Chapter VI (1)

Another spring had come. Calmly and gently as on the heart-sick watchers fell the last rays of the setting sun on Ally’s weary brow as she sat by the window of her boudoir listlessly gazing into the street. Gay dresses were strewed around her—jewels flashed from their velvet cushions upon the dressing-table beside her, and ornaments of rich and varied style lay beside them—yet Ally’s thoughts seemed far away. Her sweet face was paler and thinner, and on her dimpled mouth lay that peculiar expression of suffering which the lips only can show forth—her dark-blue eyes seemed larger, and a wild look had taken the place of the soft dove-like glances which had won Dugald’s heart. Oh! Ally was fearfully changed.

Suddenly, as though an ice-bolt had stricken her, the young girl started from her dreamy posture. The color faded from her parted lips and she clung to the window sill as she gazed at some object below.

A young Highlander, in the garb of his native hills, had just passed by, and even now paused before the arched gate-way of that princely mansion. Ally looked no longer, but sinking upon her knees, she wept.

A few moments afterward, her slight form might have been seen gliding down the wide staircase and entering a small library adjoining the drawing-room, with which a glass door communicated—softly the curtain was lifted, while with clasped hands and a frame shivering with the intensity of her agitation she saw and heard all that passed within.

Dugald, her own wronged Dugald was there—she had not been deceived then in that hasty glimpse of his figure from the window. A chill crept over Ally’s heart as she saw his pale face and sorrowful look—but this was as nothing to the agony that thrilled through her ere long. Dugald sat in one of the richly embroidered chairs, with the graceful ease so natural to him in any society, while directly opposite, in a large arm-chair with a cushion beneath her feet, sat the countess. An air of haughty indifference was meant, perhaps, to check the young man’s hopes, for well did the proud lady know the object of his long journey, and sorely did she tremble lest her plans should yet be defeated. Leaning carelessly on a massive table close by, with an air that affected to be contemptuously easy, while the working of his fine features betrayed an inward conflict, stood Sir Frederic.

“I assure you, sir, Lady Adela is too much indisposed to see any one this evening,” were the first words that the trembling girl heard.

“Oh, if she is ill, lady, do not refuse to let me see her. Surely, surely, news from home would do her good—oh, never was she too ill yet to see Dugald!

“Only let me see her for a moment—let me hear from her own lips that she has forgotten us.” And the young man grew eloquent as he pictured in the simple language of exquisite pathos, the more touching as it came every word from a full heart, the distress of those who loved and watched for their absent one till their hearts grew faint within them. He told of their bitter disappointments—their home now over-shadowed because the sunbeam that once lighted it was gone. He spoke not of his own feelings for they were too sacred to be displayed before the cold natures that listened unmoved even now—and Dugald ceased with a sinking heart as he watched their haughty brows grow darker with suppressed anger.

The countess rose and with a frigid salutation left the room, and her son, with an expression of withering scorn, demanded how he dared to expect that _his_ cousin remembered or wished to know aught of such low associations—then followed his mother, leaving Dugald stunned and motionless.

In those few brief moments the evil spirit had departed from Ally’s misguided soul and the good regained its influence over her.

With the last echoing sound of the departing footsteps, she opened the door against which she had been leaning, with that temporary strength excitement ever gives—she beckoned to the startled youth, who, half-dreaming, obeyed the signal, and found himself face to face with her whom he had just deemed lost to him forever.

“Ally, dear Ally, what have they done to change you thus,” he exclaimed as he stretched out his arms toward her. She threw herself weeping upon his bosom, clinging to him as if fearful of being again torn away. “Take me home, Dugald, take me home. Thank God I am not quite heartless yet.”

Tenderly as a mother soothes her restless child, did Dugald caress and whisper sweet words of comfort to the trembling one he folded to his heart—and at last she looked up through her tears with her old familiar smile, so that she seemed almost herself again.

By a side-door Dugald reached the street, unobserved by those who deemed him long since gone—a light was in his eye, his step was free and elastic, and his whole face beamed with the inward delight that caused his heart to throb wildly as he traversed the streets toward his temporary residence.

A few hours passed and he came forth again—when he returned he was no longer alone. Like her gentle mother, Adela Moreton fled from wealth and rank to share the lowlier lot of him who had won her heart. But unlike that mother our sweet mountain flower fled from the evil to the stern yet blessed path of duty, and the blessing of Heaven followed upon her steps.

Great was the amazement of the countess and her too sanguine heir when on the following morning they discovered that their dove had escaped from the net laid for her. Bitter were the curses that descended on Dugald’s now unconscious head, but the affectionate little note left on the table of the vacant boudoir, showed too plainly by its gentle but decided tenor that further hope was vain.

The sunshine came back into Donald’s cottage—laughter and mirth were no longer strangers there, for Ally, their “lost and found,” had returned to them, paler and thinner it is true, and with a deeper shadow on her fair brow, but with her loving heart and gentle voice unchanged.

Ally well knew the sacrifice she made, but it was made willingly. Her wealth was all in the power of her aunt, and she hoped for no concession from the disappointed schemers—but Dugald had not been idle during the years of his probation, and he was no longer a poor man.

