*r-. 
 
 %^i 
 
POETRY AND PROSE, 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. CHARLOTTE A. JERAULD 
 
 WITH 
 
 A MEMOIR, 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY ^BACON. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 A. TOMPKINS, 38 CORNHILL 
 1860. 
 
-f^a-l^l 
 
 ^to 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, 
 
 Ey Abel Toiwpkins, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Coui-t of the District of Massachusetts, 
 
 Stereotyped by 
 
 HOBART & BOBBINS, 
 
 BOSTON. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Thanks are tendered to those friends who so readily 
 furnislied letters and facts for the brief Memoir herewith 
 presented to the reader. Our aim has been to say too 
 little, rather than too much; but what we have said, 
 whether it be regarded as too limited or too extended, we 
 have said in all good conscience, regarding it as great a 
 sin to speak dishonestly of the dead as of the living. Our 
 record here is of a pure-hearted and heroic woman ; — not 
 heroic because of any wonderful exhibition of female intre- 
 pidity, but because of a sustaining and persistent energy, 
 that made the best of life as it came, not refusing to do 
 little in the way of culture, because a great deal could not 
 be done. The truest heroism is that which seldom finds a 
 place in history, and to proclaim which the trumpet of 
 fame is too brazen. It is the heroism of a constant resist- 
 ing of difficulties which stand in the way of soul-advance- 
 ment, and that threaten, by their constant encroachments, 
 to put out the fire of effort, and weaken the hope of the 
 heart. We have not written this little Memoir with any 
 other expectation than that a religious lesson will be re- 
 ceived, favorable to such an humble and grateful recog- 
 nition of Divine Benefactions as will prevent a wasting of 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 mind in unfruitful wishing for more. If we can aid the 
 
 work of this religion by this Memoir, — if we can awake' 
 
 any young woman to the use of whatever means of culture 
 
 are granted to her, that she may no longer say she is above 
 
 or below her sphere, and that effort is vain, — we shall gain 
 
 our only object in setting up this unpretending Memorial 
 
 of Charlotte. 
 
 The Portrait herewith given was taken from a miniature 
 
 painted in Charlotte's girlhood, the only likeness of her to 
 
 be found. Her mother says she sees nothing to be altered, 
 
 and is much pleased with it. This is a sufficient evidence 
 
 of correctness. 
 
 HENRY BACON. 
 
 Providence f R. Z, Oct. 1850. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 FADE 
 
 MEMOIR, 17 
 
 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 
 
 The Call, 101 
 
 " Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven," . . ' . , . 102 
 
 Mossdale Cottage, 103 
 
 Flowers, 105 
 
 The Old Well, 106 
 
 Church Bells, 108 
 
 Violets, 109 
 
 '^ He commandeth Light to shine out of Darkness," . , 110 
 
 The Flower-gatherers, . .' Ill 
 
 Music, 114 
 
 A Death-scene, 115 
 
 Mary, 116 
 
 Song, 117 
 
 The First Communion, . . . ... . .118 
 
 A Dream of Heaven, •••. 119 
 
 The Magdalene, . . .120 
 
 To a Temperance Lecturer, . • . . • • . 122 
 
 Reminiscences, 123 
 
 1# 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 The Minstrel Bride, 125 
 
 The Dying Wife to her Husband, 127 
 
 A Sketch, . 129 
 
 The Motherless, 130 
 
 Charity Hymn, ........... 133 
 
 Installation Hymn, .....••>« 133 
 
 The True Christian, 134 
 
 Humility, Hope and Truth, ••..... 135 
 
 The Name, 136 
 
 The Old Wife to her Husband, 137 
 
 The Widow's Treasures, 139 
 
 A Memorial of Happy Days, . . . . . . .141 
 
 The Lonely One, 143 
 
 Prayer of the Sailor's Wife, . . . . . . . 145 
 
 Genevieve, 146 
 
 Song, 147 
 
 On the Death of Miss E. A. Holt, 148 
 
 Weep not for the Dead, 150 
 
 Song, . . . *. . . . . . . . .151 
 
 Sonnets, 152 
 
 I. " Give me more light," ..... 152 
 II. "He maketh his sun to rise on the evil and 
 
 on the good," 152 
 
 III. " And sendeth rain on the just and on the un- 
 
 just," 153 
 
 IV. The Crucifixion, 153 
 
 V. The Stars, 154 
 
 VI. Mary, Mother of Christ, 154 
 
 VII. "Our Father! who art in heaven," . . . 155 
 VIII. " Thy kingdom come," 155 
 
CONTENTS. TH 
 
 PAGB 
 
 IX. " Give us this day our daily bread," . . , 156 
 
 X. " Lead us not into temptation," .... 156 
 XL "For thine is the kingdom, the power and the 
 
 glory forever. Amen," .... 157 
 
 XII. Cassie, 157 
 
 XIII. The Bride, 158 
 
 XIV. The Burial, 158 
 
 XV. God's Altar, 159 
 
 XVI. Clara, 159 
 
 XVII. Suggested by a Temperance Discourse, , . 160 
 
 XVIII. A Vision, 160 
 
 XIX. Mary, 161 
 
 " Pray without ceasing," 161 
 
 Records of the Old Year, 162 
 
 *' I know that my Redeemer liveth," 164 
 
 To a Friend, on the Death of her Husband, .... 165 
 
 The Good Old Man, 167 
 
 " 1 would not live alway." 168 
 
 The Old Church-bell, ..168 
 
 " Comfort ye my People," 170 
 
 The Village Grave-yard, . .' 172 
 
 A Song for the Past, 173 
 
 '•' We have been Friends together," 174 
 
 Memories, . 175 
 
 The Wood-path, 177 
 
 " Life is like an April day," 179 
 
 Eloquence, 180 
 
 "No More," 181 
 
 Childhood, 182 
 
 The Early Dead, 183 
 
Vra CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 " Bear the Cross and wear the Crown," • . • • • 184 
 
 Yearnings for the Departed, . , . . • . . 185 
 
 Stanzas, ,, 187 
 
 Isabel, 188 
 
 Light and Shadow, 189 
 
 The Meccas of Memory, . . 193 
 
 What shall I wish for thee, 195 
 
 PROSE SELECTIONS. 
 
 Emma Beaumont, 197 
 
 '\Iargaret Leslie, 209 
 
 Kate Vincent, 225 
 
 Lights and Shadows of AVoman's Life, 243 
 
 Our Minister's Family, ...... 243 
 
 The May Queen, . . 261 
 
 Caroline, 290 
 
 The Irish Daughter-in-law, 311 
 
 The Mother's Heart, . . . . . . .326 
 
 The Auld Wife, 344 
 
 Chronicles and Sketches of Hazlehurst, .... 363 
 A Bird's-eye View of the Town, . . . .363 
 
 The Squantum, 378 
 
 Bose Brady, ..•••... 398 
 
 The Lace-weaver, 416 
 
MEMOIK. 
 
 Five years have passed, and on the anniversary 
 of Charlotte's death we begin this Memorial. The 
 heavy rains are falling, and the sultry air of this 
 August day is oppressive ; but ffie sunlight pene- 
 trates the clouds, and, at intervals, the clear blue 
 heavens open to the eye, like the overarching prov- 
 idence of God, which to see is to be consoled. 
 Suddenly called to this labor, we most earnestly 
 wish to perform it aright, guarding equally against 
 the exaggerations of friendship, that make question- 
 able the verity of a record, and that cold, critical 
 analysis of character, which sees no difference 
 between the anatomy of the body and the soul, 
 and which, having no enthusiasm, can commu- 
 nicate none to the reader. An English artist, in 
 explaining why he found more demands for por- 
 traits in this country than at home, said, that the 
 English sought a portrait when the beauty of a 
 face impelled them, but Americans, to gratify their 
 affections. The contrast may illustrate the differ- 
 ence between the passion for biography when some 
 extraordinary phase of character or genius is to be 
 depicted, and that more moderate feeling, that asks 
 
ih 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 for a memorial of the beloved, though no very 
 striking qualities may command the attention of 
 the world. Dr. Johnson once remarked, that the 
 life of the humblest and most obscure person would 
 furnish matter for a valuable biography, were it 
 truthfully written ; and why should we not see the 
 same utihty, in the biographies of those who have 
 lived worthily in a retired sphere, as in the little 
 local histories of towns and hamlets. They are 
 the milder lights that cheer us as we enter the vil- 
 lage streets, after leaving the sea with its blazing 
 beacon-towers. 
 
 But if, with the living face to inspire him, the 
 artist, with his pencils and colors, fails so often to 
 present an acceptable likeness of a friend, what 
 shall be our hope, when we have only words to 
 paint with, and five years have passed since our 
 friend was visible ! To make our best effort, is all 
 we have promised; and we write as the artist 
 paints, who cannot shake off a singular tremor, as 
 he feels that a thinking soul is looking through 
 searching eyes, tracing, with him, the progress of 
 the work before him. Only as he sees, can he 
 paint ; and though tremblingly sensitive, and eager 
 to counterfeit nature, he cannot touch the canvas 
 as another's thought would bid him. He looks, he 
 paints ; and when the last touch is given, he yields 
 his work, and awaits the decisions of those who 
 forget how much easier it is to criticize than to 
 execute better. Charlotte is before me, and though 
 I well remember the poet's verse. 
 
MEMOIR. 19 
 
 " How pure at heart, and sound in head, 
 With what divine affections bold, 
 Should be the man whose thought would hold 
 An hour's communion with the dead, — " 
 
 yet I take courage to attempt my task, as, unlike 
 the poet, I do not seek to penetrate the mysteries 
 of the future, but to recall the past, and let it point 
 its moral, and teach its lesson. 
 
 Charlotte lived to love. Her fondest wish was 
 to be loved by the estimable and the good ; and one 
 of the chief sorrows of her life was, the fear that 
 she appeared frivolous to those whose love could 
 be won only by that depth of character to which 
 gayety was but as the foam of the wave to the sea. 
 Her keen sense of the ludicrous was regarded by 
 her as her ^'evil genius." It was active every- 
 where, and yet was accompanied by the most pro- 
 found reverence for things holy, and appreciation 
 of things beautiful. Such a union is not uncom- 
 mon, and we must vindicate it ere we enter upon 
 the memoir. The merriest things have been writ- 
 ten and said, when the intensest pain was felt, and 
 the deepest melancholy was on the soul. Cowper 
 wrote his John Gilpin in a fit of heaviest despond- 
 "ency ; and was not Hood, who hid his maladies by 
 his melodies, and so poured an infusion of his 
 cheerful philosophy into the general heart that 
 hardly a soul dreamed he was a sufferer, — was 
 not he a man of constant suffering? A more beau- 
 tiful face I have never seen than his portrait pre- 
 sents. What an eye, expressive of pain calmly 
 borne, while the lips are gently pressed together 
 
20 MEMOIR. 
 
 with a smile, and the whole countenance is lighted 
 with a sunshiny thought ! He sang only when he 
 could say, 
 
 " I smell the rose above the mould." 
 
 His groans were smothered, and died in his own 
 chamber. And what honest indignation did he 
 pour out on a reverend detractor, who could not see 
 that glittering bubbles were made beautiful by the 
 same sunshine that lights the world, and who 
 styled that ribaldry which would, in dissolving, 
 leave no stain on purity ! The intensest suffering 
 has been sometimes endured because of the false 
 religious estimate of the lighter moods of mind, as 
 though ''the limit of becoming mirth" were "jail 
 limits." Let fitness of time and place be' heeded, 
 and what reasons are to be given why "quips and 
 cranks " should not be allowed as well as the most 
 impressive utterance of the most awful thought'? 
 An intense discernment of the ludicrous was as 
 natural and irresistible to Charlotte as breathing ; 
 and the activity of this quality of mind has been 
 seen in the purest, most religious and devotional 
 characters. The banishment of it from the record 
 of many a Christian's life, has made the portrait 
 unjust to the subject. It is because of this that 
 religious books have sometimes been called the 
 most irreligious literature. The wipressioti made 
 on the reader is false to the reality of religion, and 
 is injurious to the claims of religion on the whole- 
 ness of human nature. It is only to be likened to 
 
MEMOIR. 21 
 
 the melancholy picture of old age, where youth is 
 forgotten, and the life of life is gone. 
 
 Reform is needed in this department of moral 
 effort, and we imagine something may be done by 
 a vindication of the harmony that may exist, where 
 "jest and youthful jollity" make one phase of a 
 character, and the lowliest humility, and the deep- 
 est yearning for oneness with God, presents another. 
 It is the under-current of humor that keeps the 
 best minds in healthy movement ; and the loss of 
 that sprightliness has been the death of the most 
 elastic energies. " Leaves are light, Avavering, 
 changeable," says Jeremy Taylor; "they even 
 dance ; yet God, in his wisdom, has made them a 
 part of the oak. In so doing, he has given us a 
 lesson, not to deny stout-heartedness within, be- 
 cause we see the lightsomeness without." And so 
 also glorious Milton may speak and say, " This 
 vein of laughing hath oftentimes a strong and 
 sinewy force in teaching and confuting." 
 
 This vein was rich in our friend Charlotte, but 
 it never threw a richness of humor over anything 
 bad. It poured out its affluence as a bird sings, as 
 a brook glitters, as the phosphorescence of the sea 
 charms the voyager ; but as that bird could fly 
 heavenward, and that brook held its course to the 
 river," and that phosphorescence took nothing from 
 the majesty and glory of the sea, so the mind and 
 heart of Charlcrtte possessed the loftier and holier 
 tendencies. Throughout her diversified corre- 
 spondence, gayety of thought and feeling is met ; 
 
 wit sparkles and glitters; but never does it min- 
 
 2 
 
22 MEMOIR. 
 
 ister to malicious feeling, or ungenerous criticism. 
 It is a play of words that adds to the garden its 
 butterflies — to the mill-stream its foamy brilliants. 
 Such a restraint of a spontaneous power is as fine 
 an inlet to character as any revelation can give ; for 
 as we read of Jesus, he is known by his silence as 
 well as by his speech. There is weakness of char- 
 acter where fitness of time and occasion is not 
 thought of in indulging wit and humor; there is 
 strength, when the proper restraint is continuously 
 imposed. 
 
 Charlotte was born in Old Cambridge, Mass., 
 April 16, 1820. Her home was near "the Col- 
 leges." Her parents were Richard and Charlotte 
 Fillebrown, who, in the early childhood of their 
 daughter, removed to Boston. Her father was a 
 worthy and industrious man, and a kind and in- 
 dulgent parent, possessing a generous spirit and a 
 liberal mind. His daughter was the pride of his 
 life, and he labored to secure to her all advantages 
 possible in his humble lot to aid her culture. The 
 daughter reciprocated this fervency of affection, 
 and when she recalled the years of their union, she 
 could remember but one instance of disobedience. 
 For that she was sent from his presence during a 
 single meal, and it was nearly a heart-break to her. 
 He died when she was nine years of age.' Her 
 mother still lives. When the intelligence of her 
 father's death was brought to Charlotte, she fainted, 
 and every attempt to look upon the corpse was 
 followed by the same result. All through her life, 
 she kept his memory green, and frequently, when 
 
MEMOIR. 23 
 
 recurring to the opening years of her hfe, she 
 would say, ''Had he Hved, I should have been 
 happy." 
 
 In the common schools of Boston she received 
 all the educational advantages which were ever 
 afforded her, and none of the scholars of her age 
 were more assiduous in their studies, or rightly 
 ambitious of advancement, than was she. The 
 recollections of her at the beginning, and in the 
 progress of her school-days, furnished by one of her 
 earliest friends, present an interesting picture of 
 her. She says : — 
 
 I could relate much concerning- her which would be 
 exceedingly interesting, were it not that it would be tearing 
 aside the veil which conceals the private feelings of both. I 
 riiust confine myself, therefore, to a 'few comparativefy uninter- 
 esting incidents. When about nine years of age, I was trans- 
 ferred, among other children, from the Bowdoin school, in 
 Derne-street, to the Mayhew school, in Hawkins-street. I 
 think it was on the first day of my appearance there, that a 
 little girl came to me, and, in the sweetest and most winning 
 manner, made herself acquainted. She had a fair complexion ; 
 fine, dark-blue eyes ; long, dark eyelashes ; long, dark-brown, 
 curling hair, and a countenance beaming with every kind feel- 
 ing. It was Charlotte. She welcomed me — a stranger; she 
 took me to her heart, and the attachment then commenced con- 
 tinued unabated and unshaken through all life's vicissitudes, 
 unto the last moment of her life. She was then about eight 
 ^ears of age — one year younger than myself. The family con- 
 sisted then of her mother, herself, and one brother, younger 
 than herself. They removed, shortly after I became acquainted 
 with them, to an old-fashioned house in Pitts-street, now de- 
 stroyed and replaced by a more modern one. In a room of that 
 old house, which stands unrivalled in my memory for neatness 
 and cheerfulness, I passed some of the happiest hours of my 
 
24 MEMOIR. 
 
 life. We attended the same school constantly, and from per- 
 sonal observation I can say, that as a scholar I have never 
 seen her surpassed. There may have been those who were 
 more brilliant, but I am sure none more solid. She betrayed, 
 at a very early age, an inordinate fondness for poetry, and other 
 works of fiction, but she very seldom neglected her duties to 
 gratify this taste. It was my delight to establish myself com- 
 fortably by her side every Wednesday and Saturday afternoon, 
 and let her pour into my eager ears the information which she 
 had gleaned from English papers, furnished by a relative. At 
 that time we were thoroughly acquainted with the incomings 
 and outgoings of every duke, duchess, marquis, marchioness, 
 baronet, baroness, and right honorable, in all England, Scot- 
 land and Ireland. At this time, also, she wrote many pieces 
 of poetry, which were duly read to and praised by me. In this 
 manner five or six years glided away. At the expiration of 
 that time, we had both set ourselves up for young ladies, and 
 entered the world as such ; -and although her attachment for me 
 remained as fervent as ever, yet, as there was a marked differ- 
 ence in our characters, there was consequently a marked differ- 
 ence in our pursuits ; and our intercourse was, in a great 
 measure, broken up, and we renewed it only at intervals of two 
 or three years until after her marriage, when it was again 
 renewed, and continued unbroken until the sad day of her 
 death. 
 
 While at school, Charlotte received many tokens 
 of the approval of her teachers. She excelled par- 
 ticularly in "composition," and so excellent were 
 her pieces that her teacher was suspicious she was 
 shining in borrowed jewels. To test her, she gave 
 her a subject, and a certain space of time in which 
 to write a certain number of verses on that theme. 
 This was cruelty on the part of the teacher, as it 
 implied the supposition that the mind can write 
 readily, like a machine, at the bidding of another ; 
 
MEMOIR. 25 
 
 but the scholar took the theme, aroused by her 
 honesty being questioned, and in less than the 
 appointed time she produced more than the required 
 complement of verses. The teacher was satisfied, 
 and suspicion changed to pride. A little incident 
 took place at this period of our friend's life, which 
 lived with her. She had written quite a number 
 of ''compositions" on patriotic subjects, that called 
 out the full strength of her thought, and power of 
 expression. The school was visited by Hon. Daniel 
 Webster and Hon. Henry Clay, and, as a part of 
 the exhibition, the teacher read some of the com- 
 positions of the scholars. The eminent statesmen 
 requested that the writer of some they specified 
 should be pointed out to them, and Charlotte was 
 introduced to them. They each made some com- 
 plimentary remarks to her, Mr. Clay finishing his 
 with, — : " I wish you were a boy, for then I would 
 make a statesman of you." 
 
 She was wont to regard her school-days as the 
 happiest-period of her life. She "loved to study," 
 and composition, the terror of most school-children, 
 was the easiest task to her. In the school was a 
 boy who had a remarkable genius for drawing, but 
 none for the use of the pen and words ; Charlotte 
 wrote for him, and he drew for her, and they 
 thought it quite a good exchange. He is now an 
 artist of celebrity. 
 
 Here we have the first kindlings of that intense 
 love of mental culture which marked every period 
 of Charlotte's life. Nothing could quench it. The 
 humbleness of her lot, presenting to her no prophe- 
 
 r 
 
26 MEMOIR. 
 
 cies but of a life of toil, and promising no aids to 
 intellectual development but those to be found 
 only at hours which less ardent natures would give 
 to repose, did not prevent her improving to the 
 utmost every providential privilege. What she 
 might be to the world, was not her thought; but 
 what her soul might become by the higher awak- 
 enings of its powers, was the vision without which 
 she would have perished. Her school compositions 
 are marked with a solicitous care that does the best 
 that can be done at the time of doing; and in 
 examining them, we were struck, at the first glance, 
 with the accuracy and precision of the 'punctua- 
 tion. Some of the best and most prolific writers 
 leave this matter but loosely attended to ; and it is 
 indicative of a want of fixedness or persistence of 
 purpose, or of patient effort, to make the meaning 
 definite — the thought clear. We have before us a 
 composition written by Charlotte when she was 
 but thirteen, marked on the back of the paper with 
 the highest approval of her teacher — the figure 
 8, underscored with four strokes of the pen, denot- 
 ing a four-fold emphasis of approbation. We give 
 one verse as a specimen. The poem is entitled 
 ''^ Stanzas ^^^ and opens thus : — 
 
 I love to quit my father's lordly dome, 
 And leaving far behind my splendid home, 
 To stray to some lone spot, and seek the shade, 
 Far from unfeeling mirth and vain parade. 
 
 The hand- writing is beautiful. The punctua- 
 tion-marks are as handsome as though made with 
 
MEMOIR, 27 
 
 type; and this excellence she preserved through 
 her whole life, in her letters, as in the "copy" for 
 the printer. This peculiarity, which marked a 
 progress that was sure of one step before another 
 was taken, is seen in all the pencillings in the 
 books which contain her earliest compositions; and 
 it is pleasant to look over these first efforts, and see 
 the changes and transpositions by which she im- 
 proved her use of language. This reading next 
 morning what was written at night, is an example 
 that many young writers need to copy, for she had 
 to contend with what is too often a fatal facility in 
 the use of language. Our periodicals contain too 
 many compositions, which, we should think, were 
 never read aloud by their writers, that the ear 
 might detect what eludes the eye, and which are 
 hurried to the press as though some necessity was 
 on the writers, irresistibly impelling them to such 
 an extremity. The half is oftentimes better than 
 the whole, as the orange-grower cut the fruit in 
 halves, and gave only the golden portion to his 
 visiter, saying, " We give only the sunnied side to 
 our friends." 
 
 Many allusions to scenes and objects connected 
 with her early childhood are to be found in her 
 poems, for her sight brought her the meaning of 
 things as they appear only to the poet. In one of 
 her letters (1842) she says : — 
 
 I am glad you like " The Old Well," for it is a favorite of 
 mine, and speaks to me of one of the favorite haunts of my 
 childhood. How often have I trodden that old foot-path, 
 pitcher in hand, to get a draught from the cool, shaded well ! 
 
28 MEMOIR. 
 
 1 have sent to the Repository a little poem, describing another 
 of those dear spots. I have told you, I believe, that my early 
 years were passed amid the beauties of Nature, and my recol- 
 lections of them are extremely vivid. At times they rise 
 before me so brightly and beautifully that I cannot refrain 
 from describing them ; — as though strangers could sympa- 
 thize in my ardent love for them ! 
 
 She probably referred to ''The Wood Path," 
 where she expresses her memories as the recollec- 
 tions of an aged man. Around her early home 
 was much to awaken the heart to the ministry of 
 Nature ; and thither she resorted, as a retreat from 
 the town. Lovelier rambling-spots for the feet of 
 the dreamy child are not to be found than in 
 "classic Cambridge;" and who can tell us but 
 that the shades of Mount Auburn were visited by 
 her, and that her longing to sleep there took a 
 touching earnestness from the unspeakable associ- 
 ations of life's dewy morning? Many a soul like 
 hers felt the fitness of those hills and vales for a 
 cemetery, long before the thought came to those 
 who originated that use of the scholar's rural study 
 and the child's sweet rambling-place. Images of 
 beauty thus fixed in her memory lived with her, 
 and but a slight thing was necessary to recall the 
 beloved scenes of the past. A gift of an "Annual" 
 gave her the sight of a picture of " The Haunted 
 Spring;" and, writing to her dearest friend, she 
 speaks of it, and says, ''The little spring, bubbling 
 ' forth with its clear, crystal stream, made my heart 
 dance with as much pleasure as when, in my 
 childish days, I used to seek out just such spots, 
 and exult in their beauty." 
 
MEMOIR. 29 
 
 Charlotte's school-days were ended when she 
 was at the age of fourteen, and w-ere followed by 
 toil-days, for we find her in the bindery at the age 
 of fifteen. Effectually did she keep herself free 
 from the foolish whims of a large class of minds, 
 that imagine labor and literary pursuits are utterly 
 uncongenial. Her employment was ''folding and 
 gathering," and like labors, in a book-bindery. 
 Her mind thought, while her hands were busied ; 
 and she often kept a pencil and paper near her. 
 A portion of her regular labor was in connection 
 with the Ladies' Repository^ a literary and reli- 
 gious monthly of the Universalist denomination; 
 and she thus had courage kindled to attempt some- 
 thing for the press, as she became familiar with 
 the merits of some articles which, doubtless, she 
 felt she could equal, and with others that made 
 her aspire after like excellence. 
 
 That the mind of Charlotte, at this early period 
 of life, was not uninterested in the gravest subjects 
 of thought, is evident from the themes she chose 
 for her earliest compositions, and the manner of 
 treatment. To this may be added a singular spec- 
 ulation, into which she entered with considerable 
 interest, concerning the preexistence of souls, and 
 their condition after death. The death of the 
 father so idolized by her, impressed her with the 
 mystery of death, and, unguided, her imagination 
 speculated without data. She fashioned to herself 
 a theory of the preexistence of souls, and that death 
 was but one of a series of changes, essential to 
 progress to higher and yet higher life. When she 
 
30 MEMom. 
 
 met a stranger whose countenance impressed her 
 and seemed familiar, she fancied she must have 
 met him in some previous state of being ; and any 
 unusual elevation of thotight or feeling was the 
 reviving of forgotten lore ; so that when she pon- 
 dered what, to her, were ''shadowy recollections," 
 she could say with the poet, that they 
 
 " Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, 
 Are yet a master-light of all our seeing." 
 
 We meet no traces of these ideas after she passed 
 her sixteenth year ; but we do meet many refer- 
 ences to death and eternity, which express the 
 confidence of love, and the patient waiting of faith. 
 The years of girlhood were now passed, and she 
 began to enter into woman's estate. At this time, 
 as editor of the Repository^ we received a commu- 
 nication — a story — written in a superior style 
 of penmanship, and requiring not a pen-touch to 
 prepare it for the printer. It bore the signature 
 of " Charlotte." It reminded us of the first article 
 from "S. C. E. ;" and we felt that a new star had 
 dawned, and expressed the feeling of pleasure at 
 beholding its rising, and the beauty of its light. 
 We continued to receive like favors, and no means 
 were afforded us of discovering the writer. Some- 
 times they would be found on the publisher's 
 counter; at other times, a stranger boy would 
 bring them in, and all his story was that "a young 
 lady, up-street, asked him to take that paper into 
 the store." We began to find, in our experience, 
 that all curiosity was hot confined to the feminine 
 
MEMOIR. 31 
 
 of human kind, and we were really eager to dis- 
 cover who ^'Charlotte" was, as was our printer, 
 who wanted to make acknowledgments for such 
 ''splendid copy." A little incident favored us. 
 The anniversary of a charitable society was to 
 take place the coming Sabbath, and an original 
 hymn for the occasion was desired by the man- 
 agers, and they had promise of one from a mem- 
 ber. As the publisher of the Repository^ to whom 
 the printing was committed, was passing from his 
 store into the bindery where Charlotte wrought, 
 a note was put into his hand, and he opened 
 it as he entered the room, expecting to find the 
 occasional hymn, but found, in its stead, an apol- 
 ogy for not writing it. ''This is too bad!" he 
 exclaimed ; and some three or four young women 
 turned, with ready sympathies, to know what 
 great grief had come to him. He told them the 
 import of the note, and said, jestingly, "Why can't 
 one of you write me a hymn?" One of them 
 replied, "How long a time will you give us 7" 
 "Till twelve o'clock," was the answer, the speaker 
 not imagining, in the least, that there was any 
 seriousness in the question, as he had little acquaint- 
 ance with them. When the bindery-girls left for 
 the noon repast, one of them came into his store, 
 and brought a paper, with a hymn pencilled on it, 
 and timidly offered it for acceptance for the occa- 
 sion required. She had composed it while at work, 
 and, verse after verse, she had committed it to 
 paper. It may be found in this volume, page 133. 
 After the writer of it had left the store, Mr. T. read 
 
32 MEMOIR. 
 
 • 
 
 the hymn again, and the handwriting struck him 
 as familiar. He went to the printer's, — found one 
 of " Charlotte's" manuscripts, — and identified the 
 writer as the composer of the hymn. Thus dis- 
 covered, she owned at once the authorship of the 
 communications for the Repository over the signa- 
 ture of " Charlotte," and the hymn was ushered 
 forth with her whole name, as though the discovery 
 must be published at once. 
 
 It is a critical time when first a sensitive and 
 timid soul is known as "a writer." Intimate 
 friends look upon the familiar face as though some 
 new revelation was made there. Some wonder; 
 others admire ; and yet others question the possi- 
 bility of the fact, hastening to look over all the 
 hymn-books within reach, to see if the hymn 
 ''written for the occasion" is not in some of them. 
 Never more can she write as when veiled in ob- 
 scurity. The person is known; and the writer 
 fears, as she moves her pen, the criticism that 
 would never be dreaded while she was unknown. 
 
 We availed ourself of the first opportunity to 
 introduce ourself to the discovered ''Charlotte," to 
 whom, through the Repository^ we had said many 
 encouraging things. We had felt a religious in- 
 terest in her from discovering that, while unknown 
 to us, she had attended public worship wherever 
 we chanced to officiate in Boston or its immediate 
 vicinity. We first met her in the bindery, engaged 
 busily in folding "signatures" of the Repository, 
 and were charmed with the perfect simplicity of 
 her deportment. She lost no time, at our request, 
 
MEMOIR. 33 
 
 in folding, while we conversed, and the unpretend- 
 ing frankness of her speech and look let us at once 
 into her estimable character. We saw then — 
 what was only the more clearly revealed in after 
 time — that the cheerful and vivacious aspect 
 which she wore was but as the stream that spark- 
 ling flows above the deep and strong river, holding 
 its course steadily to the solemn sea. Her conversa- 
 tion was the speech of one who would be agreeable 
 to her friends, that friendly feeling might increase, 
 but which, at the same time, had a vein of deep 
 thoughtfulness, that made known the richness of 
 the interior character. She felt aspirings that she 
 could not gratify. She was environed with the 
 necessity to toil, and toil brought weariness, and 
 weariness unfitted the mind for intellectual effort 
 when it would fain struggle and be free. The 
 beautiful inducements flowing out of the pride 
 which others take in the efforts of the one they 
 deem "gifted," and to whom they would give 
 every facility to develop their talent, were not 
 liers. Few, very few, Avho imagine their lot hard, 
 and no opportunities afforded them ''to be any- 
 thing," are less favored than was she when she 
 fixed her purpose and made her first efforts. She 
 had the character that ventures where the soul 
 points the way, and seemed to know what Sidney 
 Smith has so well expressed where he says : "A 
 great deal of talent is lost to the world for the want 
 of a little courage. Every day sends to their graves 
 a number of obscure men who have only remained 
 in obscurity because their timidity has prevented 
 3 
 
34 MEMOIR. 
 
 them from making a first effort ; and who, if they 
 could only have been induced to begin, would in 
 all probability have gone great lengths in the career 
 of fame." She had courage to do, and patience to 
 wait to see what would come of her doing. If her 
 own soul grew and expanded — if her appreciation 
 of intellectual life increased — if existence had a 
 deeper and a broader meaning to her, and she en- 
 tered more into the great possibilities of time and 
 effort, — the reward was sufficient. Her hand con- 
 tinued to fold the printed sheets for the reader 
 which contained the good thoughts her hand had 
 written. When all other opportunities were denied 
 her to ''compose," to express her thoughts by put- 
 ting ''the best words in the best places," she 
 would chase sleep from her eyelids, as she lay in 
 bed in the deep night, and yield herself to repose 
 only when some poem was wrought out, to be com- 
 mitted to paper at early morn. She was at this 
 time a member of a rehgious choir; and the blank 
 Ifeaves of the hymn and music books abounded 
 with the thoughts of the preacher, thrown into 
 measured lines. "I would not live alway," and 
 "I know that my Redeemer liveth," were written 
 in this manner. Her Sabbaths were days of re- 
 freshment ; 
 
 " Care's balm and bay; — 
 The week were dark but for their light, — 
 Their torch did show the way." 
 
 Her way was now open to form those acquaint- 
 ances and friendships which aided her in her up- 
 ward life. But before we pass to these, an incident 
 in this period of her life may be referred to, as indi- 
 
MEMOIR. 35 
 
 cative of that hidden depth of serious thought and 
 feeling which was covered by a wondrous vivacity. 
 She was for a while quite ill, and unable to pursue 
 her usual employment; a friend was so circum- 
 stanced that he could with propriety take her in 
 his carriage to ride amid those rural beauties which 
 first woke her infant wonder and delight. The 
 usual route led through Cambridge to Mount Au- 
 burn ; and amid the solemn shades of that beautiful 
 cemetery she found the balm of nature's sweet min- 
 istry. One day, when she had been some time 
 riding through the beautiful paths, she broke the 
 spell of silence that had rested upon her, and said, 
 "If I could only know that I should be buried 
 here J my greatest wish would be answered." Her 
 friend was surprised that her thoughts should run 
 on her own death ; but discovering there was some- 
 thing more than a mere passing fancy in her words, 
 he said, " Do you think you would be any happier 
 were you to be assured you should be buried here 
 when you die? " '^ O yes, indeed I should ! " was 
 her reply. Her friend then assured her that her 
 request should be granted, — that if he outlived 
 her, he would personally see to the fulfilment of 
 his promise; and if .he should die before her, he 
 would leave a written provision to be executed by 
 a faithful agent. This seemed too much to be- 
 lieve; and again and again she asked, ''Are you 
 serious?" and when assured of the perfect serious- 
 ness and sincerity of the promise, an inexpressible 
 happiness shone in her countenance, and the day 
 was brighter because of the inward joy. She often 
 
36 MEMOIK. 
 
 referred to it with grateful happiness. Her body • 
 rests where her thoughts so often turned. The 
 promise has been personally fulfilled. \ 
 
 No evidence can be found that she ever antici- 
 pated a much longer life than she lived ; and is it 
 not beautiful to see the tokens of persistent en- 
 deavors after the best culture, while in the heart 
 were prophecies of early death ! Some of her earli- 
 est compositions turn on the blessedness of dying 
 young, while the freshness of existence is still en- 
 joyed, and the dewy leaves have not been touched 
 with the autumnal frost. And we may say of her, 
 as has been said of a kindred spirit : — 
 
 " Thy labor in the vineyard closed, 
 Long ere the noontide sun ; 
 i The dews still glistened on the leaves 
 
 When thy short task was done." 
 
 But little more than three years form the period 
 of hei: life as a writer for the public eye; and to 
 this brief space we owe the promises which made 
 us anticipate in her one of the most finished writers 
 among the women of our country. All her contri- 
 butions were confined to the periodicals of her own 
 religious denomination ; for the idea of notoriety or 
 fame never flitted before her mind. i 
 
 When she became known as the writer over the 
 signature of "Charlotte," a friendship of the most 
 intimate and Christian character was formed 
 between her and Miss S. C. Edgarton. There 
 were many affinities of mind and character in 
 these friends, and whatever of dissimilarity ex- 
 isted only served to make them the better able to 
 
MEMOIR. 37 
 
 assist each other in their endeavors after wholeness 
 of cultilre. Their correspondence was frequent, 
 and their visits to each others' home were of the 
 hap])iest character. With the same love of nature, 
 and the same religion ; the same circle of personal 
 friends and correspondents ; the same hearty inter- 
 est in the diifering phases of life and experience ; 
 the same love of mental and moral improvement, 
 and the same readiness to receive thankfully all 
 healthy and innocent pleasures, they grew more 
 like each other ; and, as though a symbol of this 
 was to be given, their handwriting became remark- 
 ably similar, and we have more than once been 
 deceived by the similarity. 
 
 No one who has read the beautiful "Memoir" 
 of Mrs. S. C. Edgarton Mayo can fail to have been 
 interested to know more of the "Lottie" so affec- 
 tionately spoken of in the extracts from Mrs, 
 Mayo's correspondence. The writer of that "Me- 
 moir" says, justly, that "The freshness and sin- 
 cerity of Charlotte's nature at once gained the heart 
 of her friend. Her sparkling humor and quick 
 perception of the ludicrous, were an additional 
 attraction to one who was all her life a most de- 
 voted disciple to the religion of wit and mirth ; 
 while a congeniality of literary pursuits added the 
 last bond necessary to cement the happy union of 
 hearts. Sarah also was the elder, and in many 
 things the adviser of Charlotte. Their correspond- 
 ence is beautifully characteristic, and a model of 
 a high, sincere intercourse between friends possess- 
 ing the rare charm of discussing the most common 
 3* 
 
38 MEMOIR. 
 
 details of news and domestic life, in a spirit and 
 taste as far removed from the sentimental as the 
 prosaic." Sarah recognized in her friend "talents 
 of a superior order, and that were constantly de- 
 veloping themselves with time;" and how much 
 she prized the friendship of Charlotte is seen in the 
 many affectionate references to her to be met with 
 in the " Memoir," and in the " Gossipings of Idle 
 Hours," among the prose selections in the same 
 volume. To be so loved by one of the most pure- 
 hearted and gifted, places a high estimate on the 
 character of Charlotte. A beautiful allusion to the 
 newness of the friendship is thus made in one of 
 Sarah's letters : — 
 
 Your very kind letters have both been received, and read 
 with more than usual interest. I do love your warm, free 
 heart, that dispenses so liberally of its sweet treasures to one 
 who prizes affection above all other earthly gifts. I have not 
 been unmindful of you, although my time has been hitherto so 
 fully occupied as to leave me no opportunity to answer your 
 first good letter. Your pleasant face is before me often in my 
 busiest moments ; it mingles with my sweetest visions ; it is a 
 new and welcome star in the sky of my heart, whence some 
 have already gone down, and others glimmer and grow pale. 
 Long beam it brightly there, to cheer my hours of sadness, and 
 guide me on to fountains of happiness and strength ! 
 
 The double view of Charlotte's character, to 
 which we have referred, was had by her friend. 
 How she felt the contagion of her mirth, and ap- 
 preciated the spontaneousness of her gayety, are 
 seen by her own. language. Once, writing after 
 Charlotte had returned to her home from a visit to 
 Shirley Village, she says : — 
 
MEMOIR, 39 
 
 Do you have any good laughs, now a-days? I am afraid 
 my face will grow sharp and elongated, if you do not come 
 soon to throw into it the reflection of your own merry humor. 
 Somehow or other, there does not seem to be anything to 
 make fun of here ; and unless I have some one to help me, 1 
 seldom get into much of a frolic. Here I sit, from morning 
 till night, — no, I don't sit all the while, but stay, — doing 
 nothing in the world more comical than washing dishes, 
 sweeping floors, eating, drinking, and scribbling. Once in a 
 while, sisters and I have a funny time ; but we have to use the 
 same thing over so many times, we wear it all out before any- 
 thing new suggests itself. I think, if you were here, you might 
 keep us in new ideas. 
 
 But she also had looked into the deeper places 
 of her friends' nature, and therefore she could 
 write : 
 
 Memory has certainly its pleasures, and it has as surely 
 its pains. Some hearts, dear Lottie, are smitten by an early 
 blight, that tinges the very latest hour of a long life with 
 regret ; and some live to three-score years and ten without 
 being doomed to look back upon any crushing sorrow, or any 
 fiery ordeal that seared them as they passed. But very few 
 are there, however, who pass the mid-day of life, and find 
 much of its morning brightness left. O my friend ! how early 
 does it behoove us to find some strength that shall not fail us 
 through all life's seasons of weakness ! What shall we do, if 
 we lose friends, health and earthly hope, unless we have some 
 place of refuge in the love of God 1 Strong, indeed, must we 
 build our faith, to withstand the assaults of a whole life's sor- 
 rows ; yet, by pious effort, we seldom fail to acquire that true 
 and abiding confidence in God which will sustain us under any 
 burden of affliction ; and surely, you know, Lottie, how much 
 the acquisition is worth. 
 
 A singular instance of unity of thought between 
 these friends, and that led to the best expression 
 
40 MEMOIR. 
 
 of their similarity of poetic feeling and religious 
 tone, is given in the series of Sonnets on the Lord's 
 Prayer, written by them. Each had written a 
 sonnet on a portion of the prayer, unknown to the 
 other, with the intention of composing a series; and 
 when published, the suggestion came from Sarah 
 that they should write on alternate portions of that 
 Prayer, and thus mutually form a series of son- 
 nets. This was done; they were completed in 
 1844, and we cannot but present them here, as a 
 touching and exquisite memorial of spiritual unity 
 in two Christian friends. Their initials af&xed 
 will individualize the compositions : — 
 
 I. 
 
 " Our Father ! rvho art in Heaven." 
 Father in Heaven ! how many hearts are breathing 
 
 That hallowed name, with reverent lips, to-night, 
 On southern plains where graceful vines are wreathing, 
 
 Or on some lofty snow-clad Alpine height ! 
 The lonely dweller on the rugged mountain, 
 
 The mariner upon the trackless sea, 
 The peasant maiden by the wildwood fountain, 
 
 And childhood lisping at its mother's knee, 
 All breathe, alike, the beautiful petition 
 
 To Thee, " Our Father lojio in Heaven art;^' 
 And Thou dost own, most blessed recognition ! 
 
 The tie between Thee and each human heart ! 
 Thy children ! may we ever strive to be 
 Worthy, Our Father ! of that name and Thee ! 
 
 C. A. J. 
 
 II. 
 
 " Hallowed be thy name." 
 
 Hallowed, ay, hallowed ! not alone in prayer, 
 But in our daily thoughts and daily speech ; 
 
 At altar and at hearthstone — everywhere 
 That temple-priest or home-apostles preach. 
 
MEMOIR. 41 
 
 O not by words alone, but by our deeds, 
 
 And by our faith, and hope, and spirit's flame. 
 And by the nature of our private creeds, 
 
 We hallow best, and glorify, Thy Name. 
 Nature doth hallow it. In every star. 
 
 And every flower, and leaf, and leaping wave, 
 She praises Thee, who, from thy realm afar, 
 
 Such stores of beauty to this fair earth gave. 
 But these alone should not thy love proclaim — 
 Our hearts, our souls respond — " J.Z/ hallowed he thy Name" 
 
 S. C. E. 
 
 III. 
 " Thy kingdom comeP 
 
 Where shall thy kingdom come 1 In halls of state, 
 
 Or old cathedrals, where the mighty throng — 
 Where mitred priests in robes of purple wait, 
 
 And pealing organs chant the lofty song? 
 Where shall thy kingdom come ? In cloisters dim. 
 
 Where the pale nun in adoration bends. 
 While with the music of her vesper hymn 
 
 Some fond regret or cherished memory blends ? 
 Or in the dwelling of the lowly poor. 
 
 Where humble hopes and meek affections spring ! 
 There shall the dove of peace, her wanderings o'er, 
 
 A.t length find shelter for her weary wing ! 
 Where shall thy kingdom come 1 Is not thy throne 
 Within the humble, contrite soul alone? c. a. j. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Thy will be done in Earth as it is in Heaven^ 
 
 O beautiful and bright that world must be. 
 
 Where life is but the doing of God's will ! 
 
 Could we on earth as perfectly fulfil 
 Thy holy law, we, also, should be free ! 
 For angels are not happier than are we. 
 
 When in our hearts we take our Father's name^ 
 
 And with a resolute and steady aimj 
 
42 MEMOIR. 
 
 Make all our deeds with His high will agree. 
 Father ! we love our land of human birth, 
 
 Which Thou to us for a brief home hast given ; 
 We love this beautiful and fair young earth, 
 
 And fain would make it like our home in Heaven. 
 ! one thing more we truly need — hut one ; 
 That here, as in yon Heaven — Thy holy will be done ! 
 
 s. c. E. 
 
 V. 
 
 ''Give us this day our daily "bread P 
 
 O God our Father ! from thy throne on high, 
 
 Amid the melody of harps divine. 
 Wilt Thou not listen to thy children's cry. 
 
 Borne on prayer-incense to Thy holy shrine ? 
 Father, we hunger ! As we faltering tread 
 
 The rugged pathway through life's wilderness, 
 O " give to us each our daily bread ;" 
 
 Strengthen our footsteps as we onward press ! 
 Thou who of old thy mercy didst declare 
 
 To Israel, wandering in the desert land. 
 Turn not away from this our fervent prayer. 
 
 Nor let our frailties stay thy gracious hand, — 
 Thou who with blessings makest each day rife. 
 Give to our fainting souls the bread of life ! c. a. j. 
 
 VI. 
 
 "■forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors^ 
 
 In our hard march through life, we may have offered 
 
 A friendly hand to some poor fainting brother, 
 And in our turn have failed, and no one proffered 
 
 The aid we lent so freely to another. 
 We may have lived a life of cheerful duty, 
 
 Have gladly toiled and suffered for our neighbor, 
 And aimed to fill his soul with moral beauty, 
 
 Yet reapt but wrong and curses for our labor. 
 
MEMOIR. 43 
 
 O, if these debts are from our souls forgiven, 
 
 Not even asking penitent confession, 
 Then, Father, wilt thou from thy throne in Heaven 
 
 Bend down and kindly pardon our transgression ; 
 But if we pardon not, can we petition 
 The unerring God of Heaven to give our sin remission ? 
 
 S. C. E. 
 
 VII. 
 
 "Lead us not into temptation." 
 
 From the low hut where Poverty contendeth 
 
 Bravely with Vice, the sumptuously fed, 
 While from his heart an anguish wail ascendeth. 
 
 As weak young voices vainly cry for bread ! — 
 From the proud soul that burneth for dominion 
 
 Over the mighty universe of Mind ; 
 That fain would soar away on eagle-pinion, 
 
 Leaving life's tame realities behind ; — 
 And from the beauty-dowered, in humble station, 
 
 Who for the world's gay pageants vainly sighs, — 
 From Hagar maddened by her desolation, — 
 
 Trom every poor, frail heart this prayer should rise : 
 " Suffer us not to fall into temptation !" 
 
 Lead us, oh Father, where our duty lies ! c. a. j. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " But deliver us from evil." 
 
 Ere down the purple West the sunbeams sink, 
 
 How many a snare may lurk around our way ! 
 How oft our trembling feet upon the brink 
 
 Of Passion's stream unconsciously may stray ! 
 
 O Father ! at thy feet we humbly pray 
 That from its burning waves we may not drink ! 
 Most temptingly it gushes o'er our track. 
 
 Flashing like jewels 'neath our eager eyes ; 
 O place thine arm arOund us ! Draw us back ! 
 
 For he who drinks that deadly water, dies. 
 
44 MEMOIR. 
 
 Thou Father, thou alone hast those supplies 
 
 Which renovate and satisfy the soul ; 
 
 From thy great Spirit like a tide they roll, 
 
 And every heart may come and fill its golden bowl. 
 
 s. c. E. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " For Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory forever. 
 
 Anient 
 
 Thine is the Kingdom, Everlasting God ! 
 
 In all thy works thy sovereignty is shown ; 
 Justice and Mercy wait upon thy nod. 
 
 And Truth upholds the pillars of thy throne. 
 Thine is the power, to tame the rebel-heart, 
 
 To make the serpent gentle as the dove ; 
 Comfort and Peace, and Wisdom to impart, 
 
 And to do all things by thy wondrous Love ! 
 Thine is the glory, not of earthly kings ; 
 
 Not Thine their empty pomp and poor renown, 
 
 But with Thy Goodness the empyrean rings ; 
 
 Love is thy sceptre, — Love thy glorious crown. 
 While earthly thrones return to dust again. 
 Thine shall endure forevermOre — Amen ! c. a. j. 
 
 The allusions to these labors, in this correspond- 
 ence, are striking evidences of the deference 
 which love pays to the seemingly better deeds of 
 its object, — the one admiring the sonnet of the 
 other, and, without a particle of affectation, indi- 
 rectly encouraging the other to nobler effort. 
 
 A sportive example of their unity was thus given. 
 On her birth-day, when Charlotte was twenty- 
 three years of age, she dashed off an "Impromptu 
 Epistle to S. C. E.," written " in fifteen minutes, 
 including copying." It is the only instance of her 
 
MEMOIR. 45 
 
 employing in her poetry the faculty that made so 
 much mirth in conversation. It was replied to 
 with the same spontaneous sportiveness. Both 
 were published in the eleventh volume of the 
 Repository. 
 
 Turning back to the close of the year 1841, we 
 meet with Charlotte's first prose publication. Pre- 
 vious to this, she had published some few pieces 
 of poetry of a personal character, but this was the 
 real beginning of her literary life, and was her first 
 composition of the kind. It was entitled '• Emma 
 Beaumont," and exalted the spirit of self-sacrifice 
 in the daughter. Her pictures of life and charac- 
 ter, from the first to the last, were alVays drawn 
 from the world of fact; and we remember that 
 with her second story, '' Margaret Leslie," came 
 a note, stating that the enclosed story was founded 
 on facts, the heroine having been personally known 
 to her, and. in her school days a dear friend. Her 
 contributions to the Repository became now quite 
 frequent, — every issue presented something from 
 her pen, and our estimation of her efforts was 
 made known in the notices to correspondents. 
 The incident of discovery to which we have 
 referred made her now known to us, and per- 
 mitted us to make her personally known to a circle 
 of friends. A new existence now dawned on 
 Charlotte. She was brought into a society she 
 was fitted to ornament and enjoy. Acquaintance 
 ripened speedily into friendship, and friendship 
 partook of the best elements of perpetuity. She 
 felt what a world of feeling, sympathy and aspi- 
 4 
 
46 MEMOIR. 
 
 ration, lies hidden within the soul, waiting the bid- 
 ding of the appropriate power to call it forth. 
 Timid, weighed down by the small estimate she 
 formed of herself, and looking with an artist's 
 eye on superior works in the line of her effoMs, she 
 needed the help of natures on which she could lean 
 in trustfulness, and to which she could look up for 
 confidence. To feel that ours is the friendship of 
 the wise and good, — to fiind them opening to us the 
 rich stores of their well-freighted minds, as though 
 we could appreciate the treasures they presented, 
 — gives to the shrinking and fearful a confidence in 
 themselves, by making them feel the powers thus 
 addressed. It was thus with her. She had friends 
 she reverenced. They were to her the wise and 
 good. She felt the influence of their presence, 
 their conversation, their letters. Instinctively, her 
 nature was richly developed, and ere she hardly 
 knew of the change, she was intimate with them, 
 and poured out the affluence of her soul with per- 
 fect and beautiful frankness and simplicity. She 
 won upon her friends by this perfect freedom from 
 affectation. She greatly disliked everything that 
 bore any likeness to aflected speech or manner; 
 and nothing excited more overwhelmingly the 
 sense of the ludicrous than the mask of ceremony 
 worn where simple nature should only be seen. No 
 matter where the mockery was seen, whether at 
 church or in the parlor, incongruities were ludi- 
 crous; and we may be sure that in this case a 
 true sense of the absurd was accompanied by an 
 acute perception of order and harmony. Not from 
 
MEMOIR. 47 
 
 lightness of feeling, but because of a profound 
 reverence for religion, she was moved to irresist- 
 ible mirth whenever stiff and starched ceremony 
 came where only nature belonged. 
 
 A touching proof of an equal readiness to see 
 moral harmonies and to commend them, is given 
 in a letter to a clerical friend : 
 
 I can hardly believe that ever time hangs heavy on your hands ; 
 for you have many and vast sources of enjoyment, in reading-, 
 writing, and visiting the people of your charge, — in " rejoicing 
 with those who rejoice, and weeping with those who weep," 
 — in relieving the poor, in ministering comfort to the weak, 
 and lighting the path of the dying through the valley of shad- 
 ows. These, and similar offices of kindness and love, are 
 the province and the privilege of the Christian minister, and 
 leave him little leisure for vain regrets. 
 
 And, as though she would reiterate what she 
 regarded as the deepest sources of the most perma- 
 nent happiness, she refers in the same letter to a 
 friend about to enter the marriage state, and says : 
 
 I rejoice in the prospect of his happiness. Richly does he 
 deserve every blessing that has been or shall be lavished upon 
 him ; he has diffused sunshine in many a darkened heart, and 
 may its beams long gladden his own; he has caused the 
 widow's heart to sing for joy, and the blessings of the father- 
 less shall be music in his ears. 
 
 And how she loved a straight-forward plainness, 
 is seen in a passage in one of her letters to S. C. E., 
 (1843,) in which she speaks of the venerable Rev. 
 S. Streeter, of Boston : 
 
 T saw a beautiful poem of yours in the Trumpet j a few 
 
48 MEMOIH. 
 
 weeks since, called a " Scene at the Convention.^^ That ex- 
 pression of Father Streeter's is the most thrilling I ever 
 remember to have heard used, at such a time, and in such a 
 place. I think the effect must have been great. He is a 
 favorite of mine. I like his earnestness, his straight-forward 
 simplicity, and his devotion to the cause of truth. I hear him 
 sometimes at the Wednesday evening conferences, and it is 
 really refreshing, after having listened to many young speakers' 
 expositions of a Scripture passage, (sometimes far-fetched 
 enough,) to hear Mr. Streeter rise and bring the matter to a 
 point at once, without any labored sentences, or any straining 
 after effect. He sometimes makes his audience smile ; but if 
 he does, the next word is sure to be so solemn that you are in 
 tears ere you are aware. I wish I could give you the substance 
 of- some remarks he made at a meeting, some two or three 
 weeks since ; but I should only mangle them in the attempt, — 
 so I will forbear. The subject was the " Resurrection State," 
 and you can imagine, better than I can describe, the beauty of 
 his remarks. 
 
 She longed to convince her friends of her double 
 nature. Her sensitiveness to the ludicrous she 
 frankly owned, and while writing of the rich 
 enjoyment she received when drinking in the beau- 
 ty and healthiness of rural summer resort, with a 
 heart open to the grandest meaning of all the love- 
 liness and majesty of nature's chief glories, she 
 would deal honestly with herself, and tell of the 
 comical shape into which human nature is some- 
 times thrown, by picturing the cow-boy who passed 
 her window every morning, full of the sharp angles 
 which do not contribute to beauty of form. She 
 confesses her besetting evil genius, when, in a letter 
 to a friend, she writes : 
 
MEMOIR. 4^ 
 
 YoTi Speak of being annoyed at times by your mirthful feel- 
 ings ; do you ever feel disposed to laugh at a funeral, when 
 some doleful-looking face is upturned to yours 1 I have had 
 my risibles so excited at such solemn places that I have been 
 heartily ashamed of myself, I would give anything sometimes 
 to repress my mirth. 
 
 The consciousness of this tendency made her 
 suspicious that the friends whose esteem she coveted 
 thought her too light of heart. To one of these, 
 whOj she feared, regarded her as frivolous, she 
 writes : 
 
 You have yet to learn that far down in the depths of my 
 heart is a fountain of earnest, serious yeeZm^, which gushes 
 up now and then with resistless power, and fills my whole 
 being with warm, glowing, devotional impulses. I have, I 
 think and trust, been made wiser and better by my acquaint- 
 ance with you — by your words, and by your example. Many 
 things which you have said, half in jest and half in earnest, as 
 if it were a waste of serious words to lavish them upon me, I 
 have carefully treasured up ; and I often ponder them, and feel 
 that I am purified and made better by their influence. But I 
 am too egotistical. I will try and put little /upon the shelf 
 for a while. 
 
 How naturally she received the solemn import 
 of a glad festival is seen in a letter written on the 
 evening of the " Thanksgiving" of the year 1842. 
 
 She writes to "S. C. E.": 
 
 'T is Thanksgiving night, and to prove to you that 1 remem- 
 ber you with affection, I have sat down to write you a letter, 
 even though it be a short one. I have passed a pleasant day 
 in-doors, despite the gloom without — for I never remember so 
 dark and drizzly a festival — a little snow, and a great deal of 
 wind and rain. It has doubtless disappointed many who had 
 4* 
 
60 MEMOIR. 
 
 laid plans for amusement abroad, and I am sprry for them ; but, 
 for my own part, I have had quite as much enjoyment in our 
 small circle as if the skies had been ever so blue. I have 
 
 thought of you, dear S , many times to-day, and fancied how 
 
 you looked, and what you were doing, and hoped you were 
 having a glad Thanksgiving. I wish you were here; and we 
 would sit down on the hearth-rug before a bright coal-fire, and 
 have such a nice, cosy gossip. You know that is my favorite 
 
 seat. But, speaking of fires, dear S , do you not love better 
 
 the ample, old-fashioned fireplaces, and the great w^ood-fires, 
 than the grates and stoves of more modern times ? I confess a 
 strong partiality for the former ; there is something so social, 
 so enlivening, in watching the bright wavy flames, the curling 
 smoke, and in hearing the old log crackle and hiss — and then 
 to have a cheerful group collected around the said fire, chatting 
 and laughing merrily, and bidding defiance to the wrath of the 
 storm-king without — is it not a pleasant picture? 
 
 In the winter of this year, 1842, she derived 
 great benefit from a course of lectures which she 
 attended, delivered by Dana, the poet, on Woman, 
 Macbeth, Shakspeare in the Supernatural, and 
 Hamlet. These quickened her perceptions of the 
 higher qualities of literature, and sent her to the 
 reading of Shakspeare, Spenser and Milton, with 
 a new ardor, and to great profit. 
 
 In December, she writes again to her friend at 
 Shirley village, and gives her a veritable ''ghost 
 story:" 
 
 I did not intend to write to thee again till my last epistle had 
 been answered ; but, foi- the last vreek, thy face has been con- 
 tinually before me, and I have been haunted, night and day, by 
 a pair of black eyes gazing into mine with most provoking 
 pertinacity ; and so I must write perforce, whether I please or 
 not, hoping thereby to escape such impertinent surveillance. 
 
MEMOIR. 51 
 
 I forget what your views are, on the subject of Animal Mag- 
 netism — but I am very sure there must be a sort of spiritual 
 magnetism between us, — else, whence cometh this vision? 
 
 I would you were by my side, dear S , that I might talk to 
 
 you of the thousand-and-one "thick-coming fancies" which 
 are now flitting before my mind's eye ; but as that cannot 
 be, I must content myself with gossiping to you on paper. 
 You know you -like ^'gossipings.''^ And first of all, I want to 
 know if you are superstitious in the least : but then I know 
 you must be r— for we agree in almost everything, and as I am 
 a little tinctured with that weakness, I insist that you shall 
 share it with me. So now for my story. T am going to tell 
 ***^ou, in confidence, of an event which has happened, (or rather 
 a combination of events,) in a certain family in B. In a cer 
 tain square, lives a young man who keeps a livery stable, 
 and this establishment and his dwelling are connected. Some 
 four years ago, this man, whom I shall call Foster, married a 
 young and rather pretty girl from the country, and brought her 
 home to live with his step-mother and sisters. The year suc- 
 ceeding their marriage, she became the mother of a little girl, 
 who remained the only child. Mrs. Foster was not very happy 
 in her situation, and soon after the birth of her child, her 
 health began to decline, till, about a year ago, her physicians 
 pronounced her to be in a decline. Her husband took her to 
 the Springs, and to every place that he was recommended, and 
 every means was used to restore her, but in vain. When told 
 that she must die, you cannot imagine the misery which the 
 intelligence produced. She wept, raved, and declared that she 
 could not, would not die, — that she could not leave her husband 
 and child. She was a member of the church, and the minister 
 came to pray with and comfort her ; but she refused all conso- 
 lation, and died in extreme agony, still clinging to earth, and 
 declaring with her last breath that she could not die ! Since 
 Mrs. F.'s death, a woman came to the stable to get a carriage, 
 and in passing the kitchen door of the house, said to the black 
 woman who lives with the Fosters, " I thought Mrs. F. was 
 dead." " So she is," replied the woman ; " why did you ask]" 
 
52 MEMom. 
 
 " Because," was the answer, " I am very sure that she passed 
 me as I came in, and entered the front door." The cook had 
 previously to this averred that Mrs. F. had passed her on the 
 stairs at night, and entered her (Mrs. F.'s) chamber. A sister 
 of Mr..F., whom we will call Mary, and who had heard these 
 stories, and laughed at them, was taken rather unwell ; and as 
 her deceased sister-in-law's chamber was more commodious 
 than her own, had a fire built in it, and expressed her intention 
 of staying there till she recovered. The first night she occupied 
 the room, she had just gone to bed, when she heard some one 
 moving about the room, and opening the bureau drawer. She 
 listened a moment, and the' same movements continued, and 
 she cried out to her brothers. They came in with lights, and 
 searched the room ; but no one was there. However, Mary 
 was so much alarmed that she left the room, and has never 
 entered it since. But the strangest part of the story is this : 
 the two youngest children of a friend of mine, who lives in 
 the same house, have been sedulously kept from hearing these 
 stories; and the other day they were playing in the yard, when 
 one of them looked up to a window, and instantly directed the 
 other's attention to what she saw. " There is Mrs. F. at the 
 window," she exclaimed ; and running to her father, who was 
 busy at a little distance, she tried to make him look up. He 
 paid no attention, but the children persisted that Mrs. F. was 
 at the window, leaning forward, and looking up. Is not this a 
 
 real ghost story, S 1 I have heard that a lady who believes 
 
 in and practises mesmerism says, that when a person dies, 
 the spirit still lingers about the body, as long as it retains any 
 semblance of the deceased, and haunts the places it used to 
 frequent. If this be true, I know not why the spirit of Mrs. 
 F. should not be disposed to linger around the home she was so 
 loth to leave. I want to know what you think about all this. 
 
 But to this eventful year belong other import- 
 ant events — important because of their results, 
 though classed among the common things of friend- 
 ly intercourse. She passed a week in liowell. 
 
MEMOIR. 53 
 
 Mass., that seems to have given a perpetual beauty 
 to all after time. It was spent in company with 
 S. C. E.j at the home of Rev. T. B. Thayer, and 
 his venerable mother. Every day and hour seems 
 to have conveyed as much real happiness as was 
 possible for them to receive. The frequent refer- 
 ences to the delights of the time — the ecstasy of 
 the mere memory of those golden days, and the effect 
 on the character of Charlotte — make us eager 
 to know something of the sources of their enjoy- 
 ment. And these we find to be — not the pleas- 
 ures of hilarious dissipation, the round of parties, 
 company, shows, concerts, and the like; but the 
 inexpensive, the healthy and refined enjoyments of 
 home delights; conversation, reading, and rural 
 walks. We cannot read the letters which make 
 enthusiastic references to this memorable week, 
 without remarking how little it takes to make 
 souls happy, when they are devoted to each others' 
 good ; what small and common things impart the 
 highest relish to existence, and how all the voices 
 of the day pour into the heart a meaning that inter- 
 ests it more in the real good of this life. "The 
 Memorial of Happy Days" (page 141) refers to 
 this time, and its tone and thought tell us of pleas- 
 ures as rapturous as the heart may know on 
 earth, and that leave no sting behind. 
 
 There was a preeminent association connected 
 with this memorable week, which gave it a very 
 sacred interest. It was a time when Charlotte not 
 only found a new and exquisite life of friendship, 
 — a beautiful culture to long-hidden sympathieSj 
 
54 MEMOIR. 
 
 — an expression for aspirations that had lived 
 voiceless in the heart — but it was also a time when 
 the will was consecrated by an act of solemn im- 
 port. She then, for the first time, became a com- 
 municant at the table of the Lord. To her it was 
 a great event. The all of her poetic being was 
 poured out into the act, to give it a thrilling, sub- 
 duing, and yet elevating meaning ; and in the 
 poem, " The First Communion," (page 144,) she 
 afterward gave utterance to her feelings. The true 
 communicant is necessarily a poet. He sees the 
 spiritual import of material things. He reads the 
 symbolical language of the rite. It is no mere 
 ceremony to him, but the showing of the Lord's 
 death. The intent, the significance, throws a 
 glory over the material aspect, as the sun lights up 
 the forest, and it becomes a temple, and not mere 
 woods. Thus was the Communion to her. It 
 was the hour of the soul's baptism; and the dove 
 of peace that then descended never left her, but 
 often, in times of solitude and meditation, fluttered 
 about her, to Avaken a more absorbing remembrance 
 of the hour of self-consecration. 
 
 Most fortunate for her was the peculiar method 
 of the church with which she first communed. 
 There were no stiff formalities to be observed ; no 
 questionings; no holding the applicant at a distance 
 by rules and regulations that pre-suppose a peculiar 
 holiness in "the church," and that seem to threaten 
 with a sort of martyrdom the timid pilgrim whose 
 face is towards the table of the Master and Re- 
 deemer. No; the simplicity of the early church 
 
MEMOIR. 55 
 
 was there, exhibiting a touching trustfulness, and 
 the unwillingness of true humility to set up obsta- 
 cles in the way of the trembling traveller to the 
 cross of Christ. They spread there, not the table 
 of the church, but the table of the Lord. Had 
 there been anything of the legal covenant, — any 
 of man-made rules, that assume power, and then 
 exercise it as though God- given, — she never would 
 have been a communicant. That sacredly vivify- 
 ing memory would never have been hers. The 
 iron formalities, so in contrast with the ready and 
 almost impulsive grasp of the fraternal hand in fel- 
 lowship so beautiful in apostolic times, would 
 have excited her sense of the ludicrous, while the 
 unpretending simplicity of that fellowship which 
 had its -'bond of unity" in the spirit of a gospel 
 covenant won her inmost nature; and a more 
 humble, and, in the apostolic sense, a more worthy 
 disciple, never sat down at the memorial of Christ's 
 death. Happy for her, that such a simplicity was 
 to be met with ! The fellowship then granted to 
 her made more sacred the bonds of former friend- 
 ship. In a letter to a relative, she writes how 
 much to her seems the friend who invited her to 
 the table of the Lord; adding, "And even you, 
 
 dear L , seem more like a sister than a cousin 
 
 to me, since that same memorable day. How is it 
 with you?" 
 
 This act of consecration evidently answered her 
 deepest need. She perpetually referred to the holi- 
 ness of the time, and owned the effectiveness given 
 by it to her religious convictions. But how did 
 
56 MEMOIR. 
 
 she own this? Not hy descriptions of her emo- 
 tions and feelings ; not by any attempt at the anat- 
 omy of her experience, or analysis of her variable 
 moods ; but by the ardent longing after moral 
 excellence, and the ability to throw all the strength 
 of her being into the channel of improvement. In 
 the little and unpretending details of daily life, she 
 showed the character of the efforts of her moral 
 nature, as, in the humble estimation of her abili- 
 ties as a writer, and her yearnings after something 
 better, she showed the workings of her intellectual 
 being. How humble her estimate of herself, as a 
 writer, was, is seen by many passages in her let- 
 ters; as thus: — 
 
 I am oppressed by such a deadening weight of inferiority 
 and want of talent, that I sometimes resolve to throw down my 
 pen, and never give another article to the public, to be added 
 to the already enormous and fast-increasing amount of literary 
 nothings. Yet I have felt all those yearnings after intellectual 
 power, which seem to have such an influence upon yourself; 
 and though I make no foolish pretensions to an equality with 
 yourself in point of talent, I can yet, in a measure, enter into 
 your feelings. 
 
 This made her thankful for the encouragements 
 that came to her from sources whence she felt 
 could come no flattery. To a friend she writes: — 
 
 A thousand thanks, my dear friend, for your kindly com- 
 mendations of my poems in the " Rose." From any one else, I 
 should have been slightly jealous, fearing lest they should say 
 more than tbey meant ; but your notice sounded like yourself — 
 frank, earnest, and sincere. For this, and for many other like 
 instances, — trivial, perhaps, in your estimation, but much, ■yery 
 much, to me,— I thank you, most truly and cordially, and hope 
 
MEMOIR. 67 
 
 I may be able, in some measure, to repay your good opinion 
 of me by deserving it. 
 
 To the same friend, at another time, she says: — 
 
 I do want your candid opinion upon my articles. Though 
 T do not pretend to be less sensitive than others to praise and 
 blame, I am not so weak, I trust, as to receive with any ill- 
 feeling any criticism, however harsh, upon my articles. I 
 think your remarks upon my poor story, last year, did me 
 much good, though, I confess, my vanity was slightly wounded 
 at first ; but I am sure you will deal frankly and justly with 
 me, and I shall place more confidence in what you say of the 
 poems than in any or all other notices. Allow me to say 
 here, — and, trust me, it is from no overweening love of appro- 
 bation, or any sentiment of raock-modesty, that I do so, — that 
 I fear you have over-rated my abilities and powers of mind. 
 Still, I am truly grateful for your good opinion, and I will 
 try, as far as I may, to deserve it. 
 
 From Charlotte's writings and correspondence 
 in 1843, we draw abundant evidence of a great 
 growth of mind, a breadth of comprehensiveness 
 that gave her access to a larger field of thought. 
 She became acquairtted with several artists whose 
 excellence is now acknowledged, and, aided by 
 their conversations about Art, and their criticisms 
 on paintings and sculpture, she became much inter- 
 ested in visiting the studios of artists and galleries 
 of paintings. She knew there was a wealth that, 
 though it could not obtain possession of the ad- 
 mired v7ork of art, could, nevertheless, have a 
 copy, — the wealth of the imagination ; and by its 
 potency she bore away the finest conceptions of 
 genius, and in the "chamber of imagery" they 
 were hers. She could not help expressing to her 
 5 
 
58 MEMOIR. 
 
 friends the pleasure thus obtained from brief mo- 
 ments caught now and then from her toil ; and in 
 her letters she describes graphically picture after 
 picture. Once she took a whole day for this pic- 
 ture-hunting, and enjoyed it as much as the many 
 who give up home and spend their wealth in search- 
 ing for "lovely spots" in the fashionable route of 
 travel. How she had been confined to the city is 
 seen from her letter to S. C. E., in March of this 
 year : — 
 
 I am actually longing for the sight and smell of violets. It 
 is full three years since I have seen one, and when they are in 
 bloom, do send me a cluster in the turf, so that they vi^ill not 
 wither before I can get them. Will you do this 1 
 
 Ere the violets bloomed, her wish for wild- flow- 
 ers was answered, as she writes to another friend : — 
 
 Yesterday, mine eyes were gladdened with a note from dear 
 
 S , accompanied by a tin box, filled with — what do you 
 
 guess? — flowers! wild anemones — the firstlings of the sea- 
 son — from Bow Brook ; and a beautiful rose-bud ! It is long 
 since I have seen any wild-flowers before, and I tried to be 
 sentimental ; but I am not given that way. 
 
 Flowers do indeed have a language, when they 
 are thus used; and Charlotte made a return for 
 them by sending to her friend a description of the 
 flowers of Art. She writes : — 
 
 I wish you had been with me last Wednesday. I spent 
 the whole day in visiting artists' studios. I saw some very 
 beautiful landscapes, painted from nature, by Hollingsworth, 
 — the finest, I think, that I have ever seen. If I could paint 
 such scenes as those, I am sure I could never bring myself to 
 copying such uninteresting faces as he had in his study. 
 
MEMOIR. 59 
 
 There was one, however, that I liked, — a picture of an old 
 woman knitting, or rather taking up a stitch which she had 
 dropped ; her mouth was pursed up, and there was a sturdy, 
 determined expression on the face, which could belong to none 
 but an English peasant. In Hewins' room were some fine old 
 paintings ; one in particular pleased me very much. It is by 
 one of the old masters, — I have forgotten his name, — and repre- 
 sented two scenes ; or, rather, there was a division in the pic- 
 ture, like two rooms. In one part was represented the cham- 
 ber at Emmaus, where Christ's supped with the two or three 
 disciples whom he met and conversed with as they were 
 walking thither, after his resurrection ; while, in the lower 
 apartment, various domestic offices were performed. Two or 
 three female figures were employed in the kitchen ; some in 
 preparing vegetables to boil, — the pot hanging over the fire 
 for that purpose, — another was cleaning a large brass kettle, 
 and still another was washing dishes. There was a deepness 
 and richness of coloring, which we rarely see in modern pic- 
 tures. But my space grows small, and I have not yet told you 
 of the most delightful visit of all. I spent two hours in T. B. 
 Read's room, and fell in love with one of his pictures. It is 
 an embodiment of Coleridge's beautiful ideal, "Genevieve." 
 I wish you could see it, Sarah, for it is the most beautiful 
 creation of genius I ever beheld. Longfellow, the poet, says 
 it is exactly his conception of Genevieve ; and I think it must 
 have been something like Coleridge's, if he could have had so 
 beautiful an image in his mind. I have written a short poet- 
 ical description of it, which will appear in the Repository at 
 some time, I suppose. It may give you some idea of the pic- 
 ture, though any description must fail of presenting all its 
 beauties. Read has a style of dressing. his ladies which I like ; 
 that is, the drapery is modest. Genevieve is dressed in a 
 green velvet bodice, laced up the front, and displaying only 
 the white throat, — no exposure of shoulders and bust, which 
 renders French and English portraits so disgusting ; the rich 
 golden-hazel hair falls over her shoulders luxuriantly, and a 
 thin veil is fastened round the back of her head. There is 
 
60 BIEMOIR. 
 
 another large portrait in his room, a perfect contrast to Gene- 
 vieve. It is Heloise, taken atihat moment in the poem when 
 she receives Abelard's letter, and soliloquizes in her cell : — 
 " What means this tumult in a vestal's veins?" The large 
 dark eyes look outward into the world beyond her cell, and 
 there is passion in every feature ; while Genevieve's blue eyes 
 are downcast, and there is a sad expression on the face. You 
 remember the verse, 
 
 " Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
 My life, my love, my Genevieve ; 
 She loves me best whene'er I sing 
 The songs that make her grieve." 
 
 To another friend she thus describes a piece of 
 sculpture. After alluding to a painting of the 
 same subject, she writes : 
 
 Brackett has a fine thing. It is a basso-relievo, and em- 
 bodies the whole of Longfellow's poem, Excelsior j though the 
 part peculiarly chosen is the last verse : — 
 
 " There, in the morning, cold and gray, ■ 
 
 Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay ; 
 ♦ Still grasping in his hand of ice 
 
 The banner, with the strange device : 
 
 ' Excelsior ! ' " 
 
 The principal figure in the foreground is the youth, lying 
 cold and dead, the face upturned with an intellectual, lofty 
 expression. The banner is grasped in his hand, 
 
 *' While from the sky, serene and far, 
 A voice fell like a falling star — 
 
 ' Excelsior ! ' " 
 
 In the background stand the monk, stern and stoical ; the Al- 
 pine peasant wondering ; the maiden, with looks of despairing 
 love, and the faithful hound. It is one of the most exquisite 
 things I ever met with. 
 
MEMOIR. 61 
 
 As delightfully she dwells on her reading, and 
 the lectures she attended. Every agency was used 
 for culture; and she deepened their power by 
 communicating their influence to her distant 
 friends in her descriptive letters. She labored to 
 draw into sympathy with her tastes her friends, 
 and she thus writes : 
 
 Do you love poetry? and what poets do you most admire? 
 I have a fancy that you like the same authors I do. Do you 
 like Byron, with his wild, stormy grandeur, and his brooding 
 melancholy ; Scott, with his graphic descriptions, and his 
 Border Ballads; Wordsworth, with his natural simplicity; 
 Mrs. Hemans, with her graceful imaginativeness; L. E. L., 
 with her pathetic stories of blighted love and broken hearts ; 
 all, or any of these, do you like? 
 
 Speaking of a person with whorri she had been 
 conversing, she writes to the same friend : — 
 \" The heathen ! he don't like Byron ! What can 
 the man be thinking of?" " Hyperion'' seemed to 
 be a sort of pillow-book to her ; its music soothed the 
 distracted mind, perplexed with the changes, toils 
 and cares of the day, and it made the heart tender 
 to accept with the morning all the ofiices of duty 
 and love. At the intermission between the ser- 
 vices of a Sabbath in the country, she read " Ser- 
 mons of Consolation," by Dr. Greenwood, "a 
 work," she writes, ''replete with beauty and holy 
 love. I was very much impressed with one ser- 
 mon in particular; the subject was, 'Christ our 
 Fellow-Sufl'erer.' Mr. Greenwood, though classed 
 with our Unitarian brethren, was one of us, in 
 spirit and in words. To my mind there is a deal 
 .5* 
 
62 MEMOIR. 
 
 of similarity betv;'een his views and writings and 
 
 those of ." She Avas captivated with the 
 
 dramatic picturings of Carlyle's "French Revohi- 
 tion ;" but she had no fancy for books of this cast^ 
 because of the wars and bloodshed that make up 
 their staple material. And her woman's heart is 
 shown in her readiness to lean to the opinion of a 
 colleague of Robespierre, who presented a view 
 of his character, in the Democratic Review en- 
 tirely opposite to the common portrait of this 
 human contradiction. She writes to a friend who 
 was kept informed of the use made of her time : — > 
 
 Since my return from the country, I have read little and 
 written nothing. The sickness of a relative, my attendance 
 upon her, and some other matters of less moment, having occu- 
 pied all, or nearly all, my time. I hope, however, by-and-by, 
 to have more leisure, which I mean to improve. I have just 
 been reading, with a good degree of interest and pleasure, a 
 tale by Miss Martineau, called the " Hamlets." It is fraught 
 with incident, and much of the wdsdom which distinguishes 
 her writings. I think a few men of influence, possessed of her 
 strength of mind and character, her principles and views, 
 might do much towards correcting and reforming the abuses 
 of social life in England, of which one of the prime evils seems 
 to be that of pauperism. The " Hamlets" is a tale illustrative 
 of a plan for eradicating this evil from the land, and making 
 the work-house paupers independent laborers. I wish you 
 would read it, if you have opportunity. 
 
