,<^o^ I 
 
 
 <> 
 
 
 ,^ 
 
 
 
 '■^^^ 0^ 
 
 
 Ho, 
 
 
 ^^ ^f'^^'^yiW^^ 
 
 ^ o^ 
 
 - .^' 
 
 
 
 -■- ^d* ■ 
 
 \*^ 
 
 
 cP\^ 
 
 "^^0^ 
 
 < 
 
 
 
 ^^o^ 
 
 
 '' -^^ 
 
 
 ^^o^ 
 
 ^^.^c; 
 
 
 ^°.:''. -^^ 
 
 '•-^>^--.<<."" 
 
 
 cP^S 
 
 " -^^ 
 
 

 s^# 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 "^>. P^ J^ 
 
 "^ "^^d* 
 
 f.^-.,<^.:'-''\/ 
 
 & . 
 
 , X -» \V ^ ^ ° " >■ 
 
 
 
 v^ 
 
 ^o^ I 
 
 
 
 
 
y^^- 
 
 WATER-DROPS. 
 
 .BY 
 
 'i\^.^ij//y/>riY^^ 
 
 / 
 
 / 
 
 MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY 
 II 
 
 " Temperate in all things." 
 
 St. Paul. 
 
 '^ COPYRIGHT \A 
 
 Ji 
 
 /^No 
 
 ro^r: 
 
 
 ti^/ 
 
 '^ 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 ROBERT CARTER, 58 CANAL STREET, 
 AND PITTSBURG, 56 MARKET STREET. 
 
 1848. 
 
 -^^ 
 
 
 ^^^^ 
 
 ^^ 
 
 z/?^ 
 

 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in tlie year 1847, by 
 
 ROBERT CARTER, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for 
 the Southern District of New York. 
 
 THOMAS B. SMITH. STICRKOTYPER, 
 216 WILLIAM STREET, N. Y. 
 
 R. CRAIGUKAU, PRINTER, 
 112 FULTON STREET. 
 
ItiO ■ fv/ 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 Much has been said and done in the cause of Temper- 
 ance, and for the reformation of those who have swerved 
 from its dictates. Yet there is still a strong tide to stem, 
 and a great work to achieve. 
 
 Are the female sex fully aware of their duties in 
 this matter ? Too many of them have, indeed, felt the 
 miseries of a desecrated fireside, and the transformation 
 of the natural protector of themselves and their children 
 into a frenzied foe. Peopled prisons, and blood upon the 
 hearth-stone, have brought into prominence before the 
 public eye, that fearful intemperance from which such 
 sufferings flow. . 
 
 It has been repeatedly asked, if females are prepared to 
 render all the aid in their power for the suppression of a 
 crime which peculiarly threatens their most sacred inter- 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 ests. What is the nature of the power that they may 
 command ? Does it not consist principally in home-in- 
 fluences ? In preventives, — in pencil-traces on the tender 
 mind, — when it *' turneth as wax to the seal ?" 
 
 Is not the structure of domestic life committed lo their 
 care ? And are not the seeds of the evil we contemplate 
 sometimes sown at the household board, in the example 
 of those who hold the reins of authority, or the talisman 
 of love ? Ought not the foundation of self-control to be 
 laid in tlie early habits of unfolding character ? Is absti- 
 nence from the intoxicating cup, the whole of temperance ? 
 Is it wise to pamper all the appetites, and then expect 
 the entire subjection of one ? Is it safe to w^ait until that 
 one has become perverted, and then wage against it a 
 painful, doubtful warfare ? 
 
 Women, by the courtesy of modern times, have been 
 styled the educating sex. High honor and deep respon- 
 sibility dwell with such a name. Should not the whole 
 of education teach the dano^er of self-indul<>'ence, and the 
 excellence of intellectual enjoyments ? While it recog- 
 nizes the kindness of the Great Former of the body, in 
 attaching pleasure to the appetites by which it is nour- 
 ished, will it fail to expose the ingratitude and mad- 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 ness of putting in jeopardy through their excess, not only 
 the welfare of the body, but the life of the soul ? 
 
 What then is the aid that woman can most fitly lend 
 to the noble science of being ''temperate in all things ?" 
 Not the assumption of masculine energies, not the ap- 
 plause of popular assemblies; but the still, small voice 
 singing at the cradle-side, — the prayerful sigh, that cries 
 where seraphs veil their faces. So may she steadfastly 
 co-operate with the blessed agencies that work around 
 her, till, from the sanctuary of every home, shall go forth 
 a pure streamlet to make glad the green vales of her native 
 land, and to praise the Lord of the harvest. 
 
 Hartford, Connecticut, 
 October 1st, 1847. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 • 
 
 
 • 
 
 Page 
 
 THE TWINS ....'... 
 
 . 11 
 
 THE SUCCESSFUL ADVOCATE . . . . 
 
 . 27 
 
 WATER 
 
 , 29 
 
 DIVINE AID 
 
 . 31 
 
 APPLES OF SODOM 
 
 . 32 
 
 *' ONLY THIS ONCE" 
 
 . 37 
 
 DEATH'S CHOICE 
 
 . 39 
 
 YM VOBIS 
 
 . 42 
 
 THE WIDOW AND HER SON . . . 
 
 . 44 
 
 THE ANTIDOTE 
 
 . 74 
 
 THE WATER-BEARER 
 
 . 75 
 
 DRINKING SONG 
 
 . 77 
 
 THE PATRIARCH 
 
 . 78 
 
 THE VINE 
 
 . 82 
 
 MOSES IN MIDIAN 
 
 . 83 
 
 THE TWO DRAUGHTS 
 
 . 85 
 
 LOUISA WILSON 
 
 . 87 
 
 SCORN NOT THE ERRING 
 
 . 120 
 
 THE TOMB OF CECILIA METELLA . 
 
 . 121 
 
 THE UPAS TREE 
 
 . 124 
 
 A WALK IN CHILDHOOD 
 
 . 125 
 
 I SAW A LITTLE GIRL 
 
 . 128 
 
 THE DEATH OF KING EDMUND . . . . 
 
 . 130 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 OLD ALCOHOL 133 
 
 THE EMIGRANT BRIDE 134 
 
 LINES TO COLLEGE STUDENTS 148 
 
 WOIVIAN'S MISSION 150 
 
 HYMN 151 
 
 INTEMPERANCE AT SEA . 152 
 
 DANGERS OF SEAMEN 160 
 
 THE STORM 162 
 
 THE SAILOR'S APPEAL 166 
 
 THE HARWOODS 169 
 
 THE WEEPING WIFE 195 
 
 THE MOURNFUL VISIT 197 
 
 FOR A JUVENILE TEMPERANCE SOCIETY . . .200 
 
 LOST HOPES 201 
 
 A DREAM 218 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE COUNTRY 220 
 
 FALLEN BY THE WAY ....;... 222 
 
 THE GOOD QUEEN 224 
 
 "WHAT THEN" 248 
 
 UNKNOWN HEIRS 250 
 
 THE CENTENNIAL ANNIVERSARY OF PRINCETON 
 
 COLLEGE 253 
 
 LETTER TO FEMALES 255 
 
 WOMAN'S PATRIOTISM 270 
 
 THE PRECIOUS GIFT 272 
 
 THE SPOILER ... 274 
 
WATER-DROPS. 
 
THE TWINS. 
 
 " We with our needles fashion'd the same flower ; 
 Both wrought one sampler, sitting on one cushion, 
 Both warbled the same song, — both in one key, — 
 As if our hands, our hearts, voices and minds, 
 Had been incorporate." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 In the environs of one of the large towns of New -Eng- 
 land, a pleasant dwelling attracted the eye of the travel- 
 ler. It was a kind of Gothic cottage, whose face of 
 brown stucco, and pointed windows, were adorned with 
 clustering vines. Its lawn of green turf w^as smoothly 
 shaven, while occasional borders, and circles of dark, 
 weedless mould, gave nutriment to a multitude of flowers. 
 
 The angles formed by the building were wrapped in 
 shrubbery ; the damask-rose and syringas mingled their 
 fragrance, and the corcoris-japonica waved its globes of 
 gold. To the slight columns clung the climbing rose 
 and the graceful American ivy, while near the well in 
 the background, a dense willow, nourished by perpetual 
 moisture, ever drank, and drooped. The inclosure was 
 a deep hedge of lilacs, in whose rich spikes of flowers 
 the white and purple alternated. At the gate, a lofty 
 elm stood sentinel, towering upwards, whence its strength 
 
12 THE TWINS. 
 
 came, and dispensing from its gnarled wide-spread arms, 
 protection and shade. Such was the rural haunt, amid 
 the luxuriance of favoring seasons, while here and there 
 an evergreen, skilfully disposed, provided with a wise 
 foresiofht for the nakedness of winter. 
 
 This abode of simple elegance was furnished with 
 reference both to comfort and taste. The interior was in 
 harmony with its outer robes. With no pretensions to 
 ostentation, it had yet one treasure that neitlier wealth 
 could purchase, nor soulless nature in its proudest glory 
 boast — twin-sister babes, alike, and exceedingly beauti- 
 ful. As they lay asleep in their double-headed cradle, 
 one polished brow seemed a reflection of the other. The 
 smile of waking innocence gave the same curve to their 
 ruby lips, and revt?aled the first pearly teeth, seemingly 
 formed in the same mould. 
 
 Placed in the verandah on some fine summer's day, in 
 their little cushioned car, the shrill song of surrounding 
 birds brought to their large, blue eyes, the same sweet 
 wonder ; and two pair of tiny hands were clapped with 
 one impulse of delight, at the nurse who danced before 
 them. 
 
 Side by side, their roimd feet patted about the nursery, 
 and with their arms around each other, they learned to 
 balance their timid, yet eager steps, when permitted to 
 tread on the green turf, like newly-fledged birdlings, at 
 "their first flight from the cage." Together they learned 
 to shape their infantine articulations, and thrilling was 
 
THE TWINS. 13 
 
 the melody of the word *' mamma ^' to the fond heart that 
 responded to those sweetly blended tones. 
 
 No wonder that gentle mother regarded those exquisite 
 beings, with a tenderness bordering on idolatry. To 
 watch the hourly development of her twin rose-buds, the 
 color and cluster of each incipient curl, their features 
 quickening as the dawn of intellect advanced, the veri- 
 similitude in form and movement that deceived other 
 eyes, and almost bewildered her own, was an " over-pay- 
 ment of dehght." Her extreme solicitude during the ills 
 incidental to infancy, was rendered more agonizing, from 
 the circumstance that they were the sole survivors of 
 several dear ones, who had entered this fair and change- 
 ful existence, only to take a sudden farewell. 
 
 The father, whose manners had been roughened by a 
 life -long intercourse with the boisterous sea, where he 
 had passed every grade, from cabin-boy to the command 
 of a princely vessel, found his whole nature breathed 
 upon, and softened, by the influence of this double pater- 
 nity. As he glided over the rushing waves, he counted 
 the days and hours that must divide him from that home, 
 which was as the light-house to the storm-driven mariner, 
 the "star of hope on life's tremulous ocean." Those 
 fairy forms hovered around him in their exceeding beauty, 
 as living pictures on the crested billow, and amid the 
 hoarsest roar of the tempest, their tones lingered in his 
 heart, hke the murmur of the Zenaida dove. 
 
 His periods of return were signalized by lavish gifts to 
 
14 THE TWINS. 
 
 them, and to their mother. With the hberahty natural 
 to his profession, the most hard-earned gains were val- 
 ued but as the means of their happiness. He studied 
 the unspoken wishes of his wife, and knowing her dehght 
 in the beauties of nature, strove. to make her habitation 
 and surrounding groimds more and more of a paradise. 
 She often endeavored to temper his profusion by a wise 
 regard for the future ; but he deemed this free expendi- 
 ture a legitimate expression of his love, and gloried in its 
 exercise. 
 
 As Rosa and Lilian sprang from infancy to childhood, 
 it was sweet to see them clasping with their delicate 
 hands his large brown fingers, and leading him with hur- 
 ried steps to their own little garden ; or seated at close 
 of day, with their white arms entwining his neck, and 
 their pure, polished cheeks resting on his bronzed brow. 
 
 Childhood advanced, and two lovely creatures might 
 be seen, wending their way to school. Always together, 
 arm in arm, or hand linked to hand, always attired alike, 
 it would even seem that each golden curl, clustering 
 around their ivory necks, had been trained by careful na- 
 ture to observe the same rule of equity. Side by side, 
 they pursued the same studies. If there was difficulty in 
 the task, they assisted each other ; if reward, they were 
 joint partakers. Thus, they grew together, in the words 
 of the bard of Avon, 
 
 • 
 
 " Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, 
 But yet an union in partition." 
 
THE TWINS. 15 
 
 They bent over one page, they wrought out the same 
 problem, their pencils tinted the same landscape, their 
 piano breathed in duets ; they had no idea of a separate 
 employment, or a solitary joy. In all the pursuits of 
 knowledge, and toils of education, they put forth a double 
 strength, through this perfected sympathy. 
 
 When the pleasant season of school-day intercourse 
 was over, and they gracefully assumed those lighter 
 domestic cares^ which were to reheve a mother in her 
 delicate health, they were still kindred-hearted, lighting 
 up the habitation with a double smile ; their voices, like a 
 music-tone, always in unison. Whatever they performed 
 was with the whole, cheerful heart ; and their surpassing 
 beauty was heightened by this happy development of 
 feminine character and duty. 
 
 Thus glided away nineteen cloudless years, — and then 
 the trouble came. Like the thunder-bolt, and the sweep- 
 ing rain, fell the stroke of orphanage. Shipwreck buried 
 the father in the deep, and the stricken wife, enfeebled 
 by previous disease, was unable to brave the sudden 
 shock of so fearful a sorrow. She lingered a few weeks, 
 and sank beneath the clods of the valley. 
 
 Alas, for Rosa and Lilian ! Ever near the couch of 
 the sufferer, rendering every service that affection could 
 prompt, by night or day, while breath remained, — they 
 wished, in the first bitterness of grief, to be gathered into 
 her bosom, and sleep beside her, where the weary are at 
 rest. But as time slowly unveiled his heahng influences, 
 
16 THE TWINS. 
 
 the power of entire sympathy to soothe sorrow, became 
 also apparent. Communion in grief dispelled the rank- 
 ling anguish, and softened it into that tender melancholy 
 which is the nurse of holy thought. 
 
 The seasons, weighed down by affliction, moved heavily. 
 Yet gradually the bereaved ones resumed an interest in 
 their daily duties, and in the soothing intercourse of 
 friendship and benevolence. Hitherto, their existence 
 had known no undi\ided thought, or reserved sentiment. 
 The period had come, when this peculiar and entire 
 union was to be modified. Lov^e ventured on the experi- 
 ment. With his usual arrogance he entered the sanc- 
 tuary, with his train of dreams and fancies, and hung up 
 his own ef^gj in its most sacred shrine. 
 
 A youth, of an impulsive and wild character, drew 
 nearer and nearer to his own heart, one of those recluse 
 and contemplative beings. It would seem that opposites 
 had so combined, as to form an attachment of rare fervor 
 and effervescence. 
 
 The forsaken sister learned by degrees the hard lesson, 
 that another was preferred to herself. She could not but 
 perceive that her presence was an interruption to the 
 lovers, and that the bosom so long exclusively her OAvn, 
 had admitted a guest which could tolerate no rival. She 
 arraigned her own selfishness, and condemned it. She 
 desired to rejoice in her sister's new happiness — if happi- 
 ness it was. Yet to her it seemed rather as a passionate 
 
THE TWINS. 17 
 
 excitement, awakened by an uncongenial, — possibly an 
 unworthy object, and she wept her first, lonely tears. 
 
 One evening, she sate long in the recess of her window, 
 to which the white rose had climbed, looking in, with her 
 countless family of young buds, like a curious and familiar 
 friend. The rich moonlight lay like a curtain upon dale 
 and hillock, touching the masses of foliage with enchant- 
 ment, and making every leaf that quivered in loneliness, 
 transparent. 
 
 From a lower apartment came the voices of the lov^ers, 
 sometimes interrupted, sometimes in recitative ; one rapid 
 and exulting, the other tender as the murmur of the 
 stock-dove. 
 
 It was late ere Rosa entered the chamber. Then, she 
 folded her waiting sister in a close embrace. 
 
 " Oh Lilian, Lilian, forgive me. It is not now with us 
 as in times past, and the fault is mine. When Arthur's 
 footstep is heard, I forget all beside. When he speaks, 
 I hear no other sound. When he is gone, his words keep 
 possession, and his image lingers, shutting out all sur- 
 rounding things. At morn I awake, and his name is first 
 in my prayer, then yours, then my own. Methinks my 
 soul hath escaped, and his hath taken its place." 
 
 She paused, in the rush of emotion, and bowed her 
 flushed cheek to that of her sister, and held her breath 
 to listen, but there was no reply. 
 
 " Lilian, sometimes, since this has come upon me, you 
 have spoken and I have not answered, or I fear me, have 
 
18 THE TWINS. 
 
 answered amiss. Your voice put to flight trains of 
 thought, that were hke ladders of roses, where angels 
 descended. Is it my weakness, Lilian ? or a new strength 
 which has been revealed in me ? I feel that it can never 
 be again with us, as in the days that were, when only 
 your arm w^as around me, on the cradle-pillow, and at 
 our mother's grave. Sometimes I feel a pang, as if I 
 had forsaken you. And yet, I repent not. Ah ! how can 
 I make reparation to you, — so long my other self?" 
 
 Lilian raised her face from the fair neck of her sister, 
 where she had hidden it, their tresses of pale gold inter- 
 mingling like tendrils from the same vine. It was pale, 
 but of a saintly mildness, for the struggle was past. 
 
 " So it must be, — so it ought to be. If you are to 
 walk with Arthur, the path of this checkered life, it is 
 fitting that he be henceforth your more than sister, and 
 your next to God. If I have ever repined, when you 
 seemed first to put me from you, that is past. Selfish 
 and sinful should I indeed be, if your happiness were 
 not my o^vn. But are you assured that this new path 
 leadeth to happiness? that this guide unto death, is 
 wisely chosen ?" 
 
 ''Lilian!" and there was a solemnity in her tone, deep- 
 ening almost to sternness, " Lilian, such a doubt you have 
 before spoken. Let it be uttered no more. For hence- 
 forth, where he goeth, will I go ; and where he dieth, will 
 I be buried ; his people shall be my people, and his God 
 my God, — yea ! if he have no God, I will have none also." 
 
THE TWINS. 19 
 
 The listening sister shuddered, but spoke not. She 
 knelt long in her accustomed orison, and laid herself 
 down by Rosa's side, but that night she slept not. 
 
 It was deemed expedient by the friends of Arthur, 
 that he should pass a year at the south, in the prosecu- 
 tion of some important business, ere the completion of 
 his marriage. The parting of the lovers was trying, and 
 tumultuous with emotion. Perpetual and diffuse epistles 
 seemed their only relief. 
 
 '' Oh Lilian ! dearest, here is the most perfect letter 
 from the adored. Listen, while I read a few passages. 
 And yet I can more rapidly tell you its purport. We 
 must go to him." 
 
 "Go to him!" 
 
 " Yes, Lihan, yes. He is so miserable. He cannot 
 survive longer alone. He is pining away at heart." 
 
 " He has been absent nearly half his probation. Think, 
 in a few months he will return. It is improper, and 
 impossible for us to go to him." 
 
 '' Call nothing impossible, that Love wills. His busi- 
 ness will probably detain him another year. Let me 
 write, and give him permission to come on for us. Let 
 me say that we will accompany him back, and make his 
 wilderness an Eden." 
 
 " Rosa, my sister, ^vrite him to be patient. You surely 
 cannot be serious ?" 
 
 *' Lilian, you must not so love this abode, and the flowers 
 that you are forever training. Arthur will find us a home 
 
20 THE TWINS. 
 
 equally beautiful at the sunny south. I take no pleasure 
 in the things that I once thought so beautiful, for how 
 can I be happy, while he is an exile and desolate," 
 
 It was touching to see the twin-hearts, which but one 
 passion had ever separated, still soothing each other, and 
 striving to harmonize their widely diverging sentiments. 
 Like a stream suddenly parted, one was rushing on, under 
 the sparkling sunbeam, it knew not whither ; the other 
 turning, in sadness, back to the shaded fountain where 
 they were as one. But in all their communion, it became 
 more e\ddent that one, through the infusion of an earthly 
 love, was becoming troubled and wayward ; while the 
 other sought to be a humble student of that which is 
 divine. 
 
 A letter, with a black seal. It was in the hand of the 
 venerable Pastor who had laid their mother in the grave, 
 and regarded with christian tenderness her orphan dear 
 ones. His step was slow, and his voice hesitating, as he 
 inquired for Lilian. 
 
 '' Yes, and for Rosa too," said a merry voice, as a fair, 
 young creature bounded in beside him. So hasty, beau- 
 tiful being, to drink the dregs of bitterness ! They might, 
 perchance, have been softened for thee, by oozing through 
 the crucible of thy kindred heart. 
 
 Ha! raise her there, from the deadly swoon. Bend 
 over her, sister-spirit. Lift up thy soul in prayer, thou 
 pitying man of God. 
 
THE TWINS. 21 
 
 See, the water revives her. But with piercing shrieks, 
 and hands clasped in spasms, she faints again. Oh mis- 
 ery ! Days and nights pass. And the only sound from 
 those pale lips, that darkened chamber, is the frantic cry, 
 *'He is dead, — dead.'' 
 
 Yes. He had fallen in a duel, spurred on by sudden 
 wi'ath, and the wine-frenzy. Months fled, and at length 
 the physical strength of the bereaved one triumphed. 
 She came forth once more, but how chano-ed. The 
 wrinkle of despair was on her brow. She had suffered, 
 but not submitted. He, who had taken away the idol, 
 was to her, as a foe. 
 
 On the sympathizing sister it would seem that the 
 burden of years had been suddenly laid. Every trace 
 of color had faded from cheek and lip. Harrowing 
 anxiety had absorbed every feeling of her nature, except 
 that which communed in devotion with her Father above. 
 A childlike spirit spoke from the pale brow, which was 
 continually turned in watchful tenderness to one, that, 
 clouded and darkened, evinced little reciprocity, and no 
 resignation. 
 
 " Rosa, dearest, hear the birds, how they pour out the 
 very soul of melody. Or shall I sing for you, one of 
 those simple airs that we used to play together ?" 
 
 ''There was, for me, but one voice of music. It is 
 silenced, and I am deaf to melody. '^ 
 
 *' Oh, look to God. He hath comfort for the sorrow- 
 stricken." 
 
22 THE TWINS. 
 
 ''Was it not He who smote down my heart's only 
 prop ? And say you, He hath comfort to offer ? He 
 hath taken aAvay the lone star by which I steered. The 
 taper that I held ever in my hand, is dashed into dark- 
 ness. Are the glories of his own Heaven the brighter ?" 
 
 Poor Lilian shrank away at her words. Madness, and 
 the spirit of defiance seemed to have been the fmit of her 
 chastisement. More widely than ever apart, flowed the 
 stream of hfe of the two lone sisters, who at first, hke 
 kindred drops, were mingled into one. 
 
 '' Our good Pastor has waited long for you, this morn- 
 ing, dear Rosa. He has been often here to inquire for 
 you since you have been able to leave your room. Will 
 you not see him now ?'' 
 
 ''Excuse me to him. I am not in spirits for conversa- 
 tion." 
 
 " He will surely expect an intendew. His interest in 
 the departed, as well as in us, require this attention." 
 
 Crimson flashed over the face of Rosa, dyeing her fore- 
 head, even to the roots of the golden hair. 
 
 " Interest in the departed ! If by this, you mean in 
 Arthur, I know that he rebuked him, and that he never 
 forgave him. Neither will I." 
 
 "His warning was in kindness. He feared" 
 
 " Nay, he numbered him with riotous drinkers of wine. 
 And what if he was ? Whoever lifted against him, the 
 
THE TWINS. 23 
 
 voice of blame, I hate. Rather would I be a partaker of 
 his fault, who was as my own soul, than in their pride 
 of sanctity, who frowned upon him." 
 
 Her tones, and gestures, her excited and unfeminine 
 manner, shocked the meek-hearted sister. But alas ! they 
 announced no discovery. Her participation in the frailty 
 of her fallen lover, was already written on her brow. 
 
 Years slowly departed, and many comforts vanished 
 from the habitation of the sisters. Their table was less 
 bountiful. The waiter was dismissed, and the gardener 
 who had so long tended those beautifid grounds, once 
 the parents' pride. 
 
 In their place, wrought a gentle being, somewhat 
 bowed by time, but more by sorrow. In the illnesses of 
 Rosa, she was also the nurse. And the post was no 
 sinecure. Her forbearance, her watchfulness, the self- 
 denying spirit which says " thy will be done," were but 
 in too frequent requisition. Lightly as a dream she glided 
 about, though in her heart was a rankling arrow. She 
 fain would have hidden her wound, and its anguish. She 
 flattered herself that it was a secret. Alas ! 
 
 " Mistress Lilian," said the old servant, the only one 
 whom they retained, " you are so pale, and eat so little. 
 But to be sure, there is not much to tempt your appetite, 
 
24 THE TWINS. 
 
 nowadays. I 'm often thinking of the good old times, 
 when my master came home from sea, and the china- 
 oranges were as plenty as blackberries, and the pine- 
 apples, and the tamarinds, and the chickens. Mercy on 
 me, I think I could dress such a dinner as you would eat, 
 if I had but the things. Sad changes I 've seen in my 
 day. Mistress Lilian." 
 
 '' We must expect changes, you know, if we live long 
 in a changing world.'' 
 
 "And why do ye wear that poor, threadbare gown 
 and hood, that look as if they came out of the ark. What 
 would the lady, my old mistress, have said, could she 
 have lived to see this day, — she who would always have 
 you dressed in the best, from your cradle ?" 
 
 ^" I have little need to di-ess now, I go out so seldom. 
 Besides, I have told you that we are not able to afford 
 what we once could." 
 
 '' Oh ! but ye 're always able to save something for the 
 poor. And wherefore is it that you cannot afford your- 
 self the comforts you 've been used to, so feeble as you be, 
 and needing them so much. Ah, wherefore. Miss Lilian ? 
 And wherefore is it that so much strong drink goes to 
 yonder chamber ? I would there were fewer full decanters 
 and more food." 
 
 And the faithful creature wept as if her heart would 
 break. 
 
 " It is not for myself that I care. Miss Lilian, it is not 
 for myself. But when I hear the continual call for what 
 
THE TWINS. 25 
 
 does harm, and you working and waiting from morning till 
 niglit, so loving and so patient, like a very angel, never 
 giving a cross look to them that's destroying you, and 
 trying all the time to hide the sword in your vitals, I cry, 
 when I ought to sleep." 
 
 Midnight, in the chamber of the twin-sisters. And a 
 fearful, invisible form was there also, whose shaft is never 
 launched in vain. There were wild gaspings for breath, 
 groans and snatches of lethargic slumber. 
 
 Then a voice of piercing entreaty, thrilling and tender 
 as a quivering harp -string. 
 
 " Oh ! look to Him, who forgiveth all sin. Turn to the 
 Lamb of God. Rosa ! Rosa ! pray !" 
 
 And from the old gray-haired servant, burst forth a 
 cry, " Pray ! pray !" 
 
 A slow opening of the glassy eyes. They seemed to 
 regard nothing distinctly. Then the heavy lids closed, 
 to be lifted no more. 
 
 " Sister ! say, with me, Jesus ! Saviour ! have mercy 
 on me.'* 
 
 There was no reply. 
 
 *' Press my hand, beloved ! if you think of the blessed 
 Redeemer." 
 
 No movement. 
 
26 THE TWINS. 
 
 The lips of the living were joined to those that were 
 to speak no more. Long was that last kiss, but unre- 
 turned. There was a horror of deep anguish, when those 
 twin-souls parted. 
 
 The lonely-hearted knelt beside the couch of the loved 
 and lost. She laid her face on the marble bosom. Sobs 
 were heard, and a low voice of supplication. Then all 
 was still. 
 
 Morning dawned, and they would fain raise the mourner 
 who knelt there so long. They would fain have raised 
 her, — but their hands clasped a form of marble. The 
 chastened and peaceful spirit had gone home. And the 
 bitter weeping of the old, white-haired servant, alone 
 broke the silence of the death- chamber. 
 
THE SUCCESSFUL ADVOCATE. 
 
 *' Father, — father, storms are sweeping, 
 Snows are drifting wild and drear, 
 Wintry wdnds to conflict leaping. 
 
 Do not leave us lonely here," — 
 Half in fear, and half in gladness 
 Eyes with tearful lustre bright. 
 Still that voice implored in sadness, 
 " Father, go not forth to-night." — 
 So the father staid, and with childish glee 
 His little daughter climbed his knee. 
 
 " Dearest father, what a pleasure 
 Thus thy smiling face to see, — 
 Lo, the babe, our blessed treasure. 
 
 How he wondering looks at thee : — 
 Mother's brow is bright with gladness, 
 
 Gentler seems the howling wind. 
 Home hath neither gloom, nor sadness. 
 While thou'rt seated here so kind." — 
 And the father bent with features mild 
 And pressed the lips of the loving child. 
 
28 THE SUCCESSFUL ADVOCATE 
 
 *^ Father, father, mother weepeth, 
 Burdened with a secret care. 
 Every night, before she sleepeth 
 
 Is thy name upon her prayer : — 
 She, that cup of poison dreadeth 
 
 Which thy path with thorns hath sown, 
 Like an angry fiend it treadeth 
 
 On her comforts, and our own." — 
 And the father took the pledge, whose sway 
 Was joy to the home where his treasures lay. 
 
WATER. 
 
 The thirsty flowrets droop. — 
 
 The parching grass 
 Doth crisp beneath the foot, and the wan trees 
 Perish for lack of moisture. By the side 
 Of the dried rills, the herds despairing stand, 
 With tongue protruded. Summer's fiery heat 
 Exhaling, checks the thousand springs of life. 
 Marked ye yon cloud sail forth on angel wing ? 
 Heard ye the herald- drops with gentle force 
 Stir the broad leaves ? and the protracted rain 
 Waking the streams to run their tuneful way ? — 
 Saw ye the flocks rejoice, and did ye fail 
 To thank the God of fountains ? 
 
 See the hart 
 Pant for the water brooks. The fervid sun 
 Of Asia glitters on his leafy lair. 
 As fearful of the lion's wrath he hastes 
 With timid footsteps through the whisp'ring reeds. 
 Quick plunging 'mid the renovating stream, 
 The copious draught inspires his bounding veins 
 With joyous vigor. 
 
30 WATER. 
 
 Patient o'er the sands. 
 The burden-bearer of the desert dime, 
 The camel, toileth. Faint with deadly thirst 
 His writhing neck of bitter anguish tells. 
 Lo ! an oasis, and a tree-girt well, — 
 And mov'd by powerful instinct, on he hastes. 
 With agonizing speed, to drink, or die. 
 
 On his swift courser, o'er the burning wild 
 The Arab cometh. From his eager eye 
 Flashes desire. Seeks he the sparkling wine 
 Giving its ruby color to the cup ? 
 No ! to the gushing spring he flies, and deep 
 Buries his scorching lip, and laves his brow. 
 And blesses Allah. 
 
 Christian pilgrim, come ! 
 Thy brother of the Koran's broken creed 
 Doth teach thee wisdom, and with courteous hand 
 Nature, thy mother, holds the crystal cup. 
 And bids thee pledge her in the element 
 Of temperance and health. 
 
 Drink and be whole, 
 And purge the fever-poison from thy veins. 
 And pass in purity and peace, to taste 
 The river flowing from the throne of God. 
 
DIVINE AID. 
 
 Shall the form the Almighty moulded 
 For the creature of His care. 
 
 Shall the spirit he enfolded 
 In such casket frail and fair. 
 
 Stain the beauty He imparted. 
 Through an appetite of shame ? 
 
 Leave affection broken-hearted. 
 
 Shuddering o'er a tarnished name ? 
 
 Oh ! forbid it, Thou who givest 
 Armor to the tempted soul, 
 
 Thou, who still in glory livest. 
 While eternal ages roll : 
 
 Through this brief and dark probation 
 Keep us from such evil free 
 
 Be our refuge aud salvation. 
 
 Till we find our home with Thee. 
 
APPLES OF SODOM. 
 
 " Oh ! what is life thus spent 1 and what are they 
 But frantic, who thus spend it 7" 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 The heir of a noble house grew up to manhood. His 
 person was lofty, and his step commanding and proud. 
 He had been nurtured in halls of learning, and all that 
 wealth could lend to intellect was his. He dwelt in a 
 stately mansion, and many waited for his smile. 
 
 In his ample hbrary, were gathered the wisdom of 
 ancient sages, and the varied knowledge of modern times. 
 Tomes, enriched by the skill of the engraver, and gay in 
 silk and gold, strewed his tables. There he sometimes 
 lingered, till the lamps grew pale, and the fire in his bur- 
 nished grate faded. 
 
 But, as he sate in his deep chair of velvet, with his 
 feet upon an embroidered ottoman, he sometimes dozed 
 over the open page. For a wine-cup was beside him 
 there. 
 
 Once he read, from a classic book, of the apples of 
 Sodom. But deep sleep came upon him, and falling, he 
 lay upon the rich carpet. His servants bore him to his 
 
APPLES OF SODOM. 33 
 
 couch, and when his head sank in the deep, down pillow, 
 he murmured something like '' Apples of Sodom." 
 
 Afterwards, when he slept long among the books, or 
 his feet failed in the hall, and they laid him in his bed, 
 as one without strength, they said to each other, ''Our 
 master hath eaten the apples of Sodom." But beyond 
 this, they spake not, for they loved the heir of that an- 
 cient house where they had so long been fed. 
 
 A fair, young creature was seen in the lofty rooms of 
 that princely abode. At her word, the marble vases 
 glowed with fresh flowers, and guests, robed in rich 
 apparel, gathered round the costly board. At her word, 
 the steeds moved gracefully in the proud chariot, for she 
 bore over that household the authority of a wife. 
 
 Yet was there something at her heart, that gnawed 
 like a secret worm. Of this, she spake not. But the 
 green leaves of hope withered, and the garlands of joy. 
 
 She lay upon a silken couch. Perfumes breathed 
 around her. The light of the silver lamp was shaded by 
 the heavy folds of silken curtains, and the steps gliding 
 around her, upon the thick, and radiant carpet, gave no 
 sound. Then the wail of a weak infant was heard, — and 
 the soul of the young mother departed. 
 
 The master of the mansion wept ; but with his tears 
 were drops of wine. The holy fruits of sorrow he gath- 
 ered not, for in his hand were the apples of Sodom. 
 Yet the little feet of the child at his side, made music in 
 
34 APPLES OF SODOM. 
 
 his heart, and he saw with pride that the dark curls round 
 the pure forehead were like his own. 
 
 The boy grew in strength and in beauty. His heart 
 reached out slight tendrils for something to love, and took 
 hold both of the e\il and the good. Ere the eyes of the 
 mind were fully opened, the quick passions had put forth 
 broad, dark leaves to drink up the sunbeams. 
 
 When he erred, and deserved reproof, or when he did 
 well, and needed encouragement, there was no father, 
 save a bloated form in the wine-trance. He became a 
 youth, and flattery spake to him soft things. 
 
 At his nod, servants went and came, and when his 
 splendid equipage rolled along the pavement, the gazing 
 crowd said that he was happy. But they knew not, that 
 for the undisciplined spirit there is no happiness. 
 
 Years rolled on. And in the house of strangers, 
 whence issued wild shrieks, and exulting shouts without 
 cause, and the loud laughter of the maniac, was the son of 
 the drunkard. Bolts and bars restrained him, and the 
 glory of his clustering locks was shorn. 
 
 He raved wildly, calling his servants to his aid, and 
 uttering maledictions because they came not. At inter- 
 vals, he was quiet, and wrote upon the walls of his cell, 
 incoherent thoughts. There, amid broken and blotted 
 lines, might be traced out, *' Apples of Sodom.^' 
 
 The father sate in his lonely halls. He scarcely 
 mourned for his lost son. An equal madness was upon 
 him, and a greater sin; for they were voluntary. The 
 
APPLES OF SODOM. 35 
 
 habit, which Uke a tyrant ruled him, had been his own 
 choice. He had himself forged the chains, that were 
 dragging him to the lowest hell. 
 
 He sate in his lonely halls. Friends had forsaken him, 
 for he had shown kindness to none. The white hairs 
 of age were upon him, yet had he not become wise. 
 Wealth was still his, but he enjoyed it not. Neither 
 gave he to the poor, for a depraved appetite had eaten 
 up his sympathies. 
 
 The weakness of age came upon him. He was a drivel- 
 ler, and full of disease. His old servants were dead, and 
 the new mocked him, and stole his substance. His dim 
 eyes discovered not their thefts, but he trusted them not, 
 and dwelt with them as amongr enemies. 
 
 None pitied him, or said, "Poor old man!" for his 
 vice had made him an abhorrence. Memory fled away ; 
 so that the names of his wife, or child, woke no image in 
 his soul. Yet he forgot not the wine- cup. There it 
 stood, ever near him, and he drowned in it the last light 
 of life. 
 
 He died. And the bloated corpse scarce retained the 
 form of humanity. They bore him to his tomb, with the 
 pomp of mourning ; with steeds slowly pacing, and nod- 
 ding their sable plumes : for he was the heir of a noble 
 house. Yet, in that long procession, none remembered 
 aught that he had done for the comfort of the sorrowful, 
 or to cause his name to be gratefully remembered among 
 men. 
 
36 APPLES OF SODOM. 
 
 They laid down the dead, in the tomb with his fathers. 
 And methought, from their coffins issued a hollow voice, 
 
 " Strength was thine, and manly beauty ; wealth, and 
 learning, and love, and the joys of paternity; length of 
 days, and all that the world covets. 
 
 " Yet hast thou come unto us as with the burial of a 
 beast, for whom none weepeth. Yea, thou didst choose 
 to pare the Apples of Sodom, and feed on their ashes all 
 the days of thy life. So hast thou found bitterness at the 
 latter end." 
 
"ONLY THIS ONCE." 
 
 Numbers x. 17. 
 
 Only this once ;" the wine- cup glowed, 
 All sparkling with its ruby ray, 
 
 The bacchanalian revel flowed, 
 
 And Folly made the madness gay. 
 
 Then he, so oft, so deeply warned. 
 
 The sway of conscience rashly spurned. 
 
 His promise of repentance scorned, 
 And coward-like, to guilt returned. 
 
 ' Only this once .•" the tale is told. 
 
 He wildly quaff 'd the poisonous tide ; 
 With more than Esau's frenzy sold 
 The birth-right of his soul, and died, 
 
 I do not say that breath forsook 
 The clay, and left his pulses dead, 
 
 But Reason in her empire shook, 
 And all the hfe of hfe was fled. 
 
38 " ONLY THIS ONCE. 
 
 99 
 
 Then angel eyes with pity wept, 
 
 When he, whom Virtue fain would save. 
 
 His sacred vow so falsely kept, 
 
 And strangely chose a drunkard's grave. 
 
 " Onli/ this once ;" Beware ! beware ! 
 Gaze not upon the blushing wine ; 
 Repel temptation's siren snare. 
 
 And prayerful seek for strength divine. 
 
DEATH'S CHOICE. 
 
 The shadowy monarch, on his throne of skulls, 
 Sate, wearied and displeased. 
 
 " My cheerless task 
 Since he of Eden felt a brother's hate," 
 Down to the brow that blanches as I speak, 
 Hath known no respite. Would that there were one 
 With whom to trust my cares awhile, and snatch 
 One moment of repose. Ho ! ye who wait ! 
 Give notice that with him most worthy found 
 By previous deeds, to waste the race of man. 
 The King of Terrors will delight to share 
 The glory of his kingdom." 
 
 Mighty winds. 
 Swollen high to earthquake violence, and tones 
 Of many waters, like wild, warring seas, 
 Proclaimed the edict, while the lightning's spear 
 Wrote it in flame on every winged cloud : 
 Yea, with such zeal the elements conspired 
 To publish the decree, methought there lurked 
 In each, some latent, lingering hope, to win 
 The promised regency. 
 
40 death's choice, 
 
 The Passions came, 
 Throned on their storm-clouds, and with varied voice 
 Thundering, or eloquent, as best beseemed 
 Their several natures, boasted how to quell 
 Life's feeble springs. 
 
 But to their claims, stern Death 
 Gave credence cold. 
 
 Next, fleshless Famine stalked, 
 Followed by fierce, unpitying Pestilence, 
 Still ever in their ear a mournful sound, — 
 The weeping of the nations. 
 
