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^1/ J^OJl^ and VOI^S:^.

•

i
AMHERST, X. S.:

Amhkhst Gazette Steam Printing Hovsk.

lero.

THE LIBRARY

THE UNIVERSITY Oh
BRHISH COLUMBIA

CJt

S.D, Scott

PREFACE.

l;i presioitiiig to tlie public the following litilo
volume, wo would ol.serve, by way of apolt^gy, that
these " Tales, Essays and Pokms" aro the prodiictious
of tlie leisure hours of two young students, and as
such, we trust all their snorteoniings and errors will be
forgivingly overlook^'d. We have enddavorod to place
it within the reu'h of all ; and if it will aiford its
readers a few pleasarit hours, or awaken the happy
memories o*" departed years, we shall feel doublv repaid
tor the many mis^. tings we have felt in giung to an
inttlligcnt :\nd discriminating public these immature
thoughts.

THE AUTHOKS.

Amukusi, N. S., April ).")th, I87(>.

fart |iwt-"I»Us and (kmp.

»♦*

The Mysterious Ring ;

OB,

THE BROKEN VOW.
— :o: —

BY •'NOMA."

— :o: —

chaptm: I.

The MYSTF-nious RiNo.

" What is man, , r • .

When the worst heart can wear a brow ot virtue.
And false appearances smile us to destruction .''
And yet, what is he not, when crowned with Irjli.,
With every social virtue - _ ^^^.^ ^^^^^^^^^

''ILL, 1 have often noticed that ring you wear :
what a curious setting it has ; pray, what is
the stoue !"
« "It is my wife."
The first speaker started back ap^^ast— and we'l he
might To admire a simple finger ring, worn by a
friend and be coolly informed that it was a person
whom' he thought quietly resting in her tomb, with the
roses blooming, the willows droopmg, and the birds
singing above her lowly head, was enough to startle
any firm-nerved man.

The querist, whom we shall introduce to our readerst
as Gerald Thome, was a tall, handsome gentleman.
A splendid form ; auburn hair ; a full, round face,
closely phaven ; and merry blue eyes ; all cambmed to
make a noble looking man. His dress, simple yet
elegant, proclaimed him to be a man ot wealth. Ihat
he was 'so, would become more apparent from the fact
that many and deep were the plots and schemes laid

TlIK ilYSTElUorS ni>'o.

by dfesignlug miiiniua'*, who, witli halt'a dozen marri-
a;;oable d!Uia;hi.>>r3 on their hatids, wishod to »tisnare
liim lor 0113 of these devotees of tashioii, who draw so
lieavily upou a sleuder purso.

The other \<^.s also tall and very sUni. His ht>nd was
graced with a profiiMi')n oi' short, jet bhiek curls ; his
eyes wore dark and j;littcriii<», and wlieii Hashing v.irli
anger woidd strike ono with tho impression that in
th^'ir (lark depths lurked treachery; ha "vore military
looking moustache and whiskers ; whi.e on his breast
was suspendetl a sin^de ghttering s;ar, the reward of
8o:ne brave deid, and on the little tini^'T of his letlb
hand he wore the strangi* ring winch was t!ie su'-ject
of (lerald's question.

This personage was Major William Alton, of thn
27ih Wiltshire Cavalry. He was a widower, and
chiklless, death having visited his homo with a heavy
hanfl, eirryirig away his throe beautiful children, who
were quickly followed by their mother; an! when she
was laid beside her litth* darlings, who had prececdfd
her on thi road to Paradise, William Alton felt that he
ha'' now nothing to live for, that with all his wealth and
Lo IT, he could never be hai)py again. And perh.ips
ho never did feel again the blessing of true happinp^s,
Could we have beheld his heart, wo might have found a
wound that only death could heal, a sorrow that wculd
sometimes throb forth anew, whetht-r surrounded by
merry comrades, or in the solitude of his chamber, with
no cotnpanions but his own sad thoufihts.

The ring itself was of massive gold, with a heavy
grey stone setting, unlike any gem with which we are
acquainted, in the rays of the sun it only emitted a
faint, almost imperceptible glimmer ; but in the dark-
ness, the twilight, or the soft moinbeams, it flashed
and gleamed with a strange, weird brilliancy. Many
had observed the stoae nnd its seeming freak, and
were fascinated by its spectral gleams.

Major Alton always maintained a strange silence
when the ring was mentioned, and to no ono would he
give the least information concerning it, and thus it
gained its name, "The Mysterious King," and came to
be looked upon with mingled wouder and superstition.

THE MYSTERIOUS RINO. 7

Until new, the Major hnd kept the liistory of the
ring a secret, and then revealed it only to his bosoni
frion«i, Gerald Thorue,

"Why! what in th.» name of the saints do you
mean?" asked Gerald, recovering from hin a-itonishment.

"1 menu just uliat I say," anpwered the Major, " I
have never told the seoret to any one, but I will tell
vou, enjoinit)g you upon the honor of a man and a
gentleman, lo k»ep it Bi'cvcc still."

*' You may depend upon me, Will, I shall never
bi'eathe it to a living seul."

" Yes, 1 know I can tru^t you. You know that
three years ago I lost all my children, and a few days
after, my idolized wife. As she lay upon lier death
bed she asked me never to wed again, and there, in the
sacred presence of deaih, I made a vow never to till
my home with another bearing the ilarae of Wife.

" Wishing to have her I loved ever near mo, I went
to the cemetery the night of tlie funeral, disentombed
the body, convtyed it to a noted chemist, and had it
transformed into this stone, which has attracted so
much attention from the curious.

•'There, you have the whole history."

" AVhich is both wonderful and interesting," said
Gerald, " whiL the ring certainly deserve" the tame
it has v^on ; but keep your vow sacred, for if you break
it, you will never expetieuce happiness or peace of
conscience again."

CHAPTER II.
A PnOSIENADE IX THE AVENUK.

" Love at fijgt/ight is never iage ;
It catches at a match like tinder,
And nothing can its blazinpr hinder ;
But soon it dies without a name,
Unless we constant fan the flame."

—From an anonvmous French author.

We pass over a year from the opening of our tale
ere we again meet Major Alton and his friend Gerald.
Tiiere is no perceptible change in either, unless it be
that here and there a few silvery hairs reveal them-
selves in the curly locks that deck the shapely head of

\«

THE MYSTERIOUS RI50.

the Mhjop, who utill keeps liis vow, while Gernhl
remains in blissful bnt-heiorhood, his heart uumelted
by any of the ehiirms or stratagems the fair sex can
bring to bear against him.

Ttiey were walking in the •' Forest Avenue," a
ir.ngniiicetit promeriade jtii^t outside the gates of a
certain town in "Merry Old Englmd."

It was indec d a splendid promenade. For nearly a
mile the street was straight as an arrow, smooth tnd
level as a ball-room ; whil.- on each sid** rosf- stately
oaks and docping elms, with wild rost-s, heaths, and
almost every speries of beautiful ulirulibery and wild
flowers mingled lo\ingly at their feet, in one tanglel,
Juxuriiii't mass of enchanting beauty, ai;d far away in
the distance could be seen old ocean's Mue waves.
Herj met, on summer evenings, the t lit**, the wealth,
fashion and beauty- ot this little rown.

It Rei'med as if, on thi^ particulnr evening, nil the
iuhahitauts had turned out to swell the brilliant
gathering, and th*' number of equipages of all descrip-
tions, family coaches, phaetons, broughanas, baroichfS
and so foith, equestrians and pedestrians, which lined
the AvenuH from end to end, proilaimed that tht^ gooH
people of this lit'lo town were not behind in the ranks
of wealth a-id fashion, and furthermo'e, tiiat they
meant to cjij ^y themstdves.

And why not ? Wher.' is the use or sense of people
toiling and worrying their brains, striving to add
another dollar to the already glittering heap, or another
acre to the broad farm that already stretches far over
hill and vale, and yet never take any comlort in their
wealth? How many are there in this world, who,
counting their dollars by the thonsnnd, still work, and
pinch, and scheme, and slave, as long as they can push
one foot before the other, to gain a few more dollars
for their heirs to quarrel over when they are in their
graves, carried thither while yet in early years, the
victims ef overwork and anxiety. Cannot such persons
see the wrong, aye, the downright sin of such a course,
and reforming, take a little more pleasure in life than
the mere amassing of riches, which often " take to
themselves wings and fly away?"

TIIC MI8TlbBIOUS BING. 9

*' Gerald," Maid tho Major, '* Do you see thoie two
ladiea approaching? What beauties! th- one on the
tlark horse, especially. By Jove ! she'u lovely as aa
hourie."

"Perfectly charming f

" Who are they ?"

"1 haven't the blightest idea; but, by George, 1
must get an inlroductioa to the dark haired one."

" Hush I or they will overhear you."

Just then the horse on which was seated the lady
who had awakened the Mnjor's a«Jtniratioo, frightened
by something in the shrubbery, reared, plunged, and
cast his beautiful rider headlong to the hard pavement,
and had not the Major sprang and caught her in his
arms, she must have been fatally injured. As she fell,
a thrilling shriek rent the air, and when she alighted in
her rescuer's arms, sho became unconscious. AVhen
she revived she wildly asked, ' Where am I ? what
has happened ?"

"Please calm yourself, my dear laHy," said the
Major, "you have been thrown from your horse."

Oh I yes, I remember now," said she.

"I hope you are not injured," said the Major.

*• I think not," said she, rising. " Oh ! my ankle is
sprained," exclaimed she, as, unable to stand, she sank
I ack into his arms, and he not unwilling to support so
fair a b-jrden, did his best to console her.

And fair indeed she was. With the form of a Hebe ;
a shower of golden hair, '.hat fell in waves over her
graceful shoulders aud down her swelling, snowv neck ;
soft, smooth, delicate skin ; full forehead ; large", liquid,
blue eyes ; dark, arched eyebrows ; medium nose,
inclined to the Grecian sliape ; a sweet mouth and coral
lips, tinctured with a bewitching, smile ; cheeks soft
aud full, like the suuny side of a peach ; pearly te«th ;
a plump, round chin, bathed in dimples ; and lilv white
hands, with tapering fingers, and nails of mother of
pearl ; she was enough to melt the hardest heart that
ever beat in the bosom of man. And her voice, soft,
distinct and n^usical, was alone enough to win her the
homage of a thousand steely hearts. What wonder
then, that as Major Alton held her in his arms, and

Tin; MVSTEKlOt'S l!l^i'

sho ild

lOV. Ill

Hi'.nii-d upon Ur ra\i>luiig lOV. liiia-.s, i.c
i;.,.l no (I'Hiiv tu ivle..yp lur, perlmps v.''\<-v
.,,.vn lo t'cl a thrill run thr.'u-lt l>is lusut, as her
„"(nvy aniu, \v.-n' fduei coiiiklinnly a'^out l.i^ neck;
nnd her ]\ -m] rested upon lis .sliouhler. .

G,i-nM, imtndi.iteU- upon the Mvidcut to the hur
imUurxr, asisted hT o.nipanion to td.ght. Ho b
horses laving disappeared duriufi the exeitiment. tie
ttskea the ir.iured hidv if ho sl.ouhi ord r a <arri;'.-e.

"Oh: if'vou would be so l<iu.l," rt^phea she n, a
voice thnt Ml upon their ears like distant music.

Gen.id hastetted on his mission, and f-oon r. tu'-i oM,
statins that he ha 1 .^eeured a earria-e, whu-h woukl

present Iv arrive. , ,. , • .

- \nd to uhnm am 1 indebted tor haMMg sijve-l lue
from further injuries ?" a.sked the goUlen-hau-cl beautv ,
audrej'sinji the Miijor. ....,, . r ,

"Major Alton, at your service, said he, bai.dmg

her his carii. . . , ,

" And ho .V can I express my gratiiu'le? said site,
presenting him with a rose tinted car,!, on uhioh was
inscribed in golden characters, "Agnes bt. tlair

" Pra-', Miss St. Clair, do not mention so shg:it_ a
service, 'it is no more than I would have performed tor
anv one : bub I r.joice that I have been so fortutiate as
toVeseiv^ such a beautihd being as your own tur selt
from pr. ater injury."' _ ^^

" 1 see you are uerfect ;r. flattery.
"Not flattery, I hops but the homage to which
vour loveliness justly entitles you.'"
■ Miss St. Chrr answered with a light, ripplmg huigh,
that made his heart beat yet more wddly. _ ^

During this time Gerald and Miss St. tlair s com-
panion ha.l become acquainted by exchancing car.ls, oti
one of which was inscribed '• Geraki S. Thorne an,l
on the other "Laura J. iluntley," and it would be a
matter of surprise to the uninitiated m what a,,
incredibly short time tbev beeaire the best of friends

Miss iluntley was a tall, noble looking lady, w.th
raven tresses and dark eves; a sweet, expressive lace,
and rosy lips, ever budHing into a smile : a voluptuous
form: and a birdlike voice, that seemed lo be ever

rUE MYSTEBIOUS ItlXCi.

wishing to bifciik I'orth into t!.o melody of song.

The caniiye soon arri\(-(i ai;(I wil li il a crowd of
peo]>le, tor llie li(liii<i!5 lliiit JNiiss bt. CI; ii- iiad rpocivtd
:i full, spread like wildlire llirougli tlie Avpniie, aid
many came expecting to see her t.evereiy wounded, but:
wtre iigncably surpnsid to iind it nothing t-erious.

As the Major assisted Miss Ht. L'Ww into the
carriage, he inquired wliere he should instruct tie
coachman to (irive.

" No. 7, Ksmoi d I'hue; i\w\ I siiould he very linppv
if you would step i;( to-n;orrow ev nirig at half-past
sewn, and rcceiw the thanks o! mv partnts.'

"Nothing Wduhi give me greater pleasure, al'.hough
1 do not iisk tor tlianks."'

"I trust we shall mett again, Mi-s Iluntlev," said
(Jeraid, as the cnrtiage door was closed.

•'You hut echo my own wi-hes, Mv. Thornt-, and 1
shidl look tor vou to-nior ow t-vening, at tight o'clock,
at No. 7, li^numd Place."

The 3Iaj< r and (jorald Hiked arms arid strolled
homewaids, each loud in the praise of his fi.vorite
charmer.

!Major Alton p;!C(d his loiely room lor liourB that
night, his brani racked and nearly cr.-Z' d by conflicting
emotion, lie was thinking r.f the matcl less 1 eaiitv,
;\nd re^olving, in deJiauwe ot uis >«olemii vow, to win
her if ])os.-iijle ; then in the still, dim light, the ring
upon his linger WDuId t!a--ii with ;v stn-ac e, uut ari hlv
gleam, such as he had never seen before, and t]\r prde,
sad, sweet face of his departed wile would lise nom
amid the gloom, the bluf e\es peering into his with a
searching gaze, as if intent ii[iuu reading all ihal was
passing in the depths of i is irino^t heart; then liis
resolve would fail ; and he wuuld determine to con*]Ut-r
his love ; and tiien he woukl curce the \o\\ lie had so
solemnly taken, and resolve to care nau^Jit for it, ami
when morning dawned, it found him still j'acing the
floor of his room.

As the rays of the rising sun glimmered through the
window , he cast himself upon his untouched bed, and
fell into a heavv sleep, which cotitinmd far into the
day, aiul fi-om which tise -ervatit, wh.en t.l.e came to

THE MYSTERIOUS 1UX«.

call l)iin, fail.'d to rouse him, while the dfep, troubled
Itreathiiig silone told that lite still h<ld iU sway.

And Gerald? He too, while the shado\*s deepened
into twilight, and the twilight into darkness, pjiced ihe
halls of hia bachelor home, lie too, resolved to win
his fair one. the queenly Laura. There was nothing to
torbid him, could he do so ; n-j solemn vows lifted their
towering forms before him, as a warning not to sue for
the land of his first and only love. He was free— free
as the breeze of morn, as it wings its joyous way over
mountain, lake, and fell ; free as the soaring eagle, a»
with his wings on the broeze, and his eye on the sun,
ho careers on high, to meet the luminary of day!
Free ' m ! what mur<ic is there in that matchless word,
sootl the soul to slumber with the charm of its

silverv accents !

Was it not strange that Major Alton and Gerald
Thorrie, his oosoin friend, should, at first sight, full so
deeply in love with Agues St. Clair and Laura Huntley,
also inseparable companions? Yet, why strange, when
tne ladies were so bewitchingly beautiful, and the
circumstances so romantic?

CHAPTEB III.

A Pleasant Evemno.

•' Love, like wine, gives a tumultuous bliss,
Heightened, indeed, beyond all mcrlal pleasures ;
But mingles pangs and madness in the bowl."

— Youvg.

At the appointed hour. Major Alton sauntered up
the tasteful walk that led to the St. Clair mansion,
elided up the broad marble steps and rang the bell.
The summons was promptly answered by a richly
liveried servant, and having presented his card, he was
ushered into a splendidly furnished drawing room.

Costly furniture, rich carpetings, statuary, magnifi-
cent paintings, anHquities and curiosities, flowers,
richlv bound books, and a thoutiiind other works of
luxury and art filled the room, betraying at once the
wealth, taste, ele{^-ince, and superior refinement of its
ow!H r.

Major Alton hud not much time.tc devote to these

THE MYSTERIOUS RING.

objects, foL' Mr. St. Clair soon entered. Advancing
to the Major lie cerdially extended his bao^, saying:

"Major Alton, I presume?"

" The same," said he, takii'g the proftbred hand, " I
believe I have the pleasure of makitig the acquaintance
otMr. St Clair?"

" Yes, and I obserTe, by the star upon your breast,
that I am indebted for the escape of my daughter to
one who has, while serving his native land, encountered
danger, and braved it."

" Yes, this honor was conferred upon me for rushing,
with a handful of men, into the ranks » " the enemy,
and spiking thiir guns, during nne of thv preliminary
encounters in the Crimean Peninsula."

♦'I have heard of your gallant feat, in fact it is
recorded in history."

" I hope the accident to Miss St Clair did not prove
serious, and that she is no*^ confined to her room ?"

" Oh I not at all ; she is rapidly rf covering, and will
be present shortly. I trust you will accept my sincere
thanks for your assistance last evening, by which you
no doubt saved my only child from serious', if not fatal
injuries."

" T beg of you, Mr. St. Clair, not to allow so slight
an act to weigh upon your mind. I assure you it was
only my just duty, and I would not h:«ye been held
guiltless had I neglected it."

Let us take a glance at Mr. St. Clair. He was a
well formed man of medium height, slightly corpulent
— enough so to give him that rotundity which marks
the handsome man ; hair that had once been a dark
brown, but now changing to a silvery hue ; a broad,
full,joval face, and twinklit.^ blue eyes that beamed
with good humor, merriment and joviality.

Such was the person of Horatio St. Clair, B. A. He
had inherited from his father a Inrge amount of pro-
perty, of which he made a good use, and at the age of
fifty, with an income of many thousands, had retired
from business : and now, at sixty, there was not a
happier, more jovial, or hospitable "man upon the shores
of "Merry Eut^land."

Mifis St. Clair, hor mo,!ier, and Miss Huntlev now

THE MYSTEUIorS KIXG.

entored the room, and gave our hero a warm greeting.

L'ongratulutions, thariks, and good wislies vverd
exchaug^^d, and (he party sat down determined to enjoy
tbemstrlves.

Gerald was soon announced, and was welcomed by
Miss llunthy with more wannih than was necessary
for the ordinary pui poses of friendship,

Mr?. St. (lair was well worthy of \\':r inorry husband,
whom she much resembled, and flie soon put h.'V
guests at their case. Agnes was perfectly charming,
and looking, if po-aible, more beautiful than on thn
preceeding evening. Laura, aUio a child of \Tealih, and
a cousin of Agnes, was brilli;.nt ; Mr. St. Cluir " so
very jolly ;" Major xilton in his glory ; and Qerall in
his brightest h inior; so with music and livt-ly conver-
eation, the evening passed but too quickly.

From tliat date A'lajcr Alton ^p.-nt most of his even-
in<rs at tlie St. Clair mansion, nnd C; raid wa-< not oft* n
absent.

" To-night," mused the Major as one evening a f 'w
weeks later he prepare 1 to go to the St. Clairs', "I
shall lay my !i rt at her fet;t, vow or no vow. Wiiy
was I fool enough to make it, when I mr.iht havn
known I could not keep it. Folly I Folly! I will
win her, this vow shall bind me no longer."

"Agnes!" said h>', as he sat \uth her that niglit
beneath a noble elm, while the rays of the setting sun
lighted up her heautiUil face an! glimiuere.l amono !u r
golden locks, "Agnes, darling, 1 nlu^t t^peak the
thoughts that come from mv heart : L love vou. will
you be mine? Oh ! do not say no!"

Her lips moved not, hut her tioft eyt s spoke volunits,
ftud she laid her warm hand in his, and riciiiied her
fair head upon his si.ouldcr. IJe drew her to his
heart and wliispered —

But gentle rciider, we will lojve the lo' ers alone in
their joy.

Gerald must have caught encourageir.cnt from the
beaming face of the Major, for next evening he ofti'refl
his heart to the lovely L-.iura, and it was not in vain.

" AVill," said he, as thev wended their wav home-

^"^

THE MYSTERIOUS BING.

wards, "you muet congratulate me, I have won my
Laura."

" I givo \(iu my bist wi^ljes, my dear boy." said the
M:ijor, cl;i,s[ inp; his h;ind, "and will acc(^pt yours in
return ; the (x-autit'ul A,»ijes U mine."

"And so is the broken vow; I sincerely hope and
pray tlat you may be l-appy, but I tear you will not.''

CHAPTER IV.

Rkflkctiox and Wahxing.

" And it is a maxim
Allowed among them, so they may deceive,
They may swear anyt'nng ; for the queen of love,
As they hold constantly, doe* never punish,
But smiles at lovers' perjuries."

— Massinycr,

That (light the Major laid his head upon his do«ny
pillow, ar.>! thought himself tlie happiest man in the
wide world ; i\e iiad lain down his heart at beauty's
shrine, where huiidreus had worshipped before him,
and from wliieh they had been spiirned, while he alone
was successful, and his cup of bliss seemed full; but
with the calm hours of morning came reflection.

'• Oil I cursed am I ! In the presence of death, by the
side of her 1 loved, as her pure spirit entered the land
of Paradi-e, I. made tins vow, which 1 am about to
break. Oh, God ! why didst Ihou not give me strength
to keep it? No I 1 am an outcast from Heaven, I can
never hope to see its pearlv gates and shining streets.
»v'Iiy did she impose upon me this vow? why bind me
under its galling chains ? what could be her motive,
when she thus put me, as it were, under a curse? That
promise, sacred though it bo, ihough it be registered in
the presence of it-n thousand holy angels, shall bind me
no longer. A curse upon woman's will, when it binds
man under such a bond, and lays him under the sin of
perJL:ry, and places him in the power of all the fiends
of darkness. Oh! God in Heaven above, have pity,
h.ivo mercy I" he groaned in his agony.

" Oh I can she look down from abo'-e, and calmly
smile upon my misery? The thought maddens me, it
sets mv brain on fire! I will destrov myself ! and then

THE MYSTERIOUS RING.

til

what would the world tay? and she? it would break
her young and iunoceut heart. No! 1 will live, and
cast aside all thought of her ;— but it is now too lute,
we are betrothed. I will shield ht-r from the storms
of life, com« what may. 1 dare fate ! No tempests nor
chilling winds shall beud the fragile flower that 1 have
sworn to love and cherish I Ccme ! all ye turies ard
fates ! add to my crazed brain another pang, and all
will be ovjrl The flowers will bloom above the grave
of a maniac, unheeding him who lies beneath! Am —
am I to be bound ?" —

And nearly maddened by the overwhelming thoughts
that forced themselves upon his brain, he grasped his
hat, and rushed from the liouse, and strode down the
shaded walk with the air of an escaped lunatic. He
wibhed to be in the open air, aud cool his burning brow
and throbbing temples.

He reached the street, and caring little whither he
went, he walked out of the town, through the Forest
Avenue, aud far into the country, heeding none be
met.

At last, when two or three miles from the town, he
almost stumbled into a <ent of a band ot roving
GypsieSj a race whose habits and appearances are so
well known, that we will not weary our readers with a
description.

He entered the tent, and addressing himself to a
dark haired, rather prepossessing f male, asked her if
she could reveal the future.
She replied that she could.

" Point out to me my lot, and you shall be well
rewarded," said he.

" Follow me," said she, as she led the way to a
willow 3 few yards from the tent.

As they stood beneath the swayiog branches, she
long and earnestly scrutinized his face.

'* The star of your destiny burns low ;" said she, in
a soft, solemn, subdued tone, " beneath the dewy sod,
with the flowers blooming above their lowly heads, rt st
the forms of } our belo^ed wife and innocent child; en,
unconscious of the storms tliat rage alove them, and
of the black, base thoughts that fill mtn's hearts.

THE MISTEHIOU8 IlINO. 1<

"By ihe JeatU bad of that wife you made a vow, a
sacred vow, that you are a' out to break.

"You love another, whom you will soon take to
your home, a young, innocent, beautiful, truest iug bride ;
but happiness shall not dwell in that liome. Jealousy,
likd a deadly viper, ahall gnaw at the roots of your
peace ; the memory ot the broken vow shall haunt you
iu thn merry halls' of pleasure, in the quiet of your
chamber, and by tlie side of her y:>u have made your
bride, in daBauce of that vow; then^ shall be heart
burnings and sepu ration, aye bitter separation. Mark
well my words ; you shall i'rel pangs tenfold more deep
than those that now burn wilhiu }X)ur bosom.

"No children shall bless your union, for your star
i . sinking in the sky— lower, lower it wanes, till it
vanishes in darkness '.'"

He was so excited and awed by her slow, measured,
shilling words, that he could scarcely articulate, in a
deep, hoarse tone, the single word :
"Proceed:"

« There is little more to say ;" replied she, in the
8anie viild, weird tone, "you will mock at separation,
and banishing all spirit and hate, will win he/ again ;
but will you be happy? No!"

Is this th" tru'h, or the mere idle cant of your
■ tribe?" asked he, arousing from the spell whivh t-eemed
to be thrown over him.

" Forest Flower weighs well her words ;" rejoined
she, coldly, "our race may be down -trodden and
despised, but we ere far happier than many who dwtll
ill princely halls, and look down upci us as though we
were not created by the same God. "Set what would
tempt me to resign my wild, roving life for the gilded
mansion vou claim as yours !'

IFj felt the keen foive ot her words, and handing her
a golden coin, turned his steps homewards.

For hours he pondered over the prophetic words of
the Gryp.-y. Would they prove true? If so, how little
happiness ".^as in store for him.

. " Ha I*' exclaimed he as he cast ofi* his wild thoughts,
" they were nothiug but the words ot a wandoring

THE MYSTEklOUS BIXO.

Gypsy, intent upon gain either by flatUrj or falsehood,
1 will thiuk no more of them."

CH4PTEB V,

The Doubi,b Wkddino.

" Marriage is a matter of more worth
Than to be <?alt in by mere attorneyship.
For what is wetllock forceil, but a hell,
An age of discard and continual strife r
Whereas the contrary bringeth forth bliss,
And is a pattern of celestial peace."

—Shak«peare.

One day, a few weeks later, the usually quiet people
of this little English town were thrown into a state of
.'XCitement by the report that in one week from that,
date two marriages wtre to be solemnized in the old
cathedral ot St. Mark's. Like wild6re spread the
news that Major Alton, who had fought under the old
flag 9n a score of crimson battle fields, was to wed the
beautiful daughter of wealthy old Mr. St. Clair, while
that bachelor scholar and gentleman, Gerald Thorpe,
was at the same time and plage to take to himself the
noble Laura Huntley, who was also rich and lovely as
a sultana.

The Major and Gerald were at once created the
lions and heroes of the day, and were overwhelmed
with congratulations and good wishes, while they
were secretly envied by every marriageable man iu
the town.

The ladies also came in for a large share of the
congratulations, which they blushingly acknowledged.

The morning of the nuptials broke bright, clear, and
cloudless, the air was soft and balmy, and the birds
sang their sweetest carols. Nature seemed to know
that it was a merry holiday, and had put on hor
brightest smiles and gayest robes.

The bridal party stepped forth into the street,
lined on either side by hundreds of peopl'^ in holiday
attire, amid a cheer of admiration.

