Drawn and Engraved by W. E. Tucker

THE DREAM.
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by W. E. Tucker

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE 1850
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by W. E. Tucker

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXXVI. January, 1850. No. 1.

Table of Contents

Fiction, Literature and Articles

Poetry, Music, and Fashion

[Transcriber’s Notes] can be found at the end of this eBook.

CONTENTS

OF THE

THIRTY-SIXTH VOLUME.

JANUARY, 1850, TO JUNE, 1850.

POETRY.

ENGRAVINGS.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXXVI. PHILADELPHIA, JANUARY, 1850. No. 1.

THE YOUNG ARTIST:

OR THE STRUGGLE FOR INDEPENDENCE.

———

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

———

CHAPTER I.

A young professional man, entirely dependent on his own efforts, is always in danger of falling into the error of considering an “advantageous” marriage as a most desirable thing. When we say advantageous, we mean in a money point of view. Years, in the natural course of things, must elapse before a profitable position can be gained; and, in looking down the long vista of the future, feelings of discouragement will naturally arise. To some, the prospect appears almost hopeless. The young lawyer without a case on his docket, the young physician who waits day after day for a patient, the young minister with a hundred a year, and the young artist who paints and draws, day after day, but has no sitter in his studio, if dependent on their own exertions, all feel painfully the pressure of poverty. To such the imagination will picture the advantages that money would give, and as there is no hope of gaining money except by a slow and laborious process through years of toil, self-denial and mortification, it is too often the case that marriage is thought of as the means of over-leaping all the trials and troubles that present themselves in a long and disheartening array. With a competency in hand, how interesting would be the profession adopted as a life-pursuit. The lawyer could bury himself in his library without thinking about or caring for the daily bread, diving deeper and deeper into the mysteries of his craft, and preparing himself for a sudden stride into eminence when the day of full preparation had come; the physician could go on with his experiments and studies; the preacher minister lovingly to his flock, in some quiet valley far removed from the strife and “shock of men;” and the artist give himself up to the worship of the beautiful, undisturbed by the little cares and wants that take away so much of the mind’s present enjoyment. Thus, the imagination pictures a happy state of things if money were only in possession. And what easier mode of obtaining this, in every way to-be-desired, possession, than an advantageous marriage? None—is the conclusion of the young aspirant for some of the world’s higher honors. And so he goes into society and seeks an alliance with some fair young daughter of Eve, who, among her other attractions, possesses a few thousands of dollars. If he be a young man of naturally delicate feelings and independent mind, the fact that he obtained a fortune with his wife, be it large or small, will most probably make one of the most bitter ingredients in his cup of life. Thus it proved with Alfred Ellison, a young artist formerly residing in Philadelphia, who sought an “advantageous” alliance as a means of professional advancement; and as the history of his married life is full of instruction, we will endeavor to write out some portions of it faithfully.

At the age of twenty-two young Ellison, who had for some two or three years been devoting himself earnestly to the art of drawing and painting, found himself hemmed in with difficulties and discouragements that seemed almost insurmountable. The goal he aspired to win was so far distant that his eyes could scarcely reach it, and between lay barriers that he sadly feared he would never be able to pass. Without an income, and without friends to sustain him for a few years until he could command the patronage of those who loved the arts, how was he to sustain himself? To go abroad and study the works of the old masters in Italy was the dearest wish of his life; but there was no hope of this—at least not in the present, for the little profitable work he was able to procure scarcely gave him food and decent raiment, and was not, when completed, in a style of art at all flattering to his vanity.

“Oh! if I only had the means of studying abroad for two or three years, and not thus be compelled to disgrace myself and the profession by painting mere daubs of portraits in order to get my daily bread,” would fall from his lips over and over again, as he threw aside his brush and pallet and yielded himself up to desponding thoughts. His hopes were too ardent and his imagination too bright for the cold realities of the present. Patience and perseverance amid difficulties were not the leading elements of his character. A lover of art, and possessing a high appreciation of the beautiful, all that he had yet been able to accomplish appeared in his eyes so poor and defective, that he rather shrunk from than courted public attention.

“If I could but hide myself away for two or three years, and devote all that time to the study and practice of art, how happy I would be! Then I could come before the public and present something worthy of the native ability I possess, and worthy to stand beside the productions of those who have won an honored name in the profession.” Thus would he indulge in dreams of what for the present was unattainable, and idly repose for a season under a sense of bitter discouragement.

As Ellison was social in his feelings and possessed of many qualities that made him an agreeable companion, he had a wide circle of acquaintance and was liked wherever he went. Among those into whose society he was occasionally thrown was a young lady named Clara Deville, who was understood to possess, in her own right, a property valued at twenty thousand dollars. She had two brothers, each of whom had received, in the settlement of their father’s estate, a like amount. For Clara, Ellison had entertained little beyond an ordinary feeling of friendship. She was an agreeable companion at any time, though she did not possess a lively imagination nor was her temperament poetic. The sterling points in her character were, strong good sense and a quick appreciation of the rights of others. Though plain in her person, few after becoming acquainted with her thought of this, and if it were said to one of her intimate acquaintances that she was rather homely than otherwise, the remark would not meet with a ready assent, for none who knew her well thought her homely.

Ellison, though he mingled a good deal in society and was a favorite with young ladies, had not thought of marriage, at least not of a present marriage. While he had not the means of supporting a wife he deemed it prudent to keep his heart free from all love entanglements.

One day a friend who understood his position in society said to him —

“Why don’t you marry?”

“Marry!” exclaimed Ellison. “I would as soon think of jumping into the river.”

“Why not?”

“I’m hardly able to support myself.”

“Get a wife with money. Your talents are a fair set off to a fortune.”

“A very poor fortune they have yielded so far.”

“It will be different a few years hence. Get a wife with money enough to make you easy and comfortable, and then give yourself up heart and soul to your profession without a thought or care about dollars and cents. Your wife will make a good investment of her money, and you will be as happy as a king.”

“Upon my word!” said Ellison, laughing, “you have made out the case finely.”

“Wont it do?”

“It looks all very pretty.”

“Can you make out a better case yourself?”

“Perhaps not. But the next thing is the lady.”

“No difficulty about that.”

“Indeed! Well, who is the fair creature?”

“I could mention half a dozen. But I choose for you a good sensible woman as a wife.”

“Her name?”

“Clara Deville.”

The young man shook his head.

“What’s your objection?”

“Clara is an excellent girl. I have always liked her as a friend, but to make her my wife is another thing. I don’t think I could love her well enough for that.”

“Nonsense! She is a girl possessing most excellent qualities of head and heart. The very qualities that wear longest. If she give you her affections you have something worth having, to say nothing of the money.”

But Ellison shook his head in a very positive way.

“Just as you like,” said the friend. “Every one to his fancy. But it strikes me that you could not do a more sensible thing than make Clara Deville your wife. You at once have a home, a pleasant companion, and come into the possession of sufficient property to relieve you of all care about the common and perplexing concerns of life. Think with what delight, ardor, and success you could then devote yourself to painting.”

When these things were first said by the friend they did not make much impression on the mind of the young artist. But a seed was sown, and in a few days it began to send forth little fibres into the earth, and to shoot up a tender blade. From that time Ellison thought more and more about the suggestion of his friend. Whenever he met Clara he observed her more closely, and her image, when it arose in his mind, associated itself with the idea of a life-companionship. Particularly did his mind dwell upon the happy change that would come over his worldly affairs if Clara, possessing the handsome little property of twenty thousand dollars, were his wife. It did not take a very long time for the young man to be able to look at Clara Deville in a different light from that in which he had previously viewed her. The oftener he met the young lady, the more did he find in her that was attractive. Even her plain features underwent a change, and he could see in her face many points of beauty. In fact, before two months had elapsed, he was, or imagined himself to be, deeply in love with the maiden.

The desire of possession comes next after the passion of love. It proved so in this case, and in a much shorter time than the friend who suggested the alliance had dreamed of such an event taking place, Clara was not only wooed and won, but wedded.

——

CHAPTER II.

It was one of the happiest days in Ellison’s life when he pressed upon the lips of the gentle girl whom he had won, the sweet bridal kiss. Over his future course through life hung a cloudless sky. The doubt and difficulty that had been on his way for years were removed—success to the utmost extent of his wishes was before him. Already, in imagination, he was in Italy, among the glorious creations of the old masters, drinking in from their sublime works an inspiration that was to him half immortal in his art.

For a few weeks these bright visions remained. Then his thoughts began to come down into the present, and to consider the real aspect of things around him. In regard to Clara’s fortune, all the knowledge he possessed was that obtained through common report. It was known that her father, while living, was in the enjoyment of a handsome property, and that this on his death had been divided equally among his children. As to the nature or value of his wife’s share, he was entirely ignorant; a certain feeling of delicacy kept him from seeking or even seeming to seek for information on the subject prior to marriage. In fact, he tried at times to persuade himself that the property of Clara had nothing whatever to do with his affection for her.

The mind of Ellison being proud, sensitive and independent, this delicacy remained equally strong after marriage. He took his wife to a good boarding-house, where he had engaged a large, handsomely furnished room at the rate of twelve dollars a week, and here they commenced their matrimonial life. From a friend, a short time previous to marriage, Ellison had borrowed a couple of hundred dollars, and this gave him the means of meeting all the necessary expenses attendant on the important event, besides leaving him with seventy or eighty dollars in possession as a little fund to use until some portion of his wife’s income should begin to find its way into his hands.

Two or three weeks passed, during which time Ellison went daily to paint and draw in his studio, though he did not work with his former earnestness. From some cause he found it impossible to bring his mind down to a present interest in his profession; that is, to an interest in what he was then engaged in doing. His mind was continually wandering away, and his fancy teeming with bright and beautiful images. He saw the pure blue skies of Italy; he felt the fragrant airs of the sunny clime breaking over his forehead; he was a worshiper among her galleries of immortal art; and more than all this, he was panting to be in the land of art and song, and felt his impatience to be away increasing every moment. And yet, his gentle, loving young wife, for whom a profound respect as well as affection had been awakened, said nothing of her property, nor had he permitted her to look deep enough into his mind to see his dream of Italy. He had carefully avoided this lest she should suspect the motive that first drew him to her side; a motive which, could he have done so, he would gladly have concealed even from himself.

Weeks went by, and still Clara said nothing about her little fortune; nor did she place money in the hands of her husband. The small sum he had in possession was daily growing less, and the income from his pencil was far from being sufficient to meet his expenses. To introduce the subject was next to impossible. The young man’s mind shrunk from even the remotest allusion thereto. To dreams of Italy, soon succeeded an anxious desire to turn what ability he possessed to some profitable account in the present, in order that he might retain his independence—something that had always been dear to him. It was barely possible, it occurred to his mind, that Clara had no property in her own right. Were this so, he was indeed in an embarrassed position.

Thus matters continued until nearly the last dollar of the young artist’s money was gone, and he began to be so unhappy that it was next to impossible to hide from his wife the troubled state of his feelings. What was he to do? From the thought of revealing to Clara the true nature of his affairs he shrunk away with exquisite pain. The moment that was done his independence was gone, and to retain his independence he was ready to make all other sacrifices. Daily he met her gentle, love-beaming face, and daily saw more and more of her pure, high-minded character, and all the while he felt guilty in her presence, and struggled to hide from her the wild disturbance of his heart.

One day, it was about six weeks after their marriage, Clara said to her husband, looking slightly grave, yet smiling as she spoke.

She had a letter in her hand.

“I’m afraid I am going to bring you more trouble than profit.”

Instantly, in spite of his effort to control himself, the blood sprung to the very forehead of the young man.

“I shall cheerfully meet all the trouble, and be content with the profit,” he replied, as quickly as he could speak, forcing a smile as he did so, and endeavoring to drive back the tell-tale blood to his heart.

Clara looked at her husband earnestly, and seemed to be perplexed at the singular effect produced by her words.

“There is a valuable tract of land in Ohio,” said she, “which was left me by my father, that I am in danger of losing. The title deed, it is alleged, is defective.”

“Ah! What is the nature of the defect?” Ellison’s voice, schooled under a brief but strong effort into composure, was calm as he asked this question.

“It is claimed,” answered Clara, “that a former sale was fraudulent, and therefore illegal, and that it must now revert to certain individuals who have been deprived of their rights.”

“Did the property come into your father’s hands by inheritance or purchase?”

“He bought the property, and therefore, as far as I am concerned, the title to its possession is an honest one.”

“How large is the tract of land?”

Because Ellison especially desired to avoid showing any particular interest in knowing the extent of the property, his voice faltered on this question, and he was conscious that his countenance was slightly marked with confusion.

“Five hundred acres,” was replied.

“Is it near a town?”

“Yes. It lies not over two miles distant from a flourishing town, and was considered by my father before his death to be worth seven or eight thousand dollars. He was repeatedly offered that sum for it, but always refused, for he considered its value to be yearly increasing. ‘It will be worth twenty thousand to my children,’ he would say in reply to all offers.”

This last sentence caused the heart of Ellison to sink almost like lead. Here, then, was the twenty thousand dollars’ worth of property which his wife possessed in her own right, and upon the income of which he was to dream over and study the old masters in Italy! And so Clara was really worth twenty thousand dollars; but it was in Ohio wild lands, and even for these there was another claimant! It required a very strong effort on the part of the young man to conceal what he felt. How quickly into thin air vanished his hopes! How coldly broke the morning whose dim light showed the painful and embarrassing reality of his position!

“Has a suit been commenced?” asked Ellison.

“Yes. I have just received word from my agent that the parties claiming the tract of land have instituted legal proceedings.”

“What does he say in regard to the matter?”

“He says that he has consulted a lawyer, who after looking pretty carefully into the subject, is clearly of opinion that no suit can be sustained. But says that a good deal of trouble may be occasioned, and that the question may be kept open for two or three years.”

Here was some real intelligence bearing upon the question of Clara’s property, its amount and condition. Certainty was something; but it was not a certainty in any way calculated to elevate or tranquilize the feelings of the young artist. Instead of obtaining with his wife a handsome productive property, in stocks or city real estate, of twenty thousand dollars, he had become possessor of a law suit, and prospective owner of five hundred acres of uncultivated land in Ohio. And, by the time this knowledge was gained, he was so well acquainted with the character of his wife as to entertain for her a respect that was almost deferential. There was nothing frivolous or selfish about her—nothing trifling—nothing vulgar. She was a pure, high-minded, clear-seeing, yet deeply affectionate woman, and her husband, while he loved her tenderly, was painfully conscious that, in seeking her, he had been governed by motives that, if known, she must instinctively despise. Moreover, the fact that he had deceived her by offering his hand in marriage and leading her to the altar when his income was not large enough to support even himself in comfort, must soon appear, and that revelation he dreaded above all things; for, when it was made, the veil would be torn from Clara’s eyes, and she would see him as he was.

——

CHAPTER III.

How completely scattered to the winds was Ellison’s long, fond dream of Italy! How obscured was the beautiful ideal of his art, toward which his mind had aspired with such an intense devotion! The cold present, with its imperious demands and uncovered facts was before him, and turn this way or that, he could not shut out the vision.

As calmly as he could, he conferred with his wife about her property in the West. Placing in his hands the various papers relating thereto, Clara asked him to make the business his own, as it now really was, and do whatever in his judgment seemed best. All this was easily said, but how was the young man to act without means? His own income, uncertain as it was in its nature, did not yet exceed three hundred dollars a year, and his expense for boarding alone would double that sum. Embarrassment, privation, and deep mortification must soon come, and so oppressed did Ellison feel in view of this, that he could no longer conceal, even from the eyes of his wife, his unhappiness, although the cause lay hidden in his heart.

“Are you not well?” Clara frequently asked, as she looked at him with earnest tenderness.

