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Co> vi* li a CTfosl,u "Bar* r \\ 



( Whether we whisper of lore, hope, or fear, 
Bring laughter, ortears, or only a sneer, 
Or lull you to sleep, as we bun in your ear, 
The gravest and gayest must candidly own 
That to please you we seek — whatever our tone." 

BANGOR: * * * * ' 

18 48. 





P 1910 L| 

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1847, 


hi the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 

"CO?L»bB & WlLpT,Pjr<*HK8, 

* 12, W«ttr Street, Barton. 

f> ;:a. 


It may naturally be asked of the volume which now 
appears before the public, " Who made it?" and " What 
is its object?" To both questions may be given this 
brief reply ; — that a number of ladies and gentlemen of 

/ Bangor have contributed these articles to be given to the 
press by the Managers of the Bangor Female Orphan 
Asylum, in the hope of adding to the funds of that insti- 
tution. They trust that no one will consider it in any 

^ proper sense a " Bangor Book." A name so broad, im- 
plies a much more extended collection than the gleanings 
which are here hastily thrown together, with no intention 
of displaying the literary character either of its authors, 


or of our citizens at large, can claim to be. Tu p. Terence 
to the sale of this work, it is, perhaps, hardly ;ic. essary 
to add, that in these days of abundant and cheap liter- 
ature, more is hoped from the charity of this community 
than from the merit of the production. 


Advertisement, ..... 3 

Contents, ..... 5 

Poeticaljjntroduction, .... 9 

The Speculator. A Sketch, ... 13 

The Countess of Croye. A Ballad, . .18 

♦The Morning Star, . . . 21 

Criticism upon Critics, . • . .23 

* This piece, and a few others, all of which are distinguished by an 
asterisk, have been previously published, but are included in this collec- 
tion, by permission of their authors. 



To the Author of a Version of the C XXXVII. 

Psalm, 29 

Woman, is it by thee? . . .31 

Love and Romance. A Tale, 33 

Song of the Angels. From Goethe's Faust, . 57 

♦The Star, ..... 59 

A Vision of Bangor in the Twentieth Century, 61 

The Macedonian, ..... 74 

Asa Glover, Esq., .... 78 

I have a Shroud, ..... 95 

A Song. — The Bright Bird Sings, . . 98 
♦The Field of the Incurables. Published in 

1826, . . . . . 100 

Manners, . . . . 107 
On hearing Ladies toasted as "The Poetry of 

Life," 113 

♦The Dream, . . 115 

An Idle Word 117 

The Whistling Wind, . . . 118 

The Festival at the Cdsa de Campo. A Tale, 120 
Lenora. From the German of Burger, . .129 

Correspondence, . 138 


The Flight, . . .146 

A Dirge, 148 

First Impressions. A Sketch, . . .150 

Social Intercourse, • . . 162 

JL Simple Sketch of Simple Things, . .169 

The Violet. From the German, . 189 

♦Veneration for the Past An Extract, . . 190 

Portrait of C. H. C., . . . 195 

Childhood and the Old Elm, . .196 

The Human Heart, .... 203 

The Secret Offering, . . .205 

The Resolve. A Tale, .207 

♦Stanzas, ...... 234 

A Garden, a Shadow, a Brook, and a Tree, 236 

A Sketch, ...... 237 

Softly, Woman, . .240 

The Archer and the Maid. A Parody, . 241 

Sequel to " Vision of Bangor," . . 243 

♦The Child's Spring Song, . .266 

Tobacco, ..... 268 

Teachings of Nature, .... 269 

It is not fit for thee to wear, . 271 


The Veiled Donor, . . . .273 

Penobscot Characters, . . . 274 

An Apology, ..... 283 

The Beleaguered City, ... 284 

" ' Voices from the Kenduskeag ! ' Indeed ! 
And have our jinny citizens agreed 
Our ears to tickle with the notes 
That come from piscatory throats ? " 

Nay, nay, good friends, we are no fishes 
Who come to crave your Christmas wishes ; 
Your witticism's all in vain 
And you must even guess again. 
" And have the water-spirits ' had a meeting/ 
And voted to approach us 'greeting?' 
Ah ! Forty -Six, with antics wrathy, 
Gave us enough of Hydropathy! — 
Of bridges on their arches quailing, 
Then coolly to the ocean sailing, — 
Of shingles from their wharves deserting, — 
Of pine-trees with the billows flirting, — 
Saw-mills careering from our shores, 
And icebergs knocking at our doors ! 




" How necessary and profitable records and observations are, albeit they were not 
published in print, for at the time when Lord Littleton wrote, this record was not 
printed." — Coke upon Littleton. 

A truer remark than that of ray Lord Coke has not 
been made since his time, I will venture to say. But 
that is neither here nor there to my story, save that it 
was not recorded when Lord Littleton wrote, and never 
would have been, were it not for observation. 

No man upon the Penobscot was more respected by 
his acquaintances, than was Stephen Skidd, of Bangor, 
housewright He was truly an estimable man. Faith- 
ful, punctual, kind-hearted, and friendly, his neighbors 
were happy in his acquaintance, and his employers grati- 
fied that they knew one man in whom they could place 
confidence. But it was destined that there should be a 
change in Stephen Skidd. Time makes great changes in 
men, but " the times" greater. The times were to make 
the change in Stephen. He had accumulated a little 
property ; sufficient, with the occasional use of the hand- 
saw an* jack-plane, to make him comfortable through 


life. The sun of the year '34 had set, and the mem- 
orable year '35 dawned upon the same upright Stephen 
Skidd, with all its plans, and schemes, and speculations, 
and the jack-plane and handsaw still performed their 
usual office. His was an honest and a sure way of 
getting a livelihood, and he was satisfied with it. 
But soon the startling news burst upon his ear that his 
next door neighbor had made a thousand dollars in a 
speculation. He thought of it. But the jack-plane and 
handsaw kept on. Directly another neighbor made fifteen 
hundred dollars. He thought more of this, but the jack- 
plane and handsaw did not stop. At length the informa- 
tion reached him that a third neighbor, whose brains did 
not possess the soundest reputation, had made three 
thousand dollars ! From that moment the jack-plane and 
handsaw kept Sunday every day in the week. Stephen 
* Skidd was of earthly mould, and although he had a com- 
fortable portion of this world's goods, he was not so devoid 
of this world's affections, as to deem an addition to it 
undesirable; particularly if it could be obtained as one of 
our good old fathers in Israel says, " free cost." Conse- 
quently, he may now be considered as laboring under the 
speculating mania! By the assistance of one of his 
neighbors he made a speculation by which he realized 
one hundred dollars. Poor Skidd was now completely 
upset. The fever was high upon him. If small sums 
could be obtained so easily, why could not large sums as 
easily? He was among the speculators from morning 
till evening, and from evening nearly till morning. His 
lessons were taken at the "Bangor House," and the 
" Exchange ; " and at last his mind became so crowded 
with " townships," " numbers," and " ranges," that it was 
notorious he could not be in a room where the map of 
Maine hung, but his finger would inadvertently point 
towards it, whatever might be the subject of conversation. 


Weeks passed, and the time arrived when Stephen 
Skidd was to make a sensation. It was bruited through 
the thronged streets, that he had made a great specula- 
tion. — How great? was the inquiry. 

" Ten thousand dollars!" 

"What! Stephen Skidd?" 

Twenty thousand dollars ! " Fifty thousand dollars !" 
and some said, " A hundred thousand dollars!" 

'Pon my word ! What ! Stephen Skidd ? 

Finally, public opinion settled down upon fifty thou- 
sand, and Stephen Skidd was the reputed possessor of 
fifty thousand dollars — the " real kibbils ! * 

Stephen Skidd was now another man. Mr. Skidd, 
dear reader. Shall I introduce to your acquaintance 
Stephen Skidd, Esquire? That lady in that beautiful 
phaeton, propelled by two white horses, is Mrs. Stephen 
Skidd. That gentleman in the gig on the Oldtown road 
is Mr. Skidd himself. Nobody cracks a whip over a bet- 
ter horse's back than Mr. Skidd. He usually drives from 
Bangor to Oldtown — twelve miles, in considerably less 
than an hour. He must be doing an extensive business. 
He is at the Corporation or at Oldtown once a day at 
least, when he is not absent at Portland, or Boston, which 
is about once in a fortnight ! And what a dash he cuts 
in those cities! Who does not recollect him at the 
" Cumberland House" — in Middle street — at the " Tre- 
mont House" — in State street, — Mr. Skidd! Stephen 
Skidd, of Bangor, Esq. ? 

The confidence in Mr. Skidd, except among the "know- 
ing ones" — was unlimited. His former upright charac- 
ter clung to him. He borrowed and paid punctually — 
accommodated with his name and was accommodated in 
return, and everything went comfortably with him in the 
eyes of the world. I will not say that no envious glances 
were cast towards him,' or that detraction withheld its 


breath from his reputation, for no name was ever so fair 
as to escape the imputations of the slanderer. 

The fall of '35 passed away, and still Mr. Skidd was 
apparently driven with business. Although his wife 
dashed extravagantly in her phaeton with the two white 
horses, he was not seen engaged in amusements of any 
kind. If he drove a handsome horse, he drove him fast, 
and there was too much of an air of business about him 
to allow a supposition that he was not constantly engaged 
in it. 

The winter of 1836 came, but it wore a different aspect 
from the preceding business season. It was the winter 
of the speculation. Payments became due, banks stopped 
their discounts, paper laid over, the unprecedented circu- 
lation of 1835 gradually ceased, and the confidence of the 
people ceased in the same ratio. Many were the long 
visages in the streets of Bangor, but Stephen Skidd, Es- 
quire, drove his gig as usual. 

Summer arrived, and a client was complaining that he 
had lost a large sum by Stephen Skidd — money lent ! 

" Stephen Skidd ! Wont he pay you ? " 

" Pay me, no ! How can a man pay when he 's used 

" Used up ! What, have the hard times closed his 
purse too?" 

" Closed his purse ! He never had a purse to close. 
The fellow is not worth a farthing in the world." 

" You surprise me ! What has he done with his fifty 
thousand dollars?" 

" He never had it, nor a tenth part of it." 

" Where did he get his money, then ? He has always 
paid up well until now — he must have had money." 

" He got it by borrowing. He borrowed of one friend 
to pay another; and as he always paid punctually, he 
continued to keep up his credit, until his friends found it 


difficult to get enough for themselves. Then being una- 
ble to borrow, he of course was unable to pay ; and now 
it is ascertained he is worse than nothing." 

" But did he get nothing by his great speculation ?" 

"That! that was only a twelve months' bond! He 
thought, and others thought, he should be able to sell the 
land at a great advance. He had an opportunity to sell 
at a tolerable advance, but he demanded more. The 
story got wind that he had made a fortune, and once 
started, its dimensions would not decrease. Skidd was 
reported to be worth fifty thousand dollars, but I do not 
believe that in all the time he held the bond, he had an 
offer of a tenth part of that sum for it." 

" Indeed ? But his property before he turned specu- 
lator, what has become of that?" 

" Oh, the most of it went to pay for his bond, and the 
balance would not go further than to pay his travelling 
and other extravagant expenses." 

" But his business. He was constantly employed last 
season, it was supposed, profitably." 

" He was constantly employed driving about, doing 
nothing. I do not believe he did five hundred dollars' 
worth of business the last year." 

I gave in that my friend knew more of Stephen 
Skidd's affairs than I, but Stephen might make another 
more profitable speculation next fever, I said, by way of 
consolation. But it did not relieve my friend, for he 
insisted that the cholera or old age would take him off 
before the next speculating fever made its appearance. 
# # # # Mr. Skidd, before he became a speculator, 
was a consistent member of Mr. *s church. 

Now he is 

Is the spirit of speculation consistent with the spirit of 
Christianity ? 



Bright in her beauty, and high in her pride, 

On her palfrey so gay did the ladie Jane ride ; 

So gaily, so proudly, she rode on her way, 

And a quick glance she gave to her courtly array ; 

To the banner which fluttered in purple and gold, 

To the mail covered steeds, and their riders so bold, 

To the squire who gallantly rode by her rein, 

To her page, of his place and his ladie so vain, 

And it rested, not latest nor lightest, I ween, 

On one who moved on as if wrapped in a dream. 

But the cloud from the minstrel passed suddenly by, 

And he met the deep glance with a love kindled eye : 

Why tumeth the ladie so suddenly now % 

Why mqunteth the blood to her cheek and her brow ? 

Oh, the pride of her race like a dark fiend hath come, 

He hath fought with young love, and? the battle hath won. 

Away to the tourney so gaily rode they, 
Away to the tourney a gorgeous array — 
And proud names rang out on the echoing air, 
And the galleries glittered with loveliness rare ; 
But the brightest in beauty, the proudest in name, 
Was the heiress of Croye — the young ladie Jane. 
Oh many a crested head bowed at her side, 
Oh many a lance in her honor was tried, 
And many a trophy was laid at her feet, — 
The hour was her own, and her triumph complete. 

Now suitors came wooing — the grave and the gay, 
But the lady laughed lightly and answered them nay. 

the commas of grots. 19 

The moonlight fell softly on tree and on tower ; 
The ladie sat musing alone in her bower ; 
A strain of low music came,— soft as the hour — 
So sweet — o'er the spirits of bliss it had power ; 
Their sphere was aroused, and the ladie's heart thrilled, 
And gentlest emotions her proud bosom rilled. 

" True love is true life, 
,Oh, scorn it never ! 
In thy heart is a strife ; 
Sweet peace forever, 
I would plant therein, — 
Let love •— let love in ! 

" A cold friend is pride, 
And faithless ever; 
'T will vanish with youth 
And wealth together. 
It bringeth but strife ; — 
True love is true life. 

" True love is a light 

When storm clouds gather, 

It pointeth the way 

To a bright forever ; 

Thro' the snows of life 

It cheereth ever ; 

True love is true life — 
• O cease from thy strife ! " 

The strain died away on the silvery air, 
Its sounds were extinct, but its spirit was there. 
Oh minstrel ! thy music may conquer at last, 
May save her thou lovest — the 4emon outcast ; 
She weeps ! a true woman — tbe Countess of Croye ! 
She loves thee, she loves thee, oh earnest eyed boy ! 

But the dark fiend returned with the cares of the day, 
The music, the moonlight, were all swept away. 


She paced in her halls, the proud ladie of Croye, 
Forsake her, forsake her, oh true-hearted boy ! 

Long years passed away, and the bleak hand of Time 
Thinned the minstrel's fair looks and bespread them with rime ; 
But it touched not his heart — still youthful in love, 
Still strong in his faith, and still soaring above ; 
More joyous, more blessed, as each added year 
He was richer in hopes, and in visions more clear ; 
" True love is true life," and in love was he blest, 
In sorrow and joy, in labor and rest. 

Long years passed over the Countess of Croye, 
They seized one by one on her sources of joy : 
Her beauty they withered, her health they assailed, 
Her suitors they chilled, wealth only prevailed ; 
Lone, sickly, and withered, bereft of all joy, 
She paced in her proud halls, the ladie of Croye. 

Oct. 4, 1847. 



A single star, how bright — 

From earth-mists free — 
In heaven's pure shrine its image barns ! 
Star of the Morn, my spirit yearns 

To be with thee ! 

Lord of the desert sky ! 

Night's last, lone heir, 
Benign thou smilest from on high, 
Radiant as if an angel's eye 

Were watching there. 

Is it a poet's dream ? 

Or can it be 
That in yon orb a spirit reigns, 
Who knows this earth, and kindly deigns 

To smile on me ? 

Thy shining peers have fled, — 

Quenched each pure spark, 
Save where some pale Sun's lingering ghost, 
Lone witness of a scattered host, 

Peeps through the dark. 

But thou, fair pilgrim orb ! 

Night's youngest born — 
Wilt not withdraw thy steady light 
Till bursts on yonder snow-crowned height 

The yellow morn. 


Lone one, I love to watch 

Thy early ray, — 
Emblem art thou of hopes that spring 
When joy dies, brightly heralding 

A brighter day. 

So, when from my life's course 

Its stars are riven, 
Dawn on my soul prophetic light, 
That streaks old age's winter night 

With hope of Heaven. 



To depreciate the present and extol the past, is one of 
the habits of old age, as strong and uniform as its garruli- 
ty. Men have never been disposed to find fault with 
this, even when there was least in the present to justify 
censure ; for they deem the habit the work of nature as 
much as its gray hairs. And withal, there is something 
almost amiable, even though it be somewhat weak, in 
the looking back thus complacently to the days of youth, 
and seeing everything there pure and fair, the very earth 
and sky brighter and more effulgent, friends more con- 
stant, and freer from the foibles of a weaker age. It is 
not very strange that the man who has travelled along in 
life till the friends and companions with whom he set out 
have one after another sunk down wearied with the jour- 
ney, and who finds himself at length encompassed by 
other faces, should feel almost as a stranger in his own 
home, should not enter easily into new views and feel- 
ings, and should often send his thoughts back to the past, 
and sigh for communion once more with those whose 
tastes and sympathies, formed under the same influences, 
were like his own. We should indeed more admire the 
man, who, together with these warm affections and sym- 
pathies, possessed also a calm reason presiding over and 
repressing their undue action, enabling him to appreciate 
whatever of superior excellence even the present might 
ofier, while yet his feelings clung to that past to which 
they had grown; but such completeness of character we 
hardly expect on this eajrth, and we are well pleased 


when we find a heart which has passed through all the 
storms and chills of the world, and can yet look back 
with affection, even though it be a doating and exagger- 
ating one, to the scenes and friends of its early exist- 

But there is another class who love to indulge in a 
sweeping disparagement of the present and exaltation 
of the past, to whom the same amiable excuse does not 
apply. We can easily see how certain very pardonable 
propensities of our nature, operating together with a 
judgment somewhat enfeebled by age, should lead the 
old man to think the present a puuy offshoot of the past. 
But that the young man, all whose sympathies are with 
the present, who has grown up under its influences, and 
who is, as it were, its child, that lie should magnify its 
faults, and set them in ugly contrast with the fancied 
excellences of the past, is certainly both unnatural and 
ungrateful. It is, indeed, a marvellous sight, that of a 
young man with the first down scarcely upon his cheek, 
and who has hardly yet taken a peep at even the little 
corner of the age which is about him, — to see such an 
one gravely rising on some anniversary occasion, before 
an audience of men and women, some of them venera- 
ble in years, others in middle life, pursuing great ends 
with an ability and spirit which does honor to any period, 
and in high swelling words expatiate on the age of apos- 
tolic piety — of giant intellect — of profound scholarship, 
that was, and the feeble, dwarfish, and superficial age 
that is. The simple peasant of Goldsmith used to won- 
der how so small a head as the school-master's could 
contain so much knowledge ; we have wondered how so 
few years could compass and comprehend so many ages; 
but the commonness of the phenomenon has worn off 
the wonder, and we long since learned to attribute it to 
anything but superior wisdom and discernment. 


It is curious to see what different usage the age meets 
with from different hands. There is a class who can 
never laud it enough ; they exhaust the whole vocabu- 
lary of high-sounding eulogism, and their admiration has 
but begun to express itself. To hear them on some gfo' 
rification occasion, we should suppose that there never 
was virtue, science, wisdom or religion till the nineteenth 
century. According to them, not only have all the sci- 
ences sprung up at once by a Minerva birth into full be- 
ing, but all the great principles of thought, philosophy, 
politics, government, have been developed and exempli- 
fied with a suddenness and perfection, which scarce 
leaves anything to be done by posterity. In religion, 
things are even better. The millennium is evidently just 
about dawning ; the heathen are renouncing their errors 
of their own accord, and holding out their arms for the 
truth ; Satan is- beginning to move his head-quarters from 
our now happy land ! But the next day you hear one of 
the class before described, and you are ready to wonder 
how so mighty a change could take place in so short a 
time. Everything is dark ; the race is evidently going 
to ruin. The generation before us was a generation of 
men, simple-hearted, honest, and noble men ; uncorrupted 
by the miserable passions^. of ambition and avarice ; sat- 
isfied with simple pleasures ; happy in the enjoyment of 
a virtuous and pure home ; respecting the rights of other 
men, and bold in maintaining their own. But what a 
degenerate age is ours ! An age having no religion but 
reason, no philosophy bat sense, no God but gold ! An 
age in which the dwarfed minds of men are capable of 
only narrow, superficial, and shallow views. 

In politics everything is desperate. With the opening 
scenes of our country's history there passed away forever 
the race of high-minded and sagacious patriots. Corrup- 
tion, intrigue, and ambition form the character of the 


modern statesman, the plague has spread through all 
ranks, and the country must soon perish. We may as 
well consider the experiment settled; uproar from one 
end of the land to the other, lynch law, boundless ridts, 
the bankruptcy of the whole country, and a host of things 
"too numerous to mention," prove that the people can- 
not govern themselves; the attempt must sooner or later 
end in anarchy, which always settles down into despot- 
ism, which again softens away among enlightened na- 
tions into a limited monarchy, when and where only we 
can find rest. 

But above all, in matters of religion is the croaker abun- 
dant. He expatiates upon the simple, unpretending,' but 
deep and earnest piety, of our forefathers ; their stern 
spirits, which allowed no compromise with error or evil ; 
their love of truth, which led them to prize the Bible 
above all, price ; their simplicity, which made them choose 
and find highest pleasure in the most simple forms of 
worship ; their creed, which was the very unadulterated 
essence of God's truth ; their calm, manly, vigorous, and 
sustained devotion, which elevated them far above the 
passions of ordinary men. 

All this he sets forth in glowing words, and then comes 
the contrast : a religion, but little better than a compro- 
mise act, whereby the world and the church may meet 
and shake hands, and walk together in harmonious agree- 
ment; a creed, divested of the strongest doctrines of 
God's word, for which is substituted another compromise 
between reason and faith ; a mischievous mixture of hu- 
man and divine wisdom, resulting in a weak, sentiment- 
al, feverish, flickering, remote sort of piety, or else in a 
cold, reasoning, and sluggish one. Instead of being 
mighty in the power and knowledge of truth, as Chris- 
tians once were, they are but babes, unable to receive 
and digest the hard things of God's word; little chil- 


dren, having no relish for such manly diet, and if by any 
means getting it into their stomachs, only thereby made 
restless, and perhaps sick. The element of good in man 
is reduced to the smallest degree consistent with the 
world's continuance. The opposite principle is waxing 
strong and overbearing ; a crisis is approaching in which 
truth is about to grapple, as in a last straggle with error ; 
and to human apprehension how forlorn the hope ! Was 
there ever a time when the moral, political, or religious 
world was not on the eve of some general and terrible 
convulsion ? We have not lived so many years as we 
have seen, according to these wise men, distinct crises in 
the world's history. Verily, it is time to give the troubled 
elements rest. 

If this sweeping censure is not deserved, to what shall 
it be attributed ? To what but to that vanity which is 
the source of nearly everything affected and unnatural ? 
To speak of the age, to speak of it in the way of cen- 
sure, to detect and point out its faults — is wonderfully 
flattering to self-love. The age alone is a mighty sub- 
ject, and the vain man who presumes to deal familiarly 
with it, very naturally fancies that a share of its great- 
ness will be reflected on himself. The charm of all 
hard speaking, from criticism upon the age down to 
criticism upon small writers, lies in the implied superior- 
ity of the critic. To illustrate the assertion, we need 
only descend a very little from the strictures of writers 
upon each other, to the hard speeches of common men 
about their neighbors. What is so universal as slander- 
ous and unfounded aspersions upon individual character 
and lives ? Now men do not hate each other enough to 
account for all this. One great cause for it is, that vani- 
ty finds no way of proclaiming one's own superiority so 
effective as by setting forth other men's deficiencies. If, 
then, the vain man can find gratification in detecting and 


condemning the faults of an individual, how much more 
in descanting upon the faults of an age. The act of crit- 
icizing the age implies, besides great acumen, an amount 
of knowledge which is rarely gained by years of acquaint- 
ance with society, of converse with books, and the char- 
acters of those leading minds which give impress to the 
mass of men. To set one's self free from the prejudices 
under which he has grown up, in common with others ; 
to isolate himself, as it were, and place himself at a dis- 
tance from the times of which he is a part — is no small 
thing, but requires peculiar exertions of the intellect. 
What wonder, then, that vanity pleases itself by making 
the attempt? 


Now, pray you, let that lyre alone ! 

'T is Judah's — and the more you try, 

The less you wake the simple tone 

Of Hebrew melody. 

Why, if the song be o'er, 

And music can no more 

Delight the captive men, 

Then let it e'en be still, 

The sweet lyre, if it will, 

But touch not you that lyre again. 

Doth it yet vibrate on your heart ? 

Aye it should vibrate there, 

But think not that our tears will start, 

An imitative note to hear. 

You may sing sweetly, for all that, 

But then we think you never sat 

In land of strangeness and of woe. 

Then alter not the captive's song, 

For tho' it hath been writ so long, 

It is the dearest now. 

Judah likes not her song should be 
Repeated in a foreign land ; 
Or her father's lyre to see 
Trembling in a stranger's hand. 
She left it there — there let it be 
Hanging on a willow tree, 


To breathe a dying strain ; 
But if you try to wake 
The cords, they only break — 
So touch not you that lyre again. 


" The ladies of N 1 have subscribed to present a ring to Colonel Gashing, 

on his departure for the Mexican war." — Dai/y Paper. 

Woman, is it by thee ! 

Oh, Christian woman, free ! 

Dost thou adorn the hand 

Heady for war's vile brand ? 
Will thy smile beam for Rapine's deed, 
And shall thy prayer the missile speed ? 

Could thine eye calmly brook 

On that foul scene to look 1 

Mother and children torn, 

Daughter and sister borne 
By murderous shell, to that dread Seat, 
Where slayed and slayer both shall meet ? 

Oh ye whose lips profess 

Christ and his holiness, 

Reared in this Pilgrim land, 

Will ye unite the hand 
Him to adorn, unbound and free, 
Who Champion, draws, for Slavery ? 

Oh shame ! the deed disown, 

It could not be thine own, 

Sisters ! Indignant rise, 

If ye the lesson prize 
Of Love, and Peace, and Mercy taught 
By Blood and Cross, — once dearly bought. 


Oh woman ! Thou should'st bless 
Him, who in righteousness, 
The martyr's course hath trod, 
For Conscience and for God. 
A holy mission, see that ye 
To that, at least, no recreants be. 



" Oh Brignol banks are fresh and lair, 
And Greta's woods are green. 
I'd rather rove with Edmund there, 
Than reign our English Queen." 

Thus warbled the young girl, again and again, as she 
reached to bend the branches of her natural arbor of 
shrubbery and trees into a form as nearly like a crescent 
as she could twine it. It was a favorite retreat of the 
maiden ; a spot in her father's beautifully located grounds, 
where, taking advantage of the branches of maple and 
elm, which nearly met, she had two years before, with 
her own hands, planted shrubs, and raised a semicircular 
turf seat ; and now the growth of the lilacs and moun- 
tain ash enabled her to twine a green and well shaded 
bower, which was all the dearer to her, that she had 
planned and executed it herself. Pleasant was the oc- 
cupation of the fair maiden, in this pleasant spot. Na- 
ture had spread before her a beautifully varied land- 
scape of hill and dale, forest and field ; while far in the 
horizon ranged the ever blue and lofty mountains, which 
are said to inspire the beholder with loftiness and firm- 
ness, corresponding to themselves. The winding gentle 
stream, and quiet valley, which stretched along at the 
foot of the slope, where Emma's bower was built, might 
well instil lessons of gentleness and peace, and if, com- 
bined with that, she caught the loftier impulse of sky 
and mountain before her eye, the hours spent there with 
nature were surely not spent in vain. Yet even lovely 


and beautiful Nature is not always enough for the hu- 
man social being, and Emma's life had been passed in a 
seclusion that often wakened the longing for companion- 
ship and sympathy. In half pensive mood this morning, 
and with a lonely feeling, created, perhaps, by the very 
beauty of the day and scene, she worked and sung by 
turns, till throwing off her bonnet, and reclining against 
the fresh green seat, with a feeling, that though beautiful 
is solitude, 'tis far more so to say to one, "how charming 
is it," she mused aloud, 

" Oh Brignol banks are fresh and fair, 
And Greta's woods are green ; 

How provoking that I can only remember that one verse. 
I wonder where lean find the rest of it. 

U T& rather rore with Edmund there 
Than reign our English Queen." 

Well for me, I think I shall be as likely to do the one as 
the other. It would be no more wonderful to " reign our 
English Queen," than to find an Edmund among the 
green specimens of humanity that inhabit these western 
wilds. As if by magic or mockery, she had hardly left 
speaking, when her eye slowly turning to survey her 
work, rested on a form' still and motionless, scarce two 
rods from her bower, which might well have imperson- 
ated the ideal Edmund, or any other hero of romance, if 
a commanding figure, and an expressive countenance, 
with grace and elegance of carriage, might do so. He 
was gazing in evident wonder at the apparition of so fair 
a lady, in so secluded a spot ; and with something of em- 
barrassment, occasioned, perhaps, by the consciousness 
of having unwittingly heard a song and a soliloquy not 
intended for his ear. Thus for a moment they remained, 
with eyes fixed upon each other, in mutual surprise, 


while with the lady, conscious blushes mantled cheek 
and brow, not lessened perchance by the evident admira- 
tion of the gentleman, and the half lurking yet suppress- 
ed smile that played around his lips. Yet with more 
of regained self-possession, than one would have ex- 
pected from a simple country girl, the lady was the first 
to break the awkward silence. Assuming a grave dig- 
nity of manner, with the hospitality to which she had 
been reared by her father, she rose, and stepping towards 
the stranger, said, " My father will soon be at home, to 
welcome his guest; meanwhile let me invite you to 
await his coming, in the house, and I will have him in- 
formed of your arrival." 

" Your pardon, lady," said the gentleman, in such mu- 
sical tones, and with so noble an air, that Emma's heart 
at once pronounced him the Edmund of her imagination. 
" I may not claim the pleasure of being your father's 
guest, nor have I so good a plea to offer in excuse for my 
unwarrantable intrusion. An accident in travelling com- 
pelled my delay at the Inn below ; and a trick of wan- 
dering at will, over field and dale, led me unwittingly to 
intrude upon a place, which, beautiful as it is, I shall re- 
gret having seen, unless you assure me of pardon for 
my presumption." 

A bright smile made the rosy lips of the lady still more 
beautiful, as she answered — " Believe me, sir, we have 
not so poorly profited by the beauties which nature has 
spread around us, as to be chary in permitting others to 
gaze on them ; but yonder comes Col. Crayton, who, as 
the rightful owner of these grounds, shall himself pro- 
nounce your absolution." 

" Colonel Crayton ? This then, is Crayton Place ! " 
said the stranger, musingly. " I beg pardon, lady, but 
I must make you my apologist to him, and hasten back 
to the village, lest my absence should embarrass my 
fellow traveller." 


With one more look of earnest interest upon the fair 
girl, he disappeared among the trees, and the maiden's 
bower was as silent and as lonely as when, a few mo- 
ments before, she had sung that " Brignol banks were 
fresh and fair," and " Greta's woods were green." 

" Who were you talking with, my daughter, that you 
should be in such a brown study, after it?" said Col. 
Crayton, laying his hand affectionately upon her unbon- 
netted head. 

" That is more than I can tell, father, for though the 
gentleman seemed rightly anxious to apologize for get- 
ting over your fences, without leave, yet neither name 
nor card had he the grace to leave, supposing you should 
wish to challenge him to deadly combat for the offence." 

"No great occasion for apology, in this free and easy 
country, methinks, and the man could not have been of 
* these parts! I am thinking, to urge one." 

11 You are right, in thinking him a stranger here. None 
of his stamp have met my eye in these western wilds, 
yet if I remember right, such people used to be seen by 
my childish eyes, in the city. He only called himself a 
traveller, and said he was fond of a good ' look out/ and 
so he came up here" 

" Oh, a Land Speculator ! or possibly a painter ; " re- 
turned Col. Crayton. 

One of those, he might be — but one he was not, if my 
eyes are good for anything, thought Emma. 

" You speak of people in the city, and seem to think 
of them with longing affection," said her father ; " though 
I will not deny that you have been a good, cheerful, con- 
tented girl, to stay with your old father, and make him 
happy, when but for you, neither city nor country had 
been much to him. And it is not to be wondered at, that 
you should wish for some one, beside an old man, and 
these uncultivated Hoosiers of the west, to speak to, now 


and then. Your books have been much, very much to 
you ; sometimes I have feared that works of Imagination 
have exercised too great a power over you, and that is 
another good reason why I should conquer my own self- 
ishness, and spare you awhile, that the reality of life 
should be seen by you, as well as its ideal. But would 
to Heaven this change were not necessary, my daughter, 
for to one living as you have ever lived, in the seclusion 
of a quiet home, with no experience of confidence mis- 
placed, affection unreturned, or trust broken, the posses- 
sion of a quick imagination makes the great world's de- 
lusive scenes a fearful trial. Heaven grant you a less 
severe lesson of man's treachery than I have tasted, lest 
you too should return to these solitudes with nature, feel- 
ing as bitter a loathing for the crowd and herd of men 
as I do." 

Emma looked inquiringly, and her father continued — 
" You have not often heard me speak in this way my 
dear, but you are going to New York, (and I am remind- 
ed of the wrongs I received there) and chance too may 
throw you with some of the authors of my injuries. If it 
should, remember, that you are my daughter. No civility 
or attention receive from an Atwood; for he it was, my 
once trusted friend, and partner, whose miserable swind- 
ling, it deserves no better name, stripped me of the hard 
earnings of years. Not the mere loss of money makes 
me remember this with so much bitterness; but the pa- 
tient, sad image of your departed mother, compelled by 
this change of fortune to leave the home of her youth, 
exchanging all the comforts and attachments of her 
former life for the privations and hardships of this new 
home in the wilderness, in which health and life grad* 
o ally yielded ; — this, as the consequence of that man's 
dishonesty, makes me wish to hold him, his ill gotten 


wealth, and all that belong to him* as far* as possible 
from me and mine." 

" But do not the innocent suffer with the guilty, when 
you condemn his family for his fault? " 

" Well ! as far as I have observed the world, dishon- 
esty and knavery are apt to be family traits, and I like 
not the child of the bad father, let appearances be what 
they may. Perhaps 't is a hard rule, but 't is one which 
never yet deceived me. At wood's family are leaders in 
fashion, I believe, and you will be very likely to meet 
them, but you know my wishes, and that will be enough 
to guide you, I doubt not, in your deportment towards 
them. The fact of his defrauding was more than sus- 
pected at the time, but you know, or I do, that a fine 
house, and fine parties, are more than enough to plaster 
a wound on the pecuniary probity of a man, in the 
world he lives in. Nor is your aunt, from whom I have 
received a letter this morning, which led me to seek you, 
one to inquire too closely into the character of her ac- 
quaintance, provided they keep up a good style, and are 
not stupid- Here is her letter, and it seems that she is 
willing, perhaps anxious, that her country niece should 
see the world under her auspices, this coming winter, 
though if she did net remember yeu as a very pretty 
child, as she says, I fear her interest would net be so 
great. But with' me, that is the great reason why I 
dread to have you leave this peaceful bewer, for the 
heartless world. Because you are beautiful, and be- 
cause beauty is received in society, in such false propor- 
tion to its true worth ; because it will make you follow- 
ed and courted for itself alone, and leave you perhaps the 
victim ©f some contemptible trifler of my own sex, who 
will seek to win and wear your regard, as a new triumph 
to his own vanity, yet, though even were he a true ad- 
mirer, would never follow the impulse of the heart, by 


an offer of the hand, to one who brought no golden gift 
with herself; because of the thousand snares with which 
beauty is surrounded, I dread to part with you, from my 
own fatherly protection. I trust that I have in some 
measure prepared you for all this, by having never sought 
to conceal from you, that the too often fatal gift of 
beauty was yours. That it was given you by your God, 
and for holy and exalted purposes ; that all of addition- 
al influence and power, thereby acquired by you, should 
be sacredly used, in the service of the true and the good ; 
and that in, and for, such a gift, you should rejoice, as 
simply and as truly, as in the fair tints of the flower, and 
the glory of the landscape, which so much delights your 
heart I am sure, I think, that you can hear yourself 
called beautiful, without pride or vanity ; would that I 
could preserve you against all the evils, which follow the 
possession of this gift. I must trust to God, and your 
own right-mindedness, to bring you back, the good and 
happy girl you leave me, and none the worse for this 
sojourn in the land of Gotham, or of Sodom, if that is a 
better term for it." He gave Emma her aunt's letter, and 
left her to meditate on the new prospect. 

Heigho, dear Father, there are some bad people in 
the world, I dare say, thought Emma, but if he who stood 
here just now came from the great city, I must believe 
that all there are not false as you deem. Manhood and 
gentleness rested on that brow, and if the heart were 
traitor within, the face was a strange mask. Now the 
Fates forbid, that he heard my foolish song and random 
words. If he did, let him not cross my path again, and 
yet — Well I, I too, shall go and see for myself this dra- 
ma of life — I shall hear the music, and join in the dance, 
and the pictures I have dreamed of will soon be dreams 
no longer, but bright realities. Now head and heart, 
keep calm if thou canst, and see how wisely thou wilt 
mix, for the first time, in the great whirl of society. 



" Welcome, my dear niece/' said the still lovely and 
brilliant Mrs. Somers, as she affectionately kissed Emma's 
cheek, and glanced less admiringly at the dress of the 
fair girl, than at her beaming eye, and graceful figure ; 
" you have had a long journey, and must be tired. Rest 
to-night, and to-morrow we will see what we can do to 
reconcile you to changing your home for ours, this winter. 
This evening, I am engaged to go to a party, and you 
will excuse me, I know." 

* Certainly, do not let me detain you, dear aunt, I shall 
find more than enough to entertain me here," said Emma, 
glancing at the books, pictures, and marble statuary, with 
which the tasteful Mrs. Somers had adorned her parlors. 

Well now, thought Mrs. S., she does not look a bit fa- 
tigued, and fagged out, as I should have done, had I been 
in her place, but she is just seventeen, and I, alas, near 
forty. If I thought she had a presentable dress, she 
should go with me, this very night ; 't will be something 
to matronize so beautiful a flower, now my own reign be- 
gins to decline. Well, what is fashion's reign after all ? 
I am almost tired of it, and shall willingly resign some 
Of its trophies to this fair girl. God grant it may not. 
spoil her. 

Fairies befriend me, thought Emma, as she gazed on 
the lace, satin and jewelry, with which her aunt was 
decked, when ready for the party — how will my best 
black silk look beside all this ? But the next day, she 
found her generous aunt the good fairy, that herself su- 
perintended all additions and alterations necessary for 
the country lassie's proper appearance in the city ; and 
still, much to Emma's gratification, permitted the simple, 


unpretending fashion and material, as much in keeping 
with her style of beauty as with her father's limited 

44 Come, Emma dear, with this pure white muslin, and 
a rose bud where the diamond pin is not, and your hair 
in that simple twist and fold, which does not hide the 
shape of the head, you shall make your first appearance 
to-night, at the stylish Mrs. B's." Mrs. So triers sparkled 
in satin of the loveliest blue, with a wreath of white 
flowers in her hair. Leaning upon her aunt's arm of 
slighter elegance of figure, her face beaming with intel- 
ligent interest, with just the rose bloom on her cheek 
that a little excitement gave, Emma, upon entering the 
brilliant room, an unknown stranger, created, as the 
phrase goes, a " sensation," at once. Murmurs of " who 
is she," looks of admiration, and the many introductions 
sought, soon satisfied Mrs. Somers, that all she had an- 
ticipated of the effect of her niece's beauty, would be 
more than realized. Could her father have looked in 
upon her there, surrounded by eyes that flattered, and 
voices that uttered deferential homage, yet she herself 
so calm, simple and quiet, so totally without effort to 
talk, or to engage attention, speaking when she had really 
something to say, and remaining silent, when she had 
not ; so evidently thinking more of seeing, than of being 
seen, he might have felt tolerably sure, that though a 
simple girl from the country, his daughter's head would 
not at once be turned by the atmosphere of fashion and 

Two charming girls joined the circle, whose names 
Emma did not hear. They interested her by their man- 
ners and conversation, and when she had an opportunity, 
she enquired of her aunt who they were. 

" Helen and Mary At wood ; they are sweet girls, and 


they have a fine brother, but he is odd, and seldom goes 
to parties/' 

"Alwood," repeated Emma to herself, "and so the 
very persons whose appearance interests me more 
than that of any others, are just the ones I must avoid. 
Father, your theory that integrity and goodness runs in 
the blood, cannot be true, if those girls are the daughters 
of a bad man." 

Emma was standing by the piano, and her aunt was 
in another part of the room. " Have you music, Miss 
Crayton?" said the lady of the house. 

" Not in my fingers/' said Emma, smiling. 

" You sing, then ? " 

" Sometimes." 

" Wont you sing now, then, and I will play. Here is 
'My ain Fireside/ shall we have that? 11 Emma had 
never been taught to decline singing, or to wait to be 
urged, but the contrary ; and as she knew the song very 
well — her father's favorite — and knew too, that she was 
perfect mistress of her own sweet voice, she complied 
with the request 

Bless me, is Emma crazy? thought Mrs. Soraers, 
as the hushed room and sweet music made her discover 
the faux pas, as she thought it, of her niece. But it was 
too late to mend matters, by interfering then ; while the 
perfect unconsciousness of Emma that she was doing 
anything extraordinary, the rich melody of her voice, and 
at the close, a heightened color at the profound attention 
of the company, so added to her attractions, that Mrs. 
S. became entirely reconciled to the song. Still she felt 
astonishment at the young girl's simple self-possession — 
a secret which she should have attributed to a freedom 
from vanity, and to the forgetfulness of self, in her in- 
terest in the scenes around her. Pity the simple secret 
was not better known ! Mrs. Somers felt a new triumph 


in the congratulations ponred upon her, in behalf of her 
lovely young friend, as the song ceased. Her success is 
complete, thought she, and I may trust her own natural 
manners, for they evidently take, albeit this atmosphere 
is somewhat artificial. 

" Well, Emma, how is your little head this morning, 
after all the sensation you produced last night ? Quite 

" I produced ? What do you mean, dear aunt ? were 
your admirers less devoted than usual ? I assure you, I 
would not willingly interfere, and as to my own head 
being turned, I think 'tis straight on my shoulders yet. 
Was it that little ruby lipped, cherry cheeked, perfumed 
gentleman, you called Fulton, or the fat, good-natured, 
laughter-provoking Johnson, with his droll conceits, that 
should annihilate me at once ? " 

" Why, you little chit, those are two of our most 
agreeable and ever reigning beaux." 

" Thank Heaven, then, that I shall keep heart-whole, 
if your best artillery is of that stamp." 

" Oh, Horace Green was not there, but I warn you, 
I shall not give him up to you, I cannot spare him my- 
self, yet. Beside, he is not a marrying man ; so I warn 

" So yon are not going to let my head be turned, by 
any but a marrying man, forsooth — as though the whole 
charm and interest of society should be bounded by that 
poor conclusion — oh, fie, aunt, this from you ? " 

" Not exactly, but Horace Green is really interesting, 
and though I am his friend, I cannot deny that he is 
fickle, and a flirt, as more than one lady has found, I fear. 
You have a heart, my dear, for some one, and I should 
not like you to have an entanglement with him ; and 
though he is rich, amiable, and talented, he will not find 
a lady who will induce him to give up his liberty, I sus- 
pect. - 


" He had better keep it, then." 

" He is very fastidious, he wishes every imaginable 
charm in a lady, along with truth and integrity of char- 

" Yet, if he is a flirt, he is himself without the latter." 

" True, yet he seems never to be conscious of that. 
But he is always nearest when you are talking about 
him. Here is Green, at this moment, coming up the 

11 Had I known you were going to Mrs. B.'s last night," 
said Green to Mrs. Somers, " I should have banished a 
desperate fit of the blues, and gone myself." 

" A fit of the blues ? a true Byronian melancholy, I 
dare say, possessed you, poor man ! And where is the 
tragical, pale and wan look, you should wear this morn- 
ing, after an evening so sublimely spent? Why, you 
dont half carry out the poetical misery — you should ap- 
pear with masses of tangled hair, over a high pale brow, 
the lip wreathed in scorn, doublet all awry, and a thou- 
sand etceteras that you have quite forgotten." 

" I wish you could be as successful in prescribing a 
cure for the hateful guests, as you are in making them 
ridiculous," said Green, laughing and coloring. 

" Oh, to make them ridiculous^ is all that is wanted to 
effect a perfect cure with most people, I imagine. If 
more is necessary, I should say consult your physician at 

" Tour sunny cheerfulness is ever without charity, and 
I would have declared war with it long ago, out of sheer 
vexation, had I not so often needed its spells. But 
just do tell us, are you always so cheerful, and if so, 
what is your secret ? " 

" A good conscience, I hope," said she, archly. 
" Ah, well, I see you wont help me. Pray, Miss Cray- 
ton," to whom he had been looking all the while he was 


talking with her aunt, " could not you give me a talis- 
man against the visits of the azure demons. Though 
you cannot have known them by experience," said he, 
bowing, " you may yet be able to prescribe for those 
whom they do afflict" 

" If I ventured to prescribe a remedy for the gloom, 
which often comes unbidden, to darken our path, I should 
say, that we could best lose a sense of our own unhap- 
piness, in endeavoring to lessen the positive ills of those 
around us/' said Emma, slightly blushing, as the serious- 
ness with which she spoke seemed to border upon the 
lecturing tone. 

