"What said my parents? Well, I wrote them soon,Relating all the facts without reserve,And asking, 'Would it be agreeable to themTo have a visit from us?' They replied,'It will not be agreeable, for our houseIs one of good repute.'—Not three years after,A joint appeal came to us for their aidTo the amount of seven hundred pounds.We sent the money, and it helped to smoothTheir latter days; perhaps to mitigateThe anger they had felt; and yet not they:Of the ungenerous words addressed to usMy father never knew."We met my sisters,Through Julia's urging, I believe, and proudlyI let them see what sort of man I'd chosen.We travelled for a time in England; then,In travel and in study, spent three yearsUpon the Continent; and sailed at lastFor the great land to which my thoughts had turnedSo often—for America. ArrivingHere in New York, we took this little house,Scene of so many joys and one great woe;And yet a woe so full of heavenly lifeWe should not call it by a mournful name."At length our Linda came to make all bright;And I can say, should the great summonerCall me this day to leave you, liberal HeavenMore than my share of mortal bliss alreadyWould have bestowed. Yes, little Linda came!To spoil us for all happiness but thatIn which she too could share—the dear beguiler!And with the sceptre of her love she ruled us,And with a happy spirit's charm she charmed us,Artfully conquering by shunning conquest,And by obeying making us obey.And so, one day, one happy day in June,We all sat down together, and her motherTold her the story which here terminates."IV.PARADISE FOUND."Youmight have made it longer," murmured Linda,Who with moist eyes had listened, and to whomThe time had seemed inexplicably brief.Then with an arm round either parent's neck,And with a kiss on either parent's cheek,She said: "My lot is as the good God gave it;And I'd not have it other than it is.Could a permit from any human lipsHave made me any more a child of God?Have made me any more your child, my parents?Have made me any more my own true self?Happy, and oh! not diffident to feelMy right to be and breathe the common air?Could any form of words approving itHave made us three more intimately near?Have made us three more exquisitely dear?Ah! if it could, our love is not the loveI hold it now to be—immortal love!"With speechless joy and a new pride they gazedInto her fair and youthful countenance,Bright with ethereal bloom and tenderness.Then smoothing back her hair, the father said:"An anxious thought comes to us now and then,—Comes like a cloud: the thought that we as yetHave no provision from our income savedFor Linda. My few little ventures, madeIn commerce, in a profitable hope,So adversely resulted that I sawMy best advance would be in standing still.As you have heard, all that we now possessIs in a life-annuity which endsWith two frail lives—your mother's and my own.So, should death overtake us both at once,—And this I've looked on as improbable,—Our little girl would be left destitute.""Not destitute, my father!" Linda cried;"Far back as thought can go, you taught me this:To help myself; to seek, in my own mind,Companionship forever new and glad,Through studies, meditations, and resourcesWhich nature, books, and crowded life supply.And then you urged me to excel in something;('Better do one thing thoroughly,' you said,'Than fifty only tolerably well,')—Something from which, with loving diligence,I might, should life's contingencies require,Wring a support;—and then, how carefullyYou taught me how to deal with slippery men!Taught me my rights, the laws, the very formsBy which to guard against neglect or fraudIn any business—till I'm half a lawyer.You taught me, too, how to protect myself,Should force assail me; how to hold a pistol,Carry it, fire it—Heaven save me from the need!And, when I was a very little girl,You used to take me round to see the housesAs they were built; the clearing of the land;The digging of the cellar; the foundations;You told me that the sand to make the mortarOught to be fresh, and not the sea-shore sand;Else would the salt keep up a certain moisture.And then we'd watch the framework, and the roofing;And you'd explain the office and the nameOf every beam, and make me understandThe qualities of wood, seasoning of timber,And how the masons, and the carpenters,The plasterers, the plumbers, and the slaters,Should do their work; and when they slighted it,And when the wood-work was too near the flue,The flue too narrow, or the draught defective:So that, as you yourself have often said,I'm better qualified than half the buildersTo plan and build a house, and guard myselfFrom being cheated in the operation.Fear not for me, my parents; spend your incomeWithout a thought of saving. And besides,Had you not trained me aptly as you have,Am I not better—I—than many sparrows?There is a heavenly Father over all!""Sweet arguer!" said Percival, "may HeAnd his swift angels love and help our Linda!Your mother and myself have tried of lateTo study how and where we might reduceCertain expenses that have been,——"But hereThe dinner-bell broke in; and lighter thoughts—Thoughts that but skim the surface of the mind,And stir not its profound—were interchangedAs now more timely; for the PercivalsLacked not good appetites, and every mealHad its best stimulant in cheerfulness."Where shall we go to pass our holidays?"The mother asked: "August will soon be here.""What says our Linda?" answered Percival:"The seaside or the mountains shall it be?""Linda will go with the majority!You've spilt the salt, papa; please throw a littleOver your shoulder; there! that saves a quarrel.To me you leave it, do you? to decideWhere we shall go? Then hear the voice of wisdom:The mountain air is good, I love the mountains;And the sea air is good, I love the sea;But if you two prefer the mountain air,—Go to the mountains. On the contrary,—""She's neutral!" cried the father; "what a dodgerThis little girl has grown! Come, now, I'll castInto the scale my sword, and say we'll goTo old Cape Ann. Does any slave object?None. 