“Oh yes! I’m very well,” Ellison would reply quickly, forcing a smile, and then endeavoring to appear cheerful and unconcerned; but his real feelings would flow into the tell-tale muscles of his face and betray the uneasiness of mind from which he was suffering.

“Something troubles you, Alfred,” said Clara, a few days after she had informed him of the attempt to deprive her of her property in the West. “What is it? I will not be content to share only your happy feelings. Life, I know, is not all sunshine. Disappointments must come in the nature of things. You will have them and so will I. Let us, from the beginning, divide our griefs and fears as well as our joys and hopes.”

And Alfred did not only look troubled; he felt also deeply depressed and anxious. Not a single new sitter had come to his rooms since his marriage; nor had he been able to get any thing to do that would yield even a small return, although he had offered to paint, at mere nominal prices, portraits from daguerreotypes—work that he had previously declined doing in a way to leave the impression that he looked upon the proposition as little less than a professional insult. On that very day he had paid out the last of his borrowed two hundred dollars. Where was the next supply to come from? How was he to obtain the sum he had expended, when the friend from whom he had received it should ask to have it returned?

The first impulse of Ellison after this tender appeal from his wife, was to throw open to her the whole truth in regard to his circumstances. But an instant’s reflection caused him to shrink back from the exposure. Pride drew around him a mantle of concealment, while his heart became faint with the bare imagination of Clara’s discovering that he had, too evidently, been won more by her supposed wealth than her virtues.

“It’s a little matter, not worth troubling you about,” was his evasive reply.

“If it trouble you, let it trouble me. To share the pressure will make it lighter for both. Come, Alfred! Let us have no concealments. Do not fear my ability to stand by your side under any circumstances. When I gave you my heart, it was with no selfish feeling. I loved you purely and tenderly, and was prepared to go with you through the world amid good or evil report, joy or sorrow, health or sickness, prosperity or adversity. I promised not only with my lips but in my inmost spirit, that I would be to you all that a wife could or should be. Meet me then freely and fully. Let us begin without a concealment, and go through life as if we possessed but one mind and heart.”

While Clara was speaking thus, Ellison partly shaded his face and tried to think to some right conclusion. But the more he thought, the more embarrassed did he feel, and the more entire became the confusion of his ideas. At length, finding it impossible to avoid uttering at least a portion of the truth, and perceiving that the truth must soon become known, he concluded to make at least some allusion to the embarrassment under which he was laboring. Suffering from a most oppressive sense of humiliation, he said —

“Clara, there is one thing that troubles me, and as you urge me to speak of what is in my mind, I don’t see that I can with justice conceal it any longer. I find myself not only disappointed in my expectations, but seriously embarrassed in consequence.”

The young man paused, while an expression of pain went over his face, which was reflected in that of his wife. He saw this, and read it as the effect a glimpse of the real truth had produced on her mind.

“Go on. Speak plainly, Alfred. Am I not your wife?” said Clara, tenderly and encouragingly.

“In a word, then, Clara, I have not, since our marriage, obtained a single new sitter, nor received an order for a picture of any kind.”

“And is that all!” exclaimed the young wife, while a light went over her face.

“Little as it may seem to you,” said Ellison in reply to this, “it is a matter of great trouble to me. In my ability as a painter lies my only claim upon the world. I have no fortune but in my talents and skill, and if these find not employment, I am poor and helpless indeed.”

The young artist spoke with emotion, and as the last word was uttered, he hid his face with his hands to conceal its troubled expression. Ah! the terrible humiliation of that moment! Never through life was it forgotten, and never through life could memory go back to the time when a confession of his poverty was made, without a shrinking and shuddering of the heart. Some moments elapsed before Clara made any answer; and these were, to Ellison, moments of heart-aching suspense. The truth having been wrung from him by mental torture, a breathless pause followed.

“And so you fear,” said Clara, with something like rebuke in her voice, “that I do not love you well enough to share your fortune, be it what it may? Alfred, when I gave you my hand it was with no external or worldly views in my mind. You said you loved me, and my own heart responded fully to the sentiment. In giving you my hand, I gave you myself entirely; for you were virtuous and I could confide in as well as love you. To share with you any condition in life, no matter how many privations it may involve, will always be my highest pleasure —

‘E’en grief, divided with thy heart,

Were better far than joy apart.’

“And is this all that troubles you?” she added, in a cheerful voice.

“Heaven knows that it is enough, Clara! But what adds to the pain of my embarrassment, is the fact, that for me to marry you with such slender prospects was little more than a deception. It was unjust to you.”

“Love is blind, you know, dear!” Clara replied to this, with a lightness of tone that surprised Ellison; “and one who is loved will find it no hard matter to excuse a little wandering sometimes from the path of prudence. Fortunately, in our case, the error you so grieve over will be of no account, for it happens that I have a few thousand dollars independent of the property in dispute, which is now as much yours as mine. I ought to have said this to you before, but deemed it of little consequence.”

The response of Ellison to this announcement was not so cordial as his wife had expected. His sense of humiliation was too strong to admit a free pulsation of his heart after the external pressure was removed.

“For your sake, Clara,” said he, “I rejoice to hear this. But I feel none the less conscious of having acted wrong.”

“Come, come, Alfred! This is a weakness. Am I not your wife? and do I not love you tenderly and truly?”

“I do not doubt it, Clara. But it looks so as if I had been governed by mercenary views in offering you marriage when I ought to have known, and did know in fact, that I was not able to make your external condition as comfortable as it should be.”

“Alfred! don’t speak in this way. Do I not know you to be incapable of such baseness? I could not wrong, by an unjust suspicion, one whom I love as my own life.”

And Clara drew her arm about her husband’s neck affectionately, and pressed her lips upon his forehead.

“Forgive this weakness,” said the young man. “It is wrong, I know.”

“Yes, it is wrong, very wrong. So now, let the shadow pass from your brow, and the light come back again.”

But the weight was not removed from Ellison’s feelings. And though he swept the shadow from his brow at the word of Clara, it did not pass from his heart. It was a great relief for the moment to know that he possessed the means of support for himself and wife until he could win his way to professional eminence; but this fact did not heal the wound his natural independence and sense of honor had received. Even in the language Clara had used as a means of encouragement, he saw rebuke, though he knew that it was given unconsciously.

The amount of Clara’s property, independent of her western land, was about five thousand dollars in good stocks, that were paying an annual dividend of six per cent. On the interest of this she had been living for some years. But an addition of three hundred dollars was not sufficient to meet the deficiency in Ellison’s income. Had the value of the stock been only two or three thousand dollars, the necessity for selling it would have been so apparent to Clara’s mind, as to cause her to suggest its disposal. But Ellison was not wrong in his supposition that his wife would think the mere additional income arising from the stocks all that he needed in his present embarrassment. But the sum of three hundred dollars was not enough for him at present, for he had no certain income of his own. He might succeed in earning, by means of his pencil, two, three or four hundred dollars a year for the next four or five years; but at their present rate of expense this would leave a serious deficiency. He could not say to his wife that even her three hundred dollars would not make his income sufficient, for that would be a too broad declaration of the fact, that, while actually unable to support himself he had assumed the additional expense of a wife. And a step so unreasonable could not be explained satisfactorily, except by bringing in the additional fact that this wife was reputed to be worth some twenty thousand dollars.

To the mind of the unhappy young man was presented only a choice of evils. He must lay open fully to his wife the whole truth in regard to his circumstances, or attempt to struggle on with debt and discouragement, working and hoping for a brighter day in the future when he could feel free and independent. He preferred the latter.

It was impossible for a scene such as took place between Ellison and his wife to transpire without leaving an impression behind. Clara’s thoughts, after she was alone, naturally recurred to what had passed, and she became aware of a pressure upon her feelings. She did not suspect her husband of improper motives in seeking her hand, yet the fact that he had proposed a marriage while his income was insufficient to support a wife, was indicative of a weakness in his mind, or a want of sound judgment and discretion, that it was not pleasant to think about. This conclusion was based on the supposition that he had made no calculations in regard to her property—an impression which, in the late interview, he had evidently designed to make; and she gave him the full benefit of this conclusion, for, in her eyes, he was incapable of any thing mean, selfish, or false.

On going to his studio, after the occurrence we have mentioned, Ellison was far from being happy. It did not take him long to resolve to struggle on, and thus seek to maintain his independence. That he would fall into debt and become seriously embarrassed, he knew; but that was something in every way to be preferred to further and deeper humiliation on the subject of his wife’s property. The little already suffered on this score was so exceedingly painful and mortifying, that he had no wish to encounter any thing more of a like nature. Earnestly he searched about in his mind for suggestions. Many things presented themselves. As a teacher of drawing he might do something to increase his income; but his professional pride came quickly to oppose this idea—moreover, in advertising or sending around cards, Clara must necessarily become aware of the fact, and she would doubtless think it strange, after the increase in his income, that he should be compelled to resort to such a course. To propose to a number of his friends to paint them at a temptingly low price, was next pondered over. But they would naturally ask, “Why this necessity? Had he not married a little fortune?”

While in this state of doubt and anxiety, the friend who had furnished him with a couple of hundred dollars came in. Ellison, the moment he saw him, had an instinctive impression that he had come to ask a return of the money, as the loan had been only a temporary one. And he was not wrong. After sitting and chatting for some five minutes, during all of which time the young artist felt his presence exceedingly embarrassing, he said —

“Well, Alfred. How are you off for money?”

The color rose in the face of Ellison at this question, and he answered with evident distress and confusion.

“Not very well, I’m sorry to say. I have been thinking of you for the last hour.”

“I thought you would have been flush enough by this time,” said the friend.

“So did I. But it is otherwise.”

“Then you have not bettered your condition so much as you anticipated,” was remarked, with a familiarity and coarseness that stung the young artist like an insult.

“How do you mean?” asked Ellison, his brow falling as he spoke.

The other looked surprised at the change his words had produced.

“What should I mean, except in a money point of view?”

Ellison was under obligation to the young man for money loaned. Moreover, at the time of borrowing the money, he had given out the idea that, after his marriage, he would no longer be troubled with the disease of empty pockets. All this was remembered at the moment, and, while it occasioned a feeling of extreme mortification, was in the way of his resenting the rude familiarity.

“You shall have your money to-morrow,” said the artist, lifting his eyes from the floor where they had fallen, and looking steadily at his young friend.

“If it’s any inconvenience,” remarked the latter, who felt the rebuke of Ellison’s manner, “it’s of no consequence just now. I am not pressed for money.”

“It will be none at all. I will bring it round to you in the morning.”

“I hope you’re not offended. I didn’t mean to wound your feelings,” said the friend, looking concerned. He felt that he had been indelicate in his allusions, and saw that Ellison was hurt.

“Oh no. Not in the least,” replied the latter.

“I hope you won’t put yourself to any inconvenience about the matter.”

“No; it will be perfectly convenient.”

Then followed a silence that was oppressive to both. A forced and distantly polite conversation followed, after which the visiter went away. As he closed the door of Ellison’s studio, the young artist clasped his hands together, while a distressed expression came into his face.

“Oh! what an error I have committed!” came almost hissing through his teeth, at the same time that his arms were flung about his head with a gesture of impatience and despair. “I have sold myself—I have parted with my manliness—my independence—my right to breathe the air as a freeman. And what have I gained?”

“A true-hearted, loving woman.” A gentle voice seemed to whisper these words in his ears as his mind grew calmer.

“I have paid too high a price,” fell almost audibly from his lips. “And even she, when she knows the whole truth, will despise and turn from me. What madness!”

For half an hour the young man remained in a state of great excitement. After that he grew calmer, and sitting down before his easel, took up his pallet and brushes and tried to work on a picture that he was painting. But his thoughts were too much disturbed.

“I have promised to return the two hundred dollars to-morrow morning, and I must keep my word to him if I steal the amount! When that obligation is removed we are no longer friends.”

As Ellison said this he threw down his pallet and brushes, and springing from his chair, resumed his hurried walk about the door of his room.

While thus occupied, a gentleman, accompanied by a lady, entered and asked to see some of his pictures.

“What is your price for a portrait of this size?” was asked after a number of paintings had been examined.

For a moment Ellison hesitated, and then replied —

“Fifty dollars.”

The gentleman and lady talked together, in a low tone, for a little while. Then the former said —

“We have two children, and think about having them taken. Including our own portraits we would want four. If we give you the order, what would you charge for the whole?”

“How old are the children?”

“Young. The eldest is but five.”

“You would want the children full length, I presume.”

“Why, yes. We would prefer that, if it didn’t cost too much. What is your price for a full length of a child?”

“Seventy-five dollars.”

“That would make the four pictures cost two hundred and fifty dollars.”

The lady shook her head.

“Could you not take the four for two hundred dollars?”

“Perhaps so. Four pictures would be a liberal order, and I might feel inclined to make a discount if it would be any object. My prices, however, are moderate.”

“Money is always an object, you know.”

“Very true.”

“You say two hundred dollars, then.”

“Oh yes. I will take the four portraits for that sum.”

“Very well. To-morrow we will decide about having them taken. How many sittings will you require?”

“About half-a-dozen for each picture.”

The lady and gentleman retired, saying that they would call in the morning.

Here was a promise of good fortune for which the heart of Ellison was profoundly thankful. But while he looked at it, he trembled for the uncertainty that still hung over him. The lady and gentleman might never return. Still, his heart was lighter and more hopeful.

Soon after these visiters had retired, the young man went out and called upon a gentleman with whom he had some acquaintance. His object was to borrow a sum of money sufficiently large to enable him to cancel the obligation. This person did not, so he thought, receive him very cordially. The coldness of his manner would scarcely have been apparent, however, but for the fact that Ellison had a favor to ask. It seemed to him as if he had a perception of what was in his mind, and denied his request as intelligibly as possible, even before it was made. So strong was this impression, that the young artist acted upon it, and was about retiring without having made known his wishes, when the man said —

“Can I do any thing for you to-day, Alfred?”

So plain an invitation to make known his wishes could hardly be disregarded. The young man hesitated a little, and then replied as if half jesting —

“Yes—give me an order for two hundred dollars worth of pictures, and pay me in advance for them.”

“Are you in earnest?” inquired the man, looking curious.

“Certainly. Painting is my profession.”

“I know. But do you really want a couple of hundred dollars?”

“Yes; I really want that sum. A young artist, you know, is never overstocked with cash.”

“I will lend you the amount with pleasure, Alfred. But I am in no want of pictures. For how long a time do you wish to have it?”

“For a couple of months, if you wont give me an order.”

The man drew a check and gave it to Ellison.

“You can return it at your convenience,” said he, “and in the meantime, if I can throw any thing in your way, I will do it with pleasure.”

Ellison received the check with a feeling of relief. He now had it in his power to wipe out the obligation he was under to a man who had approached him with what he felt to be little less than an insult. But, as he went back to his studio, the pressure on his feelings was not removed. There had only been a shifting of the obligation; a painful sense of its existence yet remained. Moreover, as an artist, he had done violence to his professional self-respect by asking an order for painting—and this added to his disquietude of mind.

[To be continued.

LINES.

I’ve loved thee, as the breeze to kiss the sweetest flowers;

I’ve loved thee as the thirsty earth eve’s refreshing showers;

I’ve loved thee, as the bird to sing its softly thrilling lay;

I’ve loved thee, as the heated rock the ocean’s dashing spray;

I’ve loved thee, as the fevered cheek to feel the cooling air;

I’ve loved thee, as a mother loves her child of tender care;

I’ve loved thee, as the murky morn to hail the sunny beam;

I’ve loved thee, as the moonlit loves to dance upon the stream —

As all these, did I love thee, and with yet a wilder spell;

’Till thy coldness caused my spirit to sound love’s parting knell;

And though in fearful stillness my life glides gently on,

There is one note of harmony I feel forever gone.