" A noble rule, lady, for the unselfish, and I cannot 
deny that 'tis one which I should long since have better 
followed* And yet, I think the wish to relieve the sor- 
rows of humanity were easier formed, than the knowl- 
edge obtained of any effectual way in which it can be 

" Perhaps so," said Emma, feeling encouraged by his 
manner of respectful deference, " and yet I have thought 
that one of your sex could be at no loss, in so using 
wealth, intellect, and all other gifts, that they should be 
returned to the Giver with usury." 

" Why one of our sex ? Do you think that talents and 
influence are possessed with less responsibility by you 
thaq by us?" 

" They should not be, I grant, yet I leave it to your own 
fair judgment, if a woman might not be forgiven for bury- 
ing her talents in a napkin, where a man should not." 

" She might, so far as public influence is concerned, 
but ah, Miss Cray ton, there is a field as extensive, and 
an empire more despotic, ever open to woman, and were 
every lady true to her convictions, daring to be ever 
noble, in word and conduct, what might we not expect 
from so exalted an influence ; " and Green bowed, much 


as though all the fine things he said of woman in gen- 
eral, he truly meant for one woman in particular. 

Mrs. Somers to the contrary notwithstanding, Emma 
became in all companies the star of his worship, and ap- 
parently he sought her as much for the pleasure of con- 
versing with, and drawing out the faculties of her mind, 
as to be charmed with the grace and beauty of her per- 
son — nor though forewarned, and forearmed, by the 
character she attributed to him, could Emma deny, that 
in his intelligent and well cultivated mind, mingled with 
the profound respect with which he always treated her 
opinions, there was far more in him to interest her, than 
in any other gentleman she met in the circle of her 
aunt's acquaintance. When she knew that he had been 
the child of unlimited indulgence and fortune, she could 
not but wish, that he might find some friend, who, true 
to his faults and his virtues, might aid him in becoming 
the elevated character, for which she believed Nature 
designed him. Ah, Emma, wouldst thou be that friend ? 

" Emma, dear, Helen Atwood told me she and her 
brother were going to call on you to day," said her aunt, 
the third morning after Mrs. B.'s party; " so plume your- 
self upon that, for 't is a marvel when he calls upon a 

" Well, he troubles himself in vain, now, for I cannot 
see him, though I admired Miss Atwood very much, the 
other evening — 'tis my father's wish, that I should 
wholly avoid that family ; you know the reason, I sup- 
pose; I promised him I would, and so you must not en- 
deavor to dissuade me in ,this, for I cannot oblige you, 
much as I should like to." 

•• But how odd it will seem. What can I say to them ? 
— what excuse shall I get up ? " 

" Do not try to get up one, but plainly say Miss Cray- 
ton declines seeing them. You will not be blamed for 


that ; and I would rather be, than disobey my father's 
wishes, though I am sorry it has come to this. Had I 
rightly understood their names the other evening, I could 
have been so cold they would have had no wish to call 
and see me." 

Her aunt saw it would be in vain to urge her to change 
her mind, so the subject was silently dropped; and when 
the young ladies, with their brother, called, she pleaded 
an engagement for Miss Crayton in so conscious and 
embarrassed a manner, that they had no difficulty in 
understanding that she wished not to see them. The 
sisters were surprised, but the color mounted to the brow 
of the young man in a way that told to Mrs. Somers a 
consciousness of the father's shame, as explanatory of 
this refusal. She pitied him, and felt doubly^- embar- 
rassed at his suffering ; and, a week after, told Emma 
she was thankful she should not meet the Atwoods 
again, as the fathers severe illness would probably keep 
them out of society for the winter. 

Days and weeks flew by, in charmed measure to 
Emma, yet still one wish or thought often crossed her 
mind. Amid all the bright scenes around her, there was 
one form absent, which she had unconsciously associated 
in her own mind with the circles through which she 
moved. No Edmund of her imagination, like him who 
stood before her for a moment in the groves of Crayton 
Place, appeared to her in the city. Not even Green, 
with all his refinement, seemed to her so commanding 
and noble as he. Unconsciously, she compared all the 
gentlemen whom she met, with this one Ideal ; nor was 
the comparison at all in their favor. Quite as much, 
perhaps, by this remembrance, as by her father's moni- 
tions, was she preserved, calm arid dignified, amid the 
most flattering attentions heaped upon her, Still, her 
heart remained in her own possession, notwithstanding 


the determined siege of Green, who, piqued by what he 
deemed her reserve, seemed sometimes as though he 
would understand her, even if it were at the expense of 
a direct offer of heart and hand. No Edmund appeared, 
as I have said, and Emma began to think that he might 
indeed be a poor painter, and so could not enter the 
circles of the wealthy and the gay, wherein her aunt 
moved. Ah, I'd rather rove with Edmund, there, thought 
she, but this time she did not think aloud. 

She went with her aunt and Green one evening, to 

hear the celebrated Madame sing. All lovers of 

music were there that could possibly be jammed into the 
capacious building. Green looked and spoke so impres- 
sively and earnestly that night, that, in spite of all Emma 
believed of his coquetry, she began to fear that more 
than a flirtation was designed by him, and that she had 
erred in allowing him to be so much in her society. The 
thought troubled her. She liked him very well, but by 
no means wished just then that he should declare a 
serious attachment. She became silent in thinking of 
this, and, leaving her aunt to keep up conversation with 
Green, in the intervals of music, she turned away to 
muse. As her eye wandered carelessly over the crowd 
around her, a form arrested her attention, and an eye of 
earnest but somewhat melancholy interest was bent upon 
her, which she could not mistake. A quick glance of 
pleasure, and a blush at the recognition, on her part, pro- 
duced so electric a change in his countenance, that Emma 
involuntarily dropped her eyes, nor dared to raise them 
again for some moments. When she did, he was not to 
be seen, and she lost all opportunity of identifying him 
by questioning her aunt. 

Had he been seeking his way to her, it was in vain, 
for the concert immediately after closed, and the crowd 
moved on together. As may be supposed, this incident 


did not coutribute to bring back her usual social and easy 
manner towards Green ; and he, attributing her silence 
and abstraction to a sentiment flattering to himself, began 
to think the prize quite within his reach. He even ven- 
tured to press her hand to his lips, as he whispered, 
" Good-night Let me find you ready for a ride to- 
morrow morning." And before Emma could frame an 
answer, or know what to reply, he had gone, evidently 
taking her silence for consent 

" Are we going to ride in the morning with Mr. Green ?" 
said Emma to her aunt. 

M I am not, certainly ; are you ? " 

44 Not if I can help it ; but what shall I do ? He has 
just asked me, and, like a fool as lam, I did not reply; 
so how shall I get off if he comes ? " 

" Why, by going with him, to be sure. Ahem ; a ride, 
tete-a-tete, with Horace Green ! ' Think of that, Master 
Brooke/ " 

'* What can you mean, dear aunt ? " said Emma, look- 
ing distressed. 

" What do /mean ? What do you mean ; looking as 
though all the terrors of Fate were about to burst upon 
your devoted head? Is an offer such a terrible thing, 
that you should be so wilted by the bare prospect of 



" Now, Heaven forbid that you are serious. You can- 
not really think there is any danger of that ! " 

" Danger ? Why, I must laugh. I have not seen you 
dashed before ; now you are completely so." 

" Do be serious, dear aunt, and tell me how I shall 
escape this ride, if you really imagine your friend thinks 
seriously of me." 

"To be serious, then, I never can be certain what 
Horace Green intends towards any lady; but I think he 
loves you, and yon know he would be an unexception- 


able match for any lady. Rejoice, then, my dear, that 
the captor is captured at last, and by you." 

" But I do not wish the captive ; and this is what 
troubles me how to say no, when I have received so 
much attention — thinking attention meant nothing se- 
rious — from him. Well, it is but repaying the debt 
some of my sex owe him." 

" All that is well enough ; but you cannot really intend 
to say no to him, should he propose. What do yon wish 
for in a lover, that he lacks ? " 

Emma blushed, and felt that she should hardly like to 
portray to her fashionable relative the lover she should 
fancy. Her silence convinced her aunt, that, in reality, 
she did not object to Horace Green ; and, wishing her 
pleasant dreams, assuring her that she should help her 
to no excuse for avoiding the dreaded ride of the mor- 
row, bade her good-night, and left her, not to repose, but 
to disturbed and anxious reflections. When at length 
she had laid her head on the pillow, resolved, if possible, 
to find rest in sleep, she had scarcely closed her eyes, 
ere the light notes of a guitar, beneath her window, 
caused her as quickly to open them again, and, sitting 
up in her bed, the same musical tones, heard once, and 
only once by her, sang the well-remembered words .' 

" Oh Brignol banks are fresh and fair, 
And Greta's woods are green, 
I'd rather rove with Edmund there, 
Than reign our English Queen." 

" 'Tis him — his voice — he too remembers me," and 
springing up, her hand was upon the window, the blind 
opened, and a glance at the form beneath, revealed, by 
the clear moonlight, the one being so indelibly impressed 
on her memory. Returning again as hastily as she had 
opened the window, Emma listened, with a thousand 


▼ague but delightful emotions, while the strain was once 
more repeated, and then it was all silent again. Ah, 
Horace Green, you have but a poor chance now, even 
though but a "landscape painter" stands in the way! 
Poor Emma was really to be pitied, when he came the 
next morning to claim, as he said, the pleasure of the 
ride, last night agreed upon. Few situations are more 
distressing (that is the true word) to a lady of kind feel- 
ing and vivid imagination, than the anticipation of an 
offer from a friend whom she cannot consent to accept 
as a lover. Suddenly, he who was before agreeable, 
becomes hateful in her eyes, when he wishes to come 
too near, while, at the same time, a feeling of intense 
self-condemnation, for permitting affairs to reach this 
crisis, perplexes and confuses all her manners, which, 
the more they are confused, are the more sure to mislead. 
The raillery of her aunt did not serve to mend matters 
'with Emma, and she found herself, dreadfully against 
her will, without a loophole for retreat, actually stepping 
into the awful vehicle alone with Green ; but like some 
other valiant characters we have heard of, when abso- 
lutely occupying the dreaded position,, her courage and 
self-possession rose with her despair. Seeing herself 
fairly out-generalled into the ride, she determined that 
she would herself out-general the gentleman, should he 
attempt anything so embarrassing as an offer. Very 
coolly, then, she at once herself commenced the conver- 
sation by starting a political topic. Long and ingeniously 
did she contrive to compel her companion's attention to 
this ; nor did she exchange it for anything better suited 
to his purpose, when she led him to the interminable 
field of metaphysical speculations. In vain did he at- 
tempt to lead to more sentimental topics and more per- 
sonal affairs. There was no getting at them without 
positive abruptness, and Green was too graceful for that. 


No gallantry or tender expression which he could throw 
in, seemed noticed or heeded by Emma ; and so com* 
pletely did she, by woman's ingenuity, fill every moment 
with words and sentences, which left no opportunity for 
tendresse, that Green, at length, completely annoyed, his 
self-love, and perhaps a better love, wounded to the 
quick, could not deny to himself that a mere country- 
girl had proved more than a match for him, in the man- 
agement of a flirtation, and evidently chose not to be his 
match in the bonds of Hymen. In this humor, he soon 
brought the ride to a close, and the free Emma ran up 
to her own room, feeling as joyfully relieved as, two 
hours before, she had been perplexed and cast down. 

Either from disappointed affection, or a new change of 
tactics, Green came no more to Mrs. Somers's for weeks ; 
but as Emma assured her aunt that he had not offered 
himself, while she herself seemed so sincerely free from 
any undue regard for him, Mrs. Somers knew not how 
to complain ; yet she shook her head wisely at Emma, 
and really felt annoyed that the gentleman stayed so 
perseveringly away. 


" Why, aunt, did you not tell me that Mr. Atwood was 
dead?" said Emma, entering the parlor, with an open 
letter in her hand, a few mornings after the ride with 

" What in the world should I tell you for, after your 
demonstration, that dead or alive, he was all the same to 
you ? " 

" But hear what my father writes : ' After all, you may 


be right, Emma, about the daughters of my old partner, 
Atwood, when you say that they look goodness itself, for, 
if like their brother, I think they may claim nobleness 
enough to spoil my theory. Since his father's death, he 
has made such propositions of restitution to me, by let- 
ters which breathe the soul of honor, while they struggle 
to revere a father's memory, that my heart is really touched 
with pity for the young man. ' I have,' says he, • by my 
father's too partial will, inherited the largest portion of 
his property, which leaves me free to make all the repa- 
ration now possible for past loss ; and with my profession, 
if God prospers me, my mother and sisters shall never 
feel themselves injured by this act of mine.' I don't 
know what to do. I don't want the money now, and as 
they are used to it, they probably do ; but I think I will 
conquer my repugnance to visiting New York, and go 
and see the young man ; and as your leave of absence 
has nearly expired, 1 will be there soon, to take you 
home.' " 

" Now there is good and bad news both in that letter," 
said her aunt. " I cannot spare you to go away yet." 

" And, may I be forgiven, I do not wish to go," replied 
Emma. " How can I leave you, and all that has charmed 
me so much here, to go so far, far away ? How lonely I 
shall be there now. Oh, if father would only live here," 
and Emma sighed. 

In less than a month, her father was with them. 
" How is it," said he to Mrs. S., " that you have made 
Emma so fond of this great Babel, that she cannot return 
with her old father to peaceful groves and quiet home ? " 

" Dear, dear father, I can certainly go with you, wher- 
ever your home is ; I was only wishing that you liked to 
reside in the city, among civilized human beings." 

" Civilized fiddlesticks," retorted her father. " Well, 
it has not spoiled you, the great city," said he, gazing 


fondly upon her. " The rose of health and happiness 
still rests on your cheek ; but how comes it, that instead 
of obeying my injunction about the family of my old 
partner (whose soul rest in peace now), you have been 
making love with his son ? " 

" His son ! Now Heaven send J>ack your wits, father. 
His son I have never seen to this hour." 

" Here is a pretty riddle, then. Edmund Atwood has 
been himself to see me, and accompanied me hither; 
and on the way, requested my sanction to his love for 
my daughter, and here my daughter says she has never 
seen him. What joke is playing now ? " 

The deep blush which suffused Emma's cheek at the 
name of Edmund, thus accidentally pronounced, and 
thus suggesting a clue to the identification of the un- 
known being who had so interested her, made her father 
forbear to urge the solution of the mystery then. Awafe 
that Cupid has many a net, he prudently waited for Time 
to reveal all. 

In the evening, when Edmund Atwood and Emma 
Crayton were formally introduced to each other, and she 
recognized in him the one whom she had remembered 
so well and thought of so often, it required more than all 
that lady's self-possession to appear precisely as though 
she was meeting one hitherto a stranger. This time, the 
gentleman, well-knowing whom he should meet, excelled 
the lady in presence of mind. 

" Can Miss Crayton find it in her heart to believe, that 
the brief impressions of a moment, give oftentimes as 
true a revelation of character as the acquaintance of 
years ? " said Edmund, in an undertone, yet sweet, like 
that which had haunted her for months. 

" Is such a belief quite safe with changeable human 
beings ? " replied the lady. 

" As safe, I hold, as that which we term a mature 


judgment First impressions are with me sacred; ex 
•perience has so often compelled me to give up what I 
bad thought the mature judgment and return to them, 
that I hold, more and more, in reverent estimation, those 
first, rapid, electric revealings of the soul." 

Emma spoke not, and he continued. " Might I hope 
that the memory of the brief moment, in which one most 
lovely stood before me in perfect simplicity and natural- 
ness, remained on her mind, with a thousandth part of 
the vividness with which it is stamped on my own, I 
would willingly stake my hopes of earthly happiness on 
the truth of that single impression." 

Emma listened with downcast eye and a heightened 
color, but words utterly failed her when she would have 
uttered a suitable reply. By this time, Atwood had 
drawn her into the library, opening from the front parlor. 
Without relinquishing the arm which lay lightly in his, 
he took down from the shelf a volume of English poetry, 
and turning over the leaves, " Is the ballad a favorite 
style of poetry with you, Miss Cray ton ?" said he, archly. 

•• Oh forbear, forbear," said Emma, suddenly recover- 
ing the use of her tongue, " if you have either pity or 
mercy," and, coloring deeply, she removed his hand from 
the book. 

" Nay, nay, dear lady," and he now looked very se- 
rious, and took the hand in his own that would have 
prevented his search. " Pity and mercy are gifts which 
your own sweet self must show to my presumption, else 
the mistake I have made in my judgment of you will 
prove the bitterest lesson life has yet brought to me." 
He gazed earnestly into eyes that sunk beneath his 
own, and waited for a reply, but Emma could as well 
have lifted a world as have forced her tongue to pro- 
nounce a syllable, so strongly did the tide of emotion 
choke her utterance. Tears, which were always with 


her the language of deep feeling, would have come to 
her relief, but by a desperate effort she restrained them 
from falling, and then, still leaving her hand in his, she 
lifted for a moment those swimming eyes to Edmund, 
with one look, which seemed to say, " You see jour 
power, in mercy change this subject, or I shall lose all 
power over these tell-tale tears." He understood her, 
and, with a radiant glance of satisfied hope, he pressed 
her hand to his lips, and began to speak of lighter topics 
and other poetry than ballads. How wisely and how 
well they talked, we will not now inquire. 

" Smashed at last," said her aunt, laughingly, after 
company had left; " and by just the right one after all" 

" Ah, but wasn't it cruel in Horace Green to jilt me 
so ? " said Emma, roguishly. " Let me whisper a secret 
in your ear. One of the very best safeguards against 
flirtation is sometimes a bit of romance, laid up in one 
corner of your heart. You look wondering, but thereby 
hangs a tale, which you shall know bye and bye." 

" The motlier, I am told, was an excellent woman ! " 
said her father to Emma, "so my theory is not quite 
spoiled. And as to living in the city or the country, we 
must compromise I believe. You shall come to me in 
the summer, and I .will go to you in the winter. A 
blessing on steamboats and railroads, for once." 





The Sun in wonted wise is sounding, 

With Brother-spheres his rival song, 
And on his destined circuit bounding, 

With thunder-step he speeds along. 
The sight gives angels strength, though greater 

Than angels' utmost thought sublime, — 
And all thy wondrous works, Creator ! 

Still bloom as in Creation's prime. 


And fleetly, thought surpassing, fleetly, 

The earth's green pomp is spinning round, 
And Paradise alternates sweetly 

With night inscrutable, profound. 
Here foams the sea, its broad wave hurling 

Against the deep clifPs rocky base ; 
And rock and sea away are whirling 

In everlasting spheral chase. 

And storms, with rival fury heaving, 
From, land to sea, from sea to land, 

Still, as they rave, a chain are weaving 
Of deepest efficacy grand. 


There burning Desolation blazes, 
Precursor of the Thunder's way, 

But, Lord, thy servants own with praises 
The gentle progress of thy day. 


The sight gives angels strength, though greater 
Than angels 7 utmost thought sublime, 

And all thy glorious works, Creator ! 
Are fresh as in Creation's prime. 



Among the stars that travel on 
Through the broad realms of space, 

One distant star, a little one, 
Glow'd in its quietness. 

Day after day, night after night, 

It glimmered, feebly glimmered there, 

Unheeded was its lonely light, 
Unknown it was — that little star. 

There, round its circle hurrying, 

If it could think, it doubtless thought 

Itself a very glorious thing, 
And truly, wherefore should it not ? 

Because of other worlds, the light 
Had never travelled yet so far ; 

It only knew itself was bright, — 
Poor little lonely star. 

But time will fly, and so will light, 
And light and time together flew, 

And on that star's bewildered sight 
The circling worlds their glory threw. 

Surprised, confused, it wheeled about 
And viewed the wonders o'er and o'er, 

Fancied its own dim light went out 
Their overcoming beams before. 


And fain it would have hid away, 
Could it have found a corner where ; 

Or quench'd in vapors damp its ray ; — 
Yet glimmered on that little star. 

And soon it felt the influence sweet 
Of their purer, brighter glow, 

And meekly dared their eye to meet, 
And even longed itself to show. 

And when time had passed away. — 
Time will fly and soon is gone -*- 

Some scatterings of a broken ray, 
To other worlds came shining on. 

Fair orbs, so glorious and gay ! 
i They for the glimmerer little cared, 
And hurrying on their endless way, 
The stars just winked, the planets stared. 

Worthless indeed the shining seemed, 
Which, such a speck could on them shed, 

Yet as it more distinctly beam'd, 
It had "some light," they said. 

And they confessed it had a right 
To be, and shine, as well as they ; 

It never would eclipse their light, 
Nor yet obstruct their way. 

So they together travelled on, 
Though distant from each other far, 

The worlds that with such splendor shone, 
And that little twinkling star. 



I am not a neiVous man, or one addicted to seeing vis- 
ions and dreaming dreams, but once, as I journeyed 
through the wilderness of this world, I had a dream, 
" which was not all a dream," but partly a vision of the 
future, like those vouchsafed to the clairvoyant in his 
magnetic state. I do not know that I had been magnet- 
ized, and yet, I half suspect that distant passes had been 
made at me, or some charmed tooth-pick or pencil-case 
had been charged with the subtle essence, and put under 
my pillow to work the wondrous devilment I would 
charge no one rashly, and yet truth compels me to state 
facts, and then, as the newspapers say, a candid public 
will judge, whether or no I have been fairly dealt with. 
I am one of the unfortunate victims, selected, I know not 
on what principle, who were months since pencilled 
down on gilt-edged note-paper in a fair Italian hand, as 
the masculine contributors to the " Bangor Book," to 
"do" the rough and solid work in this superstructure of 
the wit and wisdom of Down East. The list was soon 
exhibited, by an inexorable woman, and the fatal cross 
stood thereon, like the marks on the death roll of the 
Roman triumvirate. At first, I laughed outright, and 
snapped my fingers in defiance, and indignant resistance. 
I write in a book ! ! A Bangor book ! I, of all men ! 

"The dog star rages." 

For a wonder, like the wonder in heaven, the woman 


said nothing, but looked calm, confident and secure, and 
I began to feel like the entwined fly in the web of the 
spider. I was left alone, after a significant nod, and the 
single words, — "prepare, the time is short" I mused 
awhile, and then rushed into business. In its vortex I 
actually drove, at times, from my mind the injunction aod 
the warning. But time passed, and I felt a gentle pull, 
and " is it ready ?" in a low, soft, musical voice, fell upon 
my ear. " What?" said I. " The contribution in prose 
or verse," said she. " Ready, my dear woman, — no, and 
never will be." " Yes, it will be. The paper is made on 
which it will be written ; the pen and ink are waiting. 
Beware of the third time of asking." And she turned 
away to speak to another of the unfortunate listed men. 
I only heard her say the printers will reach your page 
next week — and there can be no delay — the boy will 
call for copy — "I defy the devil and all his works," 
said the incipient author. I could not resist whispering 
in his ear, " So you may, but who can stand against the 
determined purpose of a woman ?" (His article appears 
in the volume, and stands the voluntary offering of an 
unpractised author, to the great curse of humanity.) I 
turned again to my fair dictator, determined to break 
away from the strange enchantment, for I began actually 
to feel a sort of itching in my fingers, and to look with 
unwonted interest towards the ink-standish and the writ- 
ing-desk. I found myself parting my hair, and smoothing 
it down and opening my vest and turning down my collar 
a la Byron. I saw myself in the mirror, and there was a 
new and most ludicrously grotesque, sentimental, half- 
poetic and half-transcendental, and altogether lackadaisi- 
cal stare of the eyes, and dropping of the eyebrows. 
The case began to look alarming. Everything about me 
looked " blue." The " cacoethes scrzbendi" was developing 


its symptoms, and whether taken in the natural way or 
by inoculation, it threatened a fatal result. 

I roused myself for an impressive appeal. I knew that 
woman was ever ready to succor and relieve distressed 
humanity. " My good friend," said I, " listen to reason." 
" Listen to a fiddle-stick ! " ( She did not say a " fool," but 
she did look a little contemptuous, and more impatient) 
u Why do you resist ? Are you not * listed/ and booked, 
and have we not devoted ten pages to you ?" " But how 
can I write ? I never wrote a line for a book in my life ; 
and the idea of having my words, written by my hands, 
actually printed, and hot-pressed, and screwed and bound 
in real hard covers, is entirely overwhelming." " Now 
does not this pass all endurance ?" said she ; " that you, 
and others like you, self-styled • lords of the creation,' 
with fierce whiskers, and bioad shoulders, and the as- 
sumed air of independence, and with the roughness of 
bears, should not have the heart of a hen-partridge — 
whilst we women, timid, delicate and retiring, as is our 
nature and destiny, are ready to go boldly forth to the 
public, and to write our prettiest and our best, and have 
it printed, too, solely from our love for the cause of the 
fatherless and the destitute." " But think of the Bangor 
public, and the cynical and severe critics in their midst, 
who, not beiug willing to write, are yet over-willing to 
carp, and ridicule and disparage." " Think of the or- 
phans," said she! "Think of the reviewers," said I! 
" What reviewers" said she, " would ever think our down 
east book worthy of notice. " That *s true again," said I. 
"Then write your article, not having the fear of the 
reviewers before your eyes." 

I went home, feeling like one spell-bound. " Seven 
women shall take hold of one man," was the text of scrip- 
ture for this night's meditation. Must I write ! and if so, 


what shall I write ? I was in a fix, and as a last resort I 
went to bed. 

I did not search for witch-hazel or magnetized imple- 
ments, as I before said, but I soon fell asleep, and my 
last thoughts were of steel pens, paper manufactories and 
printers' ink. I have an indistinct remembrance of a 
half-sleeping and half-waking vision of a ragged and suf- 
fering orphan, who held up to me a ream of foolscap, and 
asked me, in plaintive tones, to write, and then she 
strangely vanished, repeating the line of the children's 
play, " He can do little that can't do this." I turned, but 
my destiny was before me. Methought I arose, deter- 
mined to escape in the open air, from the sight of objects 
calculated to remind me of the unperformed task, and 
with the lurking thought that perchance I might gather 
materials or suggestions to be brain-woven into the fatal 
" article." In a moment I was in " the square," but it 
was strangely altered. I could not recognize a single 
tenement. I gazed upward and saw on one granite front 
the letters — " Erected 1 938." There was an appearance 
of age about the building. It looked discolored and gray. 
As far as the eye could reach were ranges of high and 
splendid stores. What does all this mean ? I involuntarily 
asked ; and as I spoke, I saw a man the exact image of 

T , and felt relieved. He was a tall, lank, long-sided 

Yankee, six feet and two inches in height. I addressed 
him familiarly. He gave me a keen and independent 
look, such as a Yankee only can give, and replied, " You 
have the advantage of me." " How so?" " You seem 
to know me, but I do not know you." In the sauciness of a 
dream I thought, I am not sure that it is for the advantage 
of any one to know you. But I was polite and said noth- 
ing of the kind. " Why, certainly, your name is T ." 

" O yes." " You know me, A ?" " Never heard the 

name in these parts." " Why, did we not board together 

a vision or BjjraoR. 65 

at the old Hatch house, in the times of Thomas?" " Never 
heard of such a house." tt Pray," said I, utterly con- 
founded, u who was your great grandfather?" " I don't 
know," but like an American, always looking ahead, he 
added, " I know who my son is, and. there he stands." 
w . Who were your relations ? " "I don't know as I ever 
had any relations nearer than uncles." " Do you live in 
Bangor?" "Yes, I was born and grew up here, mail 
and boy, sixty odd years." " Where is Taylor's corner?" 
" There," said he, pointing to a splendid block, covered 
with signs of Banks, Insurance offices and brokers. " It 
has been so named for more than a hundred years — and 
is still owned by descendants of the original possessor." 
" I am glad of it," said I, " if the successors are as honest 
men as he was." " Can you show me the mark of high 
water in the great freshet of 1846." " No," said he, " I 
have heard of that great rise, and there have been a 
great many attempts to find some stone or mark to show 
the height, but strange to say, the antiquarians of that 
day were so busy in hunting up antediluvian relics, and 
taking the measure of the Buskahegian giant, that they 
forgot that they, and their days, would ever become an- 
tiquity." " But where," said I, "is the Eenduskeag 
stream ? " " Under those buildings and bridges," said he J 
"if yon will go up above the 'Lovers Leap, 9 yon can see 
it— and you can get a glimpse of it near the market" 
As we passed along, I saw. Jerome's X press office in 
large letters, and then I at onee felt at home. "And 
there," said he, " is the man himself — a little stiff in the 
joints, for he is onr oldest inhabitant, and nobody know* 
how old he is. But he is as good as new, and ready 
always expressly for the occasion. He says he. hopes to 
live until he discovers something a little quicker than 
lightning, and then he shall be ready to be gathered in." 


A familiar nod and ready smile from my old friend, as- 
sured me that in him there was " no mistake." 

The market, a long and commodious building, extend- 
ing up the middle of the stream, reminded me of the 
plan I saw in 1836. It was well filled with fat carcasses/ 
and fatter men. " Oleaginous " was written on every 
side — man and beast. " How many people have you in ; 
this city?" "About one hundred thousand," said he, 
"according to the last census in 1970." 

I began to be wearied, and slept into an office to rest. 
I took up the paper of the day, Sept. 10, 1978, and called 
" the Bangor Daily News." It was one of twelve dailies 
and numerous able weeklies, as I was told. I read, as 
I could, the news column, but I found many new words, 
and many old ones strangely altered. I gathered from 
the paragraphs, that the Southern portion of the South 
American continent, including Cape Horn, had yielded 
to the inevitable destiny of the Saxon race, and had been 
conquered and annexed, because they would not give up 
without fighting. " Later news from the State of Pern," 
a paragraph headed, " Presidential election," attracted 
my attention. It contained a column of States, fifty-six 
in number, and at the bottom, " We have partial returns 
by telegraph, of the voting yesterday at Oregon city. One 
of the candidates residing in that region, gives great in- 
terest to the votes of the Pacific States." The editor, 
who was evidently a little of an antiquarian, had hunted 
lip an old file of newspapers, and had copied as curiosi- 
ties some of the notices of the year 1848, of the " Whig, 
Democratic and Liberty " parties, and their stirring ap- 
peals — and the editor adds, " Can it be believed, that in 
1848, men were actually held as chattels, and sold at 
auction like oxen. We yesterday saw a shipmaster, 
who told us that he had seen and talked with black men 
in the south, who were once slaves, and they and their 


children had been sold by an auctioneer. Thank heaven, 
we have seen the last of that horrid system." I took up 
another paper, in phonographic words. The editor com- 
plained, that, although the reformers had worked dil- 
igently more than a century, yet the mass of men would 
persist in rejecting their improvements. As far as I could 
judge, the parties in politics were divided mainly on the 
question of the union of the States. 

In an adjoining building was the telegraph office. I 
looked and saw that instead of wires, they had, near the 
ground, rails of a small size. I asked why this change, 
and was told that they sent passengers on them, driven 
by electricity to Boston in four minutes. " But how can 
the human system stand such velocity." " O f we * stun ' 
them," the fellow said, " with the Letheon, and then tie 
them in boxes on little wheels, and they go safely, and 
come out bright. There are rival lines," he continued, 
" and great efforts are being made to bring the passage 
within three minutes. We have to put on rather a large 
dose of the Letheon when we attempt this, but the pas- 
sengers all say they will run the risk of never waking 
again, rather than be beat. We have had to bury a few, 
but what is that to saving a minute, and beating the ras- 
cally opposition line ? The people all say ' go ahead.' " 
. By a sudden transition, I remember not how, I found 
myself at Mount Hope, the final resting-place of the dead. 
The avenue was shaded delightfully. At the base of 
the conical hill were two beautiful ponds, surrounded by 
the weeping willow — that long cherished emblem of 
sadness and mourning. The garden in front was full of 
beautiful and fragrant plants. And the grounds sacred 
to sepulture were filled with all the varied monuments 
which affectionate love could devise, from the uprising 
•haft and costly sculpture, to the single rose tree, or the 
modest violet. I gazed around on the forest, natural and 


transplanted, which covered all the public and private 
grounds, and the solid masonry of the stone wall which 
enclosed the whole area. I sought for familiar names, 
but long in vain. I found old tombstones at last, soma 
lying on the ground, and others all bnt illegible. I traced 
names once familiar and dear, and many, that, had it not 
been the confusion of a dream, I should have known 
were now young and full of life and promise. On the 
tombstone of one who was daily in my sight, the beauti- 
ful, the admired in the midst of the years of yonng ex* 

istence, I read — " Sacred to the memory of , 

who died aged 85 years : bowed down with the weight of 
years, she was ready to depart" I saw a funeral proces- 
sion enter the grounds, and the tears of heartfelt anguish 
which fell fast and freely from those parents' eyes a* 
they saw the child of their affections consigned to the 
silent tomb, testified to me, that as of yore " man was 
made to mourn," and that the same hearts yet beat in 
human bosoma I saw my own name on a marble head- 
stone, but the tall rank grass hid the date from my vision; 
but I read such a long list of unremetabered virtues, that 
a smile which covered my face was very near being 
turned into a hearty laugh at this, to me, tangible evi- 
dence of the value of monumental epitaphs. 

Anon the scene changed, and I was on the shore of 
the Kendtrakeag, looking upward to that firm pile of the 
everlasting rocks, rising perpendicularly from the shore. 
Man had not changed this, and here I was on my own 
ground. I saw two lovers in their quiet, slow, and ab- 
sorbed walk — as they talked in low and touching tones 
— and watched the eyes which spoke more effective 
language than the tongue, and heard them utter vows and; 
build airy castles of future happiness, and I felt that, 
although art had wrought such mighty revolutions all 
around me, there was the same interchange of the soft 


affection* of the heart as in my own youthful days, the 
same undoubting trust and unclouded hopes for the fu- 
ture, which no experience of others could ever calm or 

Again I was in the busy haunts of men. I heard them 
tsoaversing at the corners, — " Dollars, — thousands ! — 
great bargain ! — worth his hundred thousand/' were the 
emphatic words. This sounded as familiar talk to my 
ears. The dollar still remained the representative of 
value, and. the idol of men. 

. And now I seemed to feel and know that I was in the 
midJst of the twentieth century, and that I was but a 
spectator* looking at posterity. I was not awed, but cu- 
rious* . The man I had before seen was at my side. 
".My friend ! " said I, " do boards sell readily at 21 — 14 
-<-8»'? He opened wide his eyes* but said nothing. 
\ What is the price of stumpage ? Does the lumber hold 
out of a good quality, or is it shaky and concosy? Is Vea» 
sie's boom large enough to hold all that comes down ? 
Hoto does, the wood scale hold out ? " I poured these 
questions upon him, but he shook his head in despair. 
" I don't know what you mean — your terms are all Greek 
at Indian to me.' " You can at least tell me how many 
million feet of boards are sawed and shipped yearly on 
the rivers V 1 u Million feet ! " said he, " I never heard of 
inch & quantity ! " "Is not lumber your great staple for 
export?" " Lumber!., why, we have not shipped a 
cargo for fifty years. We have to search closely to get 
hemlock enough to use here, and as to good pine, we 
have, to depend on Oregon. 1 ' " And how do you get it ? " 
"O*" said he, "by. the Oregon railroad, and the lakes, 
and the St. Laurence railroad. You see the depot over 
there." " And what is your business here ? " " All kinds 
Of trading, and great manufacturing establishments of 
.eottoa, woollen and mixed goods, to supply the. markets 


of the world. Do you think we could have built op such 
a city as this, by chipping up logs with a saw. That 
might have helped our great-grandfathers, when they 
lived along side of the Indians. But the vast factories 
at Treat's Falls, on the costly dam, and these long rows 
of warehouses — these extended streets — were never 
built by the lumber trade. See, yonder, the Cathedra^ 
and near to it the spire of the Stone church, and all around 
you the evidences of thrift, and industry, and improve- 
ment See that splended granite front; within those 
walls is the Bangor Public library, open to all, and free 
to the poor and the rich alike, containing seventy thou- 
sand volumes, founded in 1848 — and ever honored be 
the name of Vattemare, who first started the plan — and 
thanks to those, our predecessors, who followed his sug- 
gestions." " Permit me," said I, " to inquire as to so- 
cial arrangements ; do men and women yet live in .fam- 
ilies, or did the reformers of my day succeed in introduc- 
ing the community system." " O," said he, " that non- 
sense died a natural death, and with it the kindred ab- 
surdities of women's rights to participate in government 
and to direct affairs out doors as well as in — all this was 
given up long ago, except, that now and then some old, 
cross-grained or disappointed maid, sets up a sort of snarl, 
but nobody minds her, our women bake and darn stock- 
ings and tend the babies, and mend their husbands' 
clothes, teach their children the way they should go, and 
walk, with them in it, and read their bibles and as many 
books as they can find time to. They tried those schemes 
to which you allude, a great while ago — but nature was 
too strong for abstract theories, and after a considerable 
struggle between the sexes, they both became satisfied 
that it was best to compromise, and let the women rule in- 
doors, and the men out/ " Not much of a compromise,'' 
said I, " for the women always did that." " Well," said he, 


" they were satisfied to give up the new schemes, (the 
man somehow seemed now to be aware of my actual 
condition) for they tried their hands a little at govern- 
ment" " Pray, tell me about it." " Why, they fret- 
ted and teased until in several of the states the peo- 
ple, for the sake of quiet, admitted them to a partici- 
pation on equal footing with the men. The first diffi- 
culty was in voting at the polls. It was impossible to 
keep the women within party lines. They would vote 
for the youngest and handsomest and most agreeable 
man ; and they would see and hear all the candidates, 
and insisted upon good looks and genteel clothes ; and 
when their own sex were candidates, it was almost im- 
possible to make one woman vote for another. They all 
liked the men best. But when the legislature met it was 
impossible to get along at all. One lady had her hair to 
dress, and could not be in that day. Another was shop- 
ping — there were such dear beauties of silks just im- 
ported. Another must have leave of absence, for her 
baby must be looked after. Another would not attend 
because there was no looking-glasses in committee rooms. 
And yet another because her milliner had made a horrid 
fit. And those that were there would not observe any 
rules, but each insisted on talking without stint or limit 
And then on committees, the reports were not forthcom- 
ing, for the bachelors had been making love to the maidB. 

•' The members of both sexes were all good looking, but 
the public business needed some rougher outsides and 
Bome better heads than those which belonged to the Ado- 
nises of the halls. 

" They once held a private session on matters which re- 
quired the most profound secrecy. The doors were 
closed, windows barred; but the next day, before the 
morning papers were out, the whole matter was the town 
talk. Upon investigation, it was found that each of the 


female members had told it, but in strict confidence, as 
they all declared, to a female friend." 

I. found myself strolling in Broadway, and stood be- 
neath the shade of aged and venerable and wide spread 
ing elms, " still wearing proudly their panoply of green/' 
extending as far as the eye could reach on each aide of 
the spacious central walk. I saw the qhildrea at their 
sports beneath the arching canopy, and beard the same 
animated cries and joyous shouts, and earnest vocifera- 
tions, which had always been the characteristics of child- 
hood. I saw the marbles and the hoops, and the bat and 
ball — all familiar and unaltered. A bevy of girls and 
boys were engaged in reading books. I looked over their 
shoulders and saw " Mother Goose's Melodies," with the 
old pictures, " Robinson Crusoe," in his hairy skin suit, 
and one sober miss intent on the " Pilgrim's Progress." 
It seemed there were some books that would never be 
consigned to oblivion. 

I passed into a bookstore, but I remember only that I 
saw the old Saxon Bible in King James's translation, 
Shakspeare, and Milton, and Robert Burns, and Don 
Quixote. I asked if they had a copy of the Jtangor 
Book? "O yes," said the shopman, and handed me a 
thick octavo. It was the Bangor Directory for 1978. "I 
mean," said I, "the work published in 1847 ; surely that 
must have survived, for it was preserved by Attic salt in 
blue covers, and contained the best efforts of the Penob- 
' scot mind in prose and verse ; we all looked to posterity 
for our reward." " Never heard of it," said the man. A 
little dried-up specimen of a man who was poring over a 
book in a corner, addressing me, said, " I have seen that 
.book, I am quite sure, at least the outside of it, in one of 
,the alcoves of the rooms of the Antiquarian Society, la- 
belled 'the day of small things/ where are kept the rel- 
ics and curiosities of the first settlements on the river, 


and also Indian gouges, axes and hatchets, miniature birch 
canoes, and the portrait of the Buskahegian Giant, so 
called." " Is there not also one of the striped pig ? " 
'* I never saw any," quoth he. " Speaking of the striped 
pig," said I, " have you any licensed grog-shops ? " " O 
no, we have conquered Sing Alcohol, and are all temper- 
ance men now ; and the ladies of the present time look 
with wonder and dismay in their countenances, when 
they are informed that their sex did once even here by 
their example countenance the use of wine as a beverage 
in their evening levees ! " 

Once more in the street I moved towards my home as 
I remembered it As I passed onward, I was attracted 
by a beautiful arch at the entrance of a substantial, ele- 
gant, and commodious building, bearing this inscription : 
" The Bangor Female Orphan Asylum, founded in 1839, 
and sustained by the benevolence of its. citizens." I 
looked with interest on the groups of healthy, happy, and 
well conditioned children, but alas ! I was reminded of 
the dreaded " article," and the face* before so pleasant 
seemed to •ehange into looks of reproach and regret I 
involuntarily exclaimed — " When shall I find a subject, 
and finish the task appointed me ? " I looked up and 
recognized the same orphan face that appeared at my 
bedside, tranquil and satisfied ; and the little urchin with 
a triumphant smile replied, — " It is completed. 1 ' 


" Aye, count the strokes of the beaming, heart ! 
Your babes are not yet dead I 
Still heaves the breast of your eldest-bom ; — 
Bring forth the last hoard of bread!. 

" More, mote, Dor the "baby's" pleading lips ! 
And. if the scant store shall fail,. . 
Oh, eke it out with a mother's love, . 
Till we furl oar swelling sail! ti 

" Then shall the .first-born look up and live, 
Nor vain be the baby's, plea ; 
And the wan mother shall bless the day. 
When the " Macedon" trod the sea. 

".Receive us, sons of the Island Queen I 
We've gifts from our Pilgrim home ! 
The treasures we bear, in pur good ship's hold 
From the, Yankee heart have come ! 

1 V: Ohy spurn them not, though our message of peace 
And the golden stores we. unkind, /; 

, Are blent with tfre blush of honest shame 
For the blood, we have |eft behind I 

." And help. us to pray that God speed the day 
When bread for a starving land . / 
May not, as it gees, on its healing way, . 
Proceed from a crimson hand ! f ■ 

'? K(uzza ! Huzza ! for the enemy's ship, 
The engine of death and strife, 
That left our ports with cannon and grape, 
Returning with bread and life ! " 

Such from the shore was the answering strain, 
As the brave ship touched the. strand ; 

And thus in mempry's grateful topes 
Glad Erin saluted the band. ,, . .. 


" She went, among bosoms rife with life 
The arrows of death to shed ; 
She comes, in the name of the Prince of Peace, 
To put life within our dead ! 

" The messenger ' dove/ her mission proclaims 
A tale for the world to hear j 
That the ' deluge ' of war begins to subside, 
And the ( olive tree tops ' appear ! 

" The harbinger dove, — she ushers the day 
When the flood shall utterly cease, 
And men's gory hands no longer shall dare 
To profane the altars of peace. 

" Fitly and well does she emblem that hour, 
When stilled shall be earthly strife, 
With the tide of carnage that erst she bore, 
Transformed to the tide of life ! 

" Then three brave cheers for the enemy's ship, 
The engine of death and strife ! 
We sent her away with cannon and grape ; 
We greet her with bread and life ! ** 



"Yes, it looks splendidly/' said Asa Glover, Esq., as 
he complacently turned himself round before his mir- 
ror — "'Tis a perfect fit" — lovingly he stroked his arms 
and breast — "superb cloth, too," — gently he turned up 
the flaps and held them to the light — "lined with the 
finest watered silk — yes, it is just the thing." 

11 And I paid for it," whispered a hoarse voice, seem- 
ingly close behind him. Glover turned sharply round to 
see what impudent intruder had dared to come into his 
room and join in his toilet colloquy with himself. But 
though he looked into the closet, and under the bed, 
and out of the open window, no person was to be seen. 
" It is strange," he muttered, " how I could make such a 
mistake. It must have been that drunken Bob Morgan, 
going along the street and bragging as usual that he has 
paid for his grog. The rascal wont be able to do it long, 
though ;" and Glover chuckled at the thought. 

Quite reassured, he closed the window, turned back 
to his mirror, and began anew to sing the praises of his 
coat. " Yes," murmured he, as his approving glance 
rested on his passable figure and tolerable features, 
" even the fastidious and aristocratic Miss Norland must 
be satisfied with my appearance in this dress. As to the 
coat, the city of New York cannot yield a better. It is 
altogether a wedding suit worthy of my bride elect" 

" True as the gospel, 'Squire, and I paid for it," rejoined 
the voice again, with a drunken hiccough. Glover was 



now really startled. "Who is that?" he sternly ex- 

" It is I, Robert Morgan, Esq." 

" You ! Where are you ? And how came you here ? " 

" To settle scores." 

"I cannot attend to business this evening. Don't 
you see I am trying on my wedding suit?" 

" Yes, and as I paid for your wedding suit, I now ask 
you to pay me." 