'Tis a special edict. Pass the peas.Our rendezvous shall be off Eastern Point.There shall our Linda try the oar again."Dinner was ended, and the gas was lit,And The Day's last edition had been putInto his hand to read, when suddenlyTurning to Mary, with a sigh he said:"Kenrick, I see, is dead—Kenrick, our friend.'Died in Chicago on the seventh instant,—Leaves an estate valued at seven millions.'""Indeed! our faithful Kenrick—is he dead?Leaves he a wife?"—"Probably not, my dear;Three months ago he was a single man;I had a letter from him, begging me,If I lacked funds at any time to drawOn him, and not be modest in my draft.""But that was generous; what did you reply?""I thanked him for his love, and promised himHe should be first to hear of wants of mine.Now let us to the music-room adjourn,And hear what will not jar with our regrets."They went; and Mary mother played and sang;Played the 'Dead March in Saul' and sang 'Old Hundred,''Come, ye Disconsolate,' 'When thee I seek'—And finally these unfamiliar words:—I.O, give me one breath from that land—The land to which all of us go!Even now, O my soul! art thou fannedBy the breezes that over it blow.II.By the breezes that over it blow!Though far from the knowledge of sense,The shore of that land thou dost know—There soon wilt thou go with me hence.III.There soon wilt thou go with me hence—But where, O my soul! where to be?In that region, that region immense,The loved and the lost shall we see?IV.The loved and the lost shall we see!For Love all it loves shall make near;Type and outcome of Love shall it be—Our home in that infinite sphere!A day's excursion to a favorite spot—Choice nook among the choicest of Long Island,(Paradise Found, he called it playfully)—Had oft been planned; and one day PercivalSaid: "Let us go to-day!"—"No, not to-day!"Cried Linda, with a shudder.—"And why not?It is the very day of all the year!There's an elastic coolness in the air,Thanks to the thunder-shower we had last night:A day for out-of-doors! Your reasons, Linda?Tears in your eyes! Nay, I'll not ask for reasons.We will not go."—"Yes, father, let us go.Whence came my No abrupt, I could not say;It was a sudden freak, and what it meantYou know as well as I. Shall we get ready?""Ay, such a perfect day is rare; it seemsTo bring heaven nearer to my understanding;Life, life itself is joy enough! to be,—To breathe this ether, see that arch of blue,Is happiness."—"But 'tis the soul that makes it;What would it be, my father, without love?""Ay, without love, love human and divine,No atmosphere of real joy can be."Not long the time mother and daughter neededTo don their simple, neat habiliments.A postman handed Percival a letterAs they descended from the door to takeThe carriage that would bear them to the station;For they must go by rail some twenty milesTo reach this paradise of Percival's.When they were in the cars, and these in motion,Percival drew the letter from his pocket,And, while he read, a strange expression stoleOver his features. "Now what is it, father?"Then with a sigh which her quick ear detectedAs one that masked a pleasurable thought,He said: "Poor little Linda!"—"And why poor?""Because she will not be so rich againIn wishes unfulfilled. That grand pianoYou saw at Chickering's—what was the price?""Twelve hundred dollars only."—"It is yours!That painting you admired so—that by Church—What did they ask for it?"—"Two thousand dollars.""'Tis cheap at that. We'll take it. Whose turn-outWas it that struck your fancy?"—"Miss Van Hagen's!""Well, you shall have one like it, only better.Look! What a charming cottage! How it stands,Fronting the water, flanked by woods and gardens!For sale, I see. We'll buy it. No, that houseYonder upon the hill would suit us better;Our coachman's family shall have the cottage.""What is it all, my father? You perplex me,"Said Linda, with a smile of anxious wonder."In brief, my little girl," said Percival,"You're grown to be an heiress. Let your motherTake in that letter. Read it to her, Linda."It was a letter from executorsOf the late Arthur Kenrick, making knownThat in his several large bequests was oneOf a full million, all to Percival.The mother's heart flew to the loved ones gone;She sighed, but not to have them back again;That were a wish too selfish and profane.And then, the first surprise at length allayed,Calmly, but not without a natural joyAt being thus lifted to an affluent lot,The three discussed their future. Should they travel?Or should they choose some rural site, and build?Paradise Found would furnish a good site!Now they could help how many! Not aloofFrom scenes of destitution had they kept:What joy to aid the worthy poor! To saveThis one from beggary! To give the meansTo that forsaken widow, overworked,With her persistent cough, to make a trip,She and her children, city-pinched and pale,To some good inland farm, and there recruit!Many the plans for others they conceived!Many the joyful—Ah! a shivering crash!A whirl of splintered wood and loosened iron!Then shrieks and groans of pain....A broken railHad done it all. Now for the killed and wounded!Ghastly the spectacle! And happy thoseWhom Death had taken swiftly! Linda's motherWas one of these—a smile upon her lips,But her breast marred—peacefully she had passed.Percival's wound was mortal, but he strove,Amid the jar of sense, to fix his mindOn one absorbing thought—a thought for Linda:For she, though stunned, they told him, would survive,Motherless, though—soon to be fatherless!And something—ah! what was it?