One bright summer’s day when all nature seemed rejoicing and human hearts were filled with thankfulness, in her own simple cottage-dress, and under her old name of Alice McLane which she had again adopted, Ally, now blooming and happy, stood before the altar in their own dear kirk, and promised to be the wife of him who had loved her so long and so faithfully. Joy beamed from every countenance, as they now felt that no power on earth might rend these ties, and Ally, their own beautiful Ally, was theirs till death should part them.

Only once did the proud countess seek to recall her flown bird to her glittering but uneasy nest, and the day on which she arrived with Sir Frederic, eager and hopeful, was Ally’s wedding-day, and so they became unwittingly sharers in that beautiful scene—the only angry spirits in all that peaceful band of worshipers. Baffled again, they left without even seeking an interview with the object of their long journey, and Ally never heard of them again until the arrival of a strange-looking epistle many years after, announcing the death of her aunt, and her own accession by right of birth to the half of Lord Dundas’ princely fortune.

Sweet Ally McLane! would that more angels like thee in the likeness of sinful flesh might dwell among us—raising our hearts to higher, holier purposes, and fitting us while here for a better home above, where envy, malice, pride, or sorrow never may be known or felt.

* * * * *

A DAUGHTER’S MEMORY.

BY MARY L. LAWSON.

I listened then with eager ear
The tales of other days to hear,
For oft thy voice would lead me back,
From life’s insipid daily track,
To wild romance and warfare rude,
That mingle in old Scotland’s mood,
For thou didst know and paint them well,
And wandering fancy warmed the spell.

My father, how the tear-drop swells
As o’er the past my vision dwells,
When I have stood beside thy chair
And smoothed and kissed thy silvery hair,
Whose silken threads are dearer now
Than hope’s gay dream or lover’s vow,
For life can hold no joy for me
More cherished than my thoughts of thee.

And thou hast left a name behind
That Art must prize and Science find;
Thy talents to the world are known,
But dearer memories are my own.
Though all approve the stainless worth
That sleeps beneath this spot of earth,
The kindness that awakens love
Thy children’s hearts alone can prove.

No gorgeous tomb in words proclaim
Thine honest truth and well earned fame,
Nor sculptured urn, nor heartless praise,
The stranger’s studied care betrays;
But thou wert fondly laid to rest
Where tender tears thy grave has blest,
Embalmed in feelings pure and high
That soar from earth beyond the sky.

* * * * *

FROM AMALTHÆUS.

BY RICHARD PENN SMITH.

There were three distinguished Latin poets of Italy of this
name, whose compositions were printed at Amsterdam in 1685. The
following epigram was occasioned by the affliction of two
children of remarkable beauty, though each had lost an eye:

Lumine Acon dextro, capta est Leonilla sinistro;
Et poterat forma vincere uterque deos,
Parve puer, lumen quod habes concede sorori,
Sic tu cæcus amor, sic erit illa Venus.

TRANSLATION.

Of his right eye young Acon was bereft;
His sister Leonilla lost the left;
Still each in form can rival with the gods,
And, though both Cyclops, beat them by all odds.
Spare her, my boy, your blinker, be not stupid,
She then will be a Venus, you a Cupid.

* * * * *

TO ——.

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

I have had my days of sadness: youth, which we review in age,
Spelling once again its syllables, was a blurred and blotted page.

Drifting down the tide of Time my tiny barque, unguided, passed
Toward the Mäelstrom of Manhood, puppet both of wave and blast.

But an all-protecting Providence watched the craft, when tempest-tost
On the Atlantic of Adversity; and the vessel was not lost.

Through the distance, when the clouds were lifted by the eddying
breeze,
Sunny sapphire skies shone on me, with, beneath, Pacific seas.

But the gloom came down around me, and the billows rolled and moaned,
And the little laboring ark with more than human agony groaned.

Shoals and sunken rocks around it,—like a frenzied steed that flies,
Terror burning, like a beacon, in his wide-distended eyes,—

Through this Archipelago of danger such as no one knows,
Save the wanderer in a wilderness, filled with savage hungry foes—

Rode the Argo of my Destiny; for what storm could overwhelm
When God’s holy hand, or else His angel’s, held the fragile helm?

Suddenly from the desperate darkness stole the tender, trembling light
Of a luminous, blushing planet, gleaming gently on my sight.

And the gloom fell down before it, and the billows knew surcease,
And the horrid howling winds reclined in slumber, breathing peace.

Night by night the sun descended, and I saw the moon arise,
With that luminous planet near it, like a deity, in the skies.

Then said I unto my spirit—“Reigning in those realms above,
O, my soul, behold at last the unassuming star of love.

“Like a queen she walks the infinite, saying softly, ‘Peace; be
still!’
And the lion winds and waters crouch, submissive to her will.”

Now in safety rides my vessel, for that luminous, blushing star
Sits forever in my “House of Life,” a ruling Guardian Lar;

And the haven it has entered lies encircled by a shore
Green as Eden was, calm as Heaven is; and the storm is known no more.