The brides were robed in spotless, virgin white ; on
the neck of Agnes was a necklace of pearls, on her
brow a tiara of costly diamonds, and on her wriits
bracelets of the same flashing gems ; a veil, almost too

THE MTSTEBIOUS RIN'I.

sleader to be more than etheraAl, floated about ber
like a robe of glorj? ; her lovely face was radiant and
blushing with youth's first holy passion ; and as sho
leaned upon the arm of her betroth-id, who was a trifle
paler than usual, she looked too lovely to be earthly,
•he seemed more like a fairy, or a bright spirit from
the angel land.

Laura was hardly less lovely. Diamonds, pearls
and rubies flashed amid her robes of snowy purity ;
her cheeks wore the tints of the rose ; and with flut-
tering heart she dung to the arm of Gerald, whose
face was the picture of triumph and happiness.

The way to the church lay through streets gay with
banners, flowers, triumphal arches, and moving crowds.
Music greeted them on every hand, bands led the
procession, and ere they reached their destination,
their path was strewn with flowers.

The party entered the church, which was already
filled by a brilliant gathering, amid a burst of music
and song ; garlands and banners were arranged in
every available part of the noble edilice ; and amid p
^ deep murmur of admiration. Major William Alton and
Agnes St. Clair, with iheir bridesmaids and groomsmen ,
took their way to the altar to be made man and wife.

The solemn words of the beautiful ceremony echoed
through the lofty building, and with downcast eyes
the bride took her wifely vows. One circumstance
was noted by those who were near — upon her finger
he placed the " Mysterious Ring !"

They moved away, and their places were filled by
Gerald and Laura, and as hood as the cen^mony was
ended, they left the church, amid a storm of congratu-
latious and another ' irst of music from choir and
band.

The party departed that afternoon upon their
bridal tour.

They roamed through France, and danced in the
halls of its gay capital ; they wandered through Switzer-
land, climbed her snowy Alps, and rowed over her
beautiful lakes ; they basked beneath the sunny skies
of classic Italy, and 6i.f oiled through her acres of
painting and miles of sculpture ; they glided turough

THE MYSTERIOUS n^SQ.

the slre.-tg of Venice, in the gnj gotidt'as of ^otig fiml
story; they Miiltd over the blue Mediterranean; they
roved through Spain, t!;e laud of rcinanoe; they
crossed the ic-y PyrLMi. t-s, rambled among tho vine-clad
tifldB of sunny .SoiitUr.i Franco, at d then returned to
thiMr Eiglibh homo

We now bid goo 1 by*', v^ith much regn-t, to Geiald
Thome and his lovely bride, who rave played their
part in our tal<*, and* leive them ro --njoy a happy
wedded life', dcvor* d to eat-h other, a. id ;tiirrounded by
merry children.

CHAPTEHIV.

llKAnTnrnxi.Nc s and Jkai.oh'y.

'' Oh Jealousy! thou mercilv?8s deslroyer,
More cruel than the gT(i\e ! what ravages
Does thy wild roar make in noblest bosoms !"

— Euryd'ce.

We pass over a year, ere we again take up th.
thread of our story. " Th.' Major and his wife had lived
together very happily — and yet say we happily? did
there not sometimes prss across his bro'.v a sladow, a
foreboding of evil? Did not his cheek sometimes pale
at thought of the pasl ? and did not the sweet, sad face
of her who siept in the churchyard look reproachfully
upon him from tho portals of the tomb? He drowned
all dark thoughts in the society of Ag'^e-.

But now the tcrtn-es of jealousy began to send into
his heart their roots and tendrils, kindling all the tires
of madness, hate, and rv'venge.

Eeturniug home one night from some public mo>-^ting.
be wa« surprised to mnet a mnn leaving the house, a
man who took no notice of his salutation.

In reply to his inquirl-s, Agnes informed him it was
Joseph Morton, a barrister, who had called upon some
business with which she intrusted him. This was
satisfa-jtory, and nothing more was said upon the
subject.

When, howcvtr. a week later the same aftair was
repeated, with the same explanation, he begr.n to grow
suspicious. He resolved to let affairs take their course
and note the consequence.

THE MTSTEniOUS RIXO.

Mortou's visits grt-w more Ir^qjent, always huppeo-
ing wlicn tlie Mnjor wa« nbsetit.

At last ho could bear it no longtr, a!)d (iHtermined
to Beek nn fxplnnat'on.

"Agnt'S," said he, going into thr drawing room
where slie wa« seated oae iiiurniog, *' can you spare ine
a few moTiPnts?''

" Tea, Willie," said shi-, looking up from the book
she was perusing.

"Then 1 wish you to erplniu lu-.w it is Ihot'this
lawyer, Morion, always happens to be present when I
am absent, a d 1 ntver have tht^ plea-*uie of uie» rinj;
hin\," said he savagely, while he closely watched her
face.

It was the firt^t time he had t^ver spoken a harsh
won! to h r, an! the tears started to her plead'ng blue
eyes as she answi-red :

" Oh ! Willie darling, I have often told you how it
is; liH has charge of the estates and other property
whiih werw my fat'ier's wedditig gift, and as to his
coming when you are abroad, it is purely accidental."

"AccidpMts happen very conveniently sometimes,"
he hissed.

" Oh ! 1 am telling you the very truth ; his evening
visits shall cease, if it is disai^reeable to you, and he
shall come in the hours of day."

" Jt is disagreeable to me ; it looks very much like
uutaitlifuloeFs.''

" I would rather plunge a poisont^d dagger into my
heart, than that yon !»hoi.ld doubt my faithfulness,**
Si. id shr, looking sndly and pleadingly into his glaring
eve8, and bursting into a flood of tear-*.
' The demon was now raging within him, and he
would not listeu to reason ; even her tearful face did
not move him, but in a hoarse voice he said, as he
tJtrode away :

" You shall heoi* more of this anon. "

lie turned his steps to the office of Morton, with
whom ho had a s'ormy interview, receiving the same
explanations that he had from Agnes.

When he left her, she went to her room, long and
bitterly w.'eping over the barrii r that had sudiienly

THE MYSTERlorS RING.

arisen between her nnil her husbaud, whom she truly
loved.

•• Oh I why has he laid to my charge tliia terrible
sin, of which heaven knows I am intiocHnt ? Jealousy
has crnzed his brnin, and he will not listen to reasor).
JJut come whnt may, I am innocent. There was no
stain upon mv name ai a muideu, nor shall there bo
any aa a %ife. "

The Major did not seek her presence again for
several days ; her heart was sal and wenry, the deli-
cate tints faded from her checks, and her blue eyes bo-
came languid with weeping.

Mr. Morton had called two or thre^ times, but she
always dismissed him immedint*ily. This the Mujor
looked opon as tho greatest proof of guilt, for wouLl
she not, wheu discovered, instruct him to shorten his
visita;?

The Mnjor was nearly fran'ic with jealousy and its
kindred d.trk passions. H« would have struck his
enemy to the earth, only that he wished to torture him,
and make him feel pangs more keen than those which
were racking his own heart.

" Accursed be his form, who brought misery to my
heart ; accursed be she, that has proved faithless.
Alas 1 thnt I ever beheld her fair form. Accursed be
I, and my weak will, that [ ever broke that vow,
which, had I kept sacred, would have kept this agony
from me; now I shh, when too late, my folly, my ?in,
my CRIME I " he shneked.

While in this frame of mind, he sought Agnes, and
had a long interview with her, at the close oi wh'ch he
said :

" Woraai: ! we must pirt, you shall no longer bring
misery to my home. "

No prayers, entreaties, or protestaliooH wrung from
an agonized heart, could avail aught, and she returned
to thb home of her childliocd, growing paler and sad-
der, da} by diy, and her b.autiful form wasting Away
to a mere shadow.

THE MYSTERIOUS RIXO.

CHAPTFR VII.

Rkmobsk.

'♦ Tale u thy •mock I Whon we mett at rompt
ThU look of thin* will n.ut ui.v huuI t'roni ileaven.
And fiends will unatcli at it. Cold, cold, my girl?

Even like cliastity __"

— Shakfpeare.

Three lotig monllis pnflsed away, with their change*,
tlieir soTowji, and their trials.

Major Alton had suffered all ^the pain« jealo sy
cculd heap upon him. Hate, madnes?, (ioubt, and
fear, with their rt-timie of conflictiRg thoughts and
'juiotions, had racked his brain and seared his heart.
Yet bow l.ttle did he Buffer compared to the tortures
that were murdering the pure being he had in his
blindness and rage tianished from his home! He had
not driven her from his heart. He loved her yet, and
it but added to his pangs. Night after night he paced
his room, his pillow untouched ; day after day he passed
ill bewildering thought, but he came forth from the
furnace, purified I

He had been convincrtd of her innocen''e. He h
formed plans for ascertaining whether she was reeily
guilty or not, and putting them into execution, he was
overwhelmed with proi)f8 of her innocence, and his
cri.elty.

And all the horrors of remorse seized his guilty
conscious. He was in an agony of fear, ai d deep were
the prayers tor pardon that winged their way on high
from his repentant heart, ile determined to seek
Agoes, and plead for her forgiveness.

" Oh! to hear her sweet voice say ' Willie darling,
I forgive you,' would be a balni to my soul, far
greater than any other pleasure earth could bestow;
aye. Heaven itself can hold no greater joy ; it woul J be
music far more rapturous than ever fell from angels'
harps ; f(ir it 1 would pass through all the torments
earth or the dread Iitreafter could heap upon mv
guilty soul. I wust seek her, and on bended knee
beg her pardon, and if it ia refused, I will quit forever
this dark world! Better thep.ings of eternaljtorture,
than the miierj of such a lift? as mine would be. Yet

THE MYSTERIOVS r.INO.

Low can I 8ie her? I will be s^jiirned Jrom li< r home
like a slave, beaten away lik« a cur! But 1 ivill are
hor, before anoih^r diybars me ihat muih further
from Para.lise. I will fir.<l a way ! "

chapter viii.

Kkvmon.

" At tliy feet I seek for pardon ;

Wilt iliou thy ^'eutle heart harden':'

Wilt thou tuln tliy l)eautiful face

From me?"

— Aiiotu/motis.

An hour later the Major stood before the door of
the St, Clair mansion, an<l rang the bell. As the
servant appeared he asked to sen Mrs. Alton.

"Sir," replied the servant, " 1 have positive orders
never to admit you into thus house."
" But 1 am her hui^baud !"

" 1 can't help it sir, ray orders are positive," and he
slammed ihe door in the'iacw of the Major, who, seeinj;
h. had failed, quietly look his departure.

Two hours latr-r, he again presented hirrself. He
WH8 greatly cliangetl ; his face was guilth-ss of mous-
ta<he or whiskers, and his liress was very different
from that worn on the first occasion.
Again he asked to 8>e Mrs. Alton.
" She is not to be seen," said the servant.
'• I have important business with her."
" »She is very ill-*"

" All the greater reason 1 should be admitted to her
presence," sHid he, turning [-ale.

"Ah: Miij).- Alton 1 pen;eive," ."aid tlie servant,
smiling, as he ri-rognized him.

" Admit me at once to the preseu^v of Mrs Alton,
or you are a dead man," s.iid the Major, pre enting a
loaded pistol at tiie head of the servant, " be quick
now, and make no fuss, for if you betray me, your
li'e will not be wo!th the bullet th,.t ends it'."

"Follow me," said he, leading the way to the room
ocL'upie 1 by Agnes.

" Pronn's.- that it shall not b- kno-^n 1 am m this

THE MISTfiBlOUS RING.

house, twid you shall be well rewar'Jed; btttray me, and
you die," snid the Major, in a low, hoarse tone !

" I promise," Mid the servaut, . >7:i>i %» .ri I

*., " Is Mrs. Alton alone ?"

*' She is ; sjia i» |U»pwig," replied the 8erya|it, ai he
withdrew. ''-?» w.tH !!• ' // :j-it saio-) : m

He entered the room, and for a moment stood spell-
bound. On a sofa lay the waatud form of her who
onc« was Agnes St. Clair, but now Agnes Alto ., ban-
ished from the home of her husband, of wliom she was
dreaming, and who she hopaJ would yat fondly clasp
her to his heart. Her ouce fair form was now a mere
shadow, her face was pale and thin, with not a par-
ticle of color to Hoften its ashy hurf, her e^ea were red
with weeping, and yet a heavenly smile played upon
her lips.

Ho cast off the spell, and with an agouized heart
sprano; forward, impriating on her lipi one long,
lingering kiss.

She unclosed her eyes, and gazing at him a moment,
held out her arms to him with the words ; "I knew
you would come. " In a moment she was folded to
his heart, and between lus sob^s he asked her,

" Agnes darling, can you forgive me my cruelty ?"

" Willie, dear, it is I who should be forgiven, for
giving you cause to doubt "'

"Xol No I it wat I who in my fiendish rage and
jealousy caused all this misery. "

" But 1 should never have admitted il.at lawyer, ex-
cept in your prwsence, and this sad parking would
never have bien known."

" You had a perfect right to do so, my darling ; but
the demon if madness seized me, and drove away rea-
son. "

" Never mind, Willie mine, let the past, with nil its
dark shadows, be forgotten. "

" You shall never again have cause to mourn my
harshness. "

•' Nor vou to doubt my fjiit hfuiness. "

And then !-e told her the story of his life, of the
broken vow, and of the ring she wore.

" It shall be a token of renewed love, dearest, that

fM Mr8TW»KWr6 BHfd.

•hall not be brokeo till death parts tw," mU ^^
neatlmg closer to fiim. . , .^^,/

Their tears mingled, and tbev wer* recoodlfdi "
Dear reader, the past is fef^vw, tbcr futot© looks
Wngfct, perhapu a part of th# Gh^sy'. prophwy may
not come true, and so we will drop the ouFtetn dpon
thjf saored BMetiog of the loving ones- who have been
put asunder so sadly, but who now find a new pleg-
Bure m loving and being loved.

(i.iK

,5 ■ ?i! yii,

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*« 1 J

' •

•J 1 i

Romance"and Reality

— ;o: —

BY "NOMA."

— :0: —

rN this enlightened age, suparsfcition ia fast dj^ig
out before the adyancing might of civilization.
The old time Eom&nce, whose tales and mys-
teries have charmed artd delighted us, is falling
befoire stern reality, and soon trill be forgottMi. Tales
of wonder, stbrids of lairies, mermaids, and the belief
in gbds and goddesses, are giving way to seteoee, atid
soon th6 marvellous wobders of the past will only
protoke a contemptuous smile. Perhaps it is best that
it should be so ; but will not man, when these illusions
have faded away, sometimes sigh for another draught
at the fountain of Eomance ? Although the change is
for <ihe better, he will sometimes yearn for those bright
visions and fle«!ting fancies, that oooe lulled his soul
to rest, and charmed his ear with the mermaids' merry
song; his mind will sometimes ponder on them; and
his eye will sometimes wander along the wavewashed
shore, in th» hope of beholding some be^tiful swan-
maiden bftthiog in the Sowing wavelets, while ht
listens in vaio ior her soul entrancing chant.
" But at night I would wander swa^, away j
I would ilimg OB each aid* my flowing lockfi,
And lightly vault from the throne andplay

With the mermen In and out of the rocks ;
We woold run to and fro, and hrde and seek,
Om the broad sea wolds in the crimson sktUs."
No longer is it borne by the soughing breese across the
billows to his ear, and he aeeks his couoh, wearied by
the dull tua\ter-of-fact every day life, hoping the lost
ones may return, and charm him to rest, and that, in
his dreams, ho may wander with the lovely sea-
maidens, through hsils of gold and pearl, far beneath
the moaninB; wave, in a mansion not lighted by sun,
moon, or stars, but by the priceless gems that strew
the floor of the " deep, deep sea."

From the rude clangour of toil, the mind of the

BOMAKCE AKD REALIT'i'.

romantic man turns to tlie vImcI fancies of the ['ust, of
which ho has read, ia tales of glowing colors. He
wishes he hftd lived ha those far on days ^then pirales
and eta-kinge ' "led over the wide ocean, freo as the
luaming billow on which rode their «trange vessel, as
with sprtading sail and fl}ing bfoner, she da«hed
madly on ir. pursuit of some fair sea quetu. whose
j,'olden ringltts fell in unfettered luxuriance to :lhe
dtck on whiclj she trod. . '_''' '• .(

Id those days no one «ho possessed a spark of
knightly courage thought of winning a bride otherwise
than by force of arms. Tl;e pirates, or sea-kings,
would run down and capture a merchantman, and if on
board chanced to be a fair maiden, she straightway
became the commander's bride, the cv'^nubial knot
being tied by the priest, who was an indispensable
personage on board the kingly craft. Toil never soiled
the hands or wearied tne frame of a sea-king's bride.
In luxury and romantic idleness she passed her days,
her every want supplied, and her every wish fulfilled,
as with her ocuan-wedded lord, she sailed " the wide
seas over." , , . ,,„, . - i -

Many are there who have longed to tread the h«ll»:
of tlie sea-fairies and mermaids. Many are there who
have sat upon the pebbly shore, and fancied that in
the music of the breaking wave they heard the mer-
maid's low, sweet song. Many are there who think of
tbem by day, and dream of them by night. Many are
the infatuated ones who have cast themselves headlong
from the precipice, or the mast head, into the foaming
billow, that they might the sooner join the lovely
nymphs who enticed them to the depths of the cold,
dark ocean. Ah ! poor deluded mortal, 1 fear when
you reach the golden floor of the sea, no beautiful
maiden will welcome you with warm kisses and tender
embraces a^^d glad songs to your pearly home.

I often wish — and there are thousands who reecho
my wish — that I might dwell in those pearly maniinns,
away from all the cares and troubles of this han. a-
feeling worlJ, away from all that distracts or pains,
and dwelling where love i»nd music reign. But man

BOMANCS AND BBALITT.

can only wish and ln»pe. There is no rest for bim,
until he enters the gates of Paradist*.

Another roinanre, that of the Swan-Maidens, rto
longer furnishes tho lover of the marrellous with food
tor fancy.

Tbe ttwaii-Maidens w-- '•;a8in8 of the Sea-Fairit's,
snd like them dwelt in " mansions, " bj singing

waves kissed." Alas l that they too should ba
banished I The wide world will soon afford no resting
place lor the strange, beautiful forms of our wild,
romantic imaginations. We soon shall lament tbe
entire disappearance ot all that charmed 'and delighted
tiur vouthtui hearts ; we soon shall be forced to bow
betore the hard reality of life.

Oh! up! ye lovers of the romantic We call upon
yon, wildly call you, to save us from the bitter sacrifice,
to rescue us from the dread reality, and let us stand once
more in the Sea-Fairies' charmed circle. Oh ! will r«»
not heed our yearning cry ? WiJl you calmlv stand
and see us bomb on the cold tide of reality far beyund
tiiose sweet isles where the fairies' rausie sent wild
echoes flying, and their beautiful blight- eyed princess
kissed away every trace ot falling tears ? Oh ! help !
help ! we hoar the entrancing songs of those bright
beings calling us back to tl eir jewelltd halls, we tee
thcii- fair bands beckoning ns to rejoin them in their
merry dunce, and to taste once morw their flowing
nectar ! Leave us not, oh ! dear friends, to perish on
the relentless billows of reality, but rescue us, and
come with us Jo tiiose goidnr) halls where we shali be
free from the world's sad sorrjws and trials. Oh !
hear ye not our y»a. oiug cry, wrung from our longing,
eager heartf ?

Wf long for a n turn of those days, whtn, wander-
ing along the sandy beach of some quiet lake, we
would distovi-r, sporfing in its crystal wavelets, a band
of happy -Swan-Maidens,- more beautiful than any
maiden face tl e eve ever rests upon in these degenerate
days— when we might take up one of the feathered
robsi lying upon the beach, and while the others
clothed thenistlves and swam away, claim the most
b.niitiful of them for our bride.

•A
»3t

:V)

BOMANCE AND REALITT.

""'Fare Lhfl-walljforevor, Icrely Maiden of th« wavev,
thy beautiful face and |beamii}g smile no more >niU
eutrarK'e'ua, a8"wH";wauder in'thejdaj'a dying glory
aloiig th*t banks of the rippling lake ; thy song no
longer will float in dulcet waves Jof harmony across its
swelliu4;bosom|; our . sad no more will be pillowed in
thy loving Arms ; and thy downy robe will never again
be laid npon thejsloping bank, tesdf to capture tbee a
gallantJoYer. Far beyond the rainbow tints of the
sotting sun, tboti mats! be found, in a bright and
hnautiful land. wh^rH thou wilt reign supreme, but to
usjfchou 'art no mort*. So fara-t lie well, bright and
iovdy one. 'Tis a sad]word ty whisper to thee, fair
inaidiM>,*bnt fheVorlirwiiJs, and we must even ober
its oruel .Tiandnte. '-"-^

"f ()n« of the fanci»'8 of childhootl, its brightest'droam. a
mystery on which the youthful imagination loved to
dwell, to'conjure up bn"gnt?picture« o(f if, and to listen
to the many charming'tales told of it, nt th.e mother's
knee, has^frded into^the shudowy past. Fairyland,
with.^it8 flowery meads and moonlit dales, its murmiu-
iug>rooklets and sta ry skies, its music, song, and
brtmls of happy, roving princes and princesses, delighted
not childhood's mind ofily,— men and womwn, old in
years but joung in heart, have^bowed at its shrine,
and Irom .tlieir| pens have come some of the most
enehauling ta'iea ever written. More has-been said,
sung and writtt n [of the beauties and b^p^iuessj of
Fairyland than any o^her romance that ever delighted
tha mild of man with its ever changing fancies.
• Who, as he treads byl^moonlight ^the flowery paths
of some^tall fo«e8t,':dop8jnot 8tart,|aod look, and listen,
at every sigh of tlie.'wind, or night bird's song, eipect-
mgjto see arise before him a hand of happy fairies, and
hear their laugh and songVing out on the evening air'
Therd js food for ti>y wild fancy, lover of the romantic.
(Jo mto the forest dt 11 when Luna's beams steal softly
down through the] wavmg boughs, transforming the
dewy "jirthl to a silver tapestrv ; where the wild
Howers bloom, untouched by the 'pacrilegious ha-^d of
mar), making fragrant the gentle brei^ze; where the
little brooklet murmurs at thy feet, speaking to thee so

KOMAjrCl AlID BEAiaXT.

plhiiil, tut Ihou mast hear md understand ; ^.hfwe
the nightingale 6 song rises on the balmy .ir- and
where thcu art alo.ewilh Iby OMns^ett, uild fancies,
and thou mit drirk in the UbvU^b oi ^he^ing ralurp
•nd revel m the towers of Fairyland.

"n„dV '^'^I^Py «P/'^»'. :^0V'^ ^**t «e poor mortals

I .u T uV J'*'"' J"'" '*• '"'"^ *'fi" "ports, arrd
make ihe derk forest rirg with our feughiftg shoutp.
Bi,t, dear fairies, thou art haniehed from o..r loUgirrg
eyefl, by the rrnelty of man, while we, held hr the
8flm« galling fht.in, are forbidden the light of thy
presence^ Thou art happy on Pome flowery shore we
know rot. Oh ! wilt thou not beckon to us from its
gulden strand, ai d reveal to u« thy biding place, that
we may join tbee, and be freed ftcm care ard

In the memory lingers anothefrdtntecV,Ji.l\i'ile'tb'it
once w:.? a living reality- the wardering Gvpsv
This 8 rar,ge race, witb its curious CUstotas, unintelli-
gible language, uncouth dress, dark flowing loi^li*
beautiful faces md soft eypp, and fometimes rumbei-
irg in Its bar,d8 the fair daughters of princes,— driven
;• 7"^''7/fpm their palace homes, and forced fo seek
food and shelter with thece strange, half wild tribes,
who themselves can claitn no home on the face of the
rolling globe,— has degenerated into the idle, vagabond,
pitiable beings so well painted by Shakfpeare :
"A hungry lean fae'd Tillain,

A m«re anatbniy, a mountebank.

A thread-bare juffsler, and a fortan** teller •
' ■ ^ .°*'^<^y' l»ollow-ey'd anarp-lookinc wr«tch'

A living dead man." '

Ab ! poor Gypsy ! we pity thy sad lot ; it is one of
the hard, bitter realities of liie ; little poetry or romance
dost thou find in being spu-ned from the door of him
who should point thee to a better land on high where
though Miightst rest from thy weary wacderiLgs.
i>08t hou not sometimes long for a better portion
and a home beyond the grave ? Boat thou not some-
times yearn for position and influence, and wish thou
couldst cast off thy tattered garm*^t8, forfake thy
wild, roving life, acd mingle with the sons of wealth

ROBANCE AKD BEAUTT.

•nd honor? Thou canst not even singasofywra thy
m*rry.ong: .•-.> H:m 7,1J

" r.ineath the old oak tree, • ' '^

Come join »he Gypsy 'e u*nce.*
We hop« better days are in store for thee, that, the
time 18 coming when 'men will bold out to the© the
hand of fellowship, and wekonie tbt-e to their homes.
The time is speedily coming; every yenr, every day,
every hour brings nearer Oui glad time when tUpu
shaltclaima home in our citie«, and men will ao
longer drive thee from their doors. It may not be till
the happy Millennium alls the resoundi^ig world with
the glad chori.3 of "P^ace on «arth; good will to
raen," wlien war shall rage no more, when the I'onand
tlie lamb shall lie down side by side in green p^souren,
when every man shall recline be.ieath his own vine
and fig-tree, wht-n everything shall breathe of peace,
joy apd happiness, and when every knee shall bow and
glorifv the Saviour of men. Haste, haste the Joyful
day when we may swell the angel chorus I Oh, Gypsy,
come aad kneel at our shrink, learn tho glorious story
of the Redemption, and accept the hand of love and
fellowship we offer you.

The query naturally arises : And i» th^re to be uo
" romance? is life to be entirely made up of harsh
reality? is there no poetrv, nothing but the dull
prose"^? is there no music to soothe the weary, no song
for the longing ear ? are there no soft tints in the
dark picturb? and are we to toil on, the creatures of a
destiny with no tender breathings of romance, to
smoothe and brighten our pathway thru, ah life? No!
man cannot live without romance. Though the ol 1
superstition has passed away, yet thei^e is romance,
G»)d ordained romance, on every side. Her devotee
eagerly asks : " Where? where? tl ..re is no romance,
bitter realicv has banished it forever.''

There is romance in the curl of a maidea'a lip, the
ripple of her laugh, the glance of her eye, the rose of
her cheek, the alabaster of her brow, the ruby of her
mouth, the tcuch of her soft hand, and the nectar of
her kiss; ♦here is romance in the lightning's f^ash, and
the thunder's roar ; there i-. romance in the rushing

ROMANCE AND HEAUTT.

torrent, the rpgjng waterfall, the cerulean river tl at
winds through waving meadows and gold.Mi ooroi'n ! *.,
the foreat stream tliHt meanders sweetly along in is
woodland home, and the peaceful lake which nestles ,-o
calmly amid the eternal snow-clad mountuins ; there is
romance in the hills and valleys; there is romance m
the sandy desert acd the rolling prairie; there is
romance in the gory battle field, and the Mild fliimes of
the fire king; there is romance in the slarrv tky j.ikI
the fleeting cloud, in the billowy ocean and the c. iin
la^'oon ; and there is romance in 'the sunnv cHde, ivd
the moonlit dell. VV^herever we turn, we h'nd romun e,
Nature's romance, the truest, the beat, and the swee-^ ,t
that can charm mortal eye.

You tell me there is no romance in all this long ii t.
If no», why doe.-i the maiden's lip curl in scorn of i le
man who attempts to win her? why do the roses wii
her cheek take a deeper dye when a loved footstet) i-s
heard upon the threshold ? why do the hands clasp, m d
the hps linger long at parting,' it not for the roman •«
there is in love? Why have infatuated hundreds c; t
themselves from Niagara's dread brirk, and met :tfi
awful death in its boUine flood, because thev could not
resist the fascination of ifs waters? Why have ilie
poets dwelt lovingly on the f_ iet river, and went iio
raptures over the blue lakn, if not for the romance 1 1; y
find in Nature? And why do lovers select the stnr y
night for their ramble, when they may walk for h
under heaven's blue arch, and gaze enchanted upon tlin
floating clouds as they take a thousand beautiful forn-s,
if not for the romance there is in the star snan^' ■ d
firmanent? ^ ^

We will not want for romance, if we but make the
best of this beautiful world, if we help our fellow m ti
onward in the path of life, aud fulfil the Divine co- --
mand : " Do unto others as ye would that they shou; i
do unto you." There is romance in doing good : It
will smooths over stern realities, and build a o-oL' a
bridge for us to crjps the river of death, at the suns >t
of a well spent hie.