" And I will pay you, impudent, drunken rascal as you 
are," cried Glover, turning savagely round to face his 
supposed opponent. Until now he had carried on his 
part in this singular dialogue, not without astonishment 
indeed, but seemingly unconscious that Morgan was not 
actually present. When, however, he satisfied himself 
a second time, by peering into every corner, that he was 
apparently entirely alone, he was really appalled, and 
turning pale with guilty fear, whispered, "what can it 
mean?" He placed his lamp once more on the table, 
and stood for a while quite still, eagerly gazing into every 
part of the room, to detect, if possible, the daring in- 

" Pshaw ! it was all fancy. I must have been dream* 
iftgt ■ A man is apt to dream, perhaps, when he is going 
to be married, ha ! ha ! and he laughed, very softly at 
first, but hearing no echo, he grew bolder, and laughed 
aloud; it was so droll, the idea of Bob Morgan's pay- 
ing for his wedding suit. So he slowly took it off, and 
began to fold it up very nicely, just as it came from the 
hands of the tailor. He soon became so absorbed that 
lie forgot the previous occurrence, and once more ex«* 
daimed aloud, " It 's a beauty ! " 

"And I paid for it," again said the voice. 
. Glover now grew desperate. " You paid for it, ha ! ha ! 
— and what did you pay for it, Bob ? " 



"A heavy price, 'Squire. First I paid my time, 
which was once money to me, and which I consumed in 
your shop, drinking morning bitters, and eleven o'clock 
and afternoon drams ; next I paid my good name; my 
once unstained character ; I paid the happiness of my 
wife and children, and then their substance) in the shape 
of as good a farm as ever was seen, which you compell- 
ed me to mortgage for rum, and when I resolved tor re* 
deem it, and myself too, by taking the pledge against 
drinking, it was you who laughed me out of it, and placed 
the burning temptation in my hand, the smell of which 
you knew I could not resist All this I paid, 'Squire, and 
more too, for your wedding suit. Was it not a pretty 

" And was it my fault that you chose to drink up your 
property and make a beast of yourself? You cannot say 
that I set you such an example." 

A groan was the only answer from his mysterious in- 
terlocutor, but from a distant corner of the rooin proceed-, 
ed a deep voice, which slowly uttered, " It must needs 
be that offences come, but woe unto him through whom? 
they come." Glover stood perfectly aghast at this new 
address. His hair raised itself on end, and the paleness 
of mortal terror overspread his features. Be scarcely 
dared look in the direotion of the voice, hut without 
looking, he bec&me conscious of the presence of various- 
figures, whether mortal or spectre, he was too confused 
even to conjecture. Whatever, they were, their number 
rapidly, inoreased ; they crowded around him, apparently 
consuming the very air with their burning breaths, and 
though -he tossed Jnis arms wildly about him;: and cried 
to them to keep off, yet strU they pressed on and on. 
One tall and stately apparition, of grave cotmteriance and 
fnajestic port, stepped in front of him. " Asa Glover, 


thou miserable contemner of my authority ! Hast thou 
not justly incurred my penalties? Hast thou not contin- 
ued to deal out " liquid damnation " to thy fellow-beings, 
contrary to my repeated enactments ? " 

" Aba! no! no ! There I defy you. I have never vio- 
lated faw; I am safe on that score." 

" Never violated law ? What ! have you not been sel- 
ling ' death and destruction/ in the shape of intoxicat- 
ing liquors these three years, without a license ? " 

"Ha! ha! you cannot entrap me there, for I have al- 
ways taken care to keep the law on my side. I am no 
rumselfer 1 assure you ; catch me at that if you can." 

" Beware, Asa Glover," exclaimed another being, who 
now came forward with even a more dignified manner 
thau the first speaker, and with looks bent heavenward, 
" beware of lies and cunning inventions. You may es- 
cape my brother of the statute book with your wretched 
evasions, but you cannot escape me. I know very well 
that you pretend io give away the poison, while you charge 
an enormous profit on some trifle of tobacco or cloth. 
Such tricks may save your pockets from a fine, but will 
never answer the demands of Divine law. Too long 
hast thou been a vampyre, to suck the heart's blood of 
thy unguarded fellows. Thou hast been repeatedly 
warned and exhorted to repent, without avail, and now 
I deliver thee over to " 

" To me," shrieked a hideous looking being, coming 
forward with arms extended, as if to clutch his victim. 
He bore some faint resemblance to the human form, but 
with features of such distorted ugliness, that no ray of 
gentleness softened their gloom. Remorse was written 
on every lineament. His garment was covered with pic- 
tures drawn in lines of fire ; moving panoramas, repre- 
senting scenes in which Glover too well knew himself to 
have been chief actor. There, on that dark background 

82 toice8 raoM the ksxdusksag. 

was his life's history, but in what different colors had self- 
interest painted its events ! The first scene which met 
his gaze presented two quiet farm-houses; which he 
easily recognized, and in one of which he passed his 
early years. From this house he saw a boy slyly pro- 
ceed to the barn of the neighbor to rob the hen's nest* 
conveying the eggs to his own poultry yard, and then 
carrying them to his mother, who paid himself and his 
brother a premium on all they collected. He saw this 
boy afterward stealthily contrive to abstract the same 
eggs from his mother's store-room and sell them to the 
village trader. Well he remembered that by this and 
kindred means he always possessed a larger share of 
pocket money than his less subtle brother, who often 
wondered at but never divined his secret. Thus early 
did the seed which his over thrifty parents sowed in a 
too congenial soil take root and bear fruit — in iniquity. 
He saw portrayed his career as a young man, low, wily, 
and intriguing, the deceiver of innocence, the betrayer 
of trust, but everywhere and in all cases lining his own 
purse with ill-gotten gold. Ho saw himself behind his 
own counter, luring on with oily phrase and tempting cor- 
dials a neighbor to ruin, and again seated in his count- 
ing-room with the same individual in a state of inebri- 
ate folly, and in this state induced to sign documents, 
which eventually gave himself unlimited control over the 
property of his victim. He beheld the inside of a prison 
cell. On its hard couch sat a young, but wretched and 
despairing being. The convict turned his head, and 
Glover recognized the orphan son of one who had died 
in misery and destitution, such as only the drunkard can 
know. He could not deny that his own oppressions had 
driven this boy into desperate courses, which had finally 
landed him in the state prison. On the other side there 
were a multitude of men with red and bloated faces, who 


leered on Kim with their bloodshot eyes, and women, 
whose gaunt and emaciated forms he could not fail to 
recognize, holding by the hand their shrivelled and starv- 
ing offspring. Wives pointed with one hand to their de- 
graded husbands, and mothers to their besotted sons, 
while they extended the other to him, and with eyes 
raised to heaven they seemed to call God to witness that 
he was the cause of all this misery. His brained reeled, 
and striking his forehead with his clenched fist, he sank 
powerless into a chair, closing his eyes to shut out, if 
possible, the horrible vision. The effort was useless, the 
whole spectacle was still present in all its dread reality. 
Some irresistible fascination compelled him to gaze on 
these terrible mementoes of the past, while the tablets of 
memory easily supplied the key to their enigmas. The 
dread being spake, — " Hast thou seen enough of this 
garment, Asa Glover? Look at it faithfully, for thou 
thyself must wear it" 

"Oh spare me! spare me this once," entreated the 
miserable man, extending his arms imploringly, " I am 
just about to be married. Wouldst thou have me present 
myself to my bride clad in such a suit ? She would die 
of horror ! " 

" It is one which thou thyself hast woven. It has taken 
thee thirty years to complete it, and it Jits thee well ; bet- 
ter far than yon tissue of broadcloth. Is it not meet 
she should see thee as thou art ? " 

" Oh ! but she at least is innocent. Let me not be her 
destruction. Send me thy gentler brother, Repentance 
— to him I will take heed." 

" He has often warned thee, but thou hast as often 
mocked him, and declared that ' none but the weak r#- 

" I own h — but now I see my folly. I will take heed 

84 voices raoM XHK kxndusksao 

to his counsels,, and restore doable to the wrongjed ones, 
if thou wilt leave me this once." 

" See that thou dost, and remember that if I corne 
again, I shall not be bought off with promises merely. 
Be warned in season, and know that when once I clothe 
thee with this robe, it adheres to thee forever/ So say- 
ing, the figure began to retreat, its features grew less and 
less distinct, until the vision at length passed away, and 
left the wretched man so overcome by these various* ag- 
itations, that he sank on the floor in a dpep swoon. 


Three years had passed away, and Asa Glover, Esq., 
had gone on adding dollar to dollar, farm to farm, railroad 
share to bank stock, until he had become one of the 
wealthiest men in the town of Pemberfon. Had he 
kept his promise? Had he restored double to the in- 
jured ones? If he had, it was done strictly in secret 
. It was not permitted his left hand to perceive what his 
right hand had performed. Many hard things were whis- 
pered about him in private, but he was a man of too 
much consequence not to be treated with seeming re- 
spect in public He even " enjoyed the confidence of 
his fellow-citizens," evinced by their placing him in vari- 
ous offices of trust and responsibility. Having, at the 
time now spoken of, been elected one of the overseers of 
the poor, he was accompanied by his coadjutor, Mr. Price, 
on his first visit of inspection to the Alms-house, where 
they intended to introduce some administrative reforms. 

Just as they were entering the grounds, they met a 

ASA 6L0YER, ESQ. 85 

coffin borne on the shoulders of four inmates of the dwel- 
ling, and followed by a haggard looking woman, with two 
small, thin, and prematurely old children. And who is 
ibis that goes hence to the silent grave thua splendidly 
attended ? 

" Battle his bones over the stones, 
'Tis a pauper , whom nobody owns." 

The officials alighted at the door, and upon enquiry 
which of the alms-house residents had paid the last debt 
of nature, were answered, " Oh ! it is only Morgan. He 
came here about a month ago in a decline, and died two 
days since." 

" What Morgan ? " asked Glover, with a start. 

" Bob Morgan, once called Robert Morgan, Esq." 

" And that wretched looking woman was his wife ? " 

" Yes, and a poor broken down creature she is, with no 
health and spirits left 11 

" And the children ? " 

" The eldest two have been put out to service, the 
youngest you saw." ~ 

Glover shuddered. Oh God! had it come to this? 
Well he remembered when first he came to Pemberton, 
how fortunate he considered himself when invited by 
the young, handsome, and sprightly Mrs. Morgan to take 
tea at her house ; and how sedulously he improved this 
slight opening to ingratiate himself into the favor of her- 
self and husband, until he became the chosen compan- 
ion of the latter. And this was the result He could 
not but know his own work. He could not deny that he 
had strode into his present high position over the pros- 
trate fortunes, the blighted hopes, the bitter experiences, 
of this woman and these children. 

Such remembrances left him little appetite for discuss- 
ing questions of poor-house reform, and though he me- 


chanically followed Mr. Price over the premises, yet he 
did not understand a single plan which that gentleman 
and the alms-house keeper proposed. Even there seemed 
to run on before him the same dread being whose former 

visit had so filled him with terror. 

" What is the matter, Mr. Glover?" asked Mr. Price, in 
astonishment. " Your eyes are rolling fearfully, and you 
look pale enough to faint. Are you sick ? " 

Recalled to himself by these words, Glover tried to 
control his feelings and to shut out the terrible vision. 
In vain. It went with him everywhere, wearing the 
same awful garment with its frightful pictures, accom- 
panied by even new horrors. The lines had grown deep- 
er, broader, and more fiery, while hissing serpents seemed 
ready to gnaw the vitals of its wearer. They went into 
a room occupied by several old women, one of whom 
was evidently in that slate, half imbecile, half insane, 
into which misery or disease sometimes throws decaying 
humanity. She sat chattering and gesticulating, some- 
times addressing those who were present, but oflener 
the absent or the dead. As they entered the room, she 
sprang up, and raising her bony finger, exclaimed, "There 
he is, there he is, I know him." 

Already deeply moved by the preceding incidents, 
Glover naturally applied this address to himself. " You 
know me ! What do you mean, woman ? I never saw 
you before." 

This reply seemed to exasperate her; she came to- 
wards him, and vehemently cried out, all the while shak- 
ing her bony finger — " Yes, you are the very man. Jt 
was you that destroyed my boy. It was you that taught 
him to drink rum when he was clerk in your store ; and 
there they say he gambled and stole; and you put him in 
prison ; but he got out ; yes, got out, in spite of your locks 
and bars ; — but now — Oh God ! where is he now ? " 


•• Come, come, mother Rawson, enough of this, you are 
troublesome," interposed the keeper, taking her gently 
but firmly by v the arm, and leading her to a seat. She 
was not easily subdued, however, but continued to cry 
out — "My son must bear the shame- and disgrace, and 
be hnnted from place to place, but you who held out the 
temptation, who made him forsake the mother that bore 
him, you live in peace, rich and honored. But remem- 
ber, though ' the wicked man shall prolong his days in 
his wickedness, yet shall God bring every secret work 
into judgment," — and for you, and such as yon, who 
have fattened yourselves and grown full upon the blood 
and tears of the widow and the orphan, for you shall a 
day come." And thus she continued to pour out her 
anathemas upon Glover as long as he remained within 

The keeper sought to explain. " Mother Rawson is a 
half crazy creature, who, after losing her husband, placed 
all her hopes upon her only son, the last of five children, 
and depended upon his exertions for the support of her 
olcfage. The boy was clerk in a store, in this place, 
many years since, where he became intemperate. This 
led to other vices, and vices to crimes, until he became a 
prison-breaker, and a fugitive from justice in Canada, if 
he has not already come to the gallows there for felony, 
as is reported. The conduct of the son crazed the mis- 
erable mother, and she attacks all strangers as the au- 
thors of her son s ruin, in the manner you heard. Any 
reply only excites her the more." Though this narrative 
was intended as an apology to Glover for the woman's 
rudeness, it in fact only drove the arrow deeper into his 
bosom. Memory was busy, and the words of this woman 
had recalled her to his mind only too vividly, whilst a 
voice chuckled at his elbow, "Oh yes, the mother of 
James Rawson, you remember him, your first clerk, when 


you sold rum by the glass, and poured it out with your 
own hand, to all the jolly topers and jovial good fellows 
about town. And many a pretty trick of trade you 
taught him beside. You made him pound up the light 
colored lumps of brpwn sugar, to exhibit as the specimen 
of the article you kept for sale. You showed him how 
to slip his yardstick, when measuring cloth; to offer silk, 
hooks and eyes, etc., gratis, and afterwards abstract these 
articles from the package ; and numberless other nice Ut- 
ile contrivances of a similar kind he learned to practise 
from your teaching. Oh, the foolish boy ! to ruin himself 
when he might have made a fortune as you have dona 
Idiot ! not to see the difference between respectable cheat- 
ing and disgraceful thriving !! You remember all about 
it. If not, look here," — and one of those flaming pictures 
glared before his rolling eyes, showing the inside of a va- 
riety store, including dry goods and groceries, where a 
young lad was serving a circle of tippling customers with 
the intoxicating beverage, and afterwards emptying the 
glass himself, encouraged to do so by the laughs and 
jeers of the Bacchanalian crew. Glover raised his arm 
hastily, and making a dash at the hateful object, rushed 
to another part of the building, to the great astonishment 
of his companions, and followed by a~rnocking laugh, 
which seemed close to his ear, and from which he in vain 
strove to escape. 

The unhappy man was rejoiced when their visit of 
inspection came to a close; and as Mr. Price jumped 
into the buggy, he hastily gathered up the reins, and 
was upon the point of springing to his seat, when he 
saw with dismay that it was occupied by his tormentor. 

" Come down," he cried, angrily; "that place is mine." 

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! This place is yours ? Of course it is 
— and mine too." 

" What do you . mean, Mr. Glover ? " asked Mr. Price, 


looking perfectly astonished, and growing very red in the 

•• I did not speak to you, Mr. Price, but to that wretch 
beside you." 

4i There is no one beside me, Mr. Glover. What can 
you mean ? " 

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! Jump in, Mr. Glover, there is room. 
You and I can sit close, you know." 

Overcome by sickening terror, and, at the same time, 
dreading to suffer Mr. Price to perceive the disorder of 
his mind, he sprang desperately into the carriage, and 
sank heavily on the seat He almost hoped that his 
weight would demolish his terrible guest; but not so; for 
there he still sat, between himself and Mr. Price, unfet- 
tered, and displaying before the despairing eyes of the 
conscience-stricken man, the pictures on that hateful 
mantle, which seemed about to close around him. No 
words could describe the agony of his mind, but it was 
painted on every feature of his face, and betrayed in the 
reckless haste with which he urged his horse back to the 
town. Mr. Price, who was timid, was very much alarmed 
at this careless driving. 

"Take care, Mr. Glover! You will surely upset, if you 
ride so fast around that corner. You drive as if you 
thought the devil was after you." 

" The devil! What do you mean by that, sir?" fiercely 
demanded Glover. " The devil is no acquaintance of 
mine, sir." 

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! " laughed the fiend, louder than ever. 

Not an acquaintance merely, thought Mr. Price; no, I 
fear he is somewhat nearer to you than that He made 
no attempt, however, to renew the conversation, but 
he failed not to note Glover's wild rolling eye, and occa- 
sional deep mutterings. Once he came near being thrown 
from his seat, by the vehemence with which his com- 


panion jerked against his arm, in the seeming effort to 
throw something off, while he heard a hoarse whisper, 
" Oh, spare me yet again." Eight glad was he to reach 
his own gate ; and, as the vehicle whirled from the door, 
he said to himself, " No, Asa Glover, Esquire, not for all 
your wealth twice told, would I possess your conscience." 
Glover did not so easily rid himself of his mysterious 
visitant as he had done formerly. Promises alone pro- 
duced no effect. Before he could again obtain a respite, 
he was obliged to disgorge some portion of his ill-gotten 
wealth — sufficient to place Mrs. Morgan and her chil- 
dren in a situation of humble independence ; and this 
and some donations to charitable societies, was the price 
at which he once more bought off — Remorse. 


Years again rolled away, and Asa Glover, Esquire, 
was a still richer man than when we last saw him. All 
his worldly affairs prospered. He had a head for busi- 
ness, and his investments of capital being generally 
judicious, were almost always successful. Of course he 
called himself a very moral man. No one professed to 
hold the law in greater reverence than himself. He did 
not exactly pretend to be a Christian, as he understood 
that term — that is, he was not yet a member of any 
church, but he considered himself in a fair way to earn 
that distinction. Had it been customary to confer honor- 
ary degrees of church membership, he would have almost 
expected to be voted in by a large majority; at all events, 
he was a zealous advocate for the religious institutions of 


the land ; he owned a handsome pew, and paid readily 
and liberally for the support of the minister. The con- 
tribution box seldom passed him without being enriched 
by his offering ; and as he was one of a few who gave a 
bell to the parish, he felt that it sounded forth the praises 
of his generosity at least three times every day. He 
was no longer a rum-dealer in person — not he — but he 
built stores to let, with back entrances on cross streets, 
which men whispered had a strange odor of alcohol about 
them, and cellars beneath them, which were more than 
suspected to be dram-shops of the worst description. 
However, he washed his own hands of the traffic, and 
professed to regret that he had ever been engaged in it. 
This told much in his favor, with the undiscriminating 
public ; and though a few knew him as he was, yet by 
far the greater portion of the community, especially the 
younger members, concluded, that " he was by no means 
so black as he had been painted." 

Late one summer afternoon, a crowd of people col- 
lected suddenly around the door of Glover's dwelling ; 
and, borne in the arms of one of the men, was the 
mangled and bleeding body of his eldest son, a bright 
boy of about eight years of age. A party of gay young 
men, returning from one of the haunts of low dissipation 
in the neighborhood, and driving furiously through the 
streets, had knocked the child down; the carriage passed 
directly over his body, while his head was bruised by 
contact with the horse's hoof. And there was hurrying 
to and fro of servants, and exclamations of horror-stricken 
friends, and bitter upbraidings of the wretches who had 
done this deed; and the mother's sharp cry of agony; but 
the father was not there. He had ridden a few miles 
out of town that day, on some pressing business. He 
did not often ride away alone. For some reason, Mr. 
Glover was not fond of the companionship of his own 


thoughts. In the excitement of business, or surrounded 
by his own family, he generally contrived to drive away 
painful reflections, but alone, — especially when riding 
alone, — he was very apt to become the victim of gloomy 
fancies. Alone ! He could hardly be said ever to be 
alone, for his active imagination made him familiar with 
strange companions. He often thought he saw on the 
seat beside him some jolly companion of former days, 
whom he had first known as a man of free habits merely, 
but wbom he had lived to see go down — down — into 
the drunkard's dishonored grave ; nay, rather whom his 
own hand had helped to lay there. At other times, 
crowds of blue, pinched-up faces would seem to beset 
his path, and, gazing into his face, with all the imperti- 
nence of starving destitution, would cry out, "bread, 
bread — restore the bread of the orphan.' 1 Such com- 
panions were not agreeable. Glover felt they were not ; 
and therefore it was that he hated to be much alone. 
This afternoon, he had been particularly annoyed by 
such thronging fancies, and he felt truly rejoiced when 
his horse's head was turned Into the street which led to 
his own house. 

But why those people about his door? What means 
this constant passing in and out ? That physician's gig ? 
That general air of confusion ? and those drops of fresh 
blood on the sidewalk? At once he partially divined 
the truth. Some one of his children was injured, and, 
of course, it must be his bright and beautiful, his ven- 
turesome boy. Several persons approached to speak to 
him, but staying not to hear them, he rushed into the 
house. Guided by the blood, which everywhere met his 
eye, — on the door-step, the stairs, and in all the pas- 
sages, — he soon found the chamber to which they had 
borne his darling child. 

There lay the crushed flower, on a bed in the centre 


of the room, surrounded by people, among whom were 
two physicians, endeavoring to restore animation to the 
nncposcipus boy. Beside him, with one hand tightly 
clasped in hers, lay the .almost equally senseless mother, 
— horror and grief haying for the time, kindly benumbed 
her faculties. 

. It was evening. Quiet once more reigned through 
the house* Friends and curious spectators had retired; 
the mother had been taken to another room, to receive 
She care her state demanded. Mr. Glover and the nurse 
alone remained by the bed of the child, to whom con- 
sciousness had been partially restored. 
. One of the physicians again came in, and as he leant 
over the bed, and attentively examined the state of his 
little patient, the father gazed with intense anxiety into 
his friendly countenance, but with agony, he saw there 
no ray of hope. 

" Oh, doctor, must he die ? " A pressure of the hand 
was the only response. 

, " Tell me, truly ; can you not save him ? Is it not 
possible he may live ? " 

" The issues of life and death are not in my hand, but 
I grieve to say there is scarcely a chance of his living. 
Convulsions are coming on, and the injury is so ex ten- 
sive, that he cannot, I fear, long survive." 

Again Mr. Glover and the nurse were left with the suf- 
ferer. The boy spoke, and the father eagerly bent his 
ear to listen, but caught only words of wildest delirium. 

" Oh speak to me once more my boy," he cried, in ago- 
ny. The child whispered, " See the pretty horses," and 
immediately went into convulsions. Mr. Glover had 
never till this moment given up all hope, but now he 
utterly despaired. His senses grew giddy; the room 
seemed to swim around, and to fill with dancing fiends 
and fantastic shapes of horror. He closed his eyes, and 


with a deep groan sank back in his chair. Just then he 
felt a bnrning breath blow upon his cheek, and a well re- 
membered but hateful voice exclaimed, u Asa Glover, I 
promised thee another meeting, friend, and now I come 
to greet thee on this joyful occasion." 

" Joyful occasion !!! A vaunt wretch ! " 

" Yes — is not thy child fortunate to die before he has 
learned his father's principles, or practised his father's 
sins ? » 

" Oh mercy ! mercy ! spare my innocent child ! Let 
him not die this horrible death." 

" And when didst thou spare the children of others ? 
Many of their little ones hast thou caused to nil a name- 
less grave, or to live a wretched and vicious life, only to 
die a felon's death. Why should thy child be spared, 
Asa Glover, why should he ? Look thy last upon him, 
for he goes to another home than thine and mine." 

With horror Glover opened his eyes and gazed upon 
his child, now in strong convulsions. Suddenly a change 
passed over the face of the boy — he stretched out his 
little limbs, and all was over. At the same moment 
Glover felt himself clasped in the arms of his inveterate 
foe, and the folds of that detested mantle wrapped close- 
ly about him, while a stream of fire seemed to scorch 
through his brain. The horrors of the moment were too 
much for human reason, and the distracted man filled the 
room of death with his frenzied cries. Ere the body of 
his beautiful child was borne to its resting-place, Asa 
Glover was lodged in an asylum, a raving maniac. 

Bangor, June, 1837. 


An old woman sat on the grave-yard fence, braiding with the bones which were 
once fingers, her scanty gray locks, and sang, —yes, true it is she sang, and the 
traveller put his fingers in his ears, and rushed by her, often turning back the white 
of his eyes, to see if she pursued him. But he need not hare been alarmed, she 
only sang. 

I hate a shroud, and I'll wrap yon in it, 

You need not start from its icy fold, 

'Tis a fair shroud, not a blemish in it — 

And what care you for damp or cold ? 

I '11 wrap you all about, 

But have your forehead out — 

And just your eyes, 

For men will wish to know, 

As through the room they go, 

What therein lies. 

But do not think, in your garments white, 
That they will stand by you weeping, 
For none will ever believe it right, 
To disturb your silent sleeping — 
But they shall come with fear, 
And place you on the bier. 
That I have made — 
And I will hold the torch 
In the long dismal porch, 
At the time of shade. 

And you shall not speak to those who bear you, 
And the winds will blow and they cannot hear you, 
But you slumber not, as the vulgar do, 
For I have told them where to go — 


They will lay you down, as becomes your state — 

In the cellar beyond the garden gate. 

You must not open your bonnie eyes, 

For they will not serve you there ; 

You shall have no light but that which flies 

With the dust in the crack of the upper stair. 

And fear not you 

Lest the dungeon dew, 

Should gather around your head, 

For none will know how damp you grow ; 

'Tis seldom men visit the dead. 

There 's the spider too, you must let him live there, 

And his palace will near you stand ; 

His finest web you must let him weave there, 

From your hairless head to your bony hand ; 

And since you cannot know 

The way he will go, 

Why should you care ? 

I doubt not you will rest, 

And never be distrest, 

At his wandering there. 

And the cricket will chirp there, within the ceiling, 

But the sound will be lost on your dull ear, 

And though he were future sorrow revealing, 

Yet what has a sleeper like you to fear? 

And there '11 be nameless things, 

Flitting with heavy wings, 

In that house of gloom ; 

But all that they will do, 

Is just to wait with you, 

Till the day of doom. 

And you will not fear, when that morning is breaking, 
To come forth and exhibit your mouldered form, 
And you will not think, from your robe, of shaking 
The dust, or the cobweb, or slimy worm ; 


Oh no, you will forget, 

That e'er your locks were jet, 

Or bonnie was your eye. 

Go — go your ways — I tell you true 

That soon I mean to call for you, 

Soon you must die. 




The bright bird sings at the morning hour, 

She sings, and thus sings she ; 
" Away, away to my needful work, 

Away, right merrily. 
The dews work on from night till mom, 

The sun from mom till night — 
They We dressed for me my balmy tree, 

And I sing that all is right." 

The farmer sings, as he fieldward goes, 

He sings, and thus sings he ; 
" Away, away to my needful work, 

Away, right merrily ; 
For the farmer's toil all want must foil, 

He feeds his brothers all, 
Nor fail he must in his mighty trust, 

Or the world would surely fall." 

The artist sings, in his shadowy light, 

He sings, and thus sings he ; 
" Great Goddess of the Beautiful, 

I pine, I sigh for thee ; 
Like the flashing light of a stormy night, 

Thou art seen, and then away, 
One gleam of thine hath power divine, 

To lift the soul from clay." 

The sufferer sings on his couch of pain, 

He sings, and thus sings he ; 
" Let me not repine at this task of mine, 

'T was sent in love to me ; 

A 80*0. 99 

For joys outflow from pain and woe, 

And ' a berry blue and gold/ 
They bring a rest more deep and blest, 

Than words have ever told." 

The dead man sings, on his bier outlain 

He sings, and thus sings he ; 
" The outward life is a fleeting thing, 

And false, as you may see ; 
O, brother man ! seize while you can 

The golden fruits of love, 
And the bright red wine of truth divine 

Will lift you death above." 

June 12th. 




" I had a dream, whioh was not all a dream.'*— 23tyro». 

I know of no sight more ridiculous, and at the same 
time more provoking, than the appearance of a hale, 
hearty, healthy hypochondriac. There are some men 
who seem born to be miserable, and to waste their lives 
in fruitless complainings and unfounded apprehensions; 
whose highest felicity is, to inhale the odors of an apoth- 
ecary's shop, or to swallow, with greedy zeal, the most 
villanous compounds of unrighteous medicines. Some 
men seem to receive from nature this disposition to watch 
over the operations of their bowels, and to mark, with the 
utmost care, all the disgusting and humiliating process 
going on in the inner man. Others are by nature of a 
happy temperament, easy, placid, and contented ; never 
sending their thoughts into the region of conjecture, or 
fixing on their vigorous bodies all the tremendous diseases 
to be found in the " theory and practice of physic." But 
I have known such men suddenly transformed from this 
know-nothing, fear-nothing character, into the most learn- 
ed and most miserable expounders of symptoms, pains, 
diseases, and dangers, to which flesh is heir. And it is 
my belief that there is no one cause which operates so 
frequently to produce this wretched effect, as a smatter- 
ing knowledge gleaned from a partial perusal of medi- 
cal works, or the half understood language of profession- 
al men. Some one disease becomes the favorite of the 
imagination, and no matter what the constitution or hab- 


its or liability to such disorder, everything in nature is 
made to bend to the sudden fancy. I was revolving 
thoughts like these a few nights since, after I had re- 
tired to my bed ; and musing on this self-induced misery, 
my waking thoughts were soon changed to visions of 

Metbought I was in an extensive plain, which as far 
as the eye could reach presented a level, smooth, and 
fertile aspect At first sight, there was an appearance of 
calm serenity diffused over the landscape, and nature 
seemed rejoicing under the invigorating influence of a 
summer sun. But as I advanced further, the appear- 
ance gave way to one of a more gloomy character. 
The sun still shone in its splendor, and the earth still 
retained its peaceful hue. But there was an indefi- 
nite and indescribable melancholy which pervaded the 
landscape as a whole, and gave it a sombre hue. As 
I stood musing what this might mean, I saw a man 
standing near the boundary of the field, with a most 
laughter-loving and quizzical expression of countenance, 
watching the different individuals who were moving 
around us. To him I applied for information, and in 
answer to my inquiry he said : " This, Sir, is the field of 
the incurables. 99 " Those unhappy beings," said I, " who are 
doomed to drag out a hopeless existence, under all the 
anguish of remediless disease. But why, Sir, that laugh- 
ing face, so unsuitable to this melancholy scene ? " " My 
friend," answered he, " I call them incurables, not be- 
cause their diseases are past remedy, but because they 
have no disorders of which to be cured." " Sick men 
without disorders," exclaimed L " Look above you," said 
he, " and see the presiding genii of this region." I raised 
my eyes in the direction he pointed, and saw floating in 
the air a thousand cerulean beings, who seemed indeed 
to be " airy nothings," almost without substance or even 


form. " And what, ray friend, do you call these wretched 
looking sprites ? " " Azure demons" said he. u Common- 
ly called blue devils in our land of plain language.*' •• The 
very same/' answered he, " and they hold the whole of 
this region under subjection, distilling their pestilent in- 
fluence from the region of air, producing the most laugh- 
able effects upon the bravest and healthiest men." " I 
think/' said I, "I will walk around and see if I can distin- 
guish any old friends in the herd." " Beware," said my 
informant, " how you trust yourself within the influence 
of these devils." " Oh, my dear Sir, I fear not a whole 
legion of them. I have conquered them often, and rout- 
ed whole legions at one pitched battle. They dare not 
attempt to distil their vapors upon me." So I manfully 
marched forward, even to the centre of the field of the 
healthy incurables. 

The first man I saw was of a dull, heavy visage, 
square head and shoulders, thick and clumsy, who looked 
as if he had taken the world easy, and had not been 
disturbed by trifles, as if he had tempered his nerves 
to the happy callousness of an oyster, and the motions 
of his soul to the dull stagnation of a mud-puddle. 

There was, however, an unnatural and evidently an 
unusual expression of hypochondriacal feeling in his 
face, and when I put the question, — "Pray, my friend, 
from what complaint do you suffer? " he turned upon me 
such a look of calm suffering and patient resignation, 
that I felt my pity mingled with respect. " Alas ! my 
nerves are shattered to pieces." " Really, my dear Sir, I 
should rather think you suffered from lethargy" " O, no ; 
did you ever read ' Warren on the Nervous System?'" 
Not I. " Read it then, instantly. It was there I first 
learnt that all my complaints were of the nerves. I had 
scarcely commenced the perusal ere I suspected the 
truth. I determined instantly to subject myself to the 


test of experiment. I seized a file, which I applied with 
all my power to a handsaw — the effect was dreadful. 
I felt a most indescribable sensation about my teeth, — 
very much worse than that produced by eating sour ap- 
ples. O, Sir, my nerves are ruined, and I am undone." 

I was prevented from holding any further discourse 
with this unlucky specimen of the genus irritabUe, by 
the appearance of another of the inhabitants of this re- 
gion of the blues. I instantly recognized him as an old 
acquaintance, the leader of a band of musicians, famous 
for his strength and length of wind. He could wind a 
horn for hours together, and raise a laugh to break the 
stillness for miles around. He was a legitimate de- 
scendant of Stentor; a host in himself in mobs and 
town-meetings. He approached me slowly and cau- 
tiously, — although his athletic form and sinewy mem- 
bers seemed to scorn the snail-like pace of their mas- 
ter. He had on a thick " dreadnought " coat, buttoned 
up to his chin. Two large silk handkerchiefs were 
wrapped around his face with almost suffocating close- 
ness. " Ah, Tom," said I, " I see you are indeed grievously 
afflicted — this toothache and the ague are indeed mat- 
ters of fact, not to be joked out of existence. "My 
lungs are affected," said he, in a voice which, to say 
the least, was quite audible, even through the quintuple 
folds of silk. " They were always affecting" said I, " to 
all your friends." " My complaints are of a pulmonary 
nature, and I am fast dwindling away in a consumption. 
Look into ' Buchan's Domestic Medicine/ and you will 
be persuaded I cannot long survive." " Nonsense, your 
lungs are now strong enough to stun a man." " I tell 
you, Sir," said he, tearing away the handkerchief from 
his mouth to give free vent to his wrath and his voice, 
" my health is gone, my body is debilitated," (here he 
gesticulated most furiously,) " my voice is lost," (risiug 


in loudness,) " my lungs are dreadfully affected." • N And 
so are my ears/' said I, as I retreated to escape from 
the deafening explosion of the pulmonary patient 

I saw a man at some distance, whom I at first thought 
was the renowned Ichabod Crane, of pedagogical memo- 
ry, — at any rate, he might belong to the family of Cranes, 
judging from the length of his neck. He had a thin, 
meagre, hatchet face, — pale as a parsnip. His body 
looked like a musket with a coat thrown over it The 
radical moisture had evaporated, and his whole body 
presented the appearance of bones, covered by a thin 
membrane — in a word, as if he had lived by gleaning 
through the whole seven years of Pharaoh's famine. I 
observed that he frequently applied his hand to his neck 
(which was without any covering), and to his temples, 
and the top of his head. Surely, thought I, this is the 
victim of consumption. He passed me without observ- 
ing that I watched him. I heard him muttering some- 
thing about the tendency of the blood towards the heart, 
and inundation of the brain. " My friend," said I, " you 
do but little credit to your keepers ; I fear you see but 
little beef and brandy for your rations. "Beef and 
brandy," exclaimed he, in astonishment, "why, Sir, I 
should die of an apoplexy in a week — I have escaped 
for the last ten years by the most abstemious living — 
the tendency of the blood is towards the head." " Yes, 
and I should think yours had all oozed out at the top." 

But who comes here, " bloody with spurring, fiery red 
with speed," mounted on a hard-trotting horse, and driv- 
ing as if his only object was to agitate his intestines. 
Unless my eyes deceive me, it is fat faced Dick, — the 
counterpart of Sir Toby Philpot. " I knew him well — a 
fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy," with red 
bldwsy cheeks, which would not disgrace a London al- 
derman, a roguish leer of the eye, and a real " laugh 


and be fat" expression of the whole countenance. I 
had never seen him on horseback before, and his awk- 
ward and ungainly position, and his ardent endeavors to 
hold an, showed conclusively that it was new business. 
My curiosity was excited to know what had induced 
Dick to quit terra firma, to which he had always ad- 
hered with the utmost pertinacity, and to trust his pre- 
cious neck to the uncertain chances of equestrian speed. 
But he came as on the wind, and would have dashed 
by without heeding me, if I had not hailed him, in a 
cheerful vtrice. He checked his raw-boned gelding, and 
looked down upon me from his high estate. But O! 
how altered was the expression of that face. The fat 
cheeks still remained in all their glory, and exercise had 
added a deeper crimson to his usually red face. But in- 
stead of the gay, happy, and lively meaning in the eye, 
which could always set the table in a roar, there was 
an expression of fear, and anxiety, and despondency, 
which set as awkward on his phiz as his body did on his 
horse. " In the name of the seven wonders, what sent 
you here, Dick ? " " Wilson on the Liver Complaint," 
answered he. " I have a touch of the liver," laying his 
hand with a mournful significance on his right side." 
*'- What symptoms ? " " It is not a week since I had a 
distinct pain in my side. The next day I felt a fulness 
and oppression after dinner. I luckily had read, a few 
days before, a few pages in Wilson. I knew my com- 
plaint, and my only remedy — ' a horse, a horse, my king- 
dom for a horse/ But I fear all will not do. The liv- 
er once diseased, the whole process of digestion is ob- 
structed, nausea, vomiting, pain in the side, costiveness, 
paleness in the countenance, all follow. No longer since 
than yesterday I discovered paleness in my countenance, 
just under the hair — do you see it now ? " " You look, 
Dick, about as pale as a pickled beet, and as much like 


an invalid as " Here he interrupted me by bidding 

me good morning, saying: " I feel the bile collecting, I 
must ride for my life." 

His departure gave me leisure to observe a little wasp 
of a thing, that was ambulating towards me. The youth 
was adorned in the extreme of fashion, " neat, trimly 
dressed," as unsoiled as if just taken from his band-box, 
and was delicately small, as if just compressed by steam 
power. His whole appearance proclaimed a dandy of 
the first water, and his nimble-parable, indefinite walk, 
soon placed him before me in all the glory of an animal, 
half monkey and half man. " And pray, my young gen- 
■ tleman, what disorder belongs to your sweet self? " " Sir," 
answered he, with a most exquisite lisp, " what disorder 
do you think becomes a gentleman of fortune and lei- 
sure ? " " Really, I know not, unless it be a certain dis- 
ease which shall be nameless." " Sir, it is dyspepsia. — 
dyspepsia is all tlie go, it is quite the rage in the fash- 
ionable world." " And what is dyspepsia, I pray your 
honor?" "Dyspepsia? why it is the most genteel, gen- 
tlemanly, delicate, sentimental disease now in vogue. It 
is very vulgar, 'pon honor, not to have the dyspepsia" 
I could contain my gravity no longer^ but found myself 
awake, laughing most heartily at the vision of the field 
of the incurables. 



Manners ! They are everything — they are nothing. 
All in them which we can describe or imitate, define, 
copy, or avoid, signifies very little, compared with that 
which remains indescribable, but still felt. The eye, 
the lip, the motion and gesture of every part of the body, ' 
may be trained never so carefully in the most polished 
school of art, and yet there shall remain an electric, at- 
mospheric medium, which shall make everything unto- 
ward and objectionable to our feelings. Yet this felt- 
electricity of society, is sometimes characterized as man- 
ner, and in this sense, manners are everything. 

I care not if a man stumble against a chair on enter- 
ing a room, hangs his head on one side, or even sits on 
his seat apparently at the peril of life and limb, provided 
his soul is of that social, kindly nature, which enables 
me to breathe freely, allows me to be just natural, and 
so operates upon me, that the best part of my nature is 
called into exercise. He who places me thus at home 
with myself, has most excellent manners; — they are 
everything — they are the whole man ; all the rest is the 
mere binding of the book ; it may be in morocco, it may 
be in coarse paper, but the internal meaning of the pages 
is not affected by it. This same grateful feeling is in-, 
spired by individuals of greatly differing character. I 
have found it in the awkward student, and even in the 
affected woman, where that affectation proceeded more 
from diffidence than vanity. The reserved and the talk- 


ative — the simple and natural — the cultivated and ac- 
quired manners, have each possessed this charm; and 
wherever it has been found, my heart has pronounced 
the manners good, and the presence of those who owned 
them has been profitable to the soul, while, on the con- 
trary, every social impulse has been checked, frozen, 
and distorted, by mingling with those with whose exter- 
nal deportment I could find no fault, and whose every 
. word, loofe^ and tone, obeyed the uttermost law of civility. 
I have seen those whose perfect self-possession, too haste 
or emergency, no impulse of feeling, or shade of human 
weakness, could betray into a breach of politeness, an 
infringement of dignity, or gleam of unconsciousness, yet 
so far were they from inspiring in me the secure self- 
possession they themselves preserved, that my wits 
oozed out at my fingers' ends ; more awkwardness than I 
thought myself capable of, suddenly manifested itself in 
every attempt at speech or movement, and my natural 
self departed, leaving a strange, contradictory, affected 
piece of blundering in its stead. When I have escaped 
from the presence of such mortals, I have gasped, as 
though I had just got rid of the nightmare, and the hor- 
rible impression of having appeared like a fool, before 
the most properly behaved people, has left an uneasiness, 
which hours could not remove. I have asked myself if 
these persons did not possess the evil eye ; for perhaps 
not one word has been spoken, one motion made, of 
which I felt that I had a right to complain, but the effect 
of their presence to me had been a spell — a conjuration 
of all untoward influences. Are not such the very worst 
of manners; polished, refined, and dignified, though they 
may be ? What can so truly frustrate every advantage 
of social intercourse, as the diffusing of so luckless au 
influence over poor, ordinary mortals ? 

Two conclusions, of some use perhaps, may be drawn, 

MAmusBs. 109 

if these descriptions of manners are correct The first 
is, that 't is the *ml which makes them good or bad. Let 
that be kind, gentle, loving, and true, and the manners 
cannot fail to please. The hating, lying spirit will come 
out . It has a door you can never shut Lock and bolt 
will not avail ; the only way is to make the soul pure 
and good, and then let it come and go as it will ; you 
wiM never blush for it 

The! second conclusion follows, that our standard of 
good manners should be rather in what we ./et^than 
what we see. If the effect of another's society has been 
to gratify and improve, quicken the intellect, or make 
more kindly the pulses of the heart, we need not hesitate 
to call his manners good, whatever the outward form 
they wore ; nor could all grace and dignity concentrated, 
prove those good which make us feel constrained, con- 
~ scious, uneasy, and, above all, unnatural 

Truly, manner is much. It is that which gives force to 
the preacher, — to the lecturer, — to all public speakers. 
We watch the eye and feature, and from these, apart from 
his theme, we inwardly like or dislike, the speaker. The 
words sink into our hearts, in proportion as they come from 
his, and we believe the preached word as the preacher 
himself seems to have faith in it 

In social life, it is this manner which makes the agreea- 
ble person. It is very marvellous that such persons are 
so rare. There are many entertaining, many witty, many 
sensible, many intelligent, many cultivated and refined, 
but among them all, very few that are agreeable. To be 
this, one must be more than bright, witty, intelligent or 
polished. One may be all these, and yet not that, and 
one may be agreeable, and yet not eminent in any one 
of these qualities. The agreeable person is one with 
whom we are acquainted from the first No intermina- 
ble layers of dignity, etiquette or reserve, have to be re- 


moved from bis soul by long acquaintanceship, before we 
can say we know it — we have it — it is our own* An 
intellectual quickness to take an idea, and a social quick- 
ness to sympathize with it, places him at once side by 
side with our mind and heart Such an one is a Mind 
Philanthropist, — a Home Missionary, whose mission is 
for every day and for common life. On his approach, the 
very hour and place grow brighter ; and a charm is dif- 
fused around which " creates a sphere," as Swedenhorg 
would say, that all feel who come into it Who would 
not be agreeable, thus to be a blessing always sought 
and welcomed ? Aye, we all of us have enough of the 
love of approbation to desire this enviable distinction, if 
it did not cost too much, and if we knew how so to be. 

That we should prefer another's convenience to our 
own, underlies all etiquette and ceremony ; but etiquette 
has learned to lie, that selfishness may be indulged, so 
that it cannot now be taken as the representative of dis- 
interestedness, but still, it points the way where the 
pleasant and the agreeable are found, and so becomes 

Mere laziness, or sluggishness of mould, often injures 
the manners. Some effort is necessary in order to adapt 
ourselves to the different natures with whom we come in 
contact, and the slothful do not feel ambition. enough to 
make it, even when there is nothing within which a would 
prevent success, if attempted, and so a veil remains, cov- 
ering up the soul which would be acceptable, if allowed 
to quicken and come out A stronger sense of the value 
and use of being agreeable, would be a benefit to such 
indifferent mortals. 

Let not one think he cannot be agreeable, because he 
has not the abundant gift of words. It is the spirit — 
the spirit within, and not the flowing speech, which de- 
termines our social qualities. I have seen those, who, 


by a cordial, receptive maimer of listening, and only an 
occasional word, had the enviable power of so aetiBg 
uf)on the heihgs with whom they associated, as to bring 
otrt full strains of that spiritual harmony, which inter- 
course 6f mind with mind alone can create. 