 Loudly shriek'd 
 A martial trump, and on his bannered car. 
 War, like a sovereign, came. Unnumbered spoils 
 Were strewed around him, and the blood of men 
 Flowed, as a river, 'neath his chariot wheels. 
 His eagle eye the promised honor scanned. 
 As an undoubted right. But still pale Death 
 Pondered and spake not, till, with haughty pride 
 The candidate withdrew, and trembUng Earth 
 Shrank at his kindled wrath. 
 
 There was a pause, 
 As if none dare in that foiled champion's steps 
 Essay to tread. 
 
 At length, a bloated form 
 Moved slowly on, with mixed and maddening bowl. 
 But ere the footstool of the throne he pressed, 
 Death, with a father's fondness hasting down, 
 
death's choice. 41 
 
 Embraced, and in the seat of empire placed. 
 Great was the wonder, but none dare gainsay : — 
 For with a fearful shout, all Nature's foes, 
 Diseases, passions, wars and sins, confessed 
 Intemperance their king, and at his feet 
 Their boasted, time-cemented trophies, cast. 
 
YE VOBIS.* 
 
 Vce VohisP' ye whose lip doth lave 
 
 Too freely in the sparkling wine, 
 Regardless, though that passion-wave 
 
 Blot from your soul Heaven's hght divine 
 " Va Vohis r heed the warning cry, 
 
 Fly ! ere the leprous taint is deep ; • 
 Fly ! ere the hour of doom is nigh. 
 
 And pitying angels cease to weep. 
 
 VcB Vohis /" ye who fail to read 
 
 His Name, that shines where'er ye tread, 
 The Alpha of our infant creed. 
 
 The Omega of the sainted dead : 
 It glows where'er the pencill'd flowers 
 
 Their tablet to the desert show, 
 Where'er the mountain's rocky towers 
 
 In shadow wrap the vales below. 
 
 Where roll the starry worlds on high. 
 In glorious order, strong and fair ; — 
 
 * " Woe unto you." 
 
v^ voBis. 43 
 
 In each red letter on the sky 
 
 The Comet writes, 'tis there ! 'tis there ! — 
 'Tis graved on Ocean's furrowed brow. 
 
 On every shell that tints the shore, 
 And where the solemn forests bow, 
 
 '^ VcB Vobis /" ye who scorn the lore. 
 
 ■^ VcB Vobis /" all who trust in earth. 
 
 Who lean on reeds that pierce the breast, 
 Who drain the foaming cup of mirth, 
 
 Or seek ambition's storm-wreath'd crest, — 
 Who early rise, and late take rest. 
 
 In Mammon's mine the careworn slave, — 
 Who find each phantom-race unblest, 
 
 Yet shrink reluctant from the grave. 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 " Care, and peril, instead of joy, — 
 Guilt and dread shall be thine, rash boy. 
 Lo I thy mantling chalice of life 
 Foameth with sorrow, and madness, and strife. 
 
 It is well. T discern a tear on thy cheek, — 
 It is well. Thou art humble, and silent, and meek. 
 Now, courage again ! and with peril to cope, 
 Gird thee with vigor, and helm thee with hope. 
 
 Martin Farquhar Tupper. 
 
 A GROUP of villagers surrounded an open grave. A 
 woman, holding two young children by the hand, was 
 bowed down with grief. There seemed to be no other 
 immediate mourners. But many an eye turned on them 
 with sympathy, and more than one glistened Avith tears. 
 
 In a small, rural community, every death is felt as a 
 solemn thinsr, and in some measure, a general loss. The 
 circumstances that attended it, are inquired into, and re- 
 membered ; while, in cities, the frequent hearse scarce 
 gains a glance, or a thought, from the passing throng. 
 
 On this occasion it was distinctly known, that Mr. 
 Jones, the carpenter of the village, who was that day 
 buried, had led a reproachless life, and that his death, 
 by sudden disease, in the prime of his days, would be an 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 45 
 
 unspeakable loss to his wife, and little ones. Pitying 
 kindness stirred in the hearts of those honest people, 
 and whatever service their limited means allowed, was 
 promptly rendered. It was the earnest desire of the 
 widow, to keep, if possible, the cottage where they had 
 resided since their marriage ; and which was the more 
 dear, from having been built by the hands of her hus- 
 band; They respected her diligence and prudence, and 
 at their seasons of fruit-gathering and harvest she was 
 not forgotten. But as her health, which had been worn 
 down by watching and sorrow, returned, her energies 
 also were quickened to labor, that she might bring up 
 her children without the aid of charity : and her efforts 
 were prospered. 
 
 In the course of a few years, it was thought advisable 
 for her daughter, who was ingenious with the needle, to 
 go to a neighboring town and obtain instruction in the 
 trade of a dressmaker. Richard, who was two years 
 younger, remained with his mother, attending in winter 
 the village-school, and at other periods of the year, find- 
 ing occasional employment among the farmers in the 
 vicinity. It was seen by all, how much the widow's 
 heart was bound up in him, and how she was always 
 devising means for his improvement and happiness. 
 
 But as Richard grew older, he liked the society of 
 idle boys, and it was feared did not fully appreciate, or 
 repay her affection. He was known to be addicted to 
 his own way, and had been heard to express contempt 
 
46 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 for the authority of women. There were rumors of 
 his having frequented places where Hquors were sold ; 
 yet none imagined the disobedience and disrespect which 
 that lonely cottage sometimes witnessed, for the mother 
 complained only to her God, in the low sigh of prayer. 
 She was not able to break his intimacy with evil associ- 
 ates, and, ere he reached his eighteenth year, had too 
 much reason to believe him a partaker in their vices. 
 
 It was supposed that she was unacquainted with his 
 conduct, because she spoke not of it to others, and con- 
 tinued to treat him with tenderness. But deep Love, 
 though sometimes willing to appear blind, is quick-sighted 
 to the faults of its object. It may keep silence, but the 
 glance of discovery, and the thrill of torture, are alike 
 electric. 
 
 The widowed mother had hoped much from the return 
 of her daughter, and the aid of her young, cheerful 
 spirit, in rendering their home attractive. Her arrival, 
 in full possession of her trade, with the approbation of 
 her employers, gave to her lone heart a joy long un- 
 tasted. Margaret was an active and loving girl, graceful 
 in her person, and faithful to every duty. Her industry 
 provided new comforts for the cottage, while her inno- 
 cent gayety enlivened it. 
 
 The widowed mother earnestly besought her assist- 
 ance, in saving their endangered one from the perils that 
 surrounded him ; and her sisterly love poured itself out 
 upon his heart, in a full, warm flood. It would seem 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 47 
 
 that he caught the enthusiasm of her example ; for he 
 returned with more of diligence to his former labors, 
 while his intervals of leisure were spent at home. When 
 his mother saw him seated by their pleasant little hearth, 
 sometimes reading to Margaret, while she plied the 
 needle, or occasionally winding her silks, and arranging 
 the spools in her work-table, their young voices mingling 
 in song, or laughter, she felt how powerful was the in- 
 fluence of a good sister, and lifted up her soul in praise 
 to the Rock of their salvation. Somewhat more of fiUal 
 respect and observance she might have desired, but was 
 content that her own claims should be overlooked, might 
 he only be rescued. Months fled, and her pallid cheek 
 had already resumed the tinge of a long-forgotten happi- 
 ness. 
 
 One day, when spring made the earth beautiful, on 
 entering suddenly Margaret's little chamber, she surprised 
 her in a passion of tears. 
 
 '' My daughter ! My dear child !" 
 
 " Oh, mother ! I wish you had not come, just now." 
 
 " Tell me, are you sick ?" 
 
 '* No, not sick. Only my heart is broken." 
 
 '' Can you not trust me with your trouble ?" 
 
 Long and bursting sobs followed, with stifled attempts 
 at utterance. 
 
 " Mother, we have been so happy, I cannot bear to 
 destroy it all. Richard, — my poor brother." 
 
 '' Speak ! what has he done ?" 
 
48 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 Hiding her face in her mother's bosom, she said in 
 broken tones, — 
 
 " You ought to know, — I must teil you. It cannot 
 lontj^er be concealed that he often comes home late, and 
 disguised with liquor. I tried to shut out the truth from 
 myself. Then I tried to hide it from others. But it is 
 all in vain." 
 
 " Alas ! I thought he was changed, that your blessed 
 hand had saved him. Tell me what you have dis- 
 covered." 
 
 " I would fain spare you. But I have seen enough, 
 for weeks past, to destroy my peace. Last night, you 
 had retired before he came. He entered with a reeling 
 step, and coarse, hateful words. I strove to get him 
 silently to his bed, lest he might disturb you. But he 
 withstood me. His fair blue eyes were like balls of fire ; 
 and he cursed me, till I fled from him." 
 
 The mother clasped her closer to her heart, and bathed 
 her brow with tears. 
 
 " Look to Him, my child, who ordereth all our trials. 
 Night after night, have I spent in sleepless prayer for the 
 poor, sinful boy." 
 
 *' Ah ! then you have known it long. Mother, you have 
 been too indulgent. You should warn and reprove him, 
 and give him no rest, until he repent and forsake his 
 sin." 
 
 '' All that was in my power to do, has been faithfully 
 done. I have not spared him. But he revolted. He 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 49 
 
 despised my woman's voice, my motherly love. I forbore 
 to distress your young heart with all that I might have 
 revealed. I feared to damp the courage on which my 
 hopes were built. I told you freely of his danger from 
 evil associates, but relied on the power of your love too 
 much, too fondly. Yet you have been an angel to him, 
 and to me." 
 
 " Mother, I will myself rebuke him. I will speak for 
 you, and for God." 
 
 " Margaret, may He give you wisdom. Should your 
 brother's mind not be in a right state, your words will be 
 hurled back upon your own head. Sometimes, I have 
 poured out my whole soul in reproof. Then, again, I 
 have refrained, to save him from the sin of cursing his 
 mother. Yet speak to him, Margaret, if you will. May 
 God give power to your words. Still, I cannot but fear 
 lest you take a wrong time, when his feelings are in- 
 flamed with intemperance." 
 
 " Be at peace, in this, dearest mother. I will not 
 broach such a subject but at a. fitting time." 
 
 The mother had little hope from the intended appeal 
 of her daughter. Indeed, she shrank from it, for she 
 best knew the temper of her son. Yet she humbled her- 
 self to go to the vender of Hquor, and beseech him to 
 withhold it from him, in the name of the widow's God. 
 Margciret drooped in secret, but spoke cheering words to 
 her brother, with an unclouded brow. One day, he had 
 aided her in some slight operation in the garden, with 
 
 3 
 
50 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 unwonted kindness. She fancied that she saw in his eye, 
 the reviving spirit of better days. Throwing her arm 
 around his neck, she said, — 
 
 *' Brother Richard, you can be so good. How I wish 
 it were always thus." 
 
 " Always to be working under your orders, I suppose. 
 No doubt, that would be quite pleasing. All you women 
 like to rule, when you can." 
 
 "Not to rule, but to see those we love rule them- 
 selves." 
 
 " Is that what you tell Will Palmer, when he sits here 
 so long, watching you like a cat, and looking as wise as 
 an owl ? If you should chance to marry him, you'd tell 
 him another tale, and try all ways to rule him yourself. 
 Now, Miss Mag Jones, tell the whole truth : why is that 
 same deacon that is to be, here forever ?" 
 
 " I will not hide anything from you, dear Richard, 
 who have known my thoughts from my cradle. We shall 
 probably be married in the autumn, and then" — 
 
 " And then, what ?" 
 
 " Oh, brother ! then, I hope you will do all in your 
 power to comfort mother, when I shall not be here." 
 
 " Not be here ! Do you expect to move to Oregon, or 
 sit on the top of the Andes, with this remarkable sweet- 
 heart of yours ?" 
 
 " We sliall not leave this village. But when I have a 
 new home and otlier duties, I hope you will be daughter 
 and son both, to our poor mother. Remember how hard 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 51 
 
 she has worked to bring us up, how she has watched us 
 in sickness, and prayed for us, at all times. Her only 
 earthly hope is in us ; especially in you, her son." 
 
 " Marpfaret, what are you drivino- at ?" 
 
 *' Oh, Richard ! forsake those evil associates, who are 
 leading you to ruin. Break off the habit of drinking, that 
 debases, and destroys you. For the sake of our widowed 
 mother, for the sake of our father's unblemished memory, 
 for the sake of the sister, who loves you as her own 
 soul"— 
 
 " For the sake of w^hat else ? Bill Palmer, I presume. 
 Is there never to be an end to these women's tongues ? 
 So it has been these three years ; preach, preach, till I 
 have prayed for deafness. I have had no rest, for 
 Mrs. Jones's eternal sermons ; and now you must needs 
 come to help her, with your everlasting gab." 
 
 The young girl heeded not that his eyes flashed, and 
 that the veins of his neck were sw^ollen and sangfuine. 
 Throwing off' the timidity of her nature, she spoke slo^vly, 
 and with solemn emphasis, as one inspired. 
 
 '' If you have no pity on the mother who bore you, no 
 tender memory of the father w^ho laid his hands on your 
 head, w^hen they w^ere cold in death ; no regard for an 
 honest, honorable reputation ; at least, have some pity on 
 your ow^n undying soul, some fear of the bar of judg- 
 ment, of the worm that never dies, and seek mercy w^iile 
 there is hope, and repent, that you may be forgiven." 
 
 '' I tell you what, I'll not bear this from you. I know 
 
52 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 something to make fine words out of, too. Your mother 
 lias been slandering me, prohibiting the traffic in hquor, 
 I understand : for aught I know, you were her spokes- 
 man. Wise women ! as if there was but one place on 
 this round world, where it is sold. Hypocrites you are, 
 both of you ! making boast of your love, and publishing 
 e\il against me. Look out, how you drive a man to 
 desperation. If you see my face no more, thank your- 
 selves !" 
 
 And with a hoarse imprecation, he threw himself over 
 the garden fence, and disappeared. That night there was 
 agonizing grief in the pleasant cottage, tears, and hsten- 
 ing for the feet that came not. Then, were days of vain 
 search, and 1. arrowing anxiety, closed by sleepless watch- 
 ings. Alas ! for the poor mother's heart ! What had 
 the boy been left to do ? what ! Had not his sister 
 been too severe ? Would that her reproaches had been 
 less sharp to. his sore heart, oi- that she had taken a better 
 time, when he might have been more patient. Thus 
 travailed the yearning heart of the mother, with the old, 
 blind Eden-policy, vaiyi excuse. 
 
 Again another tide of struggling emotion. Would he 
 but come, even as he had so often done, with unequal 
 steps, and muttered threatenings. Would he only come, 
 that the Love wliich had nursed his innocent infancy, 
 might once more look upon his face. Then swept terri- 
 ble thoughts over the mother's soul, images of reckless 
 crime, and ghastly suicide. But she gave them not 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 53 
 
 utterance to the (laughter who sate beside her, working 
 and weeping. For she said, the burden of the child is 
 already greater than she can bear. 
 
 Yet he, who was the cause of all this agony, hastened 
 night and day from the quiet spot of his birth, towards 
 the sea-coast, boiling with passion. He conceived him- 
 self to have been utterly disgraced by the prohibition of 
 his mother to the seller of liquors, not feeling that the 
 disgrace was in the sin that had made such prohibition 
 necessary. He wildly counted those who most loved him, 
 as conspirators against his peace ; for vice, to its other 
 distortions of soul, adds the insanity of mistaking the 
 best friends for enemies. 
 
 Full of vengeful purpose, and knowing that his mother 
 had long dreaded lest he should choose the life of a sailor, 
 he hurried to a seaport, and shipped on a whaling voyage. 
 As the vessel was to sail immedately, to be absent more 
 than three years, and he entered under a feigned name, 
 it gave him pleasure that he should thus baffle pursuit or 
 discovery. 
 
 ''Let them trace me, if they can," said he; ''and 
 when I get back, I'll sail again, without seeing them. 
 They may preach now as long as they please, but I'll be 
 out of their hearing." 
 
 Thus, in the madness of a sinful heart, he threw him- 
 self upon the great deep, without a thought of kindness 
 towards man, or a prayer to God. Yet he was ill-pre- 
 pared for the lot of hardship he had chosen, — the coarse 
 
54 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 fare, the iron sway, the long night-watch, and the 
 sHppery shroud in the tempest. To drown misery in 
 the daily allowance of liquor, was his principal resource, 
 when at first the sea-sickness seized him, and afterwards, 
 when his sea-sins sank him still lower in brutality. Vile 
 language, bad songs, and frequent broils were the enter- 
 tainments of the forecastle ; while the toilsome duties of 
 a raw sailor before the mast, were imbittered by the 
 caprices of the captain, himself a votary of intemperance. 
 A stronger shadowing forth of the intercourse of con- 
 demned spirits could scarcely be given, than the fierce 
 crew of that rude vessel exhibited, shut out, for years, 
 from all humanizing and holy influences. Yet strange to 
 say, the recreant, who had abused the indulgences of 
 home and the supplications of love, derived some benefit 
 where it could least have been anticipated. Indolence 
 was exchanged for regular employment, and he learned 
 the new and hard lesson of submission to authority ; and 
 whenever a lawless spirit is enforced to industry, and the 
 subjugation of its will, it must be in some degree a gainer. 
 So, with the inconsistency of our fallen nature, the soul 
 that had spurned the sunbeam, and hardened under the 
 shower, was arrested by the thunderblot, and taught by 
 the lightning. 
 
 In the strong excitement and peril of conflict with the 
 huge monarch of the deep, he gained some elevation, 
 by a temporary forgetfulness of self ; for that one image, 
 long magnified and dilated, had closed the mind to all 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 55 
 
 ennobling prospects, and generous resolves. The dead- 
 lights of the soul had been so long shut in, that the 
 first ray that streamed through them, seemed new and 
 wonderful. 
 
 Accident and ill-fortune protracted their voyage, sev- 
 eral months beyond its intended limits. While pursuing 
 a homeward course, some seasons of serious reflection, 
 when not under the sway of intemperance, came over 
 Richard Jones. For he was not utterly hardened ; and 
 prayers continually rose up from his forsaken home, that, 
 if yet in the land of the living, he might repent, and find 
 hope. Conscience, at times, wrought powerfully, so that 
 he dreaded to be alone, or turned as a refuge to the vile 
 revelry of comrades whom he despised. 
 
 Once, as he paced the deck in his midnight watch, 
 while the vessel went rushing onward through the deep, 
 dark sea, solemn thoughts settled heavily around him. 
 Here, and there, a star looked down upon him, with 
 watchful, reproving eye. He felt alone, in the presence 
 of some mighty, mysterious Being. Early memories re- 
 turned ; the lessons of the Sabbath-school, the plaintive 
 toll of the church-bell, the voice of his mother, as seated 
 on her knee, she taught him of the dear Saviour, who 
 took the children to his breast, and blessed them. 
 
 A few drops of rain, from a passing cloud, fell upon 
 his head. In the excitement of the reverie, he gasped, — 
 
 " These are her tears ! Yes ! Just so they felt on my 
 
56 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 forehead, when she used to beseech me to forsake the 
 foolish, and live, and go in the way of understanding." 
 
 He leaned over the vessel's side. The rain-drops 
 ceased, and the phosphorescence of the waters was like 
 a great lake of fire. The billows rose, tossing their 
 white crests for a moment, and then sank into the 
 burnin gr flood. He watched them till his brain o-rew 
 giddy. Presently, a single faint moonbeam shot through 
 the cleft of a cloud. As it o-limmered over the suro-e, 
 he thought a face loomed up, and gazed on him, — a 
 fair young face, paler than marble. A hand seemed 
 to stretch itself out, arms to bend in an embracing 
 clasp, a floating death-shroud gleamed, — and all was 
 lost forever. 
 
 " Oh, Margaret ! oh, my sister !" he shrieked, "just so 
 she looked when she adjured me, in the name of God, to 
 have pity on my poor mother, and on my own soul." 
 
 As if he had witnessed her funeral obsequies, he wept 
 in remorseful grief. His watch closed. In horror of 
 spirit, he retired, but not to sleep. Even the hardened 
 men who surrounded him forbore to jeer, when they 
 heard liim moan in anguish, " Oh, Margaret ! oh, my 
 sister !" 
 
 Tliese strong and painful impressions scarcely wore 
 away during the brief remainder of the voyage. When 
 he saw in dim outline, the hills of his country gleaming 
 amid the clouds, a new joy took possession of his soul. 
 And wlien his feet rested again on the solid earth, and 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 57 
 
 he received his wages, his first thought was to hasten 
 and share them with those whom he had so recklessly 
 forsaken. 
 
 '' Will you come to my house, sir ?" said a man, upon 
 the wharf, near him. " Good accommodations, sir, for 
 sailor gentlemen. Everything, first cut and first cost." 
 
 '•' Where is your house ?" 
 
 " Near by. Here, boy ; take this fine young man's 
 chest along. I'll show you the way, sir. The favorite 
 boarding-house for all jolly, noble-spirited tars." 
 
 It was evident that he was now in the power of a 
 land-shark. Alas ! for all his hopes : the struggles of 
 conscience, the rekindling of right affections. Tempta- 
 tion, and the force of habit, were too strong for him. 
 Almost continually intoxicated, his hard earnings van- 
 ished, he knew not how, or where. It was not long ere 
 his rapacious landlord pronounced him in debt, and 
 produced claims which he was unable to meet. His 
 chest with all its contents was seized, and he, miserably 
 clad, and half bewildered, was turned into the streets, 
 by his sordid betrayer. 
 
 As the fumes of prolonged inebriety subsided, horrible 
 images surrounded him. Smothered resolutions, and 
 pampered vices, sprang from the seething caldron of his 
 brain, frowning and gibbering like ghostly tormentors. 
 Monstrous creatures grinned and beckoned, and when he 
 would have fled, cold slimy serpents seemed to coil 
 around and fetter his trembling limbs. 
 
 3^ 
 
58 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 Still, with returning reason came a deeper misery. 
 He desired to die, but death fled from him. Covering 
 his face with his hands, as he sate on the ground, in the 
 damp, chill air of evening, he meditated difterent forms 
 of suicide. He would fain have plunged into the sea, 
 but his tottering limbs failed him. Searching for his 
 knife, the only movable that remained to him, he ex- 
 amined its blunted edge, and loosened blade, as if doubt- 
 ing their efficiency. Thus engaged, by the dim light of 
 a street-lamp, groans, as if the pangs of death had 
 seized him, burst from his heaving breast. Half believ- 
 ing himself already a dweller with condemned spirits, 
 he started at the sound of a human voice. 
 
 '' Thee art in trouble, I think." 
 
 The eyes once so clear in days of innocence, opening 
 wide and wild, glared with amazement on the calm, 
 compassionate brow of a middle-aged man, in the garb 
 of a Quaker. The knife fell from his quivering hand, 
 and sounded on the pavement. But there was no an- 
 swer. 
 
 *' Thee art in great trouble, friend !" 
 
 " Friend ! Friend ! Who calls me friend ? I have 
 no friends, but the tormentors to whom I am going." 
 
 " Hast thou a wife ? or children ?" 
 
 *' No, no ; God be thanked. No wife, nor children. 
 I tell you there are no friends left, but the fiends who 
 have come for me. No home, but their eternal fires. 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 59 
 
 Shoals of them were here just now, — ready ! aye, ready T 
 and he laughed a demoniac laugh. 
 
 *' Poor, poor youth ! I see thee art a sailor." 
 
 *' I was once. What I am now, I know not. I wish 
 to be nothing. Leave me to myself, and those that are 
 howling around me. Here ! here ! I come :" and he 
 groped aimlessly for his lost knife. 
 
 The heart of the philanthropist yearned as over an 
 erring brother. The spirit of the Master who came to 
 seek and to save the lost, moved within him. 
 
 **Alas! poor victim. How many have fallen, like 
 thee, before the strong man armed. Sick art thou, at 
 the very soul. I will give thee shelter for the night. 
 Come with me, to my home." 
 
 ^' Home ! Home V shouted the inebriate, as if he 
 understood him not. And while the benevolent man, 
 taking his arm, staid his uncertain footsteps, he still 
 repeated, but in tones more humanized and tender, — 
 *' Home ! your home ? What ! me a sinner .^" until a burst 
 of unwonted tears relieved the fires within. 
 
 And as that blessed man led him to his own house, 
 and laid him upon a good bed, speaking words of com- 
 fort ; heard he not from above that deep, thrilling mel- 
 ody, '' I was sick, and ye visited me, in prison, and ye 
 came unto me. Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one 
 of these, ye have done it unto me ?" 
 
 With reviving day the sinful man revived ; humbled 
 in heart, and sad. Subdued by suffering, and softened 
 
60 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 by a kindness, which he felt to be wholly undeserved, 
 he poured out a fervent prayer for divine aid in the 
 great work of reformation. He was glad to avail him- 
 self, without delay, of the proposal of his benefactor, to 
 enter on ser^dce in a temperance ship ready to sail im- 
 mediately for the East Indies. 
 
 *' I am acquainted with the captain," said the good 
 man, *' and can induce him to take thee. I am also in- 
 terested in the vessel, and in the results of her voyage. 
 A relative of mine, goes out as supercargo. Both of 
 them will be thy friends, if thou art true to thyself. 
 But intemperance bringeth sickness to the soul, as well 
 as to the body. Wherefore, pray for healing, and strive 
 for penitence, and angels who rejoice , over the returning 
 sinner, will give thee aid." 
 
 Self-abasement, and gratitude to his preserver, swelled 
 like an overwhelming flood, and choked his utterance. 
 
 " All men have sinned, my son, though not all in the 
 same way. But there is mercy for ever}^ one that sor- 
 roweth, and forsaketh the evil. God hath given me the 
 great happiness to help some who have fallen as low as 
 thee. Thank Him, therefore, and not the poor arm of 
 flesh. May He give thee strength to stand firm on the 
 Rock of salvation." 
 
 Broken words, mingled with tears, struggled vainly 
 to express the emotions of the departing sailor. His 
 benefactor once more shaking him heartily by the hand, 
 bade him ftirewell. 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 61 
 
 " Peace be with thee, on the great waters. And re- 
 member to strive and pray." 
 
 A new world seemed to open upon the rescued one. 
 Of the quietness and order that pervaded a temperance 
 ship, he had no anticipation. There were neither quar- 
 rels nor profanity, so common among the crew, nor arro- 
 gance, and capricious punishment, on the part of those 
 in power. Cheerful obedience, and just authority pre- 
 vailed, as in a well-regulated family. He was both sur- 
 prised and delighted to find his welfare an object of 
 interest with the officers of the ship, to receive kind 
 counsel from them, and to be permitted to employ his 
 brief intervals of leisure w^th the well-chosen volumes 
 of a seaman's library. 
 
 Still it was not with him, as if he had never sinned. 
 Not all at once could he respire freely in a pure atmo- 
 sphere. Physical exhaustion, from the withdrawal of 
 stimulants to which he had been long accustomed, some- 
 times caused such deep despondence, that hfe itself 
 seemed a burden. 
 
 Cherished vice brings also a degree of moral obliquity. 
 Every permitted sin lifts a barrier between the clear 
 shining of God's countenance, and the cold and frail 
 human heart. Perverted trains of thought, and pol- 
 luted remembrances still lingered with him, and feelings 
 long debased, did not readily acquire an upward tend- 
 ency. Yet the parting admonition of his benefactor to 
 strive and 'pray, ever sounded in his ears, and became 
 
62 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 the motto of his soul. By little and little, through 
 faithful obedience, he obtained the victory. His im- 
 provement was noticed by others, before he dared to 
 congratulate himself ; for humility had strangely become 
 a part of his character, who once defied all laws, human 
 and divine. His countenance began to resume the ingen- 
 uous expression of early years, and the eyes, so long- 
 fiery, or downcast, looked up with the clearness of hope. 
 
 " Blessings on the temperance ship !" he often ejacu- 
 lated, as he paced the deck in his nightly watch, '' and 
 eternal blessings on the holy man, who snatched me 
 from the lowest hell." 
 
 At his arrival in a foreign port, he was watchful to 
 avoid every temptation. His friend, the supercargo, 
 took him under his especial charge, and finding him much 
 better educated than is usual with sailors, gave him em- 
 ployment of a higher nature, which was both steady and 
 lucrative. His expenses were regulated with extreme 
 economy, that he might lay up more liberally for those 
 dear ones at home, whose images became more and more 
 vivid, as his heart threw oflP the debasing dominion of 
 intemperance, and its host of evils. 
 
 The returning voyage was one of unmingled satisfac- 
 tion. Compunction had given place to a healthful virtue, 
 whose root was not in himself. 
 
 "Why is this?" he often soliloquized: ''why should 
 I be saved, while so many perish ? How have I deserved 
 such mercy, who willingly made a beast of myself, through 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 63 
 
 the fiery draught of intemperance ? Oh, my mother ! I 
 know that thy prayers have followed me, — they have 
 saved me.'* 
 
 With what a surpassing beauty did the hills of his 
 native land gleam upon his eye, unfolding before him, 
 like angels' wings. He felt also, that an angeVs mission 
 was his to the hearts that loved him, and which he in 
 madness had wounded. Immediately on reaching the 
 shore, he began his journey to them.' Stopping his ears 
 to the sounds of the city, where he had once sunk so 
 low, he hurried by its haunts of temptation, less from 
 fear, than from sickening disgust. 
 
 Autumn had ripened its fruits, without sacrificing the 
 verdure of summer. It was the same season that, seven 
 years before, he had traversed this region. But with 
 what contrasted prospects, and purposes ! How truly 
 has it been said, that no two individuals can differ more 
 from each other, than the same individual may, at diff'er- 
 ent periods of life, differ from himself. 
 
 Richard Jones scarcely paused on his way for sleep, or 
 for refreshment. He sought communion with none. The 
 food of his own thoughts sufficed. As he drew near the 
 spot of his birth, impatience increased almost beyond 
 endurance. The rapid wheels seemed to make no prog- 
 ress, and the distance to lengthen interminably. Quit- 
 ting the public vehicle, which did not pass that secluded 
 part of the village where his parental cottage was situated, 
 he sought it in solitude. It was pleasant to him to 
 
64 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 come thus unknown, and he meditated the rapturous sur- 
 prise he was about to create. 
 
 Those rocks ! that river ! can they be the same ? The 
 roof ! the very roof ! and the maple that shaded it. — But 
 the garden-fence, the gate, are broken and gone. Where 
 is the honeysuckle that Margaret trained ? He was about 
 to hft the latch, — to burst in, as in days of old. But 
 other thoughts came over him, and he knocked gently, as 
 a stranger ; again, more earnestly. 
 
 " Who is there ?" 
 
 It was a broad, gruff accent. He opened the door ; a 
 large, coarse woman stood there, with sleeves rolled above 
 her red elbows, toiling at the wash-tub. 
 
 " Does the Widow Jones live here ?'' 
 
 " The Widow who ? why, Lord, no. I live here myself, 
 to be sure." 
 
 The quivering lips, and parched tongue, scarcely articu- 
 lated, — 
 
 '* Where is Margaret Jones ?" 
 
 " How should I know ? I never heani o' such a one, 
 not I. Tho' I've been here, and hereabouts, this two 
 year, I reckon." 
 
 A horror of great darkness fell upon the weary travel- 
 ler. He turned from the door. Whither should he go ? 
 There was no neighboring house, and had there been, he 
 would fain have hidden his misery from all who had ever 
 known him. Instinctively he entered the burial-ground, 
 which was near by. There was his father's grave with 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 65 
 
 its modest stone, where he had been so often led in child- 
 hood. By its side was another, not fresh, yet the sods 
 were imperfectly consolidated, and had not gathered 
 greenness. He threw himself upon it, — he grasped a 
 few dry weeds that grew there, and waved in the rising- 
 blast. 
 
 '' This is to be alone in the world ! Oh God ! I have 
 deserved it ; I was her murderer ! but I dreamed not of 
 such misery !" 
 
 Long he lay there, in his tempestuous grief, without 
 beino' sensible of a faint hollow sound, heard at reu'ular 
 intervals. It was the spade of the sexton, casting up 
 earth and stones from the depth of a grave, in which he 
 labored. Even his deaf ear cauo^ht the voice of ano-uish, 
 as he finished his work. Coming forward, he stood in 
 wonder, as if to illustrate the description of the poet : 
 
 " Near to a iixave that was newly made, 
 LeanM the sexton thin, on his earth- worn spade, — 
 A relic of by-gone days, was he. 
 And his locks were as white as the foam of the sea." 
 
 Starting at that withered e^gy, which in the dim haze 
 of twilight seemed more like a ghost than a man, he 
 exclaimed, — 
 
 '' Did you ever hear of a middle-aged woman, called 
 the Widow Jones?" 
 
 *' Hear of her ! I know'd her well, and her husband 
 too. An honest, hard-working man he w^as ; and when 
 he died, was well spoke of, through all this village." 
 
66 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 '^ And his wife ?"- 
 
 '' Why everybody pitied her, inasmuch as her husband 
 died so sudden, and left leetle, or no means behind, for 
 her and the children." 
 
 ^' There were children, then ?'* 
 
 "Yes, two on 'em. She worked hard enough, to 
 bring 'em up, I guess. I remember the funeral, as if 
 'twas only yesterday. I stood just about where you do 
 now ; and I used this spade, the very first time it ever 
 was used, to dig that same grave." 
 
 With a convulsive effort, as when one plucks a dagger 
 from his breast, he asked faintly, — 
 
 " When did she die ?" 
 
 '' Die ? mercy on you ! Why, I don't s'pose she's dead 
 at all. Sure, I should have been called on to dig the 
 grave, if she had died : that's sartain. I've had all the 
 business of that sort, in these parts, as you may say, for 
 this forty year, and better. There did once come a per- 
 son from the North country, and try to undersell me. 
 But he did'nt do his work thorough. His graves caved 
 in. He couldn't get a living, and so he went off. I'll 
 show ye one of the graves of his digging, if you'll just 
 came along," 
 
 *' Tell me, for God's sake ! if the Widow Jones still 
 lives?" 
 
 " Why, man ! what's the matter on ye ? you're as 
 white as the tomb-stones. I tell ye, she's alive, for 
 auo-ht I know to the contrary. She moved away from 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 67 
 
 here, a considerable time ago. It an't so well with her, 
 as 'twas in days past." 
 
 Grasping the sexton strongly by the arm, he de- 
 manded, — 
 
 '' Where is she to be found ?" 
 
 '' Oh Lord ! help ! help ! the man will mm'der me, I 
 verily believe. Did ye ever hear of what was called the 
 stone-house ? just at the hither eend of the next village, 
 after you cross a bridge, and go up a hill, and turn to 
 the right, and see a small cluster of buildings, and a mill, 
 and a meetin'-house ? Well, she lives there in a kind of 
 a suller-room, for I was a telling you, I expect, she an't 
 none too well off. — Goodness ! the creature is gone as if 
 he wanted to ride a streak o' lightning, and whip up. He 
 is demented, without a doubt. What a terrible risk I've 
 run ! Deliver us from crazy men, here among the tombs. 
 How awful my arm aches, where he clutched it." 
 
 While the garrulous sexton made his way to his own 
 dwelling, to describe his mysterious guest, and imminent 
 feril of life ; the supposed maniac was traversing the 
 intervening space with breathless rapidity. Lights began 
 to glimmer from the sparsely-sprinkled dwellings. The 
 laborers, returning from toil, took their evening repast 
 ^^ith their famiUes. Here and there, a blazing hearth 
 n arked the chillness of advancing autumn. 
 
 Rushing onward towards a long, low building of gray 
 5^ tone, which appeared to have many tenants, he leaned a 
 moment against its walls, to recover respiration, and 
 
68 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 bowing down, looked through an uncurtained window in 
 its gloomy basement. By the flickering light of some 
 brush- wood, burning in the chimney, he saw a woman 
 placing the fragments of a loaf upon a table, beside which 
 sate two young children. She was thin, and bent ; but 
 havinsT her head turned from him, he was unable to see 
 her features. Could that be her ; so changed ? Yet, 
 the " come in,^' that responded to his rap, was in a tone 
 that thrilled his inmost soul. 
 
 " Have you any food to bestow ? I have travelled far, 
 and am hungry.'' 
 
 " Sit down, sir, here at the table. I wish I had some- 
 thing better to offer you. But you are welcome to our 
 poor fare.'' 
 
 And she pushed towards him the bread and the knife. 
 He cut a slice, with a trembling hand. The youngest 
 child, watching the movement, whispered, with a re- 
 proachful look, — 
 
 '' Granny ! you said I should have two pieces to night, 
 'cause there was no dinner." 
 
 " Hush, Richard !" said the little sister, folding her 
 arms around his neck. 
 
 The returning wanderer with difficulty maintained his 
 disguise, as he marked the deep wrinkles on that brow, 
 which he had left so comely. 
 
 " Have you only this broken loaf, my good woman ? I 
 fear the portion I have taken, will not leave enough for 
 you and these little ones." 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 69 
 
 '' We shall have more to-morrow, sir, if God will. It 
 was not always thus with us. When my dear daughter 
 and her husband were alive, there was always a suffi- 
 ciency for the children, and for me. But they are both 
 dead, sir ; the father, last year, and she, when that boy 
 was born." 
 
 " Had you no other children ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. One, a son, a dear and most beautiful boy. 
 Long years have passed, since he went away. Whether 
 he is in the land of the living, God only knows.'' 
 
 Her suppressed sob was changed to surprise and re- 
 sistance, as the stranger would fain have folded her in his 
 arms. Then, kneeling at her feet, and holding her thin 
 hands in his, he said, — 
 
 " Mother ! dear mother ! can you forgive me all ?" 
 
 There was no reply. The sunken eyes strained wide 
 open, and fixed. Color fled from the lips. He carried 
 her to the poor, low bed, and threw water upon her tem- 
 ples. He chafed the rigid hands, and in vain sought for 
 some restorative to administer. 
 
 " Wretch that I am ! Have I indeed killed her V 
 
 And then the shrieks of the children grew shrill and 
 deafening, — 
 
 " The strange man has killed grandmother !" 
 
 But the trance was brief. Liorht came to the eve, and 
 joy to the heart, known only to that of the mother who, 
 having sown in tears, beholds suddenly the blessed, un- 
 expected harvest. 
 
70 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 *' Do I live to see thy face ? Let me hear thy dear 
 voice once more, my son.'' 
 
 But the son had vanished. At his return came sup- 
 phes, such as that poor, half-subterranean apartment 
 had never before witnessed ; and ere long, with those 
 half-famished children, they partook of a repast, whose 
 rich elements of enjoyment have seldom been surpassed 
 on this troubled earth. 
 
 *' What a good, strange man !" said the satisfied boy. 
 
 ^'We must not call him the strange man any more, 
 but our uncle," said little Margaret ; " so he told me 
 himself." 
 
 *' Why must we say so ?" 
 
 " Because he w^as dear mother's dear brother, just as 
 you are mine. Did not you see that he cried, when 
 grandmother told him she was dead ?" 
 
 '' Well, I shall love him for that, and for the good 
 supper he gave us." 
 
 '' Have you here my father's large Bible ?" asked the 
 son of the widow. She brought it forth from its sacred 
 depositary, carefully wrapped in a towel. Tears of rap- 
 turous gratitude chased each other along the furrows, 
 w^hich bitter and burning ones had made so deep, as she 
 heard him, with slow and solemn utterance, read that 
 self-abasing' melody of the Psalmist: *' Have mercy upon 
 me, God, according to thy loving-kindness ; according 
 to the multitude of thy mercies, blot out my transgres- 
 
 sions." 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 71 
 
 This was the Psalm, that during his brokenness of 
 spirit, on the deep waters, had been his comforter ; and 
 now he seemed to breathe into its eloquent words, the 
 soul of penitence and devotion. At its close, he kneeled 
 and poured out a fervent prayer to the God of their sal- 
 vation ; and the sleep which fell that night upon all the 
 habitants of that lowly abode, was sweet as an angel's 
 smile. 
 
 The daily efforts of Richard Jones, for the comfort of 
 his mother, were beautiful. Her unspoken wishes were 
 studied with a zeal, which feels it can never either fully 
 repay, or atone. For her sake, and for that of the little 
 orphans intrusted to their care, he rejoiced at the gains, 
 which, through the friendship of the supercargo, he had 
 been enabled to acquire in a foreign clime, and which to 
 their moderated desires were comparative wealth. 
 
 But amid the prosperity which had been granted him, 
 he still turned with humility to the memorials of his 
 wasted years. In his conversations with his mother, he 
 frankly narrated his sins ; and while he went down into 
 the dark depths whither intemperance had led him, she 
 shuddered, and was silent. Yet, when he spoke of the 
 benefactor who had found him in the streets, ready to 
 become a self-murderer, she raised her clasped hands, 
 and with strong emotion besought blessings on him who 
 had "saved a soul from death." They felt that it is not 
 the highest and holiest compassion to relieve the body's 
 ills ; but to rescue and bind up the poor heart that hath 
 
72 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 wounded itself, and which the world hath cast out, to be 
 trodden down in its unpurged guilt. 
 