Other hands might sweep the strings, and even thine may try,

But never shall an echoing sound to the sweet tune reply.

ANNIE GREY.

ARIADNE.

———

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

———

O, thrice as swiftly as yon argent gull

On snowy pinions cleaves the azure sky,

Thy galley cuts the purple wave, and flies my eager, straining eye.

O, Thésëus, beloved and beautiful,

My lovely warrior, white-limbed, like a god,

Why hast thou left me on this desert isle, save by ourselves, untrod?

Immortal Jove, divine Progenitor,

Exert thy power; reverse his sails:—O, King

Of Gods and Men, why does the cup of love conceal the scorpion’s sting?

Like ghastly ghosts, with veiled and weeping orbs,

My hopes depart; cadaverous Despair

Sits glaring at me with his wolfy eyes: bid the foul thing forbear!

On yester-eve, at this forgotten isle —

Forgotten almost of gods—our storm-beat bark

Let fall its ponderous flakes; night, like a falcon, swooped, and all was dark.

Here, where this lonely palm expands its leaves,

Our couch was spread; yes, here, on Theseus’ breast

I laid my head, and, like a love-sick dove, sunk meaningly to rest.

My sleep was restless: from the Realm of Dreams

Came changing shadows: I beheld my home —

Our hills, like wrinkle-faced, white-headed men—our cataract’s snowy foam.

I saw myself a merry, mad-cap girl,

Dancing along our glades, with laughing eyes;

Light-footed as our deer—free as the birds that filled our happy skies.

And then a woman, still most happy, though

A shadow rested on my sunny brow,

Such as a wintry cloud, when all is light, throws faintly over snow.

My step, too, had less lightness, and my breast

Throbbed quickly, while my heart beat, and my brain

Ran round and round, delirious with delight, so deep, it seemed like pain.

I left the song, the dance, my maiden mates —

An endless yearning filled my craving soul,

Which sadly walked apart from them toward some unknown and glorious goal.

One day, when thus depressed, I stood, in thought,

Beside a babbling brook, whose tinkling fall

Among the mossy rocks, from stone to stone, made silence musical.

Contemplating the beauty of the scene,

Imagining me the Naiad of the stream,

I grew the spirit of the place, and stood the deity of a sylvan dream.

Just then, a being, much more god than man,

Fell at my feet: I had no power to fly,

No wish, no thought; the serpent’s fabulous spell spoke in his eloquent eye.

He prayed; I listened, for his words were song,

Drowning my heart; like surf along a strand

Their melody rose and rolled, wave following wave, covering the helpless land.

Even then he vanished; but his image filled

The void that, hitherto, my spirit felt;

I stood erect—a loving woman, Jove—there, where, before, I knelt.

And all things passed; a dull and opiate blank

Fell, like Nepenthé, blackly on my brain:

I was a living corpse, insensible to pleasure, dead to pain.

I dreamed again: a glorious city rose,

Like Aphrodite, on a summer strand;

Palaces, pyramids and temples stretched away on either hand.

Its harbor, guarded by two massy towers,

Was filled with ships, whose plethoric pinions bore

The treasures of an hundred sister lands to her heroic shore.

Even while I gazed, slowly along the quay,

Moving in melancholy march, to strains

Of heavy harmony, whose solemn sounds made pity in my veins,

A long procession, like a funeral,

Approached the shore. There, moored, a galley lay,

Black as the wings of night, like an eclipse blighting the light of day.

The crowd closed round: some stood, with lifted hands,

Adjuring heaven; some turned aside to hide

Their streaming tears, while others dumbly gazed on the receding tide.

With downcast eyes, seven youths, seven maidens passed

On board the galley, when my Cretan eyes

Saw Niobe-like Athens mourn her sons, passing to sacrifice.

The raven bark unfurled its ebon wings

And like a bird, flew lightly from the strand;

While, far behind, in distance growing dim, declined the cloud-like land.

Away, away, across the billowy sea,

The galley flew: night came and went again,

When, with the rising sun, Crete’s porphyry walls rose from the crimson main.

—I sat beside my sire: around us stood

The wise, the brave, the lovely of our land,

When, led by Thésëus, Athens’ offspring came, a self-devoted band.

I sat entranced: the lover of my dreams.

He, to whom nightly I had poured my sighs,

The ideal of my soul, stood visibly before my waking eyes.

Calmly the Self-Devoted stood and smiled, —

Thésëus, king-born, with his radiant face

Flushed with the glory of a fame which pierced the ultimate star of space.

My heart waxed sick, for I was woman, Jove:

I saw the grim and ghastly Minotaur

Move through the Cretan labyrinth—his deadly, ponderous jaws ajar.

I saw my brother fall by felon hands;

I saw my father’s galleys sweep the seas,

And humbled Athens, cowering like a slave, ask mercy from her knees.

Minos pronounced his doom: the morrow morn

Beheld the sacrifice. I would have wept,

But could not: in their heated cells the sought for tears in silence slept.

I pitied him; I could not see him die;

I loved—was woman; though my brother’s blood

Cried out for vengeance, still I pitied him: pity was passion’s food.

My soul sat in his shadow: like a babe

Beneath an oak it sat, and smiled, and crowed,

And lifted up and clapped its happy hands, and wildly laughed aloud.

That night I sought his cell: O, happy night,

O, night of light and life: the magic clew

That Dædälos wrought was in his hands; I drank his red lip’s nectarous dew,

For he, too, loved! O, Jove, my long-caged heart

In that mad moment felt its shackles riven,

And soared and soared and soared, till, like a star, it coursed the heights of heaven.

Next day I prayed—O, how I prayed: the gods

Were merciful: that night—O, night of nights,

For in its hours the Past became entombed—O, realm of dead delights,

We fled from Crete, and, steering out to sea,

I dreaming always on his manly breast,

At last made land—a desolate wave-worn strand, the sea-gull’s sandy nest.

I seemed to wake, and found the traitor gone:

I stood in anguish, desolate and lone,

Wasting my wailings on the flinty rocks whose hearts (like his) were stone.

But still I dreamed, and once more Athens rose

Before my eyes. Upon a beetling rock

That overhung the sea—a cliff, whose crags throbbed in the ocean’s shock —

Ægéus stood and gazed athwart the wave.

Then I remembered me how Thésëus swore

(Such was his tale to me,) that, ere he sailed from Athens’ sorrowing shore,

Hopefully trusting in the awful gods,

If he returned, his canvas, changed to white,

Should mark his triumph, but did raven sails meet Athens’ weeping sight,

Then he had fallen. How the old man gazed,

With moistened eyes, toward the horizon’s verge,

While, far beneath, the chanting surf sent up its melancholy dirge.

I also gazed—when, where the sea and sky

Blended in mist, a speck—a spot—a nail —

Came with the wind: Ægéus stood erect, convulsed and deathly pale.

Closer and closer, where the shadow lay

Across the distance, like a misty cloud,

The galley came: the mute, expecting king tottered and sobbed aloud.

Stretching his thin hands toward the shadowy bark,

So distant still it seemed to float in air,

The aged monarch, with his marble eyes, personified despair.

It passed the gloom, and glided into light,

When, like a raven drifting down the skies,

The black, unaltered galley, ebon-sailed, met my astonished eyes!

A piercing shriek appalled my ears: I turned

And saw the aged king spring toward the steep —

And leap—and fall: no human sound arose from the tumultuous deep.

Anon came other dreams—Arcadian vales,

With Pan, oblivious Satyrs, and a throng

Of Fauns and Nymphs who made the burthened air reel with its weight of song.

Bacchus rode next: how like a god he looked,

The vine-leaves adding whiteness to a brow

Already snow; his large eyes small with mirth; his dimpled cheeks aglow.

Silenus, with two Nymphs on either hand

Supporting him, uncertainly pursued —

To amorous passion for the purple grape yielding, though not subdued.

And after came a laughing, dancing rout,

Making the air insane with bacchanal cries;

Some bearing grapes which others stole and ate, with ruddy, twinkling eyes.

The eye of Bacchus drew me toward his car,

And stooping, he embraced, then lifted me

Beside him, with a kiss: the route rolled on capricious as the sea.

I was his bride: his love, always a god’s,

Saw not my state, nor asked from whence I came;

With him the passion was a living thing and not a naked name.

I was again a wife: my days were spent

In waking dreams of uncontrolled delight;

The light expired in feast and song and dance, unheeded in its flight.

And Night, with Venus sparkling on her brow,

Sat on the mountain top; the nightingale

Breathed an undying hymn to deathless love from every silent vale.

Anon the feast was spread: from leafy nooks

The blushing Dryad came; the amorous Faun

Stole from the laureled hill, returning not until the crimson dawn.

O, I was happy, very happy, Jove,

When, like thy lightning, day broke on mine eyes!

Beneath me was the sand; before, the sea; above, the threatening skies!

There, like a vulture frightened from his prey,

Flew Thésëus, while, Cassandra-like, I stood

With streaming hair and flashing eyes, and hurled prophetic curses on the flood.

Are dreams the messengers of gods to men

Foretelling facts? If so, then I await,

Not trembling, but proudly, the decrees of an unerring fate.

Let him depart: I scorn the traitor, Jove —

The parracide: still blacker grow his sails;

Favor his bark, Poseidon; Eölus, bestow him flavoring gales:

So swifter comes my vengeance. For the tears

He made me shed, make him rain tears of fire,

As from this desolate isle I point him to the cold corpse of his sire.

And if the links of love’s decaying chain

Remain united in his hollow heart,

That chain be as a serpent, dragging flame to its secrétest part;

So, when he sees me lie on Bacchus’ breast,

Lip glued to lip, eye flashing into eye,

He may lift up his hands and curse the Gods, and cursing, waste and die.

——

NOTE.

Ariadne was the daughter of Minos, king of Crete, one of the sons of Jupiter by Europa. Her desertion by Thésëus, whose life she had saved, and with whom she had flown from Crete, has long been a thesis of more than ordinary poetical importance. Thésëus, the son of Ægéus, king of Athens, by Æthra, daughter of Pittheus, monarch of Trœzen, on the discovery of his parentage, visited Athens, and made himself known to his father, who acknowledged him. Sometime before, Androgeos, a brother of Ariadne, set sail for Athens for the purpose of participating in the Athenian games. He was the victor in every conflict. Ægéus, becoming jealous of his popularity, caused him to be assassinated. Minos at once declared war against Athens, conquered the Athenians, and imposed upon them the annual penalty of sending fourteen of their most beautiful male and female children as an offering to the Minotaur, a ghastly monster who inhabited the celebrated Cretan labyrinth, the latest invention of Dædalos, the Athenian sculptor. Thésëus, on the day of the embarcation of the victims, offered himself as one of the number, with the hope of destroying the Minotaur, and thus preserving Athens from any further payment of the terrible tribute. The ship departed, as usual, under black sails, which Thésëus promised to exchange for white, in case he should return victorious. On his arrival in Crete he saw Ariadne, who became enamored of him. She gave him the clew which made him master of the mazes of the subterranean labyrinth. After a desperate conflict he succeeded in destroying the monster, and the same night, fled to Athens, bearing Ariadne with him. On his arrival en route at the island of Naxos, compelled by the gods, he deserted his mistress and returned home. By some accident he neglected to exchange his sails, and his father, Ægéus, filled with grief at the supposed death of his son, precipitated himself from a lofty rock, on which he had taken a position to watch the return of the galley, into the sea, and was drowned. Ariadne afterward became the wife of Bacchus.

THE MOTHERLESS.

———

BY MISS LOUISA OLIVIA HUNTER.

———

“Henceforth thou wilt be all alone—

What shalt thou do, poor weeper?

Oh human love! oh human wo!

Is there a pang yet deeper?”

Mary Howitt.

Her eyes are closed—she sleeps at last!

We catch with joy that quiet breathing,

Her first dark day of wo hath passed,

A happier dream her soul is wreathing.

Hush! hush! around her curtained bed,

Perchance with love there glides another!

We cannot hear that spirit-tread—

Yet in her sleep she murmurs, “Mother!”

But four bright summers o’er her head

Have softly, sweetly breathed their blessing,

And yet she mourneth for the dead

With anguish to our souls distressing.

All day by every wile we’ve sought

From sorrow’s stern control to lure her,

Her mind to win from painful thought,

Scarce meet for mind and heart maturer.

With feeling far beyond her years,

We tried in vain her grief to smother,

For still burst forth those burning tears,

With this sad wailing—“Mother! mother!”

And last, as ’neath affliction’s blight,

She coldly turned from game and story,

We told her of the spirit’s flight

To realms of endless light and glory.

That vision of a clime so rare,

Brought out this thought anew to grieve her,

E’en for a home so wondrous fair,

Could one who loved her well thus leave her?

We strove in vain to lull her fears;

We sought in vain such doubts to smother,

More wildly came those bitter tears,

And this sad wailing—“Mother! mother!”

It ceased at length—those weary eyes

We marked with languor faintly closing,

And now on yonder couch she lies,

In slumber deep and sweet reposing.

Hush! hush! around her curtained bed,

Perchance with love there glides another!

We cannot hear that spirit-tread—

But in her sleep she murmurs, “Mother!”

ALICE LISLE.

A SKETCH FROM ENGLISH HISTORY.

———

BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.

———

There is perhaps no data in the annals of English History marked with a more bloody significance of the fearful extent to which the evil passions of mankind will reach, when not held in check by religious or civil discipline, than that characterized as the “Bloody Assizes,” in the reign of James the Second—1685—which, even from out the lapse of two centuries, still stands forth in loathsome and horrible distinctness. When the savage and bloody-minded Jeffreys, empowered by a vindictive and arbitrary monarch, stalked like a demon through the land, tracing his passage with blood and tears, while the music of his infernal march, was the groans and death-shrieks of his victims. And as he strode onward—behind him he left horrible, eye-blasting, soul-harrowing proofs of his cruelty—corpses swinging in the wind at the corners of the cross-roads—gibbets stuck up in every market-place—and blackening heads and limbs impaled, even before the windows of the holy house of God!

Such was the more than brutal ferocity with which this fiend in human shape, George Jeffreys, Chief Justice of the Court of King’s Bench, prosecuted his commission.

Through all those districts where the inhabitants had either taken up arms in the Monmouth Rebellion against the king, or who had been known five years before to have received the unfortunate duke with favor and homage, when assuming the rank of a rightful prince he passed with almost regal triumph through the land, did Jeffreys and his well-picked myrmidons pursue their murderous track, sparing neither sex nor age—the death-blow descending alike upon the silver head of tottering age, or lisping, helpless infancy “And,” says Macaulay, “his spirits rose higher and higher as the work went on. He laughed, shouted, joked, and swore in such a way that many thought him drunk from morning to night, but in him it was not easy to distinguish the madness produced by evil passions, from the madness produced by brandy.”

In such a frame of mind he entered Southampton and proceeded toward Winchester, which, although not the scene of any warlike encounter with rebel and royalist, had nevertheless been resorted to by many of the former as a place of safety, among whom was their unhappy leader, the infatuated Monmouth himself. It was here, near the borders of the New Forest that the unfortunate man was taken prisoner. Worn out by fatigue—crushed by disappointment—his high hopes blasted by defeat, the ill-fated son of Charles was discovered concealed in a ditch, where all through a long, long day, and a weary night, without food or drink, the unhappy fugitive had vainly hoped to evade the search of his pursuers.

Hither, then, came Jeffreys, tainting the air as with a pestilence, and causing great terror and dismay, particularly among the peasantry, no one knowing who next might prove the victim of the tyrant’s insatiate thirst for blood.

He was now, however, in hot pursuit of two men—one a Nonconformist divine, named Hicks; the other a lawyer, Richard Nelthorp, an outlaw, who had made himself obnoxious by being concerned in the Rye House plot. These men, it is needless to say, Jeffreys was resolved to pursue to the death.

