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SWEET HOME; 
 
 OB, 
 
 FRIENDSHIP’S 
 
 GOLDEN ALTAR 
 
 E^^ITED BY 
 
 FRANCES E. PERCIVAL. 
 
 “ From every land and every lot, 
 From palace hall and lowly cot, 
 
 To Home, which ne’er can be forgot. 
 The mind goes straying back.” 
 
 G. G. E VA N S, 
 
 439 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 1 8 6 0 . 
 
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856) by 
 L. P. CROWN A CO , 
 
 In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District Massachusetts. 
 
 phtladelphta: 
 
 PRINTED BY KINO & BAIRD, 
 607 SANSOM STREET. 
 
®= 
 
 
 I ■■ 
 
 icO 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 
 There is no place like home 1 It may be a rude, 
 rough home, at the foot of some stern, snow-clad 
 mountain ; but wherever we wander, we look back to 
 it with the utmost interest. The object of this book 
 is to awaken the memories of home — to remind us 
 of the old scenes and old times, and kindle on old 
 hearthstones the old fires, 
 over past days, and we shall murmur, — 
 
 It will assist us in living 
 
 A: 
 
 
 
 “ Give me my old seat, mother, 
 
 With my head upon thy knee ; 
 
 Tve passed through many a changing scene 
 Since thus I sat by thee : 
 
 O, let me look into thine eyes ; 
 
 Their meek, soft, loving light 
 Falls like a gleam of holiness 
 , Upon my heart to-night.” 
 
 It is well often to go home, that the free innocence 
 of childhood may be reflected from the hallowed 
 scenes of early days upon our souls, which have 
 been checkered with the joys and sorrows of life. 
 
 
4 ' PREFACE. 
 
 But home lives only in memory with some ; its only 
 existence is in the past. The cottage where we 
 were born has been swept away, and a statelier 
 edifice rises on the spot ; the dear friends of our 
 youth are dead, and their bones lie in the old church- 
 yard, and we seldom go back to that old spot. This 
 book is designed to be the memorial of the home 
 which has faded away, and the homestead which is 
 now demolished or acquired by another ; to call up 
 old faces, and hang them like portraits on the walls 
 of our active, busy lives ; to sketch like the land- 
 scape the well with the old oaken bucket, the brook 
 along which we often wandered, the meadow with 
 its furrows, and the distant mountain with its misty 
 drapery. 
 
 Some one draws a picture of a laborer returning 
 at night to his home : “ He has borne the heat and 
 burden of the day, the descending sun has released 
 him of his toil, and he is hastening home to enjoy 
 repose. Half way down the lane, by the side of 
 which stands his cottage, his children run to meet 
 him. One he carries, and one he leads. The com- 
 panion of his humble life is ready to furnish him 
 with his plain repast. See his toil-worn countenance 
 assume an air of cheerfulness! His hardships are 
 forgotten ; fatigue vanishes ; he eats, and is satisfied. 
 
PREFACE. 5 
 
 The evening fair, he walks with uncovered head 
 around his garden — enters again, and retires to 
 rest ; and ‘ the rest of the laboring man is sweet, 
 whether he eat little or much.^ So we send this 
 volume to be a companion for the evening hour, like 
 the voices of his children, to cheer the weary labor- 
 ers at night, believing all its readers will find it 
 pure in morals, elevating in its tone, cheerful and 
 hopeful in its disposition, and reverent in all its 
 views of God — a transcript of home, sweet home. 
 
 
Digitized by the Intertaet Archive 
 in 2016 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates 
 
 https://archive.org/details/sweethomeorfrien00perc_0 
 
© 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PKOSE, 
 
 Page. 
 
 The Two Homes, 
 
 
 
 Good Nature, 
 
 
 
 Good Manners, 
 
 
 .. 42 
 
 Milly Gray, 
 
 
 
 TTnw to he happy, 
 
 
 ... 56 
 
 Not worth the Trouble, 
 
 
 
 Saturday Night, 
 
 
 
 Say, No, 
 
 
 
 The Two Palaees, 
 
 
 ... 76 
 
 Fanny and Flora, 
 
 
 
 The Story of the Firefly, ......... 
 
 
 ... 89 
 
 
 
 
 Mother, Mother, 
 
 
 
 Tears, 
 
 
 ... 108 
 
 Infl.uence of Woman, 
 
 
 
 Death of a Household Treasure, . . , 
 
 . . . . D. C. Eddy, 
 
 
 The Whole Family, 
 
 
 ... 132 
 
 True Wife, 
 
 
 ... 137 
 
 The Wayside, 
 
 
 ,... 141 
 
 How she found the Time, 
 
 
 Witty Women, 
 
 
 
 Correcting in Anger, 
 
 
 
 The World of Mind, 
 
 
 
 True Words better than Tears, . . . . 
 
 
 
 The Marriage Relation,. 
 
 
 
 Little Bennie, 
 
 
 .... 197 
 
 Influence of an Unkind Word, . • . 
 
 
 
 Contentment, 
 
 
 .... 208 
 
 ^ ^ — : — ' ■.:v ' : 
 
© =^: 
 
 8 CONTENTS. 
 
 Gentleness, 
 
 
 
 Incense from the Family Altar,. . . 
 
 
 
 The Crushed Bud, 
 
 
 ... 226 
 
 Our Old Grandmother, 
 
 
 
 Charlie Moss 
 
 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 The Home Altar, Mrs. Hemanst • • 
 
 Woman’s Superiority, Anon.f 
 
 Views of Life, J. D. Collins f.'. 
 
 My Lost Youth, Longfellowy . . . . 
 
 A Friend, Anon.y 
 
 To an Absent Husband, Mrs. Newelly . . . 
 
 First Love, Anon., 
 
 Friends at Home, Charles Swain, . 
 
 My Mother, N. P. Willis, .. 
 
 The Faults of Man, Anon., 
 
 My Wife S. D. Phelps, . . 
 
 Doubt, Anon., 
 
 My Soul is sad Anon 
 
 The Old Playground, Anon., 
 
 The Village Clock,^. Aldrich, 
 
 The Old Kirkyard, Anon., 
 
 The Tress of Hair, Portland, 
 
 I Can’t, W. O. Bourne, 
 
 Come Home, Anon., 
 
 Sorrow at the Cottage, L. N. Willy, 
 
 Ennui, Anon., 
 
 Comfort in the Cottage, Swartz, 
 
 Some murmur when their Sky is clear,. R. C. Trench, 
 
 My Angel Love, Fanny Forrester, . .. 
 
 There came an Angel, Mrs. H. E. C. Arey,. 
 
 Mother, Anon., 
 
 11 
 
 12 
 
 30 
 
 31 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 41 
 
 53 
 
 54 
 
 55 
 59 
 62 
 
 67 
 
 68 
 74 
 82 
 
 83 
 
 84 
 99 
 
 100 
 
 101 
 
 102 
 
 107 
 
 109 
 
 114 
 
 116 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 9 
 
 Be not disheartened, 
 
 When I am old, 
 
 Pop, goes the Question, 
 
 A Song, 
 
 The Forgotten, 
 
 The Dark Side, 
 
 Brother, come Home, 
 
 You remember, 
 
 Nowadays, < 
 
 She woke that morn in Heaven, 
 
 Maiden Beauty, . . 
 
 Give me my old Seat, Mother,.. 
 
 A World of Love, 
 
 To an absent Wife, 
 
 Nobody’s Child, 
 
 The Lyre 
 
 Song of the Pilgrims, 
 
 Whom does the Lord love best, . 
 
 Self-conceit, 
 
 Our Old Homestead, 
 
 Harvest Home, 
 
 Carry me Home to die, 
 
 Creation’s Work is done, 
 
 Good Temper, 
 
 Homeward Voyage, 
 
 Never rail at the World, 
 
 O, hasten on, ye winged Hours,. 
 
 Mary’s Dirge, 
 
 Friendship and Love, 
 
 Might of Truth, 
 
 Summer’s last Sunset, 
 
 Cheer up, 
 
 The Dewdrop’s Grave, 
 
 Life is real, 
 
 Thou art the same, 
 
 A blest Belief in Tears, 
 
 Let me in, 
 
 ,Anon»^ 
 
 . C. A. BriggSf 
 
 • A7ion.y*> 
 
 • Anon.y 
 
 .E, J. Porter i 
 
 • Anon., 
 
 .Miss Waterman^ 
 
 . Thomas Haynes Bayly^, 
 
 • Anon., 
 
 .Mrs, H. Augusta King^ 
 . Charles Swain , ....... 
 
 • Fanny Forrester, 
 
 • Ano7i., 
 
 .Anon., 
 
 . J. W. Barker, 
 
 . Mary Ann Whitaker , . . 
 
 .Anon., 
 
 .Anon., 
 
 .Anon., >•.... 
 
 .Ano7i., 
 
 .Anon., 
 
 . Willis, 
 
 . C. /. T., 
 
 • Moore, 
 
 .Kittie Clare, 
 
 .Anon.,$. 
 
 . Clara Moreton, 
 
 > Day star, 
 
 • Anon., 
 
 . Whittier, 
 
 . Anon., 
 
 . J. S. Adams, 
 
 . B. C, Trench, 
 
 .E. M. Stowell, 
 
 . John B. Rogerson, .... 
 
 . Julia M. Emerson, .. .. 
 .Anon., 
 
 118 
 
 129 
 
 130 
 
 134 
 
 135 
 
 136 
 139 
 
 143 
 
 144 
 160 
 161 
 162 
 163 
 
 165 
 
 166 
 168 
 171 
 176 
 177 
 188 
 195 
 199 
 206 
 207 
 210 
 
 215 
 
 216 
 217 
 222 
 
 223 
 
 224 
 
 225 
 
 236 
 
 237 
 
 239 
 
 240 
 251 
 
10 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 O’UftrdiflTi 
 
 
 ... 253 
 
 I^m old to-day, ••••••• 
 
 
 ... 254 
 
 The Unthankful, 
 
 
 ... 256 
 
 The Voice of her I love, 
 
 
 
 llie Old Church Bell, 
 
 
 ... 267 
 
 We come not back, 
 
 
 
 Daily Duties, 
 
 
 
 Flowers, 
 
 
 ... 270 
 
 "RpvnnH tViA "R.ivAr 
 
 
 ... 971 
 
 ................. .............. ... 
 
SWEET HOME. 
 
 THE HOME ALTAR. 
 
 ’Twas early day — and sunlight stream’d 
 Soft through a quiet room, 
 
 That hushed, but not forsaken seemed — 
 Still, but with nought of gloom ; 
 
 For there, secure in happy age, 
 
 Whose hope is from above, 
 
 A father communed with the p^ge 
 Of Heaven’s recorded love. 
 
 Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright, 
 
 On his gray, holy hair. 
 
 And touched the book with tenderest light, 
 As if its shrine were there ; 
 
 But 0, that patriarch’s aspect shone 
 With something lovelier far — 
 
 A radiance, all the spirit’s own, 
 
 Caught not from sun or star. 
 
 Some word of life e’en then had met 
 His calm, benignant eye ; 
 
12 woman’s superiority. 
 
 Some ancient promise, breathing yet 
 Of immortality; 
 
 Some heart’s deep language, whero the glow 
 Of quenchless faith survives ; 
 
 For every creature said, I know 
 That my Redeemer lives.” 
 
 And silent stood his children by, ^ 
 
 Hushing their very breath. 
 
 Before the solemn sanctity 
 
 Of thought o’er sweeping death ; 
 
 Silent — yet did not each young breast 
 With love and reverence melt ? 
 
 O, blessed be those fair girls — and blest 
 That home where God is felt. 
 
 WOMAN’S SUPERIORITY. 
 
 Why term the fair the “ weaker sex ” ? 
 
 (A foul aspersion, falsely cast !) 
 Behold, w^hen worldly storms perplex, 
 How bravely they can bide the blast I 
 
 Lord of creation, lower thy crest : 
 Strive as you may, do all you can. 
 
 Woman, with all her faults confest. 
 Must still be double you, O man! 
 
©= 
 
 
 THE TWO HOMES. 
 
 13 
 
 THE TWO HOMES. 
 
 In a defective home education lies the ground- 
 work of much of the evil that afflicts society. If 
 the thoughts of parents were more centred in their 
 homes, and as earnestly exercised in the division 
 of ways and means for rightly educating the moral 
 and intellectual natures of their children as in pro- 
 curing food and raiment for the perishing body, 
 they would render a service to society far greater 
 than if they had built a city or founded a nation. 
 
 If mothers wisely developed the higher and better 
 
 % 
 
 sentiments of their sons, and cultivated in them, as 
 far as that were possible, gentleness and forbearance 
 towards others, there would be fewer unhappy wives 
 in the coming generation. Ah, how many forget 
 woman’s true mission 1 How many forget that her 
 hands are small, and soft, and all unfitted to grapple 
 with the hard, iron man, yet full of a most wonder- 
 ful skill to mould the pliant material of childhood ! 
 The world will never be made better through 
 
14 THE TWO HOMES. 
 
 woman^s influence, as a lecturer, debater, or prop- 
 agandist. She has failed in her work, and will ever 
 fail, in seeking to sway opinion, and create a new 
 public sentiment through appeals to the matured 
 understanding. She may cause an ebullition in the 
 elements around her, and draw after her a few weak 
 or selfishly interested followers ; but so far she may 
 go, and no farther. As a pebble cast into the sea, 
 she will awaken on the surface a few light, circling 
 waves ; but the waters will soon run smooth again, 
 and leave no sign that she has been. 
 
 How difi*erent the result when limiting her efforts 
 to the powers conferred and the materials given her 
 to work with ! In the home circle she is all potent. 
 Her plastic hand is stretched forth, and, lo, forms 
 of beauty grow under it, instinct with celestial life. 
 Surrounded with young immortals, she is called to 
 the honorable and holy ofiBce of educating them for 
 a life of eternal usefulness. Alas, that so many 
 are insensible to the high mission whereunto they 
 are called ; that so many let the fair garden given 
 them to tend lie clothed with weeds, and every good 
 plant to struggle in a feeble or gnarled growth I 
 Shall I draw pictures of two homes, the one pre- 
 sided over by a vain self-seeker — the other by an 
 angel woman ? There is instruction in such pictures. 
 

 THE TWO HOMES. 
 
 15 
 
 and I will endeavor to give them at least a distinct 
 outline. 
 
 Over the first home to which I shall introduce you 
 presided a woman who had herself never known a 
 true home, nor had the ideal of a true home formed 
 in her mind. She married with few right ideas of 
 marriage in her thoughts, and when she became 
 a mother, simply loved herself in her children, in- 
 stead of loving them for their own sakes, out of 
 herself. Early indulgence was the rule in every 
 case ; and as this indulgence warmed into life, what 
 was evil in their natures, which gained thereby a 
 strong development, soon became sources of sharp 
 annoyance in the family, when the fruitless work 
 of repression and control began too late, and not 
 for the sake of the children, but for the sake of 
 the parents’ comfort. 
 
 Ever after, it was an angry contest between the 
 mother and her children which should rule ; and 
 strife among the children was of daily, almost hourly 
 occurrence. Punishment did not cure this, for it 
 wrought no change in the internal character. The 
 father, naturally a good sort of a man, and one 
 inclined to love home and find his world of enjoy- 
 ment there if the home itself were congenial, 
 wearied, as his children grew older, of the incessant 
 
 
 
THE TWO HOMES. 
 
 ( 2 ): 
 
 16 
 
 
 wrangling and scolding that made the house a bed- 
 lam, sought quiet for his evening hours among more 
 pleasant if not safer companions. Instead of striv- 
 ing to change the home element, and thus winning 
 him back again, the wife assailed her husband with 
 cutting language, and thus made the evil worse. 
 
 One evening the father came home depressed in 
 spirits from business causes, and yearning for the 
 sound of a gentle voice, and the pressure of a soft 
 hand on his forehead. Such things had once been, 
 in the earlier days of his wedded life, and the 
 memory thereof in these later times often gave to 
 his heart a woman’s softness. He was just begin- 
 ning to feel that danger lay in the path, diverging 
 from home, which he was treading ; and the desire 
 to leave that path was strong. 
 
 “Ah,” he sighed to himself, as he drew nearer 
 his dwelling, “if there were peace and order, kind- 
 ness and good will, at home ! What would I not 
 give for these I Ah, if Mary would only put a 
 bridle on her tongue, and substitute loving acts for 
 sharp words, there would be more bright days for 
 us than stormy ones. And I’m sure the children 
 would be more obedient. I wish I could talk with 
 Mary about it ; but the attempt to do so would only 
 make things worse. She will not bear from me 
 
 
©= 
 
 THE TWO HOMES. 
 
 17 
 
 the least suggestion that she is to blame in any 
 thing.” 
 
 Thus musing the husband and father walked home- 
 ward. Hoping for the repose of mind he needed, 
 yet fearful in his hope, he laid his hand upon the 
 door and entered his dwelling. The first sound that 
 reached his ears was the voice of his wife, pitched 
 to a high key, and giving utterance to some angry 
 denunciation of their oldest son, whose badly-regu- 
 lated temper was the cause of much trouble in the 
 household. And the boy, unsubdued by the storm, 
 was flinging back insolent words upon his mother. 
 
 “ 0, dear 1 ” groaned the father. ‘‘ Is there to be 
 no end to this ? ” And he stood still in the passage 
 below, his head bowed, and his heart throbbing with 
 sudden pain. A few moments he stood thus, while 
 the storm raged on above with even increasing 
 violence. Then with a kind of hopeless abandon- 
 ment of feeling, he turned and passed from the 
 house. Far pleasanter companionship had he found 
 within the doors of a neighboring tavern than in 
 the place designated, almost in mockery, his home ; 
 and thither, after walking up one street and down 
 another for half an hour, he went. Ah, what a 
 struggle did his mind pass through in that hour ! 
 “Home!” there had ever been a charm to him in 
 
 
 
 2 
 
18 THE TWO HOMES. 
 
 the word. But how had all the beauty that lived in 
 his imagination faded in the hard and harsh reality 
 that came to him 1 Still the ideal was not obliter- 
 ated ; and when he turned into the tavern, as a kind 
 of house of refuge, it was with a sad sense of the 
 poor substitute it offered for a real home. 
 
 A few minutes after the father retired from his 
 house, the son, stung to madness by the cutting lan- 
 guage of his mother, exclaimed, — 
 
 “ If you talk that way to me, I won’t stay in the 
 house.” 
 
 “ Go, and as quickly as you please,” was the 
 thoughtless, angry retort. ‘‘You’re nothing but a 
 trouble here.” 
 
 The boy turned off instantly, and ere the mother 
 had time to reflect was gone. The heavy slamming 
 of the front door jarred painfully on her spirit. 
 What had she done? Was that ill-regulated, pas- 
 sionate boy fit to be driven forth thus into the dark- 
 ness, where temptation lay in wait for its victims at 
 every street corner? The thought sobered her. 
 Suddenly the raging storm in her bosom died away, 
 and there was a pulseless calm, but only in the at- 
 mosphere where angry elements had been in conten- 
 tion ; the deep ground-swell surged painfully in her 
 heart, and the clearer and stiller became the air in 
 
THE TWO HOMES. 19 
 
 which perception and thought now ruled, the heavier 
 rolled the waves of emotion below. 
 
 Out after the boy went her thoughts, anxiously, 
 fearfully. Where would he go ? At first she said 
 to herself, “ 0, he^ll soon come back again ; it^s 
 only a little pet.’^ But the fear that he might not 
 come back troubled her more and more vith every 
 passing moment. 
 
 “ I wish his father would come home,” she at 
 length said to herself. What can keep him so 
 late?” It was nearly half an hour since he, too, 
 had left the house, driven out in a moment of weak- 
 ness by the voice whose every tone should have been 
 a spell to bind him to their hearthstone. 
 
 But the hours went slowly by, one after another, 
 and neither father nor son came home. When the 
 clock struck eleven, the mother was almost frantic. 
 She had taken her bonnet and shawl from the closet, 
 and was preparing to go for a neighbor, when the 
 bell rung. She almost flew down stairs, and swung . 
 open the door. It was her husband, and he passed 
 in without replying to her quick interrogation, or 
 seeming to notice her. But she saw, as her eyes 
 followed him, that his steps were unsteady. All 
 her strength seemed to go instantly. F6r some 
 moments her heart ceased to beat. It was with 
 
© — - - 
 
 20 THE TWO HOMES. 
 
 @ 
 
 difficulty that she made her way into the parlor, 
 where she sank upon a chair, with scarcely the 
 strength of an infant remaining. Nearly five min- 
 utes, elapsed ere she had power to make her way up 
 to their chamber, and then she found her husband 
 in bed, and fast asleep. 
 
 All that night the wretched wife and mother was 
 a lonely, weeping watcher ; but she waited in vain 
 for the return of her first born. The boy, who had 
 gone forth in anger, came not back. Daylight found 
 her sleeping wearily in a chair, with her face bowed 
 upon a table ; nature had yielded, and gathered 
 around her sad spirit the shadows of oblivion. 
 
 Only half conscious was the husband and father, 
 on awaking, of the condition in which he had come 
 home on the night previous. But he expected harsh 
 words from his wife, and prepared himself to repel 
 them. 
 
 “ 0 John ! John ! How could you ? Thus, 
 in a half distressed, half-rebuking voice, began 
 the wife ; but he checked her speech by the quick 
 retort, — 
 
 “ There, now, keep your tongue off of me ; I wonT 
 bear it ! 
 
 The sad, grieving woman was too deeply smitten 
 for anger. Covering her face with her apron, she 
 
 Co> 
 
THE TWO HOMES. 21 
 
 sobbed violently. Without seeming to notice this, 
 her husband arose and commenced dressing himself. 
 After gaining a partial control of her feelings, she 
 said, — 
 
 “ Do you know where John is 
 “ In bed, I suppose. Where else should he be ? ” 
 “0, no. He hasn^t been in all nighV^ was an- 
 swered, with a fresh gush of tears. 
 
 “ Not in all night ! How comes that ? He was 
 home early in the evening, wasn’t he ? ” 
 
 “Yes, but he got angry at something I said to ^ 
 him, and went off.” 
 
 “ Humph ! ” was the rather rough response. “ I 
 don’t much wonder that he did. He’s tired, I sup- 
 pose, like his father, of this eternal wrangling and 
 scolding. I heard you at it when I came home 
 from the store last evening.” 
 
 “ You ? ” The wife’s eyes flashed. 
 
 “ Yes ; and as I wanted peace rather than war, I 
 took myself off. And I suppose John did the same. 
 Poof boy ! If he goes to ruin, he will have only 
 his mother to blame. If there is not sunshire at j 
 home, the children will seek it somewhere else.” 
 Chafed by these words, spoken in no kind mood, 
 the unhappy wife threw back upon her husband a 
 shower of angry, almost vehement, accusations. 
 
 (r^ 
 
 
THE TWO HOMES. 
 
 (§) 
 
 22 
 
 which ended in his leaving the house before the 
 morning meal was served. The whole of the day 
 he spent in fruitless searches for his absent son, and 
 came back at evening, weary, fretted, and troubled. 
 
 He had drank several times during the day rather 
 freely, and this did not increase his better feelings. 
 
 “ John hasnT come home yet. Have you seen any 
 thing of him ? were the mother^s anxious words 
 as he came in. 
 
 No ; was the short, gruff answer. 
 
 Where can he be ? 
 
 Heaven knows ! I donT ! 
 
 “ CanT you hear any thing of him ? ” 
 
 “ No.’^ 
 
 Word followed word, until the husband and wife 
 grew too impatient with each other to forbear the 
 spirit of accusation. A quarrel ensued, which ended 
 in the former leaving the house, and spending his 
 evening at a tavern, from which he came home, late, 
 in a worse condition than on the night before. 
 
 We are not going to trace, step by step, all the 
 progressive stages in the downward course of this 
 unhappy family, consequent upon those whose duty 
 it was to make the home circle attractive failing in 
 that high and important duty. John had gone to 
 the house of a lad with whom he was acquainted, 
 
 © — 
 

 THE TWO HOMES. 23 
 
 where he staid all night. On the next day, in a fit 
 of desperation, he went on board a trading vessel, 
 about leaving for some South American port, and 
 when she sailed he sailed with her ; and he did so 
 without leaving behind a single clew by which his 
 parents could trace him. 
 
 From that time the father seemed to lose both 
 self-control and self-respect. Attractions outside of 
 home grew stronger, and the home attractions 
 weaker.. There was no government of the children, 
 on the part of the wife, except the government of 
 force ; and this kept up an ever-beginning, never- 
 ending storm. 
 
 Four years passed ere there came a word from 
 the absent one. Then he returned a rough, profane 
 sailor, to find his father a sot, and even the few rays 
 of sunshine that now and then gilded theii home 
 when he left shut out forever. On the second day 
 of his return, he quarrelled with both father and 
 mother, struck his sister an angry blow, and then 
 left them again, with curses, not blessings. 
 
 A year or two more and the heart-broken mother 
 found rest in the grave, while the children were 
 scattered like sere leaves in the blasts of' October. 
 
 Turn we now to the picture of another home. If, 
 
 ©- 
 
THE TWO HOMES. 
 
 © 
 
 24 
 
 
 alas ! there are many homes like the one from which 
 we have drawn aside, the curtain for a moment, there 
 are also many homes in our land where the sunshine 
 of love falls daily with a brightness no clouds can 
 wholly obscure ; where only the attractive, not the 
 repellent, forces exist. Such a home was that over 
 which Mrs. Florence presided. No, we will not say 
 “ presided ; that is too formal and stately a word. 
 In such a home she was the sweet attractive centre, 
 towards which all hearts were drawn. Unselfish 
 love was the bond of union. 
 
 Mrs. Florence had been blest with a wise and 
 good mother. How much is told in that I With 
 good principles, well-regulated affections, and right 
 views of life, she entered the marriage state, chosen 
 by one who looked past the attractive exterior to 
 the qualities that lay hidden in the very ground- 
 work of character. When beautiful children blessed 
 this union, — children in whom all infantine loveli- 
 ness centred, — the father and mother did not forget 
 in their pride and joy, that germs of evil lay hidden 
 in the hearts of their now pure offspring, surely to be 
 developed. True love, therefore, prompted a most 
 watchful care and a wise discrimination. Not so 
 much in the firm repression of evil in its first scarcely 
 seen development was this manifested, as in the 
 
 © 
 
THE TWO HOMES. 
 
 
 25 
 
 cultivation of opposite affections. The effort was to 
 direct all the young minds^ active powers into good 
 forms, giving them a vigorous growth, and leaving 
 the evil inclinations, like sickly plants, to die out, 
 or only retain a feeble hold upon life. When evil 
 came into a more than usually strong manifestation, 
 genuine love for her children kept the mother^s 
 spirit calm and her judgment cool. She thought not 
 of her own ease or pleasure, but of the good of her 
 beloved ones — the young immortals given her to 
 educate for a higher life. 
 
 And so in this home, over which an angel woman 
 presided, grew no weeds in rank luxuriance, to bear 
 fruits of discord and disunion. But let us come a 
 little nearer. 
 
 A day of severe trial was drawing to a close, and 
 the thoughts of Mr. Florence were turning home- 
 wards. Many such days of trial, accompanied by 
 exhausting mental labor, were his allotment in life, 
 and but for the sweet repose and loving ministra- 
 tions of home, his spirit would have become soured 
 or grown moody and fretful. There had been much 
 on this day to disturb and depress him, and thought ' 
 still dwelt earnestly on the trouble and disappoint- 
 ments through which he had passed as his steps 
 bent homeward. Still thrown backward were his 
 
 
 
THE TWO HOMES. 
 
 
 26 
 
 
 thoughts, ai-d still the shadow was on his spirits, 
 when he stood with his hand on his own door. 
 
 Nor had the day passed in sunshine with Mrs. 
 Florence. A bad-tempered domestic, when firmly 
 remonstrated with for her neglect of duty, had 
 grown insolent, and left the house. In consequence, 
 though weak in body from a recent indisposition, 
 Mrs. Florence had double work to perform, in order 
 to meet the wants of her family. When evening 
 shadows began to fall, a cloud was on her spirits. 
 There had been a slight pain through one temple 
 for some hours, and this, added to weakness, dis- 
 turbed thought, and exhaustion, unstrung her nerves 
 completely. She felt strangely irritable, and it was 
 with difficulty she could at times repress an im- 
 patient word towards her children, who seemed bent 
 on doing just such things as were particularly an- 
 noying. 
 
 Thus it was when Mr. Florence turned his steps 
 homeward. As he opened the door, there came to 
 his ears soft music from lightly falling fingers, and a 
 low, sweet voice stole into his heart like the voice 
 of a consoling spirit. What a lifting up of shadows j 
 there was ! What a streaming in of sunshine upon I 
 his darkened spirit ! 
 
 Depressed, wearied, and exhausted as she was, a 
 
 
 - 4 ) 
 

 
 THE TWO HOMES. 
 
 27 
 
 loving thought of her husband soon to come home 
 quickened the heart of Mrs. Florence with a new 
 life. 
 
 “ He must find a better welcome than this/^ said 
 she to herself ; and so she made a hurried toilet, 
 spoke a few timely words in the right spirit to her 
 chilaren, restoring thereby that harmony among 
 them which had been slightly disturbed, and then 
 drew them to the parlor with the promise of music, 
 that always acted like a spell upon their spirits. 
 And thus it was when the husband and father came 
 home — the mother at the piano, with her children 
 around her, singing to them an old, familiar song of 
 home. 
 
 When Mr. Florence closed the door behind him 
 on that evening, he shut out the world ; and when 
 he joined his family, he came in sunshine instead of 
 shadows. How little thought Mrs. Florence that 
 the light which pervaded the room on his entrance 
 was only the sunshine from her own unselfish spirit 
 thrown back upon her with added brightness! Yet 
 it was even so. The loving kiss on her forehead, 
 how it warmed even to her heart ! And how full of 
 consoling tenderness was the voice that said, — 
 
 “ Is not our home a type of Eden ? 
 
 Was she not rewarded for her self-constraining 
 
 
THE TWO HOMES. 
 
 28 
 
 effort, tlioug.i made in weariness and pain ? 0, yes ; 
 
 a thousand thousand fold. Not once did the shad- 
 ows return to either heart that evening. How dif- 
 ferent it might have been, both with parents and 
 children, it takes no effort of the imagination to see. 
 It is with gloomy spirits as with clouds — the whole 
 atmosphere grows darker when they meet. 
 
 This has been one of my trial days,^’ said Mrs. 
 Florence to her husband, after the children were in 
 bed, and they sat alone. Her voice, as she spoke, 
 fell to a more subdued tone, and a slight shade of 
 care threw a dim veil over her countenance. 
 
 Mr. Florence leaned towards her sympathizingly, 
 and she told Jiim, though not in a complaining or 
 desponding voice, of the trials through which she 
 had passed. He answered with encouraging words, 
 and made suggestions in which her thoughts rested. 
 How deeply he was touched, as it became apparent 
 that, to welcome him to a cheerful home, she had 
 repressed ner excited feelings, and even in pain and 
 weariness compelled herself to awaken a melody in 
 the air to greet him at his coming k Were not heart 
 bands drawn closer that evening ? Yes, yes J 
 
 And so with them the seasons passed. If trials 
 came, as come they will to all, they bore the burden 
 cheerfully ; if clouds obscured the light around 
 
 
THE TWO HOMES. 
 
 1o). 
 
 ==© 
 
 29 
 
 them, they drew closer to the hearth fire that never 
 burned low. From such a home the children are 
 never driven out into the world unarmed to meet 
 temptation. When they do leave the sheltering 
 roof, it is to make new homes that will be nurseries 
 for heaven. 
 
 Many, many such homes there are, and yearly their 
 number is increasing. Reader, is it in your power, 
 through self-renunciation, to make one more such 
 home in the land ? If so, be true to yourself, true 
 to your beloved ones, true to the world, and re- 
 arrange the moral elements of your heart as a begin- 
 ning to the good work. But if you make the effort, 
 forget not that while all that is done should be done 
 as if the power were in yourself, there must be a 
 clear acknowledgment that strength to do good 
 comes from on high. The work of self-repression is 
 always a difiScult work in the beginning, but reward 
 is never delayed. Is your home shadowed at times ? 
 Sweep your hand among the clouds above, and there 
 will come down sunshine through the rifts. 
 
30 
 
 VIEWS OF LIFE. 
 
 VIEWS OF LIFE. 
 
 — # — 
 
 Young deemed this life a dreary vale, 
 Through which forever glide, 
 Murmuring to sighs of woe, deep streams. 
 By bitter tears supplied. 
 
 To Moore life seemed a rich parterre. 
 Adorned with fragrant flowers, 
 
 Where cheering sights and tuneful sound? 
 With pleasure winged the hours. 
 
 “ Life is a jest,” was said by one 
 Renowned for gayety ; 
 
 While others take a different view 
 From either of the three. 
 
 To me life seems compounded well 
 Of sunshine and of shade. 
 
 And earth a place where joy and grief 
 With even scales are weighed. 
 
 One hour around the festive cup 
 We dance^and laugh in glee ; 
 
 - 
 
MY LOST YOUTH. 
 
 31 
 
 The next, prostrate upon the couch. 
 
 We writhe in agony. 
 
 At mom Hope gives us wings to soar 
 Above consuming care ; 
 
 Our pinions hag at noon ; at night 
 We shudder with despair. 
 
 To-day we meet the friends we love, 
 And rapture fills the heart ; 
 
 To-morrow anguish wrings the breast — 
 For we are forced to part. 
 
 % 
 
 Thus, ’mid life’s ills, I ne’er expect 
 Pure happiness to gain ; 
 
 Nor while its blessings I partake. 
 
 Of mingled woes complain. 
 
 ♦— 
 
 MY LOST YOUTH. 
 
 Often I think of the beautiful town 
 That is seated by the sea ; 
 
 Often in thought go up and down 
 The pleasant streets of that dear old town, 
 And my youth comes back to me. 
 
32 
 
 MY LOST YOUTH. 
 
 And a verse of a Lapland song 
 Is haunting my memory still — 
 
 A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 
 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’^ 
 
 I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, 
 
 And catch, in sudden gleams. 
 
 The sheen of far surrounding seas. 
 
 And islands that were the Hesperides 
 Of all my boyish dreams. 
 
 And the burden of that old song, 
 
 It murmurs and whispers still : 
 
 “ A boy’s will is the wind’s will. 
 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” 
 
 I remember the black wharves and the slips. 
 
 And the sea tides tossing free. 
 
 And Spanish sailors with bearded lips. 
 
 And the beauty and mystery of the ships, 
 
 And the magic of the sea. 
 
 And the voice of that wayward song 
 Is singing and saying still, 
 
 A boy’s will is the wind’s will. 
 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” 
 
 I remember the bulwarks by the shore. 
 And the fort upon the hill. 
 
 The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar. 
 The drum-beat repeated o’er and o’er. 
 And the bugle wild and shrill. 
 
MY LOST YOUTH. 
 
 83 
 
 And the music of that old song 
 Throbs in my memory still : 
 
 ‘‘ A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 
 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” 
 
 I remember the sea fight far away, 
 
 How it thundered over the tide, 
 
 And the dead captains as they lay 
 In their graves o’erlooking the tranquil bay, 
 Where they in battle died. 
 
 And the sound of that mournful song 
 Goes through me with a thrill : 
 
 “A boy’s will is the wind’s will. 
 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” 
 
 I can see the breezy dome of groves. 
 
 The shadows of Deering’s Woods ; 
 
 And the friendships old and the early loves 
 Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves 
 In quiet neighborhoods. 
 
 And the verse of that sweet old song 
 It flutters and murmurs still : 
 
 “ A boy’s will is the wind’s will. 
 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” 
 
 I remember the gleams and glooms that dart 
 Across the schoolboy’s brain, 
 
 The song and the silence in the heart. 
 
 That in part are prophecies, and in part 
 Are longings wild and vain. 
 
84 IIT LOST YOUTH. 
 
 And the voice of that fitful song 
 Sings on and is never still : 
 
 “ A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 
 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” 
 
 There are things of which I may not speak ; 
 
 There are dreams that cannot die ; 
 
 There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, 
 And bring a pallor into the cheek, 
 
 And a mist before the ejel 
 
 And the words of that fatal song, 
 
 Come over me like a chill : 
 
 A boy’s will is the wind’s will. 
 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” 
 
 Strange to me now are the forms I meet. 
 
 When I visit the dear old town ; 
 
 But the native air is pure and sweet. 
 
 And the trees that o’ershadow the well-known street, 
 As they balance up and down. 
 
 Are singing the beautiful song. 
 
 And sighing and whispering still, 
 
 ‘‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will. 
 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” 
 
 And Deering’s Woods are fresh and fair, 
 
 And with joy that is almost pain 
 My heart goes back to wander there, 
 
 And among the dreams of the days thaf were 
 I find my lost youth again. 
 
A FRIEND. 
 
 35 
 
 And the strange and beautiful song, 
 
 The groves are repeating it still : 
 boy’s will is the wind’s will, 
 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” 
 
 A FRIEND. 
 
 How many lovely things we find 
 In earth, and air, and sea ! — 
 
 The distant bells upon the wind. 
 
 The blossom on the tree ; 
 
 But lovelier far than chime or flower, 
 A valued friend in sorrow’s hour. 
 
 Sweet is the carol of a bird. 
 
 When warbling on the spray. 
 
 And beautiful the moon’s pale beam 
 That lights us on our way ; 
 
 Yet lovelier friendship’s look and word 
 Than moonlight, or than warbling bird. 
 
 How prized the coral and the shell. 
 
 And valued, too, the pearl ! 
 
 Who can the hidden treasures tell 
 O’er which the soft waves curl? 
 