 He was not lono- in discoverino^ how the heart of his 
 mother yearned after that former home, from which 
 poverty had driven her. On inquiry, he found that it 
 might be obtained, having been recently tenanted by 
 vagrant people. The time that he devoted to its thor- 
 ough repair was happily spent. Its broken casements 
 were replaced, and its dingy walls whitened. The fences 
 were restored, with the pretty gate, over whose arch he 
 promised himself, that another season should bring the 
 blossoming vine that his lost sister had loved. 
 
 He sought also, in various places, those articles of 
 furniture which had been disposed of through necessity, 
 and which he had valued in earlier days. Soon the old 
 clock, with a new case, merrily ticked in the corner, and 
 the cushioned arm-chair again stood by the hearth- 
 stone. Near it was poor Margaret's work-table, with a 
 freshly-polished surface, on which he laid, when about 
 to take possession, the large family Bible bearing his 
 father's name. 
 
 Bright and happy was that morning, when leaning on 
 his arm, the children walking hand in hand beside them, 
 neatly apparelled, the widowed mother approached the 
 home endeared by tender recollections, and whence, poor 
 and desolate, she had gone forth. As she paused a mo- 
 ment at the door, the overflowing, unutterable emotion, 
 was gratitude for the restored virtue of the being most 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 73 
 
 beloved on earth. It would seem that congenial thoughts 
 occupied him, for drawing her arm more tenderly within 
 his own, he said : *' Lo ! this thy son was dead, and is 
 alive again, and was lost, and is founds 
 
THE ANTIDOTE. 
 
 Man press'd a cluster in his cup, 
 The grape, with ruby glow, — 
 
 How high its sparkling foam leaped up ! 
 But ruin lui'ked below. 
 
 A direr draught a demon gave, 
 
 With fiercer venom fired, — 
 The tempted drank the burning wave. 
 
 Till reason's light expired 
 
 The weeping skies a crystal shed, 
 
 As pity's tears distil ; 
 It mantled at the fountain's head 
 
 And in the gushing rill : 
 
 It bore a spell to heal his wound. 
 
 His fever-thirst to calm, — 
 And lured him with a silver sound 
 
 To taste its trickling balm. 
 
 In trembling penitence he bowed, 
 He laved the leprous stain, — 
 
 And those pure tear-drops from the cloud 
 Restored his health ao-ain. 
 
THE WATER-BEARER. 
 
 I SAW a child, who towards his cottage-home 
 
 Two water-buckets bare. The winding path 
 
 Was steep and rocky, and his slender arm 
 
 Taxed to its utmost power. Awhile he paused. 
 
 Setting his burden down, just where the way 
 
 Grew more precipitous, and wiped his brow 
 
 With his worn sleeve, and breathed refreshing draughts 
 
 Of the sweet air, while still the summer sun 
 
 Flamed o'er his forehead. 
 
 Then, another boy, 
 Who, 'neath a poplar, in a neighboring field. 
 Sate playing with his dog in cool repose, 
 Uprising from that grassy nook, came forth, 
 And lent a ready hand to aid the toil. 
 So on they went together, grasping firm 
 The heavy buckets with a right good will. 
 While their young voices blended, clear and glad. 
 
 And as the bee inhales from humblest flower 
 Sown by the wayside, honey for her hive, — 
 I treasured up a lesson ; and when eve 
 Called home the laboring ox, and to its nest 
 Warned the sweet bird, and closed the lily's cup. 
 
76 THE WATER-BEARER. 
 
 I took my little son upon my knee, 
 And told him of the water-bearer's toil, 
 And of the friendly helper. 
 
 When his eye 
 Grew large, and bnght, and strongly fixed on mine. 
 Taking the story to his inmost thought, 
 I said, — " Drink thou the water from the spring, 
 That God hath made, and not the fiery cup 
 Of evil men, that burns the shrinking soul. 
 My gentle child, be pitiful to all. 
 For in thy heart are seeds of sympathy, 
 Whose buds are virtues and their fruit for heaven. 
 And when thou art a man, my blessed one, 
 Keep thy fresh spirit open to the woes 
 Of foreigner and stranger, of the race 
 Darkened by Afric's sun, or those sad tribes 
 The red-brow'd people of the wilderness. 
 Lone exiles from those streams and forest-glades 
 That erst they call'd their own. 
 
 With ready hand 
 Help whosoe'er thou canst. 
 
 So, mayst thou find 
 Succor and love, in thine own hour of need. 
 If on thy heart, as on a signet-ring, 
 Is grav'd that precept from a Rock divine, 
 * Bear one another's burdens, and fulfil 
 The law of Christ.' " 
 
DRINKING SONG. 
 
 Drink, friends, the parting hour draws nigh, 
 
 Drink, and forget your care ; 
 The sultry summer noon is high, 
 
 Drink, and your strength repair. 
 
 Spare not, there's plenty, take your fill. 
 
 We have a vineyard proud, — 
 A reservoir on vale and hill, 
 
 A fountain in the cloud. 
 
 Our flowing bowl is large, you see, 
 
 Lift high the song of cheer ; 
 Our hearts are warm, our hands are free. 
 
 Drink deep, and never fear. 
 
 Our father Sun, the example gives,' 
 
 Our mother Earth, also, — 
 He drinketh sly, above the sky. 
 
 She jocund drinks below. 
 
 Pledge, friends, pledge deep before we part. 
 
 To absent wife, or daughter, 
 Or bright-eyed maid, who rules your heart, — 
 
 Drink deep, but only water. 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 " This earth doth yield 
 More than enough,— that temperance may be tried." 
 
 Milton. 
 
 In the days of old, there dwelt a Patriarch toward the 
 rising sun, among the mountains of Asia. Many, and 
 sore troubles had he seen, and stood faithful, when all 
 around him fell, and were punished. 
 
 He was a tiller of the earth, and when it had brought 
 forth its fruits, he with his wife and children fed thereon, 
 and blessed the Lord. 
 
 And it came to pass, after he had cast in his seeds, 
 and the rain had watered them, and they put forth abun- 
 dantly, each after his kind, that there came up a plant 
 exceeding fair, and of a very tender green. 
 
 And as he visited it in the morning, when the dews 
 had hung a pearl upon the point of every young leaf, lo ! 
 it lifted up tendrils, like the hands of a httle child, that 
 reacheth and gropeth after some pleasant thing. 
 
 Then he set a prop near it) and guided thereunto the 
 wandering shoots, for he said, '* Peradventure its heart is 
 weak, and it needeth that some one should train it in the 
 right way.*' 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 79 
 
 So it fi^rew and became a vine, and stretched out inter- 
 lacing boughs, making a goodly shadow. 
 
 And as he diligently regarded it, there appeared clus- 
 ters of fair grapes, hiding among the branches. Then 
 the master of the vine smelled a sweet savor, and called 
 together his household, and they marvelled at its beauty. 
 
 Deeper and deeper these clusters blushed, as the sun 
 looked upon them, and when they were fully ripe, rich 
 moisture trickled from their bursting pores, and fell upon 
 the ground. 
 
 When the Patriarch pressed some of them, the sweet 
 blood flowed freely, and fermented, and he drank thereof. 
 But, behold ! his wisdom departed from him, and he lay 
 uncovered within his tent. 
 
 Then were his children affrighted, and spake one to 
 another, not knowing what these things should mean. 
 
 And the youngest son mocked, and derided, saying, 
 " Lo ! he who reproveth our folly, hath himself become 
 altogether vain. Doth it not behoove him who warneth 
 others, that he take heed unto his own ways ?'* 
 
 Then his elder brethren answered, '^ Hold thy peace ! 
 He that revileth his father, God shall judge." 
 
 So they took a garment, and reverently covered the 
 Patriarch, walking backwards, that they might not look 
 upon his frailty. 
 
 And they sate down mournfully near the door of the 
 tent, and the two elder brethren communed together, 
 saying,— 
 
80 THE PATRIARCH, 
 
 " How great was our fatlier ! and how was he hon- 
 ored of God, inasmuch as he hid not from him, the 
 flood that was to drown the whole earth." 
 
 ''When all flesh had corrupted itself, he alone was 
 found pleasing to his Maker, and with eloquent words 
 did he patiently warn a world that was filled with vio- 
 lence." 
 
 " Yea ! and through his faith were we saved, when the 
 fountains of the great deep were broken up, for he alone 
 found grace to guide the lonely ark over the billows, 
 where slept the world of the ungodly." 
 
 " To him alone did the dove bring the first green to- 
 ken from the abating waters ; when all who had escaped 
 the deluge, came forth, as from a prison, upon this 
 Ararat." 
 
 '' But DOW, because he hath drank of the fruit of the 
 vine, behold ! he lieth sick and powerless, as the babe 
 that is newly born. Who knoweth whether he is not 
 now to die ?" 
 
 And they lifted up their voices and wept. 
 
 Then were their hearts comforted : as though some 
 good angel breathed upon them, " Lo ! the Patriarch 
 shall not die. The glory of his reason shall return unto 
 him, and he will repent himself, and as the bow enlight- 
 eneth the cloud, so shall his righteousness be renewed." 
 
 And it came to pass, that when he awoke from his 
 trance, he called for his elder sons, and blessed them. 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 81 
 
 But he uttered a malediction on him, who had mocked 
 at his father in the hour of his adversity and shame. 
 
 Thus knew the Patriarch the evil that dwelt in the 
 vine, which his own hands had reared. He learned, in 
 bitterness and scorn, what was taught us from the be- 
 ginning, of the curse that lay hidden in the cluster which 
 doth seem so fair. 
 
 Moreover, a Holy Book that his eyes had never looked 
 upon, doth instruct us, saying, " Look not upon the wine 
 when it is red, when it giveth its color in the cup, when 
 it moveth itself aright ; for at the last, it biteth like a 
 serpent, and stingeth like an adder." 
 
THE VINE. 
 
 The vine hath beauty rare, 
 
 We train its tender shoot, 
 We twine it round the trellis fair. 
 
 And praise its fragrant fruit, — 
 Yet there's a secret vein 
 
 Of poison near its bower, 
 And he will find it to his pain 
 
 Who tampers with its power. 
 
 So, from life's earliest morn. 
 
 While we like shadows pass, 
 Beneath the rose-cup lurks the thorn. 
 
 The adder in the grass, — 
 Be ours the lore of Heaven, 
 
 Clear mind and cloudless view, 
 To share the Eden it hath given. 
 
 And shun the serpent too. 
 
MOSES IN MIDIAN. 
 
 Why art thou here, amid the streams and flocks, 
 Oh, fosler-son of Egypt ! rear'd in all 
 The luxury of courts ? Is there no nerve 
 Of strong ambition in thy secret soul ? 
 Didst never think, 'twere sweet to be a king ? 
 Or that her love who drew thee from the Nile, 
 Fiird with compassion for the babe that wept. 
 Might to her other bounties add a crown ? 
 
 But yet thou seem'st content with rural charms, 
 Nor wears thy brow a trace of wrinkling care 
 Or rootless expectation. Thy young heart's 
 Requited love, and the free intercourse 
 With Nature in her solitude and peace. 
 Her fringed fountains and heaven-haunted dells. 
 Give thee full solace. 
 
 And when twilight gray 
 Leadeth thy lambs to fold, or trembling stars 
 Look from their chambers on the sleeping founts 
 With tender eye, perchance thy hand doth strike 
 The solitary lyre, or weave in dyes 
 Of sable and of gold, his wondrous fate 
 
84 MOSES IN MIDIAN. 
 
 Who drank so deep of sorrow and of joy,- — 
 The man of Uz. 
 
 For Poesy doth dwell 
 With pastoral musing, and the tuneful lore 
 Of birds and brooks. And who feeleth that 
 ^olian harp within him, hath no need 
 Of the inspiring wine-cup, or the gong 
 Of the great, pompous world. 
 
 Spake not the voice 
 Of Midian's gushing waters to thine ear. 
 Prelusive of the honors and the toils 
 Awaiting thee ? Came there no darkened dream 
 Of desert wanderings ? of a manna-fed 
 And murmuring host ? of thine own burdened heart 
 Bearing alone, the cumbrance and the strife 
 Of mutinous spirits, when the wrath of God 
 Burned fierce among them, and avenging Earth 
 Opening her mouth, prepared their living tomb ? 
 
 Oh ! linger still, amid the groves and streams, 
 
 And to green pastures, fed by gladsome rills. 
 
 Lead on with gentle crook thy docile sheep. 
 
 While yet thou may'st. With holy Nature make 
 
 Close fellowship, and woo the still, small voice 
 
 Of inspiration, to thy secret soul. 
 
 In lonely thought. So shall it gather strength 
 
 To do the bidding of Omnipotence, 
 
 And walk on Sinai, face to face, with God. 
 
THE TWO DRAUGHTS. 
 
 There's a draught that causeth sadness. 
 Though of mirth it seems the friend ; 
 
 To the brain it mounts in madness, 
 And in misery hath its end. 
 
 To the household hearth it creepeth, 
 And the fire in winter dies ; 
 
 There a lonely woman weepeth. 
 While the famished infant cries. 
 
 Bloated form and brow it bringeth. 
 Limbs that totter to and fro, 
 
 And at last, like scorpion, stingeth 
 To an agony of woe. 
 
 Round the victim's feet it weaveth 
 Snares, that blind his eyes in gloom ; 
 
 Sin it sows, and shame receiveth. 
 Frowns of hate, and deeds of doom. 
 
 Bitter words of strife it teacheth, 
 Striketh kind affections dead ; 
 
86 THE TWO DRAUGHTS. 
 
 Even beyond the grave it readieth, 
 To the judgment bar of dread. 
 
 Hath not life enough of sorrow, 
 Sickness, mourning, and decay, 
 
 That we needs must madly borrow 
 Thorns to strew its shortening way ? 
 
 There's a draught that heaven distilleth, 
 Pure as crystal, from the skies ; 
 
 Freely, whosoever willeth. 
 May partake it, and be wise. 
 
LOUISA WILSON. 
 
 " Was I not, that hour, 
 The lady of his heart 7 — princess of life 1 — 
 Mistress of feast and favor ? — Could I touch 
 A rose with my white hand, but it became 
 Fairer at once 1 
 
 And is it not my shame 
 To have caus'd such woe myself, from all that joy 7" 
 
 Miss Barrett. 
 
 "What! still a prisoner to this odious influenza?" 
 said a bright belle, as she gayly glided into the chamber 
 of her friend. 
 
 '' Not exactly ill, Julia ; but then such a hideous swol- 
 len face, as you see, makes it quite impossible to appear. 
 I think my nose has grown large, too ; don^t you ? And 
 this chill, cheerless November weather, makes it no great 
 trial to keep house." 
 
 *' Oh ! but you might have put on a thick, green veil, 
 and wrapped yourself up in furs, just to have gone to 
 church, and seen the wedding of Frederick Wilson and 
 Louisa." 
 
 ''Is it possible ! It is only a few days since I heard 
 of the return of Frederick Wilson, from Europe. What 
 a march they have stolen !" 
 
88 LOUISA WILSON. 
 
 " Not much of a stolen march, dear Emma. They 
 have been engaged full three years. Inde( d, so long did 
 he stay on his travels, that many thought the marriage 
 would never take place at all." 
 
 '' Come now, Jay aside your muff, and mantilla, and be 
 the good Samaritan, and tell me all about it. Yes, 
 please ! What w^as the possible need of their being in 
 such a remarkable hurry ?" 
 
 '' I believe it was understood that the event would take 
 place immediately after his arrival ; and they wished to 
 be estabhshed in their city-home before the winter." 
 
 '' Well, they might at least have given information of 
 the hour of their nuptials, to some of their old acquaint- 
 ance. Though, I presume, a little mystery gives a won- 
 derful zest to matrimony." 
 
 " Their plan was to leave for their journey, in the 
 morning cars ; and by appointing the ceremony at an 
 early hour, they hoped to avoid a dense crowd, and so 
 kill two birds with one stone." 
 
 " Expert archers, without a doubt. — Did Louisa look 
 well?" 
 
 " Beautifully, as you know brides always do. She 
 wore a fair muslin, fine as a thought, and white as the 
 driven snow. It was fitted perfectly to her graceful 
 form, and her neck, and delicately rounded arms, were 
 like alabaster. Her flowing, bridal veil, was confined 
 above her sunny curls with pure jasmine and the orange- 
 flower. She wore no other ornament." 
 
LOUISA WILSON, 
 
 89 
 
 *'Why, who would have expected such remarkable 
 plainness from her ? Has she turned Quaker ?" 
 
 *' No. It was the taste of the bridegroom, who is, I 
 suppose, a trifle more infallible than ever, from having 
 visited so many of the European courts." 
 
 " I should think he would have become so accustomed 
 to splendor and elegance abroad, as to require it the 
 more at home." 
 
 " They say it has rather led him to admire simplicity. 
 At any rate, Louisa never looked so well in her life, with 
 those downcast eyes, their long fringes resting on her 
 glowing cheek, and that sweet air of dependence on him, 
 which is so winning. I understand he has brought her 
 the most magnificent things ; sets of pearl, and diamonds, 
 and so forth, which will be worn at the parties, in the 
 high circles where they are to move." 
 
 '' I wonder if the old aunt who brought her up, will 
 be urged to make her appearance there ?" 
 
 '' She has been invited to take her residence with them, 
 but declines. Her age makes a quiet home more agree- 
 able." 
 
 *' Perhaps Louisa might be ashamed of aunty's country 
 manners, among her new, fashionable friends." 
 
 *' Oh, Emma, I can never think her so heartless." 
 
 " Nor I. But go on with your description of the 
 wedding, my dear creature. And pray, disencumber 
 yourself of those immense indian-rubbers, and take the 
 
90 LOUISA WILSON. 
 
 other velvet rocking-chair. There, now we shall be so 
 cozj." 
 
 " Fred Wilson, you know, was always a jewel of a man, 
 so high-bred, so refined. He is still more polished by 
 foreign travel, which his wealth gave him every advan- 
 tage of making both impro\dng, and extensive. I never 
 thouofht him so handsome as this morninsf ; his intellectual 
 features were lighted up with such a beaming happiness, 
 like one who has gained a priceless treasure. Then, he 
 responded so touching] y, ' till death us do part !' It 
 was both solemn and beautiful. I caught a glimpse of 
 the group at the church-door, while he was throwing her 
 cashmere round her, with perfect tenderness, as if he 
 feared the slightest visiting of the rude air for his pre- 
 cious one. Every creature pressed forward, to get a 
 view of her, as she stepped into her coach, and there was 
 such a rush that I was glad to escape." 
 
 " I never thought, for my part, Louisa more beautiful 
 than several others of our acquaintance, whom I could 
 name." 
 
 " Perhaps not. But then she is exceedingly graceful, 
 and shows, in all she says and does, her accomplished 
 education. Then, you know, there is something so fasci- 
 nating about a bride, leaving as she does all the sacred 
 spots of early recollection, — the play-places, and play- 
 mates of her childhood, the hearth-stone, where she was 
 trained and sheltered as a tender blossom, — to make to 
 herself a new home, to trust in new friends, to endure 
 
LOUISA WILSON. 91 
 
 new trials, supported only by his love who was once to 
 her as a stranger, but is now to be more than all the 
 world besides : there is in this something sublime, yet 
 sad, even to tears." 
 
 ''Bless me, Julia, you are right eloquent. Did our 
 good clergyman preach a sermon on the occasion, and 
 you take notes, for the benefit and behoof of all spinsters ? 
 Was there a crowd at this pathetic ceremony ?" 
 
 *'Yes, notwithstanding it w^as at the early hour of 
 eight. Directly in front of me, were the three tall 
 Misses Astor, through whose interstices I was obliged to 
 gather, by skilful dodging, almost all that I saw ; for, you 
 know, to look over their shoulders would be impossible 
 to any but a son of Anak. They had made their 
 toilet in a hurry, and could not wholly conceal, under 
 their smart, new hats, their hair en papillote. Here and 
 there was a heavy sprinkling of ancient maidens, who, I 
 think, had left breakfast uneaten, and were wanting it. 
 Even the fat, red-faced tavern-keeper waddled there, and 
 the lame lady over the way ; and scores of boys hung 
 upon the columns and tops of pews like monkeys, though 
 the sexton did all in his power to keep them down. 
 Everybody looked good-natured and animated. Indeed, 
 it was a scene altogether worth going out for, this raw 
 morning. I am sorry you should have made choice of 
 such a time to wear a kerchief." 
 
 " You are so kind, Julia, to come and amuse me with 
 your nice descriptions, that I believe I have lost nothing. 
 
92 LOUISA WILSON, 
 
 Indeed, I may have a clearer idea of the whole than if I 
 had been there myself ; for your perceptive' powers are 
 vastly better developed than mine. I declare, I feel 
 quite recovered from my inapposite illness, by your enter- 
 tainino' talk." 
 
 Thus reno\^ted and cheered, the two friends started 
 upon a little tongue-race, alternately spurring and out- 
 stripping each other, with exuberant fluency, and girlish 
 spirits. Louisa passed the usual anatomical process, 
 w^hich the respective positions of engagement and matri- 
 mony involve. Minute points were scanned, not from 
 censoriousness, but from the habit of analysis common 
 to the tact, and rapid movement of the female mind. 
 The catalogue of faults was, however, on the present 
 citation quite moderate ; the most prominent one seeming 
 to be a sort of variation of mood and manner, not ex- 
 actly amounting to caprice, but verging at times towards 
 the extremes of sprightliness, and taciturnity. Finally, 
 with the good feeling common to their happy season of 
 life, they summed up the whole, with a preponderance 
 of agreeable properties, and a reiteration of their full 
 sense of her good fortune, in gaining a companion and an 
 establishment so eligible ; and an admission, that in per- 
 son and education she was qualified to be an ornament to 
 both. This bridal gave similar materials for delineation 
 and discussion in other circles, throughout the township, 
 and an acceptable subject for sundry letters, between fair 
 and young correspondents ; after which it ga\ e place to 
 
LOUISA WILSON. 93 
 
 other bubbles on the wave of Hfe, and fell into the shadow 
 of things that were. 
 
 In the meantime, Frederick Wilson, and his young- 
 wife, had become somewhat domesticated in their new 
 home. It comprised every element of comfort, with the 
 embellishments of taste. Its owner found a new impulse 
 in rendering it worthy of the chosen of his heart, and 
 was but too happy to hear her praise the mansion and 
 grounds of which he had made her the mistress, and the 
 works of art, with which the spacious apartments were 
 decorated. ISTor was she an ungrateful recipient of his 
 tenderness and liberality ; but repaid them with the ful- 
 ness of a susceptible heart, glorying in its first love. He 
 viewed her as the '' purest pearl from ocean's deepest 
 cell," and she turned to him as the flower to the sun, 
 confiding, and constant. Congeniality of taste heightened 
 the pleasure of their intercourse ; — the same book, the 
 same picture, the same music delighted them, and the 
 claims of society were met, and discharged, with a kin- 
 dred satisfaction. He was charmed at the admiration 
 which her courteous manners and brilliant conversation 
 elicited, and vshe took pride in a husband, who, to every 
 manly accomplishment, added the good sense of prizing 
 m(3rc highly his own native land, after that comparison 
 with others, which is sometimes so perilous to patriotism. 
 Matrimonial life opened for them with an Eden splendor, 
 and it was long ere any shadow darkened amid its 
 bowers. 
 
94 LOUISA WILSON. 
 
 The first drawback to their felicity, was a species of 
 nonchalance or indifference, not on the imrt of the hus- 
 band, hut the wife. Expecting a warm participation in 
 whatever interested him, this change vexed his sensi- 
 bility. He recalled every minutiae of his own deportment, 
 fearing there might have been involuntary remissness, 
 and redoubled his assiduity to discover and gratify her 
 wishes. But these periods of abstractedness or stupor, 
 which originally occurred at long intervals, grew more 
 frequent, sometimes alternating with a mirth apparently 
 as causeless, and equally ungrateful. He became appre- 
 hensive that her nervous system was unhinged, and 
 anxiously summoned medical skill to her aid. 
 
 These apparent caprices did not impair warmth of 
 heart, or vivacity of intellect, but were in painful contrast, 
 as the cloud with the sunbeam. To the earnest inquiries 
 of her husband, she was accustomed to speak lightly, 
 as of constitutional headaches, severe, but temporary. 
 Exceedingly did he dread their recurrence, — especially, 
 when the glance of an}^ other observer was added to his 
 own ; for such was the sensitive nature of his love, that 
 he shrank at the thought that the slightest reproach 
 should fall upon its object, and hoarded her praises as 
 the miser his gold. 
 
 Thus passed away the first year, and a portion of the 
 second of their matrimonial life. Louisa was amiable to 
 all around, benevolent to the poor, and devoted to the 
 happiness of her husband, with the exception of the varia- 
 
LOUISA WILSON. 95 
 
 tions of manner which have been mentioned. These, he 
 could not but apprehend, had a different, and deeper 
 source than the physical indispositions under which they 
 were sheltered. His penetration was not so far hood- 
 winked as to mistake the fact, that they were in some 
 measure dependent on volition. His continued fear was, 
 that the same misgiving might spring up in the mind of 
 others ; and he spread out, as it were, his whole being to 
 guard her from suspicion, until the effort was agony. 
 
 At length, with the frankness which was a part of his 
 nature, and the tenderness due to a wife, he warned her 
 of the fault to which he believed her to be addicted, and 
 set forth its inevitable consequences, with feeling, and 
 emphasis. Her reply w^as a reiterated assurance, that 
 she had used only a stimulating medicine, prescribed by a 
 physician, for the nervous headaches to which, from early 
 childhood, she had been subject ; and passed into such 
 emotions of resentment, and passionate grief, that he 
 almost shuddered at the step he had taken, and fervently 
 hoped that his suspicions might have been groundless. 
 
 In retirement, Louisa's conscience keenly smote her. 
 She wept, and lay upon the earth. She detested herself 
 for her duplicity, and determined no longer to wreck the 
 peace of the husband whom she loved. She resolved to 
 forsake a habit on which she could not reflect without 
 abhorrence, and mourned that she had not possessed suffi- 
 cient moral courage to acknowledge it, and implore his 
 aid in its extirpation, 
 
96 LOUISA WILSON. 
 
 The eagle eye of the husband detected the change that 
 ensued with unspeakable gratitude. Louisa was now all 
 that he could desire. Her fine mind and large heart, 
 seemed enfranchised from a hateful bondage. Whatever 
 could be devised for her happiness, was sedulously ob- 
 tained, and her unspoken wishes studied. He said, 
 mentally, " How can I ever efface from her affectionate 
 heart the suffering I have inflicted, or reward her for the 
 struggle she has so successfully endured ?" and he literally 
 overwhelmed her with the fulness of his love. She too 
 exulted in that love, and in being worthy of it. She felt 
 that she had achieved a victory; and secretly despised 
 those who, being in like manner enslaved, did not reso- 
 lutely break their chains. — But let him that thinketh he 
 standeth, take heed ! 
 
 Pleasant would it be to linger on this period of con- 
 jugal felicity. But the evil habit, of which we have 
 spoken, is like the "strong man armed," and though Love 
 may wrestle with it, till the break of day, it will scarcely 
 prevail, unless it take hold of the strength of Omnipo- 
 tence. 
 
 Frederick and Louisa both enjoyed refined society, 
 and were qualified to adorn it. From the earliest date 
 of their marriage they had discharged its claims, with a 
 disposition both to receive and impart happiness. In 
 those fashionable parties which require elaborate dress 
 and preparation, their position obliged them sometimes 
 to mingle, and their reception was always flattering. But 
 
LOUISA WILSON. 97 
 
 their principal social delight, was to surround their table 
 with a few chosen friends, where the flow of soul was 
 not impeded by the ice of ceremony. These pleasant 
 gatherings had been gradually laid aside, during the 
 domination of Louisa's tyrant foe. For though she had 
 always maintained sufficient caution to appear well on 
 public, and forma] occasions, it was sometimes the reverse 
 in those visits which involved less restraint. She more 
 slightly armed herself, where the inspection was more 
 concentrated and critical. 
 
 Sometimes, Frederick had been compelled to meet 
 their invited guests, with the excuse of her having an 
 excruciating headache ; and though he loathed to lend 
 his aid to what he deemed deception, and felt like a 
 divided being, while discharging alone the requisitions of 
 hospitality, still he considered it a duty to protect the rep- 
 utation of his wife, and was thankfid when she did not, 
 by her presence, overthrow it. Now, that this reign of 
 terror was over, he indulged with a buoyant heart in his 
 favorite social entertainments ; while his fair, kindred 
 spirit, presided with her characteristic elegance and grace. 
 
 One fine morning in summer, he came in, remarking 
 that he had met acquaintances from a distant city, to 
 whom he wished to show attention ; and if she had no 
 other engagement, would invite them to a quiet cup of 
 tea, with a few of their neighbors and more intimate 
 friends. She concurred with an affectionate zeal in his 
 plans, and arranged on the mantel-pieces, with exquisite 
 
98 LOUISA WILSON, 
 
 taste, a variety of vases, filled with ricli flowers from 
 their garden and conservatory. She busied herself to 
 see that everything w^as in order, and proposed, what 
 she knew would please him, to pour out the tea with her 
 own hand, at a table in the parlor where they should 
 assemble. He was partial to this mode, from the principle 
 of dispensing with ceremony, wherever it was possible, 
 and also from early recollection, having been accustomed 
 thus to see his mother entertain her friends ; and knew 
 that on Louisa's part this was a submission to his prefer- 
 ence, which he did not fail to appreciate. 
 
 Their guests arrived at an early hour, and were admir- 
 ing the paintings and statuary that decorated the lofty 
 apartments, and inhaling the balmy air through the long 
 windows, opening upon a colonnade, whose pillars were 
 clasped by clustering vines, and adorned with blossoming- 
 shrubbery. Frederick hastened to summon Louisa, and 
 was startled to find her not only in dishabille, but, — 
 with the headache. 
 
 He begged that he might excuse her, and advised, by 
 all means, that she should remain in her room. But she 
 was bent on descending, and by a strong effort, in which 
 she excelled, managed to welcome her visitants, with 
 tolerable grace. Yet those who were well acquainted 
 with her, could not fail to detect in her sleepy eyes, and 
 causeless repetitions in discourse, that she was not her- 
 self. 
 
 The tea-equipage was brought in. And now, the 
 
LOUISA WILSON. 99 
 
 simple mode of presenting it, which he had accepted as 
 a favor, was a new source of apprehension. Seating her- 
 self at the table, behind her splendid service of silver, she 
 filled the cup nearest to her, and continued pouring, pour- 
 ing, pouring, until the overflowing tray discharged its su- 
 perfluous beverage upon the rich carpets. The agonized 
 husband aflected not to observe it, and talked with his 
 friends rapidly, and at random. An elderly lady, a dis- 
 tant relative of his mother, quietly approaching, begged 
 to relieve her of the office, on account of her indisposi- 
 tion. 
 
 " Ko, no, I thank you. I am fond of pouring out. I 
 am quite used to it, I assure you." 
 
 Frederick, springing to her side, exclaimed, — 
 
 '' 1 hope you will allow Mrs. Carlton to take your 
 place." 
 
 ''I have myself," said that lady, in a low, soothing 
 tone, '' been so troubled with severe nervous headaches 
 in my youth, as to be nearly blind ; and quite too tremu- 
 lous for any eff*ort like this." 
 
 " But I have no headache now, — no, — ^just none at all. 
 I insist on helping my friends to refreshments, myself. 
 It is such a great, — a very great, — great,-:-pleasure, in- 
 deed." 
 
 Frederick led her unwilHngly to a sofa, where she half 
 reclined against one of its pillows. The servant, having 
 his tray restored to order, through the care of Mrs. Carl- 
 ton, commenced to serve the company, and was about 
 
100 LOUISA WILSON. 
 
 passing her, when she siezed his arm with a sudden sweep, 
 calling out, — 
 
 *' Here, bring me a cup. Why do you pass me by ? 
 I'll have you to know, that I'm your mistress/' 
 
 Then she fell into an immoderate fit of laughter, while 
 her husband, pale, and in torture, half persuading, and 
 half compelling, took her to her own room. At his 
 return he attempted no apology, and the guests, after a 
 few ineffectual efforts to converse and be at ease, excused 
 themselves, and departed. 
 
 Mrs. Carlton lingered awhile, after all others had gone, 
 and motioning towards a boudoir, said in a low, gentle 
 voice, — 
 
 *' My dear Mr. Wilson, your mother's blood is in my 
 veins. I love you, and I love your wife. Can I be of 
 use to either of you ?" 
 
 '' Oh, no ! at least I do not see how. These terrible 
 headaches are destroying her nervous system. She has 
 had them from early youth. I have applied to the best 
 physicians, but they give no relief." 
 
 " Have you applied to the Great Physician ? — Frede- 
 rick Wilson, I admire your conjugal tenderness and con- 
 stancy. But their utmost ingenuity cannot blind others 
 to a fault so palpable. I have long been aware of it. 
 Absolve your noble mind from the penance of this vain 
 disguise, which the eye of even the commonest servant 
 can penetrate." 
 
LOUISA WILSON. 101 
 
 " Why do you seek to draw such a confession from 
 me?" 
 
 *' That I may soothe the anguish that is eating away 
 your existence, and, if possible, help you both." 
 
 Pacing the room, with rapid and disordered steps, he 
 at length paused opposite to her, repeating half uncon- 
 sciously, — 
 
 " Help us ! help us ! How can that be ?" 
 
 She took his hand in hers, and drawing him to a seat 
 by her side, said with maternal kindness, — 
 
 " Can you feel willing to confide in me so far as to say 
 whether you have ever spoken to Louisa of her destructive 
 habit?" 
 
 '' I have." 
 
 *' Freely, and firmly, as a husband should ?" 
 
 '* Freely, and firmly — oh, yes. And she seemed to 
 have reformed. It is now along, — longtime since aught 
 of this kind has occurred. I thought she was my own 
 blessed angel again. Oh, my God !" 
 
 He covered his face with his hands, but through his 
 convulsed fingers the oozing tears found their way. The 
 sympathizing friend waited till the emotion had subsided, 
 and he exclaimed, — 
 
 "If you can do anything for us, do it, in Heaven's 
 name !" 
 
 '' My dear Frederick, my heart bleeds for you. I am 
 old, and have seen something of the world. I know how 
 hard it is for a victim to escape these toils of the tempter. 
 
102 LOUISA WILSON, 
 
 The warmest affections, the highest talents, the most 
 indomitable pride, have been set in array against them, 
 and fallen. Believe me, you are not the person to man- 
 age this matter. Will you leave it to me ?" 
 
 " You have my everlasting gratitude for this heavenly 
 benevolence. I put myself under your control." 
 
 '^ Then I shall require you to obey implicitly. I know 
 you wish to visit your estates in a distant county. Leave 
 the house early in the morning, without seeing Louisa. 
 I will remain with her, and watch over her during your 
 absence. My lone widowhood will enable me so to arrange 
 my family, that none will sustain injury. I feel this effort 
 to save her to be all-important.'^ 
 
 " But how will you explain the circumstance of my 
 departure ?" 
 
 '' I will inform her that you have left on business, 
 grieved to the heart, by her perseverance in error. If 
 necessary, I will even suggest that your return may de- 
 pend on her conduct." 
 
 '' My dear Mrs. Carlton, you are too severe. You 
 will drive her to desperation." 
 
 *' Have you not seen the futility of temporizing meas- 
 ures ? — of appeals to all the native emotions, and forms of 
 tenderness ? I repeat to you, that I love Louisa, both 
 for your sake and her own. My feelings have been 
 strongly drawn out to her, from some personal resemblance 
 she bears to the last darling daughter, whom Heaven 
 took from my embrace to its own. I promise you to be 
 
LOUISA WILSON. 103 
 
 kind, and to apprise you constantly by letter of our pro- 
 gress. Do you trust to me ?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 '^ Entirely V 
 
 "Without reserve. May God forever bless you." 
 
 ''And now, my son, try to snatch a brief rest. May 
 He, who alone can give success to our endeavors, be with 
 us both." 
 
 The bright morning rose upon the departing husband, 
 and the faithful friend by the bedside of the inebriate. 
 
 Reason returned slowly, and then she was advised by 
 Mrs. Carlton to remain quiet, as if a sufferer from acute 
 disease. She took care that proper nourishment was 
 administered, and towards evening drawing the curtain, 
 said, — 
 
 " How are you now, dear Louisa ? You know you 
 have been quite ill, and I am here to see to your com- 
 fort." 
 
 '' 111 ! You here ! — Where is Frederick ?" 
 
 ''He left home this morning." 
 
 " Left ! My husband gone ! — Where ?" 
 
 " On business, among his distant estates, which you 
 know he has long wished to transact." 
 
 " Very singular, indeed. When is he to return ?" 
 
 " There is some uncertainty about it. Perhaps the 
 time may depend somewhat upon you." 
 
 " What can you mean ?" leaping from the bed. " What 
 sort of language is this to me ? I am sure you were 
 
104 LOUISA WILSON, 
 
 never deputed by him to treat me in this remarkable 
 manner." 
 
 " Dear Louisa, you have many accomphshments, and 
 virtues. I admire them, and los'e you. But I am con- 
 strained to say, that you are under the dominion of a 
 fearful habit, that wrecks your husband's peace, and your 
 own reputation. Strive to arouse yourself." 
 
 "Arouse myself? Indeed! — that I will do. And in 
 the first place, leave me directly ; or I will inform my 
 husband of your intrusion, and strange behavior." 
 
 '* I am here by his permission. What I say to you, 
 has his sanction." 
 
 '' Either you are false, or I am most wretched." 
 
 Pitying her distress, Mrs. Carlton would fain have 
 drawn her to her bosom. 
 
 *' Let me be your comforter, my poor child. You have 
 never known a mother's care from your infancy. I will 
 be your mother. I will aid in restoring you to the 
 respect of those who love you, and to your own. Confide 
 in me." 
 
 But she repulsed her, exclaiming that her husband had 
 deserted her, and she would have no other false friend, but 
 desired to die. Days passed, in which Mrs. Carlton was 
 resolutely shut from her presence, seeing no shadow of 
 success to her experiment, and had she not been the pos- 
 sessor of singular perseverance, would have despaired. 
 She remained in the house of the unhappy woman, regu- 
 lating the servants, and laboring invisibly for her welfare. 
 
LOUISA WILSON. 105 
 
 Notwithstanding her vigilance, in forbidding the access 
 to her apartment of anything that could intoxicate, it was 
 evident that she was in possession of some secret hoard 
 by which she was kept in a state of partial stupefaction. 
 
 Finding all appeals to her understanding and affections 
 alike fruitless, while reason was thus dethroned, and know- 
 ing her mind to be much under the influence of imagina- 
 tion, she conceived a design of calUng that powerful 
 element to her aid. 
 
 The dusk of a summer twilight deepened, as Louisa re- 
 clined upon her couch, apparently emerging from a long, 
 di'eam-like reverie. She alternately dozed and mused, 
 until the darkness of night gathered. Partially raising 
 herself to ring for lights, her eye was arrested by a circu- 
 lar spot of ineffable brightness on the pannel of the wall 
 opposite her bed. It burst forth exactly between the 
 portraits of her father and mother, — trembled, expanded, 
 and became stationary. In its centre appeared a form, 
 tall, commanding, and wrapped in a long, dark mantle. 
 Its features were stern, and the glance of its piercing 
 eyes seemed the reproof of a spirit. Then a long bony 
 finger was raised, and moved with a warning gesture ; 
 while from lips that seemed immovable came forth slow, 
 solemn intonations, every one sinking like molten lead 
 into her soul : — 
 
 " Beware ! — Beware ! 
 
 The cup looks fair, 
 
 But its dregs are woe, and care : 
 
 Ruin, — ruin, — and despair." 
 
 5* 
 
106 LOUISA WILSON. 
 
 Shuddering she closed her eyes, pressing her hands 
 tightly over them. When she ventured to withdraw the 
 screen, the vision had departed. She rested upon her 
 pillow and trembled. 
 
 A strain of dulcet music, strange and wild, floated 
 along. A gush of perfume filled the room. Again, that 
 circle of almost ineffable brightness. It overspread the 
 curtain that shaded the full-length portrait of her mother. 
 From its centre glided a female form, clad in flowing 
 robes, with a countenance of radiant and solemn beauty. 
 For a moment it seemed inchned to hover with a tremu- 
 lous motion ; then stood still : and, as if the dead canvas 
 had awoke to hfe and sound, uttered slowly, analyzing 
 every syllable, — 
 
 '^Daughter! — Repent! and do the first works, or 
 
 else" 
 
 Ere those deep, impressive, unearthly tones had ceased, 
 she sprang from the couch, — but all was darkness. She 
 stretched out her arms, as the fair being faded, — 
 
 '' Oh, mother ! Mother, stay ! Hear me promise. I do 
 repent. I will try to do the first works. Blessed mother, 
 return to your unworthy child." 
 