—must be done,Done, too, at once. "O gentlemen, come here!Paper and pen and ink! Quick, quick, I pray you!No matter! Come! A pencil—that will do.Help me to make a will—I do bequeathe—Where am I? What has happened? God be with me!Yes, I remember now—the will! the will!No matter for the writing! Witness yeThat I bequeathe, convey, and hereby giveTo this my only child, named Linda—Linda—God! What's my name? Where was I? PercivalTo Linda Percival—Is this a dream?What would I do? My heart is drowned in blood.God help me. Linda—Linda!"Then he died;And, chasing from his face that glare of anguish,Came a smile beatific as if angelsHad soothed his fears and hushed him into calm.Her father's cry was all unheard by Linda,Or by her mortal senses all unheard.Perhaps a finer faculty, removedFrom the external consciousness afar,Took it all in; for when she woke at lastTo outward life, and looking round beheldNo sign of either parent, she sank backInto a trance, and lay insensibleFor many hours. Then rallying she once moreSeemed conscious; and observing the kind looksOf an old woman and a man whose browOf thought contrasted with his face of youth,She calmly said: "Don't fear to tell me all;I think I know it all; an accidentWith loss of life; my father and my motherAmong—among the killed. Enough! Your silenceExplains it now. So leave me for a while.Should I need help, I'll call. You're very good."When they returned, Linda was sitting upAgainst the pillow of the bed; her handsFolded upon her breast; her open eyesTearless and glazed, as if celestial scenes,Clear to the inner, nulled the outer vision.The man drew near, touched her upon the brow,And said, "My name is Henry Meredith."She started, and, as on an April skyA cloud is riven, and through the sudden cleftThe sunshine darts, even so were Linda's eyesFlooded with conscious lustre, and she woke.It was a neatly furnished cottage roomIn which she lay, and nodding eglantine,With its sweet-scented foliage and rath roses,Rustled and shimmered at the open window."How long have I been lying here?" asked Linda."Almost two days," said Meredith.—"Indeed!I read, sir, what you'd ask me, in your looks;And to the question on your mind I answer,If all is ready, let the funeral beThis afternoon. Ay, in the village groundLet their remains be laid. The servicesMay be as is convenient." "Of what faithWere they?"—"The faith of Christ."—"But that is vague.The faith of Christ? Mean you the faithinChrist?Faith in the power and need of his atonement?""All that I mean is, that they held the faithWhich was the faith of Christ, as manifestIn his own words, unwrenched by others' words.So to no sect did they attach themselves;But from all sects drew all the truth they couldIn charity; believing that when ChristSaid of the pure in heart, 'They shall see God,'He meant it; spoke no fragment of a truth;Deferred no saying, qualifying that;Set no word-trap for unsuspecting souls;Spoke no oracular, ambiguous phrase,Intending merely the vicarious pure;Reserved no strange or mystical conditionTo breed fine points of doctrine, or confoundThe simple-minded and the slow of faith.Heart-purity and singleness and love,Fertile in loving acts, sole proof of these,Summed up for them, my father and my mother,All nobleness, all duty, all salvation,And all religion."With a heavy sighMeredith turned away. "I'll not discussThings of such moment now," said he. "One rock,One only rock, amid the clashing wavesOf human error, have I found,—the rockOn which Christ built his Church. Heaven show you it!""Heaven show me truth! let it be on the rock,Or in the sand. You'll say Amen to that?""I say Amen to what the Church approves,For I myself am weak and fallible,Depraved by nature, reprobate and doomed,And ransomed only by the atoning bloodOf a Redeemer more divine than human.But controversy is not timely now:The papers, jewels, money, and what clothesCould properly be taken, you will findIn a small trunk of which this is the key.At three o'clock the carriage will be ready."Linda put forth her hand; he gravely took it,And holding it in both of his the while,Said: "Should you lack a friend, remember me.I was a witness to your father's death.Your mother must have died without a pang.He, by a strenuous will, kept death at bayA minute, and his dying cry was Linda!Hardly can he have felt his sufferings,Such the intentness of his thought for you!"The fount of tears was happily struck at last,And Linda wept profusely. MeredithQuitted the room; but the old woman satBeside the bed, her thin and shrunken fingersHiding themselves in Linda's locks of gold,Or with a soothing motion parting themFrom a brow fine and white as alabaster.At length, like a retreating thunder-storm,The sobs grew faint and fainter, and then ceased.After a pause, said Linda to the lady,"Is he your grandson?"—"Ay, my only one;A noble youth, heir to a splendid fortune;A scholar, too, and such a gentleman!Young; ay, not twenty-four! What a career,Would he but choose! Society is his,To cull from as he would. He throws by all,To be a poor tame priest, and take confessionsOf petty scandals and delinquenciesFrom a few Irish hussies and old women!""We all," said Linda, "hear the voice of dutyIn different ways, and many not at all.Honor to him who heeds the sacred claimAt any cost of life's amenitiesAnd tenderest ties! We see the sacrifice;—We cannot reckon up the noblenessIt called for, and must call for to the end."V.LINDA.