 Yet dearer still a friend to me 
 Than all in earth, or air^ or sea. 
 
GOOD NATURE. 
 
 ®= 
 
 
 36 
 
 GOOD NATURE. 
 
 Men are disposed to view sobriety as a necessary 
 ingredient of religion, and to regard mirthfulness as 
 needless, or at least to be sparingly indulged in. It 
 is thus compelled to be a vagabond — a companion 
 of idleness — begging its bread from door to door. 
 
 ^ It must not sit with scholars, lest its quips should 
 disconcert their teachers ; it must not be found in 
 the counting-room ; it must not do military duty. 
 The judges of the bench regard it as an intruder, 
 and drive it down among the lawyers. Its appear- 
 ance at church shocks devotion, and awakens whole 
 drowsy rows to indignation. Driven from all places, 
 it is obliged to consort with men who will take it, 
 and it repays them. 
 
 Refined or intellectual wit is the combination of 
 mirthfulness with the reflective faculties of the in- 
 tellect. Mirthfulness also unites with combativeness, 
 and sometimes displays itself even in the sneering, 
 biting sarcasm. It becomes dry wit, akin to sobri- 
 
 
 
GOOD NATURE. 
 
 
 =(o) 
 
 87 
 
 ety, peeping at you around a corner, and won^t come 
 out. Humor has been defined as suppressed wit, 
 but rather should be regarded as suppressed wit 
 striking through. It was an exudation which gems 
 the sides of thought, as in summer the sides of water 
 vases are gemmed with drops of water. 
 
 Cheerfulness is the manifestation of hope, and 
 constitutes the sunshine of virtue. For virtue re- 
 quires the sun as much as do the flowers. Mirthful- 
 ness, raised into the catalogue of moral feelings, 
 becomes a handmaiden of Love, and love is the cen- 
 tral idea of religion: Veneration is not fit to go 
 alone ; it is dim and downcast. It should always 
 walk, leaning upon the two angels of Hope and 
 Love. 
 
 Care is a human demon; it is like a dried, wrinkled 
 apparition in the house of fear. Sorrows are noble 
 and ennobling, but care is an evil hag. It has neither 
 faith, nor hope, nor love. It touches the path of 
 misfortune with blight, and reids upon the sensitive 
 soul like mildew upon flowers. It curses poverty 
 with weariness, and it stands forth mildewed and • 
 blasted. Sorrow hath slain its thousands, and care 
 its tens of thousands. It is the rust that has tar- 
 nished and eaten the blade. 
 
 A man should be something else than a chisel, and 
 
GOOD NATURE. 
 
 
 =@ 
 
 38 
 
 even were he only a cutting instrument he might 
 cut better if he were to indulge in a more generous 
 mental diet. Our people have nO time to cultivate 
 the flowers of sensibility. They pull up all the 
 weeds, and every thing else. If we cultivate buoy- 
 ancy and cheerfulness, it does not need that we 
 should also adopt buffoonery, allow quips and quirks 
 to usurp the place of vigilance and industr^lwMirth- 
 fulness will be found to be a good investment, %r, in 
 plain terms, it would pay. 
 
 It is no valid objection to mirthfulness, that it has 
 been found with the vicious. There is no part of 
 man God took the trouble to put into him in order 
 to make man take the trouble to put it (nit. The 
 same musical tones which soothed Cleopatra in her 
 barge were employed by the bard of Israel in sing- 
 ing praises to God. 
 
 Mirthfulness is said to be the devil^s weapon ; but 
 it has exorcised the devil a hundred times where 
 has made use of it once. 
 
 God’s angels hardly find the way to the doors of 
 men through the clouds of anxiety with which they 
 have surrounded themselves, and so they lose many 
 visits ; but they love to come to the homes of mirth, 
 and coming often they bear the heavier loads. 
 
 The sobriety of holy writ was not the keeping 
 
 © =© 
 
GOOD NATURE. 
 
 
 =® 
 
 39 
 
 of the tongue in a minor key ; it was a sobriety 
 against revels — revels of wine — a temperate so- 
 briety. If mirthfulness will destroy the monkish 
 sobriety of the present day, then throw wide open 
 the doors of the soul, and drive sobriety to the 
 coverts of despair. The surest road to levity is 
 unwise parental checks. Happiness is wholesome 
 and medicinal, and children reared to mirthfulness 
 are less liable to temptation. A faculty shut up is 
 like a closed room ; it grows mildewed and mias- 
 matic. It is one of the avocations of mirthfulness 
 to keep the soul open to God^s sunlight. There is 
 danger in all methods, but there is nothing so good 
 for the young as cheerful occupation, and the utmost 
 liberty possible. All wrongs are to be checked, yet 
 even these restraints of wrong should be restrained. 
 Life and buoyancy are less dangerous when not con- 
 fined among bones and sepulchral dust. 
 
©: 
 
 
 40 
 
 TO AN ABSENT HUSBAND, 
 
 TO AN ABSENT HUSBAND. 
 
 No place for you in this wide world ! ” 
 Ah, say not thus, my dear ; 
 
 There is one place which you can fill, 
 One niche in this wide sphere. 
 
 Here is a chain, of which you make 
 One bright, connecting link ; 
 
 No adverse fortune e’er can break 
 That golden chain, I think. 
 
 I 
 
 ’Tis something that a human soul 
 Has found its counterpart. 
 
 And something that a kindred mind 
 Can share a genial heart. 
 
 ’Tis something that the hand of love 
 Is thrown around us here. 
 
 Emblem of unity above. 
 
 And bliss in yon bright sphere. 
 
 ’Tis something, when death lays us low, 
 That we can part in peace. 
 
 

 That we have shared each other’s woe, 
 Each other’s joy increased. 
 
 ’Tis something when in realms above 
 We shall again unite, 
 
 To share for aye this mutual love, 
 Where sin can no more blight. 
 
 Then say not, “ In this wide, wide world 
 There is no place for me : ” 
 
 We’re only in a nursery here ; 
 Transplanting forms the tree. 
 
 FIRST LOVE. 
 
 Few hearts have never loved ; but fewer still 
 Have felt a second passion ; none a third : 
 
 The first was living fire ; the next a thrill ; 
 
 The weary heart can never more be stirred ; 
 
 Kely on it, the song has left the bird. 
 
 All’s for the best. The fever and the flame, 
 
 The pulse that was a pang, the glance, a word. 
 
 The tone that shot like lightning through the frame, 
 Can shatter us no more — the rest is but a name. 
 
 < 3 ) 
 
 FIRST LOVE. 
 
 41 
 
GOOD MANNERS. 
 
 
 GOOD MANNEKS. 
 
 
 Few persons in these days are so cynical as to 
 maintain that manners are of no consequence. 
 Though they are but the external surface of charac- 
 ter, and therefore not of the vital importance which 
 belongs to the inner heart and root of it, still it 
 would be absurd to deny that the qualities of that 
 surface do not contribute very much to the happi- 
 ness both of the individual and of society. The gar- 
 dener^s labor is not spent in vain when he cherishes 
 into bloom merely the brilliant tinted flower. The 
 wise cultivator of the human plant, however, will 
 bear in mind the analogy of nature, and will not 
 think he can produce that beauty by painting the 
 surface. If art can add a tint to the flower, it must 
 be by laying no pigment on the petal, but by infus- 
 ing a new chemical element into the soil, which 
 must, by ascending the stem, be elaborated in its 
 secret glands. And so, to cultivate manners that 
 will be really attractive, we must labor from the 
 
 © 
 
 
GOOD MANNERS. 43 
 
 heart and soul of man outward, and they in their 
 turn will react upon the heart, and aid the growth 
 and development of virtuous character, as those 
 flowers whose leaves, with their polished surfaces, 
 imbibe the sun and air, give back nourishment to 
 root and stem. 
 
 Good manners should be cultivated, because, first, 
 they are good ; they are beautiful, suitable, proper ; 
 they gratify the artistic perception in ourselves ; 
 and a refined mind would prompt to elegant action 
 in a solitary wilderness. In the second place, be- 
 cause they are agreeable to others, and to give 
 pleasure is no mean branch of benevolence. * 
 
 Let children be taught and trained to sit quietly, 
 to talk gently, to eat with nicety, to salute grace- 
 fully, to help another before themselves, because it 
 is proper, it is kind, it is becoming to do so. 
 
 Politeness, which Dr. Johnson describes to be 
 “ the never giving any preference to one^s self,^^ fre- 
 quently, we know, lies all upon the surface ; still 
 this is better than the absence of it ; for, as we have 
 already intimated, the habitual regard to obser- 
 vances which are prescribed upon the principles of 
 benevolence, which is at the root of all politeness 
 and good manners, will lead by degrees to the love 
 and practice of benevolence itself. And when it is 
 
< 2 ) 
 
 ■ 
 
 44 MILLY GREY, OR APPEARANCES DECEPTIVE. 
 
 considered how contagious are all the feelings of 
 our nature, whether good or evil ; how the frown 
 will excite an answering frown, as smiles will kindle 
 smiles ; how the rude jest will provoke the insulting 
 reply ; how he that always takes care of number 
 one will find himself jostled by a host of equally 
 independent unities, whose bristles are roused in 
 emulation of his own, — it is evident that the well 
 being of society is affected in no slight degree by 
 the regard which is paid to the outward decencies 
 and amenities of life. Manners {mores) may not now 
 mean morals^ but they are the best possible sub- 
 stitute. 
 
 MILLY GREY; OR, APPEARANCES DECEP- 
 TIVE. 
 
 — ♦ 
 
 “ O, ever let the aged be 
 As sacred angels unto thee.” 
 
 “ Ha, ha, ha ! cried gay Bell Grosvenor, see 
 yonder country gawky ; as I live he is beckoning 
 the coachman. Now, if he gets in theredl be fun, 
 for I do love to plague these green ones. Why, 
 
 
 - 
 
MILLT GREY, OR APPEARANCES DECEPTIVE. 45 
 
 Milly; how you open your great blue eyes ! You ain^t 
 frightened, are you ? Look at her, Annie ; ha, ha, 
 ha ! just look at her.’' 
 
 “ But you are not in earnest. Bell ? ” said Milly, 
 timidly shrinking back into her seat ; “ you would 
 not be so impolite, so " 
 
 “ Our politeness is reserved for the city, dear," 
 broke in Annie ; “ we consider such fellows as that 
 nobodies ; and if they don’t want to be laughed at, 
 why, they must take an outside place with the coach- 
 man ; that’s all." 
 
 “ Then you won’t catch me sitting on the same 
 seat with you," exclaimed Milly, with a look of 
 alarm, springing away from her cousin and en- 
 sconcing herself in a seat opposite. 
 
 “ So much the better," cried Bell, with a merry 
 laugh ; “ we can have a good time with both 
 
 of Hush! here he comes. 0 Annie, what a 
 
 fright I " 
 
 The young man unbuttoned the coach door him- 
 self, for the horses were going up hill, and springing 
 up the steps rather awkwardly, on account of a 
 large portmanteau he had, seated himself on a seat 
 near Milly. Bell and Annie exchanged looks and 
 bit their lips. 
 
 Milly hugged the back of the coach, blushing 
 3 )=— — ■ @ 
 
46 MILLY GREY, OR APPEARANCES DECEPTIVE. 
 
 crimson with shame for her cousins ; and the coun- 
 try greeny, who wore a very much soiled coat and 
 shocking cap, over which, a light, thin handkerchief 
 was thrown and fastened under hiS chin, looked up 
 at them demurely. Once he could not but notice 
 that the object of their mirth was himself, he sud- 
 denly put his hand on his throat as if to unite his 
 uncouth cap string, — that is, the ends of the hand- 
 kerchief, — but pausing he seemed to change his 
 mind, and let them alone. 
 
 “Won^t you have my vinaigrette, Milly dear?” 
 said Bell, with an arch smile, and a side glance at 
 the stranger. 
 
 “ You do look pale,’^ chimed in Annie, tossing back 
 her thick curls ; and restraining herself no longer, 
 she burst into a rude laugh, for the poor girbs 
 cheeks were distressingly flushed. 
 
 Take my fan, coz,^^ exclaimed Bell, proffering it ; 
 
 “ the air in this coach is really overpowering ; and 
 she placed her delicate pocket handkerchief to her 
 face. 
 
 “ I thank you,’^ said Milly, with as much dignity 
 ^s she could assume, while her lips trembled, “ I do 
 not need it.’^ 
 
 “ She certainly is faint, Annie, said Bell, in a 
 low tone ; “ come, Milly, you had better sit between 
 
 © — - @ 
 
MILLY GREY, OR APPEARANCES DECEPTIVE. 47 
 
 US where we can support you ; you haven’t quite room 
 enough on that side.” 
 
 The thoughtless girl started, for a blazing black 
 eye flashed upon her ; it was only a second, though, 
 that quick, piercing glance, with the fire of fifty out- 
 raged dignities concentrated within it. 
 
 “ If you please, cousin Bell,” said Milly, with more 
 spirit than they dreamed she possessed, “ don’t annoy 
 me any more ; I am better pleased with my seat than 
 your rudeness ; ” and the pretty lip trembled again, 
 and the pretty face looked as if it was going to cry. 
 
 The young man turned quickly ; the hard expres- 
 sion that had gathered around his mouth melted 
 into something akin to a pleasant smile, while the 
 two rebuked cousins were very angry, one might 
 have seen. 
 
 There was no more comment until the coach 
 stopped again, this time to take up a fat old lady 
 with a well-worn bonnet, loaded down with innu- 
 merable bandboxes and bundles, most of which she 
 insisted on carrying into the coach with her. Here 
 was plenty of material for the merriment of the 
 thoughtless sisters. Bell declared that the band- 
 boxes must have once contained old Mrs. Noah’s 
 best bonnet ; and Annie persisted that if so, that 
 identical bonnet must now be before them. 
 
48 MILLT GREY, OR APPEARANCES DECEPTIVE. 
 
 No sooner was the coach door opened than out 
 sprang the stranger, and taking sundry things from 
 the old lady, deposited them carefully in the inside, 
 all but one, about which she seemed very choice ; 
 but just as she performed the laborious feat of step- 
 ping within the door, down rolled the paper with 
 a crash j something was destroyed, and Bell and 
 Annie, enjoying her real distress at the accident, 
 burst into another impertinent laugh. 
 
 The old lady could not avoid looking towards 
 them, and as her hair was a little awry, and her 
 spectacles crooked, she presented a sight appearing 
 to them so ludicrous that they had their faces almost 
 convulsed with laughter. 
 
 “ Are these your sisters, sir ? ” she asked mildly, 
 turning to the gentleman. 
 
 I hope not, madam, he answered, in low, meas- 
 ured tones ; “ my sisters respect age ; to them gray 
 hairs are too sacred for trifling.^^ He did not wince 
 in the least under the angry glance of the mortified 
 girls, now completely silenced ; but Milly had thrown 
 her thick veil down, and was weeping all to her- 
 self. 
 
 I am going to the house of Dr. James ; do you 
 know him, sir ? asked the old lady, after a few 
 moments of silence. 
 
MILLY GREY, OR APPEARANCES DECEPTIVE. 49 
 
 “ I should, madam, for he is my father,^’ said the 
 stranger, with a smile. 
 
 The flushed cheeks of Bell grew instantly pale, 
 and her eyes met those of her companion, on whose 
 face a similar reaction had taken place. 
 
 ‘‘ My son. Professor L , lectures in Taunton 
 
 to-night, and as I have seldom the pleasure of listen- 
 ing to him, he is so often away, I thought I would 
 make an effort to visit your house. I am glad he is 
 your father, young man ; you do him honor,'^ she con- 
 tinued, with a gratified look; “you have his eyes 
 and his forehead — I should know them.’^ The 
 stranger had lifted his cap, taken off his handker- 
 chief, and was wiping the moisture from a magnifi- 
 cent brow, above which the jet black curls hung 
 thick and silkily. “ I shall have also the pleasure 
 of meeting a son at your house, and acquainting him 
 with your politeness towards a strange old woman, 
 who was the subject of some not very flattering 
 remarks.^^ 
 
 She did not glance this time towards the young 
 ladies ; if she had she would have pitied them ; they 
 sat cowering down completely crestfallen. It was, 
 indeed, an unenviable situation in which they had 
 placed themselves. They, too, were going for the ex- 
 press purpose of hearing Professor L , one of the 
 
 4 
 
50 MILLY GREY, OR APPEARANCES DECEPTIVE. 
 
 most brilliant lecturers of the day, and who had 
 almost been bewitched by the sparkling beauty of 
 Bell Grosvenor when a guest at her father^s in the 
 city ; so much so that he had been heard to declare 
 he knew not another woman who appeared to pos- 
 sess so many desirable qualities for a wife. And 
 strangely enough, they were going to the very house 
 of the man they had so grossly insulted ; for they 
 never could have dreamed the gawky to be the only 
 son of their mother^s friend, the rich and influential 
 Dr. James. They knew indeed that he had been for 
 some time expected home from his tour in Europe, 
 but his travel-stained attire and his silence com- 
 pletely deceived them. 
 
 Meantime Milly recovered a little from her trou- 
 ble : the envious veil was thrown back, the two 
 pouting lips restored to their equanimity ; the glad, 
 merry eyes, all the brighter for the little wash of 
 tears, rested or rather danced over the beautiful 
 prospects of fields, and trees, and rose-lined paths ; 
 she, innocent heart, had nothing to reproach herself 
 with, and gladly would her cousins have changed 
 places with her. 
 
 They sat very silent, trembling, and almost faint- 
 ing, till the stage drew near the broad entrance into 
 the doctor^s grounds. They were still undecided, 
 
(g): 
 
 MILLT GREY, OR APPEARANCES DECEPTIVE. 
 
 
 51 
 
 when the coachman said, “ The young ladies are to 
 stop here, I believe, and unstrapped the trunks from 
 the huge tongue. 
 
 Henry James, after a moment^s embarrassment, 
 stepping back to the door, and with a bright smile 
 at Milly, said, as if nothing had transpired, “ Will 
 you allow me to assist you out, young ladies ? 
 How daintily he conducted Milly to the ground ! But 
 as the others descended there was a chilling reserve 
 in his manner, and a painful confusion in theirs, that 
 told how indelible* would be the recollection of that 
 unfortunate meeting. 
 
 Bell Grosvenor and her sister returned the next 
 
 day ; they could not endure to meet Professor L 
 
 in the presence of his mother. But they have 
 learned a lesson which they will probably treasure 
 for life — not to judge by externals, and to treat 
 old age, even in rags, with a reverence as holy as 
 though it moved about in golden slippers. 
 
 “ But I am a portionless orphan, Henry.^^ 
 
 “ But you are the same Milly Grey that sat in the 
 back seat of the old stage, and nobly resisted the 
 influence of wealth and fashion when those rude, 
 proud girls would have laughed down the uncouth 
 countryman. From that moment I loved you, and 
 
 © 
 
52 MILLY GREY, OR APPEARANCES DECEPTIVE. 
 
 still more when I perceived your delicate attention 
 to my father’s friend. Believe me, Milly, no true 
 man would trust his happiness with one who would 
 insult gray hairs ; there is little heart in such a one, 
 however faultless the exterior ; and I have such 
 extreme reverence for the aged, that a loathing, im- 
 possible for me to express, came over me when I 
 witnessed the behavior of your cousins. They may 
 be wealthy, highly educated, fascinating, but I would 
 no more wed one of them than I would play with a 
 rattlesnake. There, — God bless*you, Milly, — look 
 up, love, and let me tell you that in my eyes you are 
 worth millions, nay, more than all the world.’’ 
 
 Bell and Annie Grosvenor are both wedded, but 
 
 neither of them has Professor L or Dr. James 
 
 for a husband. They are, however, very gay and 
 fashionable, if that is any compensation. But Milly, 
 sweet Milly, lives in a beautiful villa in a country 
 town, as happy and devoted a wife and mother as 
 can be found in the wide, wide world. 
 
KIND FRIENDS AT HOME. 
 
 53 
 
 KIND FRIENDS AT HOME. 
 
 ■ - ' 4 — 
 
 O, thbire’s a power to make each hour 
 As sweet as heaven designed it ; 
 
 Nor need we roam to bring it home, 
 
 Though few there be that find it. 
 
 We seek too high for things close by, 
 
 And lose what nature found us ; 
 
 For life hath here no charms so dear 
 As home and friends around us. 
 
 We oft destroy our present joy — 
 
 For future hopes — and praise them ; 
 
 Whilst flowers as sweet bloom at our feet. 
 
 If we’d but stoop to raise them. 
 
 For things afar still sweeter are. 
 
 When youth, bright spell, hath bound us; 
 
 But soon we’re taught that earth hath nought 
 Like home and friends around us. 
 
 The friends that speed in time of need, 
 
 When hope’s last reed is shaken. 
 
 To show us still, that, come what will, 
 
 We are not quite forsaken ; 
 
54 
 
 MY MOTHER. 
 
 Though all were night, if but the light 
 From Friendship’s altar crowned us, 
 
 ’T would prove the bliss of earth was this — 
 Of home and friends around us. 
 
 MY MOTHER. 
 
 My mother’s voice ! How often creeps 
 Its cadence on my lonely hours, 
 
 Like healing on the wings of sleep, 
 
 Or dew on the unconscious flowers ! 
 
 I might forget her melting prayer, 
 
 While wildering leisures madly fly ; 
 
 But in the still, unbroken air. 
 
 Her gentle tones come stealing by, 
 
 And years of sin and manhood flee, 
 
 And leave me at my mother’s knee. 
 
 I have been out at eventide. 
 
 Beneath a moonlit sky of spring. 
 
 When earth was garnished like a bride, 
 And night had on her silver wing ; 
 
 When bursting buds and dewy grass, 
 
 And waters leaping to the light, 
 
 And all that makes the pulses pass 
 
 With wilder fleetness thronged the night : 
 
THE FAULTS OF MAN. 
 
 55 
 
 When all was beauty, then have I 
 
 With friends on whom my love is flung, 
 Like myrrh on winds of Araby, 
 
 Gazed on where evening’s lamp is hung. 
 
 And when the beauteous spirit there. 
 
 Flung over all its golden chain. 
 
 My mother’s voice came on the air. 
 
 Like the light dropping of the rain ; 
 
 And resting on some silver star. 
 
 The spirit of a bended knee. 
 
 I’ve poured a deep and fervent prayer 
 That our eternity might be — 
 
 To rise in heaven, like stars by night. 
 
 And tread a living path of light. 
 
 THE FAULTS OF MAN. 
 
 A THOUSAND faults in man we And ; 
 
 Merit in him we seldom meet : 
 Man’s inconstant and unkind ; 
 
 Man is false and indiscreet ; 
 
 Man’s capricious, jealous, free. 
 
 Vain, insincere, and trifling, too ; 
 Yet still the women all agree. 
 
 For want of better, he must do. 
 
HOW TO BE HAPPY. 
 
 
 HOW TO BE HAPPY. 
 
 I WILL give you two or three good rules which 
 may help you to become happier than you would be 
 without knowing them ; but as to being completely 
 happy, that you can never be till you get to heaven. 
 
 The first is, Try your best to make others happy. 
 
 “ I never was happy, said a certain king, ‘‘ till I 
 began to take pleasure in the welfare of my people ; 
 but ever since then, in the darkest day, I have had 
 sunshine in my heart.” 
 
 My second rule is, “Be content with little.” 
 There are many good reasons for this rule. We 
 deserve but little, we require but little, and “ better 
 is little, with the fear of God, than great treasures 
 and trouble therewith.” Two men were determined 
 to be rich, but they set about it in different ways ; 
 j for the one strove to raise up his means to hisjie- 
 sires, while the other did his best to bring down his 
 desires to his means. The result was, the one who 
 coveted much was always repining, while he who 
 desired but little was always contented. 
 
 
 © 
 
=(§) 
 57 1 
 
 © • = 
 HOW TO BE HAPPT. 
 
 My third rule is, “ Look on the sunny side of 
 things.” 
 
 ** Look up with hopeful eyes, 
 
 Though all things seem forlorn ; 
 
 The sun that sets to-night wdll rise 
 Again to-morrow morn.” 
 
 The skipping lamb, the singing lark, and the leaping 
 fish tell us that happiness is not confined to one 
 place. God in his goodness has spread it abroad 
 on the earth, in the air, and in the waters. Two 
 aged women lived in the same cottage ; one was 
 always fearing a storm, and the other was always 
 looking for sunshine. Hardly need I say which it 
 was wore a forbidding frown, or which it was whose 
 face was lighted up with ^*oy. Said a venerable 
 farmer, some eighty years of age, to a relative who 
 lately visited him, “ I have lived on this farm for 
 over half a century. I have no desire to change my 
 residence as long as I live on earth. I have no 
 desire to be any richer than I now am. I have 
 worshipped the God of my fathers with the same 
 people for more than forty years. During that 
 period I have rarely been absent from the sanctuary 
 on the Sabbath, and have never lost but one com- 
 munion season. I have never been confined to my 
 bed by sickness a single day. The blessings o^ God 
 
 © 
 
58 NOT WORTH THE TROUBLE. 
 
 have been richly spread around me ; and I made up 
 my mind long ago that if I wished to be any hap- 
 pier I must have more religion.” 
 
 ' 
 
 NOT WORTH THE TROUBLE. 
 
 0, it’s not worth the trouble to dress ; I see 
 only my husband.” Then, madam, if your husband 
 is not better worth pleasing than a host of “ com- 
 pany,” it is a pity you are married. Not worth the 
 trouble to look better to him than his merest ac- 
 quaintances? Not worth the trouble to surround 
 yourself with every grace and fascination that you 
 are capable of? Then, if you are a neglected wife 
 by and by, never complain, for it is your own fault ; 
 it was “not worth the trouble” to have a happy 
 home. 
 

 
 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 59 
 
 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 Come hither, dearest one of earth, come sit thee by my 
 side, 
 
 For thou art e’en more lovely now than when my blushing 
 bride ; 
 
 Departed years have shown thy worth, and tested well 
 thy love. 
 
 And I have found in thee a friend next to my Friend 
 above. 
 
 Sweet, kindred soul, my own fond wife ! 
 
 A world of bliss ’mid earthly strife, 
 
 [ bless thee, kindest Heaven, for this, the choicest boon 
 of life. 
 
 The glow of thy affection pure, the beauty of thy mind, 
 Have round me thrown their golden links, my willing 
 heart to bind ; 
 
 They ’ve shed upon my path their rays so sweet, so calm, 
 so bright. 
 
 That they have changed a darkened world to one of hal- 
 lowed light : 
 
 Of earth thou art my Eden fair. 
 
 The sharer of my joy and care, 
 riie blest companion of my heart, in thought, and wish, 
 and prayer. 
 
60 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 Beloved, when I saw thee first, and met thee as a friend, 
 And only in acquaintanceship our hearts began to blend, 
 My youthful soul was kindled then, and unknown rap- 
 tures felt ; 
 
 Unconsciously I breathed thy name while in devotion 
 knelt ; 
 
 And every day, before my eye. 
 
 Came, like a seraph from the sky. 
 
 Thy lovely image, dearest one, and in my dreams ’twas nigh. 
 
 Oft, arm in arm, with joyful steps, o’er flowery fields we 
 trod; 
 
 Oft, listening to the Sabbath bell, we sought the house 
 of God ; 
 
 And many a blissful hour flew by, when sitting side by 
 side ; 
 
 But happiest was the moment when I took thee as my 
 bride : 
 
 O then, my beautiful, were given 
 
 Our pledge to each, our vows to Heaven, 
 
 And nought hath yet, for three bright years, our deep 
 aflection riven. 
 
 In mutual hope and faithful trust, and in confiding love. 
 Receiving from our Father’s hand rich blessings from 
 above. 
 
 Amid life’s duties, toils, and cares, along our pilgrim way 
 Togethe r we have come with joy increasing till to-day ; 
 Thou, like a guardian spirit fair. 
 
 Hast sought my every ill to share : 
 
 For thee, O precious boon of Heaven, shall rise incessant 
 prayer. 
 

 z(0) 
 
 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 61 
 
 And on our path, and in our home, hath beamed a pre- 
 cious light, 
 
 Replete with new and wondrous charms, in hope and 
 promise bright, — 
 
 An angel’s baby face and form, and laughing life of 
 glee, • 
 
 A golden hnk of love to bind my heart more close to 
 thee y 
 
 Amusing, mirthful, elfin girl, 
 
 A treasure sweet — immortal pearl ! 
 
 0, ever round our darling may celestial pinions furl. 
 
 Our little world of peaceful joy, with cloudless sky serene. 
 
 By sordid hearts and vulgar eyes is never known nor 
 seen ; 
 
 The sweetest bliss can ne’er be found in glittering wealth 
 alone. 
 
 Nor does it dwell in royal courts, nor on ambition’s throne ; 
 In hearts of faith and love it springs. 
 
 And blesses those to whom it clings. 
 
 Sheltered and sweetly shadowed by its soft, angelic 
 wings. 
 
 Thou loveliest one of all on earth, of my own self a part. 
 
 The choicest of celestial gifts, and nearest to my heait, 
 
 O, never shall this arm forbear my chosen to defend. 
 
 And never shall this heart grow cold till life’s last pulse 
 shall end. 
 
 Sweet star of life, serenely bright. 
 
 Dispelling gloom with purest light, 
 
 Can such affection know decay, or die in death’s dim 
 night ? 
 
 
 
DOUBT. 
 
 
 62 
 
 The love that bindeth Christian hearts is not alone of 
 earth ; 
 
 It is an effluence from God, and hath a heavenly birth ; 
 
 Its spirit thrills our wedded souls like music tones divine ; 
 Its holy fire of sympathy through all our path shall shine : 
 Then, in those radiant skies afar, • 
 
 Where nought can e’er its beauty mar, 
 
 Twill even beam in glory with the Bright and Morning 
 Star ! 
 
 " - 
 
 / 
 
 DOUBT. 
 
 Doubt when radiant smiles are shining, 
 Doubt when clasping hands are twining. 
 Doubt when honeyed words are flowing. 
 Doubt when blushes warm are glowing. 
 But never doubt that truth sincere 
 That glistens in a woman’s tear. 
 
 Doubt when mirthful tones invite thee, 
 Doubt when gayest hopes delight thee, 
 Doubt whate’er is fondest, fairest. 
 
 Doubt whate’er is brightest, rarest. 
 
 But O, believe that truth can live 
 In hearts that suffer and forgive. 
 
 :© 
 
 © 
 
©■ 
 
 SATURDAY NIGHT AT THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 63 
 
 SATURDAY NIGHT AT THE OLD HOME- 
 STEAD. 
 
 It is Saturday night ! How welcome an hour to 
 the weary, sad-hearted ones in this working-day 
 world of ours 1 How welcome a time to the Chris- 
 tian, for the rest day comes “ to-morrow thrice 
 blessed, because to-night he feels that he must “pitch 
 his moving tent a week’s march “ nearer home.” 
 
 I am not weary of life. 0, no I Our earthly home is 
 very happy ; no shadow from the wing of the death 
 angel is upon our hearthstone ; the stern old reaper 
 has not cut down one of our gentle blue-eyed blos- 
 soms ; yet how uncertain is our life, and how frail is 
 our hold of earthly bliss I And so, as to-night I 
 clasp my treasures to my heart, I almost tremble 
 at their frailty, and, as I think of the rest day to- 
 morrow, and of that coming eternal Sabbath of 
 which it is an emblem, I thank God for the home 
 here ; and 0, emphatically, I thank him for the 
 bright home there. In that blessed land, where 
 
 - - -- . ■ . ■ (§) 
 
64 SATURDAY NIGHT AT THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 
 
 tears are wiped from off all faces, may our “ lost be 
 found/' With a sort of mingling of these feelings 
 in my heart, I sat gazing somewhat dreamily into 
 the fire, — for though we are far in June, the month 
 of roses, yet this cool easterly wind makes such an 
 old-fashioned fire very pleasant and cozy, — when a 
 simple word has touched the electric chain, and my 
 thoughts have assumed a more practical and perhaps 
 more profitable hue. Our little curly-headed pet 
 had just repeated his simple prayers. 
 
 “ Lord, I’m a little child ; 
 
 Teach me how to pray , 
 
 Make me gentle, meek, and mild ; 
 
 Take my sins away.” 
 
 Then followed that well-known, “ Now I lay me 
 down to sleep,” and, finally, the “ Lord’s Prayer,” 
 doubly beautiful and impressive from the lispitfg 
 voices of children ; then, though the blue eyes looked 
 very sleepy, mother “ must teach him that Satur- 
 day night hymn.” It is a simple thing, familiar as 
 household words, yet somehow to-night they set me 
 thinking. 
 
 “ How pleasant is Saturday night, 
 
 When I’ve tried all the week to be good, 
 
 Not spoken a word that was bad. 
 
 And obliged every one that I could 1 ” 
 

 
 SATURDAY NIGHT AT THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 65 
 
 The dear child accompanied every line with the 
 strictest self-examination, and his lips quivered and 
 tears filled his eyes when he remembered a time 
 when he spoke a naughty word, when he forgot to 
 try to be good/^ God give thee ever as tender a 
 conscience, blessed child ; and 0 that in after years 
 retrospection may be no more painful ! But have 
 we “ tried to be good all the past week ? Let us 
 think. In our abundance have we remembered the 
 many pale, sad faces which we might have caused to 
 smile with gladness ? In the joys of our happy 
 home circle, have our hearts once gone out to some 
 lonely, desolate one, who, perhaps, beneath our own 
 roof sees the cordial, happy life going on around 
 her — hears its songs and laughter — but in the 
 midst of this social, loving community she is alone. 
 A kind word, an approving look, have they been 
 given ? Lady fair, perchance your domestic is igno- 
 rant and unlovely ; perhaps her speech betrayeth her 
 to be from the land darkened by priests and despot- 
 ism ; or perhaps she bears upon her brow the mark 
 of the lowly and despised race ; but she has a human 
 heart, and you can do her good ; you can make her 
 life less wearisome ; you can point her to a glorious 
 rest for the weary in the far future ; you can teach 
 her the way to obtain it. Cannot love teach an 
 
 
66 SATURDAY NIGHT AT THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 
 
 ignorant servant girl ? Thank Heaven, there is 
 one who, though he be high, “ hath respect unto the 
 lowly Do you know who hath said, “ Inasmuch 
 as ye did it unto the least of these, ye did it unto 
 me^^? 
 
 Have we been gentle, and forgiving, and patient ? 
 Have we gone often to our closets in communion I 
 
 I with God and our Savior ? Alas, alas ! how many 
 of us have “ tried all the week to be good ? Have 
 we spoken an impatient word to the beloved about 
 our hearthstone ? Have we grieved a loving heart 
 by an ungentle, hasty retort? Have we spoken 
 lightly or unkindly of an absent one, or, by listen- i 
 ing, encouraged a slandering word ? Have we | 
 spoken gently to our erring sister woman ? She 
 has sinned, and suffered, and repented, perhaps, but 
 the light and joy of her youth have gone out for- 
 ever, with the loss of her innocence. Why should 
 we — sinful, erring mortals ourselves — why should 
 we deepen the misery of one erring human heart, by a 
 haughty look or unfeeling word ? Perhaps she has 
 been more “ sinned against than sinning,^^ and a kind 
 word might have touched that heart not yet hard- 
 ened in the ways of sin, might have allured her back 
 to the paths of pleasantness and peace. Ah, my 
 sister, in that day yet to come, shall we know what 
 
 (p>- 
 
 (O) 
 
© 
 
 © 
 
 MY SOUL IS SAD. 67 
 
 might have been the result of a word that remained 
 unspoken. Might have been ! Ah me 1 
 
 “ Of all sad words of tongue or pen, 
 
 The saddest are these, ‘ It might have been.’ ” 
 
 MY SOUL IS SAD. 
 
 My soul is sad, for days of yore 
 Come thronging on my brain, 
 
 And memories of “ lang syne ” to me 
 Are memories of pain ; 
 
 Such tearful shadows of the past 
 Come o’er my aching eye, 
 
 I close my weary lids, and bid 
 The vision to pass by. 
 
 My soul is sad, for sun-bright hours 
 That scarcely knew a shade ; 
 
 Life’s colors looked so fair to me 
 It seemed they would not fade. 
 
 Pass on ! bright visions of the past, 
 Ye only give me pain ; 
 
 Those happy days, too bright to last, 
 Will never come again. 
 
 ©■ 
 
 < 0 ) 
 
68 
 
 THE OLD PLAY-GROUND. 
 
 THE OLD PLAY-GROUND. 
 
 I SAT an hour to-day, John, 
 
 Beside the old brook stream, 
 
 Where we were schoolboys in old time. 
 When manhood was a dream ; 
 
 The brook is choked with fallen leaves. 
 The pond is dried away ; 
 
 I scarce believe that you would know 
 The dear old place to-day. 
 
 The schoolhouse is no more, John, 
 Beneath our locust trees ; 
 
 The wild rose by the window side 
 No more waves in the breeze ; 
 
 The scattered stones look desolate ; , 
 
 The sod they rested on 
 
 Has been ploughed up by stranger hands. 
 Since you and I were gone. 
 
 The chestnut tree is dead, John ; 
 
 And, what is sadder now. 
 
 The broken grape vine of our swing 
 Hangs on the withered bough ; 
 
 © 
 

 THE OLD PLAY-GROUND. 
 
 =f 
 
 69 
 
 I read our names upon the bark. 
 
 And found the pebbles rare 
 Laid up beneath the hollow side, 
 
 As we had piled them there. 
 
 Beneath the grass-grown bank, John, 
 I looked for our old spring, 
 
 That bubbled down the alder path 
 Three paces from the swing ; 
 
 The rushes grow upon the brink. 
 
 The pool is black and bare. 
 
 And not a foot, this many a day. 
 