The cordial heart — the liberal mind — how much they 
can do, even in circumstances outwardly limited and ty- 
rannical. I think of one now, who, more than any other 
being I ever knew, exemplified this. When I first knew 
her, she was in a country village, with a brood of young, 
active, roguish children, and an invalid husband. Labor 
and domestic cares pressed upon her, with unwonted 
rigor. Though educated in ease and affluence, she was 
then in the possession of little more than absolute pov- 
erty. The plainest dress — the plainest house and fur- 
niture, of necessity contented her. Without influential 
relatives, without beauty of form or face, she was, in ex- 
ternals, destitute of all those possessions which usually 
attach to the first classes in society, and yet no woman 
in the village had so wide and so strong a social influ- 
ence as herself. She was admitted and welcomed by 
all circles, the young and the old, the grave and the gay, 
the poor and the rich, the sick and the well, and her social 
duties and pleasures were only limited by the time she 
could devote to them. Years after I met her in the city, 
and I* found that the arbitrary distinctions of city life 
were set aside to welcome her, even though a coarse 
dress and an uncarpeted floor received stylish ladies, 
when they called on her. And why was all this ? Not 
her merit and worth alone, for merit and worth often stay 
at home unsought by society ; but " he tbat would have 
friends, must show himself friendly" and this lady's man- 
ner was ever an illustration of that text. Children loved 
her always, for who like her understood and loved them ? 
The young and the gay sprang to meet her, for whose 


mirth was more catching than hers ? whose enjoyment of 
the flashes of wit more keen ? whose perception of the 
ludicrous more quick? The thoughtful and the sad 
found profoundest sympathy and encouragement in con- 
versing with her, for she too had suffered many ills, and 
could comprehend those which she had not herself ex- 
perienced. Gentle and unobtrusive in manner, her coun- 
tenance always spoke, and the stranger at once felt at 
home with her. Friend and stranger, childhood and 
age, women and men, all greeted her with pleasure, all 
fell the presence of the agreeable woman. She lives still, 
and when her mission here is ended, a large place on 
earth will be the poorer for her departure. 



The " Poetry of life," good gentlemen, you style us ; — 
You 're honorable men, and doubtless right ; 

But ah ! what mournful incongruities 
Do sometimes grate upon our sight ! 

tf *bl\ honorable men," and so of course we 're " Poetry," 

But Poetry, alas ! in wooden shoes ! 
Our "feet " do strangely halt and stumble, 

And stub — good sirs, does " Poetry" have toes? 

We blush, indeed, to walk, instead of soaring, 

But ah ! it is because we must ; 
And then what makes it still more shameful, 

Is that we sometimes " raise a dust." 

No wonder, for with care's dust and rubbish 
Our feet are cobwebbed, goodness knows ! 

Oh, dust and dirt are shocking sublunary, 
And make us seem a deal like prose ! 

'T is mournful, but we must confess we 've fallen, 
*And scarce can poesy's high title claim ; — 

To see, as \ did this day, one of the " Epics " 
Trying out fat, is such a burning shame ! 

'T was only yesterday I found a blue-eyed " Sonnet " 

Frying huge doughnuts with a sputter ! 
And an hour after, caught a blushing " Ballad " 

Spreading corn-bread and butter ! 


But henceforth we '11 do our best, though fallen, 

To make good our lawful claim ; 
The " Poetry of earth " we yet will prove ourselves, 

Instead of blushing at the name ! 

" Life is real, life is earnest," says some ninny j 

He'd keep us in a. charming flutter! 
But we, being proved life's u Poetry," 

No longer* mean to mind life's clutter ! 

So give us sway, and we will give you " Poetry," -— 

Epic, Sonnet, Ode, and Ballad ; — 
Only when we 're on our loftiest pinions, 

Po n't ask for Lobster Salad ! 




I DREAMED DOt long agO 

I stood on a rocky steep — - 
On a cliff by the ocean's strand ; - 
And I looked far over the land, 

And down on the glorious deep. 

Beneath me, in gallant trim, 

A stately bark lay moored, 
The surge its dark side laving, — 
Gaily its flag was waving, 

And a pilot stood on board. 

And behold there. came from the mountains 

A merry, merry band ; 
Bedecked with garlands bright, 
They seemed like spirits of light 

As they tripped along the strand. 

" Say, pilot, wilt thou take us ? " 
— " What nymphs be ye so gay ? " 

— " Earth's Joys and Pleasures are we, 

From earth we fain would flee, 
! bear us from earth away ! " 


Then the pilot, he bade them enter ; 

And they entered one by one. 
" Bnt tell me, are here all ? 
Are none left in bower or hall ? " 

And they answered, " There are none." 

Away ! then ; — the bark unmoored 
Leap'd gaily from anchor's thrall ; 
And away she sped with a glorious motion, 
And I saw them vanish over the ocean, — 
Earth's Joys and Pleasures all. 



It pass'd away, it pass'd away, 
Thou canst not hear the sound to-day ; 
; Twas water lost upon the ground, 
Or wind that vanisheth in sound ; 
Oh ! who shall gather it, or tell 
How idly from the lip it fell. , . 

'Tis written with an iron pen; 
And thou shalt hear it yet again ! 
A solemn thing it then shall seem 
To trifle with a holy theme. 
Oh ! let our lightest accent be, 
Fit echo for Eternity. 


1 18 


Summer's wind, so wildly sighing, 
Mournfullest of numbers plying, 
Ever loneliest lessons teaching, 
Murmuring low, or fitful screeching, 
Wherefore Summer wind so sadly ? 
Wherefore Summer wind so madly % 
Earth and sky are bright and glowing, 
Fairest hues of beauty showing ; 
Thou thyself art not in keeping, 
Thy complaining harp-strings sweeping ; 
Thou hast stolen all that '§ charming 
Out of nature with thy psalming, 
And all through me while I 'm sitting, 
All the bluest " blues " are flitting. 

I do half believe, a demon, 
Vexed that Summer's glories teem on, 
Far above us keeps a-mocking, 
Whistling, railing, taunting, rocking, 
All our spirits so infusing, 
That our wits we half are losing. 
Oh be quiet with thy raving ! 
Fiend of air ! all Nature braving ! 
Or if thou must e'en be roaring, 
Plaints and murmurs still outporing, 
Come in dreary Winter season, 
Then thy song had better reason ; 


Snow and hail, and rain in keeping, 
We could bear thy wild o'er-leaping ; 
But, we pray thee, spoil not for us, 
Summer's glories beaming o'er us. 

Bangor, June, 1845. 



It was the birth-night of S^nhor Henrique, the eldest 

son of Baron P , and heir-apparent to his title and 

enormous wealth. He had that day attained his ma- 
jority, and as the elated and happy father presented him 
to the assembled guests, they felt that he had cause to 
be proud of such a son. His figure was tail, consider- 
ably above the average height of his countrymen, and, 
though somewhat too slight, was symmetrical and grace- 
ful. His face was pronounced, by the young senhoras, 
to be "bonito;" his manners were extremely prepos- 
sessing, nor were his personal advantages rendered less 
attractive by the rich military costume in which he was 
arrayed. At the age of nineteen years, weary of an 
inactive and monotonous life, and thirsting for renown, 
he at length obtained the consent of his father to enter 
upon the arduous and dangerous profession to which he 
aspired. He repaired to the capital of the empire, and, 
presenting himself at the royal palace, signified to the 
king his desire to enter the army, and join the forces 
recently sent by his majesty to defend the southwestern 
frontier of Brazil against the encroachments of a power- 
ful and hostile people, with whom the Brazilians were at 
war. Pleased with the daring and ambitious spirit of 
the youth, the king granted him a commission, and in 
every subsequent engagement with the enemy, the 
young officer was distinguished for his skill and in- 


trepidity, and won the admiration and esteem of able 
and experienced officers, by his praiseworthy deportment 
and military prowess. His fame had reached the ears of 
his distant friends, and, at the termination of the war, he 
was received by kinsmen and acquaintance with the 
most enthusiastic welcome. 

. The residence of Baron P was in one of the 

northern provinces of that vast empire. He was the 
possessor of untold wealth in lands, houses, herds, and 
slaves ; mid, better than all these, he was rich in domes* 
tic affections, and a benevolent and unselfish spirit. 

Though a Portuguese by birth, he loved the country of 
his adoption ; and his vast possessions and moral worth 
rendered him one of the most respected and influential 
citizens in that section of the country. Surrounded by 
all that renders life pleasant and desirable, he dreamed 
riot of the darfc and fearful shadows which were already 
gathering around him. 

Thft Cfca de Campo was situated at the distance of a 
league from the provincial capital ; the highly cultivated 
grounds surrounding it, were laid out with remarkable 
taste, arid embellished with rare and beautiful shrubs and 
trees, of native and foreign growth. The Orange, the 
Lemon, and the Linden, mingled their glossy foliage and 
fragrant blossoms with the stately Palm and the grace- 
ful Cocoa; and the strangely beautiful "Jasmine de 
Cayenne," presenting the singular spectacle of a tree cov- 
ered with bright flowers ere it has put forth a leaf of 
green, contrasted finely with the dark verdure and wide 
spreading branches of the Mango ; the walks were bor- 
dered with Ananas and Geraniums; birds of gay plu- 
mage haunted these delightful groves; and gushing 
fountains sent forth a pleasing and perpetual music, " as 
of soft showers on water." On three sides of the exten- 
sive mansion were broad verandas, paved and roofed with 


tiles, and surrounded by a low wall of great thickness, in 
which, at the distance of a few feet from each other, were 
cavities of considerable depth, filled with rich mould, and 
each containing some shrub, remarkable either for fra- 
grance or beauty. Tulips, Oleanders, white Jasmines, An- 
gelicas, and numerous varieties of the Rose, delighted the 
eye of the beholder, and all this floral magnificence light- 
ed up by hundreds of colored lamp? on the night of the 
Festival, appeared like a scene of enchantment Nor was 
the interior of the building less remarkable for its costly 
adorning and regal splendor ; the walls of the reception 
room were hung with silken damask — the floor was cov- 
ered with a carpet of gorgeous dyes from Persian looms ; 
the couches were covered with Genoa velvet, and the 
pillows were of the softest down ; glittering chandeliers, 
and candelabras of massive silver, shed their brilliance 
upon proud Senhors and handsome Senhoras, gaily at- 
tired, sparkling with gold and precious gems. The ban- 
quet was sumptuous ; the rarest viands, and the richest 
wines, attested the munificent hospitality of the enter- 
tainer. When the guests were assembled at the festive 
board, a band of concealed musicians poured forth a strain 
of soft, sweet music, that thrilled the heart of every lis- 
tener — suddenly it changed to a wild and spirit-stirring 
martial air, whose tones had often inspired the young 
hero of the evening on the battle-field, and gradually sub- 
sided again to the plaintive and subdued melody. To 
these, several popular national airs succeeded, sung by 
female voices, accompanied by the guitar and mandolin. 
When the repast was concluded, the host led the way to 
a spacious s&la; in the confusion of the crowd, Henrique 
heard his name pronounced in a low, but distinct tone, 
and turning hastily to discover the speaker, saw at his 
side the lovely Inez Vtera, whom he had known and 
loved since the days of his boyhood ; he saw that she 


had that instant arrived, for the dark mantilla she had 
worn in the cadeirinha that conveyed her from the city, 
yet enveloped her person ; she evidently sought to es- 
cape observation, and without waiting to reply to his cor- 
dial salutation, hurriedly whispered, " Meet me in the 
.Oratory, an hour hence — I have something of the ut- 
most importance to communicate/' and drawing her veil 
closely over her face, instantly disappeared from his sight. 
Bewildered with the unexpected summons, and startled 
by her strange and confused manner, he was on the point 
of repairing at once to the rendezvous, but remembering 
that he would be expected to lead in the first dance of 
the evening, and his absence would excite great wonder, 
if not alarm, he mentally decided that it would be more 
prudent to wait till the time specified ; ere the hour had 
elapsed, under the pretext of fatigue, and a slight indis- 
position, he withdrew from the gay throng, and directing 
his steps to the Oratory, found the Senhora already 
awaiting him. 

" Amigo minha," exclaimed the maiden, " I ought, per- 
haps, to apologize for thus interrupting the pleasures of 
this happy evening, but I know not what to do — my 
father leaves the city early to-morrow morning, to spend 

some weeks in the province of M , and insists 

that I shall accompany him, and not daring to entrust my 
important secret to a messenger, I have sought a person- 
al interview. Our country is on the eve of a great polit- 
ical change, which I fear will terminate in a civil war. 
You are aware that the native Brazilians, in our northern 
provinces, have long been disaffected towards the king ; 
a conspiracy has been formed against his person and gov- 
ernment, and, unless he can be prevailed upon to return 
immediately to Portugal, he will be deprived of power, 
if not of life. I am acquainted with the names of many 
individuals who are concerned in this infamous plot, 


for (with shame I avow it,) they have often assembled 
at the house of my father, to arrange and mature their 
schemes. Believing, probably, that I was too young and 
giddy to notice what was said upon a subject so uninter- 
esting as politics, my father suffered me to enter the sAla, 
whenever I chose to do so ; many words of fearfhl im- 
port met my ear, yet I betrayed no visible emotion, but 
carefully treasured them up that I might, if possible, 
avert the threatened danger. To-night, as the Senhor 
Vincent Znra was on his way hither, he called, and find- 
ing my father from home, made but a brief stay; after 
his departure, I picked up this sealed paper, and judging 
from its size and form, as well as its lack of a superscrip- 
tion, that it probably related to the matter of which I 
have been speaking, I concealed it in the folds of my 
dress, and retired to my own room. He shortly after re* 
turned to search for it, apparently greatly concerned at 
the loss, offering a considerable reward to old Diogo, if 
he would find and deliver it, either to my father or him- 
self. You are, I know, a favorite with the monarch, and 
I have sought you, to beg you to devise a method to in- 
form him of his danger, and save him from his peril, with- 
out involving my only surviving parent in disgrace and 

" Stay, Inez, I have something to say to you in my own 
behalf; have you forgotten the happy days when you 
confessed that I was dearer to you than all the world be- 
side ? Do I find you changed ? " 

" Henrique, speak not to me now of love ; my sen- 
timents towards you are unalterable — but, with the 
knowledge that my father was in league with traitors, 
that the life of our sovereign is in danger, and the 
country threatened with a revolution, there is no room 
in my heart for softer emotions. I have, with the most 
perfect trust, confided to your keeping the awful secret 


which burdened my soul, and I believe that time will 
prove that my reliance on your aid was not vain ! 
Senhor, adios ! " 

When Henrique had somewhat recovered from the 
surprise which her alarming intelligence and abrupt de- 
parture occasioned, he drew near a small lamp suspend- 
ed from the ceiling of the chapel, and breaking the seal 
of the paper she had given him, found it to contain a lisf 
of the names of the principal conspirators, which had 
doubtless been drawn up to be sent by the Senhor Bay* 
mondo Vtera to their confederates in the Province of 
M ■ To his great joy, it contained not the name 

of a single Portuguese. 

A few moments of reflection enabled him to decide 
upon the course he ought to pursue, and with a serene 
countenance/but a heavy heart, he returned to the bril- 
liant assemblage in the s&la. 

In music, dancing and merriment, the hours sped swift* 
ly, and the night was far advanced, ere the company sep- 
arated; numerous were the flatteries, congratulations, and 
kindly wishes whispered in the ears of the happy father, 
and the envied son ; but at length, like the proverbs of 
the wise man, they were " ended," and the last of the 
mirthful assemblage departed from the Cdsa de Campo. 
The weary inmates retired to their respective apart- 
ments. Henrique repaired to that occupied by his eldest 
sister, Beatriz, and informed her of his intended journey. 
She besought him with tears to tell her the cause of his 
strange ■ determination, but this, he assured her, he was 
not at liberty to divulge ; he could only infohn her that it 
was a matter of the utmost importance, and would ad- 
mit of no delay, but that he hoped to be able to return 
within eight or ten weeks. Many kind and tender mes- 
sages to his parents and the younger members of the 
family were entrusted to her, to be delivered on the mor- 


row, and their conversation was interrupted all too soon, 
by the entrance of his faithful servant Felippe, who gave 
notice that his horse was in readiness, and daylight at 
hand. He folded his beloved sister in his arms in a long 
and fond embrace, vaulted into his saddle, and home and 
friends were soon left far behind. 

They proceeded as far as was practicable, on horse- 
back. Henrique then hired an Indian to take them in a 

canoe to M , found a vessel in readiness to sail for 

the desired haven, and after a passage of three weeks, 
landed in safety at Rio Janeiro. 

The mission of the brave young officer was successfully 
accomplished. The king and his family were induced 
to embark secretly in a ship bound to Lisbon, and his 
treacherous subjects were thus foiled in their murderous 
designs. Filled with the deepest anxiety for the fate 
of the loyalists in the North, Henrique hastened home- 
ward, for he judged that the plans of the Provincials 

must be nearly ripe for execution. At M he heard 

rumors which served to heighten his solicitude, and urge 
him forward with the utmost speed. After an absence 
of eight weeks he reached once more the Casa de Campo, 
and found it desolate and forsaken ; an old and faithful 
slave, named Miguel, was the only human being that re- 
mained on the premises, and from him he learned the 
particulars of what had transpired. 
. A few days subsequent to his departure, the Brazil- 
ians, fearful that the missing paper had fallen into the 
hands of the loyalists, and thus their design might in 
the end be frustrated, determined at once to destroy or 
make prisoners of all the Portuguese residents. In order 
to execute this diabolical intention, many slaves were 
induced, by threats and bribery, to betray their masters. 
One evening, as Miguel was returning at a late hour from 
the city, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, 


and voices engaged in earnest conversation ; he conceal- 
ed himself by the road-side till they should have passed 
by; but to his great dismay they halted near his hiding- 
place, and in one of the number he recognized a fellow- 
servant, who agreed on the following night to deliver into 
their hands the keys of the Baron's house, and to receive, 
as the reward of his perfidy, his freedom and a small 
sum of money. As soon as they were fairly out of sight, 
Miguel hastened, as fast as his aged limbs would permit, 
%o inform his master of his danger. The negro was 
seized and closely confined ; the trusty Miguel was then 
despatched with orders from the Baron to the captain of 
one of his vessels lying in the harbor, to drop down the 
river as quietly as possible, under cover of the darkness, 
and anchor in a small cove, about three miles distant, 
and from there to send his boat ashore with Miguel, and 
wait for further instructions. By this arrangement all 
the plate, jewelry, and other valuables at the Casa de 
Campo were safely bestowed on board, without exciting 
suspicion, and the Baron himself, at the earnest entreaty 
of his wife and children, embarked for his native land, 
to secure this treasure for their future use, and prepare 
a home for their future abode whenever it should be 
practicable for his family to rejoin him. The Baroness 
then hastened to the city, and placed herself and her 
children under the protection of the British Consul, 
where Henrique rejoined them. With mingled emotions 
of pride and thankfulness the mother listened to the 
narrative of her beloved son, and for a time their unhap- 
py situation was forgotten in their joy at having secured 
the safety of two beings so venerated and dear. 

Many scenes of wanton cruelty and bloodshed were 
enacted during the period of anarchy and misrule which 
the people were pleased to term the "revolution." The 
hand of the son was raised against the life of his father, 


and all the ties of kindred, and even the common claims 
of humanity, were totally disregarded; it was truly a rev- 
olution, but its tendency was from bad to worse. Polit- 
ical factions multiplied to an alarming degree, and each 
clamorously insisted that their respective leaders should 
be promoted to the highest office in the misnamed re- 
public. At last, the people, weary of tumult and dissen- 
sion, with one voice demanded a ruler and a government ; 
they professed themselves satisfied with their revolution- 
ary experiment, and recalling the eldest son of their late 
king from the banishment into which they had driven 
him, he was crowned and enthroned with joyful acclama- 
tions, and assumed the title of " P&lro the First" The 
embryo republic was gladly consigned to oblivion, and 
a limited monarchy established in its stead. 

The Senhor Vtera was assassinated in the city of 

M , and shortly after, Inez returned to her solitary 

home. When peace was once more restored, Henrique 
collected the wreck of his father's vast fortune, pur- 
chased a suitable residence for his family, and the fair 
orphan became his bride. 

For a long time no tidings were received of the Baron, 
and their inquiries concerning him were fruitless. At last 
they became convinced that the vessel was lost at sea, 
and all on board had perished. Many years afterwards, 

a sailor in the hospital at M , in his dying moments, 

confessed that he was one of the piratical crew that 
plundered the missing vessel, destroyed the lives of all 
on board, and afterwards burned their prize. 

Not one of the survivors could ever be induced to 
live again at the Cdsa de Campo, haunted as it was with 
the memories of happier days. It became a neglected 
and unsightly ruin, the habitation of owls and bats ; and 
at the present time not a vestige remains of the splendor 
which has forever passed away. 




Lenora, just at blush of mom 

Arose from dreams opprest; 
" Art dead, my love, or faithless grown ? 

Oh, how long lingerest?" 
He had with royal Frederic's force 
Been borne along in battle's course, 
And had no tidings sent 
Of health in banishment. 

At last the Empress and the King, 

Tired of dissension's tone, 
Their ruthless spirits softening, 

A final peace made known. 
And now each host, with merry twang, 
With kettle drum, and clash and clang, 
Adorned with branches green, 
Approaching home is seen. 

And old and young from every way. 

Each road and bridge along, 
Come forth to meet the jubilee 

Of the returning throng.— 
" Thank God ! " the child and consort cried, 
And " Welcome ! " many a joyous bride ; 
But for our hapless maid, 
No kiss or greeting staid. 


She searched the gallant ranks throughout, 
And asked for every name; 

But none from William tidings brought, 
Of all that homeward came. 

And when the shining hosts had passed, 

Herself upon the earth she cast, 

And tore her raven hair, 

With gestures of despair. 

The mother ran with haste to see j — 

" God, pity the distressed ! 
Thou darling ehild, what aitest thee ? " - 

And clasped her to her breast. 
" Oh, mother, mother, gone is gone I 
Now may the world and all be gone! 
With God no mercies be ! 
Oh, woe to wretched me ! " 

" Help, Father, help ! Look kindly down ! 

Thy Paternoster, child ! 
What God does, that must well be done ! 

Pity, oh God, thy child ! » 
" Oh, mother, vain the thought must be ! 
For God has not well done to me ! 
What did roy prayer avail ? 
Now all things else must fail.** 

" Help, Father, help ! — Whoe'er Him knows, 
Knows that he helps the child ! 

The sacrament will bring repose, 
And make thy sorrow mild ! " 

" Oh, mother, mother, to my woes, 

No sacrament will bring repose ! 

No sacrament will make 

The shrouded dead awake ! " 

LENORA. 131 

1 Hear, child ! What if the faithless youth 

In Hungary's far off land, 
Has pledged again his perjured troth 

In a new marriage band 1 
Oh, let, vain child, his heart go free! 
No gain to him 'twill ever be ! 
When soul and body part, 
His crime will scorch his heart." 

" Oh, mother, mother, gone is gone ! 
And lost is quite forlorn ! 
Death, death's the gain I count upon ! 

Oh, had I ne'er been born ! 
Go out, go out, my earthly light ! 
Oh, die away in void and night ! 
With Go£ no mercies be ! 
Oh, woe to wretched me ! " 

" Help, Father, help ! Judge not in wrath 

This erring child of thine ! 
She knows not what she madly saith ; 

Charge not to her the sin ! 
Oh, dwell, my child, on sorrow less, 
And think on God and blessedness ! 
Then shall thy lifted mind 
The living Bridegroom find ! " 

" Oh, mother, what is blessedness ? 

Oh, mother, what is Hell } 
With him, with him, is blessedness, 

And without William, Hell ! 
Go out, go out, my earthly light ! 
Oh, die away, in void and night ! 
Without my love, no bliss, 
In earth or heaven is ! " 


Thus raged despair with demon power 
In whirling brain and rein !, 

And still she dared each passing hour, 
The will of God arraign. 

She wrong her hands, she beat her breast, 

Until the sun had sank to rest, 

And in the vaulted sky 

The golden stars went by. 

And without, hearken ! tramp I tramp ! tramp ! 

As hoof of steed were there ; 
And clatter! clatter! with the tramp, 

A horseman treads the stair. 
And hark! and hark! a stealthy ring 
Goes lowly, slowly, kling, kling, kling ! 
Then through the portals barred, 
These accents clear are heard. 

" Who's there ? who's there 1 The gates undo ! 
Dost wake, my love, or sleep? 
How fares thy William with thee now ? 
And dost thou laugh or weep 1 " 
" Ah ! William, thou ! At night so late ? 
I've wept for thee, and I have waked ; 
Forlorn has been my plight; 
Whence earnest thon to-night ? " 

" I saddled but since yester eve, 
And from Bohemia come ; 
I 've made it late, and with thy leave, 
Will take thee with me home ! ? ' 
" Ah, William, first come quickly in ! 
For through the hawthorn howls the wind ! 
Come in, within mine arm, 
Dearest, thyself to warm ! " 

" Then let the Wind its dirges sipg, 
And howl through hawthorn sere ! 

The steed does paw ! The spar, does ring ! 
I dare- not linger here ! 

Come robe thyself, and mount with me, 

Upon ray courser fleet and free ! 

To bridal bed, our way, 

A hundred miles ere day ! n ■ ' 

" A hundred miles ere day dost go, 
With me to bridal bed? 
And hark ! the clock is' sounding now ! 
Eleven hours have sped." — 
" See there ! see there 1 The moon shines bright ! 
We and the dead ride, fast to-night ! 
To-night, I wager thee, 
Our nuptial couch we see 1 " 

" Where is thy nuptial chamber, where ? 

And where thy bride's repose ? n — 
" Still, cool and small, far, far from here, — 

Eight boards my home compose I " 
" Hast room for me} " — " For thee and me ! 
Come, robe thyself, and mount with me ! 
The bridal guests do wait, 
And open stands the gate.' 7 

Then robed the maid, and bounded light 

Upon the steed behind ; 
And round her dear and gallant knight 

Her lily hands she twined. 
And whizzing, whirring, splash I splash ! splash ! 
In whistling gallop, on they dash ! 
And sparks in merry rout, 
And pebbles wheel about! 



To right and left their gianoe before, 
How flies each heath and hedge ! 
How flies each waring green and shore ! 
How thunders every bridge 1 
" Dost fear, my love 1 The moon shines bright ! 
Hurrah ! the dead ride fast to-night I 
Dost fear, my lore, the dead ? n ~ 
" Ah no ! but leave the dead ! " 

What sounds of wail are borne along t 

Why flits the raven past ? 
Hark t tolling bell ! hark ! burial song ! — 

" Now take we dust to dust ! w — 
And funeral train draws slowly near, 
Bearing a coffin and a bier. 
Like the frog's evening moan, 
Is the hoarse requiem's tone. 

" At midnight's hour inter the dead, 

With wail, and clang, and song ! 

Now bear I home the bride I wed ; 

Come, join the nuptial throng r 
Come, sexton, here ! come with the choir, 
And sing the bridal song before t 
Come, priest, the blessing speak, 
Ere our repose we seek ! " 

Hushed song and clang ; — fast fades the bier ; - 

And to his call resigned, 
Whiz, whiz, and whirr, the hosts appear, 

His horse's hoofs behind 1 
And ever faster, splash t splash ! splash ! 
In whistling gallop, on they dash I 
And sparks in merry rout, 
And pebbles wheel about t 

LtNOft&. - 1Z6 

How flies t> the right, how flies V the left, 

Each: mountain, hedge, and tree ! 
How to the left, and right and left, 
Each town and Tillage flee ! 
" Dost fear, ray love ! The moon shines bright ! 
Hurrah t the dead ride fast to-night ! 
Dost fear, my love, the dead 1" 
" Ah ! leave to rest the dead l» 

See there 1 see there I on gallows height, 

Revolving round the wheel, 
Half seen beneath the moonbeam's light, 

An airy rabble reel ! 
" Holloa ! ye phantom crew, come down ! 
Ye rabble, come and follow on 1 
And dance onr bride-dance gay 
When we in slumber lay ! '*■ 

And la ! the rabble, brush ! brash ! brush ! 

Come clattering on behind, 
As whistles in the hazle-bush, 

Through withered leaves, the wind ! 
Ana* faster, faster, splash ! splash 1 splash ! 
In whistling gallop on they dash 1 
And sparks in merry root, 
And pebbles wheel about 1 

How flies whatever the moonbeams eye, 

In distance fading far ! 
How flies the vaulted heaven on high, 
And every golden star ! 
" Dost fear, my love ? The moon shines bright ! 
Hurrah \ the dead ride fast to-night ! 
Dost fear, my love, the dead ? n 
" Oh, leave to rest the dead ! " 


" Bub I barb I methinks the leook orows clear ; 

Soon wiU the sands be ran.;-— 
Barb I barb 1 I snarl the morning ait ; — 

Forward I the goal is won! 
Oat race is done, dur journey o'er, 
The bridal bed yawns wide before ! 
Hurrah! the dead ride fast ! 
We've reached the spot at last I": 

Headlong upon an iron-bound gate 
With furious speed they went ; 

One gentle touch upon the grate, 
And lock and bar are rent I 

The portal, elattering, open flew, 

While they o'er graves their coarse pursue, 

And tombstones glitter white, 

In the mood's lonely light 

But look ! bat look { a moment's space, 

And lo ! a marvel great ! 
The rider's doublet, piece by pieee, 

Falls mouldering at his feet ! 
A hairless skull his head became! ; 
A naked skeleton his frame I 
Wielding a scythe in hand, 
Counting an hour-glass' sand ! • 

The steed reared high, he snorted loud, 

And spouted sparks of fire ; 
And lo ! beneath the maid he bowed, 

And melted into air ! 
Howls, dismal howls, fill air around, 
And deeper groans eonvulse the ground ! 
Lenora's heart and breath 
Struggle 'twixt life and death ! 

LENORA. 137 

Now underneath the moonbeam dim, 

In circles gliding slow, 
Pale ghosts join hands in dances grim, 

And howl these words of woe ; — 
" Be patient ! and tho' heart may rend, 
With God in heaven dare not contend ! 
Of body dispossessed, 
God grant thy spirit rest ! n 



A gentleman who was addressed by one of the com- 
pilers, requesting a contribution for the , replied as 

follows : 


" You ask for something in the shape of an essay, a 
tale, or a poem. 

" Had you asked me to swim the Penobscot river cross- 
wise, lengthwise, or otherwise, at any given angle, with 
or against the current, I should have answered, • sink or 
swim, live or die, survive or perish/ I will make the es- 
say. Had you even imposed on me the harder task of 
assigning a good reason for the Mexican war, I might 
have made, as others have, a hopeless, essay to find out 
and set forth some rational, some national, or some phi- 
lanthropic motive therefor. Not that I deem myself 
equal to such Herculean feats, or indeed believe that the 
last is morally possible. But they might at least be at- 
tempted, whereas in the case at hand, 

. 'The attempt, and not the deed 
Confounds me.' 

" So much for an essay. As to a story, I never wrote 
one in my life. O, that I had never told one ! A young 
lady being asked whether she could speak French, re- 
plied with logical precision : • I do not know, sir, for I 
never tried/ My late sad experience deprives me of 
even that poor reply. I was lately travelling with a lit- 


tie boy who has such a mania for stories, that he haunt- 
ed me in steamboats, cars, and hotels, with ceaseless pe- 
titions for 'original stories founded on fact. 1 Placing 
himself in a listening attitude, he would say, ' I am all 
ready ! Come, once there was a boy — now do begin ! ' 
Such importunity was of course irresistible, and I was 
thus betrayed into several attempts to beguile the* time 
by extemporaneous fiction. But, upon my word, some 
incongruity in the plot, some inconsistency of character, 
anachronism, or other absurdity, was always sure to af- 
ford the boy vastly more entertainment, at the expense, 
too, of my reputation as an author, than the choicest 
and most brilliant passages I could invent. Finding it 
impossible to come up to a standard of excellence so 
diminutive, I resolved that to the like request hereaf- 
ter, by any child more than seven years old, I would make 
but one reply — 

* Story! God 'bless you, 
I have none to tell ! * 

" But why should I refuse to write apoem? 

* Descend from Heaven, Urania, by that name 
If rightly thou art caU'dV 

And since, O heavenly muse, for all my disinterested 
love thou hast never, from my youth upwards, vouch- 
safed a single feather from a wing of thine to waft my 
soul to thy serene abode, or even to fan its murky as- 
pirations into poetic flame, grant me at least the gravity 
of Minerva's bird, while I make solemn protestation of 
thy unkindness. Lest thou be left to deny the charge, 

' I call the phantoms of a thousand hours, 
Each from its voiceless grave/ 

— to bear witness how long and how hopelessly I have 


wooed thee. Never again shall thy oft rejected lover 
dare ' to call thee from thy sacred hill. 1 No ! not even 
to aid this heavenly cause, which should he dear to thee 
and all thy sisters. To thee, ungrateful muse, I offer no 
' apology for the coldness and hardness of a heart which 
thy own cruelty alone has congealed. But to thy sisters 
here" below, I submit the humble plea of despair, trust- 
ing that they will commend the alienation of that love 
which has never been encouraged by a smile of thine, 
and applaud my final resolve to abandon the hopeless 
pursuit of thy favor." 
:■.#•. .# # # # 

These excuses, though certainly very acceptable, were 
in one sense not accepted. The gentleman was written 
to again, in behalf: of the managers, and informed that 
unless he sent them something else, they were deter- 
mined to publish his letter. This drew forth the follow- 
ing rejoinder. After acknowledging the receipt of the 
letter, and alluding to the' alarming sentence aforesaid, 
he goes on thus : — 

"An alarming sentence did I say? I should rather 
call it terrific. Had it been a sentence of death, I would 
not have opened my mouth to complain, or pointed my 
pen to reply. I should have welcomed the opportunity 

'In some good cause, not in my own, 
To perish, wept for, honored, known. 1 

But instead of a consummation so glorious, & sentence 
of perpetual ignominy stares me in the face. Is it pos- 
sible that I read it rightly, and that a private letter of 
mine is condemned to pnblic disgrace, 4 unless I send 
them something else/ for a sacrifice. * Is this the opin- 
ion of the whole court, and do you mean to print it?' 
That is the question ; the same that was once put to the 
Chief-Justice of the Supreme Court by a member of 


the bar, in his utter dismay at hearing an unlooked-for 
decision against bis client Well may it be repeated 
with variations on the present occasion. Dare yon print 
it ? Though bent on punishing me, have yon no more 
regard for your own literary reputation than to print it*? 
Jf you are feckless of that and of the credit of the city 
too, have you no more pity for the little orphans than to 
print it? Nothing but the testimony under your own 
hand and seal, would make me believe that tender hearts 
could harbor such revenge. But there stands the fatal 
sentence, so plain that he who runs may read, and so 
startling that he tf ho reads must run. In hopes to de- 
tect some other meaning, I have gazed at it till ' my eyes 
are dim with childish tears/ O, that they could wash 
away the words. But what would that avail ? ' Not all 
the water in the rough rude sea/ No, nothing but a 
Bangor ice-freshet could obliterate the memory of them. 

"It was quite unnecessary for you to add that 'this 
affair is no joke.' I believe you, or, if it be a joke, it 
has but ode precedent in authentic history. To that 
precedent I will for your sake briefly advert, with some 
hope, that by contemplating a true picture of the war 
you are waging, your hearts may yet be softened, and 
your cruel sentence be unconditionally revoked. I al- 
lude to the celebrated siege which called forth from the 
expiring representative of the afflicted inhabitants of 
Frogpondom that heart-rending protest against their tor- 
mentors, which has justly acquired a world-wide fame, 
by no means limited to his own race. I sincerely hope 
I am np croaker, but in the present emergency I should 
adopt the immortal language of that remonstrance, were it 
adequate to express my own more desperate fate. ' It may 
be sport to you/ ladies, but it is worse than death to me. 

" A variety of moral and political reflections are sug- 
gested by that historical passage, upon which, were I in 

7* A 


a calmer mood, I should delight to expatiate. Even now 
I cannot forbear to remark, that their memorable remon- 
strance may justly occupy in the archives of that peo- 
ple a niche as conspicuous as that which in English his- 
tory is assigned to Magna Charta, and in our own, to 
the Declaration of Independence. It would be difficult 
to decide which of these three great efforts has accom- 
plished the most for the cause of liberty. Precisely the 
same thing that was effected in England by a dignified 
and temperate assertion of popular rights, and in Amer- 
ica by the enumeration of public wrongs, and a soul- 
stirring defiance of tyranny, was brought about in Frog- 
pondom by a simple and touching appeal to the hearts 
of all boykind. In a literary point of view, it is equal- 
ly difficult to decide between the merits of these inval- 
uable documents. The language of the English charter 
is the most logical, correct and perspicuous ; that of the 
American ' declaration the most bold, flowing and ener- 
getic ; while the appeal of the great Frogpondian so far 
surpasses either in conciesness, simplicity, and pathos, that 
I am more than half inclined to pronounce it the best. 
The most signal proof of its superior merit is the impres- 
sion it has made upon the language of the race. They 
all have a plaintive semitone, so peculiar, that if you 
meet one of them in the darkest night, you are sure to 
detect his nationality by the clear, resounding, nasal 
twang of the first word he utters. Some authors attrib- 
ute this peculiarity to the effect of strangulation during 
the siege. Allow me to remark, that such paltry critics, 
in attempting to show the delicacy of their ears, only ex- 
pose the enormous length of them. They do not dis- 
tinguish the guttural sound, which, of course, was c&used 
by water, from the plaintive, nasal tone, which is whol- 
ly due to the moral effect of that pathetic expostulation. 
"I cannot suppose that speculations like these will 


interest yon. But having seized upon the subject! as a 
drowning man will catch at a straw, I cling to it with 
desperation, as my only refuge from the contemplation 
of the dire alternative to which you have doomed me. 
Moreover, I agree with Emerson, that 

' The politics are base, 

The letters do not cheer, 
And 't is far in the depth of history, 
The voice that tpeaketh clear: 

I will therefore indulge myself at your expense, if you 
read on, in a consideration of the remarkable changes 
which the appeal aforesaid has effected in the condition 
and prospects of that interesting race. The commence- 
ment of the siege lies buried in the shadowy depths of 
a remote and obscure antiquity, unfathomed by the sound- 
ing-line of history, unheard from even in the echoes of 
tradition, which have all fainted and died on their wea- 
ry way, and as yet unexplored by geology itself, with 
its huge antennae stretching far beyond the Flood. I 
therefore leave that point to the researches of the Ban- 
gor Antiquarian Society, suggesting to that learned body, 
as a possible clue to the mystery, that as 

c We see mankind the same in every age, 1 

we may not unreasonably infer the same of boys. On 
this hypothesis, the true date will be found a long time 
previous to the siege of Troy, even when Adam was a 
little boy. It is well known, that up to the period of 
their emancipation from the siege, the condition of the 
Frogpondians was one of universal submersion, and that 
consequently their prospects were extremely limited. 
Indeed, as to their having any extensive views or agree- 
able prospects, they might just as well have been buried 
alive. Their liberty, also, was equally circumscribed. 


To take the air and to take a pelting, were with then 
synonymous expressions. Even their constitutional right 
of grumbling was lost The voice of complaint was 
drowned. The most vigorous choir of croakers could 
only raise a few extra bubbles, which burst unheard into 
empty air. Their sufferings were intolerable. Some 
swelled and burst with smothered grief or rage. Some 
took to hard drinking, and so ended their miserable days. 
Whoever dared show his head above water, instantly be- 
came the sure mark and victim of the besiegers. The 
whole race must have become extinct,, had it not been 
for the anonymous hero, patriot, and martyr, Whose dy- 
ing Words, ' It may be sport to you, boys, but it is death 
to us/ sent horror and remorse through the hearts of 
their natural enemies, the Urchins. The siege was forth- 
with abandoned, and as often as it has been renewed, 
the edho of those words has paralyzed the urchin's ami, 
and 'let the oppressed go free.' It is true, that during 
the tender period of their minority, they are still con- 
fined to the ancient, fish-like life of their remote ances- 
tors. But when they graduate from the school of tad- 
poles, they receive the degree of L. L. M», which is, by 
amplification, Legum et libertatis magister, and by inter- 
pretation, master of legs and liberty to use them, or, ac- 
cording to some critics, master of liberty, with legs to 
abuse it. And now, with a jump of joy they leave be- 
hind them their minority, together with their puerile in- 
teguments, and leap about on land, or dive, or swim, or 
sit at leisure under their own bulrushes, with none to 
molest or make them afraid. Sometimes, in full caucus 
they ' startle the dull night ' by the vociferous exercise 
of their constitutional right of croakings. Sometimes 
they delight 

1 ' To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 

To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, 


Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, 
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been. 

" You may detect them in these day dreams by the sol- 
itary, melodious twang, — like the vibration of a single 
fiddle string, or, according to the minstrel's age, like that 
of a base-viol string,, — which, ever and anon, betrays the 

' Where heavenly pensive contemplation dwells, 
And ever musing melancholy reigns.' 

In short, their liberty might be said to be perfect, were it 
not for one abatement, whiqh is- alt they now have to 
croak about They want wings. But let them study 
the theory pf.' Vestiges of Creation,' which traces the 
rise and progress of our race from mud to manhood, and 
draw from it a lesson of faith iu their own manifest des- 
tiny. Looking down from tho elevation they have al- 
ready attained, upon their former low pursuits, let them 
cease croaking, 1 cultivate their musical notes, and perse- 
vere in their convulsive efforts to fly, rtntil they learn to 
soar and sing in the highest circles of larks and nightin- 



" I will ride with thee, bold rover, 
TW my lover thou may'st not be ; 
I will ride with thee of the fiery steed, 
Afar over land and sea. 

" Or the convent walls, — e'er to-morrow's sun 
Shall sink from yon mountain tall, 
Will shroud me from the sunshine fair, 
To pine in an endless thrall. 

" But the convent walls less gloomily 
Frown in the sunlight fair, 
Than my father in his stately pride, 
His grave and solemn air. 

" I will ride with thee for freedom's sake 
Afar over land and sea ; 
But gaze not thus ! for I say, sir knight, 
That my love thou may'st not be." 

" So ho ! so ho ! my gallant steed 
A throne for a queen thou art — 
For Beauty's queen ! now ladie fair 
We '11 speed like the feathered dart." 

Away ! away ! thro' the ringing air 
Not swifter the tempest's flight, 

Away from the cloister's threatened shade 
Away from the father's might. 


But alas for the maiden ! too late she found 

There are deadlier ills than those 
Which a father's iron will may forge. 

Or the convent walls enclose. 

" Nay, recreant knight ! I spurn thy suit, 
And I scorn thy boasted power ! 
Fearless, I fled thro 9 the midnight drear, 
And fearless, I meet this hour." 

Her hand defiance proudly waved, — 

Her eyes with triumph shone, — 
A blade gleamed bright in the torch's light ; — 

With the dead was the knight alone. 



Mike me a bed, mother, 
Little and narrow, 

For I must go, mother, 
Go ere to-morrow. 

Here you have made, mother, 

Often my bed, 
Softly the pillows have 

Smoothed for my head. 

No more again, mother, 

Can I lie here, 
Hard must my rest be 

On the low bier. 

How, by your side, mother, 
You 've smiled to see, 

In the bright morning, 
My face turn to thee. 

You must not weep, mother, 
When you look there, 

Silently seeing no 
Child needs your care. 

Oh, it is sweet, mother, 

Here by your side, 
Can it be pleasant with 

Death to abide? 

DIRGE. 149 

Ah ! thou wilt weep, mother, 

Nor canst refrain, 
To smooth the dear place, where 

I lie not again. 

Then you will think, mother, 

Of that cold bed, 
The grave, far away, where 

Your darling is laid. 

Take then away, mother, 

The cot by your side ; 
Your fond lore could never 

Its stillness abide. 

But let us pray, mother, 

That we may be given, 
Where nothing shall part us, 

A soft bed in heaven. 



" And so, Mrs. Benson, it seems you have some new 
neighbors. Pray, what sort of people are they ? " 

" I really cannot say, Mrs. Hart They have not been 
here quite two weeks, and that is hardly long enough to 
form an opinion of their characters." 

" Well, I don't know how it is," said Mrs. Estes, u but 
/always form an opinion of people, the first time I see 
them ; and I must say, that I seldom see occasion to 
change it." 

" And have you seen these Ryleys ? " 

" I have. They were all at church last Sunday, and I 
called on Mrs. Ryley the next day, when I saw the family 

" And how did they strike you ? " 

" Oh, I should think they were people of some proper- 
ty, and who had moved in good society. The parlors 
had a very genteel air — rather grander than any of us 
can afford — but all very well for people of wealth, if 
they are so. Mr. Ryley looks like what the men style 
* a good substantial citizen/ but like what I should call, 
a ' good easy sort of a man/ who would let his wife do 
as she pleased, provided she only gave good dinners, and 
a prime cup of coffee in 4he morning. And say what 
we will, the way to most men's hearts is through their 
palates. Mrs. Ryley is intelligent, well bred, and good 
looking. She has a very decided manner, as much as to 
say, ' this is my house, and I am mistress of all that is in 


*t' You may depend, she rules the roast, as the saying 
is, and rules with a stiff rod, or I am greatly mistaken." 

"From what could you draw such conclusions/' said 
good Mrs. Benson, in some surprise, " upon so slight an ac- 
quaintance ? " 

" Oh, I saw it all perfectly plain. The children were 
present, and if ever step-mother was written on any 
woman's face, it is on hers." 

"Step-mother! Has Mr. Ryley been married twice ? " 

" Of course he has. He is evidently as much as fif- 
teen years older than .his wife. And then, too, the dif- 
ference in the ages of the children ; the two eldest are 
seventeen and fifteen, with light hair and eyes, and look 
no more like Mrs. Ryley than they do like me, while her 
children are five and two years old — with dark hair and 
eyes precisely like their mother's, whose, I must say, are 
a little sharp. I pitied those two oldest children — they 
have a hard time of it, I know. That poor Louisa is a 
meek little inoffensive thing, who scarcely dares to look 
up under her eyebrows, or to speak above her breath, 
without glancing anxiously at Mother to see if she ap- 
proves. I do think, Mr. Ryley ought to stand up for his 
own flesh and blood better. I declare, if I was a man, 
and married a wife who would not be kind to my chil- 
dren, I would soon show her that my house had two sides 
to it, and that she might take the outside as soon as she 
pleased. I like to see a man know his own rights." 