 The visit to the country here alluded to was to 
 Northboro', the residence of the father of the 
 friend who subsequently became her husband. 
 She took great pleasure in this retreat from the 
 heat and dust of the city, and was enamored of the 
 
jMEMom. 63 
 
 rural beauty of the town. She paints some half 
 dozen pictures of the scene which spread out 
 from the window of her room in the mansion 
 there. We give one of them : — 
 
 Let me tell something- of my present location. It is a large 
 and beautiful town, this Northboro', and the house where I live 
 is a two-story yellow one, shaded in front by four stately elms, 
 and almost surrounded by fruit-trees. In front of the house, 
 through the interlacing branches of the trees, you have a fine 
 view of a lofty hill, crowned with chestnut-trees, with cattle 
 grazing on its sides ; and to the right a beautiful landscape, 
 diversified with pretty cottages, old farm-houses, waving 
 foliage of trees, and even the glistening water of a little Tirook 
 which intersects the road. Tiiere is a deal of water scenery 
 about here, — some very pretty little falls, &c. I never was in 
 a country place which boasted so many beautiful walks and 
 rides. When W— — gets here, I shall improve the summer 
 mornings by visiting our favorite haunts ; but I do not like to 
 go alone. The spire of the Unitarian church rises up before 
 me as I sit here by the window, and reminds me to speak of 
 the two Sabbaths I have passed here. They have been de- 
 lightful days, both as regards the days and my enjoyment of 
 them. The first was the com.munion Sabbath ; and I heard 
 two good discourses, one on the Passion of Christ, by the pas- 
 tor. Rev. Mr. Allen, — " Priest Allen," they call him here, — 
 and the other by Mr. Beckwith, on the subject of Peace. 
 
 In the summer of 1843 she passed three pleas- 
 ant weeks in Northboro', a few very happy (Jays 
 in Marlboro', at Rev. Mr. Green Avood's, two weeks 
 in Franklin, and one in Medway. These were 
 breathing-times for her whole nature, and she 
 drank in life from the rural beauty that came into 
 sight, and found in the society of her friends an 
 exhilarating happiness. While in Franklin, she 
 
64 MEMOIR. 
 
 spent one Sabbath by attending two services at 
 church, and riding out of town towards evening to 
 a third service, of her own reUgious faith. Here 
 she met a clerical friend, and a few words by him 
 concerning dear friends, together with the inspira- 
 tion of the religious service, were wonderfully 
 reviving. " These things," she writes, " may 
 seem common and trivial to you, but to me they 
 were of great consequence." 
 
 Added to the delights of this year, was a visit, 
 in early summer, to her friends in Shirley Yillage, 
 where she led a gypsy life, and fed her passion 
 for flowers, trees and streams, and communion 
 with the idolized Sarah, her gifted and excellent 
 brother John, and the estimable family. To pay 
 a visit to those dear to her, was like receiving 
 one from them; and a brief visit from dear 
 friends could give her the highest joy, and some- 
 times would produce an elevation of feeling that 
 was really dangerous from the intense reaction. 
 She writes to her dearest correspondent to throw 
 oflf a depression of spirits, and accounts for that 
 depression by telling of 
 
 A golden day, — one of those rare seasons whose memories 
 remain with us long after the scenes and objects that en- 
 tranced have left our sight. I was all day under the influ- 
 ence of a magic spell, such as held me when I was in L . 
 
 About ten o'clock, Saturday morning, as I was sitting 
 quietly at my sewing, I caught a glimpse of a familiar form 
 passing the window ; and in far less time than it will take me to 
 
 write it, I had shaken hands with Mr. H , kissed his wife, 
 
 and greeted James, their eldest son. I shall not undertake to 
 describe my joy, for words would not do justice to my sensa- 
 
MEMOIR. 65 
 
 tions. They remained with us all day, and a part of the 
 
 evening, and a rich treat it was. We talked — that is, L ■ 
 
 and myself — for you know Mr. H is a very little talker, 
 
 — of all that passed during that Elysian season. Every scene 
 was lived over again, and enjoyed with renewed zest; we 
 laughed and cried, and laughed again ; and, in short, to a 
 stranger, could such an one have seen us, we must have 
 appeared like two simpletons. 
 
 Like ''golden days" were granted her around 
 and upon the hill-sides of Bow Brook; and she 
 wrote of them, a year afterward, as growing "more 
 bright and beautiful, as they recede into the dim 
 caverns of the past. Do you not live them over 
 again almost every hour ; and is there not enjoy- 
 ment even in the simple reminiscence'?" 
 
 While here, these friends originated a mock- 
 periodical entitled The Bread Trough^ issued in 
 manuscript, racy and witty in the extreme, ex- 
 pressing a boundless archness and humor, that 
 gave the zest to their conversational talent. 
 
 Late in the summer she spent a week at our 
 home, in Providence, with S. C. E. It was a 
 week of true happiness. 
 
 On the 19th of November, of this year, Charlotte 
 was married to Mr. J. W. Jerauld. This union 
 consummated an attachment of years, and every 
 mention of her husband is affectionate and warm. 
 She entered upon the duties of her new vocation 
 with pure affections and a strong will. Her dislike 
 of show was maintained with beautiful consistency 
 in the arrangements for, and in the celebration of, 
 her wedding. She was married early on Sabbath 
 
66 MEMOIR. 
 
 morning. She heartily responded to the meaning 
 of the service, attended church both parts of 
 the day, and crowned the day by having "her 
 minister" and a clerical friend at tea. 
 
 The humble circumstances of her husband re- 
 quired the utmost economy of time and expense ; 
 but the efforts thus required were nothing to her, 
 were it not for the deprivation she suffered in not 
 being able to continue her progress in literature. 
 "I find," she writes, "little in 'housekeeping' to 
 make one feel poetical, or like telling a story with 
 any grace." She, however, as in all her life, found 
 time for a little effort in the way of her choice, and 
 remoulded many of the poems she wrote in her 
 earliest years. Those she originated at this time 
 bear the impress of more studious effort, some of 
 which may be found at the close of the poetry in 
 this volume. Her "Sketches of Hazlehurst" were 
 written after her marriage. The tone of these 
 stories is more lively than her " Lights and Shad- 
 ows." She did not neglect her correspondents, 
 and it is pleasant to see the perfect neatness of her 
 chirography, the closeness of the writing, and the 
 full sheets she sent to her friends. Luxuries in the 
 shape of food and furniture and fine dress she 
 could easily forego, but she could not live without 
 letters. She wrote them at night, at Sabbath 
 noons, at early morning; and when labor could 
 not be performed, she bent over the paper with her 
 pen, though her head ached severely, and with "a 
 cancer-wart on the third finger, that seemed to 
 have fastened its roots to the bone, sending shoot- 
 
MEMOIR. 67 
 
 mg pains through the arm to the shoulder." She 
 crowds the sheets full of interest, as though the 
 motto was, that "not the gold eagles, but the 
 picayune favors, do the greatest good in social 
 life." It was no letter for letter rule that guided 
 her in her correspondence, but " My heart is brim- 
 ful of you and your affairs, and I miisi write. I 
 have you before me in your happiest mood and 
 appearance, and I wish you were bodily with me 
 to rejoice as I do in a bright spring day." She 
 learns that a friend is to remove where a dear 
 relative resides, and she writes to commend to her 
 relative her friend, that their families may be all 
 the happier by acquaintance. In one line she pic- 
 tures him : "_He is a fine, bluff, social man, and as 
 good-natured as it is possible for a man to be." 
 And when depression came, she took up her pen, 
 and by writing to her friends brought before her 
 the qualities of character she loved, revisited re- 
 freshing scenes, and drew in the inspiration of 
 Christian actions which she commended in others, 
 till she could say, 
 
 "Noble deeds shall hold me in place of garden rest." 
 
 On the first new year's day after her marriage, 
 she writes : 
 
 Ah, well ! another year has slipped by, bringing changes 
 neither few nor small — lights to some — shadows, oh, how 
 dark ! to others ! The past year was variously chequered to 
 me. I have been gay and sad — to both extremes ; have made 
 and broken acquaintanceships — not friendshi])s, thank God! 
 have parted with those I love for a time, and with one forever 
 on earth ; and in three short weeks stood first at the grave, and 
 
6b MEMOIR. 
 
 passed 11 nee to the altar. It is passing strange to me, this 
 last event , I have not yet got acquainted with myself as a wifef 
 yet I trust to be enabled to perform all my duties faithfully 
 and M^ell. 
 
 In the spring of this year, she was deeply 
 aflfected by the death of a young friend, of whom 
 sh^ writes : 
 
 She was one of the most amiable and gentle of God's crea- 
 tion, leaving the dearest connections without a murmur, after 
 bearing a long sickness with uncomplaining gentleness and 
 patience. She died in the arras of her beloved, eager — more 
 than willing, as she herself said — to die ; longing to have 
 wings to fly away, triumphant in the faith ! 
 
 Her disease was that lingering and most flattering one, — ^ 
 consumption. Yet, through all the weary days, weeks and 
 months, that she was confined to her room, debarred from all 
 the enjoyments which the young love so well, no word of 
 repining or complaint ever passed her lips — none, 1 am sure, 
 lingered in her heart ! So cheerful and happy did she appear, 
 that she never failed to communicate it to those who visited 
 her, during their stay by her side, and send them away hoping, 
 involuntarily, against hope. Yet it was not the expectation of 
 returning health that enlivened her thus ; not the fairy visions 
 of life and pleasure that might be supposed to flit before the 
 eyes of one so young and fair ; — for, as she herself told her 
 pastor, some time before her death, she had long known that 
 she could never recover. " Tell my young friends," was her 
 dying message, "^that nothing but the religion of the Lord 
 Jesus can give true pleasure in life, or impart calmness and 
 joy to the dying ! " No earthly hope was that which illumined 
 her path through the valley of shadows, and which dictated 
 her last message to her beloved minister — " Tell him thai I 
 am more than willing to die! " 
 
 Not from the aged, worn out by the toils and struggles of 
 life — not from the sorrow-stricken, the lonely and bereaved 
 one, whose every earthly tie had been sundered, issued those 
 
MEMOIR. 69 
 
 words ! She from whose lips they fell so calmly was in the 
 bloom and beauty of youth — untried by sorrow, uncontami- 
 nated by sin — bound by the cords of affection to many hearts ; 
 parents, kind and affectionate, were beside her, a loving brother 
 and sister, and one faithful and devoted, the best-beloved, who 
 was to have been her husband — all these circled round her 
 with tearful eyes and fond embraces ; yet still from those pale 
 lips came the triumphant words — " I am more than willing 
 TO DIE ! " Life was bright and beautiful to her ; the shadows 
 had not yet fallen dark upon her pathway ; but upward, onward, 
 gazed the faith-inspired eye, and as the golden gates of the 
 celestial city burst qpon her sight, fainter and dimmer grew 
 the scenes of earth ; angel-fingers beckoned her, angel-voices 
 wooed her thither, and seraph-anthems welcomed the gentle 
 spirit to her Father's house ! 
 
 Weep, ye bereaved ones, from whose heart-garland another 
 flower has faded — for thus perchance may your sight become 
 clearer to discern the glories of immortality ! Weep, for thua 
 did the Master, at the grave of one he loved ! Weep, but oh, 
 npt for her, the bright and blessed one — not for the beatified 
 spirit in heaven — but weep rather for yourselves, that your 
 heavy hearts may thus find relief! Pure and blameless was 
 her life — calm, peaceful and happy, its closing scenes. Though 
 ** dead, she yet speaketh " to every heart that knew her, — ay, 
 and shall yet speak, through the influence of her example, to 
 hundreds whose eyes never rested on her living face, in words 
 of truth and beauty never to be effaced from their memory. 
 Living, she hath exemplified the beauties of her faith ; dying, 
 she hath borne triumphant testimony to its power to take the 
 sting from death, and rob the grave of victory ! May the man- 
 tle of her virtues rest on those who are left behind ! Blessed 
 art thou, oh gentle one, for the Father loved thee, and hath 
 called thee early to be with Him and Christ ! 
 
 While the June flowers of this year were in 
 bloom, the first-born of a friend's family became a 
 beautiful Memory, and a more beautiful Hope. 
 6 
 
70 ^ MEMOIR. 
 
 Deeply did her death affect the heart of Charlotte, 
 — for she had sported with her the summer pre- 
 vious, — and she thus wrote to the bereaved mother, 
 after the burial : 
 
 My heart's warmest sympathies are with you in this season 
 of your bereavement and sorrow ; and though I feel deeply that 
 words of common consolation fall like mockery on the ear, 
 while every fibre of the heart is quivering with intense agony, 
 yet I cannot refrain from writing to you, were it only for the 
 selfish indulgence of giving vent to the feelings which your 
 affliction has stirred up within me. Ever since I was first 
 startled by the tidings of her death — so sudden — and ever 
 since I stood by her coffin, I have yearned to see you, to clasp 
 your hand, and whisper some little word of peace and comfort 
 in your ear, — to apply a drop of healing balsam to your torn and 
 lacerated heart. I fear you have thought me cold and indiffer- 
 ent, because I have not proffered my sympathies in the hour of 
 your sorrow ; but, believe me, my heart's warmest sympathies 
 have been with you, and my earnest prayers have risen to 
 heaven, that you might thence derive the comfort and consola- 
 tion which can proceed from no other source. I should have 
 spoken with you on the day of your Mary's funeral, but my 
 heart was full, and I felt as if it would be impossible to give 
 utterance to my feelings without distressing you even more. 
 May the Father comfort you, and wipe the tears from your 
 eyes, so that you may discern the fountain of mercy and love 
 gushing for you, amid the wilderness of sorrow ! • 
 
 The summer succeeding her marriage was en- 
 livened by a visit to Northboro'. This was much 
 needed by the state of her health, for at this time 
 we find prophecies of what was to come, as the 
 climax of her maladies. The air of the country, 
 and the reviving influences of rural beauty, in- 
 creased her strength, and benefited her mentally. 
 
MEMOIR. 71 
 
 She writeSj while here, how the noridness of her 
 face had betrayed many into the belief that she 
 was perfectly healthy ; but she had suffered from a 
 determination of blood to the brain for years, and 
 many times she expressed a fear that the oppression 
 of the brain, — a leaden weight of ponderous heav- 
 iness, — would end in insanity. Years before 
 this time, she wrote a letter to her betrothed, tak- 
 ing an affectionate leave of him and life, under the 
 apprehension of speedy death or insanity from this 
 cause. 
 
 She wrote but little duringJhe succeeding winter. 
 In April, she penned the fourth of her ''Sketches 
 of Hazlehurst," — the beautiful story of the "Lace- 
 weaver;" and in May, she gave us one of her most 
 finished poems, " The Bride." This poem did not 
 satisfy her, or she would have sent it for the ^^Rose 
 of Sharon ; " for she writes at this time to the friend 
 who edited that Annual : — 
 
 I feel quite ashamed that I did not fulfil my promise of 
 writing for the " Rose; " but you have no idea of the listless, 
 supine state of my mind. I have resolved and re-resolved to 
 chain my thoughts down, and get off something in the shape 
 of a story ; but the last hour came, and found the article in the 
 same unfinished state, and poor me in utter despair. 
 
 "The Bride" was the last work of her pen, 
 though another poem, "Isabel," was published 
 afterward. A touching interest is always attached 
 to the last effort of departed genius, and we give 
 here the poem : 
 
72 MEMOIR. 
 
 ^ THE BRIDE. 
 
 Flowers for the bride ! She is young and fair ; 
 Let them brightly bloom mid her soft brown hair ; 
 The shining leaves of the myrtle vine 
 With the fragrant buds of the orange twine, 
 And the snowy japonica, Flora's pride, 
 « To garland the brow of the fair young bride. 
 
 A song for the bride ! Not a carol gay. 
 But tender and sweet as the wind-harp's lay, 
 When the south wind murmurs its strings among 
 And softest strains on the air are flung, 
 Thrilling the soul with a magic power — 
 Music like this for the marriage hour ! 
 
 Joy to the bride ! She has plighted now 
 To the best beloved a holy vow ; 
 And they, henceforth, until life is done. 
 In name and fame, and in heart, are one. 
 Her home is now by the loved one's side, — 
 May blessings rest on the youthful bride I 
 
 But tears steal fast from her downcast eyes. 
 Her bosom heaves with convulsive sighs ; 
 What shade of sadness or thought has power 
 To dim the joy of the bridal hour ? 
 Her tears are shed on a mother's breast — 
 The dove is quitting the parent nest ! 
 
 Pray for the bride ! for oh, never more 
 
 Shall she tread again, as in days of yore. 
 
 The sunny slopes where her young feet played. 
 
 Or the pleasant haunts where in youth she strayed ; — 
 
 Through what rough paths may her footsteps roam, 
 
 When she crosses the threshold of childhood's home ! 
 
MEMOIR. 73 
 
 Pray for the gentle and loving bride ! 
 That her heart, howe'er by affliction tried, 
 Through chances and changes, in joy or pain, 
 Truthful and trustful may still remain ; 
 And blessings fruitful and rich abide 
 In the heart and home of the happy bride ! 
 
 The '' unfinished " story to which she refers in 
 her letter above was entitled, '' Under the May- 
 stick," and was finished by the friend for whom 
 she was to have written it. It is now another 
 memorial of their unity of effort, as published in 
 the ''Rose of Aharon'' for 1847. 
 
 But though she had closed her literary labors, 
 she did not permit any supineness of mind to keep 
 her from correspondence. Two weeks previous to 
 her death, she wrote quite a number of letters, all 
 of them in the little neat characters that gave such 
 a grace to her epistles, and full to the brim. She 
 seemed to write as though she must give one more 
 expression to her afiiuent love, and show that 
 nothing could drive away the forms of her friends 
 from the vision of her soul. In her last letter to 
 her dearest correspondent, is the only reference to 
 death to be met with in these letters ; but amid the 
 detail of the little matters of interest to the house- 
 hold affections, there is apparent to the heart of sen- 
 sibility a something unexpressed, — not of gloomy 
 foreboding, or shrinking from the veiled future, but 
 a solemn waiting on God and his providence. She 
 asks her friend if the weather is more propitious 
 in the vicinity of Bow Brook than in the city, 
 and adds : — 
 
 6=^ 
 
74 MEMOIR. 
 
 I am longing to get into the country, to smell the green trees 
 and the fresh air ; and sometimes I get so tired of waiting to 
 go, that it seems as if I were destined to die in the dust and 
 heat of this crowded city, pining for the breath of flowers. In 
 the cold, stormy days of winter, I always shrink fearfully from 
 the thoughts of death, and the cold, damp, snow-covered grave ; 
 but in the burning days of summer, it wears a different aspect, 
 and one can think, with a feeling akin to pleasure, of its cool, 
 dark, flower-wreathed chambers. 
 
 This was the last conscious utterance of her 
 thoughts of death and the grave ; and is it not a 
 refreshing utterance? The common thought is, 
 How terrible it is to die when the full glory of 
 summer is abroad, and nature is dressed for the 
 high festival of joy ! Not to her came the usual 
 associations of the grave, — the shroud, the coffin, 
 and the mouldering damp ; but with a poet's touch, 
 she changed the whole, and spake of the "cool, 
 dark, flower- wreathed chambers " of the tomb. 
 
 The last week in July, 1845, her child was 
 born. On the third day of her sickness, she 
 began to wander — her thoughts were disconnected 
 and confused ; and in less than twenty-four hours 
 she became a raving maniac ! All through her 
 life she had felt and expressed the presentiment 
 that she should die young; and, as though dread- 
 ing what really came, she often remarked, she 
 hoped she should have her senses When she should 
 die. The circumstances of her death give meaning 
 to many allusions in her letters that otherwise 
 might be passed with but a slight notice. She 
 many times attempted to set herself firmly at a 
 course of reading and study, to carry out the wishes 
 
MEMOIR* 75 
 
 and advice of a clerical friend, whose influence over 
 her was of the best character, and used to the best 
 ends. But she could not persist She lamented 
 this, and writes to S. 0. E. her sorrow at her many 
 defeats, adding ^'My memory is very treacherous-, 
 and I believe it is aftected by the difficulty in my 
 head, of which I have spoken to you before." 
 Many times she was perfectly overwhelmed with 
 a depression of spirits ; not from any recognizable 
 cause in her experience, but from a shadow that 
 came she knew not from whence, and which she 
 could not put away. To write in a lively strain 
 was not the easiest effort of her_ talent. She suf- 
 fered much from the remarks of friends, who told 
 her that she made her sketches too sad ; and she 
 would destro]^ articles she had commenced writing, 
 because the current in them set the same way. 
 She writes to a friend, on this subject : — 
 
 Now, I do write stories sometimes that end well, though, 
 when I do, they flow from the wpper-current ; but beneath that 
 is a deep under-current of sad feeling, which will work itself 
 into whatever I write; and, truth to tell, my " shadows " are 
 far dearer to me than my " lights," 
 
 Certain we are, she sought no aids to strengthen 
 this tendency to sadness ; and herein the story of 
 her life speaks a good word. Her melancholy 
 never became morbid ; she never voluntarily turned 
 the dark side of anything to her gaze that she 
 might have cause to weep, but sought the ministry 
 of all beautiful and holy things to strengthen her 
 in the evil hour. It was because of this that the 
 favorite sermon in Dr. Greenwood's volume was 
 
76 MEMOIR. 
 
 '' Christ our Fellow-sufFerer," — one of those lyrical 
 utterances of gospel truth that bring the harmonies 
 of revealed rehgion to blend perfectly with the 
 voices of nature and the best moods of the human 
 soul. Her unquenchable love of a frank expres- 
 sion of one's own nature made passages like the 
 following to be the echoing of the voice of God to 
 her spirit : — 
 
 Suffering is suffering ; and you cannot teach, human nature 
 to be indifferent to it, because he who made it has made it 
 susceptible of suffering. And, here it is that I feel the value 
 of my Saviour's prayer. Jesus sympathizes v^^ith me when 
 I shrink from the prospect of pain ; for there was an hour 
 when he shrunk from it himself, and, in extreme distress, 
 begged to be delivered from it, if it were possible. There 
 was no show of bravery in him when the sweat dropped from 
 him like blood, and he cried amidst the gloom of that last 
 night — cried out that the cup might be taken away. And 
 this assures me that no show of bravery is required of me in 
 the hour of my distress, and that I am guilty of no improper 
 weakness, and prefer no undutiful petition, when I am subdued 
 and melted, and pray that the dreaded pangs may be spared 
 me. I find him near to me in the valley of tears and sorrows ; 
 not rebuking me, but sanctifying my sad appeals, and permit- 
 ting me to borrow his own words in making my petition. I . 
 love him for his simple, undisguised, unmingled truth ; I love 
 him for taking on himself my nature so entirely ; — for not only 
 teaching me and arming me, but weeping with me, and even 
 fearing with me. And loving him in this wise, and comforted 
 by his sympathy when I weep and fear, I am better prepared to 
 follow and imitate him when he submits, endures and triumphs. 
 Reassured in my trembling and yet importunate griefs, by 
 hearing him exclaim, " O my Father, if it be possible, let this 
 cup pass from me ! " I am the more ready to pursue his prayer, 
 and add, " Nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou wilt." 
 
MEMOIR. 77 
 
 Charlotte did not wrestle with her Maker, as 
 though she was wronged by suffering, but she 
 tuned her heart to all the music that might be 
 granted to soothe the unquiet spirit and hasten the 
 recovery. And when madness came, it was the 
 overwhelming rushing of a power she had feared 
 many times, but which she had resisted by the 
 discipline of the will, that has more control over 
 insanity than we dream of 
 
 The last of her conscious acts was the reading a 
 few lines of a letter from S. 0. E. It was full of 
 gushing health and gladness, the exuberance of 
 friendship, and dealt with matters of personal in- 
 terest — the little items of domestic and gossiping 
 life. It was read to her by her husband ; but this 
 was not enough. Though it might seem as one 
 singing songs to a heavy heart, it was really the 
 life she needed ; each little detail had a pulse of 
 true vitality in it, and the spirit of every line was 
 electric with refreshing power. She took it into 
 her hands, held it up, and read a few lines; but 
 her extreme weakness made her friends fearful of 
 the effect of her emotion, and the last letter was 
 taken away. In her delirium she murmured the 
 name of Sarah ; but all else was indistinct. The 
 most fearful of visions were before her ; and though 
 the remedial means used by her physician calmed 
 her somewhat, it was the quietness of exhaustion ; 
 and without further consciousness of the reality of 
 things, she died. Her infant preceded her on the 
 first day of August ; Charlotte died on the second, 
 talking in a low, whispering tone unceasingly, till 
 
78 MEMOIR. 
 
 the last throe was past. If the inefficiency of her 
 rehgious faith was, as imagined by some, to be 
 proved by these last hours, their entire efficacy 
 must have been substantiated by the unutterably 
 beautiful and celestial visions, which changed only 
 from glory to glory, when that pure spirit left us, 
 with whom she had such a unity of feeling, sym- 
 pathy, religion and life-purpose; for the realities 
 to which the redeemed are admitted in the celestial 
 life were all symbolized in the divine beauty of 
 the visions of the last hours of Mrs. Mayo. She 
 had a poet's death. No life-long ills had been 
 working in her brain, striving for the ascendency ; 
 and she was spared those infirmities that were 
 weakening constantly the silver cord and shatter- 
 ing the golden bowl at the fountain of her friend's 
 life. 
 
 On the Sabbath succeeding the death of Charlotte, 
 she was buried from the Warren-street Church, 
 Boston. A deep and profound interest was felt in 
 the occasion by a vast throng of relatives, friends 
 and acquaintances. Revs. H. Ballou, S. Streeter 
 and O. A. Skinner, participated in the services, ex- 
 pressing their estimation of her as an unpretending 
 Christian, whose happiness was found chiefly in 
 ministering to others. 
 
 Her burial-place is in Mount Auburn cemetery, 
 the spot she contemplated three years before as the 
 place where she would be buried, could the wish 
 be granted. Fit resting-place for one who loved so 
 intensely the interweaving lights and shadows of 
 the forest aisles, and to whom the music of the 
 
MEMOIR. 79 
 
 murmuring wind whispered of existence undefined 
 but beautiful, in the chme of eternal health and 
 harmonious activity ! 
 
 " The good, the loved, are with us though they die ; 
 We think of them as angels in the sky ; 
 But the deep firmament divides us not — 
 They're with us in the densest crowd, and in the loneliest spot." 
 
 Such is our record of Charlotte's life — a life so 
 full of promise that we can but regret that more 
 opportunity was not given here for its develop- 
 ment and exhibition. While the impression is 
 fresh upon us, gained from a studious perusal of 
 her correspondence, and a careful scrutiny of all 
 the inlets to her character, we may utter our 
 appreciation of the woman. Not that our opinion 
 can weigh much with the reader, but because it is 
 a natural and useful curiosity to inquire, what is 
 the estimation formed of a person, in whom we are 
 interested, by those who have had the best means 
 of acquaintance. We had known Charlotte while 
 she was yet visible. We had known her aims, her 
 impulses, the warmth and depth and unselfish 
 character of her friendships, her frank manners, 
 and that mingling of reserve which asked for a 
 certainty of sympathy ere the whole being could 
 be given up. We had known, what a friend writes 
 us, that "Charlotte's nature was exquisitely sensi- 
 tive and reserved in the putting out of its best 
 things. That overflowing mirth meant a great 
 deal more than joy, — it was the capricious inter- 
 
80 MEMOIR. 
 
 preter of her fears and her sorrows, her love and 
 her piety, no less than her gladness." We had 
 known all this, but we never knew it so well as 
 since her papers and correspondence have fallen 
 under our inspection. We can give the impression 
 made by the great mass of her letters, which are 
 of too personal a character to be given to the pub- 
 lic; and we repeat our thought, that we see the best 
 evidence that she was a pure-hearted and heroic 
 woman ; — one who felt what life was made to her, 
 and what she wanted to make life ; who did her 
 part well in the economy of intellectual advance- 
 ment, and made a wise use of the limited means 
 which were granted to her. It is a sacred office to 
 look into the letters of the dead ; — to gaze upon the 
 play of the tenderest and acutest feeUngs, — the; 
 peering out of the most delicate and retiring emo- 
 tions of the soul, — the freedom of communicative- 
 ness where the heart is sure of its proper reader. 
 In all such letters there is a life that survives the 
 interest of the things detailed. It affects us like a 
 remembered melody when the sentiment of the 
 song is forgotten. It comes to us like the unction 
 of a speaker, whose language we cannot fully 
 interpret. These letters abound with references 
 which are unappreciable to us, but in the exuber- 
 ant fancy, the warm-hearted eagerness to impart 
 a pleasurable item of intelligence, the blending of 
 high-toned thought with, racy gossip, the stern 
 integrity to principle, while tolerance of personal 
 peculiarities is preserved, the gayety of fancy and 
 mirth kept within appropriate limits, and the same 
 
MEMOIR. 81 
 
 soul as ready to weep with those who weep as to 
 rejoice with those who rejoice, — we can but see a 
 character to admire. We know with whom we 
 are communing, and how worthy the heart that 
 utters itself is of our admiration and esteem. The 
 letters of the dead are the best revelation of char- 
 acter, and we have no reverence to give to those 
 who seem to fear this test, and burn all they can 
 grasp. We do not marvel at the profound regard 
 which Tennyson exhibits for his dead friend, in 
 his " In Memoriam^^^ when we read how that 
 friend's letters affected him : — 
 
 " A hunger seized my heart ; I read 
 
 Of that glad year that once had been, 
 In those fallen leaves that kept their green. 
 The noble letters of the dead : 
 
 " And strangely on the silence broke 
 
 The silent-speaking words, and strange 
 Was love's dumb cry defying change 
 To test his worth ; and strangely spoke 
 
 " The faith, the vigor, bold to dwell 
 
 On doubts that drive the coward back, 
 And keen through wordy snares to track 
 Suggestion to her inmost cell. 
 
 " So word by word, and line by line, 
 
 The dead man touched me from the past, 
 And all at once it seemed at last 
 His living soul was flashed on mine." 
 
 We feel that such letters have life in them ; and 
 though they treat of matters beyond the reach of 
 our interpretation, that life would make itself felt, 
 and the name of the dead be made holy. Such is 
 the impression made on our mind by reading the 
 7 
 
82 MEMOIR. 
 
 letters of Charlotte. We gaze at them as they are 
 arranged before us, and recognize in them a suffi- 
 ciency of power to attest the sincerity of her pro- 
 fessions, the generous character of her feelings, the 
 breadth of her comprehension of human nature 
 and true human life, her warm sympathy with 
 nature, and her reverent love of God. In them 
 are no murmurings at fate, no morbid melancholy, 
 no dreamings of a diseased and restive fancy, no 
 bickerings and strifes, no littlenesses of temper, or 
 cynical criticisms. If she speaks of a want of 
 companionable feeling towards any one thrown by 
 circumstances within the circle of her notice and 
 acquaintance, she attributes this want, not to 
 defects of character in that person, but admits the 
 reasonableness of the good opinions of others, and 
 suggests that her own want of appreciation arises 
 from a dissimilarity of tastes, or the absence of 
 affinity in pursuits. Her likes and dislikes had a 
 rational basis. She never expressed more than she 
 meant as a friend, though her reserve and timidity 
 often time prevented the expression of as much as' 
 she felt. She says, in her letters, very little of those 
 nearest related to her; but what is said is enough 
 to show a true fideUty to the affections of home 
 and domestic hfe. We have written but little of 
 her estimation of her mother and husband in the 
 Memoir^ because they are both living, and we are 
 not writing of the living, but of the dead. We 
 believe that her filial love was deep and strong, — 
 too strong for any other than the language of deeds 
 to give it appropriate expression. She always 
 
MEMOIR. 83 
 
 spoke of her mother with devoted aifection. We 
 see her love for that mother in the industry of her 
 girlhood, which sent her to toil from home as soon 
 as her school-days were ended. She carried from 
 school a deep thirsting after intellectual culture ; 
 but it was made to yield, as far as necessary, to 
 the calls of duty in the home, and we see her at- 
 tentive to mental culture while her hands wrought 
 at a labor that required but little concentration of 
 mind. She that sings at her labor enlivens her 
 toils, and she that composes a song while her hands 
 are employed, does the same ; and Burns did well 
 to exult when he found a rival in the field at the 
 business of stooking or the sheafing of grain, 
 when he beat "off the claim of " I 'm equal to you, 
 Robin, to-day!" by exclaiming, '-'Nay, for I've 
 made a song while I 've been stooking." Char- 
 lotte did not neglect her toil, nor her song. And 
 most affectionately does she mention in her letters 
 some of the young women with whom she wrought, 
 and by a few strokes of her pen places before the 
 reader of her letter the face, form and manners, 
 of the person alluded to. She never mentions but 
 to commend. In all this we see a woman to be 
 admired and loved. 
 
 Looking into Charlotte's exterior life, we are 
 struck with the simplicity of her tastes, and the 
 wisdom of her choice how to live. What an inlet 
 to this is the fact of her taking a day from her 
 toil-time, when somewhat unwell, and refreshing 
 herself by visiting the exhibition-rooms of painters 
 and sculptors! There is something affectingly 
 
84 ^ MEMOIR. 
 
 beautiful to us in this incident, remembering, as 
 we do, that it is but suggestive of one of her habits, 
 — to act on the body through the mind, — now to 
 enUven the vital spirits by writing a letter to a 
 friend, and then by communion with the beautiful 
 in art. Simple tastes, and this illuminating and 
 refining method of supplying amusement or recre- 
 ation, gave her the best use of her powers for men- 
 tal progress. A good book became to her better 
 than a fine ornament ; an evening's conversation 
 with an intelligent friend was far preferable to the 
 theatre or the concert-room; and the sight of an 
 admirable picture or sculpture affected her far more 
 than a splendid dress ; and the fashion-plate was 
 nothing to the right costume of a graceful thought. 
 Her ideas of happiness were never associated with 
 splendor, and her dreams of home-life were identi- 
 fied with a cottage. In her marriage home she 
 spread her little gifts of friendship amid her books 
 on the table in her humble parlor, and, with the 
 fewest and simplest articles of furniture around 
 her, she gazed on the scene delightedly, exclaim- 
 ing, '' Well, there, I am so happy that I am afraid 
 something will happen to me before long. This 
 comes near to the idea I had of comfort, years ago, 
 when I used to draw pictures of the future." 
 Where thousands would have imagined many 
 things needed to make them happy, her happiness 
 was too great for continuance. The reason lay in 
 the fact that she looked on all things as a poet; — 
 not as the morbidly poetical, who must make thorns 
 with which to torture themselves, but as those to 
 
MEMom. 85 
 
 whom the common air is balm. Simplicity of 
 tasteSj and humbleness in our wants, is the grand 
 elixir of life. The ''must haves" are few, the 
 ''may wants" are many; and every reduction of 
 the one to the limits of the other takes a thorn 
 from the pillow, a wrinkle from the cheek, and a 
 care from the heart. By this method, Charlotte 
 kept her soul open to Nature and its beautiful 
 ministry. Earth and sky spake to her in their 
 meanings. The flowers lived for her, and the 
 forest was no more vocal with the songs of birds 
 than her walk there was fruitful in good thoughts 
 and refreshing feelings. To sketch the beauty of 
 the morning, the "memorable pomp" of the sky 
 after a shower, and " all the sweetness of a com- 
 mon dawn," was just as impulsive with her as to 
 relate home news to the far away. " Three years 
 without the sight of a violet" was as an exile ; and 
 the gift to a beauty of the richest ornaments could 
 create no greater pleasure than came to her by a 
 few fresh anemones borne to her in the city, bright 
 as when they blossomed on the hill-side, in the air 
 of Bow Brook. Permitted to see the country, and 
 enjoy its rural sights, she could tell the story of 
 the time in the words of Wordsworth, in his 
 
 " Summer Yacation : " — 
 
 • 
 
 " To the brim my heart was full. On I walked 
 In thankful blessedness, which yet survives." 
 
 As a writer, we need say*but little of Charlotte, 
 as this volume presents ample means for forming a 
 judgment. In all criticism it is due the writer, whose 
 
 7* 
 
86 MEMOIR. 
 
 productions we criticise, to remember the condi- 
 tions under which those productions were sent 
 forth. Charlotte had few opportunities for culture. 
 She had no one to direct the eiforts she made in the 
 few hours taken from repose ; and she. had to ven- 
 ture anonymously into the notice of the public, to 
 test whether she had or not a lamp worth filling 
 again with oil. Truthfully has a friend, who knew 
 her well, written of her, where he says, — " She had 
 noble aspirations, and longed for opportunities to 
 gratify them. She was filled and oppressed with 
 longings for a life of study and literature, — for 
 communion with the wise, and great, and good of 
 all ages and lands, — for knowledge in all its mani- 
 fold utterances. She died with a mind struggling 
 to unfold itself into strength, and a heart full of 
 beautiful visions never to be realized. Charlotte 
 had more talent by far than was supposed even 
 by her friends. There was a depth and tone to her 
 thought and a grace to her composition, a min- 
 gling of strength and tenderness, which would have 
 made her, in a few years, under favorable circum- 
 stances, one of the first female writers in our 
 country." — We unite in all this. She was just 
 beginning to have confidence in her powers. The 
 elements of success were being brought into har- 
 monious action, and the commendations of her 
 friends were finding a fitting response in the new 
 force ready for a better doing. She was just com- 
 mencing to be a useful critic to herself She was 
 becoming victorious in the struggle between what 
 she felt best expressed her, and the wishes of her 
 
MEMOIR, 8^. 
 
 Intimate friends for something more lively, and 
 was writing a noble strain to commend the 
 humanities of domestic and social life. Her po- 
 etry was receiving a better polish, while all the 
 grace of fresh thought and tenderness of feeling 
 was preserved. We were charmed with the 
 demonstration of improvement; and admired the 
 artlessness of her art, just as we were to hear the 
 knell of her departure from earth. Her writings 
 are but intimations of what she was capable of 
 doing, could time for careful expression and criti- 
 cal revision have been granted to her. 
 
 It can but be interesting to the reader to have 
 the estimation of Charlotte as a writer, from her 
 dearest friend, Mrs. Mayo. We have a manu- 
 script expressive of that friend's view of Char- 
 lotte's talents, designed for publication, and which 
 was mislaid at the time. After 'speaking of Char- 
 lotte's death, the manuscript proceeds thus : — 
 
 '' She wrote, not from literary ambition, but from 
 an over-full heart, as a bird sings, or a lamb sports j 
 and scattered her melodies 
 
 * A s an oak looseneth its gulden leaves 
 In a kindly largess to the soil it grew on,' 
 
 Poetry was to her the green tree under which she 
 rested after her daily toils. She gathered no fruit 
 from its boughs ; but, listening with a charmed ear 
 to the murmuring strains amid its foliage, her 
 spirit caught the melody, and warbled it aloud. 
 
 " Considering Charlotte's poetry, then, as a spon- 
 taneous thing, upon which she had bestowed no 
 
88 MEMOIR. 
 
 culture, and from which she expected no fruits, it 
 would be in bad taste to apply to it any other than 
 the simplest aesthetic rules. Was it pure? was 
 it simple ? 'was it true ? There can be but one 
 answer. Sketched she a little cottage, — how clear- 
 ly it stood out upon the landscape, with its mossy 
 roof and overhanging elms ! Was an old country 
 well her theme, — how temptingly trickled the clear 
 drops over the brim of its mossy bucket ! And 
 those fair young cottage maidens ! All after 
 Goethe's pattern were they, with their clear blue 
 eyes, pure loving hearts, and gay ringing laughter ! 
 
 " Her taste was for the picturesque rather than 
 the sentimental ; and she excelled in depicting an 
 object of form rather than in expressing an emo- 
 tion of the soul. There is very little of the sub- 
 jective in her productions ; there was very little 
 of it in her character. How charmingly would 
 she glide along in narrative, and how glowingly 
 describe an object or a scene ! But draw her away 
 from, the realm of sight to the realm of abstract 
 thought, and her colors grew pale and ineffective. 
 
 "Wandering with her, however, in the paths of 
 her own choosing, who will complain that she 
 leads us to the little clear wood-streams, and to the 
 dells where the violets grow ? And who would 
 have sweeter society than those cottage girls, who, 
 in whatever situations they might be raised by 
 prosperity, or precipitated by misfortune, were 
 ever gentle, affectionate and true ? In these scenes 
 of rural beauty and romantic adventure, she found 
 her natural vocation. 
 
MEMOIR, 89 
 
 *' Charlotte's stories are written with much collo- 
 quial ease, and evince a talent which, by cultiva- 
 tion, might have insured her an honorable place 
 among the story-writers of the day. Her heroines 
 are not all run in one mould. Lucy Murray, 
 Margaret Leslie, Isadore De Vaux, are not three 
 reflections of the same woman ; they do not run 
 together like rain-drops, but each preserves an 
 individual character. Her narrative talent is supe- 
 rior to her delineations of character. Her plots 
 are simple and natural. We can easily suppose 
 her tales to have been real. Indeed, she often 
 cheats us into the belief that they are so ; and this 
 is certainly a proof of no ordinary skill. 
 
 ''Her poetry has the same characteristics; — it is 
 simple, tender, and full of delicate rural pictures. 
 We count among the freshest and sweetest of her 
 poems the dewy little stanzas on ' Yiolets.' 
 
 '•'In many of her poems Charlotte has displayed 
 gushings of tenderness, which show what a deep 
 vein of it there was in her nature. It is a tender- 
 ness touched with pity — a pathos that melts, but 
 does not rend our hearts. Such is the character 
 of -Cassie,' and 'Clara,' two sonnets; and of 
 'The Motherless,' 'The Lonely One,' 'The 
 Old Wife to her Husband,' and ' The Dying Wife 
 to her Husband ;' — this last, a beautiful poem, 
 seems to have been prophetic of her own fate. 
 But in none of her writings is this trait of tender- 
 ness displayed in so interesting a manner as in 
 ' The Magdalen.' 
 
 " It seems like a dream, that the gay, the young 
 
90 MEMOIR. 
 
 the loving Charlotte, is no longer a communicant 
 with us in the joys and sorrows of mortal life. 
 Can it be that her ringing laugh is no longer heard 
 beside her mother's hearthstone? Is it true that 
 creatures so bright, and joyous, and good, die in 
 their youth and beauty? Yet, but a few weeks 
 since, we walked through the streets of the city, 
 where we have so often gayly promenaded together, 
 arm in arm ; and though we gazed in every face 
 we met, thinking of Charlotte, her beautiful eyes 
 and smihng cheeks were nowhere to be seen. 
 And then we entered her own home; we recog- 
 nized, at every step, things that she had treasured 
 and loved. Her books, her vase, her pictures, her 
 perfumes, — were they not all there ? Yes, even a 
 painted image of her own sweet face, with the mild 
 blue eyes gazing into our own. But the genius loci 
 was absent ! She bounded not forward, as usual, 
 to grasp our hand, and kiss our cheek. They told 
 us she was lying in the burial-ground upon the 
 Common.^ For a week we daily passed and 
 repassed that green enclosure. We saw the 
 autumn foliage waving over her grave. There 
 stood the silvery poplar, quivering like her own 
 sensitive spirit; and the scarlet maple, rustling its 
 beauty beneath the clear heaven from whence she 
 doubtless looks down on her mourning friends. 
 The air, the sun, the earth, were all so cheerful 
 and pleasant, it seemed impossible to restrain the 
 buoyancy of our spirits, even when treading near 
 her dust. Charlotte was not there. She was liv- 
 
 * Where she was first entombed. — B. 
 
MEMOIR. 91 
 
 mg, and at our side. We felt that her spirit 
 shared our joy ; that it would have fled from us 
 had we wept, or had we been unmindful of its 
 presence. Our faith buries no friend." 
 
 Having spoken of the impression made by Char- 
 lotte's letters, and referred to her exterior life, and 
 her talents as a writer, but one thing remains, and 
 that is, to say a word of her religion. According 
 to the predominance of a regard for spiritual above 
 sensual things, is to us the evidence of religion in 
 the soul. In Charlotte we see little love for the 
 sensual — much for the spiritual. The imagery 
 employed in her writings shows whither her 
 thoughts most impulsively and continuously 
 turned. She knew the divine depth of sorrow. 
 Her hours of sadness were never unilluminated by 
 light from heaven, and she worshipped God in the 
 cheerfulness of her soul. She chose for compan- 
 ions those who could feed her thoughtfulness, and 
 direct its strength to good ends ; and, with all the 
 energy of feeling with which she disliked preten- 
 ^on and turned away from ostentatious piety, she 
 loved the name and honor of God and his Christ. 
 In her silent acts of charity to those poorer than 
 herself, — by the touching tenderness of her speech 
 and actions towards the neglected and obscure, — 
 b}^ the earnestness with which she pleaded for the 
 sinful that they might not be abandoned, and by 
 the warmth of her sympathies towards all eflbrts 
 for making the words of Jesus "spirit and life" 
 in the every-day dealing of man with man, the 
 
92 MEMOIR. 
 
 reality of her religious feelings and the comprehen- 
 siveness of her religious principles were shown. 
 She said little of the impressions made by religious 
 services, but she took the thought home and fed 
 the fire, faithful to this admonition, "Quench not 
 the spirit." The highest themes found the best 
 mental hospitality with her ; and her recognition 
 of the Divine relations of life was clear and dis- 
 tinct. Immortality was no dream, but a reality. 
 It shone in the distance as the prophecy of the 
 morning; it was felt as the air from the mountain, 
 wafted to the dwellers in the sultry vale. It was 
 imaged in the beauty of summer, which she 
 desired to be above and around her grave, when 
 she should be borne thither; and which did send 
 its light in upon the tomb, and gushed its music 
 above the spot where all that was mortal of Char- 
 lotte was laid away, as the linen that bound 
 Jesus ere he rose to immortality ! 
 
 The reality and the pervading influence of 
 Charlotte's religious convictions should not be 
 questioned, because she does not use the impas- 
 sioned language that seems so familiar with many 
 undoubtedly religious people. To some, it is easy 
 to express the deepest tenderness and their holiest 
 feelings ; to others, this is impossible ; — they want 
 to go into solitude, and bury their face in their 
 hands, and pray. We could not bring out of famil- 
 iar letters the expressions of religious trust and 
 fervor, interwoven with the utterances of familiar 
 friendship and the anxieties of a sympathetic na- 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 ture, any more than we could report a prayer of 
 the closet which by chance we might have over- 
 heard. And, in reading a memoir or biography, 
 we are to test the religious spirit or character of 
 the subject by the impression made upon us as a 
 whole, — the tone which seems uttered by the life 
 of the man or woman. To see religious life behind 
 many and opposite forms, — to see it the hushing 
 charm of silence, as well as the voice of eloquent 
 pleading, — to recognize it in humble acts of neigh- 
 borly interest, and in the retirement of solitude, 
 where prayer aims to lift up the drooping hands 
 of some toiler in the ways of woe, as well as in 
 martyrdoms and the invoking of God's aid in the 
 presence of a multitude, — this is the great need, 
 in order to obtain life from the records of the lives 
 of the good. Channing said, that the look of a 
 face of true piety had done him more good than the 
 most eloquent sermon; and when we read the 
 faces of the good of every name and sect with 
 such a teachable and impressible spirit, we shall 
 not ask for a particular language, certain phrases, 
 and set forms of speech, to enable us to recognize 
 the presence of religion in the soul; for it will 
 come out to meet us, as the warmth of a dwelling, 
 as we enter it from the street. To cherish a deep 
 interest in the obscure and neglected one, whom 
 none noticed in the church, Sabbath after Sabbath, 
 — to plead in the secrecy of thought and feeling for 
 the pastor, to care for the Magdalene, that she 
 might be led nearer to God, — to yearn for that evi- 
 8 
 
94 MEMOIR. 
 
 (lence of immortality which comes with the growth 
 of mind in knowledge, truth and grace, and to see 
 moral excellence only to recognize more distinctly 
 one's own deficiencies, and to aspire after virtue 
 and holiness, that God and the good may love us 
 more, — is to be religious. If so, then was Char- 
 lotte religious; and we can understand why she 
 felt holily happy at the Table of the Lord, in the 
 remembrance of Christ, carrying from thence a 
 higher fellowship for everything worthy of being 
 loved. Could she have been permitted the use of 
 her reason in the last scenes of mortal life, we 
 cannot doubt that she would have passed from the 
 bewilderment that encompassed her to the serenest 
 anticipations of heaven, like him who cried, "My 
 God, my God ! why hast thou forsaken, me ! " but 
 who closed not his lips till he said, " Father, into 
 thy hands I commend my spirit ! " We leave, then, 
 our friend in the embrace of that grace which glo- 
 rifies the Creator's wisdom and power. 
 
 But as a little space is yet left of the portion of 
 this volume given to the Memoir, we would use it 
 for what may be a providential word to some 
 reader. We look on Charlotte's life as affording a: 
 needed lesson to many young women. The class 
 of young womerl^s not small who are in constant 
 unrest, possessed of vague dreamings after some- 
 thing they cannot have, — wasting life, with all 
 its beautiful opportunities for highest culture, be- 
 cause they cannot be what they see is attractive 
 in some other. Keen discernment of beauty in. 
 
MEMOIR. 95 
 
 nature, art and mind, is theirs ; rich susceptibihties 
 towards poetry, in its manifold and most subtle 
 forms ; a noble receptivity of mind, to give mental 
 hospitality to high thoughts and Divine sentiments; 
 — with ready sympathies, strong affections, and a 
 knowledge of their moral deficiencies which over- 
 whelms them at times, they do nothing, and are 
 nothing. The capabilities we see in them are as 
 waters that run to waste: — no flower, no plant, no 
 springing grass, breathes out, nor smiles the blessing 
 which those waters have power to give, if other- 
 wise distributed. They are envious when they 
 imagine they are only aspiring; they want the 
 excellence they admire, without the bestowment of 
 the labor that purchased it ; they neglect the gift 
 that is in them in yearning for the gift which they 
 see in another ; and, at length, sick of vain yearn- 
 ings, they take up the prayer of impatience, "O 
 that I had wings like a dove ! for then would I 
 flee away and be at rest." Yes, this is their 
 most characteristic language. They look with a 
 poet's eye on the ^dove. Something alarms the 
 little trembler ; his wings flutter, and he darts up- 
 ward, takes his circles, and is lost like an arrow 
 in the blue intense. To be like that bird, — to dart 
 away from trouble and unrest, — to soar to that 
 heaven that bends above, so calm, so serene, so 
 beautiful, — were indeed, they think, the ultimate of 
 desirable gifts. But they do not think far enough. 
 They do not follow the dove as facts would direct 
 their way, and see, as they might see, that the 
 bird flies not to rest. Beyond our sight he strug- 
 
96 MEMOIR. 
 
 gles with winds and clouds ; the eagle and the vul- 
 ture are there ; and that little creature, that seemed 
 secure from harm, the seronaut from his silken 
 ship has seen amid elements of fierce contention. 
 And so with humanity. Every sphere that is pos- 
 sible has its difficulties and trials. Conflict is the 
 condition of growth. To have the spirit the dove 
 symbolizes in the Gospels, is far better than to ask 
 for that bird's wings. No wings, though they may 
 change thy place, can change thy soul, to alter 
 the quality of thy thought, or give symmetry to 
 character where sharp points persecute by the law 
 of moral fitness. Beautiful to your sight, aspiring 
 but yet desponding woman, may be the course of 
 some mind that seems like a flying dove, whose 
 snowy wings grow goldenly in the sunshine ; but 
 thou art not near enough to see the heaving breast, 
 the wandering eyes, the fluttering of the pinions, 
 and thou canst not dream what a trembler may 
 be in reality that image of peace. God has not 
 made thee a dove ; a dove's life is not to be thine. 
 Thank Him for what he has made thee, with a soul 
 susceptible of everlasting growth, with sympathies 
 for all things beautiful and true, with aspirings for 
 the possession of endowments of which the best 
 thou knowest now are but shadows and faint 
 prophecies ! Use these gifts of God. Let thy little 
 garden show the results of culture. Many a root 
 and plant is there, worthy of all the skill thou 
 canst bestow. And thy great encouragement shall 
 be, culture ends not with the thing on which it 
 is bestowed, — the power to do increases as the 
 
MEMom. 97 
 
 thing done; and by true fidelity to the duty 
 that Hes nearest, thou wilt best prepare thyself for 
 what may come to thee in the distance, as the 
 study of a ray of light made the eye ready to drink 
 in the full beauty of the rainbow, when it spanned 
 the heavens. 
 
 That Charlotte did all we commend, by her 
 memory, to others, we are far from presuming. 
 She had her deficiences, — she felt them more than 
 any other. But what we do say is this; — she 
 longed for growth of soul, and neglected not her 
 soul's growth in the sphere God gave her. Poor, 
 obscure, required to toil, having but the limited 
 advantages of education which are secured to 
 the humblest, she put forth her powers, timidly, 
 but successfully, as the Russian violet springs up 
 amid the frozen soil ; and when sickness prostrated 
 her energies, just as she was beginning to make 
 better efforts, she murmured not, and only asked 
 to have her pining for the sight of flowers and for 
 the breath of the sweet-scented fields answered. 
 God's gift was better than she prayed for. She is 
 now to us a Memory and a Hope ! 
 8* 
 
TRIBUTE TO "CHARLOTTE/' 
 
 In a letter, dated a fortnight previous to her death, she writes as follows :— 
 "I am longing to get into the country, to smell the green trees and the 
 fresh air ; and sometimes I got so tired of waiting to go, that it seems as if 
 I were destined to die in the dust and heat of this crowded city, pining for 
 the breath of flowers. In the cold, stormy days of winter, I always shrink 
 fearfully from the thoughts of death, and the cold, damp, snow-covered grave ; 
 but in the burning days of summer it wears a different aspect, and one can 
 think, with a feeling akin to pleasure, of its cool, dark, flower-wreathed 
 chambers." 
 
 Thy wish is granted, dearest ; thou art gone 
 To the green fields and freshly breathing air, 
 
 Where ever round thee plays the breeze of morn, 
 And waving shadows fleck thy dew-sprent hair. 
 
 The flowers are at thy feet, — the dear-loved flowers ; 
 
 Young violets, scented with the breath of heaven, 
 And radiant lilies, and o'er-hanging bowers 
 
 Of loveliest roses, shedding dews at even ' 
 
 Amid them, fairest blossom of them all, 
 
 Thy child, thy love-flower, sports the hours away ; 
 
 No shadow on its heart will ever gall, 
 No raging sin, no wasting, slow decay ! 
 
 Why should I weep for thee 1 I have not wept ! 
 
 For though fond hearts and holy ties were riven, 
 I could not mourn that thy tired body slept, 
 
 And that thy spirit had gone home to heaven ! 
 
 In summer, when the earth was fair with flowers. 
 When zephyrs whispered mid the green old trees, 
 
 When there was music in the vine-wreathed bowers, 
 Shed from the wings of humming-birds and bees ; 
 
TRIBUTES TO CHARLOTTE. 99 
 
 When all was beautiful in earth and sky, 
 
 And thou, grown weary with thy pain and dread, 
 
 Felt how serene and blest it were to lie 
 
 In " the cool, flower- wreathed chambers of the dead ;" 
 
 Then God, thy Father, heard thy murmured prayer ; 
 
 Home to his arms he took his weary child, 
 No more to strive with sin, or pain,;^or care, 
 
 A spirit glorified and undefiled ! s. c. E. 
 
 Shirley Village^ Mass. 
 
 ^'CHARLOTTE/' 
 
 BT MRS. L. J. B. CASE. 
 
 A SWEET and girlish face, 
 A clear and happy eye, 
 A pure, high brow, a form of grace, 
 Too young and fair to die ; 
 Such vision was the one that came 
 At every mention of thy name. 
 
 On earth I knew thee not, 
 
 And yet I held thee dear ; 
 And marked thee in the land of Thought 
 Pass on from year to year. 
 Gathering rich gems along thy way. 
 And scattering them in careless play. 
 
 Alas ! a solemn veil 
 
 Hath fallen between us now. 
 And slumber sits serene and pale 
 Upon that graceful brow ; 
 Yet a kind hand hath sealed that eye 
 Before one shadow touched its sky. 
 
100 TRIBUTES TO CHARLOTTE. 
 
 Thy task was early done ; 
 
 Thou hadst no grief to learn ; 
 Thou didst not watch Hope's setting sun 
 Sink behind Memories stern, 
 Till life's gray twilight shut its dread 
 Dim curtains round thy heart and head. 
 
 Now thou wilt lovelier be 
 
 Than in thy living bloom ; 
 For o'er each pleasant thought of thee 
 No cloud or change can come. 
 O, Death knows many a holy spell 
 To guard his beautiful. Farewell ! 
 Forest Home, Westbrook, Me. 
 
 SONNET: ON THE DEATH OF MRS. JERAULD 
 
 BY JAMES LUMBARD. 
 
 She has vanished like a meteor 
 
 From our dim, bewildered sight, 
 But the spirit, lilie that pilgrim st8.r. 
 
 Tends to the source of light. — CharlottS, 
 
 I SAW a star amid the countless aisles 
 
 Of light and beauty, that we nightly trace 
 "Within the deep infinitude of space. 
 
 And almost worship for their holy smiles, 
 
 Whose radiance oft the heart of care beguiles ; 
 But while I marked its fair, outshining face, 
 It quickly darted from its wonted place. 
 
 And sought a dwelling mid the seeming wilds 
 That stretch afar beyond our feeble sight. 
 
 Thus has the star we gazed intently on. 
 And fondly cherished for its gentle light. 
 
 Gone from our sky wherein it lately shone. 
 Our Star has sought the " Source of Light " above, 
 Rekindled at the shrine of God's unfathomed love I 
 Utica, N. Y. 
 
POBTEY. 
 
 THE CALL. 
 
 " And they heard a great voice from heayen, saying unto them, ' Como 
 up hither. ' " — Rev. 11:12. 
 
 Rise from your low pursuits, 
 Ye grovelling earth-worms ! whom the rising sun 
 Sees heaping greedily your golden fruits, 
 And toiling still when the long day is done. 
 
 The gold hath dimmed your sight ; 
 Ye grope like blind men in the light of day. 
 O, cower no longer mid the shades of night ; 
 Bask in the glory of the sun's full ray ! 
 
 Ye weary ones and lone, 
 Whose hearts are sorrowing for the loved and lost, 
 Who yearn to hear the gentle music tone 
 Of some young victim to the early frost ; 
 
 And thou, whose troubled soul, 
 Sick of the world's contention, noise and strife, 
 And pressing forward to the eternal goal, 
 Pants for the waters of immortal life ; 
 
 Come to the better land ! 
 Here the beloved shall thy spirit greet. 
 Radiant with beauty mid the seraph-band, 
 And chanting anthems most divinely sweets 
 
102 POETRY. 
 
 Here shalt thou find the rest, 
 Pilgrim of earth ! for which thy soul did long ; 
 And when the golden cup thy lip hath prest, 
 Then shall thy spirit be made glad and strong. 
 
 O, maiden young and gay ! 
 Dream'st thou that youth and beauty must depart ? 
 That clouds will gather o'er thy sunlit way, 
 And sorrow quench the gladness of thine heart ? 
 
 When those dark days shall come — 
 As come they will — lift up thy tearful eye ! 
 O " come up hither " to thy spirit's home, 
 Where joys are changeless, and love cannot die ! 
 
 Turn from Ambition's dream, 
 Ye who are toiling up the hill of Fame 
 For it will prove, all-glorious though it seem, 
 A glittering bauble, and an empty name ! 
 
 Break now the bonds of sin ! 
 Why waste ye thus the blessings God has given ? 
 Who will not strive the " Crown of Life " to win, 
 And " come up hither ^^ to the joys of heaven? 
 
 «*0F SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF 
 HEAVEN." 
 
 Weep not for the young and the lovely, whose doom, 
 In the morning of life, lays them low in the tomb ; 
 For the angel of death hath a mission of love. 
 To unlock the bright gates of the Eden above ! 
 
POETRY. 1 03 
 
 O mother ! whose prayers could avail not to save 
 The child of thy love from the arms of the grave, 
 Look forth from the veil of thy sorrow, and see 
 In the desert a fountain is gushing for thee ! 
 
 O weep not for him ! it were better to die 
 Ere a cloud had o'ershadowed the clear summer sky ; 
 Ere his heart had forgotten youth's beautiful trust, 
 Or seen its frail idols fall crumbling to dust. 
 
 O weep not ! though lonely and sad is thy hearth, 
 And cheerless the home that once echoed with mirth ; 
 For when death lifts the curtain that veileth thine eyes, 
 Thou shalt meet thy beloved again in the skies ! 
 
 Weep not ! though the bud in its beauty is crushed, 
 Though the lyre in the midst of its anthem is hushed ; 
 But with heart full of faith, looking upward to God, 
 XJndoubting, unshrinking, '■'■pass under the rod '" 
 
 Mourn not that a spirit too pure for this world 
 For the clime of the blessed its pinions unfurled ! 
 Rejoice that the fetters which bound him are riven. 
 For thou knowest '■'^ of such is the kingdom of Heaven!^* 
 
 MOSSDALE COTTAGE. 
 
 There 's a beautiful village, far, far away. 
 To which Fancy is ever returning. 
 
 And a sweet little spot, ever blooming and gay. 
 That I think of with homesick yearning. 
 
104 POETRY. 
 
 Down a green, shady lane, is a lone, quiet glen, 
 
 A brook ripples gently by it ; 
 'T is far from the bustle and noise of men, 
 
 And a traveller scarce would descry it. 
 
 Through the trees, peers the roof of a simple cot — 
 The woodbines with foliage wreathe it ; — 
 
 And many a monarch might envy the lot 
 Of those who are dwelling beneath it. 
 
 Plenty presides at their frugal board. 
 
 Peace spreads her wing o'er their dwelling, 
 
 And night and morn is the Giver adored 
 By hearts with gratitude swelling. 
 
 Contented hearts, and industrious hands. 
 
 Make easy their daily labor, 
 And while tilling their own, or another's lands, 
 
 They ne'er envy a richer neighbor. 
 
 Wlien the day is past, in the cool, green lane, 
 May be heard glad voices greeting ; 
 
 Who would not part for a day to obtain 
 The joy of that happy meeting? 
 
 When the Sabbath comes, with its holy rest, 
 
 'Mong the groups that are church-ward wending, 
 ■ May be seen those cotters, neatly drest, 
 To the fane their footsteps bending. 
 
 W^ith meek devotion they hear of Him 
 
 On whose love their thoughts are dwelling ; 
 
 And their eyes with grateful tears are dim, 
 From the heart's deep fountains welling. 
 
POETRY. 105 
 
 The Bible alone is their rule of life, — 
 'T is a guide that will fail them never ; 
 
 It will lead them onward through storm and strife, 
 And anchor them safe forever. 
 
 Ah ! who would not live, in that humble cot, 
 
 A life of such pure devotion, 
 Far rather than share the proudest lot 
 
 In the midst of the world's commotion ? 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 I SING of the flowers — the beautiful flowers ! 
 They 've a mission pure in this world of ours ; 
 They minister gently of hope and love. 
 They teach our spirits to look above, 
 And we gaze on them till our thoughts arise 
 To the glorious bowers of Paradise ! 
 
 Our garden is only a wee bit spot. 
 
 In front of our humble, snow-white cot ; 
 
 And the haughty florist might pass it by. 
 
 As unworthy a glance from his practised eye ; 
 
 But dearer to us than regal bowers 
 
 To a monarch's heart, are our simple flowers. 
 
 We have gorgeous tulips of gold and jet. 
 And gaudy scarlet in borders set ; 
 We have gay carnations of brilliant hue. 
 And the beautiful moss-rose gemmed with dew ; 
 And we look 'on them with admiring pride. 
 But our love is for those on the other side. 
 9 
 
106 POETRY. 
 
 There, the delicate snow-drop lifts her head, 
 And the violet peeps from her lowly bed, 
 And the breath of the lily, the pride of the vale, 
 Is floating sweet on the balmy gale, 
 While round our door the green ivy clings, 
 And the fragrant clematis its odor flings. 
 
 Dearly I love the sweet, fragrant flowers ; 
 
 They have cheered and gladdened my lonely hours, 
 
 And many a lesson they bear to me 
 
 Of holiness, meekness and purity. 
 
 O, dreary and sad were this world of ours, 
 
 If God had withheld the bright, beautiful flowers ! 
 
 Fair, gentle blossoms, is death your doom ? 
 
 Shall ye not rise in perennial bloom ? 
 
 Have ye not strayed from that radiant clime 
 
 Where the flowers are unchilled by the frosts of time ? 
 
 Are ye fated, like us, to be dwellers here. 
 
 And sigh for a holier, happier sphere ? 
 
 Beautiful flowers ! when at length I stand, 
 Redeemed from sin, on the spirit-land. 
 Shall I not greet ye, undimmed and bright, 
 By the crystal streams, in that world of light, 
 Where they know not the power of death or decay, 
 And the sentence no longer is, ^^ passing away I" 
 
 THE OLD WELL. 
 
 Near by my home is a woodland dell, 
 
 Secluded and lone as a hermit's cell : 
 
 No sounds of strife on its stillness come, 
 
 Save the bird's wild note, and the bee's deep hum. 
 
POETRY. 107 
 
 O, come with me ! — 't is a sultry day ; 
 Let us haste to the fairy glen away, 
 Where the massive arms of the elm-tree meet, 
 And form a shady and cool retreat. 
 
 This is our path, where the busy foot 
 Has crushed and trodden each verdant shoot ; 
 But on either side the grass looks green, 
 And a few wild-flowers mid the tufts are seen. 
 Dost see the dell, with its spreading trees ? 
 Their leaves are moved by the gentle breeze ; 
 While through their branches the deep blue sky 
 Peeps here and ,there, like an angel's eye. 
 
 And here is the well, with its curb of stone, 
 Ancient and rude, with rich moss o'ergrown ; 
 And the merry sunbeams adown it glide, 
 And sparkle like gems in the crystal tide. 
 I love to gaze in the depths below, 
 And to dream of a time, long, long ago, 
 When a Pilgrim, with heat and fatigue oppressed, 
 By the well of Sychar sat down to rest. 
 
 His raiment was such as the peasants wear. 
 
 And lowly and meek was the stranger's air ; 
 
 But his eye was lit with a holy fire. 
 
 And his voice was sweet as a seraph's lyre. 
 
 I hear that voice, with its accents mild, 
 
 Imparting peace to Samaria's child. 
 
 And bidding her turn, from earth's failing springs. 
 
 To the living waters salvation brings. 
 
 " Give me to drink of that stream ! " she cried, 
 " More pure than that which from Horeb's side 
 
108 POETRY. 
 
 Gushed forth, at a touch of the Prophet's rod — 
 The stream that flows from the throne of God ! " 
 When I cease to roam through this gxassy dell, 
 Or to dream by the brink of this moss-grown well, 
 To that deathless Fount may my spirit soar, 
 And drink of its waters, and thirst no more ! 
 
 CHURCH BELLS. 
 
 Sonorous-voiced old bells ! 
 O, say what magic in your music lies, 
 Whose power can summon, from my heart's deep cells 
 A host of long, long pent-up memories ? 
 
 Your solemn strains have been 
 Sweet as the songs my childhood loved to hear ; 
 They 've soothed my spirit, mid life's busy din, 
 When chafed by anger, or unnerved by fear. 
 
 Your Sabbath-chimes are heard, 
 And countless numbers answer to the call ; 
 And the great city's mighty heart seems stirred, 
 As if one impulse then pervaded all. 
 
 Ye ring a joyous peal, 
 And all the Past lies open to my gaze, 
 And sweet remembrances upon me steal, 
 As my heart wanders back to childhood's days. 
 
 And sadder thoughts, old bell. 
 Your chimes awaken, when the listening ear 
 Catches the sound of a beloved one's knell — 
 Visions of shrouded form, and pall, and bier. 
 
POETRY. 109 
 
 Yet dear ye are to me, 
 Sweet as my mother's vesper-hymn, old bells ! 
 Whether ye echo o'er the sounding sea, 
 Or mid the quietude of woody dells. 
 
 Your every tone is fraught 
 With some sweet treasure from oblivion won ; 
 And many a holy lesson have ye taught 
 Me, gentle monitors ! Chime on ! chime on ! 
 
 VIOLETS. 
 
 Pretty, modest violets, 
 Smiling, blue-eyed violets ; 
 In the grassy meadows sleeping, 
 Dewy tears at morning weeping. 
 Fair ye are to me ! 
 
 In happy days of childhood, 
 Through the shady wildwood, 
 I have roamed, a joyous maiden, 
 Braiding wreaths, from. baskets laden 
 With your clustering stars. 
 
 Many a damsel twists 
 Your glistening amethysts. 
 Amid the rich, luxuriant tresses, 
 Which the soft south wind caresses, 
 In his sportive play. 
 
 Fairest of the flowers 
 Nursed by April showers, 
 9^ 
 
1 10 POETRY. 
 
 AVTien the long green grass shall wave 
 Luxuriant o'er my lowly grave, 
 Shed your perfume there ! 
 
 Pretty, purple violets, 
 Soft, low-breathing violets, 
 I shall hear, at twilight dim, 
 The chiming cadence of your hymn, 
 Lulling me to rest ! 
 
 HE COMMANDETH LIGHT TO SHINE 
 OUT OF DARKNESS." 
 
 Pilgrims of the earth, who roam 
 In midnight darkness through life's devious way, 
 
 And from the path that leadeth to your home, 
 In helpless ignorance and error, stray ; 
 
 And thou whose mental eye 
 Has long been clouded by the films of sin, 
 
 Who o'er thy blindness dost so deeply sigh, 
 Yet will not let a ray of light break in ; 
 
 Ye who are bowed with grief, 
 Whose hearts with many sorrows have been riven, 
 
 Who seek for consolation and relief, 
 Yet spurn the Comforter whom God hath given ; — 
 
 Look o'er the hills afar ! 
 Can ye discern no softly-gleaming light ? — 
 
 All hail the rising of yon mdiant star, 
 Which shall dispel the deepest shades of night ! 
 
 Through the dark, shadowy vale, 
 So fraught with terror to the fearful soul. 
 
 That Star shall light thee, lest thy spirit fail, 
 And guide thee onward to the glorious goal. 
 
POETRY. Ill 
 
 There pain and sorrow cease ; 
 There night, and sin, and death, are never known ; 
 
 But angel-voices softly whisper " peace," 
 And chant triumphant pasans round the throne ! 
 
 THE FLOWER-GATHERERS. 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 Come, merry companions, and joyously sing 
 The praise of spring-time, the beautiful Spring ! 
 From mountain and valley the snow-wreaths are gone, 
 And Nature her emerald mantle puts on. 
 Come, leave now your lessons, throw down the book, 
 And hasten with me to yon green, sunny nook, 
 Where the purple violet-clusters grow. 
 And the first primroses are wont to blow. 
 Come thither with me, then, with basket and knife, 
 To the woods, where the early spring-flowers are rife ; 
 Where the grass, like a court-belle, in jewels is drest, 
 And let each choose the blossom she loveth the best. 
 ft 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 I have roamed through woodland paths to-day. 
 
 Since early dawn, and have borne away 
 
 The fairest and earliest buds of Spring, 
 
 To add to my vernal offering. 
 
 Flowers ! fresh flowers ! from the woody dell, 
 
 Blossoms too fair mid the wilds to dwell — 
 
 Delicate snow-drops, and harebell blue, 
 
 Violets, bathed in the morning dew — 
 
 Violets, sweetest of all to me. 
 
 For they teach me a lesson of modesty ! 
 
1 12 POETRY* 
 
 THIRD VOICE. 
 
 Flowers ! bright flowers from the shady nook I 
 Flowers from the marge of the laughing brook ! 
 The cardinal, tossing her head in pride, 
 As she leans to gaze in the mirror-tide ; 
 The sweet-briar, blushing with modest grace, 
 As if half ashamed of her own fair face ; 
 The wild morning-glory, the yellow primrose. 
 And every blossom that seeks repose. 
 And a shield from the glare of the noonday beam, 
 On the grassy banks of the crystal stream. 
 But the sweetest reward of my ramble and toil 
 Is this chance-found treasure, the rare cinquefoil. 
 
 FOURTH VOICE. 
 
 Flowers ! sweet flowers from the meadows green ! 
 
 An oflering meet for a fairy-queen. 
 
 You can find them out, as your footsteps pass 
 
 Their hiding-place in the wavy grass, 
 
 By the fragrant incense that springeth up 
 
 From the drooping bell or the golden cup. 
 
 The dew lay bright on their slender stems,* 
 
 As I rifled each of its brightest gems ; 
 
 I plucked the cowslip, that reared, in pride, 
 
 Its golden head by the daisy's side ; 
 
 And every blossom that 's fair and sweet 
 
 I drew from its shady and lone retreat. 
 
 They are fragrant all, but the dearest far, 
 
 To me, is the small, pale primrose-star ! 
 
 FIFTH VOICE. 
 
 Flowers ! fair flowers ! — do ye not ken 
 
 The far-away bank, where my steps have been ? 
 
POETRY. 113 
 
 Where the sunshine plays and the south wind blows, 
 
 And the earliest blossoms of Spring unclose ? 
 
 Up the green hill-side, in the pleasant glade, 
 
 Through all sunny spots have my footsteps strayed ; 
 
 And the fairest nurslings of gentle May 
 
 From her favorite haunts I have borne away. 
 
 I culled a bouquet of anemones frail, 
 
 And the sweet-scented lilies, the pride of the vale ; 
 
 'T was long ere I found, in my eager quest, 
 
 The beautiful blossom my heart loves best, — 
 
 But at length I espied, in a lonely spot. 
 
 Half hidden by grass, the forget-me-not ! 
 
 CHOKUS. 
 
 Flowers ! sweet flowers, blest gift of God ! 
 Blooming in beauty in paths untrod — 
 XJpspringing to gladden the traveller's eye, 
 To bloom for a season, then fade and die. 
 Floral stars ! unto you is given 
 A holiest mission, — ye teach of heaven ! 
 Flowers ! fresh flowers from the lonely deli ! 
 In the heavenly Eden shall ye not dwell ? 
 Flowers ! bright flowers from the sunny nook. 
 Culled from the marge of the singing brook ! 
 Shall ye not grow by the stream of life. 
 In that clime with beauty and fragrance rife ? 
 
 God of the Flowers ! to Thee we raise 
 Hymns of thanksgiving and grateful praise ! 
 Thy goodness and bounty have given birth 
 To all beautiful things on the glad, green earth. 
 And made them ministers, gentle and kind, 
 Of wisdom and truth to the human mind ! 
 
114 POETRY. 
 
 A type of humility thou hast set, 
 
 In the delicate, shrinking violet ; 
 
 The primrose speaketh of early youth, — ■ 
 
 May OURS be led in the way of Truth ! 
 
 And lest Thy precepts should be forgot, 
 
 Plant Thou in our hearts the forget-me-not ! 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 "WRITTEN ON VIEWING THE DIPLOMA OF THE BOSTON MCSICAIi 
 
 INSTITUTE. 
 
 When the Goddess of Song left her throne of light, 
 To cheer the earth with her presence bright, 
 A while in mid-air she staid her wing. 
 And striking her harp, began to sing. 
 
 Far and near, the sweet sounds were heard, 
 And jeach human heart felt its pulses stirred ; 
 And behold ! at her feet, in homage free. 
 Earth's sternest and haughtiest have bent the knee. 
 
 In mute adoration the German knelt ; 
 The gay, gallant Frenchman the impulse felt ; 
 And the fervent Italian poured forth his praise, 
 In his favored country's impassioned lays. ^ 
 
 The caftaned Ottoman ceased to recline. 
 
 And bowed his bright crescent before her shrine ; 
 
 The Indian Chieftain forgot his wrongs. 
 
 And listened entranced to her magic songs. 
 
 She bound the Highlander in silken chains, 
 And held him fast with her witching strains ; 
 While the son of Afric, with outstretched arms, 
 In untutored accents, declared her charms. 
 
POETRY. 115 
 
 From palace and hovel her praises ring, 
 From the toil-worn slave, and the sceptred king; 
 Through earth and air they the strains prolong, 
 And confess the magical power of Song. 
 
 A DEATH-SCENE. 
 
 " Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord." 
 
 There are sighs and tears in yon darkened room, 
 And every face wears the deepest gloom ; 
 For visions of coffin, and shroud, and pall, 
 Like midnight shades round their spirits fall. 
 
 They have gathered in tears round a loved one's bed, 
 Who is soon to repose with the silent dead ; 
 And ready they part from her forehead fair 
 The clustering tresses of golden hair. 
 