"What said my parents? Well, I wrote them soon,Relating all the facts without reserve,And asking, 'Would it be agreeable to themTo have a visit from us?' They replied,'It will not be agreeable, for our houseIs one of good repute.'—Not three years after,A joint appeal came to us for their aidTo the amount of seven hundred pounds.We sent the money, and it helped to smoothTheir latter days; perhaps to mitigateThe anger they had felt; and yet not they:Of the ungenerous words addressed to usMy father never knew.
"We met my sisters,Through Julia's urging, I believe, and proudlyI let them see what sort of man I'd chosen.We travelled for a time in England; then,In travel and in study, spent three yearsUpon the Continent; and sailed at lastFor the great land to which my thoughts had turnedSo often—for America. ArrivingHere in New York, we took this little house,Scene of so many joys and one great woe;And yet a woe so full of heavenly lifeWe should not call it by a mournful name.
"At length our Linda came to make all bright;And I can say, should the great summonerCall me this day to leave you, liberal HeavenMore than my share of mortal bliss alreadyWould have bestowed. Yes, little Linda came!To spoil us for all happiness but thatIn which she too could share—the dear beguiler!And with the sceptre of her love she ruled us,And with a happy spirit's charm she charmed us,Artfully conquering by shunning conquest,And by obeying making us obey.And so, one day, one happy day in June,We all sat down together, and her motherTold her the story which here terminates."
"Youmight have made it longer," murmured Linda,Who with moist eyes had listened, and to whomThe time had seemed inexplicably brief.Then with an arm round either parent's neck,And with a kiss on either parent's cheek,She said: "My lot is as the good God gave it;And I'd not have it other than it is.Could a permit from any human lipsHave made me any more a child of God?Have made me any more your child, my parents?Have made me any more my own true self?Happy, and oh! not diffident to feelMy right to be and breathe the common air?Could any form of words approving itHave made us three more intimately near?Have made us three more exquisitely dear?Ah! if it could, our love is not the loveI hold it now to be—immortal love!"
With speechless joy and a new pride they gazedInto her fair and youthful countenance,Bright with ethereal bloom and tenderness.Then smoothing back her hair, the father said:"An anxious thought comes to us now and then,—Comes like a cloud: the thought that we as yetHave no provision from our income savedFor Linda. My few little ventures, madeIn commerce, in a profitable hope,So adversely resulted that I sawMy best advance would be in standing still.As you have heard, all that we now possessIs in a life-annuity which endsWith two frail lives—your mother's and my own.So, should death overtake us both at once,—And this I've looked on as improbable,—Our little girl would be left destitute."
"Not destitute, my father!" Linda cried;"Far back as thought can go, you taught me this:To help myself; to seek, in my own mind,Companionship forever new and glad,Through studies, meditations, and resourcesWhich nature, books, and crowded life supply.And then you urged me to excel in something;('Better do one thing thoroughly,' you said,'Than fifty only tolerably well,')—Something from which, with loving diligence,I might, should life's contingencies require,Wring a support;—and then, how carefullyYou taught me how to deal with slippery men!Taught me my rights, the laws, the very formsBy which to guard against neglect or fraudIn any business—till I'm half a lawyer.You taught me, too, how to protect myself,Should force assail me; how to hold a pistol,Carry it, fire it—Heaven save me from the need!And, when I was a very little girl,You used to take me round to see the housesAs they were built; the clearing of the land;The digging of the cellar; the foundations;You told me that the sand to make the mortarOught to be fresh, and not the sea-shore sand;Else would the salt keep up a certain moisture.And then we'd watch the framework, and the roofing;And you'd explain the office and the nameOf every beam, and make me understandThe qualities of wood, seasoning of timber,And how the masons, and the carpenters,The plasterers, the plumbers, and the slaters,Should do their work; and when they slighted it,And when the wood-work was too near the flue,The flue too narrow, or the draught defective:So that, as you yourself have often said,I'm better qualified than half the buildersTo plan and build a house, and guard myselfFrom being cheated in the operation.Fear not for me, my parents; spend your incomeWithout a thought of saving. And besides,Had you not trained me aptly as you have,Am I not better—I—than many sparrows?There is a heavenly Father over all!"