In a fine old mansion, encompassed by a closely wooded park of a century’s growth, dwelt the Lady Alice Lisle. She was the widow of John Lisle, who had held a commission under Cromwell, and had also sat in the Long Parliament. He had been created a Lord by Cromwell, and the title of Lady was still courteously assigned to his widow, for she was one greatly beloved by all persons and parties, both Whig and Tory, for her many excellent qualities, and was also nearly allied to many noble families.

It was near the close of a beautiful autumnal day, that the Lady Alice, clad in deep mourning weeds, might be seen passing slowly beneath the dark foliage of those venerable trees, stretching in such primeval grandeur far on either side her domain. The chastened radiance of the setting sun here and there burnished the almost motionless leaves with gold, or stealing athwart the mossy trunks, and over the deep green sward, mildly illumined the forest aisles, seeming thereby as paths angels might love to tread. The only companion of the lady was a child—a beautiful boy of perhaps six years old—an orphan, whom the kind Lady Alice had taken under her protection, and who now, far from partaking in the seriousness of his benefactress, skipped and gamboled before her in wild and happy recklessness—now springing like a fawn into the path before her from behind some leafy screen, where for a moment he had lain concealed, or striving to attract attention by his childish prattle as he bounded playfully at her side.

As heedless to the deepening twilight as she seemed to all else around her, the Lady Alice had proceeded further into the depths of the wood than was her usual custom, when she was suddenly aroused to the lateness of the hour by a scream from little Edwin, who, burying his face in the folds of her mantle, cried,

“O run, dear lady, run—bad men—ah, they will kill us!”

“What are you talking of, Edwin?” she answered, taking his hand—“who will kill us? We shall soon be at the Hall; fie, boy, are you afraid because the sun has set, and the old woods grown dark! Ah, is this my little hero!”

“But, lady, I see men—bad, wicked men; there, lady, there,” pointing, as he spoke, to a clump of low oaks.

“Foolish boy, it is only an owl!” said the lady, now turning to retrace her steps.

At that moment two men sprung from out the thicket and stood in her path. Well might that lady tremble, alone and unprotected in the deep, dark wood, yet in tones well belieing her fears, she unfalteringly bade them stand aside, and give passage to herself and the pale, timid child she led by the hand.

“We mean not to harm or frighten you, madam,” said one of the men, lifting his goatskin cap, and stepping aside, “we seek at your hands shelter and food. For three days we have lain concealed within these woods, not daring to venture forth even to satisfy the cravings of hunger. We are neither thieves nor murderers—slight offences may be in these signal times of despotism and injustice—but men hunted down like wild beasts in the cause of civil and religious freedom. It is for our lives we implore your aid.”

“Yea, for our lives—that we may be spared to trample the sons of Belial under our feet, and smite, and slay and destroy the arch tools of oppression!” interrupted the other, with violent gesticulations; “and thou, woman, art the chosen vessel of the Lord to shield his servants from the man of blood against that dreadful day of retribution!”

“I ask not to know why you are thus thrown within peril of your lives,” answered the Lady Alice, “it is enough for me that you are fellow beings in distress, and as such must claim my sympathy, and the shelter of my roof. God forbid the doors of Alice Lisle should be closed against misfortune. Follow me, then, friends, and such food as my house affords, and such security as its walls can give, may the Lord bless unto you.”

Confident in the attachment and fidelity of her domestics, the Lady Alice, in a few words, made known to them that the lives of these unfortunate men were in jeopardy, and that they sought from her kindness safety and concealment, and sharing in the benevolence of their mistress, each one of that well-tried household regarded the fugitives with generous sympathy.

An excellent supper, such as their famishing natures required, and a bottle of old wine, was soon placed before the weary men. They were then conducted by the Lady Alice herself to a room on the ground floor.

“Observe,” she said, “this oaken panel—press your finger thus; a door opens, leading into a secret passage, connected with the vaults of the old chapel, where, in case of emergency, you will be perfectly secure from search. Sleep, then, my friends, in peace, one of my most faithful servants will this night keep watch, and upon the least alarm, you will be notified in time to avail yourselves of the way of escape I have pointed out.”

As she bade them good-night, one of the men, seizing the hem of her mantle, carried it to his lips with a grace not unfitting the presence of a queen, while in the canting oratory of the day, his companion devoutly prayed the Most High to bless the woman, through whose assistance vengeance was yet to be heaped on the head of the scorner, and those who now sat in high places to be brought low.

And thus fortified and encouraged by the assurances of their noble benefactress, the fugitives took heart, and throwing themselves upon the bed, were soon soundly sleeping.

Not so the Lady Alice. True, these men had not revealed their names, neither had she sought to discover who they were, or for what crime they were driven to their present strait—yet that they fled the wrath of the cruel-minded Jeffreys she felt persuaded, and fearful that with his myrmidons he might be close on the track of these unhappy men, she, too, sat watching all the night, or pacing with light footfall the long galleries, ever and anon stepping out upon the balcony and listening to every sound, her fears magnifying the whispers of the wind stealing through the branches of the old trees, into the suppressed murmurs of an armed force. All, however, remained quiet. Just as the day began to dawn, she threw herself upon her couch—not meaning to sleep. But, overcome with the fatigue of her lonely night-watch, and lulled perhaps by the security which almost always comes to the watcher with the dawn of day, she soon unconsciously sunk into a deep sleep, from which, alas! she was but too rudely aroused; for even in that brief half hour when tired nature claimed its own, the wily Jeffreys had surrounded the house with his no less brutal soldiers.

“Come, come, madam, bestir yourself—you are wanted,” cried the leader, seizing the Lady Alice by the shoulder, and rudely shaking her; “methinks you sleep well this morning—long watching makes sound slumbers, eh! Come, up with you, woman, and tell us in what corner of this rebel’s nest you have stowed away the Presbyterian knave and his worthy friend?”

In a moment the lady was fully awake, and comprehended at once her perilous situation. But her self-possession did not forsake her, and breathing an inward prayer for the safety of the two unhappy men so closely pursued, she said, as she drew herself proudly up,

“What means this unmannerly intrusion? Off, sir! unhand me, or your audacity shall be punished as it deserves!”

“Ho-ho, my brave wench, words are cheap! you will find proofs not so easy! Know, mistress, yourself and your servants are my prisoners,” replied Jeffreys.

“Your prisoners!” cried the lady, with cutting contempt; “and who are you, and by whose authority do you dare to lay hands on me or any beneath my roof!”

“Who am I? That you shall soon know to your cost,” said Jeffreys, with a horrible oath. “George Jeffreys has a peculiar way of making himself known, my mistress. Now deliver up these two arch rebels—the canting, whining priest, and the traitor Nelthorpe, into our hands, and mayhap I’ll not press my further acquaintance upon your ladyship, except to taste the quality of your wine, for I’ll warrant you, my men, (turning to his followers) these old cellars are not dry.”

“I know no such persons as those you seek,” replied the Lady Alice, firmly; “and what reason have you to suppose they are within my house?”

“We know it, and that is enough,” replied Jeffreys. “They are known to have lain hid within your neighborhood; and we know they have been secreted by you; and now, by G—d, madam, unless you lead us to their kennel, your body shall writhe in flames, or be hacked in pieces by my soldiers!”

“Infamous, cowardly wretch,” replied Alice Lisle, undaunted, “think you your threats would induce me to betray, more especially into your blood-thirsty hands, any unhappy individual who had sought my protection! Know Alice Lisle better.”

“Ho-ho, are we so brave! here, my men, take this boasting mistress, and give her a dance upon hot coals!” cried the ferocious Jeffreys.

At that instant little Edwin, still in his night-dress, opened the door of his little bed-room, and ran terrified toward the Lady Alice; but he was not permitted to reach her; a soldier rudely seized the poor boy by the shoulder, and notwithstanding his shrieks, held him with such a grip as left the print of his fingers upon the tender flesh.

“Ruffian, unhand the child!” exclaimed the lady, attempting to rise, but held back by the iron hand of Jeffreys.

“Ha! a pretty hostage, truly!” he said. “Here, Ratcliffe, draw your dagger across his pretty white throat, unless this stubborn woman yields up our prey—do you hear that?” turning to the Lady Alice.

“O save me—save me! don’t let them kill me!” screeched the poor little fellow, striving to break away; then turning his beautiful eyes upon the hard, stern features of the man who held him, he clung piteously around his knees, repeating his cry for mercy, his face uplifted, and his soft, golden curls falling over his white shoulders, from which the loose night-dress had slipped away.

Tears, which neither her own danger, or the insults heaped upon her could draw forth, now streamed down the pallid cheek of the Lady Alice.

“Are you men?” she cried, turning to the rude soldiers, “are you men, and can you stand by and see that innocent, helpless lamb inhumanly murdered before your eyes!”

“Ah!” cried Jeffreys, with a hideous leer, “we are used to butchering lambs, madam; bless you, we do it so easy the poor things don’t have time to bleat! Strike, Ratcliffe!”

A scream—a wild scream of agony burst from the heart of Alice Lisle; then dashing off the arm of Jeffreys, in the strength of her despair, as but a feather’s weight, she sprung to the boy, and threw her arms around him.

There was heard at the moment a loud shout from the court-yard, coupled with oaths and imprecations, and one of the troop burst in, waving his cap.

“Hurra, your honor! they’re caught, your worship; we’ve got the rascals—hurra! hurra!”

“Now God help them!” murmured Alice.

“Your life shall answer for this, vile traitress!” muttered Jeffreys, in a voice hoarse with rage, and shaking his fist at the unshrinking heroine. “But where found you the knaves?” he added, turning to the bearer of such fiendish joy.

“Ha, ha, your worship—but I can’t help laughing; we found his reverence, chin-deep, in a malt-tub—ha, ha, ha! and the other rogue we hauled from the kitchen chimney, as black as his master, the Devil!”

“And to his master he shall soon be sent with a crack in his windpipe,” said Jeffreys.

“Wounds, your honor, you loves a joke!” said one, who might be called the Trois Eschelles of the company, edging up to Jeffreys with a horrid grin; “shall we string the rascals up below there—yonder is a good strong beam; or shall we leave their heads in the market-place, as a kind of warning to all traitors!”

“Peace, knave!” replied Jeffreys, with a frown which made the villain turn pale; “attend to your duty, and see that the prisoners are well secured; these fellows are slippery rascals—and now, madam,” (turning to Alice Lisle,) “up with you, and prepare to follow either to the scaffold or the stake, as suits my pleasure.” Then, with a brutal blow with the back of his sword, he rudely pushed his victim on before him.

Her weeping and terrified domestics would have approached their beloved mistress, but were thrust back by the drawn swords of the soldiers, and when the unfortunate lady crossed her threshold, it was over the dead body of her aged butler, brutally struck down before her.

“Farewell, my friends,” said the Lady Alice, turning to her faithful attendants, “I look for no mercy at the hands of these cruel men, whose pastime is death; yet though they may torture the body, unto the mercy of my Redeemer do I humbly commit my soul. May God forgive these my enemies, for in their blind rage they know not what they do; pray for them, my friends.”

“Come, none of your cant here, if you please, madam; if we want any praying done, we’ll call on yonder long-nosed, whining saint,” cried Jeffreys pointing to Hickes, who, with Nelthorpe at his side, and both closely bound together with ropes, and guarded on either side, was now brought forward.

Lest by appearing to recognize the Lady Alice they might increase her danger, the prisoners took no notice whatever of her who for their sakes was now in such peril, and met her glance as they would that of a stranger. Nelthorpe, indeed, essayed once to speak, for the purpose of acquitting the Lady Alice of all knowledge of himself and companion, but his speech was cut short by vile taunts and curses.

These wretched men had slept soundly through the night, and with the stupor of heavy fatigue still hanging about them, heard too late the tramp of their pursuers, and forgetting in their sudden alarm the secret panel, sprung through a window, and endeavored to conceal themselves in some of the outbuildings; but vainly—they were soon dragged forth, and knew that from the jaws of the blood-hound Jeffreys, death was to be their only release.

And now, without any delay, the prisoners were brought to trial, the Lady Alice being first placed at the bar, charged with treason, in concealing or harboring persons disaffected to the king, and known to have been concerned in the late insurrection.

Many of the jurors were of the most respectable men of Hampshire, and all shrunk from convicting an amiable and exemplary female, for a crime (if crime it could be called) which certainly arose from the purest and noblest emotions of the heart. But Jeffreys was not to be so robbed of his prey.

Witnesses, forestalled by his vindictive spirit, appeared against her, and those who would have testified in her favor, were so put down by the bold-faced cunning of these hirelings, as to do more injury than good to the cause which they came to sustain.

The Lady Alice was then called upon for her defence. In a modest and dignified manner she addressed the Court. She began by saying that she knew not the men who had sought her protection, nor had she asked for what offence they were thus hunted down; it was enough that famished and weary they required her assistance, and that assistance she had freely rendered them; “Yet for this, gentlemen,” she continued, “I am arraigned for treason. Has charity, then, become a crime? Is it a capital offence to relieve the wants of our suffering fellow beings; and must the cold voice of prudence overcome the Divine precepts of Jesus? Now God forbid!”

She was here interrupted by an insolent remark from the judge; and if allowed again to speak, it was only to draw upon herself his coarse, unfeeling ribaldry.

The jury retired, their sympathies more than ever excited for the unhappy lady.

Their consultation was too long for the patience of the judge. He grew furious at their delay—stamping and swearing like a madman. “He sent a messenger to tell them that if they did not instantly return, he would adjourn the Court, and lock them up all night. Thus put to the torture, they came, but came only to say they doubted whether the charge had been made out. Jeffreys expostulated with them vehemently, and after another consultation, they gave a reluctant verdict of ‘Guilty!’ ”[^[1]]

This was received by demoniac joy by Jeffreys, who immediately proceeded to pass sentence, which was, that the most unfortunate Alice Lisle should that very afternoon be burned alive!

This dreadful sentence caused universal horror, and moved the pity even of the most devoted supporters of the king. The judge was overwhelmed with petitions and prayers for mercy; but the only mercy he granted was a few days’ delay ere the dreadful sentence should be accomplished.

During that time the royal clemency was eagerly solicited, and many persons of the highest rank interceded with James for the release of Alice Lisle. Ladies of the Court entreated his mercy. Feversham, flushed with recent victory, pleaded for her; and even Clarendon, the brother-in-law of the king, spoke in her behalf.

It was all in vain.

Scarcely less cruel than his cruel judge, James was inexorable, and only so far showed his clemency as to commute the sentence from burning to beheading!

But peace—peace, such as the world can neither give or take away, went with Alice Lisle into that dark, cold prison, to which her enemies consigned her. Those damp walls, in whose crevices the slimy lizard made its bed; though they shut her out from the world—from friends—from freedom—they could not imprison her soul, nor crush the spirit of the martyred Alice, as it ascended in prayers to the Heavenly Throne. Divine love and holy trust in the promises of her Redeemer illumined her dark dungeon with the brightness of heaven; and when led forth to the scaffold—death was swallowed up in victory.

Alice Lisle was beheaded in the Market Place at Winchester, Anno Domini, 1685.

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”

WE ARE DREAMERS ALL.

———

BY RICHARD COE, JR.

———

We are dreamers all! the babe that lies

Asleep on its mother’s breast,

In a dream of peace will sweetly smile,

As if its spirit were e’en the while

By angel ones caressed!

We are dreamers all!

We are dreamers all! the lover dreams

Of a fair one by his side;

Of the happy hour when he shall stand

Before the altar, to claim the hand

Of his bright and beauteous bride!

We are dreamers all!

We are dreamers all! the poet dreams

Of the laurel-wreath of fame;

He struggles and toils for weary years,

And awakes at last with sighs and tears,

To grasp but an empty name.