 It seems, has trodden there. 
 
 I took the old blind road, John, 
 
 That wandered up thf. hill ; 
 
 ’Tis darker than it used to be. 
 
 And seems so lone and still. 
 
 The birds sing yet among the boughs 
 Where once the sweet grapes hung, 
 But not a voice of human kind 
 Where all our voices rung. 
 
 I sat me on the fence, John, 
 
 That lies as in old time, 
 
 The same half panel in the path 
 W e used so oft to climb ; 
 
 I thought how o’er the bars of life 
 Our playmates had passed on. 
 
 And left me counting on this spot 
 The faces that are gone. 
 
©-= 
 
 70 
 
 LEARN TO SAY, NO. 
 
 
 LEARN TO SAY, NO. 
 
 ♦— 
 
 A VERY wise and excellent mother gave the fol- 
 lowing advice with her dying breath : My son, 
 
 learn to say, No.’’ Not that she did mean to coun- 
 sel her son to be> a churl in speech, or to be stiff- 
 hearted in things that were indifferent or trivial, 
 and much less did she counsel him to put his nega- 
 tive upon the calls of charity and the impulses of 
 humanity ; but her meaning was, that, along with 
 gentleness of manners and benevolence of dispo- 
 sition, he should possess an inflexible firmness of 
 purpose — a quality beyond all price, whether it 
 regards the sons or the daughters of our fallen race. 
 
 Persons so infirm of purpose, so wanting in reso- I 
 lution, as to be incapable, in almost any case, of 
 saying. No, are among the most hapless of human 
 beings ; and that notwithstanding their sweetness 
 of temper, their courteousness of demeanor, and 
 whatever else of amiable and estimable qualities 
 they possess. Though they see the right, they 
 
 © 
 
 © 
 

 © 
 
 LEARN TO SAY, NO. 
 
 71 
 
 pursue the wrong ; not so much out of inclination, as 
 from a frame of mind disposed to yield to every 
 solicitation. 
 
 An historian of a former and distant age says of 
 a Frenchman who ranked as the first prince of the 
 blood, that he had a bright and knowing mind, 
 graceful sprightliness, good intentions, complete dis- 
 interestedness, and an incredible easiness of manners, 
 but that, with all these qualities, he acted a most 
 contemptible part for the want of resolution ; that 
 he came into all the factions of his time, because he 
 wanted power to resist those who drew him in for 
 their own interests ; but that he never came out of 
 any but with shame, because he wanted resolution 
 to support himself whilst he was in them. 
 
 It is owing to the want of resolution, more than 
 to the want of sound sense, that a great many per- 
 sons have run into imprudences, injurious, and some- 
 times fatal, to their worldly interests. Numerous 
 instances of this might be named, but I shall content 
 myself with naming only one, and that is, rash and 
 hazardous suretyship. The pit stands uncovered, 
 and yet men of good sense, as well as of amiable 
 dispositions, plunge themselves into it with their 
 eyes wide open. Notwithstanding the solemn warn- 
 ings in the proverbs of the wise man, and notwith- 
 
 ( 2 )=: 
 
 
©: 
 
 72 
 
 LEARN TO SAY, NO. 
 
 
 standing tlie examples of the fate of so many that 
 have gone before them, they make the hazardous 
 leap. And why? Not from inclination, or with a 
 willing mind, but because, being solicited, urged, 
 and entreated, they know not how to say, No. If 
 they had learned not only to pronounce that mono- 
 syllable, but to make use of it on all proper occa- 
 sions, it might have saved from ruin themselves and 
 their wives and children. 
 
 But the worst of it is still behind. The ruin of 
 character, of morals, and of the very heart and soul 
 of man, originates often in a passive yieldingness of 
 temper and disposition, or in the want of the reso- 
 lution to say. No. Thousands and many thousands, 
 through this weakness, have been the victims of 
 craft and deceit. Thousands and many thousands, 
 once of fair promise, but now sunk in depravity and 
 wretchedness, owe their ruin to the act of consent- 
 ing, against their better judgments, to the entice- 
 ment of evil companions and familiars. Had they 
 said. No, when duty, when honor, when conscience, 
 when every thing sacred demanded it of them, 
 happy might they now have been — the solace of 
 their kindred and the ornaments of society. 
 
 Sweetness of temper, charitableness of heart, 
 gentleness of demeanor, together with a strong 
 
 
 
1 - 
 
 1 
 
 LEARN TO SAT, NO. 
 
 73 
 
 disposition to act obligingly, and even to be yield- 
 ing in things indifferent, or of trifling moment, are 
 amiable and estimable traits of the human charac- 
 ter ; but there must be withal, and as the ground- 
 work of the whole, such a firmness of resolution as 
 will guaranty it against yielding, either imprudently 
 or immorally, to solicitations and enticements. Else 
 one has very little chance, in passing down the cur- 
 rent of life, of escaping the eddies and quicksands 
 that lie in his way. 
 
 Firmness of purpose is one of the most necessary 
 sinews of character, and one of the best instruments 
 of success ; without it, genius wastes its efforts in a 
 maze of inconsistencies, and brings to its possessor 
 disgrace rather than honor. 
 
THE VILLAGE CLOCK. 
 
 THE VILLAGE CLOCK. 
 
 VrUITTEN IN THE BELFRY OF AN OLD CHURCH. 
 
 From here we catch its measured stroke, 
 Artistic as a minstrel’s rhyme ; 
 
 List to its ceaseless tick, tick, tick — 
 
 It is the pulse of Time ! 
 
 With every tick our seconds pass. 
 
 Our heart-beats are the falling sands 
 Within an unseen hour-glass. 
 
 There is a heart in this old clock, — 
 
 Its tongue speaks hourly to the town, — 
 Which has, since first it ’gan to throb. 
 Seen many a heart run down. 
 
 Seen many a human clock grow dumb. 
 Seen many a life sway to and fro. 
 
 As restless as the pendulum. 
 
 The chiming of these metal lips. 
 
 Which wake such melody at nine. 
 
 Has rung in other ears, my friend. 
 
 Than those of thine and mine : 
 
THE VILLAGE CLOCK. 
 
 75 
 
 In the still graveyard, in the dell, 
 There slumber hundreds who have heard 
 The music of this sweet old bell. 
 
 And when we join the group which sleeps 
 So calmly in the sunshine there, 
 
 This pulse will tick the same as now, 
 
 And, in the twilight air, 
 
 This bell to other, stranger ears, 
 
 Will say the same odd words it said. 
 
 Sweet words to us, in other years. 
 
 The swallow in the belfry high, 
 
 Each summer time, will build its nest ; 
 The ring-dove seek it in the storm. 
 
 To smooth its ruffled breast ; 
 
 The busy spider in the light 
 Will spin quaint fancies round the posts ; 
 The mournful curfew sound at night. 
 
 The shadows on the antique porch 
 Will come and go in silent waves ; 
 
 The moss will grow upon the roof, 
 
 The daisies on our grave ; 
 
 The clock will tick, St. Agnes chime 
 The Sunday in — but not for us ; 
 
 We will not heed the pulse of Time ! 
 
© ■ ■ - - 
 
 76 THE TWO PALACES. 
 
 THE TWO PALACES. 
 
 I HAD been trying to exclude outward objects 
 from my mind, and turn my thoughts inward upon 
 the soul. endeavored to think of its origin, of its 
 capacities, of its never-ending existence ; my mind 
 became bewildered by the subject, and I fell asleep, 
 and dreamed. 
 
 A form of divine beauty stopd beside me, and 
 pointed towards a noble palace, that at a little dis- 
 tance rose before me. It was vast, and symmetrical 
 in its proportions, and of a dazzling whiteness. 
 Clear, rosy light hovered above it like a cloud, and 
 air bracing as that of the mountains, yet soft as in 
 early June, floated around it. 
 
 “ Enter 1 ” said my guide. In another moment I 
 stood within the palace, astonished at its splendor. 
 Above me rose a crystal dome, through which a 
 flood of morning light streamed. The floor was 
 inlaid with gems that reflected the light in a thou- 
 sand hues, so that there was no hiding-place for 
 
& ■ - =<o) 
 
 THE TWO PALACES. 77 
 
 darkness in all the palace. The walls were hung 
 with pictures, some of them of scenes familiar to 
 me and very dear, while others represented forms 
 and places more glorious than any of which I had 
 ever dreamed. My ear was delighted also with the 
 songs I heard, sweeter than the carol of early birds. 
 I could not see the singers ; but it was as if their 
 music filled all the air. 
 
 This palace, as I have said, was very vast ; and 
 yet it seemed, in some mysterious way, constantly to 
 increase in magnitude, and as constantly to receive 
 additional resources. It was full of people, all 
 beautiful, and all active. 
 
 “Who,^^ said I, addressing my guide, “is that 
 grave and dignified personage who stands in the 
 central court, to whom all eyes are so often di- 
 rected ? 
 
 “ That is Order,’^ he answered ; “ for order reigns 
 here, as well as in heaven. 
 
 “And who is she, with a bloom like the young 
 rose, and eyes so full of purity and tenderness? 
 All smile as she approaches, and she glides about 
 like a spirit, leaving her own image upon every face 
 she looks at.^^ 
 
 ' “ That is Love.^' 
 
 I “ And she, who follows her every where, as if she 
 
 ■ 
 
 
- , ■ :/ ( 5 ) 
 
 78 THE TWO PALACES. 
 
 were her shadow, with the light step and evergreen 
 garland ? 
 
 That is Joy.” 
 
 “ Will you not point them all out to me ? ” I said 
 to my guide ; “ I would know them all. I have never 
 seen so goodly a palace, or beings so fair as these.” 
 
 A grave smile passed over his face, and he pointed 
 to the door, through whose golden archway two 
 figures were just then entering. One was tall, and 
 of a lofty carriage, with large, bright eyes, and a 
 robe that seemed wrought with sunbeams. She car- 
 ried in her hand a rich casket of jewels, and looking 
 upon it she smiled joyfully, then glanced upward, 
 and then bent her eyes reverently upon the small, 
 yet graceful figure at her side. 
 
 “ These,” said my guide, “ are Knowledge and 
 Humility ; for here they always walk together. 
 Knowledge has brought vast treasures to this 
 palace, and is constantly bringing more. She has 
 collected the choicest gems of sea and land. She 
 I has sailed over the wide ocean of Immensity, and 
 brought away riches from the stars. She has talked 
 with angels, and her choicest treasures were brought 
 directly from the presence chamber of God himself. 
 See, now, how she loves Humility. She has always 
 done so since she has seen the Lord. 
 
 ©■ 
 
@ - ' ® 
 
 THE TWO PALACES. 79 
 
 “ Now turn thine eyes in another direction. Ob- 
 serve Wisdom. He it is, with such a depth of 
 thought expressed in his large eyes. That bold- 
 lookiug personage upon whom he leans is Truth, 
 and the fair being who so much attracts you, reclin- 
 ing by Wisdom^s side, whose white robe and inno- 
 cent eyes seem so well to harmonize, is Purity. 
 
 ‘^You will remark that this palace is large in- 
 deed, and in no part unoccupied, and yet there is 
 not a single deformed or unlovely person in it all. 
 Neither are there any discords here, nor any sor- 
 rows. Happiness, here, is perfect and complete. 
 Yet it was not always so. You will scarcely believe 
 me, when I tell you that this fine palace was once a 
 ruin, occupied by fierce banditti. It was ransomed 
 from their hands at a great price, by the mighty 
 prince who now rules over it, and who has made it 
 what you wonder to behold. 
 
 “But come now. with me, and I will show you 
 what this palace might have been, by showing you 
 another.’^ | 
 
 I sighed to leave such a scene of beauty and bless- | 
 edness ; but my guide beckoned me on. In a short 
 time, I had left behind me the golden dome and 
 lofty portal, and found myself in the region of night 
 and gloom. 
 
80 THE TWO PALACES. 
 
 Again I stood before a vast palace, if that could 
 be called a palace from which every trace of royalty 
 was gone. The heavens seemed to frown upon it, 
 / and the walls looked blackened and blasted, as if 
 by lightning. A lurid light streamed from the win- 
 dows, exposing all the ruin ; and with it came a 
 voice like the midnight wind of winter ; now, a 
 low and heavy sigh ; now, a long wail ; and now, 
 a wild shriek, that seemed borne from some dis- 
 tant sea. 
 
 “ Look within,^^ said my guide, “ and tell me if 
 this is like the other, or like any thing thou hast 
 ever seen.” 
 
 I looked, and shuddered. How shall I describe 
 what I there saw? No light from above; bi^.a 
 great furnace, from beneath, made the place hideous. 
 And yet there were pictures of beauty upon those 
 walls, as upon the other palace. I recognized some 
 of the same scenes ; but here they seemed burnt in 
 as by fire, and spiders, and toads, and venomous 
 serpents crawled over them. 
 
 This palace, too, was full of inhabitants ; but how 
 unlike the other ! Here Discord ruled ; here Love 
 was displaced by Hatred ; and Wisdom, Truth, and 
 Purity were quite shut out. One who was called 
 Knowledge was here ; but how different from the 
 
 
 
THE TWO PALACES. 81 
 
 angelic being I saw in the other palace ! She car- 
 ried in her hand a basket of the forbidden fruit of 
 paradise, and wore around her head a garland of 
 its deadly leaves. Pride was her companion, and 
 Misery followed her. 
 
 Yet> in this fearful place, there was one person 
 evidently of divine origin. I pointed him out to my 
 guide. “ Who is he,’^ I said, “ with the pure robe, 
 uplifted finger, and stern eye — he who is always 
 speaking, and whose voice grows louder and more 
 terrible every moment ? ” 
 
 “ That,^^ he answered, is Conscience. He is 
 stronger than the strong man armed, and cannot be 
 driven out. Conscience is unconquered and uncon- 
 querable.'^ 
 
 “Will he, then,^^ I asked, “at some future period, 
 make this palace like the other ? Will he trans- 
 form these miserable beings into pure spirits, ex- 
 tinguish this fiery furnace, and let in light from 
 heaven ? 
 
 “ Alas, no ! "replied my guide. “ He is here as a 
 tormentor only. They would not accept a ransom. 
 This palace must remain a ruin. 
 
 “And now,’’ he added, as he led me away from 
 this dismal scene, “hast thou understood these things 
 that I have shown thee ? ” 
 
 9 
 
82 
 
 THE OLD KIRK-YARD. 
 
 Only in part/^ I answered. “ What dost thou 
 seek to teach me ? 
 
 “ In the first palace/^ he replied, “ thou hast seen 
 a human soul, saved, sanctified, glorified. In the 
 second palace, also, thou hast seen a human soul, 
 that would not be redeemed, and must remain a 
 wreck forever I 
 
 THE OLD KIRK-YARD. 
 
 — ♦— 
 
 0 COME, come with me to the old kirk-yard : 
 
 1 well know the path through the soft green sward ; 
 F riends slumber there we were wont to regard ; 
 We’ll trace out their names in the old kirk -yard. 
 
 O, mourn not for them ; their grief is o’er ; 
 
 O, weep not for them ; they weep no more ; 
 
 For deep is their sleep, though cold and hard 
 Their pillow may be, in the old kirk-^ard. 
 
 I know ’tis in vain, when friends depart, 
 
 To breathe kind words to a broken heart ; 
 
 I know that the joy of life seems marred, 
 
 When we follow them home to the old kirk -yard. 
 
THE TRESS OF HAIR. 
 
 83 
 
 THE TRESS OF HAIR. 
 
 A SINGLE tress of golden hair, 
 
 A sacred relic kept with care, 
 
 A memory of one so fair. 
 
 That angels left their hymning band 
 And came to earth, to take his hand 
 And lead him to the unseen land. 
 
 But ere he trod the starry way 
 That leadeth to eternal day. 
 
 As calm and beautiful he lay. 
 
 This curling tress of golden hair, 
 
 This sacred relic kept with care. 
 
 She gathered from his forehead fair. 
 
 O, lingering o’er the treasure long, 
 
 A thousand tender memories throng — 
 
 She hears again his cradle song ! 
 
 And yesternight, before she slept. 
 
 She pressed it to her lips and wept. 
 
 Warm tear-drops down her pale face crept; 
 
84 
 
 I can’t. 
 
 While to her aching heart she said, 
 
 « Why mournest thou that he is dead ? 
 
 He sleepeth in a peaceful bed. 
 
 ‘‘ God called him to a sweet repose ; 
 
 And he hath slept through winter’s snows, 
 Till now the dewy violet blows. 
 
 “ Above his grave soft mosses spring. 
 
 And birds with free and happy wing 
 All day their heaven-tuned praises sing. 
 
 Ah, yes ! with joy the April rain 
 Thrills nature’s breast ; but mine with pain 
 Sigheth, he will not come again.” 
 
 I CAN^T. 
 
 © 
 
 Never say, “ I can’t,” my dear ; 
 
 Never say it. 
 
 When such words as those I hear 
 From the lips of boy or girl. 
 
 Oft they make me doubt and fear ; 
 
 Never say it. 
 
 Boys and girls that nimbly play 
 Never say it ; 
 
 They can jump and run away, 
 
T can’t. 
 
 85 
 
 Skip, and toss, and play their pranks ; 
 Even dujl ones, when they’re gay, 
 
 Never say it. 
 
 Never mind how hard the task. 
 
 Never say it ; 
 
 Find some one who knows, and ask, 
 
 Till you have your lessons learned ; 
 Never mind how hard the task. 
 
 Never say it. 
 
 Men who do the noblest deeds 
 
 Never say it ; 
 
 He who lacks the strength he needs, 
 
 Tries his best and gets it soon, 
 
 And at last he will succeed ; 
 
 Never say it. 
 
 But when the evil tempt to wrong. 
 Always say it. 
 
 In your virtue firm and strong. 
 
 Drive the tempter from your sight ; 
 And when follies round you throng. 
 
 Ever say it. 
 
 When good actions call you near. 
 
 Never say it. 
 
 Drive away the rising fear. 
 
 Get your strength where good men do ; 
 All your paths will then be clear. 
 
 Would you find a happy year ? 
 
 Would you save a sorrowing tear? 
 
 Never say it.’* 
 
86 FANNY AND FLORA. 
 
 FANNY AND FLORA. 
 
 It was in the leafy month of September ; the time 
 was twilight. Two young ladies sat in the room of 
 their boarding house, gayly chatting. They were 
 sisters. One was tall and dignified in her appear- 
 ance, yet easy and familiar ; her bright, sparkling 
 eye and merry laugh at once banished a thought of 
 sadness. The other, though not so delicate in form, 
 was beautiful ; for her large, soul-lit eyes, as she 
 gazed upon her sister, spoke volumes of intellectual 
 worth. They were from home, attending school at 
 
 the excellent institution at L ; and it is useless 
 
 to say, that they were looked up to by all as supe- 
 riors. Wealth was theirs, and it exerted, as it ever 
 does, an extensive influence around them, making all | 
 liearts bow beneath the mystic spell. And as we 
 look around the room, we see many things that 
 wealth and good taste have produced, to add to 
 their happiness. In one corner is an elegant ser- 
 aphine, which tells that they love to “ discourse 
 sweet miisic.^^ And even now, if you listen, you 
 
FANNY AND FLORA. 
 
 
 = @ 
 87 
 
 will hoar them consulting one another upon the pro- 
 priety of attending the choir meeting, which was to 
 be that evening. They decided to go, and, rising 
 hastily, they threw aside their thick, warm cash- 
 meres, for thin, light bareges, and thus imprudently 
 prepared themselves for the evening^s pleasure, 
 and stepping forth from their comfortable room 
 into the cold, damp air of an autumn night, hurried 
 to the place of the appointed meeting, little think- 
 ing that they should never sing together again. 
 They were, as. usual, the gayest among the crowd. 
 But all evenings have an end, and so did this even- 
 ing. The sisters returned home in good season, for 
 it was Saturday night. Next day the youngest com- 
 plained of slight indisposition, but they both attend- 
 ed church. Upon rising the following morning, it 
 was found that Flora had taken a severe cold. Her 
 ever-kind landlady did all she could to quiet the 
 raging fever, but all in vain. So they decided to 
 carry her home, that a kind mother might bend over 
 her, and, if possible, mitigate every pain. Still the 
 disease progressed, and baffled the best of medical 
 skill. Fanny remained at school ; but think you she 
 'could study then, knowing that her lovely sister was 
 rapidly passing away ? Ah, no ! it could not be. 
 One afternoon, as she was returning from school, 
 
 
88 FANNY AND FLORA. 
 
 sad and lonely, she paused at her own door, to 
 satisfy the eager inquiries of her schoolmates after 
 her sister, and looking down the street, saw a car- 
 riage approaching, bearing an elderly gentleman. 
 She looked but once, gave one wild cry, and rushed 
 into the house. Need I tell you, it was her uncle, 
 who had come to take her home, that she might 
 have the privilege of bidding her sister a last fare- 
 well ? She read in his silent and mournful counte- 
 nance the painful truth. But long ere she reached 
 home, reason had fled from that lovely brow, and 
 she met no familiar greeting from the dearly-cher- 
 ished one. But at last the dread summons came ; 
 the last sigh was heard, and her sweet spirit passed 
 away. Then the news flew over hill and dale, to 
 that band of mourning scholars, and touched a 
 chord in every bosom. Never did school seem so 
 completely stripped of every pleasure as it did then. 
 And with the news came a kind invitation, from the 
 heart-stricken parents, requesting the attendance of 
 both teacher and scholars at the funeral. This 
 request they complied with ; and as carriage after 
 carriage rolled up to the door, bearing its burden 
 of loved schoolmates, they noiselessly entered the 
 house of death, to greet the lonely sister with tears. 
 How sad and how changed the scene ! The lovely 
 
THE TALE OF THE FIREFLY. 89 
 
 Flora, who was ever ready to meet friends with a 
 smile, was then shrouded for the tomb. And as the 
 bell tolled a requiem low, each loving friend 
 dropped a silent tear for her who had gone “ to that 
 land from whose bourn no traveller returns. •* 
 
 THE TALE OF THE FIREFLY. 
 
 On the evening of a hot and sultry summer day, 
 Maria, a poor widow, sat at the open window of her 
 little chamber, and gazed out upon the neat orchard 
 which surrounded her cottage. The grass had been 
 mown in the morning, but the heat of the sun had 
 soon dried it. She had already gathered it into 
 heaps, and the sweet smell of the hay now blew into 
 her chamber, as if to refresh and strengthen her after 
 her labor. The glow of sunset was already fading 
 upon the border of the clear and cloudless sky, and 
 the moon shone calm and bright into the little 
 chamber, shadowing the square panes of the half- 
 open^window, together with the grape vine which 
 adorned it, upon the nicely-sanded floor. Little 
 Ferdinand, a boy of six years of age, stood leaning 
 

 
 90 
 
 THE TALE OF THE FIREFLY. 
 
 against the window frame ; his blooming face and 
 yellow locks, with a portion of his white, clean shirt 
 sleeves and scarlet vest, were distinctly visible in 
 the moonlight. 
 
 The poor woman was sitting thus to rest herself, 
 perhaps. But oppressive as had been the labor of 
 the sultry day, yet a heavier burden weighed upon 
 her bosom, and rendered her forgetful of her weari- 
 ness. 
 
 She had eaten but a spoonful or two of her supper, 
 which consisted of bread and milk. Little Ferdi- 
 nand was also greatly disturbed, but did not speak, 
 because he saw that his mother was so sorrowful ; 
 having observed that his mother, instead of eating, 
 wept bitterly, he laid aside his spoon, and the earth- 
 en dish stood upon the table almost as full as when 
 served up. 
 
 Maria was left a widow in the early part of the 
 previous spring. Her deceased husband, one of the 
 worthiest men of the village, had, by industry and 
 economy, saved a sum of money sufficient to purchase 
 the little cottage, with its neat meadow, though not 
 entirely free from encumbrance. The industrious 
 man had planted the green and cheerful field with 
 young trees, which already bore the finest fruit. He 
 had chosen Maria for his wife, although she was a 
 
 
(§) - - - @ 
 
 THE TALE OF THE FIREFLY. 91 
 
 poor orphan, and her parents had been able to give 
 her nothing more than a good education ; he had 
 chosen her because she was known as the most pious, 
 industrious, and well-behaved maiden in the village. 
 They had lived happy together. But the typhus 
 fever broke out in the village, and her husband died. 
 Having nursed him with the greatest tenderness, she 
 was herself attacked with it after his death, and 
 barely escaped with life. 
 
 Her husband^s sickness and her own had thrown 
 them much behindhand ; but now she must even 
 part with her little cottage. Her deceased husband 
 had long labored for the richest peasant in the coun- 
 try, a man by the name of Meyer. * The peasant, 
 who highly esteemed him on account of his fidelity 
 and industry, had lent him three hundred crowns to 
 purchase this cottage and ground belonging to it, 
 upon the condition that he would pay ofi:* fifty 
 crowns yearly, twenty-five in money and twenty-five 
 in labor. Until the year that he was taken sick, her 
 husband had faithfully performed his agreement, and 
 the debt now amounted to but fifty crowns. Maria 
 knew all this very well. 
 
 Meyer now died of the same disease. The heirs, 
 a son and a daughter-in-law, found the note for 
 three hundred crowns among the papers of the de- 
 
 © ■= - — =@ 
 
©: 
 
 
 92 
 
 THE TALE OP THE FIREFLY. 
 
 ceased. They did not know a word about the aflfair, 
 as the old man had never spoken of it to them. 
 The terrified woman assured them, called Heaven to 
 witness, that her deceased husband had paid off the 
 whole except fifty crowns. But all was of no avail. 
 The young peasant called her a shameless liar, and 
 summoned her before a court of law. As she could 
 not prove that any thing had been paid, it was de- 
 cided that the whole claim was valid. The heirs 
 insisted upon payment, and as poor Maria had 
 nothing but her cottage and grounds, this little 
 property must now be sold. She had fallen upon 
 her knees before the heirs, and had prayed them not 
 to turn her out of doors ; little Ferdinand wept 
 with her — both wept ; but all was in vain. The 
 following morning was appointed for the sale. She 
 heard this an hour before, just as she had finished 
 her day^s work. A neighbor had called out over 
 the hedge and told it to her. 
 
 It was for this reason that she now sat so sorrow- 
 ful by the open window, glancing now upward to 
 the clear sky, now upon Ferdinand, and then gazing 
 steadily upon the floor. There was a sad silence. 
 
 “ Alas ! ” she said to herself, “ I have to-day, then, 
 raked the hay from the orchard for the last time. 
 The early yellow plums which I picked this morn- 
 
 
 
©— =@ 
 
 THE TALE OF THE FIREFLY. 93 
 
 ing for Ferdinand are the last fruit which the poor 
 boy will eat from the trees which his father planted 
 for him. Yes, this may be the last night we may 
 spend beneath this roof. By this time to-morrow, 
 this cottage will be another's property ; and who can 
 say but we shall be turned out at once ? Heaven 
 alone knows where we shall find a shelter to-morrow. 
 Perhaps under the open heavens ! She began to 
 sob violently. 
 
 Little Ferdinand, who until now had not moved, 
 came forward, and weeping, said, — 
 
 “ Mother, do not crji so bitterly, or else I cannot | 
 talk to you. Do you not know what father said, as j 
 he died there on that bed ? ^ Do not weep so,^ he | 
 said ; ‘ God is a Father to the poor widows and ' 
 orphans. Call upon him in thy distress, and he will 
 aid thee.^ This is what he said ; and is it not true, 
 then ? 
 
 “Yes, my dear child,” said the mother, “it is 
 true.” 
 
 “ Well,” said the boy, “ why do you weep so long, 
 then ? Pray, and he will help you.” 
 
 “ Good child, thou art right ! ” said his mother ; 
 and her tears flowed less bitterly, and comfort was 
 mingled with her sorrow. She folded her arms, and 
 raised her moist eyes towards heaven, and Ferdinand 
 
 
94 THE TALE OF THE FIREFLY. 
 
 folded his hands also, and looked upward, and the 
 bright moon shone upon mother and child. 
 
 And the mother began to pray, and the boy re- 
 peated every word after her : — 
 
 “ Great Father in heaven,’^ she said, “ look down 
 upon a poor mother and her child ; a poor widow 
 and poor orphan raise their eyes to thee. We are 
 in great need, and have no longer any refuge upon 
 the earth. But thou art rich in mercy. Thou hast 
 thyself said, ‘ Call upon me in the day of thy trou- 
 ble, and I will deliver thee.^ 0, to thee we pray. 
 Thrust us not from this dwelling ; take not all from 
 a poor orphan, his only little inheritance. Or if, in 
 thy mysterious but still most wise and benevolent 
 purposes, thou hast otherwise decreed, prepare for 
 us a resting-place upon the wide, vast earth. 0, 
 pour this consolation into our hearts, lest they break 
 as we wander forth, and from yonder hill turn to 
 look for the last time upon our house ! 
 
 Sobs interrupted her ; weeping, she gazed towards 
 heaven, and was silent. The boy, who yet stood 
 with folded hands, suddenly exclaimed, with out 
 stretched finger, — 
 
 “ Mother, look ! What is that? Yonder moves 
 a light. Yonder flies a little star. Look, there it 
 hurries by the window. 0, see, now it comes in. 
 
THE TALE OF THE FIREFLY. 
 
 95 
 
 How bright, how beautiful it shines ! Look, only 
 look ; it has a greenish light. It is almost as beauti- 
 ful as the evening star. Now it moves along the 
 ceiling. That is wonderful.^^ 
 
 ‘‘ It is a firefly, dear Ferdinand,’^ said his mother. 
 ‘‘In the daytime it is a small, unsightly insect, 
 but in the night it gives out a most beautiful 
 light.^' 
 
 “May I catch it?’’ said the boy. “Will it not 
 hurt me, and will the light not burn me ? ” 
 
 “ It will not burn thee,” said the mother ; and she 
 laughed, while the tears streamed down her cheeks. 
 
 “ Catch it, and examine it closer ; it is one of the 
 wonders of almighty power.” 
 
 The boy, entirely forgetful of his sorrow, at once 
 tried to catch the sparkling firefly, now on the floor, 
 now under the table, now under the chair. 
 
 “ Ah me, what a pity ! ” said the boy ; for, as he 
 stretched out his hand to catch the bright insect, it 
 flew behind the great chest that stood against the 
 wall. He looked under the chest. 
 
 “ I see it plainly enough,” he said ; “ there it is, 
 close against the wall ; and the white wall and the 
 floor, and every bit of dust near it, shines as if the 
 moon shone upon it ; but I cannot reach it ; my arm 
 is not long enough.” 
 
96 THE TALE OP THE FIREFLY. 
 
 “ Have patience/^ said the mother ; “ it will soon 
 come out again.^’ 
 
 The boy waited a little while, and then came to 
 his mother and said, with a soft, imploring voice, — 
 
 ^‘Mother, do you get it out for me, or move 
 the chest a little from the wall, and I can easily 
 catch it.” 
 
 The mother rose, moved the chest from the wall, 
 and the boy took the quiet firefly, examined it in 
 the hollow of his little hand, and was delighted 
 with it. 
 
 But his mother^s attention was attracted by a 
 different object. As she moved the chest, something 
 which had stuck between it and the wall fell upon 
 the floor. She uttered a loud cry as she picked 
 it up. 
 
 Ah,” she exclaimed, “ now all our trouble is over. 
 That is last yearns account book, which I have so 
 long looked for in vain. I thought it had been 
 destroyed as of no value, by strangers, perhaps, 
 while I lay senseless during my illness. Now it can 
 be shown that thy father paid the money that they 
 demand of us. Who would have thought that the 
 account book stuck behind the great chest which we 
 took with the cottage, and which has not been 
 moved since we bought it ? ” 
 
© L (5; 
 
 ^ THE TALE OF THE FIEEFLT. 97 
 
 ( She at once lighted a lamp, turned over the leaves 
 of the account, while tears of joy sparkled in her 
 eyes. Every thing was correctly put down ; the 
 sum which the deceased husband owed of three hun- 
 dred crowns at the beginning of the year, and what 
 ! he paid oJff in money and wo]k. Below stood the 
 following lines, written in old Meyer^s own hand : — 
 “ I have settled accounts with James Bloom to- 
 ^ day, (St. Martinis day,) and he now owes me fifty 
 crowns.” 
 
 The mother struck her hands together with joy, 
 embraced her child, and exclaimed with delight, — 
 
 “ 0 Ferdinand, give thanks, for we now need not 
 leave home ; now we can remain in our cottage.” 
 
 “ And I was the cause ; was I not, mother ? ” said 
 the little fellow. “ If I had not begged you to 
 move the chest, you never would have found the 
 book. It might have lain there a hundred years.” 
 The mother stood for a while in silent astonish- 
 ment, and then said, — 
 
 “ 0 my child, it was God^s doings. I feel a thrill 
 of awe and reverence when I reflect upon it. Look I 
 as we both prayed and wept, there came the spar- 
 kling firefly, and pointed out the.spot whore this book 
 was concealed. Yes, truly. Nothing comes by 
 chance. Even the hairs of our head are all num- 
 
 ^§> =- - — 
 
( 2 ): 
 
 98 
 
 - =@ 
 
 I 
 
 THE TALE OP THE FIREFLY. 
 
 bered ; not one of them falls to the ground without 
 his knowledge. Eemember this for thy life long, 
 and put thy trust in him, especially in time of need. 
 It is easy for him to aid and to save. He does not 
 need to send a shining angel to us. He can send us 
 help by a winged insect.^’ 
 
 The mother could not sleep that night for joy. 
 Soon after break of day she took her way to the 
 judge, who at once sent for the heir. He came. He 
 acknowledged the writing as genuine, and was much 
 ashamed of having slandered the woman before the 
 court, and having called her a liar. The judge de- 
 clared he owed her some recompense for the shame 
 and great sorrow which he had caused her. The 
 man was not willing to make atonement for his 
 injustice. 
 
 But when the poor woman had related the whole 
 account of her evening prayer, and the appearance 
 of the firefly, the judge said, — 
 
 ‘‘ That is the finger of God ; he has visibly helped 
 you.” 
 
 Young Meyer, however, was much moved, and 
 said, with tears in his eyes, — 
 
 “ Yes, it is so. He is the Father of the widow 
 and the fatherless, and their Avenger also. Pardon 
 me for harshness towards you ; I release you from 
 
 ( 6 ): 
 
© 
 
 1 
 
 the payment of the fifty crowns, and if you are at 
 any time in need, come to me, and I will assist you. 
 And if ever I come to want, or if my wife should be 
 a widow and my children orphans, may He help us 
 also, as he has helped you.” 
 
 COME HOME. 
 
 Brother dear, why dost thou stay 
 From thy home so long away ? 
 
 Know’st thou not fond ones are watching, 
 Praying for thee every day ? 
 
 When two years ago you left us. 
 
 Withered leaves were falling fast ; 
 
 Thickly were the rain drops pouring. 
 Hoarsely wailed the autumn blast. 
 
 Brother, in our household circle 
 Now is seen one vacant chair ; 
 
 Mother’s gone, and 0, how lonely 
 
 Seems our household — she’s not there ! 
 
 When she lay upon her death bed. 
 
 Oft she blest her absent son. 
 
 Prayed that she in heaven might meet you. 
 When your earthly race was run. 
 
 I 
 
 COME HOME. 99 
 
1 =© 
 
 
 100 
 
 SORROW AT THE COTTAGE. 
 
 SORROW AT THE COTTAGE. 
 
 Camly fell the silver moonlight 
 Over hill and over dal^ 
 
 As, with mournful hearts we lingered, 
 By the couch of Agnes Vale. 
 
 She was dying, — our sweet Agnes, — 
 She was passing, like a sigh. 
 
 From the world of love and beauty. 
 
 To a brighter home on high. 
 
 She was passing like a vision 
 Which may never more return. 
 
 Or like flowers which meekly wither 
 Round some lone, white bu.rial urn. 
 
 Brightly dawned the morrow’s morning 
 Over hill and over dale ; 
 
 Still with mournfurheart we lingered 
 By the side of Agnes Vale. 
 
 Softly through the trellised window, 
 Came the west wind’s gentle breath ; 
 
 ©: 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 © 
 
 
 101 
 
 But she heeded not its mildness, 
 
 For she slept the sleep of death. 
 
 Fondly ’mid her raven tresses 
 
 Twined we flowers of purest white ; 
 
 Then, beside yon little streamlet, 
 
 Laid they Agnes from our sight. 
 
 There she sleeps, our gentle sister. 
 Where the stars their light may shed, 
 
 In serene and holy quiet. 
 
 O’er the loved, the early dead. 
 
 But beyond the silver moonbeams, — 
 Ay, beyond the stars of night, — 
 
 Dwells the spirit of our Agnes, 
 
 In the home of angels bright. 
 
 ♦— 
 
 •ENNUI. 
 
 To live — to breathe — is a great task. 
 Greater than can be well performed ; 
 And who in this wide world, I ask. 
 
 Has raved, has fretted, and has stormed 
 Through life’s rough journey, but has found 
 That life’s a farce, with nothing in it ? 
 There’s not a wretch above the ground, 
 
 If life were ended, would begin it. 
 
 ©= ; = - 
 
102 
 
 COMFORT IN THE COTTAGE. 
 
 COMFORT IN THE COTTAGE. 
 
 I MET a child ; his feet were bare, 
 
 His weak frame shivered with the cold, 
 
 His youthful brow was knit by care, 
 
 His flashing eye his sorrow told. 
 
 Said I, Poor boy, why weepest thou ? 
 
 ‘‘ My parents both are dead,” he said ; 
 
 I have not where to lay my head. 
 
 0, 1 am lone and friendless now ! ” 
 
 Not friendless, child ; a Friend on high 
 For you his precious blood has given : 
 
 Cheer up, and bid each tear be dry — 
 
 There are no tears in heaven. 
 