 She is young and gay — will she dare to brave 
 The terrors that cling round the darksome grave ? 
 Can she listen unmoved to the rushing wing 
 Of thy shadowy herald, oh fearful King ! 
 
 Look on her brow — 't is with dread o'ercast ; 
 Again — and death's bitterness all is past ! 
 No clouds shall e'er darken her spirit more, — 
 The SUN has arisen, the night is o'er ! 
 
 " Weep not for me," is her earnest cry ; 
 " Ye know not how blissful it is to die. 
 When the spirit looks through the outer veil, 
 To the shrine of the great Invisible ' 
 
116 POETRY. 
 
 " The valley of death has no gloom for me ; 
 For ever before me my Saviour I see ; 
 His arm is my staff, and he leadeth me on, 
 Till the portals of heaven my spirit hath won. 
 
 " O, then with triumphant thanksgiving and praise, 
 The song of redemption forever I '11 raise ; 
 The world, with its pleasures, recedes from my view,— » 
 Till 1 meet you in heaven, beloved ones, adieu ! " 
 
 'T is over — the soul, from its prison of clay, 
 To the land of the blessed hath taken its way ; 
 But a smile, like a sunbeam, yet lingers above 
 The lips whose last accents breathed mercy and love. 
 
 O, happy the soul that can fearlessly brook 
 On the presence of death, with-its terrors, to look ! 
 That can lift to the cross an unwavering 'feye, 
 And, with faith in the promises, joyfully die ! 
 
 MARY. 
 
 How can I sing of thee, Mary, 
 My beautiful, my own ! 
 For thou liest low, where the violets grow. 
 
 And the turf is thy headstone, Mary ! 
 
 Yet mourn I not for thee, Mary — 
 I would not call thee back ! 
 Though my home is lone, and the music tone 
 Of thy voice I ever lack, Mary ! 
 
 I think of thy gentle smile, Mary, 
 And thy pure unsullied truth, 
 And I call thee blest, who hast gone to rest, 
 In the morning of thy youth, Mary ! 
 
POETRY. 117 
 
 Though other lips may smile, Mary, 
 And eyes with lustre shine, 
 Yet still to me there 's nought like thee, 
 
 And those blue orbs of thine, Mary ? 
 
 And oh, 'tis a pleasant thought, Mary, 
 To cheer the sorrowing given. 
 Though the flower is crushed, and the love tone hushed, 
 We shall meet in heaven, Mary ! 
 
 But I cannot wait the time, Mary, 
 Till I shall meet thee there ! 
 I must see thee now, with thy holy brow. 
 
 And thy face so meek and fair, Mary ! 
 
 Come in night-visions, Mary, 
 With thy soft, seraph smile ; 
 O, speak once more as thou didst of yore ; — 
 Come, and my grief beguile, Mary ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 When the dark shadows of night come on, 
 And the winds are revelling free. 
 
 Or, sleepless, I watch for the coming dawn, 
 Then, dearest, I think of thee ! 
 
 When morning wakes, with her glowing smile, 
 And gildeth each flower and tree. 
 
 She has no power my thoughts to beguile, 
 For they are engrossed by thee ! 
 
 I hie me away to the crowded ball, 
 
 And the merriest seem to be ; 
 
 And gayly I tread the festive hall — 
 
 But I only think of thee ! . 
 10 
 
118 POETRY. 
 
 Unheeding, I list to the viol's tone, 
 And the laugh of careless glee ; 
 
 But I long for the hour to be alone, 
 To sleep, and to dream of thee ! 
 
 THE FIRST COMMUNION. 
 
 The table of the Crucified, the blessed Lord, was set, 
 And round the sacred board the few, the well-beloved, 
 
 were met; 
 While the young herald of the Cross, with earnest voice 
 
 and eye. 
 Told how the Son of God was bom to suffer and to die ! 
 
 He spake, in deeply moving tones, of dark Gethsemane, 
 And bade his listeners behold the Mount of Calvary ; 
 And, as the fearful scenes arose, their eyes with tears 
 
 grew dim, 
 And each believing heart was stirred with sympathy for 
 
 him. 
 
 The old, with deeply furrowed cheek and silver locks, 
 were there ; 
 
 The brightly beaming eye of youth, the pale, wan cheek 
 of care ; 
 
 The sinful came, with quaking heart, but met no wither- 
 ing frown, 
 
 And at the feet of Jesus laid their heavy burthens down. 
 
 And one there was amid the group, who ne'er had dared 
 
 before 
 With Christians to commemorate the sufferings Jesus 
 
 bore ; 
 
POETRY. 1 19 
 
 Although her spirit long had yearned, amid its deepest 
 
 night, 
 To burst the iron doors of sin, and hail the glorious light. 
 
 The maiden was not one to whom the flatterer paid his 
 
 vow, 
 For beauty ne'er had shed its light upon her dark, sad 
 
 brow ; 
 Her voice had nought of music, and her step was void of 
 
 grace, 
 And Genius added not a charm to that unlovely face. 
 
 But, oh ! she had a loving heart, that mourned, although 
 in vain, 
 
 To see its wealth, poured freely forth, return unblest 
 agtiin; 
 
 And so, with bowed and contrite soul — to Him an offer- 
 ing sweet — 
 
 She laid its priceless treasures down at her Redeemer's 
 feet! 
 
 A DREAM OF HEAVEN. 
 
 My spirit dreams of a blessed land, 
 And peoples its shores with an angel-band; 
 Its skies are cloudless, and pure its air. 
 And all that is lovely is centred there. 
 
 There living fountains of water burst, 
 And he who drinketh shall never thirst ; 
 And blossoms of beauty, that cannot die, 
 Spring up to gladden the traveller's eye. 
 
120 POETRY. 
 
 And sweeter strains in those realms are heard 
 Than gush from the throat of a woodland bird ; 
 And loftier far than the trumpet's tone, 
 That tells of a glorious victory won. 
 
 For God's redeemed are the minstrels there ; 
 There songs of praise and thanksgiving are ; 
 No sigh of grief, and no thought of sin. 
 To that bright Elysium can enter in. 
 
 But dearer far to the bleeding heart. 
 
 That here from its treasures was doomed to part, 
 
 Is the glad assurance, " On that blest shore 
 
 Thy loved ones shall greet thee, to part no more." 
 
 A glorious dream ! but it soon shall be 
 Displaced by the bright reality ; 
 When every kindred, name, and tongue, 
 Shall join at length in Salvation's song ! 
 
 THE MAGDALENE. 
 
 She Cometh to the house of God, 
 
 That lone, neglected one, 
 More solitary mid the crowd 
 
 Than is the cloistered nun ! 
 And curious eyes are bent on her, 
 
 When first she takes her seat ; 
 But no kind hand doth welcome her, 
 
 No smiles her presence greet. 
 
 O, she is fair and beautiful, 
 Though many a graven line 
 
POETRY. 121 
 
 Remorse has left upon the heart 
 
 That should be virtue's shrine ; 
 Yet amid all the stateliness 
 
 That might become a queen, 
 A look of earnest penitence 
 
 And lowliness is seen. 
 
 And when the preacher speaks of those 
 
 From virtue led astray, 
 And of the Holy Fount whose stream 
 
 Can wash all sin away, 
 With clasped hands, and upraised eye, 
 
 And half-choked, sobbing breath, 
 She listens to the sounds that burst 
 
 The iron bars of death ! 
 
 And others hear the sacred words. 
 
 And His great love adore. 
 Who said unto the erring one, 
 
 " Go thou, tind sin no more ! " 
 And yet they turn away from her. 
 
 With looks of withering scorn ; 
 Forgetting that to such as she 
 
 Those soothing words were borne. 
 
 But long the minister of Christ 
 
 Had marked that lonely one ; 
 He saw the young and fair pass by, 
 
 The pure her presence shun ; 
 He saw her meekly bear the cross 
 
 She bathed in tears of blood, 
 And something whispered in his soul, 
 
 *' She is a child of God!" 
 
122 POETRY. 
 
 And so, one day, when all had passed 
 
 The erring creature by, 
 And many a one had sought to catch 
 
 The youthful pastor's eye. 
 He came to that lone being's side. 
 
 And spake in accents bland, 
 A few, but kindly, cordial words. 
 
 And frankly gave his hand. 
 
 It stirred the fountains of her heart. 
 
 And mid that gathered crowd, 
 Heedless of all their whispered scorn, 
 
 She stood, and wept aloud I 
 O, never more to sin's dark way 
 
 Shall that poor soul return ; 
 The holy flame relighted then 
 
 Shall never cease to bum. 
 
 And blessings -on his earnest heart. 
 
 Who fearlessly hath trod 
 In the beloved Master's steps, — 
 
 " The pure in heart see God ! " 
 All things shall prosper in his hands ; 
 
 His deeds his truth shall prove ; 
 Salvation is his triumph-song, 
 
 His ministry is Love ! 
 
 TO A TEMPERANCE LECTURER. 
 
 " How beautiful the feet of him " who sheds 
 A precious ointment upon drooping heads ! 
 Who o'er the darkened soul a sunbeam flings, 
 And the glad message of salvation brings ! 
 
POETRY. 123 
 
 Unfurl thy banner, herald brave and true ! 
 Press nobly onward, — there 's a work to do ! 
 Forth from the platform be thy thunders hurled ; 
 Rouse with thy clarion voice the slumbering world! 
 
 Father ! who gazest on thy gallant son. 
 The well-beloved, and thine only one. 
 Hast thou no fear, lest, in unguarded youth, 
 His feet shall wander from the way of Truth? 
 
 Mother ! who cradlest on thy yearning breast 
 Thy infant daughter to her peaceful rest, 
 Canst thou, who watchest o'er her budding charms, 
 GiA'e thy beloved to a drunkard's arms ? 
 
 Paront and daughter, sister, friend, and wife ! 
 Is there no object, dearer than thy life. 
 Hound whom the fibres of the heart entwine. 
 Whose joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, are thine ? 
 
 Enter the lists against the mighty foe, 
 Who brings the lovely and the gifted low. 
 Blights the affections with his poison-breath. 
 And dooms his victims to a living death ! 
 
 And thou, oh herald ! onward, in thy might, 
 TilLearth be bathed in Truth's refulgent light. 
 Till Sin, dark tyrant, from his throne be hurled. 
 And Freedom's banner from our heights unfurled ! 
 
 IIEMINISCENCES. 
 
 There '-s a sunny spot that my childhood knew, 
 Where I used to roam when the skies were blue, 
 When the lowly vale and the mountain height 
 Were bathed in a flood of golden light. 
 
124 POETRY. 
 
 'T was far fvom the busy haunts of men,' 
 Away in a deep, romantic glen. 
 Where the woodland birds their matins sung, 
 And their tiny nests in the elm-trees hung. 
 
 And there, from the brightest, sunniest nook, 
 Leaped merrily forth a crystal brook. 
 That sparkled and danced in its joyous glee, 
 And sung like a captive bird set free. 
 
 There the violet blue, and the golden-rod, 
 And the purple foxglove, bedecked the sod ; 
 And nature seemed to have gathered there 
 All that was beautiful, bright and fair. 
 
 'T was a quiet spot, and I long to roam 
 
 Once more in the haunts round my early home ; 
 
 To sit and read in that cozy nook. 
 
 Or follow the course of the laughing brook. 
 
 To watch the glorious sunlight gleam 
 Like a radiant crown in the silver stream, 
 And to gather flowers from its banks once more 
 To wreath in my curls, as in days of yore. 
 
 Once more on the fresh greensward to lie, 
 And, gazing up at the clear blue sky, 
 To number the stars as forth they come, 
 A glittering host in the spacious dome. 
 
 It may not be ! I may rove again 
 Through the meadow-paths or the grassy lane ; 
 I may cull sweef flowers by the brooklet's side, 
 And braid my hair in its mirror tide ; 
 
POETRY. 125 
 
 •I may laugh, but not with the careless mirth 
 That erst like a wild bird's note gushed forth ; 
 For never again shall the lightsome glee 
 Which gladdened those hours return to me. 
 
 I have learned the lessons of later years, 
 To smile at grief with a heart in tears, 
 To scoff at the blessed romance of youth. 
 And mock whate'er bears the name of Truth. 
 
 Oft, wearied and sick of life's vain parade, 
 I sigh for an humble and quiet shade, 
 And a spirit tameless and free, as when 
 My world was comprised in that narrow glen. 
 
 THE^INSTREL BRIDE. 
 
 iThe accompanying stanzas were suggested by an engraving, entitled the 
 "Bridal Wreath," representing two females, one wreathing the hair of the 
 other with orange-blossoms. The face of the bride, though beautiful, wore an 
 expression of intense melancholy, which attracted my attention, and sug- 
 gested a little romance, which I have woven into verse, as follows :] 
 
 Twine not amid my tresses now 
 
 Those orange-blossoms fair ! 
 Their beauty ill befits this brow, — 
 
 They '11 fade and wither there. 
 And take these glistening pearls away, — 
 
 Their purity would shame 
 The unquiet breast whereon they lay, 
 
 That bartered peace for fame. 
 
 Those beautiful, pale orange-flowers ! 
 
 What dreams of olden time. 
 Of vanished joys, departed hours. 
 
 And my own sunny climoj 
 
126 POETRY. 
 
 They bring before my aching eyes, 
 
 Until I yearn to be 
 Once more beneath thy sapphire skies, 
 
 Mine own fair Italy ! 
 
 Those skies, they never look so blue. 
 
 In this far distant land ; 
 And hearts are colder, friends are few 
 
 To press the stranger's hand. 
 I loathe this carved and gilded dome, 
 
 With gorgeous tap'stries hung ! 
 O, give me back my childhood's home. 
 
 Where first my lute was strung ! 
 
 Why did I leave that vine-clad cot, 
 
 To gain a prouder name, 
 And bear a minstrel's chequered lot, 
 
 To win a minstrel's fame ? ^ 
 I deemed that was the highest bliss. 
 
 The triumph of my art ! 
 I left my native land for this, 
 
 And broke a trusting heart ! 
 
 My laurel wreath with blood is stained — 
 
 How great hath been its cost ! 
 What is the glory I have gained, 
 
 Compared with what I Ve lost ? 
 Earth's proudest ones have sought my shrine, 
 
 And offered incense there ; 
 But gladly would I all resign, 
 
 A quiet heart to bear ! 
 
 Ye 've twined the bridal orange-wreath 
 
 Amid my raven hair ; 
 Alas ! the brow that smiles beneath 
 
 Doth hide a weight of care ! 
 
POETEY. 127 
 
 Ye deem it strange, a " blessed bride " 
 
 Should weep on such a day, — 
 And 't is not well, — but do not chide — 
 
 I '11 wipe my tears away ! 
 
 There ! that 's the last ! one heart-wrung sigh, 
 
 To olden memories given — 
 One burning tear to days gone by, 
 
 To ties forever riven \^ 
 And now lead on ! the pang is o'er ; 
 
 Let weal or woe betide, 
 No chance or change can evermore 
 
 Affect the Minstrel Bride ! 
 
 THE DYING WIFE TO HER HUSBAND 
 
 Beloved ! the hour has come — 
 I must bid thee a sad farewell; 
 
 For my listening ear 
 
 Doth plainly hear 
 The sound of the passing bell ! 
 
 Thy home will be dark and drear, 
 And thy heart will be sad and lone ; 
 Thou wilt miss the smile 
 That was wont to beguile 
 Thy sorrowful hours, my own ! 
 
 I shall wander no more by thy side, 
 When Spring is abroad in the earth ; 
 
 Nor sit, at night. 
 
 By the cheerful light 
 Of the fire on the wintry hearth ! 
 
128 POETRY. 
 
 Thou wilt miss me at break of day, 
 At the season of morning prayer, 
 And at twilight dim, 
 When the evening hymn 
 Floats up, on the dewy air ! 
 
 Art thou thinking now, beloved, 
 Of a bright, sunshiny morn, 
 
 Whe^at thy side, 
 
 A happy bride, 
 I stood, but a year agone ? 
 
 Yet 't is better to perish thus, 
 In the May of our love, I ween. 
 Ere clouds have come 
 To our pleasant home. 
 And rested our hearts between ! 
 
 I cannot recall a look 
 Of anger or discontent ; 
 
 No poisoned dart 
 
 To either heart 
 Has a word of unkindness sent ! 
 
 Thou wilt not forget me, love, 
 
 When the long grass weaves o'er my head ^ 
 
 But bring fresh flowers. 
 
 At our favorite hours, 
 And scatter them o'er my bed ! 
 
 Their fragrance shall upward rise 
 
 To the beautiful spirit land j 
 Where I will greet, 
 With remembrance sweet, 
 
 The token from thy dear hand ! 
 
POETRY. 129 
 
 Angels, with, starry wings, 
 Are waiting to bear me above ; 
 
 They fan my brow, 
 
 They whisper now, 
 " Come away to the land of love ! " 
 
 Seek not to hold me here ; 
 My spirit with joy doth swell, 
 
 I upward spring 
 
 On seraph wing — 
 They call me — beloved, farewell .' 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 'T WAS a low cottage, half embowered in trees, 
 Visited only by the wandering breeze, 
 And the gay sunbeam, that came dancing through 
 The leaves and flowers, glittering with dew, 
 Making them sparkle brighter than the gems 
 That blaze on eastern monarch's diadems. 
 Over a porch, by rustic pillars made, 
 A honey-suckle cast its fragrant shade. 
 While through the open windows of the room 
 The blossoms crept, and shed a sweet perfume. 
 Within, all wore an air of quiet grace. 
 Simplicity seemed the goddess of the place ; 
 And there, like some fair marble statue, lay 
 A victim to consumption's slow decay — 
 A girl so beautiful, you well might deem 
 Her the creation of some poet's dream. 
 Listless she lay, and languid with disease, 
 A book, half opened, dropt upon her knees, 
 And o'er her blue-veined temples, white and cold, 
 Her rich hair swept like waves of unspun gold. 
 11« 
 
130 POETRY. 
 
 The thick fringed lids half closed above an eye 
 Blue and unclouded as a Naples 'sky ; 
 And on her couch some faded roses lay, 
 A fitting emblem of her own decay. 
 Above her pillow the pale mother bends, 
 The kindest, fondest, of all earthly friends ; 
 Now turns aside the clustering tresses — now 
 Wipes the chill moisture from her wasted brow. 
 But, at the close of a bright summer's day. 
 Paler than she was wont, the maiden lay ; 
 For her young heart had wrestled hard with death 
 And toiled and struggled for her feeble breath. 
 And those who loved her sadly watched to see 
 Her spirit from its mortal coil set free. 
 She passed away — but those around her bed 
 Knew not the moment when the arrow sped ; 
 They made her grave beneath a grassy knoll, 
 Where in the days of health she loved to stroll. 
 No marble marks the place of her repose, 
 But every flower she loved around it grows. 
 And as their fragrance o'er her grave they shed, 
 Seem to hold sweet communion with the dead ! 
 
 THE MOTHERLESS. 
 
 God help and shield the motherless ! 
 
 The stricken, bleeding dove. 
 For whom there gushes no rich fount 
 
 Of deep and deathless love ! 
 The saddest title grief confers — 
 
 For who so lone as they 
 Upon whose path a mother's love 
 
 Sheds not its holy ray ? 
 
POETRY. 131 
 
 No gentle form above them bends, 
 
 To soothe the couch of pain ; 
 No voice so fond as hers essays 
 
 To calm the feverish brain. 
 O ! other tongues may whisper love, 
 
 In accents soft and mild, 
 But none on earth so pure as that 
 
 A mother bears her child ! 
 
 Round every fibre of her heart 
 
 His welfare is entwined, 
 And in its deepest recesses 
 
 His image is enshrined ! 
 A father may grow cold and stem, 
 
 Or absence may estrange ; 
 But, oh, a mother's loving heart 
 
 Defies the power of change ! 
 
 Deal gently with the motherless, 
 
 O, fair and stately bride, 
 Who comest to thy wedded home 
 
 In all thy youthful pride, 
 And takest on thyself at once 
 
 A new and sacred tie ; 
 Hast thou a mother's patient love, 
 
 Her earnest watchful eye ? 
 
 Canst thou forego thy wonted ease. 
 
 To minister to him. 
 And watch beside his restless couch. 
 
 Till those bright eyes grow dim ? 
 For these are all a mother's tasks, 
 
 These pale the raven tress ; 
 And, gay young step-dame,, canst thou brave 
 
 This, for the motherless ? 
 
132 POETRY. 
 
 O, look upon the blooming child, 
 
 And think of her who died 
 While life seemed all so beautiful, 
 
 And she was in her pride ! 
 Eejoice, that 't is thy happy lot 
 
 To cherish and to bless ; 
 And, oh, let none but kindly words 
 
 E'er greet the motherless ! 
 
 Judge kindly of the motherless ! 
 
 A weary lot is theirs. 
 And oft the heart that gayest seems 
 
 A load of sorrow bears. 
 No faithful voice directs their steps, 
 
 Or bids them onward press ; 
 " And if they gang a kennin wrang," 
 
 God help the motherless ! 
 
 And when the sinful and the frail. 
 
 The tempted and the tried. 
 Unspotted one ! shall cross thy path, 
 
 O, spurn them not aside ! 
 Thou knowest not what thou hadst been, 
 
 With trials even less ; 
 And when thy lips would vent reproach, 
 
 Think — they were motherless I 
 
 A blessing on the motherless, 
 
 Where'er they dwell on earth — 
 Within the home of childhood. 
 
 Or at the stranger's hearth ! 
 Blue be the sky above their heads, 
 
 And bright the sun within ! 
 O, God protect the motherless, 
 
 And keep them free from sin ! 
 
POETRY. 133 
 
 CHARITY HYMN. 
 
 Our Father, God ! who hear'st the cry 
 Of the young ravens in their need, 
 And sendest them a full supply, — 
 Wilt thou not hear thy children plead ? 
 
 Our table is with plenty spread, 
 With love divine our cup runs o'er. 
 And countless blessings on our head 
 Thy hand has showered, a bounteous store ! 
 
 And shall we hear a brother's moan. 
 And stretch not forth a hand to aid ? 
 Or list, unmoved, the heart-wrung groan 
 Of those on beds of suffering laid ? 
 
 O Father ! touch each selfish heart, 
 And bid it with compassion glow ; 
 That, to the poor, it may impart 
 A share of all thou dost bestow ! 
 
 And let the offering be pure ; 
 Then shall it meet its own reward ! 
 What cheerfully we give the poor 
 Is but a loan to thee, oh Lord ! 
 
 INSTALLATION HYMN. 
 
 Lord ! in this portion of thy fold, 
 We come to consecrate to-day 
 
 A shepherd, lest the foe grow bold, 
 And lead the guileless lambs astray I 
 11^ 
 
134 POETRY. 
 
 Here may he labor mid his flock, 
 
 And feed their souls with heavenly bread, 
 
 Bid waters gush from out the rock, 
 
 And flowers of hope spring where they tread * 
 
 And when, from many a cheerless home, 
 Hearts burdened and oppressed with grief, 
 
 Or sin, shall to this temple come, 
 O, may he give them sweet relief ! 
 
 Bless him, our Father ! give him zeal. 
 And faith, and hope, and holy love ; 
 
 And oh, at length his labors seal. 
 And take him to thy rest above ! 
 
 THE TRUE CHRISTIAN. 
 
 *' By their fruits ye shall know them.'' 
 
 -«- 
 
 Not by the outward show. 
 The church attendance, or the loud-voiced prayers, 
 
 Nor by the lengthened visage, shalt thou know 
 Him who the signet of the Master bears. 
 
 Not he who proudly stalks 
 Into the fane, with grave and solemn face ; 
 
 Who of high truth and justice talks, 
 And cheats his neighbor in the market-place, — 
 
 Not he who giveth ear, 
 When foul-mouthed slander doth his friends defame 5 
 
 And heedeth not the lonely orphan's tear. 
 Is meet to bear the blest Redeemer's name I 
 
POETRY. 135 
 
 But look ! behold the man 
 Who on his neighbor's rights has never trod ; 
 
 He who his brother's faults doth gently scan, 
 And walketh humbly with his Maker, God ! 
 
 His voice is never heard 
 In loud contention, or in noisy strife ; 
 
 But in his deeds he showeth forth the word, 
 And preacheth sermons in his daily life ! 
 
 He never says " depart," 
 To those who crave compassion at his door ; 
 
 But widely openeth his generous heart, 
 And gives them freely from his own good store. 
 
 And to the widowed one. 
 Who feels bereft of every joy on earth, 
 
 His kindly smile seems, like the rising sun, 
 To scatter light and comfort round her hearth. 
 
 Joy is his constant guest ! 
 No terrors keep his peaceful soul in thrall ; 
 
 Lo, the true Christian ! blessings on him rest, 
 Where'er his heaven-directed footsteps fall ! 
 
 HUMILITY, HOPE AND TRUTH. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO A YOUNG MAIDEN. 
 
 There 's a flower that blooms in a sheltered spot, 
 Where the glare of noonday can harm it not; 
 And it feels not a touch of the whirlwind's stroke. 
 That scathes and crushes the mighty oak. 
 
136 POETRY. 
 
 There 's a star that gleams with a holy light, 
 The brightest gem in the crown of night ; 
 Its soft ray enters the sinking heart, 
 And bids its sorrows and gloom depart . 
 
 There 's a lustrous pearl that no Indian mine 
 E'er yielded the seeker ; oh, make it thine ! 
 Let it softly gleam on thy forehead fair, 
 A brighter jewel than monarchs wear ! 
 
 Maiden ! that flower hath a voice to thee ; 
 
 On its petals is 'written Humility ! 
 
 And when in darkness thy footsteps grope, 
 
 May thy way be lit by the star of Hope ; 
 
 And that gem, on thy brow may it brightly shine, 
 
 For the pearl of Truth is a gem divine ! 
 
 THE NAME. 
 
 A NAME is ringing through my brain ! 
 It brings alternate joy and pain ; 
 Now sounds it like a funeral knell, 
 And now sweet tales of love doth tell. 
 
 When through the blossoming flowers I stray. 
 
 That name arrests me on my way ; 
 
 It haunteth e'en my very sleep, 
 
 And then I wake, to muse and weep. • 
 
 Surely I heard that well-known sound, — 
 It made my sickened heart rebound ; 
 Alas ! 't was but my fancy gave 
 The name of him whose home 's the grave I 
 
POETRY. 137 
 
 Surely 1 saw that rich black eye 
 Fixed with an earnest scrutiny 
 Upon my face ; — 't was but a dream, — 
 Those orbs no more on me shall gleam ! 
 
 Sure o'er my couch that proud form bent, 
 With life and beauty redolent ; 
 That voice — it made my bosom swell. 
 It breathed the name I loved so well. 
 
 Be still, my heart ! that voice no more 
 Shall breathe the tones I loved of yore. 
 I sunk his tokens in the wave ; 
 I sent him to his early grave ! 
 
 That name — that ne'er forgotten name — 
 Again athwart my brain it came ; — 
 Ah, once 't was music to my ear, 
 But now I dread its sound to hear ! 
 
 'T was through my folly that he died, 
 And I am now another's bride ; 
 'T is this that dyes my cheek with shame •— 
 For this I dread to hear that name ! 
 
 THE OLD WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. 
 
 We have been young together - — 
 We shall never forget those hours. 
 When our footsteps strayed 
 Through the pleasant glade. 
 And the sunny woodland bowers. 
 
138 POETRY. 
 
 We have been glad together — 
 
 We have frolicked and danced along, 
 
 Till the birchen glen 
 
 Reechoed again 
 The notes of our mirthful song. 
 
 We have seen bright days together, 
 When plenty hath crowned our board ; 
 And the gifts of wealth, 
 And the joys of health, 
 Were lavishly round us poured. 
 
 We have been sad together. 
 When side by side we 've stood, 
 
 With dropping tear, 
 
 At the lowly bier 
 Of the beautiful, young, and good ! 
 
 We have grown old together- — 
 But we have not forgot our prime ; 
 
 And our hearts are still 
 
 Like the leaping rill 
 In the beautiful summer-time ! 
 
 Though now we are poor together, 
 
 O, let not our spirits fail ; 
 
 For our hearts are warm, 
 And we '11 brave the storm, 
 
 As we 've borne the prosperous gale ! 
 
 " We have lived and loved together " — 
 And the boon that we most do crave 
 
 Is, that when we die, 
 
 We may calmly lie, 
 Side by side, in the peaceful grave ! 
 
rOETRY. 139 
 
 THE WIDOW'S TREASURES. 
 
 ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE. 
 
 It was a lady in life's sunny prime, 
 
 Whom grief had touched, and not the hand of time ; 
 
 Yet had her form lost not its willowy grace, 
 
 And passing beautiful was that pale face. 
 
 One arm was thrown around a lovely child, 
 
 On whom as yet scarce seven summers smiled — 
 
 A fairy girl, with locks of clustering gold. 
 
 And deep blue eyes, that well her lineage told. 
 
 They stood together in a stately room.. 
 Where odorous vases shed a rich perfume. 
 And through the windows opening to the ground 
 The jasmine crept, and shed its fragrance round. 
 The crimson curtains cast a rosy shade 
 On costly tables, gold and pearl inlaid ; 
 Soft, silken couches, wooing to repose. 
 And all the luxuries refinement knows ; 
 While all around resplendent mirrors shone, 
 Reflecting back the pomp they gazed upon. 
 
 But ah ! it is not on the gilded wall. 
 Nor gem, nor pearl, that lady's eye doth fall ; 
 Say, does she seek, in that young, lovely face, 
 The noble features of her sire to trace ? 
 The open forehead, all untouched by care, 
 The deep blue eyes, and sunny auburn hairf 
 And the bright smile, which, in her girlish pride, 
 Won the gay maiden to the soldier's side ? 
 
 That widow's cap, those dark eyes veiled in tears, 
 Reveal the early blight upon her years ! 
 
140 POETRY. 
 
 But though the sunbeam from her path is gone, 
 Although the hearth is desolate and lone, — 
 Though, since his burial, she has never smiled, 
 Save in endearment to her darling child, — 
 Yet is she not like those who scorn relief, 
 And give free vent unto an idle grief; 
 But ever, outwardly, serene and calm, 
 Into the wounded bosom pouring balm, 
 Aiding the poor, relieving the distrest, 
 And to the troubled spirit whispering — rest ! 
 
 Deep in her heart his memory is enshrined, 
 
 With every hope of future bliss entwined. 
 
 Though still so young, so rich, and passing fair, 
 
 Yet would the wildest tempter never dare 
 
 With flattering words her pure ear to assail. 
 
 For her proud glance would make the stoutest quail. 
 
 Yet can her eye, at times so sternly bright. 
 
 Dissolve in floods of soft and tender light ; 
 
 And that high brow bend with sweet love and pride 
 
 On the fair creature smiling at her side. 
 
 For her she lives, and 'neath her training hand. 
 She sees the beauteous blossom still expand ; 
 With careful skill, removes the noxious weeds, 
 The canker-worm that on its beauty feeds ; 
 With caution, screens it from the sun's full glare, 
 And shields it from the mildew-blight of care. 
 
 They call her rich, because a princely hall 
 Her dwelling is, and servants wait her call. 
 In liveried throngs ; and she has glittering gems 
 That shame the pomp of eastern diadems. 
 
POETRY. 141 
 
 But there are treasures dearer to her heart 
 Than all this lavish splendor can impart ; 
 More precious far than diamond or the pearl, — 
 Her husband^s memory, and her orphan girl ! 
 
 A MEMORIAL OF HAPPY DAYS. 
 
 AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO S. C. E. 
 
 Dost thou remember, Sarah, those sunny days gone by, 
 
 When the hours, on fairy pinions, like minutes seemed 
 to fly? ; 
 
 When the glorious Indian summer smiled on mountain- 
 top and plain, 
 
 And the farmer's heart exulted in his stores of golden 
 grain? 
 
 The earth had not yet wholly doffed her robes of eme- 
 rald green, 
 
 And the brilliant hues of Autumn added beauty to the 
 scene. 
 
 The sun its gorgeous splendors shed on valley, hill and 
 stream, 
 
 And in our hearts as brightly did Aifection's sunlight 
 gleam ! 
 
 And dost thou not remember all the pleasant walks we 
 
 took? 
 That woodland path, that wound along the margin of a 
 
 brook. 
 On whose clear breast, like glory-rays, the glittering 
 
 sunbeams played ; 
 And the slant old trees, whose shadows fell athwart the 
 
 forest glade ? 
 12 
 
142 POETRY. 
 
 O, many a richly varied scene, of river, wood and glen, 
 Within a city's bounds, yet far from busy haunts of 
 
 men, — 
 Scenes that together we enjoyed, — doth Fancy now 
 
 delight 
 To bring, in startling vividness, each hour, before my 
 
 sight. 
 
 Those halcyon hours, all too bright, too beautiful, to last, 
 O, can they e'er become to me dim records of the past ? 
 Hath not each well-remembered look, each tone of love, 
 
 a spell ? 
 Are they not fondly garnered up in Memory's choicest 
 
 cell? 
 
 The/riends whose love and kindness made those days so 
 truly blest, 
 
 Howe'er they may be sundered now, a blessing on them 
 rest ! 
 
 The group who sadly seek a new and less beloved home. 
 
 May fortune smile upon their path, where'er their foot- 
 steps roam ! 
 
 To her who meekly languishes upon a couch of pain, 
 O, speedily may Heaven restore the boon of health again ! 
 To glad the hearts to whom her smile is dear as light 
 
 of day. 
 And bid the angel Joy return where Grief hath held her 
 
 sway. 
 
 God bless those " Soldiers of the Cross ! " the zealous, 
 brave and true, 
 
 Who side by side fought valiantly, whose " souls to- 
 gether grew ! " 
 
POETRY. 143 
 
 Long may their clarion-voices sound salvation through 
 
 the land, 
 And every work of Love Divine be prospered in their 
 
 hand ! 
 
 Why ask, — " Dost thou remember ? " — oh, canst thou 
 
 e'er forget 
 That gay and happy circle who in sweet communion 
 
 met? 
 Will not those pleasant memories still linger round thine 
 
 heart, 
 Like withered flowers, whose scent remains when life 
 
 and bloom depart ? 
 
 O, never more, perchance, that group shall gather round 
 one hearth, 
 
 For chance and change, too well we know, mark every- 
 thing of earth ! 
 
 But in the glorious spirit-clime, where endless spring- 
 time dwells, 
 
 A happier meeting shall be ours, that knows no sad 
 farewells ! 
 
 » 
 
 THE LONELY ONE. 
 
 [My attention has long been attracted, at church, by an aged, decrepit 
 woman, who, on each successive Sabbath, totters slowly up the broad aisle, to 
 her accustomed seat near the pulpit, and always reminds me forcibly of the 
 " Widow," in one of Irving's most beautiful and heart-stirring sketches. She 
 goes in and out before the people, and no one speaks to or seems to care for 
 her, though in all the congregation there is no more devout listener ; and 
 her utter loneliness has suggested the following lines : ] 
 
 I HAVE oft remarked, in the sacred fane, 
 
 A figure tottering slowly 
 Along the aisle, as if bowed with pain, — 
 
 The lowliest mid the lowly. 
 
144 POETRY. 
 
 I Ve bent on her often an earnest gaze, 
 And have seen the tear-drops glisten, 
 
 When the choir are chanting the hymn of praise, 
 To which none more intently listen. 
 
 And when the incense of grateful prayer 
 To the throne of grace ascendeth. 
 
 Of all the throng that are gathered there, 
 Not one more devoutly bendeth. 
 
 It gives me a pain — I know not why — 
 
 As I look on that aged mourner, 
 When the service is over, and all pass by, 
 
 With a glance at her lonely corner. 
 
 Yet faint not, desolate heart, — bear up ! 
 
 Thou art not Gon-forsaken, 
 And though thou drainest the bitter cup, 
 
 O, let not thy faith be shaken ! 
 
 Though thy locks are white, and thy eye is dim, 
 
 And thy feeble footsteps falter. 
 What matters it all, if unto Him 
 
 Thou hast reared in thine heart an altar ! 
 
 Thou shalt see his glory and feel his love. 
 That with mercy has ever crowned thee, 
 
 In the glittering hosts of the stars above. 
 And all beautiful things around thee ! 
 
 The morning sunlight, the noontide showers. 
 The earth with their freshness laving; 
 
 Do they not fall from the Eden bowers. 
 Where the banner of lorn is waving? 
 
POETRY. 
 
 145 
 
 Then heed thou not — though the young and gay- 
 Regard thee with contumely ; 
 
 With the smile of the Master to bless thy way, 
 Pass on, and forgive them freely ! 
 
 When the proud the finger of scorn shall point, 
 
 O, breathe not a sigh of sadness ! 
 For He who hath loved thee shall then anoint 
 
 Thy heart with the oil of gladness ! 
 
 PRAYER OF THE SAILOR'S WIFE. 
 Father in Heaven ! O, hear mine earnest pleading ! 
 
 Let not thine ear be deaf to my complaint ! 
 Thou who thy creatures' wants art ever heeding, 
 
 O, give me succor, lest my spirit faint ! 
 
 One whom I love is on the foaming ocean, 
 And my fond, fearful heart forebodeth ill ; 
 
 Thou who canst calm the turbid waves' commotion. 
 Say to the troubled waters — " Peace, be still ! " 
 
 O, let the banner of thy love wave o'er him ! 
 
 Trace thou his pathway on the mighty deep ! 
 And to his home, at length, in peace restore him. 
 
 To glad the eyes that for his safety weep ! 
 
 Ten moons have passed since these same lips did falter 
 Vows of affection at my loved one's side ; 
 
 And happy voices round thy sacred altar 
 
 Hailed me, and blessed me, as my sailor's bride. 
 
 Father ! if now thy hand that tie shall sever. 
 If 't was thy will that we so soon should part, 
 
 O, let me feel that it is not forever ! 
 
 Give me an humble and submissive heart ! 
 
 12^ 
 
146 POETRY. 
 
 If, in my sinful ignorance and blindness, 
 Father ! I murmur at thy sovereign will, 
 
 O, teach my heart to feel thy loving-kindness ! 
 Bid its rebellious murmurings be still ! 
 
 Teach me to bear with humble resignation 
 All thine allotments, whether good or ill ! 
 
 Father ! receive mine earnest supplication. 
 And with thy holy peace my bosom fill ! 
 
 GENEVIEVE. 
 
 SUGGESTED BV AN EXQUISITE PICTURE, PAINTED BY T. B. READ. 
 
 Beautiful eyes of clear sapphire blue, 
 
 Outrivalling heaven's serenest hue ! 
 
 They haunt me whithersoe'er I roam. 
 
 Like pleasant thoughts of my childhood's home, 
 
 Or the dewy light of a summer eve ; 
 
 O, whence is their power, bright Genevieve ? 
 
 They are downward cast, as in maiden shame — 
 Hast thou caught the sound of thy loved one's name ? 
 Does the delicate tint on thy soft, warm cheek, 
 Of bashful young love, in its morning, speak ? 
 Dost thou fear lest some cold, strange eye should per- 
 ceive 
 Thy heart's treasured secret, sweet Genevieve ? 
 
 Thou art hearing a tale of wrecked love, I trow, 
 
 For a shade of sadness is on thy brow. 
 
 O'er which thy tresses of hazel-gold 
 
 (The hue the laburnum's bright buds unfold) 
 
 In wavy beauty luxuriant flow, 
 
 Like sunset rays on a wreath of snow. 
 
POETRY. 147 
 
 O mighty Genius ! thy wondrous power 
 Confers on thy children a glorious dower ! 
 Thou biddest the poet rehearse his lay, 
 And crown'st him immortal, with wreaths of bay; 
 Thy magic spell round the sculptor is thrown, 
 And beauty is born from the lifeless stone I 
 
 Thy spirit is breathed in the painter's soul. 
 And he pants to arrive at the glorious goal, 
 Perfection ! he enters the charmed ring, 
 And breathing forms from his pencil spring. 
 O, happy the artist whose skill can weave 
 Such radiant fancies as Genevieve ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 i DID not love thee first ! My heart 
 Hath whispered words as fond before ; 
 
 But I have seen bright dreams depart. 
 And skies the clearest clouded o'er. 
 
 I did not feel for thee that burst 
 
 Of Passion's wild and startling flame 
 
 I felt for her I loved the first, 
 
 If such may bear love's holy name ! 
 
 T^hat^ meteor-like, in darkness set ; 
 
 This brightly beams, life's morning-star ! 
 I did not love thee firsts but yet, 
 
 Thou knowest I love thee better far ! 
 
 The frosts of time shall never chill 
 The fount of passion pure as this ; 
 
 It shall go on increasing still, 
 
 And added years bring added bliss ! 
 
 / 
 
14S POETRY. 
 
 And when the parting hour shall come, 
 Strong in the love that blessed us here, 
 
 We '11 seek a brighter, happier home, 
 Together, in yon radiant sphere ! 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MISS E. A. HOLT, 
 There are forms with sorrow bending, 
 There are hearts in sackcloth drest; 
 ^ For a loved one hath departed 
 To the silent land of rest ! 
 Wail for the young and beautiful, 
 
 The gay and glad of heart ; 
 
 Yet sorrow not as hopeless ones, 
 
 Who see their loved depart ! 
 
 She has faded like a flower 
 
 Which the spring-time shall renew, 
 With sunshine and with shower. 
 
 And the gently-falling dew. 
 And though she sleep unconscious 
 
 'Neath the snow-enmantled sod, 
 She shall wake to glorious beauty 
 
 In the garden of our God ! 
 
 She has vanished like a meteor 
 
 From our dim, bewildered sight ; 
 But the spirit, like that pilgrim-star, 
 
 Tends to the source of Light ; 
 And though through realms of space unknown 
 
 To mortal ken it roam, 
 Yet He who marks the comet's track 
 
 Will guide the spirit home. 
 
POETRY. !^ 
 
 Mother, upon whose faithful breast 
 
 In infancy she slept, 
 Seek not to stay thy gushing tears, — 
 
 We know that Jesus wept. 
 And to the heart surcharged with woe 
 
 It is a sweet relief, 
 And God shall send the Comforter 
 
 To sanctify thy grief ! 
 
 Sister and brother, who bewail 
 
 A form the grave hath hid. 
 Whose tears have fallen thick and fast 
 
 Upon her coffin lid, — 
 Dwell not upon the darksome tomb 
 
 Which doth her limbs imprison, 
 For lo ! from thence a voice declares, 
 
 " She is not here^ but risen ! " 
 
 Thou, in the heaven of whose heart 
 
 The brightest star has set, 
 O, turn not to the memories 
 
 Of the past, with fond regret ! 
 But let them linger round thee, 
 
 To cheer life's twilight hours, 
 Like strains of far-off music. 
 
 Or the breath of summer flowers I 
 
 A mission unto her was given, 
 
 The good and pure in heart. 
 Lessons of faith and gentleness. 
 
 And patience, to impart. 
 There 's sorrow in the home on earth, 
 
 Joy in the home above ; 
 That gentle spirit hath fulfilled 
 
 Her ministry of love ! 
 
150 ^ POETRY. 
 
 WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD! 
 O, WEEP not for the dead ! 
 Why should our spirits fondly cling to dust, 
 Why sorrow vainly o'er the lowly bed 
 Where rest the ashes of the pure and just ? 
 
 Why mourn we for the young, 
 The loved and beautiful, the gentle-hearted ? 
 Why should their dirge in mournful tones be sung 
 Who in the spring-time of their lives departed ? 
 
 Not for the quiet dead, 
 Whose weary pilgrimage hath found a close, 
 Whose toils are over, let a tear be shed, 
 Or yearning prayer be uttered — not for those ! 
 
 Weep for the guilty soul 
 That still travaileth in the pangs of sin ! 
 Within whose depths the troubled waters roll, 
 And not a gleam of sunshine breaketh in ! 
 
 Weep for the stricken one 
 Who in the midnight of affliction gropes, 
 And, unillumined by the risen Sun, 
 Sits mid the ashes of her dearest hopes ! 
 
 O, weep for those who live — 
 Far worse than death ! — in base, tormenting fear ! 
 Who never knew the blessed word, '"'■forgive^'* 
 And wait in terror for the judgment near ! 
 
 For these let prayer be made, 
 And intercession at the throne of God, 
 Through Him on whom were our transgressions laid, 
 Who saves a world by his redeeming blood ! 
 
POETRY. 151 
 
 For these let tears be shed ! 
 Let them descend, like gentle summer showers, 
 And like the dew upon the violet's bed, 
 Revivify the heart's decaying flowers ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 O, HASTE with me to the green, green fields, 
 
 Where we loved in youth to stray, 
 For my heart leaps up, with a joyous thrill, 
 
 Like a frolicsome child at play ! 
 And I dream of a cottage, embowered in trees, 
 
 'Neath the weight of their foliage bending. 
 And flowers, and birds, and all beautiful things, 
 
 In Nature's sweet harmony blending. 
 
 Come, haste thee, then, to our fairy bower. 
 
 Far down in the woody dell, 
 Where all is still, save the drowsy hum 
 
 Of the bee in the foxglove bell. 
 I '11 sit me down at thy feet, beloved, 
 
 'Neath the shadow of some old tree. 
 And sing thee a lay of the olden times. 
 
 Of knighthood and chivalry. 
 
 We '11 weave full many a bright romance 
 
 Of a life in some sweet, lone spot. 
 With music, and flowers, and love alone — 
 
 The world and its cares forgot. 
 O, fair are the dreams of the youthful heart. 
 
 And bright are its summer hours ; 
 Bat haste thee, love ! — 'tis the " witching time," 
 
 The season of Love and Flowers. 
 
152 POETRY. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 I. 
 
 " Give me more light." — Goethe. 
 
 Father in heaven ! my yearning spirit cries 
 To Thee, amid her dark and starless night, 
 And vainly struggles to behold the light ; 
 O, gently touch her sin-beclouded eyes. 
 And bid her look, undazzled, to the skies ! 
 
 Light for my darkened soul ! O Thou from whom 
 All light, all wisdom, and all life, must come, — 
 To Thee alone her heart's deep prayer may rise. 
 
 I have had glimpses of a nobler life. 
 Like gleams of sunshine through the tempest breaking, 
 The spirit-lyre to loftier themes awaking, — 
 
 Dreams of a world with glorious beauty rife. 
 Where, equal with the angels, man, the clod, 
 Shall, purified by Love, stand face to face with God ! 
 
 II. 
 
 " He maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good." 
 
 Joy to the earth ! the glorious sun hath risen ! 
 
 All nature now the genial influence feels ; 
 
 Into the nun's low cell the sunbeam steals, 
 And through the grated window of the prison, [glisten. 
 Making the tear-dimmed eye with grateful pleasure 
 
 Its cheerful glow illumes alike the haunt 
 
 Of Vice, and her companions. Care and Want, 
 And the low cot, where peasant children listen, 
 
 While reverend lips the law of love proclaim ! 
 Where wretched Judas doth his Lord betray. 
 Where loving hearts in truth and meekness pray, 
 
 Whate'er the spirit's motive or its aim. 
 Alike doth God, our heavenly Father, shed 
 His glorious sunshine upon every head ! 
 
POETRY. 153 
 
 III. 
 
 ■'And sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust." 
 
 He bids the soft and gently-falling showers 
 
 Upon the parched and drooping earth descend ; 
 In dewy vales upspring the fair, sweet flowers, 
 
 And to the balmy air their fragrance lend. 
 The rain falls kindly on the deeply sinning, 
 
 The wretched wanderer from virtue's way, 
 And on his brow whose daily life is winning 
 
 Souls by the Gospel's pure and gentle sway. 
 While man, frail creature of a brief hour, turneth 
 
 From his own sins, a neighbor's faults to scan. 
 And from his path an erring brother spurneth, 
 
 Bidding him perish 'neath the cold world's ban, — 
 Alike to all God's boundless mercy floweth, 
 'And every path of life with blessings streweth ! 
 
 IV. 
 THE CRUCIFIXION. 
 
 A wlAiiL of woe is heard from Calvary's mountain, 
 
 A mournful cry resounds along the plain ! 
 Forth pours the stream from Love's redeeming fountain, 
 
 The Son of God, the anointed one, is slain ! 
 And lo ! the air is rent with peals of thunder. 
 
 And midnight darkness on the city lies ; 
 The mountains shake, the rocks are torn asunder, 
 
 The graves are opened, and the dead arise ! 
 Priest, Judge, and Levite, see the awful vision, 
 
 And to the ground fall prostrate with affright ; 
 Rejoice, oh man ! thy sins have found remission, 
 
 And " immortality is brought to light ! " 
 Christ hath fulfilled his Heaven-appointed mission, 
 
 And Love's bright banner streams from Calvary's 
 height ! -. o 
 
154 POETRY. 
 
 V. 
 
 THE STARS. 
 
 " Those golden tears that men call stars." — Hyperion. 
 
 Beautiful thought ! that the stars o'erhead, 
 
 Which beam so soft on our mortal ken, 
 Are but the tears which the angels shed 
 
 O'er the transgressions of sinful men ! 
 Though changeless ye seem to our feeble sight, 
 
 With steady brilliancy shining on, 
 Do ye not beam with a holier light 
 
 To hail the return of the erring one ? 
 Golden drops from Compassion's fount, 
 
 Lit by the fire on Mercy's shrine, 
 When the hosts of the ransomed upward mount, 
 
 To bask in the glories of Love divine. 
 Shall ye not blaze like undying suns, 
 In the golden crowns of the shining ones ? 
 
 VL 
 MARY, MOTHER OF CHRIST. 
 
 Mother of Christ ! what dream of fame 
 
 Could paint a lot so high as thine ? 
 How meanly younds earth's proudest name 
 
 Beside a title so divine ! 
 In every nation, age, and clime. 
 
 Where his religion has been taught, 
 Thy name has been with thoughts sublime, 
 
 With holy love and sweetness fraught ! 
 O who was honored e'er like thee ? 
 
 What heart was e'er so sorely tried ? 
 Raised from thy lowly lot, to be 
 
 The mother of the Crucified ! 
 Hail, highly favored ! who upon thy breast 
 Didst lull the infant Son of God to rest ! 
 
POETRY. 
 
 155 
 
 vn. 
 
 "Our Fatherl who art in heaven." 
 
 Father in Heaven ! how many hearts are breathing 
 
 That hallowed name, with reverent lips, to-night, 
 On Southern plains, where graceful vines are wreathing, 
 
 Or on some lofty, snow-clad Alpine height ! 
 The lonely dweller on the rugged mountain, 
 
 The mariner upon the trackless sea, 
 The peasant maiden by the wildwood fountain, 
 
 And childhood lisping at its mother's knee ; 
 All breathe, alike, the beautiful petition, 
 
 To Thee, " Our Father who in Heaven art ;" 
 And Thou dost own, most blessed recognition ! 
 
 The tie between Thee and each human heart ! 
 Thy children ! may we ever strive to be 
 Worthy, Our Father ! of that name and Thee ! 
 
 vni. 
 
 " Thy kingdom come ! " 
 
 Where shall Thy kingdom come ? In halls of state. 
 
 Or old cathedrals, where the mighty throng, 
 Where mitred priests in robes of purple wait. 
 
 And pealing organs chant the lofty song ? 
 Where shall Thy kingdom come ? In cloisters dim, 
 
 Where the pale nun in adoration bends. 
 While with the music of her vesper hymn 
 
 Some fond regret or cherished memory blends ? 
 Or in the dwelling of the lowly poor, 
 
 Where humble hopes and meek affections spring? 
 There shall the dove of peace, her wanderings o'er, 
 
 At length find shelter for her weary wing ? — 
 Where shall Thy kingdom come ? Is not Thy throne 
 Within the humble, contrite soul alone ? 
 
156 POETRY. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Give us this day our daily bread." 
 
 0, God oor Father ! from thy throne on high. 
 
 Amid the melody of harps divine^ 
 Wilt Thou not listen to thy children's cry, 
 
 Borne on prayer-incense to thy holy shrine ? 
 Father, we hunger ! As we faltering tread 
 
 The rugged pathway through life's wilderness, 
 O "give unto us each our daily bread," 
 
 Strengthen our footsteps as we onward press.! 
 Thou who of old thy mercy didst declare 
 
 To Israel, wandering in the desert land, 
 Turn not away from this, our fervent prayer. 
 
 Nor let our frailties stay Thy gracious hand ! 
 Thou who with blessings makest each day rife, 
 Oive to our fainting souls the bread of Life ! 
 
 X. 
 
 " Lead us not into temptation." 
 
 From the low hut, where Poverty contendeth 
 
 Bravely with Vice, the sumptuously fed, 
 While from his heart an anguish-wail ascendeth, 
 
 As weak young voices vainly cry for bread ! — 
 From the proud soul that burneth for dominion 
 
 Over the mighty universe of Mind, 
 That fain would soar away on eagle-pinion, 
 
 Leaving life's tame realities behind; — 
 And from the beauty-dowered, in humble station. 
 
 Who for the world's gay pageants fondly sighs, — 
 From Hagar, maddened by her desolation, — 
 
 From every poor, frail heart this prayer should rise 
 " Suffer us not to fall into temptation ! " 
 
 Lead us, oh Father ! where our duty lies ! 
 
POETRY. 
 
 167 
 
 XI. 
 u pof Thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory forever. Amen ! " 
 
 Thine is the kingdom ! Everlasting God ! 
 
 In all Thy works Thy sovereignty is shown ; 
 Justice and Mercy wait upon Thy nod, 
 
 And Truth upholds the pillars of Thy throne. 
 Thine is the power — to tame the rebel heart, 
 
 To make the serpent gentle as the dove ; 
 Comfort and peace and wisdom to impart, 
 
 And to do all things, by Thy wondrous Love ' 
 Thine is the glory — not of earthly kings, 
 
 Not Thine their empty pomp and poor renown, 
 But with Thy goodness the empyrean rings ; 
 
 I^rve is Thy sceptre, — Love, Thy glorious crown. 
 Wliile earthly thrones return to dust again. 
 Thine shall endure forevermore : Amen ! 
 
 XII. 
 CASSIE. 
 
 O, WHO that ever visited Moss-dell, 
 
 Remembers not the golden-haired young lassie 
 Who mid its solitude was wont to dwell. 
 
 The beautiful and gentle-hearted Cassie ? 
 Her life was one of deep and quiet joy. 
 
 Calm-flowing onward like a placid river, 
 Till at her breast the mischief-loving boy, 
 
 Young Cupid, aimed an arrow from his quiver. 
 The maiden loved, and trusted — was betrayed — 
 
 No murmuring word by her pale lips was spoken ; 
 But when the flowers of Spring began to fade. 
 
 She passed away — her guileless heart was broken! 
 Rest thee, at length, poor, bleeding, stricken dove ! 
 For He shall shield thee with protecting love. 
 13^ 
 
158 POETRY. 
 
 XIII. 
 THE BRIDE. 
 
 She stands before the altar, bright with blushes, 
 
 Trembling with fear, of keenest pleasure bom ; 
 But, ah ! how tenderly the lover hushes 
 
 The agitation of the timid fawn ! 
 Her radiant eyes, through jetty fringes beaming, 
 
 Rival the midnight blackness of her hair, 
 In which a few soft, orient pearls are gleaming. 
 
 As if to show the brow and neck more fair. 
 But listen now ! the willing hand is given, 
 
 The vow is said, the solemn rites are done ; 
 The tie that only may by death be riven 
 
 Is consecrated — and the twain are one ! 
 God bless thee, beautiful and happy bride. 
 And lead thee safely in the path untried ! 
 
 XIV. 
 THE BURIAL. 
 
 Through the" church-yard a solemn train is sweeping, . 
 
 Clad in the sable draperies of grief; 
 Their forms are bowedy their eyes are red with weeping. 
 
 For one whose term of life was all too brief ! 
 In vain they strive their mournful sobs to smother, 
 
 "Whene'er they think of her, the young and gay — 
 One year a wife, one little week a mother — 
 
 So early called from all she loved away ! 
 Then comes that "withering sound" to all who love her, 
 
 The clods are falling on the coffin-lid ! 
 And now they heap the flowery sods above her, 
 
 And the beloved one is forever hid ! 
 Mourner ! behold the rainbow in the skies — 
 She whom thou lovest shall again arise ! 
 
POETRY. 159 
 
 XV, 
 GOD'S ALTAR. 
 
 Not where the organ-tones are loudly pealing 
 
 Through the cathedral aisles or arches dim ; 
 Nor when upon the ear is softly stealing 
 
 The low, sweet cadence of the evening hymn ; 
 Not where the sound of pompous prayer ascendeth. 
 
 A hundred voices echo it again ; 
 Not where the knee in solemn mockery bendeth, 
 
 And careless lips pronounce a loud amen ! 
 Not where the sacramental cup, o'erflowing, 
 
 Presents a symbol of the Saviour's blood, 
 But in the heart with pure affection glowing, 
 
 Is the true altar of the living God ! 
 There hath he reared his own most holy shrine, 
 And consecrated it with Love Divine ! 
 
 XVI. 
 CLARA. 
 
 O, SHE is wondrous beautiful and bright, 
 
 With her long raven hair and violet eyes ; 
 But on her name there is a withering blight, 
 
 And a dark shadow on her pathway lies. 
 She once was happy, till the demon, si7i, 
 
 Made her heart's paradise a living hell. 
 To which nought pure or good might enter in — 
 
 The tempter triumphed, and the bright one fell ! 
 Yet woman — sister ! turn thou not away ! 
 
 Art thou more pure than was God's holy Son, 
 Who, when on earth, was not ashamed to say 
 
 '■'•Thmi art forgwen^^ to the fallen one. 
 O, take her by the hand, and, as of yore 
 The Master did, say, " Go, and sin no more I " 
 
160 POETRY. 
 
 XVII. 
 SUGGESTED BY A TEMPERANCE DISCOURSE. 
 
 A VOICE hath sounded from God's holy mountain, 
 
 And found an echo in the human heart ; 
 " Ho ! ye that thirst, come to the living fountain, 
 
 Whose crystal stream can peace and joy impart ! " 
 Many have heard, and spurned the bitter waters. 
 
 Whose poisoned springs engender hate and strife ; 
 Lift up your hearts, earth's bowed and stricken daugh- 
 ters, — 
 
 Sing, for the curse is taken from your life ! 
 Arise, ye fallen, from your degradation. 
 
 Ye who are versed in sin's dark, mournful lore ; 
 Lo ! angels chant the song of your salvation, 
 
 And Jesus whispers, " Go, and sin no more ! " 
 List to the mighty voice that cryeth ever, 
 " Come to the gushing fount that faileth never ! " 
 
 XVIII. 
 A VISION. 
 
 There is a vision floating round me now. 
 
 Which long hath haunted me at twilight hour, 
 Like some old picture, with a strange, sweet power. 
 
 Awaking loftier thoughts and hopes, I trow : 
 
 A vision of a girl, with saint-like brow, 
 All radiant, like snow-flakes newly drifted. 
 And large, blue, gold-fringed eyes to heaven uplifted. 
 
 That might have made a spirit earthward bow. 
 For from their star-lit depths beamed out a soul 
 
 Made glorious with the light of Truth and Love ; 
 
 A spirit yearning for its home above ; 
 
 And there her holy hopes have found a goal. 
 
 A little while this fair, green earth she trod, 
 
 A type of angels, and akin to God ! 
 
POETRY. 161 
 
 XIX. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 A FAIRY girl used every morn to mieet me, 
 
 When the first ray of sunlight tinged the skies, 
 And in a gentle, loving accent greet me, 
 
 With her pure soul out-beaming from her eyes. 
 Long ere I reached her, I could see her coming. 
 
 With bird-like motion, through the dewy grass, 
 Some merry air or plaintive ballad humming. 
 
 While the spring daisies bent to let her pass. 
 Oft have I thought, while through the flowers straying 
 
 That she was only than themselves less fair ; 
 And well I loved to see the breezes playing 
 
 With the rich tresses of her golden hair. 
 And watch the expression of her sweet face vary ; 
 She was a bonnie child, — her name was Mary ! 
 
 "PRAY WITHOUT CEASING." 
 
 God of the first gray dawn ! 
 
 To thee my vows I raise, 
 And on the wings of mom 
 
 Send up my song of praise. 
 I bless thee for the sleep 
 
 That soothed my weary frame ; 
 The vigil thou didst keep, 
 
 The visions bright that came. 
 
 God of the sun's first ray ! 
 
 O, let its influence be 
 A magnet, day by day, 
 
 To draw me unto thee ! 
 
162 POETRY. 
 
 I bless thee for that light, 
 The sun that fills the soul, 
 
 Whose beams divinely bright 
 Can purify the whole. 
 
 God of the glowing noon ! 
 
 My prayer shall still ascend, 
 And crave a heavenly boon 
 
 Of thee, my kindest Friend. 
 I seek that better part, 
 
 To animate this clod ; 
 I would be pure in heart. 
 
 That I may see my God ! 
 
 God of the morning light. 
 And of the evening's close. 
 
 Thy love no shade or blight 
 Or diminution knows ; 
 
 O Father ! when at length 
 My earthly ties shall sever. 
 
 Be thou my staff of strength, 
 , Thine arms my home forever ! 
 
 RECORDS OF THE OLD YEAR 
 
 MAIDEN. 
 
 Another year of life is gone ; 
 How swiftly have its hours flown ! 
 Then let me now, reflective, cast 
 A lingering look upon the past. 
 And what hast thou, Old Year, to tell ? 
 Do pleasant tales thy records swell — 
 Have scenes of pleasure met thy sight. 
 And mirthful hours mocked thy flight — 
 
POETRY. 163 
 
 Or sadder visions dost thou bring, 
 
 To close thy reign, old frost-bound king ? 
 
 OLD TEAR. 
 
 " Alas ! fair querist, thou art smiling now, 
 And there is not a cloud on thy young brow : 
 But when I began my short-lived race, 
 There was many a form of airy grace, 
 And many an eye as bright as thine. 
 That now has ceased on earth to shine ; 
 And many a cheek with as bright a bloom, 
 That now lies withering in the tomb ! 
 
 " I 've seen the maiden, with swelling heart. 
 From her childhood's home and its joys depart ; 
 From the tender mother, whose loving arm 
 Shielded her darling from every harm ; 
 From the father, whose watchful care had been 
 A talisman to preserve from sin ; 
 The brothers and sisters who with her played. 
 And the home of her youth so joyous made ; 
 She leaves them all, for a stranger's side, — 
 Resigns such love, for a love untried ! 
 
 " I 've seen the bride at the altar stand. 
 
 And plight the heart with the willing hand, 
 
 And, in the freshness and bloom of youth, 
 
 Intrust her all to Ms love and truth ; 
 
 I 've seen the young mother, with glistening eyes 
 
 Bend o'er the infant, that slumbering lies, 
 
 Enfolded in arms that long to press 
 
 It closer still, in a fond caress ; 
 
 Yet scarcely daring to breathe or stir, 
 
 Lest it should waken the slumberer ! 
 
164 POETRY. 
 
 " And 1 have looked on the merry dance, 
 Where red lips smile, and bright eyes glance ; 
 Where the sylph-like footsteps you scarcely hear, 
 And the laugh of the jocund meets the ear ; 
 But think not my course has been all so bright. 
 For scenes of sorrow have marked my flight ; — 
 
 " And she on whose bridal my birth-day shone 
 
 To the silent grave, in her youth, has gone ; 
 
 She bowed to the stern decree of fate, — 
 
 Her husband's hearth is desolate ! 
 
 I 've seen the mother compelled to part 
 
 With the cherished idol of her heart ; 
 
 I 've seen the strong and the proud laid low, 
 
 And happy dwellings filled with woe ! 
 
 " To-night, there 's many a circle met, 
 
 My passing away to celebrate ; 
 
 But, oh ! in their mirth, let them not forget 
 
 That on some fair ferows death's seal may be set ! 
 
 And that many a voice, which last year gave 
 
 Its gladsome greetings, is stilled in the grave ! 
 
 " My tale is ended — my work is done ; 
 
 My mission accomplished — my race is run ;" — 
 
 And as the Old Year closed his tale. 
 
 His last rustling sigh was borne on the gale. 
 
 And from many a group pealed the joyous din, 
 
 " The Old Year 's out, and the New Year 's in ! " 
 
 "I KNOW THAT MY REDEEMER LIYETH." 
 "I KNOW that my Redeemer lives!" and when this 
 
 weary frame 
 Shall quietly return to earth, from whose embrace it 
 
 came, 
 
POETRY. 165 
 
 O, then, with spirit purified, and by his own free grace, 
 I hope to look undazzled on my Saviour, face to face ! 
 
 ' " I know that my Redeemer lives ! " and oh, Ilong to lie 
 In the bright sunshine of his smile, the heaven of his 
 
 eye, 
 And to drink of that pure fountain whose living waters 
 
 burst 
 From out God's throne, to slake with immortality my 
 
 thirst. 
 
 " I know that my Redeemer lives ! " I have a holy trust 
 
 That he will raise and renovate my feeble, mouldering 
 dust ; 
 
 Why should I care, though worms destroy this shroud- 
 like form of mine, 
 
 "While my soul in robes celestial before her God may 
 shine ! 
 
 TO A FRIEND, 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF HER HUSBAND. 
 
 He has vanished from among us ! and oh, why should 
 
 we mourn, 
 When earth's frail ties however fond, are thus asunder 
 
 torn ? 
 Why should we seek to hold him here, from mansions 
 
 of the blest, 
 " Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary 
 
 are at rest " ? 
 
 And yet it is a grievous thing, when cherished friends 
 
 are torn 
 From our embrace, by death's cold grasp, and hurried to 
 
 " that bourn 
 14 
 
166 POETRY. 
 
 From whence no traveller yet returned," to paint the 
 
 glorious rest 
 Of those who labored here for Christ, and now with him 
 
 are blest ! 
 
 He has left his earthly dwelling, and thine eyes are 
 
 veiled in tears 
 For him in whom were garnered up the hopes of many 
 
 years ; 
 The husband of thine early love, — the kindest and the 
 
 best, — 
 He. has passed through many a weary scene, and now 
 
 has gone to rest. 
 
 A brighter, happier home is his ; and yet, we wept for 
 
 him, 
 When the golden bowl was broken, and the lamp of lifG 
 
 grew dim ; 
 But richest comforts soothed our hearts when to his side 
 
 we crept. 
 And let the tears of friendship flow — we know that 
 
 " Jesus wept ! " 
 
 And mourn not for the fatherless ! — thou hast no cause 
 
 for fear, — 
 The widow's and the orphan's God will be thy helper 
 
 here ; 
 And when thy race at length is run, with him may'st 
 
 thou be blest, 
 " Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary 
 
 are at rest." 
 
POETRY. 167 
 
 THE GOOD OLD MAN. 
 
 [The following stanzas were suggested by Russell's beautiful aAd popular 
 alladof "The Old Wife."] 
 
 Though time, alas ! has changed thy locks, from glossy 
 
 brown to gray. 
 And thy proud and manly form is bent, with age and 
 
 slow decay, — 
 Yet true and tender is thy heart as when we first began 
 To tread life's path together, my faithful, good old man ! 
 
 A bright and joyous day was that, when, in the bloom of 
 
 youth. 
 With love and hope unchecked and free, I plighted thee 
 
 my truth ; 
 Thine have I been for many a year, yet never, in that 
 
 span, 
 Has murmuring word escaped thy lips, my dear, my 
 
 good old man ! 
 
 And happy is the life we 've led, though like an April 
 
 day ! . 
 
 Where clouds and sunshine, smiles and tears, have held 
 
 alternate sway ; 
 But sunny hours have triumphed still, and grief been 
 
 under ban, 
 For tears were never welcome guests, with thee, my 
 
 good old man ! 
 
 And through the ever-changing scenes that chequer 
 
 human life, 
 Most blessed have I deemed my lot, since I became thy 
 
 wife; 
 What need of words? — thou knowest well the love lang 
 
 syne began ; 
 And dearer than the bridegroom was, art thou, my good 
 
 old man ! 
 
16B POETRY. 
 
 "I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY." 
 
 " I WOULD not live alway ! " this earth has no charms 
 To keep me, my Saviour, away from thine arms ; 
 My spirit is weary, and yearns for the rest 
 That waits the freed soul in the land of the blest. 
 
 Grant, Father Divine ! that this frame may decay, 
 When the flowers of Summer are fading away; 
 The leaves, as they fall, my fit monument be, 
 And autumn winds sigh forth a requiem for me ! 
 
 Let me die in the gladness and spring-time of youth, 
 While life bears the semblance of beauty and truth ; 
 Ere friends prove false-hearted, or pleasures decay. 
 From sin and from suffering take me away ! 
 
 " I would not live alway ! " — I joy in the trust, 
 That when this frail form shall return to the dust, 
 My spirit shall rise on the wings of thy love. 
 To seek its true home in the mansions above ! 
 
 THE OLD CHURCH-BELL. 
 
 From my childhood up, I have loved full well 
 To list to the chimes of that old church-bell ; 
 And they come to my ear most richly fraught 
 With treasures from Memory's store-house brought. 
 They speak to my heart, with a solemn tone. 
 Of the loved and lost, who have left me lone ; 
 And spirit-voices come floating by. 
 And forms that are veiled from the mortal eye. 
 
POETRY. 169 
 
 When burthened with grief, and oppressed with care, 
 
 It summoned my steps to the house of prayer, 
 
 Where the balm of Gilead was softly shed, 
 
 And the soul was with heavenly maiina fed. 
 
 In the season of health, I have loved its sound; 
 
 And when to the couch of sickness bound, 
 
 I have lain for hours, amused right well 
 
 In counting the strokes of that old church-bell. 
 
 I remember well how its gladsome chime 
 Pealed merrily out at Christmas time ; 
 And how, when that joyous season came, 
 We sat at the feet of the dear grandame. 
 And heard the tale of the Saviour's birth, 
 Who brought good tidings of joy to earth; 
 And much we^ w:ondered to hear her say 
 That the Prince of Peace in a manger lay ! 
 
 Since then, I have wandered in distant climes, 
 
 Where my ear was greeted with loftier chimes, 
 
 That proudly swelled through each pillared dome, 
 
 Lilie a peal to welcome a monarch home. 
 
 I have heard the sound of the Alpine horn. 
 
 At the sunset hour and the early dawn ; 
 
 But tuneless and sad the echoes fell. 
 
 When I thought of home, and our old church-bell. 
 
 I have dwelt in the fairest lands of earth, 
 In the peasant's cot, at the noble's hearth ; 
 I have sat entranced, and listened mute, 
 To the strains of Italian voice and lute ; 
 I have knelt at the vesper hour of prayer. 
 When the ave of thousands filled the air ; 
 But my heart was away in our woody dell. 
 And I yearned for the sound of the old church-bell. 
 14^ 
 
170 POETRY. 
 
 O, when our childhood has passed away, 
 And the bright romance of our youthful day 
 Has been shaded by sorrow, and chilled by care, 
 And our fairest dreams have proved empty air, — • 
 When all have vanished, — how fondly we sigh 
 For some sight or sound of the days gone by ! 
 Ah ! they who have felt this will know the spell 
 That 'lies in the sound of the old church-bell ! 
 
 I 'm an old man now, and, my wanderings done, 
 I can sit in peace by my own hearth-stone. 
 And list to the chimes that are still as dear 
 As when first they fell on my youthful ear. 
 Right gayly they pealed for my bridal mom ; 
 They tolled when the forms that I loved were borne 
 To the silent grave ; and I pray that my knell 
 May be sounded, at length, by that old church-bell ! 
 
 "COMFORT YE MY PEOPLE." 
 
 Breathe comfort and peace in my people's ear; 
 Let the far off nations awake, and hear ! 
 Bid the humbled soul from the dust arise, 
 And tears be dried from all weeping eyes ! 
 
 Say to the weary, with grief opprest, 
 Cast all thy cares on the Saviour's breast ; 
 And come to the waters that freely flow, 
 To allay thy thirst, and assuage thy woe ! 
 
 Say to the sinful and erring, come ! 
 
 There are mansions for you in your Father's home ; 
 
 And great shall the joy of the angels be. 
 
 O'er a contrite soul, from its bonds set free. 
 
POETRY. 171 
 
 And oh ! to the meek and the pure in heart 
 The glorious tidings of joy impart ; 
 And bid them look through the storms of time, 
 To a haven of peace, in yon blessed clime ! 
 
 There 's a home for all, on that heavenly shore ; 
 There sickness and pain shall assail no more ; 
 Death has no passport to that bright land, 
 And grief is unknown to the seraph band. 
 
 There, the River of Life doth unceasing flow, 
 And deathless flowers on its borders grow ; 
 The sapphire floors are by angels trod. 
 And its light and sun is the smile of God ! 
 
 The loved and lost, who have gone before, 
 Shall greet you there on the spirit-shore, 
 Ransomed from sin by redeeming grace, 
 God's own free gift to a fallen race I 
 
 There, dissension and discord are never heard, 
 And the wrath of God is an unknown word ; 
 But Heaven's broad arches with triumph ring, 
 When myriad tongues of salvation sing. 
 
 There, doubts and fears shall no more molest, 
 Hope shall be lost in fruition blest. 
 And radiant Faith shall resume her stand, 
 With Justice and Mercy, at God's right hand. 
 
 And over all, in that bright domain, 
 Shall one fair spirit triumphant reign ; 
 All — all shall bow at the glorious shrine 
 Of Love universal, — Love divine ! 
 
172 POETRY. 
 
 THE VILLAGE GRAVE-YARD. 
 
 Do you see yon spire, with its glittering vane, 
 Through the trees that almost hide it, — 
 
 And the simple, snow-white village fane, 
 With the green church-yard beside it ? 
 
 'T is a spot where oft, at daylight's close, 
 
 I love by myself to wander. 
 And on the varied fates of those 
 
 Who are sleeping beneath to ponder ! 
 
 I take my seat where the grass hath grown 
 O'er the grave of some friend departed, 
 
 And think of those who have left me lone, 
 The young, the gay and light-hearted. 
 
 In this still retreat I can never weep, 
 Nor give way to one pang of sorrow. 
 
 For those who have sunk to their earthly sleep, 
 And awoke to a heavenly morrow. 
 
 'Neath the mound at my feet a fair child lies, — - 
 Our prayers were in vain to save it ; 
 
 The spirit plumed its wing for the skies. 
 And returned to the God who gave it. 
 
 Here, peacefully slumbers a gentle girl, 
 
 A creature of joy and gladness, 
 With a laughing eye and floating curl, 
 
 And a brow untouched by sadness. 
 
 She passed away while the summer flowers 
 With fragrance the air were lading ; 
 
 Ah ! who that looked on that Flower of ours, 
 Could have fancied the Rose was fading ! 
 
POETRY. 173 
 
 We laid her there, in that quiet spot, 
 And planted bright flowers above her ; 
 
 O, was not hers a happy lot, 
 
 For, *' none knew her but to love her ? " 
 
 And here is the grave of an aged man, 
 Who was famed in his country's story ; 
 
 His years fourscore and ten outran. 
 And his name is his children's glory. 
 
 Here the old and the young lie side by side, 
 
 And the turf gay hearts doth cover ; 
 The grave hath sundered the bridegroom and bride, 
 
 The blooming maid and her lover. 
 
 'T is a holy place, and I love to stray 
 
 Where the quiet dead are dwelling ; 
 For Jesus hath passed through the dreary way, 
 
 Its darkness and gloom dispelling ! 
 
 And blest be our heavenly Father's name. 
 
 Whose promise to all is given. 
 That though " dust return to dust " whence it came. 
 
 The spirit shall live in heaven !' 
 
 A SONG FOR THE PAST. 
 
 A SONG for the past ! when our hearts were young, 
 
 And the world looked bright and fair ; 
 When we bounded along, with jocund song, 
 
 And knew not the weight of care. 
 Then our hearts were light, and our eyes were bright, 
 
 And merrily passed each day, 
 With the sportive glance and the joyous dance, 
 
 And the merry roundelay. 
 
174 POETRY. 
 
 A song for the past ! for the good old days 
 
 When our spirits were blithe and free ; 
 When the birds sang gay, in the early May, 
 
 And we revelled in childhood's glee. 
 Then the mad-cap race, and the butterfly chase, 
 
 Gave our cheeks a ruddy glow ; 
 And exercise gave light to the eyes, 
 
 And throned fair health on the brow. 
 
 A song for the past ! for the golden days 
 
 Whose memories make us yearn 
 To behold again, though we know it vain, 
 
 The scenes which can ne'er return. 
 Farewell to my theme ! like a morning dream, 
 
 The past has vanished away ; 
 But the present lies bright before our sight, — 
 
 Enjoy it, then, while we may ! 
 
 "WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER." 
 We have been friends together, in happy days lang 
 
 syne ; 
 My heart has felt thy sorrows, and thou hast shared in 
 
 mine ; 
 But now, alas ! that holy light has vanished from thy 
 
 brow, — 
 We have been friends together, — why are we parted 
 
 now? 
 
 We have walked and sat together 'neath the solemn 
 
 forest shades, 
 We have laughed and sang together in the green and 
 
 sunny glades ; 
 
POETRY. 175 
 
 And are they all forgotten now, those blithe and glad- 
 some days ? 
 
 And shall those ancient woods no more reecho to our 
 lays ? 
 
 Through the gay resorts of pleasure have our merry 
 
 footsteps roved ; 
 We have wept sad tears together, by the graves of those 
 
 we loved ; 
 And though the silver cord is loosed, let Memory whis- ' 
 
 per thee, 
 " We have been friends together, if never more we be." 
 