"Sweet arguer!" said Percival, "may HeAnd his swift angels love and help our Linda!Your mother and myself have tried of lateTo study how and where we might reduceCertain expenses that have been,——"
But hereThe dinner-bell broke in; and lighter thoughts—Thoughts that but skim the surface of the mind,And stir not its profound—were interchangedAs now more timely; for the PercivalsLacked not good appetites, and every mealHad its best stimulant in cheerfulness."Where shall we go to pass our holidays?"The mother asked: "August will soon be here.""What says our Linda?" answered Percival:"The seaside or the mountains shall it be?""Linda will go with the majority!You've spilt the salt, papa; please throw a littleOver your shoulder; there! that saves a quarrel.To me you leave it, do you? to decideWhere we shall go? Then hear the voice of wisdom:The mountain air is good, I love the mountains;And the sea air is good, I love the sea;But if you two prefer the mountain air,—Go to the mountains. On the contrary,—""She's neutral!" cried the father; "what a dodgerThis little girl has grown! Come, now, I'll castInto the scale my sword, and say we'll goTo old Cape Ann. Does any slave object?None. 'Tis a special edict. Pass the peas.Our rendezvous shall be off Eastern Point.There shall our Linda try the oar again."
Dinner was ended, and the gas was lit,And The Day's last edition had been putInto his hand to read, when suddenlyTurning to Mary, with a sigh he said:"Kenrick, I see, is dead—Kenrick, our friend.'Died in Chicago on the seventh instant,—Leaves an estate valued at seven millions.'""Indeed! our faithful Kenrick—is he dead?Leaves he a wife?"—"Probably not, my dear;Three months ago he was a single man;I had a letter from him, begging me,If I lacked funds at any time to drawOn him, and not be modest in my draft.""But that was generous; what did you reply?""I thanked him for his love, and promised himHe should be first to hear of wants of mine.Now let us to the music-room adjourn,And hear what will not jar with our regrets."They went; and Mary mother played and sang;Played the 'Dead March in Saul' and sang 'Old Hundred,''Come, ye Disconsolate,' 'When thee I seek'—And finally these unfamiliar words:—
I.O, give me one breath from that land—The land to which all of us go!Even now, O my soul! art thou fannedBy the breezes that over it blow.II.By the breezes that over it blow!Though far from the knowledge of sense,The shore of that land thou dost know—There soon wilt thou go with me hence.III.There soon wilt thou go with me hence—But where, O my soul! where to be?In that region, that region immense,The loved and the lost shall we see?IV.The loved and the lost shall we see!For Love all it loves shall make near;Type and outcome of Love shall it be—Our home in that infinite sphere!A day's excursion to a favorite spot—Choice nook among the choicest of Long Island,(Paradise Found, he called it playfully)—Had oft been planned; and one day PercivalSaid: "Let us go to-day!"—"No, not to-day!"Cried Linda, with a shudder.—"And why not?It is the very day of all the year!There's an elastic coolness in the air,Thanks to the thunder-shower we had last night:A day for out-of-doors! Your reasons, Linda?Tears in your eyes! Nay, I'll not ask for reasons.We will not go."—"Yes, father, let us go.Whence came my No abrupt, I could not say;It was a sudden freak, and what it meantYou know as well as I. Shall we get ready?""Ay, such a perfect day is rare; it seemsTo bring heaven nearer to my understanding;Life, life itself is joy enough! to be,—To breathe this ether, see that arch of blue,Is happiness."—"But 'tis the soul that makes it;What would it be, my father, without love?""Ay, without love, love human and divine,No atmosphere of real joy can be."Not long the time mother and daughter neededTo don their simple, neat habiliments.A postman handed Percival a letterAs they descended from the door to takeThe carriage that would bear them to the station;For they must go by rail some twenty milesTo reach this paradise of Percival's.When they were in the cars, and these in motion,Percival drew the letter from his pocket,And, while he read, a strange expression stoleOver his features. "Now what is it, father?"Then with a sigh which her quick ear detectedAs one that masked a pleasurable thought,He said: "Poor little Linda!"—"And why poor?""Because she will not be so rich againIn wishes unfulfilled. That grand pianoYou saw at Chickering's—what was the price?""Twelve hundred dollars only."—"It is yours!That painting you admired so—that by Church—What did they ask for it?"—"Two thousand dollars.""'Tis cheap at that. We'll take it. Whose turn-outWas it that struck your fancy?"—"Miss Van Hagen's!""Well, you shall have one like it, only better.Look! What a charming cottage! How it stands,Fronting the water, flanked by woods and gardens!For sale, I see. We'll buy it. No, that houseYonder upon the hill would suit us better;Our coachman's family shall have the cottage.""What is it all, my father? You perplex me,"Said Linda, with a smile of anxious wonder."In brief, my little girl," said Percival,"You're grown to be an heiress. Let your motherTake in that letter. Read it to her, Linda."It was a letter from executorsOf the late Arthur Kenrick, making knownThat in his several large bequests was oneOf a full million, all to Percival.The mother's heart flew to the loved ones gone;She sighed, but not to have them back again;That were a wish too selfish and profane.And then, the first surprise at length allayed,Calmly, but not without a natural joyAt being thus lifted to an affluent lot,The three discussed their future. Should they travel?Or should they choose some rural site, and build?Paradise Found would furnish a good site!Now they could help how many! Not aloofFrom scenes of destitution had they kept:What joy to aid the worthy poor! To saveThis one from beggary! To give the meansTo that forsaken widow, overworked,With her persistent cough, to make a trip,She and her children, city-pinched and pale,To some good inland farm, and there recruit!Many the plans for others they conceived!Many the joyful—Ah! a shivering crash!A whirl of splintered wood and loosened iron!Then shrieks and groans of pain....A broken railHad done it all. Now for the killed and wounded!Ghastly the spectacle! And happy thoseWhom Death had taken swiftly! Linda's motherWas one of these—a smile upon her lips,But her breast marred—peacefully she had passed.Percival's wound was mortal, but he strove,Amid the jar of sense, to fix his mindOn one absorbing thought—a thought for Linda:For she, though stunned, they told him, would survive,Motherless, though—soon to be fatherless!And something—ah! what was it?