Mrs. Benson, who was one of the kindest and most 
truly courteous women in the world, could scarcely re- 
frain from returning Mrs. Hart's meaning glance, at hear- 
ing this declaration op the part of Mrs. Estes, whose hus- 
band, poor man, was well known to be one of those hen- 
pecked mortals, who hardly dare breathe, except by per- 
mission of their wives. She, however, did refrain, and 
only answered — 



" I understand Mr. and Mrs. Byley have aiwaytf boflte 
good characters in the place they came from; and were 
both respected and beloved, where they were best known. 
I trust, therefore, that your suspicions, Mrs. Bates, will 
prove incorrect." 

Mrs. Estes replied, with a slight toss of the bead, u I \ 
hope so too — but we shall see. I know I am apt to 
judge hastily, but I have great faith in first impressions, 
and I find I am generally in the right about such things.* 

A few months served to make the Ryleys very well 
known at Westford. They were considered worthy, staid, 
substantial people, who belonged to the church, and wife 
always gave their influence in favor of good manners, 
good morals, and religion. They lived liberally, were 
public-spirited, and generous to the poor. Still, the ru- 
mor gained strength, that Mrs. Ryley was not kind to 
her two step-children. It was asserted that she kept 
Louisa at home from school, and refused to suffer lierio 
join any parties of young persons of her acquaintance, 
that she might assist in taking care of the younger tjhil- 
dren. Henry resented this, and it was said that violent 
altercations on this subject often accrued between him- 
self and his mother. Many were the exaggerated stories 
Which were circulated from house to house — and many 
were the lamentations over this deplorable Mate of things 
by the good people of Westford. Everywhere, Louisa 
and Henry were met with looks, and frequently .with ex- 
pressions, of sympathizing compassion, which they could 
not understand, and which were . sometimes excessively 

One afternoon, the ladies of a sewing»ctrdle met at 
Mrs. Bertson's, to work for the children of the poo* wto 
belonged to the parish. The day was! rainy, and so dmall 
a number collected, that the conversation remained gen- 
eral, and soon turned from considering the wants of des- 

ONB. ]63. 

hildren, to sympathizing with " the more affecting 
»," as one lady pathetically expressed it, "of those 
] not want indeed a covering for the body, but 
spirits languished for the fostering arm of a moth- 
e " — the young Ryleys. Various anecdotes illus- 
■of the subject, all greatly exaggerated, and most 
1 without any foundation, were related by one and 
c, and the exclamations — "Too bad!" "shame- 
* abominable ! " etc., passed around among those 
ak the most active share in the conversation. One 
iclared that she herself had seen enough to con- 
ler, that all they had heard was but too true ; for, 
e, " as I was one afternoon entering Mrs. Ryley's 
I heard Henry say in loud tones to his mother, 
ouisa is but a poor spirited thing ; any girl would 

was always kept in the nursery. I wish she had 
er who was a mother/ and then he bolted out of 
or, throwing it to with a slam that Bhook the room, 
me, I found Mrs. Ryley a little discomposed, but 
s too well bred not to endeavor to conceal it, as 
ls possible." This looked a little more like proof 
lything which had yet been related, and it made 
rful impression upon the assembly, 
n the excitement had a little subsided, the pa- 
Lady aforesaid laid down her work, and gently 
g her hands upon her lap, and casting up her eyes, 
d with great gravity and emphasis, ? Well, ladies, 
know what you may think abont this matter; but 

that it is a very serious thing — an awful thing 
ine woman to abuse, in this manner, the children 
her — the precious treasures which her husband, 
r God, you may say, has committed to her charge. 
s of you can imagine how many anxious thoughts 
had about it — how heavily it lies on my heart ; I 
ept over it, and prayed over it, till I am convinced 


that we have a solemn duty to perform in the case, and 
my conscience will not let me rest till it is done." 

" Indeed ! ah ! how ! what is it ? " were exclamations 
uttered by several of the circle, while all dropped tkeir 
work and gazed upon the speaker in wondering surprise, 
curious to hear what would follow this startling announce* 

" Yes, ladies, I wish to ask you one question* Do you 
consider Mrs. Ryley a sister in Christ, or not ? " Most of 
them immediately replied in the affirmative, and added, 
that, with the exception of her treatment of her husband's 
children, they knew nothing to object to in her walk and 
conversation since she had been among them. 

" Then is it not clearly our duty as fellow-christiahs, 
to admonish her in this matter, and endeavor to awaken 
her slumbering conscience by ' speaking the troth' to her 
' in love.' I have no doubt, myself, what doty demands, 
and my husband, the deacon, perfectly agrees with me. 
He says we ought to give ourselves no peace, until two 
or three of us have been to her, and talked with her faith- 
fully, as directed in the Gospel of St. Mathew. Indeed, 
he says he is not sure, that it ought not to be brought be- 
fore the church. At any rate, we ought to talk with her 
not merely oh account of these poor suffering children, 
but for the sake of her own soul ; perhaps we shall have 
the happiness to convince her of this sin, and so we shall 
gain our sister. I know that to do this will be a great 
cross ; but I for one, am willing to take it up and bear it, 
according to the best of my ability." 

It was amusing to observe the mixture of awe and 
admiration with which this oration was received by some 
of the ladies, who had always been accustomed to re* 
gard the speaker as an oracle ; while others drew in their 
breaths, and looked quite aghast at the idea of taking 
upon themselves such a responsibility. Among the lat* 


ter was Mrs. Benson, who had in vain endeavored to 
stem the tide, of prejudice against Mrs. Ryley, and who 
being now directly called upon for her opinion, said she 
should not object so much to the course proposed, if they 
had any proof that the accusation referred to was just, — 
bat this she did not think was the case ; that though 
she had lived very near the Ryleys, and had been much 
with them since they had been in town, she had never 
seen a single instance of ill treatment of the children, 
or beard of one well-authenticated case. 

" That is just like Mrs. Benson, 7 ' said Mrs. Estes, 
sharply, " she never will believe anything. I should like 
to know what more proof can be required ? " 

Mrs. Benson felt a little hurt at this attack, and she 
replied with some dignity, " Of course, ladies, you will 
follow your own judgment rather than mine, but I great* 
ly fear we shall make ourselves ridiculous by any inter- 
ference with Mrs. Ryley's family affairs. Besides, if I 
rightly read the instructions of St. Mathew, one alone 
should expostulate with an offending member of the 
church, and only in case this appeal be unheeded, should 
the presence of two or three witnesses be required." 

This could not be denied, but no one felt willing to 
bear the brunt of such a battle alone ; so the former plan 
was adopted, and the ladies who were to compose the 
committee of visitation were designated by the rest. 
Of course the " oratorical lady," Mrs. Bascom, was placed 
in the front rank, supported on either hand by Mrs. Estes 
and Mrs. Hart. 

The next day they called on Mrs. Ryley, not without 
some trepidation, but braced up by the thought, especial- 
ly " our orator," that they were discharging a difficult and 
most solemn duty. But somehow they found it even 
more difficult than they had anticipated. The lady was 
so quiet, gentle, and dignified ; her " Louisa, my love," 


as the latter left the room, seemed so> genuine, that it 
was not easy to suppose a harsh, unkind n&turet could 
he at the bottom when the surface was so fair;, At length, 
Mrs. Bascom finding her delicate innuendoes, either all 
skilfully parried, or really misunderstood, was obliged 
to state in plain terms the cause of offence which Mrs. 
Ry ley had given to her Christian brethren and sisters. 
Her face assumed the expression it generally wore when 
she prepared herself for an unusual burst of eloquence 
— the gentle wave of her hands kept time with the toties 
of her voice, which became softly poihetic, as ehe com- 
menced a labored speech on the beauty of the f&milf 
relation, when it was sustained with forbearing ejec- 
tion ; — the duty of receiving deserved rebuke in' a meek 
and humble spirit, and the difficulty of administering it 
She was going on in glowing terms, to describe how so*e 
a trial it was to her companions and herself to be obliged 
to address the language of reproof to one whom- in most 
respects they had so much reason to esteem +-« but Mrs. 
Ryley, who was in no humor to listen to an oration, cut 
this short, by saying in a decided manner, 

44 1 '11 thank you, Mrs. Bascom, to waive all apologies, 
and tell me at once of what I am accused.'' 

Mrs. Bascom did not like to lie interrupted id her 
speeches; it annoyed her; put her off her track; she 
could not resume gracefully the thread of her discourse ; 
especially she knew not what to do with such directness 
of manner as Mrs. Ryley's*—but the question being re- 
peated, she found herself obliged to come to the point 

"In truth, dear sister, it is universally reported arid 
commonly believed, that there is not that state of har» 
mony between yourself and your husband's children, 
which the sacred ness of that tie that binds you together, 
should ensure.*' 

*• My husband's children ! Why not my children V 

'< rasr umussiONs J47 

<K>hf*e<wcire only speaking of your two step-children, 
* Boor/ and {Louisa." 

•; frMy +$ep>*kUdfen — ha f . But no matter — what of 
them t" 'and a smile broke through the hitherto puzzled, 
and it must be confessed, somewhat indignant expres- 
iteB) of Mra Ryley's face. 

• - *.It ia said that they do not receive from you that per* 
feet: justice -and kindness to which they are entitled, as 
4te children of one you are bound to love and cherish, 
and on account of their tender age and motherless condi- 
tion, which ought to appeal to every better feeling of your 

H Really/ my friends! I am obliged to my neighbors 
for their charity, which certainly in this case ' belie veih 
all things ! * but you are aware that a charge of this na- 
ture needs to be sustained by some proof; and pray let 
me ask, what evidence have you that I am not just and 
kind to my — to Henry and Louisa? n 

This very natural demand the ladies were scarcely 
prepared to meet. They had not considered the wide 
difference between believing a story and being able to 
substantiate it. Each looked at the other, expecting her 
to speak, but neither did so, — their faces grew blanker 
and blanker, — at last Mrs. Esles urged "common re- 

" But, 9 said Mrs. Ryley, " common report is a common 
liar, — I shall not plead guilty on such evidence." 

The ladies looked extremely confused, even Mrs. Bas- 
com was non-plussed — all at once she remembered the 
language which Henry had been overheard to use. This 
she triumphantly repeated. But Mrs. Ryley, who had 
evidently of late found it difficult to retain a grave cqiujt 
tenaoee, scarcely heard this story to the end, ere she fell 
into a hearty fit of laughter, which was again and again 


Mrs. Bascom looked very much shocked at tin* inrev- 
erent reception of her solemn appeal. Mrs. Estes' coun- 
tenance flashed with anger, while Mrs. Hart could only 
gaze from one to the other, with an expression of aim- 
pie wonder and astonishment 

" I beg your pardon, ladies, for my seeming rudeness,* 
said Mrs. Ryley, still laughing, " but really, your impres- 
sions of my conduct are founded in a mistake so ludi- 
crous, that I cannot avoid being extremely amused. So 
it seems I am accused of being unkind to my step* 
children J And pray, who told you they were step-ohil- 

* Who told us ! You do n't say — why ~ why -** you 
are a step-mother, are you not ? " 

« No, surely * 

"Is it possible! Are these children adopted, the* ?" 

« Oh no." 

" Are you not Mr. Ryley's second wife ? " 

" Not that I am aware of. I always thought I was his 
only wife. If he was ever married before, he has kept 
it a profound secret from me." 

There was now but one conclusion to be drawn, and 
Mrs. Bascom fairly gasped as she stammered out, 

" Then Henry and Louisa are your children ?" 

" Certainly. I never heard that fact questioned tilt 
this moment." But her mirth now became uncontrolla- 
ble, in which her visitors would certainly have joined, 
but for their intense mortification. As it was, they could 
only stare at each other with faces which said as plainly 
as features could speak, " What geese we are." 

" How could we be so mistaken ? " at length murmur- 
ed Mrs. Hart. 

" How could all Westford be so mistaken ?" chimed ia 
Mrs. Bascom. 

Mrs. Estes said nothing. She had some glimmering 


consciousness of having herself something to do with 
setting this ball in motion, but she was not the less in- 
dignant that fact should presume to contradict her " first 

" I think I can resolve the riddle/' remarked Mrs. Ry- 
le?» still smiling, though pitying the confusion and em- 
barrassment of her guests. " I was married very young, 
and my husband is several years my senior. For a long 
time after the birth of Louisa I was in feeble health, 
and none of the children born during that period lived 
more than a few hours, until Mary and Willie, who hap* 
pened to bear a strong resemblance to me, both in looks 
and constitution — while the older ones have the fair 
hair and eyes of their father. Willie, you are aware, is 
a sickly infant, and I dare not leave him to the care of 
such servants as I am obliged to employ. My health 
suffered so much from care and confinement, that Louisa 
begged hard to be allowed to aid me this summer, in- 
stead of attending school, and I reluctantly consented. 
She is very devoted to her little brother, and he very 
fond of her ; and she often refuses my urgent request 
that she would join in the social pleasures suitable to 
her age, pleading that she cannot leave Willie. This 
accounts for Master Henry's speech, who, though a pret- 
ty good boy, is sometimes wilful, and insists very strong- 
ly upon having his sister go out with him. His wish, 
that * she had a mother who was a mother,' meant, that 
he should like to see me exert a mother's authority, and 
compel her to go. These circumstances, I presume, ful- 
ly account for the mistake into which yon have fallen. 
As to what remains of the charge of nnkindhess, it may 
probably be set down to the exaggeration arising from 
the prejudice against step- mothers." 

Had Mrs. Ryley wished for revenge, she would havte 
felt that she had already had sufficient in her enjoyment 


of thQ ridiculous position and unconbealed chagrin of 
her accusers, and she now strove to smooth matters over. 
" Allow me, my friends, to congratulate you and myself 
that the painful impression of my unchristian conduct is 
so happily removed." But nothing could relieve, the 
awkward constraint of the party, and they took their de- 
parture as quickly as possible. 

As soon as they were in the street, Mrs. Estes ex- 
claimed, " How mean in Mrs. Benson not to tell us Mrs. 
Byley was own mother to those children ! I do n't be- 
lieve bnt she knew it the whole time." 

" It makes no difference now, whether she did or no ; 
but I believe we are indebted to your infallible * first 
impressions/ for this awkward blunder/' 

" Indebted to yourself, rather. Who would ever have 
thought of making this visitation if you had not pro- 
posed it, and persuaded us by setting it out as ' a case 
of conscience.' " 

" Do n't let us accuse each other," said Mrs. Hart, " I 
am sure we have all been foolish; and I hope it will 
teaqh us not to be so ready to credit idle tales." 
" Good advice ! " said conscience to each of the ladies. 
A few months afterwards, as Mrs. Hart and Miss Band 
were making a morning call upon Mrs. Estes, Louisa 
Byley came in to see her daughter Mary about some 
music they were practising together. As she was going 
away, Mrs. Estes said, " My dear Louisa, do stay and 
spend the day with Mary — I shall be delighted to have 

" Indeed, I could not to-day, I thank you. Willie is 
sick again, and I should not like to leave mother to take 
care of him alone all day." 

" Oh, I suspect your mother would be quite willing. 
I will send John to let her know, if you will stay." 
" Do, Louisa, do," said Mary, again and again, 


u I know mother would be willing, bat I should not 
like to do it, she is so feeble. I will come as soon as 
Willie is better — good bye." 

" What a dear good girl that is," said Mrs. Estes, u to 
be so devoted to her little brother, and so considerate of 
her mother. I fear there are not many girls of her age 
that would be so thoughtful.*' 

"Yes" remarked Miss Hand, with a bland smile, 
" Louisa Byley is a sweet girl." 

" And her mother is a most excellent woman — 't is a 
pity she is so much out of health." 

" I am truly glad to hear you say so — I supposed you 
thought so differently." 

u Me think differently! Why should you suppose so?" 

"Merely," replied Miss Rand, with the same sweet 
smile, " because I heard you say something of the kind 
some time since, and you know that you ' seldom change 
your opinions/ I suppose, however, you m'ay sometimes 
find yourself mistaken in ' first impressions. 9 Good morn- 

" There is at least one opinion that I have never chang- 
ed," replied Mrs. Estes — first taking care that her vis- 
itor was beyond hearing — "and that is, that you are a 
cross, crabbed, disagreeable old maid ! That is my first 
and last impression ! " 


May creep away, and vigils keep, 
When honest men are all asleep. 
For all up stairs and all below, : 
Is fitted for the jam, you know. 

* * * * . 

The clock strikes eight. Ah ! luckless pair 
Who chance to be the earliest there ! 
In fashion's world no longer they 
Shall stand the first, whoever may. 

Howe'er, thky*re in — fine words are passed, 
But conversation flags at last ; 
Who sit, or stand, in solemn state, 
Waiting on company to wait, 
Feel something of an anxious mood, 
Nor can be social if they would; 

Now the poor guests can ait their leisure, 
Look round upon this scene. of pleasure ; 
They fain would " drive away doll care," 
And setm at least delighted there. 
In vain J for still they only sigh, 
And hope for pleasure by and by, 
And now with greetings soft and fair, 
% Our hosts receive another pair. 

They come — they come — short greetings now, 
A word, a smile, a hurried bow — 
Oh easy manners ! none shall fear, 
To act the part he chooseth here. 
Oh ! happy moment, every mind 
Shall here its fellow-spirit find ! 
Lift up thine eye, poor clown, attend ! 
Here stands one fit to be thy friend. 
Thou lady bright, refined, and fair, 
Behold thy counterpart is here. 

social nramoouas*. 156 

Thou; who doet wisdom's page explore — 

Here's a deep freight of learned lore. 

Thou, disappointed, who hast come 

To chase away, thy spirit's gloom — 

Here ? s one who brings a heavy heart ; 

Commune, ye well before ye part 

It may not be — t is mixture all, 

Each stands where'er his lot doth fall, 

Each his own character aside has thrown, 

And in a crowd, is still alone. 

Some nonsense talk, some stand and hear 

Their neighbors' fooleries, with inward sneer — 

Some glance around with curious eye, 

Each face, and form, and dress to spy — 

Now laugh at finery made anew, 

So that " for evening it will do " — 

And now, at those in clothing gay, 

Who turn the beggar's prayer away. 

" The combat thickens," in by scores, 
The multiplied assembly pours. 
Our hostess sighs, " they all will come ! 
Have none the grace to stay at home ? 
It is a jam ! a squeeze ! ! a rout M ! 
Indeed, I wish we 'd ne'er set out" 

A serious aspect things assume — 

'T is no mistake, this want of room ; 
" Miss, will you please to let me pass ? " 
" I would, but cannot move, alas ! " — 
" Excuse me, that I rudely speak, 

Remove your elbow from my cheek." 
" There is no place to put it ma'am ; 

I hope it will not do you harm." — 
" I cannot stand it long, can you ? " 
" Come here, here 's room enough for two." 

But here's the hostess of the night 
" You have a splendid party, quite." — 


" Why yes, indeed, we could not do 
Aught less, when we invited you" 

" There '11 be a reason, when I ; ra caught 
Again in such a crowd," he thought. 

" Think you," a damsel said, distressed, 
" That I could reach the other side ? " 
" I know not, but I 11 do my best 
To help you there," a friend replied. 
He took her hand, they pressed along, 
He pushes with one arm the throng, 
" Be not discouraged ! hold on fast," — 
The crowd have parted them at last, 
And there they stand, with arms spread wide, 
Nor onward move, nor backward, nor aside. 
So stood of old poor Lady Lot, 
Full firmly fastened to one spot ; 
So fishes sometimes caught at play, 
The crevice of a rock inside, 
Get fastened in, and there do they, 
Wait ages to be petrified. 

There is a motion — " What now friend ? " 
" You '11 please on supper to attend." 
Our congregation now repairs, 
A noun of multitude, up stairs. 

Behold fantastically laid 
The evening tables are displayed ! 
Oh what a multitude of sweets 
Now breaks on the delighted eye ! 
' While each gallant invites, entreats 

His lady something rare to try. 
" I think," said one, " don't you," aside, 
" Here >s much less taste displayed than pride ; 
I would not try, if I were they, 
To emulate the rich and gay." 

" Do see Miss Lady-like behind the door ! 
She eats as ne'er she eat before — 
Now pray attend her, cousin John, 
With custards, cakes, and urge her on. 
She 's a fit subject, I am sure, 
For mirth — a female epicure." 

Soma poor wights stand, their bosoms stirred 
With all the pangs of hope deferred, 
Wedged into a neglected nook, 
Doomed only on the feast to look. 
In vain they conversation try — : 
Still you can see it in their eye, 
" Alas ! indeed our lips are dry." 

— The tide has turned, and all must go, 
Whether they will or not, below. 

Soon secret thoughts begin to come 
Of those who have remained at home ; 
Of parents who so anxious wait, ' 
Grieved that their daughters stay so late; 
Of infants, who so sleepless moan, 
That they are left so long alone. ' 

— " I cannot longer stay." — " Nor I. 
Think you we can get out 1 " " We '11 try." 
The fount is broke — the waters flow — 
The door is opened — and all go. 

A rainy night ! The mud ! Oh dear ! 
" Good friends, sweet friends," we leave you here. 
# # # # 

Now round about the ruins lay 
Of the assembly passed away — 
Our host and hostess, sad, retire, 
Sweet refuge ! to the kitchen fire ; 
Tho' some confusion yet is there, 
There is no company to sneer. 

\6S yojom vbom na kemduskeag. 

11 Well, they are gone ! — 't is over, dear, 
Now no more parties for a year ! " 
" Indeed/' she said, " I'm glad His o'er ; 
It was a melancholy bore." 

And this is social intercourse ! the ray 
That heaven has given to cheer onr way ! 
This the attraction which doth bind 
As into one all human kind ! 
This the communion of the heart ! 
The meeting where we dread to port ! 
This the bright stream, whose singing clear 
Is sweetest music to the ear ! 

Oh ! say not so. These scenes where art 
Usurps the empire of the heart ; 
Where pride and envy, though restrained, 
Lurk under gentleness, well feigned, 
The social genius shuns. If this were all 
That social intercourse we call, 
Whose countenance would brighter shine, 
Cheered by the human face divine ? 
Who turned in error's path to stray, 
Would hear a voice enchanting, say, 
14 Come hither friend — this is the wiay." 




" Wake up ! wake up ! little wife. I whistled home 
from the field, foolish enough to believe I should be quite 
a recognizable object in the home kitchen, after a day's 
absence. It is well that I am a peaceable man r or the 
bread would taste sour, and the butter rancid, as I eat 
and watch you devouring in another way the cradle and 
its contents. The baby may have one eye ; I '11 yield that, 
though time was, when both were mine. Let its round 
face stay painted there forever; but, Molly mine,. give 
me the other." 

The injured master of the premises did not often make 
so long a speech. Whether he paused, surprised at the 
pathos of his appeal, or for the critical survey of two 
very fine Daguerreotypes, just then visible in the eyes of 
Mis. Molly Hines, may be left to the learned investiga- 
tion of commentators. Ah, Caleb, you may well be quiet 
and peaceable. No wonder that your brown face twin- 
kles all over with merriment as it spies a double image 
in such a looking-glass. The heavy coffers of ydur neigh- 
bor over the way could buy none of so high reflective 
powers. True, it was a fair, young bride that he led to 
the marriage altar, that bright June morning. True, also, 
that as an innocent, uncorrupted child, holy affection 
shone often from eyes of clear violet, that knew no 
" masking nor diguise." It should not have been true, 
that, as the priest pronounced the words, "what God hath 
joined together," in that uninspired voice (he felt, alas, 


depths, prattled past the house, contented with their misr 
siori, though not possessing tones so musical, tp a parent's 
ear as the lisping ones of the beloved. ThaVbfa .flowed 
on in harmony with its waves, and three years, garland- 
ed by bright and gladdening reminiscences, numbered 
themselves with the past 

" Hatty shall be just such another rosy -cheeked 4ump- 
ling as yourself, Molly, Only teach her the wise, things 
in your own little head, and God bless the happy man 
that shall have a second Molly Hines to taeptmnshiae 
and plenty in his house all sorts of weather/' , 
. u No 9 Caleb," said Mary, slowly and musingly, * Haii- 
riet must bring wisdom to us both. Sometimes, a? nop, 
when I look upon her, I feel that she will .teach all wbp 
will hear, high and wonderful things." 

Caleb's twinkling eyes grew thoughtful for a moment, 
as he observed the subject of their words surrounded at 
the door step by doves and chickens, apparently attra#- 
ed by crumbs escaping from her fingers; butt, again hjs 
cheeks dimpled with merriment as he answered tt- 

" She will be a darling, any way, Bqt all mothers are 
so wise; only don't begin to think, her top good to Jive, 
because that is an Void woman's whim/ You, who wore 
a most wonderful baby, are now a most wonderful wife, 
having lived and grown up aespite the uncommon baby- 

The. next morning, the sunlight rested as though it 
loved to abide upon the white floor, and Harriet stood by 
^er father's knee. A remark struck him as somewhat 
odd to ootne from the lips of so young a child, and he 
playfully asked,. 

" What makes you so sensible, little Harriet ?" 

'.' Love," was the reply, clear and low, as if an angel 
had spoken through her lips* Caleb raised his head with., 
a strange feeling that he stood in another and more reaL 


wofcrii. His glance was rivetted to the still depths of hit 
daughter's eyes.. Repose sat upon the infantile, brow ; 
the repose of deep and beautiful joy over the whole face. 
Again he repeated his first thoughtlessly-asked question; 
and again the response was, " Love." Her eyea had been 
raised to his, beaming with glorious humility, but as his 
gaze grew more intense, a faint flush visited her cheeks ; 
the golden lashes drooped — a laugh, glad and happy, hot 
withal, so soft and subdued that it hardly stirred the per- 
fect tranquillity, and she moved away. 

There Caleb, the hitherto boisterous man, remained 
motionless, his spiritual sense pervaded by delicious 
beauty. He thought not — "feeling was deeper than 
thought" The sunbeams playing upon a mark in the 
floor, brought consciousness that the hour for labor, had 
arrived, and lighter than usual he stepped from the 
threshold. He neither sang, nor whistled, as his plough 
turned the soil, and the oxen, missing the accustomed 
animating exclamations, moved dreamily along. 

"Love— love — is that what makes every one sen- 
sible? O r Harriet's look ! that beautiful look makes me see 
it clearer now, than if it were read on t of a sermon in a 
high pulpit What else does make Molly wise, if it is not 
love ? She never went much to school, but she stands so 
womanly before those that have, and speaks her own 
thoughts so simple and plain, that learned people think 
themselves richer for listening. Sick neighbors send for 
her,, instead of old women. What is it but compassion 
for suffering that makes her hand upon their foreheads 
ease their pain, and lets her know just What roots will 
make them strong and well ? She never studied into it, 
like the doctors, and they make queer mistakes. Plants 
certainly whisper so that she can bear what sickness God 
made them to cure, because she is so bright and loving. 
If she goes; among the flock to take a sick lamb home 


to nurse, no sheep stamps its foot And but yesterday, 
Tabby, who can growl, bristle her fur, and be as stealthy 
as any other cat in the presence of others, came from 
under the wood-pile, where no one could reach her, and 
laid a live robin at Mary's feet — she only speaking 
gently and soothingly to her not to hurt the bird. 

Then, never one night, since the wedding one, except 
during a week of sickness, has she failed to open the 
door for me when I come home from work, always look- 
ing so fresh and young in her smooth gown, blue, too, re- 
minding me of the truth in her own blue eyes. The 
minister and other pious people talk about duty. She 
works with heart and hand from morn till night, without 
thinking of duty. It is all from love. Were there noth- 
ing but the bare walls, a house could not be desolate, if 
Mary stood inside. And, too, our babe, our Harriet, who 
finds a nestling-place in every one's heart, and even in 
her bright glee makes me still — does she not tell me it 
is love that makes her sensible ? " 

We will not follow longer with Caleb the arcana of 
wisdom involved in the inspired word breathed from the 
lips of his child. It covers the whole ground, for is it not 
the " Alpha and Omega " of Christian doctrine ? The 
pages of theologians, perhaps, look dark and heavy, and 
benumb our spirits ; this simple word-utterance is breath- 
ed from the home of angels, and they bloom into heaven- 
ly life. 

Perhaps Harriet wonders why the Lobelia Cardinalia, 
Jewel-flower, and wild rose-buds and blossoms, that lean 
over the bank, nodding prettily to their images in the 
dancing brook, and the blue and white doves that fly from 
holes in the barn down to the wet gravel on the bank, 
and daintily wash their feet in the frolicksome wavelets, 
are not very excellent teachers. It was no mystery to 
her, that a dove should have alighted upon the bowed 


head of Him, who eighteen hundred years ago stood by 
the baptismal river. She could not speak the rustling 
language of those vibrating wings, as they, too, walked 
up from their baptism ; but the cooing from their swelling 
throats had angel teachings. She may have wondered 
if school-mistresses had voices as pleasant as these, her 
early friends, but her hands were laid trustingly in 
those of the neighbors* children, who called to lead her 
to the village school. They loved her childish prat- 
tle, and tenderly lifted her over mud-puddles, anon paus- 
ing to fasten butter-cups and daises in her hair and 
bosom, because they looked brighter and prettier upon 
her. It is true, that " Pa," *' Ma," " lamb," and " bird,** 
were pleasant names to spell, but the book had no con- 
stant fascinations like the open one from which she had 
been wont to read, and it was easy to sleep upon the 
long bench. Then rude boys stepped softly, forbearing 
to push their way to the desks, lest she should awaken. 

" Folded eyes see brighter colors than the open ever do." 

Even the teacher paused from her monotonous ques- 
tioning in Spelling-book and Grammar, to wonder at 
the light upon the sleeper's face. Had she, in adult 
years, striven like the great Schiller, •• to keep near the 
visions of" her " childhood," or could she have entered 
into the young child's dream-land, and have seen the 
calm rivers that flowed before the inner eyes, with their 
banks of living green, and the light over all, so glorious 
and bright, that never dazzled like the sun of the world, 
she would have known no sense of wonder. 

At the ringing of the recess bell, girls in scant frocks 
and checked aprons gathered around the youngest schol- 
ar, and strove gently — for in her presence they forgot 
shrill tones and coarse behavior — to lead her to the grove. 
Happy were those fifteen minutes of sporting time, with 

176 V0*01» FBOM THB.K^NDUfi^KBAG. 

their important launchings of birch-bark canoes and moss 
rafts. Some disappointment there was, that holes dog 
round the trees and softly lined with moss, never enticed 
any winged occupants to keep house in ready built nests; 
but such things seldom amounted to absolute grief! 
Pleasant was all this, but happier than school hour of 
study or play, was the one when Harriet again pccupied 
the low chair at her mother's side. 

At night, when that mother ,laid her child's head upon 
the pillow, and left her with moon, and stars peeping in 
to tell of loving angels' eyes that watched the house- 
hold's darling, yearning visions of something more beau- 
tiful in her own youthful slumbers than she had since 
known, came back to her heart; but they were very 
shadowy, and feeling truly that it was better to go on in 
her woman's path, than back to the innocence of child- 
hood, she sought her husband's cheerful converse and 
pleasant evening tasks. 

Then, little Hatty, after looking calmly at the moon- 
beams upon the walls, would draw the sheet over her 
head, and see colors brighter than those about her dove's 
necks in the sunlight, or any that streaked the cups of 
wild flowers. She looked upon beaming faces as upon 
familiar, friends, though more radiantly apparelled. The 
golden light still shone, and forms of life were yet vis- 
ible, as she lost herself in slumber. Nightly had she thus 
turned from the outward world, hardly knowing it — 
certainly wondering none, never troubled by philosopher's 
or sceptic's query as to what she saw being " subjective 
or objective," enjoying all as unquestioning as the air she 
inhaled, or the love in her heart At times she consider- 
ed for a moment, whether the pleasant images in her 
memory were seen by day or night If it was obscure, 
the thought passed as easily as it came. 

She observed the bee, covered with golden dust from 

a enfiffl BttWrfctit et smsfeii twines, ltt 

the flower-cups, whither she knew it had not gone torotf* 
stop in its flight* to draw from its abundance, and impart 
the sweet honey in its own mouth to its hungry compan- 
ion just flying from its labor of constructing the waxen 
cell. Considered, also, was the bird flying more swiftly, 
because it bore food to beloved ones in a woven cradle'. 
If she strewed crumbs for the hens that at night covered 
their broods with motherly wings, she saw the soft chick- 
ens hastening at the familiar cluck, while a hungry pa* 
rent walked around in matronly dignity, pecking up a 
crumb but to drop it into the opened month of some 
chicken more> tottling than its companions. All ever sang 
to her spiritual ear, that a "life happy and gtad ,; could 
not be. separated from loving and giving. 

No little maiden was ever handier, rubbing dairy-pans 
bright from the cleansing water, dust from chairs and 
cherry-wood table, pulling vegetables from the kitchen 
garden, and washing them for the noon-day meal. 

When the spring came round again, " the humming 
bird/ 1 as the father delighted to call her, often startled 
him in the field with her joyous laughter. She too must 
aid in dropping shining beans and corn into the earth, 
prattling the while in her simple way. 

u Father, will the yellow kernels always stay in the 
dark mould? What use will that be, if they never peep 
out any more?" 

' Caleb spoke of the sunbeams that would warm them 
day by day; of the pure rain-drops that would bathe 
them in their snug home, 'till the expanding growth of 
the true life within the outer covering, needing more 
room, would burst its enclosure, and work upward to a 
higher freedom. 

u Must everything die, father, before it can live ? " 

Caleb thought, as he covered the golden grain and 
looked at the earnest eyes of his daughter, " Except a 


com of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth 
alone ; bat if it die, it bringeth forth ranch fruit" But- 
terflies were flitting over the moist earth. The thoughts 
of his daughter, always " winged and free," came fresh 
to his heart, with a foreboding voice, that other sunlight 
would aid her expansion than that which Warmed hi* 

One day a great grief visited a neighbor's house. An 
infant must be borne to the grave, and heavy was the 
mother's heart, while to her vision the world was clothed 
in mourning. Her wail of agony at the grave, as she 
begged to see the child's face once more, drew tears to 
many eyes which never beheld the sundering of dear 
ties in their own midst Men, lowering the narrow 
house, drew it up again, at her imploring cry. 

" My own precious babe ! my heart's darling ! I can- 
not let you go ! " she sobbed, clasping her arms convul- 
sively around the small coffin, till gently forced to yield 
it to other hands. 

" Does Mrs. More think it is her little Georgy they 
buried," said Harriet, as Mrs. Hines related the touching 

" Perhaps if she did not wear such a black gown and 
bonnet, and other people's faces were not so sad, she 
would feel happier." 

" We will go this afternoon and place flowers upon 
the grave ; they will speak to her more truly than black 
garments," said the mother. 

After a few hours they visited a moist nook, where 
sweet violets had bloomed, and carefully removed many 
roots to a little basket High rocks were climbed, that 
scarcely nourished a blade of grass, but there the deep 
blue hare-bell waved in beauty to the breeze. Further 
on in the wood the perfumed air warned them that the 
Linnea's rose-tinted bells were near, and its vines in- 

a amra sketch or sdsfim thugs. 179 

creased their store. In the church-yard, a three-year- 
old sister of the glorified babe was digging with her 
hands into the newly heaped-up earth, that she might 
" take dear brother Georgy home to Mamma." Placid 
looks and words quickly soothed the little one, who then 
watched with interest the flowers fresh blooming as it 
were from the grave, and prattled pleasantly of her angel* 
brother, who was not lying at all stiff in the ground, but 
growing fast in the sunshine of Heaven. 

That evening, yearning for the babe that had nestled 
in her bosom, drew the bereaved mother to the church* 
yard. There, in the light of moon and stars, the delicate 
blossoms, which had themselves sprung from the dark 
mould, spoke of resurrection and life. She bowed over 
them, and inhaled their sweet breath. No wail passed 
her lips, but calmly and trustingly she uttered aloud 
their written evangel. " Why seek ye the living among 
the dead? He is not here, he is risen." The bitter- 
ness of death had passed away. 

" What are you gazing into the east room for, Mary. 
Is it because the bed-spread is so snowy ? " 

" Only thinking it would be nice could old Mrs. Petty 
lie there." 

" What ! " said Caleb, in consternation, " the quiet 
guest-room, in which every one that sleeps once wishes 
to stay another night. Put a woman there so cross, that 
her own relations wish her dead ! " 

" O, Caleb, they have returned bitterness for bitter- 
ness. No food can carry a relish when accompanied 
with harsh looks, and, if they speak at all, with harsher 
words. She lies panting and burning in the unwhole- 
some air, with no one to bathe her face and limbs. It 
would be dreadful to die with hatred in one's heart." 

M But Mary, what can you do, with house and children 
to mind, and no one but Harriet to assist ? * 


"I shall be tired sometimes, but it will be the easiest 
thing in. the world to forget all about that when you come 
home from the field. Perhaps she .will not 
cross. She spoke this morning of Harriet's coming yes- 
terday with the moss basket, yon saw her making, lined 
with green leaves, and filled with fresh berries;! daisies, 
rose-buds, and leaves peeping out among the fruit She 
said, the bunch of flowers tied with ribbon-grass, that 
Harriet laid upon her pillow, when she was asleep^brought 
sweet dreams of cool winds fanning her cheeks, and iier 
mother, who died in her early girlhood, bending over her 
with love. She was more peaceful foe the dream. Sure* 
ly, Caleb, if such very little things as Harriet did cad 
make her mild for a few minutes, there is good encour- 
agement to try. Such blessed privileges must not be 
thrown away, because we are poor in money, and can do 
but little." 

Caleb whistled more blithely than ever as he arranged 
a bed in a convenient cart, on which to remove the old 
woman, who, many pathetically asserted, " was too ugly 
ever to die/ 1 to his snug, healthy home. Mrs. Hines gen- 
tly mentioned to the family her convenient little bed- 
room, that would just suit the old lady. No one occu- 
pied it ; she was fresh and strong, and would be glad of 
the care, if they were willing. Perhaps they felt in se* 
cret that other people were bound to relieve them of the 
burden of their diseased relative. At any rate, readily as- 
senting that the change would do her good, they, more at- 
tentive than usual, assisted in the removal. 

Those who have never known the utter desolation of 
one who felt herself but an object of aversion to the 
world, cannot look^ into Mrs. Petty's heart She almost 
feared it was another delicious dream, and from a dream 
like that she dreaded to waken. But as day after day 
passed, and the wonderful sense of contrast in degree 


passed likewise, old irritation was not always magneti- 
cally laid to rest by words and deeds of kindness. The 
" peace of Jesus " was no abiding guest in a breast so 
long the lurking-place of dark thoughts. Backing pains 
produced hasty ebullitions of anger, and other lines than 
those of years again furrowed her brow. But a gossip- 
ing neighbor, who marvelled at the patience of Mary 
Hines, brought the quick flush of, pain to her cheeks. 
" A poor thing would it be for me, with whom the Fa- 
ther in heaven and all earthly friends have dealt patiently 
to this very hour, if I, with my happy home and perfect 
health, cannot bear with this one woman, so lonely and 

" Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods 
drown it," and a love so enduring will heal in time the 
most diseased moral nature. When the subdued tones 
of Caleb in the next room, inquiring what he could do 
for her relief, reached Mrs. Petty's ear, and she saw her 
unreasonable words receive only the silent rebuke of 
increased assiduity and forbearance, every emotion of un- 
selfishness quickened into animated life. The placid ex- 
pression, at last no fitful wanderer to her face, was grate- 
fully hailed. Pure air, fresh clothing, and simple, nour- 
ishing food, had due effect upon a frame that had failed 
to perform its functions unsupported by these natural al- 
lies. Repulsive coarseness of manner gave way to a 
mild refinement, more in harmony with her outward en- 
vironment Others could not realize that she, the un- 
gainly and unloved, possessed a human heart ; invisible 
had it remained, though concealed by neither bolt nor 
bar. The quickening spirit had pined therein during 
long years, for no one without used the magical watch- 
word that could alone unlock its frowning citadel. Seeds 
buried in catacombs from light and air, when laid in the 
kindly bosom of the earth, burst from their cerements 


into a freer world ; and innocent remains of childhood, 
unrecognized for half a century by mortal eyes, showed 
by corresponding buds and blossoms their still vital pow- 
er. It was easy to speak to the qnick sympathy of Mary 
Hines, who led the weak pilgrim so gently " in the path 
of life ;" and by snatches she looked into a record traced 
by conflicting years, that found no parallel in the joyous 
spontaneity of her own existence. How mournful, but 
that the hour of redemption was near, to know that even 
in infantile years, the freshness of opening life was un- 
known. Eyes looking coldly upon one endowed with no 
natural beauty, induced an awkward restraint of manner, 
that only repelled still further from love the lonely little 
girl, who learned prematurely to repress every impulse of 
affection, too proud to encounter the expected derision of 
looks or words. A heart aching for tenderness found only 
the unnatural aliment of feeding perpetually on itself. 
A spirit, often crushed and hiding its wounds, will be- 
come the blackened thing it is deemed to be. A weary 
world for a hopeless pilgrim, growing each year more cold 
and selfish. It was a weary world to Mrs. Petty ; her 
heart had " stifled its mighty hunger," till it well nigh 
ceased to hunger. The thousand amenities of society 
lavished freely upon the possessor of blessings who gives 
as freely as he receives, are withheld too often from 
the needy and perishing. Those threescore years could 
hardly compute as many hours of enjoyment, to answer 
the desponding query of the bard — but thou, dear Mary 
Hines, hast the charity that u beareth all things, believeth 
all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things ;" and so 
in the winter of our sister's years, we joyfully hail her 
spiritual spring-time. 

" The sweet-smelling room, nice meals brought into 
it, and gentle nursing, were enough to make the sickest 
mind and the sickest body well, but it took something 


more to cure me," said Mrs. . Petty one day, as she sat 
braiding husk mats, a smile in her eye lighting up a 
warm tear upon her withered cheek. Mary looked up 
gratefully and gladly from her own work, and the speak- 
er continued — "When Harriet came in daily with her 
bright posies, and, while arranging them just where J 
could look at them best, told about all the beautiful 
things they reminded her of while gathering them, such 
a feeling of freshness and youth would come over me as 
cannot be told. They carried me out to the open fields 
and woods, that soothed fifty years ago my childish grief, 
and took bad feelings from my mind. There was some 
use in trying to grow better, if an innocent girl like Hat- 
ty did not shrink from the room that held me, but brought 
every thing angel-like as herself to minister to my hard- 
ened heart. It softened me to see that she expected 
one so wicked to love what she did. I considered upon 
that bed, fed often as I needed them with her pleasant 
thoughts — you a# fed me by doing every thing which 
was disagreeable so cheerfully, and never talking about 
it. O, my friend, it is worth the price. I am glad to 
have suffered sixty years to be so happy now." 

Reader, are you weary ? I am not, though the vision 
of a few heavenly days may be dimmed when clothed in 
earthly language. Fifteen years ago, the cradle of the 
first-born child stood in this same cottage. That wel- 
comed infant is now budding into womanhood. The 
walls are darkened, but she brought no shadow at her 
entrance; — she will leave none in going forth. The 
walk has often seemed long to Harriet from the school- 
house home, though but a quarter of a mile. Some- 
times the opened page upon her desk grew strangely 
dark, and sketches of lambs and birds, though a favorite 
pastime, were again and again left uncompleted. One 
day upon her return she paused, gazing dreamily upon 


the brook murmuring at her feet its ever new song: One 
hand supported her side, but she regarded for a moment 
the loved faces of the nodding flowers, and passed in at 
the open door. The low chair was already at her mother's 
side. Perhaps had it not stood there, she could not have 
moved it to the wished-for place, but she occupied its 
familiar seat, and leaned her head upon the maternal arm. 

u You are not well, dear Harriet ? " said Mary, with a 
pang in her heart, as she smoothed the hair from her 
child's forehead, and saw tears trembling beneath the 
closed lashes. 

" I am very weary, mother, sing to me and I shall 

Mary contended with her emotion and sang, but the 
breath of the sleeper fluttered, and her cheeks, so pale 
as she entered, glowed with the burning blood. Caleb 
entered, and her voice ceased as she met his question- 
ing glance. 

: That time the door was opened ; were it not, he him- 
self must have lifted the latch. He raised the uncon- 
scious sleeper, and laid her upon her own bed. As he 
bent over the beautiful head, she stood life-like before 
him, as in the fields years before she dropped the yellow 
corn. He had told her of the removal of a little girl to 
another world, and she, lifting her meek eyes to his face, 
said, in her touching way, " I must go, too, pretty soon." 
He heard her voice as then, and felt its foreseeing truth. 
The fulfilment of the child-prophecy was at hand. Her 
smile was full of love as she awoke ; she stretched her 
hand kindly to Mrs. Petty, who wiped her eyes at the 
foot of the bed; said again, " sing to me mother, and I 
shall sleep," and passed into another uneasy slumber. 
Kind schoolmates walked sadly from the door to inform 
grieved companions that Harriet Hines was sick, and 
could not go that day to school. During " intermission " 


they threaded the woods to find the flowers she loved 
best, but which for several days, they now remembered, 
she had ceased to gather for herself. She recognized 
the blossoms, and said, upon hearing the names of the 
donors, " They are very kind ; give my love to all. Take 
some to Mrs. Petty's room, and tell her the children 
brought them and love her." 

Poor Mrs. Petty sobbed and spilled the water in which 
her trembling hand was placing the blossoms, for now 
she perceived delirium in the affectionate words. 

" Father and mother are sad. I cannot go with you if 
they are unhappy/' whispered she again with quivering lip. 