There with one whose type is Beauty, Adam-like, I dwell in dreams,
Whose realities were delirium, sleeping by love’s silver streams.

Eve, my angel, always with me, leads my spirit by the hand
Tenderly from its painful memories toward the Better—Happier Land.

And like ghosts, when, clarion-tongued, proud Chanticleer salutes the
dawn,
All my ghastly recollections flit, like shadows, and are gone.

* * * * *

THE OMNIPRESENCE OF GOD.

BY RICHARD COE, JR.

Come! Come! Come!
Nature, teacher sweet, will tell
Where the Lord of all doth dwell,
He who doeth all things well,
And in glory reigns!

In the mountain—in the stream—
In the hushed and charmed air—
In the working of a dream—
God is everywhere!

In the star that decks the sky,
Shining through the silent air;
In the cloud that saileth by—
God is everywhere!

In the lily of the field—
Or in floweret more rare—
In the perfume roses yield—
God is everywhere!

In the sunbeam clear and bright—
In the rainbow wondrous fair—
In the darkness of the night—
God is everywhere!

In the gentle summer breeze—
In the rushing winter air—
In the rustling of the trees—
God is everywhere!

In the organ’s solemn sound—
Or in music’s lighter air—
All above—beneath—around—
God is everywhere!

* * * * *

THE NEGLECTED GRAVE-YARD.

BY PROFESSOR ALDEN.

“Uncle, have you a fowling-piece to lend me?” said Henry Deforest, on the morning after his arrival at Beech Grove, whither he had come to enjoy a brief interval of rest from his professional studies.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Woolcott, “as fine a one as you ever handled.”

“What do you want to do with it, pray?” said Aunt Martha, Mr. Woolcott’s maiden sister and housekeeper, who, like a sensible woman, believed that guns and gunpowder were infernal inventions, and dangerous in every possible shape and shade of combination.

“I have some thoughts of taking a gunning excursion,” said Henry.

“Are you a good shot?” said Mr. Woolcott.

“About equal to Mr. Winkle.”

“I don’t know him—where does he live?”

Henry was happily relieved from the necessity of replying to the question of his matter-of-fact uncle, by Aunt Martha, who declared her somewhat exulting belief that the gun was lent.

“No, it is at home—it came home last night. Here it is,” said Mr. W., bringing it forth from a secure hiding-place constructed under Aunt Martha’s sole direction and authority.

“Is it loaded?” said Henry.

“No, I guess not,” said his uncle.

“I’ll warrant it is,” said Aunt Martha.

“What is there to shoot in these parts?” said Henry.

“Boys,” replied Aunt M., rather sharply. “Mr. Johns shot one last week.”

“Boys are not good to eat, my dear aunt, and I cannot in conscience shoot any thing not good to eat.”

Aunt Martha uttered an inarticulate aspiration which signified that she should lose her temper if she said any thing more.

Mr. Woolcott, who had been quite a rustic sportsman in his younger days, furnished his nephew with a liberal allowance of powder, shot and wadding, and the said nephew sallied forth with murderous intentions toward all feathered bipeds possessing the attribute of being good to eat.

It was early in June. The sweet breath of the morning spoke so lovingly of peace and gentleness, that he began to question the propriety of his savage purposes. His conscience, or his good sense, or his humanity, or something else, suggested, that to pollute the flower-laden breeze with sulphurous vapors, and to hush the sweet music of God’s innocent creatures, was not the most fitting employment for one proud of his immortality. He had not a very definite idea of the pleasures of bird-murder—in fact, that it might be a source of pleasure to him at all, it would be necessary for him to “make believe” with as much intensity as did “the small servant,” when she used orange-peel water for wine.

He soon reached a beautiful meadow. In consequence of his admiration of the lilies and daisies which adorned it, he failed to observe the meadow-larks that frequently rose before him, and uttered their notes of gladness to the mounting sun. At length one rose from his very feet. In an instant his finger was upon the trigger; but the sweet note of his intended victim charmed him. While he listened, the bird passed beyond the range of his weapon. Perhaps he mentally compared the pleasure of listening to its song with that of witnessing its dying gaspings.

The murmuring of a streamlet fell upon his ear. In a moment he was bending over its pure, bright waters. A large, smooth stone, shaded by a clump of willows, invited him to a seat. He laid aside his weapon, and sat down, baring his forehead to the breeze, and fixing his eyes upon the tiny inhabitants of the rivulet, his thoughts took the peaceful hue of the objects around him. It was not till the changing shadows of the willows exposed him to the rays of the sun, that he became conscious of the flight of time. He then rose and went to a small grove which clothed the summit of a gentle elevation in the vicinity. The grove was composed of saplings, about twenty feet in height. As he entered it, a false step led him to cast his eye downward. He had planted his foot in the hollow of a sunken grave. On looking around him, he found he was in the midst of an ancient grave-yard. The headstones which marked the resting places of the sleepers, had apparently been taken from a neighboring ledge. Only one bore an inscription, or had received the impress of the chisel. He looked in vain for a new-made grave. It was long since the funeral-train had entered that grave-yard—long since the mourner had come thither to weep.