—must be done,Done, too, at once. "O gentlemen, come here!Paper and pen and ink! Quick, quick, I pray you!No matter! Come! A pencil—that will do.Help me to make a will—I do bequeathe—Where am I? What has happened? God be with me!Yes, I remember now—the will! the will!No matter for the writing! Witness yeThat I bequeathe, convey, and hereby giveTo this my only child, named Linda—Linda—God! What's my name? Where was I? PercivalTo Linda Percival—Is this a dream?What would I do? My heart is drowned in blood.God help me. Linda—Linda!"Then he died;And, chasing from his face that glare of anguish,Came a smile beatific as if angelsHad soothed his fears and hushed him into calm.Her father's cry was all unheard by Linda,Or by her mortal senses all unheard.Perhaps a finer faculty, removedFrom the external consciousness afar,Took it all in; for when she woke at lastTo outward life, and looking round beheldNo sign of either parent, she sank backInto a trance, and lay insensibleFor many hours. Then rallying she once moreSeemed conscious; and observing the kind looksOf an old woman and a man whose browOf thought contrasted with his face of youth,She calmly said: "Don't fear to tell me all;I think I know it all; an accidentWith loss of life; my father and my motherAmong—among the killed. Enough! Your silenceExplains it now. So leave me for a while.Should I need help, I'll call. You're very good."When they returned, Linda was sitting upAgainst the pillow of the bed; her handsFolded upon her breast; her open eyesTearless and glazed, as if celestial scenes,Clear to the inner, nulled the outer vision.The man drew near, touched her upon the brow,And said, "My name is Henry Meredith."She started, and, as on an April skyA cloud is riven, and through the sudden cleftThe sunshine darts, even so were Linda's eyesFlooded with conscious lustre, and she woke.It was a neatly furnished cottage roomIn which she lay, and nodding eglantine,With its sweet-scented foliage and rath roses,Rustled and shimmered at the open window."How long have I been lying here?" asked Linda."Almost two days," said Meredith.—"Indeed!I read, sir, what you'd ask me, in your looks;And to the question on your mind I answer,If all is ready, let the funeral beThis afternoon. Ay, in the village groundLet their remains be laid. The servicesMay be as is convenient." "Of what faithWere they?"—"The faith of Christ."—"But that is vague.The faith of Christ? Mean you the faithinChrist?Faith in the power and need of his atonement?""All that I mean is, that they held the faithWhich was the faith of Christ, as manifestIn his own words, unwrenched by others' words.So to no sect did they attach themselves;But from all sects drew all the truth they couldIn charity; believing that when ChristSaid of the pure in heart, 'They shall see God,'He meant it; spoke no fragment of a truth;Deferred no saying, qualifying that;Set no word-trap for unsuspecting souls;Spoke no oracular, ambiguous phrase,Intending merely the vicarious pure;Reserved no strange or mystical conditionTo breed fine points of doctrine, or confoundThe simple-minded and the slow of faith.Heart-purity and singleness and love,Fertile in loving acts, sole proof of these,Summed up for them, my father and my mother,All nobleness, all duty, all salvation,And all religion."With a heavy sighMeredith turned away. "I'll not discussThings of such moment now," said he. "One rock,One only rock, amid the clashing wavesOf human error, have I found,—the rockOn which Christ built his Church. Heaven show you it!""Heaven show me truth! let it be on the rock,Or in the sand. You'll say Amen to that?""I say Amen to what the Church approves,For I myself am weak and fallible,Depraved by nature, reprobate and doomed,And ransomed only by the atoning bloodOf a Redeemer more divine than human.But controversy is not timely now:The papers, jewels, money, and what clothesCould properly be taken, you will findIn a small trunk of which this is the key.At three o'clock the carriage will be ready."Linda put forth her hand; he gravely took it,And holding it in both of his the while,Said: "Should you lack a friend, remember me.I was a witness to your father's death.Your mother must have died without a pang.He, by a strenuous will, kept death at bayA minute, and his dying cry was Linda!Hardly can he have felt his sufferings,Such the intentness of his thought for you!"The fount of tears was happily struck at last,And Linda wept profusely. MeredithQuitted the room; but the old woman satBeside the bed, her thin and shrunken fingersHiding themselves in Linda's locks of gold,Or with a soothing motion parting themFrom a brow fine and white as alabaster.At length, like a retreating thunder-storm,The sobs grew faint and fainter, and then ceased.After a pause, said Linda to the lady,"Is he your grandson?"—"Ay, my only one;A noble youth, heir to a splendid fortune;A scholar, too, and such a gentleman!Young; ay, not twenty-four! What a career,Would he but choose! Society is his,To cull from as he would. He throws by all,To be a poor tame priest, and take confessionsOf petty scandals and delinquenciesFrom a few Irish hussies and old women!""We all," said Linda, "hear the voice of dutyIn different ways, and many not at all.Honor to him who heeds the sacred claimAt any cost of life's amenitiesAnd tenderest ties! We see the sacrifice;—We cannot reckon up the noblenessIt called for, and must call for to the end."