 Her cry of terror brought Mrs. Carlton to her side, 
 whose neck she eagerly clasped, hiding her face, with 
 sobs, in her bosom. 
 
 " Oh, dear, dear friend ! I have been warned by un- 
 earthly beings. A fair,— and a fearful form. One was 
 like the picture of that mother who died before my re- 
 
LOUISA WILSON. 107 
 
 membrance. She spoke to me holy words. The other 
 was so stern ! His voice still sounds in my ears — 
 
 ' Woe and care, woe and care, 
 Ruin, — ruin, — and despair 1' 
 
 In these how madly have I plunged. Who will save me ? 
 Oh ! that I had some one to love me." 
 
 The pitying friend soothed her, promising to be a 
 mother and a guide. She now passed from the extreme 
 of aversion to that of childlike, enthusiastic attachment. 
 Unreserved confidence followed — free confessions, and 
 emphatic resolutions of amendment. 
 
 *' Alas, dear friend ! this fearful habit dates from early 
 years, when wine was associated with hospitality as an 
 element of happiness. My loneliness as an orphan, with- 
 out brother or sister, and the secluded habits of the aunt 
 with whom I resided, made me exceedingly delight in 
 those few social and festive seasons that varied the 
 monotony of our life. In these entertainments wine was 
 always prominent. I heard no odium attached to it, and 
 tasted and admired. Thus, even in childhood, was laid 
 the foundation of my shame. 
 
 '^ The long three years' absence of the lover whom I 
 adored were darkened with fears lest he might never re- 
 turn, or at least, with an unchanged heart. In these 
 periods of depression wine was my comforter. I even 
 ventured to tamper with the fire of ardent spirits. Then 
 I first learned its power of excitement and the reaction 
 
108 LOUISA WILSON, 
 
 that follows. Whether any penetrated my secret, I know 
 not ; but the variation of manner thus caused, my young 
 companions designated as caprice and a fitful tempera- 
 ment. 
 
 *' With this sin on my soul, I dared to enter tlie holy 
 bands of wedlock ; not without a solemn vow to forsake 
 it, and innumerable struggles to keep that vow. How 
 false that vow, — how vain those struggles, — he best knows 
 whom most I love. But the shame, the deception, the 
 misery, the self-loathing, are scanned only by the Eye that 
 readeth the spirit.'' 
 
 Days were spent in salutary conversations, during 
 which the venerable lady strove to impress the absolute 
 need of humility before God, and of trusting in Him for 
 that guidance and support, without which " nothing is 
 strong, nothing is holy." She commiserated but did not 
 repress thosB searchings of heart, without whose disci- 
 pline she felt that reformation might be rootless. • Ear- 
 nestly did she labor to impress that fear of the Almighty, 
 which is the beginning of wisdom. 
 
 "She spoke of sinners' lost estate, 
 In Christ renewM, regenerate, 
 
 Of God's most blest decree, 
 That not a single soul should die, 
 Which turn'd repentant with the cry, — 
 
 Be merciful to me.' 
 
 This indefatigable friend held daily communications 
 with the absent and anxious husband, respecting every 
 
LOUISA WILSON. 109 
 
 stage of their progress, and at length wrote, with a hand 
 tremulous from joy, — 
 
 *^ Dear Frederick, — 
 
 Louisa is worthy of you. — Return. 
 
 E. Carlton." 
 
 The wings of the wind seemed to have brought the 
 summoned one. The meeting is not a subject of descrip- 
 tion. It can be imagined only by those who know the 
 full force of the words, — rejpentant ! forgiven ! and he- 
 loved ! 
 
 Mrs. Carlton returned to her abode, full of gratitude 
 for the privilege of this labor of friendship, and for its 
 blessed results. Ardent attachment, and the most fihal 
 attentions from those whom she had thus been permitted 
 to serve were a part of her recompense, and brightened 
 her declining years. Scarcely a day was allowed to pass 
 without visit or message to the loved neighbor and bene- 
 factress. 
 
 One evening, while a cliill storm was raging violently, 
 Mr. Wilson entered. 
 
 " My dear friend, I had not expected any one to dare 
 this dark conflict of the elements for my sake." 
 
 "Did you suppose we could allow your birthday to 
 pass without recognition ? I assure you, I had hard work 
 to keep Louisa from accompanying me, notwithstanding 
 the tempest." 
 
 Opening a basket, he produced a cap and collar, ele- 
 
110 LOUISA WILSON, 
 
 gantly wrought by her hand, and a magnificent boquet, 
 where camellias of the richest hues, and the mystic pas- 
 sion-flower with its waving tendrils, and the heliotrope 
 and tuberose breathing over the dahlias a cloud of per- 
 fume, and the crimson spire of the sage, and the white 
 bosom of the artemisia, were strongly contrasted with 
 the background of evergreen on which they reposed. 
 
 " Ah ! such beautiful tributes of art and nature should 
 be for the fair and the flourishing, rather than for those 
 in the winter of their davs. 1 cannot but wonder how 
 dear Louisa should thus have kept in mind the date of 
 my birth." 
 
 '' There is a tablet in both our hearts, running thus : — 
 
 * Let not the day be writ, 
 Love will remember it, 
 Untold, unsaid.' " 
 
 " How much am I indebted to you both, for the unre- 
 mitting kindness that cheers the evening of my days." 
 
 '* Oh, dear Mrs. Carlton, you have no imagination of 
 the treasure I now possess in her. She is so gentle, so 
 radiant with intellectual life, — so earnest to efface the 
 memory of the past, so full of all good works, that I can 
 never adequately speak her praise, or my happiness." 
 
 " Heaven be praised ! She is indeed a lovely, talented 
 being, and most dear to us both. May her feet ever 
 stand firm upon the unfailing Rock." 
 
 " Did you ever perfectly explain to me, the cause of 
 
LOUISA WILSON. Ill 
 
 that sudden transition from aversion to delight in your 
 society, which occurred during my painful absence ?" 
 
 " Perhaps I may need your pardon for the course pur- 
 sued in this particular, though certainly not for the 
 motive that prompted it. Her antipathy to me was so 
 great, and the stupor in which she lay so continued, that 
 I was ready to despair of gaining an opportunity to serve 
 her. I cast about for the best means that remained to 
 me, and not without misgiving, made a selection. None 
 can be much with her, and not perceive that imagination 
 is a prominent feature in her mind ; and as the reasoning 
 powers were almost constantly dormant, I seemed driven 
 to make an appeal to that. A little device with the 
 magic lantern, which, had her intellect been unclouded, 
 she would have detected in a moment, wrought effects 
 surpassing my anticipation. It gave access to her pres- 
 ence, from which I had before been excluded, and pitying 
 Heaven did the rest." 
 
 '* How far do you suppose she is aware of iUSe measure 
 to which you resorted V 
 
 '' I doubt whether she has more than a dreamy re- 
 membrance of the scene. Sometimes, I have thought I 
 would confess the whole to her and implore her forgive- 
 ness. But she has never made any allusion to it, and I 
 have thought it better to fortify her virtue, than to stir 
 up the dregs of indistinct and harrowing recollection. 
 Possibly, my conscience has not always been perfectly 
 satisfied to have thus invoked stratagem ; but the case 
 
112 LOUISA WILSON, 
 
 was a peculiar one, requiring peculiar measures. Forgive 
 me, if I have erred through excess of zeal to arrest the 
 wanderer and save the lost." 
 
 " We can never thank you as we ought, for all you 
 have done for us." 
 
 ^* If I have been the means of any good, thank not 
 me, but Him from whom all good proceedeth. But the 
 whole of this life is a warfare, my dear young friend, and 
 it is never safe to lay aside that fear which drives us to 
 trust in Omnipotence." 
 
 '* All your counsel is to us most precious." 
 
 " You are both to me as children ; you seem to stand 
 in the places of those whom our Father has taken from 
 my house and heart, to whom I hasten. Your beautiful 
 wife is truly attractive, highly endowed, and full of love 
 to you ; but in this our state of discipline and danger, 
 possibly she is not armed with that strong heart which 
 foils temptation by perfect trust in an arm Divine. 
 Teach her to expect difficult duty, and let it be your care 
 to gird her up for it by deepening her piety." 
 
 '' I feel the force of all you say, our blessed mother, — 
 so we speak of you to each other. Indulge us in that 
 sweet appellation." 
 
 Pressing his hand between both of hers, she added, 
 solemnly and affectionately, — 
 
 " None may boast, my son, the seeds of evil habit are 
 dead, never more to quicken. Yet is there something 
 almost converting in maternal love, that, watching over a 
 
LOUISA WILSON. 113 
 
 helpless being, nourishing and guiding an heir of immor- 
 tality, feels its own infirmity, its own inadequacy to the 
 great work, and pours itself out in utter abandonment, 
 seeking refuge where only it can be found, — above. I 
 rejoice that at length such hopes are hers, — are yours ; 
 may God crown and render them effectual. 1 have been 
 led to say more than I intended, for advancing age warns 
 me that this birthday may be my last. Should it so 
 prove, let this be my parting charge to our dear one : — 
 to put forth all her energies, to guard every avenue of 
 danger, to resist every w^ile of the tempter ; yet not to 
 rely on any earthly helper, but cling ever closely to the 
 Hand that w^as pierced." 
 
 Little could it then have been supposed, while there 
 was such a lingering of the health and even the beauty 
 of early years, around this inestimable friend, that her 
 parting intimation would so soon be verified. Yet ere 
 '' another moon had filled its horn," Frederick Wilson, 
 himself deeply mourning, was called to console his 
 w^eeping wife, who bent over the lifeless form of one 
 who had been to both as a mother. 
 
 " She has gone to the angels," he said. 
 
 *' To the angels, husband, in whose joy even on earth 
 she partook, over the sinner that repenteth." 
 
 After the funeral obsequies, it was to them a mourn- 
 ful satisfaction to devise and erect a monument, which 
 should consult both the simplicity of her taste and the 
 impulse of their gratitude. The green turf w^here her 
 
114 LOUISA WILSON. 
 
 form reposed was surrounded by a beautiful inclosure, 
 and planted with her favorite flowers. At its entrance a 
 willow swept the ground with its long, drooping wands, 
 and over the arched gate crept the ivy, and the clematis 
 with its blue pendulous blossoms. In the centre rose a 
 plain stone of the purest marble. Its only inscription 
 was the name, with the simple dates of birth and death ; 
 and beneath, cut deeply into the heart of the stone, — 
 
 ^onc Some. 
 
 On the reverse, two hands, exquisitely sculptured, 
 sprang from the marble, sustaining a vase, with the 
 words " Bring flowers,'^ en wreathed with acanthus leaves, 
 while its frequent supply of fresh water and the fairest 
 flowers, attested the constancy with which the memory 
 of the dead was cherished. 
 
 The loss of the hand that had steadily probed her 
 follies, and fostered her virtues, was sincerely deplored 
 by Louisa. Scarcely had the sadness in some measure 
 passed away, ere she was called to become a mother. 
 When she saw her husband press long and earnestly the 
 velvet lip of their first-born, and dividing between it and 
 herself his tearful, enraptured blessings, she felt more 
 than repaid for all the apprehension and agony with 
 which a Being of wisdom hath encompassed the entrance 
 of tliat holy relationship. 
 
 The rulinjx desire of Frederick Wilson's heart was 
 
LOUISA WILSON. 115 
 
 consummated in the first wail of that feeble infant. Not 
 only had his native love of children led him to repine 
 that their union for years had been thus unblessed, but 
 he had secretly depended on the force of maternity to 
 dispel the only shade that darkened the history of his 
 wife. Often had he said mentally, while conflicting 
 with her depraved habit, '' Were she but a mother ! 
 those cares and joys would be her salvation." 
 
 And now the blessing was granted, he was never 
 weary of watching the tender nursling of their hopes, 
 regarding every movement of the tiny limbs, and antici- 
 pating the vohtions of a mind that was to live forever. 
 It gave him pleasure to believe that it would have the 
 mother's eye of sparkling blue, and to trace the rudi- 
 ments of his own noble forehead amid its imperfectly 
 developed featm'es. It was interesting to see him so 
 absorbed by this new affection. He was peculiarly grat- 
 ified that it was a daughter, that its companionship with 
 the mother might be more entire and its influence more 
 permanent. He hailed it as the little angel that had 
 stepped into the troubled pool, to heal the hearts that 
 waited to be whole. It was his first thought at waking, 
 his last when he lay down ; and it even had part in his 
 dreams, tinging them with the hue of its own sweet help- 
 lessness. The only alloy to his felicity was the physical 
 weakness of Louisa. Some infirmity of constitution left 
 her longer languid and a prisoner than was expected. 
 Both physician and nurse recommended the free use of 
 
116 LOUISA WILSON. 
 
 tonics, to restore her decaying appetite and strength. 
 Tonics involving stimulants ! 
 
 Did they not understand or perceive the baleful fires 
 they were rekindling ? But he who did both understand 
 and perceive, interposed, though at the eleventh hour. 
 He forbade all use of what could intoxicate, or its entrance 
 into his house. 
 
 Louisa was astonished at the spirit which he had man- 
 ifested. She felt it great unkindness to withhold what 
 she believed she needed, as a restorative to health and 
 the means of affordinof nourishment to her babe. She 
 became silent and resentful, and was unappeased by his 
 anxious inquiries or affectionate treatment. One evening, 
 while she supposed him to be absent from home, she 
 imagined herself to be alarmingly feeble and in danger of 
 syncope. She therefore directed the nurse to go forth 
 silently, and purchase some of the prohibited beverage, 
 while, propped in her easy chair, she lulled the infant on 
 her bosom. 
 
 '' Poor innocent !'* she murmured, " hard that thou 
 must pine for thy natural food, and thy sick mother 
 suffer, because a cruel father denies the medicine that 
 would restore us." 
 
 Ere the return of the nurse, her husband entered. 
 What met his horror-struck eyes ? 
 
 His darling child in the fire, and the mother hanging 
 over the arm of her easy chair — asleep ! 
 
 It seems that after the departure of the nurse she had 
 
LOUISA WILSON. 117 
 
 drawn nearer the fire, resting lier feet upon the fender. 
 But as the opium-trance deepened, they had shdden from 
 their support, and the precious burden from her arms. 
 Fortunately, the wood was nearly consumed, and being 
 closely wrapped in flannels, its clothes had not ignited. 
 One fair cheek was scorched by the hearth where it lay, 
 but a hand and arm which it had thrust forth from its 
 envelope, came in contact with red coals and decaying 
 brands, and was burned to a crisp. 
 
 The agony of the father, as he caught the child to his 
 breast, was indescribable. 
 
 " Woman ! See your own work ! — the fruit of your 
 accursed, wilful wickedness !'* 
 
 A consultation of surgeons pronounced amputation 
 above the elbow indispensable to life, and it was done. 
 The sufferings of the poor babe, and the hazardous illness 
 that followed, taught the bitterness of remorse to the 
 wretched mother. Its cries of anguish, and her husband's 
 stern adjuration, " Woman ! see your own work !'^ haunted 
 her perpetually. 
 
 It was long ere that child was out of danger, or the 
 offended husband propitiated. But as health returned 
 to its pallid brow, he began to look on the wasted form 
 of his wife with commiseration. His heart was touched 
 with pity, and ahve to tender remembrance; but the 
 respect that is essential to true love had fled forever. 
 This she perceived, and no longer desired to live. The 
 idea that he despised her took possession of her imagina- 
 
118 LOUISA WILSON. 
 
 tion, and poisoned the springs of life. The love that had 
 for years been the pole-star of her existence had shrouded 
 itself. She was not content to gather up the scattered 
 coals from its forsaken altar, and be thankful they were 
 not wholly extinguished ; and quicken them with the 
 breath of the patient heart, and pour incense upon them 
 that might have ascended to heaven. iSTo ; she could 
 be satisfied only with its first fervor, and that could re- 
 turn no more. She no longer put forth any effort to 
 resist, scarcely to disguise her infirmity. She desperately 
 strove to drown her sorrow in the blood of the grape ; to 
 consume it in the fire of distilled liquors ; to stagnate it 
 in the sleep of the poppy. Her husband ceased to oppose 
 the current of her depraved appetite. This, also, appeared 
 to her unkindness, for she construed it into indifference. 
 Maternal love, in her nature, seemed an element of 
 secondary power. It had fallen on an ill-prepared, per- 
 verted soil. It had come up like a plant under the storm- 
 cloud, blighted ere it could take deep root. The lisping 
 word ''mother'' — that talisman of all tender emotion, 
 sometimes awoke a thrilling, delicious tear, but that lost 
 arm was a perpetual reproof, bringing anew the sound 
 of those terrible words, *' Woman ! see your own work !" 
 Short and sad was the remaining annal of her days. 
 One morning in the midst of her lofty parlor, she fell, 
 and rose not. She was borne to her chamber and bed, 
 where she breathed heavily, but spoke not. Long did 
 her coach, which she had ordered, stand in waiting at her 
 
LOUISA WILSON. 119 
 
 gate ; for none of those who had hurried in and out, — 
 physicians, neighbors or domestics, remembered to say to 
 the coachman, — ''The mistress is dead f'^ 
 
 In an inner room, haggard with grief, sat the disconso- 
 late husband, his mutilated child upon his knee. At the 
 deep sound of the funeral bell, he put the little one from 
 him, that he mioht kneel for the last time amid the voice 
 of prayer, by her side whom prayer would no longer 
 avail, and look for the last time on that bloated, discol- 
 ored face, once so beautiful. 
 
 As years passed on it was touching to see that melan- 
 choly man, in his rich saloon, his spacious garden or his 
 favorite library, ever holding by her only hand his only 
 child, ever breathing into her ear precepts of wisdom, 
 ever pouring, as it were, the w^hole wealth of a sorrowing, 
 loving spirit into her tender bosom. From no effort of 
 duty or work of benevolence did he withdraw himself, 
 but the brightness of existence was gone forever ; and in 
 his most cheerful moments, he was as one who had seen 
 the idol of his youth borne away by some black- winged 
 monster into outer darkness. 
 
SCORN NOT THE ERRING. 
 
 Scorn not the erring, — though her name 
 Should dregs of deep abhorrence stir ; 
 
 Even though the kindUng blush of shame 
 Burns deep on Virtue's cheek for her. 
 
 Judge not, — unless thy lip can tell 
 What wily tempter, fierce and strong, 
 
 Did the unguarded soul propel 
 To ruin's hidden gulf along. 
 
 The downward road, how fearful steep ! 
 
 The upward chfF, how hard to climb ! — 
 *He only knows, whose records keep 
 
 The nameless, countless grades of crime. 
 
 Scorn not the erring, — thou whose heart, 
 In purpose pure is garnered strong : — 
 
 Claims penitence with thee no part ? 
 Doth pride to mortal man belong ? 
 
 For by thy follies unforgiven, 
 
 Wert thou at death's dread hour accused, 
 Even thou might at the gate of heaven 
 
 In terror knock, — and be refused. 
 
THE TOMB OF CECILIA METELLA. 
 
 AT ROME. 
 
 Here sleep *st thou, wife of Crassus ? 
 
 Thy proud tomb 
 O'ermastereth Time, — mocking with mighty walls, 
 And Doric frieze, and knots of sculptured flowers. 
 His ill-dissembled wrath. 
 
 Soft, drooping shades, — 
 The dark, columnar cypress, the fair leaves 
 Of the young olive, and the ivy wreath 
 Close clustering, lend their tracery to enrich 
 Thy sepulchre. Yet hast thou left no trace 
 On History's tablet ; and in vain we ask 
 Yon voiceless stones of thee. 
 
 Was hoarded wealth 
 Thine idol, like thy husband's ? Didst thou vaunt 
 His venal honors, and exalt the power 
 Of the triumvir, — in thy purple robes 
 Presiding at his feasts, — to every lip 
 Pressing the goblet, even while Rome was sick 
 With pomp and revel ? — Or in secret cell, 
 To thy Penates breath the pagan prayer 
 In trembling, for his sake ? — Or last in weeds 
 
122 THE TOMB OF CECILIA METELLA. 
 
 Of solitary widowhood, deplore 
 
 His breathless bosom pierced by Parthian darts ? 
 
 There is no record on yon massy walls, 
 Of thy last deeds. Even thy sarcophagus 
 Is rilled, and the golden urn that locked 
 lliy mouldering ashes, proved but fitting bribe 
 For the bold robber. 
 
 Thy Patrician dust — 
 How doth it differ from the household slave's. 
 Who, 'neath thy bidding, at the distaff wrought ? 
 Or doomed to sterner toil, in ponderous vase 
 Bore the cool Martian waters for thy wine ? 
 
 How vain to question thus thy gorgeous tomb, 
 
 False to its trust ! 
 
 The thick-ribb'd arch of rock 
 
 Lays claim to immortality ; but dust, — 
 
 Mans dust, must yield each element a part, 
 
 To pay Creation's loan. Nor can he cling' 
 
 To the brief memory of his shadowy race, 
 
 Save through his deeds. 
 
 Oh woman ! — nurse of man ! 
 Make not thy bed beneath the imposing arch, 
 Or sky-crowned pyramid. Enshrine thyself, 
 With all thy buried virtues, in the heart 
 Of him who loves thee. Be thine epitaph 
 
THE TOMB OF CECILIA METELLA. 123 
 
 The graces of thine oifspring, and the thanks 
 Of those who mourn. 
 
 So shalt thou miss the pomp 
 Of this world's triumph, and thy noteless grave 
 Be glorious at the resurrection morn. 
 
THE UPAS TREE. 
 
 There sprang a tree of deadly name, 
 Its poisonous breath, its baleful dew. 
 
 Scorched the green earth, hke lava-flame. 
 And every plant of mercy slew. 
 
 From cHme to clime its branches spread 
 Their fearful fruits of sin and woe, — 
 
 The prince of darkness loved its shade. 
 And toiled its fiery seed to sow. 
 
 Faith poured her prayer at midnight hour, 
 The hand of zeal at noonday wrought, 
 
 And armor of celestial power 
 
 The children of the Cross besouo:ht. 
 
 Behold ! the axe its pride shall wound. 
 
 Through its cleft boughs the sunbeams shine. 
 
 Its blasted blossoms strew the ground, — 
 Give glory to the Arm Divine ! 
 
 And still Jehovah's aid implore. 
 
 From isle to isle, from sea to sea : — 
 
 From peopled earth's remotest shore, 
 To root that deadly Upas Tree. 
 
A WALK IN CHILDHOOD. 
 
 There was a time, when meadow, grove and stream, 
 The earth, and every common sight, 
 
 To me did seem 
 
 Apparelled in a wondrous light, 
 The glory, and the freshness of a dream !" 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 When my years were few, I loved to sit under the 
 shadow of gray rugged rocks, and listen to the falling 
 waters. I learned to know where the first violets sprang, 
 and where the lily of the valley hid behind its broad 
 leaf ; and where the forest nuts ripen, when the frost 
 sparkles upon the earth. 
 
 I saw the squirrel putting acorns in his nest for the 
 winter, and where the bee stores the essence, which sing- 
 ing, she wins from the flowers. I sought to draw forth 
 the kindness of domestic animals, and to know the names 
 of the birds that yearly built in my father's trees. 
 
 But of my own race, who have the gift of reason, with 
 dominion over the beasts of the field and the fowls of the 
 air, I knew little ; save of the parents who nurtured me, 
 and the few children with whom I had sometimes played 
 on the summer turf. 
 
 I said, " If the plant that flourishes only a few days 
 is happy, and the bird that bears to its young a single 
 
126 A WALK IN CHILDHOOD. 
 
 broken cherry, and the poor lamb that has no friend but 
 its mother ; how much happier must they be whom God 
 hath made to rule over them, and who are surrounded 
 by good things like a flowing river, and who know that 
 when they seem to die, it is but to live forever." 
 
 So I desired to turn away from the herbs of the field, 
 and look more attentively upon the ways of men. Once, 
 I was permitted to walk abroad, when the dews of the 
 morning were fresh upon the grass, and all the things of 
 nature seemed beautiful, and full of love. 
 
 A group of children were in the streets. Methought 
 they were unwashed, and unfed. They clamored loudly, 
 with idle tongues. I asked them why they went not to 
 the schools, where knowledge was gathered. But they 
 mocked at me, and hasted away. 
 
 Two neighbors met each other. They were called 
 friends ; but they spake loud, and angry words. Then 
 they quarrelled, and I was frightened at the blows they 
 dealt. 
 
 I saw a man with a fiery face. He was tall, and 
 strongly built, like the oak among the trees. Yet were 
 his steps unsteady as those of the tottering babe. He 
 lifted up a hoarse foolish song, like a creature without 
 understanding. Then he reeled, and fell heavily, as one 
 dead. I marvelled that no hand was stretched to raise 
 him up. 
 
 Again I walked forth, by the silent valley where the 
 dead repose. A coffin was let down into an open grave. 
 
A WALK IN CHILDHOOD. 127 
 
 At its brink stood a widowed woman, with her httle 
 ones. They looked sad, and bowed with trouble ; yet, 
 methought, on their shrivelled brows the marks of famine 
 were deeper set than the seal of sorrow for the dead. 
 
 Then I asked in my wonder, '' What made the parents 
 not pity their children when they hungered, nor call 
 them home when they were in wickedness ? What made 
 the friends forget their first love ? and the strong man 
 fall down senseless ? and the young die before his time ?" 
 
 Then a voice answered, '' Intemperance ! And there is 
 mourninof in the land because of this." 
 
 So I returned to my home sorrowing. And had God 
 given me a brother or sister, I would have thrown my 
 arms around their neck, and entreated, '' Touch not your 
 lips to the poison-cup ; but let us drink the pure water, 
 which God hath blessed, all the days of our lives.'' 
 
I SAW A LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 SONG FOR CHILDREN. 
 
 I SAW a little girl, 
 
 With half uncovered form, 
 And wondered why she wandered thus 
 
 Amid the winter storm. 
 
 They said her mother drank of that 
 Which took her sense away, 
 
 And so, she let her children roam 
 Unheeded, day by day. 
 
 I saw them take a man 
 
 To prison for his crime, 
 Where solitude, and punishment. 
 
 And toil divide the time. 
 
 And as they led him through the gate 
 
 Unwillingly along, 
 They told me 'twas intemperance, 
 
 That made him do the wrong. 
 
I SAW A LITTLE GIRL. 129 
 
 I saw a woman weep, 
 
 As thougli her heart would break ; — 
 They said her husband drank too much 
 
 Of what he should not take. 
 
 I saw an unfrequented mound, 
 
 Where weeds and brambles wave ; — 
 
 On which had fallen no mourning tear, — 
 It was the drunkard's grave. 
 
 They said these were not all 
 
 The risks the intemperate run, — 
 For there was danger, lest the soul 
 
 Be evermore undone. 
 
 Since crystal water is so sweet, 
 
 And beautiful to see, 
 And never leads to harm or woe, 
 
 It is the drink for me. 
 
THE DEATH OF KING EDMUND. 
 
 The Saxon Edmund, reigned o'er Albion's isle, 
 Nine centuries since. 
 
 Scarce had the ruddy bloom 
 Of seventeen summers ripened on his cheek. 
 Ere he was called to try the toils that wait 
 A ruler of rude men. Though his young heart 
 At times, remembered with a thrill of pride 
 His grandsire Alfred, — justly styled the Great, 
 Yet was it idly wont to rest its claim 
 More on ancestral virtues, than its own. 
 Boastful of buried glory. Still, he earned 
 From his barbaric dynasty, the name 
 Of the Magnificenty and the fierce crews 
 Of pirate Danes, vexing the British shores. 
 Confessed his prowess ; while his penal codes 
 Peopled the gibbets with those robber hordes 
 Who long had foraged on the rifled wealth 
 Of weaker neighbors. 
 
 Thus, the years flowed on, 
 Till the seventh winter saw the envied crown 
 Still on his brow. Once, at a royal feast 
 Around his board, the warriors, and the thanes 
 
THE DEATH OF KING EDMUND. 131 
 
 He gathered ; while with savage mirth they drain'd, 
 The mighty goblet, smiting on their shields 
 In chorus, as the scalds some favorite lay 
 Uplifted, of old heroes. 
 
 Deep, the king 
 Drank of the flowing mead, and gazing round 
 In fiery exultation, fixed his eye 
 Amid the distant dimness of the hall. 
 Upon a banished outlaw. 
 
 " Hence !'' he cried, 
 *' Dar'st thou to scorn my sentence, and return ? — 
 Hence, from my sight !" 
 
 But still, the muffled man 
 Moved not, and scowling 'neath his bushy locks 
 With careless credence, or defiance cold, 
 Gave insolent regard. 
 
 So, from his seat 
 The frantic monarch leaping, mad with wine, 
 Closed with the ruffian, though a dagger flashed 
 Like lightning, and the royal bosom felt 
 The keenness of its point. — 
 
 One moment, hio-h 
 Spouted the red heart's blood, — the next, there lay 
 A frowning corse. 
 
 Thus, Saxon Edmund fell, 
 Whom men called king, but Wisdom deems a slave 
 To appetite and passion. He who boasts 
 His liberty, yet wears their secret chain. 
 
132 THE DEATH OF KING EDMUND. 
 
 Doth bow to darker servitude and shame 
 Than even the serf he scorns. 
 
 Giver of grace, 
 Instruct us with our earhest years to blend 
 Meekness and temperance, and so 'scape the snare 
 Of keen remorse, and guilt that hath no hope. * 
 
OLD ALCOHOL. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 Old Alcohors the foe 
 
 Of virtue, and of man, — 
 He lays his victims low, 
 
 We'll fly him while we can, — 
 And seek the rill 
 That gushing flows, 
 The antidote 
 For all his woes. 
 
 Old AlcohoFs the friend 
 
 Of sin, despair, and death, — 
 Let us his fetters rend, 
 
 And shun his burning breath,- 
 And seek the rill 
 That gushing flows, 
 The antidote 
 For all his woes. 
 
THE EMIGRANT BRIDE. 
 
 " Fare ye well ! Fare ye well I — 
 To joy and to hope it sounds as a knell ; — 
 
 Cruel tale it were to tell 
 How the emigrant sighs farewell !" — 
 
 TUPPER. 
 
 Two, rather antique-looking people were conversing 
 cozily, towards the close of a vernal day. The boAV- 
 window where they sate looked out upon lawn and 
 garden, and was partially shaded by the twining con- 
 volvulus, which at dewy morn was redolent of its deep- 
 blue and crimson bells. 
 
 "Brother, did you ever think our Susan had some 
 thoughts she did not reveal ?" 
 
 *' What kind of thoughts ?" 
 
 " Why, has it never crossed your mind, that she might 
 be in love ?" 
 
 " In love ? The child ! What can you be dreaming 
 about, sister Sibyl ?" 
 
 '' Child indeed ! Eighteen next candlemas, Mr Morti- 
 mer. If I am not mistaken, her mother was younger, 
 when she stood at the altar with our brother. Perhaps 
 I might say, when she led him there, for he was utterly 
 bewildered, and blinded by the love of her." 
 
THE EMIGRANT BRIDE. 135 
 
 '' She was truly lovely. But tell me, whose image 
 your imaginings have coupled with our pretty niece ?" 
 
 " Whose image ? why, the young spark, Henry Elton, 
 of course. A fine match, upon my word ; he having 
 nothing, or next to nothing, and of no family, as you 
 may say. I always thought Susan ought to marry some 
 nobleman. And so she might, with a proper ambition. 
 Such sights of money as you have lavished on her educa- 
 tion too, playing on the spinet and working tent-stich. 
 Of what great use will such fine things be, when she is 
 the wife of so very undistinguished a personage ? I 
 think she is ungrateful to you, — indeed, to us both." 
 
 " It is most probable that your fancy outruns all fact. 
 Still, if your suspicions prove true, I should regret it, not 
 so much for the reason you have given, as that the young 
 man has some spice of wildness, and want of considera- 
 tion, which might affect the happiness of the poor girl. 
 Shall I speak to her V 
 
 *' Oh mercy, my dear brother ! not for the world. You 
 men are always so hasty. Such matters need the utmost 
 tact and delicacy. The young heart is an exquisite harp, 
 which few can play upon, without disordering its strings. 
 Trust that to me. There she is, coming from her walk, 
 and that very Henry Elton with her, to be sure ! Have 
 the goodness, brother, to leave the room. No time like 
 present time, as the proverb says." 
 
 A fair girl was seen approaching the house, the rich curls 
 of auburn hair escaping from under her hat, and shading 
 
136 THE EMIGRANT BRIDE. 
 
 neck and shoulder. By her side was a graceful young 
 man, who bore upon his arm her basket of wild flowers. 
 A ramble in the green lanes of merry England had given 
 them new spirits, and their voices, mingled with occa- 
 sional laughter, rang out joyously. Her companion took 
 leave, and she entered ^yiih a light step, — 
 
 '' See, aunt, these fresh violets, and this," 
 
 " Bless me ! Miss Mortimer. I suppose it is highly 
 decorous to walk with your hat untied, and to chatter so 
 long at the gate with a gentleman." 
 
 Amazement seized the young creature, a moment since 
 so gay. Miss Mortimer ! This was always an epithet 
 of great displeasure. What could have happened ? The 
 full, blue eyes, which just before had sparkled like 
 saphires, dilated, and with lips slightly parted, and foot 
 advanced, she stood, checked and silent, — a song-bird 
 startled by the thunder. 
 
 *' Do you know that everybody is talking of your 
 famiharity with that Henry Elton, and of his awful dissi- 
 pation too ? Your uncle, and all," 
 
 " My dear aunt !" 
 
 '* Yes ! dear aunt, indeed ! Your uncle is not quite 
 blind, nor deaf either. Poor man ! he might have had 
 higher hopes for his favorite brother's daughter. So 
 liberal too, as he has always been, — no expense spared. 
 It is a burning shame, to show no more regard to his 
 feelings." 
 
 '' I assure you, aunt !" 
 
THE EMIGRANT BRIDE. 137 
 
 " You need not assure me at all, — I'm able to assure 
 myself. But if you do not see fit to give up Henry 
 Elton, and mate yourself with some titled person, or one 
 more fitting for our family, it will not be so well for you, 
 I can assure you of that. It will not be difficult to find 
 one who will show more gratitude to us, for lesser favors. 
 You need not take the trouble to answer me." 
 
 The surprise of the listener gave way to a rush of 
 other feehngs. The color deepened in her pure Saxon 
 complexion, but she replied not ; though the compression 
 of her bright lip, proved that it cost some effort to be 
 silent. Henceforth a new subject occupied her medita- 
 tion, and the floating filament and shadow of a preference, 
 became a fixed thought. 
 
 Miss Sibyl lost no time in reporting to her brother, 
 that Susan was deeply in love, and desperately bent on 
 having her own way. 
 
 " I could see it in every movement. She is her 
 mother over again, — whom I never could bear. Her 
 father, too, had a right obstinate temper. Considering 
 he was only a half-brother, I have sometimes wondered 
 at your partiality for his daughter. I am sure our own 
 dear sister would be glad to give us her Euphemia, who 
 would not make us half the trouble that Susan has." 
 
 This matter had been hinted before by the adroit lady, 
 but her brother's heart still continued to turn to his 
 orphan protege. Yet having always maintained towards 
 her a reserved and dignified manner, she was not aware 
 
138 THE EMIGRANT BRIDEc 
 
 of his attachment, and native timidity prevented her ap- 
 proaching him with freedom. Mutually misunderstand- 
 ing each other, constraint deepened into apparent cold- 
 ness, and diffidence was mistaken for pride. The blight 
 of a joyless home fell on the spirit of the young girl, and 
 she grew careworn, before her time. 
 
 Days passed aw^ay on leaden feet, and tlie early flowers 
 for whose birth she had waited, withered unnoticed in 
 their turfy beds. At the foot of the pleasant garden of 
 the Mortimers, was a summer-house. The full moon, 
 looking through its vines and lattice-work, saw it not 
 untenanted. Two persons were discoverable, with heads 
 declined, as if in conversation more profound than the 
 gayety of youth would prompt. Suddenly, one starts 
 into action, genuflection, gesture, such as excited feeling, 
 or eloquence inspire. It might be seen that he has an 
 auditor absorbed, and not unmoved. 
 
 The pantomime, though protracted, has a close. Of 
 its scope and result, somewhat may be gathered by the 
 bearing of the parties, as they issue from the bower. 
 Moving slowly through the long lines of shrubbery, the 
 manner of one is earnest, tender, and tinctured with the 
 power of prevalence. The other leans heavily on his 
 arm, her fair brow inclining towards his ; and as they 
 reach the porch where they are to separate, her clear, 
 lustrous eye gazes steadfastly into his, as if to gather one 
 more assurance, that the image of her own love is fully 
 reflected there. 
 
THE EMIGRANT BRIDE. 139 
 
 A ship rides at anchor on an Enghsh coast. The night 
 is rayless, and winds moan with a hollow sound. The 
 midnight watch is called ; but the captain still lingers on 
 deck, as if engaged in some preparation for his expected 
 departure at early morn. 
 
 The tramp of flying steeds is heard on the shore. Then 
 the dash of an oar, — a boat has put forth into the thick 
 darkness. Soon a group, muffled in cloaks, ascend the 
 deck of the vessel. One seems exhausted, and is sup- 
 ported by a stronger arm. Then, by the dull red light 
 of the binnacle, a cavalier stands forth wnth uncovered 
 head, and by his side a vision of beauty. The melody of the 
 marriage service trembles strangely upon that bleak, mid- 
 night air. Hands are joined, — " Till death us do i^cirt^ 
 
 What a place, — timid and tender creature ! for vows 
 like these, — the rough ship, and the tossing sea. None 
 of thy kindred blood near to bless thee, or soothe the 
 pulsations of thy fluttering heart ! 
 
 '' Safe from all persecution ! — Mine own forever !" 
 Well-timed words, young bridegroom. They bring a 
 faint rose-leaf tinge over cheek and brow, so deadly pale. 
 The benediction of the priest fell, like oil upon the 
 troubled waters ; and throwing himself, with his attend- 
 ants, into the waiting boat, he rapidly regained the 
 shore. 
 
 The next morning beheld the ship, and her compan- 
 ions, with unfurled sails leave the harbor of Plymouth. 
 Cloud and blast had passed away with night, but were 
 
140 THE EMIGRANT BRIDE. 
 
 replaced by a dense fog. So they still hovered, like 
 half-wakened sea-birds, lazily along the coast. 
 
 At midday, a barge was seen approaching. With a 
 buoyant movement it skimmed the waves, now rising 
 half upright upon some crested billow, and anon, sinking 
 gracefully into the intermediate vale of waters. 
 
 Among the many Avho watched its progress, none 
 testified such overwhelming anxiety as Henry Elton, and 
 his bride. Apprehension that they might be the objects 
 of pursuit, raised a tide of tumultuous emotion. The 
 young man %valked apart with the captain, vehemently 
 demanding that the ship should hold on her course. 
 And when he again seated himself by her side, whose 
 azure eye followed his every movement, — an unsheathed 
 weapon was observed to glitter beneath his mantle. 
 
 A cavalier closely muffled, with a single servant, leaped 
 on board. Requesting a private interview with the 
 captain, they descended together to the cabin. Henry 
 Elton, passing one arm firmly around his bride, whispered 
 in her ear, " Till death us do pai't!^^ while a sword 
 gleamed in his right hand. How endless seemed that 
 interval of suspense. 
 
 At length ascending footsteps were heard, with a 
 suppressed murmur of " Sir Walter Raleigh !" The eye 
 of every gazer testified pleasure, as it rested on the noble 
 form of the most accomplished knight of his times. His 
 Spanish cloak, throw^n over one arm, discovered that 
 magnificence of costume in which he delighted, and 
 
THE EMIGRANT BRIDE. 
 
 141 
 
 which his elegance of person so well became. To all 
 who surrounded him, he addressed some kind or courtlj 
 phrase, with his habitual tact and fluency. Fixing his 
 eagle eye on the bride, he drew her towards him, and 
 said, — 
 
 "And thou too, here, pretty Dove? I knew thy 
 father well, in the Low Countries. A brave man was 
 he and a noble. Heaven help thee to build thy nest in 
 yon far flowery groves, where I would fain myself be." 
 
 Pressing a paternal kiss on her pure forehead, and 
 once more heartily shaking the hand of the commander, 
 he said, — 
 
 " My good people, that you will show all due respect 
 and obedience to so excellent a seaman as Captain White, 
 I make no doubt. But more than this, — I present him 
 to you as the future Governor of the colony which, God 
 willing, you are to plant in the ncAV Western World." 
 