Deforest had visited cemeteries in which wealth had lavished its treasures, and art exhausted its resources in order to disrobe death of his gloom. No splendid mausoleum, no carefully penned epitaph, so disposed him to reflection, as did the leaf-filled hollows and rude stones of that neglected grave-yard. He spent an hour in serious thought, and was about to leave the place, when the sound of approaching footsteps arrested his attention. He turned and saw an aged man entering the grove. The stranger approached the grave near which Deforest was standing. He appeared slightly embarrassed when he perceived that he was not alone. He returned the courteous salutation of Deforest, and seemed disposed to converse with him.

“You do not live in these parts?” said he.

“I am on a visit to my uncle, Mr. Woolcott. I reside in the city,” said Deforest.

“Your uncle came into the place after I left it. I was born here, in a house that stood on the knoll yonder. That cluster of bushes stands where the hearth-stone used to lie.”

“I noticed, as I passed the spot this morning, that a building once stood there. It must have been a long time ago.”

“Sixty-nine years ago, last March, I was born in that house, or rather in the house which stood there then. This country then was a wilderness. There was one log-house where the village now stands, and one between this and the river. I have not lived here for more than forty years. Latterly I go through the place once a year, as I go for my pension, and I always come to this spot. My father lies here, and—another friend. I always come and look upon the place of their rest. They do not know it. It does not do them any good, but it does me good. This is the grave of my father,” laying his hand on the stone noticed above as being the only one which bore an inscription. The inscription was as follows: “James Hampton, died July 16, 1777, aged forty-five years.”

The old man uncovered his head as he laid his hand upon the stone, and gazed in silence upon the earth which lay above the remains of his parent. Deforest felt that he was an intruder, and was about to retire.

“Do not go,” said the stranger. “I never met any one here before. It seems like meeting with a friend. That is a feeling which persons as old as I am seldom experience.”

Deforest, whose warm heart was strongly interested in the aged stranger, gladly accepted his invitation to remain.

“You were young when your father died,” said he, looking again at the inscription.

“I was in my fourteenth year. He was killed by a rifle-ball, in an attack made upon the house by a party of Indians. I have no doubt they were led by a tory who lived in a house which stood behind the ridge yonder, to the east. My friends wished to have it put on the tombstone that he was shot by the Indians. I believed that the shot which killed him was fired by a neighbor. I would not have the stone tell an untruth; so nothing is said about the manner of his death.”

“I should be greatly interested in hearing an account of the matter, if it be not painful to you to relate it.”

“Come and sit down on this rock and I will tell you all about it. It happened more than fifty years ago, yet it is as fresh in my mind as if it had happened yesterday.”

He led the way to a large moss-covered rock, which afforded them a comfortable seat under the shade of a thicket of young chestnuts. Near it was a grave on which the old man’s eyes were fastened. He did not seem disposed to resume the conversation. A tear ran down his furrowed cheek. Deforest sympathized with him in silence.

“You must ask me questions, my young friend,” said he, somewhat abruptly, “or my mind will wander away from the things you wish me to speak of.”

“Did your father build the house in which you were born?” said Deforest.

“Yes, he came here about ten years before the war, when, as I said before, there was only one house between this and the river. I was born the year after the house was built. I was but a little over ten years old when the troubles with England came on. My father and mother had many consultations upon the question, whether it was best for them to return to the east or not. There were no Indians near, and there was nothing to call them—for nearly all the people along the river were friends to the king. My father was from Massachusetts, and of course, liberty was natural to him; but he had said little or nothing about matters in dispute, for the very good reason that there were but very few persons to converge with. So he concluded to remain here. I could see that my mother did not feel easy. She grew thin and pale, and seemed unwilling to have us out of her sight.

“Once in a while, a rumor of what was going on reached us, though the accounts were always in favor of the king’s troops.

“In June of the year ’77, one day, as my father was in the cornfield, he saw an Indian skulking behind a large tree in the woods, that then stood where those oats are now growing. He continued at his hoeing for an hour or two, and was careful not to indicate by his appearance that he had seen any thing unusual.”

“Was he not afraid that the Indian’s bullet might put an end to his work?” said Deforest.