"We will not fetter her spirit by our grief," said Ca- 
leb, as he wound his arm around the waist of his wife ; 
and if any taint of selfishness shadowed the purity of 
their love, it was dispelled by her words. Before long 
the delirium passed away. She looked gratefully in the 
calm faces of her parents, spoke cheerful words, and 
asked for many companions to be admitted to her room. 
The nicely-kept treasures of books and ornamental arti- 
cles, given her from time to time, were brought by re- 
quest to the bed. These she distributed with endear- 
ing language, and looks of inward peace. The beloved 
village pastor, who came to mingle his sympathy, stood 
not in his teacher's office, but as a learner at the death- 
bed. His voice lifted to the Father in heaven was at 
first broken with sobs, but as he rose with the ascend- 
ing spirit of the dying girl, it grew strong and full. The 
day. before her departure she exclaimed, with radiant 
eyes, •• O, mother ! the bright flowers ! " 

" Where ? dear Harriet, I see none save those by your 

u O, not the pale ones, mother, here. Those will never 
wither if we keep Heaven in our hearts. I have seen 
none so blue and golden since I was a little one, and 
you, dear mother, laid me nightly upon the pillow." 



The clear, gushing notes of a robin that swayed by the 
motion of a branch towards an open window, again quick- 
ened her spiritual sense. 

" Sing with the robin, dear mother, and let it sing to 
you when I go away. I hear such sweet warbliogs 
: sometimes, and cannot tell to which world they belong. 
Father, you will miss me in the field, but believe that 
• they who sow in tears shall reap in joy/ and the Com- 
forter will come unto you all, by and by." 

At last all stood raised above tears and grief around 
the bed. They marked the spirit stamping each mo- 
ment a more heavenly peace upon its outward shrine, 
and breathed more inwardly, lest the holy calm should 
be disturbed. Had her eternal birth-day already com- 
menced ? she lay so motionless. The watchers feel as 
it were the " cool fanning of wings," and raise their eyes 
. from the placid face below. Lo ! a white dove, the tam- 
est of the brood, perchance, has missed its gentle mis- 
tress; perchance it has an errand to the silent group. 
It shook fragrant fruit blossoms through the opened win- 
dow, made a circuit around the beautiful head of the 
sleeper, and having uttered its note of celestial Ian 
guage, flew higher into the blue sky. A waving lock 
of hair rose lightly upon her breast. It was the breeze 
alone, though it looked like the heaving of another breath. 
When the teacher announced from his desk in a tone 
of manly sympathy the departure of their companion, a 
hush pervaded the apartment, deep, as though Harriet 
suddenly stood glorified in their midst. The sun, which 
had just come round by the western windows, as they 
sat so motionless, poured in upon them a flood of golden 
light. It was a baptism of celestial truth upon their 
young hearts. The spirit garments of many will be more 
bright and heavenly for the influences of that holy hour. 
The first coffin borne from Caleb and Mary's door was 


followed by no anguished mourners. They passed under 
an apple-tree planted by Caleb the day of their daugh- 
ter's natural birth, and a shower of the delicate blossoms 
covered it like a bridal robe. A little girl, with bare feet 
and loving face, gazed earnestly after the group of friends, 
and said to her companion, " Harriet Hines always spoke 
kindly to me." 

Two days in the year are kept as holy festivals in 
the hearts of Caleb and Mary. They are the birth-days 
of Harriet. At the return of the first Uieir spirits rise 
in grateful worship for the gift of that blessed babe. At 
the second, they rise yet more freely and joyously to 
greet her in her eternal home. 

Is it very weary to linger so long, and still hear of 
nought but withered old women and funerals ? 

My friend, perhaps since the opening of the new year 
we have met in the mirth of worldly revelry. But also 
our hearts have bled in sympathy, not for the child of a 
few years, removed in its bright bloom, but for the strick- 
en hearts of the parents, from whose embrace was thus 
taken this cherished boon of Heaven. Beautiful would it 
have been for the mourner in that hour of bitter bereave- 
ment, to lie down with the beloved remains, and lose suc- 
ceeding days and nights of mental anguish. But it is 
more beautiful for that mourner to live and suffer — for 
even now it is found that a few hours " can outweigh in 
rich experience the knowledge of years." The wife of 
a few months, the mother of not as many days, was but 
yesterday in our midst, so loving and beloved, so beauti- 
ful and young, that not kindred alone, but all who were 
blessed by her angelic sweetness and innocence, clung to 
her life with yearning love. The bridal robes that clothed 
her at the marriage festival and those that shrouded her 
form in its death loveliness, were pure and fair, but the 
spirit amid the allurements of wealth clothed itself "with 


light as with a garment," and we rejoice in our desolation 
that " Heaven has one such angel more/' We are not 
utterly desolate. That most beautiful image is shrined 
in our hearts. We will bear it on through our earthly 
life, and let it purify us also for a life which shall be 
eternal. " For, behold, I create new heavens and a new 
earth ; and the former shall not be remembered, nor come 
into mind. But be ye glad and rejoice forever in that 
which I create." 

Bangor, Mat 25th' 




Upon a flowery mead, alone, 
Itself retiring and unknown, 

A dainty violet grew. 
A shepherdess of graceful mien 
And sprightly mind, was passing seen 
Lightly — lightly 

Skipped she singing along. 

Could I one moment be the flower 
Most beautiful in Nature's bower, 

The lowly violet thought, 
Then, plucked, the gentle little maid, 
Might place me on her breast to fade, 
In only — only 

A quarter of an hour. 

But when the maiden came at last, 
Ah ! careless was the step that passed, 

And crushed the violet down. 
She sank and died, yet did rejoice ; 
" I die," she said, with latest voice, 
" Beneath, beneath 
Your feet, gentle maid." 




From an Oration on Conserratism and Reform, delivered before the Phi Bete Kappa 

Society, Cambridge. 

Veneration for the Past must not be confounded with 
that slavish attachment to ancient uses, into which, it 
must be confessed, the conservative spirit too easily de- 
generatesw Here, as elsewhere, a good principle is dis- 
honored by excess, and here, as elsewhere, it is common 
to visit the excess on the principle itself. The true ven- 
eration for the Past consists in a vivid sense of what we 
owe to the Past, — a devout acknowledgment of the 
good amassed by the ages which preceded us, and the 
influence which they have on our own well-being and 
doing. This acknowledgment is particularly incumbent 
on the scholar, for he, above all men, is most indebted to 
the Past. Him all the ages have conspired to mould and 
to train. His education comprises the flower of all time. 
How many minds have gone to educate that one ! What 
wealth of genius and of toil has been spent in rearing 
the harvest which he reaps ! The legacies of nations 
compose his library. The whole of civilization is con- 
densed in his text-books. For him Athenian Art and 
Roman virtue. For him the victors at Corinth and Olym- 
pia won their crowns. For him ancient Tragedy com- 
posed her fables. For him Herodotus observed, and 
Plato mused, and Caesar commented, and Cicero plead. 
His culture, — which who of us does not feel to be our 
better part — the life of our life ? — the whole astound- 
ing difference between the ripe scholar, and the naked 


savage, — what is it but the concentration, in one indi- 
vidual, of unnumbered minds ? 

And not the scholar only, but the individual in every 
walk of life, is the product of all that has transpired be- 
fore his day. His ancestry comprise the whole family 
of man. All ages and men unite in every influence 
which goes to form his character and to shape his des- 
tiny. He is born into certain relations, traditions, opin- 
ions, institutions, all of which, if we trace their growth 
through all preceding generations, will be found to in- 
volve the larger portion of the world's history in their 
formation and descent. To select one instance out of 
this complex mass, let us look at language, which affects 
so powerfully the character and life of civilized man. 
The individual is born to the use of a certain language, 
we will say the English. That language is compounded 
of how many races and climes ! It comes to us through 
how many channels of Roman, Saxon, Norman history ! 
All the nations whose dialects have emptied into this vo- 
cabulary, have imparted to it some peculiar trait Had 
there never been a Hengist or a Caesar, there never could 
have been an English tongue. We cannot open our 
mouths without commemorating, in the very sounds we 
utter, events and name,s of distant renown. The house- 
hold words, which first strike our ear, are echoes of an- 
other age and a pagan world. 

But this is not all. What more particularly concerns 
us in this connection, is the fact that language is thought, 
fixed and crystallized in signs and son nds, conditioned by 
all the peculiarities, historical and organic, of the nation 
which uses it. The mind of a people imprints itself in 
its speech, as the light in a picture of Daguerre. The 
English language is the English mind. We who use 
the language partake of this mind. Our individual 
genius, be it never so individual, is informed by it, and 


can never wholly divest itself of its influence. It may be 
doubted if the most abstract and original thinker, in his 
attempts to construct an absolute system of philosophy, 
can so abstract himself in his speculations, can reason so 
absolutely, but that the genius of his language shall ap- 
pear as a constituent element in his system. For the 
words he employs are not algebraic signs which every 
new speculator may employ at pleasure, to express ever 
new relations. They are constant quantities ; they have 
a fixed value imparted to them by other minds, which; he 
who employs them must accept, and which will go far to 
modify the results of his speculations. Hence the diffi- 
culty of expressing the poetry or the metaphysics of one 
nation in the language of another. The most success- 
ful efforts in this kind, are but a compromise between the 
native and the foreign mind. 

Again, the individual is born into some particular 
church or form of faith, which, whether he accepts it or 
not in after life, must needs exert a very important in- 
fluence in the formation of his mind. He is born, for ex : 
ample, into Christianity — into a Protestant Christian 
Church. Here too, we notice the same confluence of re- 
lations extending through all regions and times. Be- 
sides the doctrine and the life of Jesus, how many sys- 
tems and traditions, creeds and facts, have gone to make 
or modify that church. Jewish theology, Pagan philoso- 
phy, Romish councils, Gibbelline factions and Protestant 
reforms. The&e influences again are connected with 
others and still others, and so on, through a boundless 
complexity of cause and effect, reaching back to the 

Such is the individual ; so compounded and condition- 
ed he comes into life. He is the product of all the Past. 
However he may renounce the connection, he is always 
the child of his time. He can never entirely shake off 


that -relation. AH the efforts made to outstrip timet to 
anticipate the natural growth of man by a violent disrup- 
tion of old ties and a total separation from the Past, have 
hitherto proved useless, or useful, if at all, in the way x>£ 
tfentioa, rather than of fruit. The experiment has often 
been fried* Men of ardent temper and lively imagina- 
tion, inpatient of existing evils, from which no period is 
exempt, have renounced society, broke loose ftoro mil 
tlfeir moorings in the actual, and sought in the boundless 
ttea of dissent the promised land of Reform. They found 
what they carried ; they carried what they were ; they 
were what we all are — the offspring of their time. 

The aeronaut, who spurns the . earth in bis puffed bal- 
loon, is still indebted to it for his impetus and his wings : 
and still, with his utmost efforts, he cannot escape the 
sure attraction of the parent sphere. His floating island 
is a part of her main. He revolves with her orbit, he is 
gped fey het winds. We who stand below and watch his 
motions, know that he is one of us. He may dally with 
the clouds awhile, but his home is not there. Earth he 
is, and to earth he must return. 

The most air-blown reformer cannot overcome the 
moral gravitation which connects him with his time. 
He owes to existing institutions the whole philosophy of 
his dissent, and draws, from Church and State, the very 
ideas by which be would fight against them, or rise above 
them. The individual may withdraw from society, he 
may spurn at all the uses of civilized life, dash the gold- 
en cup of tradition from his lips, and flee to the wilder- 
ness " where the wild asses quench their thirst" He 
may find others who will accompany him in his flight ; 
but Jet him not fancy that the course of reform will fol- 
low him there, — that any permanent organization can be 
based on dissent, — that society will relinquish the hard 
conquests of so many years and return again to original 



TriERE is something very interesting in the whole fam- 
ily of trees. In all there is beauty, and to a great ex- 
tent, individuality of character, from the hardiest, most 
time-defying, to the tenderest sapling. Among the most 
admired of our own region, is the elm, the noble, grace- 
ful, heaven -aspiring elm; exhibiting' the unwonted union 
of exquisite proportion, with strength add with age. 
Strength, sustaining during a long succession of years, 
exposure that would wither man in an hour, and age, 
which might smile derisively at his frailty. Not inappro- 
priately may the sentiment of veneration arise, as we 
gaze upon the form that has borne the storms of a hun- 
dred years, d silent spectator of continual change, un- 
moved alike by the petty contentions, turbulent grief, or 
tumultuous joy of the multitudes who rose up beneath 
its branches, busied themselves for a little, and then 
passed away, leaving the vetenih to welcome another 

In the home of my childhood stands an ancient elm, 
which is identified with almost every recollection of my 
early days. None seemingly marked its origin, and there- 
fore I know not how long since, or by whose hands, the 
little germ from whence it grew was deposited in the 
earth, or what motive led to its sepulture. Perhaps some 
saddened invalid derived a mournful pleasure from plac- 
ing it there, cheered by the thought, that though his eye 
should not behold its greatness, yet would others rejoice 


in its beauty, rest in its shade, and perchance bless the 
hand that had planted it. A dawn of hope stole, it may 
be, over his troubled spirit, as he thought of himself 
faintly imaged in that small seed-bud, hid now from the 
pleasant light of the sun, but only as a step to future 

Some youthful student, peradventure, set the slender 
twig, carefully watching it all his school-boy days, and 
bidding it a fond adieu when forced to seek his fortune 
in far distant climes. But by what means soever placed 
there, we know that it nourished well, attaining at length 
immensity of stature, and profusion of delicate, wide- 
spreading foliage. . 

That dear old tree ! Varied and stirring associations 
cluster, as I have said, around its giant trunk. The first 
walk in the new village, when the verdant patriarch was 
espied, and honored with the full meed of infantile awe ; 
the holiday afternoons spent merrily at its base; the 
bounding step, the joyous laugh of those lightsome days, 
how they all come back with the freshness of yesterday, 
till the same blithe heart beats again within us, and in- 
voluntarily we start for another frolic at the favorite spot. 
But the youthful sharers of those sports, where are they ? 
Ah, that query dispels the illusion ; the golden thread 
is dropped ; and the sedate matron is herself again. But 
a truce with time, — we would linger awhile midst these 
sunny memories, and hold converse with kindred spirits 
of bygone scenes. 

Foremost in the gay circle stands little Nancy Grey, 
a bright, sprightly child of twelve summers, the pet of 
the group ; who never gave or received a harsh word. A 
sad day was it for us, when sickness laid its wasting hand 
upon her fragile form, and in anxious suspense we wait- 
ed the result. Weeks passed, and how were we shocked 
when told that Nancy, though recovering, was entirely 


blind ! She would never more look with us upon the 
blue sky, the fresh fields, and beautiful flowers. la very 
bitterness of spirit we wept for our young playmate. 

Then there was Helen Lee, the victim of a single 
fault, affectionate, generous, but passionate ; how often 
did that unrestrained temper break in like a black cloud 
upon our glad sunshine ; and in after life, dark and heavy 
has it lowered over her own head ; blighting, in its whirl- 
wind course, the sweet buds of hope, and tarnishing the 
choicest jewels of the heart. 

Jamie Wilson, the young artist, who used to make us 
sit for our portraits, and take chalk sketches of surround- 
ing scenery, — I well remember him. 

And Edwin, the Reverend, a fine lad, some years our 
senior, whose lofty brow and intellectual eye established 
his rightful claim to the title, even before one had seen 
him mounted upon a bench, holding -forth as our minis- 
ter. His first juvenile discourse comes up to my mind 
at this moment. It was a fine Saturday afternoon, and 
our boisterous merriment being with some difficulty 
checked, all joined in singing " Gently, Lord/* and Ed- 
win, stepping upon the unique rostrum, gave us a youth- 
ful comment upon the text, " But to do good forget not." 
He left us not long after to prepare for a collegiate course. 
The flame of love then kindling, made perfect by the re- 
nunciation of home, friends, and every endearing tie, now 
glows on the benighted plains of Africa, 

Years sped; and we stood around the old tree, no 
longer as children, but as dignified maidens and conse- 
quential young men. Sunset stroll and moonlight walk 
superseding childish gambols. 

Cupid's dart sometimes lodged in the vicinage of the 
veteran elm ; and once we had a wedding there ; a right 
joyous one, too, as was ever consummated within the 
glittering halls .of wealth. 


Alice Loring came to our village when she was seven 
years old, an orphan, still clad in habiliments of re- 
cent woe. An uncle, having no children to gladden his 
hearth-stone, took her as his own, and for six years she 
was onr constant companion. At that time her aunt, 
who had been as a mother to the lonely one, was re- 
moved by death, and Alice, though young, was installed 
as housekeeper; for the failing fortunes of the family ren- 
dered compensatory assistance unattainable. The small 
rooms of her uncle were neatly kept, his meals punctu- 
ally prepared, and every domestic service performed with 
alacrity and skill far exceeding her years. But by and 
by we noticed that Alice grew pale and very sad. She 
did not ask us, as usual, to come and see her; and some- 
times when we met, the big tear, spite of her efforts, 
•would start, revealing some great sorrow within. In an- 
swer to repeated inquiries she only said, " I am very 
lonely now aunt is gone ;" but the truth ere long became 
apparent. Her uncle was an inebriate, and his home the 
abode of impurity and loathsome excess. Calamity, un- 
aided, un pitied, had wrecked a mind once strictly upright. 
Year after year rolled on, and faithfully did that young 
girl discharge her duty still; while her unhappy relative 
sunk continually deeper in degradation, unmoved by the 
silent eloquence of a pure life, with its unwearying kind- 
ness, or the gentle words of persuasive entreaty, forced 
at times upon his ear. In delirious desperation he not 
nnfrequently dealt out harsh abuse; but he was her un- 
cle* He had sheltered her, a helpless orphan, and she 
would not leave him now alone. 

Jonas Sawyer, or old Joe, as was his more customary 
appellative, never was visible in our sober community on 
the Sabbath ; and a blessing indeed to his oppressed 
niece was that weekly absence. One day in seven she 
could lay aside laborious toil, and from its hallowed in flu- 


ences derive comfort for the present, and strength for 
the future. 

Alice was always beautiful, and her sweet face lost 
none of its attractiveness in consequence of the subdued, 
pensive expression resting upon the finely-moulded fea- 
tures. She was a general favorite among us, and when 
on Sabbath morning she made her appearance, neatly at- 
tired, and taking her seat with the choir, mingled with 
theirs her silvery voice, every heart yearned towards her, 
and none failed to honor the self-sacrificing spirit of the 
noble-hearted girl. 

Among the worshippers at our church one Sunday, was 
a young lawyer of some eminence, from the neighboring 
city. I am not writing a love story — but truth compels 
me to say, he saw and admired our dearly loved Alice. 
On the evening of that day he met her with a friend, 
lingering beside the old tree, and discovered that beneath 
the beauteous exterior dwelt a spirit as refined and love- 
ly as itself. A few Sabbaths more and he was with us 
again ; and before many months had passed, with an in- 
dependence seeking only true worth, his hand, heart and 
fortune were at the disposal of the portionless girL A 
loving spirit was Alice Loring's, and a warm current of 
grateful affection flowed back upon the generous wooer. 
But with her, duty was the highest consideration, the im- 
partial criterion to which every fond wish was submitted ; 
and in the present instance, it pointed still, in her esti- 
mation, to the forlorn being whom none would receive or 
care for but herself. She ought not to leave him, she 
would not, in his utter desolation. In few and faltering 
words her final decision was given. 

We will not say that Arthur prayed for the death of 
the old man ; but intemperance, combined with disease, 
had well-nigh done its work, and die he did, before the 
close of that self-same year. It is fearful to think of the 


transition of such a soul to that world where change 
comes never more, — but for Alice, who could help re*- 

In dtie time the lover came to claim his bride ; he had 
taken her with no worldly endowment ; no home to her 
so dear as the rude seat beneath the spreading tree ; and 
there, at the favorite spot, did they choose to be united ; 
with the broad overarching canopy, glittering with ten 
thousand diamond lights, above them ; and the full sum* 
mer moon bathing in softened radiance every surround- 
ing object. All the village was present at that rural nup- 
tial festival ; and as our good Pastor gave to another the 
gentle creature we had so long known and loved, tears 
for our own loss would mingle with abounding joyfulness 
in her promised felicity. 

So much for wedding reminiscences. But it was not 
joyous scenes alone that transpired in days of yore. The 
elm stood directly in the passage to our simple cemetery, 
with its neat white paling, and nicely -gravelled walks. 
Many a sorrowing train has paused at its base in un- 
controllable grief, as the loved haunt of the departed 
awoke stirring associations of happier days. That still, 
sure destroyer, Consumption, ever marking for his own 
the fairest blossoms, held among us a fixed residence ; and 
one after another of our cherished ones bowed to his re- 
sistless touch. The fading away of my own dearest 
friend, how vividly it rises before me ! Bound to life by 
every conceivable tie ; the idolized daughter, sister, and 
affianced bride, no wonder it was hard to leave all, and 
go down alone to the silent tomb ! Hope lingered long 
around the confines of earthly bliss ; and the eye of faith 
turned, while yet her sky was bright, to the better land, 
became dim in the hour of conflict, through the bright- 
ness of sublunary visionings. The bitter cup, however, 
passed at length, and in the sweetness of unquestioning 

202 voicjs fbou TBM.MxtammuuA. 

submission shc( quietly murmured. "Thy wiU be done**' 
Supported by the strong arm of the compassionate Sa- 
viour, she entered in perfect peace the dark valley, and 
a smile of celestial radiance resting upon the beautiful 
features, betokened the full fruition of hope, in that eman- 
cipated spirit 

Full often were our youthful circle thus reminded that 
life is but a vapor ; its surest prop only a broken reed. 
Earthly streams of pleasure were seen to fail ; suddenly, 
entirely; but the fountain of living waters was ever open; 
and many repairing thither, drank, and were athirst no 

Yes, old tree ! around thee are entwined tenderest rec- 
ollections of many hearts ; joyous and sad, they meet, 
entrusted to thy faithful care. Not often do I see thee, 
as in the olden time; for mountain, river, and weary 
mile intervene ; but thine image is with me still ; receiv- 
ing as ever the tribute of reverential affection. 

Fair tree ! long may it be thy lot to stand, unharmed by 
the rage of conflicting elements, or the rude hand of hu- 
man foe ; and when those who now greet thy vernal bud- 
dings, rejoice in thy summer loveliness, and sympathize 
in thy wintry loneliness, have forever passed away, may 
the children of another generation play around thine 
aged trunk, and look up with awe at thy lofty, spreading 
drapery. We know thy day must at length close ; may 
its record tell of many, who, touched with thy beauty, 
turned them with lowly adoration to the Author of all 
loveliness. Thus shall thine errand be one of love, and 
not in vain shalt thou have lived, a solitary, speechless elm. 

Bangor, 1847. 



Thi human heart — Oh ! cherish it, 

'T is the holiest thing on earth ; 
Not all Potosi's glittering ore 

Can match its priceless worth. 
Forego the stately palaces, 

The cherished pomp and show, 
And find in the beat of a grateful heart 

What these may not bestow. 

Low, gentle words, and loving looks, 

And acts, which freely spring 
In the living fount of noble thoughts — 

Oh ! these rich treasures bring ; 
And pour them, — as the wine and oil 

The ancient Syrian poured, 
And bind the bruised and bleeding heart 

By torturing passions gored. 

The strength which God hath given to thee 

As freely thou must give — 
The fullest use of all thy powers 

Is truest way to live. 
Though breathing still — thou art but dead, 

While wrapt in idle dreams — 
Then shrink not from the labor stern 

Which good to conscience seems. 

The good 8 which God hath given to thee, 
• Are means to heaven or hell, 
As they flow forth in bounteous streams, 
Or pride and avarice swell. 


Oh ! turn them from thyself away, — 
If dammed, they stagnant grow, 

And breed the blue miasma foul, 
The seeds of death to sow. 

Give all unto the aching heart 

Its pressing needs demand ; 
The loving word — the aiding strength, 

The fireside, board, or land ; 
Nor let one cold or selfish thought 

Retard the gushing spring, 
And sweetness indescribable 

Shall angels to thee bring. 



the evening of the 7th of October, 1847, a lady, doniy veiled, called at the 
> of the secretary of the Bangor Female Orphan Asylum, and left an envelope 
and to the secretary, which contained merely these words. " A donation to 
iangor Female Orphan Atyhun, $900." The aothor of this generoue deed if 

Full eighteen centuries ago, 

Robed in a form of clay, 
There came, to loll the pulse of woe, 

A Being pore as day. 

Though veiled from ken of grosser mind, 

The wise and spiritual 
Beneath his aspect saw, defined, 

The true Emmanuel 

Nor courtly train, nor proud array, 

Ushered the sinless one ; 
But stricken spirits felt the sway 

Of heaven's lowly Son. 

Awhile, our sorrowing vale he trod 

With love too vast to tell ; 
Then, reascending unto God, 

His stainless mantle fell. 

It wrapped the early martyr-band, 

Who every lure withstood, 
And like their Head, with life in hand, 

Went forth in doing good. 


And e'er since then, its sacred fold 
Has draped the spirit's form 

Of those, who gave, or strength or gold, 
The freezing pulse to warm. 

It covered Howard like a robe, 

Until his being glowed 
With flame, encircling-half the globe ; 

Such love to man he owed. 

And still, though avarice rules the sight 

Of ostentatious pride, 
Evading law, overstepping right, 

By desolating stride ; 

Though vain ambition's carnal eye, 

TJnblushingly will lift 
Its gaze, the honor to descry 

Of Pharisaic gift ; 

Godlike in purposes, are those 
This holy mantle shrouds ; 

Who like the angel of repose, 
Show heaven between the clouds. 

O'er ble'eding hearts, all crushed and sore, 
With noiseless step and fleet, 

They come, the balm of peace to pour, 
And light the doubting feet. 

With such, although no earthly scroll 
Shall trace the unknown name, 

God will the Orphan's Friend enrol 
In all-enduring fame. 

A recompense awaiteth, where 
_ The orphan's wail is hushed, 

When earth rejuvenate, shall share 
The wak'ningof the just. 



" And yet it is the wasted heart, 
It is the wasted mind, 
Which seeks not in the inner world, 
Its happiness to find."— L. £. L. 

Marianne Mendon was seated in her parlor, fronting 
the street, into which the bright morning rays of a Jane 
sun straggled for admission, through blinds and curtains, 
not closed to quite the mark which fashion dictates as the 
test of gentility. She was engaged in transferring to the' 
canvass before her an image of the flowers she loved so 
well, when her brother Edward entered to give her a let- 
ter he had just taken from the office. 

" Where are yonr wits straying this morning, brother 
mine ? This letter is for you, not me." 

" Ah, true. I mistook, this is the right one." 

Marianne broke the seal, and while she was reading, 
Edward amused himself with putting into a snarl her 
balls of floss, overturning her frame and pacing the floor, 
but apparently unable to throw from his mind the bur- 
den, not of sweet, but " bitter fancies," he finally seated 
himself by the open window, and began pulling the leaves 
of a Golden Haired Acacia, which sat " smiling " on the 
piazza, within reach of his hand. 

" Oh, do not, brother, pray do not," said Marianne, fold- 
ing up her letter, " quite demolish my beautiful flowers. 
It will take me an hour to repair the mischief you have 
already done at my workstand." 


Edward ceased his depredations on his sister's pe»l 
plant, and seated himself by her side. 

" Marianne ! I did not particularly admire the set of 
young ladies you collected here last evening. Nor, in- 
deed, can I commend your taste, in the choice of many 
of your present intimates." 

" Ah ! and may I ask which of them falls under your 
especial censure ? Is it Catherine Tracy ? " she answer- 
ed, looking archly up at her brother. 

" Yes," said he, slowly, and with a firm contraction of 
the lips. Marianne opened upon him her full, black eyes, 
in astonishment. 

" What, are you really j ealous ? " 

"Jealous! no! there must be a real or fancied senti- 
ment of love, to found jealousy upon, ah4 I am not im 
love with Catherine Tracy, nor do I imagine myself to 
be. It must be something more than a frivolous coquette, 
that will ever awaken love hi my heart" 

" This from you, Edward ! " exclaimed Marianne, With 
emotion, " who have been so long looked upon as the ar- 
dent admirer of Catherine, and the almost suitor for her 

"Yet, that suit I have never urged, and shall not, 
though I confess that she is capable of being all that 
any man might desire, in the object of his choice; Bait 
I am greatly disappointed in her. Two years since, 
when she left school and came out in society, I thought 
she bid fair to outshine most, if not all, the young ladieb 
of my acquaintance. Her talents were certainly of a 
high order, her manners more than pleasing — they were 
fascinating — and her disposition as amiable afr hex per- 
son was lovely. What is she now? The contrast is 
most melancholy. Trifling in her pursuits —fickle and 
insincere in conduct — empty and frivolous in mind,— 
her highest ambition is to be admired by the most worth- 

Tin moLTB. 209 

less part of her acquaintance. No, Marianne, whatever 
romantic dreams I may have once indulged in, relative to 
her, have proved dreams only. You need not smile so 
meaningly. I can never link my fate to one who would 
much prefer winning the heartless adulation of a tribe 
of idle fops, to securing the genuine attachment of one 
true heart." 

" Nay, brother, you are angry with Catherine, because 
last evening, when you attempted to instruct her in your 
philosophical speculations, her eyes and thoughts seemed 
wandering over the room, in search, you would say, of 
objects to play her artillery upon ; and that, as I noticed,' 
she cut you off in the midst of one of your most eloquent 
passages, when Messrs. Carleton and Morse made their 

M True, and though for the moment, it might be morti- 
fying to my vanity, yet I thank her for the deed. Her 
own hands have broken the lost links of my chain. 
Often have I endeavored to show her, with all the plain* 
ness which my position allowed, how unworthy of her- 
self was her present career ; but she received my well- 
meant efforts either with derision or resentment I shall 
cease all such vain attempts — she has chosen her path 
where I cannot follow her. I can have no contest with 
mere shadows of humanity like Carleton and Morse. . If 
she prefers such compounds of broadcloth, starch, and 
perfumery, I shall not dispute with them the honor of 
such preference." 

" You must not be too severe upon Catherine. She is 
yet quite young, and though now very fond of admiration 3 , 
I '11 allow, yet in time she will learn to estimate it at its 
trite worth." 

" Do not look for such a result. The girl who at eigh- 
teen, is so practised in all the tricks of coquetry, will not 
grow more simple-minded, or true-hearted as years in- 


crease ; she will rather double her arts, as She finds b*w 
native charms on the wane." 

" Catherine is not a coquette at heart," said Marianne, 
earnestly, " only a little giddy in the head, just now." 

" What else," exclaimed Edward, " can be her evident 
intention, in keeping me chained to her car, a serious 
suitor, to be taken up when her life of pleasure grows 
stale ; while she lavishes all her smiles upon these ' mere 
ephemera of to-day — these insects of nonentity to-mor- 
row ? ' What is this but heartless coquetry ? " 

u Why, she really prefers you, and would never think 
of one of these danglers as a future husband." 

" I have not a doubt that she means to retain me," re- 
plied Edward, with a slight sneer, — u witness her ex- 
ceedingly cordial manner of receiving me, when no new- 
er or gayer favorite is present to attract her regard ; and 
her very frequent visits here." Marianne looked vexed. 

" Indeed, brother Edward, your charity is only equalled 
by your modesty. And so you really have the vanity to 
think that her visits here are solely on your account ? " 

"Indeed, Marianne," retorted Edward, mimicing her 
manner, "your blindness is superior, both to my charity 
and modesty. And eo you really have the fond credulity 
to suppose that her visits here are solely on your account? " 

And having indulged in this mutual sally, they both 
laughed. At this moment, they caught the sound of a 
light step and the rustle of a dress in the entry. 

" Hush," whispered Marianne, " 't is herself." 

They listened breathlessly, expecting every moment 
to see her enter ; instead, however, they heard rapid foot- 
falls down the flight of stone steps which led to the piazza. 

" Is it possible she can have been in the entry ?" ex* 
claimed Marianne, looking aghast 

" Is it possible ? " echoed Edward, as both rushed to 
the door. Their worst fears were confirmed. They saw 

TBB SB80LTB. 211 

Catherine retreating from the house in such .eager taste, 
Qs proved she had heard hut too much. 

* Oh, Edward ! What have we done ? " cried Mari- 
anne, confusion and distress pictured upon her face. 

Edward looked pale and deeply agitated, as he mut- 
tered — " She must have heard it all ! Can she ever 
forgive? Suddenly a new thought seemed to call a 
sparkle to his eye, and a flush to his face. " It cannot be 
helped now, and perhaps accident has accomplished what 
I have so long wished, but never yet found means to do. 
The truths she has just heard, harsh though they be, 
may have touched a conscience which parried all direct 
appeals ? 

" But she will think me so ungenerous, so cruel, to join 
in your censure." 

" If she heard all you said, she heard you defend her," 
replied Edward. 

" She will dislike and despise us both," continued Ma- 
rianne, unheeding her brother's attempts to comfort her; 
and really grieved at having even in appearance been 
unfaithful to her friend, tears started from her eyes. 
" She shall forgive me — I can, I must, I will convince 
her, that I love her still," and she rushed to her chamber, 
to hide the chagrin she could not controL 

But what of her, the unhappy object of all this con- 
demnation ! How came she there ? 

Accustomed to visit Marianne in the most familiar 
manner, she often entered unobserved, and notifying her 
approach only by a slight tap, immediately presented 
herself. Proceeding this morning as usual, she was just 
raising her hand to knock on the open door, when the 
sound of her own name arrested her movement. Yes, 
it was no illusion ; « — that voice was Edward Mendon'a, 
and he was uttering anything but flattering truth of her. 
To retreat was her first impulse, but a spell seemed to 


enchain her footsteps, and confused and mortified, she re- 
mained rooted to the spot Alternately agitated by grief, 
shame and resentment, she yet drank in each word they 
uttered; and it was not till that laugh of derision fell 
upon her ear, that she roused herself, and fled precipi- 
tately homeward; Her step was firm and her face calm, 
though pale. Unobserved by any of her family, she 
reached her own room and locked herself in. Once se- 
cure from interruption, she gave way to the tumult of feel- 
ing which oppressed her heart almost to bursting. Pas- 
sions hitherto but little known to her, by turns swayed her 
mind with a power that spurned control It would be diffi- 
cult to say which ruled the hour, mortified pride, resent- 
ment, grief, or the disappointment of a softer feeling. 
Long, long she permitted them to reign over her without 
seeking to interpose a check. 

When the dinner hour arrived and Catherine did not 
make her appearance, her elder sister Elizabeth quietly 
observed that Kate had probably stopped to dine at Mr. 

" She goes there too much," said Mr. Tracy, with a 
slight frown. 

" She and Marianne love each other so Well," inter- 
posed Mrs. Tracy, — who ever sought to shield the cen- 

" But Marianne has a brother, 1 ' rejoined Mr. Tracy, 
" and this is a gossiping world. Catherine must be more 

Elizabeth secretly resolved to give her sister notice 
of her father's wishes, but for the present suffered the 
subject to be dropped. The day wore away, but still 
Kate did not appear. Elizabeth, having occasion to go to 
her sister's room, was surprised to find the door fastened. 

What can this mean, thought she. Has Kate returned 
. without my seeing her ? She spoke — " Kate, are yon 

m rooLvi. 213 

•them?" Receiving no answer she again called — "If 
yaa are there, dear Kate, do unlock the door." A few 

-minutes passed, the door slowly opened, and she saw 

^before her the pale and haggard face of her sister. 

'/."What is the matter? Pray tell me what has hap- 

.pcoed? When did yon return ? " 

t: Catherine essayed to speak, but emotion checked her 
aUeranoe. Elizabeth threw both arms around her— 
44 Dearest sister, pray tell me what grieves you? " For a 
few moments Catherine silently wept Her sister was 
equally moved, but she did not cease urging Kate to tell 
feet why she suffered. 

" Come sit here, and I will tell you all. 19 They seated 
themselves together, and Catherine poured into her sis- 
ter's sympathizing ear the story of her affliction. Eliza- 
beth could scarcely hear her patiently to the end. Indig- 
nantly she exclaimed, 
; « What, Edward Mendon "say this of yon ! The false ! 

ungrateful ! " 

-" Oh do not say so. Do not blame him, I beseech you, 
for I feel that it is but too true." 

" True ! what ! true that you have been a heartless co- 

■ - M No, not that ! He might have spared me that. And 
Marianne, too ! I did not deserve she should laugh at 
me," — and her tears fell afresh. " But it is true, dear 
sister, that I have been a giddy, useless, and frivolous 
being. I have been examining my life for the last two 
years, and wjiat a retrospect ! I have absolutely nothing 
to record either useful to others or honorable to mytielf." 
VM N6t so, Kate. I acknowledge that you have been 
rather gay and thoughtless ; that your spirits are natural- 
ly wild ; but you are young." 

«Oh do not, dear Elteabeth," said Catherine, in a tone 
gently reproachful, u seek to- comfort me now, at the ek 

214 voices noM m dwduskeao. 

pense of my future good. Let me take this lesson to 
my heart, hard though it he. I cannot cheat myself 
longer. My past life presents nothing to satisfy my con- 
science. In mental improvement, all the bright promise 
which my girlish precocity gave, blighted in the bud. At 
home, where you are so exemplary in the performance of 
domestic duty, a little embroidery, a little light reading, a 
little drawing and music, are nearly all that I can boast 
of doing; and abroad, what a career of thoughtless folly 
have 1 eagerly run." 

The amiable and excellent, but far less forcible char- 
acter of Elizabeth was borne down by Catherine's vehe- 
mence. She was silent. 

"And now, my dear lizzie/' continued her sister, "I 
have formed a resolve, and let me beg of you not to op- 
pose, bnt help me to keep it It will, I know, require 
some sacrifice on your part, but I think you will be wil- 
ling to do as much, and more even, to promote my happi- 
ness and welfare." 

" Let me hear your resolution. If it be possible, I will 
do as you wish." 

" It is this. Two years of my existence have I thrown 
away ; misapplied my powers and degraded all my facul- 
ties. The next two years I am determined to spend in 
self-improvement I will endeavor, as far as possible, to 
redeem my wasted time. I shall devote myself to hard 
study, that I may acquire that mental discipline so. neces- 
sary to future advancement ; and to learning under moth- 
er's and your tuition those domestic employments, which 
it is my duty to understand and to share with you." 

" If this is all, dear Kate, we shall rejoice in yonr res- 
olution ; and you may be assured, no one of us will give 
you anything but encouragement in such a course." 

" This is not all, Elizabeth. Knowing well what temp- 
tations I shall meet in society, and how ill I am prepared 


to resist them, I am resolved to give it up wholly for two 
years. I hope, if I should live to the end of that period, 
that I shall be better fitted to answer its just claims. I 
wish you to communicate this to father and mother, and 
endeavor to gain their consent, for of course without their 
approbation and cooperation, I cannot adhere to my de- 

" I doubt about your giving up society for so long a 
time. But perhaps you are right. At any rate I will 
consult our parents, and if they do not object, I will give 
you all the aid in my power.' 1 

" Do so, dearest Lizzie, and I shall love you better 
than ever," rejoined Catherine, affectionately kissing her 
cheek. The affair was communicated to Mr. and Mrs. 
Tracy, together with Catherine's resolve. Surprised and 
grieved at the cause, but pleased with the result, the pa- 
rents, although sympathizing with their suffering child, 
were ready to give every assistance to her newly-found 
virtue. They had long looked upon her career with pain, 
but fond and indulgent in the extreme, they had offered 
no decided opposition to her wishes. They pleaded youth 
and buoyant spirits as a palliation for her thoughtless- 
ness ; and the flattery she received, as an excuse for her 
vanity. Considering it almost certain that she would one 
day marry Edward Mendon, though they were well aware 
that no engagement subsisted between them, tbey looked 
forward to that event as the turning point in Catherine's 
life ; and trusted that her native good sense would then 
make her all a husband could desire. Now that they 
learned how groundless were such expectations, they 
could not but feel disappointed, for he had always stood 
deservedly high in their estimation. 



Elizabeth Tracy was teased, on all sides, for an ex- 
planation of the unwonted seclusion of her, who bad 
hitherto been considered one of the highest ornaments 
of the gay circles of the city. Though she frankly com- 
municated the nature of her sister's determination, yet, 
as of course, she was silent as to the impelling cause, 
conjecture was still busy, and as usual, far from hitting 
the truth. Many were the jests perpetrated at her ex- 
pense by the would-be wits of her acquaintance. The 
ban of exclusion, it was suggested, would not be rigidly 
enforced against cUL The " Fair Nun," as she was gen- 
erally nicknamed, would doubtless occasionally be found 
talking through the grate, at least, to some of her former 
admirers. And it was confidently prophesied, that a few 
weeks at farthest would see her emerging from her re- 
treat, gayer than ever. Many observed that Edward 
Mendon not only did not seek to constitute himself an 
exception to her rule of prohibition, but that he never ex- 
pressed surprise, or was heard to inquire into a matter so 
mysterious to others. Was it indifference that kept him 
silent? Ye who have cherished some fond youthful 
dream, till it became part of your existence, the more 
deeply imbedded in your heart the more rudely it was 
assaulted from without, answer the question. 

In spite of the innuendoes and prophesies of her former 
friends, Catherine persevered in refusing to see all vis- 
itors, however agreeable they might be. One individual 
alone was excepted from the application of the rule ; this 
was her pastor, the Rev. Mr. Harris. When he heard 
the story of her vow, he claimed the right, as her appoint- 
ed spiritual friend and counsellor, not to be excluded from 

TH1 U90LVS. 217 

her society. However reluctant at first Catherine might 
feel to take even one step beyond the boundary she had 
assigned to herself, she felt that his earnest solicitation, 
backed as it was by the request of her father, could not 
with propriety be refused. Well for her that it was not, 
for though when she felt her courage flag and her interest 
in her studies abate, she had only to call to mind the 
words of Edward Mendon, — "Trifling in her pursuits, 
empty and frivolous in mind/' to send her back to her 
books and work with fresh vigor, yet the sudden change 
'from' a life of excessive gaiety to one of deep seclusion 
might have engendered sickly fancies, and made her the 
victim of morbid feelings, had not some social stimulus 
been substituted for that she had so entirely abandoned. 
Mr. Harris was at once friend, instructor, and confidential 
adviser. He guided her studies so wisely, that a genuine 
love of knowledge was soon revived in her mind, and 
thus she reaped the best reward of mental application, — 
a constant pleasure in the acquisition of new thoughts. 
It was one of the peculiar merits of Mr. Harris, so always 
to appear so filled with the spirit of his office, that those 
he addressed were compelled to forget the accomplish- 
ments of the man, in the zeal of the servant of God. 
He was naturally accessible to all, and his heart so over- 
flowed with the common feelings of humanity, that he 
never met any one with whom he could not find some 
points of sympathy. From his first introduction to Cath- 
erine, he had felt great interest in her, not merely because 
she was fitted to inspire such interest, but because he 
looked upon her as one over whom he was more spec- 
ially bound to watch, as she was in danger of so wide- 
ly straying from the true path. Such was his com- 
mand over all the topics of conversation likely to attract 
her lively fancy, that he had never been without some 
hold, even over her volatile mind, and he felt that the 


present opportunity must not be neglected of endeavor- 
ing to win to a true life one whose powers however 
wasted, could never be inefficient for evil, and might be 
most effective for good. A devoted Christian, he had 
embraced his profession from the purest dictates of his 
religion, a deep reverence and love of the human soul, 
and an earnest desire to lead that degraded soul back to 
its maker. " Do not/ 1 wrote he in one of his frequent 
letters of advice to Catherine, " do not, my friend and 
pupil, fall into the mistake of supposing that intellectual 
culture alone is that improvement of the talents which 
is enjoined upon you. No ; every social, moral, and re- 
ligious faculty are talents which God has committed to 
your trust, and commanded you to occupy till he calls 
you from this world. It is not the storing up of mere 
information which is to be the highest and best result of 
your present studies, but it is the powers you are acquir- 
ing, the habits you are forming, the tastes you are per- 
fecting, that will prove the incalculable benefit. See to 
it, then, that those powers be directed to the pursuit of 
good ; those habits, such as may make the path of virtue 
easy ; and those tastes, such as will lead you to the source 
of all virtue." " You know," he remarked on another 
occasion, " that I am in general far from being an advo- 
cate for seclusion from the world, yet when we have 
run too fast and too far in one direction, it is necessary to 
turn a short corner, to regain once more the medium path. 
I entirely approve your temporary withdrawal from the 
companionship of your equals, but you must not suffer 
the social principle to become dim for want of use ; and 
there is a kind of social intercourse which would be to 
you free from all temptations — that with the poor, the 
young, the ignorant. Go then to the homes of poverty. 
There are secret springs of feeling common to all human 
hearts, and you will perhaps be surprised to find how 


much there may be even in those lowly abodes to call 
forth your best affections." 

Bat the nature of the influence which Mr. Harris ex- 
ercised over the mind and heart of Catherine, was best 
seen in its results. Before her two years had nearly ex- 
pired, she cherished in her heart the faith and hope of a 
Christian, while she strikingly exhibited in a life of active 
usefulness, the renovating power of divine truth. 


"Did you ever see that handwriting before, brother 
Edward?" gaily exclaimed Marianne Mendon, as she 
held up before his eyes a billet she had just received. A 
bright flush rose on his cheek and mounted even to his 
temples, as he gazed on the paper and sought to take 
it from her hand. His sister playfully withheld it " Do 
you think I shall let such an un gallant arraigner of my 
friend see this precious document ? No. I always thought 
you deserved punishment, and now it is in my power to 
administer it. You must do a seven years' penance, at 
least 11 And if I do, thought Edward, it will " seem but 
as a few days," if I can be blessed with Rachel at last. 