But oh ! v/hen the last moment comes, when tlia
world and all its beauties, all its sorrows, and Ha ii*

ROMANCi: A.5D BIALITT.

< ,

trials fade from our eyes, when Wj look back for the
last time over the bright record of a life speot in
doiog good, and when weeping friends gather around,
to say the last sad farewell, where then will be dim,n)iHtj
romance? Far away, in the vale of obliyion. Then
w'll reality, — a sweet reality, bo ours ; the glorious,
golden, unfading and undying reality of Paradise.

-«♦♦-

Minnie

— :o: —

" NOMA.'

— :o: —

?(HE was not very beautiful, yet her face always
^ ^ wore a pleasant expression, wreathed with a
<^ quiet smile, find her ways were kind and cheer-
ful, and had gained for her the love of all the
inhabitants of the little seaside town of D — . There
was one, Iiowever, who loved her with a deep, true
love, which was returned with all the glowing briglit-
ness of youth's first, pure, warm affection. Happy
was Harry L — , the millionaire's son, the friendly
stranger, the almost unknown sojourner of the sum-
mer season in this rocky, seaside village, in having won
from Minnie W — the promise that, when another year
had passed, and the roses were budding, the daisies
blooming, asd the violets peeping from their moss
beds, she should leave her childhood home, and go
with him, to grace a city mansion as his bride.

As Minnie walked along the ssashore on the morn-
ing our story opens, and drank in the strange, wild
beauty of the scene, — the uewly risen sun, casting hi*
golden rays far over the ocean's gently heaving bosom,
the blue vault above, uodimmed by a cloud or ni'.st,
the huge old grey rocks jutting out into the sea, the
white-winged ships speeding across the gentle waves,
or lying secure at their anchors, the village in the
background, whib upon her ears the low, soft, mvlan-

MINNIE.

r.5

oholy music oft lie rolling wates, as they broke upon
the rocks, and the sea-bird's wild cry, fell with soothi: g
harmony,— she theught of Harry's words to her tl e
ni^ht before.

" And he spoke such sweet vrords to me, and t( M
me of biii city home, and of the silks and jewels 1
should WMir, and asked me to be his, ard I promis-d,
and when the spring flowers dec-k again these famili-r
hillsides, I ^ill not be here to pluck them, but I shi ]!
Je Harry's bride Oh ! I am very happy, but I wi. h
I were worthy of him, I wish I at least had beaut ,
that his friends might not look upon him with reprou- n
for hating married the unlotely daughter of a peer
fisherman. Oh I that I were more worthy of Harr .
noble Harry."

She sat down upon a rock &nd burst into tears. O! !
was not her heart pure ; and her love warm ; uod wis
she not fre« froM guile ; and did she not truly lo\e
him, when she wept beca <» she had not riches f i-
loveliness for him, because » .e had nothing to give hii i
in return for his pacaionate promises, but pure, warn;,
unselfish love? yet her future was bright. She he)
the place that many a proud belle, who dwelt in cit
mansions, longed to hold. She held the heart thf
many had tried to win. But alas! for the briphr,
visions and glowing hopes of youth, they are sometim. s
suddenly dashed to the ground.

In the afternoon of the same day, how differen.:
looked the sea and sky. The waves, urged onward b
the fast rising gale, came t'saring and dasLing toward <
the dark, stern foeks, and broke upon their rugge-i
sides with a sullen roar, casting sheets of white spra ■
high in air, as if bearing on their foam-crested form^
warnings and threateninf s ; dark, lowering cloud ^
hurried across th* sky, obscuring the sun ; lightninp
could be seen and thunders heard in the distance, f a •
across the raging ocean, which was now one sheet r '
angry foam ; and everything betokened the approach c
an unusual storm. The fishermen had all sought tb-^
'and, their boats were made rast; and all that could b^

MIXWTT.

dooe in preparing fo the conflict ot elements was done.
As the afleruoon woro away, the etorm increased,
the sky became heavier and darker, and \he rain fell
in torrents. Ships wvre seen ei-iuMing under bare
poles, and many a prryer went up on behalf of the
sailor boys on the wide, ^ride ocean. Night was falling
on the now dreary scete of gloom and darkness and
with it came a heavy, dull, undefined shadow of for-
bodidg upon the inhabitants, not making itsell known
in words, but in the expression which each countenance
wore. Such a night had never been known upon that
coast; the sea a yeasty foam, the rain, driven by the
pitiless gale, falling in such torrents that it seemed as
if the very windows ot heaven had been opened, the
lightning's blinding glare, the thunder's roar, and the
ocean's hollow moan, combined to fill the soul with
fears too deep for words, fears for many an absent one,
who perchance might be driven by the merciless
tempest to week rest under the mighty billows.

The fishermen and their families were sitting around
their firesides, whpn boom I ime the sound of a great
gun, making itcelf heard above the roar of waters ;
boom ! came another, and above the din of the battling
elements came still another. The fishermen sprang
UP, put on their coats and hats, and rushed to the
ueach, for well they knew thefraeaning of those cannon
shots, and many a time had they seen proud ships
stranded on that rockbound coast.

Through the gathering mist and pelting rain, omild
be distinguished the outlines of a large ship, lying very
near the rocks, and every mountain billow breaking
over her. Stout hearts there were artong that band
of hardy men who stood upon the beach, but none were
there who would trust themselves to the n.ercv of
those boiling waves.

" James, can nothing be dout. to help them ?'' said
one of the band, approaching ne of his companions.

" Nothing, I fear," was the reply, " but I am viilling
te go, if a boat could be kept right side up."

" A boat could not be rowed twenty yards in such a
sea as that."

"No."

MT!.ST¥.

" It it no use lO try it, it would only hti a foolhardy
piece of work, just throwing lives away."

They hud all come to the coru-luiNion that nothing
could be done to h•^.p the poor sailor, although every
wave threatened to be the on(» which would carry them
down in its x-.virlitig rush. Above the rush of waters, and
dm of the tempest, still came the boom of signal gunr,
hIcv rockets fler.t up their bi le and red lights, ii prayer
for help. Help, — was there any help, any hope tor
ihem Y did not te:*rs fills the eyes of those noblo mari-
ners, as they turned at the hfavy windlass, and thought
of home and the dear ones whom they might never sen
again ?

While the fishermen stoo'l in consultation, a noble
form rushed in among them, his eyes flashing with
pride and excitement, determination stamped upon his
glowing cheeks and high brow, and his tall lithe iorm
erect, with manly, stately bearing. It was Harry L — ,
the rich man's son, who had gladdened by his pleasant
ways the hearts of these toilers by thu sea, during the
short time he had been staying among them. Althon<-'
his shapely hunds had never l>een hardened or browned
by toil, tew knew how much good they could do, or
what a noble heart ho bore within his boiom, now
heaving with high emotions.

" Has a boat been "nt to the ship ? " a-jked Harrv.

'• No, " was the reply.

" What ! will you stand here and see your fellow-
me 3 perish under your very eyes ? Where iS your
bravery ? Where are your stout heart h, or rather,
have you hearts at all ? "

" A boat could never reach that vessel."

" Don't lalk such nonsense, but get a boat ready for
me."

'•* What ! " exclaimed the fishermen, amazed, " you
don't intend to launch a boat ; who will man her in
this storm?"

" I will," said Harry, firmly and calmly.

" No ! you cannot, it's folly to think of such a thing.
We shan't let you go."

•• The man who attempts to binder me will do so to
bis sorrow ; get me a boat ready."

^1'

MUfNIB.

Hi« deterniined worda bore danger in thorn, and the
men launched a boat for him. Aahe stepped aboard, he
paused and epoke :

" I may never come back again, but if the waves
sweep me awa3,let the world know I died fultilling
mjr duty, a duty from which others ahrauk. You
think bec'ause I am neb I can d nothing to help my
tellow men by my heart and bands alont-. 1 will show
you iiffereiitly. I have won the haart of Minnie

^^ » she was to be my bride, I loie Iwr truly, and

oh Gad ! be kind to her for my sake. Lf I dio, tell
her it was .tt my post, and with her sweet Daa.e upon
my lips. Farewell ! my dear friends, be kind to
Minnie."

As he spoke tbe last tender words, with trembHug
voice, and a tear stealing to his eyw, he pushed off
from the shore the boat in which he stood. As he did
so, a wild cry of surprise escaped from the group
on shore. Harry turnei and beheld seated beside him

in the boat, Minnie W !

" Take me with you, Harry dear," said she, ♦' if you
go, I shall go too."

" Minnie darling, it cannot be, vou risk your life,
and if you should find yft«r tocab "j the sea, I should
always know myself to be your murderer."
"I must go."

Expostulations were useless. The entreaties of

Harry, and of those on shore, were fruitless. So oiit

into the falling night, and foaming ocean and beating

storm, rode Harry aiid Minnie, their boat now and

then visible on the top of a mountain waie, bearing

salvation to the rock-stranded mariners, in whose

hearts hope had died, giving way to gloom v despair.

Many a prayer went up on behalf of chat frail boat and

its noble rowers, and many a cheer greeted it when it

came in sight of the lone vessel, which proved to be a

large ship that had been literally stripped by the stonm.

The sails had been torn to ribbons, the boats washed

off, the helm carried away, and the ship herself, while

driving under bare poles, had struck upon the rocks,

and was naw on the point of going down.

Little time was spent in talking, and the crew.

MINNIE. 39

fortuuately a small one, having boarded the boat, the
little craft, now burdened almost to sinking, started on
the return, just in time to escape being carried down
in the whirlpool which the sinking ship created, as she
sought a home in the ocean's bosom, over whose mighty
billows she had so long and triumphantly rode.

A few more strokes of the oars, and the danger
would be over. Oh ! that it might have been so ! But
a billow, mountain high, sweeps away poor, noble
Harry, the bearer of life to others, the saviour of other*
from that watery grave which he himself found, alas !
to soon, and the last words he over spoke on earth

were, "Minnie darling, I'm " and then the crue!

waves closed over him forever, and to-day he sleeps in
that spot, the billows rolling over him, and waiking
melancholy music above his lowly tomb.

" Oh ! Harry, Harry, we shall not be parted !"
exclaimed Minnie, as she rose from the seat and
attempted to cast herself after him she loved. One of
the sailors caught her in his arms, and she became
unconscious.

" Where's Harry ?" was the cry, as the boat reached
the shore.

Dear Header, let me not speak further of this sad.
gloomy scene, the reproaches men casi upon themselves,
the bitter agony, the mourning, the wails of grief, and
the scalding tears of sorrow.

A year has passed away, and we are again at the
little town of D — . Let us enter this neat cottage.
But ah ! what mean those sounds of weeping thst fall
upon our ears as we lift the latch ? Upon the bed of
death lies a fair young girl, surrounded by a circle of
sorrowing dear ones. Can it be possible this is Minnie ?
■f- It is indeed, but how changed. She has become

I beautiful, such beauty as cannol be of earth. Listen !

she is speaking.

" I am dying ; papa, mamma, brothers, come close ;
I am broken-hearted, the wound cannot be healed on
earth, and I must leave you all. Oh ! meet me above,
in the golden city. I shall stand at its pearly gates
and welcome you home. But before I die, I have one

MiifjnB.

request to make, and but one. When Sabbath morn-
ing comes, place me with dear Harry under the waves,
and let me share his to.nb. Papa, will you do so?"

" Yes, my darling,"' was the low, sobbing reply.

" Then I die happy. I am soon to see my Harry, I
do not, fear death, the sting is taken away. Farewell !
Oh! there are the aDgele, sae ! they beckon to nie, 1
muvst go.

As the last words lied upon her lips, she calmly
passed away from earih to her glorious rest, in the
angels' arras, and with a heaveiily smile upon her
beautiful face.

'Tig Sabbath morning, not a cloud casts a shalow
over the landscape, so calmly beautiful in the golden
rays of th«* sun, the sea is quietly swelling, the waves
gently breaking upon the beac-h, with low, sweet music,
and morning's zephyr ie laden with the fragrance of a
thousand flowers.

' The mortal form of Minnie is born*^ to the beach,
amid a mourning circle ot relatives and friends ; from
the shore a groupe of boats, with slow and measured
sweep of oars, bears the assemblage out upon the
heaving waves, and when the solemn, beautiful words
of the ceremony, made doubly impressive by the sad
scene, are concluded, the form of Minnie is consigned,
'mid the svbu of weeping ones, to her ocean tomb, to
join the noble hero she loved so well in life, and now
she sweetly sleeps beneath the moaning waves, her
heart bound up and her tears wiped away, by Him
who called her spirit home.

And when the state' 3- ships sail over the sacred spot,
the mariners reverently ce.»se their labor, silently
dropping a tear to the memory of the devored one*
who sleep below.

Recollections of my Teachers, School-
mates and Pupils.
— :o: —

BY "NOMA."

— :o: —

'Y Teachers I How many a fond memory the> >
words call up; how my mind often turns
from the cares of every day life, to the pleri-
sant hours spent with them, both in tlui
school room and out. How careful they were to
guide my youthful footsteps in the right paths, showin^j;
me the dangers that lay hidden from ray untrained
eyee, helping me gently over the rough places of school
life, and how very, very often were their kindness and
love rt'paid hy carelessness, scorn, and harsh words ;
v't how patient they still were, many a tim« overlook-
ing faults, bestowing praise where it was little deserveti,
and still, no matter how wearied they were wiin tlu;
day's toil, earnestly working to implant the precious
germB ot knowledge so deeply in tiie mind, that tht-y
might never be forgotten.

How I would delight to see their faces once motv,
but alas ! I know not where liiany of thi^m are. Houxi
have settled dcwn to a quiet married life, one is witli
her afijed parents, two are in distaut colleges, —
cue with every prospect of becoming one of our most,
eloquent divines, the other a prominent M. D., —
some are still fighting under the old banner and nobly
bearing it onward, whilst others 1 have almost forgotten.
Yet, though ihey are far from me, 1 often tl;ink of
them, and long to behold their familiar faces. Deeply
do I regret every harsh word spoken to them, evevy
unkind action, every neglect of their teachings, ani
everv tear I may have thoughtlessly caused, since
experience has taught me how hard is a teacher's lite,
how fraught is thoir vocation with care, trouble and
anxiety. 1 know their brightest roses are marred by
cruel thorns, that every ungentle word or deed drives
deeply int<» the heart.

mm:mk:mm^

KFCOLLECTIOXS,

' 5'

Oh I dv.'at teafrhers, if these words evei* resch your
eyes, you will jtt 'pnut jjnow that your wayward pupil,
who asks you to receive hi:n iuto your ranks, now sees
the follios of earlier dstys, and humbly asks your for-
giveness.

My scliool mates! where are they, the friends of ny
youth, with whom 1 have sptnt so many liappy days ?
They wauner fur and wide, in every land, claimed by
jvery calling, honored on every sidi, bright beacon
lig'i s to guide their followers through the rocks and
tempests that beset tlie voyage of life, aud crowned by
the laurels that Fame be&tows only on \\orthy ones.
Some are still near me, winning for themselves golden
names, aud endeared by the recollections of the past.
Many I have never beheld since the time when we all
stood together, to Bay good bye, and go into the world,
each following a diflerent pith, but all with the same
object in view, to wrest from the hand of Fame the
wreath she offers to those who can win it.

-How we start when we hear the names of our old
schoolmates uttered, what a thrill of pleasure bounds
through our hearts when we hear them lauded, how
eagerly we catch every word of praise, how we rejoice
to hear these distant friends of b_ gone years spoken
of with honor and pride, and with what a heartfelt
emotion we thank God that such noble men and
women were once oar companions.

Oh I ray loved schoolmates, what a happy meeting it
would be could we all gather once more in the old school
room. What tears of joy would flow, and what con-
gratulations would be exchanged. Then let us work
diligently and faithfully, let us think kindly of one an-
other, and perhaps our dearest reward will be that
joyous reiinion in the bright years to come.

My Pupils ! Often I fly back, on the wings of fancy
to the days sperit with them, days that, despite their
weariness and anxiety, were my happiest, days that
form the brightest picture of my life, when new hopes
and new aspirations were awakened, days whose
memory intrudes upon every waking hour, in every
busy scene, in every lonely moment, and ofttimes in
the softest dreams, davs that have tied, and taken with

BISSIE, THE FLOWER GIRL.

them much of life's iweetness, and many of its fontUst
hopes. Ob I my dear children, longingly remeraberi d
is every bright eye and smiling taco ; once more 1
think 1 bee you in the Ions forms, waiting for dismis-
sal, then sadiy comes the reality, and 1 find mvf»< If
alone. When we gathered in the dear old school roon
ior the last time, the final tisks weio said, the bAi
rung, and good-bye sadly whispered, and when your
teacher ha(l lingered a few moments by his desk n)
watch tile little ones disappearing over tiie hill, ai d
then closed and locked the creaking door, do not thii k
that with a sigh he dismissed you from his heart. Alt !
no, you are ever dearly remembered, and while li e
throbs, n ver will the memory of your sweet faces be
obliterateu "ora his mind,

My Teachers ! My Schoolmates ! My Pupils I brig'it
oases on life's desert, glad pictures of the past, nev^r
forgotten relics of happier days, your remembran-e
brings a teuderuesj to the heart, and a moisture to t;ie
eye, that words cannot paint.

-^»-

Bessie, the Flower Girl.

. X CHRISTMAS STORY.

— :o: —

BY "NOMA,"j„jj-,,

— :o: —

rT was Christmas Eve. Without, the snow wis
falling fast, driven into every crevice and oorri'^r
by the bitter wind. People hurried from t le
gay shops to their pleasant homes, laden wiMi
presents for the little ones, who eagerly looked for t'lw
coining of " Santa Claus." No one cared to stay long
in that cruel storm. Within, we all know what joy
and plenty made glad hearts gladder.

There was one heart to whom Christmas wrought no
j6j' Poor little Bessie, the Flower Girl, had no hoiie
to be gladdened by this happy day, no place to lay 1 er

.""WO

't e iftd

BESSIE, THE FLOWBB OIRL.

weary bead but in a pile of straw unJer an old shed.
How wistfully, longingly and tearfully she gazed in the
window* of Mr. Mansfield's elegant, home, at the happy
group of children who wvre making the evening gay
with Christmas songs and games.

"Oh! tht^y have plenty, while E am starving, they
have a bc^e, while I have no home but the streetr<,
and they are happy, while I am freezing and famishing.
Oh ! dear father, sweet mother, why did you die, and
leave poor Bessie to perish, with no one fro care for
her, or love her ?"

Foor Bessie, clad only in tattered garments, with
stockingless, almost shoeless feet, with bare head and
bands, and no one to notice or pity her, what sorrow
and anguish must fill her hungry heart, as she sinks
down in the snow, weeping bitterly.

"Papa," said Ella Mansfield, a little golden haired
beauty of seven, "I thought I saw some one looking
in the window."

" Nonsense, my darling."

" But I'm sure I did. It might be one of the
angels."

" What do you think an angel would want out in
this storm, Ella dear?"

" I don't know, but won't you go out and see, papa ?"

" Oh ! there's no one there, it was only your fancy,
my child, run away to your play."

" But I do want to see, papa ; I'm sure it was an
angel's face,"

" Ok ! yes, papa, de let us go out and see," chorused
half a dozen briRht eyed boys and girls.

" Well, well, I suppose you must have your own
way,'" said Mr. Mansfield, good-naturedly, " where's my
lantern ?"

" Here it is, papa," said Albert, lighting it.

Out into the storm they all go, led by happy hearted
Ella.

" Well Ella, have you found your angel ?" asked h«r
father, as he saw her stooping over some prostrate
object,

" Yes papa," replied she.

" Holloa ! what's this ?" said he, looking down, " why

BESSIE, THE FLOWER GIRL.

dear me, it's a little girl, f'rozea to death 1 believe ;
here, let's take her in," and lifting the Sfnseless form,
he lightly c-arried it into the warm i\>om. Great was
the wonder and excitement of these young doeis ot
good, and their hearts gave a great bound of joy and
thankfulness, when, after the application of restoratives,
they saw the signc of returning life. Poor Bessie had
almost crossed the dark river, and when consciousness
returned she murmured, as she looked around th«
beautiful room and upon the happy faces, " Is thiti
Heaven?"

"No! my dear child," said Mrs. Mansfield, "but it
must be your heaven to-night."

"Are you cold, little girl?" asked Ella, softly,
putting her arms around Bessie's neck.

" Oh ! I wa« so cold, and then 1 areamed i was in
heaven, and now I feel so warm."

" Ain't you hungry ?" asked the blue-eyed an^el of
love.

"Tea! I have had nothing to eat to-day," said
Bess, sadly.

" Poor, little girl !" »aid Ella, smoothing back her
tanglttd dark locks and bursting into tears, while the
others provided a feast of dainties for Bessie.

They all worked with a will a»d a gladness, to make
the poor waif happ)i and comfortable, but nooeof them
like Ella. She chafed the chilled hands and feet, kissed
the tear-stained cheek, combed the curly locks, aftd
taking Bessie to her room, dressed the wondering child
in clothing of her own.

" What is your namw, little girl?" asked Ella.

" Bessie," roplitd she.

" Where is your papa ?"

" In Heaven."

" And where is your mamma?"

" She is with papa."

" Poor Bessie ! no papa I no mamma ! wliere do vou
live ?"

" Anywhere ! in the street. I used to sleep in a
pile of straw, and sell wild flowers in the summer,
but now there are no flowers, and I have to live
on what I find in the streets, or people give to me.

^/■^'^

4»

BESSIE, THE FLOWKU OIRL.

Oh : I wanted to di->, and go wl.ern father and moth.H-
nrft" said shn, bursting into tearc.

: C W childreu, ' said Mrs. MansH.ld, as they aga.n
oame into tbe sitting room, " it is bed time, and ban a
6aus wants good little boys and girls to go to bed
eariv We will hear Bessie's story im the morning.

The chapter is read, and prayer otlbrt-d, iQ which
gratetu. thanks are given that they have been the
Laos of saving the life of one ot God's little ones,
coo.lnight is whispere-l, the chihlren trip lightly to
their rooms, and for the first time m many months,
Be«sie sleeps in a war.:^ bed ; Ella's arms are round her
neck, and dark curls are mingled with golden. What
draws the child's heart so fondly to the poor ragged
flower girl? The angels look down «nd smile, ana
lovingly guard the sl«eping iimocei.tP.

Christmas .i.orning broke bright and clear. The
white snow lav on the streets and houses like a robe
of puritv. The wind was hushed, and the bells chimed
out on the crisp air the gracd old chorus of " 1 eace on
earth, good will to men."

Mr. Mansfield's happy family gathered round the
breakfast fable, and recounted to their parents the rich
gifts " Santa Claus" had brought them. Even poor
wondering Bessie had her numerous gifts to tell of,
a!!d half of Ella's had been given to her, in addition to
her own, bv the noble-hearted little girl.

"Now "'said Mrs. Mansfield, when breakfast was
finished, '" we will see who has got the best presents ;
but first we will listen to Bessie's story."

It was soon told, how her father, a prosperous
mechanic, suddenly was taken sick and died, how her
mother had supported heraelf and bar child by nee.1ie-
work, until slie too was laid upon a bed of sickness,
and one by one their household things were sold
how her mother died, and the bard hearted landlord
turned her, pennileea, upon the world, how she had sup-
ported hersi'lf bv seiliog wild flowers, and when they
ceasrd to bloom; how shft'nad wandered suflfenug about
■i((! -i! '(/is 'it(fno({ 'ro .Bi'j'=!»n-»« ndt nf hnft I \iu\v rt.t

BES8IE, THE Fi.OWKR OTTII,.

the sireets, and how al last she sank down beneath
the window in tlirt cruel snow-^^torm, sicknt heart and
tired cf the worhl, praying that sh^* might die, and had
wept herself to sleep.

" VV^hat was your father's name, Bessie ?"' asked Mr.
Mansfield.

" William Laymou," said Bessie,

" What was your mother's name?" snid he hoarsely.

"Clara; she used to tell me sho had a rich brother
somewhere in the city, who would keep me when slu^
died, but sho went so quickl\ she never told me his
name.*'

"My poor, dear child,'' said Mr. MansHeld, clasping
her in his arms, and kissing her fair cheek, " I am that
brother, your mothir was my loved arid only sister.
Oh ! Clara in Heaven, why did 1 not see thy face in
this dear child's?" and the strong mrai burst into
tears.

AVondering faces gathered round.

"Husband," said Mrs. Mansfield, "tell us all about
it ; I never knew you had a sister.'

"Tea ! do, pa, tell us all about it," clamored the
children eagerly.

"Fifteen years ago," began he, "my only sister
Clara married Williiim Laymon. against her paronts'
wish, and they forbade her ever entering the house
again. She and her tiusband went a\nay, i never
could learn vihere, and I never beheld my idolli-.c! sis-
ter again, though I searched much for he*-. On his
death-bed father relented, — mother had dono so long
before, — and left a fortune for her, should she ever be
found, in my care. I have searched vainly for her,
while she lived and died almost in the shadow of my
home. Her husband was a noble mari, though he
never beca.ne rich. And Bessie, the image of her
mother in her girlish days, the picture of my dear
Clara, is rich at last. But rich or not, she shall ever
have a home with us ; I know Ella loves her like a sis-
ler already. Come Ella, my darling, what was your
best Christmas gill ?"

" My dear sister Bessie, the beautiful angel I saw
in the vindow, " said the denr goldeu-haired child>

IN MEMORIAM.

folding l»er arms lovingly around Bessie und dtftwing
her to her heart.

Aud Bessie has touud a home at last, ^o more
wanderings, heart-ac-hari, tattered garmsuts, nor shoe-
less feet. Oh ! what a happy Christmas to her.

Sweet Ella ! daur little ange-l of love ! may no thorns
.ever beset thy pathAuy, and may every Chriutmas-tide
be as happy' to you as the one that gave you another
dear sister to love.

Bessie's parents look down from Heaven and re-
joice that their darlings darkest hours have fled, the
sinless angels sweetly smile, tune their golden ha' ps
anew, and wake holier songs of praise.

In Memoriam.

— :o: —

BY "NOMA."

— :o: —

the death of Jogephine Hatfield, ..^uyhter of Capi. James
A. and Catherine Ilatjield of BrookvxUe, Parmhtro ; who
?m« droii^ed trhiie tailhigon Halfumy River Lake, totth a
party of friends.

\t was evening, clear and calm, '^o cloud dim-
med the azure sky, the wind was hushed, save a
low sigh amid the boughs of the fo'-est trees ;
and the setting eun cast his golden rays over
...„ bosom of the quiet lake, whose surface shone
as smooth as polished glass, with not a ripple to mar
its sleeping loveliness.

The birds sang in the trees, the lambs played upon
the hillside, and the streamlets laughed and glistened,
as they murmuringly hastened onward to mingle their
purity with the limpid waters of that beautiful lake, so
soon to fold in its cold and clo'^e embrace three yoang
and jwyuus beings, who little dreamed of df^ath.

TX MEMOKIAM.

Five happy yoiillis and ninitleris 8tr!i\eil to th' liar 1.^
of the lake, nr:d lHi>nchiD|L.' a hoat weiv noon sportiii't
on ii8 surtiue. iheir merry laiigliter ringiii}; out on the
still air, waking sweet echoes nniid the hills uliiii
sloped to the pebbly beai-h.

Little did they dream of harm ; little did they thi^'i
tliat even now deain wac Mfretrliing out his re'-Mitlo h
hand, to ctnsp them to his bosom and claim the i as
his own. Yet it was ever) bo.

In the moment wheii joy was nt its htiglit, t]."+
treacher. ... hoat in which they were seated gave a r. !
and hurled them into the water.

How ijoon was their merriment hushed in th^ 1 •• ■
bin struggle for lile, in the wild clutching for soin' •
thing to save them, in the groans and shrieks, find —
let us hope — in the prayers both of those who sunlc !t
their watery graves and of those to whom lif
spared. Oh I whiit a ftarf>'l moment. Culled n .>
eternity without a moment's wartiing, without tlio
messenger even knocking at the door, to bid them tiiiii
their lumps.

When Josephine Hatfield left her roc , she sn li :
" If 1 am not back at the usual hour, \'ou ne^d lu.t
wait for me, for I will be over the river. " Yes, slie
was 'ovc* the river' — over the cold Jordan, whosa
swe'ling waves she crossed with the grim ferryman
who had come to take her home, home to henven :
awav from earth and its trials, home to God, wlio l).;d
culled her to himself.