We are dreamers all!

We are dreamers all! the Christian dreams

Of a promised rest above;

Of the pleasant paths of Paradise—

Of a home of peace beyond the skies,

Prepared by the Saviour’s love!

We are dreamers all!

We are dreamers all! but oh! to me

The Christian’s dream be given!

For bright as his dream on earth may be,

He wakes to a blest reality

When he opes his eyes in Heaven!

We are dreamers all!

MARY NORRICE.

———

BY JEANNIE DEANE.

———

Mary Norrice! With that name how many blessed memories come flitting by, like bright-winged passage-birds, leaving in their flight a sadness—a feeling of brightness gone!

It was the bright and merry autumn-time when I met thee, Mary, and thou wert in thy girlhood—beautiful and care-free. Another autumn-time—the time when withered leaves go whirling over barren places where flowers erst were blooming, and dancing to a wild mournful measure over the graves where human flowers are meekly sleeping—then saw I thee, sweet Mary, on thy bridal morning, and orange-flowers were in thy hair. And then another autumn-time—a sad and withering autumn-time, and they laid thee in the grave. Alas! that one so pure, so good as thou wert, should lie there! Alas! for thee, sweet Mary Norrice!—and yet joy for thee! Joy! joy for thee!

“An airy fairy Lillian” was my friend Mary—so “innocent-arch, so cunning-simple,” that she was an especial favorite, the “bright particular star” among that joyous band of school-girls where I saw her first. Dark, roguish eyes, soft brown curls clustering about a low sweet forehead, and a sunny, bright complexion had Mary Norrice.

For two bright years that went by on an angel-wing, she was my constant companion—my best, dearest friend, and in this time, I became well acquainted with the beauty, trustfulness, and purity of her character. If there was any fault in Mary, we girls used often to say, it was in her adoption of the Catholic religion. It might have been Mary’s imaginative disposition which inclined her to this belief; or perhaps because it was the faith of her mother, who had died when Mary was very young, and whose memory she cherished in her heart’s “holy of holies.” Beautiful it was to see that fair child kneeling at morning before an elegantly wrought crucifix, her mother’s dying gift; her white fingers straying among the pearls of her rosary: or at evening, her slight form bending in the moonlight, the white night-robe falling gracefully about her, a few curls escaping from the delicately laced cap! her white hands crossed on her beating breast—and her dark eyes full of prayer—as she commenced with “Mary Mother.” It was a scene to look upon, and feel that a pure spirit dwelt in her heart, and beamed forth from the child-like, sinless face which looked in pure devotion up to Heaven.

Years are gone since the sweet voice of Mary Norrice was hushed—but often when I sit alone in the thoughtful twilight, a “smiling band of early hours come clustering about my memory,” and I can almost believe that those soft brown curls touch once more my cheek! that dear head seems again to nestle lovingly down upon my shoulder—and the little hand feels warm in mine—as looking out together upon the evening-star, I hear the now stilled voice, singing once more, so unutterably sweet and spiritual, its evening song—“Ave Sanctissima!”

One evening when quiet, an unusual guest, seemed to reign throughout the seminary of G——; when the hum of subdued voices, and the softened tones of some distant harp or guitar echoed through the halls only at intervals, we sat together in the big, old-fashioned parlor—Mary, her cousin Claude Norrice, who was the pastor of the village, and myself. Mary was looking from the window somewhat sadly—Claude was gazing into her large dark eyes fondly and earnestly, while my poor foolish heart was weaving a bright fabric for those two gifted beings who sat beside me—a dream which I was to waken from, even before that bright ray of moonlight which was sleeping in its holiness upon Mary’s brow, and which I had been watching for the last ten minutes, should pass away. So golden and so fleeting is the light which hope flings on the fairy fabric of love.

“Sing us something, Cousin Mary,” said Claude, and her musical voice stole upon our hearts in its magic sweetness, chanting softly that song she loved, “Ave Sanctissima!” Insensibly my heart was yielding to the strain, and I walked in old cathedrals “high and hoary,” listening to some fair nun, as she chanted her mysterious vesper-hymn; when my fancies were suddenly dispelled by Claude’s voice, begging Mary would choose some other song.

“It is very beautiful,” said he, “and seems doubly so, Mary, sung by your dear voice; but the devotion it expresses for an ideal object is very disagreeable to me.”

I was called from the room at that moment, and when I returned an hour later, I knew that Claude Norrice had told his cousin how dearly and truly he loved her, how indispensable was her presence—her affection to his life’s pathway. Mary stood before him, her head erect, as she said proudly and with flashing eyes —

“I’m not to be treated as a mere child, Claude Norrice—I tell you again that nothing you can say to me—no professions of affection you have made, shall lure my heart from the faith of my mother.”

And she bowed her head in veneration as she spoke that name, and crossed her fair white arms upon her breast as if she would still its wild beatings. But I saw her cheek grow white as he bowed down and kissed her forehead, and I saw her lips quiver fast, as he said:

“The shadow is on my heart, Mary—the shadow which your cruel words have cast there, and it can never be effaced. God forgive you, Mary—and Father in Heaven, help me! help me!”

Again he bowed down and kissed her, long and wildly—turned his face toward me pale with agony, and rushed from the room.

“Claude! dear Claude, forgive me,” murmured Mary as she slept that night; raising her pale face from her pillow, and clasping her hands as if she prayed. And often in that long, weary night she would wake with a sudden start, and lifting her eyes toward the crucifix, pray wildly—“Ave Mary! Madonna! help me!” When she would place her hand beneath her pale cheek, weary with her grief, and sleep again, murmuring all the while of Claude—her mother and Heaven.

There were no vows of eternal affection exchanged when Mary Norrice and I stood on the shaded piazza of G—— Seminary, watching for the old green coach, which was momentarily expected to take her to her city home. No vows were needed—we loved each other with that trustfulness, that confidingness which asks no pledge. Mary had promised to write me very often, and this I assured her would be a panacea for every human ill.

Not quite three months after we left school, I received from Mary the following hastily written letter:

“You will make big eyes, Jeannie, dear, when I tell you that I am just about to commit matrimony—only think of that! In one little week I am to slip my head into the sacred noose, and who think you is to help me bear the gentle yoke? Arthur Monterey, of whom you have often heard me speak, is the “lucky man,” and though he is a deal older than myself, I dare say we shall learn to love each other very much. He is very handsome, talented, and very much esteemed; but more than all, he is of my own religion—of the same faith as my sainted mother. You will “haste to the wedding” Jeannie, because you remember you long ago promised to act as bride’s-maid on the occasion of this bit of a ceremony. Au revoir, Jeannie dear, come to your own,

“Mary.”

I was not surprised that Mary was to marry a catholic, but I was surprised to hear her speak of learning to love Arthur Monterey—learn to love him! Mary Norrice with her loving, enthusiastic nature, learn to love the man who was to be her husband!

The sunlight fell in through the windows of stained glass, glancing upon the high forehead of her betrothed, and bathing in its warm rich light the snowy bridal robes of Mary Norrice.

The vows were spoken; a golden circlet glistened on Mary’s finger, and she was bound in joy and sorrow, for “weal or wo,” to go through life’s pathway by the side of Arthur Monterey. Mournfully fell the tones of the organ upon my ear, for in my heart it was two years agone, since I saw Mary standing in the moonlight, and I heard Claude Norrice say in a voice low with despair—“God forgive you, Mary!”

Arthur Monterey was a very handsome man, but there was a stern expression on his proudly curved lip, and about his high intellectual forehead, which made me fear for Mary. In the few weeks of gayety which followed their marriage, I saw but little of him, though when with us, he seemed very proud of his wife’s rare beauty and fascinations, and was wholly devoted to her.

Winter, spring, and summer passed away, and in the autumn I received a letter from Mary, saying that her husband was traveling, and begging me to come to her. There was a terrible feeling at my heart as it looked once more into those once merry eyes, now so large and sad—and somehow a thought of death as I kissed those lips so mournful and resigned in their expression.

One evening we sat together in Mary’s room, at twilight—her head rested on my shoulder, one pale hand supporting her soft cheek, as the other swept the chords of her harp, with her own peculiar grace and magic. Mournful and low was the prelude; and sad, and spirit-like the dear voice which sang once more to me “Ave Sanctissima!” Midnight had passed, and yet we sat by the open window—the moonlight falling in through the curtains of snowy muslin, its beams as pure, as spiritual as the frail creature who sat beside me, and whose face I fancied grew paler in its light.

We stood within the church again—and Mary’s robes were snowy white; but her brow was paler than before—the long dark lashes fell upon a lifeless cheek—and the pale hands were crossed upon a hushed breast.

With mourning for the young and fair, solemnly echoed the deep tones of the organ through the high arches; and there were white faces, and stilled sobs around the coffined—beautiful—the coffined—dead.

In a package directed to me, which I opened after her death, Mary wrote these lines —

“I trusted in ideal worth, dear Jeannie—I have laid my heart’s best and holiest affections as a sacrifice upon the altar of my religion. I am dying now, and promise me you will bring some of those deep-blue violets from my mother’s grave, and plant them on my own—then I shall sleep. My husband has been kind to me—but his love is not that for which my heart has yearned.

“If you do not think it wrong, Jeannie dear, you may give my bible to cousin Claude, that same bible which he gave me so long ago. I have placed a curl among its leaves—in Heaven I shall be his wife—there are no tears there.”

Bitterly did Claude Norrice weep as he held that long bright curl first in the sunshine, then in the shade; but there was a glance of joy in his dark religious eye as he murmured, “Mine in Heaven—Mary Norrice! in Heaven—mine forever!”

I stood beside him in the spot where Mary’s earthly part is lying. The shadow of the willow-tree waved sadly to and fro upon the white marble cross, on which was graven “Mary Monterey, aged seventeen—there are no tears in Heaven.” As I saw Claude Norrice gather a tuft of violets from the grave, and press them to his lips in an agony of grief, I wept that one so young and beautiful should die. But when I thought of the many high imaginings, the lofty hopes, and holy aspirations the sleeper there had taken hence to Heaven—when I thought how fair the flowers are, how sweet the music, and how white are the angel’s wings in Paradise, I said in my heart—joy for thee, dear Mary Norrice! Thou art gone home!

“Joy! joy forever! thy task is done,

The gates are passed—and Heaven is won.”

DEATH OF THE PATRIARCH

[Genesis. Chap. xlix.]

———

BY MRS. JULIET H. L. CAMPBELL.

———

The day declined in Egypt, and the faintly fluttering breeze

Drooped, with dew-laden pinion, ’mid the dark pom’granate trees;

The purple grapes, like clustering gems, hung heavy on the vine,

Half bursting with their luscious pulp, and rich with ruddy wine,

The broad green leaves that shadowed them throughout the noontide glare,

Now, quivering, fanned their glowing rinds, and cooled the brooding air;

While hitherward, and thitherward, the date tree and the palm,

Their graceful branches, slowly swayed, majestically calm.

The day declined in Egypt, and the sun had sought the west,

Where, like a king whose destiny was done, he sunk to rest,

While palace, dome, and pyramid, gleamed with celestial fire,

And heaven’s burnished battlements, glowed like a funeral pyre.

But in the zenith of the sky, transparent clouds, and white,

Rolled hurriedly athwart the blue, their billowy zones of light,

And parting in translucent waves, as the sea was doomed to do,

A throng of white-winged angels, swept that gate of glory through.

The day declined in Egypt, and an old man looked his last

Upon evening’s fading glories, for his life was ebbing fast;

And dim, to him, the rosy earth, though beautifully bright,

And dark, to him, the western heaven, though bathed in golden light.

Yet, though his feeble sight no more might trace the forms of earth,

His kindling soul looked from its clay, prophetically forth;

Futurity’s enfolding shroud rolled heavily away,

And ages, yet to be revealed, their secrets to the day.

Nations unborn around him thronged, with all their deeds and doom,

And the Patriarch glowed with prophecy, on the confines of the tomb.

The day declined in Egypt, and the Patriarch’s sons drew nigh,

To hear their father’s parting words, receive his parting sigh.

A noble band of brothers they, the princely twelve, who came

And bowed their stately heads before that worn and weary frame.

“Draw near, my sons,” the old man said, “while I reveal to ye,

The hidden things, of old ordained, in latter days to be.

“Reuben! beginning of my strength! my first born and my flower,

The excellency of dignity, the excellency of power!

But what are lofty gifts to thee, while thy impulsive heart

Will prompt alike the generous deed, or choose the baser part!

Unstable as the waves thou art, I read thy nature well,

And dignity and power are vain, for thou shalt ne’er excel.

“Levi and Simeon, brethren ye, in wickedness and wile!

My soul abhors your cruelty, mine honor shuns your guile!

Lost and accursed shall ye be by God’s avenging wrath,

And scattered wide, like sifted chaff, upon the whirlwind’s path.

“Thou, princely Judah, nearer draw, my proud and peerless one,

Mine eyes would rest once more on thee, my lion-hearted son;

I see thy calm, majestic front, thou generous, true, and just!

In thee the children of thy sire, for aye shall place their trust.

The gathering of the nations around thy house shall be;

And until Shiloah’s coming the sceptre rests with thee!”

And thus, as round their prophet sire, the awe-struck brethren wait,

To each of all the listening twelve, he speaks, unfolding fate.

The brawny breast of Issacher, heaves heavily and high,

As years of cruel servitude arise before his eye;

Luxurious Asher’s curving lip, half wreaths into a smile,

As visions of voluptuousness, flit o’er his brain the while;

And Benjamin, exulting hears of his successful toil —

“At morn thou shalt pursue the prey, at eve devour the spoil.”

But Joseph, of the steadfast soul, triumphant over wrong,

Round thee, the best belovéd one, the choicest blessings throng.

Of the deep that lieth under, of the far spread heavens above;

Of thy home and of thy household, in thy life and in thy love,

The words wherewith he blesseth thee, o’er all prevaileth still —

Unto the utmost boundary of the everlasting hill.

The day declined in Egypt, and from fertile mound and plain,

The golden sunlight fades away—night gathers dark again.

The clouds roll their dark billows back, and through the rifts on high;

The solemn stars, in marshaled hosts, tread up the midnight sky;

While chanting, through the firmament, the errant angels come;

They lead the unfettered spirit up, in triumph to its home.

A MONTICELLO DAY.

———

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

———

Monticello is one of the loveliest villages upon which the sun shines. It occupies, in two rows, the aides and summit of a steep hill, surrounded by orchards, grain-fields, and meadows; which in turn are girdled by the unbroken wilderness. The single street is formed by the broad turnpike, with smooth grassy margins that extend like carpets of emerald up to the very porches, from the edges of the highway. Two side-walks fringed with maples, (the most beautiful shade trees in the world) form, with their brown stripes, the only interruption to the smooth green margins above referred to. The street (or highway more properly speaking) is hard and smooth as a sea-beach, over which the wagon-wheel rolls as evenly and swiftly as over the surface of that very important invention of modern times, the Plank road. Indeed it is more like the glide of the rail-car over the T road than any thing else, and the way that a span of Halsey’s horses can whirl a carriage through the street of the village, “is a caution” to lazy folks.

The houses are mostly new and uniformly painted white, and peep out from their rows of maples in the most agreeable and picturesque manner. In fact, so sylvan is the whole appearance of Monticello, buried as it is amongst its leaves, that it looks like some huge bird’s nest in the branches of an enormous tree. It is an isolated place, too, tucked away behind the Shawanyunk Mountain, and although placed upon a hill, is as far removed from the busy world as it well could be. It is true, Hamilton’s red coach crawls daily from Newburgh on the Hudson, through it, carrying the mail with great regularity and despatch, (good conscience,) on its snail-like pace to Lake Erie, but if the line depended only for its continuance upon its passengers, its life would be short indeed. In fact, if Uncle Sam’s “pap” (as Uncle Jack says) were not freely bestowed, it would not really last longer than a chicken with the pip.