"Ah, poor fellow," continued Marianne, provokingly 
unfolding the note, and displaying to his eager eyes the 
well-known characters, " what would you not give to be 
allowed to read the words on this wee bit of paper ? " 

" Do not trifle with me, Marianne, it is unkind. If it 
contains anything that would give me pleasure, pray let 
me read it." She could not resist his pleading look and 

voices nan w« xxhdusksaq 

agitated voice. He took the note, and with deep emo- 
tion read as follows : 

"lean, my dearest Marianne, no longer refime your 
earnest request to see yon. I blame myself for doing it 
so long ; and the only atonement I can offer, is frankly to 
confess the motives which influenced me. AC first 1 earn 
I did feel resentment against yon, though I had do light 
to do so, for you said not one false word of me ; but in 
my heart I wished you to say, what indeed you could 
not justly maintain. Above all, that last deriding laugh 
wounded me to the quick. I ought to have remembered, 
that in similar circumstances I should have been far more 
unsparing ; for rank as were my own faults of character, 
they did not prevent me from readily perceiving those of 
others. Soon resentment gave way to grief, and a pen- 
sive regret that I had forfeited your esteem and love. I 
could not bear to see you while I felt I was so unworthy 
your friendship. Added to this, was the feat 1 that the 
sight of you, the sound of your voice, would call my mind 
too vividly back to those scenes from which I had so 
hastily fled, and which still dwelt so freshly in my memo- 
ry. I dared not so soon expose myself to a danger from 
which I had so narrowly escaped. But it was not until 
I learned, through the instructions of one; to whom I owe 
a lasting debt of gratitude, to look upon my heart through 
a new medium, that I became aware how much of pride 
and wounded vanity was mixed up with pay sorrow for 
broken friendship. Now that I know more of myself, I 
am better *able to appreciate the patience with wkfeh 
you have borne my neglect, and the tenderness' with 
which you have sought to soothe my feelings. I have 
even become grateful to you as one of the instruments to 
call back my steps from the diary brink on which 1 Mood. 
You perceive then that I cannot, as yotf reqoebt, say, 1 1 
forgive/ for you have done nothing to deserve forgive- 


I alone have been in fault Come to me, then, 
dearest Marianne, I shall receive you with open arms* 
You will not, of course, expect me to visit you at present, 
but here, in my own home, it will glad my heart once 
more to fold to my bosom my early and long tried friend* 
Ever thine. Catherine Tracy." 

Edward sighed as he returned the note to his sister. 
" What ! do you regret that the breach is healed which 
gave me so much pain ? " 

u No, Marianne, you mistake the nature of my feelings. 
I sincerely rejoice in this reunion, and still more in the 
change of character which this note indicates." 

" Then yon are sighing because yon are not yet in- 
cluded in the amnesty ? " 

u I presume," replied her brother, " that I must consider 
her declining to visit you at present, as having some ref- 
erence to me, whom she is not willing to meet. No mat- 
ter," added he, pettishly, " I shall soon be gone, and then 
you can enjoy her presence here as formerly." 

"Nay, Edward, now you are most unreasonable. Af- 
ter your sneer about her frequent visits here, you surely 
eould not expect she would come when you are at home. 
Besides, she does not call on any one, and why should 
she favor me more than others?' 1 
: 4 2 said not that she should, but only that when I am 
6ut of the way, she can call on the sister without fear of 
meeting the obnoxious brother." And Edward, who 
could not have told why the letter made him feel un- 
comfortable, unless it was the allusion it contained to Mr. 
Harris, abruptly left the room. 

" Poor fellow," said Marianne, looking after him half 
laughingly, half pityingly, " no man in love was ever yet 
a reasonable being, and why should I expect my brother 
Edward to be ? That he still loves Catherine is undeni- 
able." The next morning she found he had quite recov- 


ered his equanimity, for as he was about to jump iota 
the stage that was to bear him on his way to New Or- 
leans, where he was to pass the winter, he whispered ia 
her ear as he imprinted his parting kiss, " Make the way 
as smooth for me as you can, dear sister. Good bye." . 

Months rolled on. Spring returned, and Catherine* 
her two years having expired, was still found engaged 
in those pursuits which had yielded her so rich a harvest, 
much to the disappointment of all those who had proph- 
esied her speedy return to a life of fashionable gaiety as 
soon as her vow was accomplished. Gradually she so 
far emerged from her seclusion, as to see company at her 
own house, but as yet took little part in more general so- 

Edward Mendon had accomplished the object for which 
he had left home, and had returned to his vocation in his 
native city. He had never met Catherine since that 
memorable morning, so full of interest to them both* 

" Come Marianne/' said he, a few evenings after his 
return, " get your bonnet and let us walk." She noticed 
that he drew her towards the abode of her friend ; he 
even stopped a moment opposite the door. " Dare you 
go in ? " said she, in a tone of badinage. " May I dare 
so much ? " replied he, in the same manner. " I really 
don't know, for she never mentions your name to me* but 
I fancy the old proverb respecting ' faint hearts ' is not 
yet musty." i 

" No, nor never will be, so I will venture. If she re- 
fuses to see me, it will at least end my long suspense." 

It was a bright June evening. Catherine was sealed 
at a window of her own room. She had just dropped a 
book from which she had been reading an impressive de- 
scription of that life of man which is by faith, and not 
by sight. Her face was turned towards tho western 
horizon, as, pensively leaning one cheek upou her hand, 


while the abundant blossoms of a beautiful China Hose 
shed over the other a deeper than its natural tinge, she 
became absorbed in the thrilling contemplations which 
the. beauty of the hour was so well calculated to induce. 
The sun had just sent up his parting rosy smile — the 
sweetest but the last, investing every terrestrial object 
with its own hue : not a breeze was stirring — but every 
branch and leaf was wrapped in that mysterious repose, 
which sometimes suddenly comes over the face of na- 
ture, as if the Creator, by an instant exertion of omnipo- 
tence, had commanded every object into the sublime hush 
of worship. There is something peculiarly attractive to 
many persons, in the doctrine of spiritual and natural 
correspondences, and Catherine's poetical mind was 
largely imbued with such ideas. In sympathy with na- 
ture, she freely welcomed to her soul the influence of 
that unseen power which had said to the breeze "be 
still/' and which spake to her own heart in a " still small 
voice." Hushed was every passion to rest, and uncon- 
scious of human feeling, unconscious almost of life itself, 
she rernained a long time in the enjoyment of that de- 
votion which was becoming daily, more and more, the 
love and habit of her soul. The light faded slowly away, 
and gradually her mind came back to earth and its scenes. 
She thought of the last two years, of the changes they 
had witnessed in her feelings, her character, her future 
hopes. She thought of all she owed to her friend Mr* 
Harris. What purifying principles, what glorious antici- 
pations he had been the means of making her own* Ed- 
ward Mendon ! too, was it strange that in this review she 
should revert to him, the first cause of all this change ? 
She asked herself on what terms they were likely to 
meet. And what change his return would make in her 
intercourse with Marianne. 

At this moment a servant announced that Mr. and Miss 


Mendon wished to dee her in the parlor. She 'started 
with a movement so abrupt, as almost to throw down her 
favorite plant, and even in the waning light, her cheek 
showed a tinge deeper than its blossoms had given it i. 
" Is it possible ? " she exclaimed, when once more alone. 
All the pride of woman rnshed into her heart, and dilated 
her eye and form. It was bnt for a moment ; the princw 
pies she had imbibed, the occupation in which she had so 
lately been engaged, her own more youthful reminiscent 
ces, all conspired to subdue her disturbed features into an 
aspect of quiet dignity. In this mood she descended, 
Marianne she greeted with her usual cordiality; and. ex* 
tended her hand to Edward, but as she did so, her man* 
ner wore a sort of frigid reserve, that to him seemed to 
say, "from the Christian,. you have forgiveness, hut from 
the woman, you hive nothing to hope." This appearance 
so chilled his heart and deprived him of his self-pea- 
session, that he could not appear in his usual character 
of an accomplished gentleman, — agreeable in manner* 
rich in thought, and pure and elevated in sentiment* 
Catherine observed the spell she cast over him, send she 
may be pardoned thus much of human weakness, if the 
conviction that she still could sway him at her Will, gave 
her no trifling gratification. In their after interviews- 
Edward often left her with the flattering belief, that her 
reserve had worn off, and that she had really overlooked 
his. offence, but he did so, only to find himself throwa 
back upon his former ground, when he next encountered 
her. Many reasons might be given for -this betides, re- 
maining resentment She feared perhaps '. that he might 
again accuse her in his heart of courting, his attention* 
Was it not strange such an idea should have entered 
her brain? Are men ever thus vain and ungenerous? 
Edward observed, that while conversing with him* her 
features generally preserved a calm, and, as he fhn- 

TH1 MBOLVB. 225 

fauciod, ft cold expression; yet, whenever' her friend, 
M& Harris, appeared, her face would light rip into ra- 
diaat smiles, and her eye wear a softened meaning, 
which ha himself would have given worlds to have called 
there* " She thinks,** muttered he one evening, as, una- 
ble lddger to endure the contrast between her reception 
of himself and Mr. Harris, he abruptly departed, leaving 
them together, "she thinks she owes everything she 
now » to him, and her gratitude is equal to the obliga- 
tion. She does owe him much, I allow, but did not I 
pave the way fbr him ? How long would it have been 
before he could have gained access to her then volatile 
mind, had not I inflicted a necessary wound, while he 
stepped in to heal the injury. Like many a faithful 
friend, my services are disliked and unappreciated, be- 
cause it was my misfortune to use a harsh instrument, 
while it was his office to soothe and direct, and therefore 
he is loved and honored. Better, perhaps, I had never 
stirred conscience from its sleep, but no ! I shall at least 
have the satisfaction of knowing that I have aided, how- 
ever accidentally, in rescuing a noble nature from de- 
basement. But she loves him." 

Wa» Mr. Harris beloved ? Edward Mendon was not 
the only one who thought so. The nature of their friend- 
ship had long been food for the gossips, and malicious wit- 
lings said, M Miss Catherine Tracy is preparing herself for 
the ministry." Fortunately, her hitherto secluded life 
prevented her ear from being pained by such insinuations. 

A pic-nic party was proposed one bright day in July, 
to visit a large pond or lake, distant about five miles from 
the city. Edward dared not ask Catherine to ride with 
him alone, but he procured a carriage and invited the 
Traoys, Mr. Harris, and his sister, to take seats in it. Yet 
they had scarcely left the city behind them ere he was 
sorry he had done so — for the perfect self-possession 


and ease of Mr. Harris, contrasted with hit own reserve, 
gave the former entire command of the conversation. 
.He was at all times strikingly agreeable, and Edward 
thought that he had never known him more so than on this 
very morning, while he himself grew every moment more 
moody and abstracted. In truth, thought he, a man 
may as well afford to be " free and easy," when he is as- 
sured of success — while I, poor dog! have not only 
thrown away my own chance of winning the game, but 
have played into the hands of my rival. 

His discomfort was either unnoticed, or unheeded, for 
his companions were unusually animated, and kept np a 
constant interchange of those light shots which are al- 
ways current coin with those who see much of each 
other, and are blessed with niirthfulness of character.. 
The spot to which they drove was one of great resort for 
fishing and shooting, as well as every other rural amuse- 
ment. A cottage had been, the preceding season, ele- 
gantly fitted up for the reception of visiters, and on their 
arrival they found "all appliances and means to boot" 
of enjoyment, prepared for their use. Sportsmen's ap- 
paratus, horses for equestrian excursions, sail boats and 
row-boats, music and athletic games, all offered their 
various claims to satisfy the tastes of the candidates for 

After the company had pursued these different amuse- 
ments in groups for some time, small parties began to 
draw off from the rest, to follow the bent of individual in- 
clination. Catherine, who entered into the enjoyment of 
the hour with all her former vivacity, sprang into a small 
sail-boat, and gaily called her companions to join her. 
Edward and Mr. Harris did so, but Elizabeth and Mari- 
anne were afraid to trust themselves to one of these frail 
barks, and preferred joining some friends who had taken 
a row-boat 


. The sun was slightly shaded by light fleecy clouds, a 
gentle breeze just rippled the surface of the lake, and 
the sail among its deep-wooded islands, and flowery 
coves, was to two of the party, at least, a scene of un- 
mixed enjoyment. "Beautiful! beautiful!" exclaimed 
Catherine, a glow of enthusiasm lighting up her face, as 
her eye rested with intense admiration, alternately on 
woodland, sky, and water. " Surely, the * Minstrel ' was 
right, and there can be no hope of forgiveness for him who 
would • renounce ' all this • bounteous store of charms.' " 

•* True," said Mr. Harris. " Yet I scarcely know which 
is most to be pitied, the anchorite, who flies from his fel- 
low man and from duty, to Nature's solitudes, or the 
wretched slave of gain, who chooses his horizon should 
be bounded by brick walls, rather than by high mountains, 
and prefers forever the pent-up effluvia of the business 
-mart, to the free breath of heaven." 

" If I must choose the life of either," replied Cather- 
ine, " give me the anchorite's — for he, at least, has the 
excuse, that men often deceive, repulse, and disgust 
loving and noble souls, — while nature never offends. 
She is kinder in her ministrations, and more constant to 
those who love her not, than are most professed friends 
to each other." 

Edward's eye rested for a moment on Catherine, with 
a glance of enquiry. Had she any special meaning in 
that last remark ? His cheek glowed, but he spake not. 
■ u I have often thought the passage to which you have 
alluded one of the finest descriptive stanzas in the Eng- 
lish language," remarked Mr. Harris. 

" I do not remember it," said Edward, rather abruptly. 
" Can you repeat it — I should like to hear the ' finest 
descriptive stanza in the English language ! ' " 

Apparently without noticing the implied sarcasm, Mr. 
Harris repeated with fine tone and emphasis — 


" Oh, how canst thou renounce the boundless store 
Of charms which Nature to her votary yields ! 
The warbling woodland ; the resounding shore - r 
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields ; 
All that the genial ray of morning yields ; 
And all that echoes to the song of even ; . 
All that the mountains sheltering bosom shields ;. . , . 
And all the dread magnificence of Heaven ; 
Oh, how canst thou renounce and hope to be forgiven ! " 

Edward listened to the close, with a slight <ou*l on. \m 
lip, and then remarked, sincerely, but not in the bland- 
est tone, — " It is certainly musical . in expression, but I 
must think some of Byron's have greater fire and force." 

"Greater force, perhaps — but in artistic beauty* I 
think this passage of the ' Minstrel ' superior to any sim- 
.ilar one in Byron, It is not merely musical in expres- 
sion, but complete. There is nothing superfluous, and 
nothing wanting — while a succession of .beautiful im- 
ages are introduced, themselves suggestive of nearly 
everything grand or pleasing in the whole circle of nat- 
ural objects. 1 ' 

Edward was about to reply, that the polished harmony 
«df the passage was one reason why it had never made 
so much impression upon him as many other descriptions 
had done, which, though perhaps less finished, were more 
striking and original, he thought, — but he caught the ex- 
pression of Catherine's face, and it was one of such evi- 
dent assent to the opinion of her friend, that he felt too 
much annoyed to continue the conversation. • He pre- 
tended that the management of the boat required his 
strict attention — and he so managed it, that he brought 
it quickly to land Mr. Harris suffered both his compan- 
ions to step on shore — and then said, " I am going 1 to 
yonder cove, off at your right, where I observed the other 
day a great quantity of pond lilies. If you will walk round 
there, I will greet you with flowers that rival the rose, in 


all but the memories they leave behind." He pushed 
off ; and Edward found himself for the. first time since 
the rupture, alone with. Catherine. Yet could he not 
avail himself of the opportunity to 6nd bis suspense — 
for Catherine seemed in a moment to drop all her animal* 
ed gaiety, and to return to her former frigid reserve and 
dignity. The transition was too sudden not to look forced, 
yet she adhered to it so pertinaciously, that her compan- 
ion, -in. spite of ingenuity and perseverance, found it im- 
possible to break through the ice with any allusion to his 
personal relations with her. 

They kept Mr. Harris continually in sight, as he shot 
along in his light pinnace, before the breeze, now con- 
siderably increased. He reached the cove, however, 
without difficulty, and easily secured a large quantity of 
the favorite flowers — some of which he playfully at- 
tempted to throw at the feet of Catherine, but the wind 
wafted them far from, their place of destination. The 
bank here being much too muddy to effect a landing, he 
was compelled to round a sharp point called the " Giant's 
Boot," from its peculiar shape. " Take care of the Giant's 
heel, Mr. Harris. It is rough shod with rocks, and if you 
should strike, it will dash the boat," called out Edward, as 
he and his companion followed the shore around to the 
same spot The caution was not ill-timed, for the sky had 
grown more overcast, and, in a few moments, one of those 
sudden squalls, so common to inland seas, took the boat as 
it n eared the point, and drove it rapidly towards the rocks. 

" Take in the sail, Mr. Harris," shouted Edward, as he 
hurried Catherine along, that he might render assistance. 
Before Mr. Harris could reef the sail, another and more 
violent gust overset the boat, and he found himself strug- 
gling in the water. Catherine was scarcely aware of the 
accident, ere Edward had rushed to the shore and dashed 
in after him, for it seemed that for some reason he could 


not rescue himself. The boat was not far from land, and 
in a few moments Edward dragged him on shore, and 
laid him on the bank, bat he was insensible. 

u Oh, he is gone," cried Catherine, clasping her hands, 
as she bent over him in agony. 

" No ! no ! Miss Tracy, he is not, he has only fainted," 
rejoined Edward, all thoughts of self generously lost in 
sympathy for others. He looked around for assistance, 
and saw that two gentlemen of their party had witnessed 
the accident from a neighboring bank, and were now hur- 
rying towards them. Meanwhile, he and Catherine en- 
deavored to use all the means in their power, to restore 
animation, and before any one else arrived, had partially 
succeeded. Once Mr. Harris slowly opened his eyes, 
then closed them again. " Mary ! my poor Mary ! what 
will become of her ? She will follow soon. We shall 
not be long separated," were some of the expressions he 
' muttered slowly, and at intervals. 

" What does he say, Miss Tracy ? " asked her compan- 

" He thinks himself still in the water, and is speaking 
of his betrothed, Mary Listen," replied Catherine, still 
bending over him, and rubbing his brow and hands. 

u His betrothed I Mary Liston ! I thought — and you 
do not — But here come our friends." 

The two gentlemen referred to, with several others, 
now came up, and after many questions as to the cause, 
of the disaster, and many contradictory directions as to 
the proper treatment of Mr. Harris — he was borne to 
the house, when he soon revived — though it was found 
he had received a wound on the head, from one of the 
rocks around the " Giant's Boot," or from the boat, which 
was probably the cause of his remaining so long insensi- 
ble. Why did not Edward, who had so gallantly exerted 
himself for his rescue, lend a helping hand to bear him 


to the house ? And why did he linger so long on that 

" Stay, Catherine, one moment," said he, detaining her 
on the bank. " You spoke of Liston as the betrothed of 
Mr. Harris. I thought that you were ' his chosen one.' " 

" Me/' she exclaimed, looking up with a simple stare 
of astonishment, which was succeeded by a deep blush, 
as she encountered his fixed gaze. 

" Yes, I did think so, but I see I was mistaken. You 
do not love him." 

" Not love him ! yes ! love him as my friend, my more 
than brother — to whom I owe more than I can express," 
she replied enthusiastically. " But I have from the first 
known that he was betrothed to Miss Liston, whom he 
would long since have brought here as his wife, but for 
the state of her health." 

" You have taken a load from my heart You do not 
love your friend with such a love as I madly dreamed. 
You are yet free. And now shall I dare confess to you 
the extent of my own presumption — that I love you?" 

" Stop, Mr. Mendon," interrupted Catherine. " I can- 
not listen to this language from you — you, whose opin- 
ion of my character I have long; known." 

" I thank you, Catherine, for referring to a subject on 
which I have wished, but dared not, speak to you. Shall 
I confess that, as soon as I perceived you had overheard 
the harsh and exaggerated strictures on your conduct, 
which I expressed to my sister on that eventful morning, 
I joyfully accepted the position in which it placed me ; 
dare I confess that I was willing to risk your favor, for the 
sake of rousing your attention, fully relying on the in- 
nate nobleness of your nature, to produce all the fruits I 
have since witnessed ? Tell me not now, I trusted with 
an overweening faith that the time would come, when 
you would learn to forgive one, whose deep offence was 


born of his deep affection. Oh, tell me not, that the 
dream of my youth, the hope of my manhood, is baseless." 

Catherine stood a few moments irresolute. The many 
conflicting feelings which recorded themselves on her 
speaking face, gave way at last to a beaming smile, as 
she said — " The time has been, Mr. Mendon, when I 
could not have heard these declarations with patience. I 
trust I now know how ' faithful are the wounds of a friend.' 
I long since accepted the lesson, I now forgive the teach- 
er," and she frankly extended her hand. 

Mr. Harris, who lay propped up with pillows on a sofa 
in one of the parlors of the cottage, thought the time 
long ere his friends made their appearance. He was 
impatient to see and thank his preserver. When at last 
the door opened, and Edward entered with Catherine, he 
gave them a searching, inquiring glance, which broke into 
a smile of significance as he extended a hand to each. 

a Mr. Mendon, I am happy to learn that it is to your 
exertions I owe my life, for you are one of the few men 
to whom I would willingly owe so great an obligation/' 

" Indeed, you owe me nothing, nothing whatever, I 
would gladly do as much for any human being — much 
more for one whose life % is so valuable, 1 ' returned Edward, 
cordially grasping the extended hand. 

" But how is this, Mr. Mendon ? You still have on 
your wet garments! Catherine, was this a woman's 
thoughtfulness, not to remind your friend of the duty of 
taking better care of his own health ? " 

Catherine blushed deeply, as she felt conscious that iu 
the excitement of her feelings, the circumstance had en- 
tirely escaped her recollection. 

Edward consented to leave the room in search of dry 
garments, and when he returned and found Catherine 
bathing the aching head of Mr. Harris, he smiled to think 
with what different feelings he should, a few hours before, 

THE RB80LVE 233 

have regarded the circumstance. They were joined by 
Elizabeth, Marianne, and others of the party, and Mr. 
Harris seeing Catherine occupied in answering their ques- 
tions about the events of the morning, once more beck- 
oned Edward to his side. 

" I need not ask," said he, in a suppressed tone, " if all 
is right ? There is no mistaking the look of joyful antic- 
ipation of assured happiness, which lights up your face. 
I long since guessed your secret — though I am unac- 
quainted with its history. No one knows better than I, 
how much you are to be envied — though Jam not the 
man to envy you, whatever you may have foolishly 
thought. All that has passed away. Henceforth let us 
be friends." Their hands met, and in that warm pres- 
sure was cemented a lasting friendship. 



When the night is softly stealing 

O'er the calm and stilly earth, 
Rousing many a buried feeling, 

Giving many a new one birth, — 

When the spells, which Fancy braided 

At some former twilight hour, 
Dim through day, but still unfaded, 

Wake with fresh nocturnal power, — 

When the forms thou lov'st are vanish'd, 
And the hearts that love thee, rest, — 

Think of one whom day had banish'd 
— Not forever, from thy breast ; — 

Think, while Hope displays before thee 

Sunny gleams of joys to be, 
That my spirit hovers o'er thee, 

Happiest still, when nearest thee. 

When the full-moon's dreamy lustre 
Glimmers on the white snow shed, 

Like the unborn smiles that cluster 
Round the pale lips of the dead, — 

When the earth is girt so brightly 
With the stellar zone of night, 

That the day were vain — if nightly 
Heaven would give us smiles as bright, - 


When the pine-grove's song, at distance, 

Draws, with soft Eolian strains, 
Hopes from fears of past existence, 

Future joys from former pains : — 

By those charms so dear to lovers, 
Think — and sweet the thought will be — 

That my spirit o'er thee hovers, 
Happiest still when nearest thee. 

When — as Earth renews her bridal 

With the emerald-girdled spring, — 
Birds of song, through winter idle, 

Wake to joyous welcoming, — 

When that welcoming is over, 

And, as Summer closes too, 
Grove and plain again recover, 

Autumn's amaranthine hue, — 

When overcome with music's sweetness, 

When caressed with love and praise, 
When thy hours have rapture's fleetness, 

When thy moments seem like days, — 


! still think of one who found thee 

All he wished thy sex to be, 
One to whom affection bound thee, 

And whom passion bound to thee, 


A garden, a shadow, a brook, and a tree, 
Divided the house of my friend from me. 
My heart was on fire, — through the garden I flew — 
Leapt over the brook — the" shadow crept through, — 
And stood in a moment beneath the lov'd tree ; — 
And the friend of my heart was standing with me. 

We said not a word, for there fell from above, 
Such a brilliant appearance of glory and lote ; 
We thought it a sin, if that hour should depart, 
And not leave its image impressed on the heart ; 
So we opened our hearts to the influence there, 
And we silently breathed in the language of prayer. 

And softer and softer our spirits were growing, 
Like the river which; peacefully by us was. flowing. 
Oh ! have you a friend, that is dear to your heart, 
Go forth ere t|ie glories of Aaitumn depart -r 
And whi}e. ypu are drinking the bliss of the scene, 
Remember the land that forever is green. 



M God tenpen the vfcnd to the ibon kab.' 

Shorn indeed ! and to the quick, thought I, as I heard 
the piteous cries of a child, writhing under blows dealt 
with more than southern rigor. Shorn indeed, thou frail 
and lonely one ! Are there none to pity as thou liest 
there, fast bound lest thou should'st escape the grasp of 
the amazon, who bends over thee with such angry looks ? 

The mother, whose weary head thou so often hast es- 
sayed to support with those tiny hands, now quivering 
with pain as the cord lacerates the tender flesh, the 
" mother " is not here to pity or relieve. She has " fal- 
len asleep." But the grass has not grown upon her grave 
since this woman, whose heart me thinks is colder than 
the frozen earth above that mother's form, promised that 
she would take thee to her home, and give thee her name 
and wealth. Love she promised not; love she had not 
to bestow; she knew it only by the name. 

Ye who are mothers, when the time draws near for life 
with you to close, should it be yours to consign children 
to stranger-hands, remember, that better for them is love 
with poverty, than riches without affection's gentle words 
and deeds. Let not costly mansions and gay apparel de- 
ceive you, and prove the ruin of your heart's cherished 

But this woman is a Christian, a member of a visible 
church ; and but yesterday partook of the emblems of the 
body and blood of one, who, were he now to appea: 


would say to her excited passions as once to the troubled 
sea, " Peace, be still ; " or rebuke, as anciently he did the 
disciples, saying, " Ye know not what manner of spirit ye 
are of." " Suffer the little one to come unto me, for of 
such is the kingdom of heaven." 

Yes, there is one to pity the prphan — Jesus, "the 
lambs of whose flock are his fenderest care." The great 
Father-spirit, too, who heareth the young ravens when 
they cry, and without whom not a sparrow falleth to the 

. Eut what offence, crime, think you, had this child com- 
mitted, that she should receive stripes without mercy? 
&he had played truant on her return from : school, and 
that, when she had been bidden to "come 1 ' immediately 
home ! " This was her offence, " specially aggravated;" 
so was she told, "by being committed against those who 
had taken her in, who gave her food, clothes, and books." 
We will not excuse her fault, save by suggesting that if 
her home had been more attractive, it would, perhaps, 
have drawn thither her wandering steps. But what, wo- 
man of the " iron rule," would be thy fate, should the 

Giver of thy daily bread and of all thy blessings deal 
with thee as thou hast dealt with the helpless one at thy 
feet ? Well is it for thee that God is " slow fo anger, 
and ready to forgive." Would that we might all reflect 
upon our sins against the Holy One when we are tempt- 
ed to apply the lash, with tongue or hand, to an offend- 
ing child or brother ! 

Fearful must death prove to such as have by folly or 
crime estranged kindred and friends, leaving thus the 
couch of pain unsoothed by the voice of love, and their 
dying words to fall unheeded by affection's sympathizing 
ear. Years hava flown, and now alone, in infirm old age, 
must the poor victim of ungoverned passion, whom we 
saw contending with the helpless orphan, herself strug- 

A BKMKE. 239 

gle with the conqueror death. Unkindness has banished 
from her home those who would have ministered to the 
wants of her declining years. An evil temper has cast 
a shadow over all the brightness of her life. Simply to 
annoy, to disappoint another, she adopted the orphan 
child. Temper was her.onjy guide, iq its correction, and 
sadly did the bereaved one mourn for love and kind words. 

As an oasis amid the burning sands of the desert, as 
sunlight on the darkened wave, as .life to the dying, was 
the first flash of light whichr revealed that Father's love, 
" who keepeth constant; watch in heaven/' to the lonely 
heart of the orphan. Thenceforth the world was no more 
a wilderness, with thorns to impede each step of the 
darksome way, for flowers, sprung up ia be* path ; flowers 
which imparted lessons of faith and hope, and strength- 
ened continually her trust in God. Her early sorrows 
chastened her spirit, her early sufferings made her strong ; 
her views of providence inspired her with noble aims 
and desires; and thanks to the Father of the fatherless, 
her life bloomed again with the happiness of early youth. 

Friends of the orphan! ye would bestow food and 
raiment upon those bereft of parental care ; forget not 
how much the heart of the child seeks for some object 
on which to pour out its own rich treasure of affection, 
claiming your love in return. Let, then, kindness be in 
your speech and deed to those whose " angels do always 
behold the face of God," and live in his smile. Above 
all, fail not to direct their young minds unto the love of 
the Father on high. So shall ye open to them a fountain 
of bliss, whose waters shall refresh and strengthen for all 
life's conflicts and trials. 

Bangor, Oct. 13th, 1847. 



Softly, woman ; thou fbrgettest 
Thai thy words *h<mld tendei be; 

Softly, woman ; how, thou lettest 
A yery trifle anger thee ! . 

i Reason, .woman ■;. He who formed thee 
Empress of the world he made, 
Ry the law of kindness hound thee ;— • 
Is that law by thee obeyed? 

Notice, woman ;* — : what is sweeter 
Than to smile and be content 1 

Try it, and each feeling bitter 
Will unto the winds be sent 

Where 's the spirit, meek and holy 
Of the slighted Nazarene % 

Go — and let that spirit lowly, 
Woman, in thyself be seen. 



1 PUODY. . 

" WiiA yen try my bow and aftow?" said the archer to tfco 

■i ■ 
a With p»ttfefc1>ow and arrow, I'm sure yon never played. 7 

It has a silken cord, and the shaft, if you will try, 

The lightest little arrow will speedily let fly." 
" Oh ria, rio/? said the little maid, " to me yoa sue ia vain, . 

For they, who with your arrows play, may never play again. 1 ' 

• ■ ♦ 

" Oh lady, in a charmed cap I pledge my love to you, 
The draught is sweet and pleasant, the ray of rainbow hue, 
It will bring yon, lovely lady, the visions that are mine*— 
Then drink from out my glittering cup, and taste my charmed 
" Oh no, kind sir," the lady said, " for I 've often heard them 
That from your dreams we only wake to Sorrow's heavy day." 

" Then take these early flowers, they 're beautiful and bright, 
I culled them in my garden, by the silvery moonlight; 
More beautiful are they, who my fairy flowers wear — 
Place them, lady, in your bosom, and twine them in your 
" Nay, keep your lovely flowers, sir, for often I 've been told, 
That the poison and the thorns, in their glittering leaves yon 


" Oh, lady, here are silken cords, a fairy web I weave, 
And a spell within its folds, and a charm for all who grieve, 
Then take the brilliant threads, and let the warp and woof, 
Throw around a magic spell, that shall be to sorrow proof." 

" Nay keep the warp and woof away, for oft 't is said to me, 
That they who weave your tangled web, will never more be 

So the lady answered " no," but she did not go away — 
While still the boy would warble his soft and wily lay, 
Singing ever of his silken cords, his bright and shining bow. 
"■' Oh, why did not the maiden from the cunning archer gal /.' 
Why did she listen to his song, and at his tokens look^ 
Till'she tasted of hfe sparkling wine, his poisosPd Bowen'iskk * 

With his glittering dart she played, till it rankled fafcerbrtfcfet, 
And the roses on her cheek, grew pale, as his www closer prast 
The sparkling cup she tasted made dim her lovely eye, 
And from those soft and brilliant dreams she wakened with a 

sigh. • 
Too late the maiden found, as life's current ebbed away, 
That they who would the wile escape, with Cupid must not 




" Your young men shall see riaions, and your old men shall dream dreams." 

"OfaE day happening by chance to peep into a gentle- • 
man's escritoire, I discovered a " Vision of Bangor in the* 
twentieth century." To my shame be it spoken, I did 1 
not resist the temptation thns spread before me, but al- 
lowed my cariosity the gratification of reading it from be* 
ginning to end. The same night having sapped on oys- 
ters, X too, had a dream, and what was very singular, it 
appeared to join on most remarkably to the one which 
had amused me so much in the morning. I seemed 
even to have entered into the person of the qnondam 
dreamer, and to be actually the same individual. I shall 
plead therefore the extravagance of a dream, as my apol- 
ogy for merging my identity in his, as I relate the scenes 
which passed before me. 

I stood by a building of very singular and imposing 
architecture, constructed of hewn stone, and adorned with 
magnificent paintings from the top to the bottom, which on 
nearer examination, I fonndto be emblematic and exqui- 
sitely beautiful representations of the triumph of the spir- 
it of peace over that of strife and conquest, among the 
nations of the earth. I turned to ask the name of this 
building of the individual who had hitherto acted as my 
guide, but to my surprise he had disappeared, and in his 
place stood a hale, hearty old gentleman, with a right 
honest countenance, and an eye wherein a spice of rogue- 


ry was bewitchingly blended with a deep, manly earnest- 
ness. He seemed to be aware of my situation as a 
stranger, and as one who had long been absent from these 
sublunary scenes, and answered me with the utmost good 

" That," said he, " is a building wherein are kept the 
Weapons of war, (so far as they could be obtained,) wfcich 
have been used in all ages of the world. 

" They are preserved both as curiosities, and as affect- 
ing memorials of the atrocities which the indulgence of 
evil passions, and the imagined necessity of maintaining 
what was falsely called ' national honor/ once led the, 
human race to commit" 

. I had scarcely expressed my congratulations upon the, 
great moral advance of society which the existence .of! 
such an edifice for such a purpose argued, when I es- 
pied in a neighboring street, in the midst of magnificent 
piles of stone and marble, a ruined structure, which, 
looked as if it might have been a church, but was so fair 
len into decay and covered with the "moss of ages," 
that one could hardly distinguish its original form. 

" And what ruin have we here ?" I asked. " That was 
once, I believe, an Episcopal church, although thd Episco- 
palians hardly acknowledge it now. Their present strafe 
tures are all so splendid, they are unwilling to believe that 
there was ever an Episcopal church built of wood in this 
great city. There is an old organ in this building, which 
report says sometimes sends forth strange sounds at the 
• witching hour of night. 1 The rumor may perhaps be 
founded upon a tradition, representing it as a most won* 
derful organ in its day, — being determined to 'go/ with 
or without hands, unless it was constantly watched ! What 
strange power the eyes of the 'three watchers/ who, 
the legend says, sat by it day and night, were endowed 
with, that they could 'hold* the heavenly harmonies, I 


know not; but that they had some such power, the fact 
that whenever they were careless enough to fall asleep, 
the ' troublesome thing would go/ strongly intimates." 

u What is the present state of religious sects here?" 
I asked. " Have they, as some prophesied in my day, 
been merged in one universal church ? " 

* No, they have not, but they have done what I think 
is quite as well, ' agreed to disagree.' Each still main* 
tains some distinctive doctrines, but with so much Chris- 
tian harmony, that a stranger might think them one 
united body, divided for convenience into distinct con- 
gregations. There has been a great change in the spe- 
cific items of faith held by some sects since your time, 
and others have disappeared entirely. But the greatest 
change has been in the spirit which pervades the relig- 
ious community. Where once all was rancor, misrep- 
resentation, and hostility, now all is forbearance and 
love. The great secret of this change has been, and is, 
that sects ■ have ceased to set themselves in antagonism 
with each other. They go on quietly in their own course, 
teach, preach, and live the truths which they think the 
gospel inculcates, and let each other alone. The hate- 
ful Voice of religious controversy is now scarcely heard 
in our land. Sects do not, even by implication, or by 
the application of exclusive titles to themselves, con- 
demn each other. Calvinists no longer- proclaim their 
' evangelical 9 distinctions, nor do Unitarians plume them* 
selves on their 'liberal' tendencies. The word ' Ortho- 
dox ' is obsolete as applied to a sect, and a Unitarian 
would stare in astonishment if you should call him a 
* liberal Christian.' Baptists have opened their arms 
wide to welcome the Christian world to the communion 
of their Lord, and, what is the greatest triumph of all, 
Episcopalians have done talking about ' the church, 9 and 
Swedenborgians have conceded that somebody besides 


Swedenborg can have a new idea! Thank God, the 
times of religious cant are over ! 

"So soon as sects ceased to place themselves in a 
controversial attitude, so soon they began to see that seal- 
ly there was * some light ' in their neighbors. 

" Trinitarians found it possible to believe that Unita- 
rians * might be saved upon a pinch/ and Unitarians that 
Trinitarians were * not such fools after all/ (as, in spite 
of their ' liberality* even the most intelligent of their 
body were apt to think a hundred years ago). The next 
step in reform, after they had come to see clearly the 
good and truth existing in their neighbors, was, in all 
Christian humility to adopt it, which they have done, and 
are daily doing. Thus renouncing their own errors, and 
receiving others' truths, they are becoming constantly 
more similar, although whether some great points will 
ever be harmonized so as to merge the various sects in 
one church, remains a matter of doubt" 

I mused awhile on the delightful state of things I had 
heard described, and then my thoughts turned to an in- 
stitution which had always ranked in my estimation next 
to the church. 

" Can you tell me, sir, how many lodges of Odd Fel- 
lows there are here?" He put his hand to his head 
with a bewildered expression — " Odd Fellows," said he, 
" Odd Fellows — I am sure I have heard the name, and 
yet I cannot imagine where. Ah ! I have it ! I have 
read of them in a volume in the Antiquarian library. I 
had forgotten the name only, for the history of the de- 
cline of the institution I remember well. I think they 
disappeared about the year 1668. The circumstances 
were not a little peculiar. 

" A parcel of wags, bent on finding sport for them- 
selves, having bored a convenient number of holes in the 
ceiling of the Odd Fellows' assembly room, resolved to 


look in upon them, and what is more, to break in upon . 
them, should they not be discovered before the ' fulness 
of time ' in the execution of their project had arrived. 
Accordingly, being disguised in grotesque costumes, and 
armed with the various utensils suited to their purpose, 
they repaired to their observatory. The scene that was 
exposed to their view was quite worth describing. 

" The chief officer, (his round and sleek proportions 
would forbid that he ever should be accused of being 
the 'elongature of a point/) who had patiently gone 
through all the grades of office, until he had reached the 
highest, was standing upon a rostrum, slowly bowing, 
until his head touched the ground, waving his arms ma- 
jestically to and fro, and swaying his body from side to 
side, with a graceful undulatory motion, while he slowly 
pronounced a Greek oration. This exercise was intend- 
ed to promote ease and dignity of manner! Another 
' brother' was lying on his back, with his mouth extend- 
ed to its utmost dimensions, while a third was pouring 
water down his throat ! If he could bear a certain quan- 
tity of the fluid, he was to be advanced a degree in the 
honors of the lodge ! A fourth was swinging upon a rope 
suspended from the ceiling, and at every backward swing 
receiving from a staging above him, the contents of an 
immense tub of iced water upon his shoulders ! This 
was a punishment for betraying some of the secrets to 
his wife ! It was such an ' unheard of thing for a man 
to reveal a secret, 9 as the chief officer remarked, ' that 
the punishment was rendered more severe than it would 
otherwise have been.' They did not wish to be cruel, 
however, and had appointed an officer to read a poem in 
praise of Odd- Fellowship to him, as an alleviation of his 
sufferings ! A group of six or seven young men, (as yet 
uninitiated), were standing huddled together in a corner, 
making wry faces at each other. The fortunate one who 


could make the worst face, was to be exempted from the 
ceremony of ' riding the goat ' in the coming initiation ! 
A portion of the • brethren/ ( Odd Fellows indisputably), 
were squatting on the ground in a circle, with bare feet, 
while one stood in the centre with a red-hot iron, which 
he cautiously approached towards the pedal extremities 
of one and another of the company. It seemed that 
whoever bore this test of courage without shrinking or 
winking, was allowed to leave the circle, and thencefor- 
ward to be a candidate for the highest office ; while those 
poor devils whose flesh winced at hot iron, were con- 
demned to be branded with it in the centre of the left 
foot, and to endure other tests, until they attained the 
requisite degree of firmness. Another group were lying 
prostrate, with their faces downward, drinking sweetened 
water from thimbles ! (which were filled by an attendant 
as fast as they were emptied). This was an exercise 
calculated to increase the holy virtue of patience ! And 
as they were condemned to drink a gallon each of the 
liquid before relaxing their exertions, it was certainly 
most admirably adapted for its purpose ! One member, 
who was often a speaker in the meetings of the Lodge, 
was seated in a sort of prisoner's box, while another was 
pulling his hair with great violence , causing a series of 
short, piercing shrieks to proceed from his mouth ! To 
this he was condemned in order to obtain command of 
voice, the operation upon the hair having a tendency to 
increase the volume of the tones ! 

" A curious circumstance now caught the attention of 
our observers, which was, that the walls of the room 
were lined with men, lying one upon another, neatly 
packed, from the floor to the ceiling ! These were rn the 
process of being • cured ' of a disposition to worry and 
torment each other in matters of business, which had 
been reported to the Lodge, and as, by the least motion 


of hand, foot or muscle, they would inevitably incom- 
mode their neighbors, and unquestionably be incommoded 
in return, they were fast learning to ' forbear one another 
in love.' This last scene threatened to be quite too much 
lor the fast-failing gravity of the conspirators. . Deciding 
therefore that they had * seen enough/ they shouldered 
their tools, and repaired to the doors, which, assailing 
with all their strength, and with accompaniments of 
howls, groans, hollow noises, and ghostly vociferations, 
they soon removed from their hinges, and rushed into the 
midst of the frightened assembly; when, suddenly com- 
iog to order, one of their number, accoutred as a ghost, 
exclaimed in sepulchral tones, * There is nothing covered 
that shall not be revealed ; and hid, that shall not be 

" Such a tumbling and sprawling from the walls as fol- 
lowed this announcement, such a scattering of gathered 
up limbs, such a scrambling for the door, is not easily im- 
agined. Suffice it to say, that in a much shorter space 
of time than the enunciation of the fearful sentence had 
occupied, the hall was deserted by all but the intruders. 

" After this, there was not such a thing heard of through- 
out the country, as an • Odd Fellow.' If any who had 
been supposed to be members of the institution were in- 
terrogated about the order, they were entirely innocent 
of any knowledge of it whatever, ' having never been an 
Odd Fellow,' — oh no ! 

" After a while, however, some of the old members 
began to recollect the good deeds that had proceeded 
from the institution, (and, notwithstanding the laugh 
raised against it, no one could deny that they were num- 
berless as well as noble,) and formed themselves into a 
benevolent society, under a new name, which still exists, 
and exemplifies as beautifully as did the ' Odd Fellows ' 
of old, the quality of that mercy which * droppeth as the 


gentle dew from heaven/ without the drawbacks of se- 
crecy and ceremony." 

Just as my companion paused in his discourse, I ob- 
served a lady approaching us, on whom my eyes were 
immediately riveted. Grace and dignity were blended 
in her mien with a noble simplicity ; and the expression * 
of command enthroned upon her brow, was chastened 
by the winning sweetness which distinguished .the lower 
part of her expressive face. 

" Do yon know her ? " I eagerly asked. " Oh yes, very 
well ; and if she enters the gallery of paintings, whither 
I think she is bending her steps, we will go in, and you 
shall know her also." 

Our hopes were realized, and in the space of a few 
moments, we all found ourselves together in tbe gallery. 
After an introduction, some cursory discussion of the 
pictures, and going through some of the commonplaces 
with which I was familiar in my day, I began, as my con- 
temporaries were much in the habit of doing, to express 
the admiration I really felt for her, but in a style respect- 
ful and delicate. She appeared surprised and embar- 
rassed, but spoke not Presuming she did not under- 
stand me, I endeavored to make my language more un- 
equivocal, and thinking it might seem in better taste than 
the more personal adulation I had commenced with, I 
included her whole sox in my expressions of admiration. 

She turned her large earnest eyes full upon me, and 
remained lost in astonishment Determined that I tcould 
make an impression upon her by my gallantry, I returned 
to the attack with increased vigor, and begged that she 
" would not be offended or imagine that I was flattering 
her, for upon my honor 1 was truly sincere in every word 
I had uttered. That woman had been all I had described 
her, to me, during my pilgrimage on earth, and that even 
if I had had no experience in the matter until now, I 


should be equally sure of the truth of what I had said, for 
who could look upon the incomparable being before me, 
and doubt that woman was to man the ' morning star ' that 
shone through his youthful dreams, the ' day-star ' that 
gilded his manly prime, the • evening-star ' that shed a 
halo over his declining years, and — and — " 

" You might add the • dog-star/ " quietly remarked the 
lady, with an expression about the mouth which plainly 
revealed the struggle that was going on in her mind, be- 
tween politeness and mirth. The struggle was but for an 
instant The beautiful lips parted, and out came a peal 
of uncontrollable laughter. Again it was checked, — the 
"eloquent blood spoke" in her cheek, and pleading 
" shopping," while she gracefully apologized for her rude- 
ness, she left us. (So the women " shop " yet, thought I.) 