 We have been friends together; and oh, 'tis hard to part 
 
 The tendrils that have twined so close around my in- 
 most heart ! 
 
 Nor mine alone, — for still, despite the coldness of thine 
 eye, 
 
 1 'm sure thou canst not quite forget the sunny hours 
 gone by. 
 
 And when thy thoughts turn wearily to muse upon the 
 
 past. 
 And thy mind reverts to former days, too beautiful to 
 
 last. 
 Then let Faith's angel-finger point thy glistening eyes 
 
 above, 
 Where broken friendships are unknown, for all is perfect 
 
 Love ! 
 
 MEMORIES. 
 Old friend, dost thou remember the sunny days of 
 
 yore. 
 When Nature ever to our eyes a face of beauty wore ? 
 
176 POETRY. 
 
 When meadows green, or snow-clad hills, alike ova 
 
 hearts could warm ? 
 For we were blithe and gay alike in sunshine or in 
 
 storm. 
 
 And do you not remember the humble village school, 
 And the kind old dame who governed it, with mild and 
 
 gentle rule ? 
 And how we used to loiter and con our lessons o'er. 
 Beneath the spreading branches of that ancient syc- 
 amore ? 
 
 Do you remember, playmate, how the self-same path we 
 
 trod. 
 As each successive Sabbath came, unto the house of 
 
 God? 
 Through that green lane where stately elms upreared 
 
 on either side. 
 And spread their massive arms above the brooklet's 
 
 mirror-tide, — 
 
 The merry brook, that singing went, through all the 
 
 long, bright hours, 
 Whose banks, in spring and summer-time, were broidered 
 
 thick with flowers ; 
 O, dear its simple music was, to my untutored ear, 
 And bright as dreams of fairy-land did every scene appear! 
 
 Do you remember the old church, with ivy over-run. 
 And the snug old-fashioned parsonage, that seemed the 
 
 gaze to shun ? 
 For its front was almost hidden from the careless passer's 
 
 view, 
 By the clambering vines that over it in rich profusion 
 
 grew. 
 
POETRY. 177 
 
 Do you remember, too, the day when that young 
 
 preacher came, 
 The tidings of a full and free salvation to proclaim ? 
 And oh, how eagerly we hung upon his every word, 
 And felt that he indeed possessed the spirit of the Lord ! 
 
 Do you remember how we wept, the day the pastor died ? 
 And how we sought his lowly grave, and planted flowers 
 
 beside 
 The humble mound, and watered them with many a 
 
 shower of tears. 
 And how carefully and tenderly we nurtured them for 
 
 years ? 
 
 Do you remember the old church-yard, where so many 
 
 dear ones lie ? 
 It used to be our favorite haunt, in pleasant days gone 
 
 by; 
 
 And oft I 've prayed, that when at length life's cares are 
 
 all forgot, 
 You and I may rest together, love, within that quiet 
 
 spot ! 
 
 THE WOOD-PATH. 
 
 Away in the depths of a shady wood, 
 Where the ring-dove nurses her tender brood. 
 Where the red-breast trilleth his evening hymn. 
 And lovers walk in the twilight dim. 
 Is a grassy bank, with a terrace crowned, 
 Where the pale, soft blossoms of Spring abound, 
 And the moss looks ever as bright and green 
 As the emerald throne of a fairy-queen. 
 15 
 
] 78 POETRY. 
 
 There the gentle dews and the April showers 
 Whisper of love to the nodding flowers, 
 And a song of gratitude riseth up 
 From the purple bell and the golden cup. 
 Like jewels they shine mid the wavy grass, 
 And greet us with perfume whene'er we pass ; 
 And through the long summer the bees will come, 
 And fill the air with their drowsy hum. 
 
 And where a sycamore's branches fling 
 Their pleasant shadow, a silvery spring 
 Comes bubbling forth from its very foot. 
 Half-choked in its passage by many a root ; 
 These forming a knotted and tangled net, 
 O'er which like a fountain the waters jet. 
 And ripple along, with a pleasant sound. 
 Over the sandy and pebbled ground. 
 
 How pleasant it was, in my childhood's day. 
 Through that green wood-path alone to stray. 
 And idly lie through the dreamy hours. 
 Lulled by the 'wildering perfume of flowers ! 
 How oft I 've leaned o'er the fountain's brink, 
 With my hand for a cup, of its wave to drink, — 
 Or thrown myself by its grassy side. 
 To bathe my brow in its crystal tide ! 
 
 O, many a season has come and past 
 Since through those woodlands I wandered last ; 
 And many a mountain, and vale, and glen. 
 Have revealed themselves to my eager ken. 
 I have listened with awe to the ocean's roar. 
 When its foaming billows have lashed the shore ; 
 But nothing can charm me, where'er I roam. 
 Like the scenes that smile round my early home. 
 
POETRY. 179 
 
 Though bowed with the burdens of near fourscore, 
 
 My heart is as young as in days of yore ; 
 
 And every beautiful thing I see 
 
 In earth or in heaven delighteth me. 
 
 The simplest flower that grows at my feet 
 
 Is full of instruction divinely sweet, 
 
 And the stars that jewel the azure sky 
 
 Are types of my spirit's high destiny. 
 
 "LIFE IS LIKE AN APRIL DAY." 
 
 Life is like an April day, 
 
 Changing ever ; 
 Friendships blossom and decay, 
 
 Fond hearts sever ! 
 
 Sorrow, clad in robes of gray, 
 
 Mocketh gladness ; 
 Sunbeams come to chase away 
 
 Clouds of sadness ! 
 
 v 
 
 The smile is followed by the tear, 
 
 Sunshine by showers ; 
 The bridal couch becomes a bier, 
 
 Love fades like flowers ! 
 
 Genius weaves its thrilling lay. 
 
 Music gushes ; 
 Grief will blight the wreath of bay, 
 
 Sorrow crushes ! 
 
 With dewy flowers her locks of gold 
 
 Beauty braideth ; 
 But, ah ! she loves not to be toldj 
 
 Beauty fadeth ! 
 
180 POETRY. 
 
 Ay ! life 's like an April day, 
 
 Yet we cherish 
 Hopes — that like the buds of May 
 
 Bloom and perish ! 
 
 ELOQUENCE. 
 
 It welleth up from brimming founts, 
 
 Deep hidden in the soul ; 
 And with a strong, resistless power, 
 
 Its chainless waters roll ! 
 
 It gushes out in words of fire. 
 
 It scorches with its breath ; 
 And as the heart is pure or dark, 
 
 Its words are life or death ! 
 
 It peals in thunders, loud and deep, 
 That make the mountains quake ; 
 
 The mighty despot on his throne 
 Doth feel its pillars shake ! 
 
 In justice's great and outraged name, 
 That giant voice doth crave 
 
 Redress for earth's down-trodden ones, 
 And freedom for the slave ! 
 
 And it has softer, gentler tones. 
 To soothe the broken heart — 
 
 To bind its tender, bleeding wounds, 
 And hope and peace impart. 
 
 Its crystal waters ripple through 
 Life's parched and burning sands ; 
 
 And with their cool, refreshing streams. 
 Make green the desert lands. 
 
POETRY. 181 
 
 As hidden fountains are revealed, 
 
 Touched by the hazel-rod, 
 So the heart's mightier depths, unsealed, 
 
 Wake at the touch of God ! 
 
 "xVO MORE." 
 
 " O, how majestically mournful are those words ! They sound like the 
 roar of the wind through a forest of pines." Hyperion. 
 
 The mighty Past, with all its bright revealings. 
 Its lofty impulses and thoughts that burn, 
 
 With all its treasured hopes and earnest feelings, 
 Shall to the waking, watchful soul, return 
 
 NO MORE ! 
 
 O, magic words ! what power within ye lieth. 
 To thrill each chord of this consummate lyre, 
 
 The human heart — whose music never dieth, 
 Though the arch-finger wake its sleeping fire 
 
 NO MORE ! 
 
 When gayly revelling in Joy's dominions, 
 A tone of warning evermore we hear ; 
 
 Like the dim rustling of a spirit's pinions, 
 A gentle voice sighs softly in our ear — 
 
 " NO MORE ! " 
 
 The glorious visions that so long have haunted 
 The musing spirit at the twilight hour. 
 
 Until for immortality it panted. 
 
 Shall stir its depths, with strange, mysterious power, 
 
 NO MORE ! 
 
 15# 
 
182 POETRY. 
 
 Yet, weary soul ! let not thy faith be shaken j 
 Gaze up and onward to the blissful clime, 
 
 Where all thy powers shall to new life awaken, 
 And feel the chilling blight of earth and time 
 
 NO MORE ! 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 The merry voice of childhood ! 
 
 How it falls upon the ear. 
 Like the soft and silvery cadence 
 
 Of a fountain gushing near ! 
 Whether it lisp the evening prayer, 
 
 Or half-formed words of love, 
 Which fall like dew-drops on her heart 
 
 Who bends its couch above ! 
 
 The joyous laugh of childhood ! 
 
 It has a magic spell, 
 Which every truthful human soul 
 
 Can understand full well. 
 It ringeth through the forest-aisles. 
 
 And through the greenwood dim. 
 And thrilleth every spirit 
 
 Like a sanctuary hymn ! 
 
 The lightsome step of childhood ! 
 
 Gayly dancing on the sward, 
 Or keeping lively measure 
 
 To the shouts that ring abroad ; 
 Those little steps may vagrant be, 
 
 But wheresoe'er they roam. 
 In every true and loving heart 
 
 Sweet childhood finds a home ! 
 
, POETRY. 183 
 
 Those tiny steps go pattering out 
 
 Amid the winter snow, 
 And through the grassy meadow-lanes, 
 
 What time the spring-flowers blow ; 
 They find the bluest violets 
 
 On the hill-side, by their scent, 
 And many a pale wood-blossom 
 
 Where only they frequent. 
 
 The' precious faith of childhood — 
 
 Alas, that 't is so brief ! 
 For time, the great magician. 
 
 Is a remorseless thief! 
 Too soon they learn that perfect Truth 
 
 On earth is rarely known, 
 And that Life's surest, only hope^ 
 
 Is found in Heaven alone ! 
 
 The free, light heart of childhood. 
 
 It is a holy thing ! 
 And ever o'er its inmost shrine 
 
 An angel spreads his wing. 
 Be faithful to your sacred trust, 
 
 Ye to whose charge 'tis given — 
 For is it not a hallowed task. 
 
 To train the heirs of Heaven ! 
 
 THE EARLY DEAD. 
 
 O BLEST is the lot of the early dead, 
 
 Who have gone from our midst with a noiseless tread! 
 
 And softer than pillows of down, I ween, 
 
 Is their couch of rest in the church-yard green ! 
 
184 POETRY. 
 
 They have passed away from the noise and strife, 
 From the busy turmoil of mortal life ; 
 They have followed the path which the Saviour trod, 
 Through the darksome tomb, to the arms of God ! 
 
 The early dead ! they have passed away, 
 In their opening bloom, like the blooms of May ; 
 From the chilling frosts and the storms of time, 
 They rest secure in the Eden-clime. 
 
 Ere clouds of sorrow arose, to dim 
 
 The gems of hope on life's fountain-brim, — 
 
 Ere shadows of falsehood had darkened round, 
 
 And their feet seemed treading enchanted ground, — 
 
 Ere sin had come, with its withering blight, 
 
 And veiled their spirits in deepest night, — 
 
 While their steps were light, and their hearts were gay, 
 
 The young and the lovely have passed away ! 
 
 O, blessed are they who in youth depart. 
 With a stainless brow and a sinless heart ; 
 For the purest tears of our souls are shed 
 Above the graves of the early dead ! 
 
 "BEAR THE CROSS AND WEAR THE 
 CROWN." 
 
 Lo ! from Calvary's awful height, 
 Breaks a flood of living light ; 
 There, to win a royal prize, 
 On the Cross Emanuel dies ! 
 
 Christian Pilgrim ! onward press 
 To the goal of righteousness ; 
 
poETRir. 185 
 
 Counting worldly gain as loss, 
 Like thy Master, hear the Cross . 
 
 Ye who tears of blood have wept 
 O'er the graves where loved ones slept, 
 Let not grief your thoughts engross — 
 Meekly strive to bear your Cross ! 
 
 Thou, whose proud, aspiring soul 
 Burns to win a loftier goal ! 
 Earthly honors are but dross — 
 Follow Christ, and bear his Cross ! 
 
 Whether through the flowery mead. 
 Or up the steep ascent, it lead, 
 Or where mountain-billows toss, 
 There, unshrinking, bear the Cross! 
 
 Thou whose spirit has been tried 
 By the scoffs and sneers of pride, — 
 Heed thou not the world's cold frown, 
 " Bear the Cross, and win the Crown ! " 
 
 " Bear the Cross," the Master saith ; 
 " Be ye faithful unto death — 
 Firm and dauntless mid the strife, 
 Ye shall wear a crown of Life ! " 
 
 YEARNINGS FOR THE DEPARTED 
 
 Come back to me, beloved ! 
 My fainting spirit is so lone and weary, 
 And life doth seem to me so dark and dreary, 
 
 Now thou art gone ! 
 I miss thy smile amid the dear home-faces, 
 And thy light step in old familiar places. 
 
186 POETRY. 
 
 Come, with thy gladsome voice — • 
 With its rich floods of music ever gushing-, 
 The heart's wild tumult into stillness hushing, 
 
 With its all-potent spell I 
 Touch the heart-lyre with thy seraphic finger, 
 And Joy and Peace amid its chords shall linger. 
 
 I watch for thee in vain ; 
 In the green meadow-paths, where violets, springing, 
 Their dewy fragrance on the air are flinging, 
 
 And by the moss-rimmed fount. 
 When gentle Eve the earth in tears is steeping, 
 Or Night's dark curtain-folds are round it sweeping. 
 
 I see thy blue eyes' light 
 In the soft radiance of star-light gleaming; 
 Thy golden hair, in the broad sunshine streaming ; 
 
 In the white clouds, thy brow ! 
 I hear thy voice in the soft noontide showers, 
 And the low breathings of the nodding flowers ! 
 
 Must it be ever thus ? 
 Wilt thou be mine no more except in spirit. 
 Thou who my heart's whole kingdom didst inherit — 
 
 Nor feel thy loving arms 
 Around my neck, with soft caresses, twining. 
 Or thy dear head upon my breast reclining ? 
 
 It may not be. I dream ! 
 But when the misty veil at length is riven, 
 That hides the glories of the upper heaven. 
 
 And we see '■'■face to face! ^^ 
 Then shall our souls be joined, no more to sever, 
 And thou 'It be mine, my best-beloved, forever ! 
 
POETRY. 187 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF THE ELDEST CHILD OF J. S. TOMPKINS. 
 
 A ROSE-BUD has been gathered, 
 
 To grace the bright bouquet 
 Which on the Saviour's loving breast 
 
 His trusting followers lay. 
 It blossomed but a little span, 
 
 In this fair world of ours ; 
 Then angel hands transplanted it, 
 
 Td bloom in brighter bowers. 
 
 O, gentle hearts had watched that bud, 
 
 To see its leaves expand ; 
 And watered it with joyful tears, 
 
 And trained with careful hand. 
 They skeltered it from noonday heat, 
 
 From cold and storm and blight, 
 And trembled, lest the fragile thing 
 
 Should perish from their sight. 
 
 But blessings seemed to rest on them, 
 
 And on their rose-bud fair ; 
 It grew — its fragrance filled their home, 
 
 And well repaid their care : 
 When, lo ! a breeze that fanned the flower, 
 
 As if in sportive play, 
 A devastating wind became. 
 
 And swept the bud away ! 
 
 But Love had marked its course, and though 
 
 We writhe beneath the rod, 
 Let not our weak and faithless hearts 
 
 Question the ways of God ! 
 
/ 
 
 188 POETRY. 
 
 Enough to know that nothing more 
 The rose-bud shall molest ; 
 
 And that it blooms in beauty now 
 Upon the Saviour's breast ! 
 
 ISABEL. 
 1 AM ever with thee, dearest, 
 In thy loneliest hour nearest. 
 When no mortal ken thou fearest, 
 
 Isabel ! 
 In the bright and glorious sunlight, 
 In the soft and mellow twilight. 
 Mid the depest shades of midnight, 
 
 Isabel ! 
 
 "When thy heart is filled with gladness, 
 When thy soul is sick with sadness, 
 Or thy brain o'er-wrought to madness, 
 
 Isabel ! 
 Then thy joy or grief I 'm sharing. 
 Like thee, gladsome smiles I 'm wearing, 
 Or Sorrow's burthen bearing, 
 For thy love's sake, 
 Isabel ! 
 
 I have loved thee long and truly. 
 Yet ne'er have dared to woo thee, 
 Or wildly to pursue thee, 
 
 Isabel ! 
 Yet a tie that nought can sever 
 Binds my soul and thine together, 
 And I know we are forever 
 One in spirit, 
 
 Isabel ! 
 
POETRY. 189 
 
 I may see thee wed another, 
 Deeming me but as a brother, 
 And all selfish feelings smother, 
 
 Isabel ! 
 But when earthly ties are riven, 
 And we meet, mine own, in heaven. 
 By a token, spirit-given, 
 I shall know thee, 
 
 Isabel ! 
 
 LIGHT AND SHADOW. 
 
 A LEAF FROM THE VOLUME OF LIFE. 
 
 Canst picture to thy heart, beloved, an old ancestral 
 
 hall, 
 With towers of gray and massive stone, and ivy-covered 
 
 wall ; 
 Its wide, far-stretching avenues of tall and ancient trees. 
 Whose mighty limbs sway to and fro in every passing 
 
 breeze ? 
 
 That stately mansion stands beneath old England's 
 changeful skies, 
 
 And pleasant is its grizzly face when sunshine on it lies. 
 
 There, oft have Pleasure's votaries met around the social 
 hearth, 
 
 And oft those walls have echoed back the sound of joy- 
 ful mirth. 
 
 Not many years have passed away, since from that 
 
 lordly dome 
 A fair young flower was borne away, to grace another 
 
 home ; 
 
 16 
 
190 POETRY. 
 
 A gentle bride, upon whose brow scarce sixteen sum- 
 mers smiled, 
 
 Full of confiding tenderness, — half woman and half 
 child ! 
 
 The woman's graceful dignity and fondly trusting love 
 With childhood's pure simplicity and innocence inwove ; 
 And there were in the untroubled depths of those clear 
 
 azure eyes 
 He dealings of a soul that claimed high kindred with the 
 
 skies. 
 
 She was the last and fairest flower of all that ancient 
 line, 
 
 And many a gallant cavalier had worshipped at her 
 shrine ; 
 
 But one, the playmate of her youth, had borne the prize 
 away. 
 
 And village bells chimed merrily for Edith's wedding- 
 day. 
 
 O, fair she was to look upon, in satin robe arrayed, 
 Her glossy, golden tresses twined in many a graceful 
 
 braid ; 
 While here and there, like sunbeams, fell a few soft, 
 
 drooping curls. 
 Around the pure and open brow, that gleamed like 
 
 molten pearls ! 
 
 Bring hither shining myrtle-leaves, and orange-blossoms 
 
 fair, 
 And bid them smile in loveliness amid the bride's bright 
 
 hair ! 
 Bring fresh and dewy blossoms, the earliest buds of May, 
 Meet offering for one as fair and beautiful as they ! 
 
POETRY. 191 
 
 # ^ ^ # # # 
 
 A year hath passed — one little year ! and to her ancient 
 
 home, 
 With withered hopes and blighted heart, that gentle 
 
 bride hath come ! 
 The smile of trustful confidence has vanished from her 
 
 face, 
 Her eye has lost its starry light, her step its careless 
 
 grace. 
 
 The canker-worm has nipped the bud in its first opening 
 
 bloom, 
 And vainly seek they to avert fair Edith's early doom ! 
 They bore her o'er the waters to Madeira's sunny isle, 
 And strove, with many a gentle lure, her sorrows to 
 
 beguile ! 
 
 But day by day her fragile form fainter and weaker 
 
 grew, 
 And deeper in her sunken cheek became the crimson 
 
 hue. 
 But this could not forever last ; and so, one balmy day, 
 Unto the trembling, hoping sire, she summoned strength 
 
 to say — * 
 
 " Father ! 't is vain to spend the hours in idle dreamings 
 
 now; 
 I feel the icy hand of death lie chill upon my brow ! 
 O, take me hence ! I fain would breathe my native air 
 
 once more — 
 I cannot bear to make my grave upon this foreign shore ! 
 
 "il% childhood^s home! like music-tones upon my ear it 
 
 falls ! 
 [ see its ancient battlements, its lofty, pillared halls ; 
 
192 POETRY. 
 
 The sunny lawn, the wooded park, the grass-enriching 
 
 pond; 
 The hedge-rows green, the flowery lanes, the village 
 
 church beyond ! 
 
 "0, take me thither once again ! — this isle is green and 
 fair, 
 
 And flowers unknown to northern climes perfume the 
 balmy air ; — 
 
 Sweeter to me the fragrance won from fields of new- 
 mown hay. 
 
 And dearer far the hawthorn glen where I was wont to 
 play ! 
 
 " And, father ! lay me not to rest within the burial-place 
 Where lie the ashes of the brave, the honored of our 
 
 race ! 
 Nor let the storied marble tower in pride above my head, 
 To blazon forth the lineage and virtues of the dead ! 
 
 "But in the green old church-yard, through which, a 
 
 happy bride, 
 One little year ago, I walked, wheh he was at my side ; 
 Within the brightest, sunniest nook, where graceful 
 
 willows wave. 
 And purple violets gem the sod — there make my lowly 
 
 grave! 
 
 "0, I shall sweetly sleep amid the scenes I love so 
 
 well ; 
 The chimes that hailed my marriage morn shall sound 
 
 my funeral knell ! 
 The south wind, sighing through the grass, shall lull me 
 
 to my rest. 
 And flowers that gladdened erst my heart shall bloom 
 
 upon my breast ! " 
 
POETRY. 193 
 
 M, M, ^&, M, ' M, M, 
 
 T?" •TC" TV" "JV- "76" TV" 
 
 Within that ancient hall no more is heard the sound of 
 
 mirth ; 
 The fire is quenched upon the lone and desolated hearth! 
 The voice is hushed that on the ear like sweetest music 
 
 fell, 
 And in her chosen sepulchre fair Edith resteth well ! 
 
 O, plant ye not the morning yew, nor let the cypress 
 
 wave, 
 Ahove the green and sunny spot where ye have made 
 
 her grave ! 
 Bring hither pale, sweet violets ; 't is meet that they 
 
 should shed 
 Their fragrant incense on the couch where sleeps the 
 
 early dead ! 
 
 THE MECCAS OF MEMORY. 
 
 Come, love, with me ! — dost see the willows yonder, 
 
 And the green coppice where the sunlight plays ? 
 Do you remember how we used to wander 
 
 There, in the long, bright, golden summer days, 
 Long years ago, when life seemed full of glory, 
 
 And joy's bright mantle draperied all the earth, — 
 When, with rude lay, or wild, chivalric story, 
 
 We woke the echoes with our gladsome mirth ? 
 
 Come to the woods ! the birds are gayly singing 
 Amid the branches of those ancient trees, 
 
 That used to listen to the merry ringing 
 Of our light laughter on the summer breeze, 
 16# 
 
194 POETRY. 
 
 The golden oriole her nest suspended 
 
 Among the elm-boughs ; and, at break of day, 
 
 The woodland blue-bird's matin song ascended, 
 And thence the sky -lark upward wheeled her way. 
 
 The tiny brook, that all the day went singing 
 
 Through the green meadow and the mossy dell, — ■ 
 The yellow cowslips on its borders springing, 
 
 The purple violets, and the foxglove-bell, — 
 Are they not dear to thee as when together 
 
 Through the dim wood-paths we were wont to roam, 
 And spend the days of warm, sunshiny weather, 
 
 Mischievous truants both from school and home ? 
 
 Come to the hill-side where we used to clamber, 
 
 Reckless of tattered frock or ruined shoe, 
 To watch its summit bathed in liquid amber, 
 
 And pluck the berries that profusely grew 
 In shining clusters there I — do you remember 
 
 The songs and dances in the harvest's prime, 
 The merry nutting-frolics in September, 
 
 The friendly gatherings at Christmas-time ? 
 
 They are but memories now ! yet not less cherished 
 
 Because time's misty veil is o'er them cast ; 
 Not all their beauty from our hearts hath perished. 
 
 Though the firet freshness of their bloom hath passed. 
 Like spirits, still they haunt the gray old mountain. 
 
 Or hide themselves within the lily's bell ; 
 Or blend their whispers with the silvery fountain, 
 
 That makes glad music in the lonely delL 
 
 With noiseless trfead, their'footsteps still pursue us 
 Through every spot where we were wont to rove ; 
 
 In every breeze their gentle voices woo us, 
 With words of tenderness and fervent love. 
 
POETRY. 195 
 
 Come, then, blest spirits ! with your bright revealings, 
 And strew sweet memories along our way, — 
 
 But, ah ! ye bring not back the joyous feelings, 
 The glad light-heartedness of childhood's day ! 
 
 That may not be ! — life's freshness has departed, 
 
 And clouds have gathered in the summer skies ; 
 Hopes have been crushed, and dearest wishes thwarted, 
 
 And fairy visions dazzle not our eyes. 
 But, mid the heart's lone, desolated places, 
 
 Its ruined altars and its fallen fanes, 
 Unseared, unblighted. Memory's green oasis 
 
 In amaranthine beauty still remains. 
 
 -4 — ■ 
 
 WHAT SHALL I WISH FOR THEE1 
 
 What shall I wish for thee ? 
 Thou who art Heaven's best, choicest gifts possessing, 
 
 Whose pathway ne'er was shadowed by a cloud, 
 How shall I ask for thee a needed blessing 
 
 With which thou art not lavishly endowed ? 
 For wedded love with happiness has crowned thee, 
 
 And playful children frolic at thy knee \ 
 And as their lisping accents float around thee, 
 
 What were a world's wealth, in exchange, to thee, 
 With thy true woman's heart ? 
 
 I can but breathe for thee 
 A simple prayer ! May love forever bless thee, — 
 
 Make green thy pathway and illume thy sky ! 
 May Hope and Joy — sweet angels — still caress thee, 
 
 And wreathe thy brow with buds that never die ! 
 
196 POETRY, 
 
 Within thy heart sweet Truth hath reared her altar, 
 Meekness and Faith guard well the sacred shrine ; 
 
 Upborne by these, thy footsteps ne'er shall falter, 
 But still press onward to the goal divine. 
 The Paradise of rest ! 
 
 My offering is but small, 
 Yet thou wilt not despise the humble flower. 
 
 Though others bloom around it lovelier far; 
 The eye, bedazzled by the sun's full power, 
 
 May calmly gaze upon the small, faint star, — 
 So when thine eye, o'er many a tribute straying, 
 
 Shall rest a moment on the humble spot 
 That bears my name, thou 'It hear a whisper saying, 
 
 'T is Friendship's offering, — reject it not ! 
 
 Let it bring thoughts of me I 
 
PROSE. 
 
 EMMA BEAUMONT. 
 
 " Where hath not woman stood, 
 Strong in affection's might ? a reed upborne 
 By an o'ermastering current !" 
 
 "Another tremendous failure!" said Mr. Eger- 
 ton, as he joined his family, who were collected 
 round a cheerful fire; ''the house of Beaumont &* 
 Co., thought to be the best and safest in the city, is 
 down — a complete smash ! Poor Beaumont ! I 
 pitied him from my soul — with his large family, 
 and brought up in such style as they have been ! 
 It must be a terrible stroke ! " 
 
 " I wonder how his dashing wife will bear this 
 reverse ! " said Mrs. E. "To give up her splendid 
 house, and furniture, and the rich dresses she 
 prides herself so much in, must be severe indeed." 
 
 ''O, I suppose they think that Miss Emma's 
 beauty and accomplishments will get her an estab- 
 lishment," said Mary. 
 
 " Yes, but there are few gentlemen disinterested 
 enough, now-a-days, to marry a portionless beauty," 
 said her sister, '• and I " 
 
 " Come, come, girls ! no more scandal," said 
 their brother, ''or I shall think it is because you 
 
198 PROSE. 
 
 envy her. I won't hear Emma Beaumont talked 
 of in this way ; for, let me tell you, there is one, at 
 least, who would be glad to marry her, without a 
 farthing." 
 
 And now, if you please, reader, we will look in 
 upon another scene. In a spacious and handsome 
 parlor, in one of the princely mansions of our city, 
 a group is collected, worthy the pencil of an artist. 
 Before the fire, in a splendid rocking-chair, sits a 
 stately woman, in the prime of life, dressed in the 
 height of the last Parisian fashion, and apparently 
 engaged in deciphering the figures of the rich 
 Turkey carpet. On a low ottoman beside her, sit 
 two beautiful children, evidently twins, with eyes 
 and minds intent on a new picture-book ; while at 
 the table, a boy of fourteen, and a girl some two 
 years younger, are deeply engaged in reading. But 
 the charm of the circle is a young lady, who may 
 have numbered some seventeen summers; she is 
 about the middling height of females, and beauti- 
 fully proportioned, yet so slender as almost to 
 give the idea of fragility ; her eyes are large and 
 brilliant, and of the softest hazel color; and her 
 hair, which hangs in ringlets round a neck of 
 alabaster, is of that rare and most beautiful shade 
 which the Quaker poet so perfectly describes as 
 ''brown in the shadow, and gold in the sun; " add 
 to these a smooth, fair forehead, neither too high 
 nor too low, a nose neither Grecian, aquiline, nor la 
 petite retroussi^ but perfectly pretty and feminine, 
 and a hand and foot of unparalleled beauty, and 
 you have a true portrait of Emma Beaumont. She 
 
PROSE. 199 
 
 is standing beside her harp, and tossing back her 
 rich curls, showing her beautiful face lit up with 
 a most dazzling smile, as she exclaims, '' I have 
 mastered it at length, mamma ! How glad I shall 
 be, when dear papa comes home ! You know he 
 says my songs make him forget his petty cares and 
 annoyances ; and I am sure this will enchant him ; 
 and this symphony on the harp is exquisite ; — my 
 beautiful harp ! I would rather part with every- 
 thing I have than this. Do you know, mamma, 
 
 Herbert Courtne}?- says •" 
 
 But before she could finish her sentence, the 
 front door was hastily opened and closed, and with 
 a step wholly unlike his usual dignified pace, Mr. 
 Beaumont rushed into the room, and threw him- 
 self on the sofa. Emma left her harp, and flew to 
 her father's side; Henry and Mary dropped their 
 book, while the two younger children sat stupefied 
 with terror, and even Mrs. Beaumont was startled 
 out of her apathy, and came forward with hurried 
 inquiries as to what was the matter. As soon as 
 he could speak, he exclaimed, "We are ruined — 
 undone ! You and my children are beggars ! " but 
 ere he had finished, Mrs. B. fell to the floor, in 
 hysterics. Emma, half distracted, flew to her 
 mother's assistance; she was carried to her room, 
 and the usual restoratives having been applied, she 
 soon sank into a profound sleep. Emma then 
 sought her father, to hear the extent of their mis- 
 fortunes. The children had been sent to bed, and 
 she found him alone, pacing the floor with rapid 
 strides. 
 
200 PROSE. 
 
 " Dear papa, is it indeed so bad as you say ? Is 
 there nothing left?" 
 
 "Nothing! not even the smallest pittance; our 
 house, furniture, all, must go; and what will 
 become of you, I know not." 
 
 "Do not fear for us, papa; we are young and 
 healthy; and surely you have friends, who will 
 not see us want." 
 
 "Ah, Emma, you have not lived long enough to 
 learn the deceitfalness of the Avorld ! Prosperity 
 will always make friends, but adversity is the 
 season to try them." 
 
 After several vain attempts on her part to coin- 
 fort him, the heart-stricken man blessed her, and 
 sought his chamber. The next morning he was 
 found dead in his chair. It was supposed that, on 
 leaving Emma, he had gone to his room, and 
 instead of seeking rest, he had sat revolving plans, 
 and thinking of his entanglements, till his over- 
 wrought brain had sunk beneath the struggle, and 
 brought on an attack of apoplexy, and the husband 
 and father had gone to his final account. The 
 widow gave way to her feelings in hysteric sobs, 
 and bursts of grief, mingled with lamentations over 
 her fallen fortunes, and Emma was left to see to 
 all her affairs. With an aching heart, but a calm 
 brow and voice, she gave the necessary directions 
 respecting the funeral; and when all was over, 
 with the assistance of the surviving partner of the 
 house, she set about adjusting her father's busi- 
 ness. At length the day came when the sale of 
 furniture was to take place. Emma had reserved 
 
PROSE. 201 
 
 only some of the simplest articles to furnish their 
 new abode, but she could not bear to part with her 
 harp. It was her father's gift ; and she had taken 
 so much pleasure in learning his favoritevairs, and 
 playing them to him, that she felt it was too much 
 to yield that ; but then came the thought of. her 
 helpless brother and sisters, and her still more 
 helpless mother, who, nurtured as she had been in 
 the midst of luxury, and gratified with every 
 refinement for more than forty years, could not 
 submit patiently to her misfortunes. Emma 
 thought of this, and the harp was placed with 
 other articles for sale. 
 
 The sale-day came, and passed; and before 
 evening Emma ushered the family into their new 
 abode. Humble enough it certainly was, and vast 
 the change from the luxurious mansion in the 
 most aristocratic part of the city, to a wooden 
 domicil in a narrow street ; their apartments con- 
 sisting of one room, which served for kitchen and 
 parlor,, and three small bed-rooms. The larger 
 room was covered with a cheap carpet, the shut- 
 ters were closed, and the nea,t white curtains 
 closely drawn, and a cheerful fire gave to it an 
 appearance of comfort, humble though it were. 
 Into this place Emma conducted her mother ; and 
 bitter were her complaints against it. ''What 
 would our friends, the Selbys and the Delanos. say 
 to us, in such a hole as this 7" was her constant 
 reply to Emma's attempts to win her to something 
 like contentment. It was in vain she sought to 
 draw her attention to the little comforts of the 
 17 
 
202 PROSE. 
 
 room, and placed her in the large, well-cushioned 
 rocking-chair, the only article of luxury they pos- 
 sessed, and which Emma had sold her trinkets to 
 procure; her only answer was, "That ever I 
 should live to enter such a hole as this ! — I, who 
 was born to such different prospects ! " 
 
 As soon as they were settled in their new home, 
 Emma began to lay plans for their future support. 
 She applied to some of their former friends, with a 
 proposal of teaching music, — an accomplishment 
 in which she was a proficient. Her voice was 
 remarkably fine, and had been well cultivated ; 
 but, '^She was so young, they feared she could 
 not command sufiicient respect from her pupils." 
 Then she applied for fine needle-work, but was 
 equally unsuccessful. They were truly sorry for 
 poor dear Mrs. Beaumont and their dear Emma, 
 and would be delighted to assist them, but really, 
 just now, they had no sewing to put out; or they 
 had a sempstress in the house, as it was so much 
 cheaper, and in these distressing times it behooved 
 people to be economical; and with compliments to 
 poor, dear Mrs. B., Emma was civilly dismissed 
 from the houses where her presence had been so 
 warmly welcomed a short time before. Poor 
 Emma turned her steps homeward, after her last 
 application, sad and weary. Her funds were nearly 
 exhausted, and a severe winter was setting in; it 
 was November when her father died, and it was 
 now near Christmas. In her better days, Emma 
 had occasionally met with Mr. B., the manager of 
 one of the theatres ; and he had frequently, after 
 
PROSE. 203 
 
 hearing her sing, expressed a wish that she were 
 in a different station of life, that her services might 
 benefit his estabhshment. When she reached 
 home on the evening after her vain attempt to get 
 employment, she found a note from Mr. B., in 
 which, in the most delicate terms, he stated that 
 having heard she wished to devote her talents to 
 the service of her family, he would offer her an 
 engagement, on the most liberal terms, to sing in 
 a new opera, about to be brought out, if she could 
 bring her mind to accept it. At first Emma was 
 shocked at the proposal. Her delicacy revolted at 
 the idea of exhibiting her person before the gaping 
 multitude, and more especially did she dread the 
 sneering remarks of the companions of former 
 days. She was half inclined to refuse the offer at 
 once ; but she looked around on the group whose 
 sole dependence she was, and strove to overcome 
 her reluctance. She then, with an anxious heart, 
 made known the contents of the note to her 
 mother, who, as she expected, entirely disapproved 
 it; indeed, she considered the proposal as the 
 height of insolence; "as if it was not bad enough 
 to be obliged to live in this miserable hovel, with- 
 out being insulted in this manner ! " 
 
 "But, my dear mother," said Emma, to whom 
 the project seemed more feasible, now she was 
 called upon to combat her mother's prejudices, 
 "we shall be unable to retain even this place, 
 unless I can find some employment. All my exer- 
 tions to-day have been unsuccessful ; our money is 
 nearly gone, and why should not the talents which 
 
204 PROSE. 
 
 God has given me, and which my dear father so 
 carefully cultivatedj be devoted to the service of 
 the dear ones he has left ? There is no disgrace in 
 the employment ; and why should we care for the 
 sneers of those who formerly courted our society?" 
 
 Many objections had Emma to combat, but at 
 length Mrs. Beaumont gave her consent. The 
 next morning Emma called on Mr. B. Her trem- 
 bling ring was answered by a servant, who 
 ushered her into a handsome apartment, where 
 Mr. B. was writing. He rose and saluted her cour- 
 teously as she entered; and, after some trifling 
 remarks, she proceeded to speak of the business 
 which brought her there. Soon the preliminaries 
 were gone over, and the services required of her 
 and the remuneration were settled. The worthy 
 manager then introduced her to the leading mem- 
 bers of the company with whom she was to be 
 connected, and she returned home to study the 
 part assigned her. The thoughts that awakened 
 a strong struggling between duty and inclination 
 may be in some degree imagined; but little can 
 the reader know the feelings she experienced as 
 she wended her way home. She seemed to be in 
 a dream, and the moving world around her was 
 all unreal. But the dreaminess did not long con- 
 tinue, for the strength she had invoked God to 
 breathe into her soul was felt, and once more her 
 purpose was firmly fixed, and the resolve renewed, 
 to sacrifice everything that filial duty required. 
 
 At length the night of her dibut came. The 
 theatre was crowded almost to sufibcation, and 
 
PROSE. ^ 205 
 
 intense interest was manifested by both young and 
 old. The curtain rose, and amid the buzz of 
 admiring voices, Emma came forward to the foot- 
 Hghts, and commenced her song. A dead silence 
 reigned in the house, and every note of her clear, 
 sweet voice, though it faltered at first, could be 
 distinctly heard. As she proceeded, she became 
 inspired with the beauty of the music ; her tones, by 
 degrees, gained strength and richness, till at length 
 they swelled into strains of divinest harmony. 
 Her song was succeeded by thunders of applause. 
 Through the whole evening she supported her part 
 as she had begun, and the eyes and hearts of her 
 audience proclaimed her triumph complete. 
 
 -ii^ ^ ->/v ^ -it- 
 
 ■TV" •Tr 'Tt* 'fr* "TV" 
 
 More than a year has passed, fair reader, since we 
 were first introduced to the Beaumont family ; and 
 now, if you please, we will look in upon them 
 again. We find them in a small, but genteel- 
 looking house, in a neat and respectable part of the 
 city. Mrs. Beaumont is nearly reconciled to her 
 lot, and only repines occasionally ; Henry is about 
 to enter the navy ; and Mary, with the assistance 
 of the younger girls between school hours, is able 
 to earn a small pittance by her needle. But 
 Emnia ! ah, she is sadly altered, yet still how 
 lovely ! Her form appears even more fragile than 
 usual ; she is more sedate, and those who love her 
 best perceive, with anxiety, that her eye is dim 
 and her cheek pale, save when under the excite- 
 ment of her professional duties. It is near the 
 close of her second season; to-night is the last of 
 17=^ 
 
206 . PROSE. 
 
 her engagement. She has more than fulfilled the 
 promise of her debul — she is the brightest star in 
 the musical firmament. More than one excelleftt 
 matrimonial offer she has refused ; for who would 
 support her family, if she were gone 7 
 
 But hark ! there is a ring at the door, and a gen- 
 tleman, apparently fifty years of age, enters their 
 little parlor. After the customary salutations had 
 passed, addressing himself to Mrs. B., he said, "I 
 perceive that you do not know me ; have you for- 
 gotten Charles Beaumont?" Joyful was the recog- 
 nition — it was indeed the only brother of her hus- 
 band, and an early playmate of her own; but 
 twenty years spent beneath the burning sun of a 
 tropical clime had browned his skin and whitened 
 his hair, and so altered his whole appearance, that 
 we cannot marvel if none recognized him. I said 
 that his outer man was changed, but the inner 
 man was still the same. Frank, free, generous, 
 and kind-hearted was he, when, at six and twenty, 
 he left his native land ; and equally kind and gen- 
 erous was he at six and forty. He went to India 
 almost penniless, and he returned rich, yet with no 
 other desire than to lavish his wealth on those 
 whom he loved. The story of their misfortunes 
 was soon told, and Emma's conduct elicited ex- 
 pressions of the warmest admiration from her 
 uncle. 
 
 "She is a noble girl," he exclaimed, "but I 
 shan't have it so any longer. You must leave the 
 opera now, Emma ; and if you will, you may sing 
 to me, and in return I will take upon myself the 
 
PROSE. 207 
 
 task you have been performing. What say you, 
 Emma, — shall it be so?" 
 
 • " Most gladly, dear uncle ; this is the last night 
 of my engagement, and then I am at your ser- 
 vice." X 
 
 " Remember, it is the last night j'^ said her uncle, 
 as he handed her from the carriage at the entrance 
 of the theatre. She Ijttle thought then that the 
 words were prophetic. 
 
 Never had Emma Beaumont looked so beauti- 
 ful as on that night ; and when the curtain rose, 
 the burst of admiration that greeted the fair vocal- 
 ist told the power of her charms. Her graceful 
 form was arrayed in a robe of pure white satin ; 
 her rich hair was parted on her fair forehead, and 
 drawn into a knot at the back of her head, while 
 here and there a straggling ringlet fell on her neck, 
 as if to relieve its dazzling whiteness, and her large, 
 glorious hazel eyes were brilliant with excitement. 
 After the first round of applause, the house was 
 still ; and when the low, sweet voice of the song- 
 stress commenced a wild and plaintive melody, 
 every hepat seemed to stop its pulsations. By 
 degrees the air changed, and the strains became 
 clear and loud as the notes of a bugle, and gradu- 
 ally increasing, ended in a peal of triumphant 
 melody, the last note unheard in the general burst 
 of ecstasy. But, in the midst of the excitement, 
 while a thousand voices were calling for the popu- 
 lar vocalist, the worthy manager made his appear- 
 ance, and announced to the waiting multitude that 
 Miss B. had ruptured a blood-vessel, and could not 
 
208 PROSE. 
 
 return ! Her nerves had been wrought to the 
 severest tension, and in the midst of her triumph, 
 death had set his seal on the devoted girl. Site 
 was borne to her home by her agonized uncle, and 
 the best medical aid was procured, — but in vain ! 
 She lingered, and a change of air and scene was 
 recommended, and it was eagerly tried ; for a few 
 days she seemed to be better, and sat for a short 
 time every day in the piazza before the cottage, 
 and even walked out once or twice, supported by 
 her uncle and her mother ; but her strength soon 
 failed — day by day she grew weaker and weaker, 
 and faded like a stricken flower before their sight. 
 It was toward the close of a bright summer's 
 day, Emma had been unusually weak and lan- 
 guid, but as the day declined, she seemed to revive 
 a little. Her anxious family were seated round 
 her bedside, watching her pale countenance, when 
 suddenly she raised herself from the pillow, and 
 with flashing eyes, and a voice clear and strong as 
 in the days of her health, she began warbling the 
 beautiful air which she had sung once only, on 
 that fatal last night, whose triumph cost her — 
 life. None ofiered to arrest her ; and as the last 
 notes died away, her head sank on the pillow. 
 Her mother raised her gently ; but the last struggle 
 was over, and the spirit of Emma Beaumont had 
 passed away in that gush of heart-stirring melody ! 
 
PROSE. 209 
 
 MARGARET LESLIE. 
 
 * "If there be 
 
 One eye thou fear'st to meet — one human voice 
 
 Whose tones thou shrink'st from — Woman! veil thy face, 
 
 And bow thy head — and die ! " hemans. 
 
 Gentle reader ! dost love to muse on the lights 
 and shadows of woman's life, and to hear the sim- 
 ple chronicles of a country hamlet 7 If so, come 
 with me to '^ our village." Is it not a lovely spot 1 
 There is the neat white meeting-house — for hap- 
 pily we have but one — and our little community 
 hear with pleasure the word of God expounded by 
 our venerable parson, wKo has labored here nearly 
 all the years of his life, which are now many ! 
 There is his dwelling peering through those beau- 
 tiful elms, quiet and secluded, humble and unpre- 
 tending as its beloved master; and there is the 
 school-house, and scattered round are the flourish- 
 ing fields and substantial dwellings of our farmers. 
 But let us turn down this shaded lane, and we 
 shall soon come to an old-fashioned cottage; the 
 little garden in front is neatly kept, and the wood- 
 bine which nearly covers the house gives it a 
 romantic appearance. Some dozen years ago, that 
 humble roof was the centre of attraction in our vil- 
 lage. It was inhabited by an aged couple, who had 
 lived a quiet and blameless life ; the old man had 
 been a carpenter in his younger days, and the unit- 
 ed industry of himself and wife had enabled them 
 to purchase the little farm and cottage, where they 
 had ever since dwelt, contented with their humble 
 lot, and thankful for the blessings they enjoyed. 
 
210 PROSE. 
 
 Of a large family which had been born to them, 
 one only had lived beyond infancy ; she had now 
 grown to womanhood, and at nineteen was the 
 pride and joy of her parents, and the undisputed 
 belle of the village. Queenly Margaret Leslie ! 
 my heart glows as I think of thee, in thy swan- 
 like and glorious beauty ! I remember thee in thy 
 sunny girlhood — in the expansion of thy haughty 
 womanhood — at the altar — among the gay and 
 the wealthy — in thy coffin — in thy grave ! I have 
 said Margaret was beautiful. In person she was 
 tall and stately as Cleopatra; her hair was black, 
 with that soft bluish tint which marks the wing of 
 the raven ; her eyes were large, dark and dazzling, 
 yet at times soft and melting in their expression ; 
 and rendered even darker by long, silken, jetty 
 lashes, which swept in a gentle curve, like a veil, 
 upon the fair cheek ; her complexion was of that 
 soft, rich, cream-like hue, which, beautiful at all 
 times, lights up at night into marble whiteness, and 
 gives to dark eyes an additional lustre. Her feat- 
 ures were small, yet finely moulded; pride was 
 stamped on her lofty brow, and her small, compact 
 mouth bespoke a firm and determined spirit. Such 
 as I have imperfectly described her, can you won- 
 der that she was eagerly wooed by almost every 
 swain in the village ? It was not entirely the effect 
 of her person, but there was an irresistible fasci- 
 nation in her manner, which impelled them onward, 
 even when they felt that there was no hope, and 
 that it must end in a refusal. It was not vanity 
 that prompted her. No, no ! Margaret Leslie was 
 
PROSE. 211 
 
 too proud to be vain ! She well knew the power 
 of her charms, but she never exerted them for such 
 conquests. She was the slave of ambition; her 
 proud spirit longed to be away from the home of 
 her childhood — all was too quiet, too same for her; 
 she panted to go forth into the world — to be one 
 of the actors in the busy walks of life ; she pined 
 for wealth and grandeur, and for nobler subjects 
 than the plodding inhabitants of a country village. 
 The unbounded indulgence of her parents had 
 allowed her access to a circulating library, and she 
 had eagerly read, or rather devoured, ah the trashy 
 novels of the day, and had dwelt upon the elabo- 
 rately wrought scenes of high life, till she yearned 
 to be one of the matley throng of fashion. 
 
 About this time her wishes were gratified in a 
 very unexpected manner. She had reached her 
 twenty-first year unwedded; and having refused, 
 one by one, all the beaux of the village, she began 
 to fear lest she should be obliged to "waste her 
 sweetness on the desert air." It was near the close 
 of a bright day in June, that the village was set in 
 commotion by the arrival of a gentleman. He was 
 riding through the place, on his way to a town a 
 few miles distant, when the chaise broke down, and 
 he was obliged to go to the nearest tavern to wait 
 till it could be mended. The stranger was a man of 
 some forty odd years, and excessively ugly. He 
 was short, and thick-set ; his face was bloated, his 
 eyes aaaall and gray, his hair inclining to red, and 
 the expression of his countenance almost repelling. 
 It was soon discovered that he was a man of great 
 
212 PROSE. 
 
 wealth and high standing in society, and conse- 
 quently every attention was paid him by the land- 
 lord. He was in a hurry to depart ; and while the 
 chaise was repairing, he stood at the parlor win- 
 dow of the inn, looking out on the road, and con- 
 versing with the landlord about the village and its 
 inhabitants, when his attention appeared to be sud- 
 denly drawn to some one passing, and with a look 
 of admiration, he exclaimed, ''Pray, who is that 
 splendid looking girl? " 
 
 "That is Margaret Leslie; she lives down the 
 lane yonder, in the brown cottage, with her father 
 and mother." 
 
 The stranger followed her with his eyes till she 
 was out of sight, and then, as Jfie landlord left the 
 room, he muttered to himself, "Faith! she's a 
 stately creature ! What an excitement she would 
 raise in Washington ! I must see her again." 
 
 Instead of proceeding on his journey that night, 
 the stranger expressed his intention of remaining a 
 short time in the village, and it was soon noised 
 abroad that a rich bachelor was staying at the inn. 
 His arrival was on Saturday night, and the next 
 day a longer time than usual was devoted to the 
 toilet by the single females of the hamlet. When 
 the bachelor was seen, however, nearly every 
 matrimonial dream was put to flight ; and he was 
 viewed almost with terror. I said nearly every 
 one ; for, in spite of his age, and his extreme ugh- 
 ness, there was one who could entertain thoughts 
 of captivating him ; and that one was Margaret 
 Leslie! She closed her eyes to his person, and 
 
PROSE. 213 
 
 thought of the charms of his wealth — of the cir- 
 cle in which he moved, and of which alone she 
 had read, thought and dreamed, for so long, and she 
 bent her whole mind upon the accomplishment of 
 her object. As for Mr. Dalrymple, — for such was 
 the stranger's name, — he had been struck with 
 Margaret's appearance, and left no means untried 
 till he gained an introduction to her. From that time, 
 his visits to the brown cottage became frequent. 
 His stay in the village was protracted, and when 
 at length he departed, it was as the affianced hus- 
 band of Margaret ; — he was going to Washington 
 to prepare his residence for the bride, and was to 
 return in a few weeks to claim her. 
 
 The wedding day came; the bridegroom having 
 arrived the night before, in a splendid barouche, 
 drawn by a span of beautiful horses. The village 
 was all a-stir ; the church was crowded, and the 
 bridal party soon made their appearance. Never 
 was there a greater contrast than between that ill- 
 assorted couple; Margaret's stately figure seeming 
 even more majestic beside the insignificant form of 
 the bridegroom. She was arrayed in snowy satin, 
 and her raven tresses were ornamented with a 
 bandeau of pearls, which, with a necklace of the 
 same, was the wedding gift of Mr. Dalrymple. 
 The hectic of excitement burnt on her cheek, and 
 her eyes sparkled with unusual lustre ; yet, during 
 the service, her lip sometimes curled as if in scorn, 
 and an expression of disgust passed over her beau- 
 tiful face, which gave the lie to the solemn vows 
 she was pronouncing, '' to love, honor, and obey." 
 18 
 
214 PROSE. 
 
 At length the ceremony was over ; they returned 
 to the cottage, where the wedding dress was ex- 
 changed for a travelUng habit ; they entered the 
 barouche, and amid the tears of her aged parents, 
 the sneers of some, and the envy of a few, Mar- 
 garet Dahymple was whirled from the home of her 
 childhood, to enter upon the gayeties and dangers 
 of a city life. * ^ ^ 
 
 We will pass lightly over the next two years, 
 which were spent in a round of" fashionable dissi- 
 pation. And was Margaret happy? Alas for 
 her, who, brought up in the quiet of a country vil- 
 lage, is cast at once into the vortex of worldly pleas- 
 ure, without any fixed principle to sustain her, 
 and without that surest of safeguards to woman, 
 — her husband's love ! But Margaret had no right 
 to complain ; she had married her husband for his 
 wealth, with a perfect knowledge of his character. 
 Knowing him to be ugly in person, disagreeable in 
 manners, — knowing that he sought her for her 
 beauty orily, and regarding him with a feeling 
 little short of loathing and disgust, — she had yet 
 chosen to marry him, and she had received all that 
 she had anticipated. He had placed her in an 
 almost princely mansion, surrounded her with 
 luxuries, introduced her to the circle in which 
 she had so longed to move, and had her instructed 
 in every accomplishment; — all this was true, and 
 yet — Margaret was not satisfied ! 
 
 -" You must put on your sweetest smiles to-night, 
 Mrs. Dalrymple," said one of her morning visitors. 
 
 ''Why so?" 
 
PROSE. 215 
 
 "O, you will go to Mrs. Selwyn's, of course; and 
 Mr. Aubrey is to be there ! '^ 
 
 "And pray who is Mr. Aubrey?" 
 
 "Is it possible you have never heard of him? 
 Why, he is an artist of great celebrity; and, more- 
 over, he is rich and handsome, and a great favorite 
 with the ladies." 
 
 At one end of Mrs. Selwyn's drawing-room, that 
 night, stood two gentlemen ; one of them intently 
 observing a lady, who was carelessly turning over 
 some engravings. 
 
 " There is the most splendid woman in the room," 
 said he to his companion; "can you tell me her 
 name?" 
 
 "That is Mrs. Dalrymple — yonder is her hus- 
 band." 
 
 " Not that old, ugly man, surely?" 
 
 " The same." 
 
 " Heavens ! what a sacrifice ! " 
 
 " Not so much a sacrifice, as a bargain," replied 
 his companion. " Old Dalrymple found her in an 
 obscure country village; he fell in love with her 
 beauty — she with his wealth; he purchased the 
 one with the other, and so they are about on a par; 
 but come, shall I introduce you ? " 
 
 In less than an hour, William Aubrey and Mar- 
 garet Dalrymple found themselves conversing as 
 familiarly as though they had been acquainted 
 from childhood. That night commenced a new 
 era in Margaret's life ; she had invited Aubrey to 
 call at her house, and his visits became frequent ; 
 no party was complete without him, and she cared 
 
216 PROSE. 
 
 to go to none unless he was invited. When nol 
 engaged in his professional duties, he might always 
 b.e 4bund escorting her in her rides and walks; 
 dancing with her at every ball, and admitted to her 
 house, at all times, on the most familiar footing. 
 Thus month after month went by ; and under the 
 specious name of friendship, Aubrey and Margaret 
 were entangling themselves in the meshes of an 
 unholy love, when some one hinted to Mr. Dalrym- 
 ple the impropriety of Aubrey being the constant 
 gallant of his wife. He had seen, with perfect un- 
 concern, the progress of the acquaintance; but 
 though he had long since ceased to care for Mar- 
 garet himself, he did not choose that she should 
 bestow her affections on any one else, or bring any 
 disgrace upon his name. Accordingly, when Au- 
 brey called, the next morning, to escort Margaret 
 on horseback, he was received by Mr. D., and for- 
 bidden to act any longer as cavalier to his wife. 
 Mortified and angry, Aubrey left the house, breath- 
 ing imprecations on the husband, and more than 
 ever in love with the wife. He wrote to Margaret 
 in the most impassioned terms, telling her of his 
 reception, and begging an interview. It was granted 
 — and from that time stolen visits passed between 
 them, and frequent letters were exchanged, filled 
 with expressions of hatred to Mr. Dalrymple, and 
 of devotion to each other. But at length the crisis 
 of affairs came. Margaret had gone to a ball where 
 she expected to meet iVubrey ; but some unforeseen 
 event taking place to hinder his going, he sent a 
 note, which not arriving till she had gone, her hus- 
 
PKOSE. 217 
 
 band opened and read. Filled with rage, he 
 awaited her return. Not finding Aubrey, as she 
 expected, she returned earlier than usual; she 
 entered the drawing-room, and there stood her hus- 
 band, holding in his hand the open letter, while on 
 the table stood a little cabinet, containing chiefly 
 Aubrey's letters and his miniature ; the lock broken, 
 and the contents scattered about. For a moment 
 Margaret stood confounded, but at length she found 
 courage to demand by what authority he dared 
 open her letter-case? 
 
 '' By the authority of an insulted and outraged 
 husband ! Did you think, because I was old and 
 ugly, as you please to terhi me, that I was blind 
 also? " And with bitter revilings he left her pres- 
 ence. 
 
 That night Margaret Dalrymple left her home, 
 her husband, and all that woman should venerate, 
 and threw herself on the protection of her lover. 
 Mr. Dalrymple procured a divorce, and the guilty 
 pair took up their abode in one of the southern 
 cities. Separated forever from the man she loathed 
 and despised, dwelling, though as his acknowledged 
 mistress, v/itii the man she worshipped, Margaret 
 for a time fancied herself completely happy. Her 
 low, sweet voice seemed to gain additional melody, 
 as it breathed forth words of passionate tenderness 
 — her large, dark eyes were fascinating in the soft- 
 ness of their changed expression; and the color 
 came and went on her fair cheek as it had not done 
 since the days of her sunny girlhood. But, alas 
 for the victim of illicit love ! beauty without virtue 
 18^ 
 
21S PROSE. 
 
 soon loses its hold upon its votaries. Aubrey was 
 a man of little principle, and having no respect for 
 the woman who had renounced her domestic ties, 
 however hateful, he soon grew tired of the beauty 
 which had attracted him. * ^ ^ ^ 
 
 Two years have passed since Margaret's fall from 
 virtue — one marked by the wild excitement of 
 guilty love, and the other by its gradual decline 
 from the ardor of passion to coldness and indiffer- 
 ence. Let us enter this splendid apartment; the 
 thick Turkey carpet gives back not the slightest 
 sound, and we may safely take a survey. It is 
 furnished in princely style, and in a rich crimson 
 fauteuil sits a superb woman, dressed in a robe of 
 costly black velvet ; jewels are upon her beautiful 
 neck and arms, and flashing from her imperial 
 brow and amid the luxuriant braids of her glossy 
 raven hair, yet scarce matching the lustre of her 
 magnificent dark eyes. She is turning the leaves 
 of a richly bound volume ; yet there is a troubled 
 look about her, which tells plainly that her thoughts 
 are not with its contents. Ever and anon her eves 
 fill with tears, as she raises them to the face of the 
 other inmate of the room, a handsome man in the 
 prime of life. His lip curls as he gazes on his 
 beautiful companion, and he is speaking in a low, 
 suppressed tone. Now his voice grows louder, and 
 he taunts her in bitter terms with her passion for 
 himself, with her desertion of her husband, and 
 finally with her degraded position as his mistress. 
 Margaret Leslie had risen from her seat as he went 
 on, and she now stood erect, with folded arms ; her 
 
PROSE. 219 
 
 cheek and lip were bloodless, and her eyes flashed 
 with unutterable indignation, as she replied to his 
 taunts. 
 
 "William Aubrey," she exclaimed, "till I knew 
 you, I was a proud but an unsullied being! You 
 won me with your sophistry, and I loved you ; for 
 you I forgot my matron dignity — for you I forsook 
 my husband, my home, and virtue ! and icith you^ 
 had you remained what I then thought 3^ou, 1 
 would have been content to live in the most abject 
 poverty. Disgrace, the loss of name and fame, were 
 as nothing compared to your love; but that for 
 which I gave up all, I have seen decline, day after 
 day. This hour you have set the seal to your vil- 
 lany, and she who has loved you with all the fer- 
 vor of a first passion now loathes and detests you, 
 and spurns you from her, as the veriest worm 
 beneath her feet ! ^' And having poured out the 
 torrent of her measureless scorn, she gathered up 
 her drapery and left the room. 
 
 But when Margaret gained her chamber, the 
 spirit which had sustained her through that trying 
 scene forsook her, and throwing herself into a chair, 
 she buried her face in her hands, and burst into a 
 passion of tears. When the first outbreaJr. of grief 
 was over, the tide of memory flowed back ; she 
 thought of the happy days of her childhood, of her 
 cottage-home, and her venerable parents. Long 
 she sat there in silent thought. At length she 
 arose, and placing herself at her writing-desk, she 
 penned the following note : 
 
220 PEOSE* 
 
 " William Aubrey : — When this meets your eye, I shall 
 have left your roof forever ; the scene of this night can never 
 be forgotten. Deeply as I have sinned, surely your hand 
 should not have been raised to crush the fallen. Yet am I 
 justly punished ! I will return to the humble home of my 
 childhood — to my kind old father and mother, if my shame 
 has not already brought down their gray hairs with sorrow to 
 the grave ! They, at least, will not cast off their only child, 
 bitter though her transgressions have been. I will sue hum- 
 bly for pardon, and it may be that my efforts may at length 
 make atonement. Farewell, William ! may God forgive you, 
 as truly as does Margaret Leslie." 
 
 She folded, sealed, and directed her letter ; then 
 taking off the jewels which decked her person, she 
 returned them to their casket, locked it, and placed 
 the key with her note ; then disrobing herself of 
 her costly dress, she put on a dark and simple 
 morning dress, and taking a little bundle of neces- 
 sary clothing, and a small sum of money, she 
 arrayed herself in a large mantle and bonnet, and 
 left the house in silence. 
 
 It was the evening of the fifth day since Mar- 
 garet Leslie's departure, when a female traveller 
 was seen entering our quiet village. She was 
 closely enveloped in a sort of mantle, and her face 
 was entirely concealed by a large, coarse straw 
 bonnet; she walked slowly and painfully, as if 
 worn down by fatigue, and now and then stopped 
 to rest on the banks by the road-side. She turned 
 down the little lane, and went on till she reached 
 the brown cottage ; she stood gazing upon it for a 
 few minutes, then suddenly pushing open the 
 wicket gate, she passed into the little garden. But 
 
PROSE. 221 
 
 on the threshold she paused; the window was 
 open, for it was a warm and balmy evening in 
 June; the curtains were not closely drawn, and 
 she took a survey of the inmates, herself unseen. 
 At the clean deal table sat an aged man, reading 
 aloud to his wife from the word of God, which lay 
 open before him. The part he had chosen was the 
 parable of the ''Prodigal Son; " and as the wanderer 
 drew nigh to the window, he was reading the words 
 of the erring son, ''I will arise, and go to my 
 father ! " The trembling Avoman leaned for sup- 
 port against the wall, and had any one beheld her 
 face, they might have seen the terrible workings of 
 her mind. The old man went on, till he came to 
 the return of the prodigal, and the joy of the father; 
 and raising his eyes to his wife, he exclaimed, 
 ''Would we not in like manner receive and rejoice 
 over our prodigal child? — guilty though she be, 
 would not ive forgive her, and clasp to our hearts 
 the miserable penitent?" 
 
 The wanderer could bear no more ; with trem- 
 bling hands, she raised the latch, and entering the 
 humble room, Margaret Leslie fell senseless at the 
 feet of her parents. The old woman raised the 
 stranger, and removing the bonnet from her head, 
 she cried — " Margaret — my child ! my child ! — ■ 
 she has returned ! she is given to our prayers ! " 
 Her old father and mother lifted her from the floor, 
 and having placed her on a bed, and applied such 
 simple restoratives as the cottage afforded, Marga- 
 ret opened her languid eyes upon them. Forgive- 
 ness was asked, and cheerfully accorded. She was 
 
222 PROSE. 
 
 suffering from hunger and fatigue; she had travelled 
 nearly all the way on foot, save now and then 
 some kind-hearted wagoner had given her a lift of 
 a few miles ; and after she had partaken of some 
 slight refreshment, they left her to gain needful rest. 
 
 Now that she was alone, memory commenced 
 her work ; she was in her own little bedroom — 
 her head was on the same pillow which her fair 
 cheek had pressed nightly for many a year in the 
 bright season of her girlhood; everything was as 
 she had left it — nothing had changed save herself 
 — and what a change was there ! Not five years 
 had elapsed since she had gone forth from that very 
 room, attired in bridal splendor, dreaming of the 
 gayeties of the world, and longing to partake them ; 
 she had gone forth proud, beautiful, and buoyant 
 in spirit — and she had returned with branded name, 
 faded beauty, blighted hopes, and a broken heart ! 
 From thoughts like these little rest was to be ob- 
 tained ; and Margaret awoke in the morning, after 
 a short and unrefreshing sleep, exhausted, and ill 
 at ease in both body and mind. 
 
 Great was the excitement in the village when it 
 was known that Margaret Leslie had returned to 
 her home. Some cavilled, some sneered, and a few 
 benevolent ones pitied the poor creature ; but of all 
 the parish, none went to the cottage, save the old 
 minister and his kind-hearted and gentle wife. 
 Before they arrived there, however, Margaret was 
 delirious ; exposure, fatigue and grief, had brought 
 on a fever. The minister's wife \^fent to her house, 
 and soon returned with medicines for the sufferer. 
 
PROSE. 223 
 
 who continued through the day to grow worse. 
 She wandered constantly, but her talk was all of 
 her youthful days, and her village companions; 
 for a week she remained in this state, and her aged 
 parents watched in agonized suspense, fearing to 
 lose their restored treasure. At length the fever 
 left her, and though very feeble, it was thought she 
 might eventually recover. The visits of the good 
 minister were frequent ; he administered comfort 
 and consolation to the poor penitent, and bade her 
 look for mercy and pardon to Him who has said, 
 " Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as 
 white as snow ! " and whose dear Son breathed the 
 tender invitation, " Come unto me, ye who are 
 weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest."' 
 ,Six weeks had elapsed since Margaret's return; 
 long weeks, passed on the bed of sickness and suf- 
 fering, which, combined with grief and mental 
 agony, had terminated in a rapid decline. One 
 evening, after a long and interesting conversation 
 with the worthy pastor, she had sunk back ex- 
 hausted, and lay for some time so absorbed in 
 thought that her parents, who sat by her bedside, 
 fancied her asleep ; when suddenly she exclaimed, 
 — '' Mother, it will be five years to-morrow since 
 that miserable day when I left you a gay and 
 smiling bride ! " 
 
 " Hush, my child ! " said the poor old woman ; 
 " do not speak of it ! " 
 
 ''Nay, dear mother, it will not harm me now; 
 though, since my* return, I have never but once 
 alluded to the events of the last few years, it has 
 
224 PROSE. 
 
 often been the subject of my thoughts. Attracted 
 by his weahh and station, I married a man I did 
 not love, and soon despised and hated ; I possessed 
 everything my heart had desired, yet 1 was un- 
 happy. Then I met with one who was all my 
 imagination had pictured, and I loved him with an 
 overwhelming passion; — when I left my husband 
 for my lover, I fancied I was changing a life of 
 misery for one of unmixed happiness ; but I have 
 found, alas ! that there is no rest for the guilty, no 
 pang like that of remorse ! and oh ! I bless God, 
 that, sinful and miserable as I was, he had mercy 
 upon me, and gave me strength to break from the 
 fetters that bound me, and to return, humble and 
 contrite, to the home of my childhood ; and that the 
 hands of my earliest guardians shall at length close 
 my eyes ! And now, my dear parents, this night I 
 would be alone, to hold communion with my own 
 soul, and my God!'' 
 
 They left her, according to her request; and the 
 next morning, when they entered her little bed- 
 room, they found her apparently sleeping, calm and 
 tranquil. They went to her bedside, and called 
 her name, but she answered not; they opened the 
 little casement, and the sun, which had risen clear 
 and bright on the anniversary of her wedding-day, 
 shone full on the beautiful face of the dead! The 
 event was soon known, and the minister and his 
 wife came speedily to the cottage, to pray with and 
 comfort the bereaved. For the departed one they 
 had no fears ; for, though deep had been her sin, 
 yet great had been her suiferings, and sincere her 
 
PROSE. • 225 
 
 penitence ; and the friends who now knelt around 
 that humble couch felt that God had accepted her 
 repentance and her tears, and that Margaret Leslie 
 was at rest ! 
 
 , KATE VINCENT. 
 
 " A creature not too bright or good 
 For human nature's daily food ; — 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles." 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 What a host of associations are sometimes con- 
 jured up in the mind by the repetition of a simple 
 name ! Days long past, and scenes almost for- 
 gotten, are suddenl}^ recalled, in all their pristine 
 freshness ; faces that we have not seen for years 
 look kindly upon us, friendly eyes smile, and old, 
 familiar voices greet us with words of affection; 
 and thoughts and feelings long hidden in the secret 
 cells of memory are awakened as by some magic 
 incantation ! Such were the sensations I experi- 
 enced, a short time since, by casually hearing the 
 name of ''Kate !" Every one has some favorite 
 appellation, endeared by pleasant remembrances 
 and associations, from Byron down to the least 
 imaginative; and I confess that I ''have a passion 
 for the name of" Kate ; simple, graceful, loving, 
 kind-hearted, merry Kate ! I was in the midst of 
 a crowded assembly; but the instant that name 
 was pronounced, the power of memory was con- 
 fessed, and I was far away in the green, sunny 
 home of my childhood. I saw the moss-covered 
 19 
 
226 . PROSE. 
 
 roof of the little low-browed cottage where I was 
 born, — the old, wide-spreading sycamore, which 
 grew beside the door, and threw its branches over 
 the humble dwelling, beneath whose pleasant shade 
 I had sat so often ; there was the brook that went 
 singing merrily by, where we nsed to fish for the 
 bright little minnows; — and the old well, with its 
 "iron-bound bucket," — a necessary feature, in my 
 eye at least, to the beauty of a country landscape ; 
 — and the green where we used to dance, and the 
 little school -house. I heard the music of the birds, 
 and the ringing of merry voices. Blessed scenes 
 of my childhood ! will ye never return, save in 
 dreams, to my yearning heart ? 
 
 In a beautiful glen, in a retired part of our vil- 
 lage, stood a little white cottage, half embowered 
 in roses and honeysuckle, which, from its romantic 
 situation, had gained the name of the Bower. It 
 had been fitted up in the most elegant manner by 
 a gentleman of wealth and taste, as a summer 
 residence for himself and his young bride, — a fair 
 flower whom he had transplanted from the sunny 
 South to grace his home, — but she soon withered 
 in the uncongenial climate, and in a few months 
 he laid her in an early grave ! The bereaved hus- 
 band could not bear to remain longer among the 
 scenes from which she had fled ; and he soon left 
 the village, with orders to his agent to dispose of 
 the property. About this time, my mother received 
 a letter from an old and valued friend, who had 
 been her school-mate ; but, having married an 
 officer in the army, and accompanied him to his 
 
PROSE. 227 
 
 distant station, the friends had not met for several 
 ^'■ears. She now wrote, stating the death of her 
 husband, and her intention of returning, with her 
 only child, to New England ; she expressed a wish 
 to reside near ii;y mother, as the only friend of 
 former days with whom she had maintained a cor- 
 respondence, and requested her to look out a suit- 
 able residence. The Bower Cottage appeared just 
 the thing to suit her; and an answer was accord- 
 ingly returned, acquainting her with the situation 
 of the place and other particulars, and requesting 
 an immediate visit. I was then a warm-hearted 
 child of ten years, and with all the eagerness of 
 that age, I watched for their arrival. At length the 
 day came when they might be expected. I rose 
 early, and ransacked my little garden for the 
 brightest flowers to ornament the mantel-piece; 
 my dolls were dressed and re-dressed, and my 
 baby-house set in order a dozen times. The stage 
 arrived in the village about two o'clock ; but our 
 cottage standing on a little elevation, I could see it 
 nearly half an hour before it arrived. On the day 
 in question, I was posted at the window which 
 commanded a view of the road, and oh ! how 
 anxiously I looked for it ! At length it came lum- 
 bering up the hill, and I strained my eyes to descry 
 some one among the passengers who could answer 
 the idea I had formed of our expected visiters. 
 Soon the rumbling of wheels came nearer and 
 nearer, and in a few minutes the stage stopped at 
 our gate ; the steps were let down, and a tall, fine- 
 looking woman descended, followed by a little girl, 
 
228 PROSE. 
 
 apparently about my age, both dressed in deep 
 mourning. Mrs. Vincent and my mother met with 
 all the warmth of friendship ; and when the first 
 greetings were over, she turned to me, and, pre- 
 senting her little daughter, said, "I hope you and 
 my little Kate will soon be good friends.^' 
 
 The Bower was purchased as a residence for 
 them, and after a most delightful visit to us, the 
 Vincents became its inmates ; and from that time, 
 Kate and myself were playmates and school-fel- 
 lows, and as we grew to womanhood, our childish 
 intimacy ripened into a deep and lasting friendship. 
 How shall I describe Kate Vincent 1 Strangers 
 called her plain ; but we who knew and loved her 
 thought far otherwise. True, her skin was brown ; 
 but then her cheek glowed with the richest hues 
 of health and exercise. And what though her feat- 
 ures did set all symmetry and regularity at defi- 
 ance ? — who heeded that her mouth was too wide, 
 when they saw the bright smile dimpling her face, 
 and displaying teeth of dazzling whiteness, and lips 
 like ripe strawberries'? or heard her clear, merry 
 laugh ringing in their ears like music 1 Her nose 
 was a little turned up ; but that, in my opinion, 
 only served to heighten the arch expression which 
 so well became her ; and then her thick, jetty curls, 
 which fell in rich profusion round her face and 
 neck ; and her long, large, oriental black eyes, 
 sparkling and dancing in their own light ; and her 
 short, trim figure, a little embonpoint, yet light, 
 graceful, and youthful as a Hebe ; and her whole 
 face lit up with the affection of her own warm and 
 
PROSE. 229 
 
 generous heart ! O ! to me Kate Vincent looked 
 very lovely ! She laid siege to all hearts ; and 
 rich and poor, old and young, everybody loved the 
 gay, good-humored girl. She was her mother's 
 idol, and the pet and favorite of the whole village ; 
 and old blind Susan used to say that ''it did her 
 heart good to hear her footsteps and her merry 
 laugh echoing in her humble dwelling." Add to 
 these an intelligent and well-cultivated mind, and 
 you have some idea of one whose name can always 
 bring a thrill of delight to my heart. 
 
 More than seven years of quiet happiness had 
 glided by, since the Yincents first came to our vil- 
 lage; and each succeeding season served to rivet 
 still closer the bonds of intimacy between the 
 two families. The merry Kate was fast verging 
 towards her seventeenth year, yet seemed not a 
 whit steadier than at twelve; and, save the changes 
 that are always taking place in every community, 
 everything remained much the same as when they 
 first came to the Bower. One afternoon, about 
 sunset, I called at the cottage for Kate to accom- 
 pany me on a walk we had been projecting ; and 
 on entering the little parlor, found her with an 
 open letter in her hand, and, to my utter surprise 
 and dismay, in tears ! 
 
 " What is the matter, dear Kate ?" I exclaimed. 
 
 '' Nothing, only I was very foolish, and a little 
 agitated, by reading this letter ; it is my father's 
 writing. But come," she continued, '' let us go 
 out, and on the way I will tell you the cause of 
 my tears." 
 
 19# 
 
230 PROSE. 
 
 "We accordingly set out, and I will endeavor to 
 "tell the tale as it was told to me.'' 
 
 Captain Vincent, the father of Kate, had an only 
 sister, to whom he was very tenderly attached. 
 She was many years his senior, and, their mother 
 having died while he was very young, she had, 
 in a great measure, supplied her place to him. 
 Young Vincent had always shown a predilection 
 for the army, and as soon as he arrived at a suit- 
 able age, entered the military academy at West 
 Point. About this time, his sister married a 
 wealthy and distinguished southerner, and went 
 to reside in Virginia. Mr. Jerauld, her husband, 
 was a man of highly cultivated mind and fine 
 talents, and passionately devoted to study. His 
 intense application to it gradually undermined a 
 constitution never very strong; and the high- 
 hearted man was cut off in the prime of his days, 
 leaving his wife and her brother executors of his 
 princely fortune, and guardians to his only son, a 
 boy of fifteen. The disconsolate wife survived 
 her husband but a twelvemonth, and from that 
 time Horace Jerauld became a member of his 
 uncle's family, by whom he was regarded with 
 all the affection of a son ; and his uncle seemed to 
 endeavor, by his kindness to him, to repay, in 
 some measure, the debt of gratitude and love he 
 bore the boy's mother. The little Kate was at 
 that time about four years old, and towards her 
 Horace manifested all the tender affection of a 
 brother, and, in return, was dearly loved by the 
 little creature. 
 