Dearest .losie, thou art resting from thy foil-;;
mourned by parpntG vvho loved thee so well, by brothers
and sisters who idtnost worshipped thee, by fri^-idv
who ever loved thee, by playmates who found tl ci?
their best loved companion, by children A-ho, in thy
school room, loved thee too well to ever t'isobey tiy
gentle rule, and by those stricken ones irto who >
bleeding hearts thou hast often pourea the sweet b.iia
of '.'onsolition, Icr whom thou hast shed the peaiiy
tear of sympathy, and to whom thou hast whispered
words of comfort and cheer. Thou wa.«t ever loved i y
ail who knew thee! and fear not that thou hnlt ih

▲ FTKR I-0\0 TEARS.

forgotten ! for it will be many a long, long day ere our
tears are dried, or the flowers fade on thy grave.

Parents and friends, we know how deeply your
hearts are wounded, and we oflfer yon our deepest
sympathy, and point you to that loving friend on high,
who called your darling ^rom earth.

We mourn not as those without hope, we know she
is not lost but gone before, and now stands on the
golden shore beckoning us to cross the river and meet
hpr in that laud where sorrow never comes.

That sad scene, when for the last time we gazed on
the dear hce, slet^ping so still and cold in death, will
never be forgotten ; tears will flow as it rises fresh iu
th'* memory. Dear Josie has gone home ; she strikes
iu joy her golden harp, her sweet voice wakes angel
music 'mid the celestial choir.

AVe fancy we almost hear the faint, swet't echo of
her voice across the river of death, over which she has
''jft a shining path for us to follow, to meet her there
to part no more.

«#>

After Long Years.

R •• "NOMA."

^T was with bowed head, tearful eyes, snd face,
^^^ and slow, broken steps, that a young man started
down street from a neat little cottage. Little
wonder that he was sad. He had laid his heart
at the feet of a beautiful girl, the one, the only love of
his life, and — she h."»d refused to share his homo, to
help OBDOothe his pathway through life, and be to him
a comfpacion, whom he could love, and from whose life-
roses be -could pluck the thorns, that she might never
feel iheir bitter stings, and that her journey through
this vale might not be so dreary aa he would now find
it, when he went forth into tha world, his love \inre-

APT£K liONO T£AB8.

r,\

turned, his dearest hopes van'sht^d, ambitions g'Oi s
fair prospei'ts blasted and bligbted, nothing luore y
live for, and with a nad feeling of louelinesa ai. I
deeolatioD clinging to bitn.

'* Alice," said he, as they stood at sunset b^nen 'i
the drooping branches of a stately elm, ** Allie dnrlit ,
will you be mine? will you join haod^ with mo in f "
path of life, and let me guide your footsteps, over is
rugged length? Ob I darling, do not say no, or yi u
will break my heart, fo'* you, and you only, do I lo ■.
You are the only one I ever did or ever shall lo
Oh I Allio, sweetest, say ycu will be mine, and ma . >
me happy."

•' No I Henry, I cannot marry a man who^- relatious
despi-'e me. I am poor and were 1 to marry you.yoii*
best friends would r^iscard you."

" No ! Allie, darling, they would do no <4Uch thiii ;.
They hcaor and respect you the same as they do mc '
" It can never be, Henry ; you must give me up and
forget me. Your love is not so deep as you thiuk, ai.d
vou will soon find another whom you can laveiaiil
marrv, and with whom you will be happy."- •'-: (M;i!t

"Never!" said Henrv, in a ho«<vife. B«A^ ibi!iW;^lu3
eves filling with tears. '• "^Jtie^^^V lftH*'lneet'1«at'ttne,
I never shall be happy vtnth- alAdthte.v'' THdligh-feVorv
relation in tbft world should cast me off, still I wouid
marry you, and be ha^prwith you. I never, never, never-
shall" love or murrv another. Oh I Allie, Allie, in/
<•' •t^fA'da^;i<^g,'1:h<i^iiVfeV*<^fflyii*aW,''0*:f=«e11.T^^
''' T^W'tie ntiti^'.'' '*'" l>'''i"'''"^ i*"" 'ru;i(| j^ntt.ii-of hin
"Un t4«Hi' ife'«Bet#i«V'rt«r^*V'J«o'b!ff"«lo*^"l-'t^HHbf. «'To i
'"''nlllWrfdti^iVe'h^afe^^dfr'ft*.^' ■'" ''f'' ■''*' "''■"•^

"'■''ifhetV?'^ '^ IIOV M llv/ L'OV IIO'JU f>CSt*-^l Ji'.flt V,0T!08

l>Mj: ^'H..-w}4ilv'A(ii4*,S^aMl3(»'t/!ldlV>riwd.i^Hd.^l!i^''«f'^c-'
«^' «t!Wm H^V^'^al^'vc^t'L^hrt{ag''iwMt]^,^l''ta^st M
.«"«'«i4#4ll."'"lMM«"'h(4#"gtt''ivWiy. 'T« tor'^'hyvfeHfr '^
•dli,«% fli'.Alr,"b'ilf (^'f^mf'Mi .»e»1^tln(lly'a<!H ^ifm^vW
h'Jv^iih'VSVil, atid iVfef foWl- Rtb'ndtWio'blaik'^itl'H'i'ear..
J?"'«\i'«i?"{i^;'t1(^# f<hfcVlW'i9'fttAh(h«"h''MI' ^*)n6"fr(WA«niy

mtm-m^

b'J

AFTER LOXO TEARS.

heart. Farowell forbver on eartli, sweet Allie darling,
arri oh I may we meet in Heaven."

And with one passioDat-e kiss pressed upon ht.T lips,
he was goLie.

Alice sank down upon a seat beneath the leaf/
branehes, and long and bitterly wept, then rioiug sadly
and slowly entered the house.

Alice Raymond was a beautiful girl, and no wonder
Henry Dalton had loved her. She possesst'd a sym-
metrical form, with delicately slendt^r waist, her dark
brown hair fell in wavirg tresses ovtr her fair neck
and shoulders, life's sweet, rosy flush mantled her
cheeks and lips in elegant fulness and bc^auty, and her
blue eyes, so mild, so winniug, — there Me must pause,
our feeble pen fails to paint their liquid depths. Beau-
tiful were they, wh<^n filled with flowing tears,
sparkling with merriment, or melting in pity and
sympathy.

She loved Henry, but because some of his haughty
relations were angry at the thoughts of his marrying a
poor, but worthy girl, she had refused him, though it
almost broke her heart to do so. Xoble girl ! rather
than see him discarded by one of his name, she had
sacrificed her own happiness, and not her's only, but
his also. Poor Allie! she tho'jght it was all for the
best, bitter though it wi^^re.

Let us follow Henry Dalton. He walked slowly to
his boarding place and entered the house. Going to
his room he cast himself upon a lounge, and burst into
tears. Oh I talk not of grief till you have seen the
tears of the strong-hearted man, till you have felt the
sorrow that weighs upon you when you behoM everv
dearest hope vanished, and life nothing but a drearV
waste and a void, when the strong frame quivers anil
diukes with convulsive emotions, and when it seems as
if every sob would tear the very heart from the bosom,
crush i:, and cast "t, bleeding and aching, to earth.
Such grief did Henry feel, as his manly form heaved
and swayed with the powerand depth of overwhelming

AETER LONG YEARS.

emotions. He was powerless as a child, liis strength
had fled, and as be Jay t ere, the tears welling forth in
flooils, it seemed as though each succes.'^ive sob would
be th»< one to rend the soul from its quivering prison
house, aud set the sad spirit free. When he rose from
his lowly position, the night was iieariy gone, yet he
did not seek his couch, but paced his room, murmuring
to himself in broken words :

"Oh! God, why bast thou dealt so bitterly with
me? why couldst thou not make her love me, aud
make ine happy? Oh! why did she refuse? Berause,
forsooth, some of my relations are opposed to it. A
curse upon any relation of mine who dares interfere
with the affairs of my heart. I never can and nefur
will forgive them. My bitterest curse, henceforth and
forever, rests with them. They have destroyed my
happiness, curse them, let them never dare speak to
me again. If I cannot choose for myself, they cannot
choose for me. Bitterly shall they rue this. But »he,
the darling of my heart, my ordy love, whom I almost
worship, so deep and true is my love, with her I cannot
be angry. I love her too well for that. She has done
as she thought best, and she shall never have a harsh
thought from me. Oh ! I can never forget her. Night
and day shall she be in my heart, while life itself is
there. Farewell forever, Allie darling. To-morrow I
leave this place, perhaps never to return. 1 cannot
stay here, where all the sweetness of life has been
turned to bitterness. I care not where I go, or how
aoon life ends."

Then like a weaned child, h" sank upon his couch,
and fell asleep, dreaming of beautiful Allie.

At the usual hour next morning, Henry entered the
establishment of Morton & Co., dealers in dry goods,
and of which large firm he was chitsf clerk, looking pale
aud careworn. Taking his seat at the desk, iustead of
engaging himself with ledgers, he began writing fare-
well letters to his friends. To Allie he wrote a long,
tender, affectiot ate letter, breathing of hopeless love
aud an aimless life, closing witli a touching farewell.
Every page, blotted by his tears, portrayed his deep
•despair. Many a time, for years after, did Alice .?ad

AFTER LONG YEA.RS.

and reread that loving .v.issive, her tear-, mingling
with those whose imprint was already on its snowy
surface. Scarcflv had he finished writing ;^ hen Mr.
xMorton entered." "Good morning, Henry, said he,
" Why how pale you look. Are you not ill ? you had
belter take a rest to-day,"

" Many thanks, Mr. Morton, be assured 1 appreciate
your kindness, but 1 cannot rest to day."

" Why not. Henry T ^ , .. .. t

" Mr." Morton," said he, changing the subject, I
wish to resign m\ situation."

"Rt-sigu your situation! Why what do you mean .
please explain yourself." ^ , , . i •

" J mean, Mr. Morton, that having been deteaLi-a in
my dearest hope, I have no longer anything to keep
me here, and T wish to go somewhere, anywhere, away
fiora Lynn. Therefore, T. beg leave to resign mv
situation here, at the same time thanking' you for ail
vour kindness to me, and for the interest you have
"taken in my welfare, since you have known me. I
shall ever think kindly and gratefully of you, but 1
cannot remain any longer"

" Henry, do 1 not give you salary enough? say the
word, and it shall be increased, immediately. Iti a
few months, I would have taken you into the firm.

" No, my salary is quite sufficient ; I have other and
deeper reasons for going."

"I shall not further question your motives, 1 have
no doul.t they are sufficient: but T am sorry, very
sorry, that you must go. Vou have always been
straightforward and industrious, and won for yourself
a good name." j. , / .

'•Thank Heaven, no one <^'^f|. «af,, a^.t^t.Wl/^.fe^

'"''.'verv true \Vhen"d6''v8li'.'U^^^iW^' l§aV!H>?"
"To-dav.

AFTER LONG YEAHS.

"Wherever you f{0, remember me as a friend."

" Thanks, many tbaDks for your great kiiidDesii to
oue whose heart is desolate."

Aa hour later, Henry sorrowfully bade his fellow
clerks good-bye. There \ias not a dry eye among
them when he went, for he was loved by them all, and
very sorry were they to lose him.

The westward bound train that afternoon bore
Henry towards the Rocky Mountains. Oh ! wlat
despair and misery was there in his heart as the roofs
ot Lynn died away i" the distance. What scorching
tears HUed his eyes, as he was swiftly borne away,
from all for which he cared, from all he had to live for,
from all that he loved, from all his once bright hopes,
and turned his pale, tear-stained face westward, while
from the depths of his seared heart came an agonizing
prayer that he might die, that God, who had dealt so
bitterly with him, would call him home, and still
forever that throbbing, aching, bleeding heart.

Too late did his proud relatives regret the fatal
course they had taken, too late did they bewail their
pride and harshness.

Ah I parents, friends, never interfere in affairs of
the heart. You know not what untold misery,
anguish, and despair it causes, how many hearts are
broken, and how many livas are withered, that might
have been bright, but for your fatal and unchristian inter-
position. Oh ! take a warning in time, lest you be
even now on the verge of ruining for life, perhaps
forever, some one whose prospects in the world are
fair and briglit, but whose hopes will be turned to the
darkest desp^iir and demon madness, if \ou oppose his
heart's deep, true, and only love.

It is ten years since the opening of our story, and
after a long journey by rail, stage and en foot, we are
in Miners' Canon, a village of log houses and canvass
tents, inhabited by rough miners. Miners' Canon is a
break iu the Rocky Mountains, far beyond the bounds
v»f civilization. The miners are a motley looking crowd,

AFTKB LONG YEARS.

and an attempt at description would be f'*'-'*!'^^ ( f \^^
leave the task untouched. The sceiiery is wdd and
raiestic. Lofty mountains, th^ir skv reaching peaks
Tvered with the eternal snows, encl.se the p ace oi.
every side ; dark rocks and stunted trees eomewl»at ,e-
Tve tb^ grandeur or the indescribable scene ; but turn
the eye which way we will, we find ourselves encircled
hv the same nijzhtv mountains.
'We will enter this te.-t. Ah I who i. this l.es upon
the bed of sickness, surrounded by rough, unshorn
miner.; whose ey^s, for year« utmsed to weeping, now
"hed tears freeW ? It is Henry . Dal ton but how
changed '. Though we can still distinguish the marks
of a gentleman, yet he is almost as rough and sh.agu.v
as those around him. He fell from a high ro.k tVns
raornit.g, severely wounding hv.nself and now he lies
here, no gentle wife or mother near him to fan bn hot
cheek, or cool his burning brow, .:o loved one to bend-
oTer him and whisper words of hope and ^^^^rf

He w^s cared for as tenderly as possible, by these
men, who are unfamiliar with sickness, and now hey
M-eep. for poor Harry is dying. They all hjved h.m
though he never would join in their drinking and
gambling. His quiet, gentlemanly ways had won
them, th°.v cculd see that he bore some great grief and
thev were kind to him as they knew how to b^. li>ey
haxe gathered to say a tew parting words, and go
down with him to the brink of the Dark Kiver bt.ll-
ness reigns within the tents, broken now and then by
the weeping of strong men.

A woman,-Heaven bles^ her, or.e that has not
entered the Canon for y«ars before,- silently steps
into the tent, and goes to the bedside

" Harry, Harry darling, don't you know me
The wounded man turns his head, and then his
arms are folded lovingly around the neck of Alice, his

only love. , ^ „ ■ <. tu^

the miners steal awav, feeling that it is not the

place for'lhem, and leave the lovers alone.

We have little more to say. Alice, travelling for

her heahh, came accidentally to Miners' ( anon, and

met oDce more tlie ox-j one she ever loved, and under

PASSING AWAY.

«7

her skilful nursing, he was soon himself again. They
soon left the Canon forever, and were married at last,
and though some still opposed the marriage, they cared
not, but peacetully and happily glided down life's
stream. And now bright eyed elfins often accompany
Henry to the store which once bore the name of
Morton &, Co., but which now bears that of *' Mortorj
& Dalton."

Passing Away.

— :o: —

n Y "NOMA."

— :o: —

lASSlNG AWAY is written in living letters on
everything which the human eye beholds.

The morning sun, rising in the unclouded
east, rolling on in the blaze of meridian
splendor, and sinking to rest in his couch of glory,
'mid the radiant clouds and brightness of the Queenly
West, says " Passing Away."

The hilver moon, traversing slowly the aziire sky, 'mid
the mazy labyrinth of myriad twinkling stnts, giving
to the heavens a new beauty, and to earth a flood of
pura, swef't light, gently whispers — " Pa'^siog Away."

The many-colored flowers, bloomujg in * ?ir sweet-
ness, till etit down by the mower's scythe, or the heat
of noonday ; the warbling song birds ; the pearly dew-
drops, glistening a few hours on the waving grass, and
disappearing ; and the murmuring brooklet, all sadly
tell us — "Passing Away."

The storm cloud, sweeping across the gloomy sky,
darting forth angry flashes, and deep-toned mutterings,
shaking the earth to its very foundations, proclaims
to us in thunder tones — '* Passing Away."

But this lesson comes to us in madder, deeper, and
more heart- searching tones, when for the last time we

PASSING AWAY.

i^aze upon some coffined form, that in life was very
dear to us. The motinuless breast, such a little while
ago throbbing with joyous lite, with a wreath of flow-
*'Vi lying upon it, placed thnre by some loving hand
that may soon be still forever, the cold and folded
Imuds, the closed eyes, the colorless cheeks, the pale
lips, uo longer speaking words of sweet love and kind-
ness, the niarbli^ brow, and the golden ringlets, lying
HO quiet and still I'pon the white pillow, all speak to
us in that !:our of bitter anguish, too plainly and too
sadly to be mistaken, telling us that life is very, very
rapidly " Passing Away."

And what is the lesson we gather trora these two
little words ? It is that we are to prize the present,
that while rolling days, and months, and years, tell us
that time is flying swiftly by, we are to make to-day
our own, for we will not see to-morrow, that mysteri-
ous day which is always coming, but never here,
which IS no nearer us to-day than it was ten thousand
vears ago, and which we may be alwavs grasping and
wishing for, only to see it glide away, like the spectre
of an excited imagination.

Then let us work while it is to day, before the
night of bitterness and black despair comes, for unless
we rightly use the present, come it surely will.

Let us be up and doing ; whatever object we have
before us', let us strive to accomplish it, in the bright
and golden hours of the glorious present. Don't let
Procrastination woo us from the work with his beguil-
ing tales of ease and idleness, his pictures of a couch
of roses, and murmuring music to win us from our
••area and trials, for the awakening will come sooner or
later, an.! it will be very bitter No! though the way
look gloomy, dark and rough, though xse tread on
thorns, let us hurl this enchanter from us, and face
our destiny and our work with a fixed determination
not to ht baffled, aud then, when we have finished the
task, when we lay down the heavy load, when we
reach our destination, and feel that the work is done,
sweeter, far sweeter will be our reward than had we
shrank from the toil till forced to take up the weary
burden, and plod on amid darkness and fear.

BllOTHEB AGAINST BUOTUBR.

Then let us one and all unite in making a good use
of the present, knowing that iwvi is the time when our
task will be lightest, and that our reward will beg.ven
amid sweeter music, softer soRgs, purer rest, and
brighter, dearer facei, than had we loitered on lue's
highway, aLu idly spent the precious hours so swiftly
" Passing Away."

•♦^

Brother Against Brother;

AN EPISODE OP THE LATE SOUTHERN REBBLLIOIT.

-:o: —

NOMA.'

^T was in the latter part of the year 1860, that
two brothers, George and John Devere, met in
New York, tj talk of their prospects.

George was a Soutliero landholder of great
wealth. His estates bordered on the noble Savannah
River, and were renowned far and wide for their beauty
and fertility, as was their proprietor for bis open hos-
pitality and munificent generosity. In figure he was
tall and handsome, with a frank, genial countenance,
and dark eyes ever glancing from one object to another,
very dark hair, and moustache waxed and twisted a la
Napoleon. He was a man on whom one could rely,
and whose word was as good as his bond.

John was a well -to do New York merchant. His
house waa oi: a firm foundation, and, the crisis in
monetary circles failed to shake it. He had not, when
commencing business, plunged into wild schemes and
speculations, but had worked his way up by honesty
and perseverance, uutil he had reached his present
prosperous position.

In figure he much resembled his brother George.
His quiet and unobtrusive < liarity liad won for him a
noble name, and many a poor orphan had blessed the

BROTHER AGAINST BEOTHEB.

hid

day which filled his hand with silver, from the well
supplied purse of John DaVere.

John aud George had m«t, as we said, to talk of
their fut'-re prospects.

" It looks very dark," said John, " the cloud grows
heavier every day, and we know not what hour it may

break."

" Very true," replied George, " things begin to wear
a threatening aspect ; I am p. fraid, judging from present
appearances, that war is not far distant."

" Heaven grant it may not come to that," exclaimed

Tohn.

" I earnestly hope it may not," said George, " it
would create a sad state of affairs, this setting of
brother against brother."

" George," said John suddenly, " in the event ot
war, which side would you espouse?"

" I should give all the aid in my power," answered
he, " to the poor bleeding South, my home."

" Born and bred in the Nort.h, to leave home, and
fight against kindred," said John, sadly.

" It m\i*t be so," said George, " and you,— but I
suppose I need not ask ?"

" Would be among the first to obey my country's
call to arms," replied John.

" Brother against Brother," repeated George.

The battle raged fiercely ; cannons roared till the
very earth trembled with their death boom ; volley
upon volley of musketry rollf d along the ranks ; the
smoke of contest hung in heavy clouds over the com-
batants ; sabres gleamed and flashed in the rays of the
setting sun ; horses rushed riderless through the death
fire, seeming to have lost all sense of danger ; men
rolled and fell to earth in pools of crimson gore ;
columns charged, shook, wavered and fell back, only
to gather breath, and rush again into the very jaws of
destruction; while above all rose the shouts of the
leaders, — cheering on their followers to a glorious
victory — or death,— and the cries of the dying.

BBOTHKR AGAINST BKOTHEB.

Night was fast deepening on the «cene of battle, and
neither seemed to gain or lose an inch ot the blood-stained
field ; at last the Southerners won some slight ad?an-
tage, which bade fair to turn the scale of contest in
thiur favor.

The captain of a cavalry detachment saw this, and
determined to make a great effort with his handful of
men. Many a time that afternoon had they charged,
and charged agai^^, each time rjcoiling ' i many an
empty saddle. With an echoing che«r hey rushed
forward, right for the centre of the Hebel ranks,
covered by a telling fire from the infantry. Nobly
they cliarged, and nobly they conquered.

A shout — "they run ! they run !'* — went up from
the brave heroes, and their glad cheer seemed to reiicbo
even to the vaults of Heaven.

Tke North had won the day, through the almost
superhuman efforts of that gallant band of cavalry,
who, when they returned from the death charge, left
their brave leader, John Revere, lying on the blood-
stained field, all unconscious of his noble victory.

The moon rose calmly that night uy»on the gory
field, with cold, stark, and lifeless corpses strewn,
soldiers who had foutrht beneath their country's ban-
ner, and had proudly borne her sword, and maintained
honor, spotless and unsullied. Calmly she shone over
their unconscious forms, like a blessing brecthed soflly
on their gallant heads.

Northern hero and Southern soldier mingled in their
attendance on the wounded, gently binding up their
bleeding wounds, and enddavoring to alleviate, as far
as possible, the sufierings of those who, but a few
hours before, had been their comrades in the strife.

Among those in attendance on the sufferers, was
George Devere, now a captain in the Southern Army.

With what bitter feelings he threaded his way
among the fallen, expecting every moment to meet the
ghastly face of some friend of his youth, now cold in
death. As he was passing along, be almost stumbled

BBOTUEa AOAIirST BROTHEtt.

orer a prostrate form, that of his brother Johu. He
would have pasaed on, luid not a groan from thrt now
conscious man attracted his atteutiori. He stooped
down to make an exarniuaiion of the wounded man
when he started buck with the wild exclamatioa— *
•♦ Mj God ! at lust ! "

For a moment he stood bpell-bouod. gazing on the
old tamilisir l&ce, and th^-n. with the assistance of so-ne
soldiers, he had his brother conveyeJ to the nearest
building where the wounds were epee^iily dressed.
Alter a tew hours, the surgeor. pronounced him out of
danger, and George returned to his own encampment
with a sad heart, but withal, a changed -nan The
scenes of his childhood a d his homo came before him
and in his mind there wad a new and holy resolve

Ihe mornir.g reveille wa-. sounding, calling together
the iiebel soldiers. As man after man stepped it.to
the ranks, many a tenr was shed, when it was seen
how thinned were their numbers, anl how many a
place was empty, which but the day before hud been
hlled by those %yho now, on the red'battie plain, slept
the cold sleep of death. ^ ^

When all were in their places, Captain Devere rode
torward and requested of his superiors permission to
speak, which was granted. Eidin- back to his detach-

Ti"' '" \^o"-"e ^'e«P ^vith trerauloMs eraotien, he
addressed them in these words :

" Comrades ! when we think ot our companions, who
are lying uncoffined oo yonder gory field, when we
realize how bitter is our defeat, it brings to our eyes a
tear and causes our hearts to swell with the deepest
emotion ; but hope holds out to us the bow of promis.-
and we must not be disheartened, but make ar.otbe;
ettort, and hurl the invader from our homes

pJ,.^r?^'V *° *^\^'°"'- of battle, you know I was
evei to be found where dangers hung dark and
IJ^ itening over your gallant heads, that I was ever
torward in the strife, and that 1 never forsook the
glorious cause ; you know that but yesterday I led you

THl OLD SCHOOL HOLSJC.

«d

into the heart of battle ; you know I alway* lo?ed our
cause, and was uever a traitor to it. I love the cause
yet, and hope to see it conquer; but to-dav t must
turn traitor, to day I must forsake this sacred causp,
and bid my gallant comrades farewell.

" Lust night, while wandering bv the light of the pale
moon over that blood-stained tield, seeking to succor
whom. I' might,— on the crimson sod, I found my
brother, lying bathed in his own life's gore, which ras
ebbing fast away.

"J/^«« borr. in' the North, it was the home of mv
childhood ; there live my aged parents, and should
they know that their son is their enemy, it would
bring their grey hairs in sorrow to the grave.

" Comrades ! I cannot fight against my own kindred.
The bleeding South is my loved home, and with her
my sympathies shall always be; but for her I cannot
fight, though I hope to see her triumph.

"Strive for the right, drive home the accursed
Northerner, and make the victory yours.

" Comrades ! will you accept mv resignation, or shall
1 be imprisoned as a traitor?"

The answer was » ringing cheer.

He handed to his superiors his commission, took a
solemn oath never to raise arras against the South,
received a p:»ss, bade farewell to bis comrades, and
galloping away, was soon lost to sight.

-*^f*~

The Old School House.

— :o: —

BY "noma."

— :o: —

( Written ujnm the occasion of removing from an old school

house to a netv one.)

''E have bade fa 3weli to the little, red, old-
fashioned school house, with its rows of bard
benches, smoke-stained, pencil-marked walls,
dusty floors, cracked and figured black-board,
and rusty old stove, — around which, on a cold winter's

THE OLD SCII<X>I. nOUSE.

morDiog, night be seec a group of school-boys, trying
to coax up a sickly little Are, or perhaps endeavoring
to keep the poor old stove from freezing, — and taken
our well worn books to a larger and more pretentious
edifice, which is an ornament and a pride to our neigh-
borhood. From the windows of our new school-room
we can see the old one, elevated high and dry on
runners, ready to be moved away, to form, aftar its
prominent part ir) teaching tlie young idea " how to
shoot," a dwelling house of modest aspirations, in
which children dwell without that fear of the ferule
which characterized their predecessors.

What a host of memories does the old house call up.
Looking back through the dim vieta of by-gone years,
we may see the old master, with his cap and gown,
tiis rod in one hand and chalk in the oih«r, rapidly
covering the blackboard with long " sums" in the much
detested and thrice denounced pounds, shillings acd
pence, while paper wads are flying around the room,
now and then striking some red-headed urchin,
causing him to spring from his seat with a Vf hemeut
interjection, \» hich brings the red down on the offender a
back, dispelling the fun, and not a smile is to be seen
for the next two minutei. The seats are tilled with
healthy, barefoot boys, and joyous, laughing maidens,
of all aees, from the tender infant of four to the
blushing young lady of eighteen, who smiles sweetly
at the young man across the aisle. A class in spelling
is soon called up, and diphtheria producing words
given to the thick headed pupils, and soon there is a
great commotir jo the cla>«s, as one after another
leaves his plac^ .t or near the head, taking his place
at the foot. Presently a rosy-cbeeked girl makes a
mistake purposely, that she may be beside the boy at
the foot.

It is a great event when the old time "School
Committee Man" puts in an appearance, to puzzle
youthful heads with some hard questions, which only
one can answer, and ihat one is the genius of tt<»
school, the one whom his fellow pupils look up to as
the eighth wonder of the world. He always has his
hssons perfectly, is great on composition, has ciphered

THE OLD SCTIOOI, BOUSE.

G".

through .h» Rithmetic, is the best cricketer, aiid can
without difficulty tell the distance to the next torn.
But we must return to the " Committee Man." Afte-
half an hour's visit, he ikes a speech, fo wise that no
one can understar.d it, how. low, and takes bis
departure.

What a hubbub there is when the youngster? are
let #»ut for the noon hour of play. Lessons and books
are cast, for the time being, into oblivion, and sports
ot various kin.ls take their place. When out again at
ni^ht, they must walk home ujider the eye of authoritv
bowing uj obeisance to every one they meet, until it Vs
a wonder the poor things' necks do not become trans-
Dxed m a perpetual bow.