" Now in the name of wonder, tell me what is the 
meaning of all this," I ejaculated, turning to my friend. 
To my great vexation, I found him laughing as heartily 
as she had done. As soon as he had recovered himself 
a little, he replied, " I was in as much of a maze as the 
lady, to hear your style of conversation, until I remem- 
bered having read in worm-eaten volumes of something 
similar. But talking to ladies after that fashion was ob- 
solete many years ago." + 

"What? Obsolete, do you say?" "Yes, truly so. 
Woman is no longer considered as a mere object for ca- 
resses and pretty words. Men might as well attempt to 
cut away the Andes with a penknife, as to carve them- 
selves a plage in her esteem by flattery. She is not now 
petted and pacified with adulation, while her true dignity 
is forgotten, nor does she obtain 'sugar-plums' when 
she only asks for justice. Your age fondled woman. 
Ours honors her. you gave her compliments. We give 
her rights. 

" Your contemporaries, if I have read rightly, looked 


upon woman as a mere adjunct to man. As merely the 
' companion to cheer his pathway/ the ' angel to soothe his 
sorrows/ the ' wife to adorn his fireside/ etc etc. With 
you, all things in woman had a reference to man* We 
think not so, but regard her as complete in herself. (Not 
indeed independent of man, nor man of her, but both, in • 
a high and noble sense, created for each other*) Not 
needing man to eke her out into an individual, but in her- 
self the • image of God/ Not « God's last, best gift to man, 1 
but with man, not next to him, or before him, ' God's last, 
best gift' to creation. Man is not thought of as the solid 
masonry of life, and woman as the gingerbread-work, but 
both together, as the solemn and beautiful architectural 
pile of humanity ; which, without either, or with either 
subordinate to the other, would lose half its majesty and 

" Admired, woman may be, and is, in these latter times, 
but not for the fair hair, or the azure eye, nor yet for the 
graceful manner, or elegant accomplishment alone, but 
for the soul that burns within her, and now only has free- 
dom to show itself. Nor, much as we elevate and rev- 
erence her, do we aim to abolish the difference in the in- 
tellect and constitution of man and woman. On the con- 
trary, we acknowledge and cherish it, only waiving the 
worn-out question of the intellectual rank of the sexes. 

" The old-fashioned notions about woman that prevail- 
ed in your day, are now scarcely remembered as having 
existed, except by the antiquarian and the scholar. Some 
ancient books, with whose lore they alone are conversant, « 
still preserve the recollection of them. 'T is well that 
my memory has been recently refreshed by one of these 
very books, as well as by a ' History of the manners, cus- 
toms and opinions of the past/ or I should be lost in as- 
tonishment at the light in which you contemplate the 
sex. There is one book, however, whose almost inspired 


pages are open not alone to the scholar, — I refer to Mil- 
ton's ' Paradise Lost/ in which there is an allusion to some 
such ideas as your contemporaries had. It is in this re- 
markable address from Eve to Adam: 'God thy law, 
thou, mine. 9 There has been an immense amount of con- 
troversy upon this passage, but I believe commentators at 
length agree in considering it a false reading. Although 
of course aware of the condition of woman, at the time 
in which Milton lived, they believe him to have been in- 
capable of putting a sentiment into the mouth of his 
ideal of womanly perfection, which makes God a God 
to her, only through her husband. They are the more con- 
firmed in this, as in another immortal poem, ' Comus,' he 
makes his heroine a model of all that is free and noble, 
and as a still more ancient and world famed poet, Shaks- 
peare, represents woman in quite a different way." 

" What is the standard of intellectual cultivation among 
women now." 

" Culture of the broadest kind is considered necessary 
to both men and women, to fit them for their entrance 
into the cares and toils of life." 

" But how do women find time for this ? They could 
not do so in my day." 

" You know the old adage, ' where there's a will, there's 
a way.' Since woman has awoke to the importance of 
self-culture, the means are found quite practicable. And 
besides, there are the increased facilities for domestic 
labor, to be considered in this matter. The household ar- 
rangements of this age are somewhat different from those 
of yours, I imagine. At this moment, you may see an 
exemplification of it, in the gay groups of people which 
you notice yonder, just filling the streets, as they go to 
their eating houses." 

" Eating houses ! Ah, it seems to me that looks a lit- 
tle like Fourierism, but the tall individual whom I met in 


the morning, told me that the community system ' died 
out ' long ago, and that people lived in families, and 
women cooked and scrubbed, baked and patched, as of 

" And so people do live in families, and always will, I 
reckon ; Ah ! your tall friend ! I know him like a book ! 
A cross-grained, conservative old creature, who cannot 
endure the modern improvements which leave woman 
freedom to pursue her individual tastes. He spoke of 
things as he wished them to be, rather than as they are. 
Never believe a word he tells you on this subject. Poor 
fellow ! he was once of goodly proportions, fully rounded 
out, sleek and fair ; one of the most popular men in so- 
ciety. In early life he possessed a wife, a most exem- 
plary woman, who devoted herself unusually to the pro- 
motion of his comfort ; but having had the misfortune to 
lose her, he could find no other so docile and obedient, 
and he has really become the melancholy, attenuated 
being you saw, by venting his indignant ire against the 
progress of the sex in these days. ' Woman's rights/ as 
he sneeringly terms them, are the constant theme of bis 
discourse, and the rich old fellow having been refused by 
at least a dozen ladies, revenges himself by slurs upon the 
whole woman part of creation." 

" Rich ! is he ? and will not his long purse procure him 
a wife ? " 

" Riches procure him a wife here ! You forget, my 
dear sir, that women are not bought and sold now, as in 
your day." 

" Oh, they were not exactly that, in my day, but then, 
as now, I suppose, they found it necessary to be clothed 
and fed, and to move in genteel society, and what would 
you have them do, if they had no money of their own, 
the father bankrupt, perhaps, and a homeless old age be- 
fore them ? What better could they do, than marry a 


rich husband, and so provide for themselves, and desti* 
tute sisters perhaps ? For my part, I always pitied, more 
than blamed, when I saw them doing so." 

u ' Pitied ! ' ' blamed ! ' Let me tell yon, my good friend, 
that things have indeed changed with woman. As to 
* clothing and food/ she provides them, (when necessity 
or inclination prompts) by her own hands or head, and 
what is more, can follow the impulses of her heart, 
in maintaining a feeble brother or sister, or an aged pa- 
1 rent. She is therefore not obliged to enter the marriage 
state, as a harbor against poverty. And as for ' genteel 
society,' riches neither admit nor exclude from that, but 
man and woman both mingle in the circle for which tal- 
ent or cultivation fit them, and take their places as easily 
as flowers turn to the light, or fold their leaves in the 
shade And for this progress, we are mainly indebted 
to the genius of Charles Fourier, who, by his profound 
insight into the evils of society, induced such changes as 
gave due compensation to all industry, whether in man, 
woman or child. Cooperation substituted for competition, 
has in a great measure removed indigence from society, 
and division of labor in domestic art has increased the 
facilities of housekeeping as much as electricity has that 
of conveying news. Yet the labor of woman was light- 
ened more reluctantly than other improvements, and the 
natural patience of that sex, and the selfishness of ours, 
might have made the eternal track of household labor 
go on as of old, but for the impossibility of getting female 
domestics for an occupation which brought so much so- 
cial degradation and wear and tear of body and clothes ! 
The factory, the shop, and the field even, came to be pre- 
ferred before it, and men found, that they must either 
starve, or contrive some better way of being fed. 

" True, there are no ' Associations ' properly, and many 
things that the genius of Fourier dreamed of, have never 


been realized. The reformer's plans seldom are fulfilled, 
as he foresees them, but much that that great man taught 
has been heeded, and men now bless his labor, and re- 
spect his name. 

" Taking the hint from him, the poor first combined to 
purchase their supplies at shops established expressly for 
them, that their small parcels might come to them at 
wholesale prices. Rich men built comfortable, cheap 
dwellings, with the privilege for each tenant of a certain 
right in a common bakery, school, etc. Other changes 
followed. Philanthropists guided legislation in the poor 
man's behalf, till he gradually lost sight of his poverty, 
while the hoarder became unable to heap up wealth from 
the sweat of his less prosperous brother. 

" True, we do not live in the ' phalanx,' but you have 
noticed the various houses for eating which accommodate 
the city. Covered passages in some of the streets, the 
arcade style of building generally adopted in others, and 
carriages for the more isolated and wealthy residences, 
make this a perfectly convenient custom, even in our 
climate, and 't is so generally adopted by our people, that 
only now and then a fid get ty man, or a peremptory woman, 
attempts anything like the system of housekeeping in 
your day. Nothing but extraordinary wages enables a 
man now to have a little tea, a little cake, a little meat, 
a little potato, cooked under his own roof, served all by 
itself, on a little table for him especially. But the re- 
cluse and monk will be found in all ages. 

u You would hardly recognize the process of cooking in 
one of our large establishments. Quiet, order, prudence, 
certainty of success, govern the process of turning out a 
ton of bread, or roasting an ox ! — as much as the weav- 
ing a yard of cloth in one of our factories. No fuming, 
no fretting over the cooking stove, as of old ! No 'roast- 
ed lady' at the head of the dinner table ! Steam, ma- 


chinery, division of labor, economy of material, make the 
whole as agreeable as any other toil, while the expense 
to pocket is as much less to man, as the wear of patience, 
time, bone and muscle, to woman. 

" Look at that laundry establishment on the other side 
of the old Penobscot! See the busy boys and girls bear- 
ing to and fro the baskets of snowy linen, in exchange 
for the rolled and soiled bundle of clothes. There is a 
little fellow, now, just tumbling his load into this end of 
the building; — by the time he fairly walks rouud to the 
other side, it will be ready to place on his shoulders, clean, 
starched, and pressed with mirror-like polish ! Ah, you 
did not begin to live in your benighted nineteenth century ! 
Just think of the absurdity of one hundred housekeepers, 
every Saturday morning, striving to enlighten one hun- 
dred-girls in the process of making pies for one hundred 
little ovens! (Some of these ovens remain to this day, 
to the great glee of antiquarians.) What fatigue ! What 
vexation ! Why, ten of our cooks, in the turning of a 
few cranks, and an hour or so of placing materials, pro- 
duce pies enough to supply the whole of this city ; — 
rather more than all your ladies together could do, 1 fancy. 
Window cleansing, carpet shaking, moving, sweeping, 
and dusting, too, are processes you would never know 
now, though, by the way, there is much less of this to do 
than there used to be, owing to a capital system of lay- 
ing the dust by artificial showers which has long been 
used. Indeed, this was hinted at in your day I think, by 
a very acute observer of nature, laughed at then, as a 
dreamer. ' Professor Espy ' was his name." 

" I asked a while ago, how women could find time for 
the culture you were speaking of, but I am constrained 
to change my question now, and ask, what, for mercy's 
sake, is there left for them to do ? " said I, indignantly, 
thinking of the unceasing turmoil of " washing-day," bak- 


ing and ironing day, which my poor wife had always 
been obliged to submit to. " How lazy your women must 

" Lazy ! why they take part in all these very processes. 
Labor no longer makes them fear to lose caste, and they 
join in hand or head work as they please, and from hav- 
ing greater variety of employments, those which were 
deemed more exclusively theirs, such as sewing or teach- 
ing, not being crowded, command as high remunera- 
tion as any. No, woman is not made lazy by this so- 
cial progress. She finds abundance of work and freedom 
to do it. In every station, pecuniary independence is her 
own. Her duties as mother and daughter are now more 
faithfully fulfilled than ever, as freedom is more favora- 
ble to the growth of the affections than coercion, while in 
the marriage relation the change is too great to describe. 
No longer induced to enter it as a refuge from the ennui 
of unoccupied faculties, free also from the injurious pub- 
lic opinion which makes it necessary to respectability to 
wed, woman as well as man may go to her grave single 
if she pleases, without being pitied for having failed of 
the great end of her existence. Marriage is therefore 
seldom entered, except from mutual choice and strong 
affection. True, mistakes are made now, as in your day, 
by the young with vivid imaginations, but the prevailing 
habit of useful occupation makes such mistakes far rarer 
now than then. The family and the home are indeed 
sacred, and the bond only broken by death. Children are 
reared under holy influences, and the generations grow 
and increase in the love and wisdom of God and man/' 

" But your women do not take part in the affairs of 
state, do they ? At least, so the ' cross-grained, conserv- 
ative old creature/ as you called him, who answered my 
question this morning, told me." 

w Oh no, they have no wish to do so." 


u Bat that individual told me they had made the at- 
tempt ;" and here I recapitulated the description he had 
given me of women in the halls of legislation. 

" Oh, that was all a joke ! And a capital one it was 

« A joke ! How can that be ? " 

" Why, men were strangely sore and sensitive upon 
that subject, always imagining that women .wanted to 
role. If a word of fault was found with woman's condi- 
tion, they would immediately take fire, and reply, 'Oh, 
you want a share in government do you ? Better stay at 
home and darn your stockings/ If a sigh was breathed 
over woman's want of freedom, intellectual and social, 
•Ah! you'd like to go to the polls would you? Better 
learn to make a good pudding ! ' To which women an- 
swered in effect, that * they had n't any particular objec- 
tion to ' darning their hose,' and that they liked of all 
things to eat 'good puddings,' as in the then condition 
of 'help' they could n't reasonably expect to eat unless 
they made them, and as they were really quite indiffer- 
ent to taking a share in government, they thought they 
should accept the advice offered them, and go on, for a 
while at least, ' darning their stockings and making good 

" But men were not so easily satisfied. Still, when the 
lovers of progress expressed a wish for a broader female 
culture, they shrugged their shoulders and ejaculated, 
* Oh ! a share in government ! ' and if some unlucky dog 
chanced to stumble on the word ' woman,' — ' Humph ! 
Good pudding.* Still went on the deep, silent current 
of reform, and still men pricked up their ears and looked 
fearfully about them, scared lest woman was beginning 
to 'rule.' Still woman cried 'onward,' and still man 
groaned, • darn stockings ! ' They bore this patiently for 
some time. At last some mischievous ones declared 


1 they would bear it no longer. It was too good a subject 
for fun to be longer treated seriously. It was quite too 
bad that men had for so many years cried " wolf in 
vain. Now the wolf should really come ! ' And so, in- 
deed, he did; these female wags actually enacted the 
very scenes you have described to me, in their zeal to 
1 quiz' their male tormentors. How well they succeeded 
in quizzing them, you can judge from the story you heard. 

" But women were at one time obliged to take part in 
government, which was 'no joke.'" 

" Ah ! how happened it ? " 

" Men became completely eaten up with the love of 
money. This frightful disease had begun to show itself 
in your day, but it afterward made much more rapid and 
terrible advances. It became a raging pestilence, de- 
stroying everything within its reach. It prevailed over 
our whole country, but more fatally than anywhere else, 
in this our good city. All other things became subordi- 
nate to this burning fever. Social intercourse was aban- 
doned. Amusement was ridiculed as absurd. The 
church was deserted. The Sabbath habitually desecrat- 
ed. And even the master-passion, love, was forgotten. 
The effect of this money-leprosy (for I think of no more 
appropriate name) upon the body, was truly terrific ; with- 
ering the skin, and changing it to a lurid copper color, 
with large livid spots upon it, seeming like the ghosts of 
dollars, (which, like the Lady Macbeth's spots of blood, 
1 would not rub out*) ; giving the eyes the appearance of 
burning cents, sunk deep in the head ; impregnating the 
breath with a foetid metallic odor, and, as some declared, 
even imparting to the blood a dull coppery tinge ; caus- 
ing the hands to grope and fumble in vacancy, as if in 
search of bank bills, while the tongue muttered continu- 
ally, ' dollars/ ' interest,' ' stock/ ' dividends/ and other 
words of pecuniary import. 


" Of course, with this fearful disease upon them men 
neglected their duties in the Legislature, in Congress, in 
courts of law, etc., except those which related directly to 
their pecuniary interests. 

" If their attention was called to any other matters than 
those which touched their pockets, they would look as 
bewildered as an owl in the day time, — blushing, stam- 
mering, and finally ejaculating, • Well — I — do n't know, 
but — I '11 — I '11 — go home and ask my wife ! ' And so 
' go home and ask their wives ' they did, and their wives, 
poor things! having never turned their attention to these 
matters, and not feeling that they knew much about them, 
actually had to go to work and make themselves ac- 
quainted with all sorts of statistics, political economy, 
and even law, to help their money-crazed husbands out 
of their difficulties ; so that for a long time women had 
as much, and even more, to do with the affairs of state 
than men. 

"At last, things got to such a pass that the female 
part of the community concluded it would not do. That 
something must be done to stop the progress of the dis- 
ease which was desolating their homes, and turning so- 
ciety topsy-turvy. And something was done. I will not 
stop to relate all the details of their mode of operations, 
but will be satisfied with saying, that a system was im- 
mediately commenced, which, after sundry discourage- 
ments and years of laborious effort, was at length crown- 
ed with success. (This much I will say, however, that 
with the exception of establishing hospitals for the treat- 
ment of the infected, their methods of restoration were 
altogether of the domestic kind.) Once more order and 
beauty were restored to society, and men became men 

The scene changed. I was in the midst of a large and 
brilliant assembly. Thousands of lights gleamed from 


the ceiling upon the festive throng. Music was heard 
in the alcoves. The merry laugh sounded from group to 
group, as the sparkling witticism flashed along the circle; 
and li many-twinkling feet" were heard in the distance, 
44 wreathing the fantastic dance." 

My faithful friend was at my elbow. u Where are 
we!" I asked in some surprise. u At a levee at Mrs. 
—'a. You must open your eyes wide and see all there 
is to be seen, for you will not have a better opportunity 
of learning the social peculiarities of our age." I took his 
hint, and wandered from circle to circle, to discover, if 
possible, the bent of the social tastes which I was to see 
exhibited. My first impression had been, that the assem- 
bly I found myself in the midst of was very similar to 
the festive gatherings of my own age ; but I was soon 
convinced of my error. Externally, it is true, it was so. 
There were the same graceful exteriors, the same courtly 
manners, the same beaming faces. There was man in 
his pride and woman in her beauty. But under all these 
there was a soul* The courtly manners, the graceful 
exteriors, and the beaming faces, veiled a spirit, Man 
was there in his manly sincerity, as well as pride, and 
woman in her majesty, as well as beauty. The assem- 
bly went not there to pass an idle hour in mere frivolity, 
or to obey the demands of ceremony or fashion. They 
went for the pure interchange of social joys. Friend 
greeted friend, and heart met heart. Man went not to 
flatter and cajole, and then boast of his victory over poor 
ensnared woman. Woman went not to be admired and 
caressed for a thoughtless hour, and then flung lightly 
away as a plaything to the winds. But both to meet 

* God forbid I should intimate that those who frequented social as- 
semblies in my day had no souls. Only that they usually left them at 
home when they a went into company." 


each other as friends and companions, as spirits bound to 
the same haven, and created for the same objects. 

I have spoken of the sparkling witticism, — and truly 
it was abundant. Fresh and clear it gushed from the 
well of thought, and gladdened all within its reach. But 
it was not, as in my day, all the evidence of mind allow- 
ed to appear in the festive circle. Freedom was there as 
well as wit, and the guests were not forbidden by the 
voice of imperious fashion to be serious or gay, as their 
humor moved them. 

I found myself a listener to many circles where sub- 
jects which my contemporaries would have thought quite 
shocking in the social assembly, from their seriousness 
or profoundness, were chaining a delighted group in clos- 
er and closer interest. Woman, too, joined in them, and 
no fear of the world's smile cramped the vigorous intel- 
lect, and no visions of " blue stockings " repressed the 
soul that would be free. 

To other circles, where the grave and gay, the profound 
and brilliant, were elegantly blended, I lent a willing ear. 
and joined with a whole heart, and lungs most glad to 
do their office, in the " laugh " which varied and vivified 
the entertainment. (They did laugh, those girls, as if 
they were afraid of no mortal. — And God bless them ! 
why should they be ?) 

I observed that some of the assembly were quietly 
reading, as if they had been in their own parlors, others, 
in secluded corners or curtained alcoves, were reciting or 
reading aloud to a neighbor, others were engaged in play- 
ing chess and kindred games, and others still were seen 
tdte-d-t§te for a great length of time with one individual 
I was much surprised at this, and asked an explanation 
of my companion, remarking that " anything of the kind 
would not have been allowed in my day, and that indeed 
I could not consider it quite polite, as one would think 


the guests might find time at home for such purposes." 
" Oh, that," said he, " is a matter of opinion. We think 
it the truest politeness to allow our guests to find amuse- 
ment for themselves, provided their way of doing so does 
not annoy others. Freedom is with us the highest en- 

At this moment my eye was caught by a strange look- 
ing object in a corner, examining a picture through a quiz- 
zing glass, with most grotesque contortions. His hair 
was brushed perfectly upright on the crown of his head, 
and trimmed very precisely in points, while from the 
crown to the neck it fell in elaborate ringlets, powdered 
and perfumed with all the art of the friseur. His whis- 
kers were abundant, and finished in points like his hair. 
(Points were " all the rage," as I afterwards learned ) 
An immense moustache li cultivated " into ringlets at the 
ends, adorned his upper lip, and a delicate goatee his un- 

The rest of his toilet was in keeping. Loads of gold 
and silver lace decorated his green velvet coat, and the 
richest of thread lace his crimped shirt-bosom ! Im- 
mense gold and pearl pendants hung from his ears, and 
his watch, set in pearl, dangled in full relief against his 
black velvet pantaloons. On his diminutive hands were 
squeezed gloves of the most dazzling whiteness, over 
which sparkled numerous rings of various value and 
beauty. Apertures in the fingers of these admitted to 
the light nails a full half inch in length, gracefully curled 
upward, and ending in the usual finishing of points ! His 
pantaloons were short enough to display an exquisitely 
turned ancle ; and shoes of white satin, embroidered with 
flosses of the richest hues, and ornamented with gold 
and pearl buckles, completed the toilet of this singular 

My companion had been observing my minute scru- 


tiny of the grotesque object before me, and at length 
asked me " what I thought of him." " I cannot decide. 
Is he a man ? and if not, to what title can he lay claim ? " 

" I suppose he mxxst pass for a man/' he said, laughing. 
" He is one of the exquisites of the day." 

44 What ! In the high state of social progress where I 
find you is it possible you have ' exquisites ? ' Has wo- 
man made so great an advance as you have represented, 
and does man still remain so far behind her as to allow 
such a thing as a dandy to exist ? " 

44 It is even so, although to do ourselves justice I must 
say that such creatures are very rare, and hardly tolerated 
in society. He was not invited here to-night I under- 
stand, but got in by some trick of his remarkable assur- 

I looked ngain at the " exquisite," attracted by a strange 
sound, which seemed to come from his vicinity. He was 
laughing, as near as I could judge by the singular con- 
tortions of his phiz and the nervous agitation of his body, 
although the sound I never should have recognized as 
that of mirth, it being part squeal, part cackle, and part 
a suppression of both. It is said laughing is infectious. 
However this may be usually, his most assuredly was, 
and accordingly my friend and I began to shake in unison, 
then to laugh audibly, and finally to roar. Our unearthly 
noises seemed strangely to agitate our " surroundings." 
The walls began to totter. The flame of the lamps 
waved hither and thither. The furniture rocked. The 
floor rose and fell like the sea in a storm. A hapless 
FalstafF, overturned and set rolling by the " swell," came 
tumbling over my unlucky " corns," and bawling, I awoke. 



I cannot, mother, stay at home, 

It is so sweet a day ; 
Yon darling Robin bids me come ; 

Mother, I must away ! 

My body only will sit still, 
And count the weary hours, 

For, out by brother's little mill, 
My soul is picking flowers ! 

Mother, you tell me I must mind, 

And so my body will ; 
But then my soul you cannot bind ; 

'Tis out by brother's mill ! 

Then I am sure you '11 let me go 
Where that 's already gone ; 

Oil, mother, do not tell me no ! 
My soul is all alone ! 

For though I 've heard you often say 
That spirits round us fly, 

Who have no bodies made of clay, 
Yet, Ma, I know not why, 

I should not like such soul to be ; 
I should but sob and moan, 
" Oh, body, pray come back to me ! 
My soul is all alone ! " 


My soul, dear mother, will not stay ! 

It hears the robins sing ; 
It cannot stay at home to-day ; 

It will not mind in Spring ! 

My body 's tired of sitting still ; 

Then let it seek the bowers, 
Where, out by brother's little mill, 

My soul is picking flowers ! 



Tobacco ! sweet tobacco ! 
How I am wed to thee ! 
Oh, I would go through frost and snow, 
Mire, dust or heat, to see 
A Principe on fire for me ; 
So charming glow 'mid grief and woe, 
Good Spanish rolls of thee. 
Rich is the cloud, and blue the shroud, 
Unfurled by my tobacco : 
Thou hast thy charms, and nought alarms, 
Like leaving off that hem and cough, 
Engendered by tobacco. 
Dear luscious weed ! I will not heed 
" The Doctor's" tale of thee; 
Envy they do the noble few, 
Who 've linked to smoke with me. 



A brook now merrily singing, danced and whirled 
down steep and rugged places, and now gently murmur- 
ing, it glided over small pebbles, till, descending the moun- 
tain's side, it at last mingled its clear sparkling waters 
with the ocean. To man it was a lonely place, for there 
human step was seldom heard, but the brook seemed ever 
to rejoice. A wanderer passed that way, one who had 
earnestly toiled for fame ; he had met disappointment, 
and discouraged, he left the haunts of men. When he 
saw the brook so merry, he thought its lot was like his 
own, and in the bitterness of his heart he spoke : " Thou 
givest water to supply the mighty ocean, and it is almost 
adored for its sublimity, but thou and thy kind, without 
which small indeed would be the ocean's power, are 
heeded not. I too have devoted my powers to the world, 
years have I labored, but in the great mass my efforts 
are unnoticed, my name never sounds above the rabble. 
I have no heart for joy." Thus he deplored his state, but 
the brook danced on in its glee. The breeze stirred the 
shrubbery and a branch near bent and touched a wild 
celandine ; the pods flew open and the seeds were scat- 
tered round ; some fell into the water and were earned 
down the stream to be landed upon and beautify other 
and perhaps barren shores. " More good," said the wan- 
derer, " but who thanks the brook?" A harebell gently 
bowed its sleuder stem, and the breeze seemed to bear 
with it a low soft voice. The wanderer listened, the 


voice became distinct, " Is the good of the brook entirely 
unacknowledged ? Do not our hues brighten as it moist- 
ens our roots, and as we bend our heads that it may see 
our brilliancy, its song grows merrier as it hastens on to 
refresh others. The seeds of our gay fellows are borne 
away to other shores, and thou complainest, for no one 
thanks the brook. Is it praise that makes the value of 
the deed? Does good done in secret make it less good? 
Grieve not, rather rejoice at thy lot. Thy powers are 
noble, exert them not for fame but solely for good. The 
world may never know thy name, but silently and sorely 
will thy influence spread around, raising and purifying the 
minds of men." The voice ceased, — a soft sound ap- 
peared to arise from the flowers, and the leaves of the 
tall trees near seemed to rustle with gladder tone. The 
wanderer returned to his fellow-men with a new spirit. 
The brook taught him a lesson he ever remembered. By 
his means exiles from virtue were reclaimed and directed 
to the path of duty ; they who seemed doomed to misery 
and want, were raised from their low position, and en- 
couraged to persevere in attaining a state more worthy 
of their being. When the names of men were sounded 
as it were from the housetop, if a desire for fame entered 
for a moment his bosom, he thought of the brook of the 
mountain, and was humbled. 

Thus does Nature ever teach those who listen to her 
lessons of love and duty to others. 


It is not fit for thee to wear, 
Mother, those 'graceless locks of hair. 
No — let thine own, of sombre gray, 
Upon thy time-worn forehead lay ; 
'T is far more suitable for thee, 
Thou woman of simplicity ! 

For thou in singleness of heart 
Hast gone thy pilgrimage, while art, 
And fashion, and the world's applause, 
Have governed by their tyrant laws. 
And thou hast bowed not to them — no, 
For a soul on thee did God bestow ; 
And thou hadst not the heart to slight 
The teachings of that inward light. 

It hath created smiles, ere now, 
To see how all unconscious thou 
Didst take thine independent way, 
Unmindful what the world might say. 

Yet thou at length hast feebly tried, 
Mother, thy faded locks to hide ; 
Because thy friends in sooth did say, 
Thou wert too youthful to be gray. — 

It would not do — upon thy face 
Sickness and time had left their trace, 
And spite of all thy art, (indeed 
It was too little to succeed,) 
Beneath thy cap would ever stray 
Some lock which, truth to tell, was gray. 


Lay them aside — there, mother, thou 
Art free from fashion's thraldom now, 
Again with pleasure I can trace 
An unboaght beauty in thy face, 
Behold thy fair and ample brow, 
Albeit somewhat wrinkled now. 

There, go thou forth, and never fear 
With thy companions to appear. 
And if they ask thee, mother, why 
Thus adorned ? Do thou reply, 
" I 'm growing old — my hair is gray, 
But I look onward to the day, 
When I shall wear a diadem, 
And ' fadeless wreath ' — I wait for them.'* 



[Referred to on page 906.] 

Gently, stranger ; ring not loudly ; 

Startle not the dwellers here ; 
Drop thy veil a little lower, 

Lest thy features should appear ; 
Draw thy hooded covering closer ; 

Lean thy head upon thy breast ; 
Shun the lamp that would reveal thee ; — 

Trust thine instinct for the rest. 

Well done, brave one ! thou hast safely 

Met the ordeal thou did'st dread ; 
Now thy secret shall be hidden, 

As 't were buried with the dead 
Thank thy stars for thy invention, 

Triply guarded, muffled one ! 
Now thy left hand never knoweth 

What thy right hath nobly done ! 

Listen, woman ! Angels whisper ! 

Can'st thou hear the words they say 1 
" Bless thee, mortal ! — done in darkness, 

Write we it in endless day." 
Simple woman ! Think'st thy secret 

Safe, as with the dead, shalt prove? 
Know, that though on earth it slumber, 

Like the stars 't will shine above ! 



No place is without its characters, and no place has 
had more queer fish in proportion to the number of its 
denizens than the valley of the Penobscot. It is our 
purpose to chronicle some reminiscences of a few of 
them, that they may not be entirely forgotten. 

We will first turn our attention to the aborigines. 
These people, who formerly composed the powerful tribe 
of Zanatines, have dwindled down to a mere handful of 
miserable vagabonds, destitute of courage, energy, and 
every other quality that made their ancestors respected 
or feared. Fifty years' contact with the white man has 
made fearful devastation among them, and at the end of 
another half century, we fear that the visiter will look in 
vain over the site of their present village at Oldtown for 
a vestige of the last wigwam of their tribe* 

Gen. John Blake, a revolutionary soldier — and a char- 
acter himself, by the way — was, for a long period, on in- 
timate terms with the Indians, and in his old age used to 
relate many anecdotes of them. They had great confi- 
dence in him, and often consulted him in relation to their 
affairs. A prominent character in the General's anec- 
dotes, was John Neptune, Lieut.- Governor of the tribe 
for more than a quarter of a century, and familiarly 
known as Gov. Neptune — who had been as fine a speci- 
men of the Indian as was ever seen in New England. 
Large and well proportioned, with a fine benignant coun- 
tenance, and dignified bearing, he invariably arrested the 
attention of the stranger. He enjoyed fun, though he 


possessed the usual taciturnity of his race. He is now 
an old man, and broken down somewhat by intemper- 
ance and misfortune ; still, he retains something of his 
early appearance and character. 

It has been the custom of the tribe from time imme- 
morial to be represented at the Legislature by a delega- 
tion consisting of one or more of their chief men. When 
Maine was connected with Massachusetts, they were 
regularly represented at the ' General Court ' in Boston ; 
and if they could learn that Blake was to be in Boston at 
the-same time, the delegation made it a point to put them- 
selves under his direction. 

At one time the delegation consisted of six chiefs. 
Among them was Neptune, then a young man, and when 
in full dress a magnificent fellow. When they arrived in 
Boston, they attracted much attention, so much, that the 
proprietor of the Museum conceived the idea of making 
an honest penny out of the curiosity they had awakened. 
He applied to Blake, and through him made an arrange- 
ment to have them visit the Museum on an evening ap- 
pointed. The public were duly advertised of the fact, 
and the rooms of the Museum were thronged long before 
the hour of the arrival of the chiefs. On their passage 
into the hall, Blake, who was conducting them, overheard 
a young lady express a desire to examine the dress of 
Neptune, which consisted of a splendid scarlet frock, con- 
fined about the. waist by a girdle of wampum, Indian leg- 
gins or stockings, and moccasins, the borders of all which 
were beautifully wrought with beads. The General told 
her she should be gratified, at the same time warning her, 
that after she had examined the dress, she should with- 
draw herself immediately, as the chief was an exceed- 
ingly wild fellow, and he could not be accountable for 
what he might do. Then seizing Neptune, and giving 
him the wink, he told the lady she could examine the 


garment. She looked with great caution, and when 
Blake saw she was about concluding her examination, 
he released the chief, who instantly seized the lady by 
the waist, and cried, as if in triumph, 

" Now you my squaw ! " 

The lady shrieked, and Neptune released her and pass- 
ed on. 

On another occasion, during their visit at this lime, a 
high civil functionary invited the chiefs to dine with sev- 
eral of his friends at his house. These friends were gen- 
tlemen and their wives, who were curious to witness the 
practices of the aborigines at their repasts. And it is 
probable their curiosity was fully satisfied.* These chil- 
dren of the forest eschewed knives and forks, and all as- 
sistance, but thrust their fingers into whatever dish their 
fancy dictated, and helped themselves without regard to 
time, ceremony, or the distance of the food coveted. To 
repeated inquiries of their host if they would take cider, 
they gave a negative grunt. At last on« of them, proba- 
bly disgusted with the sound cider, looked up and cried 

" Davis, why you no hav'um lum ? " [rum.] 

We will next consider the white- skins. 

A character once well known in Penobscot, was Capt. 
James Budge. He was at one time the owner of the 
land on the east side of the Kenduskeag stream, in 
Bangor, called " City Point," and lived in a small yellow 
house in the rear of where Gen. Veazie's house now 
stands. He became reduced by intemperance, in fortune 
and character, and spent his last days in wandering about 
the streets a harmless madman, dealing out rhymes for a 
glass of grog, which few of the traders in those days 
could see any virtue in. withholding, and pilfering what- 
ever he conceived would be of service to him. 


But madman though he was, there was " method in his 
madness," as the following specimen of his rhyming will 
show. It was made impromptu in a store which stood on 
Broad Street, near Puddle Dock, a muddy creek, that 
made up where Emerson's block now stands. The store 
was occupied by a merchant, who was a federalist, Mr. 
Prouty, whose democracy no man can doubt, and the 
fashionable tailor of those times, John Reynolds, Esq., 
who was a distinguished speaker in town meetings. The 
poetry was induced by the usual fee, a glass of grog, and 
is as follows : 

u Down by the shore 
# There is a store, 

Occupied by a Fed. ; 
Prouty, the lame, 
Lives in the same, 

And Reynolds overhead." 

A trader who cured fish, and frequently found quanti- 
ties of them missing, undertook to hire Budge not to steal 
them, and told him if he would not he would give him 
an armful of the best fish he could find. He selected a 
number of fine fish and left, the trader congratulating 
himself that he was rid of so profitless a customer so 
cheaply. Budge had not been gone long, however, be- 
fore he returned with the fish, and. throwing them down 
before the astonished trader, said gruffly, 

" Here, take your fish, I don't want 'em." 

" Why, what is the matter, Budge ? " 

" Oh," replied he significantly, rolling up his only sound 
eye, " I can do better ! " 

Of Mr. P. it is said, that when it was proposed to set 
off his house and lot in Hampden to Bangor, near the 
line of which they were, some years since, he remonstrat- 
ed because of the unhealthiness of the latter place ! 


A character of considerable humor, was Capt. Jacob 
Hart, of East BreweV He was an officer in the war of 
the Revolution, and while in the army acquired habits of 
military precision and military vivacity, that adhered to 
him through life. He had also the habit of interlarding 
his observations with the expressions " pretty likely — 
hum," " of course — yes." At one time he had indulged 
too freely, and coming out of the Hatch Tavern, he at- 
tempted to descend the long flight of steps that used to 
lead to the road, but making a misstep, he rolled to the 
bottom. Picking himself up as speedily as possible, he 
turned to the right about face, and said with military 
promptness, " as you are, Jake Hart, pretty likely." Then 
looking towards the witnesses of his mishap, he made 
the following proposition : " If any man in the town of 
Bangor can tumble down stairs equal to old Jake Hart — 
he has an undoubted right to try it — hum — pretty likely, of 
course, yes" 

He once sold a citizen some hay. The gentleman in- 
quired if it was fine hay. The Captain replied, " hum, 
pretty likely — fine hay, of course, yes." Without ex- 
amining it, the gentleman paid him and directed him to 
put it into his barn. On using it he found it was very 
coarse hay, and when the Captain again made his ap- 
pearance, he took him to task for cheating him. The 
Captain raised his eyes in amazement, and inquired 
wherein he had cheated him. 

" In the hay ; you told me it was fine hay, when it was 

" Hum -^ pretty likely — I told you *t was fine hay, of 
coarse, yes — o^c-o-a-r-s-e." 

Of course, the gentleman said no more. 

Another character was Jonathan B s, years ago a 

great liqnorary character, but now a strictly temperate 


man. He was poor, as a matter of course ; and with 
poverty and intemperance spurring*him on, he did a great 
many things that were not exactly in accordance with the 
golden rule. 

It was the practice before the Temperance reforma- 
tion, for tipplers to patronize the traders by drawing their 
own liquor from the casks in the back shop whenever ap- 
petite prompted, without so much as asking the consent 

of the owner, or even paying for the dram. B s was 

notorious for giving this kind of custom, and was suspect- 
ed of extending it a little further, when not watched. At 
one time, after swallowing his glass, he saw some tempt- 
ing balls of -butter within his reach, and recollecting that 
that article was convenient in a family, and believing 
himself unseen, he slipped one of them into his hat, and 
securing it upon his head, prepared to leave the store. 
On his way out he was stopped by the salutation of one 
of the owners of the store : 

" Cold evening, Mr. B s." 

" Yes — hem — yes." 

" Take a seat by the stove, Mr. B s, and warm 


B s hesitated, but was persuaded with some urging, 

to comply. 

The clerk stirred up the fire, until the heat became op- 
pressive. B s drew back. The perspiration began 

to run down his cheeks. He drew a long breath, and 
said he believed he must go. The merchant remonstrat- 
ed. He would take cold if he went out now ; he had 
better set down until he was cool. Sighing deeply, the 
martyr again took his seat, and while his tormentor was 
amusing him with conversation, the clerk was piling the 
wood irito the stove. The small streams of perspiration 

had now increased to rivers, and B s arose with a 

determination to go. 


" Why, how you do sweat, Mr. B s," said the mer- 
chant, suddenly removing the gentleman's chapeau. 

Here was a denouement, u sliek as grease ! " "A sight 

to be seen ! " B s's head in a state of adipoceration ! 

As the gentleman was removing his hat, B s raised 

his hand to prevent it, but the hat had been removed too 
suddenly, and his hand was buried in the half-melted 
butter on his head. Then bringing his dripping fingers 
before his eyes, he exclaimed, as if in astonishment, 

" Well, I should like to know how that came on my 
head ! " 

Abraham .Hanson, a colored tonsor, was a character 
who figured in Bangor some twenty years ago, and afford- 
ed infinite amusement to the wags of the town. 

At the time contributions were taken up for the Greeks, 
the generous enthusiasm which pervaded the communi- 
ty reached the bosom "of the warm-hearted Abraham, and 
he advertised that upon a day appointed, he would ply 
his razor and scissors exclusively for their benefit. 

The day arrived, and his shop was thronged with cus- 
tomers. At first, however, the Greeks stood a poor 
chance of reaping much benefit from Abraham's philan- 
thropy. Until he was better advised, his reply to each 
customer who offered him pay was, 

" What for I take pay ? Bress you soul ! No, Sar, / 
shave clis day for de beffit of de ounfortinate Greeks! 19 

The last character of which we shall now make men- 
tion was Major Simon Harriman, a man of considerable 
notoriety in his day. He was a blacksmith by trade, but 
in his old age devoted himself to the manufacture of 
" liniment, spring-steel pitch-forks, and cow-bells," that, 
according to the advertisements, "could be heard from 
one to five miles." 


At one time he set himself up as a candidate for Rep- 
resentative to Congress, and while peddling his liniment 
took occasion to do a little electioneering. At first he 
was going to cure Congress by the application of his 
liniment, if elected, and secured a large number of votes. 
He succeeded, however, only in defeating the election. 
He next endeavored to conciliate all parties, pitch-fork, 
cow-bell, and ruffle-shirt, and on the eve of election his 
friends published the following appeal to the electors in 
the Bangor Register, James Burton, printer. 

Election day is fast approaching, 

Cheerily O, O, Cheerily O, 
Some on our rights will he encroaching, 
Drearily O, O, drearily O. 


Who from rain now shall save us ? 

Harriman O, O, Harriman O, 
He 11 guard the rights our fathers gave as, 

Cheerily O, O, cheerily O. 


In politics he 's all perfection, 

Cheerily man O, O, cheerily man O, 
Witness John Quincy's late election, 

Harriman O, O, Harriman O. 

As a mechanic he is able, 

Harriman O, O, Harriman O, 
To furnish pitch-forks for oar stable, 

Cheerily man O, O, cheerily man 0. 


His fame through all the country sonndeth, 

Cheerily O, O, cheerily O, 
From one to five miles it reboandeth, 

Merrily O, O, Merrily O. 


Prove he 's the man of your appointment, 

Cheerily 0, O, cheerily 0, 
And he 11 drop the trade of making ointment, 

Merrily O, O, merrily O. 

Whether the appeal was effective to procure votes we 
are not informed, but certain it is the Major was not re- 
turned. It is not improbable that his promise to give up 
the trade of making ointment dissatisfied the liniment 
party, who, seeing there was no hope of curing Congress 
by the application of liniment, threw their vote for the 
successful candidate. 



Poesy, I have not sought 
Thy sweet favors, never bought; 
And thy treasures often are 
Those the wise seek not to share. 

Yet thy voice has come to me. 
Sometimes as the lulling sea, 
Breathing o'er the troubled heart, 
Strains that soothe while they impart 

Poesy, to hopes that rise, 
Language natural supplies ', 
And for tears that course the cheek, 
Opens she the lips, to speak. 

As the bird must sing his lay, 
Opening with the mom of May, ■ 
So my heart at times must seek 
Music for its thoughts to speak. 

Then forgive, sweet JWef, my lays ; 
Every heart its 1 song may raise, 
Be it angel's strain oh high, 
Or a baby's lullaby. 



Boring the bombardment of Vera Cms by the Americans, the harmonious notes 
of the Mexican bugle often were heard proceeding at once from several sections of 
the forested city, mingled with screams of terror and distress. Buildings were seen 
on fire from the effect of the American shells, and the Mexican soldiery flying from 
point to point for the purpose of extinguishing the flames. One night, a heavy cloud 
hanging oyer the city, assumed a deep red tinge from the glare of the conflagration, 
and the sparkling trace of the shells, as they passed under the illuminated veil, might 
easily be fancied, by a superstitious mind, the path of the destroying angel, flying to 
his mission under a canopy of blood. 

There was music in the distance, — 

On the dim and lonely lea, 
From a city's crowded marts it came, 

That gush of melody. 

With the voice of gathered thousands 

Mingled the trumpet's strain, 
While thickly fell on dome and spire 

The rocket's fiery rain. 

There were feet whose step was measured 

By the toll of the 'larum bell, 
While hoarse the thunder-gun replied 

To the roar of the bursting shell. 

A hundred homes were gleaming 

With fierce sulphureous fire, 
And the swift flame crackled harsh through halls 

That had rung with laugh and lyre. 


There was music in the distance, — 

But a wild and lonely tone — 
And fearfully ; t was blent the while 

With fierce huzza and moan. 

For the Northern foe had circled 

The City of the Cross, 
And from its walls was seen afar 

His starry flag to toss. 

And the bright and dancing waters, 

Which bathed Ulloa's shore, 
Invested by his hostile barques, 

With sails were shadowed o'er. 

Another morn was shining, 

Yet still, from sun to sun, 
Echoed the trumpet's taunting peal, 

Answered the thunder-gun. 

And the clouds all day which lowered 

Upon the gazer's view, 
Hung redly in the midnight sky 

Like robes of slaughter hue. 

Uprose the crowd at matins, 

Scared by the swaying bell, 
And the trembling priesthood fled the shrine, 

As the toppling turrets fell. 

Clustered the weak and timid, 

'Mid ranks of bristling steel ; 
The matron from her loom upsprung, 

And the maid forsook her reel ; 

While closer to her bosom 

The mother pressed her child, 
Still pacing to and fro, amidst 

That storm of terror wild. 


Ho I the beleaguered city ! 
The tempest, what may stay ! 

— The cross was borne from street to street, 
And the knee was bowed to pray. 

Ho ! the affrighted people ! 
(Again 'tis daylight's hour) 

— And they counsel, in dim groups apart, 
To yield Ulloa's tower. 

For the charm at length is broken 
Which hath led its victors forth ; 

The proud Castilian quails before 
The avenger of the North. 

And the massive gates are opened 
By fierce, but willing hands, 

While inward move the mingled host 
Of Freedom's conquering bands. 

From old Ulloa's tower 

Their eagle banners toss, 
And free and far gleam stripe and star 

O'er the " City of the Cross." 

There was music in the distance, 

From the city of the sea, 
'T was not the note of trump or drum, 

But the " Anthem of the free." * 

November, 1847. 

* Alas ! that the " Anthem of the free " should be mingled with 
the groans of those whom they had made captive ! 

*•»- »-.