“No, he reasoned in this way. If the object of the Indian had been to kill him on the spot, he would have done so before he was seen. When my father came to the house, he was not disposed to say any thing about what had occurred, for he was not willing to give unnecessary alarm to his family. His anxious countenance led to inquiries which revealed the true state of the case. He began at once to make preparation to resist an attack, which he anticipated would be made in the night. I was employed in casting bullets, while he was busy in barricading the windows, and in making openings between the logs to serve as port-holes. Night at length drew near, and we sat down to supper, sad and silent, feeling that in all probability it was the last meat we should ever take together. The night passed slowly on. None of us were disposed to sleep. About midnight my father persuaded my mother to lie down, with my sister, who was sleeping unconscious of danger. Very soon there was a gentle knocking at the door. We had no light burning. My father had his rifle in his hand, while I held a musket, ready to exchange with him as soon as he had fired. He crept silently to the port-hole that commanded the door. He saw an Indian, with a rifle, standing before the door. The moonbeams fell full on his face, the expression of which left no doubt on my father’s mind respecting the object of the visit. The knocking was repeated. The answer was the discharge of the rifle from the port-hole. The Indian bounded high in the air, and fell to the earth a corpse. A yell from about half a dozen voices in the vicinity revealed the probable number of our foes. We were greatly encouraged, for it seemed well-nigh certain that their numbers would be so far diminished ere they could effect an entrance, as to render the result of the conflict by no means doubtful. The opening from which the shot was fired did not command the approach to the door. This was probably observed by our enemies, and after some time, apparently spent in consultation, two of them took a long, heavy pole from the fence, and drew near with the evident purpose of using it as a battering-ram to force the door. My father placed himself before an opening which he had made for the purpose of commanding the approach to the door, and when they were near enough to make the aim sure, he fired, and the hindmost man fell, never to rise again. I instantly gave my father the musket, and he fired at the other man, who had made a brief halt before he commenced his retreat. Either because the smoke prevented a good aim, or the musket carried ball less accurately than the rifle, the Indian did not fall, but from the blood that marked his retreat, it appeared that he was severely wounded.

“We could see a group of four or five persons in the distance. They were not quite near enough to make a sure shot, and my father thought it of the utmost importance that every ball should tell. While our attention was fixed upon them, a light shone in from a crevice on the side of the house opposite to the door. On that side there was neither door nor window. The enemy had sent one of their number, who had procured a bundle of straw from the barn, and placed it against the side of the logs, and set fire to it. It was their object to burn us alive, or to shoot us down when attempting to extinguish the flames. From the crevice which revealed the fire, my father saw an Indian grinning like a demon as he watched the progress of the flames. The good rifle soon put him out of the way of doing any more mischief. He then seized a pail of water, and ran to the chamber, and removed a board from the roof, and poured the water upon the fire. He had loosened the board in the course of his preparations for defense, thinking it possible that the opening might afford a means of escape. Fortunately the opening was immediately over the spot where the fire was kindled. Three of our foes had now been killed, and one of them wounded, (though we did not know it till the next day,) and we hoped they would become discouraged and retire. We heard nor saw nothing of them for an hour or more, though we kept watch in every direction.

“A new danger revealed itself. The fire had not been wholly extinguished; it had caught in the logs, and now began to blaze. My father took a bucket of water and went to the roof as before, but the moment his head appeared, three or four rifles were discharged from the grove near by. One of the balls slightly grazed his cheek. He had the presence of mind to make immediate application of the water before they had time to reload, but he did not succeed in applying it to the spot where it was most needed. Before another pailfull could be procured, they had loaded their pieces. He raised his hat above the opening in the roof, in hopes that they would all fire, that he might then extinguish the flames before they could reload. Only one shot, however, was fired. It pierced the hat, which fell. A savage yell of triumph caused our blood to curdle. The hat was raised again, and another shot fired, and another, both of which missed it. The water was then poured on the fire; but just as he was descending the stairs, a ball, apparently fired at random, passed through the clay between the logs, and entered his neck. He told us that he should bleed to death in a few minutes, but encouraged us to hope that the enemy would retire without any further efforts. He told me to keep a vigilant watch, and to shoot down those that came near the house. ‘Take care of your mother and sister,’ said he, ‘take them to the east if—’ he never finished the sentence. He bled to death in spite of all we could do.”

The old man paused in his narrative, and again fixed his eyes upon the grave noticed above.

“Was the attack renewed?”

“No, they went off before daylight, leaving their dead unburied. I dug a grave in the cellar, and buried my father. We then took our horses, and were on the other side of the river before night.”

“Were you not afraid of being waylaid and murdered?”

“We were, chiefly from the fact that so many of the Indians had been killed. We felt safe when we had crossed the river. We went to my mother’s native place, and remained there till the war was over, when we returned here. I was in the army during the last year of the war.”

“I should hardly have thought that your mother would have been willing to return here.”

“We had a good farm here, and several families from her native place concluded to come with us and settle here. By cultivating the farm I could fulfill my father’s command to take care of my mother and sister, and I did not see how I could do it in any other way. The first thing I did was to bury my father in this place. Several years afterward this stone, which marks his grave, was brought on from the east.”

“You told me you thought the shot which killed your father was fired by a neighbor.”

“We had no suspicion of any such thing at the time. As was natural, I kept the ball that caused the death-wound. It was of a peculiar size, and had a singular mark upon it. After my return, I happened one day to be present where there were a number of persons shooting at a mark. Alter they had finished their sport, the boys began to cut the balls out of the tree on which the mark had been placed. I was standing near and happened to hear one say, ‘that was Sawyer’s ball. I can always tell his ball by this mark.’ I looked at the ball, and saw that it bore the same mark as the one that was taken from my father’s neck. I put it into my pocket, and went home and compared it with the ball I had preserved. The size and marks corresponded perfectly. I then went to the boy and found that all Sawyer’s balls had the same mark. There was something in the bore of the rifle that made a peculiar crease in the ball as it was forced out. I then got a neighbor to inquire of Sawyer how long he had owned his rifle, and I found that it was in his possession before the war came on. My suspicions were then strongly excited. It was not probable that there were two rifles that would make the same impression upon the ball discharged from them. I remembered, too, that Sawyer had expressed great surprise at our return, and had appeared somewhat embarrassed when he met me. I met him in the street one day, and took the ball out of my pocket and held it before him, and fixing my eye fully upon his, asked him if he had ever seen it? He turned very red, and then came near fainting. I laid my hand upon him. He trembled like a leaf. I repeated the question in a louder tone, for I was sure that the murderer of my father was before me. His lips moved, but he could not speak. ‘Do you think,’ said I, ‘that it is safe for you to stay in this country?’ I flung him from me, and went on my way. The next day he left for the west, and some time afterward sent for his family.”