But the old ma8f«r has passed away, and his pupils
have become men and women, and taken their places
lu a sterner school, where the world is 'be school-room
life the book, and experience the tearher, winning for
themselves positions of prominence and renown. la
their stead new teachers and scholars occupy the old
torms. The ludy teacher fills the chair of the old
master. She wearily turns her eye Ircm the dull
routine of miserable lessons, mischievous and disorderly
pupils, hard and dusiy floors, to the faded flowers on
the desk beside her, and thinks of one who waits for
her, beneath the willo\. oranches, with a true heart and
fresher flowers. We look across the familiar room.
>J ith the exception of being a little more shattered and
shabby, it is unchanged. But a new fashioned group
of scholars are in the old seats. With the old years
have passed away the old fashions. Shoeless feet no
longer meet our gaze, for kid and morocco must enclose
the dainty foot of youth. Furs, flowers laces, and
other delicate articles have obtained supremacy over
the old-fashioned, but comfortable home-made gar-
ments. Instead of only Arithmetic, Reading, Spell-
ing and Writing, we now run over a course of Algebra,
Latin, Greek, French, Philo.-ophy and such branches,
combined with thefirst mentioned, and our education is
pronounced complete. Yet, if it is all we require, it is
all right. ^

There were often, in the oWen times, quarrels with

-'"i^^^p^^^*

THE OLD SCHOOL HOUSE.

;:1

■■t

the teachers, arising from Tarious causes, which goner-
ally ended, afier some storming ou the part of the
teacher, and stubbornness on the other side, in the of-
fender rfceiving a castigation, and bt-Iug compelled to
beg, on bended knee, the pardon of the highly insulted
pedagogue. But sometimes these little brawls were
not «o easily settled. High words were followed by
dismissal and positive refusal to teach the wayward
scamp. It sometimes happened, however, that the
blame was on the teacher's part, and after the usual
preliminaries, a d the pupil remaining at hoiue a few
days, that worthy was glad to coax his much wronged
disciple to grac» by his presence the bench so lately
vacated by him in high dudgaon.

When we look at the surroundings of the old house,
it brings to mind the games we hafe there enjoyed, —
Cricket, and Base Ball, when each party strove hard
for the innings, and when the ball would sonaetimes
strike a youaker on the head, the ' bawl ' coming out
of his mouth. In winter, skating, sliding, coasting
and other games which 'vere entered into with zest,
kept us from freezing in the vast snow banks, throngh
which we labored in the cold mcrnings, with a little
fellow under each arm, and another on our "boulders.

Then too, were sinking schools and caody puUings,
vessels to carry off the surplus merriment with which
vve were fairly boiling over. It would be folly to at-
tempt a description of the'-e familiar scene?, the fun
and the excitement which these diversions awakened.
But the best fun of these affairs were the sleigh drives
to and from them, when the joyoue daughter would
ring out on the clear, frosty uvening aii% and loud hur-
rahs would bring good folks to their doors, to see what
was the matter.

Then at the candy parties ;— how the old floors 'and
walls would shake, when twelve or sixteen lads and
lasses took the flonr to the music of Sambo's violin.
Poor old Sambo! h© rests beneath the sod, but his
spirit has wing»d its way to the happy land where all
good darkies go.

But we must bid good bye to the old house, with all
its plea«ant dreamy memories of hard tasks, beloved

^MLr.^;r.

• *

WHr SHE NEVER MAHRIED.

67,

eachers aud happy scholars, innoceut fun and all suvh
things which are the common lot of .very old schooi
house, and which will, in time to come, be said of the
new and elegant edifice we now occupy.

-•♦^

^Vhy She Never Married.

— :o: —

BY " NOM

— :o:—

ELL girls, said our Aunt Poky is she vas
called, " since you !iuve teasoU mp, too, so
often, I will tell you \v\^j^ 1 .ney^r lurried."
" Oh ! do, dear Aunt Poily." w>^ ill cried
m a breaib.

So five of us,— my two cousins £«a and ilaud, my
sisters Louisa and Anna, and my own rattle-brained
self, rejoicing in the modest name of Angelina Celeste,
—drew our chairs closer together, that we might not-
lose a vord of the forthcoming etory we hfd so often
coaxed and implored our Aunt to relate. We knew
8ome strange secret hung over her life, so that she, in
our recollection nerer loved any man, but became one
of those much abused and oft ridiculed ange's of good
-an old maid. To b'. sure she was only thirty-three,
but already sdver threads were mingled with her dark
locks, and lines that should not be there, were on her
frtce. let she was cheerful and kind, always striving
to make some one happy.

We were a gay lot, none of us above nineteen, I,
thj youngest, sixteen, and the only one destitute of
that ladies all in all-a " beau "-due, probabi . , to mv
iack of personal charms, and my .^ild, untrained
nature, hov once, however, wo drew down our faces.
aud were sober.

'« Now 1 declare, girls, " said Aunt Polly, '« vou are
only making fun of me, putting on such sanctimonious

WHV SHE NEVEB MABEIBD.

Pre

faces ; you know you caa't keep the laugh back,
agreat mind not to tell you a word." ^

•« Oh ! yes vou must, Auntie, and I won t be sober
any more," 'said Maud, bursting into a laugh, in
which we all joined. .

"Fifteen4 years ago," b^gaa Aunt Polly, as quiet
was restored, " 1 was young and lively, like yourselves.
My lather owned a largd factory in Hampton where
we resided, surrounded by everything hoart could wish.
How well I remember the dear old home, and that
happy summer, when I was eighteen. It hardly
8eeme more than a few weeks ago, when my father
employed a young stranger as book-keeper and foreman
in his establishraant. Arthur Dunraore was a tall,
handsome vouLg mai» of twenty-three, with jet black
curls and' moustache, eyes like midnight, and small,
white hands. Above all he was highly accomplished,
having graduated Jib a first-class college, and popular
in society, so no wonder if he was a heart breaker.

" It was arranged that he was to board with our
family, and thu« we became intimate.

" I need not tell you how quickly the summer went,
for every evening he used to take me driving, or we
would ramble along the beach «r down by the mill-
stream, standing under the linden trees, talking on
every interesting subJH'.fc we could think of, or we
would sit in the garden and he would read to me,—
what a splendid voice he had,— till the sun wont down
and the moon and stars came out. Then we would
go in and he would play and sing. Those sweet old
songs are still ringing in my memory, through the
long years. Oh ! I was happy, very happ,-.

" One evening, as we stood beneath the lindens, he
told me the ' old, old story,' and for the first time I
felt his kiss— the kiss of betrothal— on ray lips. .My
cup of happiness was full, I believe I even cried for
jov when I was alone. We were to be married the
ne'xt spring. Yes ! my dear girls, your poor old Aunt
Polly was as near married as that.

• In the latter part of Autumn my sister Minnie
returned from boarding school, where she bad been for
a year. She was two years older than 1, and vary

WHY SHE NEVER MAEBIED.

beautiful, while I uever laid any great claims in that
direction.

" What followed I hardly know, till I found that
Arthur grew cold, distant and neglectful to me, and
turned his attention more closely to Minnie than I
thought exactly right for one engaged to another. Yet
1 said nothing, hoping he would soon be the same to
me as of old.

" One glorious autumn evening 1 strolled out into
the garden, hopiug to meet Arthur, and win him back
to me. for it now almost seemed ss though we were
estranged, though I had no suspicion of the real truth,
for I deemed him too pure and high-souied to be faith-
less. 1 attributed it all to my own feelir)g8, and
endeavored by every possible means to prove to him
how dear he was to me.

"As I stood beneath the trees, thinking, 1 heard
familiar voices ;.ear me, none but Arthur's and
Minnie's, speaking in low, earnest tones. I listened,
and this is what I heard :

" ' Minnie, Minnie darling, my heart is yours, will

you accept it? Oh ! my love, can you not, will you not

make me happy ?' "

" ' Of how many have you asked the samo?"'

" ' I swear by the God of love that you are the first,

and the only one I ever loved. Darling, what is your

answer ?' "

" I heard the whispered ' yes,' as I drew nearer, I
saw her golden head resting on his shoulder, and their
lips meet. Then, somehow, I stole away, in spite of
the sickness and agony at my heart, and left them
alone. I don't know how I ever got to my room, and
lived through that night. It was a bitter struggle.

"The next day Minnie told me of her love, and
unconscious that sbe had destroyed my happiness,
asked my blessing, and I gave it, with m;' heart
bursting, even as I folded her in my arms and kissed her
lipt-. though all she saw of xay emotion was that I was
a little paler than usual. I never told her my secret,
and I released him fron all semblanceof a ti« with me,
in a shcrt note, for I would not see him alone again,

■ H

■ ii

THOUGHT.

and asked bin to be kind to ray dear sister, and to love
bar trulv, adding my blessing. t u j i i j

" Tbey were niarried at the very time 1 bad lookea .
forward to as my wedding day. Minnie wanted me to
be her bridesmaid, but when the day came, 1 waa tar
awav. JIow could I see her staud in the place that
was* mine by right, and hear her take vows binding her
to the only man 1 ever lovwd. for with \w to love once,
was to love always. , .

" There, girls^ you have my story, yet it is only a
broken dream, one of life's shadows, that will be lifted
from the heart in Heaven's clet»rer sunshine. God
grant you may never know such shadows, my dear

KH*ls." , „

The tears filled Aunt Polly's eyes, as she saw us all
cryiug. Somehow we kissed her good-bye, and stole
away, sober enough for onre, and now Aunt Polly is
dearer to us than ever.

<♦>

Thought.

— :o: —

BY "NOMA."

— :o: —

fOW boundless, limitless and untiring is thought,
as it goes rolling and bounding through space,
time and eternity, never ceasing, never paus-
ing, always restless and roaming. The mind
of man is never idle ; even when sleep fans us to rest
with her downv wing, in dreams the mind goes on,
and on, and on", in fancy's wild flights, or lives over the
scenes of hours that hare tied.7;Tbought'.is like the
rolling sun, never stopping to rest , it is like a mighty
river, whose banks ard bright with flowers, flowing
sometimes amid sunshine and souietines amid shadow,
sometimes clear aud limpid, sometimes dull and turbid,
sometimes singing lightly, sometimes roaring with

THOUGHT.

angry voice ; it ia Hke the ocean, whose billows never
cease to break ou the giant rocks, with their ever
varying harmony; and it is like time itself, for it
reaches far beyond the bounds of life and the portals
of the tomb, into the dim fature.

Sometimes it paints the coming days with joy and
gladness, bringing to the heart peace and relief; some-
times it tills the soul only with tho dark hues oi sorrow,
anguish and despair ; sometimes it awakens meiuories
of golden moments and hours of sweetness, that fled
too quickly into the past, and now cling to the heart
like bright pictures ; sometimes it brings dark, gloomy
portraits of a fearful past, that make the heart shudder
and grow sick, filling the soul with horror unspeakable,
almost tearing reason from her throne, and setting up
demctiiac madness and lunacy in her place ; sometimes
it brings bright hopes, with rainbow tints ; and some-
times it delights to torture us with the bitt«r memories
of cruel disappointment* and broken hopes, of pleasures
that slipped from our grasp, of happiness that ( juld
not last, and of ambitions that were cherisht- d only to
vanish.

What has thought given us? Everything that we
enjoy, everything that delights us, and everything that
is useful to us. It has built vast manufactories, and
filled them with ingenious machinery and busy crowds ;
it has covered the globe with a network of railroads
and telegraph lines ; it has dotted the ocean with white
winged vessels, and given them compass and chart to
guide them over the pathless billows ; if has built
cities, towns and villages ; it had invented printing
presses to educate the world: its flights of imagination
and inspiration have given them unceasing employ-
ment, and filled our librarie*) wi*^h delightful books and
poet creations ; it has deluged the world with wars and
seas of blood ; it has spread the mantle of peace over
conflicting nations ; it has built up and pulled down
kingdoms ; it has delivered man from the thraldom of
darkness and superstition, and placed him in the
magic circle of civilization ; and look where we may,
we see the productions of thought, new creations, new
wonders, and new triumphs.

THE FATE OF ROSONOBA.

What an agent for good it is, what a mighty one for
evil, if misused. Let us, then, endeavor to think of
doing good to mankind, ht our thoughts be pure,
untarnished by the foul touch of sin, and let us so
shape our lives, by the thoughts that must como, that
we shall be blameless, that we shall be bright lights
and shining examples to our fellow travellers, and that
when the last hour comes, we shall have nothing to
fear, but look with the clear ey« of faith at the golden
gates, till the angel'i bear us home.

■<♦ »

The Fate of Rosonora.

— :o: —

♦' NOMA.

LAN(tUID river slowly rolls its waters over a
bed of sparkling gold. Down to its banks slope
gentle hills, doited here and there with
nodding groves, while in the distance dark
mountains lift their gigantic forms high into the bright
moonshine that rests softly upon the sleeping land-
scape like a flood of glory. The air is sweet with the
perfume of wild flowers. On the bank of the river
stands a massive old castle, its rag;::ed grey walls and
Kolid towers tinged with a softness and seeming to
wear a smile in the magic rays of the silver moon. It
has stood there since the first days o' knightly dreams,
though the clinking ot hammers closing the armor
rivets no longer resounHs in the old courtyard, the
knights no more enter its deserted lists on foaming
chargers, or ride to the chase with merry blast of horn
and gay halloa. But to-night lights gleam brightly
from every window of the old castle, and sounds of
music and ringing laughter fall upon the ear. What
means it ? To-night the old Baron Wuidain, who still
occupies the feudal mansion bequeathed ^• him from a

THE FATE OF E080N0HA.

long line of illustrious nncestors, gives a b«ll in honor
of his fair and only daughter Rosonora, who is just
eighteen. The knightly, the brilliant, the wealthy,"and
the gay, from all the country round, are there, and
midst the assemblage is the noble Sir Edgardo, who ia
betrothed to the fair Rosonora, and is to claim his
bride one year from to night. Wealthy, titled, honored,
and a brave knight, no wonder he is courted by all,
and regarded as a jiero well worthy of mating with
lovely Eosonora.

" I wonder what delays the appearance of Lady
Eosonora," said the Baron, as dancing commenced and
she did not appear. Where was she? la her boudoir,
finishing her toilet. How sylph-like she was, with her
faultless figure, raven locks, dark eyes, lofty brow,
pearly te- th, ruby lips, and beautiful complexion, clad
in a robe of spotless white, glittering here and there
with precious gems, and a necklace of purest pearls
upon her snowy neck. Her maid was fastening some
rare old gems of untold value in her dark curls.

*• Wait, Euphemia, " said she, as these preparations
were nearly completed, "do you remember those clus-
ters of lilitts and violets that we saw en the bank of the
river this morning ? "
•• Yes, my lady. "

"Don't you think we can steal out unnoticed and
gathciT a garland of them ? "

"Certainty, my Hear lady, T know of no hindrance;
but I will go and pluck them, while you remain here. "
" Oh ! no, I will go with you, Euphemia, the moon-
light is so beautiful. And then I will wear a wreath
of these wild flowers, with a few rosebuds, instead of
these jewels. Don't you think they will be nicer?"
said she, enthusiastically, for wild flowers were her de-
light.

" They will, most assuredly, lovely lady. "
" Let us go. ■'

Hand in hand, out into the open court yard, unseen
by any one, across the swinging drawbridge, and down
to the river, go the fair and motherless Eosonora and
her pretty maid Euphemia, who loves her even to de-
votion, stopping for a moment to mutually and sil.ently

IPHIVO.

admire the beautiful water, and then begin to gather
the IotoIt, dewy, sparkling flowers.

Suddenly an awful shriek breaks the stillness, as the
hollow ground gives way, and Rosonora sinks into her
tomb, with the cruel waters closing above her, and is
seen no more on earth.

Need we tell of the anguish, wailing, and sorrowful
hush of revelry ?

The peasantry still speak in saddened tones of an
old grey-headed baron, bowed with the weight of grief,
and of a noble knight, whe threw away his life in bat-
tle, a? a thing not worth having, and tell that as each
year rolls round, for a few short hours the old ruined
castle is lighted up from foundation to battlement,
tower and keep, the river flows placidly en in the
moonlight, the lovely Rosonora gathers wild flowers
on the bank, a fearful shriek is heard, and then all is
dark and silent again.

-*»♦-

Spring.
— :o: —

BY "NOMA.''

— :o: —

fOW delightful it is, these balmy days, with
their sunshine, their sett, south breezes, —
bearing fleecy clou .j through the azura depths
of the sky, — with the green grass springing
up under our feet, with the flowers budding around us,
with the trees clothing themselves in their robes ol
green, and with the little feathered songsters warbling
their happy carols, to wander away to some sequestered
dell, deep in the woodland shades, far from the dusty
streets and haunts of care, and spend a few hours
listening to the little brooklet murmuring pleasantly
over its pebbly bed, daohing down a miniature cataract,
and meandering through its peaceful rale, till lost to

BPBIKa.

to« eye m the recesses of its leafy forest home ; to
recline upon a mossy baok ; to look far into the dreamv
clouds, fancying bright visions in their floating, ever
changing forms ; and to listen with ravished ear to the
songs of the merry birds, wishing that we were of
their joyous number, that we might dwell forever in
such an enchanting scene.

How gontly the sweet odors of the charming forest
flowers are borne to us on the soul reviving zephyrs of
morn, whispering to our raptured senses tales of an
angel land, where flowers never fade. How calmly
and peacefully we sit and meditate on the glorious
panorama, and fancy wings us back to the Garden of
Eden, until our hearts become so tender that we would
not harm a flower, but drop a sympathizing tear, did
we see its lovely form crushed to earth and yet pour-
ing out its sweet odor to the one who has rumed it a
holy emblem of forgiveness. *

Who does not love, iu these sweet, bright days, to
forsake the beaten paths, the stern, hard walks of toil,
and wander idlj through Nature's flowery meads, to
pluck the modest violet or the blushing wild rose* to
inhale their fragrant perfumes, and dream of those
wonderful lands where perpetual flowers are blooming,
and creating an earthly paradise, almest too beautiful]
bright, and sacred for poor erring humanity to tread
therein ?

" Only a little way further on,

I see a touch of the hazy hills,
Growing bright as the rosy dawn

Gaily glimmers on rocks and rills,
• Where ioyous minstrels of Nature biing

Their gladdest songa for the glorious spring. "

Ethalma.

A T^'^'Crk.yi. OF THE OLDEN TIME.

— :o: —

BY ♦'NOMA."

— :o: —

WAS wandering over a wide plain, where once
had been fougb^ a dead;> battle. Presently 1
saw before me the forms of fallen warnors, clad
- in shining mail, their noble steeds lying beside
them. Broken helmets, pierced shields and Bhivered
lances lay thickly strewn around. Long I mused upon
the sad scene.

«« And this," thought I, " is the end of their earthly
ambition. Men proudly enter the lists of battle,
where friend is arrayed against fnend, and brother
against brother. They close in deadly conflict, and
behold ! this is the issue thereof; this « ^l^e/^nje they
seek, death, and a deathless name. Oh! that these
warriors might wake and speak to me."

Suddenly 1 bethought me of a phial 1 carried in my
pocket, containing the Water of Life. 1 hastily
sprinkled this upon the cold forms, when they stood
upright before me, and asked in hoarse, sepulchral

"Why disturbest thou our rest? What would'st

thou?" . i, 1 J 1

" I would know, bravo warriors, of your leader, and

wherefore you battled."

♦' We fought under the banner of the great queen
Ethalma, whose golden sword no one can withstand,
and at the cost of our lives, we vanquished king
Cadmir, who wished to make her his queen.

" Where rises queen Ethalm&'s castle ?

"Behold its towers," said the spectre warrior,
pointing to the south," but follow her not, neither
approach her gilded castle, or thou art forever lost,
for she can be vanquished only by her own sword.

•« And if she is defeated ?" ^^

" She becomes the bride of her conquerer.

" I will hazard an encounter."

SCNSHIKE AND SHADOW.

Then drawing from my pocket ooother phial, I
poured upon tliem the Water of Death, and they sank
down to their eveHauting sleep.

I hurried to the turretted and towered castle, and
entered the unguarded and tapestried banquet hall. On
the wall hung Elhalma's golden sword, which dunced
in ita richly gemmed ncnhbard as I entered. Taking
this as an omen, I quickly ran and drew the charmed
blade from its sheath, putting mine in its place.
Hardly had I done so, when Ethalma herself appeared,
radiant in all her queeuly magnificence and beauty,
beauty such as I had never seen before, bewitching,
enchanting, enthralling,

Ere I had time to do her homage, she hastened to
the sword, and drawing it, said :

«• Draw ! for thou must fight."

The conflict was short and sharp, and the fair queen
Ethalma soon held nothing but a golden hilt. Throw-
ing it from her, she sprang to me, and clasped her
arms around my neck, whispering :

" My love, you have conquered, my love forevrr,
evermore."

And the beautiful queen Ethalma became my ever
faithful and loving bride.

-»♦♦-

Sunshine and Shadow.
— :o: —

BY"NOMA."

— :o: —

OW drear, dark, cheerless and unpleasant
would be this world of ours, how joyless
would be life, were there no sunshine of love
to chase away the gloomy shadows that some-
times rest over us. How we would pine for sunshine
to light up once more the hills nnd vales, the moun-
tains, the plains, the lak«s and rivers, and the waving

▼rVXTTl.

fields, did a dark shadow oow settle opon them, and
eternally rest there, Teil<.Dg from us tnat orb whose
golden rays we are too proae to slight.

When we see prosperity, friends, and honors, as
our lot, our thanks sbould ascend to the giver ef these
prises, that a dark cloud did not ever rest upon us,
that we were not downcast and down-trodden, sar-
rounded by gloomy dungeon walls, and that we did
not, doomed to separation from Lome and loved ones,
wander far and wide, but that we dwelt in a land of
sunshine and love, where home joys are the sweetest,
and home loves the dearest.

Life was meant to be cheerful to us, if we only try
to make it so, by giving to all a kind word, and a
pleasant smile. What is the use of being melancholy,
and makin^ all around us seem dead and cheerless,
when we might just as well be happy ? Be cheerful,
be kind and loving, and life's shadows will all disappear,
the brigbi sun of peace and content shining •'here it
ones seemed so dark.

-*•*-

Vivette.

— :o: —

BT "NOMA."

— :o: —

WAS rambling to-day along an old unfrequented
path, bordered with delightful green mosses and
shaded by overhanging trees, that led to a gentle
rivulet, when rustic beauty fills the mind with
rest, peace and calm. 1 threw myself down upon a
mossy bank, beneath a spreading tree, to enjoy this
beautiful scene, and listen to bird songs.

Soon I saw I was not alone, for a little maiden,
with fair hair, laughing blue eyes, and cheeks of rosy

MTWTI.

red, came dancing lightly to the sparkling brooklet.
The lofelj little fay held in one hana a boat,— formod,
iw is true, only of a §Y[,>, , at trimmed with sails and
banners, — and ia fiti cit.«~ j nose-gay ^f wild flowers.
With the flowers t Hk> '- aded the little vessel, then
laanched it. und as .ibr-,»ht waters bore it onward
with its fv^^et freight, . ; gaily followed it, laughing
and shouting in her cV Erer ^nd anon I observed
some fair flower £ 'J ^ from the deck and floating
behind on the stream. But at last II. ) miniature ship
struck a hidden rock, and hurled its precious freight
into the stream, then, lightened of its load, glided into
a quiet pool, and ended its voyage, with one little
flower clinging to its ropes. With ringing laughtar
the fair child saw the mishap, watched the tiny craft
sail into the haven, t^^en taking it in her arms, she
disappeared in the forest glens, unconscious that a pair
of charmed eyes had followed her every movement.

The sweet vision ses me to musing. Tba picture's
mission was fulfilled, it gave me an hour of golden
thought, it won me from the disappointments of the
world, and showed me a purer dream, made bright by
memory's fondest rays. It called back to me the
years of childhood, when I too sailed sbiagle boats,
flower freighted, in those sinless days, when no pas-
sionate dreams fevered the brow, and no care made the
faee grow stern. The eye that watched those sportive
joys has oft been dimmed by the mist born of broken
hopes, the ear that listened to the bubbling brock has
frown Mred of empty words and meaningless phrases,
the feet that pursued untired those floating pleasures,
•r"« wearied with following life's delusive phantoms, and
the heart that clung to childhood's dreams, is worn
and bitterly aching, but scarcely wiser, even though
tan<^ht by harsh experience. The ships I sail to-day
are frailer than those I used to freight with flowers,
and loaded with care, and the waves on which they go
are stormier waves, with many a sunken rock, on
which they may be wrecked. But they will lose many
of life's hopes on the ocean, like tha fay's lost flowers,
even though they escape the rocks

But perhaps the ships nay reac'j a peaceful havcjo

■M^ts -x^ikmiTm

GOD KNOWETH.

at last, despite life's storms, and tempests and hidden
rocks, and safely rest, amid a restless world. Yet it
we would guide them to harbor, w . must keep a close
watch on the shoals and reefs oi in, with a firm hand
on th? helm, and a sure trust in the corapasi. And
though we lose much ot the precious cargo, ynt if we
bear home one golden sheaf, shall we not be rewarded
accordingly ?

God Knoweth.

— :o: —

BY "NOMA. "

— :o: —

'HT is the soul of man always longing and
yearning for something higher and holier?
why is the mind always striking for some-
thing unattainable? why are we always
wishing for something bejond our reach, something
that shall satisfy this lona^ing, and soothe this unrest to
quietness ? why is the heart bo sensitive that it must
sorrow when friends are taKen away, or dissappoint-
ments come, and rejoice when gladness overshadows
it? why are there so many shadow on our path? why
do ungry storms sweep across the spirit's sky? why
this care, toil and anxiety? why this yearning after
something immortal ? why this looking into the secret
and hidden future ? why these high hopes, »hat flit
before us like meteors, and then are gone? why these
broken ambitions? what is the soul? how is it inlaid
in our mortal clay, an immortal, neverdying brealh?
how does it remain there through every heart storm
and spirit tempest ? how has it communion with tl.e
Almighty. ' i its house of prayer ? how does it distin-
guish purity and goodness from the stains of sin ? how
has it such faith, that through darkness and fear and
trembling its clear eye may see the golden city? and
how does it take its leave,' when life's storms are over,

ami the rich v-,rm glovt- of .unsol. tin-es (he pallid
surterer s couc!. w.tt, ^oUlen «lur^ that we ran never
8.e 1 steal a-.v.y to th. realm, of Miss? how . - tow

In "V'^? '^'"'''''^ l.alf of Hunshine and h.ilf of n
dow, dark doucis of surf.riuj^, sir. and sorrow tha rend
ti.e heart and wasto the b.,.lv? an.j when are fl,?
•in-ary wanderin-.s. tlu^so bitter h ' rfc T\Z T

""'ithotronbiedspintent.ri;sl;:::L:ir'h^,r:;:j

l.ushod and hdoro ,t, the white robed anZl b" d^
«;ak.n« from their harps sweet praises to [in, vl.!:
s-.teth on the throne lirever ? (Ll Knowo ,"" '^''"

-^♦*-

The Paths of Knowledge.

— :o:-

n Y "NO M A

— :o: —

UK paths of knowledge am as devio.is as fhev
are preeious ; only he who o.ven-ises the ntnjost
care and pationee ean hope to walk its win<lin"
roads and escape the pitfalls witi, .vhieh the?
are boset, and once trodden, th,>fle roIcIm, paved paths
ean never b.. travelled a«ain. Then throw not away
the hours of youth ir) i.lleness, but make their sweets
your own Treasure the minutt^s as vou would coldei,
.•oin.H or glittonng jewels, aud with pleasure you will
see them lengthen into hours, dav8 and yeaw. Let
<^very leisure moment b.. employed in perusing some
useful book or paper, and in after life, atnid its enres
and worrynigs, and trials, you will find the words voil
have read coming hack to you with a force you never
t.lt before, an<l with a sweotnos. which vou once
thought they never could possess -bright inemoricH
ol tlie ohien days.

im^iat.

A Picture of Innocence.

RY"NOMA."

— :o: — -. .

[T is tho misty hour of gloaming. A fair young
girl, with rosy checks, blae eye» mid golden
hair, sits benoath a drooping olm, in that eweot
hour when hoaven and larth soem neo'-ost
together. In her hands is a boquct of beautiful
flowers, soft as thoughts of budding love.

" Buttercup," she says in a musical voice, " why do
the chil li-en love you so V

"Because," answers the Buttercup," my blossoms
are golden coloured, and cliildren, like men, love gold,
so both will be sought for, though mingled with
thorns."