Such being the state of things, it may readily be imagined that we villagers have every thing to ourselves, as far as the great world without is concerned, and that we are very little troubled with any affairs except our own. It is true they furnish trouble enough of themselves, but they are generally of such a nature that the detachment of grannies and old maids from the main body of the village which take a most pious and praise-worthy care of the morals of the place, can usually settle them over a long “tea drink” at one or the other of their dwellings.

With these preliminaries I now proceed to endeavor to sketch the gliding of a summer’s day over our beautiful village, albeit my touches may be skill-less, and my colors faint.

Not yet sunrise! What a sweet gray delicate light glimmers in the air, and how fresh and cool the universal hue over every object. The sky is stainless, pure as the thoughts of Innocence, and bright as the dreams of the happy, although it wants the splendor of the risen sun. Faint, faint, as the memory of other days to the aged are those few white stars throbbing in the mid-sky, sinking deeper and deeper in the lustrous heavens. In the east is a wreathed cloud, just above the spot where the sun is expected, and evidently awaiting the period for it to burn under the glance of the orbed God, like the arch-angel nearest to the Throne of the Mighty. The west is dusky with the outlines of the forest upon it misty and undefined, as if the breath of the vanished night was still lingering there. Nothing is there to arrest my gaze; but the east draws my eye toward it with the power of a magnet. The east! solemn and mysterious spot in the wide heavens! how it sways, with its mighty influence, the whole human race.

Upon its brow did the splendid Star of the Nativity blaze out with its sudden glory, upon the astonished eyes of the shepherds upon the hill-side, and there was the group of angels unveiled to the cowering mortals who heard, as they shuddered upon their mother earth, the glad anthem of “Peace on earth—good-will to men,” pealing through the brightened heavens, and echoing even down to the dim, night-clad scene around them.

From the east did the steps of the “wise men” come when they brought their gifts of “frankincense and myrrh” to the hallowed infant in the manger. And even now, as the first level ray streams across the desert, does the wild Arab check the lofty step of his camel, and kneeling toward the east, join in the praise then ascending from a thousand minarets, that “God is great and Mahomet is his Prophet.”

To the east then will I turn, and with no infidel praise in my heart, but with the feeling of pure gratitude to that beneficent Being who has watched my pillow through the “dangers of the past night,” I gaze upon it. Ha! that sudden flash, like the leaping of flame upon the altar! How the wreathed cloud starts into light—how it brightens, how it glows! like the iron in the furnace, how it turns to sudden red! Now o’er its downy surface a crimson flush is spread! now its edges burn with gold, it is a glorious banner now, burning, gleaming, flaring, glaring on the east’s illuminated brow.

What a splendid object! and yet but a few moments ago it was nothing but a wreath of cold gray vapor—a fragment doubtless of that dim blanket which kept the stars from shining the past night. What a splendid object, and yet the tints will soon fade, and it will once more turn to a dim curl of cloud insignificant and hueless. Solomon’s mantle will change to a garment that a beggar would scorn, particularly if the morning should be cold. Garments of cloud may be very romantic, but they would prove deucedly uncomfortable, particularly in winter I fancy, although the sun does turn them into golden, crimson, and jeweled glories.

But the east is kindling brighter and brighter, and at last a spot, directly beneath the cloud, is burning almost like “white heat.” That is the bath of splendor into which the sun will rush when it spurns the mountain top and launches into the heavens. And see the lower edge now burns with a fire that sears the very eyeball, and ha! yes, there comes the sun. Up, up, with slow and stately, and solemn motion as yet, up, up, with seeming accelerated speed; now it launches into its bath of splendor, and in plain Saxon, it is sunrise.

Two broad streams of light roll toward me. One comes flashing directly in front, tipping the summit of “Tonner’s hill,” and placing, quick as thought, bright caps of gold upon the pines and hemlocks of the next ridge this way, thence lighting upon “Brownson’s Hill,” and helmeting the pines and hemlocks of that locality, and thence hitting here and touching there, it bathes with rosy splendor the chimneys of the village, and they straightway, like altars just touched by flame, begin, every mother’s son of them, to smoke. And not your blue, common smoke either, but smoke of lapis lazuli, or whatever other hue is radiant and rich.

The other beam shoots off to the left, and leaving the valley-meadows below Tonner’s, still steeped in their silver down of mist, it glorifies the summits of the next wood, and spreads in a huge ring of golden glow upon the tops of the forests that form the framework of “Pleasant Pond.” One towering pine that plumes a green turban of a hill near the liquid silver of the pond, has caught the splendor upon its apex, and how the glad light there laughs and sparkles and dances. Like the brain of a poet when the pure fire descends upon it, it seems to break out into a glow of inspiration, and hark! borne to the fine and subtle ear of fancy, through the intervening space thus sounds the song of this Memnon of the forest—its sunrise hymn —

Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its light and its splendor!

Hail to its keen swift arrows! hail to its joy and its gladness!

Light rushes up from the east, as from an eternal fountain,

And straightway all Nature glows like steel that burns in the furnace!

Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its radiant splendor!

Hail to the wings of its speed! to its glad and its glorious presence!

It comes to the dusky east like a thought of fire to the brain!

It comes to the brightening east, like a “bridegroom to his bride!”

It comes to the glowing east like liberty to the slave!

And Nature laughs out in its splendor, and turns into light in its joy.

Sing pæans, sing pæans all Nature! about pæans to God in His glory!

He rolls up the sun in His might! He spreadeth the wings of the morning!

Arise, oh! man, and come forth! glad morning calls out to arise!

Break, break the fetters of slumber! lo! beauty is here to salute thee!

Here freshness, here splendor, here beauty! yes, purity, beauty, and health!

Health in the soft sweet air, and beauty on earth and in heaven!

Wake man from the fetters of sleep! come forth and rejoice in this gladness.

Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its light and its splendor!

It comes like a seraph from heaven! yea, from heaven, and fresh with its glory!

And lighting upon the dim Earth, the dim Earth straight bursts into beauty.

Hail to the morning, hail! it comes with the speed of its pinion

To turn the dim Earth into splendor, to clothe it in garments of light!

Hail to the morning, hail! all hail to its glorious presence!

Peal upward, rise upward my song! hail beautiful morning! all hail!

And thus endeth the first chapter.

Scene the second, is after breakfast, for the inhabitants of Monticello generally, notwithstanding the invocation of the smitten pine to them, with almost the single exception of myself, don’t trouble themselves about rising until nature is pretty well aired. In other words they are, nearly all, late risers.

This, however, is a sweeping remark, and does not include the various “hired helps” of the village, who are now sallying out of their respective domiciles, milk-pail in hand; and soon at every gate, and in every green lane I hear the whizzing sounds of the milk streaming in slight threads of pearl into the fast mantling pails beneath. Neither does it include poor Hank Jones who, shaking in every limb from the want of his morning dram, is hastening to the nearest bar-room; nor “Loafing Joe” either, who, I believe, never goes to bed, and who is always astir with the earliest bird, and who now, with the seeds of the hay-mow which afforded him his last night’s couch, and his hat all crushed up, giving good evidence that he has used it for a night-cap, is lounging, with his customary slouching gait, along the maple-sidewalk leading from Hamble’s. But these morning sights and sounds soon vanish—the cows wend their lazy way, lowing, to their respective sweet-scented pastures—the “helps” disappear with their foaming pails—poor lost Hank, after swallowing a draught sufficient to set his stomach in a flame, leaves for home, and even “the Loafer” has turned up the “Stone Store road” toward his little cabin on the hill-side. (He lives on the summit of “Antimony Hill,” the name for the bluff at the left of the road, forming the termination of “Coit’s Ridge.” I have a story to tell about that “Ridge” one of these days.)

The village is buried in quietude, and so, I’ll go to breakfast. Well, breakfast has been dispatched, and I am again at my post, pencil in hand, to note down events as they shall occur. Ah! there comes “Squire Belldong” along the turnpike from his dwelling, after having discussed his first meal of the day. I’ll hasten up and follow him into “Saint’s” store, for I see he is bound there—that is always his first stopping-place. There’ll be some fun now. He is the greatest mischief-maker in the village, pursuing his trade out of pure love for it, for nothing delights him so much as “setting people by the ears,” as he calls it. He is a lawyer, and as he lives by this laudable business, perhaps he should not be blamed. At any rate, living or no living, he follows the business up with the pertinacity of a greyhound after a hare.

“Good morning, Saint! how are you this fine morning!” is his first salutation to the keeper of the store.

“Good morning, Squire! I am very well! How are you and your family!”

“Very well, I thank you! although I didn’t sleep very well last night!”

“Ah! what was the matter?”

“Old John P.’s dog kept up such a confounded barking and yelling, that I couldn’t sleep a wink. However, there was a deuced quick stop put to it about two o’clock as I should judge.”

“How was that?”

“A pistol shot I fancy. I heard the report, and one yell from the dog, and then all was as quiet as could be wished.”

Here Saint John began to pick up his ears. He stopped measuring some calico which he had been busy on, and said —

“The deuce! Who could have shot him?”

“Loafing Joe they say. At least old Wheeler, whom I met at the upper end of the village, told me so.”

“There’s a chance for a suit for you, Squire! John P. will complain, wont he?”

“No doubt of it. Well Joe has got nothing, so he must e’en go to jail!”

“Good riddance for the village. I wish the vagabond was always there.”

“So do I. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Squire.”

Over goes the mischief-maker to Hamble’s across the road.

“Good morning, Hamble!” as he enters the bar-room, where he finds that worthy making his lemons still sourer by looking at them.

“Have you heard the news, Hamble!” elevating his heels on the bar-room table, and deliberately drawing out a cigar. “By the way, Hamble, give me a light.” (He is also the most free and easy fellow in the world.)

“News! no—what news?”

“They say that old Wheeler shot John P.’s dog last night!”

“They say! who says? They say means nobody.”

“Well, they say in this case means your own son-in-law. Saint John just told me so.”

“Where! I don’t believe it!”

“Well, you are very polite, Hamble. (Puffing away at his cigar in the most imperturbable manner possible.) Saint told me so in his own store not a minute ago. (Knocking off the gray ashy tip of his cigar with his little finger.) However, it is a secret. Don’t say to Saint that I told you, for he’ll be angry with me.”

“Not I. I shant probably think of it again.”

Down goes Belldong, not half satisfied yet, to Claypole’s store.

“Hellow, Claypole! how goes it with you this beautiful summer’s morning? Heigho! I’m so confounded sleepy, I can hardly see.”

“What’s the matter now, Squire?”

“Why I was kept awake nearly all night, last night, by that infernal dog of John P.’s. By the way, have you heard the news?”

“No! what is it?”

“Saint John shot that devilish dog last night.”

“N-o! you don’t say so!”

“Yes, but I do say so, and know so too.” (Very positively, at the same time throwing away the stump of his cigar.)

“Why, who told you so?”

“Hamble—not a minute ago. He’s good authority isn’t he? About his own son-in-law, too?”

“Why, yes—he’s the best kind of authority, considering whom he tells it of.”

“Well it’s true, no doubt of it. However, don’t say I told you that Hamble told me. It might get me into trouble.”

“Of course not. I shant bring your name in. But who would have thought it? However, I am glad of it on the whole. That dog was the perfect horror of the whole village with his yowling and yelling. I declare, on the whole, I’m rejoiced at it. We’ll have some peace nights and stand a chance of sleeping some. I vow to you, the other moonlight night he made such a noise I couldn’t close my eyes. I got up and opened the window, and what should I see (you know it was as bright as day) but that infernal creature, planted on his four legs with his tail as stiff as a mackerel, yowling at the moon, as if he was in the last stages of the hydrophobia. I was so mad that I took one of my old boots, and may I be hanged, if I didn’t hit him slap, right on his head. He had just opened his great mouth for another yowl, but it changed to a yell double quick time, I tell you, and the way he streaked it round the corner was nothing to nobody. Ha! ha! ha! Well, I’m glad he’s dead, any way.”

“He! he! he! so am I. Well, good morning.”

Opposite walks he, straight as a bee-line, to Nate’s store.

“Well, Nate, how are you?”

“Pretty well, how is it with yourself?”

“So as to be stirring, though I’m sleepy as the deuce. Have you heard the news this morning, Nate?”

“News, no! (Nate is as keen after news as after money, and that is saying all that can be said on the subject.) What news? Do tell me, Squire?”

“Well, I mean to tell you. You know John P.’s big dog, don’t you?”

“Yes. I hear him often enough nights to know him. What of it?”

“He’s been shot.”

“Good! First rate. But who shot him?”

“Old cheese, your brother-in-law up at the tavern there.”

“What, Hamble! You don’t say so!”

“But I do say so. And I say further, (but this you mustn’t repeat for the world, Nate, that is, with me as your authority—now you wont, will you?)”

“No, no, no, I tell you. What was you going to say further?”

“Why, I was going to say further, (and of course you wont repeat it as you’ve promised not,) that Claypole told me so.”

“Whew! Who would have believed it? I’m devilish glad of it though, anyhow.”

Down, as fast as his legs (and they are long ones,) can carry him, stalks the mischief-maker to Wiggins’ tavern.

“I say, Wiggins, how goes the morning with you? Had many customers at the bar yet, eh!”

“Well, not a great many, Squire! It’s rather airley yet.”

“So it is. You’ve heard the news this morning, doubtless, Wiggins?”

“News! no. What news, Squire?”

“Why, John P.’s infernal great yowling dog has been shot!”

“Shot—dog—John P. Why, you don’t say so, squire!”

“No. I don’t say so, but Nate Hemstitch does, and further more he says who shot him.”

“The deuce he does. Who was it?”

“I’ll tell you, if you’ll promise not to bring me in the scrape.”

“I promise of course. Now, who was it?”

“Well, Nate says that Bill Claypole did it.”

“Bill Claypole! Well—who—would—have—supposed it. I’m all struck into a heap!”

“So am I, and I haven’t been struck out of it yet. Ha! ha! ha! Well, I must go to my office. Good morning.”

And away goes Belldong after having, like a great spider, woven a web of mischief all over the blessed village, that isn’t untangled in a month, and will probably be the cause of divers fisticuffings, if not lawsuits.

In the meanwhile, the sun has glided higher and higher on his golden wheel up his steep blue eastern pathway. The day promises to be a real Titian, where a splendid coloring steeps the landscape in a lake of light, where the rich yellows and deep blacks lie side by side in distinct gradations, where the leaves embroider their ghostly counterfeits on the sidewalks, where the sky is glittering in its most cerulean intensity, and the air is so crystal clear that the outlines of the distant hills seem as if traced with a hair-pencil on their azure background. The morning shadows, however, are commencing to shrink back, so that an edging of sunlight stripes the left border of the village street, whilst the street itself is bathed in deep gold, and the white houses opposite sparkle from the breaks in the glossy foliage with the most radiant and beautiful effect.

The country wagons now begin to roll in. Old Taggett appears with his ox-cart creaking like “Deacon Morgan, with his voice like a wagon,” and urging his piebald steeds with a goad as long as Mrs. T.’s tongue (and that is long enough in all conscience).

Deacon Decker is also in the village, having driven from “Decker’s Settlement” since sunrise, with eggs and butter to exchange for goods and groceries at Saint John’s store; and, as I’m alive if here doesn’t come old Deacon Lackstir, urging his fat lazy horses to an unwonted trot, as if on especial and driving business.

He is making his way to Esq. Loop’s, and I’ll enter the precincts of “Pettifogger’s Delight,” to see what constitutes his hurry.