“How long did you live here after your return?”

“Nearly ten years; I lived here till my mother died.”

“Is she buried here?”

“No, she died while we were on a visit to the east. She was buried among her kindred. After her death, I returned here and remained till I helped fill up that grave,” pointing to the one which he had gazed at so earnestly when he took his seat upon the rock. “Then I felt there was nothing more to keep me here—in fact, I felt that I could not live here. My sister was married at the East; so I sold the farm and became a wanderer. I did not visit the place for nearly twenty years. When the pension-law was passed, I had occasion to come here, for one who was in the same company with me lived here. Since then, I have commonly passed through the place once a year, and I always visit this spot. This is the first time I ever met any one here. I once thought of having the bushes cut down; but on the whole, I concluded to let it grow up to wood. It will shield the graves from the gaze of the careless passer-by; and I like, too, the idea of having the birds sing over her grave. Farewell,” said he, rising and extending his hand. Henry returned the warm pressure of his hand, and was retiring, that he might be left alone by the sepulchre of his parent. The stranger, however, kept by his side till he reached the stone wall which separated the grove from the meadow. He seemed unwilling to part with his new acquaintance. Henry laid his hand upon his shoulder, and said, “Will you not tell me about _her_?”

After a moment’s silence the stranger replied, “Young man, I will, though it is many a year since I have pronounced her name aloud, unless I have done so in my dreams. They say I often talk in my sleep. I often dream of her, and sometimes it seems so much like reality, that I cannot help weeping when I awake, and find it nothing but a dream. She lived in a house which stood beyond the hill yonder. I have never seen it since the day she was carried out of it, and I shall never see it again.”

“Her name?” whispered Henry.

“Mary Everson lies in that stoneless grave—I wanted no stone to keep her in my memory, and I wanted nothing to call strangers to her resting-place. The world never contained a purer and warmer heart. She came here with her uncle about a year before my mother’s death. Her father had been wealthy, and had taken great pains with her education. He lost his property in time of the war, and died soon afterward. His wife soon followed him, and Mary became dependent upon her uncle, who removed here, as I said, about a year before my mother died. I saw her, for the first time, at a meeting in a log school-house. She was seated opposite me, and I thought I never set eyes on so fair an object. I have seen countenances which would form better subjects for description, but I never saw one which spoke to the soul like hers. It was transparent. It seemed as though you could see the flow of her pure thoughts and the beatings of her warm heart.

“It so happened that on the next day I had occasion to see her uncle on business. As I drew near the house, I heard the loud and angry voice of a female. I soon saw Mary coming down the foot-path. She was sobbing. ‘O, mother,’ said she, ‘I am glad that you do not know what your poor child has to suffer.’ She looked up and saw me with tears in my eyes—the words she had spoken brought them there—and felt, as she afterward told me, that I sympathized with her. I passed her without speaking, transacted my business with her uncle, and took my leave as speedily as possible, hoping to meet with her on my return. But I was disappointed. She had gone into a retired thicket to unburthen her grief by prayer. The truth was, her aunt treated her with great cruelty. Her uncle had little power to protect her. I made an errand there the next day, and found Mary alone. We sped rapidly in our acquaintance, and our parting was like that of old familiar friends. I became a frequent visiter at Mr. E.’s house. He received me cordially, but his wife, I could see plainly, disapproved my visits, and the more as it became evident that Mary and I were attached to each other. When it was known to her that we were engaged to be married, she became outrageous in her treatment of the poor orphan. She caused her many days of bitterness, and many nights of weeping.

“We were to be married on my return from a visit with my mother to the east. My mother never returned. As soon as she was buried I hastened here, and found Mary ill of an inflammation of the lungs. The disease was brought on by exposure occasioned by the cruelty of Mrs. E.

“I watched by her bedside till she died. When she was laid in the grave, I felt that there was a void in my heart that could never be filled. Nearly half a century has passed—the shadow of no earthly attachment has ever fallen for a moment on the place in my heart which belongs to her. The grave, as you see, is no longer a hillock—the coffin has fallen in—the heart that loved me so truly has mouldered, but her memory is as fresh as when I felt the last feeble pressure of her hand, or when I passed the whole night on her grave before I left the place. Men have called me indolent, irresolute, weak; but they knew not of the shadow which rested upon my path.