PROSE. 231 
 
 After a year passed thus, Horace entered the 
 university, but all his vacations were spent with 
 his beloved friends. At length his collegiate course 
 was finished, and it v/as settled that, after a long 
 visit at home, he should make the tour of Europe. 
 But in the second week after his return, Captain 
 Vincent was suddenly taken ill, and, after three 
 weeks of agonizing suspense, his case was pro- 
 nounced hopeless. Horace was his constant at- 
 tendant, administering to his necessities, and even 
 anticipating many wants of the invalid. When 
 the sick man felt the hand of death upon him, he 
 motioned his nephew to come nearer, and with 
 difficulty addressed him. " I wished to speak to 
 you, Horace, on a subject that is near my heart. 
 For my pecuniary affairs I have no anxiety; I 
 leave my family in comfortable, though not afflu- 
 ent circumstances, and I know you will be an 
 unfailing friend to them ; it is of my child I would 
 speak, — of my darling little Kate, so soon to be 
 left fatherless. I know that you regard each other 
 with the affection of brother and sister, but it is 
 my earnest wish, as it was that of your dear father 
 and mother, Horace, that it should ripen into a 
 warmer sentiment ; and, should neither of you 
 conceive a passion for any other, may I hope that, 
 when Kate arrives at a suitable age, my wishes 
 shall be fulfilled?" 
 
 " Most assuredly, dear uncle, as far as I am con- 
 cerned ; but, should Kate then have other inclina- 
 tions, be assured I will ever be to her a faithful 
 friend and brother." 
 
232 PROSE. 
 
 That night Captain Vincent died; and when the 
 funeral was over, -and his affairs settled, Horace 
 escorted his aunt and cousin, till they took the 
 stage for our village, and then prepared for his 
 voyage. 
 
 " Since that time," said Kate, ''you know our 
 history." 
 
 '' But I do not yet understand why, if you love 
 your cousin, you should have cause for tears in 
 the prospect of being more nearly connected with 
 him?" 
 
 "I did love him," she replied, "in the days of 
 my childhood; but I have only a faint recollection 
 now of his personal appearance ; I have not seen 
 him since I was nine years old, and he is twelve 
 years my senior; I remember that he was very 
 kind and pleasant, but nothing further. My mother 
 has frequently received letters from him, and always 
 spoke of him to me in the most affectionate man- 
 ner ; but this afternoon she sent for me to come to 
 her room, and told me all that I have now repeated 
 to you, and put into my hands the letter which 
 caused my tears. It was written, in a trembling 
 hand, by my dear father, the day before his death, 
 and contains a request similar to that he made of 
 Horace, and telling me, in the most earnest lan- 
 guage, how he had cherished the project of our 
 union; and is it not strange, my wayward heart, 
 which has always retained a warm affection for 
 my cousin Horace, rebels at the idea of becoming 
 his wife, unwooed?" 
 
 I said all in my power to comfort her, and before 
 
PROSE. 233 
 
 we returned to the house, her face was decked in 
 smiles again, and her bright eyes sparlding through 
 her tears. When we reached the Bower, we found 
 Mrs. Vincent waiting for us at the door, and there 
 was a deeper shade than usual on her brow ; which 
 was instantly dispelled, however, when she saw 
 the beaming face of her daughter. 
 
 Three or four week^ after the above conversa- 
 tion, Kate and myself were returning from a long 
 ramble, when, just as we reached the very prettiest 
 spot in the village, we encountered a tall, hand- 
 some-looking man, leaning against a tree, and busily 
 engaged in sketching the beautiful scene before 
 him. As we approached, he raised his eyes, and 
 fixed them for an instant upon Kate with a look of 
 admiration ; then saluting us courteously, he re- 
 sumed his employment. The handsome stranger 
 furnished ample theme for conversation during the 
 remainder of our walk ; and when we returned to 
 the cottage, we mentioned the incident to Mrs. 
 Yincent. 
 
 "I wonder who he can be!" said Kate; *'he 
 must be a late arrival." 
 
 ^'Ican satisfy your curiosity, I believe," said 
 Mrs. V. '' The same gentleman, I presume, called 
 here, a few minutes after you set out, and brought 
 me letters from some southern friends. He is a Vir- 
 ginian of good family, his name is Stanwood, and 
 he is by profession an artist ; his appearance is very 
 prepossessing, and my friends give him a high 
 character. He is travelling in search of subjects for 
 his pencil, and is so pleased with the romantic 
 
234 PROSE. 
 
 beauty of our village, that he intends passing sev- 
 eral weeks here ; and I propose gratifying the ardent 
 wish you have always expressed to learn to draw, 
 by allowing you to take lessons of him during his 
 stay." 
 
 Kate thanked her mother with sparkling eyes, 
 and the next day the artist called again, and was 
 introduced to his pupil. Never had teacher a more 
 assiduous one, and for two or three weeks all went 
 on smoothly. In the mean time, Stan wood became 
 a constant visiter at the Bower. When not engaged 
 with the lessons, he read with a deep, mellifluous 
 voice from their favorite authors, (for somehow 
 their tastes seemed to agree remarkably,) while 
 Kate was busy with her needle ; or, if she sang, he 
 accompanied her soft, bird-like notes with his flute, 
 or his own richer tones ; and far oftener, the book, 
 pencil and flute were thrown aside, for a long twi- 
 light or moonlight ramble. At first, I used to join 
 them in these walks, as I had been accustomed to 
 do when I was Kate's chosen companion ; but after 
 a while, I began to feel myself rather de tro'p^ or, 
 in other words, that third person whose situation 
 is so extremely awkward, when one cannot help 
 feeling one's companions would prefer being tete--d- 
 iete. At the commencement of these walks, the 
 starry heavens, and the beautiful earth, had been 
 the chief objects of admiration, and many long 
 and animated conversations had passed concerning 
 them; but if they now looked at the stars less, 
 they gazed into each other's eyes more, and doubt- 
 less fancied them far brighter; and at length I 
 
PROSE. 285 
 
 betook myself to solitary rambles before 'Hhe dewy 
 eve came on," and made my visits at the cottage 
 at a time when I was more likely to find Kate at 
 home. Now, all these moonlight walks, and senti- 
 mental tete-d-tetes^ did not seem to me just the 
 thing for an engaged young lady; but since her 
 birth-night, Kate had never mentioned the subject, 
 and I did not feel at liberty to introduce it ; the less, 
 as Mrs. Yincent looked with apparent pleasure on 
 the growing intimacy of her daughter with the 
 artist, and heard with indifference, to say the least, 
 the village gossip concerning it. As for the parties 
 themselves, they appeared wholly engrossed with 
 admiration of each other ; and if Stan wood had 
 not made his young pupil a proficient in drawing, 
 certain it is he had instructed her fully in a far 
 more intricate and dangerous science ! Her life 
 appeared to be one dream of delight ; and when I 
 looked at her sparkling face, I trembled lest some 
 unseen cloud should darken the brilliant heaven of 
 her hopes. 
 
 While affairs were in this state, I went to the 
 city, to pass a fortnight with a friend. On the after- 
 noon of my return home, as I was relating my 
 adventures, and hearing the news of the village, 
 a note was brought me from Kate Yincent. It 
 contained a few lines, written in a trembling hand, 
 and scarcely legible, and the surface of the paper 
 was blistered in several places, as if by tears ; she 
 wished me, if I were not too fatigued, to come to 
 her immediately. I hastily donned my bonnet, and 
 pondering on the strangeness of the summons, and 
 
236 PROSE. 
 
 forming a thousand conjectures, I arrived at the 
 Bower. Upon entering the parlor, I found it un- 
 tenanted ; but happening to bethink me of a place 
 where I should be likely to find her, I bent my 
 steps thither. The apartment to which I allude 
 was a small, pretty room, at the back of the cot- 
 tage, where Kate and myself had passed many 
 happy hours ; it was neatly fitted up, with books, 
 pictures, and many pretty knick-knacks and sou- 
 venirs. A folding window of glass opened upon a 
 httle green terrace, which, in the spring and sum- 
 mer, was completely enamelled with flowers. As 
 I approached the door, I heard a low, convulsive 
 sob ; and hastily opening it, I found Kate lying on 
 the sofa, with her face covered by her hands, while 
 the tears trickled through her fingers. She rose as 
 I entered, and grasping my hand, exclaimed, ''It 
 was very kind of you to come so soon — I am so 
 very wretched ! " Half alarmed by her manner, I 
 seated myself beside her, and soon drew from her 
 the cause of her distress. Her mother had received 
 another letter from Horace Jerauld, in which he. 
 expressed his intention of coming to the village 
 immediately, to renew the acquaintance of his 
 promised bride, as she had now nearly reached 
 the age when her father wished the connection to 
 take place. He says, in his letter, continued Kate, 
 " Tell my cousin that since I left her, her image has 
 been my constant companion, and, joined with my 
 dear uncle's last words to me, has guarded my 
 heart against the charms of the loveliest women in 
 Europe; and I am now about returning to my 
 
PROSE. 237 
 
 native land, with a heart beating high to see the 
 dear ones it contains. I presume Kate is aheady 
 aware of her father's wishes, and I trust she will 
 not refuse to ratify the promises she used to make 
 me, when a little laughing gypsy of eight or nine 
 years, always to love Cousin Horace." 
 
 ''And so I do, as a cotisin,'^ said Kate, ''but 
 marry him, I cannot. What shall I do ? — counsel 
 me, for I am too miserable to think for myself!" 
 
 "And where is Stanwood?" 
 
 "He has gone to the city, on business, and will 
 return in a few days ; and how can I meet him 
 with this intelligence 1 I will beg Horace, on my 
 knees, to free me from this hatefnl engagement ; for 
 how can I go to the altar with him, when my heart 
 is all another's 1 " 
 
 "And what does your mother say about it?" I 
 inquired. 
 
 " She wishes me to marry the man of my father's 
 choice, and she says I cannot fail to be happy with 
 one as generous and good as he is. O ! why did 
 she place me in the way of one so fascinating as 
 Stan wood, so every way worthy of love, and then 
 urge me to a union I despise? " 
 
 " But, perhaps, if your cousin be really as noble- 
 hearted as your mother says, — and even you allow 
 that all your recollections of him are pleasant, — he 
 will scorn to avail himself of the influence of your 
 father's wishes, when he knows your reluctance. 
 When does he arrive? " 
 
 " Very soon," she replied; " to-morrow, I fear." 
 
 -" Then, I advise you, dear Kate, to see him; tell 
 20 
 
238 PROSE. 
 
 him your feelings towards him, and your love for 
 another; and if he be what he is represented, he 
 Avill gladly free you; if not, you know you are not 
 compelled to marry him ; for your father expressly 
 says, in his letter to you, and his request to your 
 cousin, that he would not force your inclinations." 
 
 Soon after, I took my leave, promising to see her 
 the next day. On my way home, my mind was 
 wholly engrossed by the troubles of my friend ; and 
 I could not help reprobating the inconsistency and 
 imprudence, to say the least, on the part of her 
 mother, in allowing such unrestricted intimacy 
 between Kate and her drawing-master, and show- 
 ing such apparent pleasure in the growth of an 
 attachment, which she might have foreseen, in 
 throwing together two persons so admirably qual- 
 ii&ed to please, and make each other's happiness. 
 
 I was unable to fulfil my promise in the fore pai\ 
 of the succeeding day; but in the course of the 
 afternoon, I walked down to the cottage, and enter- 
 ing the little room I have before mentioned, I found 
 the mother and daughter together. Mrs. Vincent 
 was calm, collected and dignified, as usual ; more 
 at ease, I thought, than the occasion warranted, 
 when the destiny of an only and darling child was 
 about to be decided : but Kate appeared to be in a 
 state of nervous agitation which was really painful 
 to behold; and I could scarcely have recognized, in 
 the sad, drooping figure .before me, the gay, laugh- 
 ter-loving girl, whose smile was so full of sunshine. 
 Her colorless face was half hidden in her thick 
 ringlets ; her large black eyes had a wild, unnatural 
 
PROSE. 239 
 
 stare, and her hands lay Hstlessly on her knees, in 
 all the languor of despair. Mrs. Vincent soon left 
 the room, and I ventured to ask if her cousin had 
 arrived ? 
 
 " No, but he will be here to-night, and I have 
 tried hard to gain courage to meet him, and tell 
 him all." 
 
 While we were conversing, we heard the sound 
 of approaching wheels, and in a few minutes it 
 stopped at the door. Presently Mrs. Yincent entered 
 the room. "Your cousin has arrived, Kate," said 
 she, '' and wishes to see you. Do not tremble so, 
 my love; only see him once, receive him as a friend, 
 and if your heart still revolts from the idea of be- 
 coming his wife, I will urge it no further. Shall I 
 bring him hither? " 
 
 Kate bent her head in assent, for she seemed to 
 have lost the power of speech; and her mother 
 60on returned, accompanied by the dreaded visiter. 
 " Your Cousin Horace, my daughter," said Mrs. 
 Vincent. 
 
 ''Dear Kate," said a well-known voice, and 
 Kate lifted her head, and the next moment was 
 clasped to the heart of her artist-lover, her betrothed 
 husband, Horace Jerauld! Excess of joy is some- 
 times as overpowering as grief, and a long swoon 
 succeeded to this delightful recognition. 
 
 "Is he so very hateful, dearest? " said Horace to 
 his cousin, as they sat together in the little boudoir, 
 the day after the denouement. 
 
 " O Horace ! how could you deceive me so ? And 
 you too, my dear mother, to turn such a traitor ! " 
 
240 , PROSE. 
 
 Mrs. Vincent smiled, and Horace said, ''You 
 must lay all the blame on me, Kate ; the scheme 
 was my own. Your seventeenth birth-day was 
 the period fixed on for making you acquainted with 
 your father's wishes respecting us; and your mother 
 wrote to me, with intelligence that she had told you 
 all, and also with your reluctance to perform the 
 engagement. I then laid the plan to introduce my- 
 self to you in a different character, and endeavor- 
 ing to win your love ; and if I succeeded, to make 
 myself known. I accordingly came to the village, 
 and sought an interview with my aunt ; I told her 
 my scheme, and gained her interest, and the rest 
 you know. And now, considering the finale, may I 
 not hope for forgiveness?" 
 
 Kate's answer is not upon record, but we pre- 
 sume it was very favorable ; for the next Sabbath 
 many smiling eyes were directed towards the Vin- 
 cents' pew, when, at the close of morning service, 
 the parish clerk published the ''banns of matrimony 
 between Horace Jerauld, Esq., and Miss Catherine 
 Vincent; " and some three weeks later, I Avas sum- 
 moned to ofiiciate as bridesmaid at the marriage of 
 my friend. It was a bright, beautiful September 
 evening, and if there be aught in omens, it prog- 
 nosticated for them a cloudless life. Shall I de- 
 scribe the wedding '? and tell you that the bride 
 looked lovely, as brides always do ; and how her 
 face was alternately sufiused with blushes, and 
 brightened with smiles and dimples ? — and how 
 the bridegroom looked full of happiness, as a man 
 might be supposed to look who was about to 
 
PROSE. 241 
 
 receive the consummation of the hopes of years? — 
 and how the mother's face wore an expression of 
 chastened happiness, as she '' gave her to another's 
 arms, her beautiful, her own"? — and how the 
 guests wept during the short and simple, but solemn 
 ceremony, which bound those two hearts in a tie 
 
 " Which only love should weave, 
 And only death can part " ? 
 
 Or, shall I speak of the congratulations which fol- 
 lowed, and the mirth that prevailed, till the group 
 at length dispersed to their several homes ? 
 
 The morrow came, and with it came the carriage 
 that was to convey the newly married couple to 
 their southern home. Mrs. Y. was not to accom- 
 pany them, though Horace and Kate had both 
 entreated it ; but she had become attached to the 
 village and its inhabitants, and preferred remaining, 
 with a promise of making long and frequent visits 
 to her children. Mrs. Vincent was not a woman 
 to give way to idle grief; and when they were gone, 
 and the first freshness of sorrow at the parting had 
 worn off, she set about her usual occupation. 
 Frequent letters came from Kate, filled with expres- 
 sions of happiness, and her fond mother was satis- 
 fied. About this time, I went to reside in another 
 pa,rt of the state ; and since her marriage, I have 
 seen Kate but seldom. The last time I saw her, I 
 was on a visit to my native village, and almost the 
 first news I heard on my arrival was, that the 
 Jeraulds were at the Bower. It was a summer 
 afternoon, and I immediately walked down to the 
 
242 PROSE. 
 
 cottage, and entered the well-known dwellings 
 without the ceremony of knocking. I was led by 
 the sound of voices to the little terrace-room ; the 
 door stood a-jar, and unseen I looked in upon the 
 group. At the window stood a lady, holding in 
 her arms a beautiful child, while another, some two 
 years older, stood by her side. The face was partly 
 turned from me, and the once thick curls were 
 gathered into rich braids ; but there was no mistak- 
 ing that round, youthful figure, and that light, ring- 
 ing laugh. The next moment I was in the room, 
 and received a cordial greeting from my blooming 
 friend and her handsome husband. 
 
 ''And here are my pets," said Kate, laughing, 
 and presenting her beautiful children ; " and on 
 pain of my displeasure, you must say they are very 
 lovely." 
 
 "You are the same as ever, Kate, I perceive." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 V And you have never repented your marriage 
 with that terrible cousin?" 
 
 " Never ! " she replied, turning her beaming eyes 
 on her husband. " O ! I am very happy ! " — and 
 so I believe she is. I have never seen her since, 
 but I occasionally hear from her, and her letters 
 are always fraught with the affection of her own 
 warm and generous spirit. Dear Kate ! whereso- 
 ever thou art, may God ever bless and prosper thee 
 and thine ! 
 
PROSE. 24*^ 
 
 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF WOMAN'S 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 OUR minister's family. 
 Gentle reader ! I have so often and so elabo- 
 rately described to you our little village, that I fear 
 you will deem it but an idle repetition to descant 
 once more upon its beauties; but had you ever 
 visited Heathside, you would feel, as I do, that it 
 were impossible to describe a tithe of its charms. 
 Yet it is to none of the scenes I have before 
 described that I would now draw your attention, 
 but to yonder neat white cottage, a short distance 
 below the Parsonage, on the opposite side. What 
 a cool, shady appearance the thick, green foliage 
 of those old apple-trees gives it ! and how prettily 
 it stands, not far from the margin of that willow- 
 fringed pond ! It is the residence of our minister's 
 widow and her only daughter. There is one more 
 feature in my landscape which must not be 
 omitted; this is a small, humble edifice, standing 
 midway in yon green lane, opposite the cottage, 
 from which, during several hours of the day, issues 
 the hum of voices ; and at intervals, groups of 
 merry children may be seen playing and shouting 
 before the- door, and giving unequivocal evidence 
 that there the village school-mistress dispenses her 
 discipline. What idea, fair reader, does that title 
 conjure up in your mind? Does fancy present 
 some old, wrinkled dame, with nicely plaited cap, 
 spectacles on nose and ferule in hand; or the sharp, 
 thin vi"sage and shrill voice of an antiquated 
 
244 PROSE. 
 
 maiden ? What a portrait of sweet Julia Cardon- 
 nel ! Picture to yourself a venerable damsel of 
 nineteeUj tall, slender and graceful as a young wil- 
 low, with a complexion fresh, yet delicate as the 
 blended hues of the apple-blossom; exquisitely 
 moulded features ; large, soft gray eyes, veiled by 
 long, black, silken lashes; full, red lips; luxuriant 
 hair, with " a single shade of chestnut on its gold ;" 
 a low, sweet voice and silvery laugh, and you 
 have a tolerable likeness of our village school- 
 mistress. 
 
 Julia Cardonnel is the orphan daughter of our 
 former clergyman, and the only child that survives 
 "to cheer and bless the desolate heart of his widow. 
 Many of the villagers remember the day when the 
 young minister brought to the parsonage his lovely 
 bride, then in the first flush of jrouth and beauty. 
 She was the youngest and favorite child of a doting 
 old father, rich, and descended from a proud and 
 ancient stock. Every indulgence that gold could 
 purchase or affection bestow was lavished upon 
 her, from her birth ; not a wish of her heart had 
 ever been thwarted, and her fond father looked for- 
 ward to the time when a brilliant marriage, suited 
 to her merits, should place her among the noblest 
 in the land. But unfortunately for this project, 
 during a visit to some country relations, she 
 became acquainted with Edward Cardonnel, a 
 young student of divinity. She passed several 
 weeks constantly in his society; and when, charmed 
 with her beauty, and captivated by her sweetness 
 and grace of manner, he offered to her acceptance 
 
PROSE. 245 
 
 all he possessed, which was, in fact, little more 
 than his heart and hand, she referred him to her 
 father, without a doubt of the success of his suit. 
 But though the loving and inexperienced maiden 
 of sixteen never dreamed that Edward's want of 
 fortune could be an obstacle to their wishes, her 
 father had very different views of the subject ; and 
 when, with a frank acknowledgment of his circum- 
 stances, the young lover requested permission to 
 address his mistress, he was formally dismissed, 
 and forbidden the entree of the house. Unused to 
 contradictions, and accustomed to have every wish 
 gratified, it was not to be supposed that the fair 
 Julia's mind was in a state to bear this disappoint- 
 ment calmly. She wept, remonstrated, and finally 
 fretted herself sick, but the old man's mind was far 
 too firmly set upon- his own project, to be changed 
 even by the tears of his darling child. 
 
 Opposition, as is usually the case, only fostered 
 the grande passion; and when Edward was settled 
 over the society at Heathside, she braved the dis- 
 pleasure of her father, resigned the luxuries and 
 elegance to which she had been accustomed, and 
 forsook the proud mansion of her ancestors, to 
 share the humble fortunes of the devoted pastor of 
 a simple but affectionate flock. The parsonage 
 was soon transformed, by her tasteful hand, into a 
 delightful abode : many-hued and beautiful flowers 
 blossomed in the garden before the door ; the fra- 
 grant honeysuckle climbed almost to the roof, and 
 filled the air with its odor; and all within and 
 without the house had an air of quiet and graceful 
 
246 PROSE. 
 
 simplicity, far more attractive than the gorgeous 
 splendor of prouder dwellings. When Edward 
 Cardonnel introduced his young wife into his hum- 
 ble abode, so different from the luxurious home of 
 her childhood, he had not been wholly free from 
 misgivings, lest her love should not be proof 
 against the change, or lest its ardor should be 
 damped by the prospect before her. But he had 
 not fully estimated or understood her character ; 
 hers was one of those leal spirits, which are never 
 laggard in a labor of love. 
 
 " Do not fear for me, dearest! " she said, in reply 
 to an intimation that had escaped her husband's 
 lips concerning her altered situation ; '' when I left 
 my father's house to share your humbler fortunes, 
 I knew well what was the task I undertook ; and I 
 am ready to brave all that may fall to my lot, and 
 perform to the best of my ability the duties that 
 devolve upon me as the wife of a poor man, and 
 the helpmeet of a servant of God ; and if I gain 
 your approbation, Edward, my labor will be well 
 repaid." 
 
 She set about her new avocations with a zeal 
 and earnestness which soon rendered the most 
 complicated of her domestic duties easy and sim- 
 ple, and, by enabling her to discharge them in less 
 time, afforded her leisure to accompany her hus- 
 band in his visits to the sick and poor among his 
 flock, and to offer relief and comfort to all who 
 needed. In the year succeeding their marriage, a 
 new and endearing tie brought new cares and 
 additional pleasures, and in the performance of her 
 
PROSE. 247 
 
 conjugal, maternal and social duties, Mrs. Cardon- 
 neFs happiness would have been complete, but for 
 the remembrance of her aged father. She had 
 written, immediately after her arrival at Heathside, 
 and still later, asking his forgiveness for this, her 
 only act of disobedience, and requesting his bene- 
 diction on a marriage which lacked his blessing 
 only to make its felicity perfect. But no answer 
 was returned; the old man was inexorable, and 
 had apparently cast out his youngest darling from 
 her former place in his affections. 
 
 Years passed, and three children, sweet house- 
 hold treasures, now gladdened the parsonage. The 
 eldest, a girl, inherited her mother's name and 
 beauty, while her temper and disposition presented 
 a beautiful combination of the characteristics of 
 both parents ; for, though gifted by nature with the 
 playful gayety and exuberant flow of spirits which 
 had distinguished her mother's youth, yet, from 
 being in a great measure the pupil and companion 
 of her father, she had imbibed, as it were, with his 
 studious habits, the thoughtful gentleness of his 
 manners. The second child was a pale, sickly, 
 delicate boy, deformed from his earliest infancy by 
 disease, but richly gifted with meekness, and dis- 
 playing a patient endurance of the most acute suf- 
 fering, which might have put many an older per- 
 son to the blush. Poor Herbert ! his was a weary 
 lot, and yet how unmurmuringly he bore it ! sup- 
 pressing the faintest groan, and trying to smile, 
 even while his brow was knit and his lip quivering 
 with sharp agony, lest his mother's heart should be 
 
248 PROSE. 
 
 wrung by looking on the sufferings of her child. 
 And if a sigh did sometimes escape him, as he sat 
 in his chair by the window, or on the piazza before 
 the door, on the long, bright summer days, and lis- 
 tened to the merry shouts of the boys as they pur- 
 sued their active amusements on the green within 
 sight of the house, — • enjoyments from which he 
 was debarred, — it was instantly checked, and 
 taking up his book, he would thank God that he 
 was not blind, and that so many blessings were 
 yet left to him. There he would sit, day after 
 day, reading, singing, or carving with his knife 
 some curious toy for little Edward, a bright-eyed, 
 sunny-haired, frolicsome child, the pet and play- 
 thing of the whole family. 
 
 Such was the group which, fifteen years after 
 their marriage, twined round the hearts and blessed 
 the dwelling of Edward and Julia Cardonnel ; and 
 if, at times, when she looked upon her children, 
 and recalled her own childhood and girlhood, she 
 sighed for her father's forgiveness, and for his bles- 
 sing upon them, yet time and his implacability 
 had, in a great measure, worn off her sorrow for 
 her only act of disobedience towards him. Her lot 
 had been one of happiness, and when her daily 
 duties had been cheerfully performed, she found 
 time to impart to her daughter the elegant accom- 
 plishments in which she in her youth had excelled, 
 to cultivate the mind and heart of her afflicted 
 boy, to amuse and instruct her youngest darling, 
 and to join with her husband in improving the 
 minds and ministering to the necessities of the 
 
PROSE. 249 
 
 people of their charge. IdoUzed by her husband 
 and children, beloved and respected by rich and 
 poor, thus did Mrs. Cardonnel, the beauty and the 
 belle, pursue the even tenor of her way. 
 
 But happiness so perfect . and entire is not for 
 this world, else should we never be willing to leave 
 it. Surrounded by prosperity, and friends faithful 
 and beloved, how- could we ever part from them 
 even to gain heaven? for truly, ^^ivhere the treasure 
 is, there ivill the heart be also.''' The dark wing of 
 the angel of death overshadowed that peaceful 
 dwelling, and the parents hung in agony over the 
 shrouded form of their youngest born. There were 
 sobs and tears at night, where in the morning had 
 reigned joy and sunshine ; but it was not for those 
 on the darkness of whose hearts the star of salva- 
 tionYididL risen to mourn as "those who have no 
 hope ; and they soon ceased to grieve that the fair 
 flower which had budded in the garden of their 
 hearts should blossom in deathless beauty on the 
 banks of the pure River of Life ! Dear as the 
 sweet child had been to all, by none Avas his loss 
 so keenly felt as by the poor, deformed Herbert. 
 They had various avocations and active employ- 
 ments to wean their minds from sorrow ; but he, 
 occupying the same seat day after day, and 
 engaged in the same monotonous routine of amuse- 
 ments, was constantly reminded of the lost one. 
 His mothei: and Julia sought to divert his thoughts 
 from such memories, by removing every book and 
 plaything which had belonged to the child ; but he 
 saw their design, and one day, looking up from a 
 21 
 
250 PROSE. 
 
 reverie into which he had fallen, and perceiving 
 them intently regarding him, he said, '^ Do not 
 think I am mourning for either Edward or myself; 
 for I know that he is an angel now, in that bright, 
 beautiful land of which, you have so often told me, 
 and though he cannot come back hither, yet I shall 
 soon go to him; and there, dearest mother," he 
 continued, his eye brightening and his face irradi- 
 ating, as he spoke, with holy joy, " there none shall 
 scoff or mock at my infirmity, for God shall take 
 away this poor, suffering, misshapen frame, and 
 fashion it anew, like to Christ's glorious body; and 
 there I shall meet Edward, and we shall walk 
 hand in hand beside the crystal streams, and drink 
 of the water of Life. O mother ! when I think of 
 him in that blissful clime, and then of myself, a 
 sick, suffering and useless being, I can scarcely 
 bear to wait my time ! " 
 
 Not long did the boy pant for the realization of 
 his dreams. Edward passed away with the sum- 
 mer flowers, and the frosts of October whitened the 
 grave of Herbert Cardonnel. There were tearful 
 eyes and quivering lips, when the little family met 
 at the table, or around the fireside, in the long win- 
 ter evenings succeeding their double bereavement; 
 they missed that bright head with its golden curls, 
 and that other pale, meek face, with its large, 
 spiritual eyes and intellectual brow; and when 
 the evening hymn was sung, they listened in vain 
 for the two young vojces that were wont to pour 
 forth their melody. 
 
 That winter passed. Spring came and went, 
 
PROSE. 251 
 
 and ere summer had thrown down her garland, a 
 new sorrow had entered the hearts of the mother 
 and daughter. Mr. Cardonnel's heahh was evi- 
 dently failing; his untiring devotion to his paro- 
 chial duties, combined with the grief and anxiety 
 of the preceding months, had wrought fearful rav- 
 ages on his naturally delicate constitution ; and his 
 wife and Julia listened with fear and distress to his 
 short and difficult respiration, and to the quick, 
 dry cough which succeeded every eifort in speak- 
 ing or reading; and his people, who were fondly 
 attached to him, sighed and shook their heads, as 
 they remarked his attenuated form and languid 
 movements, his sharpened features, and the bright 
 crimson spot which burnt on his hollow and 
 sunken cheek. As the autumn approached, his 
 symptoms grew even more alarming ; and his ter- 
 rified family sent for a physician of the neighbor- 
 ing city, who was celebrated for his skill in pul- 
 monary complaints. He came, looked on the 
 patient, heard the recital of his symptoms, and was 
 silent. His benevolent heart shrunk from the ful- 
 filment of the physician's hardest task. He looked 
 round on the little group ; — his eyes turned from 
 the countenance of the victim, calm, placid, and 
 resigned, yet bearing the fatal signet of consumption, 
 to the pale, sweet face of the wife, and the fresher 
 loveliness of the daughter, both w^earing the same 
 expression of hope faintly struggling with the sick- 
 ening and terrible fear, and he felt he could not 
 deceive them ; he could not raise hopes that would 
 prove fallaciousj and yet how could he bear to 
 
252. PROSE. 
 
 crush them with that dreadful intelhgence? Thrice 
 he essayed to speak, but failed in the attempt; and 
 just as he was making another and desperate effort, 
 unable longer to endure the suspense, Mrs. Car- 
 donnel grasped his hand, and with a voice that 
 sounded strangely sharp and shrill to her hearers, 
 she exclaimed, " O, do not say that he must die, — 
 do not crush a heart already bruised and bleeding, 
 • — he may yet be saved; medicine, and kind, de- 
 voted attention, will soon restore him ! O, bid me 
 not despair ! tell me that I may hope, and I will 
 kneel and bless you ! " 
 
 ''Julia!" said the sick man; and in an instant 
 his wife was at his side, — "calm yourself, my 
 beloved, and listen with Christian resignation to 
 the physician's sentence, be it of life or death. 
 God has been very merciful to us, dearest ! Six- 
 teen happy years we have passed together ; and if 
 it be his will to separate us now, we must not 
 murmur or repine. And now, doctor, we are ready 
 to hear your decision." 
 
 " I cannot deceive you, my friend ; nor would I, 
 if I could. I will not deny that your case is dan- 
 gerous ; but while there is life there is hope, and 
 though your health can never be restored, your 
 days may, I think, be prolonged by a sojourn in a 
 more genial climate. I will not offer you medi- 
 cines, for they would be useless ; but if I can aid 
 you in anything relating to your journey, my ser- 
 vices will be freely tendered;" and with a few 
 soothing words, the kind-hearted physician took 
 his departure. 
 
PROSE. 253 
 
 Paint as was the hope he held out to her, Mrs. 
 Cardonnel chmg to it with the greatest tenacity, 
 and at length, by her earnest pleadings and moving 
 entreaties, succeeded in gaining her husband's con- 
 sent. The only obstacle now was the state of 
 their finances. Small as was the salary of a coun- 
 try parson, frugality and economy had enabled 
 them to lay by yearly a portion, to be reserved for 
 sickness, or any particular exigence ; and to what 
 better purpose could it be devoted than to the 
 recovery of that dear one's health? To this sum 
 a few of the wealthier part of his parishioners added 
 sufiicient to defray the expenses ; and having made 
 arrangements to supply the pulpit during his ab- 
 sence, the Cardonnels bade adieu to their home, 
 and ere the winter opened, were comfortably set- 
 tled in pleasant lodgings in one of the sunny vales 
 of France. To this place they had been recom- 
 mended by the worthy doctor, who had furnished 
 them with a letter of introduction to a young phy- 
 sician, a friend of his oAvn, who was sojourning 
 there for the benefit of an invalid sister's health. 
 As soon, therefore, as they Avere settled in their 
 new abode, the letter was despatched to Dr. May- 
 nard's lodgings, and the ensuing day the doctor 
 and his sister called on the new comers. The visit 
 was one of mutual pleasure ; the Maynards came 
 to mark their respect for their old friend by show- 
 ing every courtesy and attention to his friends, and 
 in like manner did the Cardonnels receive them ; 
 but ere an hour had passed, all felt that a nearer 
 affinity than that of country existed between them 
 21^ 
 
254 PROSE. 
 
 — the tie of kindred minds ; and had a stranger 
 looked in upon them, as they sat there on that first 
 visit, he would have deemed them old friends 
 meeting after a long separation. They had a 
 common topic of interest, too, in their solicitude 
 concerning the beloved ones who had brought them 
 thus in contact ; and they spoke hopefully and 
 cheerfully of the happy change the climate was to 
 effect. For some time their hopes seemed likely to 
 be realized. The warm, genial air, wholesome 
 exercise and pleasant society, seemed to produce 
 a favorable effect upon the feeble frames of the 
 invalids, especially that of Mr. Cardonnel. His step 
 grew firmer, his cough abated, and he began to 
 talk hopefully of returning home; he already 
 looked forward to the happy meeting with his 
 friendly people, and spoke of the satisfaction he 
 should experience in seeing once more his own 
 pretty church, his beloved home, and the little 
 grave-yard where slept the loved and lost. But as 
 the time fixed for their departure approached, his 
 worst symptoms returned. Dr. Maynard would 
 have recommended his travelling still further south, 
 but the sick man had neither strength nor spirits to 
 attempt it ; ancf at length, in a violent paroxysm of 
 coughing, he burst a blood-vessel, and all knew 
 that his case was hopeless. Ere the day to which 
 he had fondly looked forward arrived, he slept 
 with the thousands of foreigners who have found a 
 final resting-place in the precincts oiPere la Chaise. 
 With sorrowing hearts the widow and her 
 daughter prepared for their return ; and the day 
 
PEosE. 255 
 
 after their embarkation, Dr. Maynard and his sis- 
 ter were on their passage to Italy. 
 
 Every Sabbath since their minister's departure, 
 had prayers been offered in the village church of 
 Heathside for the recovery of his health, and his 
 speedy restoration to his people. The letters that 
 were received encouraged their hopes, and they 
 were gladly anticipating his return, when the 
 tidings of his death reached them. There was sor- 
 row in every dwelling when the news was spread 
 through the village, and fervent petitions arose 
 from every heart, that night, that the bereavement 
 be sanctified not to them only, but more especially 
 to the afflicted ones who in a far land mourned the 
 loss of their dearest earthly friend. And when in 
 due time the travellers arrived, each sought, by 
 affectionate sympathy and attentive kindness to 
 them, to manifest their love and respect for him 
 who was gone forever. 
 
 When the first freshness of the sorrowful sensa- 
 tions called forth by visiting the "old familiar 
 places " had in some measure worn off, a new con- 
 sideration presented itself to Julia's mind; and this 
 was, their future mode of life, and the means by 
 which that living was to be obtained. The first 
 step to be taken was to provide a residence ; for 
 though, since their return, they had continued 
 inmates of the Parsonage, it was no longer home^ 
 and the minister who was to be settled in Mr. Car- 
 donnel's place had a large family, for whose accom- 
 modation the dwelling would barely suffice. Sev- 
 eral of their friends had proffered to the mother 
 
256 PROSE. 
 
 and daughter a home in their own families ; but 
 they were far too proud to be dependent; and 
 blest with youth, health and a good education, 
 Julia had no doubt of her own ability to gain a 
 subsistence for both. But how was this to be 
 eifected, and in what manner were her talents to 
 be brought into action? This question did Julia 
 ask herself continually ; but, unable to answer it, 
 she at length resolved to apply to her friends 
 for advice, and abide by their decision. But so 
 various were their opinions, and so 2/?2decided 
 their decisions, that the client was as much at a 
 loss as before. One recommended her to enter a 
 genteel family as a private governess; but that 
 would separate her from her mother, and they 
 were all that were left to each other, and must not 
 be parted. Another advised her to remove to the 
 city, and there profit by her knowledge of the 
 French idiom, and the perfect accent she had 
 acquired during her residence in France, by giving 
 lessons in the language. This appeared the more 
 feasible plan of the two ; but, on mentioning it to 
 her mother, Mrs. Cardonnel expressed such a dread 
 of removing to the city, and such an anxious 
 desire to dwell in the place where her happiest 
 days had been passed, that Julia at once renounced 
 the idea, and endeavored to procure employment 
 at fine and ornamental needle-v/ork, an accom- 
 plishment in which she excelled. But having 
 soon discovered that the most untiling industry 
 would l-arely afford them the necessaries of 
 life, and as each family contrived to do ttieir 
 
PROSE. 257 
 
 own plain sewing, she was utterly at a loss to 
 what pursuit to turn her attention, and was almost 
 in despair at the failure of her projects, when 
 the death of the old dame under whose super- 
 intendence ''the ideas" of the young villagers 
 had for many years been "taught to shoot," left 
 vacant the post of village school-mistress ; and at a 
 meeting of the principal men of the village, Avho 
 constituted the '' Committee," it was proposed by 
 one of them to request the minister's daughter to 
 undertake the charge of the school. Accordingly, 
 with some hesitation and many apologies for offer- 
 ing her a situation so far below her merits and 
 accomplishments, the proposition was made; and 
 having been thankfully accepted, Miss Cardonnel 
 was soon established in her new vocation. Hum- 
 ble though it be, it suffices for all the simple wants 
 of the mother and daughter, and the poor suppliant 
 is never turned, unrelieved, from their door. There, 
 in yonder neat cottage, they dwell together, satis- 
 fied and happy in each other's affections ; and any 
 bright summer morning, you may see them work- 
 ing industriously before school-hours in their little 
 garden, or after sunset taking their accustomed 
 walk down the lane, and never failing to rest 
 a while in the church-yard beside the graves of 
 those dear children; and speaking tearfully, but 
 with no vain sorrow or regret, of him whose body 
 rests in a far distant land, but whose spirit, they 
 fondly trust, is looking down from its bright abode 
 upon those whom on earth he loved so tenderly. 
 Julia entered upon her new labors with a cheer- 
 
258 FEOSE. 
 
 ful spirit, and an earnest desire to promote the 
 interests of her young charge ; and eminently suc- 
 cessful she has been. Parents no longer complain 
 of their children's reluctance to go to school ; for the 
 first sound of the bell is anticipated by groups of 
 rosy, smiling children, watching for their teacher, 
 and hailing her appearance with unfeigned delight. 
 Perfect order and decorum reign in the school, 
 though the pupils are no longer terrified into sub- 
 mission by the harsh voice and frown of the mis- 
 tress, or awed by the ominous sound of the ponder- 
 ous ferule; but a more powerful sentiment than 
 fear influences her scholars ; and hardy and reck- 
 less indeed would that urchin be, who would bar- 
 ter the sweet smile and kindly commendation of 
 Miss Cardonnel, for the unsatisfying pleasures of 
 disobedience. It is the golden age of our village 
 school; and should any question the beauty and 
 efficacy of Julia's system of instruction and disci- 
 pline, they have only to follow her in one of her 
 frequent visits to the dwellings of her pupils, and 
 witness the joy her presence creates, — to see the 
 group of little ones cling around her, and hear their 
 earnest strivings for the seat of honor on her knee, 
 — to feel that her rule is that of gentleness, and 
 that the secret of her sway is — Love ! In short, I 
 think I have fairly made out that Julia Cardonnel 
 is a nonpareil — the pattern for daughters, and the 
 paragon of village school-mistresses. But, alack 
 and alas ! '■'■How blessings brighten^ as they take 
 their flight f^ It is now two years since Julia 
 first took charge of the village school, and we had 
 
PROSE. 259 
 
 fondly hoped, from her indifference to all the beaux 
 within the scope of whose admiration she came, 
 that, despite her youth, beauty, and other fascina- 
 tions, she would remain a fixed star in the orbit 
 where she moved so gracefully and well. But one 
 fine afternoon, some six weeks ago, a chaise was 
 seen entering our village, drawn by a beautiful bay 
 horse. Ah, we little thought what mischief it was 
 bringing us; — not that there was anything peculiar 
 about the vehicle, for though very handsome, it 
 was plain and unornamented, neither did the 
 horse Avear any particular expression which could 
 lead us to think he meditated any invasion of our 
 rights and privileges ; and for the inmates of the 
 chaise, one was a fine-looking young man of seven 
 or eight and twenty, and the other a fair, delicate 
 girl, of eighteen ; and the whole cortege^ horse, car- 
 riage and individuals, might have passed through 
 the place untouched by the breath of suspicion, 
 had not the gentleman reined in his steed at the 
 door of the inn, and inquired for the residence of 
 Mrs. Cardonnel. This unlucky question set the 
 full tide of rumor afloat; nor was the curiosity 
 of the villagers at all allayed by witnessing the 
 cordial welcome with which the widow and her 
 daughter greeted the strangers, by their long stay 
 at the cottage, or by the inability of all to discover 
 who they were, and whence they came. For 
 more than three weeks did this mystery remain 
 unsolved. Every afternoon, about the time fixed 
 for dismissing the village school, that identical 
 horse and chaise might be seen at the gate of the 
 
260 PROSE. ' 
 
 cottage, sometimes bringing the lady and gentle- 
 man, bat oftener the gentleman alone; and very 
 often Julia and the mysterious stranger were 
 detected walking tete-d-tete^ and always deeply 
 engaged in conversation. But at length that sea- 
 son of suspense came to an end. The young girl 
 who assisted Mrs. Oardonnel in her domestic 
 duties gave to a friend, as a. great secret, — imme- 
 diately circulated, of course, — the information that 
 the visiters were Dr. Maynard, a physician in the 
 neighboring city, and his sister; that they were 
 travelling in France at the same time with the 
 Cardonnels, and were with them at the time of 
 their bereavement. But the satisfaction with 
 which this intelligence was received was quickly 
 embittered by the additional news, namely, that 
 Miss Julia was going to give up her school^ to be 
 married to the handsome young doctor ! At first, 
 we tried to shut our eyes and ears against the 
 unpleasant conviction; but truth, however disa- 
 greeable, will force itself upon us; and the fact is 
 now self-evident, and beyond the shadow of a 
 doubt, that we are about to lose our pretty school- 
 mistress. A lady recommended by Dr. Maynard 
 is to take, but, alas ! we fear not to supply, her 
 place. Yarious preparations, ominous of a wed- 
 ding, are going busily forward at the cottage ; and 
 did we need further proof, for two successive Sab- 
 baths has our church-door borne ample testimony 
 to the matrimonial intentions of George Maynard 
 and sweet Julia Oardonnel. The widow is to 
 reside with her daughter in the city ; but a portion, 
 
PROSE. 261 
 
 at least, of every summer, they are to spend at 
 Heathside ; and here I would not forget to mention, 
 that time and misfortune have softened the anger 
 of Mrs. Cardonnel's father, that he is forgiving and 
 forgiven, and that his daughter and her child have 
 been joyfully welcomed to the old man's heart and 
 home. 
 
 And now, what further have I to say, unless I 
 inform you that the bay horse still pertinaciously 
 persists in finding his way to the little white cot- 
 tage ; that the bustle of preparation is nearly over ; 
 and that we are daily expecting to hear our old 
 church bell chime merrily in honor of the marriage 
 of the young Dr. Maynard and our gentle and 
 beautiful Minister's Daughter. 
 
 THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 " Lead us not into temptation." 
 
 I. 
 
 It was the first of May, a bright, beautiful, 
 balmy morning, and, as the first gray streaks of 
 dawn tinted the horizon, from almost every dwell- 
 ing in the little village of Lynmere might be seen 
 issuing youths and maidens in holiday attire, who 
 bent their way through the different lanes and cop- 
 pices, and in a short time reappeared ; and soon a 
 merry and smiling group was assembled on the 
 green, open space, with a large old oak tree in the 
 centre, to which the villagers had given the name 
 of the '■'■ Common." Each of the party had gath- 
 ered a supply of the early spring flowers, a portion 
 22 
 
262 PROSE. 
 
 of which were formed into houquets by the young 
 men, while others were twined into wreaths by 
 the fairy fingers of the girls. Ever and anon an 
 anxious glance was cast towards one of the by- 
 paths leading to the outskirts of the village, as if 
 they were expecting to see some one approach 
 from thence. In a short time their wishes were 
 answered, and a joyous welcome greeted the 
 appearance of a bright, blooming maiden, appar- 
 ently about sixteen years of age, attired in a simple 
 white dress, and a straw hat trimmed with pale 
 pink ribbon, the simplicity of her dress heightening 
 the efiect of her rich, glowing and sparkling beauty. 
 Her arrival, it would seem, had been the signal 
 for commencing the business of their little election; 
 and, judging from the admiring and affectionate 
 glances cast upon her, it was not difficult to guess 
 upon whom the choice would fall. The vote in 
 her favor was unanimous; and in a few minutes, 
 the floral crown, composed of dewy violets, hare- 
 bells and lily of the valley, interspersed with a few 
 pink and blue hyacinths, the gift of a fair amateur 
 in flowers, was entwined amid the luxuriant raven 
 curls of the beautiful May Queen. 
 
 As the first beams of the rising sun gilded the 
 slender spire of Lynmere church, the little proces- 
 sion, bearing garlands, bouquets and May-poles, 
 and headed by their queen, with her flower- 
 wreathed sceptre and crown, the rays of sunlight 
 glittering on the dew-drops, and making them flash 
 and sparkle like diamonds on her brow, took up 
 their line of march through the village streets. 
 
PROSE. 263 
 
 where they were cheered with unaffected dehght 
 by the inhabitants, young and old. At length they 
 turned off from the main road, and pursued their 
 way down an elm-shaded avenue, till they came in 
 sight of a neat, pretty dwelling, with a light piazza 
 in front, ascended by a few steps from the garden, 
 which was already rife with the fragrance of haw- 
 thorn and apple blossom. As they approached the 
 gate, an old man, who had been standing on the 
 piazza, came forward to meet them ; and had even 
 a stranger seen the took of devoted affection with 
 which he greeted the Ic-vely May Queen, it would 
 have needed no second glance to tell him the rela- 
 tion in which they stood. The cordial invitation 
 of the proprietor of the mansion to enter was cheer- 
 fully accepted, and the neat and skilful hands of 
 Marian Shaw soon prepared a simple but plentiful 
 repast, enlivened by the mirthful conversation, 
 which was rather aided than checked by their 
 worthy host, and received additional zest from the 
 loveliness of his daughter; for the beauty of Marian 
 Shaw, the Woodland Rose, was the admiration and 
 toast of the country for miles around. 
 
 When the meal was concluded, the party once 
 more resumed their route ; and while they are pur- 
 suing it, we will endeavor to learn something of 
 the parentage and history of the fair May Queen. 
 At five and forty the father of Marian Shaw was 
 still unmarried, and quite undesirous of changing 
 his single estate; and mothers and daughters, tired 
 of the vain attempts to captivate him, had at length 
 deserted the old bachelor, to open their battery of 
 charms asrainst some easier to be won citadel. It 
 
264 PROSE. 
 
 was then that accident made Mr. Shaw acquainted 
 with a beautiful Italian orphan, who occupied the 
 post of nursery governess to the children of an old 
 friend whom he was visiting. Therese Cellini had 
 emigrated to America with her father, whose con- 
 stitution, formed and nurtured amid the genial airs 
 of the sweet South, was unable to withstand the 
 inclemency of our more rigorous climate ; and a 
 few months after their arrival he died, bequeathing 
 his daughter to the tender mercies of a race of 
 strangers in a foreign land. After many fruitless 
 attempts to gain a livelihcod, Therese had been 
 rescued from want and misery by the gentleman 
 in whose family she now resided. Her brilliant 
 beauty and graceful manners attracted the atten- 
 tion of Mr. Shaw; her unprotected, orphan state 
 called forth his sympathies ; and the interest thus 
 excited soon ripened into a deep and earnest affec- 
 tion. Though no longer in the hey-day of youth, 
 he still retained much of its romance ; and, with 
 his handsome person, lively talents, gentlemanly 
 deportment, and benevolence and kindliness of 
 heart, he could scarcely fail to wake a correspond- 
 ing emotion in the object of his attachment. Ere 
 his friends and acquaintances had time to wonder, 
 the friendless orphan, Therese, was the wife of the 
 ci-devant bachelor. Mr. Shaw was not rich, but 
 the small fortune which he inherited from his 
 father had been carefully used ; and now that 
 another was to share it with him, he doubted not 
 that the same prudent management woiild make 
 his modest competence sufficient for all their wants. 
 
PROSE. 265 
 
 The pretty house before mentioned was their 
 bridal residence, and there did they look forward, 
 through the long vista of future years, to a life of 
 cloudless happiness. But their dreams were not 
 destined to be realized. One short year of perfect 
 enjoyment was alone allotted to them, and the 
 same hour made Mr. Shaw a joyful father and a 
 disconsolate widower. 
 
 Ere poor Therese had been a week an inmate 
 of her narrow dwelling, the officious gossips and 
 busybodies of the village had prophesied that, 
 before a year elapsed, Woodland Cottage would 
 have another mistress ; and perhaps it might have 
 been so, had he been a younger man. But could 
 they who thus lightly spoke have looked in upon 
 that darkened chamber, where, by the bedside on 
 which she had died, and from which her dark, 
 loving eyes had gazed with unquenchable fond- 
 ness upon him, in her last struggle, he knelt in 
 utter prostration of spirit, — could they have seen 
 the shreds of gray that mingled profusely among 
 the bright brown locks, Avhich, a few days before, 
 had been unshadowed, and heard the sobs wrung 
 by his agony from the very soul of that strong 
 man, — they might, perhaps, have felt and known 
 that his was the first and only love of a man too 
 old to change his affections easily. 
 
 From that hour of intense anguish, when the 
 
 low-breathed farewell of her who was dearer than 
 
 life had wrung every nerve and fibre of his heart, 
 
 and the faint, feeble wail of his child had awoke 
 
 22^ 
 
266 PROSE. 
 
 a fount of new and delicious feeling, had he vowed 
 to devote his future life to the little pledge of their 
 love. Faithfully and well did he execute his task ; 
 andj with a gentleness almost womanly, he watched 
 over her and administered to her wants. All the 
 wealth of affection which he had lavished on her 
 who was gone now gushed forth in deep and fer- 
 vent tenderness for the little Marian, — a sentiment 
 increased, if that were possible, by her resemblance 
 to her dead mother. But while he watched, with 
 admiring love, the rapidly developing beauty of 
 her person, he never for a moment neglected to 
 cultivate the better qualities of mind and heart ; 
 and the Woodland Rose grew up, pure and gentle, 
 simple and affectionate, and reverencing her father 
 with an exclusive affection, bordering almost on 
 idolatry. Though motherless, she had never yet 
 realized the full extent of her loss ; for though her 
 attention had been first of all directed to the por- 
 trait of her young mother, and her beauty, virtues 
 and goodness, had been the theme of many a long 
 and well-remembered conversation with her father, 
 yet so devoted and watchful had been his tender- 
 ness and care, that Marian could not imagine a 
 relation more endearing. Even as he doted upon 
 her, so did she regard him ; and this trait, combined 
 with her sweetness of disposition, attracted all 
 hearts towards her, even more than did her exceed- 
 ing loveliness. 
 
 Never was title more aptly bestowed than when 
 Marian Shaw was styled the "Woodland Rose." 
 She inherited from her mother the brilliant com- 
 
PROSE. 267 
 
 plexion of blended olive and carnation which dis- 
 tinguishes the women of southern climes; she had 
 the same large black eyes, full of dreamy languor 
 when at rest, and when excited, sparkling, passion- 
 ate and more eloquent than many words; abun- 
 dant jetty lashes, shining hair and delicately pen- 
 cilled eyebrows of the same ebon hue ; finely cut 
 features, and red, luscious lips; and, withal, a form 
 of perfect symmetry, and a softness of manner that 
 communicated itself in some measure to all who 
 came within the sphere of her influence. Such 
 was Marian Shaw, at the time she was introduced 
 to the reader as the Queen of May. Alas ! that 
 day was destined to be one of great and eventful 
 importance to her ! The May-day festivities were 
 usually concluded by a dance in a shady grove, 
 belonging to a wealthy farmer; and thither the pro- 
 cession, having completed their route, adjourned to 
 rest and refresh themselves. In the course of the 
 afternoon, they were joined by a party from the 
 village, including a few strangers, who wished to 
 look on, and perhaps share their merriment. 
 Among these, were two young men from a distant 
 city, of genteel appearance, and one of them 
 extremely handsome, and prepossessing in manner. 
 Marian's beauty instantly attracted his attention, 
 and profiting by the familiarity attendant upon 
 social parties of that kind, he entered into conver- 
 sation with her ; and when the signal was given, led 
 her in triumph to the head of the old-fashioned 
 contra dance, to the evident chagrin and envy of 
 numerous rustic competitors. 
 
268 pnosE. 
 
 When, at length, the faUmg dews and the deep- 
 ening shades of twiUght warned the gay party to 
 disperse, and Charles Hamilton bade the fair May 
 Queen adieu at the gate of her father's dwelling, 
 it was evident that he had made considerable im- 
 pression on the fancy, at least, if not on the heart, 
 of the guileless and simple-minded girl. Week 
 after week went by ; the elder of the two strangers 
 departed, yet his handsome and more fascinating 
 companion still lingered, a frequent visiter at Wood- 
 land Cottage, and the devoted admirer of fair 
 Marian Shaw. At first her father had appeared to 
 enjoy the society of young Hamilton ; but after a 
 while his manner towards him, apparently without 
 cause, became cold and constrained, till finally h^ 
 expressed to Marian his disapprobation of the young 
 man's principles, and decidedly, though affection- 
 ately, forbade her to receive his visits. But kindly 
 and tenderly as they were said, his words fell like 
 an ice-bolt on the ardent and passionate tempera- 
 ment of the daughter of an Italian mother ; and, 
 for the first time in her life, Marian murmured at 
 her father's will. When, at evening, she stole forth 
 to keep her tryst with Charles, and, with sobs and 
 tears, made known her father's edict, and listened 
 with trustful fondness to the eloquent protestations 
 of undying love from lips whose truth she could 
 not question, it was little wonder that, overpowered 
 by his arguments and entreaties, and influenced 
 probably by her own passionate attachment, she 
 should at length yield to his request, to receive his 
 visits clandestinely, after her father had retired to 
 
PROSE. 269 
 
 rest ; for Mr. Shaw was a steadfast adherent to the 
 old maxim, "Early to bed, and early to rise." 
 
 It is not to be supposed that Marian glided at 
 once, and without a struggle, into the path of dis- 
 obedience and error ; many a sleepless night, and 
 many a bitter pang, did it cost her; but, as is usu- 
 ally the case, the further she progressed, the easier 
 became the task of deception. 
 
 II. 
 
 It was the latter part of August, a clear and 
 cloudless night, and the moon was pouring down a 
 flood of silver radiance on the pretty village of Lyn- 
 mere. On that evening, in a small, but light and 
 airy apartment of Woodland Cottage, opening by 
 a glass door into the garden, the moonlight streamed 
 in, and cast its mellow rays upon the figure of a 
 youthful maiden. Her small head, with its bright 
 raven curls, was bowed upon her hands, and 
 though no sound escaped her, it was evident, from 
 the convulsive movements of her frame, that she 
 was weeping ; while on the table beside her lay a 
 straw hat, and a large, dark bundle. Soon a slight 
 rustling was heard among the bushes in the gar- 
 den, and a tall, manly figure stepped noiselessly 
 into the room, and in an instant was at the side of 
 the weeping girl. 
 
 "Nay, my sweet Woodland Rose, this must not 
 be," said her nocturnal visiter. " Why should you 
 weep, when you are about to unite your destiny 
 with that of one whom you love, and who adores 
 you so devotedly 1 " 
 
270 PROSE. 
 
 '^ But my father ! " sobbed the girl ; " Charles, I 
 cannot forsake my poor, old, gray-haired father ! It 
 would break his heart, if his only child, whom he 
 has doted on so fondly, and cherished so tenderly, 
 should leave him alone in his age. How often has 
 he told me how my mother, on her death-bed, gave 
 me into his hands, and prayed that I might live to 
 become a blessing and comfort to him in his declin- 
 ing years ! And oh, Charles ! when he blessed me 
 to-night, and kissed my brow, and spoke of my 
 dutiful affection towards him, I felt ready to sink 
 beneath the weight of guilt and falsehood that 
 oppressed me ! I could have fallen at his feet, and, 
 confessing all my sins, have begged his forgiveness ; 
 but I thought of you, and hushed my throbbing 
 heart, and left his presence knowing that I had 
 received his benediction for the last time ! But that 
 must not be — indeed, dearest Charles, I cannot go ! 
 I must not leave my father ! " And with a fresh 
 burst of sorrow, the girl clung to the arm of her 
 dangerous companion, and looked up into his face 
 with such pleading and earnest eloquence, that, for 
 a moment, a shadow of self-reproach passed over 
 his handsome features ; but it quickly disappeared, 
 and by soft, yet passionate terms of endearment, he 
 sought to hush the "still, small voice," which was 
 vainly essaying to save the deluded maiden. But 
 the love of a stranger triumphed over the long-tried 
 and devoted affection of years — over the tender- 
 ness which had watched and shielded her mother- 
 less infancy, and the watchful care which had 
 prayed that she might resist temptation. With the 
 
PROSE. 271 
 
 tears not yet dried from the soft cheek, and still 
 glistening on the long, silken lashes, and firmly sup- 
 ported by Charles Hamilton, the half-fainting girl 
 was borne through the garden, the gate of which 
 opened into a by-path, leading to the high road of 
 the village ; and entering the carriage he had pro- 
 cured, Marian Shaw was an alien and wanderer 
 from the happy home of her childhood. 
 
 The widowed and now doubly bereaved old 
 man arose, the next morning, unconscious of the 
 anguish that awaited him, cheerful and happy ; in 
 his orisons, his beloved child was earliest and fond- 
 est remembered, and he descended to the breakfast- 
 room with a blessing on his lips. He Avas a little 
 disappointed at not finding her, as usual, ready to 
 greet him ; and fearing she must be ill, he returned 
 up stairs, and was about to tap at her bed-room 
 door, but finding it ajar, he entered. The bed was 
 smooth, as though it had not been disturbed the 
 preceding night, and on the snowy pillow lay a 
 sealed note. He opened it, and read — ''My 
 beloved father ! Even while 1 write to you thus, I 
 am about to forsake you, to break from all the ties 
 that bind me to you and home, to follow the for- 
 tunes of one of whom I know little more than that 
 he is handsome and fascinating, and that I love 
 him more than life! I have struggled, dearest 
 father, to break from this spell ; but it is impossible, 
 and before I go, I have a confession to make to you. 
 When first I became acquainted with Charles 
 Hamilton, you appeared to like him, and encour- 
 aged our intimacy; and when, at length, you for- 
 
272 PROSE. 
 
 bade^ me to notice him, or to receive his visits, I 
 had no longer the power or the will to obey you. 
 For many weeks I have met him, and he has been 
 here, unknown to you ; he has urged me, with an 
 eloquence I cannot withstand, to fly with him ; and 
 though 'I know the right, I yet the wrong pursue,' 
 for something unseen, yet mighty, seems hurrying 
 me on to ruin. Farewell, dearest father! — do not 
 curse me, for the sake of my dead mother; and 
 even yet your last benediction is ringing in the ears 
 of your ungrateful Maria^n." 
 
 The letter dropt silently from his hands. He did 
 not curse her ; but he buried his face in the pillow, 
 where she might never again lay her head in the 
 stainless purity of girlhood, and that gray -haired 
 old man Avept like a child ; for the idol of his heart, 
 the hope of his age, had forsaken him. 
 
 III. 
 Just ere the dawn of that morning was break- 
 ing, a carriage stopped at the gate of a little 
 demesne, in a pretty village, many miles from 
 Lynmere. It was far from the public road, and as 
 secluded as if it had been in a wilderness, while 
 the cottage itself was almost hidden by a massive 
 grape-vine, which threw its graceful tendrils over 
 the roof, and hung its rich, tempting clusters almost 
 within the muslin-curtained windows. Thither 
 did Charles Hamilton bring the beautiful and 
 deluded victim, whom he had lured from the path 
 of duty, and from the home of purity and happi- 
 ness ; and for many months even the reproachful 
 
PROSE. 273 
 
 voice of conscience, whispering of the grief of the 
 deserted old man, was drowned in the overwhelm- 
 ing flood of that all-engrossing passion for her 
 betrayer. But as time wore on, Charles' absences 
 became more frequent and prolonged, and Marian 
 was left for days, and even weeks, alone. It was 
 then she began to dwell oftener and more painfully 
 on her degraded situation, and her ungrateful de- 
 sertion of her father. But not till she became her- 
 self a parent did she fully realize the anguish she 
 must have caused him ; and even then, she could 
 scarcely compare her own newly awakened feel- 
 ings with those of an aged man, who had reared 
 tenderly an only child from helpless infancy to- 
 blooming and beautiful womanhood, only to have 
 his dearest affections outraged and betrayed. Her 
 situation, too, was now becoming painful in the 
 extreme; her feelings, rendered acutely sensitive 
 by her peculiar circumstances, were continually 
 wounded by the scornful look and ill-suppressed 
 sneer with which the matrons of the village passed 
 the unwed ded mother. They who should have 
 sought out the isolated young creature, and by 
 kindly words and gentle counsel endeavored to win 
 her back to the path of virtue ; for the villagers had 
 long since surmised, and had not cared to keep their 
 conjectures to themselves, that Marian was not the 
 wife of the man with whom she resided. Often 
 did the poor girl turn away with tears of real agony, 
 when the young maidens of her own age carefully 
 avoided her, for they were still pure, and her touch 
 
 might contaminate them. ; often did she long to say 
 23 
 
274 PROSE. 
 
 to them, " Once / was pure, and lovely and belovedj 
 even as ye now are ; take heed while ye stand, lest 
 ye too fall, and become even the despised and guilty 
 thing that I am now ! " As the winter approached, 
 her nervous sensitiveness increased; and she begged 
 so earnestly to be removed from her present resi- 
 dence, that he who had brought her to shame and 
 disgrace could not resist her supplications. 
 
 " Take me from this place, dear Charles ! carry 
 me anywhere, so that thei?' dark, scornful eyes can 
 no longer make me shrink and tremble, and I care 
 not what trials and privations may await me ! " 
 
 Ere the autumn blasts had ceased their mourn- 
 ful requiem among the leafless trees, Marian was? 
 established in a narrow street, leading from one of 
 the great thoroughfares in the wilderness of New 
 York city. What a change for the child of nature ! 
 Who would have recognized, in the pale-cheeked, 
 slender young mother, who sat in that stived 
 thoughluxuriously furnished apartment, singing, in 
 melancholy tones, to her child the gay songs of her 
 happier days, the-light hearted and beautiful May 
 Queen, the pride of the village of Lynmere?. For 
 the want of fresh air, and the clear sunshine in 
 which she had revelled from her infancy, added to 
 the sorrow and remorse that preyed upon her mind, 
 had soon faded the bloom of the bright Woodland 
 Rose. Still, Marian murmured not ; and she would 
 have been content, and have striven to be happy, 
 could she have felt that the love for which she had 
 sacrificed all still remained unchanged, intense and 
 
PROSE. 275 
 
 devoted as of old. But she could not shut her eyes 
 dgainst the conviction that Charles Hamilton was 
 no longer the ardent lover, who, with soft words, 
 and passionate eloquence, had won the heart of the 
 gentle May Q,ueen. Yet, there were times when 
 all his former tenderness would return ; and while 
 his arms encircled her and her child, the poor girl 
 would chide herself for having ever doubted his 
 affection, and would look confidently forward to 
 the time when he would repair in a measure the 
 wrongs he had done them. 
 
 Since they had resided in New York, Charles 
 had not only attended many convivial meetings, but 
 had frequently invited his friends to his house ; and 
 it was during one of the brighter intervals in his 
 intercourse with Marian, that he requested her to 
 superintend the preparations for a small party who 
 were to dine with him. It was at a late hour that 
 evening, when Marian, having watched by her child 
 till it sunk into a profound slumber, and feeling no 
 disposition to sleep herself, stole quietly down stairs 
 to procure a book. The library joined the dining- 
 room, and the revellers were too busy with their 
 wine to have heard her, even had her step been 
 heavier; but, as she passed into the room, the fold- 
 ing doors were not wholly closed, and she heard 
 her own name repeated by an unknown voice. 
 Startled, she paused, and in another moment the 
 same ribald tones proposed as a toast, — "Hamil- 
 ton's pretty lady-bird, the fair Marian Shaw ! " 
 Then followed the coarse jest, the bitter sneer ; and 
 the name and history of the once pure and lovely 
 
276 PROSE. 
 
 May Queen were bandied about, and made the theme 
 of jibe and jeer, by a set of unprincipled and half 
 intoxicated men. And he sat there, with a smile 
 on his lips, — those lips whose wily accents had lured 
 from duty, innocence, and respectability, — he sat 
 there, and heard it all, yet uttered no word of 
 rebuke, and lifted not his hand to fell to the earth 
 the slanderer of his victim, — Ae, the beloved of 
 her girlhood, the destroyer of her peace, the father 
 of her child ! Alas ! she had not the claim of the 
 insulted but virtuous wife, — she could not claim 
 redress, outraged and insulted as she was ; she was 
 his mistress, — the shunned, despised and degraded; 
 the mother of his child, but not the wife of his 
 bosom ! 
 
 With a noiseless step, she glided back to her own 
 apartment, and threw herself, in the wild abandon- 
 ment of grief, beside her sleeping child. It was the 
 embodiment of guilt and innocence. That beauti- 
 ful young creature, kneeling with clenched hands 
 and dishevelled tresses, the veins in her smooth 
 forehead swollen and distended, and her large 
 black eyes flashing with terrible brilliancy, while 
 beside her lay the sinless one who was to receive 
 the heritage of a mother^ s sin and shame. One 
 little dimpled hand lay beneath the fair and deli- 
 cate cheek, over which floated a single glossy, 
 golden ringlet escaped from its confinement ; and a 
 sweet smile, so like that which had won poor Mari- 
 an's heart, parted the soft red lips, and disclosed 
 the pearly treasures within. As the heart-stricken 
 young mother gazed on the calm, tranquil beauty 
 
PROSE. 277 
 
 of her darling, by degrees that strange brightness 
 left her eyes, that bitter smile forsook her lips, and 
 amid her gushing tears went up the voice of deep, 
 earnest prayer. Since the night she left her father's 
 roof, Marian had never dared to pray ; for ever, 
 when she attempted it, the image of the venerable 
 old man would rise before her, and the memory of 
 her disobedience and ingratitude would check the 
 devotional impulse ; but now she prayed, even as 
 when, in the days of her childhood, at that father's 
 knee, she had lisped, ^^ Lead us not into temptation ;''^ 
 and she arose from her knees, calmed and strength- 
 ened. 
 
 When, some two hours later, his guests having 
 departed. Charles Hamilton entered Marian's apart- 
 ment, she was apparently sleeping ; but as the par- 
 tially shaded light from the lamp fell on her face, 
 he saw that the dark lashes were gemmed with 
 tears, and that their traces were yet left on the soft, 
 crimson cheek. For an instant, an expression of 
 remorse and pity came over his countenance, and 
 bending, he pressed his lips to hers, and murmured, 
 '' My poor Marian ! " then going towards a table, he 
 took a slip of paper from it, and after pencilling a 
 few lines, he laid it on. her pillow, and left the apart- 
 ment. Ah ! that caress, those few kind words, had 
 almost overturned Marian's resolutions; she had 
 been tempted . to look once more on that beloved 
 face, and to forgive and forget all ; ^but the scene 
 she had that night witnessed returned to her mind. 
 A single glance through the small aperture left by 
 the doors had been sufficient to reveal, in the scoffer 
 23^ 
 
278 PROSE. 
 
 at her name, the form and features of him who had 
 accompanied Hamilton on the day of their first 
 meeting. With that image came up the well- 
 remembered May-day party, and all that had fol- 
 lowed that ill-starred acquaintance ; and the tempt- 
 ation was resisted. Marian listened till the last 
 sound of Charles' footsteps had died away, and 
 then, with trembling hands, she took the slip of 
 paper, and carried it to the night-lamp. It con- 
 tained but a few words, merely informing her that 
 he was to start, in half an hour, to join a party who 
 were to be absent several days. 
 * " It is well," said Marian ; " surely Providence is 
 favoring my plans, and aiding me to keep my reso- 
 lution." 
 
 In a short time Hamilton again descended the 
 stairs, and as the hall-door closed after him, Marian 
 felt that they were parted forever. She had deter- 
 mined to leave his house, and to remove, with her 
 child, to an humble but more honorable home, trust- 
 ing to gain a subsistence by her industry for her- 
 self and her helpless charge. In all that great city, 
 she had neither friend nor acquaintance ; for remem- 
 bering but too well all she had endured in her for- 
 mer place of abode, she had shrunk with real terror 
 from the coldness and scorn that would follow a 
 knowledge of her situation. But in her daily 
 walks she had often noticed, at the window of a 
 very humble dwelling, in the suburbs of the city, the 
 pale, meek face of a woman considerably advanced 
 in years, and had been struck with its resigned 
 expression. The woman had evidently noticed her 
 
PROSE. 279 
 
 earnest gaze, and had latterly returned it with a 
 benevolent smile. With her, though not a word 
 had passed between them, Marian felt almost 
 acquainted ; and to her she resolved to go, and after 
 making her acquainted with all her history, to ask 
 her counsel and advice. Her breakfast was hastily 
 despatched, and having dressed her child, she put 
 on her bonnet; and proceeded to the dwelling of 
 Mrs. Lewis. Her light tap at the door was 
 answered by the same meek-faced woman, and 
 Marian was kindly invited to enter. The benevo- 
 lent looks of the poor woman soon opened the way 
 for her visiter's recital; it was listened to with true 
 and earnest sympathy, and the friendless girl felt 
 that she was no longer alone. 
 
 "You are indeed young, to have seen misfor- 
 tune," said the kind-hearted Mrs. Lewis, as she 
 wiped the tears from her eyes ; '' yet I rejoice that 
 you have at length resisted temptation, and broken 
 the tie that bound you. You asked me for advice ; 
 and 1 can only say. Return to your father ! — to the 
 dear old man, who was father and mother both to 
 you in your helpless childhood, and who now 
 requires from you those attentions which none other 
 can repay. Go to him, my dear ; confess to him 
 your folly and sin, and tell him all that you have 
 suffered. He will forgive you, I am sure he will, 
 and restore you to the place you have forfeited. 
 Alas ! / too had once a daughter, as young and 
 almost as beautiful as yourself; tenderly did I watch 
 over her, for she was my all ; yet she left me for a 
 stranger, — forsook the quiet of our humble, but 
 
280 PROSE. 
 
 happy home, to lead a gayer, but less respectable life, 
 with him who had so basely deluded her. She left 
 me, but she never returned. I never saw her again 
 till she lay in her coffin ; — on her death-bed she had 
 yearned for my forgiveness, but I was not there to 
 bestow it. O, how gladly would I have received 
 her again, and have forgiven all ! But it was not 
 permitted me to do so. She has left me alone in the 
 world; — would you that your gray-haired father 
 should be left thus? Return, then, to him, ere it is 
 too late, lest death shall have sealed those lips ere 
 they have uttered the blessed word '•''forgive.^'' The 
 fountain of love is not dried up in his heart ; the 
 weeds which absence and neglect have allowed to 
 grow^ there may have choked its source, but the 
 careful hand of repentant affection will soon pluck 
 them thence, and the full tide will gush forth freely 
 and clear as ever.'^ 
 
 Thus comforted, strengthened and advised, Mari- 
 an set out on her return home, to make some little 
 arrangements, ere she quitted it forever. A small 
 bundle of necessary clothijig was hastily tied 
 together, and she vv^as about to leave the room^ 
 when a glance at her ungloved hand reminded her 
 of something which, in her haste, she had nearly 
 forgotten. In the earlier days of their love, Charles 
 had delighted to adorn, and render even more 
 brilliant, Marian's sparkling beauty; and he had 
 lavished upon her many rare and costly ornaments. 
 She sighed as she drew the sparkling gems from 
 her fingers, for each had a little history of its own 
 to her heart. One only she retained — a small pearl 
 
PROSE. 281 
 
 ring, which he had given her on the night when 
 she forsook all else to cleave to him; that was 
 sacred to the misguided girl, even as is the mar- 
 riage-token to the lawfully wedded wife ; and she 
 could not return it, for to her it would have seemed 
 like divorcing their spirits. Her watch, brooch 
 and bracelets, were placed carefully in their cases, 
 and but one more ornament remained. Suspended 
 from her neck by a small, exquisitely wrought 
 chain of gold, was Charles' miniature ; and as she 
 gazed upon it, the deep blue eyes seemed to look 
 up at her with the same passionate fondness as in 
 the days of yore, and that smile seemed beaming 
 upon her which had lured her confiding heart to 
 ruin. That, too, she could not leave. He had hung 
 it around her neck in the hour when first her 
 young ear drank in the intoxicating words of love ; 
 she had worn it ever since ; and disengaging it from 
 the beautiful chain, she placed that in the casket, 
 and attaching the picture to a black ribbon, she 
 returned it to its former place. Her last and hard- 
 est trial yet remained ; — she could not go without 
 bidding him adieu, — him, who for three years had 
 been all in all to her, and whom she was never to 
 look on more. Many a sheet did she commence 
 and throw aside ; and at length a few simple but 
 touching lines told him of the events of the preced- 
 ing night, of her resolution to see him no more, 
 truly and devotedly as she yet loved him ; and with 
 one gush of tenderness, one outpouring of sorrow, 
 she bade him farewell ! The letter was left on his 
 dressing-table, and taking her bundle beneath her 
 
282 PROSE. 
 
 cloakj — for it was now winter, — she cast one lin- 
 gering look around, and returned to the abode of 
 her humble friend. 
 
 IV. 
 
 It was early in the evening preceding the good 
 old festival of New England, Thanksgiving, when 
 the stage-coach drove up to the little hotel of 
 Lynmere village, and discharged its passengers. 
 Among those whom the driver assisted to alight, 
 was a female closely enveloped in a cloak and 
 hood, and with a child in her arms. She had 
 entered the stage at the half-way house of their 
 route, and appeared weary and exhausted. As 
 the driver handed her a small bundle, her only 
 luggage, he kindly offered to assist her in carrying 
 her child to the place of her destination ; but she 
 firmly, though gently, declined his escort, saying 
 that she had not much further to go, and the child 
 was not heavy; and taking her bundle, she pro- 
 ceeded. While she is thoughtfully treading the 
 well-known street, and shrinking from the notice 
 of the passers-by, we will take a rapid glance at 
 the neat, comfortable parlor of Woodland Cottage. 
 The fire blazed brightly on the ample and well- 
 swept hearth, the curtains were closely drawn, 
 and the light from the shaded lamp fell on the 
 silver locks, and lofty, furrowed brow of an aged 
 man. His evening meal stood untasted beside him, 
 and it was evident that his thoughts were not upon 
 the contents of the newspaper in his hands. Ah! to 
 him the morrow was no anticipated day of fes- 
 tivity or joy ; ~— the memories of the past forbade it 
 
PROSE. 283 
 
 His thoughts were with the long since dead, — with 
 the ungrateful and guilty living, — the wife of his 
 bosom, and the daughter of his old age ! Poor old 
 man ! he was sadly changed since we saw him 
 last ; the hale, hearty look had departed, his brow 
 and cheek had many additional wrinkles, and the 
 lines of grief and care were even more visible than 
 those of time. He was startled from his reverie by 
 a low, gentle tap at the door, and in answer to his 
 mild invitation, a female entered, leading a child 
 some two years old ; and ere his perplexity and 
 surprise would allow him to speak, the cloak 
 dropped from her shoulders, the hood was thrown 
 back, and Marian Shaw, pale and wan, yet beauti- 
 ful still, sank at the old man's feet, unable to utter 
 aught save the single word '^Father!" But that 
 word was enough. It had touched with a master 
 hand the right chord in his heart; the long-sealed 
 fountain was stirred, and the very depths of his 
 soul were thrilled by the imploring glance of those 
 upraised, tearful eyes, and by the soft, pleading 
 tone of that voice, whose music had been wont to 
 fill with joy and gladness his now lonely dwelling. 
 He did not speak, — words were too impotent to 
 express his emotions, — but as he raised the kneel- 
 ing girl, and clasping her fondly to his breast, min- 
 gled his sobs and tears with hers, the Magdalen 
 felt that she was forgiven ! 
 