"Daisy, why are you so dear to me?"

"Because my blossoms are just like your heart,
sacred to innocence."

" Forget-m'vnot, what makes me blush when I kiss
your delicate form ?"

" Because I was given to you by one who truly
loves you."

" Heart's Ease, tell me your name."

" He told it to you to-night, when ho kissed yon
good-bye, saying, ' think of me."'

" Liiy, why are you adored ?"

" Like the one who softly questions me, for my
puritv and modesty."

" liose, dear, queenly, divine, beaubiftd Rose, why
are you dear, po sweetly dear to me ?"

" Because I am the emblem of love, true, undying
love ; because when he gave rao to you he whispered
such sweet words in your ear. Ah! fair maiden, I
heard those words; I saw your blushes as you timidly
laid your hand in his, and were so happy. You lovo
me because I will bo laid under your cheek to-night
and bring you sweet dreams. You lovo mo because

my mi..io.. i. to foil you h.v.v you ,.re IovhJ, and now

you .nil k.ss n.y ,Wl..a I..V... Hn.U..,Jy l.v^uo „u-^
H nd I will b,3 d.ar to you for n.ar.y years, lor my

trf:u7o7or' '" ^"'"^^"' '•'- ^'-^ 1-- ^-« ^ --

von?/- '"'Z'^^'^'' ^?t'^^' ^°^"^"' ^ ^''l «'^^«y« love
how 1 shall treasure you. for you all tell me such a
Hwoot sweot Hfory, that j^rows d.-aror to tnv heart
fivery litriH it h repeafod."

Then the fair pirl solely kisfles ll.o heautif.d flowers,
froVsS g'-"""' '"m. a.id the sweet picture fades

The Humming-Bird and the Violet.

— :o: —

BY«*NOMA."
— :o; —

LITTLE * ild violet bloomed all alone in the

garden bowers, in undnturbed purity and

modesty. A huinminfr-bird, in gay and re-

splen.lont plumage, espi-^d her, aud soon was

at her side.

" Dear violet," said the huramiug-bird, «« I love vou
truly, will you be mine ?" ^

" I fear you will be false," said the violet, tremblmc.
for she loved the hummi >' ' -d *"

•' Never ! dear violet ; I swear to love thee, and no
other, for who could resist thy sweet charms, or ever
leave thy side? G >9, darling violet, say you won't
break my heart, an. i will ever love you, and be true
to you. It shall be my greatest delight to shield you
Irom the wind and the storm, and when the sun grown
hot t^ project you from its ravs, and fan you to slotM>
with my wings. Are you mine, dear little violet ''"

I, .

-^feiiiBiiJsr^

8t.

THK UROKKN HI ART

Pretty little violet dropped her eyes, blusLiing deep-
ly as she swetrtly whispered :

'••Forever thiiie, dear hutnmiug-bird."

" Now give me a kiss from thy sweet lip?, dear

heart." . .

And the humming bird hovered above her, kissing
her again and again, vowing to love none else, till in
delicious sips, he drew all the honeyed sweetness from
her fair lips, then away he lltnv to woo another with
his sweet, but false words, and violet never saw him

agaiu.

Poor little violet mourned, drooped, and faded away,
till the hot sun, from which he had sworn to protwt
her, beamed cruelly down upon hor, then, with a sigh,
she dropped her head and dii-d.

Though this is but a fable, the moral is so plain it
need not be written.

-♦♦♦-

. t . . I

The Broken Heart.

B Y " N O M A . "

•°* %

'IIO can bind np the broken heart, the heart
that is crushed, and torn, and bleeding
and aching? Who can hoal its pangs,
when disappointment tears it asunder ?
can soothe it, when, crushed, it sees be-
fore it nothijig but the blackness of despair ?
Who can feel for it, when every sob tear? the
bleeding wound still deeper? Who can pity it, when
life is a blank, wben there is nothing to live for, when
bright hopes are vanished, when ambitions are gone,
when fair prospects are ruined and blighted, when all
that was dear, but awakens a tresh pang, and when it
fain would be in its lonely home, nnd forever at rest ?
Far down in my aching heart hoar the answer ;
through the rustling trees it painfully echoes ; from

Who

QOOD

BYE

the cataract it roars ; from tlio storm it thunders ; from
the darkness of uight it gleams ; from the forest 1 hear
it carolled by thousands of sweet voiced songsters ; and
far across the azure sky, frn«jh from the courts of
heaven, borne on the fle(!t wings of faith, J hear the
sweet and soothing answer whispered to my lonj^ing
soul. — God.

Good-Bye.

* ' NOMA,

— :o: —

OVV the heart throbs, and tears unbidden start
tr the eye, when the hand is graspetl for the
liisl iinie, and these sad words iiro spoken.
Wo gaze for the last time on the dear features
of the ono who goes far away over theooean, mountain,
lake and plain, we clasp the hand, any farewell, and
turn away t« weep. We know not when will come
the hnppy timo that wo meet again, it may never be en
earth ; and if it is, how changt^d will be everything.
Some will be dead and gone ; otht^rs will be married ;
little children will be grown up to men and women ;
school boys will have won for themselves fame on the
world's broad highway ; and middle agfd men will have
become old and grey-head»Ml, tottering with their
yjare, and calmly awaiting the summons that shall call
tbem to enter the portals of the tomb. The fice of
nature will bo very different ; where now rise dark
frowning forests will appear neat villages, and stretch
away in the distance waving fields.

It is with sorrowful hearts that we bid adieu to a
doar one. Tears, long dreary years of waiting and
watching will elapse ere we clasp the hand and
welcome home the dear wanderer, and it is with
beating heart and tearful eye that the hand is pressed
in the last magnetic clasp.

'r-l

■

Long Lake.
— :o: —

It V " N o M A , "
— :o: —
ILony Lake is situated in the forest a' the head of
Cumbeiland Marsh.

'^'-^njCEW have any idea of tiie rustic bonufy of this
' woodland lake, almost excluded from hccoss by
foresto, morassee, and fens. But once theso
obstacles arn ovftrcorae, the scenerv well re-
pays the trouble eccountered in reaching it." A sheet
oj water ovor a mile in length, smooth as polished
glass, down to whose edge gentlv slope the moMV
shores, crowned with nobl., trees, whose drooping
branches hang over the surface of the water -the
golden sunhght glittering on its quiet bosom, and thy
fleecy clouds drifting softly onwards in those azure
heights so far above our heads, seem, to our enchanted
iBuids, to be the realms of Fairyland.

When the water is smooth as a marble floor, with .
the trees ju-.t budding and leaving out, forming a de-
iighttui green border to its silvery surface ; when the
summer sun beams down upon the rippling waves, aiMl
summer breezes sweep over its surface, forming u
thousand curling wavelets which come dancing merrily
to the pebbly beach ; when tho forest hns taken on its
gorgeous tints of crin.on and gold, and theser« leaves
tall gently to the undulating wat*r, or mournful au-
tumn winds come nighing across the cold waves : when
It 18 a gleaming sheet of ice, dotted hero and ther^
with banks of snow, and snow wreath<^ hang curling
on the trees, presenting a scene which would drive the
skater into ecstacy; when the morning sun casts his
bright rays over the ripples ; when l\^e moon sheds her
soft light on the glistening waters ; and when the
storm transforms its surface to a sea of foam, and the
ram coiues down in torrent., the lightning flashes, and

87-

the Ihund.T ro.irs, Lnr.a Fiuke presents n st-Hiie of
benury \v<>ll vvoiMi ,i .hiy'.s tnjvol to ltoli<.|<|.

Cannot this boautiful lake, wliosu I'rv.stnl waters
neatle so palmly on their sandy b-xl, withiii tlioir forest
home ; where the wild inhabitants of the woods slake
their thirst, toss their noble heads, and bound away
unharmed, rejoicing,' in freedom ; where the foot of man
seldom wanders, and whose shores have never been
defaced by his dustroyinjir hand, boast a prouder and
more romantic name than the commonplace one that
now adorns it ? Why, when shet-tH of wnt-Hr, with not
half Its beauty, bear nam-s worfhv of a Oixld-fla, \h
this otio Mt with Jiothinp; but unnrolondine " Lone
Lake?" i s 5

<♦>

ThG Story of the Leaf Fall.

B Y " N M A ,

— :•: —

fT dear little child, said a lovinjr mother, "do
yuu want to leave your mother ?"'
V "No, mother de:ir," snid the pretty littU?

G one, " I want to slay with you always."
" What makes you want to stay, liiy darlinf»?"
" Betrauso I love you so, mother."
"Then if you lov^* me so well, would you not want
to obey my wishes ?"

" Do you wish me to go, mother?"— asked the child,
trembling, "1 thouglit we were always to lire to-
gether."

" My darling, no mother ever wishes to give up her

precious little ones, but the time will soon como when

we must part forever, cling closely to me till then."

"Oh! mother, mother dear, why must Ilea ve you?"

"Because, my dear, your father wishes you to;

r would always keep you in my arms, could I do so."

^^■1

THK 8TOHY «)F THE LEAF FALL.

■4
4

its.

\^%

" And am 1 nover to see you again, my darling
mother ?"

" Perhaps you will only go such a little way that
you can always look at me, ami perhaps you will go
fiuch a long diNfance thiit wh 8]iall never see each each
again."

•• Where am I to go?"

" Vou are to go to a beautiful home, where you will
never know any sorrow ; you will have a couch of
sweetest, softest moss; the golden sutilight will b(.
your food, and the gentle dow your drink, you will be
with your brothers and sisters, many of whom are now
there, find many more to follow you'; vou will be hap-
pier than princes, for you will have a lovelier palace
than they, and the little bright robed fairies will dance
and sing in your pretty bowers; and you will never
know anything but joy. But your mother's heart will
sadly miss her little darling, and the tears will often
fall from her eyes, in the dreary days that are coming "
" But why can't I always stay with you, mother
dear, to keep the sorrow fron. your heart, and the
tears from your eyes?" asked the liti:le one, nestlinff
closer, "J would rather stay with you."

" Because, dear one, your father has a sacred mission
for you to fulfil."

" Why does he take a little c-hild to do his mission?"

" Because my little darling is so pure and innocent."

" When am I to leave you, dearest mother ?"

'• Your father is calling you now."

•• Oh : mother, mother darling, let me stay. I don't
want to go. Oh ! hold m*- fast, keep me in your lov-
ing arn>s, do.irest mother."

" Oh ! if I ordy could, my child, I Mould b.- so
happy. Kiss me good bye, darling."

A gust of wind swept by, am* a dear little delicate
leaf, gloHing with the brilliant huos of auf imn, flutters
from its parent elm to a resting place amid the moss

-t

Ill

Reverie

— :o: —

"NOMA."

— :o: —

WAS sitting at my desk, pondoring on the
inisoru'8 and disappointments of lift-, when sud-
dotily I btdii.ld one of fair form and beautiful
countenance. She was clad in a snowy robe,

reaching below her feet, on her brow was a wreath

of flowers, and in her hand a golden harp. In a voico

the sweetest to which I ever listened, she asked me :
" Unhappy mortal, what wouldst thou?"
" To be in some laud where sorrow never comes,

and disappointment is unknown."

" And what wouldst thou give to have thy wish ?"
" I would give all ray riches, and the fame I have

won."

" To whom wouldst thou give thy riches ?"

" To friends who have baen true to me."

" Wouldst thou give none to the one thou lovest

best?"

•' Why should I r

" To show that thou hast a forgiving spirit ; thy

heart is not pure, llemember ! thou art as much in

fault as she."

'• What would you have me do?"

" Go to her, and on bended knee ask her pardon,

receiving her forgiveness ; then she will ask thy mercy,

which thou must not withhold."

" Will this, fair spirit, bring me happiness?"

" Let the past bo forgotten, and heed my words, if

thou wouldst ever see happiness on earth."

" And is this the only way ? is there no happy is-
land, where the weary soul may rest, dwelling with

spirits as beautiful even as thyself?"

" Is it not enough ? art thou not yet satisfied ? tiiere

is no place this side of Paradise where mortals may be

r"!

ONLY A BBOKKN LOCKET.

complettOy happy, nnd if thou wouldst over enter its
pearly ^attjs, thou must forgivo thine enemies on earth,
even as thou wouldst be forgiven at the gates of
Heaven."

" Is it true, sweet angel, that she will look upon me
witii loving eyes again ?"

" Go thou, obey the words of Peace, whoso ofHco it
is to hush the clamours of tho rebellious heart, and
who now speaketh to thee, and thou shall be happy,
and bless her name. Wilt thou do this?"

" Bright angel, what thou has bidden mo, I will even
do."

Ere I had time to finish my words, she touched her
harp strings, and there fell upon my ear a flood of
rapturous harmony, gently rising and falling, thw sweet-
est music that ever charmed thw spirit of mortal, and
her song was a song of peace and reconciliation, too
sweet to be aught but heavenly ; the angel's face glow-
ed with holy radiance, bright rays of golden glory shone
round her head, giving to the never-fading flowers on
her brow a new lustre, and while the glorious harp
symphonies still soothed my troubled soul, 1 awoke,
and lo I it was a dream.

Only a Broken Locket.

— :0: —

BY "NOMA."

— :o: —

fIS only a little broken locket, lying on the desk
'before me, yet how very dear it is, for it reminds
me of bygone days and happier hours. Dear
companion of my wandrrings, I woulo not part
with it for many a golden coin. It whispers to me of
happy, thrice happy hours that have fled. It speaks
to me of that golden summer when first I wore it, of
pleasant days spent in the schoolroom with bright eyed

ONLY A BROKEK r/TCRET.

chiHren of weary tasks and sm^et memories th«
burden ot care the ^ense of rest when t^ sehodroom

nomewara. It reminds mo of many a long ramblo nnrl
pleasan jo..rn«y. U calls back to me the^itnter tl.a^
io lowed, a term of hard, hard toil, but whrd yTel ed
go den fruits from the neverfailing tree of loarnC It
tel 8 of sea-sidH sojourns and well remembered M.ur
.md boating excursions, and thousands of oth'r mem^
res confusedly mingled in the m.nd. that havrS
.ke the creatures of a broken dream, nto the dim past

casement., as though imploring not to be forgotten.

f^om thethI^^^^'^r^"^" ^^^^ P'^*-« ^3 effaced
trom the tablets of the heart. Too sweei are the

recollections of the past, with its vanished hopes and

va n dreams and sunny memories, to be h^SflT ?or

bring again their happ.e.t hour., to ho^^ many
wounded spirits do its fair pictures brin-. joy and
Bmiles till the sorrows of the'present intra je\em
selves like a mighty shadow, and the bright picture^s
forgotten m the cruel reality and bitterness that
swept It from them. The past ! the one bright spot

Dear little locket ! you shall ever be one of my sweet-
est treasures, bringing back to me the faded tints of
the one fair picture that ever lingers close to my heart
A strange mist-not toarH— comes over mv eves • T
cannot write. Little locket ! I must lay your delicite
pieces, heart treasures, away.

v'*^.- * V.'

IMAGE EVALUATION
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Scieices
Corporation

23 WFST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, NY 14580

(716) 872-4503

■^

P-

• .;!■! t . 1 ^

On the SeD -Shore.

— :0: —

B Y " N O M A. '

— :o: —

>BOUT once a year 1 take a trip to the shcns of
' the Northumbtrla.ui atrait, a vf-ry pleasant
place to spend a few days, bathing, lishni*: and
-S> cunnina. I love t- ramble around tl,o oM
rucks, gun id hand, -md listen to Natures aw-etest
music— the breaking wave.

The iourney is a pleasant one, as we go gaily past
broad farms, where the hardy sons of toil jre to«Hmg
and Ditching the sweet scented hay, past courches
school houses and shops, past orchards, grove, a.ui
meadows, up steep hills and down deep vales, n^iking
the big flocks of noisy geese get out of the way, ns ^'O
CO rattling over their favourite sunny 8pot8,-\vhich
libortv thev clamourously resent,— and on to the
rustic bridge, beneath which the little hshes merrdy
elide to and fro in the dancing sunlight, past charming
old mills, over lazy streams, where the speckled trout
lie in the deep pools, eager for the " fly," past c-ool
SDrii.gs. with their welcome watering troughs, through
low plair.s, where the berries grow in profusion,
through deep shadv forests, where the glancing sun-
beams love to play with the wild flower., and
thousands of bright robed birds make the dark woods
rinc with their happy melody, up and down a tew
more hills, making the hours lively with song, and j.'st,
and laughter, and hurrah! the blue waters of iNorth-
umberlaud Strait are in sight. , u u

A few moments more, and we are on the beach,
Gathering curious shells, listening to the white capped
billow, as it comes dashing madly on to the grey old
rocks, breaking against their rugged sides v^ith mourn-
ful music, and watching the sea gull, as, poising for a
moment over the waters, it plunges, and then reappears,
leariuj? away with a triumphant scream a finny victim.

Olf THE aE\ SHORE.

ITow plnasant it is to sleep near the shore, and be
lulled to rest by old ocean's p:oodiii|a'ht song, tor it
seema to mo that it has an ever-changing soug for every
hour, for every heart, and for every passion. For some
it has a song of gladness and joy, for others the low
wail of sorrow, the shriek of despair, or the dirge of
deatli.

I arose one morning just as the sun was rising.
Oh I what a glorious scene lay before me. The sky
undiramed by a single vapour, the sloping beach and
the giant rocks, the sharp headlands and quiet cove?,
in the distance the low reaches of Capo Torraentine
and Prince Edward Island, the sea just stirred by the
morning zephyr to a thousnnd little wavelets, snining
in the sunlight like fretted gold, and the sun just
emerging from his ocenn bed, casting his beams far over
the watera, a dazzling glob • of light, beauty ar:d glory,
while a large ship, every swelling sad set, and banners
flying top-mast high, seemed to be sailing right irtto
that fountain of light. Oh ! it was a glorious scene, a
heavenly vision, that 1 must leave to a mightier pen
than mine to paint.

Well do I remember that eveniog. The unclouded
starry sky, with the moon sot like a gem midst the
twinkling worlds on high, the sleeping hamlot. by the
shore, seeming in the moonbeams like spirit dwellings
rather thrn mortal habitations, the lalmy air, fragrant
with now mown grass, the rea like melted silver, as
the gentle waves came softly to the pebbly beach, just
kissing the stern rocks,— like a brighthaired littln girl
climbing on her grandfather's knee, smoothing back
the silvery locks, and kissing the furrowed cheek, —
formed a scene too beautiful to be earthly, seeming
like an emanation from the spirit land. No pen can
describe it, no brush transfer it to the canvass.

But what a dilferent picture is therein my memory,
of one dreadful night when a dark storm cloud swept
by. The big rain drops came pouring down, the
thunder roared in deafening tones, the lightning flash-
ed till it seem-d as if heaven and earth wore on fire,
and the mighty foam crested waves came rolling, dash-
ing and tearing on to the eternal rocks, breaking with

DEATH OF JOSEFII HOWE.

frightful roar, as they randly essayed to tear them from
their foundations and then all would tor a inoraeut be
dark and still, save the howling of the wind and the
driving rain. How we all held our breath, and could
hear our hearts beating for very fear, while the stonn
king was abroad, warring with the elements. But
storms pass by, jind morning broke as clear and bright
as if the angels had been walking the earth, strewing
it with flowers.

It is with deep regret that we bid good bye to Bay
Verte, tor with bathing iu its limpid waters, fishing in
the rivers that empty into it, capturing the speckled
trout, roaming around the shores, gathering curiosities,
and enjoying the fresh sea-breeze, our visit is a plea-
sant one.

-♦♦^

Death of Joseph Ho^ve.

— :o: —

B Y " N O M A . "

— :o: —

'^EATIT graceful folds of heavy drapery, in
gubernatorial halis, with all his honours and
glory clustering above his noble brow, a never
foding diadem, surrounded bv his weeping
family, on whose ears gently fall the 8o1)s of a mourn-
ing nation, reposes the well known form of Somi
Scotia's proudest son, — Joseph Howe, statesman, poet
and orator, — from whose wreath of fame no leaves
have fallen, who was ever the idol of the people, who,
whe'i dangers hung dark and lowering over his loved
native land, was ever foremost in the strife, until
victory crowned his efforts, and who, when the death
messenger appeared, was found ready to cross the
Dark Valley without a murmur or regret.

From station to station, from rank to rank, the hero
fought his way, until ho won the highest position his

DEATH OF JOSErU HOWE.

O.j

native hind coul.l offer him, and which no other so well
deserved, for no son of Novji Scotia ever struggled so
manfully and untiringly for the righi as did ho who
now lies in his coffin, lamented by sorrowing
tl^pusands.

No more will the silvery accents of his matchless
eloquence be heard in Parliaments, Senates and As-
semblies, before Kings Queens and Lords, no more
will vaulted roofs reecho with cheer upon cheer, as his
burning words awoke the fires of patriotism and na-
tional feeling.

He may have had faults, he may have committed
mistakes, but i i the battle he thuughl they were for
the best ; nevtr did he betray the people who put their
trust in him, and to-day his mistakes are forgotten, a
veil has fallen over his faults, and we balk only of his
noble deeds, in our sorrow for the great man, wisely
casting aside all remembrance of aught but the good
ho has performed, and without which we would now ho
an unhappy people. u this sad day let no evil be
spoken of him we loved so well.

It was Sabbath morning when he passed to his
Eternal K(*st, free from all the care and turmoil of
statesmanship. Without, the golden sun was risintr
from his orient bed ; within, in the darkened chamber,
where ody low sobs of sorrow and parting words broke
the stillness, the wearied soul of the loved man was
passing from earth to Paradise, while round his dying
form gleamed bright beams of honour, glory and a na-
tion's love, in their sacred brightness and purity out-
rivalling the orb of day. That quiet Sabbath morniog
was a fitting close for the great man's life.

He survived not long his well earned honour, for
the feeble Iwdy could not wield the sceptre of state,
when far past its prime.

The funeral cortege moves forth, the grave is closed
over the remains of Nova Scotia's loved cliieftain, and
we turn from the sad scene, where stands the black
bier, where solemn music is thrilling the soul's inmost
chords, where banners are floating at halfmast, where
a multitude is weeping, and seek our closet, silentlv
dropping a tear to his memory. What more fitting
tribute than a tear could we pay ?

A Fragment.

— :o: —

B y ' • N o M A . "

— :o: —

f HE golilen glo-.v of the afternoon sun rests softlv
on th.« beautitul landscape and \ho. bluo Si-ii ;
the air is qiiiot and balmy ; n l.i'o cioiuls ol
vj, changing foniiB drift ;vlowly tlii-ough the sky;
the ripening grain field.* and pleasant ni^adows slope
to the san.ly shell strewn beach; the .w.lhng waves
.•omo gently rolling on, :ill arrested by the divme
ooinniiind, '" thus far shalt thou go, a;.d no tartli.r,
and then break on tbe rocks with low, murnnn-ing
music, that stills all bar h to. lings, hke a sweet .spirit
song ; the grev old rocks grow sott if the mellow
light- a bright laced, lighthearte.l yout.g mauieu
wanders idly along the beach, gathering the many-
hued shells, and stii'tly singing:

'* Break, break, break,
On tby cold grey slones, oh sea !
and as the shadows begin to lengthen, the maiden is
ni^ated beneath a leatV tre<-, eagerly watching a tiny
speck Heating upon the w;.vvs, far, far out at sea. l.>o
dim object draws nearer and nearer, till at last ;t conies
to shore, a boat, with neither sail nor oar. The nniid-
en goes to meet it, as she has don many and many a
time before, but when she «eea it is empty, smd hnds
no familiar form there, she 1- ans, wenk, h.lp'.o » and
<lHspairing, upon the bow, niu-onscioiis tl-at the wa^es
are tossing it in sport, and one true woman's loving
■ heart we( ps tho empty, jojlees hours away, grief
stricken and h.nely forevermore.

Amherst.

TJY

— :o: —
"noma,
— :o: —

jLK county town is pleasantly situated at tlio
head of Cai'iberland Basin, about three miles
from the shore. Looking in the direction of
the Basin, we can see its waters, at times lying
like a silver lake, and again red and turbulent, as th«
tide rushes up the narrow channel, while beyond, the
Shepody Mountains lift their dark, forest-clad terms
against the deep blue sky, and bound th« vision that
tain would look beyond, and behold the glories of the
far West, the land of the setting suu. But Nature
has decreed that we shall not be partakers of these
glories, and we turn for consolation to the hills and
vales, the forests, the lakes, the vast marshes— waving
with their abundant verdure or dotted with shapely
stacks— and the snug farms, with their neat ivy-
embowered cottages, their waving grain fields, and
their orchards — white with spring b'ossoms or golden
wiUi autumn fruit -which stretch away on every side,
forming a landscape on which the eye delights to rest'
and which causes a feeling of f)ride to fill the heart of
every dweller on these sloping hills, as he reflects that
this is his home, the land of his birth.

The village— surrounded by hills and vales, forests,
lakes, flowing streams and broad marshes — is quite a
neat and pretty little town. Where sixty or seventy
years ago, were only a few log cabins, rude habitations
of the first settlers, now stand edifices which might
well be a pride to towns of oVier growth, the marts of
irdustry, wealth, and unbounded prosperity. Where
in the years of long ago. roamed the wild Indian ;
where wandered the noble deer, untouched by rifle
ball or buckshot charge ; where sang the bright robed,
sweet voiced warblers of the forest; and where the
gentle rivulet danced softly over its pebbly bed, its

AM1TEH3T.

music iinhorxrd bv the pf\r of thf white man, are now
broad, fihady streets and stately buildinss. 'J ho beauty
of the " fort'st, priineval" has been ru l.ly broken l)y
tlie defacing hand of man, but in its place has arisen a
town of which we may well be proud.

The pa^t his'ory of Amherst presents a record ot

prosperity and progress, dearly showinj? that the

'vatehwoi-d otits people is "Onward.' As thc> past

has been so bright, what may we not hope tor the

future? She now has railway communieation witlv

•lalifiix on the shores of the billowy Atlantic, and San

Franci.^oo on the broad Paeific, and with th.> prospeet

of at no very distant day seeinej the waters ot Ihxy

VwuW united with those of Bale de Verte,— when

the long projectei Baie d ; Vertc Canal is eonstructod,

how can we predict too bright a future for our little

town? J r

In the immediate neighbourhood of thousands ot
acres of the best marsh in the world, in the midst of a
splcB'Ud farming sec-tion, with fine manufacturing
capabilities, and with land and water communication
with all parts of the world, is it too much to say, fhat
those who live to see sixty years from now will find
that Amherst has progressed during the comiug sixty
yeurs, ns in the past sixty ?

We can glide forward, on the wings ot fancy, to the
day when Amherst shall have become a city ; wUm
ever husv, surging crowds hurry through her long,
broad streets, intent upon gain, or hasten to her lofty
halls to listen to the burning eloquence of her own
orators ; when vast manufactories arise on every hand ;
when her marts of commerce nre frequanted by a throng
of wealthy, intelligent, enterprising men, competent to
make her a cit -' in more than the mere name. Am-
herst has progressed vastly during the last few years,
and we trust that the work will not now stop, but will
go on, until at last our little village will l)ecome a
pride to our native land.

A Dreary Journey.

— :o: —

BY "NOMA."

— :o: —

r hnd b-^pt. .^no.v.ii;:^ and blowing ncnrlv iill iiiirhf,
iind wlicn (hylio;ht appeared, it showed Jniure
banks bk.ckinij up the roads, while tlie snow
fell in myriiids of beaut ifiil, fent.herv, multiform
flak.'S, and the A'';>d sti.l rnged, carrying tiiem in everv
direction. It wan with no very pleasant feelings that
[ aro-ie tlia* momtng, for a lono journey throu^'h thnt
bowlinfr stcrm, «i:d over thost big snow barrk.s, !av
before me. I would fain have r. maitied at hoirip,
seated by the pleasant fireside, enjoying; Bvron's des-
criptions of scenes so very different Vroin those 1 was
to see to-day, buf atern necessity willed that it shcultl
be otherwise.

About noon my father and myself, donning over-
coats, muffl-rs and snow-shoes, set out on our journev.
The storm had now lulled, merely to take a breathiiip
spell, and then burst forth anew. The wind howled
and rayed, drivinp; the snow in almost blinding clouds.
Well for us was it, that tli wind was not Irost.y, or we
would probably hive perished, and thn snow have
formed white mounds above our bodies, depened it)
curling wreaths from our cold, stark limbs, and been
our winding sheet. We had intended to take horses,
when our jouriioy would have been short and pleasant,
but the storm having rendered the hiojhwavs impas-
sable, we were obliged to adopt the Indian ntylo of
locomotion — snow-shoes.