O, give me one breath from that land—The land to which all of us go!Even now, O my soul! art thou fannedBy the breezes that over it blow.
By the breezes that over it blow!Though far from the knowledge of sense,The shore of that land thou dost know—There soon wilt thou go with me hence.
There soon wilt thou go with me hence—But where, O my soul! where to be?In that region, that region immense,The loved and the lost shall we see?
The loved and the lost shall we see!For Love all it loves shall make near;Type and outcome of Love shall it be—Our home in that infinite sphere!
A day's excursion to a favorite spot—Choice nook among the choicest of Long Island,(Paradise Found, he called it playfully)—Had oft been planned; and one day PercivalSaid: "Let us go to-day!"—"No, not to-day!"Cried Linda, with a shudder.—"And why not?It is the very day of all the year!There's an elastic coolness in the air,Thanks to the thunder-shower we had last night:A day for out-of-doors! Your reasons, Linda?Tears in your eyes! Nay, I'll not ask for reasons.We will not go."—"Yes, father, let us go.Whence came my No abrupt, I could not say;It was a sudden freak, and what it meantYou know as well as I. Shall we get ready?""Ay, such a perfect day is rare; it seemsTo bring heaven nearer to my understanding;Life, life itself is joy enough! to be,—To breathe this ether, see that arch of blue,Is happiness."—"But 'tis the soul that makes it;What would it be, my father, without love?""Ay, without love, love human and divine,No atmosphere of real joy can be."
Not long the time mother and daughter neededTo don their simple, neat habiliments.A postman handed Percival a letterAs they descended from the door to takeThe carriage that would bear them to the station;For they must go by rail some twenty milesTo reach this paradise of Percival's.
When they were in the cars, and these in motion,Percival drew the letter from his pocket,And, while he read, a strange expression stoleOver his features. "Now what is it, father?"Then with a sigh which her quick ear detectedAs one that masked a pleasurable thought,He said: "Poor little Linda!"—"And why poor?""Because she will not be so rich againIn wishes unfulfilled. That grand pianoYou saw at Chickering's—what was the price?""Twelve hundred dollars only."—"It is yours!That painting you admired so—that by Church—What did they ask for it?"—"Two thousand dollars.""'Tis cheap at that. We'll take it. Whose turn-outWas it that struck your fancy?"—"Miss Van Hagen's!""Well, you shall have one like it, only better.Look! What a charming cottage! How it stands,Fronting the water, flanked by woods and gardens!For sale, I see. We'll buy it. No, that houseYonder upon the hill would suit us better;Our coachman's family shall have the cottage."
"What is it all, my father? You perplex me,"Said Linda, with a smile of anxious wonder."In brief, my little girl," said Percival,"You're grown to be an heiress. Let your motherTake in that letter. Read it to her, Linda."It was a letter from executorsOf the late Arthur Kenrick, making knownThat in his several large bequests was oneOf a full million, all to Percival.The mother's heart flew to the loved ones gone;She sighed, but not to have them back again;That were a wish too selfish and profane.And then, the first surprise at length allayed,Calmly, but not without a natural joyAt being thus lifted to an affluent lot,The three discussed their future. Should they travel?Or should they choose some rural site, and build?Paradise Found would furnish a good site!Now they could help how many! Not aloofFrom scenes of destitution had they kept:What joy to aid the worthy poor! To saveThis one from beggary! To give the meansTo that forsaken widow, overworked,With her persistent cough, to make a trip,She and her children, city-pinched and pale,To some good inland farm, and there recruit!Many the plans for others they conceived!Many the joyful—
Ah! a shivering crash!A whirl of splintered wood and loosened iron!Then shrieks and groans of pain....
A broken railHad done it all. Now for the killed and wounded!Ghastly the spectacle! And happy thoseWhom Death had taken swiftly! Linda's motherWas one of these—a smile upon her lips,But her breast marred—peacefully she had passed.Percival's wound was mortal, but he strove,Amid the jar of sense, to fix his mindOn one absorbing thought—a thought for Linda:For she, though stunned, they told him, would survive,Motherless, though—soon to be fatherless!And something—ah! what was it?—must be done,Done, too, at once. "O gentlemen, come here!Paper and pen and ink! Quick, quick, I pray you!No matter! Come! A pencil—that will do.Help me to make a will—I do bequeathe—Where am I? What has happened? God be with me!Yes, I remember now—the will! the will!No matter for the writing! Witness yeThat I bequeathe, convey, and hereby giveTo this my only child, named Linda—Linda—God! What's my name? Where was I? PercivalTo Linda Percival—Is this a dream?What would I do? My heart is drowned in blood.God help me. Linda—Linda!"