 V. 
 
 Have patience with me, dear reader, yet a little 
 longer, and I will bring my story to a close. I 
 
284 PROSE. 
 
 have another scene to present ; but in order to do 
 thiSj you must give imagination a broad sweep, 
 and suppose seven years to have intervened since 
 Marian Shaw was first introduced to you, as 
 the pure-hearted, simple-minded and lovely May 
 Queen, and three or four since we left her, a 
 returned prodigal, a forgiven penitent, in her 
 father's arms. It was the sunset hour; the air 
 was unusually mild and balmy for the season, and 
 on the .piazza in front of Woodland Cottage two 
 persons were leisurely and silently promenading. 
 One was a tall, fine-looking man, who had well- 
 nigh numbered his threescore years and ten. His 
 long, silver locks were parted smoothly on his 
 broad, high brow ; the ruddy hue of health was on 
 his cheek, and his eye was bright with happiness. 
 He leaned on the arm of a graceful young female, 
 and his features were lighted up with a smile of 
 afiectionate admiration, as he gazed on the sweet 
 chastened loveliness of her face. They had paced 
 up and down the length of the piazza several 
 times, when he at length exclaimed, ''Why are 
 you so silent and sad, Marian ? For half an hour 
 you have not opened your lips, or raised your 
 sweet eyes from the ground. I remember me of a 
 time when a gorgeous sunset like this would have 
 called forth the most rapturous exclamations of 
 delight from you ; and when the trees, flowers and 
 singing birds, furnished you with abundant sources 
 of amusement and conversation." 
 
 " Very true, dear father, but those were the 
 blessed days of my innocence and purity ; days to 
 
PROSE. 285 
 
 which I look back with such longing and heartfelt 
 yearnings ; that happy season ere my feet became 
 entangled in the snares of the tempter. Yet I have 
 been highly favored, and I sometimes feel as if my 
 sufferings had not been sufficient to expiate my sin. 
 I scarcely dared hope that even you^ my dear 
 father, would receive me, gentle, kind and forgiv- 
 ing as you were ; and yet, not only have I and my 
 little one been taken to your bosom and fondly 
 cherished, but even my old friends and acquaint- 
 ances, whom I so dreaded to meet, have never 
 wounded my feelings by one scornful word or look, 
 nor cast one slur upon my child. Yery kind have 
 all been to me, and ungrateful indeed should I be, 
 did I not deeply feel and understand it all, and 
 pray nightly and daily for their happiness and wel- 
 fare. But when you spoke of my sadness, father, 
 you forgot that it is the first of May, and that with 
 that day many mournful thoughts and recollections 
 are connected ; my wasted youth, blighted hopes, 
 and the dishonor that attaches, not to myself alone, 
 but to my pure, innocent little Dora." 
 
 ''Do not afiiict yourself thus, Marian, or grieve 
 so deeply over the events of the past. Has not 
 your deportment since your return been such as to 
 call forth the admiration and esteem of all who 
 know you ? And I am sure there is not one in the 
 village who does not cordially respect and love you; 
 and for our sweet little Dora, is she not the joy 
 of our hearts, and the pride of the whole village 1 
 She is a lovely creature; and yet I cannot help 
 wishing her face were like your own." 
 24 
 
286 , PROSE. 
 
 '' She is very like her father; and I often think I 
 love her even better for that very resemblance. 
 Poor Charles ! shall I never see him again ? Was 
 that parting indeed forever? Has the grave claimed 
 him, in all the pride of his manly beauty, or has he 
 forgotten the loving and simple girl whose life was 
 boundless in his love?" 
 
 " Do you, then, still love Charles Hamilton, 
 Marian? Were he now to return, willing to repair, 
 as far as he can, your wrongs, would you freely 
 and willingly become his wife?" 
 
 '^ Would I not? Most willingly! nay, rather, 
 most gladly would I. I should deem it my duty 
 to Dora and myself; and even setting that aside, I 
 love him as deeply and truly now, as when, six 
 years ago, I sacrificed all else for him. Surely, 
 dear father, you would not have me act other- 
 wise?" 
 
 "Not if it would secure your happiness, dearest; 
 but see, the juvenile May-party has dispersed,. and 
 here comes my darling." And as he spoke, a 
 beautiful child bounded along the gravel- walk, and 
 the next moment her arms were entwined alter- 
 nately round the necks of her mother and grand- 
 father. She was, indeed, as Marian said, very like 
 her father. She had the same fair, delicate com- 
 plexion, deep blue eyes, and regular features, 
 which would have rendered his beauty, perfect as 
 it was, almost elfeminate, but for his dark, abun- 
 dant hair, and tall, manly figure ; and as the child 
 stood there, with her straw hat swinging in her 
 hands, her bright golden curls, wreathed with 
 
PROSE. 287 
 
 flowers, floating on her plump white shoulders, 
 and an arch smile lighting up her whole face, 
 
 " She seemed too fair and bright a thing 
 To dwell mid sin and suffering." 
 
 They had continued their walk but a fe-vT mo- 
 ments, when a lad from the village approached, 
 and placed a letter in Marian's hands. She 
 started and turned pale as she glanced at the 
 superscription, and leaving her father and child 
 together, she entered the house. She bent her 
 steps towards a small apartment, of which we 
 have spoken in the earlier part of our narrative, 
 — the same which Witnessed the struggle between 
 filial love and ardent passion, — and throwing her- 
 self into a chair, she opened the letter and read : — • 
 
 "Mine own Marian: — My best beloved, though bitterly 
 wronged and betrayed, do not cast this from you till you have 
 perused it, and attentively considered what I have to say. 
 Marian, I am here once more — here on the spot where, seven 
 years ago, I first saw you in all the radiance of your young 
 beauty. I have seen you now, in your subdued and chastened, 
 but not faded loveliness, and I could have fallen at your feet 
 and asked your forgiveness ; and more than this, Marian, I 
 have seen one whom my heart told me was my child — mine ! 
 I have looked on ye both, when ye saw me not, and my soul 
 yearned towards ye. Marian, deeply and bitterly have I sinned 
 against you ; but could you have known my sufferings from that 
 day when I returned home and found it deserted and desolate — 
 could you have witnessed my agony and remorse when I read 
 the few lines you left, to tell me that we were parted forever 
 — could you have seen me, as I lay for long weeks after- 
 wards on the bed of sickness and suffering, with none but the 
 hands of hirelings to minister to me, and calling even in my 
 
288 PROSE. 
 
 delirium upon your name — you would have pitied me, even 
 while you felt that it was but a just retribution for my sins. 
 During my recovery, I had ample time for reflection and 
 repentance ; and I went forth once more into the sunshine, a 
 wiser and better man. I made vigilant inquiries, and ascer- 
 tained that you had returned to your father, and had been, as I 
 doubted not you would be, joyfully received ; but I determined 
 not to seek you, or endeavor to see you, till I was enabled 
 to do so conscientiously and honorabl5^ From that time, no 
 inducements could lead me back to my former pursuits. I was 
 proof against the flatteries and entreaties, as well as the sneers 
 and mockery, of my old companions. I forswore the wine-cup 
 and the dice-box, and resolved to commence a new course of 
 life. Just then I received an offer to go out to India as super- 
 cargo of a richly laden vessel, and I thankfully accepted the 
 offer. I have remained in that situation ever since, and by 
 enterprise and industry I have gained, I think, enough to 
 insure us a competence ; and now that I have told you all, will 
 you forgive me, — will you be my wife, my own? We have 
 loth suffered, Marian ! I read that to-day, in your pale cheek 
 and saddened eyes ; and by the memory of our early love, and 
 the hours we have passed together, — for the sake of our own 
 peace, and the welfare of our child, — I implore you to accede 
 to my wishes. I do not ask you again to forsake your father ; 
 I must have his forgiveness also ; and if you plead for me and 
 with me, he will not refuse. We will all live together, and I 
 will emulate you in your attentions and devotion to him. 
 Should your answer be yea, I am yours, heart and soul, for- 
 ever ; if nay, — but I will not doubt. Write to me, Marian, and 
 let your words be ministers of love and joy to 
 
 "Charles Hamilton." 
 
 For a few minutes Marian sat motionless, with 
 the open letter in her hand, completely over- 
 powered by the rush of emotions that swept over 
 her; then sinking on her knees, she breathed forth, 
 in low, fervent tones, that beautiful petition, Avhicli 
 
psosE. 289 
 
 seems to comprise in its small limits the sum of 
 all the wants of the human lieart — The Lord's 
 Prayer. As she concluded, a rich, manly voice 
 joined in the Amen, and starting to her feet, 
 Marian again stood face to face with Hamilton. 
 
 Reader ! would you know more of Marian ?• 
 Go to Lynmere village, for there she is best 
 known, loved, and appreciated. They will tell 
 you of her untiring devotion to her aged father, of 
 her idolizing love for her husband and child, of her 
 kindness to the poor widow, Mrs. Lewis, who has 
 long dwelt, in the sunshine of prosperity, in the 
 home of her in whose misfortunes she sympathized, 
 and whom she so kindly and wisely counselled. 
 They will tell you of her beauty, gentleness and 
 henevolence, but far more will they dwell upon 
 her meekness, humility and Christian charity; 
 for gently as she has been dealt by, Marian Ham- 
 ilton has never for a moment forgotten her early 
 temptation and transgression. In silence and in 
 bitterness of spirit has she mourned over it, and her 
 tears and prayers have not been unavailing; for she 
 has come forth from the furnace of affliction, puri- 
 fied and refined. Those whom she most wronged, 
 her father and her child, have freely forgiven her ; 
 and should others be inclined to bring forward and 
 display on the page of her life the one blot which 
 mars its purity, or deem that her sin was too easily 
 palliated and overlooked, to them we would say, 
 as did our blessed Lord to the accusers of old, 
 '''Let him that is ivithout sin among you cast the 
 first stone." 
 
 2m 
 
290 PROSE. 
 
 CAROLINE. 
 
 " And then her face, so lovelj, yet so arch, — 
 It haunts me still, though many years have fled, 
 Like some wild melody." 
 
 I WOULD fain ask your attentioiij dear reader, to 
 a few passages from the romance of real life — a 
 few inklings in the history of Caroline Temple, my 
 early and well-beloved friend. Our acquaintance 
 commenced at school, and during the years we 
 remained there our friendship became closely ce- 
 mented. Of her family, in those days, 1 knew lit- 
 tle, save that her father was an idle, dissipatedlnan, 
 who harassed and abused his wife, and was indif- 
 ferent and cross to his child ; while her mother, a 
 heart-sick, weary woman, wrought early and late, 
 and feeble as she was, by her own single exertions 
 maintained her family. Caroline was her idol, and 
 I believe had she consulted her own wishes alone, 
 she would never have allowed her to leave her 
 side; but she shrunk from exposing her child to 
 the contamination of her father's presence and 
 example ; she trembled lest her pure ear should 
 catch the sound of his blasphemous language, or 
 her young eye be blasted with the sight of his 
 beastliness; and she did not refuse her consent, 
 when I used to plead for Caroline's company, dur- 
 ing many hours, when we were free from school. 
 Our intimacy continued unbroken, till we were 
 nearly sixteen, when my parents removed from the 
 city ; and for a considerable lapse of time I heard 
 
PROSE. 291 
 
 nothing of her, till the news of her marriage reached 
 me. But I am anticipating my story. 
 
 It was a cold, dreary evening in the winter of 
 183 — , and the noisy north-east wind rattled the 
 loose sashes of the windows, in an old, ricketty 
 building, which, sharing the fate of many similar 
 domicils, has long since ceased to mar the beauty 
 of our goodly city. The house was situated in a 
 dirty, narrow lane, and tenanted by several fami- 
 lies ; but it is with the inmates of a meanly fur- 
 nished upper apartment that we have now to do. 
 On a cot bed, in one corner of a miserable room, 
 lay a pale, care-worn woman, whose features wore 
 an expression of intense anguish; — can you won- 
 der ? — for many long, weary months had she lain 
 there, a wretched victim, writhing beneath the 
 scourge of that most terrible disease that flesh is 
 heir to ~ a cancer ! Her eyes were bent anxiously 
 on a young maiden, who sat at a table drawn 
 closely to the stove, busily sewing, by the light of a 
 small, ill-fed lamp, on one of those coarse garments, 
 by the manufacture of which, so many poor, lone 
 females, in our populous city, earn a scanty sub- 
 sistence. The girl was apparently ill at ease ; for 
 though her eyes were bent upon her work, the tears 
 stood upon her long lashes, her lip quivered, and 
 heritrembling fingers were scarcely able to guide 
 the needle. She started, and brushed the tears 
 hastily from her eyes, as the feeble voice of the 
 invalid was heard; — ^' Carry dear, I cannot bear 
 to see you plodding so at that tedious work, to gain 
 such a miserable pittance, and even that, you say, 
 
292 PROSE. ^ 
 
 is about to be stopped ; it makes my heart ache to 
 see you thus wasting your best days, toihng for 
 and attending upon me. O, could I but have seen 
 the fulfilment of my wishes — could you have 
 brought your mind to regard the subject in a differ- 
 ent light — you would not thus be wearing out your 
 health and energies ! " 
 
 "Do not urge me thus, I entreat you, dear mo- 
 ther; it grieves me to give you pain, but in this 
 affair I cannot comply with your wishes. I am 
 willing to toil, to suffer hardship and privation; but 
 I should deem it little better than legal pollution to 
 give my hand to a man whom I do not love." 
 
 '' But think, Caroline, how desolate you will be, 
 when I am gone; — an orphan, with neither brother, 
 sister, or any relative, able and willing to assist 
 you ! You are young, too, and I fear not to say to 
 you, very beautiful ; — dangerous gifts, these, to a 
 poor and unfriended girl — God grant that they 
 may never lead you into trial or temptation ! I 
 cannot conceive the reason of your dislike to 
 George Wilson. True, he is not rich ; if he were, 
 I should be less forward in urging this matter ; but 
 I am told, by those who know him, that he is an 
 industrious, enterprising young man, and an excel- 
 lent workman ; and industry and application can- 
 not fail to insure him success. And then you 
 allow him his full quota of good looks and agree- 
 ableness ; neither do you deny him a large share 
 of intellectuality and talent ; and you must know, 
 Caroline, for it does not require a very acute eye to 
 detect it, that he is ardently and passionately 
 
PROSE. 293 
 
 attached to you ; he is kind and gentle, frank and 
 generous, and if you do not love him now, you 
 will soon learn to do so." 
 
 "I have little faith, dear mother, in the theory of 
 ' love after inarriage^ and I can conceive nothing 
 more dreadful than to be condemned to pass my 
 life in the society of a man whom I do not love. 
 I am sure no fetters could be so galling." 
 
 '' There is a far worse bondage, Caroline, — that 
 of a true-hearted, loving woman linked by the clos- 
 est ties to a worthless and brutal husband ! From 
 such a fate I would save you, by bestowing you 
 on one who will tenderly cherish you. My beloved 
 child, the dearest wish of my heart is to see you 
 the wife of George Wilson." 
 
 "Mother, dear mother, spare yourself, and me ! 
 You are exhausted with talking so long and ear- 
 nestly ; I will adjust your pillows, and then you 
 must rest a while." 
 
 " Caroline, I cannot rest ! — night and day, sleep- 
 ing or waking, my thoughts are constantly dwelling 
 on your future destiny. Come nearer to me, dearest ! 
 sit here, so that I can see and feel that you are 
 near, and listen to a short and simple record of my 
 experience. I was the only girl in a family of 
 seven children, and was constantly the pet and 
 favorite of the whole. My parents were not richly 
 gifted with this world's goods, but they were fru- 
 gal and prudent, and contrived to save from their 
 limited income sufficient to afford their children 
 the best educations. Of my six brothers, three 
 chose a collegiate course and professions, one pushed 
 
294 PROSE. 
 
 his fortunes in the far West, another entered the 
 mercantile line, and the youngest became a hardy, 
 daring sailor, while I remained at home, the com- 
 panion of my mother, and the darling of both 
 parents. As I grew to womanhood, I acquired the 
 fame of a beauty, and this reputation soon drew 
 around me a crowd of suitors and admirers. I was 
 alike indifferent to all; but I was not long in per- 
 ceiving that my family encouraged the attentions 
 of a college friend of my oldest brother, who was a 
 frequent visiter at the house. It was then, and has 
 always been, matter of wonder to me, that the 
 highly educated and gifted Alick Hervey should 
 ever have dreamed of loving, still less of marrying, 
 the simple, bashful, and little accomplished girl, 
 who looked up to him with awe and reverence, as 
 to some 'bright, particular star,' respecting and 
 fearing him, but never daring to love him. But so 
 it was. For many months he paid me the most 
 unwearying and exclusive, yet delicate attentions, 
 which I had neither courage nor self-confidence to 
 repel, till he poured into my ear the declaration of 
 his attachment. Then, I was compelled to nerve 
 myself, and with trembling words I acknowledged 
 my inferiority to him, and the utter impossibility of 
 my ever returning his affection. I shall never for- 
 get the look he cast upon me, as, without uttering 
 a word, he snatched up his hat, and rushed from 
 the house. 
 
 ''At our next meeting, my timid salutation was 
 returned with cold, formal courtesy ; and when I 
 saw him again, a dark-eyed girl was leaning on 
 
PROSE. 295 
 
 his arm, whom, in measured terms, he introduced 
 to me as his wife. I had prepared myself to meet 
 with composure the reproaches of my father, and 
 the tender entreaties of my mother ; but, to my sur- 
 prise, they never mentioned Hervey's name, and 
 all my efforts to draw it into our conversation were 
 unsuccessful. Previous to this time, perfect confi- 
 dence had subsisted between my parents and my- 
 self, and the want of it sensibly affected me ; and 
 one day, during a short tete-d-tete interview with 
 my mother, I abruptly informed her of Alick's pro- 
 posals, and my rejection of them. ' I know it all, 
 Sophy,' she replied; 'and Alick Hervey is the 
 man of all others to whom we could have wished 
 to see you united. We have sacrificed our hopes to 
 your fancied ideas of love and happiness, but, alas ! 
 my child, I fear you will one day bitterly rue it.' 
 A few months after Alick Hervey's marriage, I 
 became acquainted with William Temple, a clerk 
 in one of the principal banks of the city. He was 
 a handsome man, of fashionable address, and insin- 
 uating manners ; he exerted his powers of pleasing 
 to the utmost, and I, who had carelessly spurned 
 the homage of the high-souled and gifted Hervey, 
 yielded my heart to the gay and thoughtless Tem- 
 ple. My parents instantly and decidedly refused 
 their consent, representing that he had been a wild, 
 dissolute young man, and urging that an undutiful 
 son must make a bad husband. ' We yielded to 
 your wishes, Sophy,' they said, 'in regard to 
 young Hervey, and surely some sacrifice is now 
 due on your part toward us ; for we will never give 
 
296 PROSE. 
 
 our sanction to your marriage with this man.' 
 Wisely and well did they counsel me, but their 
 words fell on ears that refused to listen, and van- 
 ished into thin air before the delusive sophistry of 
 AVilliam Temple ; and in an evil hour, unblest with 
 the presence or consent of my parents, I became his 
 wife, and an outcast from my early home. My 
 father swore never to forgive me, and my mother 
 refused to see me; yet, for one year, I was happy, 
 and fancied that no retribution was in store for my 
 wilful disobedience. But it came, at length. Your 
 birth, Caroline, was succeeded by a dangerous and 
 protracted illness ; during that time I saw little of 
 William, and when, after three months of sickness 
 and suffering, I left my chamber, it was to learn 
 that my husband was fast becoming a drunkard 
 and a gamester. He was discharged from his 
 situation in the bank, and poverty was added to 
 our other evils ; and, as if to cap the climax of my 
 distress, my parents died — my father without one 
 word of forgiveness, and my mother without men- 
 tioning the name of her disobedient child. For 
 seventeen years the curse lay heavy on my soul, yet 
 for your sake, my child, I bore up under it ; I toiled 
 night and day, I endured privations of every kind 
 — I watched, wept, and prayed, for you. Such, 
 Caroline, has been the result of my love-match. I 
 have lived to look with regret and envy on the bliss 
 of Alick Hervey and his wifs — happiness which 
 might have been mine, but for a foolish, romantic 
 whim ; I have learned to look with almost loathing 
 on the husband of my choice, the object of my early 
 
PROSE. 297 
 
 idolatry. But I need not tell you^ Caroline, who 
 have been my sole friend and companion during 
 those long, weary years, of the bitter words 
 which have sunk deep into my heart, or the brutal 
 treatment which has bowed and broken my spirit. 
 You have seen and know it all ; and it is from a 
 destiny like this I would save you. My sands are 
 well-nigh run; and I could die in peace, feeling that 
 my errors were expiated and forgiven, could I see 
 you wedded to a kind and honorable man." 
 
 " Mother," exclaimed the agitated girl, in a voice 
 broken by sobs, " I am neither wilful nor capricious 
 — my only aim is to make you happy while you 
 live; and for your sake, I will marry George Wilson, 
 and ever ti^y to love him. He will be kind and 
 good to you, and that, at least, will render him 
 dearer to me." 
 
 When George paid his customary visit, that eve- 
 ning, he perceived a difference in Caroline's man- 
 ner towards him; something which could not be 
 explained, but which, slight as it was, spoke vol- 
 umes of hope and encouragement to the lover ; and 
 ere he left the house that night, he knelt with Caro- 
 line at her mother's bedside, and Mrs. Temple, 
 clasping their united hands in her own, called 
 down a fervent benediction upon them. Three 
 weeks from that night, the same group, with 
 the addition of one or two neighbors, were assem- 
 bled in a neat, pleasant chamber, in a house not far 
 from their former residence. Mrs. Temple was 
 propped up in bed, and opposite its foot stood 
 
 George and Caroline, before the man of God, who 
 25 
 
298 PROSE. 
 
 was about to unite them in the hohest ties. If 
 Carohne's cheek was paler than its wont, that night, 
 and her eye less bright than usual, none deemed 
 that it had a deeper cause than her mother's preca- 
 rious state. The solemn ceremony was soon over 
 — the neighbors, with simple congratulations, de- 
 parted, and Caroline knelt to receive her mother's 
 blessing, a wedded wife. 
 
 II. 
 
 Some three years after I heard of Caroline's 
 marriage, I was again in the city, visiting some' 
 friends; and one evening, soon after my arrival, 
 they insisted on my accompanying them to the 
 theatre, to witness the performance of a new actress, 
 who was witching the hearts of the citizens. She 
 was said to possess rare beauty, and considerable 
 dramatic knowledge and talent; and it was prophe- 
 sied by many experienced play-goers and judges, 
 that she would, ere long, become a star of the first 
 magnitude. On our way to the theatre, my com- 
 panions could neither think nor speak of anything 
 but '■^tlie Woodford" — the superb, the charming, 
 the unrivalled ; and when I took my seat in the 
 box, my imagination was fairly excited. The play 
 was Romeo and Juliet ; and oh, how impatiently I 
 waited for the third scene, which was to introduce 
 the Veronese maiden ! I had changed my position 
 for a moment, to speak to an acquaintance, when a 
 long, deafening shout of applause rang through the 
 house ; I turned to the stage — my eyes rested on 
 the form of the actress, and starting from my seat, 
 
PROSE. 299 
 
 I had well-nigh uttered the name of — -'Caroline! " 
 I could not be mistaken ; five years had gone by 
 since last I looked upon that face, but its linea- 
 ments were too deeply impressed on my mind ever 
 to be forgotten. Time had changed her too, but it 
 had only rendered her more lovely ; the figure, 
 which at fifteen, had been too slender for its height, 
 had now filled out superb and Juno-like, and from 
 the full, graceful bust rose the dazzling white 
 throat in swan-like beauty ; the rich chesnut hair, 
 with here and there a brighter shade, as if golden 
 dust had been sprinkled among it, was simply 
 braided, and wrapped around the small, classic, 
 and beautifully set head; the large, liquid eyes 
 shone like stars through a veil of blue, and I won- 
 dered not at the wild excitement of the audience, 
 when this vision of loveliness burst upon their 
 sight. During the remainder of the evening, I sat 
 like one spell-bound ; the other performers were 
 all unheeded — my eye was riveted to Caroline's 
 face, my ear drank in only the melodious tones of 
 her voice. The play ended, but my thoughts still 
 followed her, and I was only roused from my 
 abstraction, by the merry voice of one of my 
 companions, exclaiming — -''How now! are you 
 dreaming, coz, or has the fair Juliet turned your 
 head, and led your senses captive? Come, are you 
 ready?" 
 
 On the way home the conversation naturally 
 turned upon the actress, and I eagerly sought to 
 obtain some information concerning her. 
 
 "Is she not beautiful?" said my eldest cousin; 
 
300 PROSE. 
 
 ''and then the mystery which hangs over her ren- 
 ders her even more attractive to many people. 
 Nothing certain is known of her former history. 
 Some say that she is the natural daughter of a late 
 celebrated actor, while others affirm that, young as 
 she is, she has been a wife and mother ; that mis- 
 conduct on her husband's part has separated them, 
 and that her child is consigned to some friends of 
 her own ; and there are a few, even, who declare 
 she is a native of this city, and was a schoolmate 
 of their own." 
 
 I retired to rest, but my slumbers were disturbed 
 and broken ; my thoughts were still with the beau- 
 tiful actress. Well did I remember Caroline's 
 passion for the drama, and the eagerness with 
 which she seized upon a copy of Shakspeare ; and 
 yet I could not conceive by what combination of 
 circumstances the delicate and shrinking Caroline 
 had been induced to forego the timidity of her girl- 
 hood, and expose herself to the admiring gaze 
 of that vast multitude ; and I at length sank to 
 sleep, with the determination to seek her out in the 
 morning, and learn from her own lips all that had 
 befallen her since we parted. I set out at an early 
 hour, and bent my steps towards the street in 
 which I had been told she resided. On reaching 
 the house, I inquired for Miss Woodford, which 
 was the title she bore in her new vocation, and 
 was informed that she did not receive visiters ; but 
 on sending up my name, the girl returned to con- 
 duct me to her room, and in another moment Car- 
 oline was weeping on my shoulder. I need not 
 
PEOSE, 301 
 
 detail the incidents preliminary to the recital of 
 
 her story. 
 
 "I cannot tell you, dear C," she said, "how 
 rejoiced I am to look once more on the face of a 
 friend, to whom I can confide my griefs, and hope 
 to meet with kindness and sympathy. Sorrow has 
 dogged my footsteps since I saw you last ; poverty, 
 disgrace and death, have each added their quota to 
 the contents of my cup, and I have drained it to 
 the dregs. You say you heard of my marriage 
 with George Wilson, but you probably did not 
 hear that I had wedded a man I did not love, to 
 save a sick and dying mother from starvation. 
 You did not know all the consequences that have 
 resulted from that ill-omened union. For several^ 
 months after my marriage, all went on smoothly, 
 and I was content, if not happy. But then came 
 the terrible pressure of the winter of 183-, which 
 no one, I fancy, who felt it, will ever forget, and 
 among hundreds of others, George was thrown out 
 of employment. He sought diligently everywhere 
 for work, and was willing to undertake any office ; 
 but his efforts were unsuccessful, and then it was, 
 amid poverty and privation, that the tide of my 
 afiections turned, and I began to love him for his 
 very misfortunes. But in the midst of this dark- 
 ness, a ray of light at length broke. Mr. , an 
 
 actor of some note, with whom George was 
 acquainted, knowing that he possessed considera- 
 ble talent, engaged hirn to write a play for a bene- 
 fit which he was to take in the course of the sea- 
 son, and promised him a handsome remuneration. 
 25=^ 
 
302 PROSE. 
 
 George set about the task with avidity. Night and 
 day he was at work, while I alternately read and 
 copied his rough manuscript; but just as the 
 play was completed, Mr. was taken sud- 
 denly and alarmingly ill; and even when he 
 recovered, his physicians said it would be long 
 ere he was able to resume his professional pursuits. 
 Thus was the labor of many long weeks thrown 
 away, and it was now mid-winter; the weather 
 was bitter and inclement, and oar fuel was well- 
 nigh spent. Debts had been necessarily incurred 
 during the progress of the useless work, and to 
 add to our distress, my mother now craved food 
 and delicacies which we were unable to procure; 
 while my own health was very delicate, requiring 
 constant care and nursing. George was well- 
 nigh distracted. I endeavored to impart comfort, 
 but felt how vain it was, when I looked on the 
 desolation and poverty which surrounded us. At 
 length, when our misery seemed to have reached 
 its climax, George one day returned home with 
 a large sum of money, which, in reply to my 
 anxious inquiries, he stated to have been obtained 
 from the actor to the non-fulfilment of whose 
 promise was owing the extremity to which we 
 were reduced. Our debts were now paid, and 
 we were again surrounded by every comfort. 
 This sum was soon expended ; another was 
 obtained from the same source, and when the 
 second supply was nearly exhausted, George left 
 us for a day, as he said, to replenish his purse. On 
 the afternoon of the day he was expected to return, 
 
PROSE. 303 
 
 my mother had sunk into a profound slumber, and 
 I was sitting by a window watching for his appear- 
 ance, when a woman who occupied a part of the 
 house informed me that a person wished to speak 
 with me. I obeyed the summons, and was met in 
 the entry by a cold, stern-looking old man, from 
 whose presence I involuntarily shrunk, as from the 
 bearer of evil news. The harshness of his looks 
 gradually gave way, as he gazed on me, to a pity- 
 ing expression, and, filled with apprehension, I ear- 
 nestly demanded to know his business with me. 
 
 "'Are you prepared to hear unpleasant tidings?' 
 he said ; ' for such, if you be the wife of George 
 Wilson, I have to communicate ; and it is at his 
 request I come.' 
 
 " 'Go on !' was all I had power to utter, and the 
 tale was soon told. George had been arrested for 
 forgery, and was in prison. Two notes had been 
 paid at different banks, and thence had been 
 derived his lavish supplies of money ; but on pre- 
 senting a third, the day previous, the fraud had 
 been detected, and he was instantly committed for 
 trial. I remember nothing that folio Aved this an- 
 nouncement, till I found myself lying on a sofa in 
 the apartment of Mrs. White, the woman to whom 
 I have before alluded ; she was chafing my tem- 
 ples, v/hile the bearer of that fearful message stood 
 beside me, anxiously regarding my face. I deter- 
 mined, of course, to go immediately to George ; and 
 requesting Mrs. White to sit with my mother 
 a while, and on no account to let a word of what 
 had happened reach her, I accompanied the officer 
 
304 PROSE. 
 
 to the prison. Words are inadequate to describe 
 that meeting ! George could give me no consola- 
 tion, for he could not deny the truth of the charge, 
 and it was to save me from want and care that he 
 had done it. During the period that intervened 
 between his arrest and his sentence, I visited him 
 daily, and strove amid my own bitterness of spirit 
 to cheer and comfort him. But that day came, at 
 length, — his doom was pronounced, and my hus- 
 band was consigned to ten weary years' confine- 
 ment in the State Prison ! I saw him but for a 
 few moments before he was borne to his fearful 
 abode ; but oh ! the sufferings of years were concen- 
 trated in that brief space ! and when I returned, 
 worse than widowed, to my home, it was but to 
 look on another scene of distress. During my 
 absence, a neighbor had called to see my mother, 
 and supposing her to be acquainted with what 
 had happened, began speaking of and reprobated 
 George in no measured terms. My mother listened 
 in horror-stricken silence; and when the woman 
 repeated the doom which had been pronounced, 
 she went into strong convulsions. In this state I 
 found her on my return, and it was with the great- 
 est difficulty we could keep her from springing 
 from the bed and falling at my feet. ' O Caroline, 
 you can never forgive me ! ' she wildly exclaimed, 
 as I took her hand ; ' it was I who persuaded you 
 to become his wife, though God knows I thought I 
 was securing your happiness thereby!' I en- 
 treated her to be calm. I assured her that no 
 blame attached to her, and that she needed no for- 
 
PROSE. 305 
 
 giveness from me; but the shock had been too 
 great, and ere another morning dawned, I was an 
 orphan. The sale of our furniture enabled me to 
 pay all necessary expenses, and then I removed to 
 the house of a poor but worthy woman who had 
 been kind to us in our misfortunes ; and there, in 
 the midst of poverty and tears, I gave birth to a 
 daughter, the heiress of her father's disgrace and 
 mother's sorrow. How often, as I lay on that bed 
 •>f sickness, did I pray thafl might never rise from 
 it again ! But it was not so to be. I recovered 
 rapidly, but I was unable to afford the natural 
 nourishment to my little Sophia, — for so had I 
 named her, in memory of my dead mother. The 
 physician said that unless she was placed at nurse 
 I must lose her, and she was accordingly consigned 
 to the care of a healthy woman a few miles from 
 the city, who had lost an infant of the same age. 
 This, of course, greatly increased my expenses, and 
 I was obliged to toil unremittingly, snatching only 
 an hour, now and then, to visit my child ; but the 
 most untiring industry would not enable me to 
 meet my exigencies, and at the expiration of a 
 year, I found myself burthened with a heavy debt, 
 which I had no possible means of liquidating. I 
 was sitting alone in my little attic, one afternoon, 
 busily engaged in finishing a piece of work which 
 I had promised, and musing on the events of the 
 past and present, when a knock at my door 
 announced a visiter, and rising to open it, I ad- 
 mitted a fine-looking and richly-dressed woman. 
 I supposed her errand to be concerning some work; 
 
306 PROSE. 
 
 but on asking her business, she repKed that it 
 regarded a very interesting subject, and she went 
 on to say, that she was the wife of a lawyer in a 
 town not far distant; she was weaUhy and pros- 
 perous, but unblest with children, and this was to 
 "her a source of unfeigned regret. She had been 
 visiting for several weeks in the village where my 
 babe was at^nurse, and had frequently seen it; its 
 beauty and winning ways had drawn her attention, 
 and she said she had learned to love the little crea- 
 ture almost as if it were her own. A friend of hers 
 had told her much of my history and embarrass- 
 ments, and her present business was to offer me a 
 method of relieving them. Her proposal was, to 
 adopt my little Sophia as her own — to bring her up 
 according to her own plans, and in total ignorance 
 of her real parents. I was to renounce all claims 
 upon the infant, and never to see her after her adop- 
 tion ; and in return, they would clear my debts, and 
 give me such a sum as I required. A fortnight was 
 given me for reflection, and laying her card on the 
 table beside me, the lady departed. It were in vain 
 for me to attempt a description of my sufferings 
 during that time. On the one hand, my very love 
 for my Sophia urged me to place her where she 
 would receive advantages that I could never bestow, 
 and become the heiress to a fortune which would 
 exempt her, in all probability, from the misfortunes 
 which had fallen to my lot ; and then, when I saw 
 her again, and her soft arms were twined around 
 my neck, I felt as if it were impossible to separate 
 myself from her. But at length my desire to pro- 
 
TROSE. 307 
 
 mote her interests triumphed over every selfish 
 motive; the die was cast — she was mine no longer 
 on earth. O, years may pass away, and sear every 
 other feeling and emotion in my heart, but they 
 will never erase the memory of that hour when I 
 signed the contract which gave my first-born, my 
 only child, to the love and the embraces of a 
 stranger ! I have never looked upon her since; but 
 her image is ever before me, and my only hope is 
 that I shall one day meet her again — that in the 
 world above I shall clasp her to my bosom, my 
 own once more and forever ! When that excite- 
 ment Avas over, I sank into a kind of stupor, from 
 which nothing had power to rouse me ; I became 
 listless and misanthropic, and I know not to what 
 state I might have been reduced, but for the arrival 
 
 of a letter from Mr. , the actor. He had 
 
 become manager of a popular theatre, and having 
 heard of my circumstances, paid knowing my love 
 for the drama, he made a proposition to me to join 
 his stage company. At first I felt too apathetic to 
 give much attention to the subject; but I took 
 Shakspeare from his dusty nook, and began to 
 read. As I went on, all my former taste seemed 
 to return, and before night 1 had written to accept 
 
 Mr. 's offer. In a month from that time, I 
 
 made my debut. It was eminently successful, and 
 my star still remains in the ascendant. Many 
 have asked me why I did not choose i ome other 
 occupation ; but I would not exchange it for any 
 other. At the commencement of my career I felt 
 unpleasantly at exposing myself to the public gaze ; 
 
308 PROSE. 
 
 but I have now grown accustomed to it. I rejoice 
 in the joys of the fictitious personages whom I 
 represent, and in depicting their sorrows for a time 
 forget my own ; so you see I am now in the best 
 sphere in which I could possibly move." 
 
 Thus ended Caroline's narrative. I visited her 
 daily during my stay in the city, and when we 
 parted she promised to write to me, and for a long 
 time the correspondence was continued ; then it 
 stopped, and all knowledge of her whereabouts 
 was again suspended. 
 
 III. 
 I never saw Caroline again ; but from a mutual 
 friend, who accidentally found her out, and was 
 with her in her last days, I heard the remnant of 
 her sad history. For several years after I last saw 
 her, she continued the ornament of her profession, 
 when suddenly she renounced a lucrative engage- 
 ment, and departed none knew whither: and when 
 next she was heard of, the beautiful, brilliant and 
 gifted Caroline was the inmate of a mad-house. 
 Horror-struck . by the fearful dispensation, her 
 friends hastened to see her; the physicians pro- 
 nounced her case incurable ; but after several 
 months of incessant ravings, of which her child 
 was the constant subject, by degrees her reason 
 returned. Her constitution, however, was com- 
 pletely destroyed, and after a brief season of suffer- 
 ing her earthly career ended. A short time before 
 her death, she communicated to the friend who 
 was with her the circumstances which had led 
 
PROSE. 309 
 
 to her insanity, withholding only the name of the 
 family with whom Sophia was placed, as she 
 had sworn to do so. From the time she resigned 
 her child, it had never ceased to haunt her 
 mind ; and at length her feelings were wrought to 
 such a pitch, that she determined, at all hazards, to 
 see it once more. Accordingly, she gave up her 
 dramatic engagements, and set out for the village 
 where the child resided, and proceeding to the 
 house, requested an interview with the mistress. 
 The lady pretended not to recognize her, and Car- 
 oline's earnest and touching entreaties that she 
 might he permitted to look once more upon her 
 darling were coldly and harshly refused. But 
 while she sat there, a gay, childish voice was 
 lieard, and the little Sophia came bounding into 
 the room. With a cry of joy, Caroline started to 
 her feet, and the child, with a glance at her sweet 
 face, stole timidly towards her; when, rudely 
 snatching her away, the unfeeling woman rushed 
 from the apartment, leaving the poor mother half 
 fainting, and unable to follow her. With trem- 
 bling steps she left the house, and returned to the 
 inn. Through the livelong day she sat brooding- 
 over the repulse of the morning; and when the 
 evening approached, she stole out, and having 
 climbed the little fence at the back of the house 
 which contained her child, she succeeded in enter- 
 ing by means of an open window in the hall. She 
 had ascertained in which room the little one slept, 
 — a small bed- room adjoining the apartment of her 
 adopted parents, — and softly opening the door, in 
 26 
 
310 PROSE. 
 
 a moment she was at its side. The child was 
 sleeping calmly, and she leaned over it for a few 
 moments with the most intense love ; but she dared 
 not trust herself there long, and fearful of awaking 
 the watchful guardians in the adjoining room, she 
 clasped a small bracelet made of her own hair, and 
 bearing her initials on the clasp, around the little 
 plump arm which lay outside the counterpane^, 
 and pressing her lips to its dimpled cheek, she 
 departed as she came. The next morning the 
 bracelet was returned, accompanied by a note 
 charging Caroline with a violation of the contract, 
 and filled with bitter threats in case she ever 
 entered their dwelling again. A line from her, 
 they stated, would at any time bring her in return 
 a full account of the health and well-being of the 
 little one, but she would not be permitted to see her 
 again. 
 
 In the afternoon of the same day, Caroline was 
 walking slowly past the lane leading to the house 
 that held her darling, and casting mournfully wist- 
 ful looks towards it, when she espied the little 
 Sophia playing beneath a tree. By an irresistible 
 impulse, she went forward, and stretched out her 
 arms to the child; but instead of meeting her 
 embrace as on the previous day, the child shrank 
 back, exclaiming, "I must not come near you! my 
 mother says you are a bold, bad woman, and I 
 must not love you or speak to you again!" and 
 she darted back to the house, while Caroline 
 retraced her steps to the inn, and threw herself 
 upon the floor. There she was found by the 
 
PROSE. 311 
 
 inmates, uttering incoherent words, and staring 
 wildly round ; and the terrified people sent for the 
 physician and minister. They came, but their 
 presence was unavailing. Her ravings increased, 
 and ere the close of the third day she was placed 
 in the lunatic asylum. 
 
 The friend who told me these particulars said 
 that during Caroline's last illness her child was 
 never absent from her mind ; even in her sleep, she. 
 would start and exclaim, ''My child! give me 
 back my child ! " And its name was the last word 
 that passed her lips ere death sealed them forever. 
 Poor Caroline ! with all her glorious beauty and 
 rare gifts, with all her heart-aches and misfortunes, 
 she sleeps in peace beside the mother the intensity 
 of whose love for her caused her misery ! 
 
 Dear reader, should this tale seem to you too 
 sad, too dark a "Shadow," remember it is no 
 fiction, but a passage from the records of real life, 
 and a true, though imperfect sketch, of one whose 
 memory is enshrined in many loving hearts. 
 
 THE IRISH DAUGHTER-IN-LAW. 
 
 " Room, mother, in thy heart ! place for her in thy prayer !" 
 
 Willis. 
 
 The beams of the morning sun shone brightly 
 into the breakfast-parlor of the Willows, a beauti- 
 ful country-seat on the banks of the Hudson, the 
 residence of Mr. Channing, a wealthy merchant 
 of New York. A cheerful group was gathered 
 round the breakfast-table, consisting of the mer- 
 
312 PROSE. 
 
 chant himself, a fine-looking man, something past 
 the prime of life, who was busily engaged in dis- 
 cussing alternately his coffee and the daily paper ; 
 his wife, a stately, fashionably dressed woman ; 
 Alice and Mary, two grown-up young ladies ; 
 Sydney, a fine lad of sixteen ; Lizzy and Fanny, 
 the younger girls, and Miss Beaufort, their gov- 
 erness. 
 
 ''Letters! letters!" exclaimed Ellen, the young- 
 est of the family, a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked lass 
 of seven years, as she bounded into the room with 
 a huge package which she had just taken from the 
 postman, and placed it in her father's hands for 
 distribution. There were letters of friendship and 
 of compliment ■ — business letters for Mr. Channing 
 — sentimental effusions from young lady friends 
 for the elder girls, and a love-letter for the fair 
 governess, if one might judge by the ill-suppressed 
 smiles and brilliant blushes with which she received 
 it, and put it into her pocket without reading; and 
 last of all was a large one for Mrs. Channing. 
 
 ^' Post-marked in Dublin ; — from Frank, I sup- 
 pose," said Mr. C, as he handed it to his wife; 
 " read it quick, for we are all impatient to hear 
 from him." 
 
 She broke the seal, and read on in silence till 
 she had nearly reached the bottom of the second 
 page, when she suddenly dropped the letter, ex- 
 claiming, " Preposterous ! Well, really, this is too 
 bad!" 
 
 "What news?" said Mr. Channing; and "What 
 news 7" was reiterated by every one at the table. 
 
PROSE. 313 
 
 ^' News, indeed ! " was the reply ; " Frank is 
 married !" 
 
 ''Is that air?" said her husband, bursting into a 
 hearty laugh; '■^'■well^ really^'' my dear, I see no 
 cause for such weighty indignation on your part. 
 Frank, at six and twenty, has surely arrived at 
 years of discretion ; and, if you recollect, I was four 
 years younger when I entered the matrimonial 
 noose." 
 
 '' I wonder if she is very handsome," said Alice, 
 the beauty. " Does he say who she is ? is she 
 fashionable?" inquired Mary, the belle. "I dare 
 say she is handsome enough, and good enough, if 
 she is Frank's choice," said Sydney; and "So do I," 
 and " So do I," was echoed by the younger ones. 
 
 "But you have not heard all yet," said Mrs. 
 Channing. "I have not yet told you that Frank's 
 bride is an Irish girl, and her name Bridget 
 O'Brien ! I do think, well as Frank knew my 
 prejudices against that nation, he might have 
 spared me this mortification ! " 
 
 "Such a name, too!" cried Mary. "She is 
 doubtless some vulgar, showy girl, who, attracted 
 by Frank's elegant person and gentlemanly appear- 
 ance, has had art enough to inveigle him into 
 marrying her." 
 
 " I can fancy how she looks, exactly," responded 
 Alice. "I suppose she is some tall, awkward, red- 
 haired girl, fair and fat, with peony-hued cheeks, 
 and a rich brogue, which my enamored brother 
 will doubtless think full of music. Bridget, for- 
 sooth ! — Why, how can you laugh, Eveline 7" 
 26^ 
 
314 PROSE. 
 
 she continued J turning to Miss Beaufort, whose 
 large hazel eyes were liquid with mirth, while her 
 low, musical laugh displayed to advantage her 
 handsome mouth, and teeth of surpassing white- 
 ness and brilliancy. 
 
 "No one could refrain from laughing, Alice, who 
 heard your glowing description of your brother's 
 bride; you give him credit for little taste and judg- 
 ment, I think." 
 
 '' He has shown his want of it in his choice, 
 surely ; but, mother, when is this Irish damsel to 
 claim relationship in propria persoyim 7 Does Frank 
 mention the period of his return '? Pray Heaven it 
 be not very near ! " 
 
 "He does not name the precise time," returned 
 Mrs. Channing, "but he says he shall probably be 
 with us by the commencement of the new year^ 
 so we have still a respite of several months to pre- 
 pare ourselves." 
 
 "Well, well, — what's done can't be helped," said 
 Mr. Channing, as he left the table, " and I see no 
 other way for us to pursue than to make the best 
 of it, and to receive our Irish daughter-in-law with 
 courtesy and affection.^ It may be that she is the 
 tenderly cherished child of fond parents, from 
 whom she is now to separate, and whose long- 
 tried and sure affection she is to exchange for the 
 love of a stranger. Think what your feelings 
 would be, in leaving the home of your childhood 
 for a foreign land, relying solely on the honor and 
 faith of one who, perhaps, is but the acquaintance 
 of a few brief months — think of this, and I ain 
 
PROSE. 315 
 
 sure you will not be wanting in kindness and atten- 
 tion to your brother's wife, let her nation be what 
 it may. And what prouder birth-place can she 
 have than that of Emmet, and Ourran. and Moore, 
 and Sheridan?" 
 
 Sydney followed his father from the room, Miss 
 Beaufort retired to her own apartment, the younger 
 girls sought the garden and play-ground, and Mrs. 
 Channing was left alone with her elder daughters. 
 
 ''It is too bad, I declare!" exclaimed Alice; ''1 
 can never forgive Frank for frustrating my plans. 
 Ever since Eveline Beaufort became a member of 
 our family, I have set my heart upon a match 
 between her and my brother ! " 
 . "What, — a governess!" cried Mrs. Channing, 
 '' and a person of whose birth and connections we 
 are totally ignorant?" 
 
 " A maiden dowered with Eveline's brilliant 
 beauty, talents, and accomplishments, needs not, 
 in my opinion, rank or wealth to recommend her. 
 Nature has placed her on a level with the proudest, 
 though no one, I think, who v/itnesses the grace- 
 ful dignity of her deportment and the ease of her 
 manners, can doubt her gentle blood and breeding ; 
 and for her name, surely that is unexceptionable. 
 I wish we could prevail upon her to go into soci- 
 ety more, and I would venture to predict that she 
 would be the star of fashion." 
 
 '•One would think you were yourself Eveline's 
 lover, from the animation with which you speak 
 of her," said Mrs. Channing, smiling. 
 
 •I am," replied Alice, "if intense admiration of 
 
 a' 
 
316 PROSE. 
 
 her beauty, and deep love for her numerous good 
 quahties of head and heart, comprise the necessary 
 requisites to be one; and I hope she will never have 
 one less sincere." 
 
 While this conversation was passing, the fair 
 subject of Alice's lamentations was quietly seated 
 in her bed-room, perusing, with sparkling eyes, 
 the letter she had just received ; and while she is 
 thus engaged, we will give the reader a slight 
 account of her. Some two or three months before 
 the commencement of our story, Mrs. Channing 
 was busily seeking a governess for her younger 
 girls ; and in reply to her many inquiries, after 
 having rejected several applications, she received 
 a letter from a near relative, recommending a 
 young friend of her own as admirably qualified to 
 fill the situation. No information, beyond the 
 name of the young lady, was given; but as the 
 friend who recommended her was wealthy and 
 influential, and one whom Mrs. Channing cared 
 not to offend, no questions were asked, and Eveline 
 Beaufort became a member of the family at the 
 Willows. She was apparently not more than 
 nineteen years of age at that time, and was gifted 
 with rare and exceeding beauty, and many and 
 varied accomplishments. She won the love of her 
 pupils as if by magic, and by degrees twined her- 
 self round the hearts of all. 
 
 Alice Channing had, even as she stated to her 
 mother, formed the idea of promoting a match 
 between her brother Frank and Eveline ; and she 
 
mosE. 317 
 
 had, accordingly, in her correspondence with him, 
 been lavish in descriptions and praises of her friend. 
 
 '' You tell of the charms of foreign ladies," she 
 wrote, ''but if you were here, I could show you 
 one who will rival the fairest. Eveline Beaufort, 
 the girls' governess and our dear friend, is the 
 loveliest creature you ever beheld ; but even her 
 beauty, well as I love and much as I talk of it, is 
 scarcely to be compared with her admirable tem- 
 per, her generous spirit, and sweetness of disposi- 
 tion. I defy all Europe to produce her equal." 
 
 Lizzy and Fanny, too, were eloquent in her 
 praise. "I wish you could see our governess, 
 Frank ; she is so pretty, and gentle, and good, and 
 kind, I am sure you would love her if you knew 
 her as well as we do." With Mr. Channing, also, 
 Eveline was a prime favorite, and during that 
 winter she was enabled to render services to the 
 family which effectually secured her a high place 
 in the esteem and affections of all. She had not 
 been long an inmate of the Willows, when little 
 Ellen was attacked with the measles, a disorder 
 which was that year peculiarly malignant. Eveline 
 was her constant attendant, and the child could 
 bear no other to approach her. Night and day she 
 was at the couch, and ere the disease had reached 
 its crisis, Lizzy and Fanny took the infection, and 
 were added to Eveline's charge. The duties of 
 the school-room were now exchanged for those of 
 the hospital, and, with the exception of a short 
 interval, now and then, to eat her meals, or to take 
 a little out-of-door exercise, she never left the room. 
 
318 PROSE. 
 
 The children all recovered, and the physician paid 
 their governess the highest encomiums ; for to her 
 careful and tender nursing, he said, was owing, 
 under Providence, their complete restoration. The 
 gratitude of the parents knew no bounds, and was 
 made manifest to Eveline by a thousand delicate 
 attentions. Nor did their obligations end here. 
 Scarcely were the children restored to health, when 
 Mrs. Channing was attacked with a slow nervous 
 fever, which required perfect quiet, and untiring 
 patience on the part of the nurse. None could pre- 
 serve order and manage everything so well as Eve- 
 Hne ; and she was again, at her own request, sta- 
 tioned in the sick room. She remained at her post, 
 faithfully fulfilling all the requirements of her voca- 
 tion, till the fever was broken up, and then resumed 
 her duties in the school-room, with the exception of 
 a short interval which was devoted to attendance 
 upon- Mr. Channing during a severe fit of rheu- 
 matism, when, as every one who has ever seen 
 or experienced anything of the disorder is aware, 
 the querulousness and impatience of the sufierer 
 render the task of the nurse by no means pleasant 
 or easy. Her gentleness and assiduity, the ear- 
 nestness with which she anticipated his wants, and 
 her kindness in ministering to them, won upon the 
 frank, generous heart of Mr. Channing, and he often 
 declared that Eveline seemed quite as near to him 
 as his own dear girls. Her services were faithfully 
 recorded in the letters which told Frank of their 
 domestic af&ictions and their safe deliverance there- 
 from, and Alice had fairly persuaded herself that 
 
PROSE. 319 
 
 her brother could not fail to be intensely in love 
 with the portrait she had drawn of her friend, and 
 quite ready, on his return, to enter into her plans, 
 when the letter came which brought the news of 
 his marriage, — and, worse than all, with an Irish 
 girl, whose very name suggested nothing but 
 -awkwardness and vulgarity. 
 
 The months that were to elapse before Prank 
 Channing's return to his native land flew swiftly 
 by. Alice, at her father's request, uttered in a tone 
 too decisive to admit of any demurring, had written 
 to congratulate her brother on his marriage, and to 
 bid his foreign bride, in behalf of the whole family, 
 a friendly welcome to her new home. The day was 
 fast approaching for the return of the long-absent 
 one, when Miss Beaufort suddenly announced her 
 intention of going to pass a few days with a friend 
 who had just arrived in the country, after a long 
 separation. " Pray do not go, Eveline, till after 
 my brother's return," urged Alice. "I want your 
 countenance in the first interview, and then I shall 
 be in less danger of any breach of perfect courtesy 
 to my Irish sister. And then, too, Frank has heard 
 so much of you, I am sure he will wish to see you 
 — indeed, Eveline, you shall not go yet." 
 
 '' Indeed I must, Alice ! but you need not feel so 
 disapp'ointed ; I think very likely I shall return in 
 season to witness the reception of your brother and 
 his bride ; and I am sure, dear Alice, your own 
 kindness of heart, and your love for your brother, 
 will not allow you to receive her otherwise than 
 with affection and politeness." 
 
320 PROSE. 
 
 New Year's eve came, and Mr. Channing's 
 family were collected around a bright coal fire in 
 their large, cheerful parlor, busily engaged in con- 
 versation concerning the expected visiters, and in 
 lamenting the continued absence of the governess. 
 Soon the rattling of wheels was heard, a carriage 
 drove to the door, and, ere any one could reach 
 it, the long-absent, the beloved son and brother, 
 entered the apartment. It was many minutes ere 
 the warmth of their greeting subsided, and Frank 
 Channing, turning, presented his wife. He had 
 entered a little in advance of her, and, as she 
 remained in the back-ground, she had been quite 
 forgotten in the excitement; but now, as he led 
 her forward, she removed the thick veil from her 
 face, and as her low, musical laugh burst forth, 
 the warm-hearted, eager Alice grasped the hand of 
 the new comer, exclaiming, " My sister ! our own 
 Eveline!" — and. the name was repeated in joyful 
 accents by every voice. 
 
 "Our Eveline your wife! — Eveline Beaufort, 
 the governess — Bridget O'Brien, the Irish girl!" 
 cried the puzzled mother. 
 
 " The very same, my dear mother," returned 
 her happy son. " Can you forgive the little deceit 
 we have practised upon you ? I well knew, ami- 
 able and lovable as you are in all other respects, 
 that your prejudices against the Irish were very 
 strong, and that the 'milk of human kindness' in 
 your heart flowed not towards them. Had you 
 dreamed that my sweet Eveline, lovely and good 
 as she is, was one of that luckless nation, your 
 
PROSE. 321 
 
 prejudices would have blinded you to her merits ; 
 but in any other light I was very sure that her 
 beauty would prepossess you in her favor, and her 
 sterling worth gain daily upon your affections. I 
 have learnt with the greatest pleasure, from the 
 letters I have received, of the progress she has 
 made ; and I felt that our object was now attained, 
 and that I might safely present to you your Irish 
 daughter-in-law, and to the girls their ' tall, awk- . 
 ward, vulgar' sister, and let her 'rich brogue' 
 speak for itself" 
 
 And now, dear reader, would you like to hear 
 a brief history of Frank Channing and his fair 
 Irish bride ? Frank was the eldest of the family ; 
 by turns the playfellow and counsellor of the little 
 ones — the chosen friend of Sydney, who looked up 
 to him with mingled admiration and love, and 
 thought him the most perfect of human beings — 
 the pride of his fashionable mother and sisters, and 
 the object of his father's fondest wishes ; and, while 
 his personal graces rendered him the delight of 
 fashionable society, he also possessed a fund of 
 knowledge and humor wherewith to instruct and 
 amuse the home circle. At the time our story 
 commences, he had been travelling two or three 
 years in Europe ; and, about six months previous 
 to his introduction to the reader, he had stopped 
 with the intention of passing a few days by the 
 celebrated lakes of Killarney. On the banks of 
 one of the lakes was a small, picturesque-looking 
 cottage, half-hidden by the dense foliage of some 
 27 
 
322 PROSE. ■ 
 
 old trees, which grew up before the door, and 
 threw their waving branches over the roof, while 
 its smooth, green lawn sloped almost to the water's 
 edge, and here and there a clump of trees shaded 
 a neat garden-chair, and tempted the weary trav- 
 eller to rest. This rural spot was the abode of 
 Mr. Beaufort, an Irish gentleman, descended from 
 some of the noblest of Erin's sons, and himself a 
 prototype of what they were, in the days when the 
 land of the shamrock was in her glory, ere the 
 "harp was hushed in Tara's halls." Mr. Beau- 
 fort had been the father of seven children; but they 
 had died, one after another, in infancy, and one 
 only, the ^^oungest of all, was left to him. Wid- 
 owed when the little one was scarce four years old, 
 he had devoted himself exclusively to her nurture 
 and education ; and at seventeen, Eveline Beaufort 
 rivalled the celebrated ^^Kate Kearney ^'^ in beauty 
 and witchery, though, fortunately, unlearnt in her 
 coquetry. Tall, and possessing a figure to which 
 " superb" is the only word that will apply, and 
 which a sculptor would have longed to model — 
 a complexion, not fair, for that word is far too 
 tame to show forth the rich, delicate, ever-varying 
 tints of her face, or their constant alternation of 
 light and shadow — features finely chiselled, and 
 the small, mobile mouth, completely imbedded in 
 -dimples — a wealth of raven tresses, and long, jetty 
 lashes that swept over the eloquent cheek, and, 
 when raised, revealed a pair of large, radiant eyes, 
 that would have set a Mussulman raving. Suca 
 was Eveline Beaufort, the Flower of the Lakes 
 
PHosE. 323 
 
 when she burst, in her queenly beauty, upon the 
 amazed vision of Frank Channing ; and ere long 
 the young American was a frequent and welcome 
 visiter at Beaufort Cottage. But if her rare loveli- 
 ness had witched his senses at first sight, how was 
 his heart enslaved, when, thus brought into daily 
 communion with her, he saw her in the constant 
 exercise of every virtue that renders woman truly 
 lovely and beloved ! — when he witnessed her filial 
 piety, her gentleness, truthfulness, and purity of 
 heart; when he saw her in the lowly cabin of pov- 
 erty, at the miserable couch of the sick, relieving 
 distress and ministering comfort — when every eye 
 brightened at her approach, and every lip breathed 
 blessings on her name ! Day by day, his visits 
 grew more frequent, his devotion more apparent, 
 his love more intense ; and still he dared not haz- 
 ard an avowal. Was not Eveline beautiful, gifted, 
 and high-born ? did not the most brilliant estab- 
 lishments court her acceptance 1 were not the 
 proud, the titled, the wealthy, and the gay, wor- 
 shippers at her shrine? and how could he expect 
 she would resign ' any or all of these for him ? 
 *^ And yet," he would ask himself, " can it be that 
 she is wholly indifierent to me ? In the midst of 
 fulsome adulation and compliment, do not those 
 glorious eyes often turn to me, as if seeking my 
 approbation alone? If she sings, is it not the songs 
 I love? If she reads, is it not from my favorite 
 authors, and does she not dwell with peculiar 
 emphasis on those passages we have both loved 
 and read together ?" And so the result of all this 
 
324 PROSE. 
 
 was, that, one fine, moonshiny eve, Mr. Frank 
 Channing persuaded Miss Eveline that a walk 
 round the margin of the beautiful lake would be 
 delightful ; and during that most romantic ramble 
 did the hoping, doubting lover pour forth a most 
 eloquent rhapsody, and the maiden listened with 
 mingled smiles and blushes, which certainly pre- 
 saged no very unfavorable answer ; and so, as the 
 reader has, of course, supposed, Frank and Eveline 
 parted that night affianced lovers. 
 
 Now, Frank Channing was very well aware 
 of his mother's inveterate dislike to the children 
 of the Emerald Isle. These prejudices he made 
 known to his lady-love; and Eveline, possessing 
 no small share of the ready wit and humor that 
 distinguish her countrymen, proposed to intro- 
 duce herself incog, into the family of her lover, 
 and thus make her way into their good graces. 
 Accordingly, their plan was laid as follows. Mrs. 
 Channing had an old aunt, unmarried and wealthy, 
 who was generally considered an oddity, and, but 
 for her situation in life, would have commanded 
 but little attention from her relatives. But Aunt 
 Achsah was, nevertheless, a woman of good heart 
 and generous impulses, and, withal, a spice of 
 romance, which had no small influence upon her 
 actions. With this good lady Frank had always 
 been a favorite ; and as children usually know 
 instinctively, as it were, who really love them, he 
 had attached himself warmly to his old aunt, and, 
 as he grew older, she had still retained his confi- 
 dence and aflection. To her he now wrote, stating 
 
PROSE. 325 
 
 how his love affair stood, and asking her assist- 
 ance to further Eveline's plan. The good lady 
 entered into it with avidity, offered her home to 
 receive them, and promised her aid and secrecy. 
 The result was, that Frank and Eveline were pri- 
 vately married, and soon afterward, the hride, 
 escorted by her father, sailed for America, and was 
 duly received into the hospitable dwelling of Aunt 
 Achsah, from which she was soon after trans- 
 ferred, as the reader already knows, to the Wil- 
 lows, as the governess of her young sisters-in-law. 
 An account of her proceedings Avas faithfully 
 transmitted to Frank, who then, in compliance 
 with the arrangement previously made, wrote to 
 acquaint his family with his marriage. 
 
 With the effect of the letter, with Eveline's sub- 
 sequent history, and the denoue^tnent^ the reader is 
 already acquainted. And now, in conclusion, we 
 have only to say, that Eveline is the pride and 
 delight of her husband's family, and the admira- 
 tion of all their friends ; that Mrs. Channing's 
 foolish prejudices against the people of Erin have 
 been fairly combated and destroyed, and, if there 
 is one particular subject on which, more than on 
 any other, she delights to dwell, it is the inimi- 
 table graces and matchless virtues of her Irish 
 
 DAUGHTER-IN-LAW. 
 
 27^ 
 
326 PRost!. 
 
 THE mother's heart. 
 
 " Number thy lamps of love, and tell me now 
 How many thou canst re-light at the stars, 
 And blush not at their burning ? One — one only — 
 Lit while your pulses by one heart kept time, 
 And fed with. faithful fondness to your grave — 
 One lamp — thy mother's love — amid tlie stars 
 Shall lift its pure flame changeless, and before 
 The throne of God burn thi'ough eternity — 
 Holy — as it was lit and lent thee here." 
 
 There is something holy and touching in the 
 expression with which young people gaze upon 
 their first-born child ; the new and strong link in 
 the beautiful chain of their domestic affection — 
 the tie which neither time nor misfortune, sickness, 
 disgrace, nor even death itself, shall have power to 
 sever. As they bend over the helpless babe, im- 
 agination rapidly and hopefully pictures forth his 
 gradual progress through the different stages of 
 childhood, youth and manhood, and weaves bright 
 crowns of honor, fame and happiness, to deck his 
 brow ; and the mother looks forward to the time 
 when her hours of pain and suffering, and the 
 future cares that await her, shall all be amply 
 recompensed by his love and welfare. 
 
 Snch were doubtless the thoughts and dreams of 
 Leslie Ashton and his young wife, the wedded 
 lovers of a year, the parents of a few brief hours, 
 as they gazed, with speechless delight, on the fair 
 boy just given to their love and their embraces, 
 and each sought to trace in its tiny features the 
 lineaments of the other. There was another, too, 
 beside that couch, — a stately and beautiful woman, 
 
PROSE. 327 
 
 who bent with mingled smiles and tears over the 
 young mother and her child, and blessed them with 
 a full heart. This was Isabel Somers, the cousin 
 of Mrs. Ashton, and the tried and true friend of 
 her whole life. Isabel had been many years the 
 wife of one who possessed every requisite to make 
 lier happy ; wealth lavished its countless luxuries 
 in her home, and on her person — love, the most 
 devoted and untiring, was around her pathway, 
 and her social and intellectual feelings alike met a 
 ready response and sympathy — but one desire yet 
 remained unsatisfied. Her spacious halls echoed 
 not the sound of childhood's happy voice and merry 
 laughter — - the deep fountains in her heart had 
 never been stirred by the lisping tones or the soft 
 embrace of one whose very life-blood was her 
 own. ''Would that I, too, were a mother! " was 
 the earnest prayer of her spirit, as she looked on 
 the quiet yet intense happiness of her friends; 
 and then inwardly reproaching herself for her 
 secret envy, she returned, languid and dispirited, to 
 her home. She entered her luxurious dwelling, so 
 diflerent from the small and simple a.bode she had 
 just quitted, and strove to forget, in her usual avo- 
 cations, that scene of domestic felicity. But in vain 
 she essayed to charm away those haunting thoughts 
 by the spell of sweet sounds ; the notes were dis- 
 cordant, for the soul of the musician was away. 
 In vain her flowers blossomed and shed their fra- 
 grance around her, and her birds strove by their 
 sweetest songs to win her attention ; her ear listed, 
 and her heart yearned, for a far dearer sound. 
 
328 PROSE. 
 
 "Oj that I were but a mother!" she wildly ex-- 
 claimed, as she dwelt more and more on the happi- 
 ness of the Ash tons ; " gladly would I exchange 
 wealth, ease and every luxury, hut to 'clasp to my 
 heart a being to whom I had given birth, and to 
 hear its first lisping accents murmur ^mother I ' " 
 
 Days, weeks and months went by, and daily 
 and hourly was that wish repeated, till it became 
 an earnest aspiration, a fervent prayer ; • and then 
 Isabel began to experience a new feeling, a sort of 
 jealous envy towards the young cousin whom she 
 had ever loved so dearly, and by degrees she dis- 
 continued her visits there, for the sight of their 
 deep, quiet enjoyment, made her very heart sick 
 and weary. But, at length, her prayer was an- 
 swered ; and in the twelfth year of her wedded life, 
 Isabel Somers embraced her first-born son. There 
 were tears in her deep, dark eyes, as she imprinted 
 the first kiss of maternal affection on its smooth, 
 round cheek, but they were tears of heartfelt joy 
 and thanksgiving. This was the era in Isabel's 
 Hfe. She had been happy as the only and idolized 
 child of the most devoted parents — happy as the 
 beautiful and gifted heiress, flattered and courted 
 in the gay circles in which she moved — happy as 
 the cherished wife of one who had been the play- 
 mate of her childhood, and the beloved companion 
 of her youth — but never, till now, had her felicity 
 been perfect and entire. Time sped, and joyously 
 it passed with the inmates of Somers House. The 
 little Ernest grew in grace and beauty — each day 
 developed some new infantine charm, and Isabel 
 
PROSE. 329 
 
 was blest indeed. Home was now to her the cen- 
 tre of all enjoyment. What to her ear were the 
 warblings of the sweetest vocalist, compared with 
 the faintest lisp of that loved one? 7— what to her 
 eye the most graceful movement of the accom- 
 plished danseuse, with the delight of watching its 
 tiny feet, and training its feeble steps. 
 
 Till Ernest attained his seventh year, he had 
 enjoyed the most unbroken health, and his doting 
 mother had often exulted in his bright eyes, rosy 
 cheeks and agile movements ; but, about that time, 
 a contagious disorder broke out among children. 
 Among the first whom it attacked was the eldest 
 child of the Ashtons, who, unlike Ernest Somers, 
 Had always possessed a feeble constitution and deli- 
 cate health; and, unable to resist the ravages of the 
 disorder, he soon became its victim. From the 
 time of his attack, Mrs. Somers had kept Ernest in 
 strict seclusion ; but her cares were unavailing, for 
 scarcely had the grave closed above his little play- 
 fellow, when the young heir of Somers House was 
 seized with the fever. Isabel was well-nigh dis- 
 tracted. Mr^ Ashton, ever self-sacrificing, roused 
 herself from the indulgence of her own sorrow, to 
 administer consolation to her friend, whose less 
 evenly balanced mind and ungoverned feelings so 
 much required it. 
 
 " Do not talk to me of patience and submission," 
 cried Isabel, in reply to her cousin's gentle plead- 
 ings; '' I cannot bow my heart to this stroke, and 
 say, ' Thy will be done ! ' You cannot feel as I 
 do; — you have lost your child, 't is true, but you 
 
330 psosE. 
 
 have others left to fill his place, while I, if I lose 
 him^ have no other hope, but shall be left alone, 
 a}^, more than if he had never been given me ! 
 But surely God cannot be so cruel, — he wil I not take 
 my darling from me ! O, if he might but be spared 
 to me, gladly would I suffer peril, pain, and priva- 
 tion of every kind, — ay, death even, for what were 
 life without him? I know I am a wicked, sinful 
 creature, Margaret ; but if he is to die, I cannot, 
 toill not survive him, — for how could I live when 
 the sunshine and glory of my life had departed? " 
 
 Alas ! how often does that which we crave as our 
 chiefest blessing prove to be our bitterest curse ! 
 At length the crisis of the disorder came. ^^ Must 
 he die ! " murmured the trembling, despairing moth- 
 er, in that low, sepulchral whisper, which sounds 
 so fearfully in the silent chamber, to the kind and 
 skilful man who bent over the couch of the little 
 sufferer. 
 
 ''While there is life there is hope," was the 
 reply; ''he appears now to be sinking into a quiet 
 slumber, and Hf he lives till sunrise^'' he may yet 
 recover." 
 
 " Till sun7'ise,^^ slowly repeated, the mother; 
 " and the sun is but just now setting." 
 
 In vain did her friends seek to withdraw her 
 from the room, and urge her to take some needful 
 repose; for it was the ninth day of Ernest's ill- 
 ness, and during all that time Isabel had scarcely 
 ate, drank or slept — nor would she now. "If he 
 lives, I would be the first to know it, — if he dies, 
 mine must be the last look upon his living face." 
 
PROSE. 331 
 
 The long, weary night passed away — the gray 
 light of the morning dawned, and still that pale, 
 anxious watcher, sat by the bedside of her child, 
 with her dark, heavy eyes fixed earnestly on his 
 small and wasted person, which lay listless and 
 languid, and save his low, but now regular breath- 
 ings, perfectly motionless. Once only her voice 
 broke the silence, to whisper to an attendant a 
 request that the shutters might be unclosed. The 
 sun was just rising, and as its full, broad beams 
 fell on the pillow of the child, he opened his large 
 blue eyes, no longer bright with fever delirium, but 
 clear and unclouded as that morning sky, and 
 turning them, full of love and recognition, on the 
 wan face of his mother, in a faint voice murmured 
 her name. From that hour his recovery 'com- 
 menced gradually but surely, and ere many weeks 
 had elapsed, Isabel's heart was once more elate 
 with joy. 
 
 But the shadow of the Destroyer's presence had 
 not yet vanished from her dwelling ; the uplifted 
 sword fell, and Mr. Somers, the husband and 
 father, was cut off in the prime of his existence. 
 Yet he died not by the wasting of disease ; no pre- 
 monitory warning was given, and his death fell 
 like a thunderbolt on the hearts of his friends. He 
 was taken ill in his counting-room, was carried 
 home, and in a few hours expired, without having 
 spoken to, or apparently even recognized, his wife 
 or son. Not till his remains had been consigned to 
 their kindred earth, was the cause of his death dis- 
 covered. That morning, he had received letters 
 
332 PROSE. 
 
 from abroad, and it was after perusing them that 
 he was seized with the attack which terminated 
 his Hfe. They proved, on examination, to contain 
 tidings of the failure of some houses with which 
 he had been so closely connected, that their down- 
 fall involved his own. His fortune was completely 
 wrecked ; and he had probably dwelt upon the situ- 
 ation to which it must reduce his delicate and high- 
 bred wife, and the fair boy to whose future emi- 
 nence he had looked forward so proudly, till the 
 revulsion proved too great for his highly wrought 
 and sensitive nature to bear, and he had sunk 
 beneath it. Thus in a brief space was Isabel 
 Somers, the pampered child of luxury and fashion, 
 left widowed and poor, to struggle through the 
 world with the child of her idolatry, with nothing 
 but a '■^ Tuother's hearV^ and a mother's never-dying 
 love to sustain hei. Many wondered that one v/ho 
 had always manifested so much devotion towards 
 a husband as Isabel had done, should make so little 
 outward demonstration of sorrow ; for in that light 
 did they regard the simple mourning she had 
 adopted, not as proportioned to the loss she had 
 sustained, but as best suited to the straitened cir- 
 cumstances in which she had been left. When all 
 her affairs were adjusted, but a small portion 
 remained of what had been a princely fortune; 
 with Mr. Ash ton's assistance, this sum was safely 
 invested, and a small, neat dwelling procured, not 
 very far from the city, where Isabel was soon estab- 
 lished with her boy. 
 
 No sooner was she fairly settled in her new abode, 
 
PROSE. 333 
 
 than, she set about the task of educating herself and 
 Ernest. To many women this might have seemed 
 no easy one ; but Isabel possessed a mind which 
 needed only culture and strong moral action to ren- 
 der it capable of comprehending and performing 
 any duty to which she might be called. Her educa- 
 tion, despite the disadvantages, if so they may be 
 called, of rank, wealth and fashion, had not been 
 superficial ; for Isabel had an insatiable love of read- 
 ing, which, having been under the guidance of the 
 fine mind and cultivated taste of her husband, now 
 proved of inestimable value to her. She was well 
 versed in the branches which comprise the usual 
 routine of a good English education, joined to the 
 usual stock of young lady accomplishments, and it 
 was to obtain a thorough knowledge of languages, 
 in which she was rather deficient, as well as of the 
 higher and more abstruse studies with which it was 
 .necessary that Ernest should be conversant, that she 
 now set herself to work ; and with the strong stim- 
 ulus of maternal love to urge her efibrts, who can 
 doubt that she was successful ? The principal part 
 of the day was devoted to Ernest's instruction, not 
 neglecting those useful, though less carefully taught 
 lessons which are to be found in green fields, singing 
 birds,- blossoming flowers, and all beautiful things; 
 but when he was at rest, then commenced Isabel's 
 labors; and any of the villagers, who chanced 
 to be out late at night, never failed to see the glim- 
 mering light of the solitary lamp, in the little study- 
 parlor of the cottage, which told that the love- 
 inspired student was still at her tasks. Night after 
 28 
 
334 PROSE. 
 
 night, she sat dihgently poring over musty volumes, 
 and storing her mind with the treasures of ancient 
 and modern lore, ever and anon creeping stealthily 
 into the adjoining hed-room, to look for a moment 
 on the features of her sleeping idol, and then 
 returning stimulated to still greater efforts. In 
 order the better to economize her small income, 
 and ^0 enable her to afford Ernest every gratifica- 
 tion, as well as to excite in him a spirit of generous 
 emulation, she received two pupils, the sons of old 
 friends, by whom they were cheerfully committed 
 to her care, to be prepared, in like manner with her 
 own son, to enter the university. 
 
 To accomplish this work was an arduous task 
 — but what mother ever shrank from aught that 
 would promote the happiness of her child 1 Cer- 
 tainly not Isabel Sorners ! What mattered it to her 
 that her cheek grew thin and pale, and her eye 
 dim, or that many a silver thread mingled with her 
 raven tresses — while she saw his stately figure 
 developmg itself into , manly beauty — while' his 
 dear voice was heard singing merrily about the 
 house, and his clear, bright eyes beamed with love 
 and happiness upon her 7 At length her task was 
 completed. Ernest, accompanied by his mother, 
 went to Cambridge, was examined, and admitted 
 as a student in the university, while Isabel re- 
 turned to her humble home, to devise and practise 
 some additional method of economy, by which she 
 might be enabled to furnish Ernest with the means 
 to make as good an appearance as any of his fel- 
 lows. In order to effect this, she dismissed her 
 
PROSE. 335 
 
 only attendant, on the plea that she required some 
 manual labor to counterbalance the effects of her 
 sedentary life, and then set about preparing her 
 simple meals and performing her household duties 
 herself, for the first time in her life. She was 
 urged to receive pupils again, but the grand stimu- 
 lus was gone, and Isabel confessed herself unequal 
 to the task ; but to^ add to the little fund, which the 
 strictest frugality, and the entire absence of every 
 little luxury to which she had been accustomed, 
 enabled her to lay by for Ernest's wants, she con- 
 sented to instruct a class of yc^ng ladies in the 
 lighter accomplishments of the day. 
 