We passed on, by farmhouses and huge burns, bv
cburches, school houses and shops, and dark groves,
until night began to settle, just as we came in sight ol
a low, dreary plain, through which we had to pas-\
Oh ! bow dosolate, cold and uninviting an aspect it
wore. Clumps of small tamaracks and dwarf spruces
stood here and there, their stunted forms covered with

100

A nilEAllT .TorUNF.Y

«' .ow, contrafltinf; 8tranRHl> vv'th thoir dark outlines •
beyond tlio plain, n low, dark foreHt sremod but to ndd
to tho gloom : and over h^^ad, dull, leaden coloured
clouds,— with here and there a rift, which made them
take a still more dreary aBpect,— drifted on before
the wind. We travelled on, through the wild waste,
whore for a long distance not a single lamp cast its
cheering ravs into the night, illuminating the almost
weird darkness. We had gono a long way without
pasping a single habitation, when far back from the
road, seemingly amid the trees, wo behold tho light
from the window of a single log hut, which stood alono
on the plain, witb no companion but an old barn, some
hundred yards from the road, and which tor years has
been but a mass of ruins, fast crumbling to decay.
Rumor speaks of dark deeds perpetrated here in t'mt s
gone by, and with the gloom of night upon this dreary
scene, "it was enough to awaken a ghostly fear in tho
minds of the timid.

However, we now soon left this dreary region, autl
reached our destination, rejoicing to be once more at a
pleasant fireside, with kind friends and smiling faces

around us.

I have passed over the same road under summer
skies, when roses and sweet wild flowers were bloom-
ing, birds singing, and nature smiling, finding it
pleasant and beautiful ; but never do I wish to traverse
it again under the same circuustances on that long to
be remembered dreary day.

Death of Joseph Howe.

— :0: —

nv "NOMA."

— .-:o: —

k/VUUE for a moment, shcathw tho gleaminR
sword ; furl the waviug banner ; 'et tho plough-
man CHaso Irom turning the flowery sod ; let
all sounds of labour ceaae ; let the orator'^
voice be hushed: let the sounding trumpet be silent,
or breathe out a low, solemn dirge; let the wind cease
to whistle across the moor ; let ocean's melancholy sigh
b) still ; and let a nation come and drop a tear, and
breathe a prayer at the bed-^ide of the noblest 8tn,to-<-
nian whose voice ever thrilled with the fires ol
eloquence the hearts of admiring thousands, as hi.<
spirit passes from earth to the far beyond. It is no
haughty patrician claims our homage, it is no plebeian
asks our honours ; it is one far above, far nobler than
these — it is a genius, a son of freedom, one who, from
his boyhood's dayi% loved well his native land, and
made her welfare his life's work.

In his boyish duys, when others of his age would bo
sporting with their toys, Joseph Hove would cast nf ide
with scorn the baubles of the playground, and wander-
ing through his native grovtis, would think, and plan,
and picture out to himself the bright future, when fame
and honour should be his, while his flashing eye alone
proclaimed the thoughts that were passing in his mind.
As he advanced in years, wiien others of his age would
be rambling th i streets, the debating club welcomed
his presence, where his speech was always the best, and
most warmly applauded. As he reached the years of
manhood, his genius shone forth with a lustre which
nothing could dim, and rapidly he climbed the golden
ladder, the flowery paths of fame, Hntil he reached the
glorious summit, and looked with a proud smile upon
his past labours, while Fame placed upon his brow the
unfading wreath, and to those below, who, following in

102

DEATH OF JOSEl'Ii HOWE.

his footntepa, 8triip;gUMl to rom-h thi> lofty pinnai'lH, sho
Hui(i in Hilvt-ry tones, "Tiio wioath is not for tlion," —
and tlio far otF hills and rocks soJlIv echoed — *' not for
thoe."

As ft statesman, an author, and a poet, th« same
genius pointed out the sterling qualities of a great and
noble man, and paved tho way to honour. If ever
ther^» Iiv(5d a political hiTO, .loseph llowc was the man,
lor ho raised a people froia politiral homhige to political
libtrty.

By tho fireside, in the .nuncil room, on the platform.
|)outiufi forth his Mnpassioned words before a «ea of
•'a(!er faces, he was still the S'ime inspired grinius, and
beloved by all. No bitter party feflintisi'ver qu .-nched
that hne. Men might hal(» the cause h.^ e-tpoused, but
him they cotdd not. 1 hey might come betor.' him
with bitter, Hcornfui wurdrt, thinking to mnke him *"
tr.'inbl'', hut soon thtjy qnailed bdore his glance, and
shrank away, abashed, before his words.

In the lireside circle he was genial, kind a:.(i cheer-
ful : in the halls of council, he was just, uprigjit, and
nncorruptt d ; and on the platform, ho was peerless.
Where will you look for a statesman to matcli him ?
Tiipper, Blake, Mclvenzie, or across the foaming At-
lantic, (Jladstone or Disraeli? Place them on thfl
platform togetht-r, and even as the midnight torch
nnikes the surrounding gloom still d.cper, so will
tTo.seph Howe, by the bright beams of his honour and
glory, throw into the shade (he host of hrilliant oratorn
by whom ho may be surrounde i, atid ho alone will
claim the homage ot admiring tfiousand^. and he alone
will live in the hearts of a loving peop'e, — while grev- *
hair.-d men, themselves fast tottering to the gr.ive will
teach their little grandchildren to love tho spotless and
luisuUied name of Howe, and to shield it from ausrhfc
of evil.

He has fulfilled liis life's mission. He has won his '
way, from the ranks of the people, to the highest
position his native land could bestow upon him, and
now, having readied the sum.nit of his earthly ambition,
and wearing a blight diadtMn of love, honour, and
glory, he rests from his weary labours.

!»»-

DEATH OF JOSEPH IIO^VE.

103

Within Uie darkcnnd clumber, surroundtvl by hU
w.'eping family, with the 8(ibs of n inoiiniiiig imlioii
fallinir softly upju his ear, iitid with a smiiu upon his
lipfl, tlio sDul of our lovoii chi(»rtaiM X'* passiug from
eaith to tlio gluriey of I'aradise.

If you have tears to ^ire, shed tliem now, in this 8«J
hour. If you bear not in your bosom a heart ot stone,
weep with those who mourn his !o«a, tor tho silver
cord is loosed, the j^olden bowl is broken, and \w shall
bf'h »ld our honoured bcro no more in life, \\^ will
niiiiih with us no longer in our daily avocMtions. Can
yon withhold a teur, as you t^aze ui)oii hia cold, marbl"
brow , or buhoid him Itorno to the touib?

And are all t'.iouglits, all our fond memories ,>ihim,
to vanish, as his cotlin is lowcrod into the ijravo, an.l
is oui' love fi)r him to be quenelied with thd clod that
tills 8) solemnly upon his eoflin liu? No, he .vill liv.i
for ages in th'^ hearts of his pr'0|»le, his niMmtry will be
kept £»n'')n, and he will he lovo.l, as loiij us man has a
heart to love the great and ujble.

f iirt ^mnii'"ie$tm.

BY VORHA.

-*^*-

The Morning Dream.

If AD a blissful mornhvj dream.

And superstitions say
A dream is surest to come true

When dreamed at datvn of day.

High into the world of bliss

I ascended, in my dreara,

There I saw a blue-eyed angel.

And her hair in ringlets flowed,

And her face the rest outshone

Of the angels that around her

Sung their hymns of bliss and praise.

Oh ! I V lew that maiden's features,

1 had Be<}n her on the rarth :

When she saw me there she staried.

Ceased her singing, ran to me,

Flew, — with virgin pride embraced me,

8aid to me, with tearful eyes,

Do vou feel that while on earth.

Do you feel that all was right ?

You remember how we parted.

When our love was in its bloom.

You, you know, were bold in love,

1 was rather diffident,

And for that cause, and that alone,

I decided not lo answer."

But I dare not tell the rest

Of what that maiden angel said,

Lest I miglit to you reveal

A hidden secret of the heart.

At that maiden's voice I trembled

lOG THE MYSTERY OF THE SPARE 2ED.

As I ne'er had done before,
1 did not feel that I was guilty
But to know she thought me so
"Was what made mj heart so heavy.
Was what made me wake .n tear^.
Down to earth again I fell,
With her words upon my heart
(There they rest indelible,
There they will forever rest).
And hor face is still before me,
And her eyes are beaming bright,
But above all things she whispt^rs,
" Do you feel that all was right ?"

The Mystery of the Spare Bed.

(TIERE stands the old houso, stiil ;

Before the door some flowers grow,
That seem to take theii? fill

Of all that Nature can bestow;
Proud still to charm the eye
Of every passer-by,
They gently bow to every breeze.
They bow, but never bend their knees.

But there the house still stands.

And close beside, the gate still swings.

Which, oft, a lover's hands

Have opened, thoughtless of love's wings.

But love is fleet of wing,

And flown, he leaves a sting

To agitate the cruc' wound

That, ilying, ho has left unbound.

Ye-, stiirthe house is there ;
That house,— it tells a talc

THP MTSTEBT OF THE SPARE BED.

Of early lite, to one whose care

Has made him old aod pale
Before his lime ; alas I
That he his youth should pass
Id loving one whose hand and heart
Knew but the one deceitful art.

Twas March, long years ago,

A mystic nymph that house espied —

Resolved the place to know,

And entered — mystery her guide.

Uhe found the spare bed-room

And in it found a broom ;

Resolved at cnce the walls i sweep.

Which always puts a nymph o sleep.

107

Why did she wish to sleep ?

Because she felt, what well she knew,
A mystic spell, to creep on her.

Which magic's mystery drew
From out the choicest shafts
Of her romantic craft.

She slept, and dreamed; her dream was brief,
But, O ! it brought her such relief.

She thrust her mystic hand

Between the mattresses, jind there — *
Yes there, while z-'phyrs fanned

Her brow and waved her silken hair —
She found a letter hid ;
She lifted up the lid
Of one of her deep, searching eyes.
And read, with not a feigned surprise.

She then departed thence,

But, Oh, the dream she dreamed was true.
And 'tis with no pretence but truth

We tell it all to you.
The letter was from one
"Who everything had done
Ta win a tteemiug loviug maid,

108

THE iilTSTERT OF THE SPARE BED.

And all attentions were repaid,—

Until he ventured on

A little further than he should,

She turned her heel upon

And answered not, nor answer would ;

But he, enamoured still,

Loved on, despite ill-will ;

She hated, but he would love on,

Ijntil his latest hope was gone.

And when they often met

They did not even deign to speak ;—
How passing strange that yet

No vengeance he did wreak.
For, though compelled by pride
To 'ffect disdain, ho tried,
Yet, " Deep within his glowing soul
The tyrant — Love— spurned all control."

He knows she loves him not.

He knows her heart— once fond — is cold.
He knows her every thought

Is of revenge, he sees her fold
Backbiting in ..er tongue.
Deceitful words which, sung
To ears unused a lie to hear,
Elicit both the sneer and jeer.

The chord of love was strong,

Deep-rooted in his youthful heart.

But now he feels the "chord of song"
Eight soon between they two must part.

He feels the bondage break.

He feels himself to &hake

^Vith strange emotions, when set free.

He once more breathes sweet liberty.

And now he smiles to think

Of youthful love, and youthful joys.

From love he now would shrink.
For love is but ti thing for boys.

THE PLANET WORLD.

109

13 fancy lends the charms •
The lover's heart iiisarras,
Renlity that raakes him feel
'Twas foUv, foolishness to kneel.

The Planet World.

'S there no world where bcM"ng!« dwell, —

Angels, nor ficrids, nor mortuls, — -ave iii lie!
Ill Earth and H(>:iv'n ? No other sphere
Where lives a soul — afar nor near ?

Get thee away through boundless space.

With thought itself keep equal pace,

Till our sun seen from so far

Appear but as a tiny star,

Press onward further, if you will —

There's endless space before you si ill —

Till this whole system's lost to view

Hidden by intervening blue.

And still pursue your course anon,

Until you can look back upon

A thousand systems, breadths combiui^d.

All governed by The Master Mi ml.

Still on, a inillicn times as far,

And find one planet to a star.

There stop, and view tliat planet, lont*

Which never-fallen mo'*tals own ;

For thou canst gaze in ecstacy,

A day, or tdl Eternity.

It has no moon to cheer the night.

But stars are near that, large and bright,

Shed a still more refulgnnt liglit.

THE PLANET WOULD.

Now pazing, question if yon can
That planet \s a world for man,
Adapted to him, tor him made,
With glorious sun and lovely shade ;
There nature proves a powV uuknown,
A skill on earth 'she'th never shown.
The lily's tint, the rosf's hue,
The modest little violtt's hlue.
And all that Nature here can boast
In that high world must soon be lost ;
For what are they when onoe coniparo<l
To what she there hath proudly reared ?
One flow'r we know not he: e below
Doth ever in tha<^ planet grow,
!So large that 'neath its pleasant shade
A million meaner flow'rs arrayed
Jn gorgeous tints and colors fair —
More fair than tho^e of earth — appear.
Beneath its seven wide-spread leaves.
On clear and pleasant starlight eves.
Thousands of youths with maidens dar;ce
"Whose eyes — like those of wild romance —
Are sparklets glittering and bright.
When looked uj.on in mirthlul night; —
The flower's name is Adolite.

III.

That planet has no mines of gold,

And nothing there is bought or sold.

For there no " Mother Eve"' was led

To have her offspring earn their broad

By purchasing for them a curse

Than which there scarce could be a worse.

There's neither war nor hatred there ;

There is no feehng like despair ;

No brow that ever has been wet

With drops of toil-extracted sweat ;

But all in song and dance unite,

THE PLA.NET WORLD.

Beneath the shady Adolite,

To pruise the uuiveraal King,

To whos^ omnipotence they cling.

The hiblf is their oaly creed,

As all the same religion need.

And to it all forever yield,

That vvhsn the Book on High be sealed.

Which tells the life they led in Time,

It shall contain no page of crimn

To break their grand fraternity,

And curse theai for eternity.

That Book is not on paper writ

But on a substance far more wIuih

Which fades not, but is ever bright.

Ill

IT.

That planet does no poison know,

For on it there did never gro.v

A shrub, or brush, or tree, or vine,

That couhl with other plant combine

To make its victims those who ate.

No serpent's poison generate,

Xor lie in springing posture curled.

If any in that planet world

Prefer to wander in the wood,

And live a time in solitude, —

To watch the brooklet's course along

Their own made courses, full of sot\g,

And feji the wild and stirrinsr thrill

That there they cannot fan to feel —

No foe of man they e'er iray meet,

But there are wild-trees all replete

With fruit of which they may partake.

So hunger may not overtake.

Those who may choose to roam abroad

Into the wild, luxuriant wood;

Unarmed to venture boldly forth

To East or West, to South or North.

As told before, they have no foes

So onwarfJ each thus lonely goes.

No dread his mind to discompose.

112

THE PLANET WOULD.

Without a law aro they content —
A civil law or government —
Who in that planet world do live,
And truest happiness derive
From Mriue, holiness, and love.
The best of angels' joys above.
There none attempt to win renown ;
There none do strive for kir.tjly crown ;
None ever think of costly dress ;
Nor wish great riches to possess ;
None have the slightest dread or fear
Of scornful look ar taunting jeer ;
None set -m to feel that strange de(«ire
To mount up etill forev«r higher,
Which we on earth too often feel,
Despite tliat eloquent appeal :
" Be not of fanie and hotior vain
Ambition often leads to pain."
Now who dis'iites a world may be
AV'hich we poor mortals never set-,
AVliere men like u? do live, and mou'.
And serve, like us, the God above?
Let such peruse Chalmer'a discourse
Then turning sny. " Oh yes, of course,
For us was made the Universe."

Lod Rold.
— :o: —

^^^UB. hero's qualities we will uot name,

'Tis useless all his meritu to depiot ;
He lived not lor an empty, wide-spread uaniet
For all such things he, in hie heart, disliked.
We follow Lod through many a winding turn
Of bis mysterious course, sin.nly to learn
Just how he gladly smiled, and how he sighed.
Just how he lived, and how and where he died.

Ona night he went, as usual, to his bed

(The sky was clear, the moon and stars were bright).
And on the pillow laid his aching head.

That be might well enjoy this charming night.
Toil-worn and weary, he had oft rfclined
Upon this couch — the best that he could find —
And many a time, and oft be had been blessed,
While lying there, with sweet, refreshing rest.

When he had here lain down in peace to sleep,
From toil and labor free, released from care.
In dreams be dreamed that o'er him there did creep

A startling night-mare from oblivion air.
And then, we know, before bim there did rise
Demons an- fiends ; with frightful yells and cries
They rose before him, and then disappeared.
But soon, unsatisfied, they reappeared.

In dream from out bis troubled sleep be rose,
And taking ammunition, knife, and gun.

And basket filled with eatables and clothes.
His first nignt-walk was very soon begun.

He did not stop to bid bis friends farewell,

114

LOD HOLD.

For, in his conversH wich the fiends ot hell,
Ho thought not of the friends he left behind,
But launched out, waiting not for cide or w ind.

He walked till raorning's gcldnn hours came ;

Over projecting rocks neVr seen before
He walked, and sought — though sought in vain for game.

At length, he saw the la":e, and on its shore
Sat devils clothed in garments that were red.
And dripped with blood ; and now, with dizr.y head.
He saw them sailing on the ruffled lake —
He saw, that tempted Eve, tl.e self-same sn^ke. " '

Such sights he saw that from his sleep he woke, '

When, lo I the demons vanished from his sight.
They sought seclusion in a cloud of smoke

That hung about his pathway all the night.
Waking, the clear, calm lake was still the saue
As when to view its waters first he came, '-^
Hut on its grasses now the wild duck fed, '"'
Unmindful of the hunter's rounded lend.

Now, far from home, and knowing not which way

He needs must go to find his ranch- loved cot,
Lod aims his gun at the wild duck* at play,

And, lol behold ! six ducks have felt the nhot, —
But time is precious to those who do read
And so we will not loiter, buc proceed —
For eighteen days he wandered without food, '
Except what he might get among the wood.

And now the nineteenth day has come ; behold !

Lod has not met a soul, and stands alone ;
He stands upon a rock projecting bold ;

All hopes of ever reaching home have flown
The sun has leapt into the eastern sky,

LOD HOLD.

lift

Ab tliouph he longed fair nature to espy,
Antl dew-drops sparkle, too, on evwry side.
Lod, looiiiiig ou the splendor, only siyhnd.

One moment more, and now, Lod's eye is set,

Nothing, however dread, i-ould brealt that gaze.
What 'tis he sees i seared will tell jou ytt,

His eyes are eyes of tire, ail ablaze.
Hear what ho says, and then wu all shall know
What 'tis that makes bis face turn white as snow.
1 will not tell you what he saw, ah ! nay.
But listen to what Lod himseli^id say :—

" There is the work of man ;

Man carved that, stone ;
That is the work of man, *

And man alone.

" Steps there are seventeen.

Top has a lock ;
Walls as they've ever been,

Kough, solid rock."

Thus spnke Lod, as he left bis former stand,

And climbed the steps he called "the wcrk of man.'
He found they were, indeed, carved by man's hand,

Tl)ey showed that geniu-*, and great pow'r to plan.
Had been employed in laying those vest lairs
Ot copper, earth, and stone, and all his hairs
.Stood upright at the sight of men of brass,
Standing as though defying kim to pass.

Tlie gods beheld and trembled, as they saw
Lod touch a spring of old and rusty steel.

The sun himself seemed to stand still in awe,
For louder than the loudest thunder's peel

116

LOD BOLD.

Was the trrmendous crash that Lod had caused ;
The universe seemed moved and Satan paused,
Perchance that he might hear what next bhould corae,
For there was an umeasing, ruirbling hum.

Ohpervo : Lod stands entirely alone,

Before him is a vault for ages closed
Agaiast the air, and to the light unknown ;

And whitened bones are to hiB sight exposed,
And swords, ,ind spears, and bayonets, and shields —
All of the weapons that a soldier wields —
And skins, and sacks, jrad flags, and foo 1 tkat was ;
Ail these were there, and Lod to fear had cause.

"While thus he gazed, and pondered, and stood still,
And peered into the vaults, and tried to gather will,
A charming spirit from some unknown world
Broke on his vision, and a flag unfurled
That glistened with the blood— the blood of war—
And roused his heart as ne'er it was roused before.
The spirit spoke, and Lod obeyed the charm.
Believed the charmer would repel all harm.

They entered, and walked straight <oward a chest
TV hich w tth h's gun Lod touched, when lo ! it fell

In crumbles to the floor, while he, distressed.
Could not n gloomy thought on Timrt expel.

And on that floor of copper, glas^i, .'■•.■' fuone,

A flag, with the device " Violioii"

He found. The chest contained a paper old,

That of a great aud bloody battle told :

♦' When from the North came down that warlike horde,

Glittering in sttiel, for war arrayed,
The brave old Lonarew unsheathed his sword.

LOS ROLO.

117

And spake, ' Be not afraid
To 6ght beneath Violioo.'

" Dark was the day when that war-fiend, the foe,

Leading his force, to battle came.
To fight our veterans, whose blood must flow

To death, ere they to shame
Would yield beneath Vioiion. '

'♦ And Lonarew marched forth with his small force —
Thousands they were, and yet were few.

For thrice their number viewed their cnward course,
And smiled, and said 'They'll rue

They bore to-day Vioiion.'

" Then all our men to Lonarew gave ear,

Eesolved and calm, serene and sterr,
He spoke, without the shadow of a fe^r :

' iSow men, our foes must learn,
Nc cowards bear Vioiion.'

" Then from the hill there came a dreadful charge.

Scorning our troops, came rushing on
Some hundred thousand men, and did discharge

Their ahaf'ts, and charged upon
The bearers of Vioiion.

" With stern resolve our men withstood the shock,

Bafflnfl the foe ; the foe turned back.
Again, they flung themselves upon that rock

Of ours, found their mistake,
And fled the flag Vioiion.

" Thus may we ever rout our cruel foes ;

Banner of gold, by Fate assigned
The victor's glory, who that liveth knows.

118

U)D noLD.

Thy name may not be t\Tine.l
With Timw ilazzlins Viohon." ''

When Lo<l had read, he laid the pap^r by, -

And gazed with feelings he could neer expre.^
Upon those walls, and soon resolved to try

If ht^ might n-ach the en(l,-r3solved to press
F- as he could into the silent vault.
And thus -gainst fate he made the grand assault.
Forward, and forward still, he eager pressed.
His limbs not wearied, nor his mi..d depressed.

But suddenly a flash— a vivid flash

Of IJt^ht lit up the non-poetic scene,
And tiren 'twas dark. A „oise-a sudden crash-
As though the whole roof o'er was falling m—
Broke on his ear.-and all s.gani was still.
Once more a bright light sremed the vault to fill.
And this was lasting, but when he looked back
Rocks lay piled high upon his backward track.

And soon he realized he was alone,

His spirit guide had left ium to himself.

He wrote the following lines, then laid him down.
And calmly yielded up the spirit-self:

"Now that my fate is sealed,

And I must die,
I think of how I kneeled.

With moistened eye,"

Beside my mother's knee.

When 1 was young.
Of how she talked with me.

And how she sung.
" 1 think of days gone by.

if^

CONVBRSATIOWAI CARDS.

119

Days ever dear,
Which, just before I die

Calls forth a tear. .
It is a tear of joy.

And not of grief;
Thoughts of myself— a boV

Brings me relief.

1^^

(i^^

^i'^^^V

(jbuU^T^ ■

♦7

1 think of how I loved

A maiden fair,

And how we two have roved, l[flPy ^.^V^'-^ ^

A joyous pair, " . tc^^^'^'

Along the beach at night; \fm*^; ', : .t t. uj^.

How soft, yet shy, ^ ^.^^ ffif f'^'^X

How piercing and bow bright \aA£,jjL^ (M^'^**'(

Her soul-lit eye. vrT'^^ ,.^^

. ,, ij^^-

I think I almost hear ^,^Ij^

The angels come ;

1 know that they will bear

My spirit home,
To peaceful rest above, ^

Where I'll kneel down,
And for my " lovo for love'

Receive a crown.

*^.T

-Vt^t-rr-^.

J<^3Ji^y

•«,rW

Conversational Cards.

A FARCE.

WENT to that party to which I was asked,
When all thoughts of care to the winds 1 have cast;
I felt young and sprightly as ever I did —
A young man of twenty, with upper lip hid.

C0NTEBBA.T10NAI. CABDS.

120

Conversational cards came instead of a dance,
And it happened ( 1 suppose it was only by chance)
They requested that I should begin at the play.
And much to my sorrow I felt bound to obey ;

So 1 fixed upon one— a young lady in blue— ^
And said to myself. " Here's a questior. for you;
So, though basl %1 I was, I made a bola stand,
And read thus to the maiden, "Will you give me
your hand ?"

But sheturned up her nose, and she laughe-l me to scorn.
And she answered with words that went in like a thorn,
- Doo't be siUv." said she, and then all in the room
Laughed so that 1 felt they were sealit.g my doom.

So the questions went round, and each one had his turn.
And my face was already begim.iag to burn.
When the lady in blue, whose turn it was next
Looked into my eyes with a look that perplexed.

Then she looked at her card, and once more looked at ne
And put me this question, " Do you think of me .
Now I'll tell you a fact, that the card was to blame
When I answered her ladyship, » It is the same.

When my turn came again my question 1 knew.
And I read to the maiden appareled in blue,
'• Allow me, fair maiden, to ask for your weight."
. I do not object," she said, not out of date.

Another then asked her, •• Are you not tired r
Which made my pulse quicken, my watchful eye fired;
But the answer of this charming gul all m blue ^

To the fellow who questioned her was, " Yes, ot you.

0OWVEB8ATIONAL CARDS.

121

Her turn, so much watched for, had soon come again,
And s' i> glanced right at me, and she smiled sweetly

then.
And read from her card just thre< Ha, " Do you

shave?"
So an answer I got. and an answer I gave.

And this is the anc;wer 1 gave her, ray friends,
" Fnr an answer, as raeds b«, I'm at my wits' ends.
"Are all well?" 1 then asked, sympathetically.
Anil with blushes she answered, "I have uo family."

I heard otherc question, " 1 heard their applause,"
I knew they were laughing, but knew not the cause,
I was lost in thought more than as at a task,
To know, when my turn came, what question to ask.

When my turn came I asked her, *• Do you lore

another?"
And her answer was " Yes sir ; 1 do love my molber."
Then she asked not me, but a young dandy near,
" Gentleman ! sir, are you not an heir?"

Then I got up my mad, and awaited my turn.
And when it arrived she perhapa did discern,
I in study was lost, or in thought did revel.
And I asked her then, " Do you love the Devil ?**

Then I was touched, for h««r ans. er was such —
Here it is : " Yes -.. I admire you much."
Then this charming young lady, apparePd in blue,
Itead to a young fellow, " 1 do lov« you."

Another admirer addrnssed the same lass :
" Your servant I am ;" but, for him, alas !
She answered — which made him look pretty tame,
" With the kitchen darkey it is the same"

Ord Loil ; or, tho Spring Ramble.

-^Q breatii of air to bieQk t\\*f caUu
That Iftv upon the river there,
Where Ord Loil, seated in the pleasant shade
^^ Of manv llourishins youug palm,

TKou'rht of vain gforif s and how soon they fade,
Of hunt-, and greatness, what they are,
l)f man's aPCompliBhments, how few
They are, compared with what they might have been
U none had done an act to rue
And ail e'er happened could have b^n foreeen.

.Me looktHi upon the tranquil sheet

That lav before him, long and wide,

Trcps saw theii ebadows in its mirror face

And dipped their foliage at his feet,

I'lowors were hanging, of all hues, and grace

That would become a royal bride.

Melodious notes of joyful sound

At times came, warbled by some songster gay,

Whifili, liiddon in iho wood around,

Kne* u»t man listened to its simple lay.

I3ehind, a rugged mountain rose
Magnificentlv high and bold,
l^pon its summit Heaven seemed to rest,
\fid half-way down the Sun t' n-pose
Tn all his noon-attired glory dr'^ssed :
Just long enough perhaps t' unfold
Tho secrets of another day.

That mountain's heights ne'er knew a trace of man,
TS'o child of even human clay
tTer trod its loftiest heights since time began.