 I saw a man, in life’s gay noon. 
 
 Stand weeping o’er his young bride’s bier ; 
 
 ‘‘ And must we part,” he cried, ‘‘ so soon ! ” 
 
 As down his cheek there rolled a tear. 
 
 ‘‘ Heart-stricken one,” said I, “ weep not.” 
 “ W eep not ! ” in accents wild he cried ; 
 ‘‘ But yesterday my loved one died. 
 
 And shall she be so soon forgot ? ” 
 Forgotten ? No ! still let her love 
 Sustain thy heart, with anguish riven ; 
 
COMFORT IN THE COTTAGE. 
 
 103 
 
 Strive thou to meet thy bride above, 
 
 And dry your tears in heaven. 
 
 I saw a gentle mother weep, 
 
 As to her throbbing heart she pressed 
 An infant, seemingly asleep, 
 
 On its kind mother’s sheltering breast. 
 
 “ Fair one,” said I, “ pray, weep no more.” 
 Sobbed she, “ The idol of my hope 
 I now am called to render up ; 
 
 My babe has reached death’s gloomy shore.” 
 Young mother, yield no more to grief. 
 
 Nor be by passion’s tempest driven. 
 
 But find in these sweet words relief. 
 
 There are no tears in heaven.” 
 
 Poor traveller o’er life’s troubled wave, — 
 
 Cast down by grief, o’er whelmed by care, — 
 There is an arm above can save ; 
 
 Then yield not thou to fell despair. 
 
 Look upward, mourners, look above ! 
 
 What though the thunders echo loud. 
 
 The sun shines bright beyond the cloud ; 
 
 Then trust in thy Redeemer’s love. 
 Where’er thy lot in life be cast, 
 
 Whate’er of toil or woe be given, — 
 
 Be firm — remember to the last, 
 
 “ There are no tears in heaven.” 
 
© : 
 
 104 MY MOTHER, MOTHER, MOTHER. 
 
 
 MY MOTHER-MOTHER-MOTHER. 
 
 It is said that these were among the last words of 
 the great and lamented Henry Clay. 
 
 Mothers, learn here a lesson. Look at your sons 
 and daughters, and realize this important truth, that 
 in the nursery is laid the foundation of your child^s 
 future life. Instead of teaching them to play the 
 empty-headed coxcomb, and to Ute-ot-tHe a lifetime 
 away in nonsense, teach them the path of true great- 
 ness and usefulness. Who are the men who have 
 adorned human nature, and reflected a halo of glory 
 upon their country ? They are, with few exceptions, 
 those whp in infancy learned to clasp their tiny 
 hands and kneel at a mother^s side, and dedicated 
 their hearts to the Father of Spirits. 
 
 A mother^s hallowed influence never dies. The 
 boy never forgets his mother’s love. Though he 
 may wander far from home, and engage in many 
 vices, yet that mother’s voice, soft and tender, that 
 fell upon his ear in infancy, is borne upon many a 
 
 
© ' ' ■ = @ 
 
 MY MOTHER, MOTHER, MOTHER. 105 
 
 passing breeze, and whispers, “ My son, my son, re- 
 member a mother’s love ; how she has taught you to 
 pray, and reverence the God of mercy.” 
 
 Seventy-five long years has been numbered with 
 the past ; scenes, political and national, warm and 
 exciting, have passed away ; near fifty years had 
 marked the resting-place of that Christian woman, 
 when her noble son, upon a bed of death, is heard 
 calling for “my mother, mother, mother.” Sweet 
 words for the lips of one who owed his greatness to 
 the maternal care of a mother’s love. 
 
 Mothers, do you wish your sons to honor you in 
 the busy conflicts of life, to be ornaments to society, 
 to call you in the cold hour of death ? Then act to 
 them a mother’s part — teach them the way of 
 virtue, of morality and religion. 
 
 Our cities and country have too many young men 
 and boys destitute of the first principles of virtue, 
 who are strangers to good breeding, and know 
 nothing of the means of usefulness. They have 
 been brought up in idleness, the mother of vice ; 
 foolish and silly mothers have instilled in their 
 minds false ideas of what constitutes a gentleman, 
 and they are taught to look with disdain upon their 
 betters. Had such characters met with a Franklin 
 or a Clay, when the former was a poor, honest 
 
 ^ ■ -• -- © 
 
© —' ■ @ 
 
 I 106 MT MOTHER, MOTHER, MOTHER. 
 
 apprentice at the printer's trade, or with the latter in 
 the slashes of Hanover, riding his father^s horse to 
 mill, they would have curled the lip of contempt, 
 and turned away from so unsightly an object. To 
 converse with such is impossible. Their words are 
 as wind, their minds as chaff, and their souls as 
 vapor. They have no moral nor intellectual form 
 nor comeliness. Their views, if they have any, are 
 of the lowest order. Why is this ? Is it owing to 
 their natural incapacity? No ; but it is traceable 
 to a defective early education. No mother was 
 there properly and duly qualified to take charge of 
 the infant mind. Instead of teaching them the 
 means of usefulness, that woman that gave them 
 birth would tell them of “ their blood,^^ which, if 
 honestly traced, had run through the veins of many 
 a culprit or penitentiary convict ; or of their riches, 
 
 I 
 
 which, if truth were known, were obtained by extor- 
 tion and many other unlawful means. They grow 
 up with such impressions, and soon find a disgrace- 
 ful end. Then the mother weeps over the disgrace 
 her son has brought upon the memory of the fam- 
 ily, and blames his associates for it, not thinking 
 that she, and only she, is to blame for the whole 
 of it. 
 
 Mothers, the destinies of your children depend 
 @ — 
 
© 
 
 — — = f 
 
 SOME MURMUR WHEN THEIR SKY IS CLEAR. 107 
 
 upon you. Watch their infant minds, properly cul- 
 tivate their moral sensibilities, and walk yourselves 
 in the paths you would have them to walk. 
 
 SOME MURMUR WHEN THEIR SKY IS 
 CLEAR. 
 
 Some murmur when their sky is clear 
 And wholly bright to view, 
 
 If one small speck of dark appear 
 In their great heaven of blue ; 
 
 And some with thankful love are filled, 
 If but one streak of light, 
 
 One ray of God’s good mercy, gild 
 The darkness of their night. 
 
 In palaces are hearts that ask. 
 
 In discontent and pride. 
 
 Why life is such a dreary task, 
 
 And all good things denied ; 
 
 And hearts in poorest huts admire 
 How love has in their aid 
 (Love that not ever seems to tire) 
 
 Such rich provision made . » 
 
108 
 
 •TEARS. 
 
 TEARS. 
 
 — ♦— 
 
 There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the 
 mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more 
 eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are 
 the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep con- 
 trition, of unspeakable love. If there were wanting 
 any argument to prove that man is immortal, I 
 would look for it in the strong convulsive emotion 
 of the breast when the soul has been deeply agitated, 
 when the fountains of feeling are rising, and tears 
 are gushing forth in crystallic streams. 0, speak not 
 harshly of the stricken one, weeping in silence. 
 Break not the solemnity by rude laughter or intru- 
 sive footsteps. Despise not a woman’s tears ; they 
 are what makes her an angel. Scoff not if the 
 stern heart of manhood is sometimes melted to tears 
 of sympathy ; they are what help to elevate him 
 above the brute. I love to see tears of affection. 
 They are painful tokens, but most holy. There is a 
 pleasure in tears, an awful pleasure. If there were 
 none on earth to shed a tear for me, I should be loath 
 to live ; and if no one might weep over my grave, I 
 could never die in peace. 
 
MY ANGEL LOVE. 
 
 MY ANGEL LOVE. 
 
 I GAZED down life’s dim labyrinth, 
 
 A wildering maze to see, 
 
 Crossed o’er by many a tangled clew. 
 And wild as wild could be ; 
 
 And as I gazed in doubt and dread, 
 An Angel came to me. 
 
 I knew him for a heavenly guide, 
 
 I knew him even then, 
 
 Though meekly as a child he stood 
 Among the sons of men ; 
 
 By his deep spirit-loveliness 
 I knew him even then. 
 
 And as I leaned my weary head 
 Upon his proffered breast. 
 
 And scanned the peril-haunted wild 
 From out my place of rest, 
 
 I wondered if the shining ones 
 Of Eden were more blessed. 
 
 For there was light within my gbul. 
 Light on my peaceful way. 
 
110 
 
 MY ANGEL LOVE. 
 
 And all around the blue above 
 The clustering starlight lay, 
 
 And easterly I saw upreared 
 The pearly gates of day. 
 
 So, hand in hand, we trod the wild, 
 
 My angel love and I, 
 
 His lifted wing all quivering 
 With tokens from the sky. 
 
 Strange my dull thought could not divine 
 ’Twas lifted but to fly ! 
 
 Again down life’s dim labyrinth 
 I grope my way alone, 
 
 While wildly through the midnight sky 
 Black, hurrying clouds are blown. 
 
 And thickly, in my tangled path. 
 
 The sharp, bare thorns are sown.. 
 
 Yet firm my foot, for well I know 
 The goal can not be far. 
 
 And ever, through the rifted clouds. 
 Shines out one steady star ; 
 
 For when my guide went up, he left 
 The pearly gates ajar. 
 
THE INFLUENCE OF WOMAN. Ill 
 
 THE INFLUENCE OF WOMAN. 
 
 It is by the promulgation of sound morals in the 
 community, and more especially by the training and 
 instruction of the young, that woman performs her 
 part towards the preservation of a free government. 
 It is generally admitted that public liberty, the per- 
 petuity of a free constitution, rests on the virtue 
 and intelligence of the community which enjoys it. 
 How is that virtue to be inspired, and how is that 
 intelligence to be communicated? Bonaparte once 
 asked Madame de Stael in what manner he could 
 most promote the happiness of France. Her reply 
 is full of political wisdom. She said, “ Instruct the 
 mothers of the French people. Mothers are, in- 
 deed, the affectionate and effective teachers of the 
 • human race. The mother begins her process of 
 training with the infant in her arms. It is she who 
 directs, sc to speak, its first mental and spiritual 
 pulsations. She conducts it along the impressible 
 years of childhood and youth, and hopes to deliver 
 it to the rough contests and tumultuous scenes of 
 
112 THE INFLUENCE OP WOMAN. 
 
 life, armed by those good principles her child has 
 received from maternal care and love. 
 
 If we draw within the circle of our contemplation 
 the mothers of a civilized nation, what do we see ? 
 We behold so many artificers working, not on frail 
 and perishable matter, but on the immortal mind, 
 moulding and fashioning beings who are to exist for- 
 ever. We applaud the artist whose skill and genius 
 present the mimic man upon the canvas ; we admire 
 and respect the sculptor who works out that same 
 image in enduring marble ; but how insignificant are 
 these achievements, though the highest and the fair- 
 est in all the departments of art, in comparison with 
 the great vocation of human mothers ! They work, 
 not upon canvas that shall fail, or the marble that 
 shall crumble into dust, but upon mind, upon spirit, 
 which is to last forever, and which is to bear, for 
 good or evil, throughout duration, the impress of a 
 mother^s plastic hand. 
 
 I have already expressed the opinion, which all 
 allow to be correct, that our security for the dura- 
 tion of the free institutions which bless our country 
 depends upon the habits of virtue, and the preva- 
 lence of knowledge and of education. Knowledge 
 does not comprise all which is contained in the 
 larger term of education. The feelings are to be 
 
©: 
 
 
 THE INFLUENCE OF WOMAN. 
 
 113 
 
 disciplined ; the passions are to be restrained ; the 
 true and worthy motives are to be inspired ; a pro- 
 found religious feeling is to be instilled and pure 
 morality inculcated under all circumstances. All 
 this is comprised in education. Mothers who are 
 faithful to this grand duty will tell their children 
 that neither in political nor in any other concerns 
 of life can man ever withdraw himself from the per- 
 petual obligations of conscience and of duty; that in 
 every act, whether public or private, he incurs a just 
 responsibility ; and that in no condition is he war- 
 rated in trifling with important rights and obliga- 
 tions. They will impress upon their children the 
 truth, that the exercise of the elective franchise is a 
 social duty, of as solemn a nature as man can be 
 called to perform ; that a man may not innocently 
 trifle with his vote ; that every free elector is a trus- 
 tee, as well for others as himself ; and that every 
 man and every measure he supports has an impor- 
 tant bearing on the interests of others as well as his 
 own. It is in the inculcation of high and pure 
 morals, such as these, that in a free republic woman 
 performs her sacred duty, and fulfils her destiny. 
 
 
 
 8 
 
114 THERE CAME AN ANGEL TO MY HOME. 
 
 THERE CAME AN ANGEL TO MY HOME. - 
 
 The frost had spoiled the flowers that wove 
 Their wreaths about my cot, 
 
 But could not chill the bloom of love, 
 
 The flower that fadeth not. 
 
 And though the autumn winds had reft 
 The clustering vines apart, 
 
 The birds that nested there had left 
 Their songs within my heart. 
 
 But ere the flowers returned to bloom. 
 
 Know ye the blessing given ? 
 
 There came an angel to my home, 
 
 The fairest out of heaven. 
 
 A blessed sprite, with wings concealed. 
 
 And some forgotten name, 
 
 And eyes whose holy depths revealed 
 The Eden whence she came. 
 
 Ah me ! the birds have never tried 
 Such songs as charmed my ear ; 
 
 The common sunshine dimmed beside 
 This sunshine, doubly dear. 
 
 What cared I then that wealth should come, 
 Or fame or friends be given ? 
 
THERE CAME AN ANGEL TO MY HOME. 115 
 
 (] 
 
 There dwelt an angel in my home, 
 
 The fairest out of heaven. 
 
 A tiny, dimpled form of grace, 
 
 A footfall here and there. 
 
 And kisses gushing o’er my face. 
 
 And through the glowing air. 
 
 And now, when o’er the cottage floor 
 The common sunshine streams. 
 
 The form she wore is there once more — 
 She dwelleth in my dreams. 
 
 For ere the second summer’s bloom 
 Its fragrant freight had given. 
 
 There went an angel from my home. 
 
 An angel back to heaven. 
 
 Ah me ! she was an angel blest. 
 
 Too bright for earth to claim ; 
 
 A tomb of love is in my breast, 
 O’erwritten with her name ; 
 
 A memory of exceeding bliss, 
 
 A yearning, crushing pain ; 
 
 A searching thought of happiness. 
 
 That will not come again. 
 
 Methinks those hearts are nearer home 
 That have^such lessons given ; 
 
 She sees no shadows in the tomb 
 Who hath a child in heaven. 
 
®= 
 
 =<§) 
 
 116 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 I AM sitting on the door stone of our loved, gladdened 
 home, 
 
 Watching for thy coming, mother, wondering if you will 
 not come, — 
 
 Every moment looking upward, if thy form I may not see 
 
 Coming back again, my mother, to thy loved ones and 
 to me. 
 
 Not for long have we been parted, — seven suns not yet 
 have set,* — 
 
 But the hours trail slowly onward, when their wings with 
 tears are wet; 
 
 And the life must not be measured by its weeks, or 
 months, or years. 
 
 But by sorrow and by gladness, by its happiness or tears. 
 
 Somewhere in this glorious sunshine, thou art on thy 
 homeward way. 
 
 In thy heart a pleasure thrilling, in thine eye a loving ray; 
 
 Thou wilt joy to meet us, mother, much as we to meet 
 with thee. 
 
 And I know you must be coming back to-day, to home 
 and me. 
 
 
 4 ) 
 
©: 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 
 117 
 
 Not for long have we been parted ; has that little while 
 been bright ? 
 
 Did not Pleasure fold around thee all her shining robes 
 of light ? 
 
 If she came not to thy spirit, if she lightened not thy 
 brow, 
 
 Then she ne’er should bless another, never worthier were 
 than thou. 
 
 Thou shouldst never dwell with Sorrow, thou who hast 
 been kind and good 
 
 To the lone and friendless orphan, in this cold world’s 
 solitude ; 
 
 Blessings countless, blessings brightest, on thy pathway 
 should be shed, 
 
 Thou whose hand hath lain in blessings on the helpless ' 
 orphan’s head. 
 
 Though I know of all earth’s forms least I do deserve 
 thy love, 
 
 Yet that same dear love I beg for every other good 
 above ; 
 
 And the swiftest shaft of sorrow which can pierce my 
 bleeding heart 
 
 Is, that I should grieve such goodness, or should act the 
 ingrate’s part. 
 
 I am sitting on the door step, watching, mother, still for 
 thee. 
 
 Peering through the glorious sunshine, if thy form I may 
 not see ; 
 
118 BE NOT DISHEABTENED. 
 
 Thinking o’er a thousand fancies I will whisper in thine 
 ear, 
 
 Which no ear as thine, my mother, half so patiently would 
 hear. 
 
 , 
 
 BE NOT DISHEARTENED. 
 
 A GENIAL moment oft has given 
 What years of toil and pain, 
 
 Of long, industrious toil, have striven 
 To win, and all in vain. 
 
 Yet count not, when thine end is won. 
 
 That labor merely lost ; 
 
 Nor say it had been wiser done 
 To spare the painful cost. 
 
 When heaped upon the altar lie 
 All things to feed the fire. 
 
 One spark alighting from on high. 
 
 The flames at once aspire. 
 
 But those sweet gums and fragrant woods, . 
 
 Its rich material rare. 
 
 By tedious quest o’er lands and floods 
 Had first been gathered there. 
 
 @ 
 
 (§> 
 

 DEATH OF A HOUSEHOLD TEEASUEE. 
 
 © 
 
 119 
 
 DEATH OF A HOUSEHOLD TREASURE. 
 
 It is well with the child, because she has left a 
 world of suffering and entered a world of boundless 
 enjoyment. This world is marked by suffering. 
 Wherever you go you find misery and woe. The 
 good and the bad, the virtuous and the vile, are 
 alike involved in distress and sorrow. It is a part 
 of life ; it belongs to man, and is necessary to his 
 discipline. It is not one stray thread in the fabric 
 of time, winding unseen amid the beautiful figures 
 on the tapestry of existence, but is interwoven with 
 every day’s toils and every night’s dreams. Man is 
 born to it as he is born to the sunlight and to the 
 beauties of nature. Its elements are in him and all 
 arctund him, and the very breath he draws is choked 
 with the inhalations of the pervading atmosphere. 
 Every organ of the physical nature is an inlet of 
 i pain as well as pleasure ; every nerve is the avenue 
 of intense and intolerable anguish, a railroad of fire 
 to bear in upon the soul the sharp distress, a tele- 
 
120 DEATH OF A HOUSEHOLD TREASURE. 
 
 graphic wire communicating between the outward 
 senses and the living spirit, over which passes an- 
 guish beyond endurance. The history of man is a 
 history of shipwrecks, disasters, accidents, perils, 
 spasms, plagues, graves. The body is a most perfect 
 organism, exquisite in all its parts, beautiful beyond 
 description ; but every part is susceptible to the 
 keenest anguish as well as to the highest enjoyment. 
 The eye looks out upon the glories of nature, de- 
 lights in views of surpassing beauty ; but it also 
 carries us to the sad scenes of crime and wrong, 
 reflects upon the interior life all that is malignant, 
 selfish, defiled, and cursed of earth. It measures an 
 angeks joys — it also takes in at a single glance a 
 deviljs torment. The ear bears into the temple of 
 the heart the melodious sounds without — the songs 
 of birds, the music of the cathedral, the harmony of 
 prayer, the eloquence of domestic life and love. It 
 also swells with the awful voice of profanity, the 
 sharp, shrill cry of distress, the wail of family dis- 
 cord, the dying groans of our friends, and all that 
 telleth of woe and suflfering. The taste, the smell, 
 the touch, all have avenues of pleasure, and all com- 
 municate the fiercest pain. 
 
 Beyond man, every thing is fitted to produce sor- 
 row as well as joy. Yon fire, — has it not consumed 
 
©: 
 
 DEATH OF A HOUSEHOLD TREASURE. 121 
 
 your dwelling, destroyed your property, and blis- 
 tered and blackened your own body ? Yon river, 
 moving your spindles, floating your commerce, — 
 has it not ingulfed your friends, or swept away 
 the lifeless bodies of your children ? Yon summer 
 gale, laden with the fragrance of roses and honey- 
 suckle, — has it not come to you or yours laden 
 with contagious disease, or sweeping into your 
 household the terrible pestilence? Yon heaven, 
 that smiles above your head, — has it not sent its 
 hail and snow, chilling your limbs, and consigning 
 you to disease ? 
 
 Society, designed by God to bless, framed together 
 for high and noble purposes, — has it not its evils ? 
 Whence come wars and fightings among you ? 
 What mean the constant and terrible convulsions of 
 social life ? They all speak one language, and con- 
 firm the declaration of the inspired penman, “ Man 
 is born unto trouble.^^ Reason, conscience, the 
 senses, nature, society — all things emit in turn 
 some jets of anguish, which fall like lava upon the 
 burning, suffering heart of those who trace their 
 origin to her who, guilty and detected, was exiled 
 from the bowers of Eden to a world of weeping, 
 tears, and death. This conviction that suffering is a 
 part of human existence cannot be evaded. As Dr. 
 
 
©- 
 
 122 
 
 -= @ 
 
 DEATH OF A HOUSEHOLD TREASURE. 
 
 I 
 
 ! 
 
 © 
 
 Charming beautifully remarks, Suffering is the 
 chief burden of history. It is the solemn theme of 
 one of the highest departments of literature — the 
 tragic drama. It gives to fictions their deep inter- 
 est. It wails through much of our poetry. A large 
 part of human vocations are intended to shut up 
 some of its avenues. It has left its traces on every 
 human countenance over which years have passed. 
 It is not to a very few the most vivid recollection 
 of life.’^ 
 
 Suffering, then, being a part of human life, inter- 
 woven with every year of its progress, and pre- 
 sented by the evolution of its epochs, it follows that 
 one who escapes from life early escapes from a deep, 
 surging ocean of calamities — passes away from a 
 world where heaven and earth combine to enforce 
 the penalty of sin. The early death of your child 
 and mine is not a calamity. The little one that we 
 loved so tenderly is taken from all suffering to a 
 world of endless pleasure. In infinite love God 
 stooped down and took the spirit up to dwell with 
 him, where there is no night, no mourning, no death. 
 While tia child lived, our hearts were torn with the 
 anguish we saw ; our ears tingled with the groans 
 we heard ; day and night we wept for sorrows we 
 could not allay, and pains we could not relieve. 
 
 
 © 
 
@ ■ - — @ 
 
 DEATH OF A HOUSEHOLD TREASURE. 123 
 
 But the end of sufferings has come, and the child is 
 received to a world where sorrow is unknown. She 
 did not live to sing with the licentious poet, — 
 
 “ My days are as the yellow leaf ; 
 
 The flowers and fruit of love are gone ; 
 
 The worm, the canker, and the grief 
 Are mine alone.” 
 
 But before sin had stamped its seal upon the heart, 
 or crime had discolored the pages of the daily life, 
 she went to God. 
 
 “ She died before her infant soul 
 
 Had ever burned with wrong desires, 
 
 Had ever spurned at Heaven’s control. 
 
 Or ever quenched its sacred fires.” 
 
 She looked upon the world, and saw its vanity ; she 
 tried life, and found it full of sorrow, and, smiling, 
 turned away. And 0, what parent would chain his 
 child to this dungeon world, to this night-shadowed 
 land, when angels are beckoning, when heavenly 
 doors are opened, when Christ himself stands ready 
 to lead the little trembling pilgrim in ? I know what 
 would have been the last words of the child, could 
 her infant lips have spoken ; I know with what 
 thrilling accents she would have said, as she unwound 
 herself from the tender arms that enfolded her, 
 “ Let me go.^^ 
 
124 DEATH OF A HOUSEHOLD TREASURE. 
 
 *' Father ! the pearly gates unfold, 
 
 The sapphire walls, the streets of gold, 
 
 Are bursting on my sight ; 
 
 The angel bands come singing down, 
 
 And one has got my starry crown, 
 
 And one my robe of white. 
 
 “ Poising above on silvery wing. 
 
 They’re waiting my freed soul to bring 
 To its new home above ; 
 
 There, folded to my Savior’s breast, 
 
 How sweet, how full will be my rest 
 Beneath his eye of love ! 
 
 ** Thou wouldst not hold me longer here. 
 
 Though well I know that many a tear 
 For my dear sake will flow. 
 
 The morning dawns upon my sight ; 
 
 How long, how dark has been the night ! 
 
 Father ! I go, I go.” 
 
 It is well with the child also, because she has left 
 a world of sin, and entered a world of perfect holi- 
 ness. Sin is universal. It is a product of all 
 climes, an inhabitant of all lands, and has been 
 familiar with all ages. It is entailed upon us ; it 
 comes in a line of hereditary succession from sire to 
 son, and its monuments are every where. That 
 dark, gloomy prison there, with its iron doors, its 
 grated windows, and its sentineled towers, is a mon- 
 
© 
 
 DEATH OF A HOUSEHOLD TREASURE. 125 
 
 ument of sin. That insane asylum, with its crowd 
 of idiots and its company of raving maniacs ; — that 
 blind asylum, with its unfortunate beings, straining 
 " I their sightless eyes to catch some glimpse of the 
 I beautiful objects of nature ; — the deaf and dumb 
 asylur:., where are those who never heard the ripple 
 of the lake, the murmur of the breeze, the gush of 
 mellow music from the young birds, the chanting of 
 a company of choristers ; who never spake one word 
 of love or hate ; who never sang or prayed ; who 
 never lisped the name of wife or child, Christ or 
 God ; — that hospital, with its wards of cripples, its 
 rooms of f*^vered ones, its cells of mad ones, its 
 halls of mourning ones, — are all monuments of sin. 
 The plain, covered with soldiers rushing into deadly 
 battle ; the gibbet on the prison wall, on which 
 dangles a human being ; the melancholy funeral of 
 the suicide, — all are trophies of sin. The drunkard 
 reeling to his fall ; the criminal going chained to 
 his labor ; the murderer skulking at night along the 
 deserted street, — are all evidences of sin. Sin has 
 left its tracks on the tops of the mountains, and in 
 the beds of rivers, on the sands of the desert, and 
 by the wayside. The picture which Pollok drew 
 of the fearful prevalence of crime has not yet ceased 
 to be true ; the dark, dark interweaving of crime 
 
 
126 DEATH OF A HOUSEHOLD TKEASUEE. 
 
 which he saw and deplored, we only need a full 
 yiew of life to behold : — 
 
 “ Satan raged loose, Sin had her will, and Deaths 
 Enough. Blood trod upon the heels of Blood j 
 Revenge, in desperate mood, at midnight met 
 Revenge. War brayed to War, Deceit deceived 
 Deceit. Lie cheated Lie, and Treachery 
 Mined under Treachery ; and Perjury 
 Swore back on Perjury ; and Blasphemy 
 Arose with hideous Blasphemy, and curse 
 Loud answering curse ; and drunkard stumbling fell 
 O’er drunkard fallen ; and husband husband met 
 Returning from each other’s bed defiled ; 
 
 Thief stole from thief; and robber on the way 
 Knocked robber down ; and Lewdness, Violence, 
 
 And Hate met Lewdness, Violence, and Hate.” 
 
 Now, the child who is introduced into such a 
 world walks amid continual dangers, and though 
 we fondly hope that our children will escape the 
 dreadful influences of sin, we do not know. Who 
 fills the prisons ? Who supplies candidates for gib- 
 bets ? Who furnishes the suicides ? Who swells 
 the mighty tide of sorrow and vice? The lost, 
 fallen ones of earth were soraebody^s children I 
 They had mothers who nursed them tenderly, and 
 fathers who counselled them wisely, and hearts that 
 loved them fondly. We recoil from the idea that 
 
 
 :( 0 ) 
 
DEATH OF A HOUSEHOLD TREASURE. 127 
 
 our children will ever become lost and degraded. 
 The bare suggestion seems an insult to the heart of 
 parental love, and none believe it of their own. 
 But where is the safeguard ? Who will give me a 
 pledge that my son will not bring my hairs with 
 sorrow to the grave ? Who can tell me that my 
 daughter, had she lived, would not have wrung my 
 heart with anguish, and made me curse the hour 
 wherein she was born ? 
 
 There was an angel once who stood before God. 
 Age after age be swept the harpstrings, and cheru- 
 bim and seraphim came from the uttermost heaven 
 to hear his song, as it rolled out, sweeter and purer 
 than all the rest. But sin entered that angel heart ; 
 he fell ; his shriek echoed through the skies, and 
 gave fearful evidence that all was lost. And now, 
 scarred and blackened, he liveth only to destroy. 
 Good men fly from him ; angels turn their faces 
 from him as they meet him in the air, and God de- 
 nounces him as his most terrible foe. So the cherub 
 things that lie cradled on your breast sometimes 
 change to fiends of vengeance and despair. 
 
 But if the child die in early life, this life of sin is 
 escaped entirely ; these pitfalls are all avoided. 
 The child is rendered to God ; the body lies in the 
 ground, and the spirit ascends to heaven. 0, there 
 
128 DEATH OF A HOUSEHOLD TREASURE. 
 
 it is safe from temptations and sins. Had it re- 
 mained here we know not what it might have been ; 
 but now we know what it will forever be. No tear 
 can dim that angel eye ; no grief can stain that 
 angel cheek ; no discord can mar that angel song. 
 The dark wing of sin will not hang over that spirit, 
 but in the full, broad blaze of an eternal day it will 
 forever live. 
 
 It is well with the child! We have had a sor- 
 rowful parting. Tears have been freely shed, and 
 mourning has been put on ; but it is well with the 
 child. 
 
 “ ’Tis better far in childhood’s 
 Friendless years, ere sorrows come and cares of earth 
 Enslave us, sweetly to fall asleep and 
 Wake in heaven.” 
 
 It must be to the pious parent a source of holy 
 satisfaction that he has a child safe in glory. Day 
 after day, as he watches the struggle with death, he 
 sees in the light of his exalted faith the effort of the 
 soul to break the chrysalis of time and soar away. 
 And when the contest is over, and the little hands 
 are folded upon the tender breast, he knows that 
 his child is with the holy angels. He seems to stand 
 on the shore of a river, on the other side of which 
 is the city of God, of whose beautiful palaces he 
 
WHEN I AM OLD. 129 
 
 now and then catches a glimpse, and whose music 
 now and then steals deliciously upon his senses. 
 
 “ Time is a river deep and wide, 
 
 And while along its banks we stray, 
 
 We see our loved ones o’er its tide 
 Sail from our sight away, away. 
 
 Where are they sped — they who return 
 No more to glad our longing eyes ? 
 
 They’ve passed from life’s contracted bourn 
 To land unseen, unknown, that lies 
 
 Beyond the river.” 
 
 WHEN I AM OLD. 
 
 When I am old — and O, how soon 
 Will life’s sweet morning yield to noon, 
 And noon’s broad, fervid, earnest light 
 Be shrouded in the solemn night ; 
 
 Till like a story well nigh told 
 Will seem my life — when I am old. 
 
 When I am old — this breezy earth 
 Will lose for me its voice of mirth ; 
 
 The streams will have an under tone 
 Of sadness, not by right their own ; 
 
 And spring’s sweet power in vain unfold 
 In rosy charms — when I am old. 
 
130 
 
 POP, GOES THE QUESTION. 
 
 POP, GOES THE QUESTION 
 
 List to me, sweet maiden, pray ; 
 
 Pop, goes the question ! 
 
 Will you marry me, yea or nay ? 
 
 Pop, goes the question ! 
 
 Pve no time to plead or sigh, 
 
 No patience to wait for by and by ; 
 Snare me now, I’m sure to fly ; 
 
 Pop, goes the question ! 
 
 “ Ask papa,” 0, fiddle de dee ! 
 
 Pop, goes the question ! 
 
 Fathers and lovers can never agree ; 
 
 Pop, goes the question ! 
 
 He can’t tell what I want to know. 
 Whether you love me, sweet, or no ; 
 To ask him would be very slow ; 
 Pop, goes the question ! 
 
 I think we’d make such a charming pair ; 
 
 Pop, goes the question ! 
 
 For I’m good looking, and you’re very fair ; 
 Pop, goes the question ! 
 
 
©:= - - @ 
 
 POP, GOES THE QUESTION. 131 I 
 
 We’ll travel life’s road in a gallant style, 
 And you shall drive every other mile^ 
 
 O, if it pleases you, all the while ; 
 
 Pop, goes the question ! 
 
 If we don’t have an enchanting time, 
 
 Pop, goes the question 1 
 I’m sure it will be no fault of mine ; 
 
 Pop, goes the question ! 
 
 To be sure, my funds make a feeble shew ; 
 But love is a nourishing food, you know 
 And cottages rent uncommonly low ; 
 
 Pop, goes the question ! 
 
 Then answer me quickly, darling, pray ; 
 
 Pop, goes the question ! 
 
 Will you marry me, yea or nay ? 
 
 Pop, goes the question ! 
 
 I’ve no time to plead or sigh, 
 
 No patience to wait for by and by ; 
 
 Snare me now, or I’m going to fly ; 
 
 Pop, goes the question ! 
 
THE WHOLE FAMILY. 
 
 132 
 
 THE WHOLE FAMILY. 
 
 Philosophy is rarely found. The most perfect 
 sample I ever met was an old woman, who was 
 apparently the poorest and the most forlorn of the 
 human species — so true is the maxim which all pro- 
 fess to believe, and none act upon invariably, viz. , 
 “ that happiness does not depend upon outward 
 circumstances.” The wise woman to whom I have 
 alluded walks to Boston, a distance of twenty or 
 thirty miles, to sell a bag of brown thread and 
 stockings, and then patiently walks back again with 
 her little gains. Her dress, though tidy, is a col- 
 lection of “ shreds and patches,” coarse in the 
 extreme. 
 
 Why don’t you come down in a wagon ? ” said 
 I, when I observed that she was wearied with her 
 long journey. 
 
 “We hain’t got any horse,” she replied; “the 
 neighbors are very kind to me, but they can’t spare 
 theirn, and it would cost as much to hire one as all 
 my thread would come to.” 
 

 THE WHOLE FAMILY. 133 
 
 “You have a husband — don’t he do any thing 
 for you ? ” I 
 
 “ He is a good man ; he does all he can, but he’s ! 
 a cripple and an invalid. He reels my yarn and 
 mends the children’s shoes. He is as kind a hus- 
 band as a woman need to have.” 
 
 “ But his being: a cripple is a heavy misfortune to 
 you,” said I. 
 
 “ Why, ma’am, I don’t look upon it in that light,” 
 replied the thread woman. “ I consider that I have 
 a great reason to be thankful that he never took to 
 any bad habits.” 
 
 “ How many children have you ? ” 
 
 “ Six sons and five daughters, ma’am.” 
 
 “ Six sons and five daughters I Why, what a 
 family for a poor woman to support ! ” 
 
 “It is a family, ma’am ; but there ain’t one of ’em 
 I’d be willing to lose. They are all as healthy chil- 
 dren as need to be, — all willing to work, and all 
 clever to me. Even the smallest boy, when he gets 
 a cent now and then for doing an errand, will be 
 always sure to bring it to me.” 
 
 “ Do your daughters spin your thread ? ” 
 
 “ No, ma’am ; as soon as they are big enough they 
 go out to service, as I don’t want to keep them 
 always delving for me ; they are always willing to 
 ■ -= ■ ■ 
 
134 A SONG. 
 
 give me what they can ; but it^s right and fair that 
 they should do a little for themselves. I do all my 
 spinning after all the folks are gone to bed.'' 
 
 Don't you think you would be better off if you 
 had no one but yourself to provide for ? " 
 
 “ Why, no, ma'am, I don’t. If I had not been 
 married, I should always have to work as hard as I 
 could ; and now I can't do no more than that. My 
 children are always a great comfort to me, and I 
 look forward to the time when they will do as much 
 for me as I have always done for them." 
 
 Here was true philosophy ! I learned a lesson 
 from that poor woman which I shall not soon forget. 
 
 — 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 — # — 
 
 Come into the garden, Maud ; 
 
 For the black bat, Night, has flown : 
 
 Come into the garden, Maud ; 
 
 I am here at the gate alone ; 
 
 And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, 
 
 And the musk of the roses blown. 
 

 I AM FORGOTTEN KOW. 135 
 
 I AM FORGOTTEN NOW. 
 
 The autumn leaves are perishing, 
 
 The winter winds have come 
 To chill the waves where zephyr’s wings 
 Had gathered its perfume ; 
 
 The autumn flowers lie pale and dead ; 
 
 No dew can bid them glow ; 
 
 Like them, my hopes have wildly fled — 
 I am forgotten now. 
 
 Thou movest in the lighted hall, 
 
 Where beauty’s lights are poured. 
 
 And there, the brightest of them all, 
 
 Art cherished and adored ; 
 
 Thou sweepest through the mazy dance, 
 
 And listest love tones low ; 
 
 Ah, by that gentle smile and glance — 
 
 I am forgotten now. 
 
 Why should I ask a heart like thine 
 A darkened shade to wear ? 
 
 It is too beautiful a shrine 
 
 To cloud with hues of care : | 
 
 -■© 
 
 c 
 
136 don’t look on the dark side. 
 
 Float on, float on in thy sweet dream ; 
 
 It suits thy fair young brow ; 
 
 I read in thy young beauty’s gleam — 
 I am forgotten now. 
 
 DON’T LOOK ON THE DARK SIDE. 
 
 Don’t look on the dark side ! Turn over the leaf ; 
 
 See — a beautiful picture awaits you ; 
 
 Why study with care the pale outline of grief 
 When life-tinted hope may elate you ? 
 