 Then placing in his hand a sealed paper, containing 
 instructions for the new government, and the names 
 of the twelve assistants by whose aid it was to be admin- 
 istered, — he bade all a courteous farewell, with "good 
 wishes, and a orolden lot." 
 
 Loud and long was the voice of cheer and gratulation, 
 as he departed. Bowing his thanks, and then standing 
 erect in the tossing boat, he waved his hat with its fair 
 white plumes. Far in the distance they saw it dancing 
 amid the sea-foam, and conversed enthusiastically of the 
 man, who yet scarcely thirty-five, had. already become 
 
142 THE EMIGRANT BRIDE. 
 
 illustrious in arts and arms, — a scholar, courtier, poet and 
 statesman, liberal as a patron of literature, and the very 
 soul of all enterprise for the settlement of the new-found 
 continent of America. As they watched him, until his 
 barge was a speck on the far waters, no prescience re- 
 vealed the darkening of his fortunes : — the conspiracy of 
 his foes, a tyrant king, the prison, and the scaffold. 
 
 Three small ships, long beaten by the Atlantic surge, 
 approached the shores of that region which, less than a 
 century before, the world-finder had unveiled. The con- 
 flict of months with blast and billow had not left them 
 unscathed, and they moved heavily, like the flagging sea- 
 gull, towards the desired haven. 
 
 It was the summer of 1587, when Virginia, in her 
 gorgeous robes, gleamed out to the worn voyagers like 
 the isles of the blessed. Her flowering trees and shrubs, 
 sent a welcome on the wings of odors, ere the embroidered 
 turf kissed their feet. 
 
 Vines, loaded with clusters, enriched field and grove ; 
 here forming dense canopies and bowers of shade, and 
 there springing loftily from tree-top to tree-top, with 
 bold festoons and flowing drapery. Deer glanced through 
 the forest, and birds of gay plumage filled the balmy air 
 with music. 
 
 The strangers sought out the spot, near the bright waters 
 of the Roanoake, where, two years before, Sir Richard 
 
THE EMIGRANT BRIDE. 143 
 
 Grenville had planted a colony of frail root, whose rem- 
 nant had been borne back by Sir Francis Drake, to its 
 native soil. 
 
 These guests of the hospitality of the broad, green 
 West, were full of exultation, and zealous to construct 
 places of shelter and repose. None more ardently re- 
 joiced, when a little dwelling was ready, which they 
 might call their own, than Henry Elton and his bride. 
 Its rudeness, its narrow limits were nought to them, so 
 entirely happy were they to possess a home amid the 
 charms of nature and the solitude of love. Here was 
 their most romantic wish fulfilled, — a lodge in the green 
 wood, and a beautiful world to themselves. 
 
 Alas for Susan, when a change stole over her dream ! 
 Enthusiastic, and turning, like the flower of the sun, to 
 one alone, she had not taken into view that the cloud 
 and the frost must have their season. At first, she won- 
 dered that Henry could so often leave her, and so long 
 be gone ; or that, at his return, he omitted the tender 
 words she had been accustomed to hear. But the smile 
 was ever radiant on her brow when he appeared ; and 
 during his absence, she found solace in household toils, 
 putting her slender, snowy hands, with strange facility, 
 to the humblest deeds that might render a poor abode 
 comfortable, or vary his repast who was ever first in her 
 thoughts. While thus employed, her voice rang out 
 sweetly from the catalpas that embowered her dwelling, 
 so that it would seem that the birds and herself were at a 
 
144 THE EMIGRANT BRIDE. 
 
 loving strife. But the tuneful emulation ceased, and her 
 song rose sad and seldom, — and then was heard no more. 
 
 A deeper shadow had fallen upon her lot. Captious- 
 ness was added to indifference, by him for whom she had 
 literally given up all beside. A fearful conviction, w^iich 
 she strongly resisted, forced itself upon her, of his fre- 
 quent intemperance. Careless of the duties of a pro- 
 tector, he would sometimes be away whole nights ; while 
 at his return, she was doomed to witness the diso-ustinor 
 gradations from stupidity to brutality. 
 
 Compunction, indeed, occasionally seized him; and at 
 his reviving kindness, her young hope comforted her that 
 all would yet be well, and her woman's love forgot that 
 it had ever wept. The adversities of the colony proved 
 also a temporary remedy. Poverty, and a scarcity of the 
 means of subsistence, checked the power of revelry, and 
 drove the inebriate to abstinence. Some fear of savage 
 warfare drew the little band more firmly together, for 
 consultation and safety. The fierce Wingina, with his 
 followers, were observed prowling around the settlement. 
 There was then no Powhatan to succor the strangers, — 
 no Pocahontas to save the victim, at the jeopardy of her 
 own life. 
 
 In the meantime, she who had staked her all on love, 
 and lost, was tenacious of its fragments. Every pleasant 
 look or geni^ word, though few and far betw^een, was 
 treasured as an equivalent for many sorrows. She was 
 learning, day by day, the lesson that human love may 
 
THE EMIGRANT BRIDE. 145 
 
 never lay aside the element of forbearance. It was 
 touching to see so young and fair a creature, so mourn- 
 ful, and yet so calm. 
 
 One evening, she had waited long for her husband, 
 but he came not. This was but too common, since he 
 had become the slave of intemperance. A step was 
 heard. Can that be his ? — so stealthy ? Tlie slight 
 fastening of the door was burst in. Dark faces peered — 
 wild forms glimmered. The stroke of a hatchet, and the 
 red flame bursting from the low roof-tree, were the work 
 of a moment ; — and from the girdle of the tallest warrior, 
 when he strode from the spoil, hung a scalp, with a 
 dripping, auburn tress. 
 
 That night, the wail of a wretched man was heard 
 over the ashes — and the dead. Daybreak beheld him, 
 with others, armed, and going forth in quest of vengeance. 
 The fires of wrath fell on many a quiet wigwam, and in- 
 nocent women and babes perished for the crime of their 
 chieftain. Such is the justice of the war-spirit ; blind, 
 bloody, and ferocious. 
 
 Three years notched their seasons on the trees, and 
 threw their shadows over the earth, ere England stretched 
 forth her hand to that far, forsaken colony. Then, three 
 storm-driven vessels, as the dog-star commenced his' 
 reign, were seen contending with the terrible breakers of 
 Cape Hatteras. Outriding both surge and tempest, at 
 length, with strained cordage and riven sails, they neared 
 the shore. 
 
146 THE EMIGRANT BRIDE. 
 
 They fired signal-guns, and anxiously listened, — but 
 there was no sound. They pressed on towards Roanoke, 
 Governor White, Avho had been absent on an agency to 
 England, taking the lead. Where was his sweet daughter 
 ElHnor, whom he had left in her green-wood home, sing- 
 ing the lullaby to her young babe, Virginia, the first born 
 of English parents in the new Western World ? As he 
 drew near the spot, he kept his eye fixed, with agoniz- 
 ing earnestness, on a copse of lofty pines that had en- 
 circled her habitation. Smoke reared its curling volume 
 among them, and his heart leaped up. — It was the 
 smouldering council-fire of the Indians. 
 
 Not a home of civilized man was there, — not a form 
 or face of kindred or of friend. They call. There is no 
 answer but echo, murmuring from rock and ravine. 
 
 Names and initials are- still cut deeply on the trees. 
 But where are the hands that traced them ? All is 
 silence, — save the steps of those Avho search, and the sighs 
 of those who mourn. 
 
 By the shore there was no boat, — over some broken 
 oars, grass and weeds had crept. Ruins of former abodes 
 were here and there visible : — portions of household 
 utensils, and implements of agriculture, scattered along 
 the sands and corroded with moisture. Mino-led witli 
 them were fragments of chests, torn charts, and mutilated 
 books. 
 
 Among the latter was a thrilling relic. A Bible, with 
 the name of " Susan Mortimer Elton," covered with 
 
THE EMIGRANT BRIDE. 147 
 
 sanguine spots. Ah ! were those fair eyes resting upon 
 that blessed book, when the destroyer came ? Was she 
 there gathering strength for her thorn-clad journey, when 
 that journey was about to close ? Sacred pages ! did 
 she learn from you, that earthly love without divine, is 
 unsafe for the heirs of immortality ? When her heart's 
 idol was broken, did she hearken to your whisper, *' Come, 
 weary, heavy-laden, and I will give thee rest V^ 
 
 Blood-stained Bible, from Virginian sands ! we thank 
 thee for thine enduring friendship, — for thy last holy 
 offices to the Emigrant Bride. 
 
TO COLLEGE STUDENTS, 
 
 Who had pledged themselves to abstain from Intoxi- 
 cating Liquors. 
 
 Conscripts in Virtue's holy war. 
 
 Who, at your country's call, 
 Thus gird the diamond cuirass on 
 
 Within your classic hall, — 
 
 Be valiant for your native clime. 
 
 Till all that Circean train 
 Whose cup transforms unwary souls, 
 
 Are, with their leader, slain. 
 
 So, when the pride and pomp of earth 
 From life's short dream shall cleave, 
 
 And each uncurtained deed and thought 
 Its due reward receive, — 
 
 A nobler victory shall be yours, — 
 
 If faithful to the last, — 
 Than theirs, who wake the clarion cry 
 
 Of battle's fearful blast. 
 
TO COLLEGE STUDENTS. 
 
 149 
 
 Yes ; they whose youth hath vanquished sin, 
 Throuofh a Redeemer's name, — 
 
 Shall find their record in a Book 
 That bides the Doomsday flame. 
 
WOMAN'S MISSION. 
 
 Written on hearing a young Lady praise Home and its duties. 
 
 How sweet to hear those Hps of rose 
 The cause of humble virtue pleading ; 
 
 While Wit his dazzling weapon shows, 
 Advancing near, and now receding. 
 
 How sweet to see that sparkling eye 
 The bosom's sacred warmth confessing, 
 
 Where sleep those germs of sympathy 
 Whose fragrance heightens every blessing. 
 
 How sweet to know that gentle heart, 
 So skill'd to soothe the hour of sadness, 
 
 Will draw of pain the envemon'd dart. 
 And bid life's current flow with gladness. 
 
 Home is man's Ark, when trouble springs, 
 When gathering clouds menace his morrow ; 
 
 And woman's love, the bu*d that brings 
 His olive-leaf, o'er floods of soitow. 
 
HYMN. 
 
 We praise Thee, if one rescued soul, 
 Too long the slave of guilt and pain, 
 
 Hath shuddering left the poisonous bowl, 
 For health and liberty again. 
 
 We praise Thee, if one clouded home, 
 Where broken hearts despairing pin'd. 
 
 Behold the sire, and husband come 
 Erect, and in his perfect mind : — 
 
 No more a hapless wife to mock, 
 Till all her hopes in anguish end, — 
 
 No more the trembling babe to shock, 
 And sink the father in the fiend. 
 
 Still give us grace. Almighty King, 
 Unswerving at our post to stand. 
 
 Till grateful to thy shrine we bring 
 The tribute of a ransomed land, — 
 
 Which, from the pestilential chain 
 Of foul Intemperance gladly free, — 
 
 Shall spread its annal free from stain 
 To all the nations, and to Thee. 
 
INTEMPERANCE AT SEA. 
 
 •'Again, unto the wreck they came, 
 Where like one dead, I lay, 
 And a ship^boy small had strength enough 
 To carry me away." 
 
 HOWITT. 
 
 The evils of intemperance at sea, it is impossible for 
 an}^ pen adequately to describe. The oaths, the quarrels, 
 the debasing vices that it occasions, among sailors, may 
 in some measure be imagined by what is seen on land. 
 But the narrow limits to which they are confined, allow 
 no opportunity of concealment, and more immediately, 
 extinguish all moral sensibility. There are no dark lanes, 
 in which to sleep off their debauch, — no home to which 
 they may stagger, and in the misery inflicted on wife and 
 children, hide awhile their sin from the public eye. All 
 is open and shameless. 
 
 But the sufl'erings inflicted on passengers by the in- 
 temperance of those to whom they have intrusted their 
 property and lives, — the wrecks that have ensued by a 
 helm badly steered, or wrong orders from those who have 
 tarried over the bowl until the storm was high — the mul- 
 titudes thus torn from sorrowing friends, and buried in 
 watery graves, can never be known or told, till the seas 
 give up their dead. 
 
INTEMPERANCE AT SEA. 153 
 
 It was early during the war that severed the United 
 States from Great Britain, that an armed vessel sailed 
 out of Boston. The day before Christmas was the time 
 fixed for her departure ; and though some hearts were 
 sad at not being able to keep that sacred festival with 
 loved ones, seated around the pleasant household board, 
 yet it was a proud sight, when she spread her white sails 
 to the morning sun, and steered from the harbor of 
 Plymouth. She was not large, but strongly built, and 
 balanced herself beautifully amid the waves, like a bird 
 cutting the air. She carried twenty guns, and a crew of 
 more than one hundred, with provisions for a cruise of 
 six months. 
 
 There were moistened eyes, and a waving of hand- 
 kerchiefs from the shore, as she weighed anchor and de- 
 parted. For she bore as goodly a company of bold and 
 skilful seamen, as ever braved the perils of the deep. 
 While she hovered round the coast, the skies became 
 troubled, and the north wind blowing heavily, brought a 
 rough sea into the bay. Night came on with thick dark- 
 ness. The strong gale that buffeted them became a blast, 
 and the blast a hurricane. 
 
 Snow drifted through the clouds, and the cold grew 
 exceedingly severe. The vessel was tossed by the mer- 
 ciless waves, until she struck a reef of rocks. Beginning 
 to fill with water, they hasted to cut away her masts. 
 But the sea rose above the main deck, and the wild 
 surges swept over it. 
 
154 INTEMPERANCE AT ^EA. 
 
 Every exertion was made that courage could prompt, 
 or hardihood sustain ; but so fearful were the winds, 
 and so piercing the cold, that the stoutest men were 
 unable to labor, exposed to their influence but a short 
 time without being relieved by others. When they 
 found all their efforts to save the vessel hopeless, they 
 thronged together upon the quarter-deck, — not to bewail 
 their hapless condition, neither to entreat mercy of God, 
 like men on the verge of eternity. Unfortunately, 
 they had got access to the stores of ardent spirits, and 
 many of them were, even then, in a state of intoxica- 
 tion. 
 
 Insubordination and mutiny ensued. The officers 
 remained clear-minded, but lost all authority over the 
 sailors, who raved around them hke madmen. The dark- 
 ened sky, the raging storm, the waves breaking against 
 the rocks, and threatening to ingulf the broken vessel, 
 and the half-frozen beings who maintained a feeble hold 
 on life, breathing imprecations instead of prayers, formed 
 a scene truly frightful. 
 
 Some of the inebriated wretches lay in disgusting 
 stupidity, — others, with fiery faces, blasphemed their 
 Maker. Some, wild with delirium, fancied themselves in 
 palaces, surrounded by luxury, and abused the imaginary 
 servants, who refused to do their bidding. Others, amid 
 the beating of that pitiless tempest, believed themselves 
 to be in the homes which tliey were never more to see, 
 and with lioarse reproachful voices, asked for bread, and 
 
INTEMPERANCE AT SEA. 155 
 
 wondered why the refreshing water-draught was with- 
 held from them, by those who were most dear. 
 
 A few, whose worst passions alcohol had inflamed to 
 fiend-like fury, assaulted all who came in their way, rais- 
 ing their shouts of defiance above the roar of the tempest. 
 While intemperance was displaying itself in the most re- 
 volting attitudes, Death began his work. Every hour, 
 some miserable creatvu'e fell dead upon the deck, frozen 
 stiff and hard, in the extreme wintry cold. Each corpse, 
 as it became breathless, was dragged to the heap of dead, 
 that there mio-ht be more room for the li\ in(T. Those who 
 had drank most freely, were the first to perish. 
 
 On the third day of these horrors, some boats that had 
 boldly ventured from the harbor of Plymouth, reached 
 the wreck, amid many dangers from breakers and the 
 storm. The hardy mariners were horror-struck at the 
 scene that presented itself. Corpses, stiflfened into every 
 form that suffering could devise, were strewed around. 
 Some were piled in a mass together, like the frozen sol- 
 diers, on the retreat from Moscow. Others sate with 
 heads bent to their knees; others, in their dead hands; 
 grasped the ice-covered ropes, or the empty spirit-cup, 
 while some, in a posture of defiance, or defence, glared 
 like the sculptured gladiator. 
 
 Every sign of hfe was earnestly sought for. One boy 
 was about to be thrown among the mass of dead, when it 
 was discovered that one of his eyelids faintly trembled, 
 and he was saved. The survivors were borne to the 
 
156 INTEMPERANCE AT SEA. 
 
 shore, and the strangers kindly sheltered and nursed by 
 the inhabitants, until they could be removed to their own 
 homes. It was found that only a small band, besides the 
 officers of the vessel, had abstained from ardent spirits. 
 These survived the hardships of the storm and the wreck, 
 though some of them were in a state of exhaustion. 
 
 The angel of Temperance, like the Prophet with his 
 censer, literally stood '' between the living and the dead, 
 so that the plague was stayed." Some, who had been less 
 deeply intoxicated, were borne to the land alive, but died 
 in a short time. Others, after long sickness, were re- 
 stoi-ed, but with impaired strength, or mutilated frames. 
 
 When the tempest subsided, the boats again approached 
 the wreck, to remove the dead. What a solemn sioht, — 
 as under a clear, wintry sky, they slow^ly bore over the 
 heaving waters, the bodies of those who had so recently 
 parted from their friends, in health and exulting hope ! 
 Their funeral obsequies were mournful beyond descrip- 
 tion. JS'early one hundred bodies w^ere placed in the 
 little church, fixing their stony immovable eyes upon the 
 beholder, their features hardened into horrible expressions 
 of the last mortal agony. The aged Pastor fainted at 
 the sight of this terrible congregation. He soon recovered 
 himself, but his voice was mournful and tremulous, as he 
 performed the last sacred services of religion. 
 
 The bodies not claimed by friends for separate graves, 
 were interred in a large pit on the south-east side of the 
 burial ground. And after that generation had faded 
 
INTEMPERANCE AT SEA. 157 
 
 away, the spot was still pointed out to strangers, where 
 the perished crew of that lost vessel await the resurrec- 
 tion. 
 
 Near by, in a humble abode, might have been seen a 
 pale-faced widow, with her young daughter, sedulously 
 attending the couch of a sufferer. The boy lay there, 
 whose trembUng eyelid had saved him on the wreck, 
 amonty the dead. 
 
 " Mother ! it was you who taught me to avoid what- 
 ever w^ould intoxicate. Your lessons have saved my life. 
 When my poor comrades became drunk around me, it 
 w^as as much as I could do to protect myself from them. 
 Some dared me to fight, and struck me. Others held 
 strong liquors to my lips, and bade me drink. My throat 
 was burning, and my tongue parched with thirst. But I 
 knew if I drank, I must lose my reason like them, and 
 blaspheme Him who made me. 
 
 " One by one they fell down, those reeling and maddened 
 people. Even now, their shouts and groans ring in my 
 ears. It was in vain that our officers, and a few good 
 men among us, warned them of the fate that would befall 
 them, and tried to establish order. They persisted in 
 swallowing draught after draught, until they grew delir- 
 ious, and died in heaps. 
 
 " Our sufferings from hunger and cold, were dreadful. 
 After my feet were frozen, but before I lost the use of 
 my hands, I saw a box under w^ater, among fragments of 
 the wreck. I tried with a rope to bring it up, hoping 
 
158 INTEMPERANCE AT SEA. 
 
 that it might contain bread. But my weakened arms 
 failed, and a comrade helped me. After long toil, it came 
 within our reach, and we succeeded in bursting it open. 
 Alas ! there was no bread there, only a few bottles of 
 olive-oil. Yet for these, in our famislied condition we 
 were thankful. JSTow and then we moistened our lips 
 with a few drops of the oil ; and even found, that to 
 swallow a small quantity, allayed the severe gnawing 
 pains of hunger. 
 
 *' But soon my comrade died, and I lay beside him, 
 benumbed and helpless. Then the roar of the tempest 
 lulled, and I heard strange voices as if in a dream, and 
 the hurrying feet of those blessed people, who had dared 
 every danger to rescue us. They carefully wrapped in 
 blankets all who were able to speak, or whose slightest 
 motion betrayed life. Almost every drunkard was among 
 the dead. 
 
 *' And I was so exhausted with labor, and cold, and 
 want of food, that I was not able to utter a word, 
 or stretch a finger to my deliverers. Again and again, 
 they passed me, where I lay among the dead. Again 
 and again, they bore the living away to their boats. A 
 terrible dread took possession of me, lest I should be 
 left behind. I strained every nerve and muscle to speak, 
 but could utter no sound. The effort almost stifled m}^ 
 feeble breath. I strove to lift my hand. All power over 
 the muscles had forsaken me. It was like some awful 
 vision. 
 
INTEMPERANCE AT SEA. 159 
 
 **Then I prayed agonizingly in my heart: 'For the 
 sake of my poor mother and sister, Oh Lord, save me !' 
 Methought the last man had gone, for I heard no longer 
 any footsteps. Then I said, ' Lord Jesus, receive my 
 spirit !' 
 
 *' Ah ! was there not something like a warm breath on 
 my cheek ? Was not the hand of a human being laid 
 upon mine ? My whole soul strove and shuddered within 
 me ; but my body was immovable as marble. A voice 
 said, ' I think this poor lad. lives ; — one of his eyelids 
 trembles/ Oh, the music of those words ! It was not the 
 trembling eyelid, but your lessons of temperance, dear 
 mother, and the prayer to God, that saved me.'' 
 
 Then the loving sister ran with tears to embrace him, 
 and the widowed mother, bowing her head, said, — 
 
 " I thank thee. Merciful Father, who hath spared my 
 son, to be the comfort of my age." 
 
DANGERS OF SEAMEN. 
 
 They roam where danger dwells, 
 
 Where blasts impetuous sweep, 
 Where sleep the dead in watery cells, 
 
 Beneath the faithless deep, — 
 Where tempests threaten loud 
 
 To whelm the shipwrecked form : — 
 Show them a sky that hath no cloud, 
 
 A port above the storm. 
 
 Beyond the Sabbath bell, 
 
 Beyond the house of prayer. 
 Where deafening surges madly swell, 
 
 Their trackless course they dare : — 
 Give them the Book Divine, 
 
 That full and perfect chart ; 
 That beacon 'mid the foaming brine, — 
 
 That pilot of the heart. 
 
 Where sin with aspect bold, 
 
 And fierce temptations urge. 
 Their wild and unwarn'd course they hold. 
 
 Rude as the reckless surge : — 
 
DANGERS OF SEAMEN. 161 
 
 Send forth the Gospel's power ! — 
 
 That pole-star o'er the sea ; 
 That when life's storms no lontrer lower. 
 
 Heaven may their haven be. 
 
THE STORM. 
 
 'TwAS a wild night. — 
 
 November's storm was out 
 Upon the murky hills, and at its stroke 
 The naked forest groaned. 
 
 'Twas a wild night — 
 Yet mid the conflict of the howling winds, 
 The mother's quick ear caught another sound, 
 Faint though it was, — for when was love, like hers. 
 Deaf to its wailing child ! 
 
 With flying steps 
 She sought a distant chamber. There her son. 
 Roused by the thunder of the elements 
 From his sweet dream, inquir'd, with pallid cheek, 
 O'er which his shining curls dishevell'd swept, 
 The meanino- of such tumult. 
 
 So she placed 
 Her lamp upon the table, and sate doAvn 
 Beside his little bed. 
 
 '' That sound you hear, 
 Like a hoarse roaring, is the swollen brook 
 Beating against the stones. For sudden rains 
 Have raised it brimming to its slender bridge, — 
 
THE STORM. 163 
 
 And had the violets that you love so well 
 
 Not hidden from the frost, they'd all been drown'd 
 
 With their young baby buds. — 
 
 And then that knock 
 Against the rattling casement, that is sure 
 The stiff old cedar, frightened at the storm, 
 Who spreads his green hands o'er the window panes, 
 As if to ask for help. Those whistling tones, — 
 Half cry, half tune, — are from some wandering blast 
 That sweeps our chimney, and its funnel tall 
 Maketh an organ pipe." 
 
 '' Oh, mother dear ! 
 Waking so suddenly, I scarce could think 
 W^hat this great uproar meant. But well I know 
 God rules the storm." 
 
 *' Thou dost remember right 
 Thy Sunday lesson, and apply it well. 
 But here, while in thy nicely-curtained crib 
 With downy pillows thou art nestled warm, 
 Like a young birdling, still bethink thee, boy, 
 Of the poor traveller 'neath the chilling rain ; 
 And of the sailor on the slippery mast. 
 And of the wrecking ship amid the waves ; 
 And thank our Bounteous Father in your prayer." 
 
 '' Mother, I heard the story of a man. 
 One, who was cruel to his helpless child. 
 And drove his wife out in the wintry cold, — 
 
164 THE STORM. 
 
 They said it was the wine and spirit storm 
 Made him so bad. 
 
 Mother, what storm was that ?" 
 
 " The storm that may be kindled in ourselves, 
 My little son, by strong and evil drinks ; 
 Which wake a wilder tempest in the breast 
 Than that which troubleth nature. 
 
 Then the son 
 Respecteth not his parents, — nor the wife 
 Loveth her little ones. And men forget 
 The fear of God, and do such deeds as tears 
 Can never wash away. — 
 
 The glorious sun 
 Will shine again as bright as if the storm 
 Had never been, and thou, perchance, may'st see 
 The arch of radiant colors throw its tint 
 Upon the passing cloud. But that dark storm 
 Of fearful passions, hath no blessed bow 
 Of promise for the soul." 
 
 " I will not be 
 So wicked, mother, as to drink what makes 
 Such tempests in the bosom. — Mother, dear ! 
 I never will." 
 
 And then he pressed his lip. 
 Sobbing with earnestness, upon her cheek. 
 While tenderly she said, — 
 
THE STORM. 165 
 
 " Keep thou this pledge, 
 Oh true, and tender heart ! 
 
 And when the days 
 Of manhood come, and thou art tempted sore. 
 Still gird thy promise to a faithful breast. 
 And hold thy footing firm. 
 
 So shalt thou bless, 
 Even in such dialect as angels use, 
 Thy mother's visit, and this midnight storm." 
 
THE SAILOR'S APPEAL. 
 
 Ho ! dwellers on the stable land. 
 
 Of danger what know ye, 
 Like us who brave the whelmino^ surge, 
 
 Or trust the treacherous sea ? 
 
 The fair trees shade you from the sun. 
 
 You see the harvests grow, 
 And breathe the fragrance of the breeze 
 
 When the first roses blow. 
 
 You slumber on your beds of down, 
 Close wrapped, in chambers warm. 
 
 Lulled only to a deeper dream 
 By the descending storm : — 
 
 While high amid the slippery shroud, 
 We make our midnight path, — 
 
 And e'en the stronfjest mast is bowed 
 Beneath the tempest's wrath. 
 
 Yet still, what know ye of the joy 
 That lights our ocean strife, 
 
THE sailor's appeal. 167 
 
 When on its way our gallant ship 
 Rides like a thing of life ? 
 
 When gayly toward the wished-for port 
 With favoring wind we stand, 
 
 Or first your misty line descry, 
 Hills of our native land ! 
 
 Know ye what danger waits our souls, 
 When, in that narrow bound, 
 
 The fiend Intemperance fiercely breathes 
 His fiery breath around ? 
 
 No an D^el- comforters are near. 
 Our tempted hearts to stay, — 
 
 No blessed charities of home 
 To check our downward way. 
 
 There's deadly peril in our path 
 Beyond the wrecking blast, — 
 
 A peril that may reach the soul 
 When life's short voyage is past. 
 
 Send us your Bibles when we go 
 To dare the whelming wave, — 
 
 Your men of peace, to teach us how 
 To meet a watery grave. 
 
168 THE sailor's appeal. 
 
 And Saviour ! thou whose foot sublime 
 The foaming surge did tread, — 
 
 Whose hand, the rash disciple drew 
 From darkness and the dead,— 
 
 Oh ! be our Ark whea floods descend, 
 When thunders shake the spheres, — 
 
 Our Ararat when tempests end, 
 And the green earth appears. 
 
THE HARWOODS. 
 
 'Tis she alone, with her constant heart, 
 Can see all the idols of hope depart, 
 Yet still live on. — and smile, and bless 
 Man in his utmost wretchedness." 
 
 Procter. 
 
 The flood of emigration which beats against the shores 
 of the United States, seems to have no ebb-tide. From 
 the ices of the Baltic, — from the dense forests of Germa- 
 ny, — from the weeping Isle of the sliamrock, exhalations 
 gather, Imrrying drops aggregate, streamlets mingle, and 
 pi'ess onward with a rushing sound. The young West, 
 like some broad sea, receives them, taking no more note 
 of each than Ocean of its tribute -waters. 
 
 Here and there, in the streets of our cities, the tall, 
 tasseled cap of the Pole, the rainbow plaid of the High- 
 lander, or the thin smoke curling from the Bavarian 
 pipe, gleam for a moment, to be dispersed in measureless 
 distance, or merged in one common mass. The accents 
 of a strange language may indeed continue to murmur 
 through a generation or two, but dialects, like the linea- 
 ments of national character, blend, fade, and are for- 
 gotten. 
 
 Amid this ceaseless influx of foreim material, is also 
 
 8 
 
170 THE HARWOODS. 
 
 an under-current of domestic emigration ; — a change, a 
 fluctuation, a fluttering of the integral pans. This ele- 
 mental movement and strife, tends ever towards the set- 
 ting sun. Yet the West recedes from its followers, like 
 the horizon from the pursuing child. Time was, and 
 that within the memor}- of tlie living, when to us, the 
 dwellers in New Eno-land, the untrodden w^ilds of Ohio 
 were counted as the extreme West. Now, the stately 
 cities that glitter there, fall short of the central point of 
 the empire. 
 
 Where, then, is the West ? On the banks of the father 
 of waters ? — along the pictured rocks of the mighty lake ? 
 — at Illinois ? — at Iowa ? — at Wisconsin ? — Scarcely ! 
 The seaiichers for the West, like the gold seekers among 
 the settlers of Virginia, still analyze yellow earth for the 
 invisible and ideal good ; — pausing only amid the arid 
 sands of Oreo-on, or on the soundino^ shores of the 
 Pacific. 
 
 New England, the fountain of these internal supplies, 
 still vigorously sustains this drain vipon her vitality. The 
 farmer who has many sons, — if the homestead be too 
 narrow, confidently points out to them a place at the 
 West. Thither speed the self-denying missionary, with 
 his Bible, and the persevering teacher with his text-book, 
 laboring to make the wilderness blossom as the rose. 
 Perhaps, thither also may turn the briefless lawyer, to 
 pour his philippics from the stump, and carry the votes 
 of a whole country by his eloquence. The broken mer- 
 
THE HARWOODS. 171 
 
 chant there plants himself, changing his ledger for an 
 axe, and making the trees groan, instead of his creditors. 
 Every over-stocked profession finds there a safety-valve. 
 Those who are discontented, and in debt, " make to 
 themselves a captain," and go forth to a more attractive 
 abode than the cave of Adullam. Lost wealth takes 
 heart and looks up, where are none richer than itself; 
 wasted health fattens and grows strong, with the wild ven- 
 ison, and the toil that takes it. The strong passion of 
 wanderino' becomes satiated and tame, amidst the bound- 
 less praiiies ; and forfeited reputation, and even flying 
 guilt, fear no reproach amid Texan vales. 
 
 From the trains of baggage -wagons peep forth the 
 faces of young children ; and on the canal-boat the care- 
 ful matron, while her babe sleeps, plies the knitting- 
 needles, ever steering in the wake of the westering sun- 
 beam. Not many years since, where the lofty forests of 
 Ohio, towering in unshorg majesty, cast a solemn shadow 
 over the deep verdure of beautiful and ample vales, a 
 small family of emigrants were seen pursuing their soli- 
 tary way. They travelled on foot, but not with the 
 aspect of mendicants, though care and suffering were 
 visibly depicted on their countenances. The man walked 
 first, apparently in no kind or compromising mood. The 
 woman carried in her arms an infant, and aided the 
 progress of a feeble boy, who seemed sinking with ex- 
 haustion. An eye accustomed to scan the never- resting 
 tide of emigration, might discern, that these pilgrims 
 
172 THE HARWOODS. 
 
 were inhabitants of the Eastern States, probably retreat- 
 ing from some species of adversity, to one of those 
 imaginary El Dorados, among the shades of the far 
 West, where it is fabled that the evils of mortality have 
 found no place. 
 
 James Harwood, the leader of that humble group, who 
 claimed from him the charities of husband and of father, 
 halted at the report of a musket, and while he entered a 
 thicket to discover whence it proceeded, the weary and 
 sad-hearted mother sate down upon the grass. Bitter 
 were her reflections during that interval of rest among 
 the wilds of Ohio. The pleasant New England village 
 from which she had just emigrated, and the peaceful 
 home of her birth, rose up to her view, where, but a few 
 years before, she had given her hand to one, whose un- 
 kindness now strewed her path with thorns. By constant 
 and endearing attentions, he had won her youthful love, 
 and the two first years of theirj*mion promised happiness. 
 Both were industrious and aff*ectionate, and the smiles of 
 their infant in his evening spoils, or his slumbers, more 
 than i-epaid the labors of the da}-. 
 
 But a change became visible. The husband grew in- 
 attentive to his business, and indifterent to his fireside. 
 He permitted debts to accumulate in spite of the economy 
 of his wife, and became more and more offended at her 
 remonstrances. She strove to hide, even from her own 
 lieart, the vice that was gaining th.e ascendency over 
 him, and redoubled her exertions to render his home 
 
THE HARWOODS. 173 
 
 agreeable. But too frequently her efforts were of no 
 I avail, or contemptuously rejected. The death of her 
 beloved mother, and the birtli of a second infant, con- 
 vinced her, that neither in sorrow nor in sickness, could 
 she expect sympathy from him to whom she had given 
 her heart, in the simple faith of confiding affection. They 
 became miserably poor, and the cause was evident to 
 every observer. In this distress a letter was received 
 from a brother, who had been for several years a resident 
 in Ohio, mentioning that he was induced to remove 
 farther westward, and offering them the use of a tenement 
 which his family would leave vacant, and a small portion 
 of cleared land, until they might be able to become pur- 
 chasers. 
 
 Poor Jane listened to this proposal with gratitude. 
 She thouorht she saw in it the salvation of her husband. 
 She believed that if he were divided from his intemperate 
 companions, he would return to his early habits of indus- 
 try and virtue. The trial of leaving native and endeared 
 scenes, from which she would once have recoiled, seemed 
 as nothing in comparison w^ith the prospect of his refor- 
 mation, and returning happiness. Yet, when all their 
 few effects were transmuted into the waggon and horse, 
 which were to convey them to a far land, and the scant 
 and humble necessaries which were to sustain them on 
 their way thither; — when she took leave of brother and 
 sisters, with their households ; — when she shook hands 
 with the friends vfhom she had lov^ed from her cradle, 
 
174 THE HARWOODS. 
 
 and remembered that it might be for the last time ; — and 
 Avhen the hills that encircled her native village, faded 
 into the faint blue outline of the horizon, there came over 
 her such a desolation of spirit, such a foreboding of evil, 
 as she had never before experienced. She blamed her- 
 self for these feelings, and repressed their indulgence. 
 
 The journey was slow and toilsome. The autumnal 
 rains, and the state of the roads were against them. The 
 few utensils and comforts which they carried with them, 
 were gradually abstracted and sold. The object of this 
 traffic could not be doubted : — the effect was but too 
 visible in his conduct. She reasoned, — she endeavored 
 to persuade him to a different course. But anger was 
 the only result. Even when he was hot too far stupefied 
 to comprehend her remarks, his deportment was exceed- 
 ingly overbearing and arbitrary. He felt that she had 
 no friends to protect her from insolence, and was entirely 
 in his own power; while she was compelled to realize 
 that it was a power without generosity, and that there 
 is no tyranny so perfect as that of a capricious and 
 alienated husband. 
 
 As they approached the close of their distressing jour- 
 ney, the roads became worse, and their horse utterly 
 failed. He had been scantily provided for, as the intem- 
 perance of his owner had taxed and impoverished every- 
 thing, for its own vile indulgence. Jane wept as she 
 looked upon the dying animal, and remembered his 
 faithful and ill-requited services. 
 
THE HARWOODS. 175 
 
 The unfeeling exclamation with which her husband 
 abandoned him to his fate, fell painfully upon her heart, 
 adding another proof of the extinction of his sensibilities, 
 in the loss of that pitying kindness for tlie animal crea- 
 tion, which exercises a silent and salutary guardianship 
 over our higher and better sympathies. They were now 
 approaching within a short distance of the termination 
 of their journey, and their directions had been very clear 
 and precise. But his mind became so bewildered, and 
 his heart so perverse, that he persisted in choosing by- 
 paths of underwood and tangled weeds, under the pre- 
 tence of seeking a shorter route. This increased and 
 prolonged their fatigue, but no entreaty of his Avearied 
 wife w^as regarded. Indeed, so exasperated was he at 
 her expostulations, that she sought safety in silence. The 
 little boy of four years old, whose constitution had been 
 feeble from his infancy, became so feverish and distressed, 
 as to be unable to proceed. The mother, after in vain 
 soliciting aid and compassion from her husband, took him 
 in her arms, while the youngest, whom she had previ- 
 ously carried, and who was unable to walk, clung to her 
 shoulders. Thus burdened, her progress was slow and 
 painful. Still, she was enabled to hold on; for the 
 strength that nerves a mother, toiling for her sick child, 
 is from God. She even endeavored to press on more 
 rapidly than usual, fearing, that if she fell behind, her 
 husband would tear the sufferer from her arms, in some 
 paroxysm of his savage intemperance. 
 
176 THE HARWOODS. 
 
 Their road during the day, though approacliing the 
 small settlement where they were to reside, lay through 
 a solitary part of the country. The children were faint 
 and hungry ; and as the exhausted mother rested upon 
 the grass, trying to nurse lier infant, slie drew from her 
 bosom the last piece of bread, and held it to the 
 parched lips of the feeble child. But he turned away 
 his head, and with a scarcely audible moan, asked for 
 Water. FeeUngly might she sympathize in the distress 
 of the poor outcast from the tent of Abraham, who laid 
 her perishing son among the shrubs, and sat down a good 
 way off, saying, " Let me not see the death of the child." 
 But this Christian mother was not in the desert, nor in 
 despair. She looked upward to Him, who is the Refuge 
 of the forsaken, and the Comforter of those whose spirits 
 are cast down. 
 
 The sun was drawinsr towards the west, as the voice of 
 James Harwood was heard, issuing from the forest, at- 
 tended by another man with a gun, and some biids at his 
 girdle. 
 
 " Wife, will you get up now, and come along ? we are 
 not a mile from home. Here is John Williams, who went 
 from our part of the country, and says he is our next- 
 door neighbor." 
 
 Jane received his hearty welcome with a thankful 
 spirit, and rose to accompany them. The kind neighbor 
 took the sick boy in his arms, saying, — 
 
THE HARWOODS. 177 
 
 '' Harwood, here, take the baby from your wife. We 
 do not let our women bear all the burdens, in Ohio/' 
 
 James was ashamed to refuse, and reached his hands 
 towards the child. But accustomed to his neo^lect, or 
 unkindness, it hid its face, crying, in the maternal bosom. 
 
 " You see how it is ; she makes the children so cross 
 that I never have any comfort of them. She chooses to 
 carry them herself, and always will have her own way 
 in everything." 
 
 " You have come to a new-settled country, friends," 
 said John Williams, " but it is a good country to get a 
 living in. The crops of corn and wheat are such as you 
 never saw in JSTew Ens^land. Our cattle live in clover, 
 and the cows give us cream instead of milk. There is 
 plenty of game to employ our leisure, and venison and 
 wild turkey do not come amiss now and then, on a far- 
 mer's table. Here is a short cut I can show you, though 
 there is a fence or two to climb. James Harwood, I shall 
 like well to talk with you about old times, and old friends 
 down East. But why don't you help your wife over the 
 fence with her baby ?" 
 
 " So I would, but she is so sulky. She has not spoken 
 a word to me all day. I always say, let such folks take 
 care of themselves, till their mad fit is over." 
 
 A cluster of log-cabins now met their view through an 
 opening in the forest. They were pleasantly situated in 
 the midst of an area of cultivated lands. A fine river, 
 surmounted by a rustic bridge, formed of the trunks of 
 
 8' 
 
178 THE HARWOODS. 
 
 trees, cast a sparkling line througli the deep, unchanged 
 autumnal verdure. 
 