“Good morning, Squire Loop,” says the deacon, drawing in his breath through his mouth all puckered up as if in the act of whistling. “How you do this morning? How is your wife and children? Doing well under Providence, I trust! Well, squire, I’ve come this morning with a little piece of paper to have you sue on’t. I don’t want to be deficient in Christian meekness, but it’s scripter doctrine, you know, ‘to pay what thou owest.’ He! he! he!”

Whilst the old deacon is thus giving evidence of his “Christian meekness,” I take the opportunity to look over the justice’s docket.

Ha! by all that’s laughable, there is a suit to come off to-day.

“Nirum Coger vs. Jacob Kettle”—plea, slander. “For that whereas the said defendant did on divers days and times, to wit, on the 4th day of July, A. D. 1847, being then and thereunder the influence of strong drink, and at the instigation of the devil, did, with sticks, staves and stones, to wit, with a sharp instrument commonly called the tongue, say, utter and publish, in the presence and hearing of divers respectable persons of the village, and to their great scandal, that he (meaning the said Nirum) was an infernal thief, and that he (meaning the said defendant) could prove it; and furthermore, that he (meaning the said Nirum) had stole a sheep and hid its ears in a stump,” &c. &c. &c.

Here’s fun enough in prospect for the greatest stoic in the universe. “I will be there! At eleven o’clock—and it is within a few minutes of the time now. So I’ll e’en take a seat.”

In a few minutes Nirum comes stumping over, on his crutches, from his little saddler’s shop opposite, and after him, mimicking his gait in the most ludicrous manner, comes his opponent, the most incorrigible vagabond in the whole village, not excepting “Loafing Joe” himself. Abe Kettle is certainly the very personification of blackguardism. “You are as great a vagabond as Abe Kettle,” is a perfect proverb throughout the place. This will be a rich trial, depend upon it.

By and by the jury (the standing one of the village,) come stringing in, looking very solemn and important. Esquire Loop takes his seat at his desk, “spectacles on nose,” and calls over the case.

“Nirum Coger.”

“Here.” (Propping himself up on his crutches.)

“Abraham Kettle.”

“Here.” (Suddenly overtaken with lameness himself, and limping up to the desk.)

“Gentlemen, are you ready to proceed?”

“Yes, your honor,” squeaked little “Blackberry,” who was counsel for the plaintiff, and popping up from his chair.

“I aint, your honor,” interrupts Abe.

“Why not pray?” asks the justice, looking over his spectacles at him with a magisterial frown.

“I haint got no witness.”

“That’s your own fault, not mine. Constable, call the jury.”

“I’ll make affidavy that it weren’t no lachees on my part, your honor. I hope Mr. Coger wont take no advantage nor nothen.”

“You needn’t set there and lie, Abe Kettle,” says Nirum. “You haint got no witness anyhow, and you knows it.”

“Well, heave ahead!” says Abe, taking his seat at the desk. “All I want is to criss-cross your witnesses, to show that this here suit is a spite suit. All spite and malice, your honor, and nothen else.”

“Constable call the jury,” again commands the justice, blowing his nose with a snort like that of a Pleasant Pond bull-frog.

Hereupon this functionary, (who by the way, was the perfect terror of all the apple-hooking boys in the place, and, next to his dog, the greatest dependence, the owner of the said dog had for the preservation of his orchard,) commenced calling over his jury list, and finding them all “on the spot,” (the magical shilling would always bring about that phenomenon,) the justice began the usual swearing in.

“James Bat, John Slow, Jacob Slush.”

Hereupon three vagabonds showed themselves.

“The evidence you shall give, (here the justice evidently forgot the form of the oath, and began to fumble the leaves of his ‘Justice’s Manual,’ with a sneaking and puzzled look.) Ah! oh! shall give between, what’s his name, plaintiff, and A. B. defendant shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Kiss the book!” snatching up an old song book near him, (the justice is purblind without his spectacles, and they had at that juncture slipped down to the very tip of his nose.) They obeyed, and the rest of the jury were all called and sworn in the same manner.

The first witness called for the plaintiff was a thick-headed Dutchman, who could not manage to speak English, and who looked as if it were beyond his management altogether to keep his eyes open. He testified to the plaintiff and defendant being together in Wiggins’ bar-room on the 4th of July last, and in the course of a quarrel which sprang up between them, that the defendant had said that the plaintiff was a thief—(“And so he is,” ejaculated Abe, at this point of the testimony, which elicited a loud “Silence!” from the justice, and a grin of rage from Nirum)—and that he had ‘stolen a sheep and hid its ears in a stump.’

Nothing could be more clear, but what was that to Abe?

“Are you through, little Blackberry?” asked he of the opposite counsel.

Young Kellogg looked at him indignantly for a moment and then, drawing himself up, said —

“I demand the protection of the court here, from the impertinence of this person.”

“Mr. Kettle, call the counsel by his name, or I shall be obliged to commit you.”

“Why, your honor, I thought his name was Blackberry. Loafer Joe says it is, and besides I never heerd him called by any other name, your honor. He’s always called ‘little Blackberry’ whenever they tell of his hoss runnen away with him last Gineral Trainen!”

“No matter what Loafer Joe says—you must call him by his name, Mr. Kellogg, whenever you speak to him.”

“Well, your honor, all’s the same to Abe. Are you through, Mr. Kellogg?”

“Yes, and I demand judgment; the case is made out.”

“Not as you knows on, little Black—Mr. Kellogg I mean. Jest you wait a bit—jest wait till I criss-cross this here witness a little might. Mr. Slump, (addressing the witness,) who was present when I said that aire?”

“Loafer Joe was, and I was too.”

“Hem—ha—was there any one else?”

“Not as I seed.”

“Very well—put that down your honor. What did I say was the reason I called him by his name?”

“You didn’t call him by his name. You said up and down, he was a thief.”

“Very well! but what was the reason I said he was a thief?”

“Because you said that he’d stole a sheep and hid its ears in a stump!”

“Now, Mr. Slump, be careful—remember your oath; false swearen is a state’s-prison matter—are you sarten I said a sheep! Didn’t I say a calf?”

“Calf!”

“Yes, calf—be careful now—remember state’s-prison!”

The witness began to open his eyes and looked puzzled, and somewhat frightened.

“You see, your honor, he looks skeered. Put that down, that he looks skeered. Answer, Mr. Slump!”

“Calf!”

“Yes, calf!” bawls out Abe, and striking the table with his fist.

“Well, I don’t know but you did. Sheep—calf—calf—sheep—same thing.”

“It may be in Dutch, but it isn’t in English by a long shot, Mr. Slump. Put that down, your honor, this ere intelligent witness doesn’t know the difference between a calf and a sheep. He says, your honor, that I said calf—and didn’t I also say his ears, availing Nirum’s, instead of its ears.”

“Well, I don’t know but you did,” gasps out the witness, looking frightened out of his wits.

“Put that down, your honor. I said his ears instead of its. I call for a nonsuit.”

“Call for a nonsuit!” ejaculates Kellogg, in a tone of indignant surprise—“on what ground, pray!”

“On three grounds, your honor—First, the declaration says that I called the plaintiff a thief in the hearing of ‘divers respectable persons,’ when the witness testifies that I said it in the presence of Loafer Joe and himself—the first one being the greatest vagabond, and the last the most infarnal fool in the village. That’s the fust ground. The second is, I didn’t say a ‘sheep’ at all, but a ‘calf,’ and that I’m ready to stand up to any day—(here Nirum aimed a blow at him with his crutch.) Oh, you needn’t fight about it, Mr. Coger. It’s true and you know it. Keep your crutches for your own carcass, you vagabone you. That’s the second ground. The third ground is that I said his ears instead of its ears, and that I’ll stand up to; also, for that very mornen this here limpen saddler was as drunk as an owl, and was a lyen in the woods above the village, with his ears, head and all, in an old rotten stump back of Coit’s Ridge. I know that, your honor, for I pulled him out myself, and all the thanks I got for it was abuse from the vagabone!”

In vain did Coger asseverate his innocence—(the story being, in point of fact, a lie of Abe’s from beginning to end, as Nirum was noted for his temperance all over the village, and was a Methodist class-leader in good standing, in addition). In vain did Kellogg start upon his feet and commence a loud denial of the whole story. The justice struggled not to smile—the constable grinned—the jury followed suit, the audience tittered, and the boys outside set up a yell like an Iroquois war-whoop, of “Hooraw for Abe Kettle!”

As for Abe himself, he looked round him in the most staid and sober manner, and then, after demanding for a second time his nonsuit, as he termed it, took his seat; and the justice, looking dark in the face with his efforts to conceal his laughter, dismissed the suit.

“I want a warrant for the costs, ef they aint paid on the spot,” says Abe. “I’m ready to swear, your honor—”

“Pay him the costs and be hanged to him,” ejaculated Kellogg to his client. “He’s ready to swear to any thing.”

And Nirum, with a sigh takes out his leathern pouch and defrays the costs to the justice. Kellogg then takes his hat and sneaks over to his office. Nirum hobbles to his shop—the justice closes his office door, the boys melt away, and the farce is over.

Twelve o’clock! time for the stage—so I’ll take a look at the hill. Sure enough, there is a pyramid of dust shooting up from its summit, and, in the midst, gleams out the crimson coach like a boiled lobster from the gray mist of its pot.

Down the hill whirls the dust, and soon we’ll see the machine upon the flat. Ah! here it is, spinning along at a great rate. Past Griffin’s black domicile—past the beautiful meadow on the right—past the rich wheat-field on the left—past the smooth lawny hill, with its birchen grove on its top—past Uncle Jack’s—past the “ridge farm road,” and now it is creeping up the hill by Owlet’s blacksmith shop. Ah! here comes the ears of the leaders above the brow of the hill—then the heads tossing up and down with their efforts—then the bodies, reined and strapped—then the wheelers—then the lower side of the slanting seat which forms the driver’s throne—then the driver himself, with his four reins slanting to the horses’ heads—then the whole red coach, creaking and pitching. At last the top of the hill is gained, and, with a loud crack of the driver’s whip, through the village trot the jaded steeds. The coach looks like a bobbed rooster with his tail down, for the dusty boot protrudes immensely at the rear, and all the weight appears to be on the hind seat. Up rolls the coach, the driver making his whip crack like Fanny Ellsler’s castanets in the “cracovienne,” and with a prodigious attempt at creating a sensation—the machine stops at Hamble’s. Here the passengers, in the shape of a fat old lady, a lean old gentleman, and a cross baby between them, empty themselves on Hamble’s porch, and the driver, with a loud “keh!” and an awful crack of his whip, gallops over to the post-office.

Thither follow the whole village, all athirst for the contents of the mail-bag, which the driver sends straight at the head of the boy who appears at the threshold of the store (for calicoes are distributed on one side, letters on the other, and rum in the rear,) to receive it. The boy lugs in the bag, casts it over the counter with a wry face, and straight commences to unlock it and unloose the iron chain through its rings. That duty performed, he vomits forth the contents—tawny parcels, large and small—inside the counter, and stooping down commences, with the postmaster himself, the task of “overhauling the mail.” Now a packet would skim from his hand—and now another would take a flying leap—and now another would bound, with a jerk, away, and then he would place a parcel carefully by his side—then away would fly another packet, and then another would be placed by his knee, the latter swelling into a small pile—the mail matter for Monticello. At last, all the contents being carefully picked over, the boy would rise painfully, as if his knee joints were sore. The chain would again be thrust through the loops—the padlock locked, and the leathern sack be lifted over the counter and be transferred to the box of the expectant coach, crushed under the feet of the driver who, carefully gathering up his reins, would give a chirrup and whistle to his trampling team—off would dart the coach, and the fat old lady, and the lean old gentleman, and the cross baby between them, who by this time is very red in the face, would disappear in thick wreaths of gray dust up the turnpike leading to Cochecton on the Delaware waters.

The Monticello mail is then grasped with both hands, a package every now and then slipping to the floor, and poured upon the post-office side of the store. An untwisting of hempen strings then takes place—the tawny covers torn from letter and newspaper, and after conning a most tedious time over the packages, the postmaster commences in a drawling lazy voice to call over the names upon the backs of the letters. The Hon. Mr. Johnson (or whatever his name is at Washington) never selected his deputy for his skill in reading, I’ll be bound, or else he has been awfully taken in—for such a blunderhead I never heard attempt to call over mail matter before:

“Mr. Screw-screw—s-c-r-e-w—Screwdriver!”

“Screwdriver! who the devil’s that?” ejaculates one of the expectants.

“That’s the name on the letter, anyhow!” answers the postmaster fiercely, and spitting out enough tobacco-juice to drown all the flies in the store.

“ ‘S-s-’ that’s a ‘c’ r, stop, no that’s not an r, that’s an ‘h’-oh, Schelmsford. Mr. Schelmsford!”

“Here!” promptly responds one of the number outside the counter.

“Five cents, Mr. Schelmsford! That’s right!”

“Mr. Stickup! Is Stickup here?”

“No Stickup here.” (Or any where else I fancy, continues one sotto voce.)

“It’s likely you know as well as I do, when I’m looking right at the letter, and you are staring at the rum barrels. I’ll thank you to hold your tongue.”

“Send to Washington—have him put out—can’t read writen—dunce—fool—blunderhead—how long must we wait?” burst out in paroxysms of wrath from the expectants.

“Gentlemen have a little patience, will ye; you see what spider’s tracks this writen is. It wants optics like those of a microscope to decipher it,” responds the poor postmaster, perspiring in his dread at the awful threats of the expectants. “Now have a l-e-e-t-l-e patience and you’ll all get your letters.”

“Mrs. Soapdish!”

“Soapdish, you wretch!” shrieks a female voice in the crowd. “Soapdish, you mean puppy! Soapdish! you low fellow!”

“Yes, Soapdish!” asseverated the postmaster, who seeing it is only a woman begins to take courage. “Have you any objection to Soapdish? If you have leave the letter, that’s all. Leave the letter for the dead office at Washington, only don’t interrupt me in my official duties, my good woman! Soapdish is a very good name, the name your husband gave you, no doubt, Mrs. Soapdish! Does she want her letter, after paying me five cents for it!”

“You mean Mrs. Soper, Mr. Skinner,” modestly observes some one from the crowd.

“No I don’t. I mean Mrs. Soapdish. Miss-es—Misses—Soap-dish—Soapdish! Stop though! what a confounded crabbed hand!” squinting over it, then glancing askance at it, and then fairly turning it upside down, after endeavoring to squint inside, as if to find the name there. “On the whole, I shouldn’t be surprised if it were ‘Soper.’ Here, take it, my good woman, and look at it yourself. If it isn’t Soapdish, it’s Soper, and one name is as good as another in Tahoo, for that’s the language the fellow has written in I verily believe,” continues he, grumbling and fumbling over his other letters.

“James Shipoker, Esq.!”

“James Shipoker, Esq.,” ejaculates the judge of the county court. “Oh, what an incorrigible ass! James Shipman you fool! Well, I can’t stand this. I’ll write to my friend, the Postmaster-General, and have you kicked out, neck and crop, you dunce you!”

“Just come and help yourselves, gentlemen! I see how it is. You wish to interrupt me to avoid paying the postage. I can see through a grindstone as well as the best of ye, especially when there’s a hole in it big enough to put John P.’s dog in. Here, boy, you come and call over the letters. See if you have any better luck!”

The store-lad fortunately could “read writen,” and after a while each one got his letter or his paper and left the post-office.

And thus endeth the second lesson. In other words, it is dinner time.

Dinner is dispatched.

The glossy dark shades begin now to stretch themselves from the golden west. The shadow of “Coit’s house” (I mean to tell a story about that also) lies strong and well-defined—a sable picture—upon the sunny green—each tree “hath wrought its separate ghost upon the”—grass. Hamble’s tall, straddling sign-post looks like a prone black giant upon the gray highway, and the long sweep of the corner-well seems like an elbow a-kimbo.