 Don’t look on the dark side ! Your sadness and gloom 
 Will spread like a pestilence round you ; 
 
 Si.ch moping is selflsh ; give cheerfulness room ; 
 
 Let the balm of its atmosphere bound you. 
 
 Don’t look on the dark side ! There’s brightness enough 
 In the world, if you only view it ; 
 
 To fret is ungrateful ; your way may be rough, 
 
 But ( omplaining with briers will strew it. 
 
 Don’t look on the dark, side ! Or, if ’tis all dark, 
 
 If night and a storm both are given, 
 
 Remember, though clouds veil each luminous spark, 
 
 The stars are yet shining in heaven. 
 
THE TRUE WIFE. 
 
 
 =@ 
 
 137 
 
 THE TEUE WIFE. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 She is no true wife who sustains not her husband 
 in the day of calamity ; who is not, when the world^s 
 great frown makes the heart chill with anguish, his 
 guardian angel, growing brighter and more beauti- 
 ful as misfortunes crowd along his path. Then is 
 the time for trial of her gentleness ; then is the 
 time for testing whether the sweetness of her temper 
 beams only with the transient light, or, like the 
 steady glory of the morning star, shines as brightly 
 under the clouds. Has she smiles just as charming ? 
 Does she say, “ Affliction cannot touch our purity, 
 and should not quench our love ? ” Does she try, by 
 happy little inventions, to lift from his sensitive 
 spirit the burden of thought. 
 
 There are wives — no ! there are beings, who, 
 when the dark hours come, fall to repining and 
 upbraiding, — thus adding to outside anxiety the 
 harrowing scenes of domestic strife, — as if the 
 blame in the world would make one hair white or 
 
 © - - ■ - 
 
13S THE TRUE WIFE. 
 
 black, o: change the decree gone forth. Such know 
 not that our darkness is heaven’s light — our trials 
 are but steps in a golden ladder, by which, if we 
 rightly ascend, we may at last gain that eternal 
 light, and bathe forever in its fulness and beauty. 
 
 “I? that allV* and the gentle face of the wife 
 beamed with joy. Her husband had been on the 
 verge of distraction ; all his earthly possessions 
 were gone, and he feared the result of her knowl- 
 edge, she had been so tenderly cared for all her 
 life. But, says Irving’s beautiful story, “a friend 
 advised him to give not sleep to his eyes, nor slum- 
 ber to his eyelids, until he had unfolded to her all 
 his hapless case.” 
 
 And that was her answer, with the smile of an 
 angel — ‘ Is that all ? I feared by your sadness it 
 was worse. Let these things be taken — all this 
 splendor, let it go. I care not for it ; I only care 
 for my husband’s love and confidence. You shall 
 forget in my affection that you were ever in pros- 
 perity ; only still love me, and I will aid you to bear 
 these little reverses with cheerfulness.” 
 
 Still love her ! Her a man must reverence, ay, and 
 liken her to the very angels, for such a woman is a 
 living revelation of heaven. 
 
BROTHER, COME HOME. 
 
 139 
 
 BROTHER, COME HOME. 
 
 Come home : 
 
 Would I CDuld send my spirit o’er the deep ! 
 
 Would I could wing it like a bird to thee, 
 
 To commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep 
 With these unvarying words of melody : — 
 
 ^ Brother, come home ! 
 
 Come home : 
 
 Come to the hearts that love thee, to the eyes 
 That beam in brightness but to gladden thine ; 
 
 Come where fond thoughts like holiest incense rise. 
 Where cherished memory rears her altar shrine : — 
 Brother, come home ! 
 
 Come home : 
 
 Come to the hearthstone of thine earlier days ; 
 
 Come to the ark, like the overwearied dove ; 
 
 Come with the sunlight of thine heart’s warm rays ; 
 Come to the fireside circle of thy love : — 
 
 Brother, come home ! 
 
140 
 
 BROTHER, COME HOME. 
 
 Come home : 
 
 It is not horn 3 without thee ; the lone seat 
 
 Is still unclaimed, where thou wert wont to be ; 
 In every echo of returning feet 
 
 In vain we list for what should herald thee : — 
 Brother, come home ! 
 
 Come home : 
 
 We’ve nursed for thee the sunny buds of spring; 
 
 Watched every germ a full blown floweret near ; 
 Saw o’er their bloom the chilly winter bring 
 Its icy garlands, and thou art not here : — 
 Brother, come home ! 
 
 Come home : 
 
 Would I could send my spirit o’er the deep ; 
 
 Would I could wing it like a bird to thee ; 
 
 To commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep 
 With these unvarying words of melody : — 
 Brother, come home ! 
 
THE WAYSIDE. 
 
 
 :( 0 ) 
 
 141 
 
 THE WAYSIDE. 
 
 — • 
 
 Fm almost home. Dear native home, — in this 
 quiet little village, nestled down closely by this 
 sweet murmuring river, — how many sweet memo- 
 ries cling to thee ! how beautiful thou art, surround- 
 ed by these proud hills and fine groves, scattered 
 among which are neat cottages, green fields, and 
 flourishing gardens I — the delight of the sober farmer 
 and his prudent, loving wife. Where else does the 
 glorious sun look down so cheerfully? How like a 
 mantle of gold is his light thrown over these distant 
 hills 1 and with what beauty does he tinge the heads 
 of those stately oaks, silver maples, and proud pines, 
 as they bow a welcome to the morning ! Nor has he 
 forgotten to gild the spire of the dear old church, 
 with which are connected sweet and sad recollec- 
 tions. There I received instructions from the sacred 
 Scriptures, and heard holy words from the man of 
 God, never to be forgotten. But where are those 
 who listened with me ? I must go read the inscrip- 
 
 
:( 0 ) 
 
 (o; ^ 
 
 142 THE w^ayside. 
 
 tions on those plain monuments and marble slabs 
 within the churchyard, (sacred place ! ) within whose 
 bosom is locked the precious dust of loved ones. 
 Here, in this corner, is my dear grandfather, the 
 old man with silver hair, whose face shone so bright- 
 ly when he talked of heaven and rest for the weary. 
 And here, beside him, is one who shared his sunny 
 days and dreary hours through many a year, but, 
 weary of life, laid down to rest before him. Here 
 is little Freddie’s grave, and there his dear Alice, too. 
 
 0 Death, thou hast sent gloom into many a happy 
 heart ; ay, and taken those who once made happy 
 and bright a home in this little cottage. Dear old 
 home — every thing around has a peculiar beauty to 
 me ; and each tells of joyous days and sunny hours. 
 The old maple still stands firm, though the fierce 
 winds of many a winter have beat upon it ; and the 
 elm spreads out his arms as lovingly as when I 
 played beneath its shade with a merry group. I see ^ 
 them now, those honest, rosy faces ; and would I 
 were a child again.” Our young hearts had never 
 known sorrow then, the bitter tears of disappoint- 
 ment had never dimmed our eyes, nor had our ears 
 ever heard the last adieu of a dear sister, a fond 
 father, and a tender mother. The future was then 
 one long, bright, happy day of gladness and mirth.** 
 
 @ ■■ -■ — = (a 
 

 YOU REMEMBER IT — DON’t YOU? 143 
 
 Though sad changes, dark days, and gloomy scenes 
 from the past ever come before me, here, still, it^s a 
 loved spot, a sacred place ; for here I first heard the 
 story of God and heaven, learned my first lesson of 
 gentleness and forbearance, and was first taught to 
 lisp my wants in the ear of Him who giveth every 
 good. 
 
 YOU REMEMBER IT -DON’T YOU? 
 
 You remember the time when I first sought your home, 
 When a smile, not a word, was the summons to come. 
 When you called me a friend, till you found, with surprise, 
 That our friendship turned out to be love in disguise. 
 
 You remember it — don’t you ? 
 
 You will think of it — won’t you ? 
 
 Yes, yes, of all this the remembrance will last 
 Long after the present fades into the past. 
 
 © 
 
 You remember the grief that grew lighter when shared ; 
 With the bliss, you remember, could aught be compared ? 
 You remember how fond was my earliest vow — 
 
 Not fonder than that which I breathe to thee now. 
 
 You remember it — don’t you ? 
 
 You will think of it — won’t you ? 
 
 Yes, yes, of all this the remembrance will last 
 Long after the present fades into the past. 
 
:© 
 
 144 NOWADAYS. 
 
 NOWADAYS. 
 
 Alas ! how every thing has changed, 
 Since I was sweet sixteen, 
 
 When all the girls wore homespun frocks, 
 And aprons nice and clean, 
 
 With bonnets made of braided straw. 
 That tied beneath the chin, ^ 
 
 The shawls laid neatly on the neck. 
 
 And fastened with a pin ! 
 
 I recollect the time when I 
 Rode father’s horse to mill, 
 
 Across the meadows, rock, and field. 
 
 And up and down the hill ; 
 
 And when our folks were out at work. 
 
 As sure as I’m a sinner, 
 
 I jumped upon a horse bare-back. 
 
 And carried them their dinner. 
 
 Dear me ! young ladies, nowadays. 
 Would almost faint away 
 To think of riding all alone 
 In wagon, chaise, or sleigh ; 
 
 
 © 
 
NOWADAYS. 145 
 
 And as for giving pa ” his meals, 
 
 Or helping “ ma ” to bake, 
 
 O, saints ! ’twould spoil their lily hands — 
 Though sometimes they make cake. 
 
 When winter came, the maiden’s heart 
 Began to beat and flutter ; 
 
 Each beau would take his sweetheart out, 
 Sleigh riding in the cutter. 
 
 Or, if the storm was bleak and cold, 
 
 The girls and beaux together 
 Would meet and have most glorious fun. 
 And never mind the weather. 
 
 But now, indeed, — it grieves me much 
 The circumstance to mention, — 
 However kind the young man’s heart. 
 
 And honest his intention. 
 
 He never asks the girls to ride. 
 
 But such a war is waged ! 
 
 And if he sees her once a week. 
 
 Why, surely, “ they’re engaged.” 
 
 10 
 
©: 
 
 148 
 
 HOW SHE FOUND THE TIME. 
 
 I 
 
 HOW SHE FOUND THE TIME. 
 
 “ Ah,” said Mr. Nelson, as, drawing his chair to 
 the centre table, his eye rested on one of the 
 popular novels of the day, “ so you have a new 
 book to read, Sarah. Where did you get it ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ I borrowed it of Mrs. Merton, or rather she 
 lent it to me — insisted upon my taking it, because, 
 she said, she knew it would interest me, fascina^te 
 me ; indeed, I told her it wasn’t much use to take it, 
 for I should never find time to read it.” 
 
 “ But she had found time — hadn’t she ? ” asked 
 her husband, a little roguishly. 
 
 “ Of course she had. She always finds time to 
 do any thing she wants to ; I never saw such a 
 woman in my life.” 
 
 “And yet she has four children, and keeps but 
 one girl ? ” 
 
 “And I have only two children, and as many 
 girls, I suppose you would like to add — would you 
 
 © 
 
 
HOW SHE FOUND THE TIME. 147 
 
 not ? ” responded the wife, just a very little bit out 
 of humor. 
 
 “ I must confess you have guessed aright, my dear. 
 But I would not have said it in a fault-finding way, 
 but simply from a desire to find out, if we can, why 
 you have so little time to devote to reading — why 
 you always have so much to do. Does Mrs. Merton 
 do up every thing as neatly as yourself ? Her par- 
 lors, I know, always seem the perfection of order 
 and comfort, her husband’s and children’s clothes 
 are always tidy, and she herself, in appearance, the 
 personification of neatness and taste. But after all, 
 perhaps there may be some oversight that is kept 
 out of view.” 
 
 “You are mistaken,” said Mrs. Nelson, emphati- 
 cally. “ She is one of the most thorough house- 
 keepers I ever knew. I have been sent there when 
 she had been taken suddenly ill, and so violently, 
 too, as to be unable to give a single direction ; and 
 yet every thing needed was always found without 
 the least trouble ; every drawer and closet was in 
 order, and the whole house would have borne the 
 rigid scrutiny of the most prime member of the 
 Quaker sisterhood. And yet she never is in a 
 hurry, and though always doing something, never 
 complains of being wearied. She does all her own 
 
 @ - - 
 
®= 
 
 148 
 
 HOW SHE FOUND THE TIME. 
 
 
 and children’s sewing, even to cutting dresses, and 
 coats and pants; embroiders all her collars, and 
 sleeves, and little girls’ ruffles ; writes more letters 
 every year than I have done since my marriage, 
 and reads more than any other woman not purely 
 literary that I ever knew. But how she does it is a 
 mystery.” 
 
 “ Why don’t you ask her to solve it ? ” 
 
 “I have thought of doing so; but — but — well, 
 to own the truth, I am ashamed to. It would be ; 
 a tacit confession that I am in the wrong somehow.” 
 
 “ But do you think you are ? ” 
 
 Sometimes I do ; and then again I think my 
 failures to do what I would so dearly love to, are 
 the result of the circumstances which I cannot con- 
 trol. For instance, yesterday afternoon I meant to 
 have emptied my mending basket entirely, — I could 
 have done so easily, and then one worry of the week 
 would have been over, — but Mrs. Lawrence and 
 her friend from Boston came in quite early, and, 
 as you know, passed the afternoon. I could not 
 blame #them for coming when they did, for I had 
 told them to come any afternoon this week ; and I 
 was glad to see them, and enjoyed the visit. Yet it 
 upset my plans about mending entirely, for of course 
 it would never have done to have littered the parlor 
 
 
© 
 
 HOW SHE FOUND THE TIME. 149 
 
 with that. The afternoon was lost as far as work 
 was concerned.” 
 
 ‘‘ But was there nothing you could do ? ” 
 
 “Yes, if I had only had it. There were the 
 handkerchiefs and cravats you want to take with 
 you next week, which I might have hemmed if I had 
 only had them. But you see, I had designed them 
 for this afternoon, and so did not go out to buy 
 them till to-day. And now I suppose the mending 
 must lie over till next week, and then there will be 
 two baskets full. And so it goes. I wish some- 
 times the days were forty-eight, instead of twenty- 
 1 four hours long.” 
 
 “Well, I don^t, Tm sure,” said her husband, good 
 humoredly ; “ for I get tired enough now, and I 
 doubt, Sarah, if either you or I would find any more 
 time than we do now.” 
 
 “Well, one thing is certain — I shall never find 
 time, as the days are now, to do what I want 
 to do.” 
 
 “ But you say Mrs. Merton does.” 
 
 “ Yes, but she is an exception to all the rest of 
 my acquaintances.” 
 
 “ An honorable one.” 
 
 “Yes, an honorable one. I wish there were more 
 with her faculty.” 
 
150 HOW SHE FOUND THE TIME. 
 
 “ Perhaps there would be, were her example fol- 
 lowed.’^ 
 
 “I understand you, and perhaps some day will 
 heed the hint.” But here her further reply was 
 prevented by a request from his head clerk to see 
 her husband alone on urgent business. 
 
 All this time, while Mrs. Nelson had been bewail- 
 ing the want of time, she had sat with her hands 
 lying idly in her lap. To be sure, she was waiting 
 for Bridget to bring the baby to be undressed ; but 
 she might easily have finished hemming the last 
 cravat in those precious moments, and there it lay * 
 on her workstand, and her thimble and thread both 
 with it. But she never thought of taking it — not 
 she. She never thought it worth while to attempt 
 doing any thing while waiting to do some other 
 duty that must soon have to be performed. And 
 thus, in losing those moments, she lost the evening 
 chance to finish the hem ; for when the baby did 
 come, he was cross and squally, and would not let 
 her lay him in the crib until nine o’clock, and then 
 she was so tired and nervous, she couldn’t, she 
 said, set a stitch to save her life. 
 
 It happened one day, in the following week, after 
 a morning of rather more flurry and worry than 
 usual, that she went to the centre table to hunt for 
 
(o>. 
 
 HOW SHE FOUND THE TIME. 151 
 
 a misplaced memorandum. In her search for it her 
 glance casually fell upon the borrowed novel, and 
 with that glance the foregoing conversation rushed 
 forcibly over her memory. 
 
 I declare,’^ said she, “ I have half a mind to run 
 over to Mrs. Merton^s this afternoon, and cross- 
 question her, till I learn her secret. Such a life as 
 I am living is unbearable. I can’t stand it any 
 longer. If she can find time, I know I can, if I only 
 knew ho^.” 
 
 And true to her resolution, for though seemingly 
 hasty, it had been for some time maturing in her 
 mind, almost unwittingly she found herself at an 
 early hour at her friend’s parlor, her bonnet and 
 shawl thrown aside, and herself, work-bag in hand, 
 snugly ensconced in a low rocker beside her little 
 work-stand. 
 
 “ You have not finished your collar, then ? ” she 
 observed to Mrs. Merton, after a while, by way of 
 leading the conversation in the desired channel. 
 
 0, yes, indeed,” answered the hostess, tossing her 
 head to one side, gayly, with a pretty affectation 
 of pride. “ Didn’t you notice how becoming it was ? ” 
 ‘‘ And commencing another so soon ? ” 
 
 “ Only basting on the pattern, so as to have it 
 ready for some odd moment.” 
 
 
 (3 
 
152 HOW SHE FOUND THE TIME. 
 
 ‘‘ But how do you bear to spend so much time in 
 embroidery ? Why not purchase it at once ; it is so 
 much cheaper in the end ? • 
 
 For the wealthy it is, I grant, and for those not 
 very wealthy, if their eyesight is poor, or if lacking 
 in taste and needle skill. But I find it cheaper to 
 do it myself. My husband^s salary does not allow 
 us many luxuries, and the small sum we can spend 
 for them I prefer should go towards purchasing 
 what my own fingers cannot make. I can embroider 
 collars and sleeves not as perfectly, it is true, as 
 they do in foreign climes, but handsomely enough to 
 suit my own and husband^s eyes ; but I cannot 
 write books, magazines, reviews, and newspapers, 
 and they are luxuries more essential to my happi- 
 ness than these articles of dress ; so I do my own 
 needlework, and with the money thus saved we 
 purchase something that will never go out of fashion 
 — an intellectual heritage for our little one as well 
 as a perpetual feast for us.^^ 
 
 “But how do you find time to do so much work? 
 I cannot conceive how or where.” 
 
 “Well, I hardly know myself,” said Mrs. Mer- 
 ton, laughingly. “ My husband sometimes tells me 
 he believes the fairies help me. I seldom sit 
 down to it in earnest, but I catch it up at odd 
 
 ©: 
 
- 
 
 HOW SHE FOUND THE TIME. 153 j 
 
 moments, and before I am aware of it myself, it is 
 done.” 
 
 ‘^0, dear,” and Mrs. Nelson sighed. “I wish I 
 had your faculty. Do, pray, Mrs. Merton, tell us the 
 secret of your success in every thing. How do you 
 always find time for every thing?” 
 
 Do you question me seriously, or only mocking- 
 ly, to remind me how much I leave undone ? ” 
 “Seriously? Yes, very seriously. To own the 
 truth, it was to learn this I came over here to-day. 
 There are a thousand things I long to do, because 
 they would not only increase my own joys, but those 
 of my husband and household ; but I cannot find the 
 time. Yet you do them, and you have more cares 
 and duties than I. If you tell me your secret, be- 
 lieve me, I shall feel under the deepest obligations 
 to you.” , 
 
 Her friend hesitated a moment. She was not 
 wont to speak very much of herself, believing that 
 character should reveal itself by actions mostly, and 
 conscious that it will, too, whether it be a perfect 
 or faulty one. Yet there was such an urgency, at 
 length it conquered the scruples of modesty. 
 
 “ I am afraid I shall remind you of ‘ great I,' ii I 
 undertake it,” she said, with a blush ; “ yet I can 
 hardly give you my experience without subjecting 
 
 
 <o) 
 
154 HOW SHE FOUND THE TIME. 
 
 myself to the charge of egotism. Yet, as we are 
 alone, and as you seem to think I have avoided some 
 of the besetting evils of this life, why, I will reveal 
 to you what you call my secret. 
 
 ‘^My mother early instilled into my mind and 
 heart, by precept and example, a few rules of action, 
 that I have sedulously endeavored to follow, and 
 which, I believe, almost more than any thing else 
 have contributed to my domestic peace and hap- 
 piness. 
 
 “ One of them is, always to have a time for every 
 ordinary duty ; to have that time at such a day or 
 hour of the day as is best adapted to its perfect ful- 
 filment, and always, extraordinary cases excepted, 
 to perform the duty at that time. 
 
 For instance, my general sweeping day is on 
 Friday, because to my mind it is the most suitable 
 one of the week. And the best portion of the day 
 to do it in is very early in the morning, for then I 
 can throw open my doors and windows to the fresh- 
 est, purest breezes we get at all ; and I am not 
 disturbed by the din of travel, nor annoyed by the 
 dust ; and then, by postponing my bath and break- 
 fast toilet, merely throwing on a wrapper and cap 
 to sweep in till the house is clean, why I am tidy 
 for the rest of the day. 
 
© ■ = 
 
 HOW SHE FOUND THE TIME. 155 
 
 ‘‘ Whereas, if 1 wait till after breakfast, I must 
 spend time to take another bath, and make another 
 change of dress. Now, I confess, it is hard some- 
 times to keep this rule. When my sleep has been 
 j broken by the restlessness of baby, or wjien some- 
 I thing has kept me up later than usual the previous 
 evening, I feel strongly inclined to lie in bed and let 
 the sweeping hour go by. But the dreadful conse- 
 quences always stare me in the face so ruefully, that 
 sleepy and weary though I may be, I struggle out of 
 bed, — for it is verily a struggle, — and tying down 
 my hair, and buttoning on my wrapper, and drawing 
 on my gloves, as my old aunt used to say, I ‘make 
 business fly.^ And I assure-you I always find myself 
 enough happier to compensate me for my efforts, 
 hard though they seemed. 
 
 “ And then, for a second rule, I always have a 
 place for every thing, and always put it in its place, 
 and thus waste no time in looking after things. For 
 i example, perhaps you will laugh at it, but I always 
 make it a rule to put my thimble in my sewing-box, 
 when I leave my work, no matter how great the 
 hurry; and you can have no idea, until you have tried 
 it, how much time is thus saved. Why, I have one 
 friend who says she lost so much time by looking up 
 I her thimble, that she has bought herself three, so 
 
 © 
 
 li 
 
156 
 
 HOW SHE FOUND THE TIME. 
 
 that when one is mislaid, she needn^t wait to hunt it 
 up. Yet this rule, which soon would become a 
 habit, would have saved her time and money. 
 
 “ The third and last rule necessary to specify is 
 this : to be always busy, or perhaps I ought to say 
 employed., for with housekeepers, generally, to be 
 busy is to be in a worry over too much work.^^ 
 
 “ But you don’t mean to say you never rest — 
 that you never get tired ? ” 
 
 “By no means; I both rest and get tired, and 
 many times each day. But rest does not always im- 
 ply cessation from labor. Sometimes it does, I grant; 
 and when, after any unusual fatigue, I find myself 
 inclined to lie down and sleep, I always indulge the 
 feeling. It is one of Nature’s promptings, which, to 
 insure health and joy, should be heeded. And I do 
 not feel that I ever lose any time that way, for the 
 half or even hour’s sleep so invigorates me, that I 
 can work with twice the ability, afterwards, that I 
 could if I had striven on with weary limbs and 
 fretted nerves. But many times a change of em- 
 ployment or occupation will rest one as much, nay, 
 more, than idleness. You know yourself, after a 
 busy forenoon on your feet, that it rests you to sit 
 down in your rocker, and busy yourself with your 
 sewing. And sometimes, when I have been handling 
 
 — (o) 
 
HOW SHE FOUND THE TIME. 157 
 
 heavy clothes, such as coats and pantaloons for my 
 boys, till my arms and fingers ache, I rest them by 
 taking up some light garment for my little girl. 
 
 Or when my limbs ache severely, from some arduous 
 duty and yet I have no inclination to sleep, as is I 
 frequently the case after rocking a worrisome child 
 to sleep, I lie down on my old-fashioned lounge, and 
 rest myself in body by that course ; while I soothe, 
 and gladden, and improve my mind by reading, al- 
 ways being careful, though, to put by the book just 
 as soon as I feel that I am enough recruited. 
 
 “ But suppose you get behindhand with your work 
 from sickness or company, or some other cause ; what 
 do you do then ? ” 
 
 “ I never allow myself to get behindhand from the 
 latter cause — visitors. I never allow them to in- 
 terrupt my domestic affairs. I never invite company 
 except on those days of the week that have the 
 lighter duties. And if casual visitors come along, 
 they will not disturb or hinder you, if the rules I 
 have given you are implicitly followed. You are 
 always ready for chance company. And with these 
 I rules, even sickness, unless long continued, will not 
 vary the domestic economy. But if I do get behind- 
 hand, I make it up as quick as possible. I rise an 
 hour earlier every morning, and deny myself the 
 
 =Z@ 
 
©=-= 
 
 158 
 
 
 
 HOW SHE FOUND THE TIME. 
 
 luxury of visiting till the accumulated work is per- 
 formed.^’ 
 
 “ Excuse me, but I must ask you one more ques- 
 tion. What do you mean by odd times? You said 
 you should work }>our collar at odd moments.” 
 
 “I can answer you but by some examples. Yes- 
 terday afternoon I was going to cut and baste a 
 dress for myself. But unexpectedly a friend from 
 the country came in to take tea with me. Now, I 
 did not want to litter the parlor with my pieces ; so 
 I went to my basket and took out a pretty little 
 sack for Harry, and spent my time on sewing that. 
 I always keep something in my basket suitable for 
 such odd times ; and when I have nothing really 
 necessary, I take up my embroidery. And then, you 
 know, we wives are frequently obliged to wait till a 
 considerable time has«elapsed for the appearance of 
 our husbands at the table, and these odd moments, 
 usually so irksome to women, are precious to me. 
 I always mean to have the meals ready at the hour : 
 if Mr. Merton is not here then, — and, being head 
 clerk, scarcely a day passes but some meal must wait, 
 — instead of watching the clock or thrumming on 
 the windows, I read the newspapers and magazines. 
 I assure you I never take any other time to read 
 them, and yet I am never behindhand with them. 
 
 
 <§) 
 
© - - — ^ (g) 
 
 HOW SHE FOUND THE TIME. 159 
 
 And when I have none of them on hand, I catch up 
 some story that I want to read, and yet don^t want 
 to give that time which I usually devote to solid 
 reading. The volume I lent you — Mrs. Nelson 
 blushed ; she had had it a week, and read only the 
 first chapter — “I read in four days in this way. 
 And when I have no reading that I am anxious to 
 do, I spend the moments in writing. Most of my 
 letters are penned while waiting for the tea bell to 
 ring. And hark, there it is now ; a pleasant sound 
 for your ears, too, I guess, after the homily I have 
 just given you. Please,^’ and she rose gracefully, 
 “ let * great I ^ usher ‘ dear you ’ to the dining room.’^ 
 
 “ With pleasure ; yet I wish the bell had not rung 
 so early. I have not heard half enough.^^ 
 
 “ Have you never observed, my dear friend, that 
 many sermons lose half their effectiveness by undue 
 length ? The benediction at such a time is noted as 
 a relief, not a blessing. Some other time I will 
 preach the rest.’^ 
 
 “ I pray Heaven I may have resolution enough to 
 practice what you have already taught. Sure I am. 
 if I so do, my life, what is left of it, will be like 
 yours — a perpetual sermon ; and my daily benedic- 
 tion like yours also — the blessings of my children 
 and the praise of my husband.^’ 
 
160 
 
 SHE WOKE THAT MORN IN HEAVEN. 
 
 SHE WOKE THAT MORN IN HEAVEN. 
 
 She knelt alone, that little one, 
 
 An orphan child of three, 
 
 And whispered forth the prayer she learned 
 Beside her mother’s knee. 
 
 No gentle hand upon her head 
 In soft caress was laid, 
 
 ^ No sweet voice murmuring her name — 
 
 She knelt alone and prayed. 
 
 The tear drops resting on her cheek 
 A tale of sorrow told ; 
 
 For ev^n she, that angel child. 
 
 Had found the world was cold. 
 
 And murmured forth, with tiny hands 
 Up-pointing to the skies, 
 
 God, take me to my mamma, when 
 Poor little Lily dies.” 
 
 The angels, pausing, heard the prayer. 
 
 And in the calm moonlight 
 Bent down and breathed upon the child. 
 And kissed her forehead white : 
 
MAIDEN BEAUTY. 
 
 161 
 
 And bearing her with songs of love 
 Through the blue depths of even, 
 They laid her in her mother’s arms — 
 She woke that morn in heaven ! 
 
 MAIDEN BEAUTY. 
 
 — ♦ ■ 
 
 Her hand’s like a lily — 
 
 But just at the tip 
 
 It hath stolen a tint 
 
 Like the hue of her lip. 
 
 Her breath’s like the morning, 
 When hyacinths blow ; 
 
 Her feet leave a blessing 
 Wherever they go. 
 
 For each one she’s something, 
 
 To comfort or cheer ; 
 
 When her purse fails her wishes, 
 She gives them a tear. 
 
 E’en the sound of her step 
 Seems to bring them relief ; 
 
 And they bless that sweet face 
 Which speaks hope ’mid their grief. 
 
162 GIVE ME MY OLD SEAT, MOTHER. 
 
 GIVE ME MY OLD SEAT, MOTHER. 
 
 Give me my old seat, mother, 
 
 With my head upon thy knee ; 
 
 Tve passed through many a changing scene 
 Since thus I sat by thee : 
 
 O, let me look into thine eyes ; 
 
 Their meek, soft, loving light 
 Falls like a gleam of holiness 
 Upon my heart to-night. 
 
 I’ve not been long away, mother ; 
 
 Few suns have rose and set 
 Since last the tear drops on thy cheek 
 My lips in kisses met; 
 
 T?is but a little time, I know, 
 
 But very long it seems. 
 
 Though every night I come to thee. 
 
 Dear mother, in my dreams. 
 
 The world has kindly dealt, mother. 
 
 By the child thou lov’st so well ; | 
 
 Thy prayers have circled round her path. 
 And ’twas a holy spell 
 
A WORLD OF LOVE AT HOME. 
 
 163 
 
 Which made that path so clearly bright, 
 Which strewed the roses there, 
 
 Which gave the light and cast the balm 
 On every breath of air. 
 
 I bear a happy heart, mother ; 
 
 A happier never beat ; 
 
 And even now new buds of hope 
 Are bursting at my feet. 
 
 0 mother, life may be a “ dream ; 
 
 But if such dreams are given 
 While at the portal thus we stand. 
 
 What are the truths of heaven ? 
 
 A WORLD OF LOVE AT HOME. 
 
 The earth hath treasures fair and bright. 
 Deep buried in her caves, 
 
 And ocean hideth many a gem. 
 
 With its blue curling waves. 
 
 Yet not within her bosom dark. 
 
 Or ’neath her dashing foam. 
 
 Lies there a treasure equalling 
 A world of love at home. 
 
164 
 
 WITTY WOMEN. 
 
 WITTY WOMEN. 
 
 A WRITER, illustrating the fact that some errors 
 are lifted into importance by efforts to refute them, 
 when they need to be treated with wholesome doses 
 of contempt and ridicule, observes, that ^‘all the 
 blows inflicted by the herculean club of certain 
 logicians are not half so effectual as a box on the 
 ear of a celebrated atheist by the hand of beauty. 
 After having in vain preached to a circle of ladies, 
 he attempted to revenge himself by saying, ‘ Pardon 
 my error, ladies ; I did not imagine that in a house 
 where wit vies with grace, I alone should have the 
 honor of not believing in God.’ ‘ You are not 
 alone, sir,’ answered the mistress of the house ; ‘ my 
 horses, my dog, my cat, share this honor with you ; 
 only these poor brutes have the good sense not to 
 boast of it.’ ” 
 
 This reminds us of what occurred a few years ago 
 on a steamboat, on one of our western rivers. A 
 thing in the shape of a man was glorying in his 
 
TO AN ABSENT WIFE. 165 
 
 atheism, avowing that the present life was all of a 
 man ; that he had no soul and no hereafter. ‘‘ And 
 so you say you have no soul,^^ asked a gentleman in 
 the group, evidently designing to reason with him 
 on the subject. “No,^^ replied the atheist, “not a 
 whit more than a pig.^^ The gentleman was about 
 to enter on an argument with him, when an elderly 
 Scotch lady spoke up smartly, “ Sir, I hope you will 
 not spend your breath reasoning wi^ the creature ; 
 by his ain confession, he has nae mair soul than a 
 pig ; and ye wad nae argue wi’ a pig/^ ' 
 
 TO AN ABSENT WIFE. 
 
 — « — 
 
 ’Tis morn — the sea breeze seems to bring 
 Joy, health, and freshness on its wing ; 
 Bright flowers to me, all fresh and new, 
 Are glittering in the early dew. 
 
 And perfumes rise from every grove, 
 
 As incense to the clouds that move 
 Like spirits o’er yon welkin clear ; 
 
 But I am sad — thou art not here. 
 
166 
 
 NOBODY S CHILD. 
 
 I 
 
 NOBODY’S CHILD. 
 
 Tell me, homeless wanderer, tell me, 
 For the storm is growing wild. 
 What sad fortune hath befell thee ; 
 
 Art thou some lone orphan child ? 
 Wandering, while the dismal tempest 
 Breathes its low and fearful tone. 
 And the cheerful fire is glowing 
 Bright in many a cheerful home. 
 
 Ah, my friend, no kindly welcome 
 Greets me on this desert wild ; 
 Others have their homes and firesides, 
 But I am nobody’s child. 
 
 For my fate no heart is beating. 
 
 And my grief no eye can see ; 
 Others meet their cheerful greeting. 
 But nobody cares for me. 
 
 Words of love, and pleasant faces. 
 Thoughts of mercy, voices mild. 
 Ne’er my hapless lot embraces. 
 
 For I am nobody’s child.” 
 
NOBODY S CHILD. 
 
 167 
 
 When thy bosom heaves with sorrow, 
 
 Anguish racks thy youthful head, 
 
 Who will light thy gloomy morrow ? 
 
 What kind hand will smooth thy bed ? 
 
 Falls there ne’er a tear above thee, 
 
 When thy heart is growing faint ? 
 
 None to listen, none to love thee, 
 
 When thou makest thy complaint ? 
 
 ‘‘ Nay, this world is cold, unfeeling, 
 
 Full of vain contempt and scorn ; 
 
 Mercy still her face concealing, 
 
 ’Mid the pelting, winter storm.” 
 
 Wanderer, there are floating round thee 
 Ardent longings, all unseen ; 
 
 Some warm tear for thee is falling, 
 
 Some kind voice for thee is calling, 
 
 ’Mid this desolated scene. 
 
 Tender spirits, gone before thee, 
 
 Hover on their stilly wings. 
 
 Yet thou canst not hear their music. 
 
 Flung from tender spirit strings ; 
 
 Or, perchance, there yet may linger. 
 
 On the earth, or on the sea. 
 
 Some kind spirit, true and faithful, 
 
 Some lone heart that beats for thee. 
 
 ‘‘ Nay, they tell me I am passing 
 To the lone and quiet tomb ; 
 
 Sure it seems a dreary pathway. 
 
 Covered by the deepest gloom. 
 
 ^ ■ — © 
 
168 
 
 THE AWAKENING OF THE LYRE. 
 
 There, they tell me, pain and sorrow 
 No more haunt the troubled breast ; 
 There the cold world always points me, 
 As the only place of rest. 
 
 But Fve heard, or dreamed I heard it, 
 Of ‘ Our Father ’ in the skies ; 
 
 Will he mark the lonely dwelling 
 Where my worthless body lies ? 
 
 Will he, from his home above me. 
 
 Write the names of those who love me ? 
 O’er my grave, in letters wild. 
 
 Will he trace Nobody's Child f ” 
 
 THE AWAKENING OE THE LYRE. 
 
 — ♦ ■ 
 
 Father, I cannot strike my lyre 
 Till thy celestial breath 
 Hath swept across the trembling chords. 
 And waked its soul from death. 
 
 The full, deep melodies of love. 
 
 The mystic powers of song 
 That sleep within, thou only knowest ; 
 To thee they all belong. 
 
CORRECTING IN ANGER. 169 
 
 CORRECTING IN ANGER. 
 
 We were pained the other day, passing near the 
 Gas Works, in seeing a father driving his little boy 
 before him, apparently about nine years of age. 
 The father was evidently much angered, and lashed 
 the little fellow every few steps most severely with 
 a heavy cart whip. The child, it would seem, had 
 played the truant — provokingly enough, no doubt, 
 and deserved, it may be, chastisement. But the 
 father who will horsewhip his child in the public 
 streets, in presence of the passing crowds, is unfit to 
 be trusted with a parentis responsibilities. In this 
 way that delicate sense of shame, which is essential 
 to a noble and virtuous character, and all the finer 
 sensibilities, are blunted. Whatever the meed of 
 punishment due that little boy, that parent should 
 not judge of his delinquency under the influence of 
 his anger. The exhibition of such anger is prima 
 facie evidence that the punishment was too severe. 
 The parent who strikes a child in anger deserves 
 
© 
 
 170 CORRECTING IN ANGER. 
 
 two blows for every one given. He makes himself 
 more a culprit than his child. 
 
 We have alluded to this circumstance because it 
 illustrates a too common and often fatal error in the 
 management of children. Parentsy^ punish your chil- 
 dren for their disobedience — it is your duty to do 
 it ; but never do this in a way to crush the feeling 
 of self-respect, and never do it in anger. Speak not 
 in reproof ; lift no chastening rod till your anger has 
 thoroughly cooled ; wait, if need be, tilLthe quie- 
 tude and solemnity of evening, when the business and 
 play of the day are ended. Be grave, be deliberate ; 
 explain the nature of the misconduct, and show that 
 love, and not revenge, impels you to punish. Thus 
 will you awaken the child’s conscience, and win it to 
 your side. With penitential feelings and purposes 
 of amendment, the little offender will fall asleep, 
 and awake with a warmer filial affection, and 
 strengthened desire to do right. 
 