 Little did Ernest dream, when he received his 
 liberal allowance, of the toil and privations it had 
 cost his mother to obtain it ! Yet she heeded it 
 not. Willingly would she have coined her very 
 heart's blood to afford him but an hour's gratifica- 
 tion, and amply did she deem herself repaid by the 
 tidings which reached her of his diligence and good 
 conduct. "He is my all," she would say to the 
 friends who remonstrated with her on the priva- 
 tions to which she doomed herself; "and why 
 should I not give my life even, if need be, to make 
 him happy?" And when, in the vacations, he 
 came home to her, still the same, only more manly, 
 more kind and gentle, more like his dead father, it 
 seemed as if her very heart would burst with 
 excess of gladness. Then the cottage assumed a 
 new face; during Ernest's visit, the little parlor 
 was carefully arranged, the books he loved were 
 laid on the tables, and flowers, of which he was 
 
386 PROSE. 
 
 passionately fond, filled the room with fragrance^ 
 and a proud and happy woman was Isabel when^ 
 on the Sabbath, she walked to church, leaning on 
 his arm, and looking up, with confiding affection, 
 into his open, noble countenance. But those days 
 were too bright to last ! When, at the close of his 
 second collegiate year, Ernest returned home, as 
 was his wont, he was accompanied by a fellow- 
 student, to whom Isabel, as if instinctively, took an 
 instant and fixed dislike. She remonstrated with 
 her son, but for once her pleadings were in vain. 
 Ernest had contracted a friendship for' the young 
 •man, by one of those singular fatalities which 
 sometimes draw together persons of entirely oppo- 
 site tastes and dispositions. Pedro de Castigne was 
 the son of a Spanish shipmaster, and a pale, gentle 
 girl, whom he had half coaxed and half frightened 
 into becoming his wife, and who died of a broken 
 heart, when this her only child was but six months 
 old. Since that time he had been under the pro- 
 tection of his father, if such it could be termed ; — 
 knocked about here and there, and gleaning now 
 and then such information as could be obtained 
 among a bold, piratical crew. But he was a 
 shrewd, artful lad, and withal rather good-looking, 
 with a bright face, and bold, black eyes ; and some 
 benevolent gentleman, having taken an interest in 
 his situation, had given him the means of study- 
 ing, and finally procured him admission into the 
 university, rightly presuming that his natural 
 talents, combined with a good education, would 
 enable him to make his way in the world, with 
 
PROSE. 337 
 
 honor to himself, and credit to his benefactor. And 
 so it might have been, had it been possible for 
 Pedro to keep out of mischief; but his natural 
 tendency to this, aided by his early culture, proved 
 too strong to be resisted, and the^ consequence was, 
 that he was not only continually in disgrace him- 
 self, but he was ever drawing some easy and 
 unsuspecting classmate into the same path. Such 
 was the dangerous companion with whom Ernest 
 Somers had linked himself; and when, at the close 
 ^f the vacation, he returned to Cambridge, Isabel 
 bade her son farewell, with fearful forebodings of 
 evil. 
 
 The mother's v/orst fears were destined to be 
 realized ! Soon after the commencement of the 
 term, it began to be whispered about that mischief 
 was brewing at Cambridge, and ere long the storm 
 burst forth. Some atrocious act had been commit- 
 ted ; the perpetrators were detected ; Pedro de Cas- 
 tign^ was the ringleader, and high on the list stood 
 the name of Ernest Somers. They were arraigned 
 before the government of the college, the offence 
 proved, and the delinquents expelled. Castigne 
 departed, none knew whither, and Ernest returned 
 to the abode of the stricken mother whom he had 
 disgraced, and whose dearest hopes had been 
 crushed and blighted. Nor did the trouble end 
 here. Had Ernest returned, like the prodigal of 
 old, humbled and contrite, conscious of his sin, and 
 pleading for forgiveness, Isabel felt that she could 
 have borne it better. But it was not so. He had 
 grown sullen and morose ; he mocked at her tears, 
 28=^ 
 
338 PROSE. 
 
 and turned contemptuously from her gentle plead- 
 ings ; and the temper which she had ever deemed 
 mild and even proved to have been but a slumber- 
 ing lion, which, chafed and irritated by the battle 
 which had been done, now rushed forth in violent 
 fury, to destroy all who came in its way. His 
 mother could gain no information from him relat- 
 ing either to the riot in which he had been con- 
 cerned, or to his friend, the notorious de Castigne; 
 but that Ernest received frequent letters from him, 
 she could not doubt. At length, one evening, con- 
 trary to his wont, he remained at home, and the 
 mother's heart bounded with joy once more, to see 
 him take his seat opposite her at the round table, 
 where he had been accustomed to sit in those 
 happy days when she was his teacher, companion 
 and friend. There was a softness in his eyes 
 which had not been there before for many a long, 
 weary day, and a tenderness in his voice as he 
 bade her good night, that made her heart thrill as 
 it had done in by-gone days, and called up a smile 
 of pleasure to her pale, wan face. Poor Isabel ! 
 that smile was her last ! She retired to rest that 
 night with a lighter heart than she had done for 
 many months, for she had hope that her erring 
 child might yet be reclaimed. " He will be once 
 more as in those blessed days, and ^e shall be so 
 happy." With this delightful anticipation she 
 arose refreshed on the ensuing morning, and 
 entered the parlor, confidently expecting the morn- 
 ing greeting from Ernest; but he was not there, 
 neither was he in his bed-room, or in the garden. 
 
PEOSE. 339 
 
 He returned not that day, and after nearly a week 
 of intolerable suspense, a letter came, which told 
 the heart-sick mother that her darling son, whom 
 she had nurtured so tenderly, scarcely allowing the 
 rough winds to blow upon him, had taken passage 
 as a common sailor, in a vessel bound for a long 
 voyage to a distant land. He expressed no contri- 
 tion for the past, gave no promise of amendment 
 for the future ; and now indeed was the last ray of 
 hope extinguished- in that mother's heart ! 
 
 From that hour Isabel Somers was a changed 
 woman. For many days no one saw her ; the 
 cottage windows were closed, no smoke ascended 
 from the chimneys, and there was an air of cheer- 
 lessness and desolation about the whole place. But 
 on the succeeding Sabbath the lonely widow was 
 seen slowly proceeding to church, and the few 
 who ventured to steal a look at her, were shocked 
 to see the ravages that short season of sorrow had 
 made. Her stately figure was bowed, not with the 
 weight of years ; her hair, which had been remark- 
 able for its redundant beauty, had grown thin and 
 gray ; and the large, dark eyes, which had capti- 
 vated many hearts with their soft brilliancy, had 
 now an expression of intense melancholy, which 
 saddened even the most indifferent beholder. Yet 
 none approached her with "the poor common 
 words of charity" and consolation, for there was a 
 sort of gentle, quiet dignity about her sorrow 
 which forbade, the intrusion. That day, with a 
 bowed and broken spirit, Isabel laid herself, with 
 all her griefs and heart-aches, at the feet of Jesus, 
 
340 PROSE. 
 
 and received comfort and support in her afflic- 
 tions. 
 
 j^ •Hj' -ih -ilr -^ ^ 
 
 'T^ ^ •TV" T^ -TV -TV" 
 
 Two years passed wearily and heavily away, 
 although Isabel had gained a greater degree of 
 calmness and resignation than she had dared to 
 hope for, and then came another and more terrible 
 shock. The crew of the ship in which Ernest and 
 his mad companion had embarked, irritated by 
 some harsh usage from the commander, and insti- 
 gated by de Castigne, had mutinied and turned 
 pirates ; they had been captured by a vessel and 
 brought into port, and Ernest was now in prison, 
 awaiting his trial. Not a moment did Isabel hesi- 
 tate with regard to the course she should pursue. 
 To go to him, to comfort and console him, to 
 remain with him during the dreadful period of his 
 confinement, was the course which her heart 
 prompted, and, agonized as she was, she set forth, 
 alone, to seek the poor criminal. Dreading lest 
 she should meet some old familiar face among the 
 numerous passers in the well-known streets, Isabel, 
 on her entrance into the city, procured a cheap 
 conveyance to take her to the prison. On her way 
 she passed the splendid dv/elling which had been 
 her home in happier days ; lights were glancing in 
 the windows of what had been her nursery, and at 
 the sight came rushing back the memories of the 
 past, soon to be dispelled by the fearful realities of 
 the present. The vehicle stopped at the iron gate 
 of the prison, and having obtained permission of 
 the keeper, Isabel was conducted through the dis- 
 
PROSE. 341 
 
 mal stone galleries, and down flights of steps into 
 the damp corridor leading to the cells ; and her 
 guide having unbarred the iron door and removed 
 the massive bolts, she was ushered into the pres- 
 ence of her guilty son. For a moment she regarded 
 him in horror-struck silence, while he, unable to 
 recognize in the wan, gray-haired woman before 
 him, the stately and handsome woman from whom 
 1^ had parted less than three years before, stood 
 before her, bending upon her a glance so fierce 
 that she shrank before it. '' Ernest!" she at 
 length faltered forth, and with a faint, wild cry, 
 the miserable man fell at her feet, and pressed to 
 his ashy lips, convulsively, the hem of his mother's 
 garment. During his confinement on shipboard, 
 and since, in that lonely cell, his mind had re- 
 turned to its natural state; for strangely had it 
 been perverted in its intercourse with the reckless 
 and dissolute Pedro de Castigne. Horror and 
 remorse had taken the place of the wild, fierce des- 
 peration which had led him on to the cruel and 
 terrible deeds in which he had been an actor. He 
 was again gentle and childlike, and listened with 
 tearful earnestness to the tender words of his grief- 
 worn mother, as she urged him to seek forgiveness 
 where he had most deeply sinned. With tears of 
 heartfelt penitence did he confess and mourn over 
 his apostasy and downfall. He spoke with shud- 
 dering horror of the dreadful crimes which he had 
 committed, and lamented with bitter, though una- 
 vailing sorrow, over the untimely and disgraceful 
 doom to which he had consigned himself; he, who 
 
342 PROSE. 
 
 had been so highly gifted, so carefully instructed ! 
 His mother sought to soothe him with kindly 
 VvTords, and promises from Sacred Writ, and at 
 length, wearied and exhausted, he sank into a pro- 
 found slumber, with his head pillowed on his 
 mother's knee. "And is this," thought Isabel, as 
 she gazed on his sleeping face, "is this the babe for 
 whose birtii I so longed — the fair child by whose 
 sick bed I knelt in agony, and so earnestly prayed 
 for his life, — the noble boy to whose nurture and 
 instruction I devoted the best years of my life, — 
 the manly youth whom I looked up to as the 
 future support of my declining years? . Yet oh 
 how much dearer is he now than ever he was in 
 the brightest days of his prosperity ! " 
 
 The remainder of my story is painful, but it 
 shall be very brief. Isabel remained with her 
 wretched son till he was brought to trial. She 
 stood near him at the bar, and listened in fearful 
 suspense to those on whose words hung life and 
 death. She nerved herself to bear the worst, and 
 heard with unblanched cheek the sentence which 
 doomed her only son to the scaffold. She returned 
 with him to the dungeon, from whence he was to 
 emerge once more, to become the gaze and talk of 
 a vast and heartless multitude; she clasped his 
 cold hand, and bade him farewell for the last time 
 on earth ; she heard the shout which told her that 
 all was over, that she was a lonely, childless 
 widow, and then her sight grew dim — she remem- 
 bered nothing further ! 
 
 In a remote corner of the little church-yard iu 
 
PROSE. 343 
 
 the village where she had passed so many cheq- 
 uered years, did Isabel consign her son to his last 
 dreamless sleep ! She heard the clods rattle on 
 the coffin, saw the earth heaped upon what had 
 been her idol, and then returned to her home, deso- 
 late indeed ! But not long did the weary spirit 
 remain in bondage. Ere the grass had grown on 
 the grave of Ernest Somers, his broken-hearted 
 mother was laid by his side. 
 
 Peaceful be thy slumber, thou martyr to mater- 
 nal love ! and in that better land to which thou 
 didst fondly point him^ mayest thou meet thy poor 
 wanderer, ransomed from sin, and washed white 
 in the blood of his Redeemer ! 
 
 Reader, 'tis an ow're true tale! I have drawn 
 my characters from life. Nor is Isabel Somers the 
 only mother who has seen her dearest hopes thus 
 crushed and blighted, as many a poor, stricken 
 heart will bear me witness ; but never, thank God, 
 has storm or blight, disgrace, or even death, had 
 power to dim or quench the lamp which burns 
 on ever, with holy and steady light, from the cra- 
 dle to the grave, through all chances and changes, 
 in the true mother's heart ! 
 
344 
 
 PROSE. 
 
 THE AULD WIFE. 
 
 " John Anderson, my Jo, John, 
 
 We 've clomb life's hill thegither, 
 And mony a canty day, John, 
 
 We 've had with ane anither ; 
 Now we maun totter down, John, 
 
 But hand in hand we '11 go, 
 And sleep thegither at the foot, 
 
 John Anderson, my Jo." 
 
 How often has that beautiful and touching old 
 ballad of Burns' risen from my heart to my lips, 
 as I have witnessed the devotion of old Hannah 
 Evans to her still more aged and infirm husband ; 
 the quickness with which she discerned his slight- 
 est wants, the alacrity with which she ministered 
 to them, her gentleness, and the numberless little 
 kindnesses she seems to delight in bestowing ! To 
 me, her unwearied love and devotion seem to dif- 
 fuse a bright '' light''^ amid the numerous shadows 
 that darken woman's life ; and so I am tempted to 
 pen a sketch, which, imperfect though it be, may 
 perhaps convey to you some idea of one who is 
 deserving of far higher praise than this simple 
 tribute to her excellence. 
 
 Hannah Lee was the youngest child and the 
 only daughter of parents who were born, bred, and 
 married, and who hoped to live and die, in the 
 same quiet village. They dwelt in a venerable 
 cottage, weather-stained and moss-roofed, near the 
 church ; for, in addition to his peculiar calling, (he 
 was a carpenter,) old James Lee had succeeded 
 his father as village sexton. Beneath that lowly 
 roof he had received life : it had been the scene of 
 
PROSE. 345 
 
 ills boyish pleasures, and thither, in the first prime 
 of manhood, he had borne from a similar dwell- 
 ing his bride, a fair, meek, village maiden, with 
 no dowry save virtue and affection. There, for 
 many years, had they dwelt together, — poor and 
 humble, it is true, but blessed with tranquillity 
 and happiness such as gladdens few wealthy hab- 
 itations. They were healthy and industrious, 
 their children were good and well-behaved, and 
 they felt that they had no cause to murmur. 
 
 Their sons grew up tall, sturdy youths, and, 
 possessing the genuine spirit of Yankee enterprise, 
 they left their quiet village to " seek their fortunes" 
 amid more stirring scenes. Hannah remained at 
 home, a fine, healthy, well-grown lass, who, among 
 the rustic youths at Heathside, bore the enviable 
 reputation of a beauty — a title which would doubt- 
 less have shocked the refined ideas of modern, lisp- 
 ing city beaux, and fragile, pale-faced, wasp-waisted 
 belles, could they have seen Hannah Lee's plump, 
 ruddy cheeks, with which the sun and the rain 
 had taken unwarrantable liberties, — her full, ripe 
 lips, (rather too full and too wide to be likened to 
 a cleft cherry,) — and her well-developed figure, 
 which gave ample evidence that it had never suf- 
 fered from compression or whalebones, or any 
 other bones, save those which Nature had given 
 her, and which might possibly have weighed down 
 one or two dapper young gentlemen of the present 
 day (this is only a rough guess.) But Hannah 
 had a pair of merry blue eyes, and an abundance 
 of tastefuIly-arraDged hair, which a poet or a 
 29 
 
346 PROSE. 
 
 painter, or some such out-of-the-way genus^ mighty 
 perhaps, have raved ahout, and hkened it to that 
 of Ahston's Beatrice, or to the tresses of Petrarch's 
 Laura, or some equally renowned personage; but 
 the unsophisticated farmer-lads of Heathside had 
 probably never heard of these ladies, famed in 
 Italian song, — so they unceremoniously called it 
 red hair, and only admired its graceful braids, and 
 large, natural curls ; and some few were found 
 who were^ so completely devoid of taste as to say 
 "Hannah Lee would be pretty if it were not for her 
 hair ! " But there were few who did not love and 
 admire her ; and so, if any one dared hazard such 
 an envious remark, they were generally silenced 
 by the reply that "she roas pretty, in sj)ite of her 
 hair," And, alas for modern nerves ! how would' 
 they haye been utterly annihilated by Hannah 
 Lee's merry-ringing laugh ! For in those days 
 it was not considered ill-bred to give vent to one's 
 exuberance of mirthful feeling in a good hearty 
 laugh; or, if it were, the code of fashionable eti- 
 quette had not reached the primitive village of 
 Heathside. But be that as it might, certain it is 
 that Hannah's laugh was sweet music in the ears 
 of thosp who loved her, and made the old walls of 
 the cottage ring, and the hearts of her aged parents 
 leap with joy and gladness. A happy creature 
 was Hannah Lee, — ay, and a good and kind one, 
 too ! — with a leal and by no means narrow heart; 
 for she found plenty of room in its numerous cor- 
 ners and crevices for a host of friends, and as she 
 grew to woman's estate, she discovered that there 
 
PROSE. 347 
 
 was still abundant room for another occupant — 
 and who was this to be? Among the village beaux 
 to whom she was the centre of attraction at husk- 
 in gs, quiltings, and singing-school, Hannah had 
 early given the preference to John Evans, the vil- 
 lage blacksmith, a tall, robust, good-looking youth, 
 — just such a one, I fancy, as Longfellow must 
 have had in his mind when he wrote that admirable 
 description of the son of Yulcan. John was steady, 
 industrious, and well-principled, and it was uni- 
 versally acknowledged that he and Hannah were 
 every way worthy of each other. It was not the 
 fashion then, as now, for a couple, after a few 
 weeks' or, it may be, months' acquaintance, to go 
 to the altar, knowing as little of each others' char- 
 acters and tempers as on the first day they met ; 
 and so John and Hannah plodded through a three 
 years' courtship, which, humdrum as it may appear 
 to us, seemed perfectly proper, and was undoubt- 
 edly very agreeable, to them. " The course of 
 their true love" ran perfectly smooth, and there 
 was every prospect of their being married, without 
 any obstacle interfering to impede their progress. 
 Hannah's preparations were all made; a small cot- 
 tage had been rented, only a few minutes' walk 
 from her maiden home; they had been regularly 
 cried in church on three successive Sabbaths, and 
 the next week was appointed for their wedding, 
 when a shadow (alas ! that such there be !) dark- 
 ened their pathway. Suddenly and without warn- 
 ing, old James Lee was struck with palsy; and a 
 second stroke rapidly succeeding the first, deprived 
 
348 PROSE. 
 
 the old man of the use of his hmhs, and the village 
 of its sexton, while his wife was afflicted with an 
 inflammation in her eyes, which impaired her sight, 
 and threatened eventually to destroy it altogether. 
 Hannah's wedding Avas necessarily delayed ; and 
 when, after a lapse of several weeks, she found that 
 her father's helplessness continued, and her mother 
 was totally blind, after tearful meditation and ear- 
 nest prayer, she concluded to release John from 
 his engagement. With as much calmness and com- 
 posure as she could command, she made known 
 her decision to her lover. 
 
 "And why, Hannah, should this misfortune 
 separate us now, any more than if it had happened 
 after our marriage? I am well and strong, and 
 able to work ; let your parents remove with us to 
 our cottage, and I doubt not that, with the help of 
 God, I shall be enabled to support you all." 
 
 " Nay, John, this must not be ! That you could 
 and %Dould do all this, I do not doubt; and had this 
 misfortune fallen on us after our union, I could 
 only have resigned myself to the stroke, and assist-* 
 ed you to bear the additional burthen. But I see 
 the hand of God in this dispensation ; — I too am 
 able and willing to work, and it will be alike my 
 duty and my pleasure to live and toil for my aged 
 and helpless parents. I alone must bear the bur- 
 den he has laid upon me, and fitted me to endure. 
 Time will soon efface from your mind, dear John, 
 all painful recollections, and you will find some 
 one equally well calculated as I am to make you 
 happy." 
 
PROSE. 349 
 
 John plead warmly, but Hannah had nerved 
 herself to meet every argument, and finally they 
 parted. John strove two or three times to renew 
 his suit, hut it was unavailing ; and unable to live 
 amid the scenes that continually recalled his dis- 
 appointment, he at length gave up his occupation, 
 and departed for the West. Hannah was now left 
 alone to toil for her aged parents, to cheer with 
 her smiles the sadness of the helpless one, and 
 to brighten with love and kindly words the 
 gloom of her who sat in perpetual darkness. She 
 knew, if her brothers were acquainted with their 
 circumstances, they would be ready and willing to 
 assist her ; but she was also aware that they had 
 now families of their own, and she would not call 
 on them for aid. Hannah was an excellent seam- 
 stress, and found no difficulty in obtaining work ; 
 and her mother, who, as her sight grew dim, had 
 applied herself diligently to knitting, was enabled 
 to ply her needles as rapidly and skilfully as before 
 her deprivation. This employment answered a 
 double purpose, relieving the depression and melan- 
 choly which would naturally have resulted from 
 continued idleness, and also affording pleasure by 
 enabling her to add her mite towards the sup- 
 port of the family. While Hannah and her mother 
 were thus engaged, the old man sat in his great 
 easy-chair by the window, and with the Bible out- 
 spread on a little stand before him, read to his 
 companions from the pages of Holy Writ. Thus 
 all were employed ; and they soon grew to be, if . 
 not happy, at least cheerful and content. And did 
 29^< 
 
350 PROSE. 
 
 Hannah experience no regretful feelings, as she sat 
 therebetween her stricken parents — no yearning 
 after the happiness which might have been her 
 portion as the wife of John Evans 7 Did the 
 memories of the past never rise up and haunt her, 
 and fill her soul with their subduing and saddening 
 influence? Of this we cannot say;-— no mention 
 was made of his name by her parents, and only 
 twice did Hannah manifest any emotion on hear- 
 ing it from stranger lips ; once, when an oflicious 
 gossip of the village brought the tidings of John's 
 departure, and again, when the same busy-body 
 announced his marriage with the daughter of a 
 New England emigrant. The first had well-nigh 
 called forth an exclamation; but when the last 
 came, she had no power to speak, — she felt the 
 blood recede from her cheek to her heart, and there 
 was a choking sensation in her throat, which she 
 could not master. But that spasm passed away, 
 and whatever might have been her inward strug- 
 gles, there was no visible sign that it had affected 
 her, if we except a calmer and less mirthful 
 demeanor. 
 
 For nearly two years she toiled on, with unre- 
 mitting industry, the pride and admiration of the 
 village; and more than one had sought to share 
 the arduous duties she had undertaken, for "so 
 dutiful a daughter," they reasoned, "could not fail 
 to make a good wife." But Hannah steadily 
 resisted all importunities; she had borne to part 
 with the first loved, and it required no exertions to 
 refuse other proposals. But ere the second year of 
 
PROSE. 351 
 
 hor filial self-devotion had expired, a third stroke 
 of palsy carried the old man to his grave, and 
 Hannah's whole attention was how directed to her 
 remaining parent. But the old woman missed the 
 companion of forty years ; she listened in vain for 
 the sound of his voice, reading and praying, and 
 joining its tremulous tones with Hannah's in the 
 evening hymn. She could no longer apply herself 
 to her knitting, for her thoughts would wander 
 back to those by-gone years of happiness, her work 
 would drop upon her knee, and thus she would sit 
 listlessly for hours, while Hannah strove in vain to 
 rouse her. She did not long survive the aged part- 
 ner of her pilgrimage, and they lie side by side in 
 the village grave-yard, within a stone's throw of 
 the spot where they were born, lived and died ! 
 Hannah was now left entirely alone. Her brothers 
 offered her a home in their families ; but she could 
 not bear to leave the village, where every spot 
 teemed' with associations to her mind ; and at their 
 request, she became a member of the family of a 
 friend of her parents. A year passed away, and 
 Hannah was again tranquil, and comparatively 
 happy, when John Evans returned to Heathside, 
 a widower. He reopened his old shop, resumed 
 his business, and called upon Hannah Lee. The 
 substance of their first interview was kept carefully 
 in their own bosoms; but John's visits became fre- 
 quent, and ere the lapse of many months, it all 
 resulted in Hannah Lee's becoming the wife of the 
 widowed lover of her youth. The cottage which 
 would have been their home had their marriage 
 
352 PROSE. 
 
 taken place three years before had now another 
 occupant ; but the old house by the church, which 
 had been the home of her father, and her father's 
 father, the scene of all her childish joys and sor- 
 rows, and the trials of her maturer years, was now 
 vacant, and it soon became Hannah's bridal abode, 
 and the home of her wedded life. 
 
 Time passed, and fortune smiled upon the vil- 
 lage blacksmith and his wife: a group of rosy, 
 happy children clustered around their hearth, and 
 filled the house with music. They had been 
 enabled to purchase the old homestead, and an 
 adjoining field, which afibrded pasture to the cow, 
 while in the yard might be heard the cackling of 
 Hannah's poultry ; for her nice, yellow butter, and 
 fresh eggs, found a ready market in the adjoining 
 town, and thus added to the store which they 
 were laying up against a rainy day. That day 
 came at last ! Twice seven years of happiness rolled 
 away, and then the surly dame Misfortune, as if 
 envious of their prosperity, dashed the cup from 
 their lips, and substituted her own in its stead. 
 The first stroke fell, and from a quarter whence it 
 was least expected. John Evans, now in the prime 
 of life, had become a person of no small import- 
 ance in his native village. Since his marriage, he 
 had beguiled the long winter evenings by reading 
 books, which Avere loaned him by the minister, 
 himself a deep-read and intellectual man, though 
 lowly in heart, and content to pass his life among 
 the humble people with whom his lot had been 
 cast. In this manner, and by the conversation of 
 
PROSE. 353 
 
 travellers, who, in passing through the village, 
 always stopped to gaze at and admire his brawny, 
 muscular person, and the intelligence which beamed 
 forth from his face, spite of the smoke and dirt 
 with which it was begrimmed, he had gathered a 
 considerable store of information. But the reading 
 in which he most delighted was the history of his 
 own country, and he felt the patriotic fire kindle in 
 his veins, and his blood thrill, as he read of her 
 noble struggles for independence, and her final glo- 
 rious triumph ! Of this subject he never tired ; his 
 voice grew strong, and his step proud, as he des- 
 canted upon it, and he often regretted that he had 
 not been old enough in those days to bear a musket, 
 and go forth to the fight. About this time, the last 
 war, in which so many now living were engaged, 
 broke out, and parties were out in different sections 
 of the country in search of recruits. Heathside 
 did not pass unscathed; a small detachment of 
 soldiers took up their quarters at the village inn, 
 and stirred up the martial spirit in the breasts of 
 the male portion of the community. Many a sturdy 
 youth exchanged the plough for the musket, and 
 the coarse blue frock for the knapsack, and Avent 
 forth to the conflict, from which, perchance, he 
 might never return ! Day after day the recruiting 
 sergeant might be seen at John Evans' forge, pour- 
 ing into his listening ear tales of wild adventure, 
 and all the charms of a soldier's life. The black- 
 smith was fascinated, and his wife distressed ; and 
 it was no surprise, though a terrible shock, when 
 John informed her that he had enlisted. Tears, 
 
354 PROSE. 
 
 expostulations and entreaties, were alike in vain ; 
 his mind was filled with visions of glory, and he 
 panted to go forth, to fight and conquer. My 
 memory does not extend back to that time, but I 
 have heard my mother speak of the sorrow that 
 pervaded the village the day the recruits marched 
 out. Wives clung to their departing husbands; 
 parents implored their sons not to desert them; 
 maidens gazed, half dead with terror, on the lovers 
 who might never return to redeem their vows ; and 
 children, ignorant of their own loss, wept in sym- 
 pathy with their distressed parents ; while the sound 
 of drum and fife, playing merrily the national air, 
 rung in their ears like the death-knell of all they 
 loved. Alas ! how few of that goodly company 
 returned with unbroken constitutions and un- 
 maimed limbs to their homes ! 
 
 There is an old saying, that " misfortunes never 
 come singly," and the blacksmith's family seemed 
 to verify the truth of the remark. Soon after the 
 departure of the recruits, a contagious disorder 
 appeared among children, and the young Evans' 
 wxre not, exempt from its effects. The youngling 
 of the flock passed from the home where her pres- 
 ence had been as sunshine, and those who braved 
 the disorder were long confined to the house. The 
 attentions they required were so unremitting, that 
 Mrs. Evans was obliged to neglect her other affairs ; 
 and when at length her family were restored to 
 health, then came the long apothecary's bill, and 
 other numerous expenses necessarily incurred, and 
 she was obliged to sell, first her cow, and then 
 
PROSE. 355 
 
 the field, which her industry had helped to buy. 
 The homestead alone remained ; and to retain this, 
 Hannah was obliged to rally all her energies. She 
 had always been famed for her skill as a laundress, 
 and she found no difficulty in obtaining employ- 
 ment in that vocation. Her eldest girl assisted her, 
 and twice a week went to the next town with a 
 little wicker car, such as is now used to draw 
 infants, and thus brought the soiled clothes, and 
 carried back the clean ones. The two eldest boys 
 hired themselves out to farmers during the summer- 
 months, and went to school in the winter, and the 
 third went to the parsonage to do errands and the 
 light chores ; while the youngest girl braided straw 
 for a manufactory in an adjacent town, an occupa- 
 tion in which her mother and sister shared when 
 the heavier labors of the day were over. All this 
 was a considerable help, though, in order to keep 
 her children at school every winter, and to clothe 
 them neatly, Mrs. Evans was obliged to toil unre- 
 mittingly ; but she never repined, and would have 
 been comparatively happy, but for her disquietude 
 concerning her husband. Since the first six months 
 of his absence, she had heard nothing from him. 
 The war had long been ended, and many of the 
 recruits had returned ; but they brought no intelli- 
 gence of John Evans, for soon after their arrival 
 at head-quarters he had been placed in a difierent 
 regiment, and they, knew nothing of his future 
 fate. 
 
 Five years — the time for which he had enlisted ^^ 
 expired ; and one hot, sultry day in August, Han- 
 
356 PROSE. 
 
 nah stood ironing at her long deal table ; her eldest 
 daughter was busily plaiting raffles at one end, 
 and at the other, by the open casement, sat Hetty, 
 the younger girl, trimming a straw bonnet, when 
 the latter, looking up, saw a lame, weary and 
 apparently broken-down man, crossing the road 
 that led to the cottage. He paused a moment at 
 the wicket gate, and looked wistfully round ; then 
 hobbled up the gravel-path, and before Hetty's sur- 
 prise and curiosity would allow her to speak, he 
 was at the door. ''Who can he be?'' she ex- 
 claimed, as she rose to open it; and her mother and 
 sister lifted their eyes from 'their work just as the 
 man inquired, after regarding the girl intently for 
 an instant, if Mrs. Hannah Evans had removed. 
 One sound of that voice was enough; scarred, 
 seamed and mutilated, as he was, the eye and ear 
 of love were too keen to be deceived, and Hannah, 
 with tears of joy, welcomed her husband once 
 more to his home. The nev/s of his return spread 
 like wildfire through, the village. John, the eldest 
 son, now an apprentice in the shop where his 
 father had formerly been master, threw down the 
 huge sledge-hammer, and v/ithout waiting to throw 
 off his leather apron, or even to wash his face and 
 hands, ran with the speed of lightning homewards. 
 James hurried from the fields, and Bob heard the 
 news in the distant meadow, where he was cutting 
 peat, and darted off, hatless and barefooted, to greet 
 the long-absent and deeply-mourned father. All 
 work was suspended for that afternoon. The, wan- 
 derer was worn with travel and hunger; so the 
 
PEOSE. 357 
 
 tea-table was set, with the strong and refreshing 
 beverage^ good home-made bread, potatoes and 
 smoking rashers of bacon, and never met a happier 
 group than that which gathered around the hum- 
 ble, but well-spread board, in the cottage of John 
 and Hannah Evans. When the table was cleared, 
 and the family were seated in the "best room," 
 inhaling the fresh air that came through the open 
 casements, rendered more fragrant by its passage 
 through the honeysuckles which climbed even to 
 the lowly roof, how eagerly did they listen to all 
 the father had to relate of his adventures since he 
 left them! The recital, however, occupied but lit- 
 tle time, great as his sufferings had been. He had 
 been taken prisoner in a skirmish, after a stout 
 resistance, and for many months had languished in 
 an English prison, in a cold, damp cell, which had 
 the effect, most certainly, of damping his martial 
 spirit, and making him sigh most heartily for the 
 comforts of his own happy fireside, and the society 
 of his wife and children. Thus deprived alike of 
 the companionship of his own race and of books, 
 cramped up in the narrow hmits of his cell, pining 
 for fresh air and active exercise, sick and despond- 
 ing, he remained till the declaration of peace and 
 an exchange of prisoners set him at liberty to 
 return to the army. But the spirit which had for- 
 merly incited him was now quelled or dormant, 
 and but for the disgrace which must accrue to his 
 family as well as to himself, he would certainly 
 have deserted. , With a heavy and cheerless heart, 
 he toiled on. He wrote several letters, but received 
 30 
 
358 PROSE. 
 
 no answer, which added to his dejection; and when 
 at length his time of service was at an end, he was 
 unfit to commence his journey home. His illness 
 increased, and he was taken to the hospital ; and 
 after lingering there for several weeks, he was dis- 
 charged, and set off on foot for his native village. 
 How different from the hale and hearty man who 
 had gone forth full of health and vigor, was he 
 who returned with his head whitened, though not 
 by the snows of three-score winters, foot-sore, and 
 lame from the effect of wounds, which had been 
 aggravated by neglect, and so changed that none 
 but the true and loving wife could, have recognized 
 him! 
 
 But now he was again at home^ surrounded by 
 comfort and by the dear ones for whose presence 
 he had so yearned ; and for that night, at least, all 
 care and regrets were given to the wind. As 
 soon as he was rested from his fatigue, John began 
 to seek employment. He was gladly hired as fore- 
 man in the shop where he had formerly been mas- 
 ter, and for several months he wrought at the forge 
 as diligently as in the days of his youth. But as 
 the winter advanced, a chronic disease, engen- 
 dered by prison-damps and want of proper food 
 and exercise, attacked him, paralyzed his limbs, 
 and utterly disabled him for work. Again John 
 was cast down, and again Hannah rallied all her 
 powers to cheer him. 
 
 ''Don't fret, John dear!" she would say; "we 
 have still the old house over our heads, I have my 
 health and strength and plenty to do, and our chil- 
 
PROSE. 359 
 
 dren — God bless them! — are able not only to sup- 
 port themselves, but to add something weekly to 
 the common stock ; and sure I am, neither of them 
 would ever see us want. Think how many of our 
 neighbors are poorer than we. There is old Janet 
 Lewis, with neither chick nor child, compelled to 
 seek an asylum for her old age in the almshouse ; 
 and Robert Lane, shaking with palsy, and no wife 
 or daughter to take care of him, and see that he is 
 kept clean and comfortable. Indeed, John, we 
 have a great deal to be thankful for." And John 
 would assent to all she said, and reproach himself 
 for murmuring. It was not in the nature of such 
 a man to sit idle and inactive, and he soon set 
 about laying plans for gaining, at least, his own^ 
 subsistence. He tried to devise some way in 
 which he could assist his wife, but failed ; and at 
 last he hit on an expedient which he thought 
 might be rendered feasible. He possessed consid- 
 erable ingenuity ; and his sons having procured, at 
 his request, some blocks of wood, he had his arm- 
 chair wheeled to the window, and began to carve 
 out boys with his jack-knife. When Hetty went 
 to town the next week, he commissioned her to 
 take them to a toy-shop, and see if the master 
 could dispose of them. She did so, and was suc- 
 cessful ; arid the shopkeeper told her if these met 
 with a ready sale, he would employ her father 
 constantly. The articles were soon found to be 
 saleable, and John had as much as he could do to 
 answer the demand. Employment and indepen- 
 dencej humble as it was, soon restored him to 
 
360 PROSE. 
 
 cheerfulness, and he ceased to repine at his afflic- 
 tions. 
 
 Many years have passed away since we first 
 introduced the reader to the old brown cottage, and 
 it has still much the same appearance, save that 
 the velvet moss lies thicker and heavier on the 
 roof, and the woodbine and honeysuckle hang in 
 richer profusion around the casements; but the 
 inmates have not been exempt from the general 
 law of change. The eldest son is now proprietor 
 of the blacksmith's shop, and is married to his 
 master's daughter; the second, James, is settled on 
 a small farm in the outskirts of the village, and 
 Robert, the youngest, who always loved books 
 better than either work or play, is usher in the 
 
 grammar-school of B , with a prospect of 
 
 being some day at the head of the institution. 
 Hetty, too, the lady of the family, as all the villa- 
 gers call her, and as she doubtless esteems herself, 
 is the wife of a city merchant, and lives in style in 
 the metropolis ; and Sarah alone — the good, kind, 
 gentle Sarah, the "elder sister" — lives at home, 
 a quiet, contented, happy old maid, with appar- 
 ently not a wish beyond the walls of the humble 
 cottage where she was born. Old John Evans 
 still sits in his accustomed seat, the old arm-chair 
 by the window, with a placid smile upon his wan 
 face ; but his fingers are no longer busy with the 
 knife and wood ; — his hands rest listlessly on his 
 knees, and there is a vacancy in his look, as he 
 turns his head from side to side, when any one 
 
PROSE. 361 
 
 addresses him, to ascertain in what direction they 
 are. Another affliction has fallen upon him, and 
 John Evans is bUnd ! But he has learnt resigna- 
 tion, and many a lesson of wisdom do his aged lips 
 impart to those around him. And old Hannah 
 Evans ! It is long since she was introduced to our 
 readers, and few of them, I fancy, would be able 
 to recognize in her now the original of the portrait 
 then drawn. The snows of three score winters 
 have thinned and whitened the auburn locks of her 
 youth, and they are put carefully back, beneath 
 a simple muslin cap. Time has ploughed furrows, 
 many and deep, on the once broad, smooth brow 
 and the ruddy cheek, from which the peach- 
 bloom tint has also departed ; the merry light has 
 faded from her eyes, but in its place they wear an 
 expression of calm, chastened and serious thought. 
 Her once tall, plump figure is attenuated and 
 bowed with the weight of years and sorrow; and a 
 rheumatic affection, which has settled in her hip, 
 produces constant and intense pain. 
 
 Yet amid all her sufferings it is a beautiful and 
 touching sight to witness her devotion to her hus- 
 band, who, as she says, is even more afflicted than 
 herself No attention that she can possibly pay 
 him will she allow her daughter to render ; for his 
 sake, in the midst of her sharpest pangs, when her 
 whole frame quivers, and her brow is knit with 
 agony, she represses the slightest groan or ex- 
 clamation ; and could he see, I really believe she 
 would obtain sufficient command over the muscles 
 of her face to prevent even a look of anguish, lest 
 30=^ 
 
362 PROSE. 
 
 it should pain the beloved one. Her own hands 
 prepare his simple food, and administer it too ; for 
 so helpless has he become, that he is obliged to be 
 dressed, washed, and fed like a child ; and when 
 these offices are performed, and she has combed 
 his long silver locks, and parted them smoothly on 
 his broad, high forehead, she seats herself at his 
 side, and with the Bible on the stand before her, 
 knits and reads at the same time. And on the 
 pleasant Sabbaths in summer, when Sarah has 
 gone to church, she seats him in his chair by his 
 favorite window, beneath which she has planted 
 the flower he loves best, and with little glass vases 
 filled with blossoms, and a box of mignonette on 
 the window-seat, she places herself beside him, 
 and they talk cheerily of the past, with its many 
 memories, sad or pleasant. They recount all the 
 incidents of their childish days, when they played 
 together, — of their pleasant days of courtship, and 
 all the years of mingled trial and happiness they 
 have spent together since they were wedded ; they 
 speak of the blessings they enjoy in such good and 
 loving children, and in the reverence and afiection 
 of their grandchildren; and they look forward 
 with calm, quiet joy to the time when they shall 
 sleep together in the green church-yard, which is 
 ever within their view, and which is to them no 
 darksome place, but a pleasant passage to a 
 brighter and better world. Thus, with no vain 
 regrets for the past, and no idle fears for the future, 
 they look cheerily forward to the close of their 
 earthly pilgrimage, with but one prayer, that when 
 
PROSE. 363 
 
 the sun sets upon the death-bed of the one, it may 
 never rise upon the Hving survivor. 
 
 I am well aware that I have not done justice to 
 the original in this feeble sketch, but I could not 
 resist the temptation to pay at least this small 
 tribute to her virtues ; and with this for a ground- 
 work, let the reader picture to herself a true- 
 hearted woman, '' faithful unto the end" in every 
 vocation to which she is called — one from whom 
 many a young wife, — ay, and many an old too, — 
 might learn useful lessons of meekness, forbear- 
 ance, gentleness, kindness and earnest love; an 
 embodiment of all that is beautiful and good, and 
 pure and true, in woman, and then christen your 
 ideal, the faithful auld wife — Hannah Evans. 
 
 CHRONICLES AND SKETCHES OF 
 HAZLEHURST. 
 
 A bird's-eye view of the town. 
 
 Dear reader, are you a lover of country life and 
 scenery, of green fields, and shady lanes, and sing- 
 ing brooks ? If you are not, I shall be sadly dis- 
 appointed ; for I have made up my mind that we 
 shall agree charmingly. If you are, why then, of 
 course, you v/ill not refuse to let me sit down 
 cozily at your feet, and gossip to you now and 
 then about people and events, past and present, in 
 our village, — I beg its pardon for the misnomer, — 
 Hazlehurst is, by act of incorporation, and with 
 every one's consent, a town ; who knows how soon, 
 
364 PROSE. 
 
 in the present rapid march of improvement, it may 
 become a city 7 
 
 Alas for the primitive customs of the olden time ! 
 The follies and fashions of the great world have 
 stolen in upon us, and are making fearful devasta- 
 tions upon the minds and manners of the people. 
 The buxom lasses who were wont to ply the 
 knitting-needles and the spinning-wheel — who 
 milked and churned, washed, baked and brewed — 
 now come home from fashionable boarding-schools, 
 with mincing gait and affected lisp, to sneer at the 
 paternal mansion, with its antique, homely furni- 
 ture, and to ridicule what to their fastidious ears 
 is the unintelligible, vulgar jargon of their parents ; 
 and instead of lending head and hands to the assist- 
 ance of their mother, who has toiled unremittingly 
 to give them the advantages which they so abuse, 
 they toss their heads, and, in drawling accents, 
 wonder at her presumption in supposing that young 
 ladies of their education and refinement are going 
 to drudge in the kitchen, like hii^ed help ! And so 
 the poor mother toils on, and the young ladies sit 
 down in the parlor to kill time and "torture the 
 ear of sound" by thumping the keys of the piano, 
 and changing into horrid dissonance the harmonious 
 strains of some gifted child of song ; or, stretched 
 languidly Upon their couches, alternatel^f devour 
 the pages of some high- wrought fiction, and doze 
 away the hours in unconscious slumber. 
 
 Shame on the daughters of the land, who thus 
 pervert their great privileges ! and woe to the mis- 
 taken mothers, who have sown the seeds of which 
 
PROSE. 365 
 
 they must needs reap a harvest of bitterness and 
 misery ! 
 
 But happily for us, a few scions of the old stock 
 yet remain, from whom the spirit of the past has 
 not yet c^eparted. These are just as quaint and 
 old-fashioned in 'their dress, precise in their speech 
 and manners, and as antiquated in their notions, 
 as were their grandfathers and grandmothers, more 
 than a century ago. 'T is a pleasant sight for the 
 eyes to look upon, when tired of the glittering, 
 glaring vanities of the present generation, to see 
 the old farmer, with his blue frock, and the dame, 
 with her nice apron, and high, starched cap, sitting 
 at their cottage door in the summer twilight, — h« 
 with his pipe, and she with her knitting- work, — 
 enjoying the beauty of the landscape, and the gam- 
 bols of their children's children; — and, in the long 
 winter evenings, seated in the accustomed arm- 
 chairs, on either side of the ample fireplace, or in 
 the high-backed settee, which is in itself a type 
 of home-comfort, with the healthy, happy family 
 group gathered around, working, reading, or listen- 
 ing to the reminiscences of the parents, as they 
 talk cheerily of the past, with its manifold joys 
 and sorrows. These are the fine gold, gleaming out 
 from among heaps of dross, — the true diamonds, 
 glittering amid mock-crystals. God bless them in 
 this, the evening of their lives ! 
 
 Even the houses have not stood still while the 
 grand march has been going on around us. The 
 old, red, gable-roofed farm-house, with its large, 
 low-ceiled rooms, and antique furniture, has been 
 
366 PROSE. 
 
 demolished, in accordance with the wishes of the 
 fine-lady daughters, and Phcenix-like from its 
 ashes has arisen a large, square, and ^'very white 
 house," with green blinds, boasting the fashionable 
 complement of double parlors and marble mantels, 
 and furnished with sofas, rocking-chairs, mirrors, 
 and centre-tables, littered with trashy novels, mag- 
 azines, and annuals. Scattered here and there 
 through the town, are cottages, in various styles of 
 architecture, (some of which, I fancy, must have 
 sorely puzzled the brains of the ingenious artist,) 
 with and without porticos and piazzas upheld by 
 columns or pilasters, and wreathed with various 
 creepers, according to the station and tastes of the 
 occupant, from the scarlet beans and many-colored 
 morning-glories, reaching to the very eaves of the 
 laborer's cot, to the honeysuckles, jessamine, and 
 passion-flowers, that cluster round the rich man's 
 porch. 
 
 The very churches have partaken of the general 
 change. Fifty years ago, all the inhabitants of 
 the village of Hazlehurst were wont to worship in 
 a small, simple, but pretty edifice, whose slender 
 spire shot up amidst the foliage of some fine old 
 English elms, which almost hid the body of the 
 church from sight, and cast a sombre but pleasant 
 shadow through the interior. Back of the church, 
 and partly enclosing it, is the grave-yard, with its 
 old, mossy, sunken stones, bearing the names of 
 the patriarchs of the village who have gone to rest, 
 and its luxuriant willows, through whose branches 
 the winds made pleasant music, bending, as if in 
 
PROSE. 367 
 
 sorrow, over the departed. Here gathered, from 
 Sabbath to Sabbath, the happy dwellers of the 
 hamlet, to listen, with meek and trusting hearts, to 
 the words that fell from the lips of him who had 
 ministered to them for so many years in that place 
 and in their own homes, in all seasons, whether of 
 joy or trouble. 
 
 Those days are past. Few are the families who 
 now meet around that altar to worship God, and 
 by their presence to cheer and encourage the fal- 
 tering steps of that aged- evangelist. Times have 
 changed, and alas ! the hearts of the people have 
 changed also. On the brow of yonder hill stands 
 a church, with painted doors and windows, claim- 
 ing to be of Gothic architecture, and a roof adorned 
 with something called turrets, which, to my eye, 
 bear a striking resemblance to sundry pepper and 
 vinegar cruets, which used to adorn my grand- 
 mother's cupboards. Treeless and shadowless it 
 stands, in the bleakest position in town ; and one 
 cannot but pity the poor souls who travel up that 
 steep acclivity, exposed to the burning sun in sum- 
 mer, and the piercing winds in winter, to say 
 nothing of an involuntary slide down hill from the 
 church-door, now and then, to the no small detri- 
 ment of head-gear, &c. A few words of him who 
 dispenses religious instruction in this place, and then 
 we will pass on. The Rev. Mr. Humphrey is a 
 tall, strapping youth, whose distinguishing trait is 
 ^^ tongueiness^''^ that useful member being literally 
 too large for his mouth to contain, spacious as is 
 
368 PROSE. 
 
 the orifice ; — a youth who formerly filled honorably 
 his station behind the counter of our village shop, 
 till some one persuaded him that he had a decided 
 vocation for a learned profession ; whereupon Mas- 
 ter Humphrey doffed his apron and his humility, 
 cajoled an aged relative into giving him the requi- 
 site means to pursue his ^'- studies ^^ and left the 
 village, where, after an absence of three years, he 
 reappeared, with a black coat, lengthened visage, 
 and a large book under his arm, to win the admira- 
 tion of the young ladies, and to elicit, by dint of 
 grave countenance, and a Latin quotation now and 
 then, the commendation of their fathers, who gave 
 it as their opinion that Mr. Humphrey was a prom- 
 ising young man; and a number having taken 
 umbrage at some remarks of the old clergyman, 
 they forthwith withdrew from the church, and, 
 having induced some weak-minded ones to follow 
 them, formed a new society and a new creed, and 
 built the church on the hill, and invited the Rev. 
 Mr. Humphrey to be their pastor. 
 
 One after another, from various motives, left the 
 old church ; and, but for the few true and simple- 
 hearted people who still cling to old customs and 
 to the friends of their youth, the good old minister 
 would be left unsupported in his declining years ; 
 for wife and children have long since dropped from 
 his side, and lie at rest in the green church-yard, 
 almost within sight of his pulpit. Poor old man ! 
 many afflictions has it been his lot to contend with ; 
 but never was his heart so sorely tried as when the 
 
PROSE. 369 
 
 people of liis love and his charge deserted him. 
 They, whose tried and faithful friend he had been 
 for so many years, — they, whom he had joined in 
 wedlock, whose children he had fondled in his 
 arms, and dedicated to God at the altar, — they, in 
 whose homes he had joyed and wept, whose hearts 
 he had gladdened and comforted, who had been as 
 brothers and sisters and children to him, had turned 
 from him in his old age, to listen to new doctrines, 
 breathed by a new voice ; had spurned the hand 
 wasted by toil in their service, to grasp that of a 
 stranger, whose thoughts, and hopes, and interests, 
 had hitherto no sympathy with theirs ! Poor old 
 man ! he still works bravely on ; but the spirit 
 which animated him has passed away, I fear, for- 
 ever. Ingratitude has crushed his heart and with- 
 ered his energies ! 
 
 The church (Gothic) stands, as I have said, on 
 an elevation. On one side of the slope is the town- 
 house, a building of no small importance here ; and 
 just across the way, on the other side, may be seen 
 peering through the trees the neat parsonage, ten- 
 anted by the old minister ; while, a little further 
 down the road, is a square, red, brick house, the 
 dwelling of the new one, each bearing both out- 
 wardly and inwardly a strong resemblance to the 
 characters of their respective occupants ; — the one 
 neat, tasteful, simple, and humble ; the other, glar- 
 ing, gaudy and notice-seeking. 
 
 The road here branches oif in two directions, 
 leading on the left past the old, dilapidated, and 
 now disused school-house, along by the stone 
 31 
 
370 PROSE. 
 
 walls enclosing Squire Wendell's ample fields and 
 meadowSj and across a wide, bleak plain, to 
 
 W , the next town. We will take a ramble in 
 
 the other direction. 
 
 This is my favorite walk, as it winds along by 
 the banks of a sunny stream, which, though di- 
 vested in a measure of its original character, has 
 not yet forfeited its claims to beauty. In the good 
 old days, before the railroad came within half a 
 dozen miles of Hazlehurst, this was a free, care- 
 less, singing stream, a delightful resort for idlers, 
 who came to angle in its waters, or to sketch on 
 its margin; for there are few towns or villages 
 which can compete with this^n beauty of natural 
 scenery. But no sooner was the railroad com- 
 pleted, than strangers began to arrive at the tavern, 
 now altered, amplified, and styled '' The Hotel." 
 Charmed with the beauty and quiet of the place, 
 they set themselves to work quickly as possible to 
 mar the one and destroy the other. It was discov- 
 ered that Hazlehurst had excellent ''water privi- 
 leges," and forthwith, on the banks of our beautiful 
 streams, arose saw-mills and grist-mills, manufac- 
 tories of cotton and combs, machine-shops, and 
 everything, in short, to which water-power could 
 be applied. Now and then, to be sure, a mill 
 forms rather a picturesque feature in a landscape. 
 We have some which have attracted admiration 
 from artists, and one, at least, which has been 
 made immortal by the glowing pencil of gfenius. 
 The chief cause of complaint, after all, is less in 
 the change in scenery than in the accession of so 
 
PROSE. 371 
 
 many strangers and foreigners, and the mischief 
 they have wrought in the habits and manners of 
 the people. Bat enough of this. We return to the 
 road. 
 
 Passing the saw-mill and comb-shop, we enter a 
 greenwood path, shaded by trees on either side, and 
 terminating at one of the prettiest and most pic- 
 turesque old homesteads in town. The Parsons 
 Farm ! What a host of recollections that name 
 summons up ! what visions of huskings, and ber- 
 ryings, and hop-gatherings — of sleigh-rides, and 
 quiltings, and candy-frolics, and all the various 
 amusements which rendered that place, in-doors 
 and out, the merriest and pleasantest i^ the world ! 
 For old Matthew Parsons was given to hospitality, 
 and boasted, besides his large and highly-cultivated 
 farm, well-filled storehouse, and roomy mansion, 
 a round dozen of as sturdy lads and bright-eyed, 
 buxom lasses, as ever graced a yeoman's board, 
 or gathered round his ample fireside ; and a wife 
 noted all the country round for comeliness, good- 
 humor, and cookery. The veriest epicure would 
 have revelled in luxury amid her custards, creams 
 and whips ; but we children loved better the lus- 
 cious, golden pumpkin-pie, the snow-white bis- 
 cuits, and sweet, yellow butter, with which the 
 good dame was wont to regale her young visiters. 
 But alas, alas ! time and change have been busy 
 there ! Old Matthew sleeps with his fathers — the 
 homestead has passed into stranger hands — the 
 children are scattered abroad, and the widow, a 
 bowed and spirit-broken woman, is a dweller in 
 
372 PROSE. 
 
 the house of her eldest son, in a far-off city. Alas 
 for the Parsons Farm ! 
 
 Here is a pretty Uttle cottage, half covered with 
 woodbine, the dwelling of a revolutionary soldier 
 and pensioner, who, despite his years and infirm- 
 ities, and ae many afflictions as tried the patience 
 of him of Uz, is one of the happiest old men alive. 
 His wife and children have fallen, one by one, 
 from his side ; but he is surrounded by faithful and 
 loving grandchildren, who minister to his wants 
 with alacrity, and support his failing steps with 
 gentleness and affectionate zeal. In return, he 
 "fights his battles o'er again" for their amuse- 
 ment, and stores their minds Avith useful and wise 
 lessons, gleaned here and there in the highways 
 and by-ways of a long and active life. Blessings 
 on the cheerful old man ! 
 
 A little further on is an humble dwelling, not 
 much above the quality of a cow-house, with a 
 small yard in front, in rather a disorderly condition, 
 Avhere at this present time a game of romps is enact- 
 ing between four or five rosy-cheeked and dirty- 
 faced children and a " pig," the pet and playmate 
 of the family. This is the abode of Hugh Brady, 
 an industrious Irish laborer, who manages by some 
 means to pick up a living for himself, his wife, and 
 the aforesaid five children and pig ; and assuredly a 
 healthier and handsomer brood, " barring the dirt,''^ 
 is not to be found in town. I must tell you some- 
 thing about Rose Brady by and by ; but I intended 
 only to give you a sketch of our town and its local- 
 ities in this chapter. So we will hasten on. 
 
PROSE. 373 
 
 Here are two houses alike in size, style, color, 
 and adornments, each boasting the same number 
 of doors and windows, the same suite of rooms, 
 hung with paper of the same pattern, and furnished 
 in the same manner, — fac-similes in every respect, 
 even to the swing in the little piazza, which forms 
 a sort of vestibule to the kitchen of either house. 
 These are the dwellings of two carpenters, partners 
 in business, and brothers in all save blood, whose 
 families are noted all the country round for the won- 
 derful harmony in which they live. Each has a wife 
 and two children, a boy and girl ; and between the 
 beauty of the co-heirs of Bernard, and the intelli- 
 gence and amiability of those of Hayden, each 
 mother is so well satisfied with her own as to feel 
 no sentiment of envy or anger towards her neigh- 
 bor. For seven years this happy state has existed ; 
 and long may it continue, till its influence has 
 spread over every family in our little community. 
 
 A turn in the road brings us in front of Luke 
 Derby's snug little domicil, a tiny red house, so 
 small that I can hardly persuade myself even now 
 that the door is high enough to admit of my en- 
 trance erect, and involuntarily stoop when I ap- 
 proach it, with as much loftiness of feeling as 
 Gulliver must have entertained when visiting the 
 homes of the Liliputians. Strange to say, how- 
 ever, the inhabitants of the petite dwelling are no 
 pigmies. All Hazlehurst cannot produce a match 
 in height and strength for Luke Derby and his fair 
 daughter Harriet ; for he is such an one as Frederic 
 of Prussia would have chosen to lead his band of 
 31* 
 
374 PROSE. 
 
 grenadiers, and his daughter a fitting wife for the 
 tallest and bravest of them. Thirty years' confine- 
 ment to the bench and lapstone (for my friend 
 Luke is an industrious shoemaker) has not been 
 able to disfigure with the slightest stoop his up- 
 right figure, nor the assistant occupation of shoe- 
 binding to add even a '^ Grecian hend^^ to the many 
 graces of his queenly daughter. Pardon me, dear 
 reader, but I am proud of my tall friends, and 
 cannot help saying a word of th^m as I pass. 
 
 Next comes the pretty, fairy-like, Gothic cottage, 
 with a piazza upheld by clematis- wreathed pillars, 
 the tasteful and elegant abode of Mr. Selwyn and his 
 two fair young daughters. The house opposite pre- 
 sents a striking contrast to the white cottage. It is 
 a two-story house, black with age, and displaying 
 in many places the bare clap-boards, while the old, 
 rotten shingles hang loosely here and there, as if 
 waiting for a strong blast of wind to send them after 
 their missing companions. Ah ! many sad changes 
 have taken place beneath that weather-stained 
 roof since the decrepit old man whose home it is 
 first welcomed his young bride to its pleasant and 
 comfortable shelter ! She is in her grave, with 
 many of the fair and promising children she bore 
 him ; ajad but one yet remains, to cheer his declining 
 years, of all the group who once climbed his knees, 
 and gladdened his heart with the name of ^^ father ^ 
 
 Here is a new house, small and snug, which 
 has just received its mistress, a girl of twenty, 
 blushing and bridling with all the importance and 
 dignity of a new matron ; and there the old-fash- 
 
PROSE. 
 
 375 
 
 ioned mansion, where three generations were born 
 and married, and Hved and died. Here is a pretty- 
 house, two stories in front, and sloping down 
 almost to the ground at the back, with its neat 
 garden-plot beneath the front window, gay with 
 roses, pinks, and sweet-williams, enclosed by a 
 neat white fence. But the exterior of this dwell- 
 ing is not the principal attraction; it is but the 
 temple which enshrines the divinity; for this is 
 the home of Ellen C alder, the beauty of the town, 
 ay, and of the county also. Ah, there she is at 
 the window, her fair face peering out from among 
 a cluster of scarlet geraniums, whose hue is shamed 
 by her voluptuous lips ; and her bright eyes, blue 
 as the blossoms of her favorite larkspur, are spark- 
 ling with mirth, as she showers down an apron-full 
 of roses upon the head of a laughing boy below. 
 Is she not glorious at this moment, with her righ 
 golden tresses absolutely glittering in the last rays 
 of the setting sun ! But pretty Nell will not like 
 it, to be thus described in a single paragraph; — we 
 must give her a whole chapter anon. 
 
 Here is another white house, of more modern 
 date than Calder cottage, which also bears about 
 it marks of refinement and taste. A woman's hand 
 has been at work in the pretty and well-arranged 
 garden, and her taste is also visible in the interior; 
 the window-seats are a perfect green-house, and 
 the mantel-piece and tables are decorated with 
 vases of fragrant blossoms, which give an air of 
 grace and beauty to the simplest habitation. This 
 is the home of one on whose brow is set the brand 
 
376 PROSE. 
 
 « 
 of sin; ruined and disgraced in the eyes of the 
 world, an apostate from truth and virtue, cast out 
 from his high calling and from the fellowship of 
 the just and good, he turned his steps to this place, 
 many miles distant from his former abode, to pass 
 the remainder of his dishonored days. But he 
 came not alone ! Woman's true and devoted 
 heart, bruised and broken though it were, could 
 not forsake him, — her deep and earnest love was 
 the one green spot in the wilderness of his future 
 destiny. To the new home, where already his 
 shame and degradation were known, where she 
 could only hope to share the scorn and reprobation 
 which must be his portion Avherever he went, the 
 sorrowing but faithful wife followed him, to soothe 
 his lonely hours, and to aid in bringing the sinner 
 to repentance. 
 
 Next comes the commercial part of the town. 
 On one side is the dry goods store; on the other, the 
 grocery and variety store, where tea and pins, cof- 
 fee and shoes, sugar and ribbons, are promiscuously 
 dealt out to purchasers; and last, but not least, 
 the apothecary's snuggery, with its many-colored 
 vases, attracting the wonder and admiration of the 
 youngsters. A little to the right is a two-story 
 building, with piazzas above and below, and a long 
 flight of steps on either side, wherein are kept the 
 post-office, a tailor's shop, and several offices for 
 lawyers, doctors, &c., and bearing the somewhat 
 august title of 'Uhe Arcade." There, intersected 
 by a beautiful stream, lie the fine farms of Howe 
 and Eardley ; and in the background rises a beau- 
 
PROSE. 377 
 
 tiful hill, the pride of the town, its summit crowned 
 with a miniature forest of chestnuts, while here 
 and there on its grassy sides are clumps of oaks, 
 elms, and maple-trees. At the hase of the hill, on 
 the other side, is a brown cottage, with deep cov- 
 ings, and long French windows, opening upon a 
 terrace which slopes gradually to a smooth, velvet 
 lawn in front, and a flower-garden on either side, 
 the whole enclosed by a light iron railing, and 
 betokening in all its adornments not only the sim- 
 plicity of a refined taste, but the luxury which 
 only wealth can procure. It is the residence of a 
 young lawyer, Frank Germaine, and his bride, 
 who, some three months ago, chose, in spite of the 
 remonstrances and advice of her experienced guar- 
 dians, to bestow her pretty self and an unencum- 
 bered fortune of fifty thousand dollars upon the 
 penniless barrister. They are a happy couple, for 
 she has a generous spirit, and he loves her too 
 truly not to forget the heiress in the bride. 
 
 Opposite this luxurious abode is a low-browed 
 house, covered with a profusion of woodbine, 
 where dwells the widow of a city merchant and 
 her three daughters, brought up in the enjoyments 
 and luxuries of wealth ; but by one of those changes 
 which are always taking place in the commercial 
 world, they were reduced to comparative poverty, 
 and, with the little remnant of their property, came 
 to Hazlehurst, (then a village,) and settled in this 
 humble dwelling, grateful that Providence had 
 saved them from utter destitution. 
 
 Then comes the cabinet-maker's shop, and his 
 
378 PROSE. 
 
 small, neat house; and lastly, standing on a grassy 
 slope, and shaded on either side by apple, plum, 
 and cherry trees, and in front by four stately elms, 
 whose branches sweep quite over the roof, is our 
 home^ a two-story house, with gable roof, painted a 
 delicate straw-color, with green blinds, and form- 
 ing altogether one of the loveliest features of the 
 landscape. And now, dear companion of my sum- 
 mer day's ramble, (if I may flatter myself you 
 have had patience to follow me,) the sun is setting; 
 — see what a glorious flood of light and radiance 
 streams through the interlacing boughs of the old 
 trees, and illuminates every window as if for a 
 royal festival ! I could gaze and admire for hours, 
 but the evening meal is ready, and, verily, a "cup 
 of tea" is not to be despised, when one is weary; 
 so, till we meet again, to one and all — adieu ! 
 
 THE SQUANTUM. 
 
 ^'What a strange title for a story!" said my 
 'petite friend, Fanny L., as she stood looking over 
 my shoulder; and she gave her pretty head a 
 contemptuous toss, thereby expressing plainly as 
 words could have done it her surprise at my 
 bad taste, or rather utter want of taste. But her 
 scorn was wasted upon me ; I have grown hard- 
 ened to all such insinuations, am perfectly obsti- 
 nate in maintaining my own opinions, and really 
 think my taste quite as good as that of any other 
 person ; despite the sarcastic looks and ironical 
 speeches of all connoisseurs in beauty, grace and 
 
PROSE. 379 
 
 fitness, whether it relate to a lady's face or the 
 bonnet that shades it, to arranging a bouquet, tying 
 a cravat, or any other among the legion of import- 
 ant trifles which make up the sum and substance 
 of what is denominated '' good taste." This, by 
 the way. 
 
 It may be, dear reader, that my title sounds as 
 strangely in your ears as in those of my fastidious 
 little friend ; and I acknowledge, when I first heard 
 it, I was confounded, and was only kept from 
 inquiring its signification by a dread of incurring 
 the ridicule of those who spoke of it as familiarly 
 as if it were a very common-place thing. I have 
 since become initiated into the secret, and I will 
 give you the advantage of my information. I can- 
 not tell you the derivation of the word, for I never 
 yet found a person who knew. In that case, I pre- 
 sume, every one has a right to put his or her inter- 
 pretation upon it ; and I fancy it to be an Indian 
 Avord, meaning Fish-feast. This seems to me the 
 most likely way of accounting for a word which 
 surely no Englishman in his senses would ever 
 have thought of coining. 
 
 Having explained, to the best of my ability, the 
 meaning of the word, I will proceed to give you 
 some idea of the feast. Now and then, in country 
 towns, where there are only fresh-water fish, and 
 rather a scarcity of those, a subscription is got up 
 among the lovers, or rather -enemies, of the finny 
 tribe, a quantity of fish procured from the nearest 
 seaport town or city, and with what can be pro- 
 cured from their own ponds, if they have any, the 
 
380 PROSE. 
 
 party proceed to some convenient spot, and one or 
 two well skilled in culinary affairs being always 
 included in the number, fires are built, and the 
 cooking commences. The dinner consists of fish- 
 chowder, fried, boiled and broiled fish, — literally a 
 fish-feast, bread and cheese being extras. The 
 meal being at length ready, the party gather 
 around the rude tables under the trees, — a motley 
 group enough, sans hat, jacket or neckerchief, — 
 while the cook, with brawny arms bared to the 
 shoulders, listens to the encomiums passed upon 
 his skill with evident satisfaction. There they sit, 
 eating, singing, or relating old jokes and fanny 
 stories, till the woods ring with their laughter, and 
 the shadows of twilight begin to deepen around 
 them. Then each lends his aid to disjoint the 
 tables and pack the dishes, which are stowed care- 
 fully in the cart; the chowder-pots and gridirons 
 follow, and the group proceed homewards, chat- 
 ting, whistling or singing; and this is a Squantum! 
 It was during the first summer of my residence 
 in Hazlehurst, when the farmers had got through 
 with their haying, that I first heard of a party of 
 this description. Every third or fourth day, the 
 male members of the family were absent at one of 
 these festivals, when suddenly some one, wiser 
 than the rest, — he must have been a newly- 
 married man, unwilling to enter into enjoyment 
 that his wife could not share, or else a bachelor of 
 broad benevolence, — proposed getting up a Squan- 
 tum, in which the ladies could be included. The 
 proposal was without a precedent, and at first the 
 
PROSE. 381 
 
 good men were startled at the impropriety of the 
 thing; but their wives and daughters having re- 
 ceived an intimation of the scheme that was afoot, 
 entered into it with avidity. All opposition was 
 of course useless ; before the gentlemen had time to 
 frame a remonstrance, the plan was matured, a 
 committee of arrangements appointed, and as the 
 table was to exhibit a greater variety, to suit the 
 tastes of the fair partakers, there was a general 
 confasion in the town. Meetings were holden in 
 the houses of the committee, and the note of prep- 
 aration was sounded in every mansion ; eggs were 
 beaten, spice pounded, and any one who had 
 chanced to enter the kitchens on the day preced- 
 ing the important one, would have found one dam- 
 sel with bare arms busied in the kneading-trough, 
 another compounding some mysterious delicacy, 
 and a third heaping fagots in the capacious oven, 
 with a face bearing more similitude to a red cab- 
 bage than a damask rose. 
 
 Such an excitement was never known before in 
 Hazlehurst. At length the important day arrived, 
 and many an anxious glance was cast at the dull, 
 lead-colored sky, and regrets and rn,urmurs passed 
 from lip to lip. But about ten o'clock the sky "cleared, 
 the sun broke forth dazzlingly from the clouds, and 
 gave promise of a day of intense heat. Hasty din- 
 ners were eaten that day ; for who could eat, with 
 the prospect of a Squantum before their eyes ! At 
 two o'clock all were in motion; vehicles of all 
 kinds were ni demand, from the light carryall and 
 buggy wagon to the clumsy six horse team^ which 
 32 
 
S82 PROSE. 
 
 could accommodate forty people closely packed. 
 At two, as I have said, we were mider way, and 
 after a ride of half an hour, we came in sight of 
 the Squantum ground. 
 
 It was about two miles and a half from the mid- 
 dle of the town, and of all the party gathered 
 there, including the minister, — a great pedestrian, 
 and an ardent lover of the beauties of nature, — 
 none had overseen the place before ; not even the 
 daughters of the owner, who, in common with the 
 rest, were enraptured with the romantic beauty of 
 the spot. The place selected for the Squantum was 
 the top of a wooded hill, from which the tangled 
 imderbrush had been cleared, leaving a commo- 
 dious place for setting the tables beneath the 
 trees. At the base of the hill was a beautiful 
 stream, and through the trees could be discerned 
 the old saw-mill, now fallen into disuse ; and the 
 walls of an old farm-house, blackened with age, 
 and bearing marks of neglect and desolation, 
 ■ — though it was inhabited, as was proved by the 
 appearance of two or three ragged urchins, who 
 were gathered round the door-stone, with un- 
 combed locks and unwashed faces, and who stared 
 with a sort of savage wonder at the gay groups 
 who were dancing and frolicking about the grounds 
 and among the trees, which had seldom listened 
 before to such mirthful sounds. Swings had been 
 suspended from the boughs of the old elm-trees, 
 and the light forms of maidens were rushing 
 breathlessly through the air, and startling the birds 
 from their nests. Here and there a merry ring 
 
PROSE. 383 
 
 might be seen dancing gayly on the grass, to the 
 music of their own happy voices, while others 
 wandered upon the banks of the brook, gathering 
 bouquets of wild-flowers, and the matrons of the 
 party sat on the benches, or on the turf beneath the 
 trees, chatting leisurely, and watching the sports 
 of the ^rounger portion. I was a stranger to nearly 
 all present, and being withal somewhat given to 
 solitary rambles and day-dreaming, I took the 
 opportunity while both my companions were en- 
 gaged, to steal away, and quickly descending the 
 hill, followed the margin of the stream, till it led 
 me to the old mill mentioned above. This was 
 two stories in height; and having made my 
 way over old timbers, joists, and other rubbish, I 
 reached the upper room, and seating myself by 
 one of the rude windows, found plenty of amuse- 
 ment in looking at the various groups. 
 
 My attention was particularly attracted to a 
 knot of young girls, who were listening intently to 
 something which one of their number was relating. 
 I was watching, with no slight degree of interest 
 and admiration, the wonderful play of the speak- 
 er's features, and pondering upon the strange 
 diversity of taste which could lead any to call one 
 plain whom I thought so very lovely as Lucy Bell, 
 when, with a low cry and a convulsive shudder, she 
 fell back into the arms of one of her young compan- 
 ions. My first impulse was to run to her assist- 
 ance, but a glance showed that she was already 
 surrounded by friends ; so I remained awaiting the 
 issue, and trying to discover the cause of her sud- 
 
384 PROSE. 
 
 den attack. A glass of cold water from the brook 
 soon restored the poor ghi to consciousness, and as 
 soon as she was able to walk, she thanked her 
 friends for their aid, and taking the arm of a 
 maiden beside her, they left the group, and turned 
 into the path leading to the place where I sat. In 
 a few moments I heard a low, sweet voice, speak- 
 ing in tones which, though broken by sobs, I imme- 
 diately recognized as those of Lucy Bell. "Do 
 not ask me now," she said, as if in reply to a 
 question from her companion; "when I am 
 calmer I will tell you all;" and throwing herself 
 upon the grassy bank beneath the window where 
 I sat, she gave way to a passionate burst of tears. 
 Her friend did not attempt to soothe a grief which 
 she saw would soon exhaust itself, but sat silently 
 beside the weeping girl, waiting for the tempest to 
 subside. And now arose a debate in my mind as 
 to the propriety of remaining a listener to the com- 
 munication which Lucy was evidently about to 
 make to her friend. Honor forbade my hearing 
 what was evidently not intended for my ear, but 
 then curiosity and somewhat also of ,a better feel- 
 ing — for Lucy Bell had been an object of deep 
 interest to me ever since our first meeting — com- 
 bined to hold me there. 
 
 A few words with regard to the maiden in ques- 
 tion may not be out of keeping here. Lucy was 
 the only child and sole treasure of an humble 
 laborer and his wife, who, by untiring industry and 
 strict frugality, had been enabled to bring up their 
 daughter and educate her in a style far superior to 
 
PROSE. 385 
 
 their circumstances. When the good wives of the 
 village remonstrated with Mrs. Bell upon the folly 
 of nurturing her child so tenderly, while she her- 
 self, a sickly woman, worked day and night to 
 help support her, she would only say, ''Nay, 
 friend, Lucy is a delicate child ; she could not hear 
 hard work, and while I live she shall never be 
 obliged to toil as I have done ; time enough for her 
 to spend her little amount of strength when the 
 hour of need and trial comes. We will give her 
 good schooling, which is better than riches; and 
 then, when we are gone, perhaps she may get her 
 living by some light and easy employment." 
 
 Accordingly Lucy was sent to the best schools 
 which the town afforded, and proud and happy 
 were the parents when they saw their darling on 
 an equal footing with the children of their best 
 and wealthiest neighbors ; and as she grew to 
 womanhood, they saw and rejoiced in the affection 
 and attentions of young Herbert Wendell, the son 
 of the proud old Squire, who traced his ancestors 
 far back, hundreds of years before the Mayflower 
 landed her little knot of pilgrims on the shores of 
 New England. '.'He is a fine, manly youth," said 
 the father, " and just such an one as I would have 
 chosen for the guardian and protector of our Lucy ; 
 and where would he find a bride to match with 
 our pretty, gentle lily?" But ah! the dreams of 
 the fond parents were not to be realized. None 
 knew if an engagement had existed between Her- 
 bert and Lucy; but suddenly their acquaintance 
 was broken off. Herbert left the country, and 
 32^ 
 
386 PR6SE. 
 
 returned in a year with a young bride. For many 
 a longj long month, Lucy hung her head Hke a 
 stricken flower ; but as year after year went byj 
 she gradually resumed her usual duties, and was 
 smiling and cheerful, to all outward appearance, as 
 ever. 
 
 Few of the villagers call Lucy pretty ; but those 
 who do not are of the class whose ideal of beauty 
 consists in brilliancy of complexion, sparkling eyes,. 
 and a gay, dashing manner. But to those who 
 love to watch the play of features and the change- 
 ful expression, she is truly lovely. Slender and 
 fragile as a lily, with a face always pale, yet at 
 times absolutely radiant with the outbeaming soul, 
 large gray eyes drooping beneath the shadow of 
 fringed lids; and then her hair, which, when un- 
 bound, falls like a golden torrent around her ! Ah ! 
 if she is not pretty^ Lucy Bell is truly beautiful ; 
 and despite the v/ithering influences of time", sor- 
 row and disappointment, she looks younger at 
 seven and twenty than many of her young com- 
 panions who number but seventeen summers. 
 
 But to return from this digression. The fit soon 
 passed away, and rising from the ground, Lucy 
 shook back the waves of golden hair which had 
 fallen like a glittering veil over her face and shoul- 
 ders, and gently resting her head upon the shoul- 
 der of her friend, she began, in a low and broken 
 voice, her promised history, "You have some- 
 times accused me, dear Mary, of a want of confi- 
 dence in you; and at such times I have had a 
 vague feeling of self-reproach; for. with all out 
 
PROSE. 387 
 
 intimacy, and the many proofs of trusting aifection 
 you have bestowed on me, there is one subject 
 which was never mentioned between us — one 
 name which I could not bring my trembhng hps to 
 utter. But the spell is now removed, and you 
 shall hear fully and truly the story of which you 
 have doubtless heard many versions from the vil- 
 lage gossips. You have often wondered at my 
 aversion to your favorite walk, past the rich farm 
 and pleasure-grounds of Squire Wendell; you 
 have blamed me for the dislike, which I have 
 vainly striven to overcome, towards his pleasant 
 and chatty widow, whom all else admire and look 
 up to. But ah ! it is not in poor, frail human 
 nature to forgive the wrongs she has done me ; to 
 forget that it was her pride and coldness which 
 blighted the spring-blossoms of my existence ; and 
 I have not yet attained that meekness and lowli- 
 ness of heart, that forgiving spirit, which I have 
 striven for so earnestly, and which more than all 
 else I desire and prize. 
 
 "From my veriest childhood, Herbert Wendell, 
 the only son of the Squire, was my playmate, com- 
 panion and champion. Timid, and accustomed 
 always to rely upon the strength of others, I clung 
 fondly to him who fought my battles against all 
 who strove to oppress me; who was always 
 ready to share his dainties with me, to coax 
 me when I was pettish or sulky, and to amuse 
 me when I was sad. As we grew older, our affec- 
 tion, instead of fading away like a childish dream, 
 gained strength and fervor; and when, at the 
 
388 PROSE. 
 
 age of seventeeiij he left us to enter the University; 
 we parted with sighs, and tears, and vows as 
 impassioned, perchance more sincere, than those of 
 many older and more experienced lovers. 
 