The girls and boys of the village now assemble for their usual afternoon stroll. Pleasant Pond is the point fixed upon, and accordingly we start. We turn up the green country-road leading to it, arm-in-arm. How fresh and beautiful every thing is. The wheat is goldening—the meadow grass is deepening—the pasture-fields are clovering, and the air is one incense. The distant hills are freckled with gliding shadows, and the pure pearls of clouds are dissolving as if the sky was Cleopatra’s goblet. Others are wreathing, as if to form a silver garland for the brow of Antony, whilst others are glittering in the sunlight, as if to spread a canopy of snow for the fairy barge that in old times floated along the Cydnus. The Titianesque beauty it promised in the early morning, is gloriously fulfilled—lo! it is all one bright and rich and golden glow of beauty.

So up the hill we pass, and down the hill we go, and now we are in the forest with the soft, cool, green shadow falling over us like a mantle. We are pleased with every thing—we smile at every thing—no thought of care is in our happy hearts. The world is Eden, with the angel Hope smiling us forward with her azure wings, and bidding us, with soft entreating tones, to enter in its pathways, whilst the gate, the pure white gateway, swings upon the post, shrouding our eye from all that is behind, and forcing us to dwell upon the soft and fairy picture that the future paints, to lure our steps in its delicious maze.

W-h-e-w! what a leap Pegasus has taken to be sure. Pat him gently, pat him gently, for his eye is bright with fire; pat him gently, pat him gently, for his heart is hot with ire; pat him gently, rein him gently, or his hoof will spurn the ground, and on high he’ll rise and soar and fly, with a swift and curbless bound—and, plain common sense! you will be left kicking in the mud.

Well, we’ve patted him gently, the arching of his glossy neck is over—his eye hath lost its mad brightness, his hoof settles into his customary trot, and “Pegasus is himself again”—Shakspeare.

Hurrah! the pond is in view, appearing like a great looking-glass. Come, let us hurry to the bank and have some fun. Here is our usual parlor—a floor of silver sand—a roof of thick woven laurels—mossy logs for our chairs, and the pond itself for our mirror. Here we are safe and sound—call the roll!—no one missing. Now, now will we speed the bright hours away, all shod with pure gold from the sun’s merry ray; with song and with laughter we will wait till the west with gold and with crimson the wreathed clouds has dressed; no care shall distract us, no sorrow annoy, again you’re a girl and once more I’m a boy; with a pure sky above us, and heaven within, ere you had known trouble or I had known sin; let pleasure then smile on us—throw care away, come what may, come what will, we’ll be happy to-day. So we will—say one, say all.

A party of us “male critturs” now leave the ladies plunged deep in song and sentiment, for a plunge in the delicate balm of the waters stretched like a dream of delight far, far away to our vision.

About half a mile from the party is a deep narrow cove, with a long wooded point shutting it completely from observation. It is the most lovely and retired spot in the universe for a “quiet dip.” And, reader, here let me inform you, that bathing in our American ponds, and bathing in the surf at the sea-side, are two different things. In the latter case you go habited in a night-gown, striped like a state’s-prison bird, and with many an “oh!” and “ah!” you feel your way over the moist cool sand. At length you see the tall wave lifting itself up like a rearing war-horse, and with silver-mane flashing, and azure-breast dashing, on it comes. You stand stock still with suspended breath, and at length you see the glittering and magnificent billow combing right over your head. You involuntarily duck, but there is no escape, down comes the gorgeous thing, slap, right over your whole person, wetting you through in an instant, and as staggering and blinded you reel back to the shore, you hear the delicious crumble of the wave upon the beach, than which no sound in nature can be so deep and yet so rich, so sounding and yet so mellow. But fresh water bathing is a different matter. No striped night-gowns, but “in puribus naturalibus,” (I don’t know whether that is good Latin or not, and don’t care,) you walk boldly along some cool, soft, mossy log, its surface yielding like velvet to your naked feet, and, souse, head first you dive into the limpid element.

And that was the case with us, until a dozen heads were on the surface looking like magnified lily blossoms. A close net of these lilies was woven in the water about six feet from the shore, the water being perfectly paved with the great broad leaves, and it was necessary to break our way right through them before reaching the deeper waters of the cove. And right through them our way did we break. We made a charge like a charge of South Sea Islanders, and though the tough, spongy, supple stems clung around our limbs as if they meant to drag us under—and the strong, thick, gigantic leaves, huge as the ear-flaps of the moose, (who, by the bye, luxuriates upon the pond water lily,) cut our arms and flapped heavily in our faces—and the round, cylindrical, yellow blossoms kept bobbing into our mouths and knocking into our eyes, we persevered until we struggled through them, and reached the deep water. And then didn’t we luxuriate. Some “trod water,” some stretched themselves out for a long swim, and one huge fellow, with fat enough to keep him floating whether or no, elongated himself in a most wonderful manner, laying his head flat upon the water at every impulsion of his body snorting all the time like a porpoise. At length we became tired of the deep water, and concluded to adjourn to the shallows inside the lilies, and have a battle of shooting water at each other. This sport was the usual termination to our baths.

Accordingly we hastened to the battle-ground, and took opposite sides. Arranged in two long lines, we approached each other, each elbow drawn back, and hand raised so as to bring the bottom of the palm on a level with the water. In silence did we eye each other for a season—the word then came, and then commenced the battle. And furiously raged the strife. Not the legions of Cæsar pouring from their galleys, and the wild warriors of Britain’s snowy cliffs—not the fierce mustaches of Napoleon, and the sturdy red-coats of Wellington, poured greater destruction upon one another, than we dashed the glittering crystal of the frighted cove on each other’s ranks. No faltering—no backing—but looking steadily as the blinding water would allow, into the eyes of our foes, we plied our work—no faltering—no backing—but looking steadily as the blinding water would allow into the eyes of their foes, they also plied their work. Closer and closer we approached, and then, each one singling his opposite for single combat, closed for desperate strife. One cataract of tumbling water, raised by four scooping hands, now sheltered two combatants, who finding the shots too heavy for face and eyes, fairly turned back to back and madly dashed behind them the flashing water. At length nearly blinded, all simultaneously retreated from each other and sought the brink—all but the fat-headed, porpoise-breathing fellow before mentioned, who, blinded by his own torrents of water, and supposing that his antagonist was still contending, kept up a most determined, desperate, and valorous dashing, until gasping, choking, and blind from the cataracts which his own hands scooped, and which dashed upon his own carcase, he turned at last to the shore, bawling lustily for “quarter, quarter!” yelling at the same time—“I yield—I yield—I yield!”

By the time this worthy had reached the shore, the rest of us were dressed, and accordingly this victim to his own courage, was obliged to undergo the interesting ceremony of “mumbling the peg!” Plucking at last, with his strong teeth, the peg, driven fast and deep into the firm earth by the heels of certainly a half dozen, he dons his garments, and we all then join the ladies. By this time the pond is turning all colors in the sunset. There, in the middle of its glassy surface, is a blush as beautiful as ever crimsoned the cheek of beauty whilst listening to the whispers of the dearly loved—and near it is a space of golden water, lustrous as the shield of Galahad when approaching the “round table” of Arthur and his knights, (knight most blest,) he proclaimed he had found the “holy grail.” Purple is not wanting, rich as that around the neck of the wild pigeon—nor emerald either, bright as the hue that glitters on the body of the house-fly—nor glossy black, deep as the thunder-cloud’s bosom when coming to scathe and destroy. Ah, how the tints glow—ah, how they tremble, such as in the rainbow show, such do they resemble. Ah, how the tints glow, and mingle, and pulsate—now are they woven in one gorgeous robe that really makes plain Pleasant Pond look like some paradisiacal scene of “the reign of Haroun Alraschid.” But at last the colors fade—they die, alas! alas! alas!—they fade—they die—and now remains of all that brilliant Eden not one single gleam. All—all has departed.

By the time we ascend the banks, thread the labyrinth of “Bates’ ” logging, and regain the road, the harvest-moon has risen. Snow white in the pearly twilight, she soon will deepen into gold, and then change into deep silver. Behold she changes even now, and the twilight deepens, and now the broad and magnificent moonlight reigns. Ah, how glorious! ah, how beautiful! A silver day is smiling, more soft, more delicate, more radiantly pure than the “garish” one that just went glittering out through the rosy portals of the west. The near forests and the distant hills are all suffused, and mingled, and melted into a sweet romantic picture of bewitching beauty. Back we retrace our path through the jeweled woods, and now, scenting the odor of the clover-grass, we diverge from our road into the deep cool verdure of the meadow. No danger of dampening the dainty delicate feet of our girls either, for there has been no rain for a month, and the earth is as dry as powder. So we wade through the swaying verdure, and enjoy the “compacted sweets” of the clover odors. Thence we scramble over a rough stone-wall, the girls giving pretty screams, and holding up their petti—I beg pardon, drapery, so as to jump more readily, and enter a corn-field. The rich soil loosened by the hoe crumbles at our tread, and the plumy stalks shake above our heads, almost excluding the moonlight. Mercy, what round thing is that I stumbled over just then! not a skull I hope, although corn-fields before now have sprung above church-yards and battle-fields. Who knows but this field now rustles above some “Indian burial-place” or frontier battle-ground. However, this can’t be a skull, for my foot has just “squashed” into another, and—why it is only a pumpkin. Confound the long vines too, how they trip one up. What on earth is the reason that they can’t plant corn-fields without putting pumpkins in also? They only serve to trip up the girls and boys who condescend of a summer’s night to enter the precincts.

I fancy a young ear of corn would not be unacceptable. A young, green, succulent ear of corn. So come here you plumed chieftain, “lend me your ears,” or rather, plumed chieftain! I will take you by the ears. I will cut off your ears, plumed chieftain! all feathered, and satined, and tasseled as thou art. Yea, verily will I, plumed chieftain! so here goes. I tear off the emerald sheath and lo! the silver ear—pearly rich art thou, silver ear of the plumed chieftain! all feathered, and satined, and tasseled as he is, and I don’t think thou wilt be less rich when the red fire shall make thee tawny and fit for the teeth.

But we leave the corn-field, with its infernal pumpkins, and once more merrily wend our way along the moonlit road. Ah, here is the path diverging to the “camp-meeting ground.” We are bound to enter, and so we do. How sweetly quiet is the little glade with the forest sleeping in a silver calm around it. Does not the echo now repeal the loud enthusiastic “amens” that then awoke the air at the last “camp meeting,” and the struggling agonized prayer of that gray-headed old man “that God would blot out his sins for they had been many?” Does it not now, even now, seem to thrill amidst those slumbering leaves? And the low music of that lovely maiden’s commune with her God, as if he were her earthly father, so tender, so affectionate—ah, her prayers were known in heaven. The seraphs knew them as the prayers of one, pure as themselves, the Son knew them as the usual breathings of a spotless soul, and the Mighty Father knew them too, and loved and accepted them. Heaven is made of such pure souls, oh, sweet and prayerful maiden!

And the loud triumphant singing—the halleluiahs of the throng. Oh, how they sprung from the earth—oh, how they spread their wings—oh, how they flew up to glory! Oh how they sprung—oh how they spread, oh how they flew up to glory! Burning songs—burning songs, oh how they flew up to glory!

But we leave this moonlight picture of peace and serenity and seek once more our homeward road. We ascend the hill, and beneath us, slumbering in the magnificent moonlight, lo! our beautiful village. Sleeping in the moonlight, lo! our quiet, our peaceful, our beautiful village.

See, how the church steeple rises, soaring up, soaring up, in the solemn and silvered heavens, with its vane sparkling like a dew-gemmed lark hovering over the steeple. Hark! from that silvered steeple, soaring up, soaring up in the solemn and silvered heavens there seems to come a song, thrilling along the hushed and listening air, like the song of that same dew-gemmed lark when he springs triumphant upon the highest cloud of the morning. Hark! I hear the song, it trembles through my soul. Listen, listen, listen to the moonlight song of the praising and soaring steeple.

Art thou a seraph from heaven, thou sweet pure moonlight!

That thou comest in thy garb of dream-like and delicate beauty?

Dost thou bear the splendor of the “Great White Throne” near which thou dost touch thy lute, dost thou bear it on thy glittering and pearly wings!

Seraph!

For thou dost change all to a white and wondrous lustre,

Oh, Seraph!

Seraph of the starry brow and snowy pinion,

Brow of stars and pinion of snows.

Oh, heavenly Seraph! oh, Seraph of wonderful beauty!

Thou, thou, dost bear with thee the anthem of heaven,

Seraph!

Oh, Seraph!

Seraph of wonderful beauty!

And the anthem of heaven wakes echo on the bosom of earth.

Seraph!

Oh, Seraph!

Seraph of wonderful beauty!

The heavens are softly blue!

It is thy eye, Seraph!

That star glowing there like a gem from its mine,

Is a part of thy brow, Seraph! and that white cloud is thy pinion, Seraph, thy beautiful pinion of snow.

Oh, Seraph! sweet Seraph! bright Seraph of wonderful beauty!

I point to thee upward from earth, I point to thee, Seraph!

For I love to reflect thy glance, although I am only of earth.

And I love to hymn thy praise, oh holy Seraph of moonlight!

When the summer daylight has gone out like a flash in the crimsoning west,

And the dew of evening falls softly on grass and flower.

For then, oh, holy Seraph!

I know thou wilt come and reign the queen of the scene.

Farewell now, oh Seraph! oh Seraph that came from the skies,

And will wing back thy flight when the morn

Comes flashing again from the east!

Farewell—farewell—farewell!

Till the summer-night calls thee again!

And again will I praise thee in song,

Seraph!

Sweet Seraph!

Oh, Seraph of wonderful beauty!

The music melted on my ear, but upward through the soft depths of the moonlit heaven soared a faint, throbbing star, and vanished at last in the middle ether. It was the sweet farewell to its “Seraph of wonderful beauty” of the praising and soaring steeple.

GENIUS.

———

BY HELEN IRVING.

———

In the sacred Hindoo Vega, is the sweet tradition found,

That while the waste of waters yet girt the new earth round,

Blooming out beneath the whisper of the great Almighty Power,

On the gloomy flood there floated, one lonely lotus-flower.

And within its crystal chalice, a frail, but heaven-blest shrine,

Was placed a spirit gifted with creative power divine,

Its celestial radiance making that lily-temple bright,

And through its pure leaves shedding on the wave a halo-light.

Filled with yearning was the spirit, dimly conscious of its power,

Feeling, yet not comprehending, all its grand and god-like dower;

Glowing with the joy and beauty of a soft supernal fire,

While his white wings restless quivered, with a seraph-like desire.

And his dreams and aspirations slowly took the form of prayer,

Wrestling till the blessing-answer, softly sounded through the air —

“Labor, for to thee is given, dower and destiny divine;

Labor, till the fire within thee, warmeth other hearts than thine!”

And with ceaseless, strong endeavor, wrought the spirit hour by hour,

Humbly looking up for guidance, to the Source of all his power,

Till in place of gloom and darkness, rosy light about him lay,

And dim forms of radiant beauty, seemed to throng around his way.

Forms of glory and of grandeur, and of fair immortal youth,

On his raptured vision shining, in the purity of truth,

Breathing love and throbbing life—life divine which he had given,

To his glowing spirit linking them, and thus through him to Heaven!

THE BIRTH OF THE YEAR.

———

BY HERBERT ENKERT.

———

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

The moon was sinking down the west,

And slowly, through the eastern way,

Aurora Borealis-like,

Arose the delicate light of day.

The countless spheres that jeweled space,

A proud, exulting anthem sung,

As into life the youthful Year

With more than mortal beauty sprung.

Beneath his Predecessor lay;

Twelve cycles had he seen go by,

And now his aged, withered form