SONG OF THE PILGRIMS. 
 
 171 
 
 SONG OF THE PILGRIMS. 
 
 
 
 The breeze has swelled the whitening sail, 
 The blue waves curl beneath the gale, 
 
 And, bounding with the waves and wind. 
 We leave Old England’s shores behind — 
 Leave behind our native shore. 
 Homes, and all we loved before. 
 
 The deep may dash, the winds may blow, 
 The storm spread out its wings of woe. 
 
 Till sailors’ eyes can see a shroud 
 Hung in the folds of every cloud. 
 
 Still, as long as life shall last, 
 
 From that shore we’ll speed us fast. 
 
 For we would rather never be 
 Than dwell where mind cannot be free. 
 
 But bows beneath a despot’s rod, 
 
 E’en where it seeks to worship God. 
 
 Blasts of heaven, onward sweep ; 
 
 Bear us o’er the troubled deep. 
 
 O, see what wonders meet our eyes ! 
 Another land and other skies ! 
 
172 
 
 SONG OF THE PILGRIMS. 
 
 Columbian hills have met our view : 
 
 Adieu ! Old England’s shores, adieu ! 
 
 Here, at length, our feet shall rest. 
 Hearts be free, and homes be blessed. 
 
 As long as yonder firs shall spread 
 Their green arms o’er the mountain’s head, — 
 As long as yonder cliffs shall stand 
 Where join the ocean and the land, — 
 
 Shall those cliffs and mountains be 
 Proud retreats for liberty. 
 
 Now to the King of kings we’ll raise 
 The paean loud of sacred praise ; 
 
 More loud than sounds the swelling breeze. 
 More loud than speak the rolling seas. 
 Happier lands have met our view ; 
 England’s shores, adieu ! adieu ! 
 
©= 
 
 -M 
 
 THE WORLD OF MIND. 
 
 173 
 
 THE WORLD OF MIND. 
 
 There are people we meet with in life (and they 
 constitute no small class of humanity) who are like 
 walking newspapers, or cheap magazines, filled up 
 with the “ odds and ends of literature ; whose ideas 
 are jumbled together like the “ splinter items of 
 those same printed sheets. They have a smattering 
 of every thing, but really understand nothing. You 
 may know them by a certain flippancy of speech, 
 and by their off-hand way of disposing of a subject 
 (no matter how deep) with an air of assurance, if 
 not to the edification of others, at least to their own 
 satisfaction. 
 
 They are persons who read; or run over, every 
 thing that falls in their way, either from a love of 
 what is new and exciting, or from a desire to be 
 thought vastly intellectual. Thus they are contin- 
 ually cramming their brains with a heterogeneous 
 mass of matter, from which they can seldom draw a 
 distinct idea, that might serve a good purpose in 
 
 
 
174 • ^ THE WORLD OF MIND. 
 
 confounding error, elucidating truth, or in strength- 
 ening the formation of good principles. Perusing a 
 work without reflection, they never endeavor to 
 make a noble sentiment, or a great thought, their 
 own, to use for the proper development of some de- 
 sirable trait of character — for the suppression of 
 evil tendencies, the strengthening of high resolves- 
 and aspirations after a higher, purer life in the soul. 
 In these days of superficial attainments, of false 
 show, in an artificial state of society, the temptation 
 to be satisfied with a mere outside polish is pecu- 
 liarly strong. This trying to make the most glitter, 
 with the least outlay of labor or expense, is to a 
 great extent prevalent in all grades of society. 
 
 But if one can be content to enjoy a quiet, unas- 
 suming position — to realize a serene inner life, 
 without this cringing deference to hollow forms, to 
 time-serving policy and belittling sentiments, how 
 much of frivolity and tedious unrest would they 
 escape! and their example, though for a time it 
 might be disparaged, yet in its steady adherence to 
 the higher interests of mind, would prove like the 
 sun in mid heaven — a blessing to the world as far 
 superior to the flashy brilliancy of time-serving 
 worldlings, as that same glorious luminary exceeds 
 the gairish light emitted from confined gases. 
 
 © 
 
 

 THE WORLD OF MIND. 
 
 175 
 
 If we were but sensible of the inestimable worth 
 of mind, so grand in its native endowments, so sub- 
 lime in its far-reaching powers, and immortal in its 
 being, how much that is poor and trifling, how much 
 that is debasing in its nature, should we discard as 
 unworthy our attention ! and in the development of 
 its latent powers, the cultivation of its higher facul- 
 ties, find our chief happiness — a happiness as pure 
 as it is ennobling. We should then become what 
 God designed us to be — learners for eternity, 
 co-workers with all the true and good of the past 
 and present ; laboring for the improvement of hu- 
 manity — for the uplifting of the soul to a higher, 
 holier state of progress, whose perfection will be 
 found in the far-reaching cycles of endless being. 
 
 
 
© - - 
 
 176 WHOM DOES THE LORD LOVE BEST? 
 
 WHOM DOES THE LORD LOVE BEST? 
 
 Three brothers, lingering in a wood, 
 Conversed on heavenly things, 
 
 When in their path an angel stood. 
 
 With splendor-flashing wings. 
 
 Who careth most for God ? ” she said ; 
 “ Thou with the haughty brow, 
 
 What wouldst thou give to win his love. 
 If he were present now ? ” 
 
 Of gems a thousand sparkling stones. 
 Of jewels all I own ; 
 
 And if I had a hundred thrones. 
 
 They should be his alone.’’ 
 
 The second eager spoke : “ And I 
 Would bring him lands and gold.” 
 
 The third, abashed, stood trembling by. 
 Nor dared his gift unfold. 
 
 Her azure eye the angel turned 
 Full on his shrinking form ; 
 
 She knew his soul with fervor burned. 
 His heart with love was warm. 
 
SELF-CONCEIT. 
 
 177 
 
 He murmured, Lo, I am not fit 
 To look upon thj face ; 
 
 My brothers have both wealth and wit, 
 And much of heavenly grace ; — 
 
 And I, alas ! am weak and poor, 
 With little worldly pelf ; 
 
 Yet, if he could the gift endure, 
 
 Td gladly give — myself ! ” 
 
 Thou art,” I heard the angel say, 
 
 ‘‘ More blessed than the rest ; 
 
 For whoso gives himself away, 
 
 Him the Lord loveth best.” 
 
 SELF-CONCEIT. 
 
 Some men there are so wondrous wise, 
 They’re always right in their own eyes. 
 And set themselves for standards high. 
 By which all other men to try. 
 
 When such a man you chance to find, 
 Ne’er ask him his, nor tell your mind ; 
 For sure I am you’ll not be right. 
 Unless your eyes see with his sight. 
 
 12 
 
178 
 
 TRUE WORDS BETTER THAN TEARS. 
 
 TRUE WORDS BETTER THAN TEARS. 
 
 “ What could I say ? To offer consolation would 
 have been a waste of words. Nothing was left for 
 me but to weep with my poor friend.” 
 
 “Nothing?” was the calmly spoken inquiry. 
 
 “There are griefs so deep as demand only our 
 tears,” was replied. 
 
 “ Yet the physician — no matter how virulent the 
 disease — will tell you that while there is life 
 there is hope. Is it not the same in mental dis- 
 eases ? ” 
 
 “ What medicament can reach this case ? ” was 
 asked. 
 
 “There is only one remedy to be applied in all 
 cases of mental pain.” 
 
 “ What is that ? ” 
 
 “ The truth.” 
 
 The first speaker, a lady, looked doubtingly into 
 the face of her friend. 
 
 “To sit down and weep with those who are in 
 
 
 
TRUE WORDS BETTER THAN TEARS. 179 
 
 trouble or afiBiiction may do for a brief season ; but 
 to make tears a substitute for consoling words, is to 
 say that earth has a ‘ sorrow that heaven cannot heal.' ” 
 
 “ But what could I say that her own heart would 
 not suggest ? ” 
 
 “ Much. There is usually a selfishness in sorrow 
 that obscures the perception of truth. The grieving 
 one narrows down all things to a little circle, in the 
 centre of which she sits weeping. Darkness ob- 
 scures her mind. She forgets the great truth, that 
 all sorrow is for purification ; and that while she is 
 in the furnace of affliction, the Refiner and Purifier 
 is sitting near, and will see that only the dross of 
 self-love is consumed. Far better would it be to 
 say, ^It is good for us to be afflicted,' — thus throw- 
 ing a truth into the mind, — than merely to mingle 
 tears with the child of sorrow.'^ 
 
 “ In her state she would reject the sentiment," said 
 the lady friend. 
 
 “ A marked symptom of diseased mental action," 
 was answered, “ that imperatively calls for skilful 
 treatment." 
 
 “ But if she reject the truth, how can she be 
 healed?" 
 
 A wise physician will use his utmost skill in the 
 selection of a remedy that will not be rejected." 
 
 ( 2 > 
 
:© 
 
 180 TRUE WORDS BETTER THAN TEARS. 
 
 I am neither wise nor skilful so far as my un- 
 happy friend is concerned/^ 
 
 Say not so. If we desire to be instruments of 
 good, He who is seeking the good of all his crea- 
 tures will show us the way of accomplishment. Do 
 you not think that some merely selfish considera- 
 tions are seriously aggravating this trouble of Mrs. 
 Edwards ? ’’ 
 
 “ I am sure of it. Dearly-cherished ends of her 
 own have been utterly destroyed. Blending with 
 her fears for her child are mortification and wound- 
 ed love. While she sees no promise of happiness 
 for Lucy in the future, her sympathy for the erring 
 one is swallowed up in an almost maddening sense 
 of filial disobedience.’^ 
 
 « Why not seek to awaken her mind to this per- 
 ception? Until she sees her error she cannot rise 
 above it.” 
 
 “ But how is this possible ? She will not bear to 
 have Lucy’s name mentioned.” 
 
 ‘‘ Another marked symptom of a malady that calls 
 for better remedies than sympathetic tears. She 
 must be told the truth.” 
 
 “ Who will speak the words ? ” 
 
 ^‘You, if you are sincerely her friend,” was the 
 firm answer. 
 
 
 © 
 
(O) ... _ 1 -— 
 
 TRUE WORDS BETTER THAN TEARS. 181 
 
 “ She will be offended.^^ 
 
 No matter. The truth will be seen after the 
 blinding excitement of anger has departed. If you 
 truly love her, you will brave even the risk of 
 offending, for the sake of doing her good.^^ 
 
 The lady who was thus reminded of her duty in 
 the case of a friend in great trouble — a friend with 
 whom she had mingled her tears,, but failed to speak 
 words of consolation in which was a healing vitality 
 — went thoughtfully to her home, brooding over 
 what she had heard. It was an easy thing to weep 
 with the weeper ; but to speak words of truth that 
 would hurt, and might offend, was a duty from which 
 she shrunk with instinctive reluctance. But she 
 now saw the case in a clearer light, and a genuine 
 regard for Mrs. Edwar(te led her to act the part of 
 a wise rather than a weak friend. 
 
 An hour for calm reflection^ was permitted to 
 elapse, and then the lady went to the suffering 
 one, with her mind clear and her purpose strong. 
 Reflection had thrown a light upon her way, and 
 she saw the true path in which* she must walk 
 clearly. 
 
 j The pale weeper was still sitting under the shadow 
 of her 'great life-sorrow, when her friend came back 
 to her darkened chamber, in which reigned an almost 
 
f — 
 
 182 TRUE WORDS BETTER THAN TEARS. 
 
 
 death-like stillness. A hand was laid in that of 
 Mrs. Edwards ; only a feeble pressure was returned, 
 and the tears of the grieving one flowed afresh. 
 But the friend gave no answering tears. She had 
 not come to weep with her sorrowing sister, but to 
 offer words of consolation in which lay the power 
 of healing. 
 
 “ I am going to speak with you about Lucy,^^ 
 she said. 
 
 If you love me, name her not,” replied Mrs. 
 Edwards, almost sternly. 
 
 “ It is because I love you that I speak of her,” an- 
 swered the friend, with as much firmness as she 
 could assume. “ Lucy is not all to blame for the 
 unwise step she has taken.” 
 
 “ Who is, then ? ” was the natural inquiry. 
 
 “ You and her father may be quite as much to 
 blame as your unhappy child.” 
 
 A sudden flush came into the pale face of Mrs. 
 Edwards. There were few who did not think just 
 as the friend had spoken ; but she alone had ven- 
 tured to utter 4he truth, where, of all things, its 
 utterance was most needed. 
 
 “ We to blame ! ” 
 
 A curve of indignation was on the lip of Mrs. 
 Edwards. 
 
 a- 
 
 --<g 
 
=^-( 6 ) 
 
 183 
 
 - 
 
 TRUE WORDS BETTER THAN TEARS. 
 
 “If you were sure this were the case, would it not 
 greatly soften your feelings towards Lucy ? 
 
 “But I am not sure of it,’^ said the lady, whose 
 tears had already ceased to flow. 
 
 “ You are not the only sufferer in this case.” 
 
 “ Who else suffers ? ” 
 
 “ Your unhappy child.” 
 
 “ She deserves to suffer. What else could she ex- 
 pect, in such a union, but a life of suffering ? ” Mrs. 
 Edwards spoke severely. 
 
 “ Why do you so object to the marriage ? ” 
 
 “ He is not the man to make her happy. In all 
 respects, they are unsuited to each other.” 
 
 “ Can you imagine a sadder life than that which 
 a woman must lead who broadly errs in the choice 
 of a married partner ? ” 
 
 “ None.” 
 
 “ Pity your child, then. If such a lot is to be 
 hers, let your love make softer the pillow on which • 
 her poor head must lie. 0 my friend, do not fill it 
 with thorns.” 
 
 Fitly spoken were these words, and they found a 
 lodging-place in the mind of Mrs. Edwards ; yet 
 she answered — 
 
 “ She deceived us. She broke her solemn promise 
 not to marry this man.” 
 
 © ' ■ : rr— - =^i=(§) 
 
©: 
 
 
 184 TRUE WORDS BETTER THAN TEARS. 
 
 “ Had you any right to extort such a promise ? 
 calmly asked the friend. 
 
 “Was she not our child ? 
 
 “Yours to love, guard, guide, and educate for 
 heaven, while a child, and yours to advise and lead 
 into right ways when a woman; but not yours, 
 after the child became the woman, to extort promises 
 in violation of that freedom to love which is the 
 heart’s God-given prerogative. The attempt to con- 
 strain in this direction was the very way to thwart 
 your own wishes. Are you a woman, and ignorant 
 on this head? Commune with your own heart, 
 my friend, and you will see that you have erred. 
 Pardon me, when I say that you had no right to 
 bring your child into the agonizing strait of choos- 
 ing between her parents and the man she loved, no 
 matter how you might estimate him — no, not even 
 if he were utterly unworthy of her, which I will not 
 believe to be so. For the breach of a promise to 
 yourselves you are more to blame than she ; for you 
 forced her to make a promise that she could not 
 keep ; and the necessity of the case absolves her.” 
 
 “ Her father will never forgive her,” said Mrs. Ed- 
 wards, her voice subdued from its recent sternness. 
 “ This act has separated him forever from his child.” 
 A step was heard in the passage at this moment. 
 
 

 TRUE WORDS BETTER THAN TEARS. 
 
 185 
 
 The ladies glanced towards the door, and saw Mr. 
 Edwards. There was a dark shadow on his face. 
 He nodded coldly to the visitor, who said to him, 
 speaking from the mementos impulse, — 
 
 “This cannot be true.” 
 
 “ What ? ” he inquired. 
 
 “ That you will never forgive Lucy for the step 
 she has taken.” 
 
 The shadow on his face grew darker, as he an- 
 swered, — 
 
 “ She was forewarned of the consequences.” 
 
 “ But you will relent and forgive.” 
 
 “Never!” 
 
 “You have a Father!” said the visitor, impres- 
 sively. 
 
 Mr. Edwards looked with a half-doubting, half- 
 startled air into the face of his interrogator. 
 
 “ A Father in heaven ! ” and a finger, slowly 
 raised, was pointed upward. 
 
 “ Madam ! ” 
 
 The voice of Mr. Edwards was far from being 
 steady. 
 
 “ Have you never olBfended — never acted in dis 
 obedience to th^ will of that Father ? What if he 
 were, to say, ‘ I will neither relent nor forgive ^ ? 
 Pardon this freedom of speech in one who claims 
 
 
 
186 TRUE WORDS BETTER THAN TEARS. 
 
 to be a true friend/^ added the lady, in a changed 
 and lower tone of voice ; then rising, she passed 
 from the room ere they could prevent her departure. 
 
 They were true words, spoken resolutely, and at 
 a fitting moment, and they sunk deeply and dis- 
 turbingly into the hearts of Mr. Edwards and his 
 wife, awakening doubts and questionings which they 
 vainly, tried to thrust aside. Had they ever lived 
 in obedience to the will and word of their heavenly 
 Father ? Had they nothing to be forgiven, that they 
 so resolutely refused to forgive ? 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Edwards were in a calmer frame of 
 mind, as they sat alone on the evening that followed 
 this day — calmer for the words of truth which had 
 found a lodgment in their minds. To see and ac- 
 knowledge the duty of forgiveness was to soften 
 their hearts towards their erring child. And now 
 the mother^s spirit began to have a realizing percep- 
 tion of the unhappy life that awaited her daughter, 
 united as she was to one who possessed not, in her 
 estimation, a single attribute of genuine manhood. 
 Yearning love followed the motions of pity. For- 
 giveness became spontaneous. And when she spoke 
 to her husband, it was in entreaty for the absent 
 one. He received her words in silence ; but his 
 heart did not reject them. 
 
TRUE WORDS BETTER THAN TEARS- 187 
 
 How changed was all ! From the lips of Mr. 
 Edwards fell no harsh and denunciatory language 
 — from his brow had passed the deep lines of stern 
 anger or fiery indignation. And tears no longer 
 filled the eyes or glistened on the cheeks of Mrs. 
 Edwards — in her tranquil face the anguish of a 
 hopeless sorrow was not seen. Truthful words, 
 though harshly sounding, had been far better for 
 them than weak sympathy or idle tears. 
 
 And now they were in a better state to meet the 
 great sorrow and disappointment of their lives, and 
 to extract from the cup both they and their child 
 would be called to drink whatever of sweetness yet 
 mingled in the bitter potion. 
 
 The marriage of Lucy was not a wise one. It in- 
 volved so many incongruous elements that happiness, 
 in her new relation, was a thing impossible. Yet, 
 in the forgiveness of her parents and in their tender 
 sympathies, she found a strength to endure and 
 bravery to meet her life-duties, from which, but for 
 this, she would have fainted and fallen by the way. 
 
 Anger towards the erring and the disobedient 
 springs from a selfish feeling ; forgiveness is the 
 godlike spirit that loves out of itself, and blesses 
 all upon whom it desires a blessing. 
 
188 
 
 OUR OLD HOMESTEAD. 
 
 OUR OLD HOMESTEAD. 
 
 When first the skies grow warm and bright, 
 And flash with gold the hours, 
 
 And, in her pale, faint robes, the spring 
 Is calling up the flowers, — 
 
 When children with unslippered feet 
 Go forth with hearts of glee 
 To the straight and even furrows 
 Where the yellow corn must be, — 
 
 What a beautiful imbodiment 
 Of ease, devoid of pride. 
 
 Is the good old-fashioned homestead, 
 
 With doors still open wide ! 
 
 But when the happiest time is come 
 That to the year belongs. 
 
 Of uplands bright with harvest gold. 
 
 And meadows full of songs, — 
 
 When fields of yet unripened corn. 
 
 And daily garnering stores, 
 
 Kemind the thrifty husbandman 
 Of ampler threshing floors, — 
 
 

 =^(0: 
 
 OUR OLD HOMESTEAD. 189 
 
 How pleasant, from the din and dust 
 Of the thoroughfare aloof, 
 
 Seems the old-fashioned homestead, 
 
 With steep and mossy roof ! 
 
 When home the woodman plods, with axe 
 Upon his shoulder swung. 
 
 And in the knotted apple tree 
 Are scythe and sickle hung, — 
 
 When light the swallows twitter 
 ’Neath the rafters of the shed, 
 
 And the table in the ivied porch 
 With decent care is spread, — 
 
 The hearts are lighter and freer 
 Than beat in the populous town. 
 
 In the old-fashioned homestead. 
 
 With gables sharp and brown. 
 
 When the flowers of summer perish 
 In the cold and bitter rain. 
 
 And the little birds with weary wings 
 Have gone across the main, — 
 
 When curls the blue smoke upward 
 Towards the bluer sky. 
 
 And cold along the naked hills 
 And white the snow drifts lie, — 
 
 In legends of love and glory 
 They forget the cloud and storm 
 In the old-fashioned homestead, 
 
 With hearthstone ample and warm. 
 
 ( 3 ) 
 
 
f= 
 
 190 
 
 THE MARRIAGE RELATION. 
 
 THE MARRIAGE RELATION. 
 
 There is no relation of a temporal nature so 
 vastly important to the best interests of humanity 
 as the marriage relation, whether we contemplate 
 those interests with reference to the parties imme- 
 diately concerned in the union, or the happiness of 
 those in whose society they mingle after its consum- 
 mation. 
 
 We look upon the man or woman entering into 
 this relation as possessing an influence a thousand 
 fold greater, either for good or evil, than ever 
 before. Hence the importance of thought and re- 
 flection, congeniality of mind, and similarity of dis- 
 position, before assuming the responsibilities of 
 husbands and wives, in the formation of a union 
 authorized by an institution divinely appointed — 
 a union more sacred, tender, and endearing than 
 that which the child sustains to the parent. 
 
 “For this cause shall a man leave father and 
 mother, and shall cleave to his wife ; and they twain 
 
 ©: 
 
THE MARRIAGE RELATION. 
 
 (O): 
 
 191 
 
 shall be one flesh/^ The sentiments already ex- 
 pressed harmonize with this declaration of holy 
 writ, and impress the mind at once with the impor- 
 tance of judicious care and wise discretion in the 
 selection of one as a companion whose disposition, 
 sympathies, moral and intellectual qualifications, will 
 tend to increase the enjoyment of domestic life and 
 lessen its sorrows. In order to do this, the parties 
 seeking this union should study carefully each other^s 
 dispositions. Will the distinguishing traits of their 
 minds blend in harmony, so as to warrant a union of 
 the kind desirable, as a means of increasing enjoy- 
 ment ? Upon the settlement of this question de- 
 pend the present well being of the parties concerned, 
 and the good of community, in proportion to the 
 realization and promotion of sound morality through 
 the united instrumentality of husband and wife. 
 
 Hasty marriages, then, should be avoided as un- 
 necessary, and oftentimes highly injurious to peace 
 and abiding prosperity. It requires time and care, 
 caution and wisdom, imbodied in a knowledge of 
 human nature, to perceive and understand the ele- 
 ments of mind as developed and strengthened by the 
 influences of early associations, education, habits, 
 wealth, and previous standing in society, — and de- 
 termine from that perception, and the knowledge 
 
 © 
 
to)- 
 
 192 
 
 THE MARRIAGE RELATION. 
 
 thus gained, whether there will be a corresponding 
 harmony in efforts for the mutual edification and 
 constantly increasing happiness of those who seek 
 an alliance as partners for life. 
 
 Personal beauty, external attractions, such as 
 wealth and mere intellectual attainments, a faculty 
 to please and elicit applause, should not serve as the 
 only governing motives in the selection of a husband 
 or wife. There are other considerations, vastly more 
 important and a thousand times more weighty, which 
 claim the attention above and beyond all others. 
 ‘‘ Tis the mind that makes the man,^^ was the lan- 
 guage of Pope, the truthfulness of which has never 
 been questioned. 
 
 Whose adorning, let it not be that outward 
 adorning of plaiting the hair, and of wearing of 
 gold, or of putting on of apparel ; but let it be the 
 hidden man of the heart, in that which is not cor- 
 ruptible, even the ornament of a meek and quiet 
 spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price, 
 was the language of uninspired Peter. 
 
 The mind, beautified with the ornaments of good- 
 ness, love, virtue, meekness, quietness, patience, for- 
 bearance, mercy, and modesty, possesses an influence 
 illuminating, elevating, and happifying in its tenden- 
 cies. Like the brightness of the sun, extending 
 
 
 =-(2) 
 
(O): 
 
 =-@ 
 
 193 
 
 THE MARRIAGE RELATION. 
 
 farther and spreading wider as its emanating source 
 rises higher in the heavens, revealing the God- 
 created glories of surrounding scenery, this influence, 
 radiating through the moral ornaments of the mind, 
 smiles upon the domestic hearthstone, and runs 
 throughout the happy household, harmonizing the 
 feelings, increasing the affections, forgiving and 
 forgetting the word unkindly spoken. 
 
 Go into the family of the gentleman and lady who 
 have thus understandingly entered into the marriage 
 relation, and how soon we perceive the perfection of 
 earthly enjoyment ! The sweet smile of content- 
 ment reposes upon the brow of each. No angry 
 words efface it or cloud its brightness. They know 
 how and exhibit a willingness to suppress the un- 
 pleasant thoughts that may sometimes find way into 
 the heart, or recall the harshly uttered word. With 
 this disposition on the part of each to cherish and 
 manifest a spirit of kindness and good will, to avoid 
 contention, and to overlook each other^s seeming 
 faults, they walk in flowery paths. External beauty 
 may not attract the eye, wealth and luxury may not 
 adorn their dwelling, nor influence false and decep- 
 tive friends to court their favor ; but, what is far 
 better and infinitely more desirable, the cup of 
 domestic happiness sparkles with the bright gems of 
 
 
194 
 
 THE MARRIAGE RELATION. 
 
 true contentment and unsullied joys. Thus they 
 live, one in mind, one in interest, one in feeling, and 
 one in affection. This reciprocity of feeling in the 
 duties, joys, and sorrows of their station verifies the 
 words of Christ, “and they twain shall be one 
 flesh.’^ “Keeping the unity of the spirit in the 
 bonds of peace,” their lives are pleasant, their home 
 peaceful and interesting, and their union in a world 
 where death shall never more /sunder the ties of 
 domestic love, glorious and eternal. 
 
 And when the spoiler of man^s earthly hopes and 
 comforts brings the grave between them, the hour 
 of parting is rendered less sorrowful by the remem- 
 brances of mutual kindnesses. Pleasant memories 
 of the past impart a sacredness to the loved one’s 
 resting-place, causing tears of love and fond affec- 
 tion for many a year to fall upon the flowers that 
 bloom in mournful beauty over the dead. 0, if there 
 is a place on earth enchantingly lovely that angels 
 may with pleasure visit, and the virtuous admire, it 
 must be the home of those “whose hearts, and 
 faith, and hopes are one.” 
 
THE HARVEST HOME. 
 
 195 
 
 THE HARVEST HOME 
 
 God of the rolling year ! to thee 
 
 Our songs shall rise, whose bounty pours, 
 In many a goodly gift, with free 
 
 And liberal hand, our autumn stores ; 
 
 No firstlings of our fiock we slay. 
 
 No soaring clouds of incense rise, 
 
 But on thy hallowed shrine we lay 
 Our grateful hearts in sacrifice. 
 
 Borne on thy breath, the lap of spring 
 
 Was heaped with many a blooming fiower ; 
 And smiling summer joyed to bring 
 The sunshine and the gentle shower ; 
 
 And autumn’s rich luxuriance now, 
 
 The ripening seed, the bursting shell, 
 
 The golden sheaf and ladened bough, 
 
 The fulness of thy bounty tell. 
 
 No menial throng, in princely dome. 
 
 Here wait a titled lord’s behest. 
 
 But many a fair and peaceful home 
 Hath won thy peaceful dove a guest ; 
 

 196 
 
 THE HARVEST HOME. 
 
 No groves of palm our fields adorn, 
 
 No myrtle shades our orange bowers, 
 But rustling sheaves of golden corn 
 And fields of waving grain are ours. 
 
 Safe in thy care, the landscape o’er. 
 
 Our flocks and herds securely stray ; 
 
 No tyrant master claims our store. 
 
 No ruthless robber rends away ; 
 
 No fierce volcano’s withering shower, 
 
 No fell simoon, with poisonous breath. 
 Nor burning sun, with baleful power. 
 Awake the fiery plagues of death. 
 
 And here shall rise our song to Thee, 
 Where lengthened vale and pastures lie. 
 And streams go singing mild and free, 
 Beneath a blue and smiling sky ; 
 
 Where ne’er was reared a mortal throne. 
 Where crowned oppressors never trod. 
 Here at the throne of heaven alone 
 Shall man in reverence bow to God. 
 
 © 
 
 

 LITTLE BENNIE. 
 
 
 197 
 
 LITTLE BENNIE. 
 
 We shall see him no more. It seems but yester- 
 day we held him on our knee, and listened to his 
 lively prattle. Then his eye sparkled with joy ; 
 then the rose of health bloomed upon his cheek, and 
 his light hair was parted on his forehead. Then we 
 felt sure that he must live and gladden our heart 
 with his presence for many a year. Memory and 
 hope pictured him grown to manhood, the joy and 
 pride of our being. We remember how he used to 
 mount upon our knee, and how confidingly he would 
 lie in our lap. When we opened the door, how he 
 ran to meet us ! How happy when we came, and 
 how sad when we went away ! We felt that others 
 might be bereaved of their children — we knew that 
 others had been ; but our loved one could not die. 
 Thus we thought of little Bennie. But, alas! the 
 angel of death came to our home, and touched our 
 boy with his ashy pinion. He sealed his eyelids, and 
 took him away. Never before had we known what 
 
 (o> 
 
198 LITTLE BENNIE. 
 
 death was. But now have we been taught the sad 
 lesson ; now have we tasted of the bitter cup. That 
 face whose smiles we have often sought, those 
 little hands that have so often been folded in our 
 own, are no more. 
 
 Come and see where we have laid our boy. Yon- 
 der is his grave, covered with the verdure and 
 fragrant with the breath of summer ; here lies that 
 form so dear to our hearts. We stand beside the 
 place of our darling’s rest. While we muse, the 
 rays of the sun are sweetly falling, and the tall 
 grass is gracefully waving in the morning light. 
 Here shall the earliest carol of the bird be heard ; 
 here shall the yellow buttercup and the modest 
 daisy lift their dewy heads ; here shall they wel- 
 come our coming with their sunniest smile. Upon 
 the green turf that covers our boy the flowers of 
 memory and affection shall ever grow. 
 
 Little Bennie was not ours, but His, and He but 
 loaned him for a little while. We have but resigned 
 him again to Him, who will keep him for us. He 
 has passed away, and we mourn his loss ; and yet we 
 would not be selfish. We would remember the 
 Father’s claim to his child. All we ask is, that we 
 may meet our boy in heaven. 
 

 
 CARRY ME HOME TO DIE. 
 
 199 
 
 CARRY ME HOME TO DIE. 
 
 
 O, CARRY me back to my childhood’s homd, 
 Where ocean surges roar, 
 
 Where its billows dash on a rock-bound coast, 
 And moan forever more. 
 
 I’m pining away in a stranger’s land, 
 
 Beneath a stranger’s eye ; 
 
 O, carry me home, O, carry me home, 
 
 0, carry me home to die ! 
 
 Then let me rest in a peaceful grave. 
 
 Beside the loved and dead ; 
 
 For the quiet earth is the only place 
 To rest my weary head. 
 
 I would sweetly sleep, if you buried me there. 
 Beneath my country’s sky ; 
 
 O, carry me home, O, carry me home, 
 
 O, carry me home to die ! 
 
 

 © ^-- 
 
 200 INFLUENCE OF AN UNKIND WORD. 
 
 INFLUENCE OF AN UNKIND WORD. 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 Incidents trifling in themselves often have an 
 important influence in determining the character of 
 a life. A word spoken in season, a cruel taunt, 
 wounding the heart to its core, have been the turn- 
 ing points in destiny, and put a young mind on the 
 high road to fortune, or sent it downward to ruin. 
 Almost every person can recall some occurrence in 
 early life which gave tone and impulse to effort, and 
 imbued the mind with principles whose influence is 
 even now controlling. We give place to the follow- 
 ing true narrative, as an illustration of this fact, 
 and because it inculcates a truth which every man, 
 woman, and child may profitably bear in mind. 
 
 Years ago, when I was a boy, it was customary, 
 and probably is now to some extent among district 
 schools in the country, to have spelling schools dur- 
 ing the winter term. These gatherings were always 
 anticipated with great interest by the scholars, as at 
 those times was to be decided who was the best 
 speller. Occasionally, one school would visit an- 
 
 © 
 

 - - :,= (§) 
 
 INFLUENCE OP AN UNKIND WORD. 201 
 
 other for a test of scholarship in this regard. Ah, 
 how the little hearts would throb, and big ones 
 thump, in their anxiety to beat the whole. 
 
 Once on a time a neighboring school sent word 
 to ours, that on a certain day in the afternoon they 
 would meet in our school house for one of these con- 
 tests. As the time was short, most of the other 
 studies were suspended, and at school and at home, 
 in the evenings, all hands were studying to master 
 the monosyllables, dissyllables, polysyllables, abbre- 
 viations, <fec., which the spelling books contained. 
 
 At length the day arrived, and as our visitors 
 were considered rather our superiors, our fears and 
 anxieties were proportionately great. The scholars 
 were ranged in a standing position, on opposite 
 sides of the house, and the words pronounced to 
 each side alternately, and the scholar that “ missed 
 was to sit down ; his game was up. 
 
 It did not take long to thin the ranks on both 
 sides. In a short time our school had but eight on 
 the floor, and theirs but six. After a few rounds 
 the contest turned in their favor, as they had four 
 standing to our two. For a long time it seemed 
 as though these six had the book “ by heart.’' At 
 length the number was reduced to one on each side. 
 Our visitors were represented by an accomplished 
 
 (o>=^ 
 
 
202 IJ^FLUENCE OF AN UNKIND WORD. 
 
 young lady, whose parents had recently arrived in 
 town, and ours by myself, a ragged little boy of ten 
 summers, who had set up night after night, while my 
 mother, with no other light than that produced by 
 pine knots, pronounced my lessons to me. The in- 
 terest of the spectators was excited to the highest 
 pitch, as word after word was spelled by each. At 
 length the young lady missed, and I stood alone. 
 Her teacher said she did not understand the word. 
 She declared she did ; that the honor was mine, and 
 that I richly deserved it. That was a proud moment 
 for me. I had spelled down both schools, and was 
 declared victor. My cheeks burned, and my brain 
 was dizzy with excitement. 
 
 Soon as the school was dismissed, my competitress 
 came and sat down by my side, and congratulated 
 me on my success, inquired my name and age, and 
 flatteringly predicted my future success in life. 
 
 Unaccustomed to such attentions, I doubtless acted, 
 as most little boys would under such circumstances, 
 j injudiciously. At this juncture. Master G., the son 
 of the rich man of our neighborhood, tauntingly 
 said to me, in the presence of my fair friend and a 
 number of boys from the other school, ^‘0, you 
 needn^t feel so big — your folks are poor, and your 
 father is a drunkard.^^ 
 
 © 
 
=rr=@ 
 
 203 
 
 
 INFLUENCE OF AN UNKIND WOKD. 
 
 I was happy no more — I was a drunkard^s son — 
 and how could I look my new friends in the face ? 
 My heart seemed to rise up in my throat, and almost 
 suffocated me. The hot tears scalded my eyes, but 
 I kept them back, and soon as possible quietly 
 slipped away from my companions, procured my 
 dinner basket, and, unobserved, left the scene of my 
 triumph and disgrace, with a heavy heart, for my 
 home. But such a home I “ my folks were poor, and 
 my father was a drunkard.^^ But why should I be 
 reproached for that? I could not prevent my 
 father^s drinking, and, assisted and encouraged by 
 my mother, I had done all I could to keep my place 
 in my class at school, and to assist her in her worse 
 than widowhood. 
 
 Boy as I was, I inwardly resolved never to taste 
 of liquor, and that I would show Master G., if I 
 was a drunkard’s son, I would yet stand as high as 
 he did. But all my resolves could not allay the 
 gnawing grief and vexation produced by his taunt- 
 ing words and haughty manner. 
 
 In this frame of mind — my head and heart ach- 
 ing, my eyes red and swollen — I reached home. 
 My mother saw at once that I was in trouble, and 
 inquired the cause. I buried my face in her lap, and 
 burst into tears. Mother, seeing my grief, waited 
 
 
 (O) 
 

 204 
 
 INFLUENCE OF AN UNKIND WORD. 
 
 until I was more composed, when I told her what 
 had happened, and added, passionately, “I wish 
 father wouldn^t be a drunkard, so we could be re- 
 spected as other folks.” At first mother seemed 
 almost overwhelmed, but quickly rallying, said, — 
 
 ‘‘My son, I feel very sorry for you, and regret 
 that your feelings have been so injured. G. has 
 twitted you about things you cannot help. But 
 never mind, my son. . Be always honest ; never 
 taste a drop of intoxicating liquor ; study and im- 
 prove your mind. Depend on your own energies, 
 trusting in God, and you will, if your life is spared, 
 make a useful and respected man. I wish your 
 father, when sober, could have witnessed this scene, 
 and realized the sorrow his course brings on us all. 
 But keep a brave heart, my son. Remember you 
 are responsible only for your own faults. Pray God 
 to keep you, and do not grieve for the thoughtless 
 and unkind reproaches that may be cast on you on 
 your father’s account.” 
 
