, if this really was not too much! wasn’t it, now? To be sure old maids are very nice people—I would speak of the community with all due respect; but still no girl of seventeen likes to be threatened with a life of single blessedness, because she cannot regard with much affection a cross, troublesome baby, who has teased and tormented her a whole afternoon. I was too full to speak, and Mrs. Morfield regarded me with considerable amusement; but swallowing my irritated feelings as I could, I complied with her invitation to walk out to tea. I fear that I regarded the table with a blank look of astonishment, for not a sign of fruit could I discover; and Mrs. Morfield apologized for the omission by saying that she had no one to gather it. I had quite forgotten that fruit did not drop into dishes of its own accord; and in no very amiable mood I sat down to a supper of flannel-cakes, which I soon found had been very appropriately named.

Mr. Morfield now made his appearance, and took his seat without a coat; the table being further embellished with the six young Morfields, who had been sent out with their father. Mr. Morfield liked every thing countrified, and in accordance with this prejudice, the eating utensils consisted of large buck-handled knives and forks, which, after my fatigue, I could scarcely hold; and my hand trembled so in lifting my cup that I narrowly escaped spilling the whole contents. I never worked so hard in my life as I had then; I felt completely reduced and enervated, and could scarcely move my arms.

“It is rather strange,” said Mrs. Morfield, “that Henry has not been here—he was to have come to-night, was he not, father?” Mr. Morfield nodded assent, being busily engaged with the flannel-cakes, and she continued—“It is really too bad, Miss Ella, to have no beau to offer you—but have patience, and perhaps the truant will come yet.”

After tea I concluded to reconnoitre the garden; but there was not much pleasure, after all, in wandering off alone; Mrs. Morfield being engaged with the baby, who was now wide awake, and Mr. Morfield occupied in some distant part of the ground. Then, too, the view of ripe fruit staring one right in the face with such an impudent kind of an air, as if it knew that I could not get at it, was any thing but agreeable; I thought of the baskets I had intended to bring to carry home all my spoils, and turned aside in extreme irritation. I looked up and down the road, but the tardy collegian was not to be seen; and with no very high opinion of “a social tea-drinking,” I returned to the house. We passed a tedious evening, and at length quite tired out, I announced my intention of going home. With Mr. Morfield for an escort, I again traversed the weary road, forcibly impressed with the difference between Romance and Reality.

Oh, how they did laugh at me! as bursting into tears I recounted all my toils and troubles; the idea of going out sociably to tea, and tending baby for an afternoon’s amusement, drew forth bursts of merriment, that grated on my ears as if in mockery of my overthrown expectations. But I seemed to dwell more particularly on Mrs. Morfield’s disagreeable prophecy than the unsatisfactoriness of the visit, and their laughter redoubled when after representing in glowing colors my toiling efforts to gain the name of a good nurse, I told of my dismay at finding myself branded with such an epithet. This appeared to strike them as the most ridiculous part, and I sat in sullen silence while they gave vent to their amusement. “So much for sympathy,” thought I.

For myself, I was thoroughly disgusted with “not being made a stranger of;” but my mortification was complete when the next morning Anne, looking over the fence which joined ours, exclaimed —

“You cannot tell what a delightful strawberrying we had. None of us returned with empty baskets, which you know has sometimes been the case; and we not only found strawberries, but, would you believe it, picked up a real, actualbeau! Now, guess who it was—some one you have not seen in a long time?”

Ididguess, but remaining silent, my companion continued —

“Why, we were actually discovered by the college-poet, Henry Auchinclass, just returned to be lionized and spoiled—who came upon us rather suddenly as we were making somewhat of a noise for well-behaved young ladies, and insisted upon helping us. What amerry time we had! He told us so many funny stories, and then we all concluded to take a walk off to the mill-pond; and I believe we stayed almost as late as you did. Now, where were you?”

Where, indeed! Oh, that I had gone with the strawberry-party! Anne communicated many more particulars, and then, unperching herself from the fence, ran into the house, while I, in quite a brown study, followed her example. That very afternoon I beheld the object of this commotion, but with that one glance vanished all my disappointed feelings—forhe had a cigar in his mouth! Sentiment, vanity, castle-building, all ended in smoke. I had always despised tobacco-snuffers, tobacco-chewers, and tobacco-smokers; that one cigar brought down my hero from the pedestal whereon I had placed him, and again I “roamed in maiden meditation, fancy free.”

By the bye, Mrs. Morfield never did ask me to make her a visit—she would doubtless require a better baby-tender; and ever since I have had an unconquerable aversion to taking tea sociably.

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