 *'Here we hve," said their guide, "a hard-working, 
 contented people. That is your house, which has no 
 smoke curling up from the chimney. It may not be quite 
 so genteel as some you have left behind in the old States, 
 but it is about as good as any in the neighborhood. I'll 
 go and call my wife to welcome you. Right glad will 
 she be to see you, for she sets great store by folks from 
 New England." 
 
 The inside of a log-cabin, to those not habituated to it, 
 presents but a cheerless aspect. The eye needs time to 
 accustom itself to the rude walls and floors, the absence 
 of glass windows, and doors loosely hung upon leather 
 hinges. The exhausted woman entered, and sank down 
 with her babe. There was no chair to receive her. In 
 the corner of the room stood a rough board table, and a 
 low frame resembling a bedstead. Other furniture there 
 w^as none. Glad, kind voices of her own sex, recalled her 
 from her stupor. Three or four matrons, and several bloom- 
 ing young faces, welcomed her with smiles. The warmth 
 of reception in a new colony, and the substantial services 
 by which it is manifested, put to shame the ceremonious 
 and heartless professions, which, in a more artificial state 
 of society, are sometimes dignified with the name of 
 friendship. 
 
 As if by magic, what had seemed almost a prison, 
 assumed a different aspect, under the ministry of active 
 
THE HARVVOODS. 179 
 
 benevolence. A cheerful flarne rose from the ample 
 fireplace ; several chairs, and a bench for the children ap- 
 peared ; a bed, with comfortable coverings, concealed the 
 shapelessness of the bedstead, and viands to which they 
 had long been strangers, were heaped upon the board. 
 An old lady held the sick boy tenderly in her arms, 
 who seemed to revive, as he saw his mother's face bright- 
 en ; and the infant, after a draught of fresh milk, fell 
 into a sweet and profound slumber. One by one, the 
 neighbors departed, that the wearied ones might have an 
 opportunity of repose. John Williams, w^ho was the last 
 to bid good-night, lingered a moment ere he closed the 
 door, and said, — 
 
 " Friend Harwood, here is a fine, gentle cow% feeding 
 at your door ; and for old acquaintance sake, you and 
 your family are w^elcome to the use of Jier for the present, 
 or until you can make out better." 
 
 When they w ere left alone, Jane poured out her grati- 
 tude to her Almighty Protector, in a flood of joyful 
 tears. Kindness, to which she had recently been a 
 stranger, fell as balm of Gilead upon her wounded 
 spirit. 
 
 " Husband," she exclaimed in the fulness of her heart, 
 '' we may yet be happy." 
 
 He answered not, and she perceived that he heard not. 
 He had thrown himself upon the bed, and in a sleep of 
 stupefaction, was dispelling the fumes of inebriety. 
 
 This new family of emigrants, though in the deepest 
 
180 THE HARWOODS. 
 
 poverty, were sensible of a degree of satisfaction to which 
 they had long been strangers. The difficulty of procur- 
 ing ardent spirits in the small and isolated community, 
 promised to be the means of establishing their peace. 
 The mother busied herself in making their humble tene- 
 ment neat and comfortable, while her husband, as if 
 ambitious to earn in a new residence, the reputation he 
 had forfeited in the old, labored diligently to assist his 
 neighbors in gathering their harvest, receiving in pay- 
 ment such articles as were needed for the subsistence of 
 his household. Jane continually gave thanks in her 
 prayers for this great blessing ; and the hope she per- 
 mitted herself to indulge of his permanent reformation^ 
 imparted unwonted cheerfulness to her brow and de- 
 meanor. The invahd boy seemed to gather healing from 
 his mother's smiles ; for so great was her power over 
 him since sickness had rendered his dependence complete, 
 that his comfort, and even his countenance, were a faith- 
 ful reflection of her own. Perceivino- the deirree of her 
 influence, she endeavored to use it, as every religious 
 parent should, for his spiritual benefit. She supplicated 
 that the pencil which was to write upon his soul, might 
 be guided from above. She spoke to him in the tender- 
 est manner of his Father in Heaven, and of His will 
 respecting little children. She pointed out His goodness 
 in the daily gifts that sustain life, in the glorious sun as 
 he came forth rejoicing in the east, in the gently-falling 
 tain, the frail plant, and the dews that nourish it. She 
 
THE HARWOODS. 181 
 
 reasoned with him of the changes of nature, till he loved 
 even the storm, and the mighty thunder, because they 
 came from God. She repeated to him passages of 
 Scripture with which her memory was stored ; and sang 
 hymns until she perceived that, if he was in pain, he 
 complained not, if he might but hear her voice. She 
 made him acquainted with the life of the blessed Re- 
 deemer, and how he called young children to his arms, 
 though the disciples forbade them. And it seemed as if 
 a voice from Heaven urged her never to desist from 
 cherishing this tender and deep-rooted piety ; — because 
 like the flower of grass he must soon pass away. Yet 
 thouo'h it was evident that the seeds of disease were in 
 his system, his health at intervals seemed to be improv- 
 ing ; and the little household partook, for a time, the 
 blessings of tranquillity and contentment. 
 
 But let none flatter himself, that the dominion of vice 
 is suddenly, or easily broken. It may seem to relax its 
 grasp, and to slumber, — but the victim who has long 
 worn its chain, if he would utterly escape, and triumph 
 at last, must do so in the strength of Omnipotence. 
 This, James Harwood never sought. He had begun to 
 experience that prostration of spirits which attends the 
 abstraction of an habitual stimulant. His resolution to 
 recover his lost character, was not proof against this 
 physical inconvenience. He determined at all hazards to 
 gratify his depraved appetite. He laid his plans delib- 
 erately, and with the pretext of making some arrange- 
 
182 THE FIARVVOODS. 
 
 ments about the wagon, which had been left broken on 
 the road, departed from his home. His stay was pro- 
 tracted beyond the appointed Umit, and at his return, his 
 sin was written on liis brow, in characters too strong to 
 be mistaken. That he had also brous^ht with him some 
 hoard of intoxicating liquor, to which to resort, there 
 remained no room to doubt. Day after day, did his 
 shrinking household witness the alternations of causeless 
 anger, and brutal tyranny. To lay waste the comfort of 
 his wife, seemed his paramount object. By constant 
 contradiction and misconstruction, he strove to distress 
 her, and then visited her sensibiHties upon her as 
 sins. Had she been obtuse by nature, or indifferent 
 to his welfare, she might with greater ease have borne 
 the cross. But her youth was nurtured in tenderness, 
 and education had refined her susceptibilities, both of 
 pleasure and pain. She could not forget the love he had 
 once manifested for her, nor prevent the chilling contrast 
 from filling her soul with anguish. She could not resign 
 the hope, that the being who had early evinced correct 
 feehngs, and noble principles of action, might yet be 
 won back to that virtue which had rendered him worthy 
 of her affections. Still, this hope deferred, was sickness 
 and sorrow to the heart. She found the necessity of 
 deriving consolation, and the power of endurance, wholly 
 from above. The tender invitation by the mouth of 
 a prophet, was balm to her wounded soul, — "As a 
 woman forsaken and grieved in spirit, and as a wife of 
 
THE HARVVOOUS. 183 
 
 youth, when thou wast refused, have I called thee, saith 
 thy God." 
 
 So faithful was she in the discharge of the difficult 
 duties that devolved upon her, — so careful not to irritate 
 her husband, by reproach or gloom, — that- to a casual 
 observer, she might have appeared to be confirming the 
 doctrine of the ancient philosopher, that happiness is in 
 exact proportion to virtue. Had he asserted, that virtue 
 is the source of all that happiness which depends upon 
 ourselves, none could have controverted his position. 
 But to a woman, — a wife, — a mother, how small is the 
 portion of independent happiness ! She has woven the 
 tendrils of her soul around many props. Each revolv- 
 ing year renders their support more necessary. They 
 cannot waver, or warp, or break, but she must tremble 
 and bleed. 
 
 There was one modification of her husband's persecu- 
 tions, which the fullest measure of her piety could not 
 enable her to bear unmoved. This was unkindness to 
 her feeble and suffering boy. It was at first commenced 
 as the surest mode of distressing her. It opened a direct 
 avenue to her lacerated heart-strings. What began in 
 perverseness, seemed to end in hatred, as evil habits 
 often create perverted principles. The wasted and wild- 
 eyed invalid, shrank from his father's glance and foot- 
 step, as from the approach of a foe. More than once 
 had he taken him from the little bed, which maternal 
 
184 THE HARVYOODS, 
 
 care had provided for him, and forced him to go forth in 
 the cold of the winter storm. 
 
 '' I mean to harden him/' said he. '' All the neigh- 
 bors know that you make such a fool of him, that he will 
 never be able to get a living. For my part, I wish I had 
 never been called to the trial of supporting a useless 
 boy, who pretends to be sick, only that he may be coaxed 
 by a silly mother." 
 
 On such occasions, it was in vain that the mother 
 attempted to protect the child. She might neither shel- 
 ter him in her bosom, nor control the frantic violence of 
 the father. Harshness and the agitation of fear, deepened 
 a disease which might else have yielded. The timid boy, 
 in terror of his natural protector, withered away like a 
 blio'hted flower. It was of no avail that friends remon- 
 strated with the unfeeling parent, or that hoary-headed 
 men warned him solemnly of his sins. Intemperance 
 had destroyed his respect for man, and his fear of God. 
 
 Spring, at length, emerged from the shades of that 
 heavy and bitter winter. But its smile brought no glad- 
 ness to the declining child. Consumption fed upon his 
 vitals, and his nights were restless, and full of pain. 
 
 *^ Mother, I wish I could smell the violets that grew 
 upon the green bank by our dear old home." 
 
 " It is too early for violets, my child. But the grass 
 is beautifully green around us, and the birds sing sweetly, 
 as if their hearts w^ere full of praise." 
 
 " In my dreams last night, I saw the clear waters of 
 
THE HAR WOODS. 185 
 
 the brook, that ran by the bottom of my httle garden. 
 I wish I could taste them once more. And I heard such 
 music too, as used to come from that white church among 
 the trees, where every Sunday, the happy people meet 
 to worship God." 
 
 The mother knew that the hectic fever had been lono- 
 increasing, and now detected such an unearthly bright- 
 ness in his eye, that she feared his intellect wandered. 
 She seated herself on his low bed, and bent over him. 
 He lay silent for some time. 
 
 '' Do you think my father will come ?" 
 
 Dreading the agonizing agitation, which in his parox- 
 ysms of coughing and pain, he evinced at the sound of 
 his father's well-known step, she answered, — 
 
 '' I think not, love. You had better try to sleep." 
 
 *' Mother, I wish he would come. I do not feel afraid 
 DOW. Pei'haps he would let me lay my cheek to his 
 once more, as he used to do when I was a babe in my 
 grandmother's arms. I should be glad to say goodby 
 to him, before I go to my Saviour." 
 
 Gazing intently in his face, she saw the work of the 
 destroyer in lines too plain to be mistaken. 
 
 "My son, my dear son, — say. Lord Jesus, receive my 
 spirit." 
 
 " Mother," he replied, with a smile upon his ghastly 
 features, " He is ready. I desire to go to Him. Hold 
 the baby to me, that I may kiss her. That is all. Now 
 
186 
 
 THE HARVVOODS. 
 
 sing to me, — and oh ! wrap me closer in your arms, for I 
 shiver with cold." 
 
 He clung, with a death grasp, to that bosom which 
 had long been his sole earthly refuge. 
 
 " Sing louder, dear mother, a little louder. I cannot 
 hear you." 
 
 A tremulous tone, as of a broken harp, rose above her 
 grief to comfort the dying child. One sigh of icy breath 
 was upon her cheek as she joined it to his, — one shudder, 
 and all was over. She held the body long in her arms, 
 as if fondly hoping to w^arm and revivify it with her 
 breath. Then she stretched it upon its bed, and kneel- 
 ing beside it, hid her face in that grief, which none but 
 mothers feel. It was a deep and sacred solitude, alone 
 with the dead, — nothing save the soft breathing of the 
 sleeping babe, fell upon that solemn pause. Then, the 
 silence was broken by a wail of piercing sorrow. It 
 ceased, and a voice arose, — a voice of supplication for 
 strength to endure, as *' seeing Him who is invisible." 
 Faith closed what was begun in weakness. It became a 
 prayer of thanksgiving to Him, who had released the 
 dove-like spirit from its prison-house of pain, that it 
 might taste the peace, and mingle in the melody, of 
 heaven. 
 
 She arose from the orison, and bent calmly over her 
 dead. The thin, placid features wore a smile, as Avhen 
 he had spoken of Jesus. She composed the shining locks 
 around the pure forehead, and gazed long, on what was 
 
THE HARWOODS. 187 
 
 to lier beautiful. Tears Lad vanished from her eyes, and 
 in their stead was an expression almost sublime, as of 
 one who had mven an ancrel back to God. 
 
 The father entered carelessly. She pointed to the 
 pale, immovable brow. 
 
 " See ! he suffers no longer." 
 
 He drew near, and looked on the dead with surprise 
 and sadness. A few natural tears forced their way, and 
 fell on the face of the first-born, who was once his pride. 
 The memories of that moment were bitter. He spoke 
 tenderly to the emaciated mother, and she, who a short 
 time before was raised above the sway of grief, wept like 
 an infant, as those few affectionate tones touched the 
 sealed fountains of other years. 
 
 Neighbors and friends visited them, desirous to con- 
 sole their sorrow, and attended them when they com- 
 mitted the body to the earth. There was a shady and 
 secluded spot, which they had consecrated by the burial 
 of their few dead. Thither that w^hole little colony were 
 gathered, and seated on the fresh-springing grass, listened 
 to the holy, healing words of the inspired volume. It 
 was read by the oldest man in the colony, who had him- 
 self often mourned. As he bent reverently over the 
 sacred page, there was that on his brow which seemed 
 to say, " This hath been my comfort in my affliction." 
 Silver hairs thinly covered his temples, and his low voice 
 was modulated by feeling, as he read of the frailty of man, 
 withering like the flower of grass before it groweth up ; 
 
188 THE HARWOODS. 
 
 and of His majesty, in whose sight '' ^ thousand years 
 are as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the 
 night." He selected from the words of that compassion- 
 ate One, w^io '' gathereth the lambs with His arm, and 
 carrieth them in His bosom ;" who, pointing out as an 
 example the humility of little children, said, '' except ye 
 become as one of these, ye cannot enter the kingdom of 
 heaven," and who calleth all the '' weary and heavy-laden 
 to come unto Him, that He may give them rest." 
 
 The scene called forth sympathy, even from manly 
 bosoms. The mother, worn with watching and weari- 
 ness, bowed her head down to the clay that concealed 
 her child. And it was observed with gratitude by that 
 friendly group, that the husband supported her with his 
 arm, and mincrled his tears with hers. 
 
 He returned from this funeral in much mental distress. 
 His sins were biouu'ht to remembrance, and reflection 
 was misery. For many nights, sleep was disturbed by 
 visions of his neglected boy. Sometimes he imagined 
 that he heard him coughing from his lov.r bed, and felt 
 constrained to go to him, in a strange disposition of 
 kindness, but his limbs were unable to obey the dictates 
 of his will. Then he would see him pointing with a thin, 
 dead hand, to the dark grave, or beckoning him to follow 
 to the unseen world. Conscience haunted him with 
 terror, and many prayers from pious hearts arose, that he 
 might now be led to repentance. The venerable man 
 who had read the Bible at the burial of his boy, coun- 
 
THE HARWOODS. 189 
 
 seller! and entreated him with the earnestness of a father, 
 to yield to the warning voice from above, and to '' break 
 off his sins by righteousness, and liis iniquities by turn- 
 in o; unto the Lord." 
 
 Tliere was a change in his habits and conversation, and 
 his friends trusted it would be permanent. She, who 
 above all others was interested in the result, spared no 
 exertion to win him back to the way of virtue, and to 
 soothe his heart into peace with itself, and obedience to 
 his Maker. Yet was she doomed to witness the full 
 force of grief, and of remorse, upon intemperance, only to 
 see them utterly overthrown at last. The reviving goodness 
 with whose indications she had solaced herself, and even 
 given thanks that her beloved son had not died in vain, 
 was transient as the morning dew. Habits of industry 
 w^hich had begun to spring up, proved rootless. The 
 dead, and his cruelty to the dead, were alike forgotten. 
 Disaffection to the chastened being, who, against hope, 
 still hoped for his salvation, resumed its dominion. The 
 friends who had alternately reproved and encouraged 
 him, vrere convinced that their efforts had been of no 
 avail. Intemperance, "like the strong man armed," took 
 possession of a soul, that lifted no cry for aid to the 
 Holy Spirit, and girded on no weapon to resist the 
 destroyer. 
 
 Summer passed away, and the anniversary of their 
 arrival at the colony returned. It w^as to Jane Harwood 
 a period of sad and solemn retrospection. The joys of 
 
190 THE HARWOODS. 
 
 early days, and the sorrows of maturity passed in review 
 before her, and while she wept, she questioned her heart, 
 what had been its gain from a Father's discipline, or 
 whether it had sustained that greatest of all losses, — the 
 loss of its afflictions. 
 
 She was alone at this season of self-communion. The 
 absences of her husband had become more frequent and 
 protracted. A storm, which feelingly reminded her of 
 those which had often beat upon them, when homeless and 
 weary travellers, had been raging for nearly two days. 
 To this cause she imputed the unusually long stay of her 
 husband. Through the third night of his absence, she 
 lay sleepless, listening for his steps. Sometimes she 
 fancied she heard shouts of laughter, for the moods in 
 which he returned from his levels, was various : — but 
 it was only the shriek of the tempest. Then she trem- 
 bled, as if some ebullition of his frenzied anger rang in 
 her ears. It was the roar of the hoarse wind through 
 the forest. All night long she listened to these sounds, 
 and hushed and sane: to her affrighted babe. Unre- 
 freshed, she arose, and resumed her morning labors. 
 
 Suddenly, her eye was attracted by a group of neigh- 
 bors, coming up slowly from the river. A dark and 
 terrible foieboding oppressed her. She hastened out to 
 meet them. Coming towards her house was a female 
 friend agitated and tearful, who, passing her arm around 
 her, would have spoken. 
 
THE HARWOODS. 191 
 
 " Ch ! you come to bring me evil tidings ! I pray you, 
 let me know the worst." 
 
 The object w^as indeed to prepare her mind for a fearful 
 calamity. The body of her husband had been found, 
 drowned, as was supposed, during the darkness of the 
 preceding night, in attempting to cross the bridge of 
 logs, whiclr had been partially broken by the swollen 
 waters. Utter prostration of spirit came over the deso- 
 late mourner. Her energies were broken, and her heart 
 withered. She had sustained the privations of poverty 
 and emigration, — the burdens of unceasing, unrequited 
 care, without a murmur. She had laid her first-born in 
 the grave with resignation, for Faith had heard the 
 Redeemer's blessed invitation, " Suffer the httle child to 
 come unto me." 
 
 She had seen him in whom her heart's young affections 
 were garnered up, become a " persecutor and injuri- 
 ous," — a prey to vice the most disgusting and destructive. 
 Yet she had borne up under all. One hope remained 
 with her as an " anclior of the soul," the hope that he 
 might yet repent, and be reclaimed. She had persevered 
 in her complicated and self-denying duties, with that 
 charity which '' beareth all things, — beheveth all things, — 
 endureth all things." 
 
 But now, he had died in his sin. The deadly leprosy 
 which had sto-en over his heart, could no more be 
 "purged by sacrifice or offering forever." She knew 
 not, that a single prayer for mercy, had preceded the 
 
192 THE HARWOODS. 
 
 soul on its passage to the bar of the High Judge. 
 There were bitter dregs in this cup of grief, which 
 she had never before wruns: out. 
 
 Again the sad-hearted community assembled in their 
 humble cemetery. A funeral in an infant colony touches 
 sympathies of an almost exclusive character. It is as if 
 a large family suffered. One is smitten down, whom 
 every eye knew, every voice saluted. To bear along the 
 corpse of the strong man through the fields which he had 
 sown, and to cover motionless in the grave, that arm which 
 it was expected would reap the ripened harvest ; awakens 
 a thrill, deep and startling, in the breasts of those who 
 wrought by his side, during "the burden and heat of 
 the day." To lay the mother oh her pillow of clay, 
 whose last struggle with life, was perchance to resign 
 the hope of one more brief visit to the land of her 
 fathers, — whose heart's last pulsation might have been a 
 prayer, that her children should return, and grow up 
 within the shadow of the school-house, and the church 
 of God, is a grief in which none save emigrants may par- 
 ticipate. To consign to their narrow, noteless abode, both 
 young and old, — the infant, and him of hoary hairs, with- 
 out the solemn knell, the sable train, the hallowed voice 
 of the man of God, giving back in the name of his fellow- 
 Christians, the most precious roses of their pilgrim path, 
 and speaking with divine authority of Him, who is the 
 " resurrection and the life," adds desolation to that weep- 
 ing, with which man goeth down to his dust. 
 
THE HARWOODS. 193 
 
 But with heaviness of an unspoken and pecuhar nature, 
 was this victim of vice borne from the home that he 
 had troubled, and laid by the side of that meek child, to 
 whose tender years, he had been an unnatural enemy. 
 There was sorrow amono: all who stood around his 
 grave, — and it bore features of that sorrow which is 
 without hope. 
 
 The widowed mourner was not able to raise her head 
 from the bed, when the bloated remains of her unfortu- 
 nate husband were committed to the dust. Long and 
 severe sickness ensued, and in her convalescence, a letter 
 Avas received from her brother, inviting her and her child 
 to an asylum under his roof, and appointing a period 
 to come and conduct them on their homeward journey. 
 With her little daughter, the sole remnant of her wrecked 
 heart's wealth, she relumed to her kindred. It was with 
 emotions of deep and painful gratitude, that she bade 
 farewell to the inhabitants of that infant settlement, whose 
 kindness, through all her adversities, had never failed. 
 And when they remembered her example of uniform 
 patience and piety, and the saint-like manner in which 
 she had sustained her burdens, and cherished their sym- 
 pathies, they felt as though a tutelary spirit had departed 
 from among them. 
 
 In the home of her brother, she educated her daughter 
 to industry, and that contentment, which virtue teaches. 
 Restored to those friends with whom the morning of life 
 had passed, she shared with humble cheerfulness the 
 
 9 
 
194 THE HARWOODS. 
 
 comforts that earth had yet in store for her ; but in the 
 cherished sadness of her perpetual widowhood, in the 
 bursting sighs of her nightly orison, might be traced a 
 sacred, deep-rooted sorrow, — the memory of her erring 
 husband and the miseries of unreclaimed intemperance. 
 
THE WEEPING WIFE. 
 
 I SEE a weeping wife,— 
 
 What grieves her to the heart ? 
 Has Death amid her treasured joys 
 
 Launched forth a fatal dart ? 
 
 Ko ! — 'Tis a living woe 
 
 That makes her eye so red, — 
 
 The father of her children bears 
 The plague-spot on his head. 
 
 There's cursing on his tongue, — 
 There's madness in his brain ; — 
 
 He yieldeth to a demon's will, 
 And darkly clanks his chain. 
 
 Haste ! — stir his blinded soul 
 
 With kindly words and strong, — 
 
 And snatch him from the yawning pit 
 To which he reels along. 
 
 Nor let your pitying cares, 
 Your earnest labors cease. 
 
196 THE WEEPING WIFE. 
 
 Till clothed, and in his own right mind, 
 He dwells in love and peace. 
 
 So, from the heart and home. 
 
 Once desolate and drear. 
 Your names, shall on the household prayer 
 
 Go up, with grateful tear. 
 
THE MOURNFUL VISIT. 
 
 I TURNED me toward a cottage, round whose porch 
 CHmbed the gay woodbine, and whose quiet roof 
 Seemed through its leafy canopy to smile 
 A welcome to the guest. 
 
 My heart was light 
 As near this rural haunt I drew, to greet 
 An early friend, with whom the joyous sport 
 Mid neighboring schoolmates, — all our lessons done, 
 Had oft been shared. 
 
 Beside the open door 
 Two cherub-children gambol'd. One displayed 
 In vivid miniature, the father's face, — 
 Such as in memory's casket still it dwelt, — 
 The high, bold forehead, and full, hazel eye, 
 Gentle, yet ardent. On, with winning smile 
 He led his fairy sister, murmuring low 
 In varied tones of playful tenderness, — 
 Or sometimes bendino^ o'er her framle form 
 In mimic guardianship, with such a grace, 
 That to my heart I pressed him, as I said, 
 '' Show me thy father." 
 
198 THE MOURNFUL VISIT. 
 
 To a couch he led, 
 Where lay a man. I could not call him friend, — 
 So changed ! Had sickness marr'd the noble brow, 
 Once wont to beam with intellectual light. 
 And glow with glad benevolence ? 
 
 Ah, no ! — 
 For then I might have poured a soothing balm 
 Of sympathy, and raised the sufferer's heart 
 To God, the Healer. — But I knew too well 
 The coloring of the seal that Vice had stamped 
 On form and feature. 
 
 And she, too, was there. 
 Who at the altar gave her hallowed vow. 
 In all the trusting confidence of love. 
 To this, her chosen one. On her young cheek 
 There was a cankering grief, and the pale trace 
 Of beauty's rose-bud blighted. 
 
 When I spake. 
 Recalling memories of our early days, — 
 Where in the paths of science and of peace 
 We trod with many a friend, his bloated lips 
 Swelled out with stupid laughter, and such words 
 As flippant folly utters. 
 
 At the voice 
 Of those young creatures playing near his bed. 
 His fiery eyeballs flashed, and brutal threats 
 Appalled their innocent hearts, — till that fair girl 
 From whom intemperance thus had reft the guide 
 
THE MOURNFUL VISIT. 
 
 199 
 
 That Nature gave, in terror, hid her face 
 Deep in her mother's robe. 
 
 I would have spoke 
 In bitter blame of that most poisonous cup, 
 And of the vice that seared a noble soul, — 
 But that I saw within the sunken eye 
 Of that long-suffering wife, the pleading tear 
 Of silent, fond forbearance. So all thought 
 Of sternness, breathed itself away in sighs. — 
 But as I went my way, I mourned the lot 
 Of that sad widowhood, and orphanage, 
 That hath nor hope nor pity. 
 
 Sad, I roamed 
 Along the grassy vale, and when no eye 
 Beheld me, gave free passage to the tear 
 And prayer of bitter anguish. 
 
 Oh, my God ! 
 Without whose aid the proudest strength of man. 
 And fairest promise, are but broken reeds, — 
 So shield us from temptation, and from sin 
 Deliver us, — that we unscathed may rise 
 Our earthly trials o'er, where Virtue dwells 
 Fast by her Sire, and tastes a deathless joy. 
 
FOR A JUVENILE TEMPERANCE SOCIETY. 
 
 Old History tells of many a land 
 
 That bent beneath Oppression's yoke, 
 
 Till, with firm heart and fearless hand, 
 The fetter and the sway were broke. 
 
 But w^e a sterner toil essay, — 
 
 We struggle with, a tyrant foe, 
 Whose poisoned arrows pierce the soul. 
 
 And lay uncounted thousands low. 
 
 The warrior's bleeding breast may close, 
 Thousrh wounded bv the keenest steel. 
 
 But he, who feels that direr fang, 
 
 What art can soothe ? what balsam heal ? 
 
 Yet courage ! onward ! He whose grace 
 Hath been the endangered hero's shield, 
 
 Can bless the stripling's sling and stone, 
 And make the mail-clad giant yield. 
 
 So, when by this dread yoke enslaved 
 No more our native realm shall be. 
 
 How high will swell the tuneful strain 
 Of Freedom's noblest jubilee. 
 
LOST HOPES. 
 
 This child, so lovelj^ and so cherub like, 
 
 Say, must he know remorse 1 must passion come, 
 
 Passion in all, or any of its shapes 
 
 To cloud and sully what is now so pure V 
 
 Rogers. 
 
 The deep love that settles on an only child, is peculiar, 
 and may be perilous. Spread over a wider surface, it 
 respires freely, and inhales health ; but, thus concen- 
 trated, becomes absorbing, — perhaps morbid, or idola- 
 trous. 
 
 If the faults of its object pierce through the folds and 
 mazes of blinding partiality, they cause paternal affection 
 unutterable anguish. But more frequently they are per- 
 ceived in part, or not at all. The desire that others should 
 be equally blinded, or inspired with a similar admiration, 
 sometimes becomes a demand, and ends in disappoint- 
 ment. Dread of losing its sole treasure, magnifies the 
 slightest exposure, and sees in trivial indispositions the 
 symptoms of fatal disease. 
 
 How touchingly is the utter desolation of such affec- 
 tionate hope depicted in the epitaph upon an only daugh- 
 ter, in Ashbourne Church, England, whose little effigy 
 upon its marble mattress, mingling the restlessness of 
 
202 LOST HOPES. 
 
 pain, with the meek smile of patience, has drawn tears 
 from many a traveller. 
 
 " We trusted our all to this frail bark : — 
 And the wreck was total. 
 
 I was not in safety ; neither had I rest ; neither was I quiet : 
 Yet this trouble came." 
 
 Still, to the excess or perversion of this heaven-im- 
 planted aftection, there are beautiful exceptions, reflecting 
 honor both on the self-denial of the parent, and the 
 well-balanced nature of the child. Gentle, shrinking 
 spirits there are, needing to be soothed and fortified by 
 an unwavering, exclusive tenderness : — grateful, generous 
 ones also, that do not abuse it. The indulgence that 
 hardens others into selfishness, renders thera more amia- 
 ble, and disposed to show the same kindness with which 
 they have themselves been nurtured. The deprivation 
 of fraternal and sisterly intercourse, often creates in the 
 earlier periods of life a loneliness, which, acting like a 
 perpetual discipline, leads to humility and piety. So 
 that the position of an only child, — in itself a severe 
 ordeal, — may either ripen superior excellence, or stifle its 
 indications in selfishness, disappointment, and sorrow. 
 
 In a small and neatly-furnished parlor, might be seen 
 a group of three persons, — the central one being a child, 
 who occupied the hazardous situation which we have 
 contemplated. Through his thick curls, the mother's 
 fingers often moved with delight, arranging them in the 
 
LOST HOPES. 203 
 
 most becoming attitudes around the neck, or the well- 
 forined forehead. The father, though what is called a 
 matter-of-fact man, found a new and growing affection 
 mingling with the cares of the day, and was never better 
 pleased at returning from his business at night, than to 
 be entertained with the smart sayings of his boy, which 
 were treasured up for that purpose. 
 
 Still, these parents were more judicious in the training 
 of their child than many in similar situations, and though 
 very indulgent, it would appear that this indulgence had 
 not been especially injurious. Frank Edwards was af- 
 fectionate, and not disposed to take an undue advan- 
 tage of kindness. He was cheerful in his attendance at 
 school, and regular in returning home, where something 
 to give him pleasure was sedulously prepared. He was 
 generally satisfied to do what his parents desired, and 
 this good conduct gave to his naturally handsome fea- 
 tures, an agreeable expression ; so that the neighbors 
 remarked they had seldom seen an only child so obedient, 
 and with such good manners. 
 
 Among those who took a deep interest in the boy, 
 was an unmarried uncle, from whom he was named. As 
 he resided near, scarcely an evening passed without a 
 visit from him. He interested himself in all that con- 
 cerned Frank, and the most expensive gifts at birth-days, 
 and New-Year, were always from his uncle. On hohday 
 afternoons, when the weather was favorable, his uncle 
 usually came, with his fine pair of ponies, on which they 
 
204 LOST HOPES. 
 
 took equestrian exercise together. Such was his absorb- 
 ing interest in his namesake, that the parents informed 
 him of all their movements respecting him, ;md observed 
 that he was always pleased to give advice respecting his 
 education. 
 
 One of his favorite propositions was, that he. should 
 be sent away from home. This, the parents steadily 
 resisted ; arguing, that their own schools bore so high a 
 reputation, that many children from distant towns were 
 sent to be recipients of their privileges. 
 
 "All this may be very true," he replied; '*and yet 
 he ought to go from home, to make him manly. He is 
 brought up too much like a girl. Here, I see him put- 
 ting his arm around his mother's neck, or sitting with his 
 hand in hers, perfectly childish, you know. How can he 
 ever be fit to bear his part among men, cossetted up in 
 this way ?" 
 
 These opinions being communicated to Frank, made 
 him constrained in the presence of his uncle. He learned 
 to repress the expression of his affectionate feelings, from 
 fear of ridicule ; and lest he should not be considered 
 manly, by one whose good opinion he valued. 
 
 " My dear," said Mr. Edwards, one evening, '* my 
 brother has made a distinct proposal, that Frank should 
 be sent to a celebrated scholastic institution in a distant 
 city, for two years, before he enters college ; all the 
 expenses of which he engages to defray." 
 
 '' I pray you not to listen to him. Our boy is doing 
 
LOST HOPES. 205 
 
 well here. We cannot tell how it will be with him, 
 when he is far aw^ay, — perhaps exposed to bad example." 
 
 "I think as you do, with regard to that. Besides, I 
 should be lost without him, when I come from the store, 
 in the evening. But brother gives me no peace. If we 
 do not cross him in this matter, he will be very likely to 
 make Frank his heir. You know he is rich, and my 
 possessions are very moderate. I think we ought to 
 make a sacrifice of our feelings, for the sake of his 
 future good." 
 
 *' There are other kinds of good, besides the gain of 
 money, that 1 covet for our child," said the mother, her 
 eyes filHng witli tears ; '' and losses, for which all the 
 wealth in the world cannot pay." 
 
 But she was not slow in perceiving that her husband 
 had already consented to this arrangement, — and the 
 brother entering soon after, confirmed it. She felt that 
 longer opposition was fruitless, yet was still moved to 
 say, with an unwonted warmth and emphasis, — 
 
 "My heart is full of misgivings. While my son is by 
 this fireside, I know that he is not in bad company. 
 When he is removed from my sight and influence, how 
 can I know this ? I have reason to think that he does 
 not neglect his studies, and he is always happy with 
 me." 
 
 " That is the trouble, sister ; you make him altogether 
 too happy. Remember, he is an only child, — every- 
 body can see that. He has got to live in the world, as 
 
206 LOST HOPES. 
 
 well as the rest of us. Yet what does he know of the 
 world ? Your husband is much away, occupied with his 
 business, and it is almost a proverb, that boys brought 
 up by women, are good for nothing.'^ 
 
 " Brother, if he is an only child, I think he has not 
 been indulged to his hurt. Is not his home a safe one ? 
 Is not his school a good one ? Is he not making respecta- 
 ble progress ? Is he not in good habits ? Can you give 
 assurance that a change will not be for the worse ? Do 
 you know certainly, that his principles will be strong to 
 resist evil ?" 
 
 The mother argued in vain. She was alternately 
 argued with and soothed. All her objections were re- 
 solved into natural reluctance to resiisfn the solace of her 
 son's company ; and as the father had consented, she was 
 enforced to consent also. 
 
 Frank had arrived at an age when the desire of 
 seeing new places, and making new acquaintances, was 
 alluring. So he did not heighten the pain of his mother, 
 by any unwillingness to depart. In the preparations for 
 his wardrobe, and supply of books, which were on an 
 unusually liberal scale, he took much interest, and could 
 not avoid boasting a little to his old companions of his 
 brilliant prospects. 
 
 But when the last trunk was locked, his spirits quailed. 
 Seated between his father and mother, and expecting 
 every moment the arrival of the stage-coach, the tears 
 rushed so fast to his eyes, and he felt such a suffocating 
 
LOST HOPES. 207 
 
 sensation in his throat, that he could scarcely heed their 
 parting counsel. 
 
 At the sound of the wheels, stopping at the door, he 
 would fain have thrown himself upon his mother's neck 
 and wept. But his uncle, who was to accompany him, 
 leaped from the vehicle, and came in. So he busied 
 himself in arranging his parcels, and after shaking hands 
 courageously with his parents, said, as he rushed from 
 the house, — 
 
 " Good by ! — good by ! — You shall hear from me, as 
 soon as I get there." 
 
 He dared not look back, until the roof of his home, and 
 the trees that shaded it, were entirely out of sight. For 
 he knew that if he trusted himself with another glimpse, 
 he should burst into tears, — and feared that his uncle 
 would shame him by the appellation of " Miss Fanny, ''^ 
 before strangers. 
 
 In the large school that he entered,, everything seemed 
 new and strange. He found more trials of temper, and 
 privations of comfort, than he had anticipated. He went 
 with an intention to make himself distinguished by schol- 
 arship. But there were many older and more advanced 
 than himself, and he did not exhibit the perseverance 
 necessary, in such circumstances, to insure success. 
 
 He also suffered from that sinking loneliness of heart, 
 which an indulged child feels, when first exiled from the 
 sympathies of home. In the headaches, to which, from 
 childhood, he had been occasionally subject, he sadly 
 
208 LOST HOPES. 
 
 missed maternal mirsing and tenderness. But he would 
 not acknowledge home-sickness, or complain of indispo- 
 sition, lest it should not be manly ; and having a good 
 temper, became gradually a favorite with his new asso- 
 ciates. 
 
 Everything went on well, until his room-mate was 
 changed, and a careless, immoral boy, placed in this 
 intimate connection. At length, it was proved that he 
 had not the moral courage to say no, when tempted to 
 evil, — and a sad change in his deportment became evi- 
 dent. He had not firmness enough to reprove his com- 
 panion for what he knew to be wicked, — or steadfastly to 
 resist what his conscience disapproved. 
 
 It was not long ere he began to Waste his time, and 
 neglect the appointed lessons. Fortified by bad example, 
 he scorned the censure that followed, and learned to 
 ridicule, in secret, the instructors whom he should have 
 loved. Foolish and hurtful books, engrossed and cor- 
 rupted the minds of those thoughtless comrades, — and 
 there they were, making themselves merry with what 
 they should have shunned, while their distant relatives 
 supposed them diligent in the acquisition of knowledge. 
 
 Months passed on, and the vacation approached. 
 Every day was counted by the anxious mother. His 
 room was put in perfect order, and some articles of furni- 
 ture added, which it was thought would please him. 
 His little library was arranged to make the best appear- 
 ance, and his minerals newly labelled, and placed in their 
 
LOST HOPES. 209 
 
 respective compartmerits. Some of his toys she removed 
 to her own cabinet, for she said, " They will be too child- 
 ish for him now ; — but I love to keep them, for they 
 remind me of him, when he just began to walk and to 
 speak, and was always so happy." His favorite articles 
 of food were not forgotten, and as the time of his arrival 
 drew near, she busied herself in their preparation, with 
 that delight in which only the fond maternal heart can 
 partake. 
 
 When the loved one came, his uncle exclaimed with 
 exultation, " How improved ! — how manly !" He had, 
 indeed, gained much in stature, and promised to possess 
 a graceful, well-proportioned form. But those w^ho scru- 
 tinized his countenance and manner, might be led to 
 doubt whether every change had been for the better, or 
 whether the added manliness might not have been pur- 
 chased at too great a cost. Simple gratifications no 
 longer contented him. He seemed to require for him- 
 self a lavish expenditure. He ceased to ask pleasantly 
 for the things that he desired, or to express gratitude for 
 them ; but said churlishly through his shut teeth, with 
 half -averted face, — 
 
 ''I want this, or that. Other boys have all they wish. 
 I see no reason why I should not." 
 
 His mother was still more alarmed at the habits of 
 reserve and concealment which he had contracted. For- 
 merly, he was accustomed to impart freely to her, all 
 that concerned him. Now, she could not but feel that 
 
210 LOST HOPES. 
 
 she was shut out from his confidence, and fear that 
 her influence over him was irrecoverably lost. 
 
 Still, she remitted no effort or device, in which the 
 maternal heart is so fruitful, to reinstate herself in his 
 affections. Sometimes, she was flattered hj a brighten- 
 ing hope ; then he started aside, like a deceitful bow\ 
 His first vacation was, in these respects, a model of 
 those that followed ; — and the two last years at school 
 passed away, with little intellectual gain, and great moral 
 loss. 
 
 At his entrance into college he was exposed to greater 
 temptations, and still less inchned to repel them. Let 
 no parent flatter himself, that it will be well with a son 
 thus situated, unless he possesses firm principles, and is 
 willing diligently to labor in 4he acquisition of knowledge. 
 Good talents, and good temper alone, will not save him. 
 The first, without industry, are unfruitful ; and the sun- 
 shine of the latter may be clouded by immediate self- 
 reproach. 
 
 We will not follow Frank Edwards, through the haunts 
 of folly and intemperance where his ruin w^as consummated. 
 His letters to his affectionate parents were few, and brief. 
 Those to his uncle w^ere more frequent, because on him 
 the supply of his purse depended. That gentleman was 
 heard to say, with a smile of somewhat indefinite char- 
 acter, that "truly, he spent money like a man." It w^as 
 supposed, however, that in the course of a year or two, 
 he might have become dissatisfied with the manly expenses 
 
LOST HOPES. 211 
 
 of his nephew, as he ceased to boast of this proof of his 
 virility. 
 