Then he died;And, chasing from his face that glare of anguish,Came a smile beatific as if angelsHad soothed his fears and hushed him into calm.
Her father's cry was all unheard by Linda,Or by her mortal senses all unheard.Perhaps a finer faculty, removedFrom the external consciousness afar,Took it all in; for when she woke at lastTo outward life, and looking round beheldNo sign of either parent, she sank backInto a trance, and lay insensibleFor many hours. Then rallying she once moreSeemed conscious; and observing the kind looksOf an old woman and a man whose browOf thought contrasted with his face of youth,She calmly said: "Don't fear to tell me all;I think I know it all; an accidentWith loss of life; my father and my motherAmong—among the killed. Enough! Your silenceExplains it now. So leave me for a while.Should I need help, I'll call. You're very good."
When they returned, Linda was sitting upAgainst the pillow of the bed; her handsFolded upon her breast; her open eyesTearless and glazed, as if celestial scenes,Clear to the inner, nulled the outer vision.The man drew near, touched her upon the brow,And said, "My name is Henry Meredith."She started, and, as on an April skyA cloud is riven, and through the sudden cleftThe sunshine darts, even so were Linda's eyesFlooded with conscious lustre, and she woke.
It was a neatly furnished cottage roomIn which she lay, and nodding eglantine,With its sweet-scented foliage and rath roses,Rustled and shimmered at the open window."How long have I been lying here?" asked Linda."Almost two days," said Meredith.—"Indeed!I read, sir, what you'd ask me, in your looks;And to the question on your mind I answer,If all is ready, let the funeral beThis afternoon. Ay, in the village groundLet their remains be laid. The servicesMay be as is convenient." "Of what faithWere they?"—"The faith of Christ."—"But that is vague.The faith of Christ? Mean you the faithinChrist?Faith in the power and need of his atonement?"
"All that I mean is, that they held the faithWhich was the faith of Christ, as manifestIn his own words, unwrenched by others' words.So to no sect did they attach themselves;But from all sects drew all the truth they couldIn charity; believing that when ChristSaid of the pure in heart, 'They shall see God,'He meant it; spoke no fragment of a truth;Deferred no saying, qualifying that;Set no word-trap for unsuspecting souls;Spoke no oracular, ambiguous phrase,Intending merely the vicarious pure;Reserved no strange or mystical conditionTo breed fine points of doctrine, or confoundThe simple-minded and the slow of faith.Heart-purity and singleness and love,Fertile in loving acts, sole proof of these,Summed up for them, my father and my mother,All nobleness, all duty, all salvation,And all religion."
With a heavy sighMeredith turned away. "I'll not discussThings of such moment now," said he. "One rock,One only rock, amid the clashing wavesOf human error, have I found,—the rockOn which Christ built his Church. Heaven show you it!""Heaven show me truth! let it be on the rock,Or in the sand. You'll say Amen to that?""I say Amen to what the Church approves,For I myself am weak and fallible,Depraved by nature, reprobate and doomed,And ransomed only by the atoning bloodOf a Redeemer more divine than human.But controversy is not timely now:The papers, jewels, money, and what clothesCould properly be taken, you will findIn a small trunk of which this is the key.At three o'clock the carriage will be ready."
Linda put forth her hand; he gravely took it,And holding it in both of his the while,Said: "Should you lack a friend, remember me.I was a witness to your father's death.Your mother must have died without a pang.He, by a strenuous will, kept death at bayA minute, and his dying cry was Linda!Hardly can he have felt his sufferings,Such the intentness of his thought for you!"The fount of tears was happily struck at last,And Linda wept profusely. MeredithQuitted the room; but the old woman satBeside the bed, her thin and shrunken fingersHiding themselves in Linda's locks of gold,Or with a soothing motion parting themFrom a brow fine and white as alabaster.At length, like a retreating thunder-storm,The sobs grew faint and fainter, and then ceased.
After a pause, said Linda to the lady,"Is he your grandson?"—"Ay, my only one;A noble youth, heir to a splendid fortune;A scholar, too, and such a gentleman!Young; ay, not twenty-four! What a career,Would he but choose! Society is his,To cull from as he would. He throws by all,To be a poor tame priest, and take confessionsOf petty scandals and delinquenciesFrom a few Irish hussies and old women!""We all," said Linda, "hear the voice of dutyIn different ways, and many not at all.Honor to him who heeds the sacred claimAt any cost of life's amenitiesAnd tenderest ties! We see the sacrifice;—We cannot reckon up the noblenessIt called for, and must call for to the end."