 This lesson of my blessed mother, I trust, was not 
 lost upon me. Nearly forty years have passed since 
 that day, and I have passed many trying scenes ; but 
 none ever made so strong an impression on my feel- 
 ings as that heartless remark of G’s. It was so 
 unjust and so uncalled for ! Now, boys, remember 
 
 
 
@ ■ v.- (0) 
 
 INFLUENCE OF AN UNKIND WORD. 205 
 
 always to treat your mates with kindness. Never 
 indulge in taunting remarks towards any one, and 
 remember that the son of a poor man, and even 
 of a drunkard, may have sensibilities as keen as 
 your own. 
 
 But there is another part to this story. The other 
 day, a gentleman called at my place of business, and 
 asked if I did not recognize him. I told him I did 
 not. Do you remember,^^ said he, “ of being at a 
 spelling school at a certain time, and a rude, thought- 
 less boy twitting you of poverty, and being a drunk- 
 ard^s son ? “I do most distinctly,’^ said I. “ Well,” 
 continued the gentleman, “I am that boy. There 
 has not, probably, a month of my life passed since 
 then but I have thought of that remark with regret 
 and shame ; and as I am about leaving for Califor- 
 nia, perhaps to end my days there, I could not go 
 without first calling on you, and asking your forgive- 
 ness for that act.” Boys, I gave him my hand as a 
 pledge of forgiveness. Did I do right? You all 
 say, yes. Well, then, let me close as I began. Boys 
 never twit another for what he cannot help. 
 
 — — © 
 
206 
 
 creation’s work is done. 
 
 © 
 
 CREATION^S WORK IS DONE. 
 
 — • — 
 
 When half Creation’s works were done, 
 Just formed the stars, the glowing sun, 
 And softly blushing skies ; 
 
 And wide across earth’s dewy lawn 
 Gleamed the first glances of the morn, 
 And flowers began to rise ; — 
 
 Clad in her robe of tender green. 
 
 Nature delighted viewed the scene, 
 Pleased with each novel form ; 
 
 And from each sweetly-blooming flower, 
 From hill, and vale, and shady bower, 
 She cuUed some lovely charm. 
 
 She took the balmy violets blue. 
 
 The sweet carnation’s mellow hue, 
 
 Rich with the tears of night, — 
 Though the young beam of rising day 
 Had melted half that tear away. 
 
 In the first stream of light ; — 
 
 And now in majesty arrayed, 
 
 Her last, her fairest work she made, 
 
 •© 
 
©■ 
 
 GOOD TEMPER. 207 
 
 Almost a seraph’s frame ; 
 
 To animate this form was given 
 A gentle spirit, sent from heaven, 
 
 And WOMAN was her name ! 
 
 Hark ! hark ! she speaks, and silver strains, 
 Melodious, floating o’er the plains, 
 
 A thrilling joy impart ; 
 
 A nightingale has caught the tone, 
 
 And made that melting voice his own. 
 
 That vibrates on the heart. 
 
 Fair Nature cast her glance around 
 The glowing sky, the flowery ground, 
 
 The day-difiusing sun ; 
 
 On woman last, her beauteous child. 
 
 She gazed, and said, with accents mild, 
 
 “ Creation’s work is done.” 
 
 GOOD TEMPER. 
 
 
 Since trifles make the sum of human things. 
 
 And half our misery*from our foibles springs ; 
 Since life’s best joys consist in peace and ease. 
 
 And though but few can serve, yet all may please ; 
 O, let the ungentle spirit learn from hence 
 A small unkindness is a great ofience. 
 
 

 208 
 
 LESSONS OF CONTENTMENT. 
 
 LESSONS OF CONTENTMENT. 
 
 It happened once on a hot summer^s day, says a 
 German parable, I was standing over a well, when a 
 little bird flew down, seeking water. There was, 
 indteed, a’ large trough near the well, but it was 
 empty, and I grieved for a moment to think that the 
 little creature must go away thirsty ; but it settled 
 upon the edge of the trough, bent its little head for- 
 ward, then raised it again, spread its wings, and 
 soared away, singing : its thirst was appeased. I 
 walked up to the trough, and there in the stone 
 work I saw a little hole about the size of a wren^s 
 egg. The water left there had been a source of 
 revival and refreshment ; it had found enough for 
 the present, and desired no more. This is content- 
 ment. 
 
 Again, I stood by a lovely, sweet-smelling flower ; 
 and there came a bee, humming and sucking, and 
 chose the flower for its field of sweets. But the 
 flower had no honey. This I knew, for it had no 
 nectary. What then, thought I, will the bee do ? 
 
 
LESSONS OF CONTENTMENT. 209 
 
 It came buzzing out of the cup, to take a farther 
 flight ; but it spied the stamina full of golden farina, 
 good for making wax, and it rolled its legs against 
 them until they looked like yellow hose, as the bee 
 keepers say, and then, heavily laden, flew away 
 home. Then said I, “ Thou earnest seeking honey, 
 and, finding none, hast been satisfied with wax, and 
 hast stored it for thy house, that thy labor may not 
 be in vain. This, likewise, shall be to me a lesson 
 of contentment.’^ 
 
 The night is far spent — the dark night of trouble 
 that sometimes threatened to close around us ; but 
 the day is at hand, and even in the night there are 
 stars, and I have looked out on them and been com- 
 forted ; for as one set, I could always see another 
 rise ; and each was { lamp, showing me somewhat 
 of the depth of the ri Aes of the wisdom and knowl- 
 edge of God. 
 
 14 
 
210 THE HOMEWARD VOYAGE. 
 
 THE HOMEWARD VOYAGE. 
 
 A TINY boat was launched, one morn, 
 
 Upon a blue and boundless sea, 
 
 Whose sparkling waves were pure and bright 
 As ocean wavelets e’er could be. 
 
 A lovely child was at the helm. 
 
 With graceful form and merry eye. 
 
 And sunny curls of golden hue. 
 
 Shading a forehead pure and high. 
 
 A joyous smile broke o’er his face. 
 
 His heart with hope was beating wild. 
 
 And angels bent from heavt n above 
 To bless the little fairy child. 
 
 The gentle breezes fanned his brow. 
 
 Glad sunbeams nestled ’mid his hair. 
 
 Bright garlands decked his little barque. 
 Woven of flowerets strangely fair. 
 
 And from his rosebud mouth there broke 
 An infant carol wildly free ; 
 
 The burden of his little lay 
 Was, Life is beautiful to me.” 
 
THE HOMEWARD VOYAGE. 
 
 211 
 
 The morn passed on, and noontide’s heat 
 Fell from a clear and cloudless sky 
 
 Upon the youth, who swiftly sailed 
 With wearied frame and drooping eye. 
 
 His song had lost its merry tone. 
 
 And faintly echoed o’er the sea. 
 
 ‘‘ Alas ! ” he said, and softly sighed, 
 
 ‘‘ Life is a weariness to me.” 
 
 The evening shadows darkly fell. 
 
 The bright day-god had sunk in gloom 
 
 Behind a mass of murky clouds. 
 
 And morning’s rosy light was gone. 
 
 The boat had neared a glorious land. 
 
 Whose gates were pearl, whose streets were gold. 
 
 Where angels bright with holy songs 
 Spoke volumes ne’er to mortals told. 
 
 The youth beheld the heavenly scene 
 With radiant eye and joyous heart. 
 
 Knowing that he had neared a shore 
 From whence he never should depart. 
 
 Into this peaceful port he sailed ; 
 
 And now his song was full and free. 
 
 As in a glad, exulting tone. 
 
 He warbled, ‘‘ Heaven is won for me.” 
 
©: 
 
 212 GENTLENESS. 
 
 GENTLENESS. 
 
 — # — 
 
 This is a simple word, but full of meaning. Mild- 
 ness of temper, softness of manners, kindness, ten- 
 derness, meekness, and benevolence are all blended 
 to form true gentleness of character. But 
 
 “ There are those who never knew one generous thought 
 Of kind endeavor, or sweet sympathy.” 
 
 Alas, what a weary world would this be if gentle- 
 ness were banished from it I Discord, harshness, 
 and contention would reign triumphantly, the pleas- 
 ures of society be utterly destroyed, and mankind 
 would seek the desert or the wilderness for quiet 
 and contentment. The affections are rooted up by 
 harsh tones, and the spirits of the sensitive crushed 
 by unkind words from thoughtless and uncharitable 
 lips. How many are the bitter fruits of such ele- 
 ments of character! Strange that no more is done, 
 no more is said, to rid society of such baneful 
 influences. 
 
 © " ( 2 ) 
 
GENTLENESS. 213 
 
 On the contrary, where gentleness is the govern- 
 ing principle, society is lovely and attractive ; or if 
 { it rule a single heart, that heart is like a fountain of 
 living waters, sending forth healthful streams. A 
 society thus governed is like an oasis in the desert 
 of life, where the weary traveller may rest and 
 refresh himself. Gentle words break the flinty heart 
 in twain, and open the hidden founts of human 
 sympathy, disarm anger, and overcome wrath. Who 
 has not felt the power of gratitude expressed for a 
 simple favor bestowed, and acknowledged that it is 
 ■ indeed ‘‘more blessed to give than to receive,” when 
 the hearty “ God bless you ” has come up from the 
 overflowing bosom? Gentle tones have power to 
 heal the broken heart, and soothe earth^s sorrows. 
 
 It is the gentle spirit, the contented disposition, the 
 kind look, the cheerful answer, the unaffected inter- 
 est in others^ welfare, that render one a blessing to 
 community. All these are signs of true and gener- 
 ous love to all mankind, and the spring of that 
 mighty power that makes us “ love our neighbor as | 
 ourself.” 
 
 “ Gentleness of manner does not exclude strength 
 of character.” Those who govern by gentleness 
 alone exert a far greater power than such as rule 
 by other means. Impatience and fretfulness injure 
 
 — ■ =@ 
 
©: 
 
 214 GENTLENESS. 
 
 the affections and harden the heart ; while gentle- 
 ness subdues the most stubborn will. A look of 
 gentle, firm reproof will penetrate the soul and 
 make it weep for shame. 0, say not, There is no 
 power in gentle words.’^ 
 
 There is gentleness in nature. Though the moun- , 
 tain stream is noble as it bursts in grandeur from 
 its vantage ground, and strength is in its gleam of 
 brightness, and thunder in its deafening roar, yet 
 lovelier far is the streamlet as it gently murmurs by 
 the lone churchyard, and by its dirge-like melody 
 speaks its modest worth and living beauty — fit 
 emblem of true gentleness. 
 
 The proud ocean, heaving with convulsion when 
 the furious tempest spends its strength upon its 
 waters, fills our souls with awe and wonder, and we 
 fear and dread its wrath. But when its waters 
 gently rock proud vessels that sail on her bosom, 
 we love to sing “ Beautiful Sea,’^ and never tire of 
 gazing on its deep, blue waters. 
 
 The roar of the angry lion and the screams of 
 the hungry panther may fill the heart with fear ; 
 but we love the sweet, gentle strains of the feathered 
 songsters, rejoicing in their being. 
 
 We listen to the orator^s bold figures, and feel 
 emotions rising in our bosoms in obedience to his 
 
 © - — ^ 
 
© = 
 
 NEVER RAIL AT THE WORLD. 
 
 will ; but we love the gentle strain of infant voices, 
 and find our hearts subdued by the magic of their 
 power. 
 
 Woman needs the elements of gentleness instilled 
 into her nature, else she falls far short of filling the 
 place her God assigned for her. She may, without 
 it, be admired for wit, beauty, and intelligence ; but 
 never can she hold the sway of the affections, if this 
 most important element be wanting, or make her 
 home the nursery of happiness and love. 
 
 NEVER RAIL AT THE WORLD. 
 
 Never rail at the world — it is just as we make it ; 
 
 We see not the flower if we see not the seed ; 
 
 And as for ill luck, why, its just as we take it ; 
 
 The heart that’s in earnest no bars can impede. 
 
 You question the justice which governs man fe breast, 
 And say that the search for true friendship is vain ; 
 But remember, this world, though it be not the best, 
 
 Is next to the best we shall ever attain. 
 
 
 ©: 
 
216 O, HASTEN ON, YE** WINGED HOURS. 
 
 0, HASTEN ON, YE WINGED HOURS 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 0, HASTEN on, ye winged hours ! 
 
 I yearn once more to see 
 The valley of my childhood’s home. 
 
 The mountains, and the lea ; 
 
 The feathery groves that crown the hills, 
 Or droop beside the stream. 
 
 The silvery brooks, the murmuring rills, 
 Where downy violets gleam ; 
 
 The winding path beside the lake. 
 
 Where watfer-lilies float. 
 
 And s{5read at eve their stainless sails, 
 Like some sweet fairy boat. 
 
 The dark-gray rocks that raise their headf 
 Far up the mountain side. 
 
 The gentle stream that winds below 
 Like a clinging, timid bride. 
 
 All, all my spirit pines to see — 
 
 Each spot within that vale. 
 
 Each looming crag, each mossy stone. 
 Each verdant, smiling dale : 
 
Mary’s dirge. 
 
 217 
 
 Then hasten on, ye winged hours, 
 And o’er the swelling sea 
 O, safely launch and guide my bark 
 Until thus blest I be. 
 
 MARY’S DIRGE. 
 
 ’Tis now the month of light and bloom, 
 The month of many roses ; 
 
 I heed it not. The silent tomb 
 Our sweetest flower encloses. 
 
 The sun upon the bright blue streams 
 Throws many a golden arrow ; 
 
 But Mary’s eye no longer beams — 
 
 The tomb is dark and narrow. 
 
 The winds are playing through the trees 
 That fringe the proud old river ; 
 
 Our Mary’s voice was like the breeze — 
 And that is stilled forever ! 
 
©•: 
 
 218 INCENSE FROM THE FAMILY ALTAR. 
 
 INCENSE ER3M THE FAMILY ALTAR. 
 
 What can be more beautifully appropriate than 
 the worship of God in families I 
 Here is a little company of human beings joined 
 together in the most intimate connection — dwelling 
 under one roof, fed at one table, supplied with the 
 necessaries of life from sources of income that are 
 common to them all ; feeling themselves to have alto- 
 gether common interests, common wants, and com- 
 mon exposures. It is granted that they all ought to 
 worship God ; is it not appropriate that they should 
 worship him together ? Each of them ought to 
 thank God for his daily food, and daily to ask God 
 for the needed supply. But the family take their 
 meals together. It is supplied from a common 
 store, and spread upon a common table, and the 
 daily gatherings around that table are the recog* 
 nized symbol of their close intimacy. Is there any 
 other scene which ought to be sanctified with prayer, 
 if not that where a family most frequently look in 
 
 ©=- 
 
 
INCENSE FROM THE FAMILY ALTAR. 
 
 219 ! 
 
 eaca otter^s faces — where the responsible providers 
 distribute the liberal provision — where parental 
 love lavishes itself upon its tender objects — and 
 where the children not only have their bodies nur- 
 tured, out their minds and manners cultivated ? 
 
 A prayerless family meal is a most unchristian, a 
 most ungodly thing ; and seldom does that graceless 
 spirit whose plainest name is Fashion, show her im- 
 piety more plainly than when, at a social entertain- 
 ment, she whispers that, as the family table would 
 be too narrow for so numerous a company, so the 
 family custom of giving thanks at the table is too 
 homely for so splendid an occasion ; just as if the 
 larger and costlier provision did not need the 
 divine blessing, and did not call for thanks, as much 
 as the ordinary meal ; and just as if an unblest 
 meal, partaken by a numerous company scattered 
 through the ample spaces of a parlor, were any 
 more Christian than the same thing at an ordinary 
 table. 
 
 Nor is it only at the table that families should 
 worship. Sheltered by one roof, the faniily have 
 laid them down in peace and slept, and awoke in 
 safety, because the Lord has sustained them. Com- 
 ing from their several chambers, they meet and 
 excliange their affectionate salutations, glad to feel 
 
 
 ©: 
 
220 INCENSE FROM THE FAMILY ALTAR. 
 
 “We are all here.” It is a common protection they 
 have shared. They have together been kept from 
 the assassin, from the fire, from the “ pestilence that 
 walketh in darkness.” Should not they kneel to- 
 gether, and give thanks to their heavenly Guardian ? 
 They are going forth, too, in duties, and to dangers, 
 and they need a common guidance ; shall they not 
 ask for it together ? And at the close of the day, 
 have they not equal reasons for united prayer and 
 thanksgiving ? They have all been led and kept by 
 one Providence, and they all need to commit them- 
 selves to one divine Guardian. On both occasions 
 it is appropriate, besides the prayer, to read the 
 divine word together, and to unite, if they are able, 
 in sacred song. 
 
 There will, of course, be mornings when all have 
 not come from their chambers in the glow and the 
 joy of health ; there will be evenings when the 
 family will sadly gather, returning from a new 
 grave. Thenceforth, at the table, and at the fire- 
 side, there will be “ one vacant chair.” All families 
 must have these days of sorrow. What shall they 
 do with this sorrow ? To whom shall they tell it ? 
 On whose friendly strength shall they lay it ? There 
 is no such other place for a bereaved family to 
 soothe and comfort themselves as their family altar. 
 
INCENSE FROM THE FAMILY ALTAR. 221 
 
 Is it the father that is gone ? Nowhere else will 
 they find such comfort as kneeling, in their tears, at 
 the family altar, and pouring out their prayers from 
 their broken hearts, through the channel, perhaps, 
 of a feebler and softer voice than that to whose 
 manly tones they were accustomed. 
 
 Or has one of the little ones been taken ? The 
 table must henceforth lack the light of his happy 
 face — the house will no more ring to his merry 
 laugh ; but there is no sweeter memory, when you 
 see the white hands laid together on the still breast, 
 than that you had seen them folded on the edge of 
 the table at the giving of thanks, or on the chair by 
 your side at the daily worship. 
 
 In joy and sorrow, amid all the varieties of domes- 
 tic experience, they who live together may most 
 appropriately and beneficially worship together. 
 
 s 
 
 @ 
 
 © 
 
222 
 
 FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE. 
 
 Friendship is sweet to those 
 Who know no purer gem ; 
 
 ’Tis like the blushing rose, 
 
 Blown from its tender stem ; 
 
 Or like the queen of night, 
 
 That glistens in the sky ; 
 
 Her ever-fading light 
 
 Forms but a transient tie. 
 
 Love is a theme that springs 
 Pure in the human heart ; 
 
 ’Tis friendship decked with wings, 
 A bond no time can part. 
 
 As the green ivy bowers 
 Around the old oak tree. 
 
 So Love outlives the flowers 
 That Friendship culled for me. 
 
THE MIGHT OP TRUTH. 
 
 223 
 
 THE MIGHT OF TRUTH. 
 
 From out the little fountains 
 There swells a mighty tide, 
 
 Upon whose broad, elastic back 
 The broods of commerce ride ; 
 
 And on the winged tempest 
 A little seed there flies. 
 
 Whose roots strike deep, whose giant arms 
 Reach upward to the skies ; 
 
 And so the little, slighted Truth, 
 
 At length more mighty grown. 
 
 Shall fill the nations with its power. 
 
 And make the world its own. 
 
 There is a flower, when trampled on, 
 
 Doth still more richly bloom. 
 
 And even to its bitterest foe 
 Gives forth its sweet perfume ; 
 
 The rose that’s crushed and shattered 
 Doth on the breeze bestow 
 A fairer scent, that farther goes 
 E’en for the cruel blow. 
 
 And so Truth’s crushed and trampled flower, 
 By injury stronger grown, 
 
 Shall win its very foes to love. 
 
 And make the world its own. 
 
summer’s last sunset. 
 
 @= 
 
 224 
 
 
 SUMMER’S LAST SUNSET. 
 
 ♦— 
 
 Far above the rosy west, 
 
 See the summer sun is sinking, 
 
 Warm and thirsty, seeking rest. 
 
 From Pacific’s chalice drinking ; 
 
 Soon the tapestry of night 
 Gathers round his temples bright. 
 
 While the summer with us stays. 
 
 Bright the skies, and fresh the showers, 
 J^ong and cheerful are the days. 
 
 Birds are warbling in the bowers ; 
 
 And when Eve her star robe shows, 
 
 ✓ 
 
 Zephyrs fan us to repose. 
 
 Luscious fruits on bending trees. 
 
 Redolent and gorgeous flowers, 
 
 Gold crops waving in the breeze. 
 
 All declare his magic powers ; 
 Autumn’s purple clusters, too. 
 
 And brown nuts to him we owe. 
 
 
 But when Summer quits his rule, 
 
 And his wondrous skill in farming, 
 Searjug harvests iich and full. 
 
 To the ey^ aaa hejo-t taosi charming. 
 
 4 ) 
 
CHEER UP, BE NOT DISCOURAGED YET. 
 
 Soon the fields sad changes show, 
 
 ‘ For the plants refuse to grow. 
 
 Loved beguiler of our feet. 
 
 Through the vale and up the mountain. 
 Who, when we complained of heat, 
 
 Slaked our thirst from mossy fountain, 
 Must we bid a long adieu 
 To a friend so kind and true ? 
 
 But all praise to Him that sent 
 Summer, with its joys and beauty. 
 
 To escort us as we went 
 
 Onward through the paths of duty. 
 
 With the promise kindly given 
 Of brighter, sweeter scenes in heaven. 
 
 CHEER UP, BE NOT DISCOURAGED YET. 
 
 Once on a time, from scenes of light 
 An angel winged his airy flight ; 
 Down to this earth in haste he came, 
 And wrote, in lines of living flame. 
 These words on every thing he met : 
 ‘‘ Cheer up, be not discouraged yet 1 ** 
 
226 . THE CRUSHED BUD. 
 
 THE CRUSHED BUD. 
 
 How man/ sad hours mothers may unwittingly 
 bring to their own home circle, by failing to en- 
 courage the confidence of their children ! Fashion, 
 friends, or other ordinary considerations, should not 
 excuse the mother from listening to the mental wants 
 of her little ones ; and listening, she should seek 
 earnestly to sympathize with their ingenuous natures. 
 It is not stooping to study for the most accurate 
 replies to their simple inquiries, nor a waste of time 
 to learn how truth will appear most lovely to their 
 active, restless minds. ‘‘ Cast thy bread upon the 
 waters, and thou shalt see it after many days.^’ 
 
 “ Mary, why are there no stars in the daytime ? 
 said little Katie Grey to her governess, as at twi- 
 light she sat folded in her embrace beside the open 
 casement. 
 
 “ Because, love, the light that reaches us from the 
 sun is so much stronger than that which comes to us 
 from the stars, we cannot see them in the daytime.’^ 
 
 “ Then there are stars in the sky all the day long, 
 
© ■ ■ ■ ■ . - ■ ■■ @ 
 ; 1 
 
 THE CRUSHED BUD. 227 
 
 only we do not see them. Is that the way it is, 
 Mary ? ^ 
 
 “Yes, dear; and sometimes, when the sun is 
 eclipsed, — that is, darkened by the shadow of some 
 other heavenly body, — stars may be seen in the 
 daytime.’*’ 
 
 After asking many artless questions, which were 
 kindly answered by Mary, little Katie nestled closer 
 to her heart, and thought and thought until her 
 gentle eyes closed in slumber. Then she dreamed 
 brilliant dreams of bright stars that, like the angels, 
 are ever stationed above us, though we may not 
 behold them, and was all unmindful of the warm 
 tears falling fast upon her young head. 
 
 The governess wept, though not for selfish sorrow, 
 but for her little charge — the sleeper upon her 
 bosom. A few evenings before, Katie had asked 
 this same question about the stars of her mother, 
 the elegant and accomplished Mrs. Grey. The child 
 * had been sitting silently on the door stone for a full 
 half hour, philosophizing upon the pretty clouds and 
 fair stars ; but these were childish mysteries she 
 could not solve alone, and she sought her mother to 
 ask of her ; but Mrs. Grey was at her toilet, spar- 
 kling in diamonds and beauty, her fancy busy in a 
 realm far from Katie’s thoughts. The festal hour | 
 •- 
 
©= 
 
 228 
 
 THE CRUSHED BUD. 
 
 and the adulation of the gay multitude preoccupied 
 her mind, and making no reply to her little daugh- 
 ter, with an impatient gesture she bade her leave the 
 room, for it was “ time that children were asleep,” 
 she said. Katie burst into tears ; but Mary, who, 
 passing at that moment, heard the unthinking moth- 
 er, caught the little girl to her bosom, and bore her 
 to her own apartment. 
 
 As Mrs. Grey adjusted the last rosebud in her 
 beautiful tresses, a deep blush overspread her hand- 
 some features, which might have been mistaken for 
 the glow of conscious loveliness. Did it not rather 
 betray her guilt, and did she not inly confess herself 
 unworthy the high trust which the name of mother 
 implied ? 
 
 Katie sobbed too violently to hear aught about 
 the stars that night ; so the governess soothed her 
 with a lullaby until she fell asleep. The carriage 
 called for Mrs. Grey, who hastily kissed the brow 
 of the sleeping child, and with that questionable 
 flush upon her face withdrew. When the sound of 
 wheels had died in the distance, it grew very quiet 
 in that little room. Katie slept so silently, and her ! 
 cheek was so very pale, any one might have supposed 
 j her breath had ceased, but for the convulsive sobs 
 that broke the stillness as Mary bent over her. 
 
 4 ^ - ■ 
 
©: 
 
 THE CRUSHED BUD. 229 
 
 The governess was a gentle, pious girl, and she 
 prayed that pleasing dreams might come to the 
 slumberer^s pillow ; and as if angels were hovering 
 around to answer, that little fece became radiant 
 with a placid smile. The sobbing ceased, and the 
 shadow of the souPs “ first great grief passed from 
 that sunny brow ; but Katie was not free to tell 
 her pretty thoughts in her mother^s presence from 
 that day. 
 
 However, Mrs. Grey seemed truly to regret hav- 
 ing wounded the feelings of her little daughter ; still 
 she regarded her as by far too sensitive. She was 
 confident that when she was herself a child, so slight 
 a thing would not have troubled her. She thought 
 Mr. Grey — to whom she apologetically related the 
 circumstance — “ attached altogether too great im- 
 portance to a matter so trivial ; she had no doubt 
 that “ Katie herself had already forgotten it,^^ and 
 she deemed it “ very unwise to let children regard 
 their wants as paramount to those of older people/’ 
 
 Poor Mrs. Grey, you did not think how deeply 
 Katie’s heart was absorbed in her twilight musings ; 
 how she felt her soul expanding with newly-awa- 
 kened and sublime feelings ; how the confused intei‘ 
 rogatories of her young mind were seeking to mould 
 themselves into form, so that those great emotions 
 
 © 
 
 
230 THE CRUSHED BUD. 
 
 should become great thoughts. Ah, Mrs. Grey ! the 
 diamonds were brilliant that glowed upon your 
 breast that night, but a jewel of value untold was 
 spurned from your bosom when you drove that little 
 one from you. 
 
 A year passed away, and the repulsed affections 
 of the child clung nervously to poor Mary, for she 
 had ever a gentle smile and a loving word. With 
 delight almost maternal she watched the unfolding 
 of this ‘‘ bud of promise and though she often 
 wearied of the boisterous plays of the older chil- 
 dren, she never deemed it a task to talk with little 
 Katie. It was very pleasant to mark the changing 
 expression of that lovely face, while listening to the 
 long, beautiful tales which Mary had learned just to 
 relate to her darling. 
 
 But all this time Mrs. Grey was engrossed with 
 things foreign from the mother^s trust. She did not 
 fail to congratulate herself upon her own good for- 
 tune in securing the services of so trustworthy an 
 individual to take charge of her children as Mary; 
 and this most perfectly quieted the conscience of the 
 deluded woman. But Mary was too young and frail 
 to sustain the weight of care which she had assumed. 
 She grew pale and thin, and when the physician 
 camo, and said that she must go far away into a land 
 
©: 
 
 :( 0 ) 
 
 THE CRUSHED BUD. 
 
 231 
 
 of pleasant scenes and healthful breezes, little Katie 
 wept sorrowfully ; yet she did not realize that her 
 ‘‘ dear, good Mary would go away and leave her 
 behind. But the kind governess departed, never to 
 return to the home of little Katie again. And who 
 was now left to answer the childish inquiries ? to 
 return the yearning love of her susceptible nature ? 
 Mrs. Grey would fain have been thoughtful, earnest, 
 and patient even as was poor Mary; but she was 
 impulsive, beautiful, and fond of display, which last 
 trait amounted to a passion, making her selfish in 
 the extreme, and she could not appreciate the young 
 spirit whom God had intrusted to her keeping. 
 
 Katie mourned piteously when her dear governess 
 was at last gone, and for a time sought no one to 
 supply the place she had left vacant ; but that little 
 busy mind could not solve every question of its own 
 propounding, nor could that warm, young heart beat 
 freely without a sharer in its lofty aspirations. 
 
 Her father was a highly-cultivated and excellent 
 man, but business called him much abroad ; and he, 
 too, failed to apprehend the great want of his little 
 daughter. Katie found little companionship with 
 those of her own years, and though she often joined 
 heartily in their gay pastimes, she could not induce 
 them to love that which she most delighted in. 
 
 , : 
 
 <Q) 
 
232 
 
 THE CKCSHED BUD. 
 
 One bland spring morning, when the air seemed 
 permeated with coloring of peach blossoms and lilac 
 flowers, and zephyrs were gay with the new life of 
 young buds and green leaves, Katie Grey bent fond- 
 ly above a bed of fresh-blown violets, as if spell- 
 bound by their humble beauty. She would have 
 deemed it sacrilege to sever one from its tender 
 stem, and thus destroy the life of aught so lovely. 
 Now the warm blood rushed to her temples, and the 
 little hands were pressed convulsively against her 
 brow ; anon that beautiful face grew pale, and then 
 it was flushed again ; strong emotions were agitating 
 her young breast. Was she in converse with, those 
 gentle flowers ? and did she find in them a kindred 
 spirit ? As the breeze played past they appeared to 
 her pulsating with life ; she felt with unutterable 
 pleasure the influence of their grace and freshness, 
 and while gazing she seemed assimilated to them ; 
 then she asked herself why they grew, and whether 
 so beautiful things could really die. Conjectures 
 like these may seem fanciful and absurd to more 
 mature minds ; but are they not the first unfolding 
 of those high thoughts which are the germs of noble 
 action ? Thought is not formed to waste itself in 
 words ; to reach its ultimate in empty sound, but 
 rather to become imbodied in great and lofty deeds. 
 
© -• - - ' 
 
 THE CRUSHED BUD. 23S 
 
 The swinging of an old cathedral lamp, the fall of 
 an applO, or a soap-bubble sailing in sunlight, may 
 bring to human knowledge the existence of an im- 
 mortal law of God’s universe ; and the first crude 
 imaginings of a child may develop into ideas that 
 may one day move the world. 
 
 Long did the little girl watch the violets; but 
 suddenly springing forward, she ran to her mother, 
 exclaiming, — 
 
 “ Mother, dear mother, do the flowers have souls ? ” 
 
 “ Why, Katie, are you not ashamed to ask a ques- 
 tion so silly ? You are certainly old enough to 
 know better.” And Mrs. Grey bit her lip, and col- 
 ored with vexation, as though her Katie were truly 
 the veriest ninny in the world. 
 
 But Katie did not know better ; she had com- 
 muned so lovingly and long with the sweet flowers, 
 those fair nurslings of nature, which are as foot- 
 prints of the angels, that she began to wonder if 
 within their bosoms there was not the same undying 
 principle which made life so full of interest to her ; 
 and in her simplicity she ran to her mother, that 
 unthinking woman of the world, with that “silly 
 question.” 
 
 That mother did not seek to learn wherefore she 
 asked. Had she but traced 
 
234 
 
 THE CRUSHED BUD. 
 
 “ Back tc i ;s cloud this lightning of the mind,” 
 
 she might have guessed how beautiful was the fairy 
 world she had so thoughtlessly laid in ruins ; she 
 might have known something of the lovely child she 
 called her own. But one who dealt with the cold 
 deception of the fashionable world alone, could have 
 little sympathy in common with a spirit so natural 
 and free in its impulses. 
 
 Katie returned to the sweet bed of violets as to 
 the bosom of a friend ; and bitter, very bitter, were 
 the tears she shed, for those cruel words were con- 
 stantly ringing in her ears. Laying her burning 
 temples to the soft, velvet faces of the flowers, she 
 thought that flowers must indeed have souls, their 
 cool breath was so soothing to her fevered brow. 
 There the little creature lay, sobbing herself into 
 delirium ; and when at length her father came, he 
 found his darling with her head pillowed upon the 
 violets. He gently raised her, and addressed her in 
 fond accents ; but Katie only smiled, for she thought 
 it was the flowers answering her, and that Mary was 
 there as their interpreter. 
 
 The morrow dawned, but that precious bud was 
 withered — crushed by the hand that should have 
 cherished, the hand of an unskilful gardener. 
 
 Violets bloomed upon the grave of little Katie 
 
THE CRUSHED BUD. 235 
 
 Grey, and people did not marvel at her untimely 
 death ; she was too pure for earth/^ they said ; but 
 strange visions haunted the mother^s sleep, of deli- 
 cate and beautiful flowers, with human faces nestling 
 in their fragrant bells : and in their midst a bud just 
 unfolding would disclose the angel features of little 
 Katie, thoughtful and inquiring in expression, with 
 eyes gazing imploringly into her own. Holy beings 
 walked among them, guarding their culture with the 
 utmost vigilance ; and when she fain would clasp 
 the opening bud to her bosom, and claim it as her 
 own, those guardian ones would look reproachfully 
 upon her, and motion her away. But yes, she must 
 go to her own little Kate, and as in her eagerness 
 she passed, the flowers along her way would wither ; 
 and as she drew nearer to the fair bud, the breeze 
 would resolve itself into the most plaintive music, as 
 if it were sweeping over the chords of her heart — 
 those chords strained to so fearful tension ; and its 
 tones would mockingly ask if the flowers were 
 possessed of souls. Then the bud would languish, 
 and the half-expanded petals would fall to the 
 ground ; the air would be filled with fragrance, and 
 they who were watchers there would receive little 
 Katie from the crushed heart of the flower, and 
 bear her away, the mother knew not whither. Then, 
 

 
 236 
 
 THE DEWDROP’S GRAVE. 
 
 awaking, she would weep sadly ; but tears could not 
 revive the wasted bud, or sorrowing restore the lost 
 one to her embrace ; yet, thenceforward, none could 
 be more kindly considerate, when addressed by a 
 little child, than Mrs. Grey, for she had learned — 
 alas ! too late — how slight a thing may wound their 
 untried and confiding affection. 
 
 A DEWDROP, falling on the wild sea wave, 
 Exclaimed in fear, ‘‘ I perish in this grave ! ” 
 But in a shell received, that drop of dew 
 Unto a pearl of marvellous beauty grew, 
 
 And, happy now, the grace did magnify. 
 
 Which thrust it forth, as it had feared to die, — 
 Until again, I perish quite,” it said. 
 
 Torn by rude diver from its ocean bed ; 
 
 O, unbelieving ! so it came to gleam 
 Chief jewel in a monarch’s diadem. 
 
 THE DEWDROP^S GRAVE. 
 
 © 
 
 
( 5 )-. 
 
 LIFE IS REAL MEMORY JUST. 
 
 237 
 
 LIFE IS REAL-MEMORY JUST. 
 
 When daylight yields to eve’s serener birth, 
 And lambent shadows bathe the autumn earth ; 
 When all the sky in regal pomp reveals 
 The starry splendor which the day conceals ; — 
 
 And pensive memories fill the passing hours, — 
 
 Alone I sit, ’mid scenes my childhood knew. 
 
 And days long vanished I in thought review. 
 
 The years .have taught me, in their varied tread. 
 
 To love the living, and to mourn the dead ; 
 
 The grave holds treasures — one who used to share 
 With me the bounty of a mother’s prayer. 
 
 The grave holds treasures ? Nay, I would not bring 
 A thought like this, to which no hope can cling. 
 
 Since Heaven doth shield from all terrestrial care 
 The vital germ in death transplanted there. 
 
 As memories cluster I recount the years. 
 
 Their flight thus measured by my smiles and tears ; 
 Yet there are those, though fled, whose memories stay 
 Like Alpine snows that will not melt away. 
 
 When soft winds sigh to kiss the fading flowers, 
 
 g): 
 
 
238 
 
 LIFE IS REAL MEMORY JUST. 
 
 Some years of rapture, which to live again 
 Were worth enduring life’s attendant pain ; 
 
 Which, ’mid the wreck of Time’s ingulfing tomb, 
 Within the heart in vernal beauty bloom. 
 
 Earth’s scenes are changeful ; their duration shows 
 How frail the fabric of a life’s repose ; 
 
 We live, we breathe, we bask in noonday light. 
 
 Nor heed the shadow of a coming night. 
 
 I’ve learned this truth ; yet oft I gaze between 
 The boundless vista of the far unseen. 
 
 Where hope presents in smiling garb, anew. 
 
 The future fairer, and existence true. 
 
 And is it not ? Though clouds may veil a while 
 The quiet beauty of a sunset smile. 
 
 To-morrow dawns — in aureate splendor robed. 
 
 All Nature smiling at the wound she probed. 
 
 • Tis thus in life : joy follows close on pain ; 
 
 And when we die, ’tis but to live again : 
 
 From forth the cradle to the bier we tread. 
 
 The earth behind and heaven before us spread. 
 
FOR THOU, MY LOVE, ART STILL THE SAME. 239 
 
 FOR THOU, MY LOVE, ART STILL THE SAME. 
 
 4 
 
 Thy cheek is pale with many cares. 
 
 Thy brow is overcast. 
 