 '' Herbert had promised to write to me; and oh, 
 with what trembling eagerness I watched and 
 waited for the post-day ! I heard the rumbling of 
 the stage-wheels long ere they entered the village, 
 and scarcely gave the postmaster time to empty 
 the mail-bag, ere I presented myself before him. I 
 awaited his answer with my heart on my lips I 
 Already I felt the letter within my eager grasp I 
 He turned — ' No letter for you ! ' I left the office 
 with a slow and heavy tread, and a heavier heart. 
 He has forgotten me already, I said ; and I gave 
 myself up to a night of sleeplessness and tears. 
 And yet, Herbert had been gone but three days ; 
 but inexperienced, and judging of his feelings by 
 the wildness of my own, I had fancied that he 
 would sit down immediately on his arrival, and 
 write me an account of his journey, with all the 
 important nothings which lovers prize so highly. 
 I can smrle now at what was bitter agony then — - 
 alas! there is a vast, %ide difference between 
 fifteen and seven and twenty ! The next post- 
 day came, but brought me no tidings ; but on the 
 third came a long and passionate epistle, crossed 
 and recrossed enough to satisfy even my heart. 
 Thenceforward every week brought me a letter ; 
 and when the vacations came, and he was at mv 
 side again, who had a lighter heart or a gayer 
 smile than 1 7 
 
PROSE. 389 
 
 "Happily and pleasantly sped the years of his 
 collegiate course ; and we were already looking for- 
 ward to and talking of our marriage, when a sud- 
 den and unexpected obstacle arose. The old 
 Squire and his lady, though never very cordial in 
 their demeanor towards me, had shown no dislike, 
 and made no objection to their son's attention to 
 me; but when Herbert made known to them his 
 views for the future, the father frowned, and his 
 mother angrily forbade his entertaining an idea of 
 degrading himself by such an alliance. She had 
 laughed at his attentions while she considered it 
 merely as a flirtation between the aristocratic 
 young heir of Wendell Manor and the daughter 
 of an humble laborer ; but when her son ventured 
 upon the presumptuous step of proposing to make 
 a wife of the village maiden, her pride was 
 aroused, and Herbert was forbidden, upon pain of 
 disinheritance and his parent's curse, to think of 
 me longer. 
 
 " But he was too noble and generous thus to 
 desert one whose love he had sought and won; 
 and though his voice faltered as he spoke of the 
 malediction with which he had been threatened, 
 he implored me to let no scruples deter me from 
 becoming his wife. 'I am young and strong, 
 Lucy,' he argued ; ' I have some talent, and ambi- 
 tion enough to urge me to make it available; and 
 with your society to repay me for my labors, and 
 your voice to cheer and encourage me, trust me, 
 we shall be prosperous and happy, and my mother 
 will yet bless the day which gave her such a 
 
390 PROSE. 
 
 daughter ! ' Love and despair were tugging closely 
 at my heart-strings, — how could I give him up 
 in whom I had so fondly garnered my hopes of 
 happiness ! And yet, to see him struggling with 
 poverty and the parental curse, toiling through 
 the long day, and coming at its close to the hum- 
 ble home which alone his means would enable 
 him to support, weary and sick at heart, and to 
 know that it was all endured for my sake; — when 
 I thought of all this, and contrasted it with his 
 present situation and future prospects, my spirit 
 sank. That was a night of bitter anguish, but I 
 watched and wept and prayed, and the morning 
 light found me victorious; and when I left my 
 chamber, I despatched a note to Herbert, telling 
 him of my struggles, and of my ever unalterable 
 determination. 
 
 "Ere two hours had elapsed, he was with me^ 
 and mighty was the conflict between love and 
 duty ; but I nerved my frail spirit to the encounter, 
 and though crushed, and bruised, and bleeding, my 
 heart proved true to its high resolve. Yain was 
 the eloquence of passion to change it, vain the 
 pleadings of my own weakness ; we parted — aqd 
 when the struggle was over,-'! sunk into a state of 
 apatlif^, from which, for a time, nothing had power 
 to rouse me. This was followed by a long and 
 dangerous illness, and when I recovered, Herbert 
 had left the country to visit an uncle in England. 
 This relative had an only daughter, and it was 
 rumored in the village that the fathers had planned 
 a match between their children, hoping thus to 
 
PKOSE. 391 
 
 unite their property, and continue it in a direct 
 line. However this may have been, their augury 
 proved true ; in a year from the time of his depart- 
 ure from Hazlehurst, Herbert Wendell returned 
 with his bride. My pride supported me in this 
 trying season, and when I took my seat in 
 church the Sabbath after his arrival, conscious that 
 all eyes were upon me, watching my looks and 
 demeanor, my step faltered not; and if I were paler 
 than I was wont to be, no other sign betrayed my 
 inward/struggles. 
 
 •'There was a confused murmur in the church 
 as Herbert led in his bride, and involuntarily I 
 turned my eyes towards the Wendell pew ; but a 
 film gathered over them, and I saw only the dark 
 shadov/ of a manly form, and the dazzling white 
 robes of the bride. Only once during their stay 
 did I meet my lost lover and his new idol ; I had 
 been visiting old bed-ridden Hannah, and was 
 hastening homewards by the path leading past the 
 old grave-yard, when my ear caught the tones of a 
 voice never to be forgotten, and looking up, I met 
 the gaze of Herbert Wendell. His bride was lean- 
 ing on his arm, and he was talking in gentle 
 accents, but oh, not as he used to address me ! but 
 when his eyes met mine, he became pale as death, 
 and the veins in his broad, high brow were swollen 
 nigh to bursting. We passed on without other 
 sign of recognition, but that deathly, agonized look 
 will never be effaced from my memory. 
 
 "I left home soon after this encounter, and was 
 absent many months ; ere I returned, Herbert had 
 
392 PROSE. 
 
 quitted Hazlehurst, and has never since revisited it. 
 Seven years have passed since that time, and I. 
 have schooled myself to a degree of calmness and 
 quiet which I hardly hoped then to attain. I fan- 
 cied that I could meet him now without one thrill 
 of emotion — but alas for the weakness of my 
 woman-heart ! — to-day, while we were chatting 
 gayly yonder, he stood before me with that sad and 
 melancholy expression which has haunted me so 
 long; and the rest you know." As Lucy finished 
 her narrative, a young girl came running toward 
 them with a summons to dinner, and as soon as 
 the two friends were out of sight, I slowly fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 At the table, I stole many a glance at the face of 
 Lucy Bell, and was glad to see her resuming, by 
 degrees, her usual calm and quiet manner. Once 
 or twice I saw her cast a furtive glance around the 
 board, as if in search of some one, and I shrewdly 
 conjectured who the sought one might be. When 
 the repast was over, and the company had gathered 
 around the open space, to listen to some remarks 
 from the minister, lawyer and others, I stole away, 
 and descending the steep hill-side again, I pursued 
 the path which led along the banks of a brook, and 
 seating myself upon the trunk of an old tree, I gave 
 myself up to a delicious day-dream, in which the 
 principal characters were Lucy Bell and her ci-de- 
 vant lover. While thus engaged, I was startled by 
 the sound of a rich, manly voice, and soon became 
 aware of the proximity of the objects of my inter- 
 est; for just then I caught a glimpse of a tall, fine- 
 
PROSE. 393 
 
 looking man, walking close at the side of Lucy 
 Bell. She was very pale, and seemed deeply 
 agitated ; and as she lifted her soft eyes to his face, 
 I could see that they were swimming in tears. 
 
 The parties were too much engrossed by their 
 own conversation to notice me, as I sat nearly con- 
 cealed by the shrubbery ; and having unwittingly 
 heard a portion of their discourse, I felt as if to 
 make them aware of my presence now would but 
 confuse and distress them. I was now really vexed 
 at the accident which would compel me for the 
 second time in one day to become an eaves-drop- 
 per ; but they had paused on the other side, Euid 
 the slightest movement would have rustled the 
 leaves and shrubs, and revealed my unwelcome 
 presence ; so I remained in breathless stillness, and 
 became an unwilling though interested auditor of 
 their discourse, to which Lucy's own narrative 
 had given me a key. 
 
 ''Do not turn away from me, dearest," said the 
 lover, '' till you have heard my vindication, till you 
 know all that has passed during the long, weary 
 years of our separation ! " And in a strain of ear- 
 nest eloquence, he told of his early and long devo- 
 tion; of the hopes that cheered him on, and enabled 
 him to do all and brave all for her sake ; of the 
 arguments and threats and reproaches with which 
 he had been assailed, and which could not induce 
 him to. forsake her. He spoke of her cold rejection 
 of his offers, of her fixed resolve never to become his 
 wife ; of the agony of separation, and the despair 
 
 with which he had quitted his native land ! On 
 33 
 
394 PROSE. 
 
 ^ • 
 
 his arrival in England, he had been warmly wel- 
 comed by his uncle, and introduced to his cousin, 
 a girl of sixteen ; and it was then Herbert first 
 Jearned the long-cherished project of his parents 
 and uncle. He at once refused to listen to such 
 proposals, and declared his intention of never mar- 
 rying. Then came tidings that Lucy had forgotten 
 him, and was about to wed another, a rich farmer 
 in Hazlehurst ; and Herbert remembered that when 
 he had offered to renounce his inheritance, and to 
 toil on cheerfully for and with her, — when he had 
 been willing to brave poverty and all its attendant 
 evils, — she had shrunk from the prospect, and cast 
 him off; and in the bitterness of his outraged heart, 
 he accused her .of being mercenary and selfish. 
 Miserable and despairing, he would fain have 
 returned to his native land, and hidden himself in 
 some of its western solitudes ; but his uncle, Avho 
 knew the cause of his distress, laughed at him, and 
 hurried him into society, which he prophesied 
 would soon cure him of his love-sickness. And 
 Mary was ever ready, with gentle words, to soothe 
 him; she drew him forth to ride and walk with 
 her ; she sang duets that he might accompany her, 
 and strove by every wile to make him forget his 
 sorrow. Again came tidings of Lucy's happiness, 
 and goaded to desperation, he yielded to the wishes 
 of his relatives, and became the husband of Mary. 
 On his arrival at Hazlehurst, he had asked no 
 questions concerning Lucy, and not till he had 
 been at home more than a week did he hear her 
 name mentioned. But one who had known them 
 
PROSE. 395 
 
 both from childhood, and to whom Lucy was dear 
 as a daughter, angry with him for what she con- 
 sidered his base desertion of her favorite, harshly 
 rebuked him for his conduct, and he then learnt 
 the falsehood by which he had been deceived. 
 Sick at heart and self-reproached, and stung by the 
 meek and sorrowful expression Lucy had worn 
 when they accidentally met, and almost loathing 
 those who had stooped to such base means to effect 
 their purpose, he hastened away from the place 
 where everything reminded him of the lost one, and 
 after a short sojourn in his native land, he returned 
 with his wife to England. 
 
 His uncle died soon after their return, and Mary, 
 now mistress of a princely fortune, gave full scope 
 to her love of pleasure. Balls, dinners, and fetes 
 of every kind, followed each other in rapid succes- 
 sion, and Herbert now seldom saw her except in 
 the midst of a crowd. With a natural distaste to 
 amusements of this kind, and a daily diminishing 
 respect for the vain and silly woman whom he 
 called his wife, he became weary and disgusted 
 with his life. A settled gloom pervaded everything 
 on which he looked, and at times he half doubted 
 his own sanity, when a terrible shock aroused him 
 from his lethargy. 
 
 The weak and faithless Mary left her husband 
 and her home, to fly to another land^in company 
 with one whose flatteries had been loudest and 
 coarsest, and consequently most grateful to her ear. 
 She departed without one word expressive of shame 
 or remorse, and the few lines she left were merely 
 
31^6 
 
 PROSE. 
 
 to say that she doubted not he would rejoice to be 
 rid of one whom he had never loved, and who was 
 perfectly indifferent towards himself But she was 
 arrested in her guilty course by a mighty hand ! 
 Ere she reached Paris, which was the destination 
 of the criminal pair, the carriage which conveyed 
 them was overturned, and while the partner of her 
 flight escaped with a broken limb, Mary was 
 instantaneously called to her account. The awful 
 tidings reaghed Herbert, as he sat in his. study, pon- 
 dering upon the means to be used for reclaiming 
 the unfortunate woman, and he hastened im- 
 mediately to the scene of the catastrophe. Mary 
 was buried in the great cemetery which has 
 received the bones of so many foreigners, and then 
 Herbert returned to settle his affairs in England, 
 preparatory to his final departure to his own home. 
 He arrived at Hazlehurst the morning of the 
 Squantum, and having learned that Lucy was 
 among the guests, he hastened thither. Shocked 
 by the effect his sudden appearance had produced, 
 he retired to a remote part of the grounds, and 
 while walking thoughtfully along, he encountered 
 Lucy, who had stolen unperceived from the rest of 
 the party to enjoy a solitary ramble. She would 
 have passed without recognizing him, but he de- 
 tained her to plead for a few minutes' conversation, 
 that he might explain to her the cause of what he 
 well knew she must consider as a heartless aban- 
 donment of her. ''And now, beloved," he urged, 
 " that you have listened patiently to my story, will 
 you send me forth again, a lone wanderer into the 
 
PROSE. 397 
 
 world 1 Have yau indeed forgotten all the past, — 
 the happy days of our childhood, the deeper bliss 
 of our maturer years ? Will you cast me off coldly, 
 Lucy, as unworthy your love and esteem? An- 
 swer me, dearest; can you forgive all, and be to me 
 once again all you were ten years ago, and more — 
 not merely the object of my passionate devotion, 
 but my true and tender wife — the companion of 
 my future years, the sharer of my joys and sor- 
 rows? Will you consent to realize all the fairy 
 dreams of our young hearts, ere a shadow had 
 fallen on them? " And Lucy buried her head on 
 his shoulder, and though no sound reached my ear, 
 I had little doubt that the answer was such as the 
 pleader wished ; for they soon after left their seat 
 and wandered on, and I saw that the lover's arm 
 was around the waist of the now smiling Lucy, 
 and that her hand was tenderly clasped in his. I 
 saw them again at twilight, and then Herbert was 
 handing the maiden into a handsome chaise, and 
 they drove rapidly aAvay. Some two or three 
 hours later, when I went to my chamber, a light 
 was burning in the little parlor of Mrs. Bell's cot- 
 tage, and I was* free to conclude that Miss Lucy 
 had a visiter. 
 
 This was in August, and ere October, with its 
 clear, starry nights, had departed, there was a 
 gathering of friends in that same little parlor ; and 
 happiest and gayest among the group were Herbert 
 Wendell and his bonnie Lucy, looking, if a little 
 more subdued, a'S fair and smiling as when she 
 first plighted the girlish faith which she has just 
 33=^ 
 
398 PROSE. 
 
 redeemed at the bridal altar. The Squire's ladyj 
 now a widow, and sincerely repentant for the con- 
 duct which has caused her son so much misery, 
 has striven, by her kindness and affection to his 
 bride, to efface all painful memories of the past ; 
 and a happier group is not to be found than that 
 which now gathers round the ample hearth-stone 
 of Wendell Manor. It is not long since another 
 Squantum was proposed, similar to that which 
 produced such happy results to our friends ; and 
 first in advocating, and warmest in support of the 
 measure, was Herbert Wendell. "We will cer- 
 tainly grace it with our presence, dearest Lucy," 
 he said to his wife; ''for to the end of my life I 
 shall always look back with grateful and pleasant 
 recollections to the day spent at The Squantum ! " 
 
 ROSE BRADY. 
 
 I PROMISED in my first chapter, I think, to tell you 
 something about my acquaintance. Rose Brady ; 
 and as I have just been walking, and, in the course 
 of my stroll, chanced to stop at her cottage — if such 
 the humble dwelling may be called — and as, more- 
 over, she is quite an interesting person in my esti- 
 mation, I shall do myself the pleasure, with your 
 permission, dear reader, to chat a while with you 
 concerning her. 
 
 Rose O'Neill was the only child of an Irish 
 farmer, who had been left in good circumstances 
 by the death of his father, and in possession of the 
 
PROSE, 399 
 
 homestead which had been in the hands of his 
 family for many successive generations. PhiHp, 
 or, as he was generally called, Phil O'Neill, the 
 father of Rose, was a gay, handsome, thoughtless 
 fellow, fond of dress and the society of those of a 
 iike turn with himself His father died while he 
 was quite young; and his mother, a weak and silly 
 woman, doting on the pretty boy whose posses- 
 sion was envied her by all her neighbors, and who 
 was always petted and noticed by the lords and 
 ladies at Sullivan Castle, the "great house" of the 
 village, humored all his childish whims, obeyed 
 all his arrogant demands, and forced all under her 
 control to do the same ; till, in the end, Phil was 
 fully impressed with the idea that he was a person 
 of infinite consequence, and would infallibly have 
 rendered himself hateful to all who came within 
 reach of his dominating spirit, had he not luckily 
 been blessed with an inexhaustible fund of good- 
 humor, and a ready wit, which, with that mirth- 
 loving people, was sufficient to hide a multitude of 
 faults, and made them overlook his sometimes 
 haughty and arrogant manner. Gifted with a 
 conversational talent, which, uncultivated as it 
 was, he contrived to render at times perfectly fas- 
 cinating, a fine person, and a sort. of careless, off- 
 hand manner, and being, withal, a sprightly dancer 
 and a good singer, qualifications of which no one 
 knows the worth better than an Irishman, — with 
 all these accomplishments, Phil O'Neill was a wel- 
 come guest in all circles. 
 
 While yet in the first flush of manhood, b 
 
400 PROSE. 
 
 became acquainted with Annie Sullivan, the niece 
 of the good Catholic priest of the parish, who was 
 also chaplain at the castle, and distantly connected 
 with the earl's family. Annie was a fair, delicate 
 girl, wholly unlike, in person or manners, the buxom 
 village lasses, and, perhaps, for that very reason 
 more attractive to Philip, who was growing some- 
 what weary of the airs and graces of the rustic 
 coquettes. He first met her at the wedding of a 
 young girl, a neighbor of his own, who was Annie's 
 foster-sister ; she officiated at the ceremony as 
 bridesmaid, and, amid the mirth and jollity of an 
 Irish festival, Phil and Annie could hardly fail to 
 be attracted to each other. They danced together, 
 and chatted merrily during the intermissions ; and 
 now and then Annie's light, silvery laugh was 
 heard, as she listened to Phil's witty anecdotes and 
 sprightly remarks? He escorted her home that 
 night to the house of the good priest, whom she 
 had come to visit for the first time since her child- 
 hood, having been for several years at school; from 
 that time the young couple often met, at church, 
 in the village lanes and by-paths, and now and 
 then at some rustic merrymaking, where, as if 
 instinctively, all the beaux gave way at once to 
 Phil's claims upon the time and smiles of Annie 
 Sullivan. And no wonder ; for the maiden was 
 shy and coy and reserved till he made his appear- 
 ance, and then, as soon as she caught the sound 
 of his voice, or a glimpse of his bright, handsome 
 face, her own would light up with a joyous expres- 
 sion, and the smile "yvould come to her lip, and the 
 
PROSE. 
 
 401 
 
 rose-leaf hue deepen to scarlet in her fair cheeks, 
 and a new Ufe seem developed in her every look 
 and motion. 
 
 Soon a change was perceptible in Phil himself. 
 He became quieter and more reserved in his man- 
 ner ; talked less, and when at all, in a rambling 
 and singular manner; walked by moonlight, and 
 generally in a direction not exactly opposite to 
 that in which Annie lived; he sung sentimental 
 songs, and heartily astonished his friends and vexed 
 his gay companions. Now, but one cause could be 
 assigned for all this, — but one way was thought of 
 to solve the riddle, — and this the good folks were 
 not slow to puzzle out. Phil was in love — that 
 was evident ; and, while some bantered him about 
 his sweetheart, and others laughed at his strange 
 vagaries, many more sincerely pitied him, for few 
 believed the priest would ever consent to Annie's 
 marriage with a farmer, and especially one of such 
 a turn as Phil O'Neill; ''though, to be sure," they 
 said, "Phil was a likely boy, and quite handsome, 
 and good enough for the earl's daughter even," 
 who had been seen to cast many a glance upon the 
 graceful young peasant. But Phil continued his 
 attentions to Annie, despite the pity or sneers of 
 his acquaintances; and when, in due time, he 
 declared his passion, and wooed the gentle maiden 
 for his bride, he drew from her a timid, but not the 
 less ardent, confession of its return, and was referred 
 to the priest, her uncle, to whose guardianship she 
 had been consigned by her parents, for Annie had 
 long been an orphan. 
 
402 PROSE. 
 
 It was with a trepidation quite unusual to him 
 that Phil ascended the steps of the priest's house, 
 and presented himself before his reverence. Once 
 his courage well-nigh failed him, but then the 
 image of his beloved rose up before him, and he 
 resolutely entered the room and made known the 
 object of his visit. The good father was, at first, 
 quite too much surprised to answer; for he led a 
 somewhat secluded life, rarely going out save to. 
 visit his parishioners, none of whom would have 
 ventured to gossip to the priest concerning the love- 
 passages between his niece and Philip O'Neill. 
 When he had somewhat recovered from his bewil- 
 derment, he proceeded to question the young lover 
 as to the rise and progress of his attachment to 
 Annie. Phil was at first somewhat embarrassed, 
 but he gained courage as he proceeded, and soon 
 laid the whole affair before the good man. Father 
 Sullivan listened in silence till Phil got through 
 with his story, and, after musing for a few mo- 
 ments, he said, "I doubt if you and Annie are 
 wise in this matter, and I confess I could have 
 wished her choice to have fallen somewhat differ- 
 ently ; but if, as you say, the foolish girl loves you, 
 and her happiness depends upon this match, she is 
 dear to me as a daughter, and her wishes shall not 
 be thwarted." 
 
 Accordingly Annie was summoned to the study, 
 and answered with a blushing face to her uncle's 
 kind, but somewhat blunt questions, as to her part 
 in the affair with which he had just been made 
 acquainted ; and when he had finally drawn from 
 
PROSE. 403 
 
 V 
 
 her a full confession of her attachment to and un- 
 qiiaUfied preference of Phil to all the young men 
 with whom she had been acquainted in different 
 walks of life, he hesitated no longer, but joining 
 their hands, he pronounced a fervent benediction 
 upon them. In six weeks from that day, Phil and 
 Annie were married in the parish church by the 
 good priest, and settled down quietly in the old 
 farm-house, a loving and happy couple. 
 
 Several years passed by, without. the occurrence 
 of any important event to the O'Neills, save the 
 birth of a daughter in the first year of their mar- 
 riage ; and now, after this long digression, I return, 
 or go forward, (as you will,) to my proper heroine, 
 Rose. This little one proved to be their only child, 
 and was consequently the pet and darling, not only 
 of her parents, but of all the parish ; who unani- 
 mously asserted the little Rose to be the prettiest, 
 wittiest, and best child in all Ireland : and the old 
 women used to declare that the fairies watched 
 over her birth, and had gifted her with a peculiar 
 charm, which was exercised over all who came 
 within scope of her influence. Be this as it might, 
 there was certainly a nameless fascination about 
 her, — a witchery in her smile, and her silvery 
 accents, — in her deep blue eyes, and gentle, loving 
 manner, — which drew all hearts towards her. She 
 was more especially the idol of her grand-uncle, 
 the priest, who, possessing but few natural ties, 
 clung the more closely to the few who claimed 
 kindred with him. He loved to have Rose visit 
 him often in his study, and dehghted to imbue her 
 
404 PROSE. 
 
 young and teachable mind with knowledge; which, 
 falling from his lips, was gratefully received and 
 faithfully treasured up by the little maiden. 
 
 When Rose was but nine years old, she had the 
 misfortune to lose her father, who was thrown from 
 his horse while returning home from a distant town, 
 whither he had been to transact some business, and 
 he lived but a few hours after the fall. His death 
 was a terrible shock to his wife, for ten years of 
 happy wedded life had riveted still closer the bonds 
 of their early love ; and at first it seemed to Annie 
 quite impossible to live without him, upon whom 
 she had leaned with such tender reliance. But 
 with time came reflection, and by degrees she 
 learnt to think of him with a quieter and more 
 tranquil sorrow, and to look forward with a chas- 
 tened spirit to the time when she should meet him. 
 again. All her earthly hopes and affections seemed 
 now to be garnered up in Rose, whose mind and 
 character were rapidly developing under the care 
 and guidance of the good Father Sullivan, who 
 would gladly have retained the child always with 
 him. After Philip's death he had been anxious to 
 prevail upon Annie to remove to his home with 
 Rose, and cheer his declining days ; but Mrs. 
 O'Neill, always delicate and fragile in health, 
 began to feel the inroads of a disease upon her 
 lungs inherited from her mother's family, and sus- 
 pecting her sojourn would be short, she preferred 
 to remain in the house where she had seen so much 
 of happiness, and where everythijj.g reminded her 
 of him whom she had lost, and whom she now 
 
PROSE. 405 
 
 hoped soon to rejoin again. Annie survived her 
 husband but three years, and then cheerfully con- 
 fiding Rose to the paternal care of her uncle, she 
 fell sweetly asleep. 
 
 The farm on which the O'Neills, father and son, 
 had dwelt for so many years, being entailed upo. . 
 male heirs, passed into the hands of a distant rela- 
 tive, and a few hundred pounds saved by Phil, in 
 the years succeeding the birth of his daughter, was 
 the only provision for Rose. In accordance with 
 her mother's wishes, the orphan girl was taken to 
 the home of him in whose heart she had long been 
 the chief object, and to whom she seemed even 
 dearer now that she was his sole tie, the only near 
 relative he possessed ; and far more than the pater- 
 nal affection he had felt for his niece Annie was 
 lavished upon her young daughter. Rose grew in 
 grace and beauty, the pride and delight of the old 
 man's heart, and still the prime favorite of all his 
 parishioners. 
 
 At seventeen she was the reigning toast of all 
 the country round, and many a courtly gallant had 
 sought her smiles, and many a gay lady looked 
 with envy on the simple country maiden. Some- 
 times at the country balls a patrician belle would 
 sneer at the idea of being eclipsed by a farmer's 
 daughter, as she surveyed her own richly-dressed 
 figure, and saw the mirrors reflecting the light of 
 the jewels which sparkled on her neck, brow and 
 arms; but when Rose O'Neill entered, arrayed in 
 her simple muslin robe, with no ornament save a 
 golden chain and cross which had been her moth- 
 34 
 
406 PROSE. 
 
 er's, all eyes rested with involuntary admiration 
 upon her graceful, willowy form, the snowy neck 
 and arms, the waves of rich brown hair, braided 
 smoothly back from her high white brow, the softly 
 rounded cheeks, the full rosy lips, dimpling with 
 smiles, and the large, blue, glorious eyes, with their 
 sweeping fringes, so soft, so bright, and changeful 
 as an April sky ! 
 
 But neither flattery nor envy could produce any 
 important efiect upon the mind or manners of 
 Rose. She had been carefully taught to look upon 
 her rare beauty as a blessing, only because it might 
 give pleasure to her friends, even as a beautiful 
 flower, bird or shell, or any other of the many fair, 
 bright things which God has created for our enjoy- 
 ment ; and though it certainly gave her kind heart 
 pain when she encountered cold and scornful looks, 
 yet she only turned with brighter smiles to those 
 to whom her presence was sunshine, and who 
 rejoiced with glad hearts in the light and glory of 
 her young beauty. 
 
 As will readily be . supposed, many devotees 
 flocked to offer homage at so bright a shrine ; and 
 among these were some of loftier rank than her 
 own, who would fain have wedded the beauty- 
 dowered girl ; but Rose had no ambition to be thus 
 exalted, and preferred to mate with one of her own 
 degree. Her nineteenth year had passed, and Rose 
 was still an unappropriated flower, save by her 
 doting uncle, who in his heart secretly rejoiced 
 when Rose so cheerfully rejected all oflers ; but her 
 time was at hand. Among the village beaux was 
 
^ROSE. 407 
 
 one named Hugh Brady, the second son of a 
 wealthy farmer. He was an inteUigent, good-look- 
 ing youth, with more refinemeut of mmd and man- 
 ners than usually falls to the lot of those in his 
 condition ; but, like Rose, he had been favored with 
 the lessons of the good priest, by which he had 
 profited well. Hugh had been the playmate of 
 Rose in their childhood, and her warmest admirer 
 ever since he could remember; and though, now 
 that she had become a woman, she rarely showed 
 any mark of preference for him, yet Hugh had 
 carefully treasured up sundry words and looks, and 
 secretly entertained in his heart a lurking hope 
 that he was not an object of utter indifference to 
 Rose O'Neill. 
 
 But when he saw her followed, courted and 
 admired, and gazed upon her queenly beauty, the 
 poor fellow felt awed and abashed in her presence, 
 and dared not hazard an expression of his attach- 
 ment. And Rose, with the least bit of coquetry in 
 the world, saw, without appearing to see, his strug- 
 gles, and waited for her lover to "take heart of 
 grace," and ask for the boon he so much craved. 
 Still, month after month went by, and he spoke 
 not; and there is no knowing how much longer 
 poor Hugh might have remained silent, but for a 
 (to him) timely accident, which fairly frightened 
 him out of his fears, and unsealed his lips. He 
 was strolling along at twilight through the village, 
 when he espied Rose approaching from an oppo- 
 site direction ; but she did not notice him, for her 
 eyes were bent on the ground, and she was appar- 
 
408 PROSE. 
 
 ently in deep meditation. Between the two was a 
 little stream, with a plank laid across for a bridge ; 
 there had been a heavy rain, and the log was wet 
 and slippery, and ere Rose had reached the extrem- 
 ity, her foot slipped, and she fell into the stream. 
 She gave a faint cry as she fell, but ere the sound 
 passed her lips, Hugh Brady, who had seen the 
 accident, was at the edge of the stream. He waded 
 into the shallow water, and in a moment Rose 
 was laid on the bank, with dripping garments, a 
 sprained ankle, and sundry bruises. Fairly startled 
 out of his embarrassment, Hugh now poured in 
 impassioned language the story of his love and 
 despair, and never was human heart lighter than 
 his, when he received from the lips of Rose herself 
 the assurance that he was loved in return. Long 
 they sat there on that grassy bank, forgetful alike 
 of sprains, bruises and wet clothes, till at length 
 the shadows of night began to fall heavily around 
 them, and the pain arising from her injured limb 
 warned Rose to return homewards. She was ten- 
 derly assisted on the way by the now joyful Hugh, 
 and short seemed the distance, when beguiled by 
 the conversation of loving hearts. 
 
 The old housekeeper soon bathed the wounded 
 limb, and applied a soothing liniment to the bruises, 
 and then Rose sought her uncle's room, and resting 
 her head on his shoulder, gave vent to the long- 
 treasured hopes and wishes of her heart. The old 
 man remained silent for some time after Rose had 
 finished her communication, and she was too much 
 engrossed by the intensity of her own feelings to 
 
PROSE* 409 
 
 notice it at first ; but as by degrees she became 
 calmer, she lifted her head, and eagerly awaited 
 his reply; and when at length he spoke, she observed 
 that his voice was somewhat broken, and there 
 were tears in his mild, calm eyes. Tenderly she 
 pressed her lips to his aged brow, and begged his 
 forgiveness if she had in aught wounded or dis- 
 pleased him ; and the old man drew the now tear- 
 ful girl to his breast again, and strove by gentle 
 words to soothe her grief 
 
 "Do not weep, darling," he said; "it was a self- 
 ish feeling which prompted my silence, and I ought 
 rather to sue for your pardon, for having entertained 
 such a thought in connection with my dear child. 
 But you know. Rose, how you have cheered and 
 enlivened my once lonely home, and how like the 
 blessed sunshine your presence seems to my old 
 heart ; and I thought how desolate I should be if 
 you went away from me, and how I should miss 
 your bright smile and sweet voice, and the thou- 
 sand little attentions you have lavished upon me, 
 which no other hand could bestow ; and then came 
 up vividly before me the image of your mother 
 when she stood at your father's side the morning I 
 pronounced the marriage benediction upon them, 
 and again as she lay calm and ^ motionless in her 
 coffin. And then passed rapidly before me the joy- 
 ful seasons of your birth and your baptism, when I 
 held you in my arms, and vowed in my heart 
 before God, as I received you into the pale of the 
 Christian church, to cherish and protect you in 
 concert with your parents, and to guide your young 
 34* 
 
410 PROSE, 
 
 feet in the paths of innocence. I thought of all 
 the happy hours when you have sat at my feet or 
 by my side, and imbibed the simple lessons of wis- 
 dom and truth ; of that sad day when I took you, 
 weeping, from the cold bosom of your dead moth- 
 er, and promised to supply the places of both father 
 and mother to you : and as these memories came 
 rushing over my mind with the thoughts of all you 
 had been to me since that time, and of the blank 
 which would follow your departure, I was over- 
 whelmed, and in my selfish sorrow forgot the 
 emotions that were agitating your young heart. 
 But it is over now — look up, my Rose, my darling, 
 and say that you forgive the old man, and let me 
 see your glad smile once more. Next to your dear 
 self, there is no one for whom I have more affec- 
 tion than for Hugh Brady ; and though, perhaps, 
 when I have seen you admired by those of lofty 
 rank and high intellectual attainments, I may have 
 formed ambitious projects for my child, yet I will 
 not mar your happiness by seeking to control your 
 choice. I will be selfish no longer; so bring Hugh 
 hither, my sweet Rose, that I may give my consent, 
 and bestow my blessing upon you both." 
 
 "It is I that was selfish, dear uncle," replied 
 Rose, as she lifted her glistening blue eyes to his 
 face, " to think of leaving you, my best friend, in 
 your old age, with no one tcyninister to your grow- 
 ing infirmities. But I should not have done so; 
 my heart would never have permitted such a gross 
 violation of duty and affection ; and well as I love 
 Hugh, I could not be happy with him, knowing 
 
fhose, 411 
 
 that you were lonely and sad, and pining for the 
 society and attentions of your Rose. So rest 
 assured, my dear father, that while you live, I will 
 never, never leave you." 
 
 " Nay, dearest, but this must not be ; though old 
 and infirm, I may yet live many years, and it is 
 unjust to require or even wish you to sacrifice the 
 best years of your life to an old man's comfort. 
 Hugh will not take you far from me ; I shall see 
 you every day, and I may yet live to bless your 
 children, and perhaps to transfer my petting to 
 another Rose, or xose-bitd, as you will." 
 
 " But my dear uncle — " persisted Rose. 
 
 "But my dear niece," interrupted the old man, 
 " I really cannot stop to argue this point with you ; 
 — so run along and send Hugh to me, that I may 
 inquire about the mischief you have been brew- 
 ing;" and with his usual benevolent smile, he 
 closed the door after her, bidding her hasten. 
 
 The old priest had a long conference with Hngh, 
 from which the latter came forth with a smiling 
 face, though the traces of tears were yet on his 
 sunburnt cheek, for a solemn charge had been 
 given him to watch over and protect the fair 
 flower which was soon to be worn on his heart; 
 but when he entered the presence of Rose, it was 
 with a light' step and a bounding pulse. This 
 was the midsummer time, and ere the harvest- 
 moon had waned, Hugh Brady and his Rose were 
 a wedded pair, and the tenants of a small farm, 
 the gift of Father Sullivan to Rose, on her mar- 
 riage. It was but a few rods from his own house, 
 
412 PROSE* 
 
 and every day his home was gladdened by the 
 presence of his darhng. 
 
 Time passed on, and young rosebuds blossomed 
 in the house of Hugh Brady, rejoicing the hearts 
 off their parents, and the kind relative to whom 
 everything connected with Rose was dear and 
 beautiful. But the good man was now stricken in 
 years, and ere Rose's third child, who bore his 
 name, had learned to lisp a prayer at his knee, he 
 was gathered like a shock of corn, fully ripe, into 
 the garner of the Lord, and was lamented with a 
 true and tender sorrow. This was the first afflic- 
 tion which had befallen the happy famil)^, but 
 others were now in store for them. Sickness laid 
 its withering hand upon poor Hugh; their small 
 crops, which had hitherto been sufficient to supply 
 the wants of the family, were blighted and de- 
 stroyed ; a friend to whom Hugh had lent money 
 proved faithless and dishonest ; his father could not 
 or would not aid him, and the only expectations 
 which Hugh could ever boast of were from a 
 crabbed old relative of his mother's, who . had 
 declared his intention of keeping all he had while 
 he lived; so that when Hugh, after an illness of six 
 months' standing, at length left his bed, poverty 
 was actually staring them in the face. Still weak 
 from the effects of his long illness, and shocked by 
 the situation to which he found himself reduced, 
 Hugh became low-spirited and despairing, and 
 Rose, in addition to' her efibrts to meet the expenses 
 of the family by her own labor, was forced to 
 assume a gayer manner than usual, and to strive 
 
PROSE. 413 
 
 by every means to shake off her husband's depres- 
 sion. 
 
 While in this situation, he received a letter from 
 an old friend who had been living in America for 
 several years, filled with representations of the eas^ 
 with which work and money could be procured, 
 and the plenty which existed in all parts of the 
 country. Hugh was delighted with the description 
 given by his friend, and after some deliberation 
 upon the matter, he laid before Rose a plan he had 
 formed, which was to sell their farm, and with 
 what money could thus be raised to sail for the 
 United States, and seek to better their fortunes in 
 that El Dorado. There was a desperate struggle 
 in the mind of his wife. She possessed in a high 
 degree the love of country which usually charac- 
 terizes the children of the Emerald Isle, and she 
 could not easily tear herself from the spot where 
 rested the ashes of her parents, and of the uncle 
 who had been so kind a friend through his life, so 
 devoted a father to her in her lonely orphan state. 
 But she saw that Hugh was deeply interested in 
 the plan; and glad and thankful for any event 
 which could arouse him from his apathy, she at 
 last consented. 
 
 All things were soon in readiness ; the farm and 
 its utensils, the house and furniture, all were con- 
 verted into money, and the little family were soon 
 embarked on the wide ocean, to seek a home 
 among strangers in a strange land. They arrived 
 in safety in New York city just as the winter was 
 setting in ; they could find no traces of their friend 
 
414 PROSE. 
 
 who had urged them to come out, and Hugh 
 sought in vain for employment. The season 
 proved to be a very inclement one, and before the 
 spring opened, their little stock of money was 
 nearly exhausted, and no prospect of better things 
 presented. At length some one, compassionating 
 poor Hugh, advised him to go to Boston, where he 
 might possibly get a chance to do something for 
 the support of his family. They accordingly 
 started directly, and a few days after their arrival 
 Hugh obtained employment on a rail-road then 
 building, the same which passes within, a few 
 miles of Hazlehurst. While thus employed, Hugh 
 chanced to meet with the friend at whose instance 
 he had come to America. This man was a resi- 
 dent in our village, and he prevailed upon Hugh to 
 remove his family hither, as he could live here at a 
 far less expense than in the city; and in a little 
 while Rose and her children, now five in number, 
 were settled in their present humble dwelling. 
 
 At first, as she has since told me, she was very 
 lonely here, for their only friend was a single mail, 
 and the females in town rather shunned her, as 
 being a stranger, and an Irish woman withal. She 
 used to cry for hours, and wish herself back in her 
 own land, and among her warm-hearted, hospita- 
 ble countrywomen. But after a time, a few per- 
 sons in town to whom she had applied for needle- 
 work, struck by the quiet dignity of her manners, 
 and the ease and propriety of her language, inter- 
 ested themselves in her situation, drew from her 
 the particulars of her story, and soon there were 
 
PROSE. 415 
 
 plenty of willing hearts and active hands to sym- 
 pathize with and assist her. 
 
 The Bradys have now been residents of Hazle- 
 hurst for several years, and though still poor in 
 everything but children, — so often called the poor 
 man's blessings — and who ever knew an Irish 
 family deficient in this kind of wealth ? — there is 
 not a happier family in town, or five handsomer 
 and better-behaved children. Rose herself, at 
 thirty, is still in the very prime of beauty. Her 
 fine figure is always neatly though very simply 
 arrayed ; her full, blue eyes have lost none of their 
 softness or brilliancy; and not a silver thread 
 marks those beautiful brown tresses, which a 
 duchess might envy; and though few perhaps 
 would dream that the Irish laborer's wife once 
 graced many a splendid assembly in her native 
 land, none would question her claims to the admi- 
 ration of such. But a brighter day is now dav/n- 
 in^ for Rose. The last steamer from Great Britain 
 brought tidings of the death of Hugh's crabbed old 
 relative, from whom he inherits a sum sufiicient in 
 this part of the country, where the means of living 
 are cheap, to place them in comfortable circum- 
 stances, and enable them to educate their children 
 as they have always desired. In the upper part 
 of Hazlehurst, just beyond the farm of Squire 
 Wendell, is a small farm, with a neat little cottage 
 upon it; there is a small flower-garden in front, 
 and a little portico on either side the house, around 
 the columns of which cluster honeysuckle and 
 woodbine. This little place Hugh has purchased, 
 
416 PROSE. 
 
 and the family are about removing thither. The 
 taste of Rose and her eldest girl will soon embellish 
 the dwelling, and her cheerful and happy temper 
 will make a Paradise of this sunny spot. Long 
 may they live to enjoy their new home ; may the 
 ''sunshine she has made in shady places" illume 
 her own pathway, and the blessings she has 
 showered on others return fourfold upon the happy 
 head of Rose Brady ! 
 
 THE LACE-WEAVER. 
 
 On the right of the main or stage road, which 
 passes directly through the centre of Hazlehurst, is 
 a cross-path which was always a favorite walk of 
 mine, and which I have often travelled to please a 
 certain little friend, who used to solicit my com- 
 pany on the bright summer mornings, when he 
 drove the cow to pasture. For some distance there 
 is a narrow path only, with grassy banks on either 
 side; it then becomes wider, and winds along 
 through thick shrubbery, within the shadow of 
 slant old trees, whose branches sweep well-nigh 
 across the road. Emerging 'thence, we come sud- 
 denly in view of a low, red house, with a yard in 
 front, on the gate of which some half dozen rosy, 
 dirty urchins are usually swinging, their noisy 
 mirth blending with the various sounds of the ad- 
 joining yard, — hens cackling, turkeys gobbling, 
 pigs squealing, and other melodies equally grateful 
 to the unpractised ear. 
 
 Just beyond is a dwelling somewhat similar in 
 
PROSE. 417 
 
 appearance, also red, (there is usually a predomi- 
 nance of this color in country towns, I believe,) 
 and the lines in the yard, bending beneath the 
 weight of wet clothes, and the linen spread on the 
 grass-plat in front, betoken the residence of a 
 washer- woman. Its occupant is usually known as 
 Peggy Lord, a lean, shrivelled figure, with large 
 black eyes, which now and then gleam out from 
 beneath the heavy brows with a light positively 
 startling, like the brilliant flash of a meteor. She 
 is a strange, eccentric being, and there are many 
 wild; dark tales concerning her former life, whether 
 true or not is knoAvn to a certainty by none save 
 God and herself. 
 
 Still further along, on the opposite side, is a low 
 farm-house of the same flaming hue, which stands 
 back a little way from the road, and is partially 
 shaded in front by a noble old oak, which grows just 
 outside the fence, and sweeps majestically almost 
 over the lowly roof; and there is an air of neatness, 
 quiet, and home-comfort, in everything around, that 
 insensibly attracts your attention to it, humble as 
 it is. This is the Hirst Farm, a bit of a place, with 
 about eight acres of land, and a house like a bird's 
 nest. 'Tis a pleasant spot to my eye, hoAvever, 
 and I have an aff'ection for everything thereto be- 
 longing, from Rover the house-dog, who leaps up 
 to welcome me when I appear, up to the dear old 
 master and mistress, John Page and his good dame 
 Jane, or, as he himself calls her by that prettiest 
 of diminutives, ^^ JeannieP 
 
 They have been denizens of Hazlehurst some 
 35 
 
418 PROSE. 
 
 dozen years ; but my acquaintance with them ex- 
 tends but a short time back. I had been spending 
 a summer afternoon with Ellen Calder, and during 
 the visit I chanced to notice some lace she wore, 
 of a peculiar and somewhat intricate pattern, and 
 was surprised to hear that it was manufactured in 
 our own town. "Is it possible you have never 
 heard of Dame Page, the lace-weaver 7 " said Ellen. 
 "You must go and see her, then, directly ; for she is 
 a dear old creature, and a special favorite of ours ; 
 and it will be quite curious to you, if you have 
 never seen lace made by hand, to witness the 
 method of weaving." 
 
 So, in less than an hour, we were on our way to 
 the farm. We were met at the gate by the good 
 man, in his check and blue trousers, who doffed 
 his old straw hat with a courteous salutation as he 
 recognized my companion, and invited us to walk 
 into the house. The dame sat at the window, 
 paring apples, but she laid aside her employment 
 as we entered, and greeted us kindly and pleasantly. 
 After a little chat, Ellen desired her to bring out 
 her lace-work, explaining that I had never seen 
 anything of the kind, and would be interested. 
 She accordingly went to a closet, and brought forth 
 a huge cushion, which, after seating herself, she 
 took in her lap, and removing the cover, displayed 
 the lace-pillow. It was about a foot long, and a 
 foot and a half wide, but so heavy I could with 
 difficulty raise it. At the upper eud was a case 
 made to contain the lace when finished, and there 
 the threads were fastened. In weaving, each thread 
 
PROSE. 419 
 
 was wound round a pin, to form the meshes, and 
 the pattern, which was drawn on a sort of parch- 
 ment, wras laid beneath. On either side of the pillow 
 hung bunches of bobbins, made of ivory and orna- 
 mented at the ends with glass beads of every size, 
 shape, and color; and when her fingers moved 
 briskly among them,- they produced a pleasant 
 jingling music, like bells on the ankles of a danc- 
 ing-girl. 
 
 I am thus minute in describing all these trifles, 
 because some who may read this article may per- 
 haps, like myself, never have seen a lace-pillow, 
 and they may be interested in this description. We 
 remained an hour or two, chatting with the farmer 
 and his wife ; and, after looking at her snug little 
 rooms, which were neat as hands could make them, 
 and purchasing some of her lace, we returned home 
 charmed with the old couple, and ready to listen 
 with pleasure to the sketch which Ellen gave us 
 of their history. Hoping that you, dear reader, 
 may also find a few minutes' entertainment therein, 
 I propose to transcribe it here. 
 
 John Page, the worthy farmer, was the youngest 
 son of a wealthy manufacturer in a pleasant town 
 in Derbyshire, England. Both his sons were bred 
 to the business ; and in due time William, the elder, 
 became a partner, and John head clerk in the ware- 
 house connected with the concern. Never were two 
 brothers so totally dissimilar. While William, an 
 arch hypocrite, contrived to hide beneath a cold 
 and imposing exterior a base and profligate heart, 
 and was looked upon by all the friends of the family 
 
420 PROSE. 
 
 as a fine, promising young man, John, an ardent 
 and impetuous, but high-souled youth, was con- 
 demned for folhes and vices from which his noble 
 spirit would have shrunk with horror and disgust ; 
 and more than once had the elder been glad to 
 throw himself upon the generosity and forbearance 
 of his younger brother, when 'that alone could save 
 him from the disgrace he so richly merited. Warm- 
 hearted and affectionate himself, John could form 
 no idea of a cold, selfish, calculating soul, like that 
 of William ; and he doubted not that were the case 
 reversed, his brother would have done the same 
 service for him which he so freely rendered. But 
 the time came for unveiling the dark secrets of that 
 artful breast. 
 
 In the suburbs of the town where the Page family 
 resided, in a neat but humble tenement, dwelt the 
 Widow Grey and her daughter Jane. Her husband 
 had been a soldier, who, dying in battle, left no 
 provision for his widow and child, save a small pen- 
 sion granted by government, with which, and the 
 little she could herself earn by needle- work, by the 
 strictest frugality, Mrs. Grey was enabled to sup- 
 port herself and Jeannie, till such time as the latter 
 should be able to contribute to the supply of her 
 own wants. While Jane was very young, there 
 lived in the neighborhood of their dwelling an old 
 woman, bed-ridden and nearly blind, who had 
 been a lace- weaver ; and, in return for many kind 
 little offices rendered her by the widow and her child, 
 she offered to instruct Jane in the art which had 
 been her own means of livelihood for so many 
 
PROSE. 421 
 
 3rears, and which might in coming days be of ser- 
 vice to her also, besides furnishing for the present 
 a pleasant occupation for her leisure hours. 
 
 Jeannie, delighted with the offer, proved a docile 
 and teachable pupil ; and having been allowed to 
 finish some beautiful edging which the old woman 
 was weaving for a lady in the adjoining town, she 
 carried it to its destination. The lady was so 
 struck with the delicacy of the work, that she called 
 upon Jane's teacher, and having learned who was 
 the weaver, and gained such information relative 
 to her and her mother as the grateful old woman 
 was ready to impart, she gave the young girl orders 
 for some lace of a superior quality and more ele- 
 gant pattern ; and thus Jeannie was immediately 
 put in the way of assisting her mother in her efforts 
 for their joint support. Her first patroness soon 
 introduced her protegee to other friends, and she 
 had soon more orders than she could by the most 
 constant inclustry supply. 
 
 Among her employers was Mrs. Page, the mother 
 of the two 3^oung men whom we have before intro- 
 duced to the reader; and it was while she was 
 receiving some instructions as to the quality and 
 pattern of some lace she was to weave, that she 
 unluciiily attracted the attention of William Page. 
 Jeannie Grey was at that time nearly sixteen, and 
 though wanting claims to regular beauty of form 
 or feature, there was a delicacy and fragility in 
 her appearance, a lily-like purity, that could not 
 fail to interest the beholder. She was small in 
 stature and slight, with a fair complexion, soft, 
 35^ 
 
422 vnosE, 
 
 gray eyes, and a profusion of glossy hair, of the 
 palest brown, with here and there a golden tinge, 
 as of sunlight playing among the tresses. Her 
 character and manners took the same tone,— simple 
 and unpretending, yet graceful and dignified; for 
 her mother, though poor, had been gently bred 
 and well educated, and she had communicated to 
 her child her own gentleness and ease of manner. 
 With these characteristics, Jeannie Grey was emi- 
 nently calculated to attract and fascinate a man 
 like William Page, who had been accustomed to 
 the bolder beauty and coarse manners of the girls 
 who were employed in his own manufactories, who 
 lent a ready ear to his compliments and flatteries, 
 and some of whom had awoke too late to a sense 
 of his baseness and treachery. John, too, had 
 looked with admiring eyes upon the fair lace-girl^ 
 but his was a sentiment called forth by, and offered 
 as a tribute to, her purity of looks and manner; and 
 he would have shrunk Avith scorn and disgust 
 from his brother, could he have looked into his 
 heart at that moment, and seen the base designs 
 that were harbored there. From that day, the 
 unsuspecting Jeannie was an object of constant 
 pursuit with William. He sought every opportunity 
 of meeting her and walking home with her when 
 she had brought her lace into the town; and at 
 first she received his attentions and compliments 
 with the quiet dignity peculiar to her. But as 
 time passed on, and he became impatient for the 
 success of his plot, his manner grew bolder, and 
 
PROSE. 423 
 
 he finally cast off all reserve, and revealed his vile 
 plans to the horror-stricken girl. 
 
 At first she did not understand him ; but when 
 he pressed his suit, and it was all made plain to 
 her, she shrunk from him with fear and abhor- 
 rence, and fled, to seek refuge with her mother, 
 into whose anxious bosom she poured the tale of 
 her mortification, and of the indignity and insult 
 which had been offered her. Shocked and indig- 
 nant at the insolence with which her child had 
 been treated, Mrs. Grey's first impulse was to seek 
 redress at the hands of the man who had dared to 
 invade the peace and quiet of her humble home ; 
 her next was to make- known the wrong to his 
 parents, and thus secure Jeannie from further 
 molestation ; but the poor girl was too much dis- 
 tressed already to bear the thought of the affair 
 becoming public, and thus exposing herself to the 
 sneers of some and the harsh judgments of otbers. 
 So the insult was kept secret in the bosoms of the 
 three, but never for a moment forgotten by the 
 sufferers. Thenceforth, Jeannie avoided, as much 
 as possible, the sight of William Page, and seldom 
 went into the town unless accompanied by her 
 mother or some acquaintance, till the plotter be- 
 came enraged at the caution of the victim he had 
 marked out as his prey, and laid other schemes for 
 the furtherance of his design. 
 
 Meantime, ignorant of his brother's affairs, John 
 Page had become almost insensibly attracted to the 
 pretty lace-maker; and though she had at first, 
 after the insult offered her by William, repulsed 
 
494 PROSE. 
 
 the attentions of his brother, yet there was an 
 openness and frankness in John's manner, and a 
 gentleness in his speech, which she could not 
 wholly resist ; so now and then she would permit 
 him to walk by her side for a little while, till at 
 length he succeeded in drawing her into an easy 
 chat, and the impression made by her appearance 
 was in no wise lessened by her conversation. All 
 this was noticed by the watchful William, and it 
 only strengthened his resolves to thwart his brother, 
 and gain the simple and lovely maiden. 
 
 One summer day, Jeannie had walked alone to 
 the town after tea, thinking she should be able to 
 despatch her business there, and return before the 
 twilight shades began to fall. She was detained^ 
 however, later than she had anticipated, and there- 
 fore determined to take the shortest route home, 
 which lay across some fields and through a long 
 lane, at the extremity of which was her home. 
 The evening was rapidly coming on, and she was 
 hurrying along the path, when she was suddenly 
 intercepted as she was entering the lane, and an 
 arm was thrown around her waist, while, at the 
 same time, a voice which she thought she recog- 
 nized, bade her be silent and listen patiently, and 
 she should not be harmed. A quick cry broke 
 from her lips, and instantly a hand was placed 
 over her mouth, and the voice, which she now 
 knew to be that of William Page, again enjoined 
 silence. She struggled to free herself, as he again 
 poured into her unwilling ear his infamous passion; 
 but when he sought to embrace her, with a wild. 
 
PROSE. 425 
 
 desperate effort she tore herself from him, and 
 shrieked for help. Providentially for her, it was 
 not far distant. Scarcely had the cry broke from 
 her, VvThen her persecutor lay stunned at her feet, 
 and the kindly tones of John Page bade her be of 
 good cheer, for she was in safety. But ere they 
 could leave the spot, or Jeannie find voice to thank 
 her preserver, the fallen man had risen from the 
 ground, and, with a furious gesture, strode towards 
 his adversary. In the darkness, neither had recog- 
 nized the other, and John would again have felled 
 him Avith a blow, but Jeannie sprang forward, 
 exclaiming, ''Do not strike him, John; it is your 
 brother!" "William — and thus unworthily en- 
 gaged ! Shame on you, thus to disgrace your man- 
 hood, and the £,tation you hold, by insulting a 
 defenceless girl ! " ''Ha! and it was for you, then, 
 ■ — for my honorable younger brother, — that I was 
 slighted and scorned ! But there is a time coming 
 when you shall both rue this hour — when the 
 Iblow this night given shall be redeemed in blood!" 
 And. with a shake of his 'clenched fist in the face 
 tof his brother, and a demoniacal smile at Jeannie, 
 he departed. 
 
 For a moment neither of the pair who remained 
 moved or spoke; both seemed completely para- 
 lyzed by the events of the last few moments ; but 
 John at length proposed that they should hasten 
 their steps, for the dews were falling, and the grass 
 beneath their feet was already wet. Then Jean- 
 nie' s excited feelings found vent in tears and 
 broken words, as she recurred to William's threats 
 
426 PROSE. 
 
 and anticipated his vengeance, less on her own 
 account than his who had aroused it by his 
 defence of her. " Fear not, dear Jeannie," was 
 the reply. " William is violent in his passions, but 
 this storm will soon subside, and he will feel only 
 shame for his Conduct." Ere they reached the 
 dwelling of Mrs. Grey that night, John had made 
 known his honorable attachment to the maiden; 
 but though she did not deny her affection for him, 
 she refused to give encouragement to one whose 
 station was above her own, and whose parents 
 Avould never consent to his marriage with the 
 humble lace-weaver. He would have striven to 
 change her resolution; but she was firm, and 
 begged so earnestly that the subject might not be 
 resumed, that he left her at the door of her moth- 
 er's house, with but a hand-pressure and a mur- 
 mured " God bless you ! " 
 
 When the brothers met again, William gave no 
 token by which one would have supposed he 
 remembered the events of the previous night ; but 
 his cold, careless manner was but assumed to hide 
 the hatred that was rankling in his breast; and 
 John would perhaps have been put off his guard 
 at times, but for an occasional glance cast at him 
 by William when he thought himself unobserved, 
 so full of malice and revenge that he deemed it 
 most prudent to keep a watch upon his brother's 
 proceedings. 
 
 Nearly a year had passed since they first became 
 acquainted with Jeannie, when Mrs. Grey was 
 suddenly seized with a somewhat lingering and 
 
PROSE. 427 
 
 dangerous illness, and her daughter was now 
 almost wholly employed in nursing her, scarcely 
 allowing herself time for needful exercise in the 
 open air. One evening, at her mother's request, she 
 had left her for a few minutes to walk in the 
 adjoining lane, when William again accosted her 
 with a renewal of his suit, and threats of ven- 
 geance upon herself and his brother, if she persisted 
 in her rejection. Terrified by his violence, she 
 fled like a frightened deer towards home ; he fol- 
 lowed, and v/ould have caught her in his rude 
 grasp, but footsteps were heard approaching, and, 
 muttering threats, he disappeared. He had been 
 watched, however, and the steps were those of his 
 brother, who now gently drew the trembling girl to 
 his side, and led her home. She was too weak to 
 stand, and he supported her into the cottage; and 
 having placed her in a chair, she was soon able to 
 go to her mother, who Lay in an adjoining bed-room. 
 Mrs. Grey now thought herself dying ; and her 
 quick ear having caught the sound of John's voice, 
 she feebly requested that he would come to her 
 bedside. With few and earnest words she spoke 
 of her approaching death ; of the desolate state in 
 which her child would be left, with no near rela- 
 tive to receive and protect her; and she begged the 
 young man who had shown himself so truly her 
 friend to look to her. safety. " Give her to me, 
 then, dear madam," said the strongly agitated 
 youth; '' let me be her protector indeed, her guar- 
 dian, her husband. I will guard her with my life 
 from the insults to which she might be exposed in 
 
428 PKosE. 
 
 her desolate orphan state. I am strong, heahhy, 
 and active ; and elsewhere, if not in England, we 
 may obtain a subsistence;" and taking the hand of 
 the weeping Jeannie in his own, he knelt by her 
 side, and begged the dying mother^s blessing upon 
 them. It was joyfully giTen, for Mrs. Grey had 
 stndied the character of the young man with a 
 deep interest, since she had discovered her daugh- 
 ter's attachment to him, and she now felt that there 
 was none other to whose care she could so cheer- 
 fully confide her treasure. Jeannie would still 
 have refused, for the objections she had once made 
 were still in force : but she saw her only earthly 
 friend passing from her; she heard that beloved 
 'voice which had never counselled but for her good 
 lu'ging her with its. last feeble accents to this union, 
 Y/hile he whom she loved, and v/ho had shov/n so 
 true and honorable a passion for herself, pleaded 
 for the hand which her heart was ready to bestow, 
 and she could resist no longer. Ere the morning 
 broke, Mrs. Grey died, happy in the confidence that 
 she had given her child to the guardianship of one 
 who would be faithful to her even as she had' 
 been; and John, after calling in one or two of the 
 neighbors to the assistance of the weeping Jeannie, 
 returned home to reflect upon the engagement into 
 which he had entered, and to lay plans for the 
 future. To remain in his present situation was 
 impossible, after his marriage with the poor lace- 
 girl, — a measure to which he knew his parents 
 Avould never consent ; and his father would most 
 probably cast him out from his favor, in case of 
 
PROSE. 429 
 
 disobedience. Neither would it be proper or prac- 
 ticable for Jeannie to remain in her present abode 
 after her mother's funeral, — and till that time a 
 kind neighbor and his wife would stay with her ; 
 but one plan suggested itself to his mind, and that 
 was to remove her as privately as possible to the 
 house of an aunt of his own, some miles distant, 
 who was much attached to him, and Avould, he 
 thought, for his sake, receive the poor orphan girl, 
 and keep her till they could be united, and some 
 feasible mode of proceeding be determined upon. 
 
 Immediately after her mother's burial, Jeannie 
 returned, with the kind people who had passed the 
 intervening days with her, to their own home, from 
 whence she was secretly removed at night by 
 John, and placed in the care of his aunt, who 
 received her young charge kindly, and promised to 
 protect her till such time as -her nephew should 
 come to claipi her. 
 
 Meantime William, enraged at the total defeat 
 of his artfully laid plans, turned his thoughts ta 
 obtaining revenge upon his brother ; and Jeannie's 
 absence having been discovered, dark hints, sar- 
 castic words, and vile insinuations, came to the 
 father's ear, and poisoned his mind against his 
 younger son ; so that when John returned, he was 
 met by harsh rebukes, and commanded to quit the 
 house and his father's presence forever. No oppor- 
 tunity was allowed him for explanation or pallia- 
 tion; and indignant at the injustice with which he 
 was treated, and goaded to desperation by the tri- 
 umphant looks and fiendish smiles of William, he 
 36 
 
430 PROSE. 
 
 gathered up his few effects and left the house. To 
 avoid the pursuit which he fancied his brother 
 would make, he took a devious route to the dwell- 
 ing of his aunt, and arrived on the evening of the 
 next day. He rapidly sketched to his aunt the 
 events which had taken place, and asked her 
 advice as to the course he should now pursue. To 
 remain there was impossible; but she urged his im- 
 mediate marriage, and advised him to proceed, after 
 the consummation, to one of the large manufactur- 
 ing towns, and seek a situation as clerk. Accord- 
 ingly the young couple were married in the village 
 church, in the presence of the good lady and an old 
 and faithful servant, and in a/ few days they were 
 on their way to Manchester. 
 
 On their arrival, they took lodgings in a secluded 
 part of the town, and the next day John sallied 
 forth in search of employment. This was not so 
 easily obtained as they had supposed ; and week 
 after week, and month after month, went by, and 
 no prospect of work presented, when one day, as 
 Jeannie was walking listlessly along, she noticed 
 some samples of lace in the show-window of a large 
 warehouse, and the idea flashed across her mind 
 that she might return to her old occupation, and 
 thus be enabled to add something to their fast 
 diminishing stock of money. No sooner had the 
 thought suggested itself than she retraced her 
 steps, and entering the shop, requested to speak 
 with the proprietor. On being shown into the 
 counting-room, she proceeded at once to state her 
 errand, and learned, to her dismay, that lace could 
 
• PROSE. 431 
 
 be imported so much finer and more beautiful than 
 that woven by hand, at a less price, that little 
 demand was made for the home manufacture. 
 She was about to retire, saddened by the failure of 
 her plan, when the merchant, who was a kind- 
 hearted man, struck by the pale, mournful face of 
 his visiter, stopped her, and asked several questions 
 relative to her work ; and then showing her some 
 samples of different patterns, inquired if she 
 thought she could imitate them. After a slight 
 examination, Jeannie eagerly answered in the 
 affirmative ; and giving her one of the simplest, the 
 gentleman engaged a piece of the same quality and 
 pattern, and she hurried home to commence her 
 task. On her arrival there, she had the pleasure 
 of learning that her husband had also found em- 
 ployment, which, though not very profitable, and 
 perhaps not permanent, would furnish them for the 
 present with the means of subsistence. The lace 
 was finished in due time, and gave such ample 
 satisfaction to her emplo^^er, that Jeannie had 
 soon as much work as she could well perform; and 
 some assistance having been rendered by John's 
 aunt, they were enabled to rent two or three rooms 
 in a tolerably, pleasant place just out of town, 
 where, happy in each other, they almost forgot 
 their poverty. Time wore on, and with increase 
 of family, and of care, came also increased con- 
 tent ; and the only draw-back to the happiness of 
 the devoted pair was the continued anger and 
 silence of John's parents. 
 
 But at length tidings of a sad and startling 
 
432 PROSE. 
 
 nature reached them, and in the shock every other 
 feeling was merged in that of pity and sorrow! 
 William Page's villany had at length become 
 manifest. He had fled the country by night, taking 
 with him all the funds belonging to the firm, of 
 which he had been able by fraud or artifice to gain 
 possession; and agonized by the discovery, his 
 father had been seized with a brain fever, which 
 in two days terminated his life, leavmg his heart- 
 broken, desolate widow, ignorant of the fate of her 
 younger son, and mourning over the criminality 
 of the elder. The melancholy news reached the 
 sister of Mrs. Page soon after the events had taken 
 place, and the kind woman immediately hastened 
 to the house of mourning; and in reply to the 
 widow's self-reproaches for having so long neg- 
 lected her younger son, and thus lost all trace of 
 him, her sister informed her of his situation, and at 
 her earnest request, wrote to him, conjuring him to 
 come to them immediately with his family. In a 
 few hours after receiving this letter, John, with his 
 wife and three children, set out for the now desolate 
 home of his childhood, where he was met by his 
 bowed and broken-spirited mother with mingled 
 joy and grief 
 
 When his father's afiairs were settled, but little 
 remained for the widow and son of Mr. Page's 
 handsome fortune; but the remnant was settled 
 upon his mother, and then John obtained a situa- 
 tion as clerk in the manufactory, which had now 
 passed into other hands. The proprietor, how- 
 ever, was an old fri-end of his father, and had 
 
PROSE. 
 
 433 
 
 always shown a preference for John; so, after 
 a short time, a partnership in the business was 
 offered him and gladly accepted, and prosperity 
 seemed again to smile upon the family. 
 
 Years passed on, and so pleasant was their lapse, 
 .that it was scarcely noted by them, save when they 
 looked upon the blooming group that gathered 
 around them, or noticed the increasing infirmities 
 of Mrs. Page. But then came the fearful pressure 
 of 18 — , the commercial failures, the reduction of 
 wages, and all the attendant evils of that dreadful 
 crisis, and among the ruined houses was that of 
 Chester and Page. Again was John Page cast 
 forth to brave the storms of adversity, but not as 
 before single-handed ; for he had now a wife and 
 seven fair children, and a mother bowed down by 
 the weight of years and many sorrows, whose little 
 all had been swept away by this last shock, all 
 dependent upon his exertions for support. 
 
 There is an old saying that "misfortunes never 
 come single ;" and now, in the midst of their per- 
 plexities they lost the kind aunt, the only friend 
 who would have been able and willing to assist 
 them; and her income, being but a widow's joint- 
 ure, ended with her life, so that a few hundred 
 pounds, which was all, with her benevolent pro- 
 pensities, she had been able to save, and which 
 was bequeathed to her nephew, was nearly the only 
 means of support the destitute family had now at 
 command. Old Mrs. Page, worn out with many 
 sorrows, survived her sister but a few weeks, and 
 when at length the grief and excitement attendant 
 36^ 
 
434 ' PROSE. 
 
 upon their successive bereavements had subsidedj 
 the minds of the anxious parents reverted naturally 
 to the now engrossing question, ''What shall we 
 do for a living?" Anxiously was it pondered, 
 and various were the plans suggested and thrown 
 aside as inexpedient and impracticable, till Jeannie 
 proposed returning to the place where the first 
 years of their married life had passed so pleasantly 
 and prosperously, and where they still had friends 
 who might perhaps put them in the way of that 
 which they most desired — employment. \ 
 
 Thither they accordingly bent their steps, and 
 were soon domiciled in the same dwelling they had 
 formerly rented; and then John set forth to call 
 upon some old acquaintances, trusting to procure 
 a situation ere he returned. But the whirlwind 
 which had swept over their own town had spent 
 its ^xry here also, and the same evils Avhich had 
 driven them from their pleasant home awaited 
 them here. Work was scarce, wages low, and in 
 fact barely nominal, while bread and fuel were 
 enormously high. Meanwhile, the good aunt's 
 legacy was wasting away, and in the midst of 
 their distress, three of the children were taken ill 
 with a malignant disease, and in a few days were 
 snatched from their parents' arms. Still days and 
 weeks went by, and no employment could be 
 obtained, save when the lace-merchant, compas- 
 sionating the circumstances of the family, would 
 procure Jeannie an order from some wealthy pus- 
 tomer; and then, while her eldest girl performed the 
 now trifling household duties, she would devote 
 
PROSE. 435 
 
 herself to her lace-work, and with the money thus 
 procured minister to the necessities of her family. 
 But day by day the pressure grew more terrible, 
 till at length the husband and father grew des- 
 perate, and one night his pale and care-worn wife 
 watched in vain for his return. The long, weary 
 hours passed on, but he came not ; and well-nigh 
 distracted with terrible apprehensions, she was 
 setting forth in search of him, when a letter was 
 placed in her hand, which she tore open, and read 
 as follows : 
 
 " Dearest Jeannie : — When you receive these few hasty 
 lines, I shall be far away firom you, and God only knows when 
 and where we shall next meet, I could have borne misery 
 and poverty in every shape, while it harmed myself only, but 
 I could not stand by and see you and our children starve ; and 
 for your dear sakes.I v/ill now v/ander forth, and seek in another 
 land the subsistence Vv^hich our own denies us. Enclosed is a 
 considerable sum, part of which I received to-day in payment 
 of a debt long forgotten, and the rest I obtained by the sale of 
 a few articles, the gifts of departed friends. This, with what 
 remains of our aunt's legacy, and what the lace-work may 
 bring in, will, I trust, enable you to bear up till I can earn 
 and remit something to you. I have skipped as a sailor on 
 board a packet bound for America, where we have been so 
 often told that work is abundant and remuneration fair ; and 
 there I may perhaps be enabled to affi)rd you that support 
 which no exertion of mine could procure here. We have 
 parted, dearest, in darkness, and gloom, and sorrow ; but let 
 us hope that the sun will yet pierce the storm-clouds of afflic- 
 tion, and beam more brightly for the shadows which have so 
 long obscured its lustre. Till that blessed hour, farewell ! 
 Think of and pray for me, Jeannie, and believe that till death 
 stills its pulses, your image will ever be borne in the heart of 
 your \ Husband." 
 
436 PROSE. 
 
 The letter dropped from the hands of the heart- 
 stricken wife, and for a time she sat motionless, as 
 if paralyzed by the shock ; but the voices of her 
 children aroused her, and reminded her that she 
 was now their sole guardian and protector, — that 
 she was — alone ! 
 
 A year passed, in which no tidings had been 
 received to gladden the heart of that lonely 
 woman ; but at the end of that period came a long 
 and affectionate letter from her husband. The 
 packet in which he had sailed had reached New 
 York in safety ; but that city being already bur- 
 thened with emigrants, in addition to her large 
 native population, he took passage from thence to 
 Boston, and then set out on foot, he knew not 
 whither. He halted at various places on his journey 
 and asked for employment, but was refused, till he 
 became well-nigh discouraged; and at the close of 
 the second day, foot-sore and weary, he reached the 
 village of Hazlehurst, and seeing a tavern sign, he 
 dragged his steps thither, and sat down on a bench 
 beneath the piazza in front, to rest his aching limbs. 
 He looked round on the men collected there, and 
 sought in the different faces of the group to read 
 something like sympathy, which would encourage 
 him to speak, and make known his wants and 
 situation. But all looked coldly and strangely 
 upon him, and he turned away sad and disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 After resting for a while, he arose, and entering 
 the public room, purchased a biscuit and a glass 
 of beer, and then feeling somewhat refreshed, he 
 
PROSE. 437 
 
 ventured to ask the landlord if any one in the vil- 
 lage would like to employ him. The landlord 
 paused for a moment, and scanned the stranger 
 from head to foot; but there was an open, frank 
 expression in the Englishman's face^ an honest 
 look in the clear blue eye, and an air of good- 
 breeding, withal, notwithstanding his weather- 
 beaten and travel-stained appearance, which re- 
 moved all suspicion; and Mr. Bert replied that he 
 knew of no one, unless it were Deacon Alden ; and 
 having given him a plain and simple direction to 
 the place, Mr. Page set out. He found it with 
 little difficulty, and in answer to his inquiry the 
 good deacon made his appearance, and asked the 
 stranger's business. The question was speedily 
 answered ; and, interested by his appearance, the 
 good man asked what kind of work he could do ? 
 "I am ignorant of all farm- work," was the reply, 
 ''but I can learn; and I will do anything, however 
 humble or laborious, so I can but earn a living. A 
 little rest will soon restore my strength and vigor, 
 and then no labor Avill be too hard for me to per- 
 form, so I may be enabled to help those who are 
 dependent upon me for support." 
 
 That night the stranger slept beneath the dea- 
 con's reof, and the next morning he arose, rested 
 and refreshed, to enter upon his new routine of 
 duties. Employment was given him, light at first, 
 and increasing as he gained strength ; and so at- 
 tached to him did the deacon's family become, that 
 his loss would have seemed to them like that of 
 one of their own kindred. He had told them his 
 
438 PROSE. 
 
 history, and of the wife and children he had left 
 behind him amid such utter poverty ; and when he 
 spoke of sending for them, the family warmly 
 seconded his wishes, and bade him hasten their 
 arrival. So he wrote to his poor Jeannie, and told 
 her, if she had courage to brave the perils of the 
 sea and of a strange land, to come to him, and 
 with their children give him a home again in this 
 favored land. 
 
 There were glad hearts that night in the humble 
 and poverty-stricken abode of Jeannie Page and 
 her four pale, sad-faced children, and joyful tears 
 were shed over that blessed letter. What to them 
 were perils by land or sea compared to the desolate 
 dwelling which that dear husband and parent's 
 smile brightened not — to the gripings of hunger, 
 the scanty garment and the shivering frame ! He 
 had sent money enough to bring them to him if 
 frugally used ; and poor as they were, they owed no 
 one, and had still a few shillings left. So that 
 night they ate their scanty meai with grateful and 
 contented hearts, and the next day packed their 
 httle store of clothes, and by the sale of their few 
 remaining articles of furniture, raised a small sum, 
 part of which was given to a poor old neighbor, 
 more needy than they had been, and with whom 
 they had often shared their bread and water, and 
 they set off for the port where the packet ships 
 sailed for America ; and on the fifth day after the 
 receipt of John Page's letter, the little family were 
 out on the broad ocean which separated them from 
 the dear friend to whose arms they were hastening. 
 
PROSE. 439 
 
 :* * * -^ * ^ * 
 
 It was at nearly the same hour, on a clear spring 
 day, just a year from the time when John Page 
 halted at the tavern in Hazlehurst, that a wagon 
 set down a woman and four children at the same 
 place ; and the woman at once made her way up 
 to the bar, and inquired eagerly if one John Page 
 lived in the village. The man whora she addressed 
 replied in the negative, but another, who had been 
 standing near and heard the inquiry, stepped for- 
 ward and informed her that a man bearing that 
 name had been in Deacon Alden's employ, and, 
 unless he had quitted suddenly, was still there. 
 
 With a boy to direct her, Mrs. Page accordingly 
 set out for the Alden Farm ; and as she was passing 
 up the yard, she heard a voice whose tones thrilled 
 her every nerve, and darting forward to the spot 
 whence it proceeded, she gave a joyful cry, and the 
 next moment was in the arms of her husband ! The 
 strangers were' kindly received by the hospitable 
 Aldens ; and in a few days a small tenement was 
 rented, and the reunited family were soon settled 
 in a new home. Mrs. Alden exerted herself to 
 procure among her friends in the village different 
 articles of clothing, shoes, &c., for Mrs. Page and 
 her children, and some pieces of necessary furni- 
 ture to stock their humble dwelling. 
 
 Among those who were foremost in assisting the 
 emigrant family was Mrs. Calder, Ellen's mother, 
 and Jeannie's gratitude to them has ever been 
 warm and lively. Since that time, everything has 
 prospered with John Page. He continued to work 
 
440 PROSE. 
 
 on Deacon Alden's farm, till he had gained sujffi.- 
 cient knowledge and experience to enable him to 
 carry on a small one himself, when his boys should 
 be able to assist him. So, in due time, he took the 
 Hirst Farm, and there they have lived happily 
 together for several years. His two sons are active 
 lads, and take the burthen of the work off their 
 father. One daughter died of consumption a few 
 years ago, the only sorrow they have experienced 
 duriiig their residence here ; but the other, a bright 
 and handsome girl, is the wife of a wealthy farmer 
 in the next town, and the pride and joy of her 
 parents. 
 
 Jeannie still keeps her lace-pillow, and now and 
 then weaves a piece, the sale of which furnishes 
 her with a little pocket-money ; and it is worth the 
 price of a web to get a look at her bright, cheerful 
 face, her beaming smile, and soft hazel eyes, and 
 to hear her low, gfentle voice, as ;she tells some 
 anecdote of her early days, or of the trials she has 
 been called to bear. There is not a happier couple 
 than they in Hazlehurst ; and it reminds one of 
 Burns' old ballads, to see them sometimes, when 
 they have been talking of the past, as they sit, 
 hand in hand, by a window that looks out upon a 
 spot resembling one they knew and loved in Old 
 England, looking into each others' eyes with an 
 expression which seems to say, 
 
 " Now we maun totter down, John, 
 But hand in hand we '11 go, 
 And sleep thegither at the foot, 
 John Anderson, my Jo." 
 
 311-77-9