Trees gww far down the mountain's sid'^
Lux'M'iaut with their tinted leaves ;
Some dead ; and yet, so beautiful in death
That w.lh the liv^ifj tints they vied ;
»^ome ill t>ld age appeared to draw their breath

OBD lOtL ; Ott, THE SPKHfO KAMBLE.

As near the end,— but youth releaves
The solemu sadness of the scene,
For may a leaf ih yet but in the bud
And many more are growing frewh and grten
That show the sikill of N^ature's God.
Close by our ' c 'ay a smooth, dark rock
On which he ... the following address
To the Mountain :

123

"Oh ! Mountain, looming, towering, grand,

B yond control of mortal hand,

Why should'st thou from mankind conceal

The secrets thou could'st well reveal?

Why rise so high that none may see

The glories of the scenery ?

Why rise above each lowly thing

And scorn the strongest eagle's wing ?

Dfist thou not know what man has donf*?

And thinkest thou his course is run ?

That he shall not before the end

Thy lofty heights, unscared, ascend ?

But oh ! e'en as 1 write I feel

A something in my brain to reel,

I'm looking for thy giddiest height

But 'tis a vain — though fond — delight.

Thou art so e'en surpassing high

It looks, forsooth, as though the sky

And all the mists of vapoured rain

Know not the heights thou dost attain,

That what's upon thy future side

Man knows not yet, is not denied.

This proves not he shall never know,

For man goes high and man goes low ;

lie has a genius to explore,

And cares not none have gone before.

lie rides o'er ocean's storm-tosst'd wave,

lie lives for glory and the grave,

He is ijot satislied with fame

Until he wins a hero's name,

Terrific gales tear up the trees

That bend not to the stifFost breeze,

/Vnd send them whirling with the rocks

124

D loil; or, Tni spbino bambli.

Which bind them firmer than the locks

In prison dungeons hold the chains

Of prisont-rs, whose wicked orains

Planned misrhi.f which their hands have done,

Recardless of the Three in One.

But 1, e'en L am young and strong

And I will climb thy side ^'er long;

Thouc'h youthful, yet with buoyant hope

My mind is slirred with thee to cope,

And I will see thy further side,

Else in a vain attempt have died.

Ere many suns have gone to rest

In their all-radiaut splendour dressed,

So scorn me not in low contempt;

To-day I start in the attempt.

And you, oh '. mm, whoe'er shall read.

Remember that it was decreed

By youthful Fancy uncontrolled.

That 1 should climb this mountain bold ;

And that Ord Loil has gone to do

That which mankind has failed, and you

If e'er on earth you see him more

May know he is a conqueror."

Ho felt that quiet, beautous scene.

That river still, and smooth, and clear,

The birds still singing and the shade stiM cool.

He left,— not with the stately mien

Of courtier— straighter than a rule,

But with a gait that showed no tear,

A youthful step, a hopeful air.

He left, and left of him no other trace

Than the now told inscription there

To mark his pleasant resting-place,

With a bared breast, and buoyant tread
He climbed up from the mountain's base.
Some distance up successfully he rose,
Theu stopped, for far above his head
High rocks his upward passage did oppose.
These were surmont.ted, and his face

OnD LOIL; Oil, THH BPRIXO RA.MBLI:.

125

Glowed with such a triumphant Binile
lie may (inscribe, who can describe the glee
With which n youthful heart may 611
A full and boundless ecstacy.

At times he'd pass a deep ravino

Wliore onn mis-step might cast him down,

Dowd, down, to certain death and rocky grave.

Above them, and with naught between.

He oftimes climbed, for dangers he must brafe

Or lose his fond and fair renown.

Climbed, aided by n shrub or twig

Which, should it break, would end our hero's day.

Climbed, for his heart was swelling big

With such a hope, no rock could block his way.

At times he found a fertile spot.

Where luscious fruit and berries grew.

On one of these he stopped when night came on.

And thought — as others would have thought.

How well he'd like there to remain alone

And idly live his life-time through.

To live without a trial or care

And never know a man on earth again.

No lovelier place than there

For one proud eou' without restraint to reign.

How cool and pleasant was the breeze

That fanned our hero into sleep.

How fresh, and springlike was the mo\intain air.

How light the nights and dark the trees.

And how the dew drops gathered on his hair.

The moon shone on the mountain steep

And small, wliite clouds ran o'er the sky.

His eyes were closed, and he to sleep was given

And did he dream, you would not ask me why.

For where he lay was less like Earth than Heaven.

He dreamed two lovely virgins came

And sat beside him as he lay ;

They l»oth were young, and they were dressed alike.

1 26 OHD Loii. ; oa, the spring ramble.

lie dreamed they asked to kncrv his name.

And when ho heard those beauteous vipRins apeuk,-

llis heart leapt up— his lips gave way—

And out it poured — a heart to each

It seemed, but theirs to hiirt were also Riven.

Ilia name ho f^ave, and by this speech

He wuH subdued, who oft with love had striven

And always been the victor.

The first of those fair virgins ipokn :

" Ord Loil ! Ord Loil !

How did you here ascend
Ord Loil ! Ord Loil !

Where dot^s your journey vtA ?

" 1 see your glance

Is down into the vale,
And you, p<<rch;ir.c(^

Have come from yonder dde. ;

" Again, you ecan .

Tlie heights I'.iat loom above,
Porhnp" you plat: ,. ,

To mount up as a dove. ,. ,

" And now you gaze

On things thct are more '•
Your eyes you raise.

But tln-y still centre here.

-ir,

" Will you rest here

And I be yours — you mine,
Without a tear.

Both worship at Lovo's shrine ?

" For hero no woe

Was ever known to be,
And death is slov , —

LouL' life a certainty.

OBD LOTL ; on, THE 8PIITX0 RAMBLB.

" Here we are froe

From all the earthly host,
Suc'ii liberty

Nor priuce nor king can boast.

"Tie »»ver Spring,

And flowers here abound, —
Each pleasant thing

That on the earth ia found.

'• Here we may live,

A gay and sinleca pair.
We'll both forgive

Aud never know a care.

"And when life endsi
Therti is a God we love,

Who cond(5scondc
To take us up above,

*• Where joyfully

We'll praise his name for iiye ;
His face we'll see '

Through one eternal day.

" If you prefor

To climb to greater heights,
You may find thero

Some pleasure that delights.

" My sister, too.

Who sits hnre by your side.
Will climb with you '

And gladly be your bri.Ie.

" So I presume,

I know her tastes full well ;
With you a groom '

She'd doubtless love to dwell."

127

The other virgin then began
And spoke not leas of love :

OBD LOIT. ; OR, THE 3PRI50 RAIIBLB.

•♦ Thece rocks ore bold,

Their Bummits ywt afar,
Where, bleak and cold,

The angry tempests war.

•• No tongue has told

How hard 'tis to ascond,
Nonrt can unfold

Where difficulties end.

" But I have climbod

And reached the top alone,

'Tis not ill-timed

To tell you how it shone.

" The topmost height

Shines like a little Sol,
Rut though so bright

it dazzles not at all,

" While there 1 sat

At midnight once in May

To meilitate.

It made it light as day.

" Mv mantle then

Screened not my limbs from ?iow,
So thought I, when

I saw distinctly through.

" If y<>" aspir?

To reach that shining stone
Ambition's fire

Burns not in you alone.

" We will be one

In purpose, heart and name ;
Let us begone—

Say, is your heart ' oo tamo ?

lie could sleep on in quietude

While dreaming of kind words of love,

OBD LOHi ; OB, TIIK 8PBII70 RAMBLE.

129

Rut when he heard that seeraitig BCorDfu! jeer

He waked, he was not ia the mooa

To benr it, when true lovu was living near.

" It is a dream, my passions move,

Only a dream in which I rove,"

He said, and then to soothing sleep returned

But so with dreamland thoughts inwove

His pulse was beating fast, his face still burned.

At morning dawn again he waked

And went to '. iew .'»e rising sun,

Over fair flowers, fruit, and berries trod ;

Tlio fruit from oif the ground he raked

AVhich, nifcllow^ed by its fail, served well as food

And long that food he lived upon.

He stood, and watolied the glorious orb

Reftume his race with Time ; he saw the sky

Loi,k glad, the eight did so absorb

His whole attention, that ho cried in sympathy:

•* I see the face of heaven shine
With joy unspeakable as mine ;
The sun which oft before hath shono
Hath never sucli a lustre thrown
O'er earth, and sky, and all that is.
As now 1 must acknowledge his,
At least hath never seemed to shine
With rays so perfectly divine,
lie does not stop to greet a friend,
On friendship he does not depend,
But rolling from his secrecy
Into the cloudless vacancy,
A pompous ball of flaming heat —
Bids darkness far before retreat."

Awhile he gazed, then back he went,

Kesumed the great work yesterday begun

And climbed once more the mountain's side.

He knew that matiy a steep ascent

He must ascend, before that day's bright sun

Had settled down at eventide.

Still shone a fire from his eye,

■ f^

130

ORD LOIL ; on, THE SFRTNO RAMBLE.

A flamo that in his inmost bosom burned,

Which showed he must succeed or die,

And lor success how strong his bosom yearned.

And when the morning passed away

And it was noon, beioro him rose

Oigantic rocks, which bado >i8 hope begone.

All the roniainder of that day

lie sought a way to climb, but could fitid none,

Rocks perpendicular as those

And rising up some hundred feet,

Were more than youth's ambition could surmount :

But death Ord Loil could met't

Better than meet the world's derisive tauut.

At length, as darkness fell once more

Enveloping the wide, wide world,

lie would lie down and sleep, and rise next morn

Earlv, 08 he had done before—

To seek a chance to ascen- ; he would not turn

From his resolve, thou^^h he be luirled

From some hif^h eminence, fur down

That steep and rocky mountain's side;

He saw a brook, that, wild and lone,

He could not cross, 'twere madness to have tried.

'Twas midnight, and as there be \b.j ^

A black cloud wrapped the mountain's top

And it was dark,— was oh ! so densely dark—,

No night like that e'er followed day,

And rain was pouring like when Noah's ark

Anxious, expected every drop

To lift her up abov? her foes,

And they— the world's r,r"'\t men and strong-be

drowned.
The brook there swells, anJ onward flows
With doubled rushings toward the lower ground;

And the wild, angry thunder pealed.
Such peals,— 'twould rouse the sleeping dead,
And make them think the day of Judgment come,
If that were possible : revealed

OHD LOIL; OB, TUK SPBINU BA.MDLB 131

Anid the p»als of Heaven's loudest drum,

Like some great uew creation hid

And seen b. for a moment's space,

Jle saw at times, by vivid lightning's glare,

llup«» rocks dashed from their resting placo, —

The flash was gone — Lis was " a vacout staie,"

Another dazzling flash of light

Long hui:^, to ligiit the dismal scene ;

Hut no, too weak were now his dazzled eyes

To treat him to that gloomy sight ;

And though he felt his bed to sink and rise.

Then a" short lull to intervene.

Ho could not — as he fain would do —

Walk out into the storm ; not bid it cease

But storm, and storm a lifetime through.

For storm he loved, — loved more by far than peace.

And thus he lay until the morn

Ueturning, ahod a dim, dull li|;ht

Upon that gloomy, storm-wrapped beigh .

He saw huge rock trom huge rock torn

And violently -oiled below his sight.

Tho noise and opening rocks unite

To make hiir. 'ear an earthquake nigh.

By which he might be hurled, and uooo see

With pitying eye our hero die.

Or drop a farewell tear of sympathy.

The sky was cleared, the storm was o'er,

The earth had quaked but opened not,

And now he thought that he perchance might climb,

But he could not, for, as before.

High rocks towered preventing him.

Till, close beside the self-same spot

Where ho had spent that night of storm.

Above the brook which there ran smooth and deep

He saw the task he might perform,

By aid of shrubs, and yet fond glory reap.

Right soon he climbed above the brook,
While hope within was running high,

132 ORD LOIt ; OB, THE SPRING RAMBLE.

His weight was hanging on a single limb

Of one high tree when lo ! it broke ;

He fell ; alas ! he had not learned to swim,

A small whirl-pool was whirling nigh,

But not too small to suck him in.

And into it he went and wus drav m down ;

despair was ruling then within,

Then sank the hope of fair renown.

But mourn not, for he was not drowned ;

He siood upon a rock beneath ;

And when his deadened sense he regained.

He looked in wonderment around.

He found an upward passage he had gained,

Straieht from the seeming pool of death.

To the great heights he long had sought, ^

Up this he climbed, and ere the day was oer-

Smiled at the work himself had wrought

A teat oft tried by man, in vain, before.

He stood upon the the topmost height.

That high, impending mountain knew,

And gazed with pride, and vonder, and delight.

And yet with awe-for well he might-

On the broad plains and woods beneath ; but mght.

Night, such as darkens heaven's hue

-From blue to a black blank, came on.

Then turned he homeward with a joyful heart,

Well pleased the honor he had won,

Though 'twas but on a ramble ho did start.

The Black-Eyed Girl.

[Written by request, and adapted to mnticl

(LACK are the sparkling eyes

Of my dear intended,
White is her ivory,
Her face with beauty blended.
Sweet and clear her accents fall,

Like silver joy-bells ringing,
And to my heart 1 feel

Her loving heart is clinging.

True, all the girls have eyes.

And some, too, have black ones.
For them our country

Will I trust never lack sons ;
But of all the maids 1 know

This one has got most cash on ;
She spares nor time nor pains

In keeping up to fashion.

Bold I may seem, perhaps, —

But dried up leaves will rustle, —
And if i speak the truth

I think she wears a bustle.
Piercing to my froztm heart.

With eyes more fair than beauty.
She led me to believe

To love ht'r was a duty.

Oh ! for a thousand eyes

To view those charms so pleasing,
A double sense of touch

Those little hands for squeezing.
Free and noble is her gait, —

But do not think me funny, —
Of all her charms, I think

The greatest is her money.

Lovard Love.

(WAS a cleai , coW ni^ht ; the air was still ;
^ The frost ou,' whiskers covered;
Alone we stood by the foreat roail,—
vj^ Me aud our hero, Lovard.
1 spoke of home, he would not hear,
He fixed his plume, and with a sneer
Turned trom me with the exclamation
Now to go home were mere vexation.

With these few words he left me there

And to the woods returning.
Was lost to sight in the underbrush,

For which he had been yearning.
He was a youth so blithe and gay.
He seemwl in truth to love to stray,
Roth night and day, by the little river,
Nature enjoy, and bless the Giver.

With nothing to eat he wandered far,

The rocks among and over ;
His strange intent did not not lament.

But with leaves his head did cover ;
And through the wDod till morn he roved
The neighborhood where he was loved,
U'9 intent, suspecting, grew uneasy, ^

And iearched for him up the river " Mezie.

They saw him at length en the river's bank ;

lie stood intently gazing—
Among the rocky hills he gazed.

Where some cariboo were grazing ;
But as they neared, he disappeared, "

And never siuio has re-appeared ; ^/^^^/ £.1 ^jfn.^

And only he who rules above I , ^-^^^ j^^-

Kuows what became of Lovard L.ove. ) •=-

/iv^

The Midnight Cry.

" And at midnipfht there waa a cry made, Behold tho
bridegroom cometh, go ye ont to meet 'lim."

IDNIGHT silecice held creation

For a moraent 8il<iut all.
When the lords of every nation
Had been covered with the pall.
All were slertping eouud and weary,
All the world was dark and dreary.

Then there came tho blest archangel,

With his truaip within his hand.
And with him came many an angei
From the bright and b dooming land.
And the mighty trump was sour led
And through all the earth resouuaod.

Then the ground began to tremble,

And tlie sea began to foam,
Rock 4 and mountains to resemble

Skipping lambs, though tar from dumb, —
For the noise above the thunder
Almost made the angels wonder.

Then the sea was strangely troubled,

And her toam rose high as mountainii,
And where drowning m-Mi had bubbled
Threw up lloods like mighty fountains ;
In the midst of tlii-n commotion,
Eose thi? dead, and conc^uered ocean.

/>»x

Lado and ihe Fowlers.

IS Autumn, 'tis morning;

The 8Ut\ is beaming bright,
The forests and marshes

Present a gladsome sight ;
The breast of Lado swells with joy ;
lie being only yet a boy.
His heart is glad, for he is going
Ou the flooded marsh a-rowmg.

With nhot bag and powder,

A double-bativUed gun,
With fo\vl<n-s or gunners

Beside him, more than one,^
He steps into the fowlers boat,
And with them she is soon afloat,
Then off thev go. fair breezes blowing.
The bright, happy youths a-rowu.g.

With pleasure, the marshes

Are crossed, and a wild-drake
la rising before them

As they enter the long lake;

Then Lado fires, on the fly : ^^

The wild-drake ^'.adly bids "good-bye,
And from the lake a stream is flowing
Toward the which the boys are rovvmg.

The stream reached— the bovs land,

And pull the boat ashore.
A camp found where some one
Had spent a nigt.t before.

Agreed that here they spend the night,
And watch for ducks while it is light.
The boat thev now begin unstowing.
And eat a lunch, in-teal of rowing.

LA DO AXD THE FOWLEB8.

13^

Camp ready, done eating,

Thoir guns they take once more,
And riding tho same lake
On which they rode before,
To a more hidden part they steer.
Where ducks more frequently come near,
Their faces bright with Lope are glowing,
While on the tranquil lake a-rowing.

'Tis sunset, 'tis eve'ning.

The ducks begin to come.
With silence and quiet,
Our heroes all are dumb.

A flock has come within their rang?,
When, suddenly, their course they change,
For through the air the shot is plowing
From the guns of those who went a-rowing.

'Tie twilight, 'tis morning ;
The boys are on the land,
And near by, some dry grass
Is lit by Lado's hand ;

The blaze becomes a raging flame.
And spreads, as fires do the same ;
So soon the boys the boak are stowing.
And soon again are off a-rowing.

How lovely, how charming.
Appears the placid lake.
How oddly, how strangely.
They all begin to quake.

The boat is coming right in two,
It parts, and all the boys go through !
To heaven now they all are going.
Those happy three who went a-rowing.

A Scene.

WO hills rose high, aod all between,
The grass was growing bright and green.

^ A pleasant breeze came from the west,
That well might swell a poet's breast.

A poet would have truly loved.
There, at that time, alone t'have roved.

No poet— and 'tis well— was there,
With nature that lone scene to share ;

No cattle, so they say and said.
Were then upon that pasture fed ;

No bird its stay did there prolong.
To sing a soul-refreshing song ;

No fly was buzzing through the air ;
No noisy cricket creaking there ;

No sound upon the silence broke,
Save of the gently-gushing brook.

For it was night, and though 'twas light,
It had the silence of the night ;

The moon was large, and bright, and full ;
The air was like the night,— and cool.

The stars by twinkling seemed to say—
" We're darting still away, away."

No cloud appeared in all the sky ;
The night seemed made to glorify.

A. SCENF.

139

In thai lono plact, that qiiift time,
A maiiltii wanderod, tall and trim ;

She walked with thoughtless, careless pace,
Yet with u sort ofpltaaiog grace ;

She thought not upon what she trod,
She cared not for the verdant sod.

She stood at length upon the hill,

Which pleased the most her taste and will,

Beneath a l^rge i irch tree she stood.
And looked tar westward o'er the wood ;

Tt was so light that she v-ould «ee
The distant mountains by t'iS sea.

One mighty thought filled full her mind,
And left all present things behind ;

One way she g. '.ed, and one alone, —
The way the wind all day bad blown.

At length, her eyelids growing wet,
She said aloud, " Not yet, not yet.''

" He comes not yet — my lover true —
From that far land I seem to view ;

" In fancy eagerly I roam
Away, away, away from home, —

" Away, o'er that broad water's wave,
Where tossing billows ever lave, —

" Away o'er that great mountain range,
Which never seems to mo.c or change, —

" Away o'er ridge, o'er ridge and ridge.
Broad lakes with fancy's wings I bridge,—

140

A SCEITI!*

•' Away o'er everlasting hills,

And all their rivprs, brooks, and rilla,—

" Away o'er wood and wiwdland vale,
O'er endless plains do I prevail,—

•• Away on golden— feathered wings,
To where my ardent lover sings,—

" O'er cities, foresth, prairies all.
To see my lover, dark and tall.

- 'Tis fancy ; oh ! that I might fed
And know, that it were even real.

• That I his manly face might see,
And hoar him whisper love to me,—

♦« That now he might dispel my fears
And talk as in the by-gone years,—

"That I rtiight hear him tell of how
He chased the deer and buflfalo,—

" That 1 might hear him say, once more,

* Thou art my love for evermore,'

" But, oh ! this wish ;— 'tis useless, vain ;
My eyes for naught I eager strain.

The maiden found, to her surprise,
Unbidden tears had filled her eyes.

While in her bed next morn she lay
She dreamtd of him so far away.

What lay between seemed very wide ;
'.ne waked, and he was at her sid-j. ,

^lU^ d^i/- .^

space.

OW vast is space.
Within its arms
Time's measured pace

Mankind alarms,
And bids him rouse from
Work while he may
Nor lose to-day,
Lest in the end he weep.

?le«?p.

Each system's sun,

Whose rays of light,
Since Time began,

Have scattered night
From worlds to us unknown,

Must own the blaze

Of his bright rays
The bounds of space has never known.

The width of i ^av'n

The depth of Hell,
From Earth to Heaven

From Earth to Hell,
And all Earth's wide extensions,

Can ne'er exceed.

Nor ever need,
its infinite dimensions.

Young Maiden, Beware.^

-OUNG maiden, oh, beware ! beware !
lour face is i,ow untouched by care
A prince in slavery kneels down
To ask you just to be his own.

In slavery bound by chords of iov^,
He thinks you charraine;, calls you " dove ;
But note, his lovrf is not so rare.
Young maiden, do beware ! beware !

There's many a lover will be bold

(At least that's wimt 1 have been toldi) -

So maiden, with the face so fair,

1 warn jou to beware 1 beware '

Lord Byron loved, and so he wed ;
But soon his passion all had fled ;
A woman's love was buried there.
Young maiden, oh, beware ! beware!

A Child's Mystery.

-o

A TRUE ANECDOTE.

^^J^rOTJTER, mother,
^r'X Could another

^^ Answer mH as well as you, —
WLh my questious, and suggestions,
I'd not tease you as I do.

" If my teasing

Be displeasing.

Send me, mother dear, away :

But a double deal cf trouble

Has disturbed ray mind to-day.

" Dees our Maker —
The Creator—

Everywhere make hii abode ?
Then why do not,
If they do not,
i The ratf* bite him on the road ?"

In Memoriam.

I On the rtoath of Mrs. Alfred Ncwcomb, of Port Oreville.
rimboro- N S., who (lio<l July 7th, IHTf, ami that of hor
Tnfant c liia Wo cliod on the morning of the foUowmR day. J

,t of tb« fairer sex ' ,^* y*''f*^ , "
lie as doth the grass ; '^^' ^f *^
le comelieBt, the loveliest, lf<^ C;*^-^ *^ai>
The dearest,— all must pass. fLfa6 At^^^J- *»

HE fairest of the fairer sex

Must die
The come

And many a page is wnt on death— ^

As if an awful thing ; / ^. , ^« ■ ^ V *'*■':: - " .^,
Awfpl it is : but christians cry, (J - -■, «^ .^«- (^ ^ e^ '^

" Oh, Death, where is thy sting. A'^'^'r ,j ^^ , _ .

I tell of two who lately died, ^

And went to endless re't,
Who now in robes of white arrayed.

Are singing with the bloat.

A wife and mother was the one, '<^

To Jesus reconcile'l ;
The other was her jow-bom babe, ^

Her first and only cMld ^^J^^tlZtTy M^ A

^''"- sfe sp^nt t'w&leats in<vedded life > ^^'''^^ -).
; , -/ (The wife whose death I tell) ; /i^*-*^.w <^^ ^j^ C,
Her eyen were black and beautiful, ^^ .

p.. *^...< Clear as a crystal well. .; /<' '^ /^^"f^ /To .

u^^fu 4*^-^ She waa symmetrical in form, ^ V
I'-) *-«. *T3ti-ci^- Expression did not -ack,

^1.^. I _ * n . 1 I i-U,-

ct^#l

'-) <-«. «(ai.c^- JSxpression am not iata,

<i t^ ^*-l Her every feature pleased the eye,

uftccx^c^t a Her curls were raven black." /^ jC*-<

^ She was a woman— womanly,

Ccc-^—J

A "eutle. lovins wife

fORTAM.

146

:4i \

./X-

And wit'n h»-r manly Kiishnnd, livnd
A humbl*', clirirttiiin lite.

A flower garden deck«*d the place

Whore stood their cottage ueat ; .i ^ .«

nut that her haud no more may tend J *- "^ iC^.^ l.

I «..rc.ly „«Kl repeat. ^_ ^^ t:^Z:yt^j:^ij^ ^ 5

It was the pleasant mortbof June,

The grass was npritiging green,
And on the basin's restleks wiives

Full many a boat was seen.

The mountains rose before the cot,

Mystic, hif>h, and grand ; "^-^ L*^ cs-^^kx^J^^r^ ^

As there thev stood in davs of old "t-j i*-*- **^'*r^ fi^Ct^*^

They shall' forever stand. , .' ,<-^ <». <^.*— 'V- *^' *'*-*'^

And all the rural district 'round ''^ "^ i^

Was smiling iu the sun, ' '• -J*^ -/•* '

And everybody's heart felt glad, ^^/--t ^-^ ^,

For summer had begun. 4 , // '

But ere that happy time was past —

While nature still lookeu 'iiy —
The motht^r of whose deatti ;. *ell

On bed of sickness lay.

Two weeks had pa8«ed ; she breathed her last;

Her chUd next morning died ;
And by their deaths the father's griefs

Were doubly multiplied.

Tht»y Irid them in one coffin, both, "p

The moiher and he: child : f^^ . _

It was an act of wisdom done, <^-t*-«--<^^ cJ^c^r -..„.-
And not a notion wild. Kyj^.l^ A-^<-^> ^^

In the babe's hand a wreath they pat,^ ^^ */ "i^-^Jt^^
Of flowers fair to see ; .^^"^ j\^j ' *^^ ^ "

The ftowers were an emblem there _/^ -tv ^jZL* '

»y-

Of love and p

e an emblem there vy ^

'^'bV >*« ^,

vi;

146

IN MEMOR

^^oCw '4jO'm

The mother had but lived to flc«

Her womanhood begun,
When Death came atealing silently

And showed hor course was run.

-4. ,8he left this field of careless toil,
' This earth ot joy and woe ; > - /^.-ci „^

She died in peace, and dying, hurled^ i^^ ^jr^ ;^
Defiance at the foe— r^ — f^> ». ^%^\<v4.J%i,

The foe from whom she long had fl.d,

Who fain would sink her low ;
But now to meet her Saviour— God,

She may triumphant go,

And aow her husband mcurns, but oh !

Why mourn for one bo blest?
Let all remember, in their grief,

She is enjoying rest.

She rests in Jesu's loving arms ;

Her child is also theie ,
And there forever will remain.

And never know a care.

i I - ^ ■

vT A V> ic\>y ^ Od/iiJUC i^'f^^ •^COt' >A4*W

^^^^^^^^^ fO PROSE.

fe?
Amherst,

Bessie, the Flower Girl,
Broken Heart, ...
Brother aj^ainat Brother,
Death of Joseph Howe (No. 1),
Death of Joseph Howe (No. 2),
Dreary Journey, A
Ethalma,

Fate of Kosonora,
Fragment, A
God Knoweth,
Good Bye,

Humming Biid and Violet,
In Memoriam,
Long Lake,
Minnie,

Mysterious Ring,
Old School House,
Only a Broken Locket,
On the Sea Shore,
Passing Away,
Paths of Knowledge,
Picture of Innocence,
Recollections of my Teachers, Schoolmates and
Reverie, A ...
Romance and Reality,
Spring,

Story of the Leaf Fall,
Sun8))ine an 1 Shadow, .
Thought,
Vivette,
Why She Never Married,

Page
«)
97
43
84
59
94
101
99
76
72
96
80
86
83
48
86
34
6
63
90
92
57
81
8'^
Pupils, 41
89
27
74
87
77
70
78
67

-*»*■

INDEX TO POETRY.

Blac^-Eved Girl,

Cliiid's Mystery, A

Conversational Cards,

In Memoriam,

Lado and the Fowlers,

Lod Hold,

Lovard Love,

Midnight Cry,

Morning Dream,

Mystery of the Spare Bed,

Oi'd Loil, or the Spring Ramble,

Planet WorM,

S»?eno, A

Space,

Young Maiden, Beware,

Page
133
143
119
144
136
113
134
135
105
106
122
109
138
141
142