 And thy fair face a shadow wears 
 That tells of sorrows past ; 
 
 But music hath thy tongue for me : 
 
 How dark soe’er my lot may be, 
 
 I turn for comfort, love, to thee. 
 
 My beautiful, my wife ! 
 
 Thy gentle eyes are not so bright 
 As when I wooed thee first ; 
 
 Yet still they have the same sweet light 
 Which long my heart has nursed ; 
 
 They have the same enchanting beam 
 Which charmed me in love’s early dream, 
 And still with joy on me they stream, 
 
 My beautiful, my wife ! 
 
 When all without looks dark and cold. 
 
 Nor voices change their tone. 
 
 Nor greet me as they did of old, 
 
 I &el I am not lone ; 
 
240 A BLEST RELIEF IN TEARS 
 
 For thou, my love, art still the same, 
 
 And looks and deeds thy faith proclaim ; 
 
 Though all should scorn, thou wouldst not blame, 
 My beautiful, my wife ! 
 
 A BLEST BELIEF IN TEABS. 
 
 When the sad heart is wrung with grief, 
 Or pressed with gloomy fears, 
 
 It often finds a solace sweet, 
 
 A blest relief in tears. 
 
 As when denied the showers of heaven 
 Beneath a summer sky. 
 
 The little tender floweret droops 
 Upon the ground to die, — 
 
 So droops the heart denied these tears 
 In its dark sorrow low ; 
 
 Or in its silent anguish breaks 
 Beneath the heavy blow. 
 
 As when upon the dry, parched earth 
 Falls the refreshing rain. 
 
 The little drooping flower looks up, 
 
 And smiles in joy again. 
 
:© 
 
 f- 
 
 OUR OLD GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 241 
 
 OUR OLD GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 “ I FIND the marks of my shortest steps beside 
 those of my beloved mother, which were measured 
 by my own,^^ says Alexandre Dumas, and so conjures 
 up one of the sweetest images in the world. He 
 was revisiting the home of his infancy ; he was 
 retracing the little paths around it in which he had 
 once walked ; and strange flowers could not efface, 
 and rank grass could not conceal, and cruel ploughs 
 could not obliterate, “his shortest footsteps,” and 
 his mother^s beside them, measured by his own. 
 
 And who needs to be told whose footsteps they 
 were that thus kept time with the feeble pattering 
 of childhood^s little feet? It was no mother be- 
 hind whom Ascanius walked “ with unequal steps ” 
 in VirgiUs line, but a stern, strong man, who could 
 have borne him and not been burdened; folded him in 
 his arms from all danger, and not been wearied ; 
 every thing, indeed, he could have done for him, but 
 just what he needed most — he could not sympathize 
 
 (§> 
 
 <2) 
 
 16 
 
242 OUR OLD GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 with him ; he could not be a child again.' Ah, a 
 rare art is that, — for indeed it is an art, — to set back 
 the great old clock of time, and be a boy once more. 
 Man^s imagination can easily see the child a man ; 
 but how hard it is for it to see the man a child 1 And 
 be who had learned to glide back into that rosy 
 time, when he did not know that thorns were under 
 the roses, or that clouds would ever return after the 
 rain ; when he thought a tear could stain a cheek 
 no more than a drop of rain a flower; when he 
 fancied that life had no disguise, and hope no blight 
 at all, — has come as near as any body can to 
 discovering the north-west passage to paradise. 
 
 And it is perhaps for this reason that it is so much 
 easier for a mother to enter the kingdom of heaven 
 than it is for the rest of the world. She fancies she 
 is leading the children, when, after all, the children 
 are leading her ; and they keep her indeed where 
 the river is the narrowest and the air is the clear- 
 est ; and the beckoning of a radiant hand is so 
 plainly seen from the other side, that it is no wonder 
 she so often lets go her clasp upon the little fingers 
 she is holding, and goes over to the neighbors, and 
 the children follow, like lambs to the fold ; for we 
 think i t ought somewhere to be written, “ Where the 
 mother is, there will the children be also.” 
 
 ©: 
 
© 
 
 
 1 
 
 OUR OLD GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 243 
 
 But it was not of the mother we began to think, 
 but of the dear, old-fashioned grandmother, whose 
 thread of love, spun “ by hand ” on lifers little wheels 
 was longer and stronger than they make it now, was 
 wound about and about the children she saw play- • 
 j ing in the children’s arms, in a true love-knot that 
 I nothing but the shears of Atropos could sever ; for 
 I do we not recognize the lambs sometimes, when sum- 
 I mer days are over, and autumn winds are blowing, 
 
 * and they come bleating from the yellow fields, by 
 I the crimson thread we wound about their necks in 
 I April or May, and so undo the gate and let the 
 I wanderers in ? 
 
 Blessed be the children who have an old-fashioned 
 grandmother. As they hope for length of days, let 
 them love and honor her, for we can tell them they 
 y^ill never find another. ^ 
 
 There is a large, old kitchen somewhere in the 
 past, and an old-fashioned fireplace therein, with its 
 smooth old jambs of stone ; smooth with many 
 knives that had been sharpened there ; smooth with 
 many little fingers that have clung there. There 
 are andirons, too ; the old andirons, with rings in 
 the top, wherein many temples of flame have been 
 builded, with spires and turrets of crimson. There 
 is a broad, worn hearth ; broad enough for three 
 - — '• 
 
OUR OLD GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 ®= 
 
 244 
 
 ^1 
 
 generations to cluster on ; worn by feet that have 
 been torn and bleeding by the way, or been made 
 “beautiful,’’ and walked upon floors of tessellated 
 gold. Thsre are tongs in the corner, wherewith we 
 grasped a coal, and “ blowing for a little life,” light- 
 ed our first candle ; there is a shovel, wherewith 
 were drawn forth the glowing embers in which we 
 saw our first fancies and dreamed our first dreams ; 
 the shovel, with which we stirred the sleepy logs, 
 till the sparks rushed up the chimney as if a forge 
 were in blast below, and wished we had so many 
 lambs, or so many marbles, or so many somethings 
 that we coveted ; and so it was that we wished our 
 first wishes. 
 
 There is a chair — a low, rush-bottomed chair ; 
 there is a little wheel in the corner, a big wheel in 
 the garret, a loom in the chamber. There are chests 
 full of treasures of linen and yarn, and quilts of 
 rare pattern, and “ samplers ” in frames. 
 
 And every where and always the dear old wrinkled 
 face of her whose firm, elastic step mocks the feeble 
 saunter of her children’s children — the old-fash- 
 ioned grandmother of twenty years ago ; she, the 
 very Providence of the old homestead ; she, who 
 loved us all, and said she wished there were more of 
 us to love, and took all the school in the Hollow for 
 
 
 © 
 
OUR OLD GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 245 
 
 grandchildren beside. A great, expansive heart was 
 hers, beneath that woollen gown, or that more 
 stately bombazine, or that sole heirloom of silken 
 texture. 
 
 We can see her to-day; those mild, blue eyes, 
 with more of beauty in them than Time could touch 
 or Death do more than hide ; those eyes that held 
 both smiles and tears within the faintest call of 
 every one of us ; and soft reproof, that seemed not 
 passion, but regret. A white tress has escaped from 
 beneath her snowy cap ; she has just restored a wan- 
 dering lamb to its mother ; she lengthened the tether 
 of a vine that was straying over a window, as she 
 came in, and plucked a four-leaved clover for Ellen. 
 She sits down by the little wheel ; a tress is running 
 through her fingers from the distaff's dishevelled 
 head, when a small voice cries, “ Grandma,^^ from the 
 old red cradle ; and “ Grandma^^ Tommy shouts 
 from the top of the stairs. Gently she lets go the 
 thread, — for her patience is almost as beautiful as her 
 charity, — and she touches the little red bark a mo- 
 ment, till the young voyager is in a dream again, 
 and then directs Tommy’s unavailing attempts to 
 harness the cat. The tick of the clock runs faint 
 and low, and she opens the mysterious door, and 
 proceeds to wind it up. We are all on tiptoe, and 
 
© ' ■ - © 
 
 246 OUR OLD GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 we ])eg in a breath to be lifted up one by one, and 
 look in the hundredth time upon the tin cases of the 
 weights, and the poor lonely pendulum, which goes 
 to and fro by its little dim window, and never comes 
 out in the world ; and our petitions are all granted, 
 and we are lifted up, and we all touch with a 
 finger the wonderful weights, and the music of the 
 little wheel is resumed. 
 
 Was Mary to be married, or Jane to be wrapped 
 in a shroud ? So meekly did she fold the white 
 hands of the one upon her still bosom, that there 
 seemed to be a prayer in them there ; and so sweetly 
 did she wreathe the white rose in the hair of the 
 other, that one would not have wondered had more 
 roses budded for company. 
 
 How she stood between us, and apprehended 
 harm! how the rudest of us softened beneath the 
 gentle pressure of her faded and tremulous hand! 
 From her capacious pocket that hand was ever with- 
 drawn closed, only to be opened in our own, with 
 the nuts she had gathered, the cherries she had 
 plucked, the little egg she had found, the “ turn-over 
 she had baked, the trinket she had purchased for us 
 as the product of her spinning ; the blessing she had 
 stored for us — the offspring of her heart. | 
 
 What treasures of story fell from those old lips I | 
 
 © ■ ■ -- 
 
OUR OLD GRANDMOTHER* 247 
 
 of good fairies and evil ; of the old times when she 
 was a girl ; and we wondered if ever — but, then, 
 she couldn^t be handsomer or dearer — if ever she 
 was “ little. And then, when we begged her to 
 sing, ‘‘Sing us one of the old songs you used to 
 sing mother, grandma.^^ 
 
 “ Children, I can^t sing,” she always said ; and 
 mother used to lay her knitting softly down ; and 
 the kitten stopped playing with the yarn upon the 
 floor ; and the clock ticked lower in the corner ; and 
 the fire died down to a glow, like an old heart that 
 is neither chilled nor dead ; and grandmother sang. 
 To be sure, it wouldn^t do for the parlor and the 
 concert room nowadays ; but then it was the old 
 kitchen, and the old-fashioned grandmother, and the 
 old ballad, in the dear old times ; and we can hard- 
 ly see to write for the memory of them, though it is 
 a hand^s breadth to the sunset. 
 
 Well, she sang. Her voice was feeble and waver- 
 ing, like a fountain just ready to fall ; but then 
 how sweet toned it was ! and it became deeper and 
 stronger, but it couldn^t grow sweeter. What joy 
 of grief it was to sit around the fire, — all of us 
 except Jane, that clasped a prayer to her bosom; 
 and her we thought we saw, when the hall door was 
 opened a moment by the wind ; but then we were 
 

 248 
 
 OUR OLD GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 not afraid, for wasn’t it her old smile she wore ? — 
 to sit there around the fire, and weep over the woes 
 of the “ Babes in the Woods,” who lay down side by 
 side in the great, solemn shadows 1 and how strange- 
 ly glad we felt when the robin redbreast covered 
 them with leaves ! and last of all, when the angels 
 took them out of the night into day everlasting ! 
 
 We may think what we will of it now, but the 
 song and the story heard around the kitchen fire 
 have colored the thoughts and lives of the most of 
 us ; have given us the germs of whatever poetry 
 blesses our hearts ; whatever of memory blooms in 
 our yesterdays. Attribute whatever we may to the 
 school and the schoolmaster, the rays, which make 
 that little winter’s day we call life, radiate from the 
 God-swept circle of the hearthstone. 
 
 Then she sings an old lullaby she sang to mother 
 — her mother sang to her ; but she does not sing it 
 through, and falters ere ’tis done. She rests her 
 head upon her hands, and it is silent in the old 
 kitchen. Something glitters down between her fin- 
 gers in the firelight, and it looks like rain in the 
 soft sunshine. The old grandmother is thinking 
 when she first heard the song, and of the voice that 
 sang it ; when, a light-haired and light-hearted girl, 
 she hung around that mother’s chair, nor saw the 
 
 b- 
 
 

 OUR OLD GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 249 
 
 shadows of the years to come. 0, the days that are 
 no more ! What spell can we weave to bring them 
 back again ? what words unsay, what deeds undo, 
 to set back, just this once, the ancient clock of time ? 
 
 So* all our little hands were forever clinging to 
 her garments, and staying her, as if from dying ; for 
 long ago she had done living for herself, and lived 
 alone in us. But the old kitchen wants a presence 
 to-day, and the rush-bottomed chair is tenantless. 
 
 How she used to welcome us when we were grown, 
 and came back once more to the homestead! We 
 thought we were men and women, but we were chil- 
 dren there. The old-fashioned grandmother was 
 blind in the eyes, but she saw with her heart, as she 
 always did. We threw our long shadows through 
 the open door and she felt them, as they fell over 
 her form ; and she looked dimly up, and saw tall 
 shapes in the doorway, and she says, “ Edward I 
 know, and Lucy’s voice I can hear, but whose is that 
 other's ? It must be Jane’s,” for she had almost for- 
 gotten the folded hands. “ 0, no, not Jane; for she 
 — let me see — she is waiting for me ; isn’t she ? ” 
 and the old grandmother wandered and wept. 
 
 “It is another daughter, grandmother, that Ed- 
 ward has brought,” says some one ; “ brought for 
 your blessing.” 
 
 
250 OUR OLD GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 “ Has she blue eyes, my son ? Put her hand in 
 mine, for she is my latest born, the child of my old 
 age. Shall I sing you a song, children ? Her 
 hand is in her pocket, as of old ; she is idly fumbling 
 for a toy, a welcome gift for the children that have 
 come again. 
 
 One of us, men as we thought we were, is weep- 
 ing ; she hears the half-suppressed sob ; she says, as 
 she extends her feeble hand, “ Here, my poor child, 
 rest upon your grandmother’s shoulder ; she will 
 protect you from all harm. Oome, children, sit 
 round the fire again. Shall I sing you a song, or 
 tell you a story ? Stir the fire, for it is cold ; the 
 nights are growing colder.” 
 
 The clock in the corner struck nine — the bedtime 
 of those old days. The song of life was indeed 
 sung, the story told ; it was bedtime at last. Good 
 night to thee, grandmother ! The old-fashioned 
 grandmother was no more, and we miss her forever. 
 But we will set up a tablet in the midst of the 
 memory, in the midst of the heart ; and we write 
 on it only this : — 
 
 SACRED TO THE MEMORY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 GOD BLESS HER FOREVER. 
 
LET ME IN. 
 
 When the summer evening’s shadows 
 Veiled the earth’s calm bosom o’er, 
 
 Came a young child, faint and weary, 
 
 Tapping at the cottage door : 
 
 Wandering through the winding wood paths 
 My worn feet too long have been ; 
 
 Let me in, O gentle mother ; 
 
 Let me in ! ” 
 
 Years passed on — his eager spirit 
 Gladly watched the dying hours : 
 
 ‘‘ I will be a child no longer. 
 
 Finding bliss in birds and flowers ; 
 I will seek the bands of pleasure, 
 
 I will join the merry din ; 
 
 Let me in to joy and gladness ; 
 
 Let me in ! ” 
 
 Years sped on — yet vainly yearning, 
 Murmuring still, the restless heart : 
 I am tired of heartless folly ; 
 
 Let the glittering cheat depart ; 
 
 
252 
 
 LET ME IN. 
 
 I have found in worldly pleasure 
 Nought to happiness akin ; 
 
 Let me in to love’s warm presence ; 
 
 Let me in ! ” 
 
 Years flew on — a youth no longer, 
 Still he owned the restless heart : 
 
 ‘‘ I am tired of love’s soft durance ; 
 Sweet-voiced siren, we must part ; 
 
 I will gain a laurel chaplet, 
 
 And a world’s applause will win ; 
 
 Let me in to fame and glory ; 
 
 Let me in ! ” 
 
 Years fled on — the restless spirit 
 Never found the bliss it sought ; 
 
 Ajiswered hopes and granted blessings 
 Only new aspirings brought : 
 
 “ I am tired of earth’s vain glory, 
 
 I am tired of grief and sin ; 
 
 Let me in to rest eternal ; 
 
 Let me in 1 ” 
 
 Thus th’ unquiet, yearning spirit. 
 Taunted by a vague unrest. 
 
 Knocks and calls at every gateway. 
 
 In a vain and fruitless quest : 
 
 Ever striving some new blessing. 
 
 Some new happiness, to win ; 
 
 At some portal ever saying, 
 
 “ Let me in ! ” 
 
GUARDIAN ANGELS. 
 
 
 25a 
 
 GUARDIAN ANGELS. 
 
 Child of earth, and child of heaT3n ! 
 
 Each alike in form and face, 
 
 Save that wings to one are given, 
 Something, too, of loftier grace. 
 
 Yet the trustful and the true 
 
 Dwell in meekness with the other — 
 These alone it was that drew 
 From the skies its angel brother. 
 
 jJalf in blindness, half in trust. 
 
 Guardian arms around him pressed, 
 Sleeps the child of time and dust, 
 Shielded by his cherub guest. 
 
 Angel child ! and child of earth ! 
 
 Semblance ye of hidden things ; 
 
 One hath reached hs spirit birth, 
 
 One but waiteth for its wings. 
 
 
 
254 
 
 i’m old to-day. 
 
 ri OLD TO-DAY. 
 
 An aged man, on reaching his seventieth birthday, like one sur- 
 prised, paced his house, exclaiming “ I am an old man ! I am an 
 old man ! ” 
 
 I WAKE at last ; Tve dreamed too long. 
 
 Where are my threescore years and ten ? 
 
 My eye is keen, my limbs are strong ; 
 
 I well might vie with younger men. 
 
 The world, its passions and its strife, 
 
 Is passing from my grasp away, 
 
 And though this pulse seems full of life, 
 
 ‘‘ Pm old to-day — I’m old to-day.’’ 
 
 Strange that I never felt, before. 
 
 That I had almost reached my goal. 
 
 My bark is nearing death’s dark shore ; 
 
 Life’s waters far behind me roll ; 
 
 And yet I love their murmuring swell — 
 
 Their distant breakers’ proud array ; 
 
 And must I — can I say, “ Farewell ” ? 
 
 ‘‘ I’m old to-day — I’m old to-day.” 
 
 This house is mine, and those broad lands 
 That slumber ’neath yon fervid sky ; 
 
 © 
 
 © 
 

 i’m old to-day. 
 
 255 
 
 Yon brooklet, leaping o’er the sands, 
 
 Hath often met my boyish eye. 
 
 I loved those mountains when a child ; 
 
 They still look young in green array : 
 
 Ye rocky cliffs, ye summits wild, 
 
 I’m old to-day — I’m old to-day.” 
 
 ’Twixt yesterday’s short hours and me 
 A mighty gulf hath intervened : 
 
 A man with men I seemed to be ; 
 
 But now ’tis meet I should be weaned 
 From all my kind — from kindred dear ; 
 
 From those deep skies — that landscape gay 
 From hopes and joys I’ve cherished here ; 
 
 “ I’m old to-day — I’m old to-day.” 
 
 0 man of years, while earth recedes. 
 
 Look forward^ upward, not behind ! 
 
 Why dost thou lean on broken reeds ? 
 
 Why still with earthly fetters bind 
 Thine ardent soul ? God give it wings, 
 
 ’Mid higher, purer joys to stray ! 
 
 In heaven no happy spirit sings, 
 
 ‘‘ I’m old to-day — I’m old to-day.” 
 
256 
 
 THE UNTHANKFUL. 
 
 © 
 
 THE UNTHANKFUL. 
 
 Home ! there’s a sacred sweetness hid 
 In that one short and simple word, 
 
 And cold and worthless is the heart 
 That is not its utterance stirred. 
 
 Yet there are those who rudely turn 
 Away from all the bliss of home, 
 
 Who spurn the joys that, pure and bright, 
 Light up the old parental dome. 
 
 They scorn the mother’s holy love. 
 
 The father’s fond affections slight. 
 
 And crush with cold, remorseless hand 
 The hopes that made the future bright 
 
 “ ’Tis sharper than the serpent’s tooth,” 
 To see the proud, ungrateful child. 
 Who in its earlier love and truth 
 Upon its doting parents smiled. 
 
 Turn scornfully to stranger hearts, ^ 
 Their worthless favor strive to win. 
 
 And thrust aside the gentle love 
 That hath a guardian angel been. 
 
 
THE VOICE OF HER I LOVE. 
 
 257 
 
 Alas ! that such should dare to speak 
 
 Of pure emotion — wondrous thought — 
 Of feelings not to be expressed, 
 
 So deeply, so intensely wrought ; 
 rd sooner trust an oyster’s heart, 
 
 I’d rather with a tiger roam. 
 
 Than strive to move the soulless breast 
 That feels no interest in home. 
 
 THE VOICE OF HER I LOVE. 
 
 How sweet at the hour of silent eve 
 The harp’s responsive sound ! 
 
 How sweet the vows that ne’er deceive, 
 And deeds by virtue crowned ! 
 
 How sweet to sit beneath a tree 
 In some delightful grove ! 
 
 But O, more soft, more sweet, to me 
 The voice of her I love. 
 
258 
 
 CHARLIE MOSS. 
 
 CHARLIE MOSS. 
 
 A LEAJ' FROM MY COUNTRY NOTE-BOOK. 
 
 Every morning a little curly-haired, rosy-cheeked 
 boy came whistling down the lane, preceded by a 
 drove of the most beautiful cattle I ever beheld. 
 
 I am not passionately fond ’’ of animals; indeed, 
 I can hardly confess to the idiosyncrasy of petship ; 
 but I admire beauty, even if it chances to enshrine 
 itself in just such a commonplace object as a farm- 
 er’s cow ; and these cows were positively worthy 
 of admiration. They were fine, noble, well-propor- 
 tioned animals ; with such an expression of grave 
 wisdom reposing in their huge, massive features, it 
 struck me as bordering very closely upon intelli- 
 gence. Then they trod the ground so calmly and 
 independently, stopping here and there to crop a 
 mouthful of dewy grass, as if fully conscious that 
 the shining sleekness of their brightly-spotted coats 
 was sufficient security against any undue proximity 
 of a certain long beech rod, which seemed carried, 
 like the clergyman’s cane, rather for show than use. 
 
/ 
 
 CHARLIE MOSS. 
 
 259 
 
 The young lad I fell in love with at first sight. 
 He was a pretty, winsome little fellow, and my heart 
 went out after him as naturally as if he had been 
 my kin. One morning, at early dawn, I awoke from 
 troubled slumbers, and dung wide the casement, to 
 inhale the delicious breath of the flowers that grew 
 in luxuriant profusion around the old house. It 
 was a glorious hour. Nought but the dreamy, mo- 
 notonous hum of insects — “ those rounds which seem 
 of Silence born — broke the universal stillness. 
 The skies wore a hue of soft, pearly gray, and Luci- 
 fer looked forth over a neighboring hill, clear and 
 bright as a diamond. 
 
 I grew poetical, and gave utterance in an under 
 tone to the opening lines of Willis's exquisite poem 
 of Hagar, Gradually the silvery light in the east 
 took crimson dyes — the jewel over the hill-top 
 grew pale and lustreless — a freshening breeze swept 
 through the valley — dawn brightened into day, and 
 sounds of busy life came from the vicinity of the 
 farm houses ; and ere long the spotted cows were 
 seen wending leisurely down the cool, shadowy road, 
 followed by my little favorite, who whistled and 
 sang alternately, wild and clear as a skylark. 
 
 My dunstable was on instanter, and the next 
 moment I was hurrying down to the wicket gate 
 
 
 
©= 
 
 260 
 
 ^ ' © 
 
 CHARLIE MOSS. 
 
 at the foot of the garden — bent on making his 
 acquaintance. 
 
 “ Good morning, little boy,’^ said I, by way of in- 
 troducing myself; and he doffed his straw hat 
 deferentially, with none of that bashfulness often 
 observant in the manners of country children. I 
 would like to walk a little way down the lane this 
 fine morning. The cows are not rude to strangers 
 — are they ? 
 
 “ 0, no,’^ he replied ; “ Molly and Dolly are very 
 gentle, and Brown and Black only toss their horns 
 when Deacon Wilbur’s dog barks at them. 0, no, 
 you needn’t mind them at all.” So I stepped fear- 
 lessly into the path. 
 
 They are all very pretty cows,” I continued, try- 
 ing to make some advancement in conversation ; 
 “ are they yours ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ 0, no, ma’am ; they belong to Mr. Hinkley. My 
 name is Charlie Moss, and I live at Mr. Hinkley’s, 
 and drive the cows to pasture every morning.” 
 
 “ How far is the pasture ? ” I asked. 
 
 “ Only a little way — just over the hill, close by 
 the lily meadow. Would you like to go down 
 thei 3 ? ” he inquired, very earnestly ; “ there are lots 
 and lots of lilies down there.” 
 
 The inquiry sounded quite like an invitation ; so 
 
 © 
 
©: 
 
 ■ - @ 
 
 CHARLIE -MOSS. 261 
 
 I answered, that I would like to go, at which he 
 appeared very much pleased, and we walked on a 
 few paces in silence ; then, looking quickly up into 
 my face, he said, — 
 
 ‘‘ I was thinking if your name mightn’t be Lucy ; 
 you look something like her, only she had bluer 
 eyes, and her hair was all bright and shiny, like 
 gold. Mr. Cleverly, the schoolmaster, used to call 
 her his faired-haired lassie. , She was my sister, and 
 she used to kiss me and call me her own darling 
 Charlie ; but may be you knew Lucy ? ” 
 
 I said, no ; that I was a stranger in the village, 
 and my home was in the city, but that I was spend- 
 ing a few weeks with a friend of mine, who lived in 
 the old house that we could just see through the 
 trees. “ But tell me all about Lucy, please. Where 
 is she now? ” I inquired. 
 
 “ Gone,” said he ; “ gone with father and mother. 
 They all live in a new home — up there, where 
 the stars shine ; but I’m not sorry,” he continued, / 
 “ for I shall go, too, by and by ; and I try to be 
 very glad, for Lucy loves me just the same, and 
 waits for me. I thought she beckoned to me the 
 other night, when the moon shone so bright on my 
 bed ; but Kate Hinkley said ’twas only a dream, 
 and angels never beckoned to little boys. I 
 
 
 < 2 . 
 
262 
 
 CHARLIE MOSS. 
 
 don^t know' — I can’t quite think; can you tell me, 
 ma’am ? ” 
 
 I could not. Hot tears were in my eyes. The 
 simple, loving imagery of the child was far prefer- 
 able to the chill metaphysical theory of the world. 
 He seemed to understand my silence, and, with that 
 delicate sensibility which we sometimes see in the 
 very young, he keptr his eyes averted, and I observed 
 that his face wore an expression of forced compo- 
 sure. Such an apparent effort at self-control affected 
 me painfully. Something like a paternal feeling 
 gushed up from my inmost heart. I wanted to take 
 him in my arms, and soothe him to sleep on my 
 bosom ; but angels were very near him even then, 
 and waiting to sing his lullaby. 
 
 As we rose to the top of the hill, Charlie pointed 
 to the meadow, which was spread out in the valley 
 below us like an emerald sea studded with miniature 
 azure islets ; and then he ran on to lower the bars 
 of the cow pasture. 
 
 When I came up with him, he had regained his 
 usual cheerful manner, and seemed anxious to do 
 away any emotion of sadness which his little story 
 had excited. 
 
 “Now, then,” said he, “we’ll get the lilies. You 
 wait here, please, while I roll up my panties and 
 
©: 
 
 CHARLIE MOSS. 
 
 263 
 
 pick them, for it^s all dewy over there, and yoa^.l 
 get wet if you go over.^^ 
 
 I could but admire his childish gallantry; and when 
 he returned, with a nice bunch for each of us, I bei t 
 down and kissed his fairy, round cheek. He quietly 
 said, “ Thank you,’’ and we proceeded homeward. 
 
 From that day Charlie and I became the warmest 
 friends imaginable. He was my child-lover, in the 
 truest sense of the word. I had wrapped him in the 
 folds of my heart’s purest affection, and I watched 
 his daily coming, with a sweet tenderness that grew 
 into a positive idolatry. Every morning I met him 
 at the garden gate, and every evening he stopped to 
 receive his good night kiss. 
 
 Frank Willoughby laughed at what he called my 
 infatuation, and joked immoderately of my rustic 
 Cupid. On such occasions, Laura usually interposed 
 in my behalf, for she loved Charlie very dearly. 
 She had told je of his family ; of the death of his 
 parents, and the adoption of the children by Farmer 
 Hinkley ; of the strong attachment which existed 
 between the brother and sister, and of her sudden 
 decease a few months before ; but he was a gay 
 little fellow, she added, and soon recovered from the 
 loss. Alas ! she did not know how much it cost him 
 to be gay. 
 
 
 © 
 

 © 
 
 264 
 
 CHARLIE MOSS. 
 
 Thus time wore on. In our interviews we talked 
 of many things, but most of all of Lucy. When I 
 spoke of the great city, with its beautiful parks ; of 
 the magnificent shop windows filled with glittering [ 
 gems, and shining trinkets, and pretty toys ; of the 
 entertaining books, and games for children, he would 
 smile, and say it must be very pleasant, but that was 
 all. He never once expressed a wish to see them. 
 
 I inquired of his school, his studies and intellectual 
 pursuits ; and when I ascertained that he lacked 
 application, I tried to encourage him to more dili- 
 gence, and to stimulate him to ambition, by telling 
 him stories of great men, who were . once little 
 schoolboys, and rose to eminence by their own untir- 
 ing exertion ; but he looked sad and perplexed, and 
 said, “ he hoped I^d love him just the same ; but it 
 took so many years to be a man, that he didn’t want 
 to grow so long, for Lucy’d get tired of waiting.” 
 
 I forbore to mention the subject again, for I saw 
 that it distressed him uselessly. He had no desire 
 for emulation, and he was gradually losing his hold 
 Oil earthly things. But he was very cheerful ; only 
 at times relapsing into a thoughtful mood, which 
 hushed without destroying his natural buoyancy of 
 spirits. The summer went by, with its lilies and 
 happy hours. The golden rod blossomed on the hill- 
 
 ©: 
 
 
CHARLIE MOSS. 265 
 
 side, and the pastures grew bright with autumn flow- 
 ers. My long protracted visit with the Willoughby^s 
 was drawing to a close, and yet sad misgivings filled 
 my heart whenever I thought of leaving Charlie. 
 He had often, during our acquaintance, alluded to a 
 separation ; but it was relative to his own departure, 
 rather than mine. The one thought, that Lucy was 
 waiting for him, continually haunted his mind. 
 
 It was a warm, bright, golden afternoon. Laura 
 and I had gone into the garden to loop up some 
 dahlias, which had fallen away from their fastenings. 
 We had nearly completed our pleasant task, when a 
 childish voice called my name. I turned round, and 
 there, at, the gate, stood Charlie, looking very pale 
 and very glad. I ran down to meet him, and to my 
 earnest inquiries, he replied that he had not felt 
 quite well that day, and Mr. Hinkley thought a 
 walk might do him go6d. “Would you like to go 
 down to the great rock by the river he asked. 
 I hesitated not a moment. Sad presages of evil 
 were upon me, but I dreamed not the reality was 
 so near. 
 
 All that bright afternoon we spent together, talk- 
 ing of the past. From our position we could see 
 the lily meadow now lying crisp and withered be- 
 neath a September sky ; near by the spotted cows 
 
 ( 2 > 
 
266 CHARLIE MOSS. 
 
 grazed as usual ; below us rolled the river, and far 
 on our left the white tombstones were just visible in 
 the churchyard where Lucy was reposing. 
 
 What a holy atmosphere was abroad that day. 
 Heaven seemed to come down to us, and Charlie 
 was in a perfect delirium of happiness. He sat and 
 gazed into the blue air above him, till, suddenly, as 
 if from extreme exhaustion, his head dropped heavi- 
 ly upon my lap, and he slept. I raised him softly in 
 my arms, and folded my mantle about him, pillowing 
 his brown curls on my bosom. I saw that his cheek 
 grew pallid, and dark shadows were gathering 
 around his eyes. Angels waited for him. Lucy 
 might even then be beckoning in his dream. I 
 awoke my darling when the day declined, that he 
 might see the sun go down in great clouds of purple 
 and amber : then we went home. That walk was 
 our last together. Ere another week had elapsed, 
 Charlie Moss had left me alone. Softly and gently 
 passed he up from earth, as flowers yield up their 
 breath in summer time. I saw him laid in a sweet 
 grassy bed, where his tiny feet had loved to wander. 
 I wept, but they were not bitter tears, for I knew 
 there was joy at a happy family reunion in heaven. 
 
@ ■ 
 
 THE OLD CHURCH BELL. 
 
 
 267 
 
 THE OLD CHURCH BELL. 
 
 Every holy Sabbath morning, 
 
 While the sunbeams are adorning 
 Sloping hills and valleys fair, 
 
 Or when wintry winds are sighing. 
 
 And the shadows thick are lying 
 On the uplands, bleak and bare — 
 
 Still I hear that silver ringing pealing out upon the air. 
 
 From the belfry’s lofty station. 
 
 With a constant, sweet vibration. 
 
 Floats the sound from door to door. 
 
 Calling to the sad and weary. 
 
 And, through by-paths lone and dreary. 
 
 To the wretched and the poor ; 
 
 All earth’s toil-worn children hear it, hear and bless it 
 evermore. 
 
 On some happy, festive morning. 
 
 Long before the rosy dawning. 
 
 Have I heard that merry sound 
 Ringing out across the meadows, 
 
 Waking all the sleeping echoes 
 Through the misty, quiet town. 
 
 Starting frpm their peaceful slumbers all the dreaming 
 world around. 
 
268 WE COME NOT BACK. 
 
 And when dust to dust is given, 
 
 When earth’s tenderest ties are riven, 
 
 Still is heard that plaintive bell, 
 
 Tolling mournfully and slowly, 
 
 While alike the high and lowly 
 Listen to the passing knell : 
 
 List, and learn the solemn meaning of the deep-toned 
 funeral bell. 
 
 Peals of joy, and tones of sorrow, « 
 
 Sad to-day, and gay to-morrow, — 
 
 Thus are life’s great changes rung ; 
 
 Strong emotions, upward stealing 
 From the deepest fount of feeling, 
 
 Uttered by that iron tongue. 
 
 While the sweet reverberations die away the hills among. 
 
 ». 
 
 WE COME NOT BACK. 
 
 — # — 
 
 How restless fleet away the years ! 
 How blind the fugitives to tears ! 
 
 We send our cries along their track : 
 Their echo is, “We come not back ; 
 Gaze not at us with longing sight ; 
 Behold what droppeth in our flight — 
 Riches that mock all plundering power. 
 Robes that outlast the festive hour.” 
 
DAILY DUTIES. 
 
 269 
 
 DAILY DUTIES. 
 
 Our daily paths with thorns or flowers 
 We can at will bestrew them ; 
 
 What bliss would gild the passing hours, 
 If we but rightly knew them ! 
 
 The way of life is rough at best, 
 
 But briers yield the roses ; 
 
 So that which leads to joy and rest 
 The hardest path discloses. 
 
 The weeds that oft we cast away. 
 
 Their simple beauty scorning, 
 
 Would form a wreath of purest ray. 
 And prove the best adorning. 
 
 So in our daily paths, ’twere well 
 To call each gift a treasure. 
 
 However slight, where love can dwell 
 With life-renewing pleasure. 
 
270 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 FLOWEES. 
 
 0, THEY look Upward in every place 
 Through this beautiful world of ours, 
 
 And dear as a smile on an old friend’s face 
 Is the smile of the bright, bright flowers. 
 
 They tell us of wanderings by wood and streams, 
 They tell us of lanes and trees ; 
 
 But the children of showers and sunny beams 
 Have lovelier tales than these — 
 
 The bright, bright flowers ! 
 
 They tell of a season when men were not, 
 
 When earth was by angels trod. 
 
 And leaves and flowers in every spot 
 Burst forth at the call of God ; 
 
 When spirits, singing their hymns at even, 
 Wandered by wood and glade. 
 
 And the Lord looked down from the highest heaven 
 And blessed what he had made — 
 
 The bright, bright flowers I 
 
 ( 
 
BEYOND THE RIVER. 
 
 64 I 
 
 BEYOND THE RIVER. 
 
 Time is a river deep and wide ; 
 
 And while along its banks we stray, 
 
 We see our loved ones o’er its tide 
 * Sail from our sight away, away. 
 
 Where are they sped — they who return 
 No more to glad our longing eyes ? 
 They’ve passed from life’vS contracted bourne 
 To land unseen, unknown, that lies 
 
 * Beyond the river. 
 
 ’Tis hid from view ; but we may guess 
 How beautiful that realm must be ; 
 
 For gloamings of its loveliness. 
 
 In visions granted, oft we see. 
 
 The very clouds that o’er it throw 
 
 ^heir veil, unraised for mortal sight, 
 With gold and purple tintings glow, 
 Reflected from the glorious light 
 
 Beyond the river. 
 
 And gentle airs, so sweet, so calm. 
 
 Steal sometimes from that viewless sphere ; 
 
 @ 
 
272 
 
 BEYOND THE RIVER. 
 
 The mourner feels their breath of balm, 
 
 And soothed sorrow dries the tear ; 
 
 And sometimes listening ears may gain 
 Entrancing sound that hither floats, 
 
 The echo of a distant strain 
 
 Of harps’ and voices’ blended notes. 
 
 Beyond the river. 
 
 There are our loved ones in their rest ; 
 
 They’ve crossed Time’s River : now no more 
 They heed the bubbles on its breast, 
 
 Nor feel the storms that sweep its shore ; 
 
 But there pure love can live, can last — 
 
 They look for us their home to share ; 
 
 When we in turn away have passed. 
 
 What joyful greetings wait us there, 
 
 Beyond the river I 
 

 
 
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