“Of late, I trust, I have known something of the higher life which her dying lips entreated me to live. I am waiting for my appointed time, when I shall meet her in a world where affection is never blighted, and separation is unknown.

“I have never said as much as I have now to any mortal; you seem to be capable of sympathizing with one. May your young heart find one whom it may love as entirely as I loved her; and may she be spared to you, that your life may not, like mine, be wasted. Farewell!”

He turned and walked into the grove. Henry set out on his return to his uncle’s house. On his way, he thought of his gun with which he was to do such execution. He returned to the place where he had left it. It had fallen into the water, and was apparently an object of great curiosity to the shiners who surrounded the lock in great numbers. A frog sat resting on his elbows on the opposite bank, surveying the examination. When the gun was lifted from the water, he disappeared with a sound rather indicative of contempt either for the gun or its possessor.

Aunt Martha received Henry with smiles, when she was assured that he had not silenced any innocent songsters, and her complacency was positive when she learned the manner in which the gun had been disposed of during the morning. She suggested that it would be an improvement if it were kept under water all the time.

* * * * *

NEW YEAR MEDITATION.

BY ENNA DUVAL.

’Tis midnight.
Lo! the Old Year stands upon
The threshold of the Past. To God it speeds
Its way, but bears a burden, for I see
Its form bend drooping with the weary weight
Of evil deeds, and feelings harsh and cold.
Farewell, Old Year! With light heart full of joy
I greeted thee, before thou mad’st thy sad
And bitter revelations to my soul.
Temptations, grievous trials thou didst bring,
And sorrow’s blinding, overwhelming tide.
And yet I leave thee with a grateful heart,
Thou stern but blest Instructor! Lessons harsh
Of thee I’ve learned, but strength’ning have they been:
And though thou bearest with thee record sad
Of my poor deeds, and goodness left undone,
That fills my heart with sorrow for the past,
Bright blessed hopes like angels hover round
This coming year.

Hail, then, thou unknown one!
I see proceeding from thee spirit forms;
They are my future hours, good or bad.
Mysterious shapes are they. Their mantles hang
Around them dark and heavy—hooded, veiled,
They give no sign of sorrow, nor of joy.
Slowly each form advances; and to me
Alone is given the right to raise those veils;
But as I lift each hood, upon the face
Beneath, my spirit traces there a mute
But yet unchanging record of my thoughts—
A faithful impress of my inner self—
Then past recall the hour floats away!

A gift these hours have in charge for me.
My weal or wo they hold—my light—my shade.
Dark sorrow they may bring me—bitter tears—
Or sunny joys—bright Laughter’s merry crew
May playful lurk behind those gloomy folds
But if to me the right were given to lift
Those veils, before the ordered time, and know
The gifts they bring—I’d pause. I do not seek
To know my future. This I humbly ask,
In joy or wo, that God may give to me
A firm, strong faith, and purity of heart.
With gifts divine like these, my future years
Might come unfeared, and pass without regret
Or sad remorse.

And now, my soul, regard
This new-born year, just launching on the sea
Of life. Twelve moons will roll around, and thou
May’st stand as now, with sad and heavy thoughts,
Upon its brink, and see with hopeless tears
This year float from thee. Dark and mist-like shapes,
Dim spirit forms may hover o’er the past.
Forms that were once, like youth’s sweet visions, bright
And filled with glory—resolutions, hopes,
And thoughts of what thou purposed to have been;
But unfulfilled and fading there may float—
These are the forms that spectre-like may haunt
And darken then thy past.

Think well of this,
My soul, and ere within the portal dark
Of this unknown and silent future thou
Dost float, remember that within thyself
No power lies. Thou may’st have brilliant dreams,
And aspirations grand and holy thou
May’st cherish—aimless, futile all, without
The aid and strength which God alone can give;
Pray then to Him for faith, confiding, true,
And strength to make thy resolutions firm—
For all the good that in thy future thou
Wouldst purpose to perform ask aid of Him.
Then with this help divine thou need’st not dread
Dark Sorrow’s form, nor Pleasure’s tempting smiles,
And when the future years which God may give,
Have each their changing cycles rolled around,
Then floated off unto the solemn Past—
When life’s last hour comes, with drooping wing,
And thou art borne unto the judgment seat
Of God! Eternity’s dread bar! o’er thee
No shadows dark will hang, but Faith’s bright form,
And heav’nly Love, will clasp thee round, and bear
Thee up unto thy Father, God!

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE WIDOW OF NAIN.

BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

How little can we of this latitude, or rather of this country, for latitude seems not to rule in all cases with regard to temperature; on one side of a continent, that parallel which gives agreeable winters and dry, healthful summers, is marked on the other side with cold, snowy winters and most unhealthful summers; what the variant circumstances are which produce this difference it is not easy to tell; the difference _does_ exist, and ingenious theories have been constructed to suit those results; we say then again, how little can we of this latitude, or this country, judge of the enjoyments which others at a distance from us, but with the same shadows, have in the dry coolness of their evenings, or lassitude to which they are subject by the peculiar warmth which prevails during most of their summer days. The habits and customs among us are soon made conformable to the circumstances of our climate; though it must be confessed that people will always pertinaciously insist on a warm day on the first of May, and a stinging cold one on the 25th of December, while actual experience has shown that the thin floral garb adopted for the first has often led to consumption, and the winter furs and the great Yule-log that have distinguished the latter, have been considered rather _seasonable_ than pleasant. So much for a poetical conformity, but in the every-day business of life things are better disposed of; people do not think in this country of sitting under their own _vine_ till mid-summer, and then they look out for spiders; and as to their fig-trees, nobody gets under them unless it be the house-cat for a summer _siesta_. While eastward of the shores of the Mediterranean, people stretch themselves out upon the house-top for a comfortable night’s sleep, and spend a warm summer’s day beneath the cording shadow of the fig or the olive, and make life itself a blessing, not the means of enjoyment, but enjoyment itself; life and its accidents, the gratification of simple appetites—eating, drinking, and sleeping. Leaving to others the profitless toils that accumulate heaps of gold, only a portion of which can ever be used, and that portion will buy little more than what may be had and enjoyed without it. In this country we retreat away from an oppressive heat or a stinging cold, and make the absence of either an excuse for our merriment. In that other land to which we have referred, positive enjoyment is had in the uses of the evening air, and the contemplation of the heavenly hosts. Stars and planets twinkling in the clear blue ether above, not larger than seen from this continent, but far, far more intensely brilliant in the atmosphere, which allows of little refraction, and whose purity makes an upward gaze like the contemplation of some sanctified enclosure.

Sitting on a bank that faced westward were observable two human figures in the closing twilight of an autumn day. They were gazing out upon the gorgeous west, and marking the successful struggles of the starry host to obtain visibility above. In all the rich flush that marked the pathway of the sun, and hung a glory around his place of exit, only one light had strength enough to be visible; and so pure was the atmosphere, that when the flush in the heavens retired, the splendid planet Venus seemed a delicate crescent—a diminutive moon, sinking downward to the western waters.

“How beautiful, dear Reuben,” said the young female, as she pressed closely the hand of her companion; “how beautiful the heavens above us are to-night. It seems as if a peculiar brilliancy were observable; and I hope it is not sinful for me to say that the glorious array of stars seems to have communicated to my bosom something of their own transparent light; an unusual serenity seems to descend from them to me, and I feel now as if I owed to them sensations of inexpressible delight—quiet, gentle, but full. Whence is this, Reuben?”

“May you not, my dear Miriam, have mistaken a cause for an effect? Is it not the quiet, peaceful delight of your heart that makes all outward objects more lovely to you? And, as the stars are the most brilliant and the most distant objects at the present moment, your feelings have connected themselves with those ministers of _Him_, and allowed that deep, mysterious connection of the planetary world with ours to work upon your imagination, as if the stars had a direct influence upon your condition.”

“Perhaps so; but I alluded to my feelings and not my condition. How beautifully did our Prophet King refer his own elevated sensations to the planetary world, ‘The moon and the stars which Thou hast ordained.’”

“True, true, my dearest Miriam; but you will recollect that while he made himself, and man generally, small in his _contemplation_ of the heavens, it was not in _comparison_ with them, it was comparing or contrasting man with Him who garnished the heavens, and wrote ‘all our members in a book.’ But are not your feelings, like mine, elevated with a hope, nay, with almost a certainty, that the elders will persuade my mother that the rights of our family can be retained, even though I marry you, or rather that the argument against our union was as unsustained by our laws as the attempt to give you to Salathiel was a violation of your affection and my rights.”

“I know not but that may be the case. I feel it, Reuben, warmly at my heart. Let me say it without violating the delicacy of a maiden’s feelings, that such was my love for you, that even the alternative to which I consented, though of no moment, gave me a severe pang.”

“What was that alternative?” asked the young man, with importunity.

“Simply, that if you should not live to marry me, then Salathiel might take me to wife.”

“I would haunt him with terrible bodings,” said Reuben, “even as Samuel frightened the falling Saul.”

“And I, dear Reuben,” said the maiden, with a smile, “should, I suppose, be the Witch of Endor to call up your wandering and jealous spirit.”

“And it is settled, then,” said Reuben, “and you are to be mine with the consent of our families. And the next new moon shall see us one.”

“It shall be thus if your mother consents. I have none to consent or refuse, save my aunt. But let it not wound your feeling or excite suspicion in your mind, Reuben, that I ask you not to cherish feelings of unkindness against Salathiel. He is my kinsman and my early friend.”

“Has he not sought to supplant me in your possession?”

“Have you not supplanted him in my heart? Is it so much, my dear Reuben, for you to fear to lose me, and is it nothing for him to see me given to another?”

“He tried for your possessions, Miriam, for your wealth only.”

“Does not my wealth, little as it is, go with my hand—and why may not he have designs honorable as well as others?”

“Because he would not leave it to your decision, to the arbitration of your affections. He could not love you and be willing to do violence to your love.”

“May he not, dear Reuben, say the same of you?”

“Of me! Miriam, you plead the cause of Salathiel. You wish the alternative—you would be free.”