 Though Frank was ignobly contented with the lowest 
 • grade in scholarship, he had still a latent ambition to be 
 distinguished in some way or other. So he was fond of 
 speaking of his *' rich, old-bachelor uncle," and saying 
 that, without doubt, he should be his heir. His mad 
 expenditure was praised as liberality ; and he called a 
 fine, noble-bearted fellow, by the gay companions who 
 walked with him in the way to destruction. 
 
 Early in the third year of his collegiate course, he 
 came home in ill health. He found fault with the laws 
 of the Institution, and ridiculed its officers. He said it 
 was impossible to gain a good education there, if one 
 applied himself ever so closely to his studies. In short, 
 he blamed every person, but himself. He had left 
 college in disgrace, and debt, with neither the disposition 
 or ability to return. His uncle, who had certainly great 
 reason to be offended, told him that he need have no 
 further expectations from him ; for unless the whole 
 course of his life was changed, he should choose some 
 more worthy recipient of his bounty, and find some heir 
 to his estate, who would not dishonor his name. 
 
 The sad, and mortified father, took the youth to his 
 own counting-house. He enforced on him the necessity 
 of doing something for his support. But he had no 
 habits of application, and despised the routine of business, 
 and the confinement that it imposed. His red, and bloated 
 
212 LOST HOPES. 
 
 face revealed, but too truly, the vice to which he was 
 enslaved. As he passed in the street, he was pointed out, 
 as the ruined young man. 
 
 Alas ! for the poor mother. Long did she labor to 
 hide the fearful truth from her own heart. Her love, 
 ingenious in its excuses, strove to palliate his conduct in 
 the view of others, hoping that he might yet retrieve his 
 reputation. Patiently, and with woman's tact, she 
 waited for glimpses of good feeling, — for moments of 
 reflection, to give force to her tender appeals, — her 
 earnest remonstrances. But her husband said to her, — 
 
 '' It is in vain that we would blind ourselves to what 
 is known to all the people. Our son is a sot ! I have 
 tried with, and for him, every means of reformation. But 
 they are all like water spilt upon the ground, which no 
 man gathereth up again." 
 
 That disgusting vice which breaks down grace of 
 form, and beauty of countenance, and debases intellect to 
 a level with the brute creation, has seldom been more 
 painfully displayed than in the case of this miserable 
 youth. The pleasant chamber, so carefully decorated by 
 maternal taste, — the very pictures on whose walls seemed 
 to look reproachfully at him, — where his happy boyhood 
 had dreamed away nights of innocence, and woke to the 
 exuberance of health and joy, — was now the scene of his 
 frequent sickness, senseless laughter, or awful impre- 
 cations. 
 
 But his career was short, and his sudden death horri- 
 
LOST HOPES. 213 
 
 ble. Those who most loved him, were unable to witness 
 it With eyeballs starting from their sockets, he raved 
 of hideous monsters, and fiery shapes, that surrounded 
 him. One furious struggle, — one unearthly shriek of wild 
 and Vy^eak contention, — and in the agonies of delirium 
 tremens, died this miserable victim of intemperance, ere 
 time had impaired his vigor, or ripened the blossom of 
 his manly prime. 
 
 In the suburbs of the city where Fnxnk Edwards was 
 born and died, w^t^s a cluster of humble dwellino-s, in one of 
 w^iich resided a w4dow, with her only son. She was poor, 
 and inured to labor, but freely expended on him, the 
 little gains of her industry, as well as the overflowing 
 fulness of her affections. She denied herself every 
 superfluity, that he might enjoy the advantages of educa- 
 tion, and the indulgences that boyhood covets. Silently 
 she sate, working at her small fire, by a single lamp, of- 
 ten regarding with intense dehght her boy, as he amused 
 himself with his books, or sought out his lessons for the 
 following day. The expenses of his education were de- 
 frayed by her unresting toil, and glad and proud was she 
 to bestow on him privileges which she had never been so 
 happy as to share. She believed him to be faithfully 
 acquiring that knowledge which she respected, without 
 being able fully to comprehend. But his teachers, and 
 his idle playmates, better knew how he was employed. 
 He learned to astonish his simple admiring parent with 
 high-sounding epithets, and technical terms, and to de- 
 
214 LOST HOPES. 
 
 spise her for not understanding them. When she saw him 
 sometimes dejected, at comparing his situation with those 
 who were above him in rank, she deepened her own self- 
 denial, that she might add a luxury to his table, or a 
 garment to his wardrobe. 
 
 How happy was her affectionate heart in such sacri- 
 fices. Yet she erred in judgment, for they fell like good 
 seed upon stony gromid. Indulgence ministered to his 
 selfishness, and rendered him incapable of warm gratitude, 
 or just appreciation. As his boyhood advanced, there 
 was little reciprocity of kindness, and every year seemed 
 to diminish even that little. At length, his manners 
 assumed a cast of defiance. She was grieved at the 
 alteration, but solaced herself with the sentiment, that it 
 *' was just the nature of hoys'' 
 
 He grew boisterous and disobedient. His returns to 
 their humble cottage, became irregular. She sate up 
 late for him, and when she heard his approaching foot- 
 steps, forgot her weariness, and welcomed him kindly. 
 But he miglit have seen reproach written on the paleness 
 of her loving brow, if he would have read its language. 
 During those long and lonely evenings, she sometimes 
 wept as she remembered him in his early years, when he 
 was so gentle, and to her eye, so beautiful. ''But this 
 is the nature of young men,'" said her lame philosophy. 
 So she armed herself to bear. 
 
 At length, it was evident that darker vices were mak- 
 ing him their victim. The habit of intemperance could 
 
 1 
 
LOST HOPES. 215 
 
 no lonofer be concealed, even from a love that blinded 
 itself. The widowed mother remonstrated with unwonted 
 energy. She was answered in the dialect of insolence 
 and brutality. 
 
 He disappeared from her cottage. What she dreaded, 
 had come upon her. In his anger, he had gone to sea. 
 And now, every night when the tempest howled, and the 
 wind was high, she lay sleepless, thinking of him. She 
 saw him in her imagination climbing the slippery shrouds, 
 or doing the bidding of rough, unfeeling men. Again, 
 she fancied that he was sick and suffering, with none to 
 watch over him, and have patience with his waywardness ; 
 and her head, which silver hairs had begun to sprinkle, 
 throbbed in agony, till her eyes gushed out like foun- 
 tains of waters. 
 
 But hopes of his return began to cheer her. When 
 the new moon, with its slender crescent looked in at her 
 window, she said in her lonely heart, *' My boy will be 
 here, before that moon is old." And when it waned, 
 and went away, she sighed, " My boy will remember 
 me." 
 
 Years fled, and there was no letter, — no message. 
 Sometimes, she gathered floating tidings that he was on 
 some far sea, or in some foreign clime. When he touched 
 at any port of his native land, it was not to seek the 
 cottage of his mother, but to waste his wages in revelry, 
 and re-embark on a new voyage. 
 
 Weary years, and no recognition, no letter. — And yet 
 
216 LO.^T HOPES. 
 
 she had abrido^ed her comforts that lie mio-ht be tauci^ht to 
 write, and was wont to exhibit his penmanship with such 
 pride. Alas ! her indulgence had been lost on an ignoble 
 nature. But she checked the reproachful thought and 
 sighed, — " It luas the way luith sailors.^^ 
 
 Amid all these years of neglect and cruelty, still Love 
 lived on. When Hope withheld nutriment, it begged 
 food of Memory. It was satisfied with the crumbs from 
 a table, that must never be spread more. So Memory 
 brought the fragments that she had gathered into her 
 basket, when infancy and childish innocence held their 
 simple festivals, and Love as a mendicant received that 
 broken bread, and fed upon it, and gave thanks. It fed 
 upon the cradle-smile, upon the first lisping words, when 
 with its cheek laid upon the mother's, the babe slumbered 
 the live-long night, or when essaying the first uncertain 
 footsteps, he tottered with outstretched arms to her 
 bosom, as a bird newly-fledged, to its nest. 
 
 But Religion found this forsaken widow, and com- 
 muned with her at the deep midnight, while the storm 
 was raging without. It told her of a " name better than 
 of sons or of daughters," and she was comforted. It 
 bade her resign herself to the will of her Father in Hea- 
 ven, and she found peace. 
 
 It was a cold evening in the winter, and the snow lay 
 deep upon the earth. The widow sate alone, by her little 
 fireside. The marks of early age had settled upon her. 
 
LOST HOPES. 217 
 
 There was meekness on her brow, and in her hand, a book 
 from whence that meekness came. 
 
 A heavy knock shook her door, and ere she could open 
 it, a man entered. He moved with pain, hke one crip- 
 pled, and his red and downcast visage, was partially con- 
 cealed by a torn hat. Among those who had been 
 familiar with his youthful countenance, only one, save the 
 Being who made him, could have recognized him through 
 his disguise and misery. The mother, looking deep into 
 his eye, saw a faint tinge of that fair blue, which had 
 charmed her, when it unclosed from the cradle-dream. 
 
 " My son ! My son P' 
 
 Had the prodigal returned, by a late repentance, to 
 atone for years of ingratitude and sin ? I will not speak 
 of the revels that shook the lowly roof of his widowed 
 parent, or the profanity that disturbed her repose. 
 
 The remainder of his history is brief. The effects of 
 vice had debilitated his constitution, and once, as he was 
 apparently recovering from a long paroxysm of intem- 
 perance, apoplexy struck his heated brain, and he lay, — 
 a bloated and hideous corse ! 
 
 The poor mother faded away, and followed him. 
 
 10 
 
A DREAM. 
 
 In troubled sleep, I seem'd to see a flood 
 Flaming and fearful. 
 
 Far and wide it spread, 
 And many trifled on its fatal brink 
 Who never more unscath'd, to life return'd : 
 For he who reel'd upon its slippery verge, 
 Did plunge therein and mock his God, and die. 
 
 Loud, warning voices call'd the endanger'd back, 
 And bade them diink pure water, and be whole. 
 Yet some there were, who strove with eager toil 
 To form new channels for that baleful tide. 
 With JEtna's lava, — and they strangelypress'd 
 The fire- cup to their weaker neighbor's lip. 
 Till the red plague-spot rankled in his soul. 
 While in their coffers swell'd the price of blood. 
 
 Again I looked : — And lo ! they did the deeds 
 Tliat bounty prompts, — the sacred fane they rear'd 
 For Christian worship, and the Gospel-gift 
 Sent to blind Pagans ; holding high their lamp, 
 That, like a city set upon a hill. 
 Its ]\(r\\t miorht not be hid. 
 
A DREAM. 219 
 
 Yet still they sold 
 Such poison to their brother, as bereav'd 
 His wretched wife, and on his babes entail'd 
 Dire orphanage ! 
 
 Then fled my dream away ; 
 And words were trembling on my lip to Him 
 Who giveth skill to read His Holy Word, — 
 That He would grant us hearts to understand 
 That wealth, obtain'd without His fear, is but 
 An ill inheritance. — 
 
 Oh ! break the chain 
 Of Mammon from our spirits, that in love 
 To all mankind, as well as love to Thee, 
 With hands outstretch'd to pluck our brother's feet 
 From the destroyer's net, we so may pass 
 This evil world, as mid all snares to hold 
 Our footing firm in Thee. 
 
THE VOICE OF THE COUNTRY. 
 
 I HEARD a bitter sigh 
 
 Break from a mother's breast, 
 -And knew it was my Country's voice 
 
 That thus her sons addrest : — 
 '*Ye are my crown of hope, 
 
 Dim not its peerless ray ; 
 Ye are the sinews of my. strength, — 
 
 Cast not that strength away. 
 
 '* There is a fiery cup, 
 
 Whose ministry of woe 
 Can melt the spirit's purest pearl. 
 
 And lay the mightiest low : 
 Turn from its treacherous tide, 
 
 Repel its siren claim, 
 Nor let me mid the nations blush, 
 
 And mourn my children's shame. 
 
 *' And will ye, for the sake 
 
 Of one brief poison-draught. 
 The record of my fame debase, 
 By blood and suffering bought ? — 
 
THE VOICE OF THE COUNTRY. 221 
 
 And will ye cast a stain 
 
 Upon my banner's ray, 
 That all the rivers of your realm 
 
 Can never wash awav ?" 
 
FALLEN BY THE WAY. 
 
 From the parent's fond protection, 
 
 From his pleasant native glen, 
 Youth, with reckless spirit hasteth 
 
 To the crowded haunts of men : 
 Hidden snares and tempters meet him, 
 
 Lo ! he falleth by the way : 
 Kneel and raise him, — kneel and raise him, 
 
 He hath fallen by the way. 
 
 Full of pride, and self-reliance, 
 
 With a warrior's haughty eye. 
 Dauntless, to the world's encounter, 
 
 Manhood in his strength went by : 
 Foes in ambush gather 'd round him, 
 
 He hath fallen by the way : 
 Kneel and warn him, — kneel and aid him. 
 
 He hath fallen by the way. 
 
 Heavenly Father ! Thou who knowest 
 All the weakness of the breast. 
 
 All the sorrow of the lowest. 
 All the frailties of the best, — 
 
FALLEN BY THE WAY. 223 
 
 Teach us, for our erring brethren, 
 With a humbled soul to pray ; 
 Deign to help them, — deign to save them, 
 They have fallen by the loay. 
 
THE GOOD QUEEN. 
 
 " I do assert, from all excess 
 In food,— strong drink, or gaudy dress, 
 
 To every man doth come 
 Disturbance in his inward mind, 
 Imprudence, vengeance, anger blind, 
 And sorrows fierce, and ills that bind 
 In dark, and fearful doom." 
 
 King Alfred. 
 
 A SUMMER moonlight lay on the sleeping Seine. It 
 touched with trembling lustre the thick, waving trees, 
 and promiscuous roofs of Paris, as it was, thirteen centu- 
 ries since. The elegance and beauty that now mark its 
 lofty edifices, — elysian gardens, and statued, sparkling 
 fountains, could scarcely have been imagined in its simple 
 and rude aspect, under the sway of the Merovingian 
 princes. 
 
 Still, it was not without gleamings of those elements 
 of taste and majesty, which in modern times attract and 
 charm the lingering traveller from every clime. The 
 fortifications erected under its Roman masters, gave it 
 an appearance of strength and grandeur, which awed 
 the neighboring tribes of barbarians; while here and 
 there, the towers of a church, or abbey, showed how 
 early the heathen temples in the Gallic clime, had been 
 consecrated to the worship of Jehovah. 
 
THE GOOD aUEEN. 225 
 
 The Frank monarchs, who, from the time of Clovis, 
 had yielded to the softening sway of the Christian 
 religion, displayed in their modes of life and appendages 
 of royalty, a comparative refinement. The midnight 
 moon was now silvering the palace, where Charibert 
 wielded the sceptre of France. He might have been 
 seen, with rapid steps, traversing its intricate passages, 
 and seeking a remote apartment. A fair young creature, 
 with a form and movement of grace, sprang forward to 
 meet him. He lightly touched her forehead with his 
 lips, and as he seated her beside him, the smile on her 
 glowing features seemed to pass under the shadow of 
 some saddening thought. 
 
 " Art weary, Bertha ? I myself nearly slumbered 
 amid the long audience I was compelled to give those 
 Saxon strangers. I spoke heavily to the courtiers, for 
 my heart turned towards the expecting sweet one in her 
 lonely chamber." 
 
 He paused, but there was no reply. 
 
 " Thou knowest why I sought this interview, and on 
 what errand I came." 
 
 The gentle girl drooped her head, till the clustering 
 raven curls veiled her face like a curtain. Passing his 
 arm tenderly around her, he said, in a lower voice, — 
 
 " Hast thou considered the proposal of Ethelbert, the 
 King of Kent?" 
 
 '^Yes, father." 
 
 " Not simply King of Kent, but Bretwalda, or ruler of 
 
 10* 
 
226 THE GOOD aUEEN, 
 
 the Saxon octarchy. So that he is Hterally the sovereign, 
 not of a separate province, but of the realm of Britain. 
 Art thou insensible of the honor thus offered thee ?" 
 
 '' No, father.'' 
 
 " YeSy father ! and nOy father! Laconic enough, and 
 indifferent withal. But why this troubled brow, my 
 daughter ? To be the chosen ladye-love of a gallant 
 and powerful monarch, need not, one would think, be 
 quite a hopeless sorrow." 
 
 " JSTot a sorrow, sayest thou ? to leave all that I love, — 
 thee, and my mother, and the young brothers and sisters, 
 with whom I have been always so happy ? Not a scrr- 
 row, father, to make my home among a strange, wild 
 people, of a foreign tongue ?" 
 
 '' Bertha, it is woman's lot, to leave the shelter of 
 childhood, and go forth into the field of duty ; where 
 thorns may indeed spring, but where the blessed sun- 
 beam shines on the true-hearted. Knowest thou not 
 this?" 
 
 " Yet, dearest father, I am so young, — scarcely more 
 than a child." 
 
 " Thy years are indeed few, but heavenly w^isdom has 
 given a ripeness to thy soul, that age sometimes fails to 
 bring. Judge not in this matter as self-indulgence dic- 
 tates. Think of the disinterestedness of parental love. 
 Wherefore doth it nurture and train the flowrets that 
 spring around it ? — Expecting them always to grow by 
 its side, and cheer it by their expanding beauties ? Nay, 
 
THE GOOD aUEEN. 227 
 
 my daughter ; but that they may bless other hearts with 
 their fragrance, and in rearing their own young blossoms, 
 fulfil a higher destiny." 
 
 With an earnest, yet tremulous voice, the maiden 
 answered, — 
 
 " Ah ! let me still lino^er under the shade of the blessed 
 parent tree. Bid me not to leave thee. I will obey 
 thine every word. I will study thine unspoken wishes." 
 
 Falling on her knees, she raised her clasped hands, 
 and imploring eyes, in which large drops, like pearls, 
 were glistening. 
 
 '* Tears, my Bertha ! Flow they not from a deeper 
 source than thy words have revealed ? Confess : lovest 
 thou not already ?" 
 
 The clear depths of the moistened eye disclosed a guile- 
 less spirit, as she assured him that her heart was free. 
 
 *' Yet these fierce Saxon people, so long known as 
 pirates, and sea-kings, strike me with terror." 
 
 *' A father's heart weighed every objection, ere it lis- 
 tened to this embassy. Remember they are no longer 
 marauders, and adventurers, but settled in the fair island 
 which they have won, under separate governments and 
 advancing in civilization. The stream as it runs, refines. 
 Ethelbert, the fourth in descent from Hengist, is called 
 the Magnificent, as well as the brave. Consent to see 
 him, and then decide for thyself. I promise, that no 
 force shall be used with thy young affections ; for thy 
 happiness is my own." 
 
228 THE GOOD aUEEN. 
 
 *' Father ! I love the faith that our dear Saviour has 
 tauo'ht. How can I wed an idolater ! Can I smother 
 within my soul the breath of eternal life, and be guilt- 
 less ? Or will God give me strength, for persecution 
 and martyrdom ?" 
 
 *' Beloved, thou hast now told me all thine heart. I 
 see it in the repose that steals again over thy troubled 
 brow. Thou shrinkest back from a home amono^ idol a- 
 ters. Who knoweth but for this great purpose thou 
 hast been called thither, to lead a Pagan prince, and his 
 realm, to the cross of the Redeemer? Who can say, 
 that this honor was not intended thee by God, and that 
 holy angels are not now gazing into thy weak woman's 
 heart, to see what it will answer." 
 
 The beautiful girl fixed a wondering, half-credulous 
 gaze, upon the face of the king. Then a tide of great 
 thoughts swept over her. Her dark, deep-set eyes, ra- 
 diated with an unearthly light, as the mission-purpose 
 entered into her soul. 
 
 She rose involuntarily. Her slight, graceful form, in 
 the dim ray of the night-lamp, seemed to gather majesty. 
 She pressed the hand of her father, fondly and firmly 
 between her own. She spoke no word, but he compre- 
 hended her. He embraced her, and departed. Long 
 she knelt in her heart-breathed prayer, and then on her 
 pillow settled in that unbroken slumber, which God sends 
 the beloved ones who early repose on Him. 
 
 Ethelbert, with a fitting retinue, soon arrived at the 
 
THE GOOD aUEEN. 229 
 
 palace of the French king. Tlie timid modesty with 
 which Bertha appeared before him, added new charms to 
 her loveliness. Every succeeding interview deepened 
 the love of the royal suitor, and his desire to secure her 
 preference. 
 
 Nor did she, in his company, experience the horror she 
 had anticipated. Legends of piratical invaders, and 
 visions of blood-stained Jutes, which had disturbed her 
 childish dreams, and darkened her youthful reveries, 
 faded into thin air. In their place was a noble prince, 
 of commanding person, and elegant costume, revealing 
 in every action the respect and tenderness that win their 
 way to the female heart. She could not be insensible to 
 the devotion of a lofty spirit, or the fervor of its utter- 
 ance. Her reluctance to leave her native realm vanished, 
 and Charibert and his queen saw their beloved daughter 
 filled with those blessed sentiments that form the happi- 
 ness of a new home. 
 
 In those comparatively dark ages, the Anglo Saxons 
 surpassed not only the surrounding tribes, but the more 
 polished nations of the East, in their chivalrous treatment 
 of woman. Her rank in society, her position amid the 
 household, and at the festive board, — her permitted 
 presence at the witena-gemote, or incipient parliament, 
 all testified their appreciation of her value, and of the 
 influence she might exercise for good or for evil. Their 
 earliest written laws recoo^nized her ris'ht to inherit and 
 transmit property, and threw a protection over her per- 
 
230 THE GOOD aUEEN. 
 
 son, and over her solitary widowhond. Even in their 
 rude state of partial civilization, they evinced the elements 
 of that feeling, which a poet of modern Germany warmly 
 expresses : " Honor to the women ! they twine and weave 
 heavenly roses with the web of this earthly life." 
 
 Seldom is a court, encumbered, as it is wont to be, 
 with ceremony and heartless expediency, favorable to the 
 growth of affection. Yet Ethelbert and Bertha, both 
 ardent, and unembarrassed by previous intrigue or dis- 
 appointment, were soon ready to inshrine each other's 
 image in their heart of hearts. At his departure she 
 wore the ring of the betrothed, and it was understood 
 that his next visit was to win a queen for the throne of 
 Kent. 
 
 When the ships of the royal lover again danced over 
 the foaming sea that separated their native strands, the 
 affianced bride was ready to meet him, with the perfect 
 trust of a pure and affectionate heart. Before them 
 stretched the fair region of hope, like a newly -created 
 Eden, whose flowery haunts no tempter had ever dared 
 to invade. 
 
 ''Sometimes, my heart misgives me. Bertha, lest thy 
 new home, compared with this beautiful Paris, may not 
 content thee. When thou shalt walk by my side on the 
 white cliffs of Dover — thine own cliffs — and see the huge 
 billows heave and break far beneath the feet of their 
 queen, — if thou shalt mark beyond them, as a faint cloud, 
 the pleasant land of France, will thy heart still cling 
 
THE GOOD aUEEN. 231 
 
 to mine, and the smile beam as a sunbeam from thy 
 brow r 
 
 '' The transplanted flower must soon take root, fostered 
 by tenderness like thine. The love that I plight thee at 
 the altar, shall be the same in all lands, through weal or 
 woe, -while life is mine." 
 
 "Ah, that altar!" he murmured, for nurtured as he 
 w^as, in paganism, he had an undefined dread of the nup- 
 tial ritual that her religion imposed. " That altar, of 
 which thou speakest, will not its appalling forms blanch 
 thy fresh cheek with paleness ? In my own land, there 
 is a saying, that tears at a bridal, blight the buds of hap- 
 piness. Bertha, — my own love, — I pray thee, let our 
 bridal drink no pearl-drop from thine eye. Should I see 
 but one glittering there, it would blast my joy. For- 
 give me this superstition." 
 
 Bertha held sacred this wish of Ethelbert. Neither the 
 thrilling marriage responses, nor the impressive benedic- 
 tion of the venerable bishop who had shed the baptismal 
 dew on her infancy ; nor the parting from those who 
 fondly cherished her earliest affections, were suffered to 
 draw forth a tear. Around the neck of the queen, her 
 beloved mother, she almost convulsiv^ely threw her arms, 
 burying her face deep in the bosom where she had so 
 often found rest. But when she raised her eyes, the long 
 raven fringes of their lids were dry. Those who from her 
 childhood had known her impulsive sensibility, and that 
 she could never part from favorite playmates, even for a 
 
232 THE GOOD aUEEN. 
 
 few days, without grief, were amazed at her self-control. 
 They wondered that the new love should so supersede 
 the old, as to wash away all the tender traces of memory. 
 But they knew not that a higher purpose than the glow- 
 ing hopes of personal happiness, swelled the bosom of 
 that gentle, delicate bride, gleaming before them like a 
 fairy vision, her rose-leaf lip slightly blanched with emo- 
 tion, yet wearing the smile of an angel. They penetrated 
 not the heaven- born motive, that, combining with the 
 germs of conjugal affection, suddenly ripened and sub- 
 limated her whole nature. 
 
 Soon after the arrival of the nuptial cavalcade at the 
 palace, in Canterbury, the ceremony of coronation was 
 performed. It had been an early custom of the Anglo- 
 Saxons, to place with pomp and rejoicing, the crown on 
 the head of the consorts of their sovereign. Ethelbert 
 was anxious that nothing should be omitted, that could 
 render this honor to his queen imposing and memorable 
 to their people ; and the pageantry of the scene seemed 
 to justify the epithet of " most glorious," which was be- 
 stowed upon him, either by the justice or the flattery of 
 his own times. 
 
 It was at the coronation dinner, that the young queen 
 first saw the dignitaries of her new realm. At an im- 
 mense oval table, loaded with a plenty, prodigal almost 
 to rudeness, were seated, each a lady at his side, the prin- 
 cipal earls, ealdermen, and thanes. Their flowing robes, 
 richly bordered, were of strong and opposing colors, while 
 
THE GOOD aUEEN. 233 
 
 the red gold of their massy bracelets and sword-hilts, 
 made an array of barbaric splendor. She, the observed 
 of all observers, was admired for her tasteful dress and 
 graceful dignity of deportment. She also regarded with 
 pleased attention, the athletic forms and fair complexions 
 of those by whom she was surrounded, and thought the 
 hair of the bearded chieftains becomingly adapted to 
 their large features, parted as it was at the crown, and 
 falling low on each side, in full floating curls. 
 
 At a separate festive board, the young nobles were 
 entertained. At its head was Prince Sobert, the heir- 
 apparent to the throne of Essex ; whose mother, being 
 the sister of Ethelbert, had caused him to be placed 
 under the care of his uncle, that he might be trained by 
 his superior wisdom to the polity of kingly government. 
 He was conspicuous by his lofty stature, and the profusion 
 of his yellow hair, whose heavy curls rested upon his 
 broad shoulders ; as well as by his zeal in promoting 
 conviviality, both by word and example. 
 
 His rich tunic gleamed with the hues of the rainbow ; 
 as frequently rising from his seat, to pledge those around 
 him, he raised to his lips an immense drinking-horn 
 tipped with ivory, and wrought at the golden brim with 
 leaves and clusters of the grape. This he seemed always 
 to drain to the bottom. His fine complexion began to as- 
 sume a blood-red tinge, and his blue eyes to radiate like 
 orbs of flame. At leno-th, his voice issued in hucre bursts 
 of sound, slightly modified by articulation, and still less 
 
234 THE GOOD aUEEN. 
 
 by meaning. Then, lifting a wine-cup of silver, and 
 calling upon his compeers to drink nobly to the fair, new 
 queen, he emptied the massy goblet, and fell senseless 
 on the floor. As he was borne from the hall, — his head 
 resting helplessly on one shoulder, and his gigantic limbs 
 spasmodically resisting, — Bertha involuntarily turned 
 aw^ay her eyes, with a feeling of humiliation and disgust. 
 Yet she could not but observe that the scene attracted 
 little attention from her Anglo-Saxon subjects, who were 
 accustomed to think the extreme of conviviality, on high 
 occasions, by no means an indelible blemish. 
 
 The royal bridegroom became daily more and more 
 fascinated by the graces and virtues of his beautiful 
 spouse. Her sweetness of spirit, the attractions of her 
 conversation, the identification of her sympathies with 
 his own, — the playfulness of her unclouded spirit, the 
 dignity of her queenly bearing, the refinement that she 
 strove to diffuse over his court ; above all, the patience 
 with which she sustained trials, or resigned her own 
 wishes, were more forcible arguments to his mind than 
 all the pungency of polemics. 
 
 *'Thou art so lovely, my wife, so like a sunbeam on 
 my path and heart ! How can I ever repay thee for the 
 happiness thou hast brought me ?" 
 
 *' By tasting the fountain from whence it flows." 
 
 " The fountain ! What meanest thou ? thy faith ? Ah ! 
 if I could be indeed convinced that was the source of thy 
 virtues. But no, I deem it not so ; they are the spon- 
 
THE GOOD aUEEN. 235 
 
 taneous overflowings of a pure nature. Thou wouldst 
 still be goodness itself, without thy creed." 
 
 '' Nay, Ethelbert, thy too partial love perceives not, or 
 forgets, how oft I am wayward. Before the life-giving 
 Spirit breathed into my heart, it was sad, and in dark- 
 ness. Even now, at the close of every day, have I need 
 to humble myself for its doings, or not-doings." 
 
 *' So kind, and forbearing to all beside, how is it that 
 thou ever judgest thyself severely? Doth not our life 
 already overflow with joy ? I have always a fulness of 
 bliss, if thou art near. What more could thy faith add ?" 
 
 " To the joys of this life, the hopes of another. Oh ! 
 beloved of my soul, ere the death-angel, that must divide 
 us, Cometh ; I would fain see thee rejoicing in the promise 
 that we shall dwell tocrether forever." 
 
 The monarch was more moved by these appeals, than 
 his words admitted. Had they been too frequent, or 
 strongly reiterated, or attended by that gloom of manner 
 which he had supposed an element of piety, they might 
 have failed of all salutary eff'ect. But the exquisite tact 
 that accompanied them, gave them a pleasant home, and 
 an echo like music, in his memory. 
 
 *' Would that the God of Bertha were my God !" was 
 sometimes his ejaculation in solitude. Had she imagined 
 how often, it would have inspired her with new courage. 
 Before her departure from France, he had promised her 
 parents that she should be neither opposed nor impeded, 
 in the exercise of her religion ; and even invited the ven- 
 
236 THE GOOD aUEEN. 
 
 erable instructor of her childhood, to accompany her to 
 her new home, and reside under his jurisdiction. With 
 the generosity of a noble nature, he not only faithfully 
 regarded, but transcended his engagements. Her retire- 
 ments in her oratory, at morn and eventide, though they 
 might, perchance, seem to him protracted, were never 
 disturbed, and he protected her in the sacredness of 
 those Sabbath devotions, on which she so much rested 
 for spiritual strength and joy. For her use, he prepared 
 the first temple that Christianity wrested from paganism 
 in England. The traveller who now muses within the 
 consecrated walls of St. Martin's, or beneath the gorgeous 
 dome of St. Paul's, hears the tread of the people, like the 
 sound of many waters, looks back reverentially, through 
 the dimness of more than twelve centuries, to the con- 
 jugal love of their founder, Ethelbert, and the faithful 
 heaven-rewarded piety of his queen. 
 
 The pure fountains of maternal affection were unsealed 
 for Bertha, and infant souls, like unfolding rose-buds, 
 laid on her bosom. Supplications for their eternal wel- 
 fare were mingled with the orisons which had long been 
 duly offered for that of her beloved husband. But years 
 sped, and there seemed no nearer approach to the ac- 
 complishment of her desires for him. Yet still her sa- 
 cred fervor failed not, while patience wrought out its 
 perfect work. 
 
 At length tidings came, that strangers from a foreign 
 coast had landed on the isle of Thanet, the very spot 
 
THE GOOD aUEEN. 237 
 
 where, a few generations before, the brothers Hengist 
 and Horsa had debarked, with their ferocious followers. 
 Yet these peaceful people bore no resemblance, in char- 
 acter or purpose, to the fierce adventurers whom the un- 
 fortunate Britons at first invited as allies, and afterwards 
 strove with in vain, as usurpers and conquerors. They 
 were no Scandinavian marauders, led on by piratical sea- 
 kings to savage conflict ; but Christians from Italy and 
 Gaul, under the auspices of the missionary Augustine. 
 That Being, who educeth great events from causes that 
 bhnd mortals account as trifles, had made the blue eyes 
 and fair brows of some English children, exposed for sale 
 in the slave-markets at Rome, and even the alliterative 
 phrase on the lips of Gregory, '* non Angles, sed angeli," 
 instrumental in the conversion of that glorious island, 
 which now plants in almost every pagan clime, the cross 
 of her Redeemer. 
 
 This peaceful embassy sought an audience of Ethel- 
 bert. His lords and counsellors were dissatisfied at his 
 compliance. 
 
 " If you are determined," said they, " to grant an in- 
 terview to these believers in strange gods, let it not be 
 in the royal city, or within your palace walls. Meet 
 them on the extremity of your shores, where they now 
 are, and listen to their words only under yon vast vaulted 
 canopy. For they are dealers in spells and incantations, 
 whose force the free, open air, somewhat dispels. Our 
 
238 THE GOOD aUEEN. 
 
 advice is, therefore, that you encounter their magic under 
 this protection." 
 
 The king, with his retinue, accompanied to the isle of 
 Thanet, the deputation that had been sent to implore an 
 audience. When he came in sight of the tents of the 
 strangers, sprinkled like snow upon the rich summer- 
 turf, he paused, and a seat was erected for him beneath 
 the spreading branches of lofty trees. Around him 
 ranged the nobles and pagan priests, darkly frowning, 
 while beyond, a vast concourse of people, filled with in- 
 tense curiosity, covered dale and hillock in breathless 
 silence. 
 
 Ere long, a solemn procession was seen slowly to ad- 
 vance. At its head came Augustine, afterwards honored 
 with the title of the Apostle of England. A massy cross 
 of silver was borne before him. A long train of ecclesi- 
 astics followed, walking two and two, displaying on a 
 painted banner the effigy of the Saviour of man, and 
 chanting hymns antiphonally, in deep, melodious tones. 
 
 Ethelbert, rising from his seat, came forward to meet 
 this singular embassy. On his mind was a soothing con- 
 sciousness that the prayers of his angel wife were ascend- 
 inor for him. The consultation that ensued was earnest 
 and momentous. It was observed that the monarch lis- 
 tened with more and more absorbed attention ; and that 
 gradually the lofty forehead of the missionary cleared 
 itself from traces of anxious thought, and that his pier- 
 cing eye gathered brightness. 
 
THE GOOD aUEEN. 239 
 
 " We offer you," said he, " oh king ! everlasting joys, 
 a throne that hath no end. Our religfion coraeth not to 
 you with the sword, or garments rolled in blood. It 
 boweth its knee to teach the humblest among your peo- 
 ple. It bringeth gifts of peace and love to all, from His 
 blessed hand w^ho died for man's salvation." 
 
 Ethelbert answered, with a calm tone and steadfast 
 countenance, — 
 
 " Your words and promises are fair. But they are 
 new to our ears, and uncertain. We are not prepared to 
 change the gods of our nation, or to abandon the rites 
 which have been common to all our tribes from the 
 beginning. Yet you have come from afar, and borne 
 hardships, to bring us what you believe to be good and 
 true. We will, therefore, hospitably receive you, and 
 supply your wants while you remain among us. We 
 will forbid none of our subjects to listen to your words, 
 nor permit any to be molested who may decide to be- 
 come your disciples." 
 
 Dehghted with the frankness and liberality of the 
 monarch, and overjoyed at a reception so much more 
 favorable than they had anticipated; they departed, 
 singing anthems of praise, whose sw^eetly solemn echoes, 
 softened in the hush of twilight, thrilled the hearts of 
 the unaccustomed hearers, like mysterious melodies from 
 the skies. 
 
 Lodging and entertainment for the strangers were 
 provided within the precincts of Canterbury, by order 
 
240 THE GOOD aUEEN. 
 
 of the queen, to whom Ethelbert had intrusted the 
 arrangements connected with their fitting accommoda- 
 tion. She zealously executed her commission, with 
 heightened love to him, and fervent gratitude to God, 
 who had thus opened a door for the entrance of the life- 
 giving Gospel. 
 
 The shades of a night, dark with storms, were gather- 
 ing over the palace. One by one the courtiers withdrew, 
 when, with little semblance of respect. Prince Sobert 
 burst into the royal presence. In a tone unbefitting his 
 youth, and with evident marks of high exasperation, he 
 began to upbraid the king for what he called abandoning 
 the gods of his fathers. His language became intemper- 
 ate in the extreme, and his gestures those of an infuria- 
 ted inebriate. Ethelbert was at first disposed to pay 
 slight heed to the madman, but then fixing on him a 
 stern eye, exclaimed in a voice of thunder, — 
 
 *' Rash young man, will there never be an end of 
 these follies ? Slave to your ungoverned passions, and 
 to this beastly intemperance, hence ! Leave the society 
 of men, for which you are unfit." 
 
 Motioning to his guards he bade them remove him, 
 and keep him under arrest, until he should regain a 
 better mind. Agitated and harassed with the cares of 
 royalty, Ethelbert retired to the apartment of the queen. 
 He imparted to her his recent cause of perplexity, and 
 the anxiety he had long felt for the courses pursued 
 by the young prince, his nephew. He represented him 
 
THE GOOD aUEEN. 241 
 
 as full of generous and noble impulses, but all obscured 
 by the growing habit of intemperance, against which 
 every admonition was in vain. He besought her aid 
 to extirpate this vice, to soften his waywardness, and 
 render the son of his favorite sister, and the heir of a 
 powerful realm, more worthy of his high destination. 
 
 The perfect sympathy with which Bertha entered into 
 his trouble, the fervent promise of whatever assistance 
 it might be in her power to bestow, and the cheerful 
 hope with which she spoke of His sustaining strength, 
 who loved to seek and to save the lost, calmed his per- 
 turbed spirit, and lightened the load that had long lain 
 heavy there. Afterwards, he often beheld, with inef- 
 fable gratitude, the wayward young prince seeking the 
 society of the queen, half-rechning at her feet as a child- 
 like listener, or fondling her little ones fondly in his 
 arms. He felt how imperative was the influence of female 
 loveliness and piety, that could thus soothe the savage 
 and tame the lion, — 
 
 " For passions in the human frame, 
 Oft put the lion's rage to shame." 
 
 Multitudes of the Kentish Saxons were induced by 
 curiosity to visit the stranger-teachers at Canterbury, 
 who now assumed, in some measure, the importance of 
 royal guests. Man}^ were moved by the warmth of their 
 appeals, and the sanctity of their example. Animated 
 by an attention and success that surpassed their expecta- 
 
 - _ 
 
242 THE GOOD aUEEN. 
 
 tions, the missionaries extended their benevolence to the 
 despised and humbled remnant of the Britons, who soon 
 after their subjugation to the Roman yoke, had nominally 
 embraced Christianity. But the lapse of nearly six cen- 
 turies, with the agony of an almost exterminating struggle 
 against their present idolatrous lords, had quenched both 
 the hope of earth, and the light from heaven. The lives 
 of even their clergy were so debased by ignorance and 
 vice, that there remained scarcely a fragment of right 
 example, or correct discipline, among the people. 
 
 At length, Augustine obtained from their principal 
 priests, a promise to meet him in Worcestershire, and 
 confer on the subject which he proposed for their investi- 
 gation. Thither they came, few in number, men of sad 
 countenances, and a bitter spirit. He earnestly strove to 
 convince them of error, both in doctrine and observance, 
 and to lead them to reformation. But, suspicious and 
 vacillating, they neither yielded to his arguments, nor 
 were able to establish their own. A second consultation 
 was appointed, and ere its arrival they had decided to 
 seek the advice of an ao-ed hermit, lono- renowned in 
 that reo-ion for austere wisdom. 
 
 The shades of night had gathered, and a chill rain fell 
 like hail-drops upon the leafless trees, as, through tangled 
 and precipitous paths, they wound their way to the cave 
 of the recluse. With difficulty they obtained admittance. 
 It was not until after prolonged parley, that the stone 
 which secured the entrance, was rolled itway. The glare 
 
THE GOOD aUEEN. 243 
 
 of their torches revealed a subterranean cell, of unequal 
 height, and a man with a forbidding aspect, apparently of 
 great strength, but wasted by abstinence and seclusion. 
 His long, lean limbs, protruded from a mantle of skins, 
 in which he was scantily wrapped. Through the thick, 
 grizzled hair and beard, that formed an almost con- 
 tinuous mesh, only the prominent points of his features 
 were visible, and his cold gray eyes looked luridly forth, 
 as if to petrify the beholder. 
 
 " Wherefore come ye hither?" he cried, in a startling- 
 discordant tone. 
 
 His visitants recounted their troubles, their doubts, 
 their need of counsel, and their reverence for his reputed 
 wisdom. Without movement of muscle, or eyelid, like 
 one fashioned from the rock that surrounded him, he 
 regarded their words. 
 
 " More strangers, say ye ? Has not the coming of 
 strangers, and their laws, already been our destruction ? 
 Brought not Caesar, and his legions, a new faith, upon 
 their swords' points ? Did not your Saxon lords, with 
 the battle-axe, hew it away ? And now, there come 
 other strange men, to talk about the soul. Are there no 
 souls in their own country, that they thus traverse sea 
 and land to find them?'* 
 
 Moving his lips for a while, inarticulately, as if mar- 
 shalling bitter thoughts, he exclaimed with added vio- 
 lence, — 
 
 " The soul ! what know they, or what know ye, of that 
 
244 THE GOOD aUEEN. 
 
 mysterious thing ? And ye would fain make laws for it, 
 blind and foolish as ye are. The soul ! whence cometh 
 it ? And wiien with the death-cry, it teareth a passage 
 through the clay, whither goeth it ? Ha ! answer me ! 
 Whither?" 
 
 Alarmed at his excitement of feeling, they hasted to 
 lay before him the gifts they had brought. Without 
 deigning a glance at them, he raised his harsh voice to a 
 shout, — 
 
 '' ISTew relio'ions ! Another o-od ! Our fathers wor- 
 shipped the blue Woden, and the Druids cut the sacred 
 misletoe, with a knife of gold, and the bards sang to the 
 harp the praise of heroes ; and from the stateliest oak, to 
 the smallest moss-blade, — from every grove and fountain, 
 came the whisper of in-dwelling, and friendly spirits. 
 Hath it ever been better with us, than with them — freely 
 launching their wattled boats upon their own peaceful 
 waters? Better! with British blood in your veins, — 
 clinging to some shadow of deity, to some vile flapping 
 bat, that nestles in the mind of your tyrannous lords ? 
 Better! rooted out, and trampled down, and finding 
 beasts of prey more merciful than men ?" 
 
 And he lauglied, a bitter and scornful laugh. Then, 
 drawing himself up to his full gigantic height, till his head 
 touched the roof of the cavern, — his eyes reddening in 
 the torch-light with a baleful glare, — he continued to 
 murmur in hollow whispers, and hoarse recitative, as if 
 holding converse with demons. The Britons, inly shud- 
 
THE GOOD aUEEN. 245 
 
 dering, fancied that they heard the rusliing of swift and 
 heavy wings, mixed with unearthly slirieks. It was the 
 swell of the tempest. After a long interval, he added 
 in a more subdued tone, — 
 
 " Ye have asked me for a sign. A sign ! What is it to 
 me, with whom ye collude, or whom ye choose for your 
 masters, — slaves as ye are, and hypocrites, — professing to 
 believe in Christ, yet crouching under the mace of Thor 
 the thunderer ? For a sign ye ask me ! Go your w^ay 
 unto this stranger-priest. If he rise to receive you, listen 
 to his words, and obey them. If he rise not, refuse a 
 faith that is not able to abase his pride. This is all the 
 sign I give you. And now, go your ways, for the day 
 breaketh." 
 
 The British prelates, superstitiously yielding to the 
 ascetic, were content to stake on a mere accident, on the 
 whim of a maddening brain, a negotiation so momentous. 
 At the appointed time, they repaired to Worcestershire. 
 Augustine, sitting under the broad shadow of an oakj 
 chanced not to rise as they approached. Therefore, to 
 all his arguments, they were immovable, and met every 
 conciliatory proposal with a negative. The ra\dngs of a 
 semi-savage in his cavern, prevailed to neutralize the elo- 
 quence of the missionary ; even though assuming some- 
 w^hat of prescience, it depicted the impending evils of con- 
 tumacy. 
 
 Yet this disappointment was effaced by the success 
 that awaited him amid his Saxon hearers, throngs of 
 
246 THE GOOD aUEEN. 
 
 whom renounced the delusions of paganism. For Bertha, 
 the faithful wife, and lovely queen, was reserved an ex- 
 quisite joy, — her royal husband's avowal of his belief in 
 the Christian religion. This event, which makes memo- 
 rable in the annals of England, the year 597, was followed 
 by the conversion of ten thousand of his subjects, who, in 
 one day, abjured idolatry, and received the rite of bap- 
 tism. Rapidly the knowledge of the truth overspread 
 the kingdoms of Kent and Essex, until gradually the whole 
 Saxon octarchy drank of the light that cometh down from 
 heaven. 
 
 The influence and earnest efforts of Bertha, were blessed 
 in the reformation of the young Prince Sobert. Instil- 
 ling into his mind noble sentiments, and generous plans 
 of action, he was led to despise the animal appetites in 
 which he once gloried, and to break the chains of the 
 vice that had so long held him in bondage. " Clothed 
 and in his right mind," he became assiduous to acquire 
 that knowledge which should enable him to advance the 
 welfare of his future realm. His faithful and gentle 
 monitor rested not until she had led him to the foot of 
 tlie cross, and seen him fortify all his good resolutions by 
 humbly trusting in the Friend, *' strong to suffer, and 
 mighty to save." 
 
 The reign of Ethelbert was long and prosperous. To 
 the other cares of royalty which accumulated with years, 
 and were deepened by his own sense of responsibility as 
 a Christian, he added the devotion of much time and la- 
 
THE GOOD aUEEN. 247 
 
 bor to the formation of a code of laws, to regulate the 
 crude and discordant ideas of justice that prevailed among 
 the people. To the influence of the Gospel, we probably 
 owe this earliest specimen of Saxon jurisprudence. In 
 retracing its various provisions, we fancy that we perceive 
 in the double penalty which he inflicted on all ciimes 
 committed in a state of inebriation, the intense anxiety 
 that had long preyed upon his mind for the nephew, whose 
 training had been committed to his care, and by whose in- 
 temperance he had been so often fearfully disgraced. 
 
 His gratitude for tlie change wrought in the young 
 Prince Sobert, was without bounds. Next to the life- 
 giving Spirit, whose breath renovates the sinful heart, he 
 recognized in this blessed result, the agency of his be- 
 loved wife. 
 
 When the being once so reckless, strove wisely to wield 
 the sceptre, and to become the benefactor of his people, 
 Ethelbert, regarding him with paternal pride, yet remem- 
 bering his former horrible slavery to the most debasing 
 of all vices, w^ould say affectionately to Bertha, '' See 
 your own work.'' 
 
 But the crown of her reward, and that for which she 
 most fervently gave thanks to the Giver of every good 
 and perfect gift, was his tremulous whisper in retirement, 
 " Thy hand, my wife, hath led me to the cross — thy 
 pure example, the beauty of holiness." 
 
"WHAT THEN?" 
 
 Light was his step, his eye was bright, 
 
 The youth with gesture proud, — 
 Who thus, as Fancy prompted, spake 
 
 The exulting thought aloud : — 
 *' Oh ! when the blessed time shall come 
 
 That studious toils are o'er, 
 And this stern college-durance past, 
 
 Like uncaged bird I'll soar." 
 
 " What then?' — a reverend sage inquired: 
 " Hio^h honors shall be mine, 
 And listening crowds my wisdom seek, 
 
 As to a Delphic shrine, — 
 For learning from my lips shall flow. 
 
 And eloquence divine/' 
 
 " What then V — '' Where'er my footsteps tend, 
 
 A tide of wealth shall roll ; 
 And gems, and wine, and luxuries rare 
 
 Be mine, from pole to pole, — 
 And men shall find my nod of power 
 
 Their destinies control." 
 
WHAT THEN. 249 
 
 " What then T' — '' Around my secret bower 
 
 The wreaths of love I'll twine, 
 And all that youth and beauty yield 
 
 In transport, shall be mine, — 
 Cloudless and long my life shall be 
 
 Till stars of eveninof shine." 
 
 '' What thenT — ''When all hath been enjoyed 
 
 That charm the ear and eye, 
 To mortal life's extremest verge, 
 
 In sculptured tomb I'll lie, — 
 Because the sentence hath gone forth 
 
 That all of dust must die." 
 
 - What thenr— 
 
 A lightning flash of thought 
 
 Quelled the proud spirit's dream, 
 And conscience, with a lifted scourge. 
 
 Broke in on Folly's theme, — 
 And for the mercy of his God 
 
 He learned in prayer to bow ; 
 And seek a refuge in His Love, 
 When Time's illusive span should prove 
 
 One everlasting IS'ow. 
 
 11* 
 
UNKNOWN HEIRS. 
 
 " He heapeth up riches, and knoweth not who shall gather them." 
 
 David. 
 
 " They toil for heirs, they know not who, 
 And straight are seen no more." 
 
 Watts. 
 
 His brow was worn with care. Too deep a thought 
 
 Had settled there, for lingering sleep to shed 
 
 Its poppy dew unblamed. He said of mirth, 
 
 And every social joy, — '' They profit not," 
 
 For he had sold his life to gather gain, 
 
 And rear a palace for his only son, 
 
 That crowds mio-ht envy. To his wearied heart 
 
 Amid its slavery, still he said, *' Plod on ! 
 
 'Tis for my son." — But lo ! — an icy grasp 
 
 Overmastered him at once, and down he lay 
 
 Reluctant and unmourned. 
 
 The heir roamed wide 
 In distant lands, with light and lavish haste 
 Scattering his spoils. 
 
 In the ancestral halls, 
 Are guests, and banquet-board, and music-strain. 
 But not for him. — They bear his name no more ; 
 And on his bloated features are the stamp. 
 
UNKNOWN HEIRS. 251 
 
 Of libertine and exile. In the wards 
 
 Of foreign hospitals, with parching lip, 
 
 He feels the fever-thirst, and none are near 
 
 Of all the many servants of his sire, 
 
 To give him water. On his tongue there lurks 
 
 The drunkard's mutter'd curse, mixed with no word 
 
 Of grateful memory for that father's care, 
 
 Who toiled so late and rose ere dawn of day 
 
 To toil for him the waster, and enrich 
 
 Heirs, all unknown. 
 
 A mother, strange to say. 
 Repressed the claims of pity, and withheld 
 The surplus of her stewardship from God. 
 The poor, pale sempstress, with her trembling nerves, 
 And timid voice, perceived the scanty dole 
 Narrowed and grudged and tardily bestowed, 
 And wept, despairing, o'er her lonely crust. 
 The beggar came not twice to that proud door. 
 Remembering the refusal, couch'd in words 
 Scornful and sharp. The mission-vessel spread 
 Its snowy wings, and sought a heathen clime 
 Without her aid. 
 
 And so the yearly gold 
 Swell'd in its hoard ; and to herself she said, 
 '' ' Tis for my daughter s use, when I am gone .*" 
 Cheating her vexed soul with empty names 
 Of fond maternal duty, — veil too thin 
 To hide her nature from the eye of Heaven. 
 
252 UNKNOWN HEIRS. 
 
 Oh lady ! in the damp and mouldering tomb, 
 Is there no loop-hole, whence a restless ghost 
 Might scan thy lofty mansion ? 
 
 See ! behold ! 
 Who sitteth on thy daughter's rich divan, 
 And in her costly mirrors idly looks ? 
 Who strews the flowers that decked her gay parterre, 
 And revels in her fruits ? 
 
 A stranger bride 
 Calls it her home. — Thy daughter is not there. 
 Her bed is in the clay — and by her side 
 Tiie babe, whose fleeting life with hers was bought : 
 While he, who briefly on his finger wore 
 The circlet of her love, forgetteth her. 
 
 Yet for that daughter didst thou grind the poor. 
 And seal thine ear against the Pagan's moan ; 
 CalKng it prudence, and a just regard 
 To thine own off'spring. 
 
 'Twas a specious lure ! 
 Oh, mother, did it shut thy soul from Heaven ? 
 
THE 
 
 CENTENNIAL ANNIVERSARY OF PRINCETON COLLEGE, 
 
 NEW JERSEY ; JUNE 29th, 1847 
 
 A distinguished guest, on this occasion, remarks : — " The dinner, 
 of which more than 800, principally Alumni, partook, was under a 
 spacious and beautiful tent, on a verdant lawn, behind the old Col- 
 lege edifice, once alternately occupied by the British and American 
 armies. This festival was conducted entirely without spirituous or 
 fermented beverage. Toasts drank in pure water, or lemonade, and 
 a series of enlivening addresses, gave exhilaration and enthusiasm 
 to the memorable scene." 
 
 An hundred years have sown 
 The rose -cup, and the thorn, 
 
 And more than thirty thousand days 
 Diffused the hght of morn, — 
 
 And in their mighty cradle slept, 
 Since Old Nassau was born. 
 
 Look to yon tented lawn, 
 Enrobed in glorious green. 
 
 Where winds the long procession on 
 Amid the classic scene,, — 
 
 And birthday melodies arise 
 As to a crowned queen. 
 
254 ANNIVERSARY OF PRINCETON COLLEGE. 
 
 She hath no hoary hair, 
 No dimness marks her eye, 
 
 Her children cluster round her side 
 As when her youth was high, — 
 
 And at the festal board she pours 
 The nectar of the sky. 
 
 Such nectar as the Sun 
 
 Exhales in crystal tears, 
 And filters through the silvery cloud, 
 
 The fruitful earth that cheers, — 
 So, here's a health to Old Nassau 
 
 For another hundred years. 
 
LETTER TO FEMALES. 
 
 " Sisters, and friends, — come, let us talk awhile, 
 'Twill do no harm.— 
 
 Heaven grant it be for good." 
 
 Gordon. 
 
 We, my dear friends, to whom are intrusted the struc- 
 ture of domestic life, and the framework of famihes, are the 
 natural and interested guardians of temperance and purity. 
 Without these, there can be for us neither happiness nor 
 safety. Presiding not only over the rites of hospitality, 
 but over those seasons of refreshment around the house- 
 hold board, which return as duly as morn, noontide, and 
 evening vary the sky and landscape, are we fully aware 
 of the responsibilities of our office ? 
 
 Home, that green, sheltered islet, amid the great waves 
 of an imquiet world, is our blessed province. Have we 
 considered the dignity of the sphere in which we are thus 
 placed ? — a realm, whose antiquity is coeval with the cre- 
 ation ; whose foundation and laws are the work of almighty 
 wisdom ; whose constitution consults both the necessity 
 and the highest good of its subjects ; whose chief minis- 
 ters are of kindred interests and kindred blood ; whose 
 reverence is drawn from the deepest, least fluctuating re- 
 
256 LETTER TO FEMALES. 
 
 sources of humanit}^ and the results of whose pohcy are 
 as sublime and boundless as eternity? 
 
 Is it not important that we should correctly estimate 
 our position, and its influences ? The keen eye of phi- 
 losophy long since discerned, that to have power over 
 the senses, was to hold the key of the mind. '' Let me 
 make the songs of a nation,'' said a wise man, *' I care 
 not who makes the laws." 
 
 Has the ear then such authority ? and has not power 
 over it been delegated to those who rule a household ? 
 Is not Ms ear ours, who has installed us as the presiding 
 spirit over his hearth and home ? Is it not ours for the 
 melody of hallowed sentiment ? — for the eloquent inter- 
 change of knowledge ? — for the charms of music ? — for 
 that hifxhest of all harmonies to man's heart, — the voice 
 of love ? 
 
 Are not all in the domestic department, thus modified ? 
 The infant, who, being a part of the mother, draws in 
 her tones with the food that sustains, and the smile that 
 cheers it ; the child, who perchance will take onward to 
 gray hairs, or to the grave, her voice, as the only unfor- 
 gotten lesson ; the daughter, whose dawn of womanly 
 beauty is heightened by the docility with w^hich she lis- 
 tens to her beloved guide ; the son, who, going forth to 
 the trials of the world, lingers for one more accent of her 
 perfect affection ; — even the servant, watchful of words, 
 as well as of example, — the guest, — the stranger within 
 
LETTER TO FEMALES. 2«57 
 
 the gates, — each and all are thus influenced : — hoAv 
 much, another world will more clearly unfold. 
 
 Can we, then, be too careful of tones ? — of things ut- 
 tered ? — of the spirit-harp, on which we are permitted to 
 play ? Lest, peradventure, our careless touch might un- 
 tune it for the brief concert of earth, — the purer melody 
 of heaven ! 
 
 If, by the respect due to our station, the ear is sub- 
 jected to us, is not the eye ours also ? — ours, for the 
 charm of a cheerful countenance, — for the fascinations of 
 grace and kindness, — for the beauties of a well-ordered 
 home, — for that symmetrical adjustment of economy with 
 comfort, which those who fill the throne of a household 
 should be able to exhibit ? 
 
 There are some apartments, which, from the carpet to 
 the pictures on the wall, are a lesson of refined taste and 
 harmony of color. There are others, unadorned by aught 
 save neatness, w^hich, in the absence of all ornament, are 
 still more admirable to an accurate observer, from their 
 fitness, and the balance of circumstance with duty. The 
 arrangements, and costume of the mistress of the family, 
 may display elegancy, but if they go beyond the finances 
 of her husband, they lose that beauty of adaptation which 
 is necessary to please a clear -judging mind. Indeed, 
 where ornament may be allowed without improper ex- 
 penditure, simphcity, rather than gorgeousness, has more 
 complete power over a true taste, and longer retains it. 
 
 The attraction of flowers, within and around a habita- 
 
258 LETTER TO FEMALES. 
 
 tion, is ia accordance with His plan, '' whose touch per- 
 fumes them, and whose pencil paints." This makes the 
 cottaore-homes of Eno'land sweet to their inmates, and a 
 pleasant memory to the passing traveller. The simple 
 plants require little labor of culture, and a good spirit 
 seems to prevail where thej are reared. It is beautifully 
 designated by the Germans, as the '' angel of the flow- 
 ers." Its ministry is to charm the senses, and teach the 
 heart a lesson of His love, who thus deigns to make even 
 the field and the w^ayside beautiful. 
 
 If it has been felt, that the eye and ear are such pow- 
 erful ambassadors to the soul, that Devotion has appealed 
 to them in the Gothic arch, the storied window, and the 
 solemn organ, and War labored to enlist them by pomp 
 and circumstance ; and if these two direct avenues are 
 open to woman, will she not enter them, bearing the sym- 
 bols of temperance and of virtue ? When such power 
 was delegated by civilized society to the weaker hand, 
 was there not an expectation that it would be made an 
 ally of those principles that give to that civilized society 
 permanence and peace ? 
 
 The eye and the ear, then, it would seem, are among 
 the legitimate subjects of those who rule home wisely. 
 Are not the appetites, also, a part of their legislation ? 
 '' The way to a man's heart is through his stomach," said 
 a caustic writer. Without fully indorsing the sentiment 
 of the satirist, it is evident, that by supervision of the 
 table, the elements that refresh w^eariness, cheer depres- 
 
LETTER TO FEMALES. 259 
 
 sion, sustain physical vigor, and minister to social delight, 
 are among the perquisites of our sex. Mighty instru- 
 ments, in this our combination of matter with mind. Let 
 us see how they are applied. 
 
 Thou, who spreadest the household board, say, why is 
 this or that alluring condiment and perilous beverage 
 added ? To show how cunningly agents unfriendly to 
 health, may be disguised by culinary chemistry ? — how far 
 indulgence may go, yet stop short of actual inebriation ? 
 Or to test and trouble the feeble virtue of children, by 
 bidding them abstain from what they see others partake ? 
 and disturb their trust in your own Christian sincerity, 
 by setting an example which they are forbidden to fol- 
 low ? Yet even where there is no allurement to abso- 
 lute intemperance, the effect of habitual absorption in the 
 pleasures of the table, and their preference to intellectual 
 enjoyments, are so pernicious to the young, that the ulti- 
 mate ruin of families may be frequently traced to that 
 source. 
 
 But, if any strangely fancy that they possess the power, 
 ad lihitum, to weaken the body, or darken the minds of 
 those, who, by the structure of the family state, are com- 
 mitted to their care and love ; by what right or edict do 
 they exercise this Circaean policy over strangers and 
 guests ? 
 
 Thou, who makest a feast, whence this increased ac- 
 tivity in the mixture of dangerous elements ? — this array 
 of excitement and the means of intoxication ? What evil 
 
260 LETTER TO FEMALES. 
 
 hath the stranger done, that thou shouldst send the phy- 
 sician to his lodgings ? — or perhaps deepen in him that 
 phigue-spot which no physician can heal ? 
 
 The invited guest came trustingly under thy roof, be- 
 guiled by words of courtesy. Send him not away sick- 
 ened or sorrowing, but cheered by that simple, safe enter- 
 tainment, which has left your own thoughts unwearied 
 and fresh for the social intercourse, appropriate to be- 
 ings who have a mind as well as a body. Surely, no 
 housekeeper, or mother, would deliberately make the 
 sacred rites of hospitality, or the table where her " olive- 
 plants" daily gather, in their blossoming hope, subser- 
 vient to gluttony and intemperance, or to the education 
 of habits that might lead to vices so degrading. 
 
 It is happily now, less the custom than formerly, to 
 press as a mark of welcome or pledge of hospitality, the 
 draught that may inebriate. Still, it is not extinct. And 
 though, in the majority of cases, it may be harmless, can 
 we be sure that it is so in all ? — that it micrht never serve 
 as fuel to some latent taste, subdued with difficulty, and 
 which, but for our temptation, might possibly have been 
 overcome ? 
 
 If it is asked, why the Christian inhabitants of a most 
 Christian land should choose, as the herald of their hos- 
 pitality, the pledge of their friendship, an usage as dan- 
 gerous as the sword of Damocles, we hear only the an- 
 swer, — " It is the fashion^ To the inquiry, how w^oman, 
 whose safety is so deeply involved in the moral purity 
 
LETTER TO FEMALES. 261 
 
 of the land, should venture to tamper with the founda- 
 tions of temperance, — still the same answer, " It is the 
 fashion.'" It has been seriously demanded by the guar- 
 dians of virtue and religion, why she should ever be faith- 
 less to her sacred trust, and she hath herself answered, — 
 "It is the fashion.'' 
 
 When, to efface a stigma from national character, the 
 philanthropist and statesman are combining their energies, 
 it becomes not those of humble name or obscure station, 
 to remain inactive. Our sex, depending by physical 
 weakness as well as the structure of refined society, on 
 the protection of others, has immense interests at stake 
 in the prevalence or suppression of that lunacy, which 
 may transform protectors into murderers. The plea of 
 want of influence is not available, since far-sighted poli- 
 ticians admit that no vice can obtain great preponder- 
 ance in a civilized community, without the permission of 
 females. 
 
 If the cause of temperance, which has made such 
 advances, has still a giant's labor to perform, let us 
 not withhold the aid that, in our province of home, it is 
 our part to render. Can we, whose duties and felicities 
 are interwoven with the conjugal and maternal relations, 
 be too vigilant against whatever threatens to desecrate 
 our sanctuary ? 
 
 Sisters and friends ! who in your own regulated tastes, 
 have no temptation to excess of animal indulgence, who 
 without effort abstain from all that could cloud the mind. 
 
262 LETTER TO FEMALES, 
 
 or inflame the passions, are you thus absolved from fur- 
 ther responsibility ? Is not the prevention of evil in 
 others, according to the measure of your ability, a duty ? 
 To the teaching of example, are we not bound to add the 
 weight of that influence which the courtesy of an en- 
 lightened age, and the condescending spirit of the religion 
 of Jesus, has in these latter days accorded to us ? Secure 
 in our own unfallen estate, is it not possible that regret or 
 remorse may in future years extort the confession, — '' We 
 are verily guilty concerning our brother ?" 
 
 If the spoiler may yet eff"ect an entrance at the fireside, 
 — the household board, — the nursery, — have we nothing 
 to do ? We, whose fondest aff'ections take root at that 
 fireside, — who, at that household board have precedence 
 and power, — to whom that nursery is the garner of 
 the dearest hopes, for time and eternity, can we trace 
 amid those hallowed retreats the footsteps of a foe, and 
 not tremble ? 
 
 Wife ! — who by solemn vows, before men and angels, 
 hast entered into an union that death alone can dissolve, 
 has it been your fate to see the vice of intemperance 
 casting deadly shadow over the heart, where your high- 
 est earthly confidence reposed ? And day by day, and 
 hour after hour, as you w^atched its fearful ravages, were 
 you careful not to upbraid, not to provoke, not to argue 
 reproachfully ; but to repress your own sense of suff'er- 
 ing, — to make home desirable, — to revivify those affec- 
 tions, which are the fountains of purity and joy ? Above 
 
LETTER TO FEMALES. 263 
 
 all, were your supplications unceasing to Him, who alone 
 can turn the heart, as the rivers of waters are turned ? 
 Then, though the harvest of your toils may have per- 
 ished, — though the desohition of your peace notliing 
 earthly can solace, — still, you will have escaped the 
 rankling torture of the reflection, that you are verily 
 guilty concerning him who was " your more than brother, 
 and your next to God/' 
 
 Mother! — whose duties are laid deeper than any vow 
 of the lips, even in the immutable strength of a love 
 that cannot sweive, — did you counsel your children in 
 this matter, " rising early, and late taking rest ?" With 
 the developments of character, did you strive to impress 
 the control of the appetites, — the excellence of pleas- 
 ures derived from intellect and benevolence, — the true 
 heroism of subjugating the flesh to the spirit? Did 
 you oppose with your authority every infraction of these 
 principles ? Did you warn them of the infirmity of their 
 nature, — of the trials, the tempters that await them, — 
 of their need to seek help from above? At dawn, and 
 at the hush of midnight, was there a fervent lifting up 
 of your soul, that they might be " temperate in all 
 things?" 
 
 Still, should it be your lot to behold one whom you 
 had nurtured, stain the heritage of his athers, and go 
 down to a drunkard's grave, may it never be your fearful 
 doom to stand at the bar of the High Judge, and say, — 
 ^* I am verily guilty concerning" whom ? Not the 
 
264 LETTER TO FEMALES. 
 
 brother, whose course you might have been unable to 
 influence, — not the husband, whom it was never your 
 prerogative to control, — but the child, whom you brought 
 into hfe, and loved more than life ; — the child, for the 
 first pencillings on whose soul you were accountable, 
 intrusted to you as it was, like unsullied wax, to be 
 stamped with the signet of Heaven. 
 
 Yet there are other evils than those that flow from 
 excess in drinking, which they who would be " temper- 
 ate in all things," must avoid. There are other excite- 
 ments than those of the table, which it is our duty, both 
 by example and precept, to discourage. 
 
 One is the stimulus of light conversation, vernacularly 
 called gossip, in w^hich the integrity of facts is too often 
 sacrificed to their embellishment. Our position as a sex 
 supplies a redundancy of such subjects, while a desire of 
 adding novelty, or variety to soci 1 intercourse, gives to 
 slight circumstances undue inflation and expansion. Cen- 
 soriousness springs less frequently from unkind feeling, 
 than from the ambition of surpassing others in pungency 
 of narration. The flattering verdict of possessing wut, 
 must be maintained, though a fair reputation suflPer, or 
 a weak one fall. Even kindly disposed natures may be 
 led to this intemperate mode of serving up character, by 
 the tastes and habits of those around. But on the hard 
 heart, the tongue may sharpen itself, till one becomes a 
 spear, and the other a millstone. 
 
 If thou art bidden to a feast of mangled reputations, 
 
LETTER TO FEMALES. 265 
 
 sit not unduly long, nor lift with complacence the cup in 
 which thy neighbor's faults are infused. Through the 
 same process of fermentation thine own good name may 
 also pass, for at the wine-press of slander, there is no 
 respect of persons. The sour grape that setteth the 
 teeth on edge, and the rich cluster from the valley of 
 Eshcol, which the Lord commended, — go in alike, — and 
 the mingled wine is pleasant to the perverted palate. 
 
 Doth it not behoove us rather to uplift the banner of a 
 charity that '' thinketh no evil ?" For, in the words of a 
 fine writer, '' if we are capable of showing what is 'good 
 in another, and neglect to do it, we omit a duty, — we 
 omit to give rational pleasure, and to conciliate right 
 good-will. Nay more, are we not abettors, if not aiders 
 in the vilest fraud,- — the fraud of purloining from respect ? 
 Being intrusted with letters of great interest, what a 
 baseness not to deliver them !" 
 
 The influence of words and sympathies, is seldom 
 fully estimated. Like the falling pebble in the stream, 
 they are surrounded by circles far beyond their own cir- 
 cumference, which continue to widen, after the parent 
 cause is buried and forgotten. The words and sympa- 
 thies of woman, though moving in a narrow and secluded 
 sphere, have peculiar force of propagation. They are not 
 impeded in their action, by those pre-occupations of prej- 
 udice, rancors of political strife, or intrigues of state, with 
 which the eloquence of man contends. They often fall 
 on soil, prepared for their reception, by the dews of in- 
 
 12 
 
266 LETTER TO FEMALES. 
 
 fiincy, — the sunny skies of childhood, — or the tranquil j 
 culture of friendship and affection. Can our responsi- | 
 biUty on their account be too strongly impressed ? | 
 
 In the fumes of vanity there is also a species of intox- i 
 ication, to which our sex, from their position, are exposed. 
 A young female, — especially if possessing beauty or ac- 
 complishments, — is often nurtured with the food of adula- 
 tion. But, in her ultimate sphere of action, she finds a 
 different aliment, to which it would have been well, if 
 the mental appetite had been early trained. The essence 
 of conjugal and maternal duty, is disinterestedness. The 
 undue study of dress, the extravagant expenditure of time 
 and money, for luxuriant display, the predominance of 
 self as a rulino- motive, should pass awav, as the dawn 
 when the sun ariseth. The true happiness of our na- 
 ture is in doing good, — in conferring, rather than in re- 
 ceiving benefits. The holy estate of matrimony is made 
 more holy, by its facilities for these ends. A well-or- 
 dered, agreeable home, is both a preventive to vice and 
 a refuo-e for those who have been "hurt by the archers." 
 Strength is given us here, that we may do an angel's 
 work. 
 
 The preponderance of pursuits comparatively trilling, 
 is hazardous. For though none of the employments that 
 minister to the comfort of domestic life, however minute 
 in detail, or lowly in character, should be overlooked or 
 despised, yet time must be reserved for the culture of 
 intellect, for retaining knowledge once acquired, and in- 
 
LETTEli TO FEMALES. 267 
 
 oreasino^ its store by those who would desire to maintain 
 durable empire over the heart. The first enthusiasm of 
 youthful love must suffer abatement. It has been aptly 
 compared to the " shadow of early morning, decreasing 
 as the day advances." That in its transition it may take 
 the form of that more sober and sublimated affection, 
 which deepens till the sunset of life, and blends with the 
 parting smile a pledge of deathless reuni:)n, it must be 
 fortified by a steadfast mental, moral, and religious prog- 
 ress, — an elevation in the scale of being, which labors 
 to bear upw\ard those whom best it loves. 
 
 A too excitable temperament is to be guarded against. 
 Its tendenc}^ is to cloud the judgment, and impair those 
 defences which our weakness needs. The domination of 
 passion, partakes of the frenzy of intemperance in drink- 
 ing. It destroys the balance of thought, and the sway 
 of reason. It '' taketh away the armor in which we 
 trusted, and divideth the spoils." The loss of clear in- 
 tellectual guidance, even for brief and long separated in- 
 tervals, is not safe for those who often find their best 
 wdsdom inadequate to the trials and emergencies of life. 
 Would the helmsman, amid shoals and quicksands, occa- 
 sionally lay aside his vigilance, trusting that any error, 
 thus committed, might be rectified in his future course ? 
 Should the bird of passage linger, and lose sight of its 
 leader, might it be sure to join the flock unscathed, when 
 its reverie w^as over ? And must not she, who holds the 
 helm of a household, and would so pass this troubled pil- 
 
26S 
 
 LETTZ7V. T 
 
 : F 
 
 HIM ALES. 
 
 crrimn^^. li " :■: 
 
 :.: miss winh t: 
 
 .eni the " BeiLer T.;i,n;i'' 
 
 srr^rJ.«i "H'T St-ii'T 
 
 ici 
 
 
 .lie: spiri:, and Iab^3r 
 
 r,- •r-yc.^^-'-^-- 
 
 
 
 izj of a self- 
 
 posses^ 
 
 
 Wea*.;*! :~ 
 
 ^ ' " ' 
 
 "e 
 
 an LQebriiiCmor tendency. 
 
 which its 
 
 
 
 vavs able to withstazML 
 
 Through U:^ c:^ 
 
 
 
 -•-*-~-!-r- ♦■- r .^ % f- t^- > n .t t-i .H 
 
 r"^ — Tr>*n,-t .^ '-r- 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ~ 
 
 ^ 
 
 irrtv. that 
 
 I inriTcy^fc ' ' r r_ 
 
 rt 
 
 ':c:. 
 
 E"r~ 
 
 - 
 
 iO* 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 :3 see 
 :. G' silrer, 
 
 grive, while 
 
 17 J.VcS. 
 
 i^Cu LCOSc: 
 
 -■ 
 
 - 
 
 Ir''"'"^ ' 
 
 . 
 
 
 .-rd "t - 
 
 --" _ '•? 
 
 OW-n. - 
 
 
 - 
 
 '. ~ - '^ 
 
 iatenriew. 
 
 As 
 
 it re_ ~ - _ oe 
 oiY be - _ - : 
 
 ye: 
 
 
 - 
 
 
 :e us 
 
 SLjj 
 
 Lt ii - . >is ii we Siice 
 
 S:-L^ C7 i.lc. v\ 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 , . . . , 
 
 - - -- k-e home 
 
 th-r ...... 
 
 
 — 
 
LETTER TO FE^fALES. 269 
 
 " temperate in all things," it is not sufficient simply to 
 shun the wine-cup, and the glutton's feast. We have to- 
 gether contemplated some of the dangers that surround 
 us, — some of the temptations which we must repel, for the 
 sake of those whom we love. Other dangers and temp- 
 tations might also have been pointed out. 
 
 But the field is broad, and time, with me is short. I 
 have scattered a few seeds, whose fruits may be gath- 
 ered, when I am gone ; — a few hints, which you will ex- 
 pand and illustrate in the beauty of your example. 
 
 *•' There is no service, said Lord Bacon, comparable to 
 good counsel, — since no man can do so much for us, as 
 we may do for ourselves : and good counsel helpeth us 
 to help ourselves." A still greater teacher, incites us to 
 add to ''knowledge, temperance; and to temperance, 
 patience ; and to patience, godliness ; and to godliness, 
 brotherly-kindness ; and to brotherly-kindness, charity." 
 May the spirit of this glorious climax animate and up- 
 hold us, while we labor to scrave on the siofnet-rino- of 
 this fleeting life, the motto, ^* temperate in all things.'' 
 
WOMAN'S PATRIOTISM. 
 
 How shall we aid the land we love ? 
 
 O'er dusty tomes to pore, 
 And catch the warrior's wrathful mood 
 
 From Amazonian lore ? — 
 To turbulence, or pride incite, 
 And quench of peace the angel light ? 
 Relinquish for a meteor's glare 
 The boon of Love's protecting care ? 
 Ambition's wind-swept heights assail, 
 And shun the sweet, secluded vale ? — 
 
 No, sister, no. 
 
 How aid our land ? — The boastful voice 
 
 In public haunts to raise ? 
 Or barter for a fickle fame 
 
 Affection's priceless praise ? 
 For " Woman's Rights" to clamor loud. 
 And dare the throng, and face the crowd ? 
 Or wrapped in wild desire to roam 
 Forfeit those charities of home, 
 
woman's patriotism. 271 
 
 That pain can soothe, and grief control, 
 And lull to harmony the soul ? — 
 
 No, sister, no. 
 
 In her own place, the hearth beside. 
 
 The patriot's heart to cheer, 
 The young, unfolding mind to guide. 
 
 The future sage to rear, — 
 Where sleeps the cradled infant fair. 
 To watch with love and kneel in prayer. 
 Cheer each sad soul with pity's smile, 
 And frown on every latent wile 
 That threats the pure, domestic shade, 
 Sister, — so best our life shall aid 
 
 The land we love. 
 
THE PRECIOUS GIFT. 
 
 OiN SEEING A GOLD CHAIN, AMONG THE CONTRIBUTIONS, 
 AT A MEETING FOR TEMPERANCE. 
 
 WocLD that ye had a voice, ye links of gold, 
 To tell me of your giver. 
 
 Fancy paints 
 A young, expressive brow, and a clear eye. 
 Beaming with purer light, as from the neck 
 Your clasp was loosened. 
 
 Whisper, tissued chain ! 
 Wert thou the favored talisman of love ? — 
 Or friendship's bright memento ? 
 
 Still, 'tis well 
 That thou art here. — For now, that love may be 
 Remembered by the deeds that bless mankind ; 
 And hoUest friendship, might be well content 
 With such a token. 
 
 Stranger! who perchance 
 Didst find this graceful ornament awake 
 The throb of vanity, — we give thee praise 
 For this, thy wise exchange. The pleasant thoughts 
 Of pure benevolence, which they who live 
 
THE PRECIOUS GIFT. 273 
 
 Only for self, know not, — })e thy reward, 
 And crown thy life with joy. 
 
 Still be thou true 
 To Pity's angel-prompting. What thine hand 
 Findeth in duty's sphere, do with the miglit 
 Of woman's tenderness. By flowery bands 
 Of soft persuasion, draw the Avanderer back. 
 From ruin's slippery verge. Toil to uproot 
 Those Aveeds of vice, that by the wayside spring, 
 And e'en amid our garden's choicest flowers 
 Unblushingly intrude. Show gently forth 
 In thine own hallowed life, the blessedness 
 Of that meek mind, which Temperance and Peace, 
 Fair-handed sisters, lead in duty's path, 
 And crown with beauty that surmounts the tomb. 
 
 12^ 
 
THE SPOILER. 
 
 Parent, — who with speechless feeling 
 
 O'er thy cradled treasure bent, 
 Every year new charms revealing, 
 
 Yet thy wealth of love unspent : 
 Hast thou seen that blossom blighted 
 
 By a drear, untimely frost ? 
 All thy labor unrequited, — 
 
 Every glorious promise lost ? 
 
 Wife, — w^ith agony unspoken, 
 
 Bending 'neath affliction's rod, 
 Is thy prop, — thine idol broken, 
 
 Fondly trusted, next to God ? — 
 Husband, — o'er thy hope a mourner, 
 
 Of thy chosen friend ashamed. 
 Hast thou to her burial boi-ne her, 
 
 Unrepentant, unreclaimed ? 
 
 Child, — in tender weakness turning 
 To thy heaven-appointed guide, 
 
 Doth a lava-poison burning 
 
 Change to gall affection's tide? 
 
THE SPOILER. 275 
 
 Still that orphan burden bearing, 
 Darker than the grave can show, 
 
 Dost thou bow thee down despairing 
 To thine heritage of Avoe ? 
 
 Country, — on thy sons depending. 
 Strong in manhood, bright in bloom. 
 
 Hast thou seen thy pride descending 
 Shrouded, to tlie unhonor'd tomb ? 
 
 Rise ! on eao-le-pinion soar 
 
 o 
 
 pinion soaring, 
 
 Rise ! in all thy godlike birth. 
 And Jehovah's aid imploring. 
 
 Sweep the Spoiler from the earth, 
 
 THE END. 
 

 ^V'^V 
 
 
 o 
 
 <^ ^^ *iMl/A= ^.-iv 
 
 
 
 
 ■^o ^' 
 
 ^0 "Vi 
 
 '^'^/T.s^^d^ 
 
 , ^%- 
 
 
 
 
 5" ' ^ "^'^ = 
 
 
 ° ^ >^ 
 
 .>J 
 
 ?P -^^^ » 
 
 
 '.• .*'\\ 
 
 = **& ^^ 
 
 
 .^-^'^^ 
 
 
 \"'%. '. 
 
 
 1 ''^ 
 
 .^^ 
 
 A 
 

 '■><■■• ■^ 
 
 W"^ s 
 
 
 \^ '^ 
 
 
 
 
 . V * A ^U. ^ . k * A ' 
 
 ■^ / 
 
 
 z 
 
 
 A^ r o c^, * O 
 
 ^ ^ . K -^ A ^ 
 
 %. ^ , ,v ^ A 
 
 o ^ ^ 
 
 
 f^-^^'^^ 
 
 
 
 
 
 V s^ 
 
 . V -^ A "^ ^ . X -^ A "